I Love You More

by Jennifer Murphy

  I heard the side door to the garage door open and close, which was weird because Mama usually locked it. I put down my dictionary, slid my feet into my slippers (I was still wearing my pj’s like all sick kids do), put on my coat, went out the front door, down the side steps, and looked around the corner at the garage. I didn’t see anyone. Then I heard the trunk of Daddy’s car shutting. I walked over to the door and peeked inside. It was Detective Kennedy. He saw me too and made his crooked smile.

  I opened the door. “What are you doing?”

  “Just a routine search,” he said. “Why aren’t you in school today?”

  “I’m sick,” I said.

  “That’s too bad.” He was looking in the glove compartment. “Flu?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You getting lots of rest?” Checking behind the visors, inside the ashtrays, under the seat.

  “Some,” I said. “I’ve been watching TV.”

  “I used to do that when I was sick, still do sometimes. The first time I saw Casablanca I was home sick.”

  “Casablanca?”

  “Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman? Do you know it?” Now he was searching the backseat.

  “No.”

  “We’ll have to watch it sometime.”

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  He stopped, looked at me. “A key.”

  “What kind of key?”

  “I’m not sure. It might have numbers on it. And it would be in a safe place.”

  “You mean like a secret hiding place?” A feeling of excitement washed all over me.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “Want me to help you look?”

  “I’m almost done.” He closed the car doors. “You should get back inside. It’s cold out here. See those clouds? It’s looking like school just might get canceled for snow.” He winked. “I’m betting it’s been kind of hard with the kids talking about your dad’s murder. I’d stay home too.”

  “Do you want to come in for a while?”

  “Can’t,” he said. “But thanks for the invitation.” He unfolded a piece of paper that looked pretty official. “Will you let your mama know I had a warrant? In case she asks about me searching the car? She’s at some sort of Junior League thing, right?”

  I wondered how he knew that. Detective Kennedy seemed to know everything. “It’s okay. I won’t tell her you were here.”

  Detective Kennedy cocked his head and studied me. I knew he was trying to decide whether me not telling Mama would get him in trouble with her down the road if she did find out.

  “I promise,” I said. “It’ll be our secret.” It was the first time I’d shared a secret with anyone since Daddy, and I remember it made me feel good inside, like in that moment everything was right again.

  Detective Kennedy walked me to the door of the house and made sure I locked it from the inside before he left, which I did. Then he walked off down the street toward the church. I never did see where he parked his car.

  I spent a while searching for the key in all Daddy’s usual hiding spots, his sock drawer, penny basket, and the empty (of shoes) shoe box he used to keep way back in the corner of his closet under all his full shoe boxes, but which was now safely hidden in my closet. I’d discovered it a few weeks after Jewels showed up. There were all kinds of things in it, like pictures of his other families, two old people (a woman and a man), and a few of someone named Peter—him as a baby, him in a football uniform at about my age, and him with a girl at some dance. There were also some old coins, postcards (to the same Peter guy), and a ring that looked like one of those ones high school kids get when they graduate, but no key, so I shoved the box to the back of my closet, covered it with dirty clothes, returned to the sofa and my dictionaries, and decided to do something I don’t usually do. Instead of zeroing in on any old word, I specifically looked one up.

  Secret has a bunch of meanings, eight for when it’s used as an adjective, and four for when it’s used as a noun, which is what I concentrated on: 1. Something kept hidden from others or known only to oneself or to a few. 2. Something that remains beyond understanding or explanation; a mystery. 3. A method or formula on which success is based: The secret of this dish is in the sauce. 4. A variable prayer said after the Offertory and before the Preface in the Mass.

  Now, of course I’d known the general meaning of the word secret before I looked it up that day, but as I’ve come to understand, none of us really knows the entire meaning of a word because of the very fact that so many words are overused and misused. Like for instance, I had no idea that secret had anything to do with church, which shouldn’t have surprised me I guess, because just about everything seems to somehow connect back to religion. I also hadn’t really thought about a relationship between secrets and mystery, though that seemed perfectly obvious once I’d read it. But the meaning variation I found most intriguing was the third one: a method or formula on which success is based. I found that particular definition profound on many levels.

  I was still making a list of potential interpretations of that meaning variation when Mama came home. The second thing she said after she walked in the door was “Why is the side door to the garage open?” (The first was “How are you feeling?”)

  I acted like I didn’t hear her so I could run a bunch of answer scenarios through my mind first. One: I could tell the truth. (I threw that option out pretty quickly.) Two: I could tell a partial truth. For instance, I could say I didn’t know, which was sort of true given that I didn’t remember leaving the door open when Detective Kennedy and I left the garage and it was possible that the wind blew it back open or the lock didn’t catch or any number of other things that I wouldn’t know had happened. But if I said that, Mama might get worried and call the police, and then it might lead to me breaking my secret with Detective Kennedy. Three: I could lie.

  “Picasso?” Mama said.

  “I went in there,” I said.

  “Why?” Mama asked.

  “I was looking for a book in Daddy’s car,” I said. “The Sue Grafton book I took to the beach.”

  “Did you find it?”

  “No, I think it got left at the beach house.” That last part was true. I had to buy another copy just so I could finish the last eighteen pages.

  “That’s too bad,” Mama said. “I thought I’d make homemade chicken soup for dinner. How does that sound?”

  “Good,” I said, and coughed a couple of times.

  Kyle

  The following Wednesday, Mack and I headed to Boone. We’d called Roberta Miles in advance to ensure she’d be home. The closer we got to the mountains, the browner the clouds in the sky, indicating the onslaught of a major snowstorm. I was taken aback when she opened her door; Roberta Miles looked as if she’d lost twenty pounds or more. The transformation was amazing. She was wearing designer jeans, a lavender cashmere sweater—the color looked amazing on her—and the mole on her cheek was gone, only a faint scar belying its prior existence. Like before, she was gracious, invited us to follow her to the “tree house.”

  “Unfortunately, you just missed Isabelle. You always seem to stop by just after she’s gone down for her nap.” Said casually, as if we were old friends. “Hot cocoa and tea, wasn’t it?” She left without waiting for our responses.

  “We’ve had a break in the case, ma’am,” Mack said, after she’d returned with our cups.

  “Really,” she said. “What sort of break?”

  Mack proceeded to tell her about Lindsay Middleton spotting her with two other women in the Chapel Hill restaurant. She didn’t flinch.

  “Of course, she could be wrong,” Mack said. “But being that she’s a prelaw student and all …” He stared directly at her.

  “Was there a question in there somewhere, Detective?” Her smile was radiant.

  Mack laughed, nervously. Roberta Miles’s sly sense of humor had caught both of us off guard. What happened to the soft, in more ways than one, woman we first met?


  “We were wondering why the three of you were there,” Mack said.

  “I’ve never met my husband’s other wives, and I have no intention of ever doing so.”

  Mack looked at me questioningly. “I don’t recall saying anything about other wives, do you?”

  I made a show of checking my notes. “Nope.”

  “Well, what other ‘three of you’ would you be referring to, detectives?” she asked. “Perhaps Isabelle, me, and one of her playmates?”

  Mack cleared his throat. “She—um, the waitress—said she overheard the three of you talking about a murder here in Boone. A Mrs. Schwartz?”

  “Irma,” she said.

  “So you know about it?”

  “Of course, Detective. Everyone does. It’s a small town.”

  “Refresh my memory,” Mack said. “What happened exactly?”

  “The police thought her husband had some kind of attack at first, but she later confessed to poisoning him—oh my, now I can’t remember his name. Anyway, she used arsenic. Can you believe it? She was eighty-two. Pretty spunky.”

  “You find that spunky?” I asked.

  “Why yes, Detective, I do. Don’t you? She said he’d been abusing her for years, and she’d finally had enough.”

  “Is that the way you felt about your husband, Ms. Miles?” I asked.

  “Oliver never raised a hand to me, Detective Kennedy. And back to your earlier question, no, the three of us weren’t talking about Irma Schwartz or anyone else. The three of us weren’t together at that restaurant. The three of us have not met.”

  “So you’re saying the waitress lied?”

  “I’m saying she was mistaken,” she said.

  Mack flipped through his notebook. “Just as I thought. Julie Lane used almost those exact same words. Don’t you find that odd?”

  “Not really, Detective. If someone is mistaken, they’re mistaken. It would be rude to state otherwise.”

  Mack showed her the computer printout. “As you can see, the reservation was in Julie Lane’s name. So obviously the waitress wasn’t mistaken about one of you being there. We’re still waiting on the restaurant to give us the feed from their surveillance equipment. When they do, I’m sure it will corroborate the waitress’s story.”

  Without even the slightest show of concern, she said, “Oh, I’m sure it won’t, Detective. I’ve never been to that restaurant.”

  It hadn’t crossed my mind that Roberta Miles would be a good liar. The more I knew about the woman, the more I understood why Oliver Lane had found her attractive.

  “You’ve lost a lot of weight,” I said to her. “In a short amount of time.”

  “Stress,” she said.

  “It appears to agree with you,” I said. “You look great.”

  A coy smile? “Why, thank you, Detective. More tea or cocoa?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said. “We better get on home. That snow’s coming down pretty hard. Thank you for your time.”

  “We’ll be in touch,” Mack said as we rose.

  “Let me walk you to the door,” she said.

  The phone rang as we passed by one of the over-packed bookshelves in her living room.

  “Will you excuse me for a second?” she asked. “One of my cats has been gone longer than usual. I have the entire neighborhood looking for him.” She hurried into a room off the hallway.

  I could make out more bookcases and part of an antique wood desk. For a moment, as if I were Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe, I considered having Mack distract Roberta Miles while I rifled through its drawers. But what did I expect to uncover that qualified search teams hadn’t? We’d scoured Oliver Lane’s homes and offices months earlier. I focused my attention on the bookcase. There was an entire shelf on mythology and another with coffee-table-size art books. One caught my attention. I pulled it out, paged through it.

  “False alarm.” Roberta Miles startled me.

  “Julian Schnabel,” I said, indicating the book. “Are you a fan?”

  “My husband was. Oliver always wanted to buy one of his paintings, but we just couldn’t afford it.”

  “So you weren’t aware that your husband had purchased one?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh that’s right. You said you never met Julie Lane, so of course you wouldn’t know that there’s a large Julian Schnabel painting hanging on her wall. I imagine it cost a pretty penny. We’ll be on our way then.” I handed her the book.

  “You keep it, Detective.” Her look was a combination of knowing and spite. “You’re more of an art connoisseur than I. You can study it over your scotch tonight.”

  I was dismayed, but put on my blank face. I had never mentioned anything about liking art or scotch to Roberta Miles.

  “I hope you find him,” Mack said.

  “Find whom?” she asked.

  “Your cat,” Mack said.

  “Oh, me too. It’s cold out there.”

  There was a table next to the front door with a lamp and some pictures on it; I picked one up. “Interesting,” I said. “Where was this taken?”

  “At our church. Trinity Lutheran. Why?”

  “Diana Lane and Julie Lane have very similar ones in their homes. All of them seem to have been taken around the same time. A coincidence, don’t you think?”

  Roberta Miles’s smile was condescending. “Really, Detective. You’re obviously more astute than that. There’s nothing coincidental about it, now is there? We all had the same husband, remember?”

  I replaced the picture. “Oh, just one more thing.”

  “What’s that, Detective?”

  “Did you ever see your husband with an unidentifiable key?”

  “A key?” she said. “Oh, thank God. You found out about him. He told me to stay out of that room, but I just couldn’t control myself. It’s full of all his previous wives. Hanging from the rafters, chopped up, you name it. If he hadn’t died, I could’ve been next.”

  “Funny,” I said. “I’m guessing that’s a no.”

  Like she had on our first visit, she stood by the door as we walked to our car.

  “What was that about?” Mack asked as he pulled away from the curb.

  “Bluebeard,” I said. “It’s a fairy tale. Guy kills all his wives, leaves their bodies in a secret room, and sets up subsequent wives to find them before he kills them too.”

  “That’s a fairy tale? Don’t think I’ll be reading it to Evan.”

  “Good idea,” I said.

  “Speaking of fairy tales,” Mack said. “What do you think? Wolf in sheep’s clothing?”

  “Definitely more to her than I first thought,” I said.

  “What do you make of her saying they couldn’t afford one of those paintings? And she looked pretty surprised when you mentioned the one in Julie Lane’s house.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Bit of friction there. But I think it’s more to do with him being a liar. She’s probably seeing that more and more, and each discovery stings. Roberta Miles isn’t the flashy type; she’s careful with her money. She wouldn’t have been interested in a man who squandered money on fine art. He probably told her some story about growing up dirt poor and working his way up that he thought would impress her.”

  “Interesting that she said the surveillance tapes wouldn’t incriminate her,” Mack said. “Do you think they checked the place for cameras before they decided to eat there?”

  “No,” I said. “She knew we were playing her.”

  What I didn’t say was that I thought Roberta Miles had some kind of psychic ability. Nor did I say that of the three of them, I was pretty certain she’d be the hardest to crack—though I’d thought the exact opposite at first.

  That night, like I’d been doing since my mother died, I walked into a house so empty it echoed. Maybe it wasn’t dank and filthy like my apartment in Detroit, but it was just as spare, just as depressing: cold wood floors, empty fridge, bare cupboards, blank walls, fireplace that hadn’t seen a piece of wood in nearly
a year. My rickety table and chairs had moved with me. I took off my suit coat, hung it over a chair, went to my liquor shelf, grabbed my trusty bottle of Redbreast and a shot glass, and drank one after another while I paged through the book Roberta Miles gave me, my flash cards waiting patiently for that magical moment when just the right amount of scotch rendered me brilliant. But I didn’t find the sweet spot that night; I never even got to the cards. At some point I must’ve dozed off, or entered some sort of dark fairyland, because one of Julian Schnabel’s paintings was fucking with my mind. The plates were crashing against my skull, shattering, piercing my brain, while the damn words just curled their way through them, undaunted, unharmed.

  Beautiful, lucky, sorry, gun, motive, liar, dumb ass, wives, guilty as sin.

  Picasso

  Destiny: the hidden power believed to control what will happen in the future; fate.

  Smart: having or showing intelligence; capable of independent and intelligent action.

  Ever since I was a little girl, people said I was smart. Daddy started it. He told me that a lot of parents think their kids are smart when they do stuff for the first time, like roll over, sit up, talk, walk, or read those stupid flash cards, especially if they do it before all the other kids their age.

  “Did I do all those things before other kids?” I’d asked.

  “No,” he said. “And that’s how I knew you were smart.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “You might not have done things first, but you did them all at once. You never crawled. You never took a few steps and fell. One day you just up and walked across the room, smiling and laughing the whole time, like your mama and I were idiots to have worried. Don’t you see? You waited. For just the right moment.”