Memory of Murder

Lindsey stood by hugging herself, smiling nervously and looking at the ground.

And it occurred to Alan-a lightning bolt of realization, actually-that this was the moment. I have to kiss her goodbye.

Of course he would. It would be expected. It would seem odd if he didn’t. Somehow, standing on her parents’ doorstep in the twilight of evening, under the watchful eyes of her father and his daughter, he would have to kiss her. And make it look like a casual thing, something he did often and without giving it much thought. God help him.

The feeling in his belly reminded him of when he was about fourteen, getting ready for some school dance-he’d forgotten exactly which one, but it was the first time he’d actually asked a girl to go anyplace with him. He remembered walking up to Melanie Friedman’s apartment door while his mom waited downstairs, and his hands being so wet with sweat he had to wipe them on his pants before he could even ring the doorbell. Remembered the butterflies in his stomach.

Terrific.

The moment was here.

“Well,” he said, smiling in that awkward way, “guess I’ll be seeing you…” And he still didn’t have an endearment that suited her.

She nodded, her smile so stiff it made his own face hurt to look at her. He hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her in close, and after the smallest hesitation she lifted her head, and her lips were there for his taking.

So, he kissed her. And there was nothing even remotely casual about it.

He felt-heard-the faintest intake of breath, then her mouth was soft and yielding, warm against his. He felt her hand trembling slightly where it touched his waist, just above his belt, and shivers spread out from that spot and rippled across his skin.

He knew a moment of pure panic, fearing he’d lost track of time and that the kiss had already lasted much longer than it should. It should be-had to be-a brief goodbye peck, nothing more, he knew that. And yet he wanted it to go on and on, and ending it seemed the hardest thing he’d ever done.

But he did end it, somehow. Pulled back, not breathing, and then, for some reason, touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers as he whispered, “Bye…call you later, okay?”

She nodded again, and laughed-an uneven whisper of sound. Her cheek felt hot and velvety on his fingertips.

Then he was walking away from her, walking down the driveway to his car, jangled on adrenaline and the alarm going off inside his head. Personal feelings-you’re letting them cloud your judgment! Back off! Back off!

Chelsea was quiet on the way home, as usual, and for once he didn’t try to get her to talk to him. He drove with one hand over his mouth, half his mind on what he was doing, the other half lecturing himself, scolding himself for making what-for a detective-amounted to an unforgivable mistake-forgetting the Joe Friday mantra: Just the facts, ma’am.

That’s what he had to do. Follow the facts. Investigate the facts. Wherever they might lead.

Fact: Susan Merrill remembers an act of murder and/or attempted murder committed by the man now her husband, Richard Merrill. Whether the event actually happened or not, her memory of it is fact.

Fact: There is no record of Susan Merrill’s existence prior to forty years ago, in San Diego, California.

Fact: Richard Merrill’s background is unverifiable.

The fact was, he was spinning his wheels, turning in circles, going nowhere. He needed answers, and there didn’t seem to be any, anywhere.

Except…maybe hidden in Richard Merrill’s desk?

And there was that picture, the one of Lindsey playing in the snow. What was it about that photo that bothered him? Why couldn’t he put his finger on it?

It would come to him. Eventually. He hoped.

The ringing phone woke Lindsey out of a sound sleep. She reached for it, shaky, heart pounding. She was an insurance agent; a phone call in the middle of the night most likely meant disaster for someone.

She propped herself on one elbow, cleared her throat and fought to produce a professional-sounding, if somewhat husky, “Yes-this is Lindsey Merrill. How can I help you?”

She heard a soft grunt. “Well, you sound wide-awake. Don’t tell me you can’t sleep, either.”

“Wha-who…Alan?” She lurched upright, shaking in earnest now. Adrenaline, she told herself. His voice was unexpected at that hour of the night. Woken out of a sound sleep-who wouldn’t be startled?

“Yeah, it’s me. Sorry to wake you.”

“No problem,” she murmured, and put one hand over her eyes, gritting her teeth as she tried to slow her breathing. “What-”

“Couldn’t sleep.” His voice was brusque, all business. She could imagine his eyes, hard and cold as flint. Cop eyes. “Hey, listen-I’ve got a question for you.”

“Yeah, okay.” She cleared her throat; her heart rate seemed to be returning to normal. “Sure, go ahead.”

“Did you ever own a snowsuit?”

She laughed, and said, “I beg your pardon?” Whatever she might have expected, it wasn’t this.

“A snowsuit-you know, one piece, zipper down the front, mittens on a string threaded through the sleeves so you won’t lose ’em. Oh, and a hood that cinches up tight around your face…your mom and dad ever make you wear something like that?”

“Uh…no, I don’t think so. Why would they? This is San Diego!”

“Even when you went to the mountains to play in the snow?”

“No! We went like…once, that I can remember. Why would they buy me a snowsuit to play in the snow once? You saw the pictures. I was wearing a regular jacket. And I think I had on a knitted cap and mittens-they probably bought me those just for the occasion. Why on earth would you ask such a thing?”

“Think about it.” His voice was rough, gravelly. An involuntary shiver ran down her spine.

She gave a helpless shrug. “I…can’t. I don’t know what-”

“Your mom-when she told you about Jimmy playing in the snow. You said she mentioned a snowsuit. Remember that? Are you sure-are you positive that’s what she said? She specifically said he wore a snowsuit?”

“Yes…yes, I’m sure she said snowsuit.” She caught a quick breath, feeling in short supply, suddenly. “She said he looked like-”

“-a penguin. That’s what I thought.” There was a long exhalation. “Okay, well, that field of haystacks we’re looking in just got a whole lot smaller.”

“I still don’t-”

“Lindsey, I grew up in Philadelphia. I remember snowsuits. I wore snowsuits. Hot-so many layers underneath you couldn’t move, and God help you if you had to pee or scratch an itch. Every kid who grew up where it’s cold had to wear snowsuits. Like you said-people who live where it’s warm don’t buy snowsuits just to go play in the snow once in a blue moon.”

“So, that means…”

“You’re obviously not awake yet. It means your mother remembers living someplace where there was snow in the winter-on a regular basis.”

Lindsey drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them, and felt steadier. “That narrows it down some, I suppose,” she said doubtfully.

“More than you realize, actually. Remember what your mom said about floating? I think she was on a boat. Which means not only was it someplace cold in the winter, but it had to be near water. So, I’m thinking, the Atlantic Ocean or the Great Lakes. Anyway, it gives me a place to start. But in the meantime, Lindsey…I need a favor.”

“Um…” She cleared her throat, listened to her hammering heart, and then herself saying, “Sure.”

“I need to get back in your parents’ house. When your father isn’t home. Can you do that for me?”

Lindsey couldn’t answer him. Her stomach felt hollow, and she was cold.