Chapter Five Partners #2
“I’ve seen some people who are sickeningly sweet and in love,” I say.
“But mainly on social media. On camera. Little celebrities,” I correct, so Johnny has some idea of what I’m talking about.
He nods, and I go on. “But you’re probably right.
Marriage is more about a steady, companionable, solid kind of love.
The love of someone who is just going to be there for you and with you. When did you two start dating?”
“In June.”
“And it was September when you wanted to pop the question?”
“Hey, we were adults who’d survived two wars, gas rationing, both of us lived alone and worked hard... Three months doesn’t seem long enough?”
“Hey, I don’t judge.” I hold up my hands.
“I dated Devon in finance for two years. I thought we were super serious. He had a drawer full of stuff at my place. I had a drawer at his place. He never called after the accident. Not once. I didn’t come back to work.
My sister went and cleaned out my desk, and he dropped my stuff off in a shopping bag, left it in my office chair. ”
“Two years? Two years, and he didn’t ask you to tie the knot?” Johnny looks shocked.
“Yep.”
“And he had work, this guy? He could afford a family?”
“That’s not so much of a thing these days, where a guy has to be the breadwinner. I had money of my own, too. We could have made a go of it. I think, honestly, that he was never serious. I was. I thought we were good on paper.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means we worked for the same firm, but his firm was technically like a subcontractor, so we could date. Both smart, Black, young professionals, college-educated. Handsome.”
“And beautiful.” Johnny nods seriously, matching things up.
I don’t know why I blush. Probably because I’m in “have to go do physical therapy” sweats, and my hair needs deep conditioning. It’s frizzing, not curling. Not cute.
“We’re off track. You were nervous. Did Harry know that?”
Johnny’s becoming solid again, less gray, more white.
He’s... He’s good-looking in an old-fashioned way.
His military photograph with the obituary made me more aware of it, I guess.
“I didn’t tell him. I told him I was gonna pop the question.
Make a good supper. Wine. Candles. Ask her.
She would say yes. Then... Well. We’d start planning the wedding.
But Harry came over. Said I didn’t love Nancy right.
Like he was some judge of that. No, see, what I know now is that he wanted her.
Wanted her enough to take her away from here and marry her while I was barely cold.
Don’t they say that people will kill for love? ”
“They do. And the news is full of that. He was a medic? I bet he fed you some untraceable poison. Did you eat anything he brought you?”
“No, but I was busy cooking, and I took something for my stomach while he was there. I think he musta slipped it into my drink while I was getting dinner ready.”
“And you can cook. You were a mechanic, you were a war hero, and you’re handy around the house. The whole package.”
Johnny laughs. “Guess I’d be ‘good on paper’?”
“Exactly.” I grab my laptop back with fresh excitement, even though my head is still throbbing. “Your stomach hurt even before he came over, though?”
“Nerves, I said that. But they got worse and worse, and then I was vomiting. A lot. I won’t go into the details, but it was bad, and it was fast. There was so much pain I couldn’t see straight.”
“Sudden vomiting and pain. Sounds like poison to me. And you were young. No diseases you know of, no injuries?”
“Twenty-four. Came through the war with barely a scratch. Got a nasty scar from a bullet in my shin, but it didn’t strike the bone.”
“Well, it definitely doesn’t sound like shin complications,” I say drily. “If you were young and healthy, and this was sudden, they must have done an investigation. An autopsy.”
Autopsy report, Johnny Miller, 1954.
Nothing.
Didn’t they do one?
Did they need to?
Death certificate, Johnny Miller, 1954. Pine Ridge, New York. Age twenty-four.
Bingo.
“Hey! Hey, the New York State Archives says death certificates for deaths that occurred fifty years ago or longer are a matter of public record, but not all of them are stored electronically. We can put in a request to view your death certificate, Johnny,” I breathe out.
“We just need to fill out this form online. It says we should have records within three weeks of the request.”
Johnny nods, but his face creases in a frown, and with the serious look and the black-and-white coloring of his ghostly form, he looks like some old movie star, the kind who would pose with a cigarette in his hand and soulful eyes—you know, before they realized cigarettes would kill you?
He finally murmurs, “That’s great.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
“Search up, Johnny Miller, murder. The year, the town, all of it.”
“Uh. Okay.” I do, and nothing comes up.
“You know what that means? It means they didn’t know it was a murder. That means whatever it was, he hid it well enough that they missed it. That it was just an ‘accident.’ Or something.”
“Or something. But, Johnny, we won’t know what they actually think caused it until we read the cause of death on the certificate.
Um. I could... I could maybe call your nephews?
The bank must have their numbers. I could say...
I could say I’m investigating the history of the house and want to know about the first owner.
I could convince people, you know. I’m a—a research nerd.
It’s part of being an architecture major.
You do a ton of research on buildings and spaces. ”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Well... I know I can’t work on this all day.” I wince when I look at the time in the corner of the screen. “I have PT today. Physical therapy for my back. And maybe my foot now,” I gasp in pain when I put weight on it, rising from my bed.
“Sure. Take care of that. I’ll do some thinking. I doubt there’s anyone around here who remembers me or what happened—especially if it wasn’t called a murder. I would just have been that new guy in town, the mechanic who died.”
“I don’t know. There could be some people. I’ll figure it out with you,” I say, and I reflexively put my hand on his shoulder—or where his shoulder should be.