Manhattan Mayhem (6 page)

Jane drew in a deep breath and blew it out. “I met Samantha only a couple of weeks before she was murdered. She worked at the yogurt place next to my office. You know how it is when you just click with someone?”

“I do.” Mark smiled. “I feel like that today.” He raised both hands. “I’m not flirting. I swear.”

Still gazing at the statue, Jane went on, “Anyway, what I felt for Samantha came on in a rush. Exactly like in a romance novel, where a character’s life shatters completely, and she knows she’ll never be whole again. Not without that other person. I’ve never experienced anything like it before.”

“That’s beautiful.”

“After Samantha and I talked a few times, I really thought she felt something for me, too. But she was so amazing, it scared me. What if I misread her? I was afraid that if I spoke up, I might ruin everything.”

“Go on.”

“I started stopping by the shop more often. I could tell she wanted to have a real conversation as much as I did, but every time we came close, customers would swarm in.” Jane rested a hand against her chest.
“She had the sweetest White Rabbit necklace I’ve ever seen.”

“Was that her favorite character?” Mark asked. “Or was Samantha chronically late?”

“Oh, no. Samantha was conscientious and considerate.” Jane smiled. “I knew she liked to come here on nice days. Always with a book. I think it was her favorite place in the city.”

“It helps to talk about her, doesn’t it?”

“It’s so strange … you being here today … with that book. It’s like a sign, you know? And you really are a good listener.” Jane started to run her fingers through her hair but stopped abruptly. She frowned. “I’m still not used to this. I got it done this morning.”

Mark placed a hand on the slice of bench between them and leaned in. “You got your hair cut
today?
” he repeated. “On the anniversary of your friend’s murder? Wait, don’t tell me: Samantha wore her hair like that, didn’t she?”

“How did you know?”

“Lucky guess.” Mark straightened, regarding her closely. “Beautiful, but I have to ask: why?”

Jane tugged at her sweater. “It’s a way for me to feel close to her again.” She stared down. “I keep thinking that if I’d only been braver and spoken up, everything would have been different.”

“You can’t blame yourself for what happened.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s how I feel.” Jane’s jaw tightened. “I’d do anything for a chance to go back and make things right.”

Mark squinted into the wind. “I have an idea that may help,” he said. “Would you like to hear it?”

Jane shrugged, then nodded.

He rubbed the side of his beard. “When you were a kid, did you ever burn secret notes?”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s a thing people did for a while. Maybe they still do. A cleansing, empowering ritual. Sound familiar?”

“Not at all.”

“Okay, here goes.” Mark sat back on the bench, stretched out his
legs, and crossed his ankles. Elbows out, he laced his fingers atop his head and began, “At summer camp, when I was fifteen, the counselors handed out small strips of paper and told us to write down either our greatest fear or something we wanted to change about ourselves. No talking. No sharing. Totally secret. Then, in a solemn ceremony involving lots of positive affirmation, we took turns tossing our scribbles into a bonfire, watching as each one blazed up into nothingness. It felt pretty hokey when the other kids did it, but …”

He lifted both hands to the air, then replaced them atop his head and resumed talking. “Anyway, you get the idea. Identifying our deepest fears and then—symbolically—destroying them reminded us that we had power over ourselves. That we controlled our impulses, rather than the other way around.”

“Did it work?”

Dropping his hands to his lap, he sat forward. “It did. That’s probably why I remember the experience so vividly, even to this day. What an exhilarating sense of freedom. Now, as an adult, I look back and realize that what I really learned was how to compartmentalize. Although I may not be able to incinerate my negative behaviors so easily, I
can
control when and how I deal with them.” He waited a beat before adding, “Maybe you should consider a similar symbolic gesture. You know, to deal with your grief.”

The area was the quietest it had been all afternoon. Two kids played and giggled. The old panhandler approached their parents and was rewarded with a handful of change.

Jane glanced around. “I don’t believe a bonfire would go over well here.”

Mark laughed. “Ya think? But there’s got to be something we can do. Any ideas?”

“No.”

Two squirrels scampered by.

“I’ve got it,” Mark said. “A brilliant idea, if I do say so myself.”

“What is it?”

“What if you tell Samantha how you felt? I mean, poured your
heart out to her? Wouldn’t that give you closure?” Before she could answer, he continued. “Something brought us both here right now for a reason. I think that ‘something’ wants you to have peace.”

“I’m not sure that’s possible.”

“What if …” Mark leaned close. “What if you visit her grave? You can speak from the heart there, for as long as you like.”

Jane played with the neckline of her sweater. “She was cremated.”

“Oh.” Mark fell silent again. A moment later, he said, “Then, what about a quiet place in the park?”

“Here?”

“Not in this very spot, no. But she died in the park, so that makes this a sacred space. Let’s find a quiet knoll, a pretty meadow.” He tapped a finger against his lips. “Do you know where Cedar Hill is?” Again, before she could answer, he went on, “By the Glade Arch. It’s not that far, and once we settle on a location, I promise to give you privacy. Come on.” He stood, offering her his hand.

Jane leaned back. “I don’t think so.”

His face fell. “You don’t trust me?”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

She didn’t answer.

“You can’t go back in time, Jane, but I promise you can find closure.”

She remained seated.

“I think you should do this,” he said softly. “I believe Samantha would want you to.”

He looked down at her for a few moments before starting around the statue toward the path that lay beyond. She remained frozen for a solid count of thirty. When she finally stood, she hugged her book and whispered, “Closure.”

The old man in the overcoat perked up as she drew near. He made a feeble attempt to beg, jangling his cup of coins. She didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge him.

Mark waited for her at the path’s opening. “Good girl.”

She stopped and stared up at him. “I can do this.”

They’d walked no more than a hundred yards when she whispered, “Is that beggar following us?”

Mark turned. “Probably hoping I’ll cough up another couple bucks.”

“I guess,” she said. “Doesn’t it seem like he’s moving quicker than before?”

He laughed. “I can take him.”

“I don’t know. He makes me nervous.”

Mark veered left to cross East Drive, where he abandoned the walking path for the cover of the trees.

“Where are we going?” Jane asked. “I thought we were heading toward Cedar Hill.”

“Shortcut.”

She followed, hurrying to keep up. “Why are you walking so fast?”

“You want to lose that beggar, don’t you?”

They picked their way along the uneven terrain, sidestepping tree roots that rose from the ground like giant knuckles. Twice Jane came close to losing her footing while navigating a rocky patch. “We passed the Boathouse parking lot back there.” She jerked a thumb over her left shoulder. “Are you sure we’re going the right direction?”

“This way,” he said, leading them deeper into the trees. The ground was soft, covered in shifting layers of red and gold. Crisp-edged leaves somersaulted through patches of vivid brilliance where breaks in the canopy allowed the sun’s illumination to pass through.

“Are you sure?” she asked, keeping pace.

Rather than answer, he continued to shush and crunch through the quiet piles. “Watch out.” He indicated a fallen log, nearly obscured by the leaves in her path.

Skirting it, she tried again. “I think we’re going the wrong way.”

Mark turned. “Smell that,” he said lifting his chin high, drawing a noisy breath. “Decay and deliverance. There’s nothing sweeter.”

Jane slowed. She glanced from side to side. “We’re still headed west. Shouldn’t we be going north?”

Mark waited for her to catch up. Placing a hand on Jane’s back,
he pointed deep into the trees. “There’s a lovely secluded spot not far ahead. I think it would be an ideal place for our ritual.”

Resisting the pressure of his hand, Jane stutter-stepped. “I thought we were going to the grassy hill,” she said in a small voice.

“Too many people,” Mark said. “A ritual like ours would attract attention. I know of a quiet place with a sloping rock behind a giant sycamore. A far better setting to pour out your heart.”

She stopped. “Where are you taking me?”

“If you truly long to be free, Jane,” he whispered into her ear, “then this is your only path.” Though his tone coaxed, it was the pressure of his hand on her back that propelled her through the trees. “Right through there.”

“Stop.” Her body went rigid. “Why did you bring me here?” Jane looked up, down, side to side, like a little bird caught in a surprise cage. Book tight against her chest, she stared past him, shaking her head. “No.” The refusal came out hoarse and soft. She tried again. “Please. No.”

“See?” He pointed deeper into the dense woods toward a stone outcropping just beyond a massive tree. “You can see it from here. A sacred place, don’t you agree?”

Again, Jane shook her head.

He locked a hand on her arm. “Come on, we’ll do this together.”

“Don’t make me go in there.”

“Wouldn’t Samantha want you to be brave, Jane?”

She sucked in a breath. “How do you know where Samantha died?” Wrenching out of his grip, she didn’t wait for an answer. Sprinting back the way they’d come, she’d gotten no more than twenty feet when, with a yelp, she stopped cold.

The old man in the overcoat blocked her path.

Mark shushed through the leaves to join her. “I think the better question is: How do
you
know?”

Clean shaven now, the old man held his missing beard in one hand and a gun in the other. He shook his head slowly but didn’t say a word.

“What’s happening?” Jane asked him. “What’s going on?”

Mark held out his hand. “Give me the book.”

“But … it’s all I have left of her,” she said.

“No,” Mark said. “It’s all
we
have left of her. Give it to me.”

Jane loosened her grip on the blue-bound copy and handed it to him.

Mark removed his glasses, placed them in a pocket, opened the book’s front cover and read aloud: “To Laura.” The corners of his mouth tugged downward. “May life be your Wonderland, Love, Dad.”

“I don’t know why it says that,” Jane said. “Samantha never explained that inscription.”

“How could she?” the old man asked. “She was dead when you took it from her.” He holstered his gun beneath his coat. “And her name wasn’t Samantha. It was Laura.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

He opened his collar wide enough to expose the White Rabbit necklace around his neck. “I’m her father, that’s who.”

“Samantha’s father?” Her mouth dropped open. “The police chief?”

“Laura,” he corrected again. “And only an inspector.”

“He tricked me into coming here.” She pointed at Mark. “He’s the one who killed her. Who else could have known where she died?”

“Who else, indeed?” The older man asked. “But what I don’t understand is how you lured my daughter in here. She never would have come this way on her own. Never.”

“
She
followed me. Really, she did.” Jane shook her head vehemently. “You have to believe me. I would never have hurt Samantha. She meant everything to me. Everything. I only took her book so that she’d talk to me.”

“She followed you in here?” The old man’s voice cracked. “Because you stole her book?”

Jane kept shaking her head. “But it turned out she wasn’t my Samantha. Samantha would never have pushed me away. She never would have said such terrible things.”

“She
followed
you in here?” he repeated as he grabbed the book from Mark’s hands. “For this?” Dropping his head, he pinched the bridge of his nose and covered his eyes.

“Don’t you see, there’s been a mistake.” Jane twisted between the
two men. “It’s him. He did it.”

Mark laid a steadying hand on the older man’s shaking shoulders. “We were afraid we’d never find who murdered Laura. But you were right,” he said to Jane. “Victims return to the scene of the crime, too. Especially when it’s their only chance to catch a killer.”

“You’re the killer,” Jane screeched. “She must have told you how she felt about me. That’s how you knew I’d be here today.” Turning to the cop, she said, “Don’t you see? He bought that book to set me up. He’s the one you should be arresting.”

As the older man snapped handcuffs on Jane’s wrists, Mark pulled his book from the messenger bag. He opened the front cover. “To Mark.” His voice trembled and his eyes glistened. “Stay curious as life’s adventures unfold. Love, Dad.” He waited until the older man looked up again. “I’ve had this book for a very long time, haven’t I?”

The cop’s jaw was tight. “Long time.”

Jane swallowed. “I don’t understand.”

“My sister’s ritual was to read this book at the statue on her birthday every year,” Mark said.

“But … how could I know that? She wouldn’t talk to me.”

“Is that supposed to justify killing her?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” Jane said. “But she got so angry with me. I couldn’t make her understand. When she tried to get away, I lost my temper. I only meant to stop her long enough to listen.”

“You stopped her, all right.”

“I never would have hurt my Samantha,” Jane cried. “It was an accident.”

The older man faced her with bared teeth and red eyes. “Let’s go.”

“But
he
promised me a chance to tell her how I felt.” Jane’s voice was thin and shrill as she spun to face Mark. “You promised. What about my closure?”