Until I Met Her (The Emma Fern Series Book 1)

by Natalie Barelli

  “Well, that’s a relief then.”

  Carr speaks again. “Mrs. Fern, Miss O’Brien remembers a woman entering the building when she left: she held the door open for her. The time frame fits. We’re trying to establish who that woman was and who she visited on that day.”

  “Maybe she lives there?”

  They look at me like I’m a child with learning difficulties.

  “It’s not one of the residents, no,” Carr offers finally.

  “Was it you?” Massoud asks, and at the same time, the phone rings. The home telephone. I stand up and lift an index finger as if to say, Hold that thought, I’ll be right back, and pick it up in the hall. I’m pretty sure it’s my troll/Amazon-stalker, but I need the distraction right now.

  “Hello?”

  The sound of breathing. Thank you, stalker caller, your timing is impeccable.

  “Hello? Who is this?” I say this very loudly, almost shouting. “What do you want? Who are you?” My voice escalates. I sound completely panicked now, and the detectives materialize right next to me. I hand the receiver to Massoud, my eyes wide in terror, or so I hope, just after the loud whisper at the other end. “I know what you did.” Like last time.

  “This is Detective Massoud,” she says sternly. “Who is this?” She looks at me. “They hung up.” She presses buttons, star sixty-nine or whatever it is; shakes her head; and puts the phone down. “What’s going on?” she asks.

  I start to shake a little. “I’ve been getting threatening calls all week. I’m scared, Detective. Do you think this has anything to do with what happened to Beatrice?”

  “What do they say?”

  “Nothing! They breathe loudly into the phone, then they whisper something to frighten me! Am I in danger, Detectives? Am I next?”

  “Did you report this?”

  “No! I thought it was kids at first, but this is the third time this week!” I shake my head. “What should I do?”

  “You could change your phone number. Is your number listed?”

  “Yes, I never thought to have it unlisted, but now, of course, I will. Do you think this is related?”

  “We’ll file a report.” Carr looks at his watch and makes a note. “We’ll follow up on this.” I do a fair amount of hand-wringing and jump at the sound of a key being inserted in the door behind me. We all look at Jim, who’s sweaty and red in the face.

  “What’s going on?” he manages between gasps for breath.

  I throw my arms around him. “Oh, Jim, these are the police. I’ve been getting threatening phone calls. Thank God you’re home!”

  The detectives introduce themselves.

  “What do you mean, threatening phone calls?”

  “What does this person say, Mrs. Fern?” Massoud asks. “How do they threaten you?”

  “I told you, heavy breathing and demented whispers, something like ‘What have you done?’ or something.”

  “Did you do something?”

  “Don’t be silly, Detective. I don’t even know what the question means.”

  She purses her lips a little. She doesn’t like to be called silly. “That doesn’t constitute a threat exactly.”

  “Really? What do you call it? Someone’s trying to terrify me, Detective. I feel exactly threatened.”

  “You should change your number and have it unlisted. That’s the first thing you should do.”

  Jim looks baffled. “When did this start?”

  “All week! It’s the third time!”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You’ve been so busy. I didn’t think it was serious. I thought it was kids or something. I didn’t want to worry you!”

  “Is it a woman?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t be sure. I think it’s a woman, but it could be a man making his voice higher. They’re whispering—hissing! Or something. I told you, it’s hard to tell.”

  Jim rubs his hand over his forehead. He looks surprisingly uncomfortable.

  “But yes, I’m pretty sure it’s a woman.” Just to watch him squirm.

  “We can look into it,” Massoud replies. Then she turns to me. “We still need to clarify your state—”

  “Yes, I know,” I interrupt. “Let me get back to you on that. I can’t think straight right now. Oh God.”

  No one says anything for a moment, then Carr breaks the silence.

  “If you could get back to us, Mrs. Fern, with as much detail as possible, that would be helpful.” He closes his notebook and puts it away in his pocket.

  “You’ll follow up on the calls?”

  “Yes, we will. We’ll try to trace this one, see what comes up.”

  Jim steps in front of the door and puts an arm around my shoulders. “There’s no need, Detective.”

  We all look at him.

  “Jim, I’ve been frightened out of my wits. Of course we need the police to follow up on this.”

  “Are you saying you know who the caller is, Mr. Fern?”

  “My wife has been under enormous stress, Detectives. She has a public profile now. It hasn’t been easy for her.”

  What an odd thing to say. His arm is a little too tight around my shoulders. I’m not sure if he’s trying to tell me something, or just very uncomfortable.

  “All the more reason to track down this lunatic, wouldn’t you say?”

  Jim doesn’t look at me. He opens the door with his other hand, his eyes still fixed on Massoud. “Leave it to me. If there’s anything to be concerned about, I’ll be in touch, Detectives.”

  So he knows something, I’m sure of it.

  I nod. “Maybe I’m overreacting. Thank you, Detectives.”

  Their eyebrows are raised. Massoud is about to say something, but lets it go.

  “All right. We’ll be in touch anyway, Mrs. Fern,” she says finally, walking out the door, Carr behind her.

  Carr bends down and picks up something from the front step. He turns and gives me a small envelope.

  “Thank you.” I take the envelope and close the door. There’s no postmark, no address, nothing.

  Jim looks at me with concern. “Sweetheart, you should have told me. Are you all right?”

  “What was that about?”

  “You said yourself, it could be some kids’ prank.”

  “That’s pretty unlikely, don’t you think?”

  He shrugs.

  “You think it’s Allison.” This isn’t a question.

  Jim doesn’t reply.

  “What does she want with me, Jim?”

  “Did you really get the police here because of those calls? Calls you never even mentioned to me?”

  It’s my turn to shrug. “No, they wanted to talk to me about—stuff, to do with Beatrice. Then I got a call. Perfect timing, wouldn’t you say?”

  “What ‘stuff’ about Beatrice?”

  “You know what it is. I told you—the neighbor, who told the police he thought someone was there. Same story.”

  “What do you have to do with that?”

  “Me? Nothing. They had questions about the cleaner, about George: loose ends, as they called it.”

  Not strictly true, but close enough.

  “You haven’t answered me, Jim. What does Allison want from me?”

  “I didn’t say it was Allison.”

  “But you think it is, don’t you. So now what?”

  “I don’t know if it’s Allison.” He runs a hand through his hair. He looks tired, or maybe just dejected. I wonder how well the pitch is really going. I wonder what’s going to happen to my money. “If it continues, we’ll get the police involved,” he says.

  I relent. “Fine. As you wish. But I think I’ll change the number. Would you mind?”

  “Not at all. I agree completely. I’ll do that now if you like.”

  “No, you go upstairs and change. I’ll do it.”

  I study the envelope in my hand.

  “What’s this?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. Was it there when you cam
e in?”

  “I don’t think so—I would have seen it.”

  I have a strong feeling that I should be opening this on my own, away from Jim’s prying eyes, but he’s curious about it. He moves to take it from me. I lift a hand to stop him.

  “I think I know what this is; Frankie was going to drop it off. I wonder why he didn’t come in.” I say this as lightly as I can. “You go upstairs and get cleaned up.”

  “All right.” His lips touch my forehead. “I’ll clean up and get changed. We’re not going anywhere today, are we?”

  “No, why?”

  “So I know what to wear: something casual, or something more presentable.”

  As if that horrible polyester tracksuit wasn’t casual enough.

  He puts his keys and his phone on the table, and it occurs to me again that every time I’ve gotten one of these weird calls, Jim has been out.

  31

  I dial the phone company and after the inevitable series of press this, press that instructions, I get to speak to a woman.

  I explain my predicament. “I want an unlisted number. Can you do that?”

  “Certainly. Can I start with your name and current number, and then I will ask you a couple of security questions?”

  I reel off my phone number and tell her my name.

  “Did you say Emma Fern?”

  “That’s right, F-E-R-N.”

  “Oh.”

  Silence.

  “Hello? Are you there?”

  “Yes, sorry. What is your occupation, Mrs. Fern?”

  “I’m a writer.”

  “Oh. My. God,” she says, in that tone young people use to show they’re impressed. “You’re that Emma Fern! The author?”

  I sigh. “Which is precisely why I need my number unlisted.”

  “Of course, certainly, but—” She sounds flustered. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Fern. It’s just that I’m such a big fan. I loved Long Grass Running so, so much. It’s my favorite novel, like, ever!” She goes on like this for a bit, just like I did when I first met Beatrice, all those moons ago. I feel like I’m trapped in a scene from All About Eve.

  “Thank you, um—”

  “It’s Nicole,” she gushes, “Nicole Callaghan.”

  “Well, Nicole, thank you. That’s kind of you.”

  “Oh, not at all! Really! It’s such an honor to speak to you, Mrs. Fern!”

  “Thank you so much, Nicole Callaghan. Now, if we could get back to the matter at hand . . .”

  “Of course! Yes! I’ll provide you with a new unlisted number immediately.”

  After it’s all done, I wonder whether they’ll give out my old number to someone else. Whether some poor, unsuspecting customer will be getting these crazy phone calls. I wonder if the caller, whoever she is, will even realize it’s not me at the other end.

  “All done?” Jim looks shiny, his hair wet and brushed back, his clothes freshly ironed.

  “Yes, new number, unlisted.”

  “Good. Is my fruit and yogurt ready?”

  “Sorry, I completely forgot with all this. I’ll get it for you right away.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I need to go into the office now anyway.”

  “What? But it’s Saturday.”

  “I know, sweetheart, but something came up and I need to work on our strategy for the big pitch.”

  “Can’t you work here? In your office?”

  “I’ll get it done quicker at the Forum. I won’t be long. Are you all right?”

  I pout. “I guess so. It’s just that, the phone call, the police—this morning has been a bit of a shock.”

  “Well, it’s all over now. I’m so glad you changed the number. It was probably kids anyway, as you said, but still, better safe than sorry, huh? Will you write the number down for me? I should go. I’ll see you later.”

  He bends down and gives me a perfunctory kiss. What is it about the top of my head?

  He turns back to me at the door. “You won’t forget, will you?”

  “About the number? I’ll give it to you now, if you like.”

  “No, about the bank transfer, about the money.”

  He looks so sweet, so happy, so loving.

  So needy.

  “No, I won’t forget. I’ll do it right now.”

  “Thank you, partner,” he bumps my shoulder with his fist, chuckles. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  I log online into my bank account and transfer all my money to the Forum’s account. It makes me a little nervous. I hope this deal works out, because it’s all the money I have.

  Then, when I can’t put it off any longer, I open the envelope that’s still lying on the table in the hall.

  I’m so nervous. This can’t possibly be good. It has to be from whoever’s been calling. I don’t know what’s in it, but I know it’s going to be awful. I almost anticipate seeing a pig’s head or something. But no, it contains only a single sheet of white paper, printed.

  Don’t make me tell you again. One million dollars. More soon . . .

  Oh no. No no no no. Suddenly everybody wants my money. Or maybe that’s not a coincidence. Maybe whoever sent this is in cahoots with Jim. But why? Jim must have known I’d say yes.

  No, this isn’t from Jim anyway. This is from my evil Amazon stalker, I have no doubt. What did they say? That I can make it all go away. And now they’ve explained to me how. I’m sure I’ll log onto Amazon and find more disturbing comments. By the time they’re done with me, I’ll be begging for instructions to give them whatever money they want.

  In a funny way, I feel relieved. This isn’t someone trying to right a wrong, this is a common criminal indulging in a little blackmail.

  I want to log back on and see if there’s time to cancel the bank transfer, but no, I won’t do it. Fuck off, whoever you are. Whatever it is you’re selling, nutcase, I’m not buying. I know the rules: I give you a million dollars now and then you’ll want another one. I silently repeat my mantra: There’s no proof. Even that so-called outline of Hannah’s is easily explained. And when I write that book, my memoir of Beatrice, that’s going to settle everything. Beatrice used to say the hardest thing when starting a new book is to be in control of the narrative. Well, I’m about to exert total control on this one. I tear the sheet of paper in as many little pieces as I can and shove them to the bottom of the garbage can. I’m scared, but I feel very brave. I know it’s the right thing.

  With the trepidation I’m getting used to, I log in to my Amazon account and check the book page. I look and look and keep looking, but there’s nothing from Beatrice_777 anymore. When I go to look at the profile, the review is no longer there. I hold my breath while I check for Beatrice_1234, and Beatrice_isdead, but they’re all gone, all of them. Beatrice_whatever no longer exists.

  I let my breath out.

  32

  “This is ridiculous! Am I under arrest? Should I call a lawyer?”

  “No one is detaining you, Mrs. Fern, and you can make any calls you want. Like I said already, we need to clear up a couple things and we really appreciate you helping us out here.”

  This is probably the longest sentence Detective Carr has ever said to me. We’re sitting at my kitchen table, and I can’t wait for them to go away. I honestly thought they’d leave me alone, after they left my place the other day. After they saw the state I was in when I got that horrible phone call. But no such luck. Two days later, they’re back.

  “Do we really need to do this again? I don’t know what you need from me. I’m sorry I don’t remember exactly where I was that terrible day—what do you want me to do?”

  “Just answer the questions, Mrs. Fern. That’s all we want.”

  I turn to Detective Massoud. “Did you find out who has been threatening me?”

  “You declined to file a complaint, so no, we haven’t followed that up.”

  “So if I get murdered, will I need to come back from the dead and file a complaint for you to look into it?”
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  They look at each other.

  “Mrs. Fern, we believe that someone was in the apartment when your friend was killed.”

  Oh Lord. The emphasis on your friend isn’t lost on me either. Passive-aggressive behavior is what I call it. You want to help your friend, right? You wouldn’t impede the police looking into your friend’s death, would you?

  “So you think someone killed her?”

  “We’re not saying that exactly. It’s still possible Mrs. Johnson Greene’s death was an accident, but we have reason to believe that someone else was in the apartment at the time.” She looks up at me. “Was it you?”

  I feel my head vibrating back and forth. I can’t control it.

  “Just answer the question, Mrs. Fern,” Carr says.

  “No, I wasn’t there.”

  “But you can’t tell us where you were?” Massoud asks.

  “I did tell you!” I wail. “I went to get my hair done!”

  “But before that?”

  “I was shopping! I told you!”

  “All right.” She looks at her notes. “We would like to look at your shoes, Mrs. Fern.”

  “My shoes?”

  “We’re hoping you will cooperate. We just need to rule you out. You were a close friend of the deceased. You would have been at the house often, am I correct?”

  “Yes! I was there a lot. Ask George.”

  “Can we look at your shoes?”

  I remember now, I know exactly what’s happening here. When I crouched down next to Beatrice, I stepped just on the edge of the blood that was pooling around her head. Just the tip of my shoe; it must have made a mark on the rug somehow, and the police were there, examining every fiber in the area. I’m sure that’s it, the shoes issue.

  “Of course you can, if you must. I have a lot of shoes. Which ones would you like, Detective Massoud? The Louboutin sandals?” I bend down to look at her feet under the table between us. “No, wait—you’re more of an Oxford girl, am I right? Comfort-before-style sort of thing? Well, sorry, I don’t own any of those.”

  “What is it, Mrs. Fern?” Carr asks.

  “What’s what?”

  “The problem.”

  “You mean, being harassed by the two of you on a regular basis? Jeez, I don’t know.”

  “Fine,” Massoud says. “We can do it your way, Mrs. Fern. We’ll get a warrant for the shoes. We won’t ask for your cooperation any longer.”