Chapter 27 #2
Keith laughs. “There aren’t very many fucking rungs in Blue Gil.”
“He was probably about as high as the ladder goes.”
“At least he thought so.”
“How is his wife doing?” I ask, surprised by my own interest.
“After finding Marty Thompson, Serena is taking Joey and going away for a while. I’m not sure she wants to or can stay here.”
“I’m not sure I blame her. Fresh start.”
“It’s not only Craig’s death and the unspoken mystery around it.”
I don’t reply.
“She’s tired of dealing with all the rumors,” he says.
My stomach twists in on itself. “You’d think they’d eventually die out.”
“Die out?”
I shrug. “You know, like a fire that burns up all the fuel.”
Keith turns to me. “Have you honestly been in Blue Gil for the last five days and not witnessed the abundance of fuel?”
“But he and Serena were happy. They have a kid.”
For a moment Keith stares my way. “I don’t know what common knowledge is, and that variable puts me in a tough spot. I’m a bit on the line about what I can say and what I can’t.”
I understand more than most how difficult it is to confide in people. Instead of continuing that train of thought, I finish my coffee and stand. “I’m getting more. Would you like any?”
“Nah.” His brown eyes have darkened. “Tell me what you think of my sister-in-law, now that you’re a bit more lucid.”
“Did I have an opinion of her last night? Because to be honest, I don’t know her at all. When I lived here, she was the wife of the new teacher-slash-coach. I was a high school student.” I try to think back, yet she isn’t in my memories. “She must be heartbroken.”
“That’s close to what you said last night.”
I shake my head. “I’m sincerely sorry for last night, Keith.
I have done well with alcohol for the last three years.
There was a time when I used it as an escape—too much.
My counselor said it stemmed from issues of self-esteem.
I’ve worked to improve that, to concentrate on my career.
I’m good at what I do. I am, or thought I was, capable of a glass of wine or a few fingers of whisky.
The last time I blacked out was with a friend.
” I lean my shoulders against the doorjamb with my empty mug in my grasp.
The lake is before me, and a breeze blows loose strands of hair around my face as I think back.
However, the vision in my head is that of the Pacific Ocean.
“We were in Southern California. We’d gone to the beach to celebrate our college graduation and future careers.
We were better friends than lovers. I guess you could say friends with benefits.
” I sigh. “When I woke the next morning, I wasn’t at my place or his.
It was a fancy cliffside house—remarkably high rent.
There were so many windows, a view from every angle” —I look up at him— “like the ones in movies but better because it wasn’t a set.
” I take a breath and let it out. “Anyway, I was in a giant bed beside a man I didn’t know. ”
“Shit, Jillian, were you raped?”
“I can’t answer that.” I take a deep breath. “I wasn’t hurt. I had sex, but I wasn’t sure if it was with the guy lying next to me or my friend, or hell, both.”
“Did you call the police and press charges?”
“No.” I stare down into the empty cup. “I quietly dressed, careful not to wake the man whose name I didn’t know.
I called an Uber and went home.” I shake my head.
“I did exactly what they tell you not to do. I bet I showered six times; each one was as hot as I could make the water. After that, I poured out every drop of alcohol that I had in my apartment and then promised God, and any other entity that would listen, that if I didn’t contract any awful disease or end up pregnant, I’d never drink again. ”
“And?”
“God did his part. And I did mine, for a little over six months. Then I let myself go easy—a drink here and there. I’ve been diligent about moderation until returning here.”
“What about your friend?”
“The one from that night? I was too embarrassed to contact him. About two weeks later, I received a text saying he took a job in Maine.” I shrug. “I never saw him again. I don’t know if he really left town or just never wanted to see me. I guess we weren’t as good of friends as I thought.”
Keith stands and comes closer, staring down at me. “You can pour out every last drop of alcohol if it makes you feel better. Your friend was an ass.”
“You don’t know—”
His finger comes to my lips. “I know I’m out here because I didn’t think you should wake alone, and last night there was no sex, just two incredibly confused outsiders trying to figure out the secrets that are right in front of us.”
I look up at his brown stare. “Maybe the secrets don’t exist. Maybe we made up the idea?”
“Craig is dead. Marty is dead. Your sister was assaulted. If that’s our imagination, we need to figure out a way to turn that shit off.”
My chin drops to my chest as I recall Julie’s agitation upon waking. “I wish it wasn’t real.”
This time he lifts my chin until our gazes meet. “I don’t want you to think I didn’t want more last night—I did. But I’m not in Blue Gil for a long-term anything. I want to get the fuck out of here and never come back.”
“I know the feeling.”
“It’s not that I don’t do casual sex. I have, too many times.
It’s that last night I got the feeling that you and I have similar thoughts about what’s happening around here.
I’ve been trying to work with Joseph Manes.
It’s like working with” —he points— “that tree or that chair. Joe either has no ability to brainstorm or—and here’s my professional assessment—he doesn’t want to.
He wants it to all go away. And if we shut up, maybe it will. ”
“He did that announcement yesterday,” I say.
“Not willingly. I’m not sure who forced his hand.”
It was my mom, but I don’t offer that. “How do you know it wasn’t what he wanted to do?”
“Like I said” —Keith takes a step back— “the sheriff would be happy if we forgot anything happened. But you...you have plausible ideas. You showed me your notebook last night. I think you have some theories worth investigating as best as we can. I have the ability to access some resources, and you can access others. I didn’t want one night of sex to change what we could do as a team. ”
“A team?”
“I’m getting nowhere the way I’m going. A team—if you want to work together?”
“I showed you my notes?”
“Yes.”
I let out a long breath. “Everyone keeps telling me to drop it when it comes to Craig. As I told you, my dad sent me away from my sister. I’m not exactly in a position to get information.”
“Let’s talk about what we know,” Keith says, taking another step back.
“Come inside,” I say, opening the glass door, “while I get more coffee.”
With Keith stopping at the breakfast bar, I walk into the kitchen.
As I refill my cup with warm coffee, I begin reciting what I know.
“My sister was assaulted and locked in a gardener’s shed.
I don’t know if she was left to die or if the man who hurt her was going to go back to get her.
Marty is dead, and so is your brother. They were found in the same area.
Am I crazy for thinking they are connected? ”
Flipping through my notebook, Keith looks up. “You mentioned something about Marty last night. Do you remember?”
This man is a detective. Maybe he can help. Working alone, I’m running out of options. I decide to answer honestly. “Her eyes were missing.”
He nods. “And...?”
“I don’t know more. She was suffocated with a bag.”
“That was the thought upon finding her. However, preliminary postmortem examination revealed her larynx was crushed. They’re now thinking strangulation before the bag was placed.”
“The doctor said Julie showed signs of strangulation.”
“I didn’t know that,” Keith says.
I begin to think. “If Marty was dead, why place the bag?”
“Come on, Jill. Remove reality. This is one of your shows. Why place the bag?”
Suddenly the cottage feels too small. I need room to move. Tipping my head back toward the front porch, I lead us back outside. Walking the length of the porch and back, I again wrap my fingers around the warm mug. “Asphyxiation makes the most sense.”
Keith is now farther away, leaning against the railing of the porch, his arms crossed over his chest. “It would, but it appears she was already dead.”
Why does anyone place anything in a plastic bag?
I look up. “To preserve her face.”
“Why?”
“So everyone will know her eyes were removed on purpose.” I stop walking. “The sheriff hedged, not being forthcoming. Was she assaulted, like Julie was?”
“No,” Keith answers. “Her homicide is closer to Craig’s than Julie’s assault.”
“Wait, you’re calling Craig’s death a homicide—a murder?”
“Nothing we’re saying here is on the record. We’re two people with different fields of knowledge coming together to try to find answers to secrets.” He looks at my cup and smiles. “Is the caffeine helping?”
“That and the conversation,” I admit.