“You’re okay?” I ask. She shrugs. I sit on the side of the bed and pat the space next to me. “Can we have a chat?” I ask.
When she comes to my side in small steps, I can’t help it—my heart soars a little. I want to put my arm around her shoulders, but I don’t dare. She’s like a frightened bird that’s ready to fly away at the first shudder of fear. She pulls at the sleeves of her shirt, so that her hands—or at least her wrists—are hidden. It occurs to me with a shock that she doesn’t want me to see them. What if she’s cutting herself? There’s water in her eyes and my heart breaks for her.
“I’m going to stay with Lauren for a bit.”
She nods. “How long?”
“I don’t know, just a few days I hope.”
“Okay.”
“Madison, I need to say something to you, and I know this won’t be easy to hear.”
She looks up at me again, expectant, and I lose my nerve. What was I going to say, anyway, you need to eat?
“You can talk to me, if you ever want to. We are more alike than you realize.” I smile. She gives that little nod of hers again, eyes cast down. She seems more like twelve right now. An image of Mike and Charlene pops into my head, and a sudden wave of anger rises up in me. Has Mike ever considered what his actions are doing to Madison? Of course not. No wonder the kid is messed up.
“You can come and visit me at Lauren’s anytime you like. You could even stay over if you want. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”
She nods, then quickly wipes a tear from her cheek.
“Why are you so upset?” I ask.
She sniffles. “Dad said the police questioned you about that girl’s death, is it true?”
Oh, thanks a lot, Mike!
“I’m just helping them, that’s all.”
“Is it true that Dad had an affair with that girl? That she was pregnant with his baby. He says it’s not true, that it’s all politics.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything.
“Why did the police want to talk to you?” she asks, picking at the edges of her nails.
I take a breath. “They’re investigating Charlene’s death. They thought I might know something.”
She looks up from under purple eyelids that look bruised with tears. “Did you kill that girl?” she asks. Her bottom lip trembles.
It’s like a punch in the gut. “No! My God! No, absolutely not! You believe me, don’t you?” It doesn’t escape me that I sound just like Mike.
She fiddles with her sleeves and pulls out a small folded square of paper. She unfolds it, smooths out its creases, and hands it me. It’s some kind of cheap flyer, like the ones you might see around the place for a missing pet. There’s a grainy photo of me, taken at a particularly bad angle. I’m laughing, but in a way that makes me look demented.
Above it, a screaming bold headline makes my stomach lurch.
Tamra Mitchell is a Killer!!
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I press my palm on the bed to steady myself as the room tilts and the words swim in front of my eyes.
“Where did you get this?” I ask, my voice like a whisper.
“They’re everywhere.”
I snap around to stare at her. Her eyes are still downcast.
“Everywhere?” I feel dizzy. I can’t breathe.
“I picked it up in town this morning. They’ve got them up on trees, on bus stops, even in some shop windows.”
Oh, God.
I look again at the flyer and read the rest.
Tamra Mitchell killed Charlene Donovan because she had an affair with her husband, then she buried her in the woods. The police won’t do anything to her because OF WHO SHE’S MARRIED TO!! Don’t let her GET AWAY WITH MURDER!!!
I drop my head into my hands.
“I took down as many as I could,” she says.
“You did?”
She nods. I stare at the picture. It dawns on me where this was taken. It was at Lauren’s birthday party, last year.
“Are you and my dad okay?” she asks now, as if somehow, that was more important than me being branded a killer for everyone to see.
I move my hand and very gently lay it on her forearm. I feel the muscle twitch beneath the fabric, and she pulls the sleeve over her hand again, moving mine away in the process.
“I don’t know,” I say, that being the understatement of the century. Did he do this? I stare at the flyer again. My heart is pounding in my chest. I think your dad is setting me up to take the fall for a murder he committed, so yeah, we’ve got problems, I thought we could use some personal space, you know, to think things through, see whether there’s anything here worth salvaging.
“What are you going to do?” she asks.
“I wish I knew.”
She nods, then she stands and makes her way to the door. I want to stop her. I have this urge to ask her to hug me.
“Thank you, Madison, for taking these down,” I say, holding up the flyer.
“I probably didn’t get them all.”
“I know. But it means a lot.”
“That’s okay, do you know who did that?” she asks.
“Not yet.”
Then it comes to me. It’s The Slut. She did this. I bet Mike stayed with her last night. I bet he told her all about the police interview. Maybe she knows what he’s done, and they’re conspiring to nail this on me. It would be perfect for them if I were to take the fall for this murder.
* * *
We’re in a cafe, Fiona and I, close by this time, and I don’t care who sees us. Fiona Martin might just be my lifeline at this point, and since I have no idea who to trust anymore, I called her.
“You look like shit,” she says as she sits down.
“Thanks so much. I needed that.”
She reaches down to her bag and pulls what I see is the same flyer Madison showed me earlier.
“Oh, that’s great. Where did you find this?”
She lays it down on the table. “At work. Someone left a handful in the lobby. You’ve seen it?”
“Yes, I have, so you can put that away, thanks. I don’t need to stare at it.” I drove around on the way here, looking everywhere for them. I didn’t see any. I was hoping it wasn't as bad as I thought.
“Can you find out where they came from?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Could be anyone. I don’t know…”
“You have to help me clear my name. The cops interviewed me yesterday. Because—”
“Yeah, I heard, she had your cell phone number in her pocket.”
“How did you know that?”
She cocks her head at me.
“Okay. Whatever. He’s framing me, Fiona, don’t you see? I’m trying to expose the truth here, and he’s turning it around against me.”
“Is he?”
“Yes!”
She nods, like she’s thinking about what I just said. What does that mean? Doesn’t she believe me?
“Okay, so what do you want me to do about it?”
“Jeez, I don’t know. I was thinking a bit of investigative journalism? Ever heard of that?”
She narrows her eyes at me in a way that makes me feel like I may have crossed a line.
“Fiona, he did it. I know he did. Mike killed her, and now he’s going to try to frame me. You have to help me. You have to expose him! Somebody must know something. Did you talk to Pastor Frank? He’ll know who the doctor is—”
“How do you know your husband killed her?”
“I—” I stop, my eyes pleading. Just believe me, I want to say. I want to tell her but I can’t. If I do, I’ll have to explain how I came to be there, and then she’ll want to know why I never told anyone that Mike had run over this girl.
Then I’ll have to tell her what I did.
“I found him, your doctor,” she says.
“You did?” I shout, almost bouncing in my seat.
“I should say, he found me. He saw the article and called me.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“So why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.
She looks at me, cocks her head. “Why should I? I’m not working for you, last I checked, you’re not paying me, are you?”
I blink, then I wave a hand in the air in a gesture indicating that I don’t have time for this. “So, what did he say?”
“That a woman called, and made an appointment, said he had been recommended for his discretion. He only knew her first name. He couldn’t remember it but when I mentioned you, he said that could be it. Anyway, the dates matched.”
I slap my palms on the table. “Well, that’s great, that’s fantastic. You have to tell the cops!”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why? My story checks out! It shows I was telling the truth!”
“There’s a bit more to it.”
“What is it?”
“The same woman called again, that same day, and canceled the appointment.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“That’s what he said. The appointment was canceled, and Charlene never showed up. Apparently, this extra special service out of hours is something he did himself for an extra couple of bucks. He’s never had any issues before. But now that it’s front page news, he’s worried that he’ll be blamed for something he never did in the first place.”
I bury my face in my hands.
“Did you cancel the appointment, Tamra?”
I shake my head.
“Did you know she never showed up?”
I don’t answer.
“Tamra?”
I sit up, take a breath. “Yes.”
She drops her spoon on the table and it clatters against the saucer. She’s leaned back against the back of the chair and from the look on her face, she’s going to walk out any minute. “What the fuck, Tamra?”
“I never canceled the appointment, okay? That’s the truth. I drove her there and dropped her off, that’s also the truth. That’s what I wanted to tell you, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, but I thought the cops would put two and two together and arrest Mike. Now, it looks like I’m the one who’s going to get arrested.”
I’ve already told Fiona that I drove Charlene to the clinic, but now I tell her the rest of it. I do my best to explain to her the fury that came over me, when I realized I’d been treated so shabbily. “I felt sorry for her, I really did. And all the time she was laughing at me!”
I’d pulled away, and I was driving back the way we came. She had already disappeared down the path and around the corner of the building, but I couldn’t bear to let her go without giving her a piece of my mind. I wanted my phone number back, and the tissues, too. And I wanted to tell her that we knew exactly what we were dealing with: a piece of trash. I reversed quickly, like a mad woman, and skidded around the corner, which meant taking the road away from the main building and around a grassy knoll. And just as I got close to the other side of the building, I saw her lean towards the passenger window of a car idling outside the main entrance. She said a few words to the driver, smiled, and seconds later she opened the door and got in.
I’ll never forget the shock when I realized I knew that car. It was like I’d been punched in the gut. I was staring at Mike’s car. And that was Mike, driving Mike’s car.
“And here we are,” I say.
“Why didn’t you tell me all this before?”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s not what I asked.” She leans forward, arms crossed on the table. “Did Mike kill Charlene?”
I knew that was coming. I look around quickly, to check if anyone’s eavesdropping on us. “It wasn’t like that.”
“What does that mean?” When I don’t reply she adds, “Do you know how this looks?”
“Actually, Fiona, I don’t. I did not cancel that appointment, so I’m confused. How does this look?”
“It looks like you dreamt up this whole charade about an abortion, just so you could get her in your car. What did you do with her after that, Tamra?”
“For fuck’s sake, that’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“I just told you! Mike picked her up in his car. I saw them! He’s the one you should talk to!”
“Don’t think I haven’t tried.”
I lean forward and reach for her arm. “You have to help me clear my name, Fiona,” I whisper, my tone urgent. I can hear how desperate I sound.
She snatches her arm away. “Let’s get one thing straight, I don’t have to do anything, you got that?”
I just ignore her. “You need to show that he lied to the police. He contradicted me, in front of the cops! I’ll tell you who can corroborate my story. Go and talk to Patti, his P.A. She’ll tell you about the affair, and about the way he treated Charlene. She knew all about it at the time.”
“Okay.” She scribbles something. “What about Madison?”
I hesitate. “She’s pretty fragile at the moment. I don’t know if it’s such a good idea.”
“Does she know anything?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay, I might try, anyway—”
“Just be gentle, okay? Don’t make her feel bad about her dad, she’s in awe of him.”
“I’ll tread lightly, I promise.”
“And Pastor Frank.”
“He won’t talk to me. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“Yeah, well, of course he wouldn’t admit to anything. He’s a man of the cloth.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” she says.
I almost laugh. “You know what I mean.”
“Indeed, I do.”
We both sit in silence for a while—she, twirling her spoon into her coffee, not a care in the world, me biting my fingernails till my fingers bleed.
“Do it,” I say. “Talk to everyone. Everyone you possibly can.”
“You understand how this looks, don’t you? You know the risks?” She makes a show of counting on her fingers. “You’re the last person to see her alive. She was in your car—”
“I explained about that.”
“—you say you dropped her off but all we have is the word of the doctor who says you canceled. Essentially, what we have here is: she was with you, then she was dead.”
I have made a complete mess of everything. “I’ve told you everything that I know. It’s Mike you need to go after.”
“So you keep saying. But I’ll be writing up about the cops taking you in for questioning. It’s not exactly secret information.”
“Do you really have to?”
“Are you messing with me?” Her face is closed, hard. Her eyes squinting, boring into mine. It’s clear that Fiona Martin does not trust me one bit.
“No,” I reply.
“If I find out you’ve been using me—”
“I haven’t!”
“Because I told you already. I’m on thin ice. I’m not writing up this story again, unless you let me write about the cops bringing you in, and why. You can’t cherry-pick your way through this one. If you let me into your life, I can’t guarantee what will come out. You got that?”
I take a deep breath, and before I have time to think it through, the words tumble out, fearless and bold, and I already have the bitter taste of regret on my tongue.
“I have nothing to hide. Do your worst.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I didn’t see Mike for three days after that horrible night. Which had been the original plan—for Mike to go to a seminar over in D.C. so I wasn’t concerned on that score.
When he came home, he held me close, he kissed me and whispered in my ear that he had never loved anyone as much as he loved me. That I had stood by him through this showed that nothing could ever tear us apart. He’d never known anyone as loyal as me and he would never let me down. I felt his tears on my cheeks as they merged with my own, and I didn’t want it to stop. I never wanted this to stop.
At first, he was so unconcerned, so con
fident, so relieved, that I just didn’t know how to broach it. But it was odd, this lack of anxiety. Having killed her, he must have had a plan—what to do with her body? He must have gone back to where he thought she lay and found that she wasn’t there. I don’t think I would’ve been able to sleep again, not ever, if that had been me, struggling with these unanswered questions. I wondered if he saw me, saw what I did, and that’s why he wasn’t worried. But he never said.
And neither did I.
I didn’t tell him that I saw what he did, and I didn’t tell him that I drove around, in shock, until I couldn’t anymore, and I stopped, I can’t remember where exactly, somewhere overlooking water. The reservoir, probably. I sobbed in my car for what felt like hours, then when I’d pulled myself together, I went back, partly because I didn’t know if I’d imagined the whole scene anymore.
When I got to the spot where it happened, I felt incredible relief because there was nothing. No police, no lurkers, no indication that anything had happened here. I stepped out of the car and into the chilly air and looked around. It was beautiful. The rain had left behind droplets on the trees that now shimmered in the moonlight. It was like stepping into another reality. Nothing had happened, they weren’t running away together, Mike was never here and Charlene wasn’t hurt.
And then I saw it.
A black shoe sticking out of the shrub, and my heart felt cold. I wrapped my coat around me tighter, and I went to have a closer look. And there she was, barely hidden by leaves and branches. I managed to turn around just before I threw up all over the road.
Did he mean to hide her? He must have but he did a pretty shit job of it. Did he mean to kill her? Why else drive her all the way out here?
I sat in my car, shaking, and to this day, I’m not sure why I did what I did. Actually, that’s not true. I wanted to protect him. Or that’s what I told myself afterwards. For a long time afterwards in fact. But I know now, that I wanted to protect what I had. I didn’t want to give it up. My marriage, this life, my place in it.
Our old, empty house was only a few miles away, so I drove over, my mind blank. I had one purpose, and one purpose only. When I got there, I thought how ironic it was. This house had been our shield against Charlene, in a way. We sold it to get her fucking fuck-money. Now it was helping us again. There’s poetry in karma, I thought, as I went to the garden shed and found our old tools.
The Loyal Wife Page 14