Rachel's Folly (12 page)

“I just can’t believe Rachel would do that,” Elena said, shaking her head.

“Exactly,” Edward chimed in.

“She was so drunk, I was sure she wouldn’t even remember it happening at all. But when I saw her afterward, she wouldn’t look at me, and I realized she must be ashamed. You said yourself she had been depressed,” he said to Elena. “Maybe she felt so bad about it, she wanted to tell you but couldn’t bring herself to do it.”

“She had been acting weird,” Elena agreed. “But why would she come here and take her life? It just doesn’t make any sense.”

“I have no idea, but you can’t honestly believe I had anything to do with that, do you?” he asked Elena in earnest.

“No, no,” she said, “of course not. But you’re right about her probably being ashamed of what happened. Maybe that was the reason she was depressed. In a way, it could help explain
why
she took her life. At least now I know why she was so distraught.” Elena looked at Edward who was staring coldly at Jack, then she turned back to Jack and said, “I just wish you would have told me.”

“I know, honey. I’m so sorry,” Jack said gently. He put his hand on her shoulder.

Clearly distressed, Elena turned her attention to Ben. “I don’t know what to say. I’m so confused right now. But one thing I’m sure of is that Jack didn’t kill Rachel. He’s just not capable of anything like that.”

“How can you be so sure? How well do you really know him anyway?” Ben asked her while glaring at Jack. “Where were you last Monday?”

“He was with me,” Elena answered.

“The entire day?” Ben demanded.

“Yes. We had the day off. We went shopping for the baby. We had lunch in the Hill Country. We stopped by here for just a few minutes to get my phone, but that was it.”

“What time was that?” Ben asked Jack.

“Around eleven. We already told the police all of this. I have nothing to hide,” Jack replied decisively. Ben walked over to him and put his face right up to Jack’s. He looked directly into Jack’s eyes. They were almost equal in height. He could feel him breathing. “I
know
you slept with my sister, and I know you had something to do with her death.”

“I think you guys better leave now,” Elena said softly. “You need time to—I don’t know—heal.”

Edward backed up a few steps while massaging his right hand. He surveyed the room and then said to Ben, “Let’s go.” He looked toward the broken china cabinet. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’ll pay for the damage.” He then turned back to Jack. “I suggest you get yourself a good lawyer, because I’m having Rachel’s body exhumed, and if there’s anything out of the ordinary, they’ll be coming to talk to you.” Jack stood erect and didn’t respond, just tightened his jaw.

Ben walked over to Elena and kissed her head. “I’m sorry, El,” he said gently. Then he and Edward let themselves out.

* * *

The next day Ben and Edward found themselves sitting in the waiting area at the police station downtown. They were waiting to see Detective Robert Elms. They had gone straight there the previous night after leaving Elena’s, but it was after eleven when they arrived. The only person at the station was the watch commander who couldn’t do more than take down their information. She assured them that the detective would call the next day and set up an appointment.

They waited for almost an hour before Detective Elms came out. He looked like he was in his mid-fifties, had an athletic build, green eyes and a full head of salt-and-pepper hair. He was finishing an apple as he approached them.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. This way,” he said, indicating towards a hallway. “Just hold my calls,” he told the officer behind the front desk. “This should only take a few minutes.”

They walked down the narrow hall and took an elevator to an office on the third floor. Ben was expecting to enter a room with a large double mirror on one side, like the ones he saw on TV shows, but they went to the detective’s office, which was dull and ordinary. Only one small window overlooked the crowded highway.

“Have a seat.” Detective Elms closed the door behind him. “Okay, what would you like to report?” he asked Edward and Ben as they sat down in the two chairs directly in front of the detective’s desk. “I’m told you have some pertinent information about your late wife, Mrs. Richards.”

“We have evidence that she might have been killed,” Ben spat out. Detective Elms quickly turned his attention to him and began to respond, but Edward interrupted.

“Detective, it turns out my wife had an affair.” Edward looked uncomfortable. He paused and readjusted himself in his chair. “It turns out my wife slept with Jack Spencer, Elena Wilkinson’s husband, right before they got married.”

The detective nodded slowly. He glanced at his wrist watch. “That’s really unfortunate.” He waited for a few moments. “Is there more?”

“Well, my wife became depressed and, right before she died, left a voicemail on Ben’s phone saying she was going to confess to Elena.”

Ben cut in. “My sister was distraught for months and I convinced her to keep the affair to herself. But, she couldn’t contain herself and decided to tell Elena, the very day she supposedly committed suicide. I have the message right here.” He held his phone out for the detective to hear.

Detective Elms jotted down a few words on his notepad, then turned his attention to his computer and hit a few keys with his index finger. Keeping his eyes on his computer screen, he asked, “Have you spoken to Mr. or Mrs. Spencer about this?”

“We were there last night. Jack denies it. He claims Rachel came on to him and he tried to stop her. I assure you, that is a lie,” Edward said confidently.

Detective Elms remained calm. He looked away from his computer and over at Ben and then at Edward. He interlocked his fingers and put his hands down on his desk. “Look, I appreciate you coming in with this information and I’m really sorry for your loss, but I have to tell you …” He paused and addressed Edward. “People have affairs all the time. You’d be surprised if you knew just how common it is. I don’t doubt that they did sleep together, but it’s a real stretch to say there was a homicide.”

Ben began to speak, but the detective interrupted him before he could start.

“We’ll look into it. I’ll have an officer interview Mr. Spencer again. We’ll need to borrow your phone before you leave so we can make a zip drive of the voicemail and have it transferred into evidence. That’s what we can do, but I have to be honest here, everything points to a suicide. Mr. Spencer was with his wife on the day in question. He has no criminal record. There was no forced entry; Mrs. Richards had a key to the condominium.”

“We want Rachel’s body reexamined to see if there was any foul play,” Ben interjected.

The detective leaned back in his chair and gripped his chin. “We can do that, but … and forgive me for asking, but didn’t Mrs. Richard’s father also commit suicide years ago? And … wasn’t Mrs. Richard’s taking antidepressants?” He raised his eyebrow and looked directly at Ben. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Mosley?”

“They were tranquilizers, not antidepressants.” Ben said. Edward’s brow wrinkled and he turned to look at Ben with a confused expression. “We still want her body reexamined,” Ben said firmly.

“Exhumations can take a while. They’re expensive and they can be pretty traumatic for the family members.” Detective Elms looked at Edward. “Is this what you want?”

Edward sighed deeply. “It will help us with closure.”

“Okay,” Detective Elms said, “I’ll need you to fill out some forms before you go, to get the process started.”

* * *

After the officer returned Ben’s cell phone, Ben and Edward walked down the steps of the police headquarters and up 8th Street to a public parking lot three blocks over. The sun was bright. Ben blinked into the sunlight and grabbed his sunglasses. There was a cool headwind blowing as they made their way towards Red River Street. Ben was feeling anxious knowing he would have to go back to Maine soon. He hoped the police would uncover something,
anything
before he had to leave.

They walked side by side without saying a word. Ben noticed a tour van parked alongside the famed Stubb’s BBQ, where a few roadies were unloading instruments and equipment for an upcoming show. It reminded him of how Rachel would drag him to concerts at Antone’s in the eighties when Stubb’s was just starting to sell barbeque there. They passed a few tourists taking pictures of the city and a couple of homeless people asking for change. As they approached Edward’s truck, Ben could see the gold star of the Statue of the Goddess of Liberty on top of the State Capitol poking out over the swaying treetops. He looked over at Edward who was walking with his head down, not seeming to be paying much attention to anything.

At last, Ben broke the silence. “The detective didn’t seem that interested in what we had to say.”

“We sounded crazy,” Edward said flatly, staring down at the pavement.

“What?” Ben was stunned.

Edward stopped walking and looked at him. “Ben, I’m pissed beyond belief about Jack, but as much as I’d like to go and beat the living shit out of him again, I don’t think he killed Rachel. Their little escapade probably
was
the reason behind Rachel’s depression and it was probably the reason she took her life, but Jack surely didn’t push her off that balcony.”

“How do you know?”

“Come on, man. Think about what you’re saying. That’s just crazy.”

“I don’t think it’s crazy. There’s something about that guy. I felt it the minute I met him. I’m telling you, there’s something off.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t make him a murderer. You’ve got to get a hold of yourself. Stop chasing theories, or you’re gonna go nuts.”

BEN YAWNED
AS HE DROVE
down the street towards his house. It was after midnight and bitterly cold. There was fresh salt on the street in preparation for the slick roads which awaited the early morning commuters. It was dark and only a couple of houses had their porch lights on, which made the street look dreary. For a moment, he wondered if everyone was mourning Rachel’s death. He parked alongside Janelle’s light blue Volkswagen Bug.

His tiny house was a two-story brownstone in Portland, Maine. Built in 1939, it was tucked away on a traditional, residential street just north of the Fore River. Ben had lived there since he left Austin. He had fallen in love with it immediately because of its charm and proximity to the water. It had belonged to an older woman who lived there most of her life. Ben was able to buy it at a reasonable price because it hadn’t been updated and needed some repairs. The house creaked and cracked when there was inclement weather, and the old hardwood floors were badly worn, but Ben loved it anyway.

The house was now dark with the exception of a soft light coming from the upstairs window. He walked to the covered entrance and fidgeted with his keys before he found the one he needed. He opened the door to find Homer waiting anxiously, eagerly jumping up and down, letting Ben know he wanted to be picked up.

“Just a second, Homer. Let me put my stuff down.” He could hear his own tired voice. He closed the door behind him and set his bags down in the dark, constricted hallway. After he pulled off his coat, he flicked on the light, grabbed his dog and held him tightly. “It’s been just awful,” he said. Ben carried Homer close to his chest as he made his way to the living room. “Janelle,” he called out, “I’m home.” He looked around the house and noticed how remarkably clean and organized everything was. Normally, there were so many books, papers and clothing hanging around, he could hardly see any of his furniture.

“Hi, Professor Mosley,” Janelle said from the top of the stairs. He smirked because she knew she didn’t have to call him Professor Mosley when they weren’t on campus. She walked down the narrow, squeaky stairwell carrying a paperback novel and smiling warmly. Her auburn hair was pulled into two soft, long braids which fell on either side of her freckled face. Her big, blue eyes hid behind her glasses.

Janelle was a welcome sight for Ben. They had known each other for a little over three years, but it felt like they had been close for so long. She had been a student in one of his creative writing classes. He was immediately impressed by her creativity, love for learning and sharp wit. By the next year, he had offered her a job as his TA. Now, he couldn’t imagine doing his job without her.

“How was your trip?”

“Just dreadful.” The smirk quickly left his face and he cast his eyes downward.

“Ugh, sorry, of course it was. That must have sounded very uncaring.”

“Don’t worry. I know no one ever knows what to say when things like this happen.” He sighed and put Homer down. “The house looks great. You didn’t have to clean it, you know.”

“I know.
Chaucer
wasn’t thrilling, after all. I hope you don’t mind,” she joked.

“Mind? Are you kidding me? It hasn’t been cleaned in years.” He looked around and smiled. “Paul used to keep it spotless, but after he moved out, I just don’t have the time or energy.”

“He came by,” she said casually, walking past him. She went to the hallway and started putting on her snow boots, then her coat and scarf which were hanging on a hook on the wall.

“Paul?” Ben was genuinely surprised. “Really?”

“Mm hmm, earlier today. He heard about your sister. He brought flowers. They’re on the table in the kitchen. He wants you to call him.”

Ben took in a long, deep breath, which made his cheeks puff up, then let the air out forcefully. “Well, I’ll think about that tomorrow. Right now, I just want a hot bath and a stiff drink. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to get some sleep. ” He dug in his back pocket for his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

“You can pay me tomorrow. I’ll stop by after class.” She opened the door to leave. “You’re welcome.” She winked and closed the door behind her.

Ben walked over to lock the deadbolt. The house was now eerily quiet and empty without Janelle’s presence. Exhausted, he turned to find Homer wagging his tail and sitting patiently on the stairs. He sat next to him and dropped his head into his hands. He rubbed his tired eyes, which were tender to the touch. He hoped he would finally be able to get some deep, uninterrupted sleep. He was glad to be home, but he also felt detached and desolate and very, very lonely.

* * *

Late that night, Ben screamed into the darkness and abruptly sat up in bed. His heart was pounding. His undershirt was wet with sweat. He sighed heavily and rubbed his temple, realizing that he had awoke from a nightmare. He tried to recall the dream. He remembered hearing Rachel call his name. He was desperately searching for her in a tall building with many identical, white doors. He heard her, but couldn’t see her. And then he opened a door and she was there, outside, high above the city, clinging to the ledge of the building, hanging on for dear life. She looked right at him with wide, terrified eyes and cried, “Help me.” He tried to grab her hand and pull her to him, but he couldn’t reach her. She kept getting further and further away. Frantic, he leaned over and tried again, but he lost his balance and fell. He felt himself hurling through the air towards the street below. He lost his breath and woke up just as he was about to smash into the ground.

Ben pressed his hands over his eyes and tried to calm his breathing. He let out a long sigh, peeled off his shirt and lay back in bed. Turning on his stomach, he gripped his pillow and buried his face. He began to cry softly. Then he started sobbing forcefully. He cried because he was lonely. He cried for Jacob. He cried for the brother he never knew, for his father, and even for his mother. But most of all, he cried because he wanted Rachel back.

* * *

A week had passed since Ben had returned home. Despite his best efforts, the house had slowly regressed back to its natural state of untidiness: the sink nearly full of dirty dishes, clothes that hung on the backs of chairs, empty wine bottles.

Now, he was in his small dining room, which he had converted into an office several years ago. He sat at his desk going through an old family album, searching for pictures of Rachel. The album had belonged to her. Agnes had given it to him while he was in Austin. There were some photographs he hadn’t seen in years—a few he’d never seen at all. He stopped briefly at an old picture taken when he was about five years old. His father stood behind him with his hand on Ben’s shoulder smiling proudly. His mother stood next to his dad holding Rachel in her arms. She was around two years old and held a lollipop in her tiny hand, looking happily at the camera. Barbara was by far the most dominant figure in the picture. She had a fixed, tight smile and was wearing a white pantsuit with large, white-rimmed sunglasses. He used to think she was the most beautiful woman in the world. He was too young at that time to understand her eccentricities. He noticed how normal they appeared to be.

Then he looked at the photo directly underneath that one. It was small and faded. Ben didn’t recognize the couple at first, but upon closer inspection he realized they were his parents. He guessed they were probably in their twenties when it was taken. His mother had long, straight hair and wore a thin headband wrapped around her head. His Dad was almost unrecognizable with a full, shaggy beard. He was flashing the peace sign at the camera. Ben pulled the picture out and turned it over. “San Francisco, 1967” was handwritten in cursive.

“Wow,” Ben said out loud. He looked at the picture again and was amazed at how happy and carefree his parents looked. He couldn’t believe it. He had never given much thought to what his parents’ life might have been like before he was born. He had always figured they were just younger versions of the people he knew. Then he remembered Barbara’s words from outside Edward’s house the last time he saw her: “A couple of bumbling boozers living by the seat of our pants.”

He never would have dreamed his mother had lost a baby. At seven months, the baby would have already been formed, almost ready. They must have buried him. He wondered how he would have gotten over a traumatic experience like that. If a mistake he made had killed an unborn, nearly full-term baby—his baby, his firstborn. It must have been what drove her crazy, to become a Christian fanatic with such blind faith and irrational zeal. He thought something like that probably would have driven him crazy, too, but instead of the cross, he would have turned even more towards the bottle.
Just like Dad
, he realized.

He carefully turned the page and saw a school picture of himself next to one of Rachel. She was in grade school, maybe fifth or sixth grade. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She smiled bashfully, perhaps self-conscious of her braces. Ben was struck by how much Jacob resembled her. He traced her face with his finger. He felt his eyes water. A tear fell onto the album’s plastic sheet protector. He wiped it off and then wiped his face with the back of his hand. He grabbed the glass of wine sitting next to him and took a big swig.

There was a knock at the door. Homer wasn’t barking. Instead, he sat on his hind legs, panting just inches away from the doorknob. Ben knew then just who it was. He checked his appearance in the hanging mirror, took a deep breath and opened the door.

Paul was holding a large basket in one hand and a bottle of red wine in the other. Their eyes met and they held each other’s gazes for a moment before Paul looked down and smiled. “Hi, Homer,” he said.

Ben watched as Homer danced around Paul’s old, familiar, broken-in cowboy boots. He felt a small pang deep inside his chest.

“You look exactly the same. You haven’t changed a bit,” Ben said somberly. Paul was a tall, slender man about ten years Ben’s junior. He had soft, dark hair and big eyes, a lighter shade of brown than Ben remembered.

“I’m so sorry. I came as soon as I heard, but you were in Texas.”

“I know. Thank you.”

“Can I come in? I brought homemade lasagna and fresh bread,” he said, flashing his big, perfect, toothy smile.

“Right … okay,” Ben said and slowly moved over to let Paul into his home.

Ben closed the door and helped Paul remove his coat, then followed him and Homer to the kitchen. He scanned Paul’s back, his broad shoulders and slender waist. He could smell a hint of his cologne in the air and a flurry of conflicting emotions filled his head. He was about to offer Paul some wine when he saw that he was already at the cabinet helping himself to a glass. Ben sat down at the small kitchen table. It was strange to see Paul in his home again after all these years. It was as if he had suddenly reclaimed his place there, as if no time had passed at all. Ben watched him move effortlessly about the room, pouring himself a glass of wine, turning on the oven, preparing the napkins, plates and silverware for their meal.

“Are you still writing?” Paul asked, gesturing towards the makeshift office as he placed an empty plate on the table in front of Ben.

“Yes.” Ben grimaced. “Well, I haven’t written a single word in over a week. I just can’t seem to get my mind off Rachel, I guess.”

“I can’t imagine the horror you’ve been through.” Paul turned to look at Ben, with worry in his eyes. “How are you coping?” He hesitated. A silence brushed between them. “Or if you’d rather not talk about it, I understand.”

Ben looked at him briefly, then turned his gaze to the table and started nervously tearing an old paper receipt nearby. He couldn’t help but fidget. It was unsettling to speak with Paul as if nothing had happened. Their breakup was painful and ugly, but it also happened nearly four years ago. Ben had only seen Paul a couple of times since they parted, and on those occasions, Ben avoided all interaction. Deep down, he knew he was just terrified of getting hurt again. More so, of letting Paul back into his life enough for it to ache worse. Now, with Paul standing just a few feet away, he didn’t know what to do: kiss him, punch him, kick him out or take him upstairs. He lightly drummed his fingers on the table. “How’s Mitch?”

“Who?” Paul’s face went blank, and then returned with a look of remembrance. “Oh God, I have no idea. I haven’t seen him in years.”

Ben was apprehensive. “So, are you involved with anyone right now?”

Paul had moved to the kitchen counter and had his back to Ben as he placed his glass on the counter. It was a tense subject. “Not really. I’ve dated a couple of guys over the years, but I haven’t had a steady relationship, since …” He paused. “Well, since you.”

Ben held his chin and pondered that for a moment. He decided to put his pride aside and open up. After all, Paul was making an honest effort to reach out, and now didn’t seem like the time to reopen old wounds.

“Do you remember Rachel’s friend Elena?” Ben asked.

Paul turned around to face him. “The pretty doctor?”

Ben nodded. “She married a guy named Jack in May and Rachel slept with him two nights before the wedding.”

Paul’s eyes widened.

“Nobody knew,” Ben continued. “On the wedding day, Rachel was about to confess to Elena, but I convinced her not to. After that, Rachel apparently went into a depression.” Ben looked at the table. His voice cracked. “And then a few weeks ago, she jumped off Elena’s balcony.”

“Oh. My.” Paul stood motionless. He looked stunned. “I had no idea she committed suicide.” He stared at Ben, holding the napkins and forks in his hands.

“I know, it’s unreal.” Ben cleared his throat. He couldn’t believe what he was saying, much less who he was saying it to. He took off his reading glasses that were resting on top of his head and placed them on the table. Then he slowly, painfully, recounted the events that had transpired over the last few weeks. Paul came to sit down at the table next to him. He became increasingly shocked as Ben spoke and kept leaning closer to him, anticipating his next words.

When Ben finished telling him everything, Paul asked, “And what about the police?”