by Ann M. Noser
“That’s a long story,” I reply.
He shakes his head. “Maybe we should find somewhere else to talk. Perhaps the police station isn’t the best place to take all of you.”
Out of the darkness floats the peppy voice of my ex-roommate, Chrissy. “Hey, Emma! What are you doing down here?”
“Chrissy?” My voice squeaks as Officer Walker and I move to stand in between her and the triple image in the mirror. “I could ask you the same.”
“I’m waiting for Kevin.” She thumbs back at the police station directly across the street from the mirrored bank.
I glare at the police station. What’s Kevin doing here, anyway? Waiting for me to come in and be questioned? He would love that, both he and his mother. They’re probably just dying for someone to accuse me of murdering Mike.
“Kevin’s mentoring at the police station while he finishes up the last five credits of his criminal justice degree,” Chrissy brags. “And he’s working on becoming fluent in Spanish.”
“Awesome,” I mutter. What a hero.
Kevin steps out of the police station and hurries down the front steps. He pauses at the sidewalk to glare at us.
I wave goodbye. “See you later, Chrissy. We were just leaving.”
Kevin is probably too busy hating me, but I don’t want to take any chances he’ll notice the unusual reflections in the bank building. Besides, Mike says he doesn’t want to talk to Kevin anyway.
Officer Walker and I scurry back to the police car, hovering around Mike like bodyguards.
As soon as the car doors shut behind us, the policeman turns to me. “Emma, you have a lot of explaining to do.”
“Don’t you mean us?” Steve asks. “The ones she brought back. Don’t you want to hear what we have to say?”
Officer Walker takes a deep breath. “What do you mean ‘brought back’?”
“From the dead, of course,” Steve explains. “And Mike and I aren’t the only ones she brought back. Don’t forget about Sam, Jake, and Bernard.”
“Oh, Lord!” Officer Walker throws back his head and groans. “What does this all mean? Emma, were you always a witch, or did Mike’s death send you over the edge?”
I sigh. “Yes, I did all of this trying to get Mike back. Complain to him about it if you want someone to listen. I’m a little bit tired of defending myself on the subject.”
“Why couldn’t you just join a support group or something?” The policeman runs his fingers through his hair. “And maybe you could just call me Charlie.”
“I don’t think I could do that. Can I call you ‘Walker’, instead?”
“If I say ‘no’, are you going to hex me or something?”
I glare at him. He would make a joke of this.
His eyes widen.
Is he really wondering if I could curse him? I smile. This could be fun.
Then Steve speaks. “Charlie, why don’t you come back to the apartment so we can talk in private?”
So much for this being fun.
At the apartment, Walker sinks into my couch, a stunned expression on his face. “I can’t believe I’m talking with the victims of my investigations.”
“You should be delighted,” Steve replies.
“It’s just that I’m used to talking about dead guys, not to them.”
“Well, ask Emma if you need any pointers. She’s had lots of experience.” Steve smirks. “What do we do next?”
“Have you ever heard of the ‘Smiley Face Murders’?” Walker asks.
Steve shakes his head. “No.”
Walker continues. “It’s a theory pursued by two retired New York policemen. They believe that some of the college student deaths attributed to drowning were actually murders instead.”
Steve leans forward. “Tell me more.”
“These murderers could be a band of serial killers or gang members performing an initiation rite. A trademark smiley face is left behind to mark the site where the victim’s body gets dumped into the river. The water washes away important evidence such as hairs and fingerprints, thus providing the perfect way to hide a murder.”
“That makes sense.” Steve nods.
I gawk at them. How can Steve discuss his own murder as if it was a science project?
“I figure what we saw tonight gives weight to the theory, but it’s nothing we can use in court. I need more information.” Charlie whips out a pad of paper and clicks his pen. “Tell me all you can remember.”
“I’m afraid I don’t remember much,” Steve begins. “That evening, I went to one of the bars on Water Street to meet some friends. I planned to get up early the next morning, so I ordered a Diet Pepsi. When I got my drink, it tasted funny. I complained to the bartender, and he said ‘that’s because it’s diet’.”
Walker scribbles without pause.
“I drank it anyway. I was thirsty and figured it just tasted funny because it was some generic cola and not my usual brand. At least that’s what I thought until the floor slid sideways beneath me. I lost track of my friends and got pushed out of the bar among a bunch of people I didn’t recognize.”
Listening to Steve’s story, my stomach grows queasy.
“I remember being scared, but I couldn’t do anything about it.” Steve takes a shaky breath. “I couldn’t move. I felt too tired to run. There was some pain. But I can’t remember any more than that.”
Over the next week, Officer Walker sneaks mountains of mug shots out of the police station. And he eats practically everything in my cupboards, but I don’t dare complain.
Flipping through the photos, Steve gets frustrated when no one looks familiar.
Officer Walker tracks down the van, only to find it’s been stolen and then deserted, another dead end, except for one important find. Not only is Steve’s blood in this van, but someone else’s as well. The lab also identified Steve’s blood on the metal bar from my closet.
As they pore over photos and papers, I hear Walker vow: “Steve, I give you my word that I will do everything I can to solve your murder, even after you’re gone.”
“Thanks. You don’t know what this means to me.” Steve shakes his hand. “I probably don’t have much more time here.”
arly the next morning, a loud knock on the door wakes me out of a restless sleep. My head reels with terrifying remnants of dreams. Floating bodies, engorged rivers, and shrieking smiley faces dance in my head.
How awful―sometimes I really hate my own imagination.
I stumble through the kitchen to find Claire standing in my doorway with a platter of baked goods.
She shoves the heaping dish into my hands. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.” She doesn’t even let me answer. “I came to see Abby.”
Really? That’s interesting. “She lives downstairs.”
“Yes, I know, but she isn’t home right now.”
“Would you like to come in?” I offer. It seems like the polite thing to do, plus her cookies look scrumptious. “Are these for Abby?”
“They were, but since she’s not home, go ahead and help yourself.” Claire drops her purse on the kitchen counter.
I bite into a chocolate chip cookie while Claire paces, wringing her hands. “Call me a busybody, but that girl needs help. I spent most of the last year worrying only about myself, and this is the first time in a long time that I’ve been concerned about anyone else. I just hope I’m not interfering.”
“I guess it depends whether Abby wants your help or not.”
“I think I already told you Bernard and I couldn’t have children.”
“Yes. I’m so sorry about that.” Does she want to adopt Abby’s baby? Isn’t she too old for this?
Claire stops pacing and looks straight at me. “I know this sounds crazy, but it’s through Bernard that I know about Abby’s baby. It’s as if he wants me to do something more for her.”
I pause midbite. “How?”
“I’m not sure yet. But I don’t want to just buy some diapers and leave it at that. There has
to be more I can do.”
“You mean if Abby wants you to.”
“Of course. What do you think she’ll say if I try to get involved?”
“She doesn’t know about Bernard,” I warn.
“I know. Steve told me that when he talked to me…afterward. In fact, it was something Steve said that got me thinking about this in the first place.”
“What did he say?”
Claire grabs her purse. “It’s early. I should go. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
“Believe me, it’s no bother. Especially when you’re such a good cook.”
“No, I really should go home and think about this some more.” Claire rushes out of the apartment without another word or her cookie tray.
“Who was that?” Steve wanders out of the second bedroom with a yawn.
“It was Claire.” I watch his reaction. “She acted so oddly.”
“What do you mean?” Steve opens the refrigerator.
“Claire asked about Abby. She wants to help with the baby. Do you know anything about this? She said you did.”
“Oh, really?” Steve mumbles.
“What did you say to her?”
Steve takes out some milk and closes the door, not admitting a thing.
Mike flickers to the forefront. “Claire brought cookies? Awesome!”
“Yeah. Help yourself.” I push the tray toward him. “Steve, aren’t you going to answer my question?”
He flickers back into view. “Nope.”
Into this mess intrude my parents, both scared to death about my fictional sex life. My mother has been sending self-help relationship books in the mail ever since her last visit, and the business cards of several highly regarded gynecologists in my area.
At least she hasn’t mailed me any condoms.
Yet.
The afternoon of their expected arrival, I take a long walk alone to calm my nerves. Upon my return, I meet them in the parking lot. Mom carries a large bag, and Dad eyes me like I have three heads and a scarlet letter branded across my bulky winter coat.
“Is that more groceries?” I ask Mom.
She looks confused. “No, this is just my makeup bag.”
Panic flares in my chest. “How long are you staying in town?”
“Relax, Emma. We’re only taking you out to dinner. I just wanted to freshen up first.”
“Oh.” What a relief. I turn toward the building.
As we reached the apartment, Claire pops out.
I wave her over to meet my parents, hoping they’ll be impressed with my mature friend-making skills. “Mom and Dad, this is my friend, Claire Mundahl.”
“Nice to meet you.” She shakes both their hands with elegance and then turns to me, her face radiant. “I’ve just offered to have Abby and the baby move in with me.”
“That would be great,” I say. “If she doesn’t give up the baby for adoption, I mean.”
“Yes, I noticed all of the baby stuff was missing. She said that you had it.”
Mom eyes me.
Crap! Now she thinks I’m pregnant! I better put an end to this.
“A few days ago,” I rush to explain, “Abby called us in the middle of another panic attack, begging us to take away everything she’d bought for the baby. She said she had decided upon adoption but wasn’t ready to return her purchases yet, in case she changed her mind―again.”
“Poor girl,” clucks Claire. “She needs to make that decision before that baby gets here.” Then she glances toward my parents, as if she’s forgotten they were there. “Have a lovely visit.”
Fat chance of that.
“See you later,” I mumble.
My parents and I climb the stairs to the landing. I struggle with my key in the lock. Mike finally opens the apartment door from the inside.
And there sits Officer Walker on my couch. In uniform, no less.
My heart sinks. Crap! Could his timing be any worse?
He pauses, his hand in the chip bowl. From the stupid expression on his face, I can tell he thinks my mother is hot, which sort of bugs me in a strange way. The policeman looks back and forth between me and Mike, me and my parents, and then Mike and my parents. His hand remains in the chip bowl the whole time.
“Hello…Jake,” Dad greets Mike in his I’m-trying-really-hard-to-be-polite voice.
“Hello, Mr. Roberts. Nice to see you again.”
I leave them to struggle with small talk while I cross the room to confront Walker.
“Why are you here? I told you my parents were coming tonight.”
“Sorry―I forgot.”
I scowl. If you’re so sorry, then stop eating my favorite chips!
“Have you lost weight?” Mom asks Mike.
“You do look thinner,” agrees my father. “Are you eating enough? Cheryl, maybe you should’ve brought groceries again.”
I roll my eyes. Leave it to my mother to notice in her own way Bernard is gone.
“And you are?” Mom directs her radar vision at Walker’s uniform.
“Just leaving.” He stands and crosses the room in a fluid motion. “My name’s Officer Walker. I believe I spoke with you before.” He nods to my father, who first looks surprised, and then offers his hand.
“Have a nice dinner, you guys.” Walker smiles before making a quick exit out the door.
“Jake, are you coming with us?” Dad’s voice does not sound the least bit inviting.
“Uh…” Mike flashes a glance at me. “Thank you, but no. I already ate. And I have a job to go to.”
“What type of job?” asks Dad.
“Plumbing… See ya.” Mike grabs his keys and makes a hasty retreat.
After he leaves, Mom stalks through the apartment like a professional investigator. Her gaze glosses over Abby’s crib and stroller boxes, as if they don’t exist. My father hangs back, as if he doesn’t want to know anything she might find out.
After a thorough exam, Mom whirls on me. “Whatever happened to Chrissy? Why don’t you live with her?”
“Ever since Chrissy got a new boyfriend, she doesn’t have time for anyone else. You know how girls are, Mom.”
“Why was that policeman here?”
Why did he have to show up tonight? I knew he would cause trouble for me.
“Walker? He’s a friend.”
Dad raises his eyebrows.
Mom narrows her eyes. “Why are you friends with him?”
“Uh… Why do you ask?” Honestly, I keep asking myself that same question every time he comes over and eats all my food.
“He’s rather attractive. I would think that Jake might not like you being friends with him.”
Wow. I wasn’t expecting that.
“He’s handsome? Please, Mom!” Okay, maybe he is, just a little bit.
She puts a hand on her hip. “Don’t tell me you never noticed. How old is he, anyway?”
Oh dear, now she thinks I’m sleeping with him.
“I don’t know his age, and I swear to you I never noticed what he looks like.” Sheesh, she would make a good cop herself, she acts so dang-blasted nosy these days.
Mom frowns. “We want to meet all of your friends.”
I count on my fingers. “Well, you’ve met Claire―”
“The widow who seems too old to be your friend?” Mom retorts.
“And you’ve met Walker―” Unfortunately.
“The cop who’s also too old, and good-looking, to be your friend?”
I sigh in frustration. “Dad hasn’t met Abby yet, but you have.”
“Is she the pregnant one?” Dad avoids my gaze.
Poor Dad. He’s envisioning all sorts of bad things, none of them true.
“Emma.” Mom cocks her head. “How is it you’ve accumulated such an unusual assortment of friends?”
“Um.” Special circumstances.
“And is it true that Jake dropped out of college to pursue a handyman career?” Dad asks in a disapproving tone.
I sigh. “It’s a long story.
”
“Then, let’s go to dinner.” He gestures toward the door. “You’ll have plenty of time to tell us all about it then.”
My parents made reservations at the fanciest restaurant in town. The lights are elegantly dimmed, the seating luxurious, and an expert pianist commands the glossy keyboard near the bar.
Too bad I can’t enjoy it.
After being escorted to our comfortable seats, I hide behind the tall menu, pretending I can’t decide which entrée to order. At least I don’t have to fake being a vegetarian this time around.
“Your mother and I are worried about the ‘life choices’ you’re making.” Dad’s face looks even more serious than at Christmas, if possible. “We realize you’ve been through a lot, but you need to be more careful. The decisions you make today will affect the rest of your life.”
And several other people’s lives, too, but my parents don’t know that.
“Okay. You have a point.” I figure I’ll let them say their piece first and then start arguing.
“I realize relationships nowadays aren’t what they used to be…” My father’s voice trails off.
“But a woman still has her reputation to consider.” Mom finishes the sentence for him.
“What exactly do you think is going on?” Might as well just get this over with.
Mom and Dad look at each other for support and then turn on me.
“We think you’re living with your boyfriend while dating other men,” Mom whispers across the linen tablecloth.
My mouth falls open. I suppose laughing now would be a very bad idea.
“Well, are you in what they call an ‘open relationship’, or not?” Dad grimaces as he speaks such sinful words.
“Ah… No.”
My mom sighs in obvious relief, and then her eyes grow suspicious. “So, what is going on? Your father and I have been worried sick about you.”
“It’s complicated.” No kidding.
“And you only have the one roommate, right?” Dad lifts up one finger, as if I’ve lost the ability to count that high.
I nod. “I’m only living with one guy.” Well, sort of.
Mom leans toward me. “And you’re not seeing anyone else?”
“I’m definitely not dating anyone else.” That’s for sure.