Shirley had left three messages, all asking him to call her. Claire Simmons had left two. Claire was an attorney friend of Elizabeth’s who handled many of Elizabeth’s legal affairs and had a power of attorney in the event anything happened to both Elizabeth and Chris. In the message, Claire asked him to call her when he got a chance. Her specialty was criminal law rather than tax law, but Elizabeth had trusted her with anything related to the legal profession. He made a note to call her, then pressed the “Play” button again on his answering machine.
The last message to record began. “Hello, I’m calling for Dr. Elizabeth Barnes. You—” And then the tape ran out.
You what? thought Barnes. You are in danger? You don’t know me? You have been selected to win a free pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream? The message could have been anything. Vitally important or utterly irrelevant. He would never know. Nor would he know how many others hadn’t been recorded. But there was nothing to be done about that.
He looked at his notes. Of the fifty-seven calls, he felt compelled to return only two: Shirley’s and Claire’s. He would do that in a few minutes, after organizing his notes and trying to minimize the likelihood of misplacing or losing them. The notes would be crucial, his only means of linking thoughts from one day to the next, or even one hour to the next. Losing them would be like losing his mind, literally. At least part of it—his connection to the recent past.
With a notepad, pen, and Scotch tape in hand, he walked around the house, posting messages in many of the rooms, in places where they would be readily noticed. Most he taped to the inside of doors, including his home office and Elizabeth’s home office. On each sheet of paper, he wrote the same thing: “Read the notes on the refrigerator!” He even added this message to the list in his pocket. On the refrigerator he taped most of his notes regarding Elizabeth and anything else of importance, including his interrogation with the police, and the telephone messages to be returned.
Then he called Shirley. The last time he’d spoken to her was early November, and then only long enough to pass the phone to Elizabeth. They had gotten together for dinner in October, and it hadn’t gone well. Shirley had insisted on sitting in a nonsmoking section. She complained that otherwise smoke permeated her clothes and irritated her eyes. Her boyfriend at the time—hopefully ex by now—was a self-centered research scientist with a myriad of annoying personality traits, including pointing his fork at people when he spoke.
Shirley picked up on the first ring. Barnes recognized her hello and formed a mental image of the woman: early thirties with sharp features but dimples when she smiled. She had shoulder-length blonde hair, and blue eyes that seemed to take in everything.
“Hi, Shirley. Chris Barnes.”
“Chris.” That single word conveyed both familiarity and sympathy. “How are you? Where are you?”
“Hanging in there. I’m back in Boston.”
“Back in Boston—that’s pretty incredible, considering what you’ve been through. How are you holding up?”
“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure. It’s . . . difficult.”
“Everything has been so horrible, but I’m so glad you’re back. If there’s anything I can do to help . . . Correction: when there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that. At the moment, I’m just trying to sort things out.”
“I can imagine. Actually that’s not true—I really can’t imagine. It must be overwhelming. And so unfair.”
Her attempt at empathy sounded genuine. Barnes knew his own was sometimes lacking. “I understand what you’re going through,” he would tell patients, but of course he didn’t understand. It was just something he said. Well, not anymore. The next time a patient or a patient’s family suffered a loss or setback, he would offer more than platitudes.
“Yeah,” he agreed finally. “Life is unfair.”
“But look at you—you’re here. The newspapers said you weren’t going to make it, that you weren’t going to come out of your coma, and then that you’d lost your memory. But here you are, and you sound great.”
“I guess it could be worse.”
“Ever the optimist, still, I see. We’ll have to work on that.”
“Yeah, good luck.”
“How’s your memory? Is that improving?”
He jotted a note to himself that she had asked. “It’s um . . . not good.”
“That must be frustrating.”
“It is.”
“But the fact that we’re talking means you can still hold a conversation.”
“Yeah, but you’re pretty easy to talk to. Tell me something—what do you know about Elizabeth, about how she died?”
“Just what I’ve read in the papers. The last time I saw her was the day before she went to visit you in Canada. She stopped by the office for just a minute or two.”
Barnes wrote that down. “How did she seem? Was anything troubling her?”
“Not that I noticed. She was the same as ever. Chris, this came as a complete shock to me. I can’t believe anyone would want to hurt her. She was—” Her voice broke off and then became husky, as if she was choking back tears. “Everyone loved her.”
“Yeah, I know. I can’t even remember the last time I saw her. It must have been the morning I left for the conference, but I can’t remember.” An image of Cheryl came to mind. Naked. He pushed the thought away and concentrated on Elizabeth. “Do you remember any of your discussions with her that day or the day before?”
“I’m not sure; it’s been a few weeks now. My memory of conversations is pretty bad. I’ve always been more visually oriented than verbally. I don’t recall anything specific that she said, although I still remember what she was wearing.”
“Well, I don’t think her clothes are going to tell us anything,” said Barnes, “but if there’s anything else you can think of, anything Elizabeth may have said or done, it might help us figure out why someone killed her.”
“Believe me; I’ve racked my brain. But everything was just so ordinary. I really don’t think anything was troubling her.”
“Well, if you do think of something, let me know.”
“You’ll be the first. I promise.” Then she changed the subject. “Did you just get back today?”
“Yeah.” His notes were fanned out in front of him.
“Have you made any plans for this evening? Is anyone keeping you company?”
“No.” Not even the dog, he thought.
“You do not want to be alone your first day back. Have you had dinner?”
“No.” At least not that he could recall.
“I’ll bring something. What would you like?”
Having company sounded infinitely better than spending an evening alone in an empty house, haunted by visions of his wife’s murder. “How about Chinese? We can order it from here.”
“I can pick it up on my way over,” she offered, and she asked him his favorite Chinese restaurant. “Give me about forty-five minutes,” she told him.
“I’ll make a note of it.” He wrote as he spoke. Shirley—dinner (Chinese) here at 8 p.m.
“See you soon,” she said.
“Yeah. I’ll try not to forget.”
As he hung up the phone, he sensed this was the first good thing to happen all day.
Chapter 21
After talking to Shirley, Barnes called Claire Simmons.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
“Okay.” He’d never met her, but they’d spoken a few times on the phone, and he recognized her voice. If they ever did meet, that would spare him the embarrassment of having to keep asking who she was. “I’m fine,” he added.
“Somehow I doubt that. Nobody could go through what you’ve experienced and be fine.” Her voice was soft and breathy. Barnes always thought that if she ever found herself out of work as an attorney, she could get a job talking on the phone.
“It’s been a little rough,” he admitted. “I’d like to than
k you for the work you did on the estate and funeral and everything else.”
“You’re welcome. It was the least I could do. I’d like to get together with you sometime to discuss things, whenever you feel up to it.”
“Maybe tomorrow.” He looked at his list. No plans yet. “We could meet for lunch and then go to the cemetery, if you don’t find that too morbid. I’d like to visit Elizabeth.”
“That works for me. I’d like to visit her, too.” She gave him her number at the office, and he jotted it down. “Chris, I know we’ve never met, but Elizabeth and I were very close, and I know she would want me to do whatever I can to help. If you need anything, legal or otherwise, I want you to call me. Anytime.”
“All right.”
“How is your memory?” she asked.
Was everyone asking him that? Shirley had posed the same question, according to his notes.
“It’s not what it used to be.” He wrote down that she’d asked. “But if you don’t mind, I’d rather talk about Elizabeth. Can you tell me the last time you saw her?”
“The last time?” She paused. “I don’t remember exactly. It would have been sometime in mid-November.”
“Mid-November.” Barnes jotted that down. “Do you remember the conversation?”
“No, I really don’t. Usually we just talked, not about anything in particular. You know, just conversations.”
“Can you tell me anything about the circumstances of her death?”
“All I know is what I’ve read in the newspaper. I can’t imagine who would do such a thing.”
“I can’t, either.” He looked at the note regarding his interrogation. Elizabeth had been having an affair. He wanted to ask Claire whether she knew anything about that, but it was too humiliating to bring up, even over the phone. “The police may suspect me,” he offered instead. “I’m not sure. They questioned me downtown. I have notes, but I don’t actually remember what happened.”
“Were you by yourself?”
“I believe so.”
“Did they offer to let you call an attorney?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
“Well, some of them make everyone feel like a suspect. I would think that what they were doing was actually in your best interests, but arguably they violated your rights since it’s possible you weren’t aware throughout the interview that you could contact an attorney. If they want to question you again, you should call me. Will you remember that?”
“I’ll make a note of it.” He added that to his list.
Then Claire asked, “Also, as long as I’m offering legal services, I should ask, do you have disability insurance?”
“Yes, fortunately. I never thought I’d need it.”
“I’d be happy to take a look at your policy. I know the legal jargon can be daunting.”
“Thanks. I’ll let you know.”
“And do tell me if the company gives you the runaround.”
“I will.” He hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. “Oh, before I forget, was there anything Elizabeth tried to tell you before she died, anything that might have been important or unusual or controversial? Anything out of the ordinary?”
Claire didn’t hesitate before answering. “No, Chris. There really wasn’t. From what I can recall, she seemed the same as ever the last time we spoke. Her death came as a complete shock to me. I still can’t believe it. It’s like a living nightmare. I keep hoping I’ll wake up and she’ll be back, and every once in a while I think I catch a glimpse of her on the street or in a store or in a car. I don’t want to believe she’s really gone. You probably don’t need to hear this from me, but I just can’t stop thinking about it, about her. Who would do such a thing?”
“I don’t know, but I’d sure like to find out.” He wrote down that she had no ideas about what had happened to Elizabeth. “You’ll call me and tell me if you think of anything later?” he asked.
“Of course. And if there’s anything I can do, don’t hesitate to ask.”
Probably Shirley had said the same thing. According to his notes, she’d offered to help.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, although right now the only thing he seemed to be able to keep there for any length of time was Elizabeth—the fact that someone had murdered her. Who would do such a thing?
He hung up and thought about the types of friends and colleagues Elizabeth had. He really should have found the time and made the effort to get to know them better, but he’d always been so wrapped up in his career and surgeries, and any free time that he could get with Elizabeth was time he didn’t want to share with her friends. From what little he could tell, they all seemed genuine. Still, when push came to shove, he wondered whether any of them would really help him.
Chapter 22
As Claire hung up the phone, a flood of memories washed over her. All were of Elizabeth. The two of them had spent nine months together at MIT, their third year in college, when Elizabeth had participated in an exchange program. They’d been roommates at MIT Student House, a coed living group. Claire had lived there since her freshman year. A renovated mansion built around the turn of the century, MIT Student House was a fifteen-bedroom, four-story home to roughly thirty-five students. It had a parlor with ornate woodwork, a library with built-in hardwood shelves, and a dining room with two long tables, a fireplace, chandeliers, and a small adjoining butler’s pantry complete with a dumbwaiter to the kitchen in the walkout basement.
Many of the house’s bedrooms had been named by previous generations of students, such as Shaft, a two-tiered room on the fourth floor with a connecting ladder and a large skylight; Morgue, a narrow room wedged in a corner of the second floor and, at one time, painted black; and Xanadu, an isolated room perched on top of the back staircase and painted sky blue.
Claire and Elizabeth had shared a fourth-floor room called Inferno, so named because of its working fireplace, small and dark from soot, and also its tendency to be one of the hottest rooms in the house. The room had a small closet near the entrance, and a bunk bed along the wall opposite the fireplace. It also had two wooden desks along opposite walls past the bed and fireplace, abutting the far wall and a solitary window. The room was so narrow that when Claire and Elizabeth studied at the same time, their chairs nearly touched each other.
They had shared many experiences in Inferno, like roasting sausages on straightened wire coat hangers over the fire in the fireplace and getting drunk on cheap wine, oftentimes drinking it straight from the bottle as they sat before the hot orange flames, keeping cool by wearing only underwear or pajamas and opening the window. Other times they stayed up all night to study and, of course, they talked—about things as banal as pop music or as personal as their most embarrassing moments, their hopes, their fears.
Claire had the top bunk, and some nights she and Elizabeth would talk for hours after turning out the lights. Elizabeth understood her in a way that nobody else ever had. Understood not only her worries and dreams but also her very thoughts. Like a twin, only better. In a twin you see yourself. In Elizabeth, Claire saw her own potential. Self-assured, extroverted, content. Claire had the cover-girl face and body, and of course brains, but she lacked Elizabeth’s self-confidence and also her ability to connect with practically everyone. Men were drawn to Claire, but they fell in love with Elizabeth. Claire had seen it time and again. Everybody loved Elizabeth. Claire would double-date men she didn’t even like, just to spend more time with her.
On their last night together at MIT, they stayed up until the early-morning hours. After finishing their second bottle of wine, Claire gave Elizabeth a back rub in front of the fading flames dancing in the fireplace. That turned into a full-body massage, and although Elizabeth was barely awake at the time, she rolled onto her back. She was wearing her usual nightwear, an oversize T-shirt and panties, and Claire had already lifted up the T-shirt while massaging her back. Caressing Elizabeth’s breasts brought no protests, although Elizabeth’s eyes were closed,
suggesting she wanted to feel this but not see it.
Claire let her fingers wander lower over Elizabeth’s abdomen and the top of her panties. Her lips followed her hands, on Elizabeth’s abdomen, along the thin waistband, then below it, on the fabric, moving it aside, touching the warmth underneath.
Elizabeth may have been only semiconscious, but the movement of her hips told Claire not to stop, and Claire had no intention of stopping, not until after Elizabeth shuddered to a climax.
Elizabeth let out a murmur of contentment, then fell asleep. Claire pulled down the T-shirt over Elizabeth’s hips, and positioned a pillow under her head so she wouldn’t have a stiff neck in the morning. After getting her own pillow, Claire lay at Elizabeth’s side and watched her rhythmic breathing until the lambent light from the fireplace disappeared and the first rays of dawn took its place.
Hours later when Elizabeth woke up, she seemed immediately focused on getting ready for her trip back to England. “I can’t believe that tomorrow morning I’ll be on the other side of the ocean,” she said, packing her oversize T-shirt into one of her suitcases.
Claire thought about asking to keep the T-shirt, as a memento. “I can’t believe it, either.” She was sitting on the edge of Elizabeth’s bed. “This place is going to seem very empty.”
Elizabeth just sighed.
“But we’ll always have the memories,” said Claire.
Elizabeth smiled. “If they aren’t lost in a haze of alcohol.”
Could she have forgotten about last night? Claire wasn’t sure how to ask. “Well, last night is one night I’ll never forget,” she said.
“Our last night together in Inferno.” Elizabeth zipped her suitcase closed. “I’m going to miss this. Not the hangovers, but Boston and MIT. And, of course, you.”
Their eyes met, and that’s when Claire knew—Elizabeth really had forgotten. Or maybe she thought it had been a dream. It had felt that way. Surreal. But it had happened, and Claire remembered every moment. She didn’t ever want to forget.
Dying to Remember Page 10