“But she’s been buried! Surely it’s too late for that!”
Something in her eyes snaps and she looks straight into mine. “Why would you say that?”
God, these people are wired to see the worst in everyone.
“You wouldn’t exhume . . . Beatrice”—I have to say her name; I was going to say the body but that would be callous—“surely? That would be too awful for words! It would be horrendous for George and for every one of her friends!”
“For an autopsy, you mean? There’s already been an autopsy, ma’am. No, we won’t do that, unless we have a very good reason.”
That’s something then. There isn’t a good reason to look too deep, pardon the pun.
“Why did you come to see Mr. Greene today? Didn’t you think he’d be at work?”
“I heard the terrible news, on the TV. I went to see him right away, to see if he was all right, if there was anything I could do to help.”
“What did you want to speak to him about?”
“I told you! He was being questioned! Harassed probably! He’s a friend of mine—I wanted to help.”
Detective Massoud looks at her colleague. “If you knew he was at the police station being questioned, why would you come to his apartment?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake! I didn’t know he was still at the police station!”
“Did you call him to find out?”
“I didn’t think, Detective Massoud. I just left to go to him. Is that all right with you?” She ignores my tone of outrage. “Is he still there? Are you arresting him? Can I go and see him? Is he home now?”
“Not right now, Mrs. Fern.”
“When will he be home?”
“We’re still searching the apartment. I can’t tell you how long that will take.”
Oh God. They’re going to find it, I know it. If they do, I don’t think they’ll think anything of it—they won’t know what it is—but what if they show it to George?
“One more question, Mrs. Fern. Did you speak to Mr. Greene on that day? Around the middle of the day?”
“No, I did not.” Massoud gives Detective Carr a nod. He clicks his pen and closes the notebook. They both stand up.
And then it comes to me, and I take a gamble.
“But I saw him.”
They snap their heads toward me, in unison.
“You saw him on that day? Where?” They both sit down again and Carr opens the notebook.
“I went downtown for some shopping, near the building where he works. I was on the other side of the street, and he was standing outside, with what looked like a lunch bag, a sandwich, and coffee in a paper cup. I called out to him but he didn’t hear me and he went inside.”
“What time was that?”
“Oh, about twelve thirty, I’d say.” The exact time that Beatrice died.
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yes, I am. I was about to take the subway to my hair appointment at one o’clock.”
“We’ll need to take a formal statement, Mrs. Fern. When can you come into the station?”
“What about right now?”
They stand up again. “That’s fine.” She hands me a card with the address. “Join us whenever you’re ready.”
We’re at the door now. I open it, and watch them leave and get into their car. I close the front door and let out a deep, long breath that I have been holding for what felt like the entire time.
Shit.
That spike of fear that has been lurking in the bottom of my stomach, ever ready to poke my heart, has gone. They’ve been driving me crazy, these loose ends. I couldn’t care less about the police. They could come and interrogate me all day if they like, handcuff me to the wall, beat me senseless with thick telephone books, and I would not care. I know nothing, I have nothing to reproach myself for, I have nothing to fear.
I don’t know where the cocktail napkin is, but I know it’s in Beatrice’s apartment, and I need to go there and find it before anyone else does. And to do that, I need to get the police out of the place. I need to get George back in there.
The statement takes no more than twenty minutes. I know exactly what I need to say and I say it in a square, bland, pale room, with both detectives sitting on one side of the cheap table and me on the other side.
Massoud wants to know what George was wearing.
“A dark suit of some kind. I’m not sure what color, so don’t bother asking,” I reply petulantly.
“You said he was carrying”—she flips through her notes—“a lunch bag? How could you tell that’s what it was, from the other side of the street?”
“I guess I assumed it was lunch. It was a brown paper bag, and he had a cup of coffee, one of those paper cups of coffee.”
“Could you tell what brand? Starbucks? McDonald’s? Dunkin’ Donuts?”
What had Beatrice said again? He always gets the same thing, a sandwich, a bagel I think, and coffee from . . . was it Starbucks?
“How could I possibly tell that? I was standing on the other side of the street,” I say, and smirk at her.
She puts down her pen and looks at me. “Is there a problem, Mrs. Fern?”
“You mean apart from being dragged into the police station like a common criminal?”
“I’d have thought you of all people would want to assist us in determining exactly what happened to Mrs. Johnson Greene.”
“We know what happened, Detective—she fell and she died!” I’m shaking, almost shouting now. “It was a terrible tragedy and we’re all trying to come to terms with it! What good does it do to sully her husband’s name like this? To drag us all here like we’re—like we’re common criminals! Is it because of who we are? Because Beatrice was rich and famous? Because her husband is rich? Does it ensure your name gets in the papers, Detective Massoud?”
She’s glaring at me. If her eyes could shoot bullets, I would be Swiss cheese by now. She picks up her pen again, and her tone is almost distracted when she asks, “Mrs. Fern, do you have a key to the apartment?”
Here it is. The question I have been dreading ever since I heard the news this morning. But I’m prepared. I match her tone of near boredom.
“I used to. Beatrice gave me a key once, a long time ago, but I gave it back to her.”
“Why did she give you a key?”
“I was going through a rough patch in my personal life. I came to stay with her, just once, overnight. She gave me a key then, in case I wanted to come back. We were friends, we were very close, we did things like that for each other.”
“Did she ask for it back?”
“No, but I didn’t need it anymore. I was at her house, we were doing some work together, and I saw the key in my bag and gave it back to her. She wanted me to keep it, but I had no need for it.”
I never used to lie. I don’t think I told a single deliberate lie in my entire life until I met Beatrice. I’m impressed with myself at how good I have become at it. A grain of truth, self-control in my body language, and a clear gaze at the questioner. It’s actually not that hard if you put your mind to it. Having everything to lose also helps.
“What did you buy on that day, when you went shopping downtown and saw Mr. Greene?”
“Nothing in the end. I was looking for an outfit for an upcoming television interview. I browsed, then I realized the time and I needed to get to my hair appointment, so I didn’t buy anything.”
Massoud wraps it up. They don’t seem to be bothered that I had a key.
“Did anyone see you?”
“Lots of people saw me. Whether they registered it is another question.”
She tears a piece of paper from her notebook and slides it across the table, with a pencil. “Could you list the stores you went to on that day, please? And we would like the phone number of the hair salon too.”
I find the business card for the hair salon and I list two stores that I frequent regularly downtown. I’m hoping they won’t be able to pin the exact date but they will
be able to say I was there around that time.
25
You’d never guess the police had been here, unless you lived here, I guess. Then you might notice that a pile of letters had been moved to the other side of that vase, or that books had been replaced in the wrong order on the shelves. But unless, like me, you knew the details of the house, you would not see any signs that a search had taken place here.
I rushed over as soon as I left the station. We’re in the living room, and I stare at the spot at the bottom of the stairs, where so much blood pooled, where I cradled her head at first, and then I—never mind, let’s not go there.
It’s hard to believe, but there’s no sign of what happened here. Only the narrow carpet on the stairs has been removed, leaving behind a very faint line on either side of it, a slight change in the coloring of the pale stone. I never thought that carpet looked good there anyway. The color was all wrong.
There’s a tall, wide shelving unit on one wall of this room, that has a mixture of shelves and small cabinets with doors. While I’ve been staring and taking a trip down memory lane, George has opened one of the cabinets and is busy tapping numbers on a keypad.
I stand very still. “I didn’t know you had a safe.”
“Why should you?” The door releases with a soft click.
“We’re thinking of getting one ourselves. This one looks good.” I move closer to him so I can peer inside. George reaches inside his jacket pocket and retrieves an envelope. He doesn’t seem bothered by my presence next to him, or that I’m staring at his most precious belongings.
It’s a small safe with only one shelf. I can make out a couple of large, thick envelopes and a black, velvety box on the bottom—jewelry, I guess.
“I think they’re pretty much all the same, to be honest. I’m not sure there’s anything special about this one.” He says this with a tired voice, like he couldn’t care less about safes right now. He deposits the envelope on the shelf and pushes the door closed, then locks the outer cabinet door and turns to me. For a split second he seems surprised to see me there, then he shakes his head and runs his hands through his thick, greying hair. “What a nightmare, Emma. What a horrible nightmare!”
I move to comfort him but he raises a palm and shakes his head.
“I’m all right.”
“It’s that stupid neighbor,” I say, “inserting herself or himself into your story. Why would they come up with that now, anyway? She’s been dead for weeks, for God’s sake.”
George snaps his head up to look at me. I raise a finger to wipe an imaginary tear from the corner of my eye.
“Can’t they leave her in peace? Hasn’t she suffered enough? Haven’t we all suffered enough?” I wail.
“They’ve only just returned from overseas apparently.”
“What, they don’t have newspapers or the Internet wherever they were?”
“He’d heard but didn’t realize the significance of the date until he got back.”
So the neighbor was a man.
“Do you believe it?” I ask.
“Believe what?”
“That someone was here, when Beatrice—passed away.”
“The police didn’t tell you then? Maxine, the young woman who does the cleaning for us. She was here that morning. She left not very long before Beatrice got back. She confirmed the exact times and where she went after that: her next client, I gather.” He sighs. “So, it seems that what our neighbor heard was Maxine leaving.”
Oh. My. Lord. It never occurred to me someone else might have come in, with a key to boot. I remember the young woman who held the door for me downstairs. The thought crosses my mind that she might have come in later, when we were . . . when I was . . . I banish that thought instantly.
“But I thought, I told them—”
“I know. There was no need to lie for me, Emma.”
“It wasn’t a lie. I did see you.”
“I didn’t get my sandwich and coffee that day.” He looks at me sideways. “I never do—my assistant does that for me.”
But his tone is nonchalant, like he doesn’t really care. There’s no point in insisting.
“Did you tell the police?”
“That you lied for me? No.”
“I meant well, George.”
“I know you did, and I’m touched, I really am.” He gives me a small, grateful smile and gestures toward the kitchen. “Do you want some coffee? I could do with some.”
“I’ll make it,” I offer.
“No, let me, I need to busy myself with mundane things like this.” His smile is sadder now.
“George?”
He turns back to me. “Yes?”
“Do you mind if—would it be all right with you . . .”
“What is it?”
“If I went upstairs? To her office? I just—the last time I was there with her, we had such—”
“I understand. Of course, that’s fine.”
“Thank you, George.”
He leaves the living room and I make my way up the stairs, looking straight ahead.
I know it’s likely the cocktail napkin is in the safe, maybe inside one of those thick envelopes. But I still have hope that she left it somewhere in her room or her office. I’m here now, anyway; I have nothing to lose by looking. I don’t know what I’ll do if it’s in the safe. I didn’t catch the numbers George typed in.
I experience a strong sensation of déjà vu as I quietly open drawers and rifle through notepads in her office, scan the shelves and open folders, and again, as before, it’s not here. Or if it is, I can’t find it. I take the opportunity however to deposit the key Beatrice gave me, which I have stashed in my pocket, into the small porcelain dish on the desk, among the paper clips and rubber bands.
I walk into the bedroom and the first thing I notice is that it doesn’t smell like her anymore. Her scent has gone, and it’s as if she really has left this house behind. Amazing. Even the sulking room doesn’t miss you, Beatrice.
George has left everything just the way it was on the night table on her side of the bed. Beatrice is looking out from a picture frame—who keeps a picture of themselves on their night stand? I run a finger softly over the glass. A little of bit of dust sticks to the tip. I’m thinking of spitting on her picture.
“That’s what she was reading before she died.” I turn around and stare at George. We’re in almost precisely the same position Beatrice and I were in on that fateful day, in this room. He’s leaning against the doorjamb, his arms crossed against his chest. Just like she was. I’m standing; that’s the only difference.
He comes over to where I am and we both stare at the pile of books he thought I was looking at.
“The Red Sweater by G. K. Austerin,” he muses. The book is among the other bits: a magazine; the messy little things that she kept within easy reach—a used package of headache pills, a small notepad, some crumpled tissues.
I touch the book.
“It’s one of her favorites,” he says. “She was reading it again. You’d like it, I think. Here.” He picks it up and hands it to me. “Have it. It really was one of her favorites.”
“Oh, George, no. I couldn’t.”
“Please. I’d like you to, and she would have liked you to have it, I’m sure of it.”
I take it from him. Whatever, I think as I caress the cover in a gesture I hope displays something like nostalgia. I pat a finger under each eye. “Mascara,” I quip. “Whoever invented it never shed a tear in their life.”
He gently puts a hand on my shoulder. “Come downstairs, let’s have some coffee.”
26
After putting in hours of commiseration, endless gentle reminiscences of dear Beatrice, and even shedding a couple of shared tears, it’s with great relief that I leave George behind in that gloomy apartment. God, it’s so depressing being around him, his pained silences, his vacant stares and trembling chin. I found myself doing the same just to pass the time until I could get out of there in good
conscience.
“Thank you, Emma, for being here. For everything. It means the world to me,” he said when I finally judged that I’d fulfilled my role as the best friend and announced that I really should go home.
Jim’s already here. Not only that but he has returned with containers of takeout food from the local Vietnamese restaurant; something we haven’t done in years. “I know how hard this is for you, sweetheart,” he says. “Let me look after you, for a change.” He calls getting takeout “looking after me.” God bless him. Not.
He has to work anyway, he says, and he locks himself in his study as usual, leaving me to clean up after dinner. I’ll give that to him, he works hard. Maybe if I had worked a bit harder myself, I’d have my own book. Beatrice would have helped me, I know she would have, and I wouldn’t be here, tense, anxious, paranoid, thinking about the police. Thank God that George didn’t contradict me. I could always say it was another businessman with a dark suit. They all look like clones in that part of town.
I go to bed alone, but my thoughts are swirling around, stopping me from sleeping. I wish Jim would come to bed. I get up slowly, pull my bathrobe from the back of the door, and walk softly downstairs to make myself a cup of herb tea.
Poor Jim, still hard at work. I can see the light seeping from beneath the closed door of his office. I’m about to knock on the door to ask him if he too needs a cup of tea when I hear something inside.
I open the door, but there’s something odd about his posture. He’s almost huddled on his chair, at his desk, with the phone in the crook of his arm.
“Yes yes yes! Of course it’s going to happen . . .” He’s whispering, but it’s more like a hiss. “Don’t do that again. Please, I know you—”
I rap my knuckles on the door to signal I’m here, and he jumps up with a start.
“I have to go,” he says into the phone, but in a normal voice this time, and ends the call.
“Is everything all right?” I ask.
“Yes, no, sort of. Just some work stuff I need to sort out.”
“Who was that on the phone?”
Until I Met Her (The Emma Fern Series Book 1) Page 17