Still Life in Shadows

by Alice J. Wisler

  What if they put me in jail?” Gideon swallowed hard as the severity of the situation hit him. “What if they lock me up?” If only he had a solid alibi for the night of January seventeenth. “Can they do that? Until they find the real killer?”

  Mari, seated next to him on the sofa, tried to ease his worries. “They have no proof.”

  “Are you sure?”

  When she arrived at his apartment ten minutes ago, he’d been wiping his face with a dish towel. Although he tried to hide his tears, he knew she knew.

  As he thought of Moriah lying cold in the morgue, he choked up again. Turning from her, he stood and walked toward the farthest living-room wall. With his back to her, he said, “Don’t look at me.” The words sounded like that of a child. Father never allowed him to cry. Especially not in front of a woman. That was weak, uncalled for. “You can’t see me cry.” It was not only Father’s rule that boys and men didn’t cry; according to him, neither should women. “We came here from religious oppression,” Father was known for saying. “We fought for the freedom of religion so we could openly be Amish. We didn’t get here by giving up and crying.”

  “Gideon.” She was at his side.

  “No.” Abruptly he turned away. “You just can’t. Don’t.”

  “Why not?” She resumed her spot on the sofa.

  Blinking back tears, he waited a moment, sniffed, wiped his nose with a balled-up tissue he found inside his pants pocket. He had no recollection of how it got there. Did he even own a box of tissues? He wasn’t sure.

  “Is it …?” She tried again. “Is it because of your dad and the whip?”

  Gideon wished she wasn’t so good at remembering things. He wondered if he should have ever told her in the first place. After that picnic in November, she’d never mentioned his father to him again. He hoped then that she wouldn’t look at him with pity and that she’d eventually forget that he had told her the whole story of the boy and the shed. Now she was bringing it up as though she could see through him, as though she knew more about him than he might even admit to himself.

  When he didn’t reply, she prompted him. “Gideon …?”

  “Tears are a sign of weakness. I hate them.” He was relieved when he gained his composure and was able to rejoin her at the sofa.

  “Tears show you have heart. There’s nothing wrong with them.” Gently, she said, “In Japanese, kokoro is the word for heart. But it can also translate into spirit, soul, and even mind. Mama told me from the kokoro come tears.”

  Gideon wanted to listen to Mari’s explanation, but years of bitterness and hard, fast stubbornness seemed to crowd his desire to change and let tears be all that she claimed they were. He did not want to cry now. He didn’t want to show heart because once he did, who knew where it could lead? He could cry and never stop. Besides, if he was headed to jail, this was not the time to suddenly develop the freedom to cry. He needed to construct a heart of steel. Bleakly, he said, “Maybe I deserve jail.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t protect him well. I should have done more.”

  “Look at me, Gideon.”

  He met her eyes.

  “Trust me,” she said softly. “I trust you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know you’re innocent.”

  Am I? He watched shadows, cast by a single lamplight, play across his living room floor as Mari used her hands to emphasize her point. “Am I?” The words came out weak, like a cup of tea that hadn’t brewed long enough.

  “Of course you are innocent! And if no one else agrees, we’ll get you a good lawyer to prove in court that you are.”

  He appreciated her confidence, her boldness. Still, he doubted. “I wanted him to find another place to live. I wanted him out.” And if asked if he was accused of harboring ill thoughts toward his brother, he could not deny that he had.

  Mari ran a hand over Gideon’s back. “It won’t be much longer, Gideon. They’ll find who killed him.” She leaned her face against his shoulder. “Trust God.”

  As Kiki rode her bike home from the garage, tears clouded her vision. She hated that every bone of hers was filled with sadness. Dr. Conner told her yesterday that if she was feeling angry, it was best to call him and not to take it out on any wall, teacher, math book, or student at school.

  “Make sure you take your medicine now,” he’d said before she stood up to leave his office.

  For Pete’s sake, does he have to remind me like I’m five? Just because Moriah was dead did not mean she was going to forget to take care of herself. In fact, Kiki knew she had to be extra strong now. Gideon certainly needed lots of help. He hadn’t even swept out the bays like he always did. He was slipping. She would have to watch him. She sure hoped he got the letter she’d placed on his desk. Before leaving, she’d told Ormond that there was a white envelope for her boss and to make sure he saw it when he got back from whatever he was doing. “It’s very important,” she’d reminded Ormond a zillion times until he said, “I heard you, Kiki. I might be old, but my ears still work.”

  When she reached her porch, there was a creaky sound, and as she stepped off her bike, she peered at her house to see what caused it. In the movies, people always said things like, “Hello? Is anyone there?” but as soon as they did that, the killer attacked. Kiki felt her cell phone in her jacket pocket. She’d push the emergency button if she had to.

  Just then, from behind one of the plastic chairs, Angie stepped forward.

  Relief filled her, it was only Angie! “Oh! You scared me! What are you doing here?” asked Kiki.

  “Shh.” Angie put a finger to her lips.

  “What’s going on?”

  Kiki rested her bicycle beside the oak tree near a pile of moldy leaves and was about to pull Yoneko from the basket when Angie said, “We need to talk. But inside.”

  Kiki had tried to talk with Angie many times at school yesterday and today, but the girl had avoided her. At lunch yesterday, Kiki had squeezed in to sit by Angie at one of the round tables in the cafeteria. Kiki complained about how hard that math test was. Angie had barely eaten her bologna sandwich, and Kiki knew Angie loved bologna almost as much as she loved talking about boys. Fine, she’d thought. Be that way. Just when I thought you were my friend, you’re acting weird. And now, Angie was acting weird as well. She wanted to talk, but she was acting jumpy like she had marbles inside her sneakers.

  Kiki jiggled the front door until it popped open. Mari used to never lock the doors to the house, but ever since Moriah’s death, she’d found the keys and given one to Kiki. Kiki had forgotten to carry the key to school with her today and wondered how she’d get inside the house. Watching criminal shows paid off—she wiggled the doorknob and lifted it a bit until it opened.

  Angie stuck behind her as Kiki led the way into her bedroom.

  She thought Angie might say something about her room, like how drab the paint on the wall was, or how silly it was that the bedspread was a bunch of kittens with pink ribbons. But Angie didn’t seem to notice anything about the room at all. She closed the door. Leaning against it, she blurted, “I have something to tell you, but you have to swear you won’t tell anyone!”

  Certain this was going to be about Robert Jefferson, the kid Angie was always asking to borrow sheets of notebook paper from, Kiki got ready to hear her friend pour from her love-stricken heart. She sat on her bed, drawing her legs up so that her knees were by her face. “What is it?” She tipped her cheek to rest on top of her knee. Depending on what Angie said, she just might tell her that she’d overheard Robert telling Jeremy that he thought Angie was cute. Perhaps, she would.

  “You have to promise. Promise?” Angie’s voice had an urgency to it.

  “Sure.”

  “Really promise!”

  “I said I promise. Sheesh!” Kiki held her breath, hoping it would keep her from saying anything about how annoyed she was right now with Angie. What is up with this girl?

  Again, Angie nervously scanne
d the room. “I know how Moriah died.”

  “What?” Kiki’s legs shot out from under her chin.

  “I know.”

  “How?”

  “I saw it. I saw who killed him.”

  “For real?”

  “I was at my grandma’s house. I couldn’t sleep and went into the kitchen to get some milk.”

  “And …?”

  “I heard lots of noises, people talking. I recognized a voice, so I snuck outside.”

  “You did not! You’re afraid of the dark!”

  “Shh! I’m not lying.”

  “So what did you see outside?”

  “I saw him.”

  “Who?” Kiki had a feeling that Angie was really going to tell her a secret, so she sat up straight because Mari told her she listened better in that position.

  Angie’s voice was low. “Reginald. And two other guys.”

  “Your uncle?”

  “It was him.”

  “Well?” Kiki wondered why Angie couldn’t just spit it out. She seemed to have no trouble in school getting to the point. “Miss Stevenson, Kiki is being annoying!”

  “They were by his car and saying that Moriah was dead. I heard my uncle say that, I really did.” Angie drew in a gulp of air and continued. “They talked really quietly and then they argued, and so I heard everything they said. I swear. You have to believe me.”

  “What did you hear them say?”

  “They said that they were going to put his body in the Dumpster at the repair shop.” Angie stepped away from the door, as though she no longer needed its support. Now her words came out like water from a pressure washer, freely, unrestrained, and quickly. “They wrapped his body in a quilt. That quilt isn’t on my grandma’s sofa anymore. I looked for it everywhere, but it’s gone.”

  Kiki’s skin burned as though that quilt was now tightly encasing her body. She stood, almost too quickly. Be careful, she scolded herself. Now was not the time to faint. She saw Reginald’s broad face, looming in her mind like the monster she knew he was. Fear gripped her; she fought to push it aside. “We have to go to see Henry,” she said.

  “The police, right?” Angie’s face was the color of chalk.

  “Yes. Sheriff Kingston.” Kiki brushed past her, opened the bedroom door. “Come on.”

  “What will we say?”

  “What you just told me. What you saw. Hurry.”

  Angie seemed unable to move. Kiki pulled at her arm. The tattletale was afraid, Kiki knew this, and it somehow gave her the power she needed to carry through with the plan. Kiki had never felt so scared herself, nor yet so bold, in all her life.

  “What do we do?” asked Angie, her breath now hardly audible.

  “I already told you. We go to the police.” She hoped her words registered to Angie this time so that she’d get that dazed look off her face. To emphasize her point, Kiki added, “That’s what people do on TV shows.”

  At last, Angie found her feet and let them move her out the door, trailing behind Kiki, who wondered where the TV crew was now. This was Kiki’s moment, and she was going to be a star.

  “Do we ride over there?” asked Angie.

  “Yes,” said Kiki. “Get your bike.”

  30

  What is taking him so long?” Gideon heard Kiki say just as he entered Henry’s office and saw the assembled group. The room was stuffy, like the heating system was overworked and no one knew how to lower the thermostat. He wished he’d brought a bottle of water.

  Angie and Kiki sat on straight-back chairs against the wall, their postures erect, their hands in their laps. Standing to Kiki’s left was Mari, still in her frilly tearoom apron, her face flushed like she’d run all the way here in the cold.

  Henry sat at his desk, a pen in his hand and a finger across his chin. When he saw Gideon, he stood, shook his hand. “Seems we have some more to the story.” He motioned to an empty chair, but Gideon declined and kept standing.

  “Reginald did it,” Kiki blurted, her voice loud. Then she glanced at Henry to make sure her outburst was acceptable.

  Gideon searched the sheriff’s eyes. “Reginald?”

  “Yes,” said Kiki. “Angie saw him. She was in the front yard.”

  Gideon steadied himself.

  “They got into a fight. Reginald shot him!” Kiki screamed both sentences before anyone could stop her.

  But it seemed that no one was trying to shut her up. Angie was nodding like a bobblehead, and Henry cleared his throat in a raspy way that took a minute. With that out of the way, he said, “The girls came in to tell me what Angie saw take place the other night. They’ve given their statements.” He pointed to sheets of paper in a stack on his desk by his phone.

  Gideon slumped into the chair then. Trying to calm his breathing, he was aware of the ticking of the wall clock, the same one that had bothered him when he’d been here to pick up Moriah. “Has he been arrested?”

  “We found him at the meth cabin,” Henry said in his marbled-voice sort of way.

  “Meth cabin?”

  “Same one Moriah was involved with. Evidence has come about. The cabin was a small operation, making meth for the locals.” Henry put a hand on his belt before pulling up his trousers at the waist, his signature gesture. “Moriah was heavy into meth. That’s what we were told. Seems Tamara spent her time at this cabin up on Cove’s Peak, too. Reginald didn’t like Moriah fooling around with his woman.”

  “Tamara is Reginald’s girlfriend,” said Kiki, an attempt to clarify.

  The sheriff nodded and continued. “We brought her in for questioning early this morning. She was there when Reginald shot Gideon at the cabin. Now the rest of what happened … we dragged Reginald down here. After hours of denial, he admitted that he and two others—Jack Northern and Linwood Michelson—hauled Moriah’s body to the repair shop. On the way, they stopped at Reginald’s mother’s to dig around in the garage and get blankets and towels to wipe up the blood out of the trunk and to wipe away fingerprints.”

  Gideon thought of all the times he’d warned his brother about Reginald. Didn’t Moriah know that pests like Reginald were not folks he should associate with? They were bad news. But had Moriah listened? Gideon swallowed; his throat felt dry, like he’d eaten a whole sleeve of saltine crackers. He knew Henry kept bottled water and cans of Pepsi in the little fridge in the adjacent kitchen, but Gideon was at a loss for how to ask for any beverage. Leaning his head forward, he closed his eyes. When he opened them, he hoped to see his brother. Instead, he felt a hand on his back.

  Mari stood behind him, her fingers lightly rubbing his shoulder. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “We are going home, Kiki,” she said to her sister. To the other girl, she said, “Angie, you are welcome to come over to our house if you would like.”

  Kiki’s face brightened. “Really? She is?” Kiki nudged Angie. “You want to?”

  Angie gave a small nod and stood up to go.

  “You can put your bicycles in the trunk of my car.” Mari’s eyes were grave. Even so, she squeezed Gideon’s arm and said, “Call me. Anytime.”

  Gideon watched the three leave. Suddenly, Kiki turned at the door and broke from the group. Toppling onto Gideon’s chest, with one arm around his shoulder, she cried, “It will be okay.”

  Mari told her to hurry along, and with that, the girl obeyed.

  Sheriff Henry made his way across the room and sat beside Gideon in the chair Kiki had occupied. “Your truck is at the cabin. You told me Moriah took it, but you never filed a stolen vehicle report, did you?”

  Images from Christmas night when Moriah left in his truck sped through Gideon’s mind. He hadn’t minded not having a vehicle; he preferred to walk, and the town was small enough to get anywhere by foot. “I didn’t want to bother you on Christmas day,” Gideon said softly. He hoped the sheriff wasn’t going to say that if Gideon had reported the vehicle, Moriah might still be alive. He didn’t want to hear that, so he cha
nged the subject. “Where is Moriah’s body now?”

  Henry wiped his brow with a thick crumpled handkerchief he seemed to pull out of thin air. “At the morgue. Do you want to see it?”

  “No. No.”

  “It can be released to you now. The autopsy has been performed. I’ll get a copy of that report to you. Do you know where—where—?” Pausing, he shifted in his seat. “Do you have funeral plans?”

  Gideon wasn’t sure how to answer that question, so he merely shrugged.

  Henry coughed into his handkerchief. “The town is in a state of confusion. Reginald was liked. Not sure why, since he was such a hell-raiser at times. But he was born here, raised here.”