Once She Knew

by Sheila Connolly

  Jonathan had located all the pieces of clothing that Claire had bought for him and retreated into the bathroom to change clothes, leaving the door open. “Much as I’d love to continue this debate, I need to know what you found out today.”

  Claire swept up the remaining bags from the floor and headed for the kitchen area. She really didn’t need to feel so defensive about Jonathan reading her work. She didn’t have anything to apologize for. “Damn little, unfortunately. Whatever happened, happened too late to make the big papers, and the local paper’s a weekly. I couldn’t find much of anything on the Internet. The best I could do was chat up a couple of students, who were more than happy to talk—seems interterm has been a bit dull, and a murder will certainly liven things up for them. They reported that: one, Susie has fingered you; two, Susie has the reputation of being a suck-up and a drama queen; and three, Professor Rankin is well liked. And Susie conveniently had hysterics at the scene, and has been spreading her version of the story ever since she recovered.”

  Jonathan emerged from the bathroom, now fully dressed. “Not bad. The boots are kind of big.”

  “That’s why I bought extra socks. Deal with it,” Claire responded with some asperity. She had picked well. With his dark beard and broad shoulders, Jonathan now looked like a very clean lumberjack. Nice. She shook herself: she was not interested in lumberjacks. “So, did you come up with any brilliant ideas while I was gone, or were you too busy going through my computer files?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it, but I haven’t come up with a whole lot. Don’t you go nuts without at least a radio here?”

  Claire was staring at her collection of food, trying to decide on what to make for dinner. “The laptop plays CDs. That’s enough for me.”

  “Well, it might be nice to know what’s happening in the rest of the world. Anyway, the way I see it, there’s a limited number of possibilities. One, it’s a big mistake on somebody’s part, but I figure I’d better rule that out since Susie came out shooting, like she was expecting something like this, or she wouldn’t have had a gun. Two, Susie’s into something nefarious, like dealing drugs, and the feds are onto her. But then, they would have arrested her, right? And that hasn’t happened. Rule out number two. Three, Annabeth is involved in something, but I’m damned if I know what. I’ve known her for years, and she’s certainly respectable. So we’ll keep that one on the shelf in case we need it. Four, I’m actually a criminal mastermind, and I’ve been stringing you along just so you’d buy me this tasteful outfit. After you’ve fed me, I’m going to kill you, steal your cash and your car, and disappear.”

  “Try it, buster.” Whether or not option number four was a real possibility, Claire was in no mood for banter. Maybe it was low blood sugar; she hadn’t eaten since that muffin several hours ago. “How about this? The FBI isn’t the FBI, but some band of cutthroats masquerading as FBI for their own purposes?”

  Jonathan grinned. “I like it. We can’t rule it out. And don’t forget any number of combinations of the above. Well, I feel so relieved that we’ve worked that out. Now we can take it to the local police and explain everything.” His tone dripped sarcasm.

  Claire smiled in spite of herself, and concealed it by rummaging through a cabinet for a large pot. For someone who had been shot at less than twenty-four hours earlier, and who could easily have frozen to death wandering in the woods last night, Jonathan was surprisingly cheerful. Of course, he could be a psychopathic killer, trying to lull her into a false sense of security. Why didn’t she think so?

  As if reading her thoughts, Jonathan went on in a more serious tone, “Why do you believe me?”

  Stalling for time, Claire filled the pot with water and put it on the stove to boil before turning to face him. “I’ve been asking myself that. For starters, I saw you when you stumbled in last night. If you were some sort of criminal, I would expect you to be more, I don’t know, in control of things? Then there’s your story, which is pathetic. If you’d planned this, you would have come up with something more coherent. And last but not least, from what I know about you and that stupid book of yours, I have a hard time seeing you as a killer.”

  He sighed. “You have mortally wounded my pride. And I thought I was such a tough guy.” He looked at her and added, “Oh, I get it—women’s intuition. That little inner voice is telling you that I couldn’t possibly be a bad man.”

  “You’re an ass, you know that? I should shove you back out into the snow and let you deal with this on your own.” That would be the smart thing to do.

  “Can you wait until after dinner? I’m starving. All this running and hiding and thinking has given me an appetite.” His smile faded quickly. “Seriously, Claire, I appreciate all you’ve done. I know it looks bad, but I swear I haven’t done anything wrong, and I need your help to sort this out. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

  “Don’t worry—I’ll find a way. For starters, you can open the wine.” Claire handed him a large bottle of red wine and a corkscrew.

  “My pleasure.”

  * * *

  Dinner passed amicably. Claire had to admit that all this skulking and snooping had given her an appetite too, and the food disappeared quickly. When their plates were empty, Claire pushed back her chair and gave Jonathan a direct look. “We have to come up with a plan.”

  “Oh?” he said, cautiously.

  “I got you the information you wanted, and some clothes. How about turning yourself in now?”

  Jonathan sat back in his own chair. “The feds believe Susie, which means they want to arrest me for murder. I didn’t murder anyone.”

  “And why can’t you clear yourself, if you’re innocent?”

  “Claire, think about it. Susie is young, blond and attractive. The police and the FBI have already bought into her story. I fled the scene, therefore I am the likely suspect. Do you know how hard it is to derail the authorities once they get hold of a theory they like? It’s like proving a negative. How do I show I didn’t kill whoever it was, in the face of a story that contradicts it, from a credible eyewitness, which has already become the accepted version?”

  “But you didn’t kill him.”

  “I know that, and I seem to have convinced you. But if I’m arrested, I’ll be sitting in jail with no way to clear myself.”

  “Why? Won’t they let you out on bail? You do have some rights.”

  He sighed. “Normally, I’d like to agree with you. I believe in the law, really. But there are some, uh, complicating factors.”

  Claire stood up and started clearing the dishes from the table, then stopped. She sat down again and refilled her wineglass. “All right, what? You have a criminal record?”

  “No, but . . . Let’s just say that they might be predisposed to be suspicious of me.”

  “You’re being evasive. Why? What the hell have you been up to?”

  “Nothing illegal. It’s just . . . I’ve been in and out of some dicey areas in the Middle East and beyond a few times in the past year, and maybe I’ve talked to some people who aren’t exactly on the right list with the current administration. Maybe I’ve made some friends they wouldn’t approve of.”

  That could explain why the FBI had been looking for him—if he was in fact who they were looking for. Claire laughed shortly. “You’re losing me. What were you doing there in the first place?”

  “I’m a journalist. I’ve been looking for a story.”

  Claire stared at him, trying to make sense of his statement. “Journalist” was not the word she would use for him. Hack writer, maybe. Trash peddler. But a serious investigative reporter, poking into something that would upset the powers that be? She had trouble getting her mind around that. But whatever the label, Jonathan believed that the authorities would not look kindly on him. True or not, Claire had to deal with his perception of the situation.

  “If you say so. Okay, pal, you’re clean, dry and fed—and bandaged. I’ve listened to your story. I may or may not believe it. B
ut I think it’s time you figured out what you’re going to do next. Go to the cops or not, but get out of my hair.”

  Jonathan looked affronted. “Sure, I’ll just walk out of here and hitchhike my way along that nice major highway outside your door to the nearest police station, and tell them I just happened to find a whole set of clean clothes sitting and waiting for me. And I built a nice little campfire and dried myself off, and got dressed, and here I am, Officer. Sorry, lady—it won’t wash.”

  He was playing dirty now, Claire thought, as she fought her rising temper. “You rat! I go out of my way to help you, and now you’re threatening to drag me into your mess?”

  “Look, you’re already in it. I’m sorry—I didn’t plan it this way, but it happened. And I’m not going to turn myself in, not until I know what’s going on.”

  “Great. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Why don’t you help?”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “Because, as you so astutely deduced, you’re already in this. The fastest way to disentangle yourself is to help me sort it out.”

  Claire’s reply was cut short by the sound of a car engine approaching; the sound stopped in front of her cabin. Jonathan was already on his feet. “Expecting company?”

  “No. Nobody knows I’m here. Except the cops, and they’ve already been here. Damn—I bet they probably told the FBI that I was here.”

  There was an authoritative knocking at the door. “Ms. Hastings? This is the FBI. May we speak with you?” The male voice was polite but unyielding.

  It was indeed the worst case. There was no place in the cabin to hide a full-grown man, and the evidence of two meals was still spread out on the table.

  Jonathan surveyed the scene quickly and hissed, “Let them in. I’ll be in the bathroom.”

  Claire wanted to sputter at him, but he was gone—leaving the bathroom door partway open. Claire heard the sound of running water. The pounding on the door increased in intensity.

  “I’m coming,” Claire called out, wondering just what she was supposed to say when she opened the door.

  8

  When Claire unlocked the door, she found two very large men wearing wool overcoats.

  “Ms. Hastings?” the nearer one said. “We’re from the FBI. We’d like to come in.”

  “May I see some identification?” Claire’s voice sounded thin even to her.

  The agent looked momentarily startled, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folder, which he flipped open with a practiced motion. Claire studied it without touching it. It looked real enough, but she had never seen an authentic FBI badge, so that didn’t prove much. But at least she had tried.

  “Agent, uh, Maguire? Come in. I’m sorry, but it’s pretty isolated around here, and I have to be careful.”

  Agent Maguire stepped into the room, followed by a smaller clone. “This is Special Agent Vitello,” Maguire said. “You’re alone here?” Claire noted his gaze taking in the open bathroom door and the lights and running water.

  “Most of the time,” Claire said, stalling.

  “Who is it, babe?” a male voice called out from the bathroom.

  Babe? What was . . . a lightbulb went on in her head. “Except my boyfriend is visiting for a couple of days.”

  Jonathan emerged from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, vigorously scrubbing at his hair with a second towel. When he stopped, draping the towel loosely over his shoulders, Claire had to stifle a giggle: his beard was gone. He looked ten years younger, boyish and clean-cut—and definitely not threatening. She also noted that he had kept the towel strategically draped over the bullet graze, which no doubt the eagle-eyed agents would recognize for exactly what it was.

  She plastered a smile on her face. “Sweetie, these men are from the FBI. I’m not sure what they want. Agent Maguire?” Claire turned back to the large agent, trying to look naive and quizzical.

  “FBI? Gosh, I guess I better put some clothes on. Give me a sec, will ya?” Jonathan disappeared back into the bathroom, and Claire heard him whistling. While half her brain was busy trying to keep up with this masquerade, the other half was impressed with Jonathan’s panache.

  She turned back to the agents. “Can I get you anything, agents? Coffee or something?”

  “No, ma’am. We’d just like to ask you some questions. Why don’t we sit down?” Maguire moved toward the table like a stately ocean liner, and Claire followed like an obedient tugboat. She sat first, and the agents settled themselves on either side of her, leaving the fourth chair for Jonathan. Oops—she couldn’t call him that. What was he going to call himself for this little skit?

  “All right. What did you want to know?” Claire looked from Maguire to Vitello and back again. “Is this about that murder?”

  Maguire ignored her question. “We just need to get some basic facts, ma’am. Your name is Claire Hastings?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re staying here in the Murrays’ cabin for . . . how long?”

  “Well, that’s kind of open-ended. You see, I teach at Sophia College, but I’m on sabbatical this year, and I’m trying to finish up a book, and I needed to get away for some peace and quiet, and my parents knew the Murrays, and knew this place was empty for the winter. I thought I’d be here two or three months. I have to be out by summer, because the Murrays usually rent it out or let their kids use it.” Did she sound sufficiently silly? Don’t overdo it, Claire, or they’ll never believe you’re a professor. “I’ve been here about a month now.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Claire watched Jonathan, now fully clothed, amble from the bathroom to the kitchen area, where he found himself a mug and picked up the coffeepot. He noticed the agents’ watchful appraisal, and held up the coffeepot toward them, tilting his head. The two agents shook their own heads, in unison. Without haste, Jonathan filled his coffee mug, added sugar, then came over and dropped casually into the fourth chair.

  “And you are . . . ?” Agent Maguire’s eyes bored into Jonathan’s.

  “Henry Applegate. I’m a friend of Claire’s.”

  “Oh, sweetie, you’re much more than just a friend,” Claire cooed. Henry/Jonathan gave her a goofy smile.

  “And how long have you been here, Mr. Applegate?”

  Jonathan took a gulp of his coffee and looked at Claire. “Let’s see—hon, what day is this? Must be three days now. Time flies, you know, gentlemen.” Was he leering?

  Agent Maguire’s stony face did not change, and he swiveled back to Claire. “You spoke with a police officer this morning. Is that right?”

  “Yes, I did. He told me there had been some trouble on campus. I was over at the campus this afternoon and heard about the murder.”

  Agent Maguire was not to be sidetracked. “You didn’t say anything to him about a guest.”

  “He didn’t ask. He asked if I had seen a fugitive, and I hadn’t.” Easy, Claire, she cautioned herself. Don’t play semantics with these guys. “Do you think whoever it was came this way?”

  “Hard to say, ma’am. There’s a lot of water between campus and here, and it was icy last night, so it’s not easy to follow a trail. But we have to look at every possibility.”

  “Well, I certainly would have called the police if I had seen anyone suspicious. But this area’s pretty quiet. Apart from that policeman, I don’t think I’ve seen anybody on this road since I got here. It’s mostly summer cottages, you know.” Stick to the truth, as far as possible, right?

  “What about you, Mr. Applegate?”

  “Huh?” Jonathan replied. “Oh, have I seen anybody? No. But then, I haven’t spent much time looking out the windows.” All right, that was definitely a leer. The creep. “Say, what can you tell us about what happened?”

  “There was a shooting, a fatality. We’re looking for a man who was in the house at the time.”

  “Gosh. Bet they don’t get a lot of murders around here. Who’s this guy you’re looking for?” Jonathan lo
oked sincerely concerned.

  “A houseguest. We would very much like to speak with him.” Agent Maguire wasn’t about to give anything away. He stood up, looming over the table. He extended his hand, which dwarfed a business card. Claire took the card cautiously. “Call us if you see anyone around here.”

  Claire stood up. “Of course. I’ll do anything I can to help.” She paused for effect, and in a trembling voice, added, “You don’t think we’re in any danger, do you?”

  Jonathan immediately came around to her side, and wrapped a solicitous arm around her. “You don’t have to worry, honey.” Claire stifled an urge to kick him.

  Maguire gave each of them a long last look. “Thank you for your time. Vitello, let’s go.” They marched out of the cabin into the dark. Claire followed them, and watched the car pull away before closing the door and locking it. Then she turned to face Jonathan.

  “You think they bought that little act?”

  “Why not? You don’t think a guy like me would come up her to the north woods to shack up with a woman like you?”

  How could he joke about this? “You know what I mean. Are all FBI agents stone-faced creeps, or do they think there’s something fishy going on here?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “You know, you’re too damn good at this. That was a real curveball you threw at me.”

  Jonathan smiled. “I figured you’d catch on quick enough. You’re not stupid.”

  That is still open to debate. You’re still here, aren’t you? Claire shivered. “I don’t like it, them coming here. I know they’re just being thorough, but the fact that I didn’t tell the policeman about you might make them suspicious. What if they run our names and don’t come up with any Henry Applegate?”

  Jonathan stared at her for a moment. “And here I was feeling so good about my quick thinking. You’re a real buzz kill, you know that? But you may have a point. Maybe it would be a good idea to be somewhere else for a while.”

  “Great—that’s what I’ve been telling you. You—not both of us. Wouldn’t the FBI think it was a little strange if we both suddenly disappear?”