Chapter Seven

“You need to contact Brad's family,” I said. I was sitting on a bench outside the morgue. The bench overlooked a small garden, the borders filled with pretty flowers that offset the utilitarian appearance of the low brick building. In the center of the garden was a metal sundial, perched on a plinth. I wondered idly how many people sat on this bench, contemplating their dead inside the building. Did anyone feel as relieved as I did? “There's his mom, Anna, and his father, Roy. He has a brother, named David, too.”

“You're legally his next of kin, however,” said Detective Logan. He stood next to the bench, and seemed to loom over me like an ominous raincloud. In reality, he simply stood there with his arms folded. Mostly, he was quiet. On the drive to the morgue, he asked a few questions, but they were pretty confined to his instructions: Wait here. Come this way. Are you ready? Do you recognize the deceased? Are you sure? Sign this. Sign here too. And finally, let's go outside.

“I haven't seen him for a long time. That is, until last night.” It was terrifying when he fell on top of me, spurting blood profusely. For some reason, I found it less horrifying to see Brad lying on the metal table, his body covered by a thick sheet, rolled back just far enough to allow me to view his motionless face. Yes, I said, that's him. That's Brad Van den Berg, my husband. The words felt thick and uneven inside my mouth.

“It doesn't matter. Legally, you're still...”

“His next of kin. I know, you already said,” I replied, bumping the toe of my borrowed sneakers against the ground. Vanessa was kind to lend them to me even though they were a little tight. Now that I thought about it, they must have been too big for her. “But I don't want to organize his funeral or memorial. I prefer not to deal with anything. His parents will insist on making all the arrangements. Or perhaps David will. Can you notify them?”

“I can.”

“I have their contact details. I don't know why I kept them.”

“Were you close?”

I shook my head. “No.” I gazed at the flowers. They were so pretty and naturally wild. Not at all like the garden in the home Brad and I shared. That garden was a perfect sweep of lawn with flawlessly spaced shrubs that were all neatly manicured. I never lifted a finger. We had a gardener for that. Brad insisted on it, of course, but I must admit having no particular interest in garden maintenance. In the last few months, however, I found surprising pleasure in keeping my small yard neat and tidy although it was far from perfect. For Brad, everything had to be impeccable, at all times. Including me. “I have their numbers at home. They're not in my phone.”

“I'll take you home.”

I looked up, surprised. “I can go back to my house now?”

“You can. The crime scene detectives completed their investigations.”

“Do they know who killed Brad?”

“That's not their job. They’re paid to find all the evidence. My job is to investigate what they dig up.”

“I would greatly appreciate a lift home please, Detective.”

We fell back into an uncomfortable silence as Detective Logan drove and I stared out the passenger window. Despite my repulsion, my thoughts kept flickering between the last two times I saw Brad. Last night, he was alive; today, he was dead. Detective Logan had it right though: Brad must have come to Calendar for a reason. I couldn't imagine it was simply to serve me with divorce papers. He often told me he'd never agree to a divorce, and I could never get away from him. Yet, I did! And both times, he found me. I wondered how he explained my disappearance to other people. I consulted a private investigator not long before I left — under my sister's name, of course, and I paid in cash — who warned me to never search for myself online. Not even out of curiosity. He said some people put up tempting websites with trackers and I could unwittingly leave a trail. So I resisted any urge. No doubt, Brad made himself look good, and portrayed me as the bad spouse. A master of charm and manipulation, he was widely liked and admired. His charming side was wonderful when I first met him, but no man could keep that act up twenty-four hours a day, week after week. His mask always slipped and revealed the ugliness behind it.

The first time was only a week after we married.

Looking back, maybe I should have been more skeptical while we were still dating, and perhaps I would have realized his charm was only a disguise long before then. The subtle digs, the sly manipulations, the criticism followed by excessive praise were all red flags I ignored.

I shook my head, chasing away the thoughts, and when I looked out the window again, I realized we were only a couple of streets away from home. Instead of wondering what my house looked like, I pondered if this were the same route Brad took yesterday. Detective Logan said there was a rental car parked on my street. Did Brad sit in it, watching and waiting for me? Then another thought occurred to me. “You said Brad got here the day before he was murdered?” I said, glancing at the detective.

He looked at me and nodded.

“I thought I was being watched yesterday. If that's relevant.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought someone came into my shop. Things were moved around. And there was a bouquet of flowers in the doorway, just like the ones Brad used to give me.”

“Could they have been from him?”

“There was no name on the card, but they were the same flowers. Red peonies. I was taken aback by them.”

“Huh.”

“Later on, I thought someone must have been in the back room of my shop. Now I'm sure of it. And when I got my bike to ride home, both the tires were flat.”

“That's not unusual. Your bike tires, I mean.”

I shrugged. He was right, bicycle tires do get flat but it seemed like such a coincidence on top of everything else. Was Brad intending to make it difficult for me to get home? Did he plan to intercept me before I reached my house? Except, I didn't go directly home. I went to the bike shop and had a drink with Sara at the wine bar. Neither of those things were part of my regular routine. Yet, if Brad wanted to see me, he could have while I was walking home or even as soon as I arrived. What stopped him? “I think he was trying to unsettle me,” I decided.

“Unsettle you? How so?”

“By making me paranoid, I guess. I think he wanted me to wonder if he were behind those coincidental occurrences just to put me on edge.”

“I'll look into who ordered the flowers.”

“Thank you.”

“If they came from your husband, do you think he was here to try to win you back?”

“It's possible, but it would never have worked. He must have known that.” Even as I said it, I knew Brad could have intended that. Since when did my opinion matter when it came to something Brad wanted? “He regarded me as a prize he won, something that reflected well on him. There goes Brad Van den Berg. He got the best catch, Meredith. Don't they look good together?” I snorted.

“You don't seem very sure that he should have known you weren’t interested.”

I held back a mirthless laugh. “To most people, having your spouse disappear for more than a year is clearly a clue they don't want to be found by you. Brad wasn't like most people. What Brad wanted, Brad got.”

Detective Logan tugged the wheel and slid to a stop outside my house. The street was quiet but I noticed an unusual amount of neighbors outside tending their gardens. Of course they were. They must be dying to know what happened at my house. I left in an ambulance, but by then, the lights of another ambulance illuminated the dark sky, along with at least three police cars.

As we stepped out, I held my head high. Across the road, Jerry was clipping his perfectly neat hedge while staring unashamedly at me. Without waiting for the detective, I opened my garden gate and stepped directly into the path of a dark-haired woman with tendrils of hair slipping from her bouncing ponytail. “You're Meredith Blake, owner of Blake's Boutique,” she said, thrusting her phone towards me, a recording app open. “Alyssa Michaels, Calendar Times. What can you tell me about the man who was murdered here last night?”

“I, uh...” I stammered, blinking.

“Is it true he's your husband?” she continued.

“Get out of here, Alyssa,” said Detective Logan, stepping around me and pushing away the phone.

“I'm a reporter. I can ask her questions,” she said, standing her ground.

“Not on Ms. Blake's private property,” he said, indicating the still open gate.

“Has Ms. Blake been arrested?” she asked with what looked like sheer optimism.

“No, she has not,” said Detective Logan.

“Is she assisting you with your inquiries?”

“Would you like to press charges for trespassing?” Detective Logan asked me.

“Fine, I'm going now, but I'll need an official statement,” said the reporter. “This will be front page news. I'd really like to get your side of the story,” she added to me, back-stepping until she was on the sidewalk.

“You'll get a statement when I have one to give,” he replied, shutting the gate behind her. “Let's go,” he said to me. “Sorry about that.”

“It's fine. I've spoken to journalists before. I know how to handle myself,” I replied, remembering when journalists followed me incessantly. After Brad and I started dating, they only increased. Apparently, we were a golden couple. Little did they know! I slipped once and leaked something to one of the reporters, but paid the price later. I learned to say “no comment” after that, something that became much easier as I faded from public life.

“Don't engage with her. The Calendar Times may not be one of the bigger newspapers, but Alyssa still wants a big story. If she causes you any problems, call me.”

“Thank you.” I patted my pockets for my keys, then realized I didn't have them. Just as I started to say I had to call a handyman, I noticed the splintering around the lock. A huge chunk was torn from the architrave, chipping the paintwork.

“You'll need to get a new one,” said Detective Logan, pushing the door open with one hand while he snatched up the crime scene tape in the other, allowing me to duck under it.

“A new door?” I gasped, seeing the lock hanging off. I started to calculate how much it would cost but soon stopped. I never bought a door in my life. It sounded expensive. Worse still, I definitely had to consult the landlady now, rather than just pay for a handyman out of pocket.

“A new lock,” he clarified. “The door will be fine once it's sanded and touched up with paint; looks like the architrave is fixable too.”

“Great,” I said softly. I stopped caring about the door as soon as I saw the fat droplets of dried blood on the porch step. They continued into the house where a dark red stain seeped into the floor, although now it was all dry.

“There's a deep cleaning company based in Hallowell that eradicates all traces of things like this. I'll give you their number.” Detective Logan pushed the door closed behind us, away from the prying eyes of Alyssa Michaels and my neighbors.

“Thank you,” I said, tearing my gaze away and stepping further inside. A sweep of the room confirmed everything was just as I left it. The only indication that anything occurred here was at the door and just inside. “I'll get you the Van den Bergs' numbers,” I said. “I have them written down.”

Detective Logan's eyebrows rose, almost imperceptibly. “Old school.”

“When I left, I couldn't take my cell phone with me. I feared it would be used to track me so I wiped it clean and left it behind. But I thought I might need the numbers one day so I copied them onto a sheet of paper while I was in a coffee shop. I left them in a storage locker with some other things I needed to take with me, including a new phone. I know all that sounds strange, but I was trying to plan carefully for all the potential possibilities in my new life and I knew I'd never be able to retrieve anything I left behind. It took me a long time to plan,” I explained.

“There must have been family members you wanted to keep in touch with? Or friends?”

“I didn't want to put any loved ones in danger. My sister has a family and my parents just retired. I'm not sure which ones were still my friends by the time I left. Acquaintances? Yes, but real friends? No. Besides, it wouldn't have been safe to stay in touch. I had to cut every tie. And, look what happened? He found me anyway.” The detective’s eyes met mine and I wondered what he thought of my story. Did he believe me? Or think it was all an elaborate ruse devised by a clever killer?

“Is Blake your family name?” he asked, surprising me for a moment.

“Ah, no. Actually my sister's name is Blake. I adopted it just before I moved here. It's a way to stay connected, I guess, and common enough that no one would connect the dots. We were born only eighteen months apart. My real surname is Arden. Meredith Arden.” I waited for a hint of recognition but when I got none, I said, “I'll get you those numbers, Detective.”

When I first moved in, I stuffed them inside a barely-used drawer in the kitchen. I extracted the single sheet of paper with its long list of numbers and took it back to the living room where Detective Logan waited. “Here,” I said, thrusting it at him along with a sealed packet. “And the photos and my lawyer’s details.”

“I'll copy it and return it to you.”

“I doubt there's any hurry, but can I ask you something?”

“Okay.”

“Just one favor: can you please avoid talking about me to Brad's family? I want to move forward in my life, not backward. There’s no need for them to know I'm here.”

“They’ll ask questions.”

“Which I'm sure you're not at liberty to discuss!” I snapped, hoping he got my pointed comment.

The edges of Detective Logan's lips lifted into a small smile. He opened his mouth to say something when a pounding on the front door stopped him.

“Should I get that?” I asked. “What if it's that reporter?”

“It won't be,” he replied, “but I’ll open it anyway.”

With a wave of my hand, I welcomed him to. Truthfully, I hesitated at the very idea of opening the door. The last time I did, my dying, impaled, estranged husband crumpled on me. That image would take an awful long time to shake. Additionally, I was anticipating all the questions the reporter might ask next. Once she started digging into Brad's past, my own would surely come tumbling out. So, I followed him to the kitchen door, just close enough that I could see who was there, but far enough behind that I could easily step back, out of sight.

“Sam! I'm pleased to see you here,” came my friend, Sara's, voice. “Is Meredith okay? Is she here?”

Detective Logan glanced over his shoulder and I gave a small nod. I was so relieved to see Sara. The detective stepped back and ushered her inside.

“Meredith!” she cried, hurrying across the room when she saw me, carefully skirting around the red stain. “I heard what happened. They said you were taken by ambulance to the hospital? Are you okay? That bruise! Oh! You poor thing!”

“I fainted and hit my head, that's all,” I said. “It was mostly due to the shock.”

“I can only imagine! How terrible to have a strange man hammering on your door like that. You must have been so frightened.” She hugged me quickly and fiercely. “I'm so relieved you're all right. I would have come to the hospital last night but I only just heard the news. How can I assist you? I know plenty of help books on just about anything,” she finished with a lopsided smile that thoroughly endeared her to me.

“I'm fine, really,” I insisted. Behind Sara, Detective Logan hovered, clearly listening in. “But he wasn't any stranger. I knew him,” I admitted.

“You did? Is he a local? No one seems to know anything about his identity!”

“I'm leaving now,” said Detective Logan. “You have my number and I must remind you not to leave town.”

“That sounds ominous,” said Sara, straightening and standing shoulder-to-shoulder with me, facing the detective. I liked the show of solidarity. “Sam, surely you don't suspect the best dressed woman in town of being involved with that poor man's murder?”

“I'll speak with you again soon,” said Detective Logan. “Sara, nice to see you.” Without waiting for a reply, he disappeared through the door, pulling it shut behind him. Thankfully, the door could still be wedged shut inside the frame but I knew it was unsafe to leave for long.

“Now what was all that about?” asked Sara, a frown marring her forehead. “Do you have to give a statement? Was it an attempted robbery? A fight?”

“Sit down. I’d better tell you everything,” I said, “but I'm not sure you'll believe it.”

“Oh, try me. You can’t imagine all the crazy things I've heard and seen.”

We perched on the sofa, our backs to the sinister stain, and I blundered my way through the story. Starting with the previous night, I updated her, ending with the suspicions I shared with her at the bar. “I should have insisted on walking home with you!” she said, her jaw dropping. “My, gosh, Meredith, what an ordeal!”

“That's barely the tip of the iceberg,” I said, continuing into how I knew the dead man. I watched Sara's eyes grow bigger. “So, you see, I think I must be Detective Logan's number one suspect even though he hasn't arrested me… yet. I didn't kill Brad but my neighbor claims she saw me holding the knife! I just don't know who did kill him and why. Now I'm scared I'll be the one that gets arrested for his murder!” My jaw wobbled and I was ready to burst into tears.

“Sam Logan is no slouch when it comes to murder investigations but I understand why you're worried. I'm sure anyone would be,” said Sara, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. “And for what it's worth, I believe you. Brad sounds like a terrible man. I’ve only known you for less than a year but I just don't see you as a murderer. Not one bit!”

“You heard him. I'm forbidden to leave town. Not that I planned to! If anything, I want to solve this crime for myself!” I didn't add, before the newspapers discover my true identity. I shuddered at the thought. I would have no anonymity at all. So I withheld that part of the story and didn't tell Sara. How could I explain that previously, I was Arden, the world-famous model, someone awash with every resource available, and yet now, I had so little. The newspapers would love to depict my epic fall from grace. Couple that with the murder of my ex and I’d be tried in the court of public opinion within days. There was nowhere to run or hide.

Sara fixed me with a long look. “So? Why don't you?”

“It was a joke, Sara. A bad joke.” I sighed. “I'm no detective.”

“I don't see why not. I'm sure Sam will keep you in the loop, but if you want to know what's going on... well, you should delve into it and find out. I'd say you have a headstart too. Just by knowing everything there is to know about the victim!”

“Except I wouldn’t know where to start! Maybe the flower shop, but Detective Logan said he'd look into that. And my flat tires, although they could be unrelated. And there’s no way to determine if Brad really was in my shop since I don't have any security cameras.”

Sara nodded thoughtfully. “That horrid man must have been staying somewhere locally. That's where I would start. Find his hotel.”