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The spray of lilies on Marcus’s casket, his parents’ tears as they console one another on the front row, and the sound of “Amazing Grace” bring back memories of Clayton’s funeral, and suddenly, I can’t bear the pain of my memories. A panic attack starts building as I stare at Marcus’s face in the picture Perry took of him for WKNX’s website, now displayed in a dark mahogany frame on a tall metal stand.
Marcus’s face morphs into the picture displayed beside Clayton’s coffin, the photo of him in a black tuxedo and me in a white lace ballgown. But I close my eyes and try not to remember.
I try to think of something else, anything else, but both their faces haunt me. I excuse myself and head toward the bathroom as sweat pools all over my body and my heart rate soars. I walk faster, afraid I may faint, but once I reach the one-person-only restroom and take a few deep breaths, my panic attack slowly recedes.
After I splash cold water on my neck, I calm down. Once I’m gathered enough to return to the service, I open the bathroom door, and next in line is Perry. I walk right past him as if he doesn’t exist, and when I pass by, I sense him eyeing me from behind.
A nagging feeling comes over me. Ever since Marcus’s death a few days ago, a part of me has been wondering if he could have been murdered, and my gut says I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t do some digging.
“Wait, Perry. Can I ask you something?” I turn and hold up my index finger as I notice his lowered eyes, which must have been studying my rear end.
He lifts his eyes to my face. “I suppose.”
I take a deep breath. “Believe me, you’re the last person in the world I want to have a conversation with right now, but this is about Marcus. Do you know whose secret he was about to expose in his story? Because he kept telling me it was big, and I can’t help thinking, ‘What if someone caused the accident intentionally because they were onto him?’” Maybe he was secretly doing something with the Allegra Hudson case. He already had access to her police report.
Perry steps toward me and whispers even though there’s no one around who can hear us. “Marcus was tight-lipped about the details of his story, and he didn’t want to tell me who it was about until it was complete. What I do know is no one could’ve caused the accident, because the autopsy showed that his death was caused from anaphylaxis. Apparently, a barista accidentally put almond milk in his coffee that morning when he went to the Beanery. The wreck was caused by his severe allergic reaction behind the wheel, not someone running him off the road or whatever you were thinking.”
I can’t believe it. “There’s no way he would forget to mention his nut allergy at the Beanery, and I thought almond milk was a special order kind of thing?” None of what Perry is saying sounds right.
“Seems like an honest mistake, according to the police. A very unfortunate one. I don’t think it has anything to do with his exposé, Madeleine. I really don’t.”
“What about his laptop? Can we take a look? Maybe there’s something—”
Perry shakes his head. “Destroyed in the wreckage.”
I sigh in frustration. Marcus never made a hard copy of anything he was secretly working on, because it might get leaked. “Of course it was.”
“Listen, nothing’s going to bring him back. And if you go rooting around after his death, it’s only going to make it that much harder on his family. And I don’t think Marcus would want that. Do you?”
Perry makes a valid point, especially since his parents have already lost their other child tragically as well, but I don’t think Marcus would want me to ignore the fact that this all seems a little too convenient for whoever he was about to out. I play along, though, because Perry might be trying to get me off the case so he can exploit Marcus’s death and suspected murder for his own reasons.
“Of course. Well, I’m going back in. Thanks for answering my questions.” I no longer want to engage with him and whatever motives he may have.
“Yeah,” Perry answers as he walks toward the bathroom. He turns again. “Impressive, what you’ve done for yourself.”
I’m shocked to hear him admit it. “Thanks.”
He hangs his head and gives me a slight smile as he walks into the bathroom and shuts the door. Perhaps that was his way of hinting at an apology. I don’t know. I’ve never seen him apologize to anyone.
***
“HELLO?” A FEW DAYS after Marcus’s funeral, I answer my phone, not knowing who is on the other end as it reads Private.
“Ms. Barton?” The older, scruffy voice sounds like Sam Elliott.
“Yes. This is she.”
“This is Detective Jeff Wentworth. I got the message you left me at the office this morning. You said you have concerns about the unfortunate death of our mutual friend Marcus Roach. Is that correct?”
I’m nervous about speaking to Wentworth. “Yes, it is. I know he was working on a big story. An exposé, actually. It was going to out someone important, and I know ruining someone’s life like that is a valid motive for murder. I was wondering if I could convince you to look into it, since you were friendly and all. Maybe his death is even connected to Allegra Hudson’s.”
Wentworth sighs as if I’m exasperating and clueless. “Now, Ms. Barton, I really don’t think this is something you need to worry—”
I jump in. “What if the Beanery didn’t mess up his order? What if someone else tampered with his drink after he left? We don’t know where he went that morning, after all.”
Wentworth clears his throat. “The case seems pretty cut-and-dried, unfortunately. Someone brand-new was being trained at the Beanery last week, and they say it’s possible they mixed up his order with someone else’s or reached for the wrong milk. I’ll do some additional digging if it makes you feel better, but this was clearly a mistake. We do have more pressing matters that require our immediate attention right now.”
“Right. You mean the Hudson case, because it has national potential.”
He laughs as if to belittle me. “Ma’am, I don’t know how you think we do business around here, but we don’t work that way. We work on our cases based on the evidence, not based on what’s popular.”
I want to say that I know all about how he conducts his investigations, that he tries to close murder cases as quickly as he can and make them seem less serious than they are. That’s the reason they haven’t referred to Allegra’s death as a murder yet. They don’t want the public to panic and think his police-chief cousin is doing a bad job of keeping crime down in Knoxville, and they don’t want the media to get the idea that it’s a dangerous place to live. But I hold my tongue for Marcus’s sake. “I’d appreciate it if you looked into it. It could be something...”
“Is that all, Ms. Barton?”
We both know he’s not going to give Marcus’s death another thought. I know a blow-off when I hear it.
I roll my eyes and bite my tongue. “That’s all. Thanks for your time.”
Once again, it’s up to me to do Wentworth’s job. If anyone reveals the truth about Marcus and Allegra, it’ll be me. As tears roll down my cheeks, I pull up the cell phone picture of Marcus and me eating pizza at Barley’s last year. He was such a good friend, like the brother I never had. It feels like losing Clayton all over again, and the grief tries to smother me.
I quickly pray not to go back to the awful state of mind I was in after I lost Clayton. I became consumed with anger and sadness, and I can’t afford to go there again. I have a strong hunch that if I can find Allegra’s killer, Marcus’s death will make sense somehow. Perhaps the big exposé Marcus was working on was about Allegra’s killer. The two deaths could easily be related, but I haven’t one shred of evidence to prove it. I guess I have a story to get back to.
***
A WEEK HAS PASSED SINCE Allegra’s death, and despite my research, I haven’t found any evidence pointing toward her killer. The police said they had all the evidence needed to continue investigating and allowed Allegra’s family to cremate her and have a funeral. No press were allowed anywhere near the church.
I flip through the church directory of Second Baptist of Knoxville, where the funeral was held, hoping to find information on Allegra. Maybe she was part of some close-knit groups within her church, or perhaps she was a leader or teacher. Nothing sticks out except a list of the names of those in her and Connor’s Sunday school class. The roster means nothing to me, but there might be some loose-lipped ladies I can check out. I circle the names of those whose addresses are closest to Allegra’s and decide to scope out the neighborhood again.
Only four women from the list live in Sequoyah Hills, and three have already slammed their door in my face after claiming they have nothing to say—except that Allegra was a good Christian woman and no one had it out for her. The fourth lady claims, “It had to be an accident, and anyone who says otherwise is simply trying to torture her sweet family in order to sell dramatic stories to the press.”
That stung.
I prepare to exit the neighborhood but get another text before pulling out onto Kingston Pike, so I pause. Leaving the neighborhood so soon? If at first, you don’t succeed...—a source.
My window is still down since I’ve been peering at the gigantic homes, and another vehicle pulls into the neighborhood and a familiar voice calls out.
“Madeleine, hey! Wait a second.”
I throw my car in Park and look in the rearview mirror. Ivy sticks her head out of her window and waves. No one else is on the road, so I throw my car into Reverse until we meet face-to-face.
Ivy lowers her Ray-Bans and pulls her scarf close to her neck. “I was going to call you today. I spoke to Connor about you and the ‘investigation,’ and he’s all in. If Wentworth doesn’t provide any answers for him in the next few days, he says he’ll tell you everything he knows.”
I wrinkle my forehead, surprised people have such faith in me. “Really?”
“Yeah, he says he knows of you from your Facebook page and thinks you’re the real deal. Honestly, he wants answers, and if he thinks you can help, he’s going to do whatever he has to do to help dig up the truth.”
Perhaps my luck is changing. “Tell him to call me when he’s ready.”
“I sure will.” Ivy smiles. “You should go feel Mayven Bennett out. We’re not exactly each other’s biggest fans, but she did know and love Allegra too. Maybe she’ll have some information from their hoity-toity social circle. It’s worth a shot. She lives right there.”
She points at what must be a ten-thousand-square-foot riverfront mansion that somehow looks cottagey. Tranquil landscaping and old charm make it the perfect combination of livability and luxury. If I were Ivy, I’d have a chip on my shoulder, too, if the resident of this home stole my best friend.
***
I APPROACH THE TWELVE-foot-tall mahogany front door with a gulp of intimidation. To my surprise, the lady of the house answers her front door all by her itty-bitty self—and itty-bitty is an understatement. Clad in what appears to be a snug size-two Victoria Beckham sheath dress, Mayven Bennett is no more than a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet, and she’s at least five foot six.
“How can I help you?” she asks robotically.
I can’t stop staring at her raven-colored hair slicked back into a perfect ponytail draped over her right shoulder. She looks ready for a cover shoot. I imagine she could “help me” in several ways I don’t care to mention, like how to sip my tea correctly, how to lose a few pounds, or how to enunciate like a lady.
“Oh, well, I heard you were friends with the late Allegra Hudson. Is that correct?” I shuffle papers around so she can’t read her scribbled and underlined name on the top of my stack.
“Can I assume Ivy Richards has informed you of my relationship with Allegra, then?” When she says Ivy’s name, it’s as if she’s trying not to snarl and I’m guilty by association.
“Why would you assume that?”
“Dear, my cameras picked up you two in front of the house, having some kind of ‘street conversation’ before she pointed you to my front door.” Her voice doesn’t elevate as she accuses me of lurking around her house with someone she clearly doesn’t like, not even when she makes air quotes around “street conversation.”
“To be perfectly honest, yes. She did inform me of your friendship. She also said you may be willing to help her and Connor figure out what really happened to Allegra. Is that something you’d be willing to be a part of? As you probably know, they aren’t very pleased with the progress the police have made thus far.”
Mayven seems to consider my words. “I’m very well aware of that. I’m not too impressed myself. I feel terrible for the boys, to have their mother taken away like that. Who could do such a horrific thing?”
I pat my stack of papers and raise my eyebrows. “That’s what we want to get to the bottom of.”
Mayven opens the door wider. “All right. Come on inside. I’ll assist you however I can.”
I follow her into the living room—one of them anyway. I lower myself onto a stiff but no doubt expensive armchair across from Mayven, who sits on the matching French provincial sofa. I glance around the space and inhale the swanky décor.
I’m surrounded by ornate moldings, twenty-foot ceilings adorned with ancient wooden beams, and pristine curtains over enormous windows that reveal a beautiful view of the Tennessee River. I take a deep breath to gather myself. What I really want to do is drop my jaw, gawk, and ooh and aah over this incredible house. Instead, I grab my BIC ballpoint pen from the purse I bought at Target and attempt to remain professional. “To start, just tell me about how you met Allegra and what your relationship was like. I need to know as much about her as I possibly can.” And as much as I can about you too. Because as far as I’m concerned, everyone is a suspect.
Mayven crosses her ankles and clasps one palm over the other, her perfect posture making me aware of my slumped back.
“When Allegra and Connor moved here from Powell, as I’m sure Ivy has informed you, Allegra and I instantly hit it off. She and I were unalike personality-wise, but we really connected on interior design and décor since our tastes are similar. She wanted to integrate herself into this neighborhood, and I took her under my wing as far as introductions went.
“My husband and I head up several charities. He’s a stockbroker and an investment adviser to everyone who’s anyone in Knoxville, and I’m a former adviser myself, but I now serve on the HOA board for our neighborhood. Many people knew of Allegra, especially after her first book was turned into a movie, but not everyone is a mystery reader, you know. I helped her redecorate their home when they moved in, and she shared her writing with me before she sent it off to her editor since I’ve always been an avid reader.”
I finish my notes on how they met and wiggle my pen back and forth between my first two fingers. Nothing points toward any conflict.
“Do you know of anyone she didn’t jive so well with? Any enemies, frenemies, or people with a chip on their shoulder over her success, perhaps?” I picture Ivy’s face and wait for Mayven to confirm my thoughts. I like Ivy, but I can’t help thinking something’s a little off about how her friendship with Allegra disintegrated.
Mayven glances at the ceiling then me. “No, not that I recall. Unless you include Ivy Richards in the ‘frenemy’ category. I’m not so sure she was always genuinely supportive of Allegra’s success. She always seemed to be making her feel guilty for the time she spent furthering her career. When Allegra was on her last book tour, Ivy let her know how selfish she thought it was that the boys had to be without their mother for a whole month. But if Allegra had been a man, no one would’ve said a word, would they? Allegra wanted to bring the boys along, but they would’ve missed baseball and football camp, and she didn’t want to take away from that.”
My eyebrows rise, and I’m interested in the drama surrounding Ivy and Allegra’s friendship.
Mayven continues, “I’m not saying I think Ivy did anything. In fact, I’m quite positive she didn’t, and never would, but there was bitterness and strife between them, and you did ask about any frenemies.” Mayven switches ankles without missing a beat.
“Was the problem Allegra’s success or simply how much she changed?” I stop taking notes so I can study Mayven’s body language.
Mayven uncrosses her legs and tugs on her dress with her perfectly manicured blush nails. “Ivy always said it was Allegra who did all the changing, but maybe it was just growth. Ivy wanted Allegra to remain stagnant so they could be on the same page, if you want my thoughts on the matter. Ivy was particularly irritated that Allegra made so many new friends with her rise in fame. She didn’t think anyone who hadn’t known Allegra her entire life could possibly want to be her friend for the right reasons, and she made that known, especially to me.”
She doesn’t seem to be lying, but she does seem a little agitated and perhaps biased when discussing Ivy.
“If you don’t consider her worth looking into, let’s move on. Was there anyone else you can think of who might—”
Mayven bounces up in her seat. “I can’t believe I forgot! There was that one teacher at Garrett’s school. You know, Allegra’s younger son. This man was assigned as Garrett’s teacher last September, but then Allegra and Connor moved Garrett out of his class because he and Allegra had dated before she met Connor. It caused quite the stir among the school staff. I believe his name was Lane something. He never could get over Allegra. He would randomly but conveniently bump into her at the grocery store and gym. It always bothered Allegra. Connor didn’t like it either.”
I start scribbling, my heart racing at all the possibilities this information brings. I lift my head to drop a question in. “Was he actually bothering Allegra, or was Connor the jealous type?”
Mayven interlaces her fingers on her lap as if reining herself in from showing excitement. “I wouldn’t say Connor is the jealous type, no. I think Lane made quite the idiot of himself years ago after she moved on with Connor, and Connor never forgot about it. Connor’s a gentleman, always was, but Lane pushed him to the edge a few times. Connor even encouraged Allegra to pursue a restraining order against Lane, but Allegra insisted Lane was harmless and ignoring him would be best. Ultimately, Allegra didn’t feel comfortable having Garrett in Lane’s classroom. She thought he might be tempted to pump Garrett for information about her or her marriage. It just wasn’t a good fit.”
My wheels are spinning an intricate web of facts, suspects, and insights that propel me into another unbearable headache. Ivy had jealousy issues with Mayven and Allegra, Mayven doesn’t care for Ivy, and Connor seemingly stole Allegra from her ex-boyfriend, Lane, who apparently couldn’t let go of their relationship. With so many possible motives, I grab the back of my head and hear that awful high-pitched noise in my ears again. Only this time, it’s completely deafening.
Mayven’s lips are spilling more details that I desperately want to jot down, but I hear none of them. I cover my ears and wince in pain. Mayven’s hand touches my knee, and I open my eyes to see her face mere inches from mine.
“Are you okay?” she mouths, almost in slow motion and with a look of concern.
I have an urge to run out like I did at Marcus’s funeral, and nothing else matters at the moment. It’s like I’m trapped in a darkening haze. I grab my belongings. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to go to the doctor. I promise, I’ll look into the Lane thing.”
Mayven’s hand is on the small of my back, guiding me toward the front door as I hold my head with one hand and my things with the other. I scurry across the crunchy frozen lawn to my car, the noise in my ears still shrill but subsiding once I’m outdoors. When I’m in the car and moving, the sound gradually fades away, and I dial my family doctor.
When I explain my situation, the nurse says to come in right away. I arrive in the waiting area and bounce my knee up and down until the nurse calls me back into an exam room. There, I explain the problems I’ve been having to Dr. Davenport’s nurse as I smell and taste the fresh Lysol spray in the air. She purses her lips, tilts her head, and leaves, and I text my mom to fill her in as well. Before she can text me back, Dr. Davenport walks in.
He arrives with a frown. “Hi, Miss Madeleine. My nurse says you’ve been having headaches and a loud ringing in the ears, and you thought you should run this ‘new thing’ by me?”
Dr. Davenport looks uncharacteristically concerned. Migraines are my obvious assumption, so despite the pained expression on his face, I remain calm. “Yeah, that’s pretty much it. I mean, it kind of sounds like textbook migraine issues to me. Don’t you think?” My eyes grow large, begging for reassurance.
Dr. Davenport takes a seat on his rolling chair and wheels right up to my face. I lean backward as he looks into my eyes, studying me. “Madeleine, I have to ask. You aren’t trying to play some kind of joke on me, are you?”
I look around the room like I’m on Candid Camera, getting punk’d, or something. “A joke? Me?” I laugh nervously even though Dr. Davenport knows me almost as well as his own children. I was in school with them from kindergarten on.
He moves closer and sighs. “You came in here two days ago with this exact same theory. I gave you some migraine medication to try and said we would do more testing if it didn’t work. We also talked about the possibility of it being your PTSD again that was triggered. Are you telling me you have no memory of that visit?”
I’m dumbfounded. It’s like my brain can’t produce a thought well enough to form words, so I say nothing and scramble through my purse until I stumble upon a prescription bottle dated November 10, which confirms what he’s saying. I hear my phone vibrate and pluck it out to read a new text from my mom.
You’ve gone to the doctor again? Is everything okay?
My face grows warm, and my head tingles as if on fire. I dwell on the word “again.” The air is thin, the room is spinning, and I have the urge to run, so I rush to pick up my belongings before I have a full-blown panic attack.
Dr. Davenport reaches for me. “Are you okay? Don’t leave. It could be as simple as your PTSD symptoms returning from the accident. If you’re embarrassed about it or in shock, we can sit down and talk this out, just the two of us. You did just go through another significant loss in your life, so setbacks can be expected.”
I pull my phone out and check every day of the last two weeks on my calendar. A dot appears on November 10. I click the date, and it says, “Dr. Davenport 11am.” My head aches as I read the entry I have no recollection of making. None of this makes sense. How could I have forgotten this?
I muster a few excuses on my way out the door. “Nothing to talk about. I remember being here, I just... I didn’t really want to take the medicine yet. That’s all. I’ve got to go. I forgot I have an appointment in fifteen minutes across town, and it’s important.”
“Please, call me when you calm down. I’m here if you need to talk, Madeleine,” Dr. Davenport says just before I hit the hallway and speed-walk past the lobby. It’s like I’ve held my breath for the last two minutes, and when I reach the parking lot, I finally gasp for air.
How do I not remember coming here? Are there other things I’ve forgotten too? Am I that stressed out? Is this something serious like a brain tumor?
I close my eyes and focus on how I got the prescription now in my purse, and everything is blank and dark. An image flashes through my mind, and I glimpse my hand reaching for the prescription bottle at the pharmacy drive-through. But I can’t be certain whether it’s an actual memory or an assumption my mind has somehow made up to fill in the blanks. I start to spiral out of control as I consider what memories I can actually trust, if any, but get distracted when I hear a familiar ding from within my purse.
So, you forgot something...Big deal! Don’t freak out so much, and don’t forget the real story here... keep digging. Your time’s ticking. You’re not Mad, but you are getting warmer—a source.
This time, I read and don’t respond. “A source” doesn’t think I’m crazy, but I’m starting to wonder. Mad is capitalized, but maybe that’s just a typo. They’re right. Time is ticking, but in which direction, I wonder. Everything suddenly seems backward.