Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 01 - The Trouble With Charlie (25 page)

I stood at the desk, clutching my bag, waiting. Watching Cindy. Looking around. Wondering what I was doing there. Why I hadn’t left the investigating to the police.

Cindy’s eyes were on the screen. Reading. She punched more keys. Read some more. Frowned. Bit her lip. Then looked up at me. “Ma’am,” she hesitated, “the trip you’re interested in—I’m afraid it was a deluxe customized package, arranged directly by Mr. Lowery.”

My stomach twisted, warning me to leave. “Mr. Lowery?”

She nodded. “The boss. He has a list of clients he handles exclusively.”

Oh, of course he did. Clients with exclusive requirements.

“So all those records will be in his private files. If you want, you can ask him about them directly.”

Uh-oh. Ask him about his exclusive clients?

“Actually, he’s stepped out for a moment. He should be back soon.” She glanced at the rear cubicles, where men were talking. Bit her nail, took a shallow breath.

Instantly, I thought that she was lying, that Mr. Lowery wasn’t out, that he was one of the men in the back, and she was covering for him. But then I thought that, no, he wasn’t in the back, that Mr. Lowery didn’t exist. That “Mr. Lowery” was a code name indicating trips arranged for sex or other illegal purposes. That the men in the back were thugs from the Russian Mafia who would want to know that someone was out front, asking about one of those trips. That Cindy was trying to stall me until she could get their attention.

She was still talking. Watching me too closely. “—get you started. Why don’t I take the preliminary information. Like your name and address, the names of your friends who want to travel, dates, and destinations.”

“No, no.” I backed away. Not about to identify myself. “It’s fine. I’ll come back another time—when Mr. Lowery is here.”

“Are you sure?” She eyed the cubicles again.

“Yes. Thank you.” I turned, heading for the door. Hurrying.

“Ma’am? Hold on, ma’am. Wait—” Oh God. She was coming after me. Running around the desk.

I turned the knob, opened the door. Stepped out onto Sansom Street, where there were cars passing, people walking. But she was fast, caught up to me. Put her hand on my arm. Tight. Grabbing, pulling. What was she going to do, drag me back inside? Let the mob interrogate me? I saw myself in a cubicle, tied to an office chair, being tortured by Russian travel agents.

I wheeled around, facing her. Saw red hair, freckles, twin dimples in one cheek.

“You forgot these, ma’am.” The hand that wasn’t touching me held out Charlie’s itinerary papers.

I took them and thanked her. She tried to smile, but her eyes looked unconvinced.

I walked, head down, occasionally looking over my shoulder to see if anyone from the travel agency was following me, scolding myself. I’d accomplished nothing. All I’d learned by going to the travel agency was that the men who’d gone to Russia had been on a special client list. But that didn’t necessarily mean they’d been involved in illegal or immoral activities. For all I knew, “special” meant corporate. Or rich. Or repeat. Or complaining and difficult.

In fact, “special” could mean anything. My eyes focused on the sidewalk, the cracks in the cement, old wads of gum, cigarette butts, the shoes of passing feet. What was wrong with me? Why had I even gone there? I could hear Susan, screaming. Telling me I was interfering with the investigation. Influencing possible witnesses. Messing with minds, tampering with truth. Whatever. That she couldn’t help me if I continued to insert myself—

“Elf?”

Elf? I stopped walking. Listened. The voice wasn’t Charlie’s. Not as deep. I spun around.

Joel, the magician, smiled broadly, looking me over.

Joel? Really?

“Wow. I wasn’t sure it was you, but it is.” He put his hands on my shoulders, studying my face. Smiling.

I stood immobile, blinking like a stunned rabbit. Aware of each bloodshot eye, every forehead bruise. Damn, I should have worn mascara. Joel?

“How’ve you been doing?” He took my hands, leaned over and pecked my cheek. As if pecking my cheek was perfectly normal.
As if we knew each other. My cheek tingled, no longer accustomed to the brush of whiskers. He didn’t release my hands, and the cut and scrapes began throbbing from the pressure of being held.

Say something, I told myself. Tell him you’re okay. “I’m okay. Thanks.” And then I said, “What are you doing here?” Great line. Like it was surprising that a guy from Philadelphia would be walking on a Center City street? But I was stunned, seeing him. Aware of my breathing, my pulse.

“I work nearby.” He let go of my hands, finally, and pulled a Hershey’s Kiss out of my ear. Held it up, handed it to me. Grinned.

My face got hot. “Doing tricks? That’s your job?” I thought of Magic Travel, the wand and the top hat.

He laughed. “If only. No. I’m just a working slob. A paper pusher, even on Saturdays.” He stared with dancing eyes. Too long. The moment was awkward.

I looked away, then back at him. “Well, it’s nice to see you—”

“Elle, are you free? Want to go for coffee? Or there’s a frozen yogurt place nearby.” His eyes flirted, teasing and impudent, as if asking not about getting me a latte but about getting us a room.

Stop it, I scolded myself. You’re imagining things. But my neck was heating up. Blotching. Adrenalin was rushing, speeding up my heartbeat. Signaling a warning. Fight or flight? What was wrong with me? Joel was merely being personable. I was way overreacting.

“I can’t.” Finally, I managed an answer. “I have an appointment. With a doctor.” Why was I telling him that?

He kept his eyes on mine. “Okay, then have dinner with me.”

Dinner? With him? My mouth opened. No words came out.

“Come on.” His eyes held onto mine. Not giving up. “I’d—Elle,
I’d really like to spend some time with you. To get to know you. Quite honestly, you’ve been on my mind since I first saw you that night at Jeremy’s. And then, when Charlie died and I saw you at the viewing, I realized you were his wife. Sorry. I mean his widow. Well, I told myself to forget it. The timing was wrong. You wouldn’t, you know, be interested—I mean, having just lost your husband. But now, here you are, and I’m talking way too much. Look, just say, ‘yes.’” He smelled fresh like the forest. Like autumn.

But no. What was I thinking? I’d just buried Charlie. I couldn’t go to dinner with him. No way.

“Eight o’clock? I’ll come by for you. How’s Rembrandt’s?”

And then I was walking away, heading for Dr. Schroeder’s office. Crossing Washington Square, watching the sky through colored leaves. Feeling the light filtering through. Recalling Joel’s strong jaw, playful eyes. Wondering how he’d known Charlie. Reminding myself to ask him that at dinner.

I was in a daze the whole way to Dr. Schroeder’s office. In shock. A man—a very attractive—no, let’s face it—a very hot, sexy man had just asked me to dinner.

I was going on a date. I’d been asked out. Technically, I hadn’t accepted. I hadn’t said anything at all. But my silence hadn’t fazed him. He was like Charlie that way. Simply assuming that he’d get what he wanted. Not allowing for the possibility of “no.”

And so, we were going to dinner, Joel and I. I arrived at Dr. Schroeder’s office a few minutes early, sat in the colorless waiting room, preoccupied. Lord. Who’d have thought I’d ever see Joel again? Or imagined that he was interested in me? “You’ve been on my mind since I first saw you at Jeremy’s.” Wow. I’d been on the mind of a guy who did magic tricks to make sad strangers smile. I replayed bumping into him on the street, realizing
who he was. The shock of his hug, his cheek brushing mine. His voice thickening as he told me I’d been on his mind. His shoulders—

Lord. I was getting carried away. Needed to put reins on my mind. It was, after all, just dinner.

Except, what was I thinking? For me, there was no thing as just dinner. I wasn’t some normal woman reentering the singles scene. I was a recent widow. Whose husband had been murdered just ten days ago. And who was still a suspect.

I could hear Susan screeching, Are you crazy, Elle? How do you think this looks to the police, to the press? Who is this man? What do you even know about him?

Maybe I shouldn’t go. I could call and cancel. If I’d taken his number. Which I hadn’t.

Or I could go and simply not tell anyone about it.

Dr. Schroeder opened the door, beckoned me into his inner office. He didn’t usually have Saturday hours, had come in just for me, to jump-start my therapy. I sat on the neutral-toned sofa. Accepted warm spiced tea, still debating what I should do.

He sat opposite me in his bland, well-worn easy chair.

I realized I shouldn’t go. I should meet him and explain that I couldn’t, at least not now. Not for a while.

“Have you thought about our last session, Elle?”

Wait. Our last session? “Of course. Yes.”

“And?” Dr. Schroeder watched me, tilted his head.

And? My mind clicked and whirred, shifting gears, trying to remember the session, to figure out what he was talking about. Oh, of course: The holes in my memory. We’d talked about how I’d killed Somerset Bradley but couldn’t remember it.

“Any new thoughts about your amnesia?”

I shook my head, no. Sipped tea. “But I talk with Charlie. I have conversations with him.” I blurted that out, impulsively. Without thought.

He nodded, unsurprised. “Perfectly understandable, and probably healthy.”

Was it also healthy that Charlie talked back?

“You’re working out your loss. Talking to him can help.”

Really. “And my dreams—I have nightmares.” Like the one about a heap of naked writhing children. “They’re very detailed. There’s one about stabbing Charlie.”

“And you’re afraid that the stabbing dream is a memory. Am I right?”

Was he? How could it be a memory? How could I dream about events I don’t even remember? I shrugged, didn’t have an answer.

He put his fingertips together. He wore a wedding ring. White gold. Colorless like his hair, his skin. His clothes. Was his wife color-blind, too? Why didn’t she help dress him—at least a red tie or green sweater.

More silence. Patient, watchful eyes.

I thought of the night Charlie died. I’d been at Jeremy’s, alone, awkward. I’d felt a physical jolt when I first saw Joel. Powerful, sexual. Almost like fear. I was off guard, unsure of myself. Surprised by the magic and the rose. But not troubled, not guilty or sad. Not at all aware that Charlie was dead.

At least, not consciously.

So maybe I was aware subconsciously? Which meant I could dream about it?

“How do I know the same thing didn’t happen with Charlie that happened with Somerset Bradley? I don’t remember stabbing Somerset Bradley either, but I know I did. So how do I know I didn’t kill them both?”

“How do you know?” Dr. Schroeder let out a breath. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Tell me, Elle. Do you think you’d be capable of killing your husband?”

No, of course not. But I’d never have been able to kill Somerset
Bradley, either. Or anyone else. And then, there was the child pornography. If I’d seen it, if I’d had reason to believe Charlie had participated in it—if my temper had erupted and we’d fought—And he’d escalated the fight with barbs and taunts—

Well. That was the question, wasn’t it.

I didn’t answer.

Dr. Schroeder went on. “Here’s what I’d like to do, Elle. I’d like us to become a little aggressive with your disorder. Not because I think you killed your husband. But for two reasons: First, because there’s a police investigation going on and it would be good if they could rule you out. And, second, because you don’t want to have to spend your life worrying and wondering about whether you killed him.”

Both good reasons. “Aggressive. How?”

“First, I want you to begin a regimen of antianxiety medications. These should relieve some of your depersonalization tendencies. But they also might help you relax in general. Which might—or might not—help you recall specific incidents that have caused major anxiety or even trauma.”

Would I remember killing Somerset Bradley?

Did I want to?

“Along with the meds, I want to try hypnosis. If we can take you back to the times when trauma occurred, maybe we can help you reexperience some degree of what happened, enhancing your memories.”