Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 01 - The Trouble With Charlie (31 page)

There had to be a hundred of them. Tacked or taped or pasted up in clusters. Charlie smiling. Charlie drinking coffee. Charlie talking. Charlie walking. Charlie conferring with Derek. Charlie close up and Charlie far away. Charlie alone and Charlie with others. Some photos had been cut, removing anyone who wasn’t Charlie. Others showed Charlie taped to photos of Sherry. As if they’d been together.

I stared, imagined her putting the montage together. Gathering the pictures, cutting and pasting. Lord, what had Charlie done to attract this level of obsession? I wondered if he’d even noticed it. Decided, no. He’d had no clue. Would have been oblivious. Would have complimented and charmed Sherry just as he complimented and charmed everyone. “You look gorgeous this morning, Sherry.” And, “Sherry, your smile always makes my day.” Or, “Sherry, great job! I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Charlie made everyone feel special. Unique. Needed. Valued.

But Sherry must have taken his words to heart. Believed that he alone appreciated her, understood her. Cared deeply about her.

If anyone understood how that worked, I did. I’d taken his words to heart, too.
You’re the love of my life, Elle.

The clock on her nightstand said ten after seven. I’d have to
get going if I wanted to be on time for the meeting. But I wasn’t ready to go. Even if she wasn’t home, I still wanted to make a statement to Sherry McBride. And, looking at her closet door, I realized what that statement would be. I wasn’t there only to avenge the hamsters, but to rescue Charlie, as well. One by one, I peeled his photos off the closet door, collecting them. Stuffing them into one of Sherry’s empty plastic bags. Feeling a pathetic sense of satisfaction as I strutted out of her bedroom. Smiling smugly as I passed the cracked bathroom door to be sure no more pictures were in there.

I could see part of the sink from the hallway, but not the walls, so I pushed the door. It bumped into something, wouldn’t budge. So I leaned in, peeked around.

And saw Sherry McBride’s nude body splayed against the shower stall, covered with a blood-soaked bath towel. Dead.

I couldn’t move. I stood frozen, gaping at her, not breathing. Trying to interpret what I was seeing. Her eyes were wide open, staring past me at the sink. Her face was bruised, nose bloodied as if she’d been beaten. An ice pick—at least, I thought it was an ice pick went in one side of her neck and out the other.

I blinked. Tried to think. Couldn’t. Sherry McBride was dead. Murdered. Who’d killed her? Oh, and wait—when? Because it had to have just happened. She’d been at my house, leaving the hamsters, not an hour ago. Hadn’t I seen her there, riding her bike? I knelt beside her, touching her forehead. Her thigh. Her arm. She was still warm. Oh God—she must have died just moments ago. Must have been lying there, bleeding to death, choking on her blood as I’d been going through her house, ripping down photographs. Had she heard me? Had she tried to call out for help? Oh God.

Okay. Okay. I had to collect my thoughts. Call for help. 911. The police. But I didn’t have my phone with me, hadn’t brought
my bag. So I’d have to find Sherry’s. I backed away from her, out of the bathroom, across the hall, into her bedroom. Where was her phone? How was I supposed to find it in this mess?

I scanned the bed, the nightstand, the dresser, hurried out to the kitchen, found her phone on the counter there. Picked it up, began to punch. 911. I stopped breathing. My fingers—they were bloody from touching her body. They left blood on the numbers of her phone.

Alarms clanged in my head, telling me to run, to get out of there fast. To pretend I’d never been there or seen her. Sherry was the third dead person I’d either found or killed in a little more than a week. How would I explain that? Or my presence in her apartment? And her blood was on my skin, my hands. The police would find out about Romeo and Juliet, and Sherry’s stalking me. And they’d see her photos of Charlie—all of that would look like motive. And I had no alibi.

Quickly, without thinking, I grabbed a dish towel and retraced my steps, wiping and washing everything I’d touched. Erasing my presence. Trembling, trying to remember where I’d been, where my fingers had been, even on Sherry’s body. Again, I pictured her lying there, dying. Listening to me rifle through her things. Hoping someone had come to rescue her.

But I needed to stop that. To focus on clearing up all signs of my presence. I rubbed the closet door, the knob. My mind spun. Whirled. Wait. I was destroying evidence—wiping away my fingerprints only made me look more guilty. And I might be destroying the real killer’s prints, too. Oh God. The real killer—he must have been in the apartment just minutes, maybe seconds, before I got there. I might have walked in on him—might have bumped into him as he left. A shudder passed through me. Had I seen him? That man who’d let me into the building. The one in the business suit who’d held the door open for me. Was he the killer? I pictured him. Fortyish, something familiar about
his face. Graying hair, long nose, thin lips. His gums showed when he smiled.

But it made no difference what he looked like. If the police arrested me for Charlie’s murder, they wouldn’t believe what I had to say. Might not consider any other suspects if they learned I’d been here. I’d had motive, means, and opportunity to kill Sherry, and that, as it had been with Charlie, would be enough. I needed to get out. Hurried back into the kitchen, tossed the dish towel into the sink. Started for the door. Stopped myself.

Before I left, I needed to think. Collect myself. Make sure I wasn’t forgetting anything.

Relax.

I took a moment, repeated Dr. Schroeder’s mantra, letting the tension out of my body, my back, shoulders, and neck. Looked around. Double-checked that I’d picked up every piece of evidence, erased every sign that I’d been there.

Finally, carrying the bag of pictures and the rolled-up poster, I dashed out of the apartment and hurried home, stopping only to wipe the prints off the doorknob.

Susan arrived early. I’d just gotten out of the shower. My hair was wet, and I was still shaking when I let her in. I ached to tell her what had happened, needed her to assure me it was all right. But I couldn’t. I’d destroyed my fingerprints, messed with a crime scene. And, even though she was my lawyer, I wasn’t sure how much she’d feel comfortable hiding from the police.

And I didn’t know how much she’d believe.

“Hurry up, get dressed.” She shoved me back up the stairs. “I’ll make coffee.”

I was halfway up the steps when I heard the scream. Damn. I hadn’t thought to warn her about Romeo and Juliet, had left them on the counter.

“Elle?” She ran into the hall, wide-eyed. “What the hell—”

“Sorry.” I started down the steps, deciding to tell as much of the truth as I could. “Sherry McBride was here. She left—”

But Susan’s hands were up. She turned, headed back into the kitchen. “No, don’t get distracted. Get dressed and we’ll talk.”

Oh God. How much could I tell her without including the murder? Should I say I went to Sherry’s, but she wasn’t there? What about the guy in the suit? Should I mention seeing him leave? Because when the body was found, that would make them look for him—

“Come and sit.”

Susan hadn’t waited for me to get dressed. She came into my bedroom with two steaming mugs. I pulled a sweater over my head, fluffed my hair, and sat.

“So. What the hell are those dead mice?” She held a mug out for me.

I told her about the box on my doorstep. About finding the hamsters. But not about going to Sherry McBride’s apartment. Not about the pictures of Charlie I’d stuffed into my closet. Not about the murder.

“So, for sure, we’ll get a restraining order against her. She’s a sick puppy.”

I nodded. Saw Sherry’s dead staring eyes. Stifled a wave of nausea.

Susan sipped coffee. “But we need to triage our issues. Before we get distracted by Ms. McBride, we need to assess things.”

We did? Uh-oh. She was being professional Susan. Not warm big sister Susan. Not let-me-bake-banana-bread Susan. Her voice, her eyes, her posture were stiff. Impersonal.

“So. I finally heard back from Charlie’s divorce attorney. And I found out something interesting: We’re not the only ones who’ve called him to ask about Charlie’s will. He’s heard from Emma and from Ted. Because you were about to be divorced,
they think you shouldn’t inherit Charlie’s estate. Emma hired a lawyer and intends to sue if you do inherit.”

No surprise. Emma was convinced I killed him, wouldn’t want me to profit from the murder.

Susan cleared her throat. Sipped coffee. Sat perfectly straight. “Anyway, Charlie had no will. He’d been talking about writing one. But he died before he got around to it.”

Okay. So there was no will. I sipped coffee. “So?”

“So?” Her tone asked how stupid I possibly could be. “As his legal wife, you’re the beneficiary of Charlie’s entire estate. Which you wouldn’t have been if he’d lived long enough for his will to be written or for the divorce to become final.”

Oh. I got it. Inheriting gave me motive.

“I also found out Charlie that had three life insurance policies.”

“Three?” I’d known about one. He and Derek each had one, for the business.

“Derek is beneficiary of one. He gets a million dollars. The other policies name you as beneficiary. For a total of two point five million dollars.”

I inhaled, choked on coffee. Coughed. Didn’t hear what Susan said next.

But she kept on talking, didn’t wait for the coughing to stop. “—if you’re convicted of killing him. In that case, you get nothing. Not from the estate or the insurance policies.”

I patted my chest. Tried to breathe. Tried to float away.

“He named his siblings as secondary beneficiaries.”

Okay. I closed my eyes, saw Sherry McBride with an ice pick in her neck. Lord. I wondered who would find her—and when. It could be days. Or the phone might ring any minute with the news. My mouth tasted coppery. I sipped coffee. Tried to stay with Susan, follow what she was saying.

“—know you’re innocent. But, to an outsider, to the police,
to the press—when this financial information—especially the insurance stuff gets out, well, it doesn’t look good.”

No, it didn’t. “But I didn’t even know about the insurance policies.”

“I believe you.” She pushed hair out of her eyes. “But it’s hard to prove a negative. How can you convince people you did not know something?”

She was right.

“So, be prepared. The press has got hold of this, so it’ll probably be on the news—”

“Oh God. They’ll say I killed Charlie for money.” Actually, Charlie had said the same thing. And somehow, money seemed a baser motive than jealousy or rage or revenge. I took a breath, saw walls crumbling, the floor giving way. A couple of charred rodents. A blood-soaked bath towel. “Because—oh man. If the school hears this—what about my job?”

“Your job?” She cocked her head. Crossed her legs. Sighed. Looked at me with guarded eyes.

“Yes, Susan. My job.”

“Elle,” she spoke carefully, “we have far bigger problems than your job right now.”

Yes, we did. She had no idea how big. Maybe I should tell her. If I didn’t, the truth would fester and churn inside me. I couldn’t hide it, needed to let the truth out, no matter the consequences.

“Susan, something happened this morning—”

She squeezed my arm. “Something about Charlie’s murder?”

“I don’t think so. Not directly.”

“Then save it, Elle. We have a lot to deal with before the meeting. Let’s take things one at a time.”