Meryl wasn’t looking anyway. She was pulling the tissue, soiled with blood, off her hand. “He was ready to throw it all away for her. But karma’s a bitch. Turns out, she didn’t want to marry him. When she threw his ass to the curb, he came groveling back to me. And like a fool, I took him back.”
Her words struck me, because I hadn’t considered the scenario, that Beth had broken things off with Mark and not the other way around.
“But he still loved her,” Meryl continued. “He was obsessed.” A sudden flash of horror crossed her face. “And I keep thinking about that saying, something about a fine line between love and hate?” She looked me squarely in the eyes then. “Did you hear? That Beth Richards is missing?”
I nodded.
“Missing girls don’t usually turn up, do they? And who’s the first person they suspect?”
“The husband,” I answered. “Or the boyfriend.”
She nodded solemnly. “I thought I knew my husband. I thought I knew what he was capable of. But now . . . I don’t know.” She tossed the broken photo frame into the wastebasket. “I don’t know anything.”
December Diary Four
December
How is it possible? That I could feel so connected, that I could tie my life and my body up with someone so cold?
How could he make love to me one day, and the next, tell me it’s over?
How does he sleep at night? Does he ever think of me? Does he ever feel guilty?
If I knew that, if I knew he boasted one shred of humanity, just enough to make me a thought—even a fleeting one—then maybe I could forgive him. Maybe, one day, I could love again.
But I fear he has already forgotten me, forgotten what I look like, forgotten the curve of my face, the shape of my eyes. He has erased me from his memory to the point that he could pass me on the street or see me across a crowded room, and not even recognize me. He could look right at me, then look away without any note of recollection.
Then again, I don’t recognize myself.
Chapter 12
The next morning, I decided to call Detective Pickens.
Maybe I had watched too many episodes of CSI, but it was possible, I reasoned after my discussion with Meryl, that Mark was responsible for Beth’s disappearance. Could Beth have gone missing—or worse, died—in the most cliché, soap opera kind of way? In a crime of passion? If Mark couldn’t have Beth, then no one could?
As much as Mark hurt me, I didn’t want to consider him a suspect. I didn’t want to think I’d ever been in love with a man who was capable of murder. And yet I felt a responsibility to speak up, to tell the detective what I knew. I couldn’t handle the guilt of wondering anymore.
I was fishing in my purse for his business card when Heidi came through the bedroom door, her expression grave.
“I think you better come out here,” she said, her voice flat and lifeless.
Running a hand over my bed head, I followed her into the living room, where the television flickered.
“It’s all over the news,” she said.
Still groggy, I didn’t understand what she meant at first. Then it dawned on me. “Beth?”
Heidi nodded, then flipped from channel to channel until a picture of Beth Richards filled the screen. It was the same photo Janice had shown me. Beth was smiling; a small dimple marked her right check. She looked wholesome, the girl next door.
“ . . . has been missing since last week,” I heard the reporter say in a voice-over. “The Milwaukee native flew to Pittsburgh for a photography workshop but never arrived.”
I stared back at the screen and realized one of two things had to have happened overnight: they either found Beth Richards’s body or the suspect confessed.
“Police have had this man, John C. Grenshaw of Pittsburgh, under surveillance for an undetermined amount of time. They arrested him yesterday after finding a gun and other suspicious items in the trunk of his blue Chevy Camaro.”
I turned my head when they showed the man. He was Caucasian, average-looking, but with bright orange hair and a mustache. His green eyes pierced mine, even through the television screen.
“Last night, Grenshaw confessed to raping and killing Beth Richards,” the reporter continued, “telling authorities he dumped her body in the Monongahela River. Divers are currently searching for the body. Police believe Grenshaw is linked to two other homicide cases in the Pittsburgh area. Chief of Police Jack Blumberg will provide a statement today at noon. We will continue to update you on this breaking story.”
Heidi raced through more channels. “All of the major stations are running it, if you want to see more.”
I placed my hand over her trigger finger. “I’ve seen enough.”
Heidi turned the television off and shivered. “Did you see his hair? Like a leprechaun.”
I shivered too.
“You okay?”
I nodded. Unlike Heidi, I’d been prepared for this impending news, but somehow it stung harder than I had expected. My emotions about Beth Richards had run the gamut—from indifference to sorrow, from jealousy to anger. And now, I felt a deep pit of regret and loss in my stomach. But I also knew one thing for certain: Mark was innocent. I breathed a sigh of relief that I hadn’t called the detective only moments before to point an accusatory finger at him.
“I guess this changes the nature of the prayer vigil today,” Heidi said.
“We were supposed to pray for Beth’s safety.”
Heidi nodded. “Now, we have to pray for her salvation.”
Heavy and still, the air inside Frieburg Chapel was pregnant with the news of Beth Richards’s murder. Everyone had either watched the news or heard about it over coffee and powdered sugar doughnuts in the lobby. I noticed people bowed their heads lower, their gestures contained and voices solemn. It was as if a storm cloud had fallen from the sky and seeped indoors, muting everything, even the vibrant hues of the chapel’s stained glass.
A few hours earlier, when the newscasts began, Tarble administrators had considered canceling the vigil, because by definition, a vigil is a state of wakefulness, a watch. It implies hope. But President Monroe, who had personally telephoned Heidi to confer about the issue, insisted the ceremony still take place. Beth’s murder, she said, was all the more reason for the Tarble community to come together and pray.
The vigil-turned-memorial had not escaped the attention of local newspaper reporters, who had jumped on the story of a young, beautiful woman murdered. Journalists from the Kenosha- and Milwaukee-area newspapers were on hand that morning with notepads and digital recorders, interviewing Beth’s former classmates and professors. Technically, I should have been doing the same. Come Monday morning, I was supposed to submit an article to Craig about Beth’s disappearance. No doubt he would expect one on her murder instead. But I knew there would never be an article. It was the epitome of conflict of interest.
As Heidi and I sat in the first pew, I watched the people—I estimated there were almost 150—enter the chapel. No one talked, and the silence magnified their heavy footsteps on the wood floor. I saw Sarah Iverson, holding a tissue up to her red, swollen eyes, take a seat a few rows behind us. The other girls from my class were there too, as well as Professor Barnard.
“It is customary to address you with Good Morning,” President Monroe finally said from the pulpit as the crowd settled. She wore a black pantsuit instead of her telltale red or blue. “But it is a morning of great sorrow. Today, we were to pray for Beth Richards, to send her the strength and the courage she needed to find her way back home. But we have learned unfathomable news. A sick, misguided man has confessed to taking her life.”
The president lowered her eyes to the podium and sighed. A wave of response trickled through the rows of people as they sighed too.
The president seemed to struggle for words, her face contorted in what seemed to be utter shock. “How can we make sense of this tragedy?” she asked, regaining composure. “I assume it will require reflection and pr
ayer and perhaps, forgiveness. And that requires time. For now, we must remember Beth for her life, not her death.”
The president went on to describe Beth Richards as an “intelligent, graceful student who was passionate about science and life.” Then she invited Beth’s former classmates and professors to come forward and speak. Many people did. One professor shared an anecdote; another a warm memory. Even Sarah Iverson spoke, telling the crowd in a shaky voice about the time she and Beth pulled an all-nighter before finals junior year, only to find out later Beth had already aced her exams.
While Sarah spoke, I saw Mark stand up across the aisle. No sign of Meryl. I hadn’t known he was there. Was he daring to offer a speech about Beth? No. I watched him wrestle with knees and feet as he scooted out of the pew with his head hung low. And then, he disappeared into the lobby through the glass doors.
When the room grew suddenly silent and microphone vacant, President Monroe said a simple prayer, then encouraged us to begin a dialogue about ways to find peace among men.
Heidi and I met up with the other girls in the lobby, where we hugged and cried and stood in silent circles, still trying to wrap our minds around the news. We’d all taken a cup of coffee and a doughnut hole and a paper napkin on which to hold it, but no one seemed to eat or drink. Instead, we babbled small fragments of thought.
“Hope he gets the death penalty,” Joy said.
“Her poor mother,” Amanda added.
Janice, I thought. Poor Janice. How had she taken the news? Did she pass out, or collapse or scream at Detective Pickens and beat his chest with her fists? I could imagine her repeating the word “no” a thousand times, as if saying that simple word would negate the truth about her daughter’s fate. At some point, she’d have to accept the loss, and do things she never thought she would have to do, like picking out a casket and burial plot, setting a date for a wake and funeral, running obituaries in the local newspapers. I had stood beside my mother through that entire process for my father, and remembered it only as a lucid dream, a wakeful nightmare.
I was about to take a bite of my doughnut hole, or at least lick off some powdered sugar, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Tia Clark, the leader of the student protesters. I recognized her from Professor Barnard’s classroom on Friday.
“Sorry to hear about your friend,” she said, tugging self-consciously at her too tight T-shirt, which read WELL-BEHAVED WOMEN SELDOM MAKE HISTORY. She guided me by the elbow away from my circle of friends. She held my arm so tightly, I winced, but I thanked her for the kind words.
Tia’s mouth appeared clenched though, as if holding back what she wanted to say. “Look, it may not be the most appropriate time, but I’d like to talk to you about this Beth Richards girl.”
“I can’t think of a more appropriate time,” I told her. It was, after all, Beth’s vigil turned memorial.
Tia’s expression turned sour. “It doesn’t have anything to do with her murder, per se. It’s just kind of weird. I thought you should know, that’s all.” She pulled a paper from her back pocket, the creased program from that morning’s service. “I talked to Beth Richards about two weeks ago,” she said. “I didn’t know it was Beth at the time. But when I saw her picture today . . .” She pointed to the program with Beth’s senior picture gracing the front. It was the same photo they’d plastered all over the news. “I’m positive it was her. She came to talk to Julie last week.”
A thud sounded in my chest. “Julie Farris?”
“We were protesting in the grove, and she walked up asking which one of us was Julie.”
“Did Julie talk to her?”
“She was at class.”
“Did Beth say what she wanted?”
“Nope. Don’t think I didn’t ask. She said it was private.”
I stared back at Tia’s blond pigtails and hard expression and wondered about the direction of our conversation. “I’m not sure I understand,” I said.
“Seems sort of strange, doesn’t it? That Beth would go looking for Julie and then, well, end up dead? Right around the time Julie tried to kill herself?”
It’s stranger than that, I thought, considering Mark’s connection to both of them.
“I don’t understand why you’re telling me this,” I clarified.
“You’re Ruby Rousseau, right?”
I nodded.
“Well, when I talked to Beth, she had something in her hand, something I assumed she’d brought to show Julie. And, you know, I tried to see what it was, because I’m nosy.”
“What was it?”
“A magazine of some sort. Not a glossy one, something more professional-looking. I only made out the words Midwest and Council. The rest was covered up by a yellow sticky note.”
“Okay?”
Tia tugged at her shirt once more. “She’d written some girls’ names on the sticky note. Four names. Julie’s name was at the very top.”
I shrugged, as if to say I still didn’t understand.
She hesitated. “And your name was written directly below it.”
Chapter 13
Beth Richards knew about me. At least, she knew something about me. She’d written my name on some sort of list, a list that also included Julie Farris. I had two things in common with Julie: Mark Suter and my suicide attempt. What other names had Beth jotted down? Was it a list of Mark’s conquests?
I could think of only one person to ask.
I had to wait twenty minutes before visiting hours began at the psychiatric ward of Kenosha General Hospital, and then, it was another ten minutes of protocol—metal detector and pat down, labeled bright orange name tag, car keys inventoried inside a clear plastic bag, and the escorted walk through two keypad-accessed doors—before I actually saw Julie Farris.
I was surprised by the level of security. I’d only been a patient in a psych ward, not a visitor. And as I endured each step of the process, I imagined my mother having to do the same, all the times she came to see me before I was discharged. What does it feel like, I wondered, to be patted down to see your own child? I’d hurt my mother more than I’d known.
I met Julie in a communal visiting room full of hard couches and sterile table and chairs. Because she was on suicide watch, a nurse stayed in the room while we spoke, ready to act at the first possible sign of self-harm.
My mouth hung open when I saw Julie’s long blond hair and tall, slender frame. Heidi was right, she looked like Beth Richards, not only in hair color and body type, but also the unique details of her face. Close-set blue eyes. Narrow bridged nose. Pouty lips. They could easily be sisters, I thought. Maybe even twins.
“I wasn’t sure you’d agree to see someone you didn’t know,” I said.
Julie didn’t respond but twisted in her chair. “Could you give us some privacy?” she asked the nurse.
“You know the rules,” the woman said.
Reluctantly, Julie faced me again. “I know who you are,” she finally said. “Actually, I was going to call you once they let me out of here.”
“You were?”
She tugged at the neckline of her hospital-issued gown because it slanted to one side, exposing her left collarbone more than her right. “We have a lot in common, don’t we?”
“How much do you know?” I asked.
“You first.”
I paused, caught off guard by her straightforward approach, her cool, calculating voice.
“You filed sexual harassment charges against Mark Suter,” I finally said. “But my guess is that it was more than that. You had a relationship, didn’t you? You love him.”
She snickered. “Not anymore.”
Two nights in the psych ward had obviously worked wonders on Julie. A year had passed, and I still loved Mark. I worried I always would.
“You also said he gave you an unfair grade,” I added. “When you refused to sleep with him.”
“Okay, so I didn’t refuse him. But he did give me an unfair grade. I know a lot of people can’t be objective
about their writing. But I can. And I wrote a kick-ass paper.”
I admired her confidence but was also confused by it. Was this girl—a girl who had tried to kill herself just two days prior—really so certain of herself, or was it an act? Was she trying to appear self-assured, so the doctors would release her sooner?
“Why did you do it?” I asked.
“Because I deserved an A.”
“No, I meant, why did you take the Tylenol?”
“Oh.” Her cheeks suddenly sunk. “Because I was devastated. Naturally. He messed with my head. He did this to me, just like he did it to you.”
“You know about me?”
“Everyone knows about you.”
Obviously the Tarble gossip mill had ensured my notoriety for decades to come.
“But how did you know about my relationship with Mark?”
She tugged at her gown once more. “He told me.”
I couldn’t fathom why Mark would tell Julie Farris about me. To what gain? I was a skeleton from his past, an embarrassment. But I didn’t press the issue. I saw the nurse check her watch. We had a limited amount of time, and I had more important questions to ask.
“Did a girl named Beth Richards come to talk to you recently?”
Julie didn’t blink. “Yeah, my friend Tia said some girl with that name came looking for me one day in the grove, but I never talked to her. I don’t know what she wanted.” She furrowed her brow, as if suddenly intrigued. “Why do you ask?”
I paused, unsure of what piece of information to share first.
“It was all over the news this morning,” I decided to say. “She was murdered.”
Her eyelids flitted in surprise. “Wait. Who is she?”
“She went to Tarble. Graduated last year.” I glanced again at the nurse overseeing our conversation. “She was involved with him too. I think that’s what she came to see you about.”
I told Julie then about Beth’s list, though I didn’t know what other names graced that sticky note. “My best guess is she was trying to rally us,” I added. “Get us to all come forward and file claims against him.”
The Butterfly Sister Page 17