Forget Me Not

by Lee Boschen

  "If you'd been doing it as long as I have,” Richard murmured. “We'll have prints made from these, only this time enlarged to eight by ten so we can see what the heck is on them that's worth so many people's lives."

  Richard went out to give the film to Janine with instructions to have the enlargements made. Then, perched on the corner of her desk, he asked, “How did the Kimberlys get their Christmas cards if they'd been processed at a different place than where they'd taken their film? I mean, nobody outside the company knew about the film processor failure, so the Kimberlys would have gone back to Lafayette Square to pick up their prints. Yet an hour or so after I took their picture, the prints and the negatives would still have been downtown, wouldn't they?"

  "You delivered them,” Janine said. “You're often ... quixotic about such things. ‘They paid for one-hour service, they're going to get it.'” She frowned at him then, and said, “I really wish you wouldn't do things like that, Richard. You could have sent one of the guys from the stockroom, they'd have welcomed the break.” She shrugged. “But anyway, you delivered them. You came back here from delivering the payroll checks, went wandering downstairs into the store and heard about the sticky labels. I didn't know whose pictures they were, only that they were one-hour prints. I wouldn't have known that if you hadn't told me where you were going."

  Richard looked at her quizzically. “I knew all about all this—the film processor failure, the sticky labels?"

  Jan nodded. “Yes, of course. At least, you did then."

  He shook his head slowly. “All gone from my mind,” he said. “You know, given time, we could have figured out whose film it was. Eventually we'd have been down to one set without an owner. Been a piece of cake then, except—"

  "Except the killers got to you first,” Leslie said.

  Richard nodded. “At least now we know how my fingerprints got on the Christmas cards."

  "More than that,” Leslie said. “We know why the Kimberly's neighbor lady reported seeing you drive away from their house in an undamaged car.” She shook her fist angrily. “Fahrquar was pulling another of his cute tricks. He never said when it was that the woman saw you, but it's clear now that it was in the afternoon, not at night. Not when they were killed."

  "Yeah. Something else I owe him. One of these days...” Richard took a deep breath. “Well, right now, we've got to get home to meet Coleen's school bus.” He turned to Janine Waters. “Would you put the prints on my desk. We'll check them first thing in the morning."

  Chapter Twenty

  It was early evening. Richard was out walking with Coleen and Miko when the woman knocked at the door of Leslie's house. She was blonde, very attractive, with brilliant blue eyes. The boy at her side also had blue eyes and straight blond hair.

  "Ms. Leslie Carson?” Her voice was soft and gentle.

  "Yes,” Leslie said. She smiled. “No. Actually, I'm—"

  "I'd like to speak to Richard Webster, please."

  "Richard Webster? I'm afraid—"

  "You probably know him as Richard Webb, Ms. Carson."

  Leslie's smile faded, and she felt a pang of foreboding. Webster? Why did this woman know Richard by the name of Webster?

  "Are you saying that you know Richard Webb as Richard Webster?"

  "Yes. Webster is his real name. I know because I'm his wife, Barbara Webster."

  Leslie's heart began to race. “What? No, there must be some mistake. Richard's wife was killed years ago in West Virginia. She died in an auto accident."

  Barbara Webster shook her head. “No, there's no mistake. Oh, I know that's the story he tells, but the truth is that he abandoned me ten years ago. His name was Webster then, when he fathered our child. After his son was born, he ran away, but we've never been divorced. He's still my husband, Ms. Carson. And this is his son, Timothy Webster."

  Leslie looked more closely at the gangling blond boy. His hair was straight as straw, and just the color of corn silk. His eyes were the same blazing blue as ... as Richard's? The boy stared sullenly back at her. Of course, why wouldn't he be sullen—abandoned by his father all those years ago.

  Leslie's mouth worked wordlessly. How could this be? Richard had wept as he told her and Alice Forrester how his wife and son had been killed that terrible day.

  "Is he here, Ms. Carson?"

  And we've just been married. One day.

  "I don't believe you,” Leslie said.

  The woman's shoulders sagged a little, then she stiffened her spine and looked Leslie squarely in the eye. “He can be very convincing,” she said. “Who would know better than I?” She dug in her purse, bringing out a little white booklet. “This is the original wedding certificate,” Barbara said, “You'll notice the date..."

  Webster's voice seemed to fade as Leslie read the document. I, Arnold J. Wilson, hereby certify that Richard Webster and Barbara Stryker were by me united in marriage—The date—nearly twelve years ago. The embossed seal of the state of West Virginia was placed near Wilson's signature as the officiating minister.

  Distantly she felt the certificate exchanged for another document, and the soft voice hammered her with more words. “And here is a certified copy of the marriage license issued by the clerk of the Wheeling County circuit court.” And yet another document, “This is a certified copy of Timmy's birth certificate. The date, you'll see—"

  Leslie gasped for breath, disoriented by the shock of what this woman was telling her as fact, facts Leslie knew were impossible, facts that the woman was proving. The thought spun through her mind. Richard Webster. That's his real name. Not Webb.

  Barbara Webster put all the papers back in her capacious purse. As she observed Leslie's obvious distress, she spoke again. “I can see there's more between you and Richard than the attorney-client relationship I'd assumed,” she said. “I can understand that. And I'm sorry. I know how you must feel to hear what I'm telling you.” Her voice changed, a note of anger creeping in under her careful control. Her face began to show something of her feelings too. “But you can have him. I don't want him, not after eleven years."

  She held out a copy of a different form. “Here, this will tell you how I feel. I filed this three weeks ago. I finally came to my senses when I realized that I'd been living a fool's dream, that he wasn't coming back. And even if he did, I realized I couldn't stand the thought of living with him again."

  Leslie eyes wandered over a familiar form, a copy of the request for dissolution of marriage that had been filed in Wheeling county, West Virginia. “You've filed for divorce? Then why ... what do you want,” she asked. “Why have you come here?"

  "I want the support he owes Timmy. Here—” She took back the form, dug in her purse and shoved another paper into Leslie's hand. “This is a copy of the court order showing just what he should have paid, four hundred dollars a month. I filed for support after he'd been gone a year, but no one knew where he'd gone and we couldn't find him. He's never paid a cent, Ms. Carson, not one cent, for ten years, and I want it.” Barbara's voice began to shake and she stopped to regain control. “I'm not asking for a thing for myself, not a single increase over the amount of the original court order, just what he owes Timmy. Four thousand, eight-hundred dollars a year for ten years, forty-eight thousand dollars.” She put her hands on her hips and leaned toward Leslie, thrusting out her jaw. “That's what he owes, and that's why I'm here."

  * * * *

  Laughter and stomping of feet. Coleen and Richard were back from their walk. Leslie opened the door and fixed Richard with a stern eye. “We have a problem, Mr. Webb."

  He grinned. “So soon? Married one day, and already we—"

  "It isn't funny, Richard. Honey,” she said to Coleen, “it's time for you to get started on your homework. Richard and I need to have a talk."

  As Coleen opened her mouth to complain, Leslie pointed, stiff-armed, up the stairs. “Go."

  Coleen looked pleadingly at Richard. His gaze moved from Coleen to Leslie and back again. He shook h
is head, smiling. “Huh-uh. Mother knows best, honey."

  Coleen rolled her eyes. “Yeah."

  Leslie's look followed Coleen's reluctant, step-by-step dawdling until the girl disappeared around the bend in the stairs. “And don't play the radio too loud."

  She turned to look at Richard, finally sighed deeply, and took him by the hand and led him upstairs to their bedroom, closing the door. She pointed to the chair by the bed and Richard sat down, crossing his legs comfortably. Leslie stood looking down at him for a moment, then went to stand gazing out the bedroom dormer window into the evening gloom. Her hands twisted together.

  After a moment, Richard stirred restlessly and asked, “Something really is bothering you, isn't it? A problem, you said. With Alex in jail, the only problem we have is finding out who threw me into that ditch.” He leaned toward her. “Oh, hell, Leslie, is that it? You've learned something? What is it?"

  She sighed and turned away from the window to face him. “No, that's not it. It's ... your other wife was here this evening."

  "Oh, her. That's it? My other wife? That's what's bothering you?” Richard started to smile, but then, seeing from Leslie's face that she was serious, he grew sober. “Come on, Leslie. I don't have another wife."

  "The woman who was here says you do. She told me her name is Barbara Webster. And she says that your real name is Richard Webster. And she had a boy with her. Your son, Timmy, she said. Blond. Blue eyes."

  The color drained from Richard's face. “Timmy? But he couldn't possibly be my—"

  "And she says you abandoned her just after Timmy was born, and have never paid a cent toward his support during the last ten years."

  In the silence that followed, Richard's gaze held her like a butterfly pinned to a collector's board. His voice soft, he asked, “And what do you think, Leslie?"

  Leslie drew a deep breath. “If you're asking me whether I believe you would knowingly marry me while you were married to another woman, then no. I don't think you'd do that. Do I believe that you would abandon your wife and child?” Leslie raised her chin. “No, I never thought that for a moment."

  Richard sighed deeply.

  "But that's not what was worrying me. Could you simply not remember?” Leslie asked. “Is it possible that you once went by the name of Richard Webster."

  Richard closed his eyes for a moment, then, “No, Leslie, it's not possible. You heard Alice Forrester. She's known me since high school. Ever since I was a teenager"

  "But not as Richard Webster."

  "Of course not as Richard Webster,” he snapped. “Do you think I married Barbara and went with her to see Forrester, then hurried to West Virginia to marry another woman? And then waited around for nine months while the second woman had our child? What do you think my Barbara was doing all that time? I'll tell you, she was pregnant with Timmy, and I never left her ‘til Timmy was born. Or even after."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I ... I don't know how I know. I just do."

  "But, Richard, this woman has documents that—I know what legal documents look like—and hers were real. They would stand up in any court. And they prove that ... that—” Light came then, piercing the fog caused by Barbara Webster's paperwork blitz.

  "Oh, my God,” Leslie groaned. Her own speech—how she had lectured him about scams. She had never dreamed that she would be the one to be conned. She remembered the way the blonde had kept thrusting papers into her hands, one after the other, bludgeoning her mind into jelly. Oh, yes, she'd proved that a woman named Barbara Stryker had indeed married a man named Richard Webster. And yes, a court had ordered that Richard Webster to pay child support. She had proved everything ... except that Richard Webb had ever been named Richard Webster. For a moment Leslie wondered if the blonde's name was really Barbara Webster. Why didn't I think of asking to see her driver's license?

  She tried to swallow. Was that pride that went down so hard? “Oh, Richard, she was such a consummate actress—the way her voice shook with righteous indignation. She wanted nothing for herself, only to collect what you owed your son. And it was all a performance. A forty-eight thousand-dollar performance."

  And she'd bought into it like a wide-eyed innocent.

  Richard touched her face gently. “Let's do something about this now. I don't want you to have to wonder if we're really married."

  Leslie shook her head. “I don't wonder. I don't doubt you. It's just that I thought you'd be the target, not me. It's ... I'm embarrassed, not skeptical."

  Richard nodded. “Yeah. Okay. But this is too important to us for us to take even the slightest chance. We're married—me to you, and no one else. And you're married to me. We both need to know this, because until I get my memory back, I don't want any shadow over us."

  He went to the bedside phone, searched out J. Waters in the directory, and tapped in Jan's home number. Hastily he explained the problem of the Webster woman, then, “I want you on a plane to Wheeling, West Virginia, Jan. The first flight out in the morning, without fail. You're to get a copy of the marriage license of myself and a woman named Barbara.” He paused, his eyes resting on Leslie's face. “No, get a copy of a wedding license issued eleven years ago to me and any woman. And to a man named Richard Webster. No, hell, let's go for broke—any man named Richard with any name that starts with Web.... Yeah, one B.” Another pause. “No, make that one B or two, and get copies of birth certificates of any children born to these men."

  He mused aloud to Leslie. “I'll get a copy of my own birth certificate here. And any local Web-men, and their kids.” He closed his eyes for a moment, and then turned back to the phone.

  "Jan, get a copy of the death certificate of Barbara Webb. And Timmy ... Timothy Scott Webb, age five. And if, or rather when you don't find any other marriage license applications issued to me, pay the clerk whatever he asks to swear to that fact and sign it and seal it, and bring that document back with you on the next plane. Jan, do I have to tell you how important this is?"

  * * * *

  The next day passed. Richard toiled in the bowels of the State Board of Health, gathering photocopies in a search for Web-men while waiting for Janine Waters to return from Wheeling.

  Leslie used the day to install in her computer the hard drive she had removed from Richard's smashed computer. But then, when she had finished, she wondered if should she view the contents without Richard present. She argued with herself, hesitant to appear to have invaded his privacy. But that was nonsense. She had a perfect right to see what was on his hard drive. After all, she was his attorney. She grinned. And his wife.

  She put away her tools, then switched on the computer. Ah, there, a folder named Personal. That ought to tell us something about his past. Even if it's just a check register, or a list of addresses.

  She transferred to the Personal folder and listed the contents on the screen, her eyes running quickly down the names of files. She missed the top file in the list, then caught it on the way back up.

  Barbara.jpg.

  A graphics file named Barbara? She called the file to the screen and founding herself looking into the sky-blue eyes of a platinum blonde who was smiling engagingly at her. Her mouth suddenly dry, Leslie stared into the woman's eyes.

  Barbara Webb. Leslie knew it. And the picture didn't look anything like the woman who called herself Barbara Webster. The woman who had made such a fool of her. Leslie's fists clenched at the memory of her meeting with Barbara Webster. She'd told Webster she'd be in touch soon. Yes, and the next meeting would be different.

  She heard the sound of a horn, a familiar sound, and looked up to see the school bus stopping in front of the house. She hurried to the front door and returned the bus driver's friendly wave. Then she asked Coleen the same question she asked every day. “So how'd it go today?"

  Coleen shrugged. “Christmas vacation in a couple of weeks."

  Leslie sat down at her desk. “Yes, but today?"

  Coleen heaved a deep sigh and dropped her books o
n the desk. “I screwed up in English again."

  "Again?"

  "Mrs. Slagle doesn't like my handwriting. And she says I should stop being so creative in spelling. Mom, am I always going to have to spell a word the same ol’ way?"

  Leslie fought her grin, finally nodding slowly. “I'm afraid so, honey. So other people will know what you're writing. You know that. How many times have you tried to get on the Internet, and spelled one letter wrong in the address? Really, some of the places where you ended up."

  Coleen nodded sadly. “Yeah.” Then she brightened. “Some of them were pretty cool, though."

  "Sure, but how many times has the anti-virus software saved us when you downloaded a virus that could have wiped out our hard drive."

  "Well ... where's Richard?"

  "At the Board of Health. He should be home any—” Leslie looked out the window as a car pulled into the drive. “I thought that might be him, but it's not. I wonder..."

  Leslie opened the door and experienced a moment of déjà vu. Standing on the porch was a trim, blue-eyed blonde woman. And with her was a skinny blond boy with bright blue eyes and a vacant smile on his face.

  "Ms. Carson? Ms. Leslie Carson?"

  "Yes. And you are...?"

  "I wonder if I might see Richard. Richard Webley."

  Leslie stared at her. “Richard Webley? There's no one here by—"

  "You probably know him as Richard Webb. But his real name is Richard Webley. That's the name he used when he fathered our child. I know, because I'm his wife, Barbara Webley."

  "His wife?” Leslie gaped at Webley. “But how is this possible. Richard's wife was killed in West Virginia."

  "No. That's not so. Oh, I know that's the story he tells, but the truth is that he abandoned me ten years ago. His name was Webley then, when he fathered our child. After his son was born, he ran away, but we've never been divorced. He's still my husband, Ms. Carson. And this is his son, Timothy Webley."

  Another wife? This time, recognition of what was happening popped into Leslie's mind with an almost audible clink. Oh, no you don't. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.