Somebody I Used to Know

by David Bell

  “It sounds like you were a good friend.”

  “I hope I was. I do.”

  I took a closer look around the room then. There were pictures of smiling children and grandchildren on almost every available surface.

  “Did you ever get inside that day?” I asked.

  “I did.” Loretta’s face broke into a mischievous smile. “I said I was nosy and pushy. I’m also determined. I wasn’t going to let a friend be in need and do nothing. I talked my way in. And do you know what I saw when I got in there?”

  “What?” I asked, wondering if I wanted to know the answer.

  Loretta turned her face to the side, acting a little dramatic with her information. “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing but boxes. Boxes and boxes. All packed. Most of the furniture was gone as well. She was ready to move. The place looked clean. She didn’t need my help. Or anyone’s, apparently.”

  “So why did she try to keep you out?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I still don’t. I was only there for a few minutes. Joan kept telling me she had so much to do, and I offered my help again, but she said she didn’t need it. She said the things she had to do she needed to do on her own.” Loretta’s face grew more serious as she paused. Then she said, “We sat on some boxes and talked for a minute. Just for a minute. She acted distracted. Impatient. She thanked me for being a good friend and for being a good friend through their recent tough times. She admitted she only had one thing left to pack. Marissa’s room.”

  I imagined it then. A grieving mother, turning her life upside down to escape the memories of her dead child, packing up everything in her life but not being able to face the impossible task of dealing with her daughter’s belongings. Getting rid of them might feel cold. Attempting to pack them might be crippling.

  In that moment, I knew what Loretta did. I knew before she even told me.

  “I offered to pack it for her. Of course.”

  “But I’m guessing you didn’t get to help her pack,” I said.

  Loretta shook her head slowly. “No. But I did excuse myself and ask to use the restroom before I left. And when I came out of the bathroom I saw the door to Marissa’s room. It was just about ten feet from me, and it was closed. I couldn’t help it. I went over there real quick, and I gave the knob a turn. I wanted to see how much work Joan had to do and if she could handle it all by herself.”

  “You really did that?” I asked, impressed by her chutzpah.

  “I did.”

  “And what happened?” I asked.

  “It was locked. The knob didn’t budge.”

  I had inched forward in my seat while Loretta spoke. I said, “So they just had it closed off. They couldn’t bear to see it. I can understand that.”

  “I can too,” she said. “I would do the same thing if it were my child. I might never go in that room again. Ever.”

  It all made sense. If there was a range of normal action for someone who had lost a child, Joan Minor’s behavior fell well within it.

  “How awful to live with that room right there,” I said. “Like an unintentional shrine to the dead child.” I let out a deep breath. “So, that was the end of it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Pretty much? Did you see them again?” I asked.

  “No, we didn’t. I left that day. I asked for their new address, and Joan promised she’d send it, but she never did.” She tapped the cane a couple of times. “I just kept thinking about that locked door.”

  “What about it?” I asked.

  “It was one of those doors they put in every house. A knob with one of those little locks that you turn. It couldn’t withstand a real attempt to break in if someone was determined.” More cane tapping. “But here’s the thing. That day, when I went to their house, it was locked from the inside of Marissa’s room. I tried the knob, and it didn’t turn. The lock must have been on the inside. So how exactly were they going to get in there if they wanted to? It wasn’t the kind of door people have a key for.” She lifted her hand, palm up, as she asked the question. “Were they hiding something? What could that have been?”

  “I’m trying to figure that out,” I said. “That’s why I’m here.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Loretta told me she needed to take a bathroom break. I helped her out of her chair, and once she was on her feet she declined further assistance. “I can still do that on my own,” she told me.

  I ate three more cookies while she was gone, and when she came back and settled into her chair I asked her, as gently as I could, if she knew that Joan and Brent Minor had both passed away in the past five years. Loretta took the news with a stoic reserve. “That’s what happens when you haven’t seen people for a long time. I’ve lost a lot of friends over the years, but I didn’t know about them.”

  “Did you ever hear anything from them after they moved?” I asked.

  “They sent a card or two that first year after they left.” Loretta tilted her head, searching through her memory banks for the information. “Maybe something came that Christmas? They must have moved just before the holidays, right?”

  “Marissa died at the end of October,” I said.

  “Then it makes sense a Christmas card would have come right away. It was typical stuff, as I recall. ‘We’re settling in. Love to all.’”

  “Where did it come from?” I asked.

  “Colorado, I guess. I don’t remember the town”—she gestured in the air—“and I don’t have the card. I threw all that stuff away when I moved to this condo. Why keep it and make my kids throw it out after I’ve died?”

  “Can I ask you something else?” I asked. “Something a little off the wall?”

  “Why not?” she said. “It might be the most excitement I have all year.”

  “Did the Minors . . . did they have anything to do with an organization called Catholic Charities?” I asked. “Did Joan do charity work for them or anything?”

  Loretta’s lips pursed, and the skin on her forehead puckered. “Not that I recall. She worked on a couple of boards in town. Literacy was a big thing for her. It must have been why her girls read so well at an early age.”

  “And their kids weren’t adopted,” I said. “We know that.”

  “Marissa and Jade? Impossible. Those girls looked so much like their parents. They were clearly sisters. I still remember when Joan was pregnant with Jade. No, not adoption.” Then Loretta’s eyebrows went up like a light had just gone on somewhere deep in her brain. “Why are you asking me these things? Have you talked to Jade?” She lifted a hand to her chest. “Please don’t tell me that precious child is gone as well.”

  “No,” I said. “We haven’t been able to locate Jade. The Minors kind of fell off the map after they left Hanfort. It’s as though they were trying not to be found. It’s really odd.”

  “Like I said, they were kind of strange people. Good people. Dedicated to their children, but a little off-putting. I couldn’t tell you what they were up to.”

  “And . . . you don’t know of either of the girls’ being pregnant, do you?” I asked, trying to be gentle.

  Loretta’s eyes widened, almost comically. “Are you kidding? Those girls? I didn’t see any sign of that, believe me.”

  “Did they have any money trouble?” I asked.

  Loretta laughed. “That’s funnier than someone being pregnant. Money wasn’t an issue. Never. Brent made plenty. He worked all the time. I’ve never seen a man so driven. When he set his mind to something, he did it. Joan used to complain about it. She said she felt like she was raising her girls alone. She worried about the effect it might have on them to not have their father around so much. But you saw all of that.”

  “I remember,” I said. “They certainly didn’t seem like the kind of people to have financial problems. I’m just trying to understand why they might
have gone away and not stayed in touch with anybody.”

  “They must have stayed in touch with somebody in this town,” Loretta said. “Somebody.”

  “Who? I’d be happy to try them.”

  “I can give you names.” Loretta snapped her finger in the air. It gave off a surprisingly crisp sound for someone whose knuckles were gnarled from arthritis. “Have you talked to Roger Kirby? You must have.”

  “Roger Kirby . . .” I said.

  The name scratched at my subconscious. I knew it, but I couldn’t place him exactly in the Minors’ lives. It seemed like . . .

  “Was he business partners with Brent?” I asked.

  “Exactly. For a while. Brent bought him out a few years before they moved on, but they were still friends. They played golf together, went fishing.” She pointed to an address book on the table next to her chair. “I can give you some other names. Some of them are still alive and functioning.”

  Loretta let out a big yawn, and I sensed our conversation was winding down, so I took the tray and the remains of our cookies and coffee back to the kitchen. When I came back, she was scribbling a few names on a piece of paper, people in Hanfort I could look up to find out if they had any insights about the Minors. Roger Kirby’s name was at the top of the list.

  I thanked her and asked her not to get up. She informed me that she had no intention of doing so.

  “I remember when Marissa died,” she said suddenly. “Very well.” Her eyes grew glassy, and she stared across the room as though a portal had opened to the past. “I know you do too.” She lifted her hand in the air, index finger raised. “It’s funny. The weekend before the fire, Bill drove past their house on his way home from work, and he said he saw Marissa’s car in the driveway. He told me about it, and I assumed she’d just come home for a visit. We always saw her when she came to town. Even if it was just a quick chat or dessert, we always saw her. I called Joan and asked about Marissa being home that weekend, and she insisted Marissa wasn’t there. When I mentioned the car in the driveway, Joan said it wasn’t her car. And that they were getting rid of that hunk of junk anyway.”

  “She did go home right before she died,” I said. “For the weekend.”

  Loretta nodded slowly. “Bill saw it. He swore it was her car.” Her voice sounded a little distant. “Joan lied to me, I guess.”

  I knew what it felt like to be deceived. But neither one of us knew why it had happened. “I’ll let you know if I learn anything,” I said, standing up.

  “Would you?” she said, her face growing hopeful.

  “I will.”

  She opened her arms, and I gave her a hug. She held me tight, and it felt good to lose myself in a motherly embrace. When we let go, she wished me luck, and I left her sitting in her chair.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  I checked in with Laurel after I left Loretta’s condo. She told me she was doing well, having some luck, and I should go ahead and follow the leads Loretta had given me.

  “Leads?” I said, laughing. “I feel like Jim Rockford.”

  “Just don’t get your ass kicked like he always did.”

  It didn’t take me long to find the location of Roger Kirby’s office on my phone. It was in a newer strip mall not far from Loretta’s condo, and the map led me right to the door. He worked as a management consultant, whatever that was, and I remembered that Marissa’s dad had worked in some kind of consulting business as well. Roger’s name was written on the glass door in gold script, and when I stepped inside, I found myself in a spare but perfectly decorated waiting area. The lights were bright, the music through the intercom system soft and soothing. If I’d chosen to sit in one of the plush chairs I probably would have fallen instantly to sleep. The only person in sight was a receptionist, an eager-looking twentysomething with perfectly straight hair. She offered to help me.

  “Is Mr. Kirby in?” I asked.

  But she frowned. She was so sorry to tell me whatever she was about to tell me.

  “He’s not in this week,” she said. “He’s working on a project off-site. Was he expecting you?” She bit her lip to let me know how tortured this problem made her feel.

  “No. I was just hoping to catch him. I’m only in town today and maybe tomorrow. Is there a way to talk to him?”

  “You can leave your name and number, and I can pass it along when he calls in. That’s about all I can do.”

  “He must have a cell phone,” I said.

  Again the lip biting. “Not one he lets us give out.”

  “Okay. I’ll leave a message.”

  I gave her my name and cell phone number. I started to add that I was an old friend of the Minor family, but what if there was something about Marissa’s family that he was trying to avoid? Wouldn’t that just give him an excuse not to call me? So I stopped short of mentioning that.

  The receptionist looked up. “And what was this in regards to?”

  “I’m interested in using his services for my company. We’ve just relocated to Columbus from Hong Kong.”

  I didn’t know where the lie came from, but it flowed out of me like I was born to deceive. The receptionist didn’t bat an eye. She wrote it all down and punctuated her note with a forceful period.

  “Okay,” she said, smiling at me. “I’ll let him know.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Is he working in Hanfort today? Or somewhere else?”

  The woman clicked her pen a few times. “I really don’t know.” Click. Click. Click.

  “Tell him I’m looking forward to talking with him.”

  * * *

  Loretta was right when she wondered how many of the three names she’d given me would still be “alive and functioning.” The addresses were all easy enough to find. Apparently people in Hanfort, especially older people, still listed themselves in the phone book. But at my first stop, the home of a man named William Kreutzer, I encountered a nurse who told me Mr. Kreutzer was terminally ill and not able to see anybody.

  I found the second person on the list—a woman named Bobbi Tilton—and she was only too happy to speak to me. She acted nervous when I first appeared at her door, but when I mentioned Loretta’s name, she brightened and told me she needed to call Loretta so they could catch up. I explained what I wanted to know—anything and everything she could tell me about the Minor family—and the woman enthusiastically brought me into her home, which smelled like mothballs. But once we sat down, I found out she didn’t have much to contribute. She simply repeated over and over again what a wonderful Christian family the Minors were and told me how much she missed having them as good friends.

  “I need to write to them,” she said, patting me on the knee. “Do you know their address?”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth, so I suggested she ask Loretta.

  The house belonging to the third name on the list was no longer a private residence. It had been converted into a chiropractor’s office, and the woman at the desk had no idea where the previous owners had moved.

  “We’ve been here five years,” she said, looking at me like I should know better.

  I thanked her and left.

  And then I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. I checked in with Laurel again, and she said she needed another hour or so. I could have gone to the hotel room. But what would I do there besides watch TV and likely fall asleep?

  I thought about the drive I took to Hanfort a year after Marissa died and my trip to the cemetery.

  Then I knew where I was going next.

  * * *

  The cemetery was a broad, flat expanse of land on the east side of town. A black wrought-iron gate surrounded the property, and a statue of Jesus—arms open and inviting—waited to greet everyone as they drove in. The stones were mostly plaques instead of standing markers, and they were flush with the ground and easily read only by standing over them. The ef
fect was sterile and cold, a preplanned subdivision without the houses, but I assumed it made cutting the grass easier.

  I didn’t remember exactly where Marissa was buried. Even if someone had asked me on the day of her funeral if I could identify the location of her grave, I wouldn’t have been able to tell them. When I made my last visit, the one during college, I asked at the cemetery office, and they told me where to go. Thanks to the marvels of modern technology I could now look that information up online. Marissa was buried in section G, row 17, plot 3. Easy enough, since the letters and numbers ran in order.

  When I reached her grave, I stopped the car but didn’t get out. I sat and stared out the window. There was no one else around. The sky above was gray, the thick clouds moving rapidly from east to west. Colder weather seemed to be moving in, and who besides moody teenagers wanted to stand around in a cemetery on a gray, ugly day?

  Marissa told me once she didn’t want to be buried after she died. She said it seemed unnatural, a waste of space. “All the people in the world, and we give acres and acres and acres to dead bodies,” she said. She was practical that way, always thinking of the bigger picture. When she died, and her family announced the funeral plans, I thought about telling them Marissa wouldn’t have wanted any of it. The fancy casket, the flowers, the church service, the burial. But who would have listened to me? The college boyfriend? And, I assumed, the funeral brought comfort to the people who gathered to remember her that day, so I told myself Marissa would like to be remembered by her friends and family. Who wouldn’t?

  I looked down the row where Marissa was buried. Did it do any good to have her there? And then . . . if her parents had been in Colorado all those years, and even chose to be buried out there, why did they leave Marissa in Hanfort? Couldn’t they have relocated her to be near them? How many people even remembered that Marissa was here or bothered to visit her grave?