Because I’d been too busy conversing with nonexistent entities?
I tapped to open the texts and started reading. There were messages between the two of us, sharing trig homework answers and agreeing to meet at my house that Sunday night, and a message from his father confirming the dinner arrangement with his uncle Roger at the Tuppenny Tavern. The first message that Sunday morning had been to me, just to tell me he loved me. I lingered on that text a few moments then scrolled back. My fingers stilled over a series of three texts received on the day before from someone called Jezebel.
I blinked, unable to take in what I was reading. Then I thumbed back to the first one and read them in sequence.
Dearest Colby, I didn’t mean it about firing you. I was just a little mad. I’m concerned that you may have misinterpreted the argument you overheard in my office today. It wasn’t what it sounded like. There is nothing untoward about that deal, but your uncle can be a difficult man at times, and he really is being absurdly obsessive about the details of the contract. You would think by now he would trust me, as I hope you do. Fond regards, Michelle
Michelle Armstrong was “Jezebel?” What had Colby overheard, how come she’d fired him, and why the hell did a text from his boss contain words like dearest and fond? The next text from her was even worse.
Let’s get together tonight over dinner and a glass of wine so I can explain everything to you. There’s a lovely private dining room at the Frost Inn. Shall I book it for us? Michelle
Mrs. Armstrong had been some piece of work! Offering an intimate dinner, with alcohol, to an underage employee. And one who’d had a girlfriend, moreover. Ryan had said she was a cougar; this was proof she’d been putting the moves on Colby. He, I was pleased to see, had replied to none of her texts, not even the one that read:
Don’t sulk, Colby. I apologize for what I did in my office, ok? I was just trying to be friendly, to defuse the situation with a little humor. I see now that it was misplaced. Sorry!!!! Let me make it up to you. Michelle
Had Colby met with her? No, he wouldn’t have. Would he?
I hadn’t seen him that Saturday night. And in our calls, he hadn’t told me about being fired or said anything about her doing something that upset him. Feeling suddenly hot, I turned the car’s heater off completely and lowered my window all the way down. My cheeks were burning, and I felt suffused by a sense of … embarrassment? I got the distinct impression that whatever MILFy Michelle had done, Colby hadn’t liked it, not one bit.
I scowled down at the phone but saw no more recent messages from Jezebel. But the next message in the list, also sent that Saturday, sent a thrill of excitement fizzing through my veins.
I need to talk to you privately. Tomorrow night, 10pm, at the bandstand by the pond? J
31
THEN
Thursday December 20, 2007
“She’s not a suspect, Bob. We just want to ask a few questions, check if she has any information for us,” Chief Turner said.
“Nevertheless, she’s still a minor, so her mother and I will sit in on this interview,” my father replied.
While they haggled, I slouched in a chair, allowing my eyes to drift around the room and my mind to wander to any subject but Colby. The walls of the police chief’s office were pale green on the top and paneled with dark wood on the bottom, giving the room the look of a choc-mint popsicle. Two tall filing cabinets stood in one corner, and in the other, the state and national flags drooped from a plastic pole. A whiteboard planner, framed photographs of the police department staff posing with their marked cars outside the station, and a corkboard overflowing with notices, newspaper cuttings and business cards hung on the wall.
Turner’s desk was similarly cluttered. A framed photograph of the chief with his family and another of him receiving some award jostled for space with untidy piles of paperwork, a pair of Ray-Bans, a two-way radio unit, a goldfish bowl filled with red-and-white candy canes and, for some reason, a can of air freshener. Did he fart a lot?
Green tinsel with red bows festooned the doorframe and the non-opening window which looked onto the hallway, where two people sat slumped on a bench beside a water cooler. The tall man had the wild beard, rough, weathered skin and crazy assortment of clothes that identified him as homeless, while the dead eyes and facial sores of the emaciated woman next to him stamped her as a junkie.
Above their heads, posters chirruped warnings: Stay alive, don’t text and drive; Click it or ticket; Ice and snow — take it slow; Say nope to dope! Someone in the Pitchford Police Department was a frustrated poet. I wondered if it was Vanessa’s boyfriend, Officer Ryan Jackson, who now stood in front of the closed office door, arms behind his back, studying me.
His gaze moved from my unwashed hair, to my swollen eyes, bandaged hand and gnawed fingertips, but it couldn’t see inside of me where the action was — where grief clenched my heart with cold fingers, aching rage throbbed behind my eyes, and dullness clouded my mind like the fog which hovered over Plover Pond.
“Chief Turner is talking to you, Garnet.”
I shifted in the chair to ease my lower back, which hurt as badly as my head. “Yeah?”
“I asked you when the last time was you saw Colby — before his death, I mean?” Chief Turner asked.
“Friday, at school,” I answered, and the interview began.
Turner sat behind his desk, fat as a tick, sucking his teeth as if he could extract an extra morsel of food from them, while I answered the same questions over and over.
Hadn’t I seen Colby on Saturday?
No, he had a Saturday job at the town clerk’s office.
Did I know who had attacked Colby? Did I know why he was at the pond that night? Did I know anything that might shed light on his death?
No, no and no.
Did he have any enemies?
No!
Did I know where his phone was?
No.
“His phone?” my father asked. “Wasn’t it stolen?”
“Might have been,” Turner said. “Or maybe not. All we know is it’s missing, along with his wallet.”
“So, it was a robbery, then?” my father said.
My mother leaned forward in her seat and asked, “How exactly did he die?”
Turner’s tongue ran around the front of his teeth then settled behind his incisors and sucked. “It looks very much like he drowned.”
“He didn’t bleed to death?”
“I doubt it, ma’am. His lacerations didn’t appear to be severe enough for that.”
I clenched my left hand, aware of the pain in the cut on the palm, yet feeling separate from it. “What about those bloodstained paper towels in the storm water drain?”
“Juice from … those red, round jobs?” Turner said, and snapped his fingers when he got the word he was searching for. “Beetroot! It was beetroot juice.”
My mother sat back, looking reassured. What about?
Ryan Jackson cleared his throat and spoke for the first time. “But there may have been severe internal bleeding.”
My mother frowned, and Chief Turner looked irritated at the interruption. “What Officer Jackson means to say is that we won’t know for sure until the medical examiner has done the autopsy.” Directing his attention back to me, he said, “You mentioned yesterday that you and Colby had arranged for him to come around to your place Sunday night.”
I nodded.
“Why? What was so urgent that it couldn’t wait until you saw him at school the next day?”
“There was just something we had to talk about.”
“I need to know the precise nature of that intended discussion, Garnet.”
I hesitated, casting a glance back at Ryan. I didn’t feel like discussing this in front of him, or my parents. Then again, I didn’t feel like anything. And what did any of it matter now?
“Officer Jackson, go get us all some coffee, will you? Bring the cookie tin, too,” Turner said. With an annoyed glance into the hallway, whe
re the homeless man was chugging water from a paper cup and the junkie was pulling hard on a cigarette, he added, “And get rid of Lyle before he empties our water cooler.”
“He said he had something to report.”
“I don’t have time for his crackpot tales about the CIA today. Tell him to clear off. And inform that … woman” — I had a sense he’d bitten back a harsher label — “that if she wants to smoke, she’ll have to do it outside; this is a government facility.”
Looking reluctant, Ryan opened the door and headed out. Turner’s hand hovered over the candy canes a moment and then withdrew. He cleared his throat and said, “So, Garnet. Tell me what you planned to talk to Colby about on Sunday night.”
Three pairs of eyes fixed on me.
I sighed. “I was worried that I was pregnant.”
Turner smiled grimly.
My mother’s eyes widened, and her mouth fell open. “What?” she said, looking first at me and then at my father.
He didn’t look shocked at the news. He looked angry.
“Did you know about this, Bob?” she demanded.
“I guessed as much.”
“Why? How?”
“Two teens who think they’re in love — it’s hardly a stretch to think they’d be sleeping together.”
“Was there something more that made you suspect?” Turner pressed him.
My father blew out an irritated breath. “Doris, my sales assistant, told me Colby came in and bought a pack of condoms. Asked me, ‘Isn’t he the boy dating your daughter?’ She thought it was a huge joke.”
Dad stared down at his lap, opened the hand that was bunched in a fist, and massaged it as though it pained him. Becoming aware of Turner observing him, he stopped and folded his arms.
“So, Garnet, how did Colby feel—” Turner began, but my mother cut across him.
“Hold the telephones! Are you pregnant?”
I shrugged and glanced out of the window to the hall. The bench was empty now.
“Honey, why didn’t you tell us?” she asked, her eyes moist with tears.
“I knew you’d be angry.”
“I’m not angry,” my mother said. “Not at all.”
“I am,” my father said. “Not at you, at him. He should have known better, used protection to keep you safe.”
“He did. We did.” I rubbed my aching lower back and sighed again. “Sometimes things just happen, is all.”
Ryan returned then, with a tray laden with cups, a pot of coffee and a plate of festively frosted gingerbread men. I shook my head at the offer of refreshments and nibbled at an edge of hard skin on the side of my thumb instead, welcoming the sharp pain and the faint taste of blood.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this yesterday?” Turner asked me.
“Because you would have assumed Colby had guessed, that he’d freaked out and left town. And then you wouldn’t have searched thoroughly enough.” I gave Turner a hard stare. “I told you he hadn’t run away. He would never have.”
As I shifted in my chair, I felt a familiar sensation deep inside. I closed my eyes against the welling tears and dropped my head onto my chest. This was what I’d wanted more than anything, right? But now that I had it, I didn’t feel relieved. I felt empty. For a few hours, I’d thought I’d at least have something of Colby to hold onto, to keep and to love. But now I knew I didn’t even have that.
I stood up, and as I walked to the door, headed for the restroom, I told my dad, “You can relax. I’m not pregnant.”
32
NOW
Wednesday, December 20, 2017
Sitting in my car, clutching Colby’s phone with suddenly sweaty hands, I read the message again. Slowly.
I need to talk to you privately. Tomorrow night, 10pm, at the bandstand by the pond? J
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Maybe, my logical brain interjected, that was because the car window was open a crack, and an icy breeze was blowing onto me. Whatever. This message was something important, I knew it. Had someone lured him to the pond, only to attack and murder him? Who was “J”?
Jezebel. But no, shameless as she was, Michelle Armstrong surely wouldn’t have called herself that. And anyway, the text hadn’t come from the number stored for her on Colby’s phone. Whoever had sent the message hadn’t been saved with a name in his contacts. I jabbed my thumb against the number, but nothing happened. Of course not — the phone was no longer connected to any service.
Colby had replied: OK.
I switched on my own phone and had just keyed in the first few digits of J’s number when it rang loudly. Startled, I dropped Colby’s phone down the side of the seat.
Who the hell was phoning me now? “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Ryan.”
“Oh, hi. What’s up?”
“I’d … like to see you again. I thought we could have dinner together?”
This was unexpected.
“Would you like that?” Ryan asked.
Would I? He was a nice guy — smart, kind, and attractive enough to blip on my radar — but in the space of seconds I could see all the complications that would flow from a date with him. Sharing personal stuff. My mother’s excitement. Local tongues wagging. Touching. Trusting. Leaving town, leaving him. Someone getting hurt. Nope, I would not like that.
“How about we do art instead?” I said and explained about the exhibition at Jessica’s gallery.
He sounded keen to join me. “Should I come and pick you up at your parents’ house?”
“No, I’ll meet you there. Any time after five.”
“I’ll be there,” he said, and added, “You sound breathless. Have you been running? Because I’m pretty sure the doctors told you to take it easy.”
“No, I’m just …” What — excited, nervous, uneasy? “I just found something that might shed light on Colby’s last day.”
“What? What did you find?” Ryan demanded.
“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. I just need to check a few things first.”
“Garnet, if you have information or evidence about an ongoing murder investigation, you need to inform me immediately. Withholding anything is an obstruction of justice and can land you in hot water,” he cautioned, his voice sounding a lot less friendly than it had a minute ago.
“I’m not obstructing anything. Quite the opposite.”
“You can tell me tonight.”
“It’ll take too long,” I said, playing for the time I’d need in order to save all the details from the phone. “I’ll come into the station tomorrow morning, okay? And make a full statement with everything I know. Right now, I’ve got to go. See you later.”
I ended the call and retrieved Colby’s phone from under the seat, but when I pressed the button to activate the screen, I discovered it was stone-dead again, having disconnected from the charging cord when it fell. I tossed it into my handbag and headed back into town. If I was going to have some time alone with Jessica, I’d have to hustle — it was past four o’clock already.
A caterer’s van was pulled up in front of the gallery, but I found a parking spot a little farther down Main Street. I ran a comb through my hair, applied a fresh coat of lipstick and stepped out into the cold, dark afternoon. Passing a clothing boutique on my short walk down to the gallery, I popped in and purchased a gray, knee-length cardigan with deep pockets and a brightly patterned silk scarf which I hoped would make my jeans and black turtleneck sweater look a little more stylish.
The assistant tutted at the casual way I draped the scarf around my neck, and insisted on tying it into an elegant knot. The deep yellow threaded through the gray-and-black paisley motif reminded me of the color that had twice flooded my vision. I told myself to forget about it. It was undoubtedly merely a neurological symptom, like the visual disturbances migraine sufferers often experienced.
At the gallery entrance, I slipped ahead of a bulky young man carrying trays of food and held the door open for him while I took in the interior. I
wasn’t sure what I’d expected, but it wasn’t this classy space with large skylights set in a high roof above stainless steel rafters, and a polished concrete floor acid-washed in shades of nickel and verdigris green. The white walls were hung with Mantovani’s paintings, and even my untrained eye could tell at a glance that his work was exceptional.
One piece caught my attention immediately. It looked like multiple black-and-white pictures of a woman’s face, captured in a series of different profile orientations as if she was turning her head to glance backward, and emphasized with streaks of gold and scarlet. Examining it more closely, I saw that although they looked like photographic exposures, each of the faces was indeed finely painted. The information card beside the work informed me that the piece, titled “Echoes of Self,” was a mixed media work in oil, cold wax, egg tempera and gold leaf.
“Garnet?”
I turned to see Jessica walking toward me, an uncertain smile on her face.
“Jessica!”
I opened my arms wide and went in for a hug, but instead she air-kissed the space on either side of my cheeks. We exchanged the usual platitudes about not looking any older; mine, at least, were sincere. Jessica looked every inch the sophisticated adult woman I never felt myself to be. Her auburn hair swung in a shoulder-length bob, her makeup achieved the kind of naturally flawless look that only came with expert and time-consuming application, and she wore a snug-fitting dress of oatmeal cashmere that showed she’d lost a good ten pounds since high school. Her grooming was immaculate, but her face was taut with anxiety — in anticipation of this encounter with me, I wondered, or was she generally wound this tight?
“Can I offer you a glass of wine?” Jessica asked, gesturing to a back corner of the gallery where a young woman in a black tuxedo and baker boy hat was shoving a bottle of champagne into an enormous silver wine cooler, in which several bottles of wine already rested on a bed of ice. Stacked on the table beside it were glasses, bottles of red wine and, I was pleased to see, water.
“I’d better just go with water for now,” I said. “I’ve already got two whiskeys under my belt.”
The First Time I Died Page 20