I Love You More

by Jennifer Murphy

  Picasso

  We didn’t see Detective Kennedy again until he found out about Bert.

  It must’ve been September by then. I remember I was wearing my school uniform, a plaid skirt, white shirt, and navy cardigan, so obviously school had started. I looked through the peephole when the doorbell rang.

  “Hi, Picasso,” Detective Kennedy said when I opened the wood door. I didn’t unlock the screen door.

  “Mama’s not home,” I said.

  “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

  I shook my head. “She’s at a Junior League meeting.”

  “Well then, I’ll just wait on the porch.”

  Our house, which is yellow with black shutters, a red door, and a full front porch, sits farther back from the street than most of the ones around us, so the driveway is long. The garage sits back even farther and doesn’t attach. Before I was born, it was just a garage, but Daddy had a second floor built on top of it where Mama could paint. If I think real hard I can still get a hazy image of Mama painting. I remember her holding the handle of one brush between her teeth while gliding another across the canvas, jars and jars of paints, cans of brushes of various sizes, the smell of the turpentine, the feel of the wet paint on my fingertips, the colors, gobs and peaks and squirts of color on the palette and canvas like a rainbow of icing on a dream cake. But that was so long ago. I watched Detective Kennedy from the picture window in the living room. He took off his suit coat, laid it carefully over the back of the porch swing, and sat on one of the rocking chairs for a while. Then he got up, fast, like he had just that second remembered something, went down the steps, and headed toward the driveway. I couldn’t see him after that. In a few minutes, I heard the basketball hitting the backboard above the garage door. I went outside. Detective Kennedy was running back and forth dribbling the ball like Daddy used to do.

  “Game of horse?” he asked.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Ladies first.” He tossed me the ball.

  I stood with my legs spread on the white line that Daddy had painted on the driveway, bent forward at my waist, pushed the ball back between my legs, aimed, and swung it into the air. Detective Kennedy caught the ball when it went through the hoop.

  “Good shot,” he said. “Do you always throw the ball underhanded like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm,” he said.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Well, it’s kind of a girl way to do it, don’t you think?”

  “I guess.”

  “Do you want to learn how to do it the way the pros do?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “One free shot a turn. How’s that sound?”

  “Good.”

  I made most of the girl shots, but my free shots didn’t even make it all the way to the basket.

  “Hey,” Detective Kennedy said when he saw my disappointment. “You just learned how to do it. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ll get better.”

  I was lining up one of my free shots when Mama drove up.

  “To what do we owe this pleasure, Detective?” Mama asked when she got out of the car. She’d parked at the very end of the driveway. She looked annoyed like she always did when she couldn’t pull the car into the garage.

  “Ma’am,” Detective Kennedy said and nodded. “You probably aren’t going to believe that I just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

  “You’re right,” she said, “I’m not.”

  “Mama, watch.” I repositioned myself and tossed the ball. It made a clean swooshing sound as it went through the net. I couldn’t believe it.

  “Yes,” Detective Kennedy said. “That’s what I mean.” He ran to me and raised his hand for a high five. “Exceptional shot, Picasso.”

  We clapped.

  “I suppose I don’t have any choice but to invite you in,” Mama said to Detective Kennedy.

  “We can sit on the porch if you’d prefer,” he said. “Your rocking chairs are quite comfortable. You can even take mine; it’s all warmed up.”

  “I’d really rather not advertise your presence to the neighbors,” Mama said.

  Detective Kennedy looked at me, raised his eyebrows, and made a smile that looked a lot like Daddy’s secret smile. “You got any of that sweet tea?” He grabbed his suit coat from the porch swing, put it on, and followed Mama inside.

  “The Toyota you drove up in, is that yours?” Detective Kennedy asked, as Mama headed to the refrigerator.

  “Yes, why?”

  “I seem to recall you were driving a BMW on Cooper’s Island.”

  “That was Oliver’s. It’s in the garage. Do you know anyone interested in an overpriced car?”

  “So you’re looking to sell it?”

  “I certainly don’t need it anymore,” Mama said as she set the tray on the coffee table. This time she’d brought the entire glass pitcher; the lemons and mint leaves were clearly visible.

  Detective Kennedy walked over to Mama’s picture wall while she laid out the coasters and poured the tea.

  “Is that you, Picasso?” he asked.

  “Right after I was born,” I said.

  “You’re much prettier now,” he said.

  I laughed. People were always saying how cute newborn babies were, even though they weren’t. I was happy that Detective Kennedy told the truth. I remembered what he said about a sunset making the sea turn colors. I’d googled “watching a sunset from a ferry” and “sunset changing ocean into many colors,” but other than information on sediment cores, fairies, and a page from some book that used a lot of pretty words, I couldn’t find anything that proved what he’d said. I also couldn’t verify the number of stars in the sky.

  I saw that he was almost to the church picture of Daddy, Mama, and me, the one like he showed us of Daddy with Jewels and those little boys. I held my breath. Thankfully, all he said was, “Just this one picture of your dad?”

  “Daddy didn’t like having his picture taken,” I said.

  “Are you going to sit, Detective?” Mama asked.

  “May I?” he asked.

  She gave him an angry look. “Please. What can I help you with this time?”

  I went and sat on the fireplace hearth again and watched both of them. I liked having Detective Kennedy in our house. I wished Mama liked him more, or at least was nicer to him.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “I almost forgot. I have another photograph I’d like to show you.” He reached into the pocket inside his coat and put a photo on the coffee table.

  Mama didn’t look at it right away. I could see from where I sat that it was Bert.

  “Am I supposed to know this woman?” Mama asked.

  “You tell me,” Detective Kennedy said.

  “I have no idea who she is.”

  “Picasso?” Detective Kennedy said to me.

  I shook my head.

  “It was worth a try,” he said. He put the picture back in his coat. “Picasso mentioned that you were at a Junior League meeting,” he said to Mama. “Fine organization. What committee are you working on?”

  “You can’t tell me you’re really interested in my Junior League commitments, Detective,” Mama said. “That seems beyond thorough”—she paused—“even for you.”

  “You underestimate me, Mrs. Lane,” he said. “My mother was president of the Cooper’s Island chapter for five years. Maybe you knew of her? Alice Kennedy?”

  “No, sorry. Is she still active?”

  “She passed, almost a year ago now.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Detective.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Are you okay with me calling you ma’am?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “It’s just that I’ve heard some women find it condescending.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask what you have in the oven. It smells great.”

  “Liver and onions,” Mama said. “It’s in the slow cooker, not the oven.”
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  The look he gave Mama was genuine. It was a look of admiration. “I can’t believe you make liver and onions. Nobody makes that anymore. It’s one of my favorites.” He looked at me. “How’s your mother’s liver and onions?”

  “Best in the world,” I said.

  I wasn’t surprised when Mama asked Detective Kennedy if he wanted to stay for dinner because that was the polite thing to do, and since Detective Kennedy was also from the South, I figured, like Mama surely did, that he would graciously decline.

  “Oh, I shouldn’t,” he said.

  “Well then—”

  “But if you insist.” This time, he shook off his jacket faster than a wet dog, and relaxed into the sofa. “Anything I can help you with?”

  Mama didn’t look too happy; she picked up the tea pitcher and went to the kitchen.

  Detective Kennedy leaned toward me and whispered, “I don’t think your mama likes me. Any suggestions?”

  “Flowers,” I whispered back. It always worked for Daddy.

  “I’ve got a quick errand to run, ma’am,” he said to Mama.

  I was setting the table when Detective Kennedy got back. He winked at me as he snuck up behind Mama and stuck the flowers in front of her face. “Do you need me to get a vase down for you? From a high shelf?”

  Mama cocked her head like she was surprised that he knew her vases would be up high, and then she pointed above the stove.

  Detective Kennedy filled the vase with water, cut the stems, arranged the flowers, and put the vase on the table. I couldn’t imagine Daddy arranging flowers.

  Nobody was talking so I figured I’d start. “Why’d you become a detective?”

  “My dad was a cop,” Detective Kennedy said.

  “On Cooper’s Island?” Mama asked.

  “No, ma’am. Detroit.”

  “Detroit?”

  “That’s where I was born. We moved to Cooper’s Island when I was five and my sister was three. She’s married now, has two kids. Matt and Molly. They live over in Wilmington.” He looked at me. “Matt’s about your age. I’ll have to introduce the two of you sometime. He’s pretty handsome.”

  He’d said that sometime word again, like he figured he’d be around for a while. I remember wondering if that was something he just said, to be polite, like Mama saying “Nice to see you” instead of “Nice to meet you,” just in case she’d met the person before and forgot.

  “Okay,” I said, even though I was pretty sure that Detective Kennedy’s nephew was nowhere near as cute as Ryan Anderson.

  “What about you, ma’am? You from these parts?”

  “Born and raised in this very house,” Mama said.

  “You don’t hear that very often. You mentioned you didn’t have family.”

  “Did I?” Mama asked.

  “The day of your husband’s murder.” He watched Mama’s face. I couldn’t tell whether it was because he was concerned or was waiting to see how she’d react to his saying murder.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Mama said. “My parents and younger brother died in a car accident.”

  “I’m sorry,” Detective Kennedy said to Mama. “That must’ve been tough.”

  “It’s fine,” Mama said. “It happened a long time ago, when I was eighteen. I’d already left home, gone to college.”

  “Daddy’s parents died in a car accident too,” I said. “He was about the same age as Mama was.”

  “Wow,” Detective Kennedy said.

  “Yes,” Mama said. “It was one of the things that brought Oliver and me together.”

  It was quiet for a while, and then Detective Kennedy started telling stories about growing up on Cooper’s Island. He told this one about him and some friends trying to break into the Catholic church attached to his school by climbing up a bunch of ivy, and I committed the image of Detective Kennedy climbing that ivy to my mind so I could enter the story, and then I remembered another story, “Jack and the Beanstalk,” and I saw Daddy reading it to me when I was very little, and I entered that story too, and found myself fading back and forth between Detective Kennedy’s voice and Daddy’s voice, between Detective Kennedy climbing the ivy and Daddy climbing the beanstalk, and then the two stories merged, and I stood on the ground between the ivy and beanstalk, and both Detective Kennedy and Daddy held out their hands to me, beckoned me to jump up and climb with them, and my heart started beating faster and faster because I didn’t know who to choose, and then something happened. I heard Mama laughing—Mama laughing—I hadn’t heard Mama laugh since even before Daddy died, and I followed the sound of her laughter back through that magical space that separates story from reality, back into Mama’s and my house, back to the dining-room table, and there she was, her face and eyes bright, her smile wide, and I smiled too as I listened to Detective Kennedy telling us how when he and his friends finally got to the open window they’d planned to crawl through, the boy on top lost his grip causing them all to tumble down and land right in front of the priest’s feet, and as punishment, the priest made them all altar boys, which, according to Detective Kennedy was not a fun job. By then tears were falling down Mama’s face she was laughing so hard, and Detective Kennedy snorted—can you believe it, snorted? I had no idea Detective Kennedy was a snorter. And me? Well, I was still smiling, but I admit tears nudged at the edges of my eyes like annoying meerkats, and I remember wondering whether they were tears of happiness or tears of sadness, because in all honesty I felt both. And then the phone rang.

  Mama jumped.

  The laughing and snorting and wondering stopped. Mama looked at the phone but didn’t answer it, which was awkward. After the third ring, Detective Kennedy stared at Mama, like the way Mr. Dork stares at kids when he asks them hard questions. “Why haven’t you asked me about the picture I showed you, Mrs. Lane?” He sounded like a detective again, not somebody who’d be knowing Mama and me for a long time.

  Fourth ring.

  “What?” Mama asked.

  “The woman in the picture. Aren’t you curious who she is?”

  Fifth ring.

  Mama didn’t say a thing. I didn’t think that was very smart.

  Last ring.

  “Who is she?” I asked.

  “Your daddy’s third wife,” Detective Kennedy said.

  Kyle

  My ride back to Cooper’s Island was as wet and dark as my mind. I left the windows cracked just enough to let in some air but not soak me, or the car. There was something soothing about the sound of the wipers and the swirling patterns of the water on the windshield, and something eerie in its thick, meandering consistency, like the pooling of fresh blood.

  Once I’d merged onto the freeway, I dialed Mack’s number.

  “Hey, Boss,” he said. “What can I do you for?”

  “Could you do me a favor and check the titles on Diana Lane’s house and auto. Not the BMW. It’s a Toyota crossover. License plate number is—”

  “Already checked,” Mack said. “Both are registered in Diana Lane’s name. And both are paid for by the way. Same with Julie Lane’s and Roberta Miles’s homes and cars. In fact, other than the BMW, which by the way is actually registered to Oliver Lane, Esquire, his business name, it’s like Mercy said, I can’t find one thing in his name. Not even a cable bill. The guy’s a ghost. Oh, and I had a phone conversation with our vic’s therapist. Said he had mood swings. Thought he might be bipolar, but that Lane quit coming before he could get a good read. Where are you now?”

  “Just getting on the road.”

  “How’d she take it?”

  “She denied knowing Roberta Miles too.”

  “Do you believe her?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll give you the details tomorrow. Think I need to keep my hands on the wheel. It’s soup out here.”

  “Be safe.”

  “Will do.”

  After I hung up, I thought about Mack’s question. Did I believe Diana Lane?

  Starting with that first time I saw her at the
beach house, I went over my encounters with Diana Lane. She was definitely a looker. I remembered her shivering while she sat on the sofa, holding that skimpy towel around her shoulders like it was a security blanket. Tears running down her face. Fear in her eyes. Was it an act?

  By design, I’d been the last person to enter the church the day of her husband’s funeral. The vestibule, like the Buick, and everywhere else it seemed, was hotter than hell. I found a seat in an empty pew in the back near a large industrial-type fan. Slid in, until I had an unobstructed view of her profile. That time there were no tears. She was stoic. Resigned? I remember thinking that even with her drab clothing, and her hair in that proper bun, stretched tight as silk on a loom from her hairline, she was flawless. Then I started fantasizing. I imagined pulling her toward me, undoing the knot in her hair, running my fingers through it, wrapping it around my fists, pulling her lips to mine, bruising them, shoving her against the pulpit, sliding the hem of her prim black dress up around her hips.

  At the cemetery, I’d hung toward the back of the crowd. It was raining then too. The scene looked like something out of a Hitchcock movie. Black coffin. Black canopy. Black skies. Black suits and dresses. Black umbrellas. Diana Lane had added over-the-elbow gloves and a veiled pillbox hat to her ensemble. Only her lips were exposed. They never trembled. I tailed the limousine back to the church, parked on the side of the road. The storm had passed by then, yet hadn’t done much to quell the heat. I watched Diana’s legs swing from the car, stiletto heels step onto the pavement, head dip through the door. She looked in my direction as she stood but didn’t see me. Surveillance stints in my early days had taught me the art of disappearing in plain view. She took Picasso’s hand and went back into the church. I headed to her house and waited on the front porch. I remember being pleasantly surprised when she offered me tea. Maybe I shouldn’t have been, I’d thought later. Whatever she might have done, she was still a Southern lady.

  Or a very good actress.

  That day, I chose not to see what I knew deep down: Diana Lane had not only recognized the photograph of her husband’s other wife, she knew Julie Lane. Just like she knew Roberta Miles.