The Devil Made Me

by Lorena May

  “I’ll meet you at Buckingham’s,” Darby calls back to him, stopping at her office, across from his. Grabbing her jacket and helmet, she strides out the door.

  ERIN’S OLD SCHOOL-MATE, Mia Jones, now Mia Buckingham, lives in an upscale neighbourhood bordering the river. The lawns are massive and beautifully landscaped with large trees, newly budding, flanking the property. Perfectly groomed flower beds with tiny green perennials poking through the soil line Mia’s sprawling bungalow, faced with spotless windows and grey brick.

  A small girl, about ten years of age, greets the officers soon after they ring the door-bell. A thin, pale, composed girl, with a long, red braid down her back, dressed in expensive designer sportswear. “Come in,” she says sedately. “My mother is expecting you.” She leads Darby and Mel down a wide hallway to a large sitting room, impeccably decorated in black and white with touches of red. Darby glances around. There is barely a sign of human habitation. The whole house looks staged! Everything is perfectly placed. Without a sound, the child slips away.

  And there is Mia. She drifts down from the kitchen, a step above, to greet them. Her movements are fluid, her body sinuous. Her clothes are immaculate; a simple green dress that highlights her distinctive eye-color. She wears shoes to match.

  “Please, have a seat,” she says, indicating the low-slung black leather couch and arm-chair. “Would you like tea? Coffee?” Her voice is modulated, her expression hard to read. Closed.

  “No, thanks,” Darby says.

  Mel shakes his head slightly. “Mrs. Buckingham, as you know, we’re investigating the death of Erin Morgan. I believe you were once a close friend of hers?”

  Was there a slight stiffening of the jaw? “Yes, a long time ago. I haven’t had any contact with Erin for over fifteen years.”

  Mel continues, unabashed. “Can you tell us about the nature of your friendship at the time?”

  “We became friends in about grade four, and remained good friends throughout school. Then we went our separate ways.” Mia sits in an armchair, crossing her legs at the ankle, looking Mel in the eye. She’s used to hoodwinking men! The thought strikes Darby. Won’t work with Mel, though.

  Darby leans forward, her hands splayed on her thighs, dark eyes sparkling. “Mia . . . May I call you Mia?”

  Mia nods her assent, her face impassive. She’s not an easy nut to crack.

  “Can you tell us a bit about what Erin was like. We’re trying to get a picture of her life here. What kinds of things did you do together?”

  Mia’s eyes are cold now; deadened. “She was nice. We did the normal kid things. Played ball, rode bikes. As teen-agers we went shopping. . .” She shakes her head slightly. “I don’t know. We both played basket-ball. Hung out at restaurants drinking coke, went to parties. I was busy with dance and modelling so I saw less of her as time went on.”

  “There were three of you that did a lot together, weren’t there?” Mel asks. “They called you the three butterflies?”

  “I guess they did. I don’t know.” Mia flips her head slightly, flinging her hair back. “Jennifer Sadler was another friend at the time.”

  “And are you in contact with her?” Darby asks.

  “No. I saw her at the funeral and said, ‘Hello’. That’s been our only contact.”

  “Was there ever an occasion where yellow roses were involved?” Darby’s eyes radiate a dark, unbending cleverness.

  For a moment Mia’s green eyes flicker. She lowers them as if trying to think back. “No. I don’t remember any yellow roses.”

  Darby presses on. “Did Erin have any enemies? Anyone with cause to seek revenge against her?”

  Mia sits even straighter, shifting her long legs slightly. She becomes more aloof and distant by the minute. “Absolutely not.” she says. “Not when I knew her.”

  It’s clear they will get nowhere with this woman. Darby and Mel rise simultaneously, and Darby hands her a card. “Well, thank you very much for your time, Mia. If you think of anything at all that might help us in our investigation, please give us a call”. They are promptly ushered out.

  AS THEY PULL UP IN front of Jennifer Sadler’s – now Jennifer Cox’s home – Darby can’t help but compare it to Mia’s. The house is a two-story, covered in white siding with green trim. A bike lies on its side on the front lawn. A soccer ball sit s by the trunk of the one lone, spindly birch planted in the yard. Along the drive-way a basketball net had been erected. The house appears to be well-kept; a middle-class home filled with a busy family, Darby figures. A comfortable home.

  They hear barking as they ring the door-bell. A slight, blonde woman in her early thirties answers the door, hanging onto a small brown dog’s collar, looking apologetic. “Sorry!” she says, picking the dog up and ruffling the fur on its neck. “She’s friendly – a little too friendly! Come in.” And she holds the door wide.

  This must be Jen, Darby reasons. How different she and Mia are! Although it appears that Jen had just showered and dressed for their arrival, she wears blue jeans with a casual tee. She, too, is an attractive woman. Her face is open and friendly. A face with even features, slight ‘smile-lines’ and bright blue eyes, her long hair is pulled back in a pony-tail. The house smells of cinnamon and sugar. Cookies! She baked cookies!

  Probably Jen has bustled around preparing for their call, but the house looks lived-in. A cloth-covered couch shows signs of wear. Magazines and books litter the coffee table, and a discarded sweater hangs on the back of an armchair. Dog toys lay scattered on the floor. Pictures of two children, a girl and a boy in various stages of growth, cover the walls. Jen ushers the two officers into the living room.

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” she says, looking a little frazzled. I’ve just baked cookies. Would you like coffee?”

  “Sure,” Darby smiles, and Mel nods. “I haven’t had home-made cookies in forever!”

  Jen leaves the room and is back in no time. She must have had everything ready and laid out for them. I’m glad we phoned ahead Darby.is delighted. This kind of welcome is unusual, to say the least.

  For a few minutes they sit amiably discussing the cool weather and their eagerness for summer. The cookies are melt-in-your mouth delicious; ginger, cinnamon, cloves, butter, with plump, juicy raisins . . . Darby sighs; taken back to her mother’s warm, homey kitchen for a moment.

  Jen brings up the subject of Erin’s murder. “I’m guessing you’re here because I knew Erin Morgan once.”

  Jen remembers Erin as having been fun-loving and adventurous, she tells them. Of the three playmates, Mia was the leader, she says. They had a great time crab-apple raiding, tearing around the town on bikes and playing little tricks on people like knocking on doors and running away or making prank phone calls. Jen speaks with a mixture of laughter and tears as she recalls her days with Erin. “She was so full of life. I can’t believe she’s gone.”

  About their teen-age years Jen is more evasive. They’d mostly just ‘hung out’, she tells Darby and Mel.

  “That’s right! We were called ‘the three butterflies’,” Jen exclaims when Mel mentions Mrs. Morgan having said so. “That’s flattering.” She tilts her head, thinking. “Both Mia and Erin were beautiful,” she said, “and both very social.” She was silent for a moment, seeming to want to provide as much information as she can; eager to please. “Erin’s parents were very laid-back and she had complete freedom. Mia’s were leaders in the community, and they were so anxious that she do well she only had to say that she was studying somewhere or involved in some club and she could go out at any hour. My parents were strict; controlling. I wasn’t always with Erin and Mia.”

  “So you’re saying . . .” Darby says, pinning the woman with intense, dark eyes.

  “I wasn’t involved in everything that they were.” Jen picks at her nails, looking downward. Somehow, Darby knows, the subject is closed.

  Mel asks, “Can you think of anyone that may have had a grudge against Erin?”

  Jen’s eyes
widen. Tears spring to them as she shakes her head, “Oh, no! Everyone loved Erin.”

  “Can you remember a time when she might have given or received yellow roses?” Mel asks.

  Jen remains silent a moment; frozen. “No.”

  Chapter 5 ~Jen

  Friday, April 20

  I remember a day by the ocean when a massive wave crashed into the shore sending me flying, smashing me onto the sand. That’s how I feel now. My past has come roaring back. Throwing me.

  Thank God it’s Friday. And events happen in threes. Darren texted. He is ‘out with people from work’. Lillia and some friends are at a Kodie Shane concert. Logan and his buddy are downstairs playing video games, and I am curled up on the couch twiddling my fingers in Sadie’s soft fur, my mind a kaleidoscope of memories, distant and recent.

  The police were here last night. An older man and a young woman. His name was Sergeant McDougall, I think. A big, solid-looking guy with greying hair and an inscrutable face. Did he believe me? I’m not sure. I found the female officer, Darby Greer, fascinating. She’s tall, lean and muscular with an exotic kind of beauty; olive skin, dark hair, and flashing black eyes. I could see tattoos on her upper arm. She radiates a kind of irrepressible energy. I liked her, but I wouldn’t want to be on her bad side. And I’m hoping they’re finished with me. I don’t want questions from the police about a time in my life I’d rather forget.

  THIS MORNING I LEAVE the gym early to work on an assembly the Kindergarten students are hosting at school. As I drive through the quiet streets the sun has barely risen. I could speed through red lights and it wouldn’t matter. But, of course, I don’t. That’s not me. As I drive by a grungy little shopping centre filled with box stores I slow down for a man lurching along the boulevard. He’s wearing a raggedy coat and baggy jeans. I can see that his old runners have holes in them. His hair is matted, his face craggy and coarse. Then I see his eyes. Bright cerulean blue. It’s Andy! My heart nearly jumps out of my chest, and I pull over to the curb.

  “Andy?” I call. He stops and turns. Those eyes shoot sparks at me and he raises his middle finger before turning and staggering away. The hatred in those eyes! I tense my body to ward off the shaking. Then I gun my car, streaking out onto the roadway without checking for traffic. Breathless, my heart beating a hundred miles an hour, I race to school and sit there in the parking lot shaking. Thinking back.

  ANDY STARTED GRADE one at Mountain Ridge Elementary; the same school I did. I remember him as a grubby kid with shaggy, dirty-blonde hair and grimy clothes that smelled like stale cigarette smoke. His printing was messy; indecipherable, and the pages of his workbooks and scribblers were smudged and ripped. Old food, smelly socks – all manner of gross things filled his desk. And the kid was annoying. He had a kind of hang-dog expression on his face all the time, and he slunk around. He never made eye contact. His marks were terrible, and he’d just sit there doing nothing, which annoyed the teachers no end.

  Mostly we ignored him. He stood slumped by the school wall at recess. In gym class he was always picked last for teams. It wasn’t until grade four that the teasing began in earnest. Our class lined up to go to other classes. One particular day we were going to Music. Mia was near the end of the line when Andy brushed against her as he walked by. I’ll never forget the look on her face. At first she went white, her eyes round and she kind of jerked backward. Then she scrunched up her face and clutched her arms around her body for a moment before rushing to her desk and putting her head down.

  “Mia? Are you all right? What happened?” our teacher asked, bending over her, concerned. Mia didn’t answer. She just sat there with her face buried while the rest of us went to Music class.

  Later, at recess, when Mia, Erin and I huddled together she tearfully recalled the incident. “It was horrible! He touched me! I could feel the fleas creeping all over my body. I can still feel them.” And she shivered, her face horror-struck. “We need to warn people,” she said. “Andy has fleas.”

  Poor Mia! I remember thinking. My heart actually hurt for her.

  “Andy has fleas! Andy has fleas!” Erin hollered, jumping up and down. It became a kind of cheer. I joined in.

  Wanting to impress my popular friends, I cried, “Eeek! I saw them jumping off of him!”

  Soon we had everyone crooning our chorus. “Don’t touch Andy. Andy has fleas!” Our little chant carried on through the years. It lasted as long as I can remember.

  Now I sit in my car, alone in the parking lot, and I sob. Andy, I’m so sorry!

  THERE IS NOTHING LIKE a roomful of kindergarteners to rid one of morbid thoughts and memories. All morning I’m surrounded by my energetic, boisterous students attending to “Look what I got!” and “I need help” . . . A day goes by swiftly. One minute we’re on the carpet reading stories. Then we’re in the gym playing dodge-ball, and then cutting and pasting and thinking of all the things we know that begin with the “l” sound. They are a balm to my shattered soul.

  At lunch-time I sit quietly in my room, enjoying the cheeriness of it. Also the peace and quiet. The children have left, chattering excitedly about the field trip we’ll take to the fire station this afternoon. As I dig into my salad I glance up to see a strange man standing by my open door. His hair is dark and longish, falling a little over his forehead. His eyes are brilliant blue. Tall and well-built, I can’t help but notice how good he looks in the faded jeans and t-shirt he is wearing.

  He looks into the room, but not right at me. “Mrs. Cox?” he says.

  I rise from the chair behind my desk and walk toward the doorway. “Yes, how can I help you?” I ask.

  “I’ve just dropped Corrie off in the playground. She had an appointment this morning.” He stops, his mouth suddenly agape as he looks at me. He backs up a little as if to brace himself.

  “Sean!” I blurt, and feel myself flushing.

  “Hello,” he says, turning away. “Just thought I’d let you know.” And he marches off.

  I think back to the last time I saw him; his face twisted in ugly fury. “You’ll pay for this,” he’d said.

  Chapter 6 ~Jen

  Later, Friday, April 20

  I’m stuck in traffic, sitting here drumming my fingers on the steering wheel feeling the panic begin in my belly. What’s going on? Is there an accident ahead? Stand-still traffic in town is unusual. Darren will be having a kitten by now; pacing, jumpy, snarky. I can just see him.

  Finally, the traffic moves. Slowly, but we’re getting there. It is an accident. A little white car has run into a red van and the poor drivers, an older man and a young woman, are standing beside them looking upset, assessing the damage. I drive by with a sympathetic look, though they’re not looking at me.

  When I pull into the driveway Logan runs out to meet me. “Mom, Dad was worried. I’ll help you with the groceries.” And we haul bags into the house.

  Lillia is in the kitchen and she starts putting my purchases away. This is not normal behaviour for my children. Obviously Darren has gotten to them. “Dad’s having a bird,” Lillia says under her breath. I get the picture. I start throwing chicken into a pan, mixing together a pre-made salad, peeling potatoes and carrots.

  Darren comes into the kitchen, a line etched between his brows. “You know we have to leave by seven,” he says.

  I peel as fast as I can, slicing potatoes into the t-fal fryer, “I’m sorry. There was an accident on Main Street and I got held up,” I say, not wanting to look at him. I hate that angry face he gets.

  “Maybe if you planned your time a little better,” he mutters as he leaves the room.

  “Here, Mom, I’ll set the table.” Logan grabs plates from the cupboard. Obviously they have been listening to their father’s wrath for the past half hour. I sigh deeply. I’m not looking forward to Darren’s company get-together. It’s a rah-rah kind of thing with fancy canapés and lots of drinks, spurring the realtors on to sell and celebrate their successes. I don’t know his co-workers well, and I feel pret
ty much invisible at their parties. Darren becomes Mr. Congeniality, making the rounds, all amiable and amusing. The man I married but seldom see.

  Still, I cling to the hope that we can have a nice family dinner, and as the four of us sit at the table eating I make small talk. “I passed an accident on the way home. Poor people! Even a little fender bender is a huge pain, and so expensive!”

  “Was anyone hurt?” Lillia asks.

  “No, I don’t think so. The front of one car was pretty bashed in, though.” We continue eating in silence. I try again, “So, what are you kids planning for tonight?”

  “Since I have to stay home with Logan, can I have a friend over?” Lilia asks.

  “Can I?” Logan pipes up.

  “You can each have one friend,” Darren says. His bad mood is receding as he anticipates an enjoyable evening. The kids look pleased and surprised. So am I.

  Having fretted about it all week, I’ve decided to wear my little black dress, a nice-fitting sheath that I think makes me look sophisticated. I twist my hair into a chignon that sits on my neck, and add a sparkly barrette. My dainty silver necklace and bracelet match perfectly, and as I stand in front of the bathroom mirror carefully applying my make-up I feel pleased with myself. You look good, girl!

  Darren pokes his head in the door. “You ready?”

  I lift my chin and make one last inspection. I can hardly believe it’s me. The mirror reflects a smart, classy-looking lady!

  “Do I look okay?” I ask him.

  “Sure, you look fine,” he says dismissively. “Let’s go. I don’t want to be late.”

  THE HALL IS BRIGHTLY lit with “Peer Homes” logos hanging here and there. The familiar chatter of a hundred voices, the clink of glasses and soft music hits me as we walk through the doors. Groups of faux-happy people stand around making small-talk, laughing loudly, bestowing one another with exaggerated gestures. Ohmygod. When did I become so cynical?