A Memory of Murder

by Nichelle Seely

I take a deep breath. Calm. “Yes, Claire. I am. The evidence in her apartment, that she left her purse and billfold behind, that her car is still in the parking lot. It looks like she went for a walk and never made it home. You’ve said yourself that she wasn’t suicidal. And neither of us think she just fell off a pier into the river.”

  “Maybe it was just a random stranger. There’s lots of transients and tourists in town.”

  “Maybe, but why? She didn’t have any money with her — no purse, right? No one wanted her car. Why would someone just attack her for no reason?”

  Claire takes my dishes away. She replenishes her supply of glasses and wipes the taps again.

  “Audrey?” Her voice has taken on a serious edge.

  “Yes?”

  “How do you know she left her bag in the apartment?”

  I feel the ground give way beneath me. A high-pitched hum vibrates the crystalline silence. It’s hard for me to think.

  “Audrey?”

  Claire’s voice seems far away. I’m back in Harkness’s bedroom, lying beside the bed, staring at the booted feet in the doorway. Hearing the buzz of the fly in the window and the rush of blood in my ears. Feeling the rough nap of the carpet beneath my cheek.

  “Audrey? Are you all right?”

  I don’t want to know what happens next. I just know somewhere, sometime, I’ve made a terrible mistake.

  “Audrey!”

  A hand clamps on my forearm, followed by a quick, vigorous shake. I blink, look around, feel the hard edge of the bar under my elbows, smell the deep fat fryer in the back.

  “What’s going on?” Claire’s face is close, her eyes wide. I notice she has a mole above the peak of her right eyebrow. It’s her hand on my arm.

  I sit up straight. “Nothing. Sorry. Just — zoned out for minute. I haven’t been sleeping well lately. I’d better get home. I’ll be in touch.”

  She lets go, but still looks concerned about me. Hell, I’m concerned about me. But it’s bad form to reveal your craziness to a client. I give her a jaunty wave, the kind that says ‘everything’s great here in la-la land’ before heading out the door. I almost collide with an elderly couple dressed in matching sweatshirts but, after exchanging apologies, make it safely to my car.

  I’m halfway home before I realize I walked out without paying for my meal.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  MY PHONE IS ringing. I’m thrashing around on my cot, patting the floor, looking for where I left it. Finally, my hand closes around the cool black rectangle. The name on the lock screen is Elizabeth Harkness.

  “Hello?” I’m still groggy, but make an effort not to sound like I’m still in bed at nine in the morning. I wonder why she’s calling. She wasn’t friendly the last time we talked, and seems to be estranged from Victoria.

  “Is this Ms. Audrey Lake?”

  “Speaking.” Sort of.

  “I wish to make an appointment to talk to you about my daughter.”

  Now I’m awake. “Where and when?”

  “Say, in an hour. At Victoria’s apartment.” Pause. “I assume you know where it is.”

  I have some trepidation about returning to Victoria’s apartment. It’s been five days since her body was pulled from the Columbia River; a week since Claire Chandler engaged me to investigate her disappearance. My last visit wasn’t exactly a jaunt in the park, but if Elizabeth Harkness is here, that means it’s not considered a crime scene, and that means no one has looked for forensic evidence. And now I’ll be legitimately shedding my own fibers and whatnot. In case anyone asks.

  After negotiating the calf-wrenching access stairs, I knock on the door, noting the tiny scratches I left on the knob the last time I was here. Ms. Harkness herself answers: a tall white woman with silvering dark hair wearing a rose-colored cashmere sweater. Around her neck is small silver cross. On her wrist is a delicate silver watch. Or maybe it’s white gold. Or platinum. I’m surprised to see her. For some reason I expected her to bring a butler.

  “Are you Audrey Lake?”

  “I am. And you must be Victoria’s mother.”

  She opens the door wider to let me in, and I enter the apartment for the second time. It’s the same, and yet different. Ms. Harkness’s own handbag is on the table, a pale pink Fendi clutch, along with a steaming cup of tea. Nothing has been disarranged, but her presence has filled the small space. Victoria is no longer here.

  “Would you like a beverage? Tea, or coffee?”

  “No, thanks.” I don’t know if she brought her own, but it feels wrong to drink Victoria’s.

  “Let’s get down to business, then. If you’ll come with me to the bedroom, I’m packing up her things.” She takes the cup and leads the way.

  The bedroom, where I’d had my flashback and a close encounter with the carpet. She’s put the suitcase that was under the bed on top of the mattress, and it already contains a few items, folded with retail neatness.

  She says, “The rent is only paid through the end of the month, and the landlord wants all her things removed. This isn’t how I want to remember her, but needs must.” She takes another blouse from a hanger in the closet and lays it on the bed in preparation to folding. “I’ll come straight to the point. What have you discovered in your investigation of my daughter?”

  I can see Ms. Harkness chairing a board meeting or a citizen’s committee with authority and precision. I lean against the doorjamb and take out my notebook. “Have you spoken to the police?”

  “I have, and was very disappointed to learn that there was no missing persons report, although you led me to believe you were actively investigating her disappearance. Now that she is dead, I want some answers.” Her voice shakes ever so slightly, and I’m suddenly in sympathy with her. This tiny break in her tight control reveals the grieving mother beneath the sophisticated facade.

  “What have the police told you, Ms. Harkness?”

  “Are you not in communication with them yourself?”

  “Bear with me, please. I’ll answer your questions as best I can, but it will be helpful if I can understand what you know already.”

  “All right.” She places the blouse into the suitcase and walks back to the closet. “I understand that Victoria did not appear for a church service she had scheduled for Thursday of last week. The first I heard of this was your call to me on Sunday, which alarmed me.” She glances at me, her expression reproachful.

  I oblige her by squirming a little.

  She continues. “When I came over here the next day to talk to the police, I discovered no one had filed a missing person’s report. The police had no idea she was gone. Until the call about her — her body came through.” Elizabeth’s voice has risen, and her eyes are swimming with tears. She looks away, into the depths of the closet.

  The door casing is hard against my spine. “I’m so sorry you had to learn about it like that.”

  “The M.E. says it was most likely an accident, that there are no signs of foul play. That Victoria drowned after falling into the water.” She fingers the bright fabric of a floral skirt, and carefully removes it from the hanger. “Now, Ms. Lake, I would appreciate it if you would explain your role in all this.”

  I don’t hesitate. Unlike my conversation with Olafson, I feel like this woman has a need to know that goes beyond the legal niceties. I only wish there was more to tell her. I explain that I was hired by the Church of the Spirit to look into Victoria’s disappearance. That I don’t know why they hadn’t contacted the police, except that they didn’t think it was necessary. But that at least they hired me. And now the hard part. I clear my throat.

  “Ms. Harkness, I am not convinced your daughter’s death was accidental.”

  Her face is finally bereft of its frozen mask. The lines deepen, the lips tremble, just for a moment before the facade is restored. And I get it. She’s probably afraid to crack, afraid that if she relinquishes her armor she’ll dissolve; that without self-imposed walls to contain her she’ll lose herself completely.r />
  Projecting a bit, aren’t you?

  When she speaks her voice is barely above a whisper. “Why do you think that?”

  I hesitate. “At the moment, I have no hard evidence. But I have been a detective for a long time. This — event — just doesn’t feel right. Listen, I see that you’ve been given access to this apartment and presumably all her things.” I wait for Ms. Harkness’s nod before continuing. “Therefore, it’s not being treated as a crime scene. Did you find her handbag here? Her keys and I.D.?”

  Objection! Leading the witness.

  I’m treading on thin ice here, but I want to establish a basis for my earlier observations.

  “The police gave me her keys. They were in her pocket. Her purse was here. With her wallet. They did check for fingerprints on it and laptop, and a few other places.”

  My stomach drops when she mentions fingerprinting, but remind myself that I was wearing gloves when I was last here.

  Resuming the thread, I ask, “Phone?”

  “No phone.”

  Probably at the bottom of the river. But. “Did you find a suicide note?”

  Her mouth twists as her cheeks redden, but she holds it together. “No. The police walked through with me, but we found no note. No evidence of violence. Hence the verdict of ‘accident.’ Now, tell me why you think it might be something else.”

  “I’ve talked to her associates. No one thinks it was a suicide.” Except for Eric North. I’ll ask about him later. “You can never completely rule out accident, but to me it just doesn’t sound likely, unless she was intoxicated when she went out. There’s railings and fences everywhere along the boardwalk, so it’s not easy just to fall in the water.” I’d found no signs of alcohol in the apartment when I’d gone through the cupboards, not even beer, so I didn’t think she was a habitual drinker. “So, ruling those out, we must consider foul play. Whether or not there’s evidence.”

  “You mean murder.” She closes her eyes. Mascara is smudged beneath her lashes. The fabric of the skirt she’s folding bunches in her hands. “How do I know you’re not just dragging this out, in order to collect a paycheck?”

  “That,” I say through gritted teeth. “Is out of line.” How dare she? When was the last time she risked her life in the line of duty? Put herself into danger for a person she didn’t know?

  Easy there, Lake. Don’t attack the witness.

  I simmer down with an effort. “Think of it, Ms. Harkness. She had her keys. She left her wallet. She meant to come back. She may have been meeting someone. Or it may have been a chance encounter. I know this is painful, but I need to know everything you can tell me about your daughter. It will help my investigation.”

  “Everything?” Ms. Harkness laughs mirthlessly. “I’ve known my daughter for thirty-two years. I can tell you lots about her childhood. But now? I’m sure I’m the last person to know anything useful.”

  “Let’s talk about this church Victoria founded.”

  Ms. Harkness’s shoulders straighten. She lays the skirt in the suitcase. “I don’t understand how my daughter could have gotten so far off the path. I could only hope one day she’d find her way back. But now…” She touches the silver cross pendant. “It started about ten years ago, after she left Reed College. She had been majoring in art but didn’t complete her thesis project. She joined a Bible study group, but soon was inviting friends from Reed over to ‘pick it apart’ — her words, not mine. Eventually she stopped going to church. And then she started having discussion groups at one of those New Age bookstores. And, aided and abetted by these other so-called ‘spiritual seekers’ she started her own on-line video channel, which then grew into a, a movement.” She twists the chain of her pendant in her hand. “I could not, can not, support what she was doing — what she did. I asked her to move out of my house, and never to speak of this — this sham she was perpetuating.”

  I wonder how an art school drop-out managed to support all these activities, and I ask, albeit more diplomatically. I learn about the trust fund set up by her grandfather, Ms. Harknesses’ own father, for each of his grandchildren when he passed away. Victoria and her cousins could access the interest, but not the principal, until they were forty years old, the idea being they would be set for life but unable to squander their resources in a misspent youth.

  Nice. Nothing like second generation entitlement.

  “I see. And who gets that money now?”

  “The contents of the trust will be disbursed among the remaining accounts.”

  “Where are her cousins?”

  She stares at me. “Back East. One’s in London. Why?”

  “Ms. Harkness, is there anyone you can think of who might want to harm Victoria? Ex-boyfriends, jealous classmates, anyone?”

  “I couldn’t get her to settle down to a proper relationship. They never lasted more than a few weeks. She was a pretty girl and there was always someone in the wings.” She abandons her folding and walks to the window, looking out.

  I notice a dead fly on the sill. The light outside is cool and white.

  She says, her voice muffled, “I just wanted her to have stability, a house, a family. I didn’t even object to her being an artist, if that’s what she wanted.”

  I take a few steps into the room, around the bed. “So, no exes, is that what you’re saying? What about slighted friends, enemies, other family members?”

  She turns around. “Ms. Lake, I appreciate your efforts, but I don’t feel up to talking any more today.”

  I’m surprised and put off by her abruptness. She’s been fairly cooperative. But maybe she’s just getting emotional. I can understand, but some questions need answers. “Just one more thing. What about Eric North?”

  She looks confused. “The neighbors were named North. When we lived here in Astoria. Is he connected to them?”

  “Yes.”

  “I barely remember him. I believe he was older, a teenager. Why are you asking?”

  “He’s still in town, and I believe he and your daughter had…renewed their acquaintance.”

  “Tell me she wasn’t seeing him romantically.” Her voice is colored with disdain.

  “Not as far as I know.” I think about the painting. “He might have admired her, though.”

  She nods, once. “Everyone admired my daughter.”

  “What do you remember about Eric?”

  “Nothing. Other than the fact his father was a fish-packer and his mother was a secretary. Now. Forgive me for being rude, but please leave. I have a great deal to do.”

  “Okay, Ms. Harkness. Thanks for your time.” I make a show of putting away my notebook. “If you find anything useful on her laptop, please give me a call.”

  “It has a password.”

  So she’s looked. “You might want to see if someone can help you retrieve the data. It could throw some light on your daughter’s state of mind, and how she spent her final days. Plus, I’ve heard she was writing a book.”

  She stares, fingering her necklace. “A novel, you mean?”

  “No,” I look back at her blandly. “Nonfiction. Perhaps a memoir of sorts.”

  Ms. Harkness doesn’t like that. I can see it in her eyes.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  MY NEXT STOP is the Riverside Christian Church where the Reverend Seth Takahashi is ensconced. Yesterday, he’d seemed sincere in his desire to help and protect people, if a bit misguided; he’d teased me with the mention of Jason Morganstern. Would he still be willing to talk today?

  I called to set up the appointment, so he’s expecting me. The receptionist ushers me in to his office. He’s sitting behind a scarred desk, the kind of faux-wood furniture available from big box stores. His desk has knife-edged stacks of papers, a couple of pictures facing away from me, a computer monitor and a telephone. A yellowing spider plant dangles its progeny from the window sill. One plantlet has already detached itself, made the leap, and reposes in a browning clump on the carpet.

  “Hello, Audrey,” he
says. His movie-star smile appears on cue. “Sit down. Would you like some tea, or coffee?”

  I wonder why hospitality always seems to begin with a beverage offer. “No, thanks. I just want to talk to you about Victoria Harkness.”

  His smile vanishes. “I thought we covered that yesterday. Is there more tragedy to report?”

  “How do you feel about her death?”

  “Sad, of course. It’s always sad when someone dies before their time.”

  Poke. “I thought you would be relieved that she can no longer delude vulnerable souls.”

  He winces. “Ouch. Well, I probably deserved that. But it’s not my habit to dance on anyone’s grave. I’d rather she’d been able to use her gift for the furtherance of the gospel.”

  “I think she thought she was.”

  “You know my views on that. But I was very sorry to learn about her death. I had hoped she and I could come to an agreement, not a parting of the ways.” Seth leans back in his chair, his hands folded in his lap. His expression is troubled. “I liked her, you know. She was bright, thoughtful. I loved her passion — she was really dedicated to her church. Even if we didn’t agree, I think she was sincere. But it’s just those qualities which can be dangerous when applied wrongly.”

  “You said yesterday that she had ‘misled one of your flock.’ Can you tell me more about that?”

  He sighs, leaning forward on his elbows. “There’s a young man who used to attend my services regularly. He was troubled and vulnerable, hadn’t had an easy life. But he was coming to know God. I had high hopes for him. At least, until he began going to the Church of the Spirit.”

  “This is Jason Morganstern?”

  “Yes.”

  “I saw him at the candlelight vigil Tuesday night. He seemed upset.”

  “I’m not surprised. I’ll reach out to him. Maybe he’s ready to come back. It’s not unusual for people to investigate other denominations.” He jots a note on a yellow post-it.

  “You said he was troubled. What does that mean?”