by Harry Kraus
He picked up the phone. He needed to talk to the magistrate. He wanted an arrest warrant to pick Wendi Stratford up on the charges of murder.
Henry arrived home at midnight, and I revived because we needed to talk. I opened my eyes and pushed up on one elbow to look at Henry as he brushed his teeth. When he sat on the edge of the bed to pull off his socks, I touched his shoulder. “Tough day?”
He grunted.
I watched as he shed his tee shirt and slid into bed, issued a perfunctory kiss, and turned away from me.
“Night, honey,” he said softly. “I’m beat.”
“Henry,” I said. “We’ve got to talk. I need to know what’s going on.”
“Can’t we talk tomorrow? I’m exhausted.”
“I need to know about Cindy Swanson.”
He spoke through a sigh. “I’ve told you all about it, Wendi. I don’t want to go over it again.”
“Why did the police think you were having an affair with her?”
“It’s their business to see evil. They see an accident and immediately they try to paint it like it was something sinister. Then they need to assign motive. Suddenly both of us are suspects in a murder,” he huffed. “It’s ridiculous.”
I wanted to see Henry’s face, but he kept it plastered to the wall.
“Chris Black is vengeful,” I responded. “He’s still upset about our last court battle.”
I wanted Henry to take me in his arms and reassure me that I was the only one in his life, to tell me how I was everything to him, so I could shove aside my nagging doubts, but he responded to my comments with a grunt or two, and a minute later his breathing fell into the regularity of slumber.
Sleep remained elusive to me. Images of the blonde women floated past, Yolanda and Cindy haunting me with memories of our last few days.
I stared into the darkness towards the ceiling. It seemed my entire ordeal had begun with my jailbreak attempt from my plastic life. But I’d been trying to fix that. Is my life unraveling because I’m still running away from God? The thought startled me, partly because it came uninvited, and partly because I believed it. Though I was far from the straight and narrow in my heart, I had talked the talk for most of my life, and I certainly understood what I thought was the chief characteristic of the Christian life: guilt.
How can Rene of all people talk of believing in God’s love? And how did Jack dare to presume that I needed to forgive myself?
I sniffed back the first tears, then let them flow as I understood that Jack was right. My relationships and my life weren’t going anywhere until I decided to let myself off the hook for hurting my mother. Jack’s words came back to me. Whatever it is, forgive yourself. God certainly has.
He wouldn’t have said that if he knew what I’ d done.
It’s not like I can just bring it up to Mom after all these years.She may have forgotten everything. It would be unroofing old pain for nothing.
Sometime after two in the morning, I must have drifted into that dreamy state between alertness and full slumber. All I remember was Henry nudging me and asking if I was OK. I touched my cheeks. They were wet with tears.
This time it was my turn to face away. I didn’t feel like talking now. I couldn’t explain my tears, and I didn’t want the surgeon-fix-it solution. I just needed acceptance, the reassuring presence of someone comfortable with my tears.
“It will be OK, Wendi,” he mumbled. “I’m taking care of everything.”
CHAPTER 23
Ed Mosby’s face was stern beneath his silver military haircut. The chief of police shook his head. “Nothing will embarrass this department more than to make a sensational arrest that ends up being wrong.”
Chris Black leaned forward on his chair and felt his cheeks reddening. “You told me to trust my gut,” he huffed. “And my gut says that Wendi Stratford is hiding something.”
The chief sighed. “I agree with you, Chris, and I’ve heard it all, believe me. So find the evidence we need.”
“You’ve seen the medical examiner’s report.”
“So Cindy Swanson’s death looks suspicious. Bring Wendi back in. Press her. Break her. Make her talk.”
“The magistrate talked to you, didn’t he?”
“He’s only doing what I instructed. I’m to be included on all decisions to issue arrest warrants for murder charges.” He stood up, a sign that the conversation was over. “Go out and get Mrs. Stratford. Bring in her surgeon husband for all I care. If you find something concrete, you’ll get your warrant.”
Thursday morning was to have been my last day combing the beaches in Jamaica with Jack. We would stroll hand in hand discussing our transition back into life in Charlottesville and how to deal with the aftershock wave that would certainly rip through our church and community. Jack would stop and bargain with a peddler, and purchase a small necklace or bracelet for me to wear. Something small, but heartfelt. Something precious that would promise our future together.
Instead, I sipped Ethiopian java with a rising knot in my gut that said I’d better soon figure out what was going on inside the Charlottesville PD or face some serious consequences. And since no one in the department seemed to have a clue about the truth, I got up that morning with a determination to put my own detective skills to work.
I sat quietly while Henry read the Wall Street Journal and ate an English muffin, both of us pretending it was a routine morning with nothing extraordinary to talk about. I found myself feeling guilty for suspecting Henry had been unfaithful to me, especially when the splinter in my husband’s eye was difficult to see because of the beam in my own. It seemed that my desire to probe Henry’s private life had run off in the stream of last night’s tears.
I waited an hour after Henry left, told Rene I loved her, but to get a job and pay me rent if she was going to stay for life.
Then, I slipped out, driving right through the shadow of the cross and to the bottom of Azalea Drive, where it intersected with Route 29. I pulled off the road, stopping in the same location I had a week ago when looking at Jack’s demolished Accord. I walked the roadside hoping to see something, anything that would speak to me. I wasn’t sure what I thought I would see, but felt that somehow events in the last week were linked in a way I couldn’t understand. Jack’s accident. Yolanda erasing my camera. Yolanda’s suicide. Cindy Swanson’s death. Jesse Anders’ attempt at insurance fraud. It all smelled of something less than fresh, and without an ally in the PD, I was on my own, trusting my instinct. Fortunately, being a woman, I was heavy in the gut-instinct department.
But today, other than what I’d seen the week before, nothing stood out. Most of the glass had been swept away. Other than a disturbance in the grass on the shoulder, and the charring of a few trees and underbrush, the accident was on its way to memory.
I decided it was time for another trip to see Jesse and Linda Anders. As I pulled out onto 29 North, a police cruiser turned right on Azalea, lights flashing. Without thinking, I felt myself shrinking behind the wheel. Why am I hiding? I’m not guilty of anything. Except trying to escape my life of appearances.
As I drove, I contemplated my approach to the Anderses’. “Hi, I was just in the neighborhood and just thought I’ d ask you what you’re covering up.”
“So, what’d you do with the blue grille?”
“Were you asleep at the wheel? On drugs? Drunk? Why didn’t you stop?”
I was halfway to Ruckersville when my phone sounded. I’d downloaded a new ring tone. The chorus to “Skin” by Breaking Benjamin broke the silence. I picked it up and used the phone as a pretend microphone for a few seconds to sing along before answering. “Hello.”
“Wendi, it’s me.” Rene’s voice was breathless.
I felt immediate alarm. “What’s up?”
“The police are looking for you. Remember the two officers here with Chris Black the other day? They just left.”
My gut tightened. “What did they want?”
“How should I know? They
wanted you. They wanted to know where you were. How long you’d be gone. What I knew about your relationship with Jack Renner. How you acted around Yolanda. If you acted remorseful over Cindy Swanson’s accident. How — ”
“Whoa, slow down, sister,” I said, shifting my phone to the other ear and looking in the rearview mirror for flashing lights. The way my conversation with Chris Black had gone, this wasn’t entirely a surprise. “What did you tell them?”
“Nothing,” she huffed. “Wendi, what’s going on?”
“I’m not sure. The PD has it in their mind that I’ve got something to do with these girls who are dropping like flies around me.”
An uncomfortable silence hung between us. I listened as she cleared her throat and fell silent again.
“Hey,” I said, “Don’t you start believin’ I had anything to do with this craziness.”
“Why do they care about your relationship to Jack?”
I shook my head. I wasn’t anxious to talk about Jack to Rene. Especially since Jack had forgotten about the five minutes when there was an “us” to talk about. Especially since I’d turned the page in that book and was determined to forge ahead with Henry. And especially since Rene wanted Henry and me to adopt her baby. I hesitated. “I have no idea.” It was the truth. Sort of.
“You were having an affair with him, weren’t you?”
“No, I — ” I halted. I couldn’t lie anymore. I needed to be honest. I took a deep breath. “I liked him, but we never — ”
Rene’s voice cracked. “Wendi, I think they’re going to arrest you.”
I felt like cursing. This whole thing was crazy.
“Where are you?”
“Maybe it’s best if you didn’t know. That way if the police come back, you won’t have to tell them.”
Rene sniffed. “Wendi, you’ve got to talk to me. Let me help you figure this out.”
“Did they tell you they wanted to arrest me?”
“No, but one of them was carrying some papers.” She paused again. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Look, Rene, I’m tired of being a fake, OK? But things are complicated right now. I’ll explain everything tonight.”
“Wendi, you’re not guilty of anything. You don’t need to hide.”
“I need to find out the truth. And the police don’t seem to see anything except their own prejudices against me.”
“But you’re — ”
“I made the wrong people mad a few months ago, Sis. And people who used to be my friends, well, let’s just say they aren’t acting like my friends anymore.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“I’ll be OK. I just need to check on a few things for myself.”
“I heard them talking, Wendi. The police are looking for your Mercedes.”
“I just need some time.”
“Let me help you. I’ll bring you my Saturn.”
I reflexively checked my rearview mirror and sighed. “OK,” I said. “You know where the airport road exits off 29 North? There’s a small strip mall on the left just beyond the turnoff to the airport. Meet me in the bakery in the strip mall. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“OK.”
John Aldridge entered his wife’s room after a gentle knock. She lifted her face so her eyes could meet his and accepted a kiss on the cheek. She had a tissue crumpled in her left hand.
“What’s wrong, dear?” she asked. “You look tired.”
“Wendi.”
She sighed.
“Rene just called. She asked us to pray. She thinks Wendi may be in trouble. The police just left the house. They seem to think Wendi had something to do with the women who died.”
“Women?”
“Yolanda, the woman who was staying in Wendi’s house. I told you about her, the one who committed suicide.”
Ruth struggled forward. “You sssaid women.”
“The police were asking questions about this Cindy Swanson, the woman who was killed when Henry’s car struck her.”
“Ridiculous. Wendi didn’t have anything to do with those women dying.”
“I think I failed her, Ruth.”
She shook her head. “She’s a good girl.”
“Exactly.” He slumped forward. “I’ve raised a good girl. But somehow she’s missed out on grace.”
Ruth grunted. The way she always did when she was upset.
He nodded slowly. “So how have I failed to pass it on to Wendi?”
He sat on the edge of the bed opposite Ruth’s wheelchair.
Tears began to flow down Ruth’s cheeks.
John handed her a Kleenex and frowned. She’d always been so emotional since her head injury.
“You still don’t get it,” she said.
John felt his defenses rise. “I don’t get what?”
“Do you remember the verse that hung on our refrigerator?”
He nodded, aware of the verse, but unsure how this had anything to do with Wendi.
“Be ye perfect, for I am perfect,” she quoted.
“It’s the standard of the law. The only ones who can approach a perfect God are those with a perfect record.”
“Which is impossible.”
“Of course. But with Christ’s sacrifice, his record has become our record.”
“So true, but that wasn’t on the refrigerator, was it?”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you paraded your girls around in front of the church, always had them singing special numbers, always performing.” Her eyes bore in on his. “And we looked just like the perfect little pastor’s family.”
“Perfect family? We’ve never been that. What with Rene running off with her boyfriend, and — ”
“Oh, and you don’t think Wendi was paying attention? She saw how devastated you were when Rene left. So she worked all the harder to please you.” Ruth dabbed at her chin with the Kleenex. “And I was determined not to lose another daughter.”
“Another daughter? Wendi’s always been a princess.”
Ruth’s face broke into an uneven smile. “Of course.” The sarcasm was thick in her voice. “You just saw what you wanted to see.”
John wasn’t sure how to respond. He paced the small room, trying to process his wife’s accusation.
“But me, I was the worst of all. I played my part the best. But until the accident, I never really understood it myself.”
“Understood?”
“Grace,” she said. “This chair.” She pounded her fist on the arm of the wheelchair. “I never understood what God’s grace was about until I sat in this chair.”
John shook his head. “What do you mean?”
“It wasn’t until I was so helpless that I realized that God loved me because of who he is, not because of who I am.”
“I didn’t intend to put pressure on Wendi.” He paused. “Or you. I never expected a perfect family.”
John sighed before continuing. “I was too busy with the congregation to see.” His wife looked blurry through his tears. “So many were converted, but I’ve failed my own family.”
“Sss-stop it,” she slurred.
He wiped his eyes as his wife became even more emphatic.
“Stop it,” she said. “It’s not all your fault.” Her knuckles whitened against the arm of her wheelchair. “It’s mine, too.”
“But you were so gracious,” he said, reaching for her hand, “the perfect pastor’s wife.”
“No,” she said, pulling her hand away. “I only wanted you to believe it, for everyone to see how perfect our family was, how perfect your ministry was.”
“But why? You knew we weren’t perfect.”
Ruth pushed her chair around with her good foot so that she would face the window. “You want to know what’s going on with your daughter, Wendi?”
“Sure,” he said.
“You’re not going to like what I say.”
Rene noticed the blue sedan pull out behind her when she turned on 29 Nort
h off of Azalea Drive. It stayed two cars back for three miles, so Rene turned right onto a residential street and watched the sedan follow.
Her heart quickened. She reached for her phone and dialed Wendi.
She picked up after one ring. “What is it?”
“I’m being followed.”
Rene listened to her sister sigh. “Lose ’em.”
She made a sudden U-turn. “How?”
“Pull into a store. Wait a few minutes. Anything. Make some turns.”
“Wendi!”
“Just chill, Rene, it’s probably the police. They don’t want you.
They just want you to lead them to me.”
“OK.” Rene flipped off her phone and turned back onto 29.
After two blocks, she made a right turn into a large Toys-R-Us park ing lot. She waited a few seconds before grabbing her phone and heading into the store. She spent ten minutes wandering the aisles and purchased a deck of cards so as not to appear suspicious.
She drove the remaining ten minutes watching her rearview mirror, convincing herself that she had given her company the slip. She pulled in beside her sister’s Mercedes and found herself wondering how Wendi, the one who had seemed to have everything, had managed to find herself in such a mess.
Henry looked around the operating room and sighed. This was his domain, a world where he captained the ship, where his words were implicitly obeyed and his work admired. He watched quietly as his intern, Michael Ulrich, helped move their patient off the operating table and onto a stretcher.
“Keep him on an IV cephalosporin for twenty-four hours, Mike,” he instructed. “And make sure he has on a pair of pneumatic venous compression sleeves.”
The intern nodded. “Yes sir,” he responded, smiling through a two-day beard.
Henry glanced at the open top drawer of the anesthesiologist’s cart and waited for him to turn his attention to their patient. Then, Henry backed towards the cart and dropped his hand into the drawer and closed his palm around two small glass vials. Swiftly, he withdrew his hand, dropped the medicine into the pocket of his scrubs, and smiled at the scrub nurse as he walked out.
With her good hand, Ruth gripped the arm of her wheelchair.