Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 01 - The Trouble With Charlie (4 page)

Seconds? An hour? A century? I have no idea how long we remained there, Charlie dead and me yelling at him, pulling and tugging, slapping and shoving at him. For a while, my mind floated away, and I watched myself, my frantic futile struggle to deny the truth. But at some point, I remember the doorbell ringing. At first, I had no idea what the sound was. An irritating repetitive clanging chime. Distant. Irrelevant, because it was unrelated to the sole focus of my being: the act of rousing Charlie. But it persisted. And eventually, it penetrated the thick walls of hysterical confusion and denial engulfing me.

It made me stop yammering, come back to reality, and let go of him. It made me listen and pay attention. Identify the sound. Alarm clock? Smoke alarm? Cell phone? Microwave? Doorbell? Oh yes, doorbell. And, during that process, my mind had time to reach the semicoherent, if unacceptable conclusion: Charlie was dead.

Dead? My mind wasn’t working. Couldn’t process. The thought ricocheted, bouncing and rebounding, reverberating against my skull. Charlie was dead? Dead? Charlie was dead.

The bell kept ringing. And my cell phone began singing. A symphony of signals. I squatted beside Charlie, watching him. Hearing Elvis belt out my ringtone. “We’re caught in a trap—” And the door chime. Dinnnng Dong. Charlie had chosen the bell; it was nothing elaborate. Just basic and classic: two simple and distinct bells, the first one longer than the second. Dinnnng and dong. Elvis sang. “Because I love you too much, Baby—”

But Charlie’s mouth wouldn’t close. Nor would his eyes. He stared at air. And I at him.

Another dinnnng. Another dong. Elvis stopped singing, started again. Why? How long had the doorbell been ringing? Nothing made sense, not Charlie’s body, not the reason for phones or doorbells. My mind was at a full stop. Entirely useless. Finally, I got up and went to the door, but not to answer it. I just wanted to locate the noise, the terrible dinnnnging and donging, and make it stop.

“Damn, Elle. I was about to call the cops.”

Becky. It was Becky at the door. Pounding and ringing until I opened it, when she charged in, raving.

“What’s wrong with you, Elle? Why didn’t you answer? I’ve been standing there ringing your bell for ten minutes.”

Ten minutes?

“You’ve got to be more responsible. You can’t just pull Elles like that.”

“Pulling Elles” meant spacing out, drifting, getting lost in time. Apparently, I did it so often that my friends had given it a name.

“You didn’t call when you got home, so I got worried. You didn’t answer my texts, either. What’s wrong with you? You know our deal.”

She went on, scolding. Our deal, she said, was nothing to take lightly. We were women living alone in a city with a high crime rate and, when we went out at night, we needed to check in with each other. It was irresponsible of me not to. When she hadn’t heard from me, she’d called. When I hadn’t answered, she’d come all the way over to my house, seen my bedroom light on, and rung the bell. When I hadn’t answered, she’d called my phone again. She’d been about to call the police.

As she ranted, Becky stomped in circles around my entry-way. Finally, she threw her phone into her bag and dropped the bag emphatically on the table by the door. When she finally looked at me, she froze, silent. Her mouth opened. Her right hand rose to cover it. “Oh my God. What happened? Is all that from your hand?”

I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t have an answer.

“Oh God, Elle. You’re bleeding.”

I looked down. Saw dark stains on my hands, my shirt.

Becky gave orders, rotating me, looking at my belly, my arms and back. Finding only the old, no-longer-bleeding bandaged wound on my hand.

“Elle? Say something. Are you hurt? Talk to me. What’s all this blood?” She held her phone, dialed a number, gripping my arm while talking into it. She was panting, and her eyes darted, looking down the hall, into the living room, up the stairs. She told someone to come to my house, to hurry. When she ended the call, her voice got quiet. “Elle. Tell me what happened.”

Becky was short but sturdy. I thought about how strong she was as I leaned on her, as she put an arm around me, supporting my weight.

“Okay. You’re in some kind of shock. Come sit down.” She led me to the living room. Sat with me on the red leather sofa. Good, I thought, that it was red. Blood wouldn’t stain it like the one in the study. That one, the fabric was ruined.

Becky held onto my hand. “Whose blood is this, Elle? Is somebody hurt?” She watched me.

I nodded. Felt proud of myself that I’d managed a response.

“Oh God, who?” Her grip tightened. “Are they still here? Now?”

Another nod.

“Are we safe? Are you okay?”

More nods. I was on a roll.

“Where are they? Who is it? Were they shot? Do we need an ambulance? God—” She held up her phone. “I’m calling 911.”

Becky was taking too much time. I had to get back to Charlie, couldn’t leave him alone with my carving knife in his back, so I tugged my arm out of her grasp and headed back to the study, Becky trailing behind me.

Somehow, time continued to pass. I had moments of clarity when vivid details carved their way into my mind. Cops in my house. Susan appearing. Television trucks out in the street. Neighbors clustering. Lights flashing, red, blue, white. Then, the sick green hue of fluorescent lights. The jutting steel edges of swinging doors. The coarse black eyebrow hairs and stubble popping from a sergeant’s pores. Details assaulted me in hordes, overwhelmed me. So I drifted willfully. Letting events carry on around me. Letting myself think about Charlie, that he was dead. Murdered. In my house. And that, despite that, I’d heard him call my name, felt him kiss my neck.

I was not superstitious. Did not believe in ghosts. Knew that dead men could neither talk nor kiss.

But clearly, from the coolness of his body, Charlie had been dead for a while. Longer than the few minutes I’d been in the house before finding him. So how had he called my name? Or played his irritating game of hide-and-seek when he was in the study, dead with a knife in his back?

It made no sense. Dead men didn’t play hide and seek. Didn’t move roses up and down stairs. Clearly, the whole experience was impossible.

And yet, I hadn’t imagined it. It had happened. I was sure. After all, I’d been startled enough to drop my salad, hadn’t I? And disturbed enough to grab a knife?

The police took me to the Roundhouse to talk; Susan came along as my attorney. I answered their questions, but didn’t mention the rose or the kiss or the voice. Didn’t mention the whiffs of Old Spice. I told them only what I thought they’d believe while my head battled to make sense out of impossible events, including the fact that Charlie was dead.

Even as I talked to the police, my memories surged. Charlie’s orgasmic foot rubs. His pecan chocolate chip pancakes and fondness for Shiraz. His bare chest against mine in bed. His terrible, uninhibited shower arias. His credit card charges for travel to Russia, the first of the lies I discovered. The tidal wave of discovered lies that followed, washing away our marriage. I felt once more the disbelief, the loss. But I kept on answering questions. Not letting on what I was thinking. And somehow, after a fog of time, it became morning. And Susan and I were no longer with the police. We were at her house, in her kitchen, bathed in the aromas of cinnamon and fresh-baked banana bread. Rays of sun flitted through her lace curtains, and Becky was swirling honey into her tea when Jen charged in, pouting and, as usual, cursing. Prada bag slung from her shoulder.

“You BFBs!” Jen’s term for Big Fat Bitches. “I can’t believe you didn’t call me.”

“Jen, it was the middle of the night.” Susan didn’t even look up. She sprinkled flour on the piecrust she was rolling out. “We didn’t want to wake Norm.”

“Bullshit. Norm wouldn’t wake up if they turned fire hoses on him.”

“Well, there was no point bothering you. There was nothing you could do.” Susan motioned for her to sit. “Tea?”

“There was nothing I could do, but you and Becky were essential?”

Rivalry was an inherent part of our foursome. Like siblings, each wanted to be the best most important prima favorite donna in every situation. Susan scowled. “I’m a criminal defense lawyer, Jen. There was a reason for me to be there. And Becky was there because Elle didn’t call when she got in. Believe it or not, this situation isn’t about you.”

“FU, Susan.” Jen rushed to me, kneeling in her skinny jeans. I wondered how the fabric could stretch enough to allow her legs to bend. “Elle, sweetheart, are you all right?” She put her arms around my neck, her eyes in my face. Her monster lashes blinked, tickled my cheeks.

“Don’t even bother,” Susan snapped. “She’s not all there.”

“Doing her Elle thing?”

Was I? Pulling an Elle? I wasn’t sure. I was drifting, but not far away. Hovering close by.

“No. The doctor gave her pills.” Becky came over, tried to edge Jen away. “She’s just groggy.”

I was. Very groggy. I liked the word, too. Groggy. But it confused me. If foggy meant full of fog, did groggy mean full of grog? What was grog? I inhaled Jen’s exhaled air. It was warm, secondhand. But, being full of grog, I didn’t care.

“And she’s exhausted. The cops kept her all night.”

“Those dickheads were questioning her? You poor thing.” Jen stroked my head. Wouldn’t let go of my neck, felt like a ninety-pound boa. “So, from the top. What happened?”

“It’s mostly in the newspaper.” Susan tossed it onto the table where it landed in a puff of flour.

“I knew something was wrong because she didn’t text me when she got home.” Becky started talking, but I couldn’t listen. Not because of the pills, though. I just couldn’t bear to hear any more. I’d been up all night going over and over what had happened. I felt sore, bruised all over, and preferred to sit still, letting my mind float, hearing the comforting buzz of conversation but not the actual words. It was as if I was both in the room and watching from the ceiling, simultaneously in my skin and out.

Susan poured Jen a cup of green tea. Well, it wasn’t actually green, more of a yellow. Maybe chartreuse? I’d never understood what color chartreuse was. But Susan had read somewhere that green tea was good for us and she’d been urging us to drink four cups a day. She’d even made her husband, Tim, down a cup before taking their daughters to school. He’d been obedient, knowing better than to resist Susan when she had a cause.

Jen hung onto me as Becky talked. Susan fluttered around the kitchen, unable to stay still. When she was upset, Susan whirled into motion, cleaned, gardened, shopped, cooked, exercised, sued somebody, or did whatever lawyers did. The minute we’d gotten back from the police station, she’d pulled out bananas, nuts, butter, and flour to bake bread. Now, in addition to serving tea and running the dishwasher, she was making a pie. I didn’t know what kind. Maybe apple. Maybe peach.

I watched Jen and Becky sit with me at the kitchen table beside a platter of sliced banana bread. Lord knew I couldn’t swallow any food. But I sipped tea, mostly because lifting my cup to my face made Jen take her arms off my neck. The tea was mild, mostly tasteless. Like chartreuse-tinted water. So I took another sip, swished it around my mouth, and set down my cup.

And realized everyone was looking at me.

Staring. Why? I focused, paid attention to what they were saying.

“She’s out of it, poor thing.” Becky’s voice was almost a whisper.

“Elle? You in there?” Jen’s face was too close to mine, searching.

Of course I was. Somewhere. Maybe.

“Let her be, Jen. She’s had a shock. And pills.”

“And she’s Elle.”

Whatever that meant.

“But they can’t actually believe she’s involved.” Jen backed away, blinking rapidly, eyelashes flapping like blackbird wings. “Morons. Are they crazy?”

“They’re cops.” Susan brushed flour off her hands. “They know that Elle was alone in the house with him. And that there was no sign of forced entry. And, look, the two of them were involved in a nasty divorce. If anyone had a motive to kill Charlie, she did. Plus, the knife came from her kitchen. And, statistically, it’s often the spouse—”