By the time we rounded the corner, Martha Murray was nowhere to be seen.
“Damn!” I sighed. “I was sure she was tailing us.”
“Maybe she was so embarrassed by her outburst, that she scurried away rather than confronting you again. I'm sure Detective Logan must’ve read her the riot act!”
I gazed down Main Street, wondering if Martha planned to leave soon, and if she didn't, I expected David could persuade her to. “I hope so,” I said. “But I have a feeling this isn't the last time something related to Brad will encroach on my life.”
After profusely thanking Tess for allowing me to commandeer her lunch hour, I did what I originally planned to do. I headed home, took out my laptop, and attempted to do some work. Sylvie had already emailed me her resumé and on paper, she was the perfect candidate to assist me. Her business degree was approaching the end of its second year, so I knew she might not be permanent but she gave me the impression she would be a very good assistant all the same. I resolved to interview her the following week, and hire her immediately if I liked what I heard. That way, I could reopen the shop and quietly remain absent until all the gossip died down. It didn't escape me that every day the shop was closed, I lost money.
Then I remembered what David said: Brad left me everything. With the sale of the house, its contents, and the cars, I would be moderately wealthy. But did I really want that money? It made me feel faintly icky, and I struggled to shake that sensation throughout the rest of the day. Brad had no problem spending my money from my modeling days, badgering me into investing “for the good of both of us” and sinking large sums into his choice of purchases, with his name on the receipts. When I walked away from him, I blew it off and considered it the price I had to pay for my freedom.
After mulling over Tess's suggestion about the PI, I left a message for Sam in the late afternoon. Although I didn't expect him to return the call, I half-waited for it all evening, anticipating his voice whenever my phone beeped. Instead, Tess checked in on me and sparked a text conversation that made me smile. Sara called after Tess to see how I was doing and Candice called me too. Despite my worries, their genuine concern touched me. Not only that, but also their unending faith that I had nothing to with this terrible crime. For years, I yearned for friends like these and now that I had them, I found it heart-warming.
Finally, I snuggled into bed and fell into a dreamless sleep, waking later than I'd ever slept in before. The few days I got little to no sleep were a total contrast and now, I felt refreshed and energized. I took my time starting the coffee, and quickly made myself a bowl of yogurt and fruit that I took outside to my sun trap of a patio. I also carried a small stack of mail that I spirited from the mailbox before my neighbors could accost me. I opened the mail slowly as I ate, setting aside the fashion magazines to enjoy later. A couple of bills arrived and a letter I never expected to receive: an eviction notice!
I had six weeks to find another home!
While I never considered this rental house as my forever home, I nevertheless reveled in having a place of my own, especially one as pretty as this was. And the garden! I learned to enjoy gardening here. Now I would have to start all over again from the beginning. The ugly image of the vandalized shop window sprang into my head. Maybe the whole town didn’t want me here anymore? Maybe I’d have to start all over somewhere else entirely?
My shoulders dropped and my heart sank. Despite the horrible events of the past few days, I relished the warmth of a community rallying around me. Sara, Vanessa, Tammy, Tess, Candice, Karen... and even Sam. They were all so supportive no matter how challenging the circumstances were to believe. Yet, they continued to trust me. Would I find burgeoning friendships like these again? Possibly, after laying all the tedious groundwork, but I didn't want to. I chose Calendar to be my home, and spent considerable time and money to start over here. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't afford to do that again.
Then I remembered what David said about the inheritance. The house alone was worth a lot. If I claimed the money, I wouldn't have to endure the costs and headache of relocating. I could buy a shop instead of leasing one! I could probably buy a house too with a nice sofa and pretty things that couldn’t fit into just two boxes. I could put down proper roots for once without the worry of Brad finding me. He could never hurt me again!
I set the eviction notice aside, next to my empty bowl, and reached for the phone. Still no news from Sam. I hoped that was a good thing. Perhaps he was following a lead.
Then my phone rang, startling me so much, I almost dropped it.
“Hi, Sara,” I said, answering.
“Meredith, have you seen the newspaper?” Sara asked breathlessly.
“No, and I'm sure I don't want to,” I said. “Is it awful?”
“It's not great... but... why didn't you tell me before?”
“Tell you what?” I asked, frowning.
“That you were... that you are Meredith Arden. As in the Arden.”
“Ah.”
“So it's true?” Sara pounced. “Oh, my gosh, Meredith! That's so exciting! You said you were in magazines, not that you were super famous!”
“It was a long time ago.”
“You were every teenage girl’s idol of the decade. You were on every magazine cover! You wore every fashion the top designers created and started that fabulous pixie cut that everyone copied. I wondered what Candice meant when she said you looked different with your hair long. And then you had a big celebrity wedding before you just disappeared... I always wondered what... oh!” Sara trailed to a stop.
“Now you know what happened,” I said as I let out a sigh. “Brad happened. And it's all in The Calendar Times? But how could they possibly know such intimate details?”
“Alyssa Michaels figured out how to put it together. She really did her homework. It's all there. Your stardom, and your abrupt fade from the limelight.”
“So, my cover is blown but it's not so bad?” I asked hopefully. When Sara didn't immediately reply, I knew I was wrong. “It's a hatchet job, isn't it? I never got used to those. The biggest bonus of not being in the limelight any longer was not having to read awful, untrue things about yourself every other day.”
“I wouldn't say it’s a hatchet job but there are some alarming quotes from a certain source.”
“A certain source? Who specifically?”
“It doesn't say. They're anonymous. But apparently, they come from someone who knows you quite well. There’s a photo of you leaving a hospital too, which they refer to as some kind of celebrity rehab. The implication is obvious: you had a nervous breakdown. Several, actually.”
“I didn't ever have even one! It’s just another of Brad's schemes to discredit me. I need to see the article.”
“That's all there is,” said Sara.
“I still need to read it. I wish I could hide in a hole but I can't. Sara, do you think someone is trying to frame me? First Brad dies on my doorstep, then someone vandalizes my shop by writing Murderer and Martha Murray publicly accuses me of killing Brad. Perhaps she’s the one? Do you think she went to the newspaper and told them what I can only assume Brad told her?”
“There's only one way to find out. We need to speak to that reporter!” said Sara, back to being decisive.
“We?”
“You don't think I'm going to let you go alone! I'll pick you up in thirty minutes.”
“I'll be ready!”
I was waiting impatiently in my living room window, wearing a sundress with a whimsical floral print, when Sara arrived in her car. I tossed around the idea of shutting my drapes from intrusive reporters and the camera flashes of paparazzi, but thankfully, the only people I saw were Jerry, who waved at me with both hands, and Kate's friend who had an alarmed look before she hurried away. I waved back at Jerry, thankful for a moment of normalcy.
“Meredith!” he called, hurrying from his house as I reached the sidewalk.
“Gotta go now. Big hurry!” I said as the car door opened and Sara beckoned me to get in.
“I knew it was you!” he said. “I just knew it! A supermodel lives across the street from me! We have to talk!”
“Can't wait!” I said, hoping my face didn't betray me.
“This is the first time I've had a supermodel in my car,” said Sara when I got in, slamming the door and drowning out Jerry.
“That's not true. For one, I've been in your car before. And two, I'm not a supermodel anymore.”
“It's still very cool for me,” said Sara. “It's just so weird. I mean... I know how you got from there to here but it's so crazy. You went from there to here.”
“You make it sound like a fall from grace!”
“I don't mean that. I mean... I used to read the magazines and you were in them leading such a glamorous life and now... What is that man doing? He won't stop waving.”
“Jerry got very excited about the news apparently,” I said. “Please drive away before he decides to join us.”
Sara laughed and accelerated. “You’re probably the biggest news this town ever had.”
“And now, I live in a tiny rental in a town in the middle of nowhere, selling clothes, and it's a little disappointing?”
“Well, yes. I mean, no! Not disappointing, just unexpected. I mean... Calendar?” She pulled a face. “Why not somewhere exotic?!”
“Is it weird that I prefer this life? Look at it,” I said, pointing to the wisteria clinging to my house and the flowers peeking through the hedge.
“I guess not.”
“My former life wasn't as lovely as it seemed, you know. The glamorous clothes and makeup... Some designers said I was fat or the wrong body shape. To others, my head was too big or too small; my arms were too muscular, and the next day they said I was too waif-like! They eagerly shoved all kinds of pills and drugs my way — which I never used! — and told me to schmooze with everyone but be sure you get up by three AM to catch a flight to Tokyo for the next runway assignment. Have an opinion, but not too much of one. Date this guy and get on all the most popular magazine covers. He's got a drug problem? Never mind. That guy needs someone like you on his arm. Oh, so what if he’s condescending and arrogant? There was so much wrong in that world. A lot of the models have serious emotional problems, the men as well as the women, along with everyone around us.”
“I'm exhausted just hearing about it.”
I paused for a long moment, then said, “I was lucky. There were good people protecting me. I had a strong relationship with my family, a good agent, and a sensible accountant. I was grounded and well looked after... until...” I glanced out the window.
Sara waited for a car to pass, then accelerated behind it. “Until you met Brad.”
“Yes. Until I met Brad.”
“The paper’s on the backseat. See if your waif-like arms can reach it.” Sara caught my eye and winked when I laughed. Turning in my seat, I reached for the folded newspaper.
“This is reasonably accurate,” I said, scanning it. “A bit about my childhood, my career, my relationship with Brad. Oh! But this is a total lie! 'A source close to the Van den Bergs says Meredith was always highly strung and frequently needed therapeutic interventions, including a secure stay last year at The Hideaway, an exclusive rehab near Monterey.' A secure stay! That sounds like I was locked up! David said Brad told everyone I was receiving treatment for a breakdown.”
“Read the next bit,” sighed Sara.
“I'm not sure I want to, but I will,” I said. “'Meredith was prone to violent outbursts that shocked her husband,' says our source. 'We were very worried about her and then she ran away. We thought something terrible happened and we're both relieved and amazed to find her living under an assumed name, having fooled everyone. Brad never gave up finding his wife alive and immediately went to reunite with her and get her some help. ‘We just want Meredith safe, where she can't hurt herself or anyone else.' That’s outrageous! Is this considered libel?” Color flooded my cheeks.
“I'm not sure. Do you want to sue them?”
“I want to sue someone! It sounds like I'm dangerous and deranged, poised to hurt someone. They might as well just say I killed Brad! Oh, Sara, don't you see? This is a huge story for a small town. This will surely taint my reputation here!” My stomach roiled in horror and my chin quivered. So much for starting again anywhere!
“We're here,” said Sara, pointing to an attractive brick building with broad, plate glass windows. Only a block from Main Street, it housed The Calendar Times.
I grabbed the car door handle, ready to storm into the office, but as I did, Sara stopped me with a touch of her hand on my arm. “Deep breaths,” she said. “We need a calm approach; otherwise you're just proving what the so-called source already said. You're no hothead! And you're not dangerous. I know that and so does anyone else who knows you.”
“What if I'm just an amazing actress?”
“Sure, people might say that but they don't know you so they don't matter. Take a few deep breaths, steady your nerves, and then we'll go in. I know Alyssa Michaels' sister and she might remember me and be more receptive to telling us the identity of her source.”
I nodded mutely. Sara was right. I couldn't race into the building, demanding to know everything, pointing a finger at that lousy reporter! No, I had to be calm. It might not turn out to be an advantage, but at least I would feel better later. Besides, I refused to give the reporter any more ammunition when she followed up the story as I was sure she would.
“Alyssa Michaels,” I said, tapping my finger at the caption. “What do you know about her?”
“Not much. I went to school with her sister and we weren't really friends but Alyssa let us tag-a-long with her a few times, her sister and her annoying friend I guess. There's, oh, maybe five years, I think, between them. Her sister had a terrible accident right after college and is now a paraplegic. Maybe that sparked her interest in journalism because she entered the profession later. All I know about Alyssa is she always gets to the truth.”
“Not this time,” I said, tapping the newspaper. “She didn't even ask me.”
“Ready?”
“As I'll ever be,” I finished.
We walked into the building together and I was surprised to see the layout. It was open and very informal with cluttered desks occupying the space and ancient-looking cabinets spanning one wall. Bulletin boards hung from the walls, littered with pinned letters and notices, overlooking the desks. I met a lot of editors and journalists over the years but I was never inside their personal offices. It didn't look the way I imagined it would at all.
“We're here to speak to Alyssa Michaels. Connor, is that you? I haven't seen you for a while,” said Sara, speaking loudly. She wanted to attract the attention of the sole person in the office, a bald man.
“Well, sure, Sara,” he said, glancing up and smiling warmly. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but I'm sure she'll see us. This is Meredith Blake.”
Connor's eyes widened. “Oh! Let me check if she's here.”
“She's hiding behind that door,” I said, pointing a finger where I could see a blue skirt peeking out.
“I think she's retrieving some files,” snipped Connor quickly, glancing over his shoulder, “not hiding! Alyssa, you have two visitors!”
“Coming!” called a women's voice from beyond the door.
“Sara Cutler and Meredith Blake are here to see you,” Connor said, gesturing toward us as she emerged from the office. I was sure she saw us long before we even entered and didn't need the introduction. Hiding didn't seem very professional to me but I was prepared to ignore that.
“Do you want to make a statement to The Times?” asked Alyssa, raising one eyebrow, as if in challenge. She tapped her phone, holding it up, making it clear she was recording us before she waved at Connor to leave. He retreated to his desk and turned his back to us.
“I'm not here to make a statement. I came to find out why you printed what your so-called ‘source’ said!” I told her.
“My so-called source?” The eyebrow remained arched.
“Was she, by any chance, Martha Murray? She accused me of terrible things yesterday but none of them are true!” I said.
“But you are Meredith Blake?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“The former supermodel, Meredith Arden, better known globally as Arden?”
“Well, yes. That's true, but all the rest of it...”
“Your unexplained disappearance from the fashion world?”
“I didn't disappear! I just stopped being a part of it anymore. Well, I guess I did disappear but not...”
“And you left your home and husband?”
“Well, that's true too but not like you said! I wasn't...”
“Then tell me how it really is,” she interrupted. “So far, my source seems spot on the mark and I can verify it. By the way, who is Martha Murray?”
“No one,” I said quickly but I doubted Alyssa bought it.
“Alyssa, I don't know if you remember me. I went to school with your sister,” started Sara.
“Of course I remember you,” snorted Alyssa.
“Meredith is my friend and she's been through a terrible ordeal, which was only made worse when she read what you printed in the newspaper. It's not true.”
“Meredith just verified it is true.” She gave me a long look, inviting me to argue. She was right, I did validate a lot of it.
“Not the bits from this ‘source’ of yours,” said Sara, “and you didn't even offer Meredith the chance to rebuke the accusations. She should have been consulted before you went to print.”
“I don't need to verify anything with her.”
“All we want to know is who your source is.”
“You know I can't tell you that. Any good journalist protects their sources. But,” she stopped while grinning, “if you give me an exclusive, you can say whatever you want and get your story out there.”
“I...” I winced. Alyssa had me there. She was easily prepared to give me the information but only if I offered her more in return. It was a conniving strategy but she knew she had the advantage with both the story and the upper hand.
“I won't be the only journalist looking to interview you once this story gets picked up,” Alyssa continued. “And you know, the mainstream media loves this stuff! Beautiful models, the glamorous lives of the rich and famous, a mysterious disappearance, a stint in rehab, and then, murder.”
“She's right,” I said to Sara. “It could be disastrous.”
“I would give you control of the narrative going forward.” Alyssa leaned in, her eyes shining. “I'm not promising you a puff piece, but I'll hear your side and print it.”
Sara's eyes narrowed. “And what does Meredith get in return?”
“In addition to telling her side of the story?” Alyssa arched her eyebrow again and I wondered if it came naturally or she often practiced it.
“I mean, there has to be a swap. Who’s your source? Tell us that, and Meredith will give you an exclusive,” said Sara as I nodded.
“I can't...”
“Ah! You don't know!” Sara pounced, pointing her finger.
“I...”
“The source is anonymous even to you,” I added, realizing the dilemma Alyssa now faced. “You couldn't tell us if you wanted to! So how did you verify what you wrote? If you're as good a journalist as Sara claims you are, I expect you would have done some fact-checking.”
“The caller told me your true name and allowed me time to research the facts. When he called back, I confirmed what he told me checked out. I knew you were Meredith Arden and that you disappeared from the limelight at the height of your career. Then he told me everything else.”
“He?” I asked, frowning.
Alyssa nodded.
“So it wasn't that woman?” I said softly to Sara.
“What woman?” Alyssa leaned in further.
“No one. What else can you tell us about the caller?” I asked. “Did you meet with him?”
“We only spoke over the phone the day after the murder and I can't tell you much beyond that. But he knew a lot about you. Oh, and his voice was always muffled,” she added, pulling a face.
“Did you record it?”
“Yes, but I've played it back several times and it's useless. There's no way to identify him. He changes his pitch, intonation, and even his accent changes. I suspected he was using some sort of device to make his voice unrecognizable. Or else he practiced it often. I couldn't recognize his voice if I met him in the street.”
We paused, all staring at each other, as if we were at some kind of impasse. “You said he called twice?” I asked.
“That's right.”
“The second time he told me all about your rehab and breakdowns,” she said. “I could corroborate all the hospital visits.”
“That's not what you think at all,” said Sara. She slammed her palm against the counter and I jumped. “Sorry,” she said, wincing.
“I bet Sam can find out who called you,” I said. “He must know people in law enforcement who can triangulate cell phone towers or whatever detectives do to locate people.”
“Sam? Sam Logan? What're you thinking?” asked Alyssa.
“The only person who wants to smear my reputation and frame me for Brad’s murder is the killer, himself,” I said. “And I think you've been talking to him!”