by Lisa Aurello
“Well, from what I’ve read in news articles… it’s just that your wife comes from an upper middle-class background and she was a dog trainer. Not much there for making mortal enemies unless another dog was hell-bent to win.”
He chuckled feebly. “You’ve no idea how cutthroat those dog-show peeps are. But Cate did the circuit only in her spare time. She was a publicist.”
“Oh. Would she make enemies doing that sort of thing?”
“Jane,” he said, and I loved the way my name sounded on his lips, “anyone can make enemies anywhere. Some people are just kooks, you know? And Cate was beautiful and inspired jealousy quite a lot, I think.”
After that conversation I felt wobbly, as if I’d taken a three-mile run. It was Mason Caldwell. He affected me. Radically. Dramatically. I kept getting the feeling we hadn’t just met again, that we’d spent time together … but then why wouldn’t he say? Why would he allow me to believe we were strangers?
It had to be wishful thinking.
Chapter 26
Janey’s Journal
So I’ve decided.
I don’t believe Mason’s guilty of the crime. He’s much too nice to commit such a calculated, evil undertaking. Divorce isn’t the end of the world if the marriage was really a mistake. Why have someone snuffed? Killing someone is too big a sin for most people to tolerate and it alters the universe permanently—there’s no coming back from it. It must be a very heavy psychic burden to carry… as Lady Macbeth learned the hard way.
So the question becomes why do it if it’s not completely necessary?
I doubt he needs the insurance money. He co-owns a successful commercial real estate company. And his parents are more than comfortable as far as I know.
So money was not a motivator for him.
His wife was thin and beautiful. So no reason there.
I just can’t come up with a good reason for him to do it, and ever since I remembered how kind he used to be, how much I loved him as a teenager, I felt more than ever inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Eight p.m. Boom. I jolted awake up from a nap with my heart pounding a mile a minute. As soon as I opened my eyes the memories came flying at me, like a reel-to-reel on warp speed. It’s a terrifying experience to see a slew of scenes from your own life unfurl before your eyes while you try to make some kind of coherent sense out of them. This time it was even worse.
This time I had blood on my hands.
Lots of blood. Literally on my hands. Dark night, bright lights. A horrible sound. Ugh, no, it must be the accident. What else did I see that night that I’m going to remember? Squeezing my temples, I try to stop remembering. It’s too scary.
Or was it the previous accident?
Dr. Lavelle asked me if I’d been in an auto accident before, based on my prior injuries. I need to call my parents and ask them. I suppose I could call Sulu instead. I’d rather call Sulu but truth to tell, I really didn’t want to talk to any of them. Still, I should find out more about what I’m missing. When I woke up in the hospital thinking it was ninth grade, I’d thought my memory was intact at least from that point but I seem to have gaps peppered throughout. The accident was later, though. Why do I remember some but not all of it? And what does it have to do with a Halloween party?
I could be mixing it up with my recent accident as well. But I don’t think so. There are kids all around me, teenagers, and some bleached blonde leering at me. I feel such profound sadness all around me, cloaking me in thick despair.
What happened to me? Do I even want to know?
I fell asleep again watching old movies. Something, some kind of noise, wakes me up at half past midnight. More memories begin to bombard me: trips I took with my parents, one to California, the other a Caribbean cruise—torture because I couldn’t lose my parents for ten whole days. Both trips took place in the same year, probably why they both came to me at once. I know it happened during my senior year of high school because I had to order my cap and gown before I left for one of the trips—I can’t remember which one. So now I’d reclaimed some memories of that year but my whole sophomore and junior years were still blank.
Middle of the night. I can’t sleep so I get up, make a cup of tea, try reading. I pick an anthology of short fiction—it was the only one lying around. Read a story by Tobias Wolff. Great writer so still wide awake. If only I had Henry James handy. I drink a small shot of brandy. Nothing seems to help me get back to sleep so I pick up my journal. I have the pen nib poised on the paper to start writing about my day when I begin thinking about the flashback I’d had while speaking with Mason—kissing him in a car. Then without warning, bam. Disjointed images begin streaming through my brain. As I work to piece them together, I start to remember.
It was after the party; I left the Halloween party with Mason. We went outside to talk, and before I knew it we were in his car. He leaned over and kissed me. I was kissing Mason Caldwell. We were making out in his car and his hand began wandering. I was ready to do anything with him, and he knew it. But he didn’t know it was me. He thought I was someone else. Someone pretty. Someone normal. Someone named Janine.
“Will you come with me, Janine?” he’d asked, his voice hoarse, his breath liquored.
“Where?” I could barely get the word out.
“My basement. There’s a separate entrance so no one will know we’re there.” He hovered over me and kissed me again. “I want you.”
My throat was so tight that I couldn’t squeeze out any sound, coherent or otherwise, so I nodded. He shifted back in his seat to turn on the car. I drank in his every detail with avid interest: the way his masculine hands held the steering wheel with casual confidence, how his rich brown hair fell over his right cheekbone, the satisfaction that glowed in his eyes as his car picked up speed. Everything about him was thrilling to me. I loved him so much.
That’s where the memory ends. It’s so frustrating I could rip out my hair.
I desperately want to know what happened. Did we make it to Mason’s basement? Did we have sex? What happened afterward? Did he ever find out that Janine was me?
Grrrr. I just don’t remember any of it. I will admit, though, that just the fact that I kissed Mason Caldwell is shock enough for me. After all, he’s him and I’m me, yet somehow, I tricked him into believing I was a girl who was pretty and popular, a girl who knew how to dress and have fun, a girl who went to parties and met cute guys.
A normal girl named Janine.
Not Jane. Never Jane.
Chapter 27
Late December
The doorbell rang at 6:47 a.m. as Jane was stepping out of the shower. She threw on her robe and dashed down to answer the door. Her peephole was stuck in place by a sloppy paint job so she called out, “Who is it?”
“The police, ma’am. Please open up.”
Jane opened the door to reveal two young officers in uniform. She stepped aside and held the door open. “Please come in. Um, I was just getting ready for work. Will you excuse me while I put on some clothes?”
“Yes, miss. Please be quick about it. We need to speak to you.”
Jane nodded and sprinted up the stairs. There was a time not long ago when she couldn’t race up any steps but in the nearly three months since the accident, she’d healed almost fully—physically at least—and the weight loss gave her more energy. No more bulletproof coffees for her.
In her room, she’d laid out her outfit for work the night before. She’d never before had so much fun planning her daily wardrobe—thanks to Mel and the weight loss, of course. Tight black dress with white geometric shapes, black tights, mid-calf biker boots. Over that she put on a charcoal cardigan that fell just to her hip. It was perfect for the chill of December.
Like a speed demon she zipped into the bathroom and grabbed her blow dryer, aiming at the back of her head and angling it back and forth rapidly. Her hair was only semi-dry when she put it down to do her makeup. Over the last few months she’d actually gotten good at it, having bee
n shown how to expertly apply it by the very sweet woman with the too-strong perfume at the counter at Bloomingdale’s where Jane dropped four hundred on the products.
One of the officers called up to her, asking her to come down.
She checked her watch: eight minutes all told. The police officers were getting pissy about the wait. Grabbing her handbag and coat, she made her way downstairs where they stood at the foot of the stairs.
“I’m so sorry for the delay,” she said as she took the last two stairs. “What can I do for you, Officers?”
“Miss Jensen, it is my duty to inform you that you are under arrest for the murder of Catherine Caldwell. I must further inform you that anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney…”
******
The Jensen woman was shaking so much that Officer Perrine could barely snap the cuffs closed. He was generally a hard-hearted bastard, which served him well as a cop, but he actually felt sorry for the woman. She was obviously terrified, trembling so violently he expected her bladder to let loose at any moment. Now that would piss him off, no pun intended.
He led her to the back of the car and Theo, his partner, opened the door. He knew, despite the fact that they moved quickly, that neighbors would see. They had radar for this kind of thing. It would be all over the neighborhood well before dinnertime. The poor lady—he hoped she was guilty ‘cause if she weren’t, it would really suck what they were doing to her rep. Especially in an area like this one where reputation was everything. Rich people have sharp eyes and long memories.
******
Rob Fitzgibbons leaned one shoulder against the refrigerator, his flat gaze squarely on Mel. “Jane’s fingerprints were all over the photo.”
They were in Mel’s galley kitchen. She was measuring scoops of Colombian roast into the gold cone filter, trying to remember if she’d already put in four or five. Rob had shown up ten minutes earlier in an apparent effort to ruin her day. “I guess I’d rather have strong coffee than weak so I’ll count from four,” she muttered to herself.
“Did you hear me, Melanie? I said Jane’s fingerprints were all over the photo.”
“I heard you, and that’s only natural since it was her photograph.” She wiped wayward grounds off the cream-colored granite counter that her contractor brother had installed the week before, dropping the handful into the stainless garbage can.
He came closer, putting his face in hers and grasping her elbow. “Yes, but they were also all over the dresser drawer where we found the photo.”
“Mason’s drawer? Maybe they were having an affair?”
Rob scowled, shaking his head. “Come on. Jane is an attractive woman but you saw Caldwell’s wife. She was fucking gorgeous.”
Mel wrenched her elbow out of his grasp and turned back to the coffee machine. “Combine blond hair and a pair of tits and most men are so dazzled they call it beauty. Anyway, looks aren’t everything. His wife may have been a bitch on steroids.”
“Maybe.” He paused. “Even if that were true… that would only support her guilt. Easier to have a bitch whacked than a nice lady.”
Mel didn’t respond—she felt anger bubbling hot in her gut and she wasn’t exactly sure why. Maybe it was his attitude toward Jane that was just so unfair… She grabbed the carafe to fill with spring water, glad for the distraction.
He followed her to the other side of the counter where he could again see her face, leaning his slim hip against it. She tried not to focus on his good looks—she needed the anger to get her through what she knew was coming between them: a total break.
“Mel, think about this rationally. Why would he have an affair with his neighbor? If he wanted to cheat, there are smarter options with less chance to get caught at it. And you yourself said that before the accident Jane was overweight and wore frumpy clothes. A guy like Mason Caldwell wouldn’t give her a second glance back then. Now maybe, but not then.”
“That’s your only evidence? Her fingerprints and some convoluted logic? Because it’s pretty damn skimpy.”
“No. We’re on solid ground. We’ve identified the hit man. Caught some luck for a change. Vice received an anonymous tip about underage prostitution, possibly trafficking. There was enough to get a warrant to search the premises but they found only one girl there and she was of consenting age. They did find a cache of weapons in the guy’s apartment. Ballistics matched one of them to the Cald—”
“What?” she prompted when he abruptly cut off.
Rob’s face had drained of blood. “You cannot repeat any of this, do you understand? You could really fuck me over.”
“I won’t. I promise. Where did you find the killer? I mean, was he local?”
Grim satisfaction spiked his tone when he answered her. “Just over the Putnam border, in Dutchess County.”
Mel gasped so hard she nearly choked. “The site of the accident,” Mel sputtered. “We always wondered why she was there.”
“Jane’s bank account had a huge cash withdrawal. The hit man had ten in cash—we checked his account and what he had stashed under his mattress. Not a very imaginative guy. Jane had no explanation for the withdrawal, claimed she didn’t remember anything about it.”
“She did lose her memory, you know.” Sliding the carafe under the filter, she flipped on the coffee machine.
“So she claims.” He crossed his arms. “I don’t believe a word she says.”
Mel took note of his combative stance—it spoke volumes about his intractability. A shiver slithered up her spine and she wrapped her arms around her body, feeling chilled despite the cardigan she wore over her white knit shirt. “Did the withdrawal amount match what was paid to the hit man?”
Rob focused a heated gaze on Mel before he turned to the sink to pour himself a glass of water, chugging most of it. Some dribbled down his chin; he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before shifting his eyes back to her. “Minus about three grand.”
“Where do you think that came from?”
Shrugging, he took another gulp of his water, draining the glass, and putting it in the stainless sink. “We figure she had it somewhere in her house. In cash.”
“Ten seems low for a hit. I mean, it’s a lot of risk to take.”
“Probably the final payment.”
Shit. A deep breath helped to center her from this onslaught of bad news. “I can’t accept any of this. Do you really believe it?”
Chin up, hands now on hips, he was making his closing argument, obviously confident in his win. Well, she had news… “Yeah. I do, Mel. And I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but we arrested Jane this morning. She’s being charged with premeditated murder.”
“So now you’ve stopped looking at anyone else? You’re just going to work to pin it on Jane and forget about further investigation?”
He scoffed. “We investigated a lot of people. We interviewed all of Mrs. Caldwell’s coworkers, clients, former boyfriends. We interviewed her husband’s old girlfriends too. There was one in particular I took a long look at—I think there was something going on there. No proof, though. And I did look. Anyway, regardless of extramarital activity, the Caldwells’ marriage seemed to work for them, and while I’m not a hundred percent convinced Mason had nothing to do with the murder, I’m at ninety-three or thereabouts.”
He held out his hand and ticked off each finger as he enumerated. “We looked at Mason’s cousin who used to date Cate Caldwell before she met Mason. In fact, he introduced the two of them. We checked out all of Mason’s friends and of course, Cate’s friends off the job. Family members, anyone who had the remotest chance of holding a grudge. Nothing. Just nothing. Jane Jensen had motive and opportunity, and there’s sufficient physical evidence for us to prove it in court.”
Melanie slapped her hand to her forehead as she turned to pace. “Oh my God. I find it impossible to believe she’d do that. Completely, entirely impossible.”
“How well do you rea
lly know her? Think about it, Mel. Have you even ever known someone who was off the rails?”
“You mean apart from my whole family?”
He narrowed his eyes. “You have sociopaths and psychopaths in your family?”
“Definitely.”
“All kidding aside, Jane can easily be someone she doesn’t resemble precisely because she’s putting on a show, a façade, to lure others into thinking she’s a normal person with empathy and morality—when she’s not. You might even be in mortal danger.”
“Oh, come on, Rob. That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? Is it ridiculous? What if she thinks you’re aligning yourself with me—and she knows I believe she’s guilty. Maybe she told you something inadvertently that could incriminate her? If she’s a killer, do you think she would hesitate to kill again if she’s feeling threatened? You’re the one who has to come on. You’re being obtuse. You don’t know the woman all that well, certainly not as well as you think you do.”
The insult whirled her back around. “How well do I know you? I mean, how well does anyone know anyone? I can tell you that Jane’s just not that stupid either—quite the contrary. She’s got a very high IQ. Why would she leave such obvious incriminating evidence like a huge cash withdrawal? And fingerprints all over the Caldwell bedroom? Come the fuck on. That’s just a little too sloppy. It very obviously points to Jane being framed.”
He twitched his shoulder. “Just means she never thought she’d become a suspect. Plain and simple.
“I want you to think hard, Mel. Is there anything about Jane that doesn’t add up? Maybe you learned something that was out of character for her? Because sociopaths hide behind a normal disguise, but usually they mess up here and there and reveal a hint as to their true identity.”