The Devil Made Me

by Lorena May

  Darby’s eyes widen. “Oh! And how’s that going?”

  He shrugs. “Seems okay. Corrie loves her.” He rubs his hands together. “But I’ll keep a close eye.” He sips his coffee in silence. Then, “My little girl’s had a lot of changes in her life recently. Her mother died last summer, and we moved here in January. Her grand-parents are all in Seattle. But she’s adjusted really well. She’s a little trooper.” And he smiles fondly.

  “I’m sorry,” Darby murmurs, her eyes filled with compassion. “We’ll let you get back to work. If you think of anything that will help us in our investigation, please call. Here’s my card.”

  He nods, his blue eyes startling against his tanned skin. “Will do. Good luck with it!”

  They jump in the police car, waving back to the farmer as he walks toward his garden.

  “He seems nice!”

  Mel agrees. “But nice can be deadly. We’ve seen that. He’s still bitter.”

  THE RESTAURANT LOOKS modest from the front, but as soon as Darby and Mel walk through the door they are greeted with class and luxury. Large gabled windows looked out onto a flourishing garden, giving the spacious room a natural light. The dinner hour had not yet begun, and only a few guests are scattered here and there, sipping and chatting.

  Mel speaks to the maître d. “We’re here to see a waitress. Myranda.” The host nods and ushers them to a back room with soft couches, a fridge, table and a large television set. Presumably the staff lounge.

  A thin brunette stands when they entered, holding out her hand. “You must be Sergeants McDougall and Greer?” She’s been expecting them.

  Mel lays out photographs of blonde women and the various men gathered, on the table. “Myranda, we understand that Erin Morgan visited your restaurant the night she died. We’re investigating her murder, as you know.”

  Myranda stares down at her hands. “She did. Morgan was a regular here. We all liked her.”

  “We’re so sorry.” Darby speaks soothingly. “You waited on her that last night?”

  Myranda nods, her eyes becoming glossy. “I did. She seemed so happy. So intimately involved with her friends . . . I can’t believe . . . ” She shakes her head, squeezing her eyes.

  “Do you think you would recognize the friends from pictures?” Mel asks, indicating the photos on the table.

  Myranda nods, moving to study them. She spends a long time poring over them, her forehead puckered in concentration. Finally, she looks at the detectives. “I don’t think either one of them are here. I’m not totally sure . . . I’m sorry.”

  “No worries,” Darby gives her a reassuring smile. “Can you describe for us again the man and the woman Erin was with?”

  Myranda thinks a moment. “Well, they were both very attractive. The guy was tanned with short brown hair, quite tall and slim. He was very charming. Big tipper. The woman had long blonde hair, blue eyes; gorgeous, really.”

  “And they seemed to get along well?” Mel prods.

  “Yes, they laughed a lot and seemed really comfortable with each other. Cozy. Intimate, I’d say.” Myranda tilts her head, a smile playing at corners of her lips. “Mind you, they had a couple of bottles of wine.”

  Mel grins. “And at what time did they leave?”

  “They were here quite a while. Left around 11:00, I think.”

  “SO, SHE DIDN’T POINT Jen or Graham out. It may not have been them,” Darby muses as she and Mel ride back to the precinct. “And there was no sign of forced entry at Erin’s house. No glasses with DNA lying around. Who was she with?”

  Mel stares ahead, deliberating. “Did one of them spend time with Erin after dinner? A lover’s quarrel? The lab reports indicate that she’d showered shortly before she died, and they found only traces of the same semen in her body that they found in her bed. Just Graham’s and the local john.” He turned to look at Darby. “Was it a fight between friends? Are there two perps? Everything indicates a well-planned revenge toward both her and Mia . . .”

  Darby chews her lower lip. “She wasn’t killed for four hours after they left the restaurant. No one seems to have seen anyone arrive at Erin’s home. But it was late. Most people are sleeping. Do you think Graham might know who the dinner companions were?”

  “Let’s pay him another visit.” Mel turn into a crescent to U-turn, heading toward down-town.

  WHEN GRAHAM DOESN’T answer the buzzer to his apartment, Darby rings the concierge. A small, dark-haired man impeccably dressed, wearing a practiced smile appears immediately at the door.

  “Hello,” he says, almost bowing. He leads them across the carpeted lobby. A bubbling water-fall in a white marble tub surrounded by lilies radiates peace and tranquility.

  “Nice place,” Darby remarks. “We’re here to see Graham Brahn,”.

  “Graham!” The man looks at them through narrowed eyes. “He’s away for an indefinite length of time.”

  “Did he say where he was going?” Darby asks.

  “No. He didn’t say for how long he’d be gone. Left rather suddenly . . .”

  “Can we take a look at his apartment?”

  Shrugging, the concierge hands them the keys. “I hope there’s no trouble.” He raises his eye-brows.

  “Routine at this point,” Mel says as they head toward the elevator.

  THE SUITE HAS BEEN cleaned recently, judging by the mountain-spring cleaner smell. Its ceramic floors shine. In the living room the rug has been vacuumed to perfection. There is not even a foot-print. The closets reveal a few clothes, shoes and accessories. The fridge holds only condiments, the pantry a few cans. Darby turns to Mel. “It’s as if no one ever lived here! I’ll bet there’s not even a finger-print left!”

  They open a door to a small, dark storage room. A few empty easels with half-finished water-color paintings stand propped on shelves. “Look at this!” Darby points to a tablet of art paper sitting on a table covered with paints and brushes. Plucking a sheet in her fingers, she rubs it, gauging its thickness. “It’s like the paper with the butterflies Erin and Mia got.” She rips a sheet from the tablet. “It’s probably pretty standard, but let’s match it.”

  Mel shakes his head. “Where did he go all of a sudden? And why?”

  BACK AT THE PRECINCT Darby is standing in her office, legs spread-eagled, staring at the white-board when Sergeant Jill Becker walks in.

  “Just the lady I was hoping to see!” Darby presses her hands to her heart. “Tell me you’ve found something!”

  Jill grins, her warm grey eyes twinkling with fondness for the vibrant police-woman. “Well, we’ve matched the phone records of Erin Morgan and Mia Buckingham. They both received calls from the same pay phone located at the hospital. Same times.”

  “Let’s hope and pray someone’s noticed something there!” Darby cries. “Anything on Adrian?”

  Jill shakes her head. “Not yet, but we’re looking.”

  “While you’re at it,” Darby takes Jill’s hands in hers, “find everything you can on Graham Brahn.” Picking his art paper up from her desk she hands it to Jill. “And see what they can find when they match this paper to the threatening notes.” Did he pull the wool over our eyes? I believed him!

  Chapter 15 ~ Jen

  Monday, May 7

  “Thank God it’s Monday,” is never something people say, but I’m muttering it now as I drink coffee and throw together lunches for myself and the kids. Absent-mindedly, I plop left-over pasta and meatballs in plastic containers, adding carrot sticks, an apple and a morning-glory muffin into their lunch-boxes. I mix a green salad with tuna and avocado for myself. Darren sits at the kitchen table drinking coffee.

  “Will you be home for dinner?” I ask him.

  He appears not to hear me, his face twisted into a frown as he stares at his phone. He rises abruptly, leaving the kitchen. I hear him grabbing his jacket from the rack in the hall. “Have a good day,” he calls mechanically, and leaves.

  I sigh as I hear his car start and drive away.

>   The week-end is over, but our troubles are not. When I returned from Sean’s place Lillia was still curled up in bed, her face tear-streaked, her eyes closed. I shook her shoulder gently. “Lillia, we have some work to do. First off, you need to go onto your Funkid page and let everyone know that you were lying about Felicity.”

  She squeezed her eyes and her shoulders hunched. She let out a long breath. “Okay.” Her voice was a squeak.

  “And we need to go see Felicity and apologize.”

  I felt her stiffen. “But then she’ll know it was me. Her mother will tell the police and I’ll go to jail. You said so!”

  “I said that the police are looking into it.” I managed to keep my voice calm, rubbing circles on her small, firm back. “We should go to them as well and explain. They will eventually trace your post.”

  “Mom, my friend Taylor is a tech. He helped me set the page up. He said it was untraceable.” Her voice was muffled as she spoke into her pillow.

  “Lillia, they’ll know it was one of you at the party,” I reasoned.

  “There were twenty girls there.”

  Can I force her to reveal what she’s done? Maybe Taylor’s right. Maybe it is untraceable. Would she be incarcerated? Darren would have to be involved. But it’s the right thing to do.

  I helped her compose a post on Funkid’s Facebook page. It read, “I lied. Felicity posed for these pictures with a group of girls that were also posing. We were fooling around at a pajama party. She is not a slut. She has never done anything like that. Posting the photos was mean and wrong. I sincerely apologize. Please ignore the pictures and the original post.”

  The post was immediately followed by ‘sad face’ and ‘wow’ emojis. A few kids posted comments like, “gotcha” and “you rock”. Whatever that meant. Others posted, “yeah right,” and “fuck off”. Whatever that meant.

  I KNOW WE MUST DO MORE. I need to muster the courage to take Lillia and face Felicity and her family. But it makes my stomach roll even to think about it.

  Sleepy-eyed, tousle-haired, Logan and Lillia enter the kitchen. Like little robots they take bowls from the cupboard, dish themselves porridge, grab milk and juice from the fridge and sit down to eat breakfast. I kiss the tops of their sweet, blonde heads and wish them a good day.

  “Mom, did you sign my field-trip form?” Logan asks.

  “It’s right here, honey,” and I point to the island where his lunch-box sits.

  “Have a good day, Mom,” Lillia gives me a weak smile.

  I throw on my runners, stuffing the dress I’ll wear to school in my gym bag and head out the door. “Love you!” I call back, not waiting for a response.

  IT’S MONDAY AND SPRING-time so the gym is unusually busy. All those resolutions to get in shape for summer. Pulling back on the rowing machine, my muscles straining, I’m aware of the relief the strain on my body gives me. It masks the burden on my mind. I’m covered in sweat and loving it. After fifty reps I stop to grab the water-bottle beside me and take a drink. From the corner of my eye I see the woman on the next machine leaning forward to look into my face. I turn to look. It’s Kim. Her long, brown hair is pulled back into a pony-tail accentuating those beautiful, brown eyes and high cheek-bones.

  She looks startled to see me. “Jen!” she says. “Hi! I didn’t expect to see you here.” And she smiles at me. She looks so warm and friendly toward me. I thought she didn’t like me.

  “Hi.” I smile back. “I’m here every week-day morning.”

  “Oh, that’s great! I’ve just started here. I’m badly out of shape. Maybe you can give me some tips!” and she winks.

  She certainly doesn’t look out of shape. I chuckle a little. “In my case practice doesn’t mean perfect, but sure! Anything you need . . .”

  “I’m so glad to have run into you. I’ve admired you from afar, but I was hoping to get to know you.” Her face takes on a serious, sincere look.

  Really? That’s not the impression I got at the Peers party. I say nothing. I just beam. She admires and likes me!

  “I haven’t lived here long and, except for work, I haven’t any friends in Rockydale. Could we go for lunch one day? Maybe next Saturday?” she asks.

  I take a deep breath. How does one refuse? “That’d be great!”

  DARREN TEXTS AT FOUR o’clock. Don’t wait dinner for me. Taking BIG client out. Lillia is tending hamburgers on the barbecue. Logan slices buns and sets condiments out on the table. I’m chopping vegetables for a salad when the phone rings. I glance at the caller ID. “Alberta,” it says.

  “Hello?”

  I hear nothing. Someone breathing.

  “Hello?” I repeat. When no one speaks I hang up. Probably a robo-call.

  Our dinner is pleasant; relaxed. The tension of Darren’s pervasive disappointment in us is absent, and I relish the ease with which we can talk and laugh and just be ourselves. Then I look at Lillia’s tight face and I remember. How could I have forgotten for even a moment? Is she tormented by guilt? Or is it being grounded without her phone?

  “What was your favorite thing today?” I ask them.

  “We made paper airplanes in Science to see whose could fly the farthest,” Logan says. He excitedly tells us about taking them outside, which flew furthest (not his), and changes they made to make them fly better. What was yours?” he asks.

  I think for a moment. “I met a new friend at the gym today. Kim. She works with your dad.”

  Lillia puts her fork down and rests her chin on her folded hands. “I did too.” She looks at me entreatingly, her eye-brows raised. “I asked Felicity to work on a project with me, and sat with her on the bus.”

  I chuckle. “You just might be getting your phone back soon!”

  “Some kids at school have drones!” Logan is still thinking about the airplanes. “Could I get one for my birthday?”

  By the time Darren gets home we’ve eaten, cleaned up and are together on the couch in our pajamas watching “Modern Family”.

  “Mom met your co-worker, Kim, at the gym today,” Lillia tells him.

  He looks at me, his eyes flat and narrowed. “You saw Kim?”

  “We’re going for lunch Saturday.” He continues to stare at me, and I add, “Her idea!”

  His face relaxes. “That’ll be nice for you both. She doesn’t know many people in town.” He goes to the fridge and gets a beer. I notice his hands shaking slightly. Is he worried? ARE they having an affair?

  WAVES RUSH ONTO THE shore. I wriggle my toes in the softness of the sand. His bright blue eyes look deep into mine. He brushes a lock of hair from my face. The nearness of him has me quivering. My heart skitters as I look at his face, and I wrap my arms around his neck, running my fingers through the thickness of his hair. He pulls me close and our bodies mesh. I can feel the sand on his scraping against mine. His hand presses the small of my back. Heat courses through me. I ache with need. My eyes flutter closed and I feel his mouth on my face, my neck, on my lips. We kiss. His lips are warm and supple. His big arms enfold me, pulling me into him. I nuzzle his neck, salty tasting. I thrust my pelvis upward and suddenly I’m aware of tangled sheets. Reality hits me with a jolt. In the darkness I see the outline of my husband’s back, hear his soft sleep-breathing. Outside our window the fountain in our pond swishes; the sound of waves. What was that? How has Sean crept so forcefully into my dreams?

  Chapter 16 ~ Darby

  Wednesday, May 9

  Darby half-stands, leaning forward from Bojangle’s stirrups, her body at one with his. In her ears she listens to the roar of the wind, the vibration of his hooves as they pound the earth, his even, smooth gait. Racing full gallop across an open field is exhilarating. Speed. Energy. Flight.

  They slow to a canter as they approach the stables. Darby pats his withers, moist and warm. Around and around the corral they walk, cooling down.

  “I love ya, Bo,” she murmurs as she reins in. In front of the stables a stranger saddles up a large, black gelding, looking at her from over
the horse’s back. He is tall, wiry and tanned; an out-doors man with deep dimples and laughing eyes.

  “Looks like you’ve got a strong bond there,” he says as Darby dismounts.

  She laughs. “He’s my one and only!”

  Cocking an eye-brow he smiles and says, “Good to know!” With one graceful move he mounts his horse and looks down at her. “I’m Jim. Back in my home-town after twenty years.” He gestures widely with his hands, indicating everything around him. “It’s changed! Maybe you can show me around some time!”

  “Sure. I’m Darby. See you around, Jim!” she calls as she strides toward the stable to fill a bucket of water for Bojangles.

  She’s unbridling her horse when her cell phone buzzes in her pocket. It’s Mel. “Darby?” He sounds troubled. “Sorry to call on your day off, but I knew you’d want to know. They’ve discovered Mia Buckingham’s body. Dead. In her car.”

  Darby feels the jolt from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. “Fuck! When?”

  “About half an hour ago. CSIs are there now. Not far from Sean James’s house. It’s three kilometers straight east, a small side-road. Want to meet me there?”

  “Shit. Yeah. I’ll finish up here and get my ass over there right away.” Swiftly, Darby untacks Bojangles, and grooms him, leaning her cheek against his neck, whispering, “Oh my God, Bo. How could we have let this happen?” She leads him back to his stall.

  WHEN DARBY ROARS UP on her bike she sees yellow “Crime Scene” tape surrounding a green BMW. Three investigators in white jump-suits busily comb the area, collecting samples. From the road, she flashes her badge and stands back, studying the site. The car sits facing the main highway, backed into a shallow ditch. Mel, wearing gloves, foot-covers and a face-mask beckons from beside the vehicle. Darby walks slowly through the long grass, listening to the buzz of insects, feeling nauseous. Fuck! She asked for our help! Sluggishly, she pulls the disposable plastic over her hands and feet, and joins her partner.