Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 01 - The Trouble With Charlie

by Merry Jones

  “And tell me again, how did you cut your hand?”

  Hours had piled onto hours. At some point, I’d stopped caring about being present and composed or rational or straightforward or mentioning the disembodied kiss and voice. I’d struggled simply not to poke my eyes out or smash my skull against the green, windowless walls. Finally, Susan had been able to get me out of there and, since my house was still a crime scene, to take me to her house near Rittenhouse Square where she turned both our phones off to avoid calls from the press, and I sat drinking tea with my best friends.

  Susan told the others not to worry about the police. One of the detectives—the good-looking one, Stiles, was married to her friend, Zoe. I’d met Zoe a few times, found her intense and demanding. But still, if Detective Stiles was married to Susan’s friend, it might help somehow.

  “Look at the paper.” Susan pointed to the article. “He’s quoted as saying the investigation is open and Elle is not a suspect.”

  “At this time,” Becky corrected. “It says they’ve talked to Elle but are making no arrests ‘at this time.’”

  I looked at the newspaper.

  A picture of my Fairmount row house graced a double column on the lower right of the front page. With an inset of Charlie. A headline announced his murder: Prominent Investor Fatally Stabbed. I stared at the page. Read that the weather was warm, high seventy-five. That gas prices were up again. And that it was Thursday, October fifth.

  Wait—Thursday? A school day?

  “Oh God—” I was on my feet, looking for my bag. “Where’s my phone?”

  Six eyes blinked at me.

  “I—I have to call. School.” Why didn’t they see the problem? “To get a substitute.”

  Still, they gawked. Dumbstruck.

  Slowly, Susan grinned. “Welcome back, Elle.” She put down her rolling pin, came around the table, and hugged me. Her eyes were sad.

  “Elle! You’re talking?” Jen actually clapped her hands.

  “Don’t worry,” Becky embraced me as soon as Susan let me go. “I called and got subs for us both. I said we had the flu. But it’s in the news. By now, everyone knows the truth.”

  The truth. I sat again, released a breath, wondered what the truth actually was.

  The three of them still watched me. Warily.

  “I’m okay. Really.” As if to prove it, I took another sip of tea. “You can stop worrying. I swear. I’m fine.”

  They looked away, but nobody said anything. No point. Everyone knew it was a lie.

  We sipped tea. Jen devoured more banana bread.

  We sat in silence. We had been friends forever, didn’t need to talk. Susan kept moving, opening cabinet doors, putting away shortening and flour.

  Becky stared out the window. I followed her gaze, saw a blue sky dotted with clouds. A single oak in the tiny backyard. A sparrow or two flitting around. A brick patio with two Adirondack chairs, potted plants. A small patch of grass. Hedges lining the wooden fence. Peace.

  Finally, Becky broke the silence. “No matter how he died or who did it, the hardest part is that he was one of us. Charlie’s, like, the first to go.”

  “No, he’s not.” Susan dismissed the comment, checking the oven temperature. “We’ve all lost people—Jen’s dad died, and my mom. And we’ve all lost our grandparents. That guy from our class—George Evans—he OD’d, remember? Christy Morrison—in Honor Society? She died of breast cancer. And I’ve dealt with tons of—”

  “But no one so close,” Becky argued. “Not from our own private circle. Charlie was Elle’s husband—and poof. He’s dead. Gone. Just like that.”

  “Unless you believe in hell.” Jen chewed. “He’s probably doing push-ups down there—”

  “Jen, stop—” I began, God knows why, to defend him, but Susan cut me off.

  “Look. Dead is dead.” Susan lifted the crust and plopped it into a tin. “Hell or no hell, Charlie’s gone. It’s just that simple.”

  “Actually, I’m not so sure it is.” I swallowed tea, stopping myself. Not certain I wanted to tell them. They wouldn’t believe me. Hell, I almost didn’t believe me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Huh?”

  They watched me warily, triplets with identical expressions of pity and concern.

  “You’ll think I’m crazy—”

  “We already think you’re crazy.” Susan opened the refrigerator, took out Tupperware filled with blueberries. Another food that she said would make us healthy.

  I looked out the window, then into my teacup, and decided, what the hell. There was no risk in telling them. I might feel better if they knew. These were my closest friends. We knew each other’s worst flaws and most embarrassing secrets. I could trust them. Still, I hesitated. Took a deep breath. Another. Saw Susan put down the container of berries, fold her arms. Saw Jen’s lashes flap, Becky lean so far forward that her breasts rested on the tabletop. They were all waiting, watching me.

  “Let me be clear.” I paused. “I don’t believe in ghosts or paranormal stuff. And I’m not delirious, even though I might be a little in shock. What I’m about to tell you is the God’s honest absolute truth, and I want you to promise to believe me.”

  Three sincere nods. Three voices promising.

  I took one more deep breath. Closed my eyes, opened them again. Okay. “Charlie isn’t gone. He’s still there. He’s still in the house.”

  “Elle? What kind of pills did that doctor give you?” Susan picked up her Tupperware, shaking her head.

  Becky and Jen said nothing. Becky looked away.

  “No. Susan. I swear.” I went on, hearing how loopy I sounded. “I smelled his Old Spice. He kissed me on the neck. Talked to me. He said my name.”

  An audible sigh from Becky. Susan dumped the berries into a pot. Jen stuffed her mouth with a huge wad of banana bread.

  “You don’t believe me.”

  A pause.

  “I do.” Becky reached out, touched my arm. “I believe you, Elle. Things like that—I believe they happen. But you have to be careful—”

  “Christ. You’re both delusional.” Susan pushed a floury hand through her hair, left a streak.

  “No, Susan. Don’t dismiss us. After my grandpa died, my grandmother continued to see him all over their house for years. She talked to him, held conversations, even argued with him.”

  “But, Becky,” I insisted, “this wasn’t just wishful thinking. It was real.”

  “So was that.”

  “Becky’s right,” Jen’s mouth was full of bread. “Stuff like that happens.”

  “Oh, please.” Susan shook her head.

  “It’s funny that we’ve never talked about this stuff before,” Jen went on, ignoring Susan. “But when my dad died—I mean the moment he died,” her eyes got big, “I was seven hundred miles away at college, but I suddenly got the worst headache of my life. And my arms got heavy and stiff, almost paralyzed.”

  Like mine had when Charlie died?

  “So I went to lie down, dozed off, and dreamed that my dad flew away. Just jumped off the sidewalk into the sky, like a bird without wings. What was that? Why did my body get weak just when he died? Why did I dream of him leaving the earth? I’ll tell you why: life energy. A loss of life energy.”

  Susan snorted. “Hocus pocus, Dominocus.”

  “Shut the F up, Susan.” Jen’s eyes glowed.

  “But it’s hooey—”

  “Hell if it is. Life energy connects us with the people we love. When a loved one dies, we lose energy. That’s what gave me a headache and made my arms weak. And that’s what happened to Elle last night. She lost Charlie’s life energy. And some of it must have lingered around her even after he died.”

  Susan laughed out loud. “Jen, that’s pure crap.”

  “But it wasn’t just energy, Jen.” I needed to explain. “Charlie called my name. He said, ‘Elle,’ just as loud and clear as my voice now.” The kiss on the back of my neck had been physical, and his voice real e
nough to make me drop my plate. “It was not just a loss of energy. There was more.”

  “So, if he could say your name,” Susan dumped sugar over the berries, set the pot on the stove, “why didn’t he mention who killed him?”

  Susan relied on visible, tangible evidence. Her career was about concrete facts. If you couldn’t prove it, it didn’t exist for her. But at that moment, I needed her to believe me. “Susan, I’m serious. There was a rose in the house. Charlie moved it. He took it from the front door to the kitchen, then up to my bedroom.”

  “God, Elle.” Susan closed her eyes. “All of you. Get a grip.” She turned down the burner and sat beside me. “Elle, someone you loved has suddenly died.” She spoke with authority, as if she were some kind of sudden-death expert. “It’s understandable. There’s nothing supernatural going on here. You don’t want to accept the death. So part of your mind refuses the facts. It fights them by keeping Charlie alive and—”

  “Susan. I did not imagine this—”

  “No. No, you didn’t imagine it. You hallucinated it. There’s a difference. Hallucinations seem real.”

  I opened my mouth to argue. Closed it. Realized there was no point.

  “So, Susan, what about this?” Jen wasn’t giving up. She crossed her elbows on the table. “I swear, this is the truth. My mother’s uncle always kept his shoes beside his closet door. After his stroke, he was bedridden, so his wife put the shoes inside the closet. When he was dying, my great aunt and their kids were standing around his bed, saying goodbye when, suddenly, there was a thump. They turned and, guess what? His shoes were right back where he kept them. Beside the closet door. That was no hallucination. It was him, his energy saying he’d crossed over.”

  Susan groaned. Wiped her hands on a dishtowel. “Jen, I had no idea you were so—”

  “So what?”

  Susan scowled. “I don’t know. La-la? Delusional?”

  “Fine. You don’t believe it? I’ve got another one.” Jen’s voice lowered as she told us how her mother’s friend’s niece had died a few years earlier in a car accident just before her sixteenth birthday. Every year since, on the birthday, the woman makes a cake, lights the candles, and the girl’s spirit comes by and blows them out. “I’m dead serious. It’s the girl’s energy,” Jen said. “It remains with the mother.”

  “Bull,” Susan disagreed. “If it’s anything other than a tacky ghost story, it’s the mother’s own energy. She wants her daughter to be there so badly that she creates the situation. Not consciously, maybe. But she does it herself.”

  “Either way.” Jen sat up, arms crossed like a petite blonde guru. “It’s still energy. Linking us. You don’t have to be dead, either. Like my friends Luke and Riley—you met them, Becky—at the shore.”

  Becky had been oddly quiet, but she nodded. “The twins?”

  “Right. Twins. One was in a ski accident in Jackson Hole one winter. At the very moment he broke his femur, his twin had terrible leg pains and couldn’t walk. It’s the same thing. Life energy. It links us.”

  For a few beats, nobody said anything. Becky shifted in her chair, looked from Susan to Jen. “Does anybody but me think Elle should talk to a priest?”

  I wasn’t Catholic; Becky knew that.

  “A priest?” I was baffled.

  “Just because this thing smells and sounds like Charlie, doesn’t mean it actually is—”

  “Becky, stop.” Susan rolled her eyes, half laughing. Not joking. “I mean it. Stop.”

  Becky sat up, petulant. “Why should I—”

  “I see where you’re going, and it’s absurd. What are you saying, that Elle’s got a loose demon in her house and needs a priest to do an exorcism?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Even Jen didn’t get that wacko.”

  Now Jen was in it. She and Becky both went after Susan. “Excuse me? Just because you don’t agree with me doesn’t mean—”

  “I was just making a suggestion.”

  “That I’m wacko. And who said you’re the one to judge.”

  “Neither one of you is helping Elle.”

  “I just thought she should talk to someone with more experience.”

  “Or to decide what is or isn’t true?”

  “EVERYBODY STOP.” It was my voice, bellowing.

  They did. The bickering stopped, and they sat suddenly quiet, although disgruntled.

  “I know you want to help. Just, please don’t fight.”

  Nods. Shrugs. Agreements. And then Jen went back to presenting more stories. People reacting to a shift in energy when loved ones were endangered, injured, or killed. People sensing the energy of those they’d lost. And Susan continued to debunk the stories as wishful thinking or perceptual phenomena involving the subconscious mind. Reminding everyone that, no offense, but I was distracted and forgetful even under normal circumstances, that the shock might have made me even more so. No matter their reasons, they both made it sound completely normal that I’d sensed Charlie around me. And completely impossible that he actually had been.

  There was no point trying to convince them. They hadn’t been there, couldn’t grasp it any better than I could.

  Finally, Jen and Becky left around one thirty. Susan’s blueberry pie was out of the oven, cooling, and she was folding her third or fourth load of laundry, talking to some opposing counsel on the phone. I went to the spare bedroom and lay down on the floral comforter.

  I wasn’t sure I could fall asleep, but behind closed doors, away from cops and friends, at least I was alone and finally would have a chance to cry.

  The next days passed in a haze dotted with more press coverage, police and legal interviews, muddled memories, and fleeting moments of clarity when I grasped unacceptable facts. Charlie was dead. He had been murdered. The murder had been committed in my house. And, at least partly because of the cut on my hand, the police suspected me.

  At some point, it occurred to me that the killer might still have been in the house when I’d come home. That the killer, not Charlie, might have kissed my neck, called my name, moved the rose. Played with my mind. I began to doubt my own perceptions of that night. Questioned my memories. Slipped back into my protective haze, watching life from a safe distance. As time passed, I wasn’t sure anymore what I’d seen or heard. Probably Susan was right; my mind had been playing tricks. Probably I was jumbling events and distorting impressions because I wasn’t able to absorb or bear the truth.

  By Saturday, the police had finished examining the crime scene. I could go home. But I was in no hurry. In fact, I dreaded going home. Charlie’s blood would be on the sofa. It would have dried, darkened. Might look black. And the drinks I’d poured would still be there, the ice melted. Water marks on the cabinet.

  But it wasn’t just the study. I dreaded the kitchen, too. The lingering odor of spilled dressing. The pieces of lettuce or cheese drying out, rotting in the sink.

  And the whole house might smell of death. Or of Old Spice. Either way.

  So, I remained in exile from my home. Exile seemed better than confronting the mess of Charlie’s murder. For two days after the crime scene was cleared, I stayed at Susan’s. I would have stayed longer, but the fact was that by Monday, I couldn’t take another day in her house.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t like kids—I taught seven-year-olds, for God’s sakes. And Charlie and I had been trying to get pregnant when we’d fallen apart. In theory, I still hoped to be a mom someday. But, honestly, I didn’t know how Susan could stand it. Her husband, Tim, was almost never around, traveled for business. And her home was in constant uproar. Noise. Clutter. Thundering, bellowing commotion. Three girls bickering, shouting and whining, their music and the television blaring nonstop.

  After three days, I needed to escape. So, despite Susan’s generosity and hospitality, and regardless of her concerns about me going back to the place where Charlie had been murdered, I insisted on going home. I craved stillness and quiet. Needed privacy and space.


  Even so, I felt uneasy. The police and crime-scene crew would have gone through everything. The place would be a disaster.

  Charlie’s blood would still be on the sofa.

  And who knew where the rose would be.

  In the end, I had to go. I had no choice. Monday morning, I told Susan I’d be leaving. She didn’t argue. Merely commented that she thought I should wait a little while so she could go with me. “You shouldn’t go back there alone.”

  In truth, having company made it easier. Susan took the top down on her BMW. The sky was clear, the weather warm. Optimistic. When we pulled up, I understood why Susan had asked me to wait. She’d needed time to rally Jen and Becky, who were on the porch, waving. Welcoming me home.

  Bolstered by friends, I unlocked the door and stepped inside, tentatively sniffing, anticipating the smell of rotting flesh or Old Spice. Sensing neither, just the fresh scent of pine. Pine? As in cleaner? I was puzzled, but said nothing. Becky watched me, smiling slyly. Jen led the way.

  “Come on, Elle.” Jen hurried to the back of the house. Straight to the study. Why? Did she want me to face the blood right away? Why was she grinning?

  I followed slowly. Passed the living room. Wait. Something was different in there. And the kitchen. When had I done the dishes? Picked up the salad? Cleared the countertops? I had no memory of cleaning, must really have been in a daze.

  Jen and Becky rushed into the study. Susan stayed behind me, her hand on my back. Pressing me on.

  At the study door, I stopped, remembering Charlie, the slackness of his jaw. The knife in his back. I wasn’t ready, didn’t want to go in.

  “Dammit, Elle.” Susan shoved me forward. “Move.”

  So I did, slowly. Cautiously. And became confused. The room smelled fresh, faintly of leather and chemicals. In a moment, I realized why: There was a new carpet. Cream-colored. And a new chocolate-brown upholstered sofa where the bloodied old gray one had been.

  Three faces grinned at me, expectant and proud.