DEATH BY HONEYMOON (6 page)

“I went online and looked up some facts,” Cindy continued.
“There are assaults and murders on the Eastern Coast of Barbados regularly.
There’s one case after another.
The police are used to them.
It’s part of the routine.
Nothing much is done.”

Ann interrupted.
She didn’t want Cindy to go on like this in front of others.
“It’s easy to imagine all kinds of things when someone you love has suddenly died,” she said, to ease the tension that was building.

“I’m not imagining anything,” Cindy said, “I’m doing research.”

“Research on what?” Greerson pressed her.

“Cindy is a research assistant at a newspaper,” Anne said.
“It comforts her to check all kinds of facts.
Even when she was little, she enjoyed doing that.
I remember her going through magazine after magazine, trying to find out this or that.” She smiled again, trying to lighten the atmosphere, but it did not lift.

“That’s a dangerous path to take,” Greerson said quickly.
“Suspecting Clint’s death was a murder.
Thinking like that can create a lot of distress, for you and everyone.”

“I totally agree,” Ann said.

Thankfully, the doorbell rang again.

“Now I see why you’re staying here for such a long time,” Greerson said to Ann.
“You need to take care of your sister until she calms down and sees things clearly.”

Cindy detested this man on the spot.
Who was he to come here and suggest she wasn’t seeing things clearly?
What was it to him?
What made him think
he
saw everything so clearly?

Ann went to the door and to everyone’s surprise, Tom Mallord, the pastor who had both married them and done the funeral service, came in.
He and Clint had had a close relationship for many years.
Clint thought the world of him.
Mallord carried a little package, neatly wrapped in his hand.

“Hello, Cindy,” he said as he walked in, and handed her the package.
“This is for you.
It’s something I hope will help you through the days ahead.”

“Thank you so much,” Cindy replied, taking the package.
She hardly knew him, but always enjoyed the time they’d had together.

Ann pulled out a chair for him and he sat down.
Then she introduced Mallord to Greerson.
He knew all the other guests in the room.

“You came at the perfect moment,” Greerson said.
“We were just talking about the best way to view what happened to Clint.”

Mallord raised his eyebrows.
“A big question,” he said.

Greerson looked at Cindy, as if expecting her to once again voice her fears .
She said nothing.

“Cindy was just saying she’s not sure that Clint’s death was an accident.”

Once again the room grew steely quiet.
Mallord listened intently without changing his expression.

“She’s been researching murders on the East Coast of Barbados,” Greerson went on derisively.

Cindy noticed Mallord looking at her thoughtfully.

“Sometimes the best thing,” Greerson went on, “is to see a therapist to  clear your mind and bring you back to reality.”

Cindy felt little drops of perspiration forming over her forehead and chin.
He was suggesting she go to therapy because she thought Clint’s death might not have been an accident?
.
Didn’t she have a right to put the pieces of the puzzle together in a way that made sense to her?
Did that mean she was crazy?

She wondered what Mallord thought.
He had a wonderful reputation, lived simply with his wife in a small house the parish provided, and spent long hours with his congregation.

“Do you agree with him?” Cindy asked Mallord pointedly.

He didn’t answer off the cuff, but paused, and finally said, “Therapy can be good when needed.
So can prayer and contemplation.
And time always has a way of showing us what has truly gone on.”

Cindy now saw why Clint had liked Tom so much.

“Just the way the ocean brings everything up to shore,” he continued, “the truth cannot help but be brought to light.”

Greerson had enough.
He got up and brushed off his suit.

“Well, thanks for the sermon,” he said laughingly, “but I have a long trip back to the city tonight.
There’s a lot of unfinished business to take care of.
We have plenty to do to deal with Clint’s loss.”

Cindy felt oppressed by his presence in the room and was tremendously relieved that he was leaving .
“Thank you for coming,” she said politely.

“It’s my pleasure,” he answered, looking directly at her.
“And, as I said, don’t let stray thoughts drive you crazy.
You are not alone with this.
I’ll certainly be around.”

When he left it felt as if a dark cloud had lifted and the evening light could shine in.

*

Later that night, in bed, her head swimming, Cindy noticed the little package Tom Mallord gave her, sitting on the end table.
It was beautifully wrapped, in gold paper.
She reached over and opened it slowly.

Inside was a small Bible.
Touched to the core, Cindy cradled it in her hands, remembering the wonderful funeral service Tom Mallord had conducted for Clint.
The pews at the funeral service were filled to the brim, and a haunted silence filled the place.
Tom Mallord spoke simply, saying no one could fathom the ultimate will of God, or really understand how something like this could happen.
But we all could reach out to one another and offer kindness and solace.
That much was in our grasp.
Cindy’d felt comforted by his honesty.

Some of Clint’s friends got up and spoke about what a wonderful person he’d been and how they couldn’t imagine life without him.
Cindy shivered the entire time and could not say a word.
Neither could Clint’s mother, who sat in the front in a black, silk suit, staring ahead, in subdued rage.

Clint’s sister Marge, dressed in dark blue silk, pearl earrings and a pearl necklace, spoke in measured tones.
Cindy didn’t believe a word she said and the sound of her voice grated at her.
Clint’s father sat doubled over for most of the service.
When he got up at the end of the ceremony to shake hands, he couldn’t seem to remember anyone’s name.

Cindy looked down at the Bible, opened it up and ruffled through the pages.
Could it possibly hold some answers for her?
Could anything really give her solace in a time like this?

She opened the book randomly, and it opened on Psalm 84.
She read it slowly.
Those who pass through the Valley of Thorns, they transform it into a wellspring.
With blessings the rain will cloak it.
They advance from strength to strength
.

The Valley of Thorns
, she thought.
Yes, that was what this was.
But she didn’t see how she would ever get out of it.

*

Greerson was standing there in a gray raincoat, carrying a black umbrella, laughing uncontrollably.
She ran up to him to tell him to open the umbrella, that it was going to start pouring.
He just kept laughing and paid no attention.
She grabbed the umbrella from him, yanked her hardest to get it open.
He pulled it back, enraged.
Before long the two of them were in a full out tug of war.

She woke swiftly and sat up in bed.
She shook her head several times to wipe the dream away.

Cindy hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Greerson.
She resented his inferring that she wasn’t seeing things clearly.
Above all, she prized herself on her ability to ferret out the truth of any situation.
She had worked long hours at her job, making sure no important detail was missing in the research she did.
It hadn’t been easy landing a job at one of the best papers in New York City.
Even though it was an entry level position, they soon gave Cindy more and more responsibility, with bigger and bigger articles.
It was up to her to check the significant facts, dig deeper into the backgrounds of the people mentioned in the piece.
Cindy was a huge asset.
It was common knowledge that she had a wonderful future ahead of her.

As she headed downstairs, she found Ann in the kitchen, over the stove, stirring a pot of oatmeal as she did every morning.
Cindy sat at the kitchen table.
It was covered with a red checked tablecloth and placed near the window, in the sun.

“I’ve got a theory I want to run by you, Ann,” Cindy said.

Ann kept stirring.
This was Cindy’s third theory this week .
She knew Ann didn’t like it, but had to continue anyway.

“We can’t rule out that someone in the family got Clint killed,” Cindy started.

“Oh God,” Ann breathed.

“They dwell on me, they blame me, but I’m just a convenient cover.
When you think about it, there’s a lot they get by making it seem like there’s something wrong with me.”

“Who made you the detective here?” Ann breathed out heavily.
“Go back to work.
Research stories at the paper.
Keep all your fact checking there.”

 “And, don’t forget the insurance money,” Cindy barely heard what Ann said .
“If Clint is gone and it’s my fault, the money will all go to them.”

Ann stopped stirring the oatmeal, and spun around.
“Think a minute about what you’re saying, Cindy.
Clint’s own family, who love him, would have him killed for insurance money?
Why?
They have plenty of money on their own.”

“Someone in the family could be pathologically jealous—”

Ann’s voice grew shriller.
“Enough to have him killed?”

“We have to consider every angle.”

“No, you don’t,” Ann tossed the wooden spoon down on the table.
“You sound as if you’re losing your mind.”

“I’m thinking things through.”

“You’re becoming obsessed, “ Ann continued.

“Listen, time is passing.
I can’t stay here forever.
You’re making it harder and harder for me to go.”

Cindy knew what a strain she’d been on Ann, and she felt badly about it.
Ann always brought a sense of balance and normalcy to her days.
Cindy felt safe around her.
She’d been dreading the day when Ann would tell her that she had to go.

Ann’s voice had a thin edge to it.
“I can’t go home with a peaceful heart with you thinking these terrible thoughts.
You sound paranoid.”

Ann turned back to the stove.
The oatmeal was ready.
She turned off the fire, poured the oatmeal into two earthenware bowls and put them on the table.
Then she went to pour fresh coffee for both of them, in two hand-painted mugs.
The mugs were engagement presents from Cindy’s old friends, back in Wisconsin.
For a moment, Cindy felt homesick.

“I don’t mean to be a burden,” she said.

“Forget it,” Ann said.
“Eat your breakfast.”

Ann loved to prepare food, and Cindy loved home-cooked meals.
It was something their mother never had any time for.
She’d been too busy working and running around town with her friends, and boyfriends, after Cindy’s dad died .
Ann had taken on the role of mother in Cindy’s life.

Cindy and Ann starting eating breakfast.
Cindy hated defending herself, having to prove she was just like everyone else.
She never wanted to be just like everyone else.
She just wanted to be who she was.

“I’m NOT crazy.”

“Listen, I think you need to reach a point, and I’m not saying it’s today, where you are just going to have to accept what happened with Clint, and move on,” Ann declared.

Cindy knew Ann had her best interests in mind, but her words hurt.
She would never move on.
How could she?

“I’m doing just fine,” said Cindy.

“How?” Now Ann was annoyed.
“ You haven’t been able to open one gift from the wedding.
You haven’t been able to write one thank you note.
You refuse to consider leaving this place.
Clint’s mother and sister live one mile away - and they’ve been calling too much.
Way too much.”

Cindy’s stomach dropped.
“Really?”