Like Father Like Daughter (18 page)

“Well then, I will again encourage you to reach out to your mother-in-law. You need as many people in your corner as you can gather.” He looked down at his watch. “Looks like our time is up. Go see Shelly and make an appointment for one month out. I’ll see you then.”

I said goodbye to Dr. Lange, made my appointment with Shelly, accepted another one of her bear hugs, and exited the old house. Thinking of what Dr. Lange had said, I looked down at my phone. I had been curious about Marie and what she thought of me. But since she had never contacted me, I resigned myself to the belief that she thought I killed her son and wanted nothing to do with me. But he was right. I would never know until I tried.

I dialed her number and waited as it rang. Marie had a cell phone but she never used it, so I was calling the landline at her house. Just as I was about to give up and throw my phone back in my purse, Marie answered in a curious tone.

“Hello?”

“Marie? It’s Libby.”

Silence.

“Uh…I know it’s been a couple weeks. I’m sorry I haven’t called you sooner, but I have been thinking about you. I’d like to talk to you, if that’s okay.”

She sighed. What did that mean?

“All right. You can come by my house tomorrow. I’ll be home all day. I do think we should talk.”

I thought after I hung up that it could go either way. She could either want to talk because she believed in me, or it could be she wanted to confront me about killing Ryan. If it was the latter, I wasn’t sure how I’d react. All I could do was explain everything to her and pray to God she believed me.

I took an extra half a Trazodone that night to calm my nerves and help me get to sleep faster. I don’t know whether it was the pill or not, but that night I had another nightmare.

In this one, I was tied to a stake, like some Colonial-era suspected witch. Gathered around me were several shadowy figures with blacked-out faces. Each of them was carrying a torch and chanting “burn her, burn her” over and over. I tried to wiggle free from the ropes but they were tied too tightly around my hands, chest, and feet. Slowly, the figures moved forward with their torches held high. I started to scream for help and protest my innocence, but it did nothing to sway my persecutors. They crept forward until they reached the base of the stake. They held their torches to the base, which was covered in straw, and it ignited instantly. I screamed again as the flames leapt closer to my feet. No one came to my rescue and the shadowy figures seemed pleased with what they’d done. The pain swept over my body when the flames consumed me. I screamed and pleaded for help. Suddenly, the pain was gone and I had a moment of quiet resolution with my fate. There was no saving me. I was going to die at the hands of these unknown people for something I didn’t do and there was nothing I could do about it. But just before my soul left my body, I shot bolt upright in the bed, dripping in sweat, but relieved to realize it was only a dream.

Dr. Lange had told me before that dreams usually relate to something that’s happening in your life. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out my nightmare was a reflection of my insecurity that everyone thought I had killed my husband. I probably had it that night because I was unsure what Marie was thinking about me. Was she one of those faceless forms lighting the fire? I wouldn’t know until I spoke with her.

I woke again at dawn, unable and unwilling to go back to sleep. Disturbed by the nightmare, I padded to the bathroom and stood under the silver multi-function faucet Ryan had bought me for my birthday last year. The thought of Ryan made me miss him all over again, and I stood there, my tears mixed with the water washing over my body. I had barely had time to grieve. I’d missed his funeral thanks to my stint in the county jail, so I’d never had a chance to properly mourn him. I sat down on the floor of the shower, wrapped my arms around my knees, and cried until the water turned cold.

I got out, wrapped my purple robe around my wet body, sat down on the toilet lid as Ryan had done so many times before, and cried some more. When I was finally out of tears, I wiped my face and brushed my teeth. I had to look my best for Marie. I don’t know why it mattered, but it did. I was determined to convince her I did not kill her son. But would she believe me?

Chapter 18

Marie’s “new” house was in the Orchard subdivision behind the Super Walmart on Main Street. It was a quaint little two-bedroom modern ranch-style house with red bricks and a black front door with matching shutters. Just the right size for a widow in her mid-sixties with only two grandchildren by Ryan’s brother Brad. The yard was small, but that meant less maintenance. Ryan and Brad used to take turns on the weekends mowing the tiny patches of grass out front and behind the house. I assumed Brad was now taking on the job full-time, because it looked freshly manicured. Her hot pink Knockout roses were in full bloom, so she’d obviously been watering them religiously. Seeing her roses in such great condition reminded me I hadn’t tended to my own rose garden in the backyard since Ryan had died. I hadn’t even checked to see if they had bloomed yet. Ryan usually watered them for me, and I assumed they had died off for lack of attention.

I pulled my little silver SUV into the concrete driveway behind Marie’s black Cadillac and squeezed between the two vehicles to get to her sidewalk. Both sides of it were mulched, and pretty pink and white petunias—or were they impatiens?—sprouted up toward the hot July sun. I went to the door and rang the doorbell. My palms were sweaty, which rarely happens to me, and I was fidgeting with the hem of my shirt. I hadn’t seen my mother-in-law since several weeks before Ryan’s death, and I was utterly unsure what she thought about me now.

She opened the door and motioned for me to come inside. A good sign, I thought. She could have made me stay on the front porch. But then again, Marie was a Southern lady full of charm and grace, and I doubted very highly she would have done that, even if she thought the worst of me.

She looked different than the last time I’d seen her. Typically, Marie carried a dozen or so extra pounds. Not fat, by any means, just grandmotherly softness. Huggably soft. But today, she seemed to have lost weight, most noticeably in her face. Her brown hair, which she typically hot-rolled every day, was undone, and her gray hairs were very prominent, whereas she usually kept them colored with Nice ’N Easy hair color in Chestnut Brown.

“You look good,” I told her. It was the only thing I could think of to say.

“I know I don’t, but it’s very kind of you to say. Would you like some coffee?”

“I would love some.” Typically, I wasn’t really a coffee drinker, but I didn’t want to refuse her when she had offered it in kindness. Plus, I was tired from my fitful, sleepless night, so I needed the extra caffeine.

Marie poured me a cup of joe and offered me cream and sugar. She had the good stuff, unlike my mother. Pure granulated white sugar and Nestlé French Vanilla creamer.

“Let’s sit in the living room,” she said, motioning for me to follow her.

I walked behind her into the living room, which hadn’t changed a bit since the last time I’d visited with Ryan on Mother’s Day. We had brought her a hydrangea, her favorite flower, for her to plant in her backyard, and sat on the back porch drinking sweet tea. The memory brought a tear to my eye, but I wiped it away when she wasn’t looking.

She gestured for me to sit on the large blue sectional sofa, and she sat in the recliner to the right of it.

“How are you, Marie?”

“I’m surviving. How about yourself?”

There was a tension in the room that felt so thick I imagined being able to cut it with one of her Paula Deen kitchen knives—also a gift from Ryan and me, Christmas 2013.

“I’m doing okay, I guess. Listen, Marie…”

“Wait,” she said as she held up her hand. “Let me talk first, please.”

I was caught off guard, but she spoke in such a gentle voice that I wasn’t offended.

“Listen, Libby, I have been meaning to call you. Really, I have. It’s just, well, a couple of days went by, and then I felt sort of awkward about it. Then a couple more days went by, and it just seemed, oh…I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

“It’s fine, Marie. I know what you’re going through right now. Don’t feel bad.”

“But I do. We’re family. I just, well, when I heard what Ryan had been doing to you, I felt…I don’t know…guilty, I guess.”

“Did you know?”

“No, no. I had no idea. I swear it. If I did, I would have spanked his butt just like I did when he was little. No, I wouldn’t have tolerated that. I can’t explain it. I just felt, sort of, responsible, I guess. He’s my son, after all.”

“Marie, you couldn’t control what your son did any more than I could have. Yes, I’m hurt by what Ryan did. But I’ve already forgiven him. I know he still loved me. The thing with that…girl…was just a fling.”

Okay, so I was downplaying their affair a bit, but it was for both our benefits. No need to make it any worse for her. “Marie, I just want you to know, if you’ve heard about this Paul Daniels character, I didn’t sleep with him. I promise. And I swear to you…I didn’t…”

“Hush, now. You don’t even have to say it. I know you didn’t kill Ryan. I know you loved him.”

“Thank you for saying that. I was really worried you thought I did it. The police think I did. I’m being prosecuted for it.”

“I know. I heard. On the news. Plus, that mean detective…what’s his name…”

“Detective Dorne?”

“Yes, he’s the one. He came by a few days after Ryan’s…well…anyway, he asked me a lot of questions about your relationship with my son. I told them all good things. I told them you didn’t know about what Ryan was doing. That there was no way you could have killed him.”

“I appreciate that, Marie. I do.”

“I just wish I knew who killed my baby boy.”

I hesitated for a moment. To tell her or not to tell her. That was the question. I didn’t have anything concrete, but I was pretty certain who had killed him. I decided she had the right to know what I knew. “I think I might know who killed him.”

“Oh? Who?”

“I talked to this guy, a former friend of Ryan’s. Mike Thompson. Do you know him?”

“Oh, Mikey. Yes, I know Mikey very well. He and Ryan grew up together out on Elm Fork. It’s terrible what’s become of him lately. He used to be such a good little boy.”

“Well, Mike told me that about a week before Ryan’s death, Lindsey…that’s the girl he was…anyway, Mike said that Lindsey had threatened to kill him.”

“Are you serious? Have you told the police?”

I left out the part about how I’d secretly recorded our conversation. And of course, the bit about Ryan being back on pills. No need to sully her memory of her son. “Yes, I told them. Well, I told my lawyer, and he told them. But it doesn’t matter. They’re still convinced I did it, so they’re not going to look at anybody else. Plus, she’s dead now, so even if she did it, they can’t prosecute her.”

“This is just plain awful. So you really think this girl killed my son?”

“I do, actually, and I know you won’t want to believe this, but I think she hired Mike to kill him. Then he killed Lindsey either because she didn’t pay him or to make sure she didn’t talk to the police.”

“Oh, no, not Mikey.” Marie waved away my words as if they were a fly buzzing about her head.

“I know. But you have to remember. You knew Mike when he was little. Now he’s a drug addict and a dope dealer, and God knows what else he’s capable of.”

Marie seemed to ponder this for a moment. “Well, I suppose it does make sense. Especially if that girl threatened Ryan.”

“It does. And I’m going to do everything in my power to prove it.”

“Oh, now, Libby. Don’t go getting yourself hurt. Let the police handle it.”

“The police are convinced I killed Ryan, Marie. It’s up to me to prove I didn’t. I promise, I’ll be careful.”

“Well, if you need anything, just let me know.”

“There is one thing.” I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it sooner. “I didn’t get to go to Ryan’s funeral. Can you tell me about it?”

Tears began to run down Marie’s cheeks. She wiped them away with both of her hands and sniffled. “It was beautiful. The service, that is. You know how Ryan was. He didn’t want a big fuss. Didn’t want a traditional funeral. So instead of using a funeral home, we all went to Highbridge Springs, one of his favorite places. My pastor said a few nice words. Some of his closest friends and family recalled memories of Ryan; some of them were funny. Then we went to Indian Falls…”

“Oh, my God,” I said with tears now brimming over my eyes as well. Indian Falls had been Ryan’s favorite place to go. He’d taken me there on several different occasions and even told me once that when he died, he wanted his ashes spread across the falls. “Just what he would have wanted.”

“I know. I wish you could have been there, Libby. It was so unfair what happened to you. And I’m sorry again I didn’t reach out sooner. Come here.”

She stood up and walked over to me with her arms outstretched and enveloped me in one of her Marie hugs. The ones where you almost melt into her arms as she rocks you side to side and rubs your back with the palm of her hand.

“I love you, Libby. Everything will be okay.”

I wished I shared her confidence. But it felt so good to know that Marie was on my side.

***

When I returned home, I turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door. I always entered through the side door instead of the front door, and today was no exception. What was different, though, was what I saw laying on the kitchen counter. There, right next to the stove, were a dozen red roses wrapped in green cellophane. I dropped the keys to the ground, and they made a clunking sound when they hit. I stood there for a moment without moving a muscle, afraid someone might still be in the house. Someone
had
been in my house. That much was clear. How else could the roses have gotten there?

“Hello?” I prayed to God no one answered. No one did.

I stepped gingerly into the kitchen and approached the roses with caution. Whoever had entered my house and left those roses truly did not know me. Ryan knew how much I hated red roses. So cliché. He knew that if he brought me flowers, they had to be something original, like my favorite pink peonies. This was the work of a stranger. Or at least someone who didn’t know me intimately the way my friends and family did.

When I finally summoned the courage to pick up the horrible roses, I noticed a white envelope lying underneath them. My hands trembled as I carefully picked up the envelope and slid my finger underneath the Scotch tape that had sealed the flap. Someone had thought ahead and taped the envelope rather than licking it, probably to avoid leaving DNA. My guess was there would be no fingerprints, either.

I pulled the once-folded paper out slowly. It was cheap white stationery. Probably untraceable as it could be easily bought at any store in town. I unfolded it and read the words out loud:

YOU’RE WELCOME

I crumbled the letter up out of frustration then realized how stupid that was. I laid the paper on the countertop and smoothed it back out again. Was this a threat of some kind? And what in the world did “you’re welcome” mean? Whoever left the roses and the note thought they had done something for me that deserved appreciation. But no one had done one goddamn thing for me since Ryan died. The only “good” thing that had happened was when Lindsey died…

Realization hit me between the eyes like one of those hammers they use to slaughter cows—a fact I only knew courtesy of Ryan. The person who killed Lindsey had done it for me. Some sort of twisted favor. But who would go to such an extreme? I had no real friends, and the few I did have would definitely never murder anyone for me. The first person I thought of was Mike Thompson. It made sense that he might have killed Lindsey in a perverted demonstration of his loyalty to his friend’s wife. But then again, Mike and I had only met the one time. Then my thoughts turned to Paul Daniels. I had met him before Lindsey died, after all. And he had turned kind of psycho on me. But why would he kill Lindsey? He certainly didn’t kill Ryan. My mind was racing. It literally could have been anyone.

I was suddenly so sick to my stomach I ran to the bathroom and barely made it to the toilet. Once I’d vomited up all of Marie’s coffee, I slid down the wall and put my head in my still trembling hands. I sat there thinking for what seemed like an eternity.

How did this person get into my house? I was sure I’d locked it. Then I remembered. The spare! I shot up from the floor and ran to the front door and flung it open. I reached down into the mailbox affixed to the vinyl siding of the house. The spare was gone. Panic sunk in, and for some reason I turned and looked around me. Stupid. Not like my secret admirer was going to pop up out of the bushes. He—or she, I guess—went to great lengths to hide their identity from me. No prints, no saliva…and they broke in, using my spare key, when they knew I wouldn’t be home.

Even though it was a Saturday, I had to tell the police. This had gone way too far for me to handle on my own. Besides, I had no idea if this “admirer” had good intentions or bad. Even if they killed Lindsey for me, that didn’t necessarily mean they wouldn’t kill me too.