Shadow of Doubt (A Kali O'Brien legal mystery) (35 page)

“You think Eddie had something to do with the photos?”

“It makes me sick to imagine it, but yes, I think it’s a possibility. A distinct possibility at this point. What it doesn’t do, though, is bring me any closer to finding who killed him.”

Tom took his time testing the steaks. Then he looked at me. “What it does do,” he said softly, “is explain why Jannine might have been enraged enough to kill her husband.”

Chapter
27

Monday morning, bright and early, I was back at the county Hall of Justice. I had to wait half an hour for the D.A. to arrive, and another half an hour for him to make room for me in his tight schedule. He laughed at the notion of a negotiated bail, then gave me the same song and dance about cooperation that Benson had, only he couched it in slightly different terms.

“We’re going to go for murder one,” he said. “We’ve got a strong case. We win, and we’ll ask for the maximum sentence. Jannine Marrero will end up behind bars for the rest of her life.” He paused. “There’s the publicity of a big murder trial to consider as well. It’s bound to be tough on her family. If she pleads to voluntary manslaughter, there will be no trial, and she’ll eligible for parole in a couple of years.”

Tom’s words from the night before rang in my ears. I brushed them aside. “She would be pleading guilty to a crime she didn’t commit.”

He leaned back in his chair and tapped his pencil against his open palm. “You have her think about it, okay? It would mean she’d be out in time to see those kids of hers before they’re all grown up.”

I was hoping it also meant the D.A. wasn’t as certain of winning as he pretended to be.

I met briefly with Jannine to convey the news about bail and to tell her I’d spoken with Nona. I mentioned the plea bargain, though I advised against it. She nodded wordlessly.

“We have a hearing set for tomorrow morning,” I told her. “The DA wouldn’t agree to bail, but I’m still hopeful we can convince the judge.”

I was rewarded with another silent nod. It was as though Jannine herself had flown off somewhere, leaving behind a mere shell. I put away whatever thought I’d had of asking about the pictures.

Downstairs in the main lobby, I found a pay phone and looked up auto glass companies in the yellow pages. A place just on the other side of town offered on the spot emergency repair. My lucky day.

While the window was being replaced, I bought a candy bar and both local papers.
The Mountain Journal
 
ran a short blurb about Jannine’s arrest on page four. She made the front page of
The Hadley Times,
but I was happy to see that that article, too, was rather brief. Then again, there wasn’t a whole lot new to report. I figured we’d have press there in the morning, though, and longer articles in both papers the following day.

The candy bar was stale. I tossed it into the garbage and paced around the waiting area until my car was ready. I had the clerk make a second copy of the bill, which I would send to George. I would return his wallet and ring when he paid me in full. I hadn’t yet decided what to do about the scratches on the car’s exterior.

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It was five o’clock by the time I got home, but with the summer solstice fast approaching, it seemed almost like midday. I changed into jeans and poked around the house, finding myself unable to relax. I felt the need to accomplish something positive, to take on a finite task and see it through to completion. Finally, I decided to tackle my parents’ bedroom. It was the one remaining room I hadn’t yet packed up, and with the real estate agent coming out the next day, I wanted to get as much sorted as I could.

The room was at the back of house over the garage, separated from the remainder of the second floor by a narrow stairway. After my mother died, my father moved into the smaller spare bedroom downstairs, and we all more or less forgot the old room existed. I hadn’t been up there myself for years, and as I carried empty packing boxes to the landing, I thought with dread of the dust and cobwebs I’d have to contend with.

But the bedroom was spotless. Cleaner by far than the rest of the house. And laid out just as it had been that day my mother put the garden hose to the car’s exhaust pipe and breathed her last breath.

Her hairbrushes lined the dresser. The closet and drawers were full of her things. There was even a vase of wilted flowers on the nightstand.

A picture of my parents, framed in heavy silver, rested on the bureau. My mother laughing, her auburn curls loose about her face; my father dark and serious, eyes set lovingly on his wife.

My breath caught, and I swallowed hard to keep the tears from coming. I felt the past envelop me, like a heavy cloak, bulky and cumbersome, but somehow comforting at the same time. As I made my way around the room, I thought I could detect the scent of face powder and lilac cologne, my mother’s scent from so long ago.

And sitting on the nubby white bedspread I’d helped her choose, I was sure I could feel her presence.

It took me a moment to notice the depression on my father’s side of the bed. When I ran my hand along his pillow, I could feel the hollow there as well. Suddenly I understood. He hadn’t closed himself off from her memory at all. He’d made a deliberate effort to keep it intact, alive. He had come here to this room, the bedroom they’d shared, in order to summon up the past, and perhaps to imagine what might have been.

He must have loved her, I thought, although he never spoke of her to any of us, never acknowledged our pain at losing her. “The past is best forgotten,” he would tell us. “You can’t change what is.”

Yet
he
hadn’t forgotten at all. I felt the old anger and resentment stirring in my chest, but I felt an overwhelming sense of sadness, too. Perhaps his own pain had simply been too great. Perhaps he’d had to deal with it the only way he could.

Part of me wanted to close the door and walk away, leaving everything as it was. But that wasn’t possible. You can’t sell a house if you’re holding onto its past. With mixed emotions, I set up the boxes and began to go through the drawers. The contents were carefully folded, and I placed each item just as carefully when I laid it in the box.

I thought about calling Sabrina, then discarded the idea, though I couldn’t imagine why neither of us had thought to go through the room before.

I had worked my way down to the bottom drawer when I found the note, a yellowed slip of paper, creased and well-worn. It was in my mother’s hand, but unsigned, on blue bordered stationery I still remembered.

It was dated the day of her death.

Forgive me. There are so many wrongs and I am too much at fault.

I stared at the note, my body frozen, mind numb. What wrongs? What could my mother have done, or thought she’d done, that was so wrong? Was this the reason for her suicide?

The phone rang downstairs. I think I heard it ring several times before I was able to brush the spider webs from inside my head and recognize the sound for what it was. It took another five rings for me to make it to the kitchen.

“She’s here,” Mrs. Holland said, her voice just barely above a whisper.

“Who?” I found myself whispering in response.

“Cheryl. She came to get her pictures.”

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My heart was racing by the time I got to the Holland’s. I crossed my fingers, hoping that Cheryl had not already fled. Mrs. Holland greeted me at the door, again speaking in hushed tones. “The girls are out back.” She led me through the house. “I’m glad you could come. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to call the police. You know how they are.”

“Have you talked to her?”

“Not really. Eva told her you took the photographs, and Cheryl just clammed up after that. At least with me.”

The two girls were sitting side by side on an old-fashioned porch swing. They were pushing it with their toes, just barely, so that it was more of a swaying motion than actual swinging. They were drinking sodas, a bowl of chips between them. Their heads were bent close in serious conversation. As we approached, they looked up in unison.

Mrs. Holland introduced me as “the woman who wants to help,” then took Eva into the house and left us alone. I wasn’t sure where to begin.

“Did you bring my pictures?” Cheryl asked. She looked me in the eye when she spoke, but it wasn’t the hostile, accusing glower I expected. It was more like she was testing the waters.

I shook my head. “I’ll give them back to you. I just didn’t think about it this time.”

“You from the police?” she asked.

“No.”

"A social worker?”

I shook my head and sat in the seat Eva had vacated, dropping my keys and dark glasses onto the cushion between us.

“I don’t get it then. Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of Mrs. Walker,” I began. “She’s worried about you.”

Cheryl brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. The bridge of her nose was sprinkled with pale freckles which hadn't been apparent in the school picture. They gave her something of a pixie look.

“I’m also a friend of Eddie and Jannine Marrero.”

She sat forward. “Mr. Marrero sent you?”

“Not exactly, but you apparently saw him last Saturday morning, before you came here.”

Her face, which had begun to relax only moments earlier, took on a sudden wariness. “How did you know that?”

“One of the other students told Mrs. Walker. You might have been the last person to see him alive. I was hoping—”

“Alive?” There was a long, penetrating silence. She obviously hadn’t known. “You mean he’s dead?”

I felt terrible. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”

Her eyes widened, and her breathing grew more rapid. “What happened?”

“He was killed Saturday afternoon. Shot in the woods by the south fork of Silver Creek.”

She repeated words, mouthing them silently to herself. “Who killed him?”

“The police have arrested his wife, but she didn’t do it.” I decided to play a hunch. “I think his death is connected in some way to the photographs.”

Cheryl went white. The swing stopped its gentle rocking.

“Did he ask you to hide them for him?”

She shook her head. Her breath was coming in short, uneven spurts.

“Was he the one who took the pictures?”

Cheryl shook her head again, a quick, jerky motion that caused the whole swing to jiggle. Her eyes darted from left to right, settling nowhere.

“But he knew about them?” I asked.

“He was going to call me that afternoon. He
promised.
He said he’d take care of it.”

“Cheryl, tell me about the photographs.”

“He said . . .”

I waited.

“He said . . .”

“He said what?”

She drew in a deep breath and looked at me. Her eyes were wide and unblinking, as though she had found herself trapped in a burning room. In one quick, fluid motion, she grabbed my car keys from the seat and darted off the porch.

She’d thrust herself from the swing with such force that it pitched back, bumping against the house and knocking me off balance. By the time I was able to extricate myself from the swing and follow, she’d already made it to the front of the house.