by Terri Lee
“You okay, Mom?” PJ said around a mouthful of chicken, concern on his young face. He stood tall, her centurion at the ready.
Behind him, Neenie was piling up sandwiches on a platter. Her brown eyes met Savannah’s and echoed the question.
Savannah slipped arms around her son’s shoulders, squeezing him from behind. He was so warm and alive. “I’m okay, honey. Have you seen your sister?”
PJ shook his head. “Not for a while. Want me to find her?”
“No,” Savannah said. “I will.” She squeezed him again and patted Neenie’s arm on her way out.
Back through the gauntlet. Hands from all directions. Hands on her bare arms. People pulling her into claustrophobic hugs and conversations. Distant relatives she hadn’t seen in years sidling up to her, juggling plates of potato salad and fried chicken and demanding intimate revelations they could use to repeat to their friends, with a few choice dazzling embellishments.
Savannah finally caught sight of Angela heading out the door with a cousin.
“Angela,” Savannah called out. “Hold on a minute.”
Angela turned, blonde hair tossed over her shoulder, an arm hooked through her cousin’s.
For a moment she held her mother’s approach in a cold and steady gaze. Then she turned again and walked out the door.
And all Savannah could do was watch her go.
THE DETECTIVES Mueller and Fitzgerald were at the house again. Pressing Savannah for information she didn’t have. Just as they had only so many ways of asking a question, Savannah had only so many ways to say, I don’t know.
She’d been more than cooperative with their requests. Officers had combed through both Price’s downtown office and his study at home, looking for the tiny thread that could unravel the skein of yarn wrapped around this mystery.
Everyone had a turn being questioned. Even Angela and PJ, who were interviewed separately by a juvenile officer. The process left them shaken and rattling around the house for hours afterward.
“Why didn’t you mention you and your husband had a fight the night of the murder?” Detective Mueller asked.
“I didn’t think it was important.” Apparently this bit of news came from the kids. What else did they say? “I felt terrible about that last memory.” She looked away as she dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.
God, I’m despicable.
She was still finding pieces of the argument lying around the living room floor. Get out of my life, hiding under the coffee table. I hate you, cowered in the corner by the front door. She couldn’t escape them. As soon as she thought she’d cleared them all, she found, I want a divorce, between the glasses on the bar. Now she turned a bland face to Detective Mueller while her foot nudged, You’re unfit to be a mother, under the rug.
“Your guilt aside, why wouldn’t the argument be important?” Mueller asked.
“All married couples have arguments,” she said.
“What were you fighting about?”
“I thought Price was...flirting. At the dance. It didn’t sit well.” She lifted her shoulders and let them fall. She wasn’t comfortable wearing the shawl of a jealous wife.
“I see.” His pencil scratched against the paper. “Flirting with whom?”
“I don’t know.”
Mueller’s eyebrow lifted.
“I mean, I didn’t really get a good look at her.”
“So you left early. Because of this woman —”
“No. I said I wasn’t feeling well.”
“And that was what time?”
“I have no idea, really. I wasn’t looking at my watch.”
Fitzgerald flipped through the pages of his notebook. “You said earlier you thought it was about ten-thirty.”
“That sounds about right.”
“So the fight started when you got home?” His voice seemed to indicate this was important.
“Yes.”
This airing of her dirty laundry was exhausting. And distasteful. Both of them picking up each item in a pair of tweezers and holding them up to the light. Making the most innocent, innocuous remark laden with innuendo.
“Then Mr. Palmerton said he had to meet a client and he left the premises.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t find anything odd about him meeting a client at eleven o’clock at night?”
“I certainly didn’t like the idea.”
“What did you do after he left?”
She swallowed. “I left, too.”
The two men looked at one another in stunned silence.
“Mrs. Palmerton...” Mueller looked confused, scratching the back of his head with his pencil. “You left the house that night?”
“Yes.”
Confusion turned to accusation. “Can I ask why didn’t you mention this fact before?”
“I’m not sure you asked me before. I’m sorry, but this is my family’s first murder. I’m doing the best I can.”
“How much did you have to drink that night?”
The abrupt subject change coiled around her ankles and tripped her. “Excuse me?”
“How much did you have to drink that night?” Mueller repeated, as if speaking to his elderly grandmother.
“I wasn’t counting.”
“More than three? Four? Five?”
“I don’t remember...”
Mueller sighed and glanced over at Fitzgerald, clearly frustrated.
“You left the house,” Mueller said, circling back around. “Where did you go?”
“Nowhere. I just drove around, I guess.”
Fitzgerald bounced forward on the edge of his seat. “You guess?”
“I just drove.”
All this testimony was technically true. She couldn’t recall exactly where she’d been. She remembered tearing out of the house, Angela’s screams, the slamming door. She remembered a bottle of vodka tossed on the passenger seat. After that, it all faded to black. Like the final scene of a movie.
The End.
Those driving hours were lost to her now. Over and over, she sifted through the fog of her memory and came up empty-handed, unable to piece anything together. Small wonder, she was drunk. Not to mention the fact that she’d found her bottle of sleeping pills overturned on her nightstand the next morning. Pills and booze. Marilyn Monroe served up with a side of grits. Who knew what kind of mind-numbing cocktail she’d concocted?
Who knew what she’d done in the blackout?
Something sinister and malignant took root in her mind, nurtured by the detective’s incessant questions. It wanted light so it could thrive and grow.
Where did I go? What did I do?
Fitzgerald kept at her “What time did you get home?”
“I have no idea.”
“Your maid said it was after one when she heard you come upstairs.”
“I trust her word about that.”
“So you drove around for almost two hours?” Mueller looked skeptical. “Did you stop anywhere? See anyone?”
“Not to my recollection.” The hair on the back of her neck stood at attention. “Do I need an alibi?”
“How do you know Adam Vincent?” Mueller’s casual tone knocked her off balance, again.
Savannah gulped back the panic in her throat. “Adam Vincent?”
“Yes. How do you know him?”
“He taught an art class at the technical college. I took the course for a few weeks last year.”
“Did you have any other contact with him?”
“Of course not.” The lie fell from her lips, dressed in the perfect amount of outrage.
The two detectives exchanged a glance.
“The night Mr. Palmerton was murdered, you were fighting.” Mueller said.
“I already said that.” They were trying to confuse her, two boxers tag-teaming in the ring. One questioning while the other waited in the corner, bashing his gloves together and looking for the knock-out punch.
“Let’s see.” Mueller flipped through his notes,
milking the moment. “You said the argument was about his indiscreet behavior at the dance.” He looked up at her with a smug smile and Savannah had an urge to slap it off his face.
“You sure the fight wasn’t about your affair?”
“How dare you—”
Fitzgerald fanned out a series of 8x10 photos on the table between them.
Savannah’s breath caught in her throat, an audible hitch of recognition betraying her. Fitzgerald fingered each picture, like a fortune teller studying her cards, while an invisible referee counted off the seconds over Savannah’s sprawled body.
Her and Adam. Outside the coffee shop. Leaning against her car. Holding hands, laughing. Pictures taken on Deerfield Drive outside Adam’s apartment. Savannah picked one up, stared at Adam leaning into her car, kissing her. Such a sweet moment in colorful memory, now rendered sordid in glossy black and white.
“Let’s try this again, Mrs. Palmerton,” Fitzgerald said, stone-faced. “Just how well do you know Mr. Vincent?”
“Where did you get these?” She was shaking.
“They were in your husband’s files.” Mueller seemed pleased they’d rattled her. “He hired a private detective to follow you. Apparently he had reason to be suspicious.”
Her mind raced in seven directions at once. Price knew about her and Adam. Knew the whole time. The whole time? When did he start having her followed? Why hadn’t he confronted her sooner?
Her thoughts flew back to the night of the murder and the argument. Price seemed so sure of himself when he threatened she’d never have the kids. He had all the ammunition he needed to keep the children from her. Even now he was reaching out from the grave and she swore she could hear him laughing.
Savannah gathered up all the photos, making a neat stack of a complicated picture and handed them back to Fitzgerald. As the daughter and the wife of a lawyer, she knew enough to end this line of questioning right now.
It took all the strength she had to stand up and she had to keep her hands on the table to steady herself.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I don’t care for the direction of these questions when you should be trying to find my husband’s killer.” Her eyes went from one emotionless, expressionless face to the other. “Instead, you’ve spent days asking me the same questions over and over as if you have nothing else to do.”
The detectives remained immobile. It was like throwing rocks at statues.
“Well?” Hands were on her hips now. “Answer me. Why haven’t you tracked down the woman Price was talking to that night?” Savannah had finally broken down and offered the information about Price and the woman on the terrace after several days of interrogation. It was bound to come out, anyway.
“We’ve tried, Ma’am,” Mueller said. “She doesn’t exist.”
“What do you mean she doesn’t exist? Of course she exists. I saw her with my own two eyes.”
“Yet you can’t describe her.” Fitzgerald’s tone was flat.
“This conversation is over. Forgive me if I don’t see you to the door.”
The two detectives gathered up their paperwork and photos.
“We’ll be back, Mrs. Palmerton.” Mueller said.
“Not without a warrant,” Savannah said.
Her hands were still shaking when she called Kip.
“Sit tight, I’m on my way home,” he said.
SAVANNAH SAT in Price’s home office, adrift in a sea of papers. Searching for a name. A clue. Something. Anything.
Then Neenie rushed into the room, wild-eyed and out of breath. “They’re back. The police.”
“Are you kidding?” Savannah dropped the file she was holding, its contents spilling into the ocean of documents on the carpet. There was no denying she was a suspect, but she was horrified they were using her affair as the smoking gun, the easy wrap-up on a high profile case. Her anger flared over the thought of them sniffing around her garbage can and trying to goad her into a confession, instead of exploring other options. Book the bitch, hold a press conference, then go out for drinks.
After a couple of deep breaths, she walked to the front door with Neenie following. Angela and PJ abandoned the television in the living room when they heard the commotion.
“I thought I made it perfectly clear yesterday I wouldn’t be speaking to you again.” Savannah said, holding the front door open.
“You said next time, bring a warrant.” Mueller dangled a folded piece of paper in front of her. “Savannah Angeline Palmerton you are under arrest for the murder of Price Walker Palmerton.”
For the murder of...
“Sweet Baby Jesus,” Neenie cried.
The door was forced open. Strong arms grabbed her wrists, yanking them behind her back. Cold cuffs were snapped tight. Although her knees went weak, her instincts took over. She knew enough not to offer up one word of resistance.
For a minute, she thought she might be sick, but they didn’t give her enough time. Angela and PJ’s faces swam in and out of focus as Mueller turned her to face him again.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” He led her out the front door. “You have the right to speak to an attorney and to have an attorney present during any questioning.”
“Neenie, call my father,” Savannah shouted over her shoulder as she was hustled down the front steps. There was a police car in the driveway and another parked sideways across the mouth, blocking escape. Several cruisers were lined up on her block. A small army of officers standing at the ready, as if they’d come to arrest an international drug gang instead of a Georgia housewife.
Neighbors stood in the street watching the television drama unfold in their front yard. The officer placed a strong hand on her head to keep her from whacking it on the doorframe as Savannah was being put in the back seat. She looked back over her shoulder and saw Neenie pull PJ and Angela into her arms. Both kids were hysterical. Then PJ broke free, pushing aside one of the officers and sprinting across the lawn in his attempt to rescue his mother. The officer closed the car door against his muffled shouts. PJ was quickly subdued by a barrel-chested officer who grabbed him in a bear hug from behind.
The cruiser pulled away from the curb and Savannah watched her son, head thrown back, kicking and screaming. Five feet and nine inches of rage.
Dear God, what have I done?
SAVANNAH WAS used to having her picture in the paper. Usually in the society pages. Not on the front page under the glaring headline:
LOCAL SOCIALITE CHARGED WITH MURDER.
She was used to turning her best side forward and smiling for one single flashbulb. Not two dozen going off at once. She knew how to work her way through a party, addressing questions at her leisure. Not being hustled through a throng of pushing, shoving, journalists thrusting microphones in her face and shouting, “Did you do it?”
Her father and brother had hired two attorneys for her arraignment. Savannah couldn’t recall their names or faces. Only the strength of their arms wrapped around her and the barricade they made between her and the feeding frenzy. They got her home in one piece.
Once more, home was Justice Kendall’s house. The fortress of childhood safety with her father guarding the door. Despite Kip’s reassurances, he didn’t come to Georgia immediately. Everyone agreed for the moment it was best to keep Kip from being photographed with his sister. But she couldn’t help feeling alone and abandoned.
Now, Savannah stood in the shower, scrubbing herself raw. Trying to remove the smell and stain of the jail cell from her limbs. She wanted it gone before she fell into her bed. Her own, clean bed. Not some piss-stained cot where she tossed and turned while prostitutes and petty thieves circled her, smelling her pampered, privileged helplessness.
It felt like the time she was ten years old and rode the tilt-a-whirl at the fair. Spinning, flying, unable to catch her breath. She begged and screamed for the attendant to stop the ride and let her off. He only l
aughed as she was sent tilting and whirling again and again. The more she screamed, the more people gathered around to watch.
Somehow she’d survived eleven days in the Chatham County Jail. Eleven days of taunting, pushing, and people stealing her food. Two of those days had been spent in the jail’s small infirmary, as Savannah’s body revolted over the loss of its daily Valium and sleeping pills. Two days spent retching in withdrawal, her body howling and shivering under blankets that couldn’t ward off the chill.
Now, leaning against the tile wall, she let go everything she’d been holding in. All the unanswered questions, the innuendos, the fears, the nightmares. Her body heaved, shaking everything loose. Sliding down the wet wall, she sat, defeated under the spray, arms curled around her knees, head buried. She crouched there, weeping, letting the water stream down her back until it ran cold.
She toweled off, wrapped up in a robe, and tiptoed back to her room, leaving a trail of wet footprints like breadcrumbs. The entire family was gathered downstairs to discuss the situation. Everyone was anxious to see her, but she was desperate for a few minutes to gather her strength. She would be face-to-face with her father and Kip soon enough.
Staring out her bedroom window while she towel-dried her hair, she calculated the pros and cons of jumping.
SAVANNAH REMEMBERED when her daddy was young, strong and invincible. As a little girl with gangly legs, she could curl up in his lap while he made everything right with the world. Jack Kendall had all the answers she ever needed. Either in his head or in the rows of books that lined the walls behind his desk.
He didn’t have an answer for this.
It was Kip who sat behind her father’s desk. Papers and files spread out in a small mountain of hope. Case files already being plundered for any bit of armament to head into battle.
Jack sat, slumped, in his worn leather chair, no longer invincible. The rest of the family fanned out around him as nervousness tap-danced around the room.