The Loyal Wife

by Natalie Barelli

  Then I drove back to where she lay and dragged her farther away, and then I dug her grave.

  Chapter Thirty

  I’m in the hair salon, bits of aluminum foil sticking out from my hair, and I’m flicking through recent texts and emails, thinking how kind people are. My friends and neighbors are missing me. They want to know if I’m okay. They’re inviting me to things, block parties and book groups. It’s my old life and I am missed.

  My heart is glowing with gratitude, and that’s when I get her text. It’s a link. No words, nothing. Just a URL. I click on it, a little nervous, sure, but excited. I sit up in anticipation, and then I read it.

  Fucking Fiona Martin.

  * * *

  EXCLUSIVE: New Twists in Charlene Donovan’s Murder

  * * *

  By Fiona Martin

  * * *

  Mike Mitchell is a lucky man. Not just because of his good looks and healthy bank balance, but because his wife, Tamra Mitchell, seventeen years his junior, was prepared to drive Mike Mitchell’s mistress to the clinic where Charlene was to undergo an abortion. You don’t come across marital devotion like that every day.

  We can report that three days ago, North Carolina detectives brought in Mrs. Mitchell for questioning on her role in Charlene Donovan’s murder. This paper does not suggest that Mrs. Mitchell was in any way involved in the crime against Ms. Donovan, but at this stage of the investigation, the last confirmed person to see Charlene Donovan alive is Mrs. Mitchell.

  I feel lightheaded. I can barely breathe. She sure went for the jugular there, Ms. Fucking Fiona Martin. She could at least have said that I offered that information, voluntarily. It’s not like she got it as a result of her incredible investigative powers.

  Tamra and Mike Mitchell have been married for six years. Only four years after their wedding did the unfortunate affair occur between Ms. Donovan and Mr. Mitchell. How did she really feel about the situation? At this early stage of their marriage? We asked the people who know her best:

  ‘I’ve never met someone as jealous and vindictive as her,’ Patti Huntingon, Mr. Mitchell’s personal assistant, tells us when we caught up with her recently.

  ‘Tamra Mitchell would literally storm my office, out of the blue, and scream at me that I was having an affair with her husband. I couldn’t even repeat the language she used. But it was only two weeks ago that she came into the office when Mr. Mitchell wasn’t present and accused me of “effing her husband behind her back.” I have witnesses, too. She frightened me. Knowing now what happened to that poor young girl, Charlene, I can’t help but wonder what Tamra Mitchell did to her. I can’t sleep, just thinking that maybe I’m next. Oh, and I’d like to say on the record that Mike Mitchell has only ever been the perfect gentleman with me, in the five years I’ve been in his employment. But I’d say Tamra Mitchell has jealousy and anger management issues. Absolutely.”

  The psycho, two-faced bitch. Damn right you’re next, Patti fucking Huntington. You ain’t seen anger management issues yet.

  The first Mrs. Mitchell also had a recent encounter with her replacement. When we caught up with Deborah Mitchell, this is what she had to say:

  “She called me, just the other day, out of the blue. She told me my daughter was sick, can you believe it? That’s the word she used! Sick! She even implied my daughter was spending too much time with her father. When’s the last time you saw her? She asked me! Obviously, she can’t stand Madison spending time with her own father. The gall of that woman, after everything she put our family through. We were a solid couple, Mike and I, until she came along. Our marriage wasn’t perfect but what marriage is? We just hit a bump in the road, that’s all. But she wanted him and that was that. That’s the kind of woman she is. She wouldn’t let anyone stand in her way.”

  I take my head into both hands and squeeze. I want to scream, and I bite my finger so hard it leaves a purple crescent around the knuckle. Hot tears well up and fall down my cheeks. Why does everyone hate me so much? I only ever mean to do good! And now what? I’m screwed. I only–

  “You’re okay, Tamra?”

  I look up. It’s June, my stylist. Her head is cocked to the side, her eyebrows knotted in concern. I’ve been breathing too loudly. I can hear it now.

  “Yes?” I say, attempting a smile, my head leaning sideways, mirroring her. I need to get out of here but I have fucking foil in my hair. An image springs to my mind. It’s a roasted turkey, and it’s running down the street, foil wrapped around the tips of its wings and legs. Just like I do it for Thanksgiving.

  “Okay then,” June says, “let me know if you need anything, okay?”

  “I will!” I reply, in a singsong voice.

  I glance at the rest of the article with one hand over my eyes, fingers apart just enough to let the light in. I can’t bear it, but I have to know.

  Madison Mitchell, the twenty-one-year-old daughter of Mike and Deborah Mitchell, unwittingly added to the controversy surrounding Tamra Mitchell. When approached, she did not have much to say:

  “She’s okay, I guess. She must be smart, she was an accountant when my dad met her at Carrington & Denton. She’s got an MBA with honors, too. Even my dad doesn’t have one of those,” Madison told us. For the uninitiated, an MBA is a Master of Business Administration. Our investigations have failed to find the university that awarded that degree to Mrs. Mitchell. Mrs. Mitchell describes herself as uneducated. ‘I wasn’t born with a silver spoon up my nostril (a reference to illegal drugs, we believe). School of life, that’s where I got my education.’

  Carrington & Denton have informed us that Mrs. Mitchell was a receptionist at the time of her employment. They were not aware that Mrs. Mitchell had received an MBA.

  I never meant to lie. Deep in my heart, these things I said aren’t exactly lies, they’re shortcuts to my better self. They still represent a part of me, they just happen to be the parts that haven’t manifested yet. Or ever.

  A representative of the church attended by Mrs. Mitchell did not respond to our inquiries but released the following statement: “Mrs. Mitchell is a valued member of our congregation and we are aghast at the news that she has been questioned by police in relation to the death of Charlene Donovan. We urge Mrs. Mitchell to confess her sins and seek forgiveness.”

  That would be funny if it weren’t so tragic. So everyone is going to make me the scapegoat, is that it? I tell June that I don’t feel well. She’s very concerned, very efficient. She rinses out my hair in record time.

  “You’re sure you don’t want to stay for your cut’n style? Or even for a cold drink? Till you feel better?”

  “I’ll be okay. I’ll be back for it tomorrow, June,” I say, ripping off the cape that was fastened around my neck. I don’t even pay. I just run.

  * * *

  Back at Lauren’s house, I’m sitting on the lounge trying to pull myself together. But I’m really scared. I could scream from the rooftops of this town that I didn’t kill Charlene Donovan, so what? No one will ever believe that now. My time of reckoning is coming.

  When I call Fiona, I am doing so with the thought that I’m going to die of my own hand.

  “How could you?” I sob into the phone.

  “I told you, no holds barred, remember? I’m just doing my job.”

  “You didn’t even write about her getting into Mike’s car. That was the whole point, don’t you see?”

  “I can’t write something just because you want me to. There were no witnesses. No one who can confirm what you said you saw. It wasn’t his phone number in her pocket, it was yours.”

  “You don’t know what you’ve done,” I wail.

  “Maybe I don’t. And if that’s the case, then you only have yourself to blame. If you know something, you need to tell the police. But using me to vent your innuendoes about your husband because of some revenge quest is not going to help you. I could have told you that and saved you the angst.”

  “You made me look like I killed her.”
>
  “Oh, no, you did that. For all I know, you wanted to be caught. It’s starting to look a lot that way. Getting in touch with me, what was that about? A cry for help, maybe? Is there anything you want to tell me, Tamra?”

  Is there anything you want to tell me, Mike?

  * * *

  “Shhh… there, there,” Lauren whispers into my hair while I drip snot all over her breasts.

  “I don’t understand!” I wail. “I didn’t do anything wrong! I swear!”

  “I know. Shh. Everything will be all right.”

  I wish. I can’t remember the last time I felt this wretched. “Can I stay here?” I wipe my nose with the back of my hand.

  “What kind of question is that? You’re already staying here.”

  “But now that everyone thinks I’m a murderer!”

  “Is that why you called me and got me to come home? To ask me if you could still stay here?”

  “And a shoulder to cry on,” I say. Using my sleeve to wipe my tears. She pats me some more, tells me I can stay as long as want, assures me that everything will be all right, and I wish she’d stop saying that since it’s not up to her, is it? We sit like this on her lovely flowery couch for at least an hour. That’s how long it takes me to stop hiccupping like a child.

  “Will you be okay, girlfriend? I really should go back to work. But I can stay if you need me,” she adds quickly.

  “No, it’s okay,” I say, using my sleeve to rub my nose. “I’m supposed to go to the Center this afternoon.”

  “That’s great!” she brightens. She can’t disguise the relief in her tone. That’s what it’s like with people. If you’re miserable, they just want to hand you over to the next person. Like you’re a teething baby being passed around at a family gathering. There, you want to hold her? Sure, you do. Oh, go on, take her off my hands.

  I know I’m being unfair. Lauren is being a real good friend. It’s not like she’s having an easy time of it. Freaking Dwayne, that guy is never around. I need to talk to her about that, some day. That’s what I think looking up at her. She’s so stunning. Tall and thin, like a model, with her long blond hair and full lips.

  “You’re beautiful,” I whisper.

  “Awww, thanks girlfriend! Now, there’s white wine in the fridge, red wine in the rack under the kitchen counter, and chocolate in the pantry. You help yourself to everything, okay? I’ll see you tonight.”

  After she leaves, I sit there, remembering the soft quality of the sheets on my bed, the cozy duvet, the fluffy pillows…. Screw them. I’ve got work to do. I’ve got good people who rely on me.

  I’m going to the Center.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Lauren and Dwayne’s house is a stone’s throw from mine, if you’re a very good thrower. Granted, like an Olympic thrower, but you get the picture. It’s literally one minute by car. You could even walk if you wanted to, if you were desperate to borrow a shot of whisky or something. Maybe.

  I want to check out my house. Why? I’m curious. What’s happening over there? In my lovely home? Just a quick slow drive by the gate, I tell myself.

  I’m driving south on Fisher Park Circle, which is my street, and as I come around the park, I see the cars from at least a hundred feet away—press, TV, cameras—it makes my heart skip a beat, but I suspect that turning around now would just bring attention to myself. Keep driving, I tell myself. Pretend you haven’t noticed the cameras, because of your very bad eyesight. You’re just a regular person going to work. The sooner you’re off of this street the better. Why do I think that? Because I’m a fool, and a moron.

  There’s a car parked just before the gates of my house, and I see the back of her head. It doesn’t register that it’s her; I thought she was another vulture calling herself a journalist. But just as I approach, I realize it’s Patti. Our eyes meet, and hers open wide and she blares her horn so loudly it makes my heart jump. Then she pops her head out of the window and she spits at my car. If I hadn’t had the window rolled up, she would have hit me.

  “It’s her! It’s Tamra!” she shrieks, pointing a finger at me. “Baby killer! Shame on you!” Her outburst is so vitriolic, it gives me a jolt. In the next second, twenty pairs of eyes are trained on me. Then a horde of people stand in front of my car, snapping photos, shouting at me, shoving their boom-mikes against my window.

  “Did you kill her, Tamra? Do you know who did?”

  “What did you do?”

  “Hey, Tamra! Over here!”

  “Did you procure other abortions for Mike, Tamra? How many?”

  “Are you part of a sex cult?”

  On and on it goes. I glare at them, tap the accelerator with my foot, inch by inch I try to get out of there, but they won’t let me.

  “Fuck off!” I shout.

  “Hey, Tamra, this way!”

  I can’t help it. I press my foot down, and they move away in unison, like those dancers in those old musical comedies. Except one. Fiona Martin has fallen over on the hood of my car.

  Good, I think, as I press my foot on the accelerator just that little bit harder.

  * * *

  I didn’t kill her, Fiona Martin I mean. And not because she didn’t deserve it. I took pity on her and slowed down enough for her to let go of my windshield wipers and roll off. When I glanced in my rearview mirror, I saw Patti stand next to her car, scowling in her self-righteousness. You’re one sick puppy, lady, I murmured.

  I’m flooded with relief when I enter the Center. Even the smell of the place—normally it nudges at my senses, its acrid smell is disagreeable. But today, I welcome it, I relish it. I am home.

  “Tamra!” Moira exclaims. She’s standing in the small entranceway, her glasses dangling from their cord on her chest, her eyebrows raised.

  “You look surprised! It’s Thursday, right?” I shrug off my coat and quickly throw it onto the rack. She hasn’t moved. Now I’m right in front of her.

  “What are you doing, Moira?” I ask, a lightness in my voice, the edge of a giggle. “You’re in my way!”

  “We weren’t expecting you. After everything—”

  “Oh that, the papers you mean? Don’t worry about it. It’s all gossip. It’s because of Mike’s candidacy, you know what journalists are like,” I chuckle. The Center has had plenty of interaction with the press, and not all of it helpful.

  She lays a dry palm on my arm, and before she’s spoken, I know what she’s going to say.

  Sorry.

  Everybody is sorry. Mike is sorry, in his own fucked up way. Fiona is sorry, my brother Ben was sorry when he left me behind—me who could barely read, he with an education that I ensured was never interrupted. My mother was sorry, too, when she left us, when she stood at the door with her colorful striped bag while I held Ben against my chest and she mouthed, sorry, even though she couldn’t hide the glint of excitement from her eyes.

  Sorry, I don’t care.

  Sorry, I have my life to live.

  Sorry, I don’t need you anymore.

  Sorry, I don’t love you anymore.

  Sorry I threw you under the bus.

  Sorry, can you help me?

  * * *

  “I’m sorry,” Moira says now, taking her hand back so she can wring it with the other. “But we think,” she glances behind her then, “maybe it’s best if you went home?”

  My eyes well up; was that a question?

  “Home!” I exclaim, bright as a button. “Heck, no! Quite the opposite! I want to keep busy! Get out of my way, Moira. We have work to do!” My hand is on her shoulder, ready to push her aside so I can get through, but she’s not easily swayed, literally.

  She resumes. “I meant we think it might be best if you don’t come here anymore. Under the circumstances. With our funding about to be reviewed and all that. You understand, don’t you?”

  She’s moved away from the doorway now, to look back at the others for support. And validation. I feel the wave of crimson rising up my face.

  “Yes,
of course,” I stammer, too embarrassed to look at her now. I turn around and snatch my coat and leave.

  I don’t get far because I’m crying too much. There’s a bench outside, a few feet away, and I grab the back of it and almost fall. The sadness I feel slices at my heart and it’s devastating. I sit down and put my face into my hands and cry, and I can’t stop. I cry all the unshed tears I’ve collected for all of my thirty-three years. I moan and bite my hands and tear at my hair and there’s a voice next to me.

  “Tamra?”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  I don’t know this woman. But she’s smiling at me, and it’s a lovely, kind, benign smile. The smile of someone who likes me, someone who is happy to see me, and it’s been such a long time since that’s happened that—

  “Oh, my God! Joan?”

  Joan? Joan who came to the Center last year, with her gray roots showing and her scuffed sleeves? Joan, who cared for a husband and brought up four children for thirty-five years? Joan, who got discarded with nothing when her (ex!) husband ran away with his secretary?

  “You look amazing!” I cry out into her face. She envelops me in her arms and I’m so not used to that, I burst out crying again, this time into her bosom.

  “Tamra! What’s happening, dear?” We sit back down on the bench, and I can’t stop staring at her. Her face is smooth and her skin is like a peach, her clothes are very, very nice.

  “Oh, my God! Is this Chanel?” I ask, feeling the expensive wool with my fingers.