Remember Me, Irene

“I’m not sure I thought about it at the time. There was blood, the lights were out everywhere else, and Ben hadn’t come to the hotel to pick her up, as planned. He hadn’t answered the phone when she called. Given all of that, by the time we were standing here, I had a bad feeling about what might be in the cabana.”

“Did you open the door to the cabana, Mrs. Harriman?”

“No, it was already open.”

“There are two doors. Were they both open?”

“No, just one. The one on the right.”

“As we face the cabana, the one on our right?”

“Yes.”

“All the way open?”

“No, but nearly wide open.”

“Did you reach out as you approached it?”

“No.”

“Touch the doorknob?”

“No…”

The questions went on. Cardenas was good at his job. He helped me to concentrate on remembering a sequence of events and details that my mind was already trying to lock away from me. As we finished at the cabana, he paused to ask the technicians to check out the blood on the car window, then continued to go over the details of our entry into the house.

He thanked me for my help, asked me to wait in the kitchen, went into the living room for a few minutes. When he came back he said, “I think Mrs. Watterson would like to talk to you for a moment.”

I nodded and went into the living room.

Somewhere along the line, Claire must have gathered her wits; she told me that she had called her sister, Alana, and told Thompson that she’d wait until Alana arrived before she’d answer any other questions. Then she explained that Alana was an attorney. Thompson apparently took that in stride.

Claire asked me to wait with her until her sister arrived. I sat next to her on the couch. It seemed to me that she was more herself; perhaps not completely cool and self-possessed, but getting there. Her face was swollen from crying, her eyes red and puffy, but there was defiance there. It occurred to me that somehow, Thompson had made her angry.

He was sitting in a chair, swinging his foot back and forth, watching her.

“Why couldn’t they send your husband?” she asked me.

“He isn’t allowed to work any case that his friends or relatives are involved in,” I said. “But even if I hadn’t been here, Detectives Thompson and Cardenas would have been the next ones called. Frank was already on another case.”

“Mrs. Watterson,” Thompson said, “youdo understand that this woman is a newspaper reporter?”

Claire lifted a brow. “Why, Detective Thompson! I had forgotten all about that.”

She reached over to the end table nearest her side of the couch and picked up the phone, then handed the receiver to me. “You probably need to call the paper about what has happened here,” she said. “What’s the number of the newsroom at theExpress?”

For a moment, I was too stunned to give it to her.

“Go ahead,” she said, then added quietly, “It’s not as if this is something I can hide from the world.”

I gave her the number, and she repeated it as she punched each digit. She gave Thompson a look that saidWhat are you going to do about it?

He just kept swinging his foot, but his neck turned red.

ALANA ARRIVED JUST BEFOREthe police showed Claire the note. Alana was slightly taller than Claire, but it was clear that they were sisters.

The note had been found on a desk in the study, beneath a small desk lamp. Apparently, when we arrived, that was the only lamp that was on inside the house. We hadn’t seen the light from outside-the drapes in the study were closed.

Cardenas showed the note to Claire. She had to read it through a plastic cover. It said:

Claire-

Forgive me for not telling you. There is no cure. This has nothing to do with you, my love. I simply choose to avoid days of pain.

Ben

Claire broke down when she read it. “I thought he might be ill,” she said, “but not so ill that he…why didn’t he tell me?” Her sister embraced her and asked the detectives if they could have a moment alone.

I reached for my purse, thinking that I should probably leave, too. It was at about that time that I looked up to see Frank walking into the room. It was an awkward moment to give an introduction, but he managed without me. He nodded to Thompson and Cardenas, then walked toward us. He’s tall, but he lowered his big frame so that he was eye level with us. He took my hand, gave it a quick squeeze, then said to Claire, “Mrs. Watterson? I’m Frank Harriman. I’m Irene’s husband. I’m so sorry we had to meet under these circumstances.”

The words themselves weren’t extraordinary, but something in his manner or his tone must have soothed her. She stopped sobbing. Tears still ran down her face, but she quieted.

“Thank you,” she said. “Irene has been very good to me tonight, but I think she should probably go home now. It’s been-it’s been a long night. Alana will stay with me.” She looked at me and said, “I won’t ever forget all you’ve done for me, Irene.”

I wished her good night, and we left.

“You okay to drive home?” Frank asked when we reached the driveway.

I nodded.

“I’ll see you there, then.” He gave me a hug. He looked tired.

I had a bad moment when I first got into my car and saw the blood on my car window. I looked up into the rearview mirror and saw the headlights of Frank’s car, and calmed myself. I don’t always appreciate his protectiveness, but there are times when it feels good to have him watching over me. This was one of those times.

When we were on the road near the golf course, I saw Mark Baker, a friend and fellow reporter, drive past me going the other way. He gave me a puzzled look and honked, but I kept on going. I spent most of the trip home praying that Claire would be all right, and that she would forget every smart-alecky remark I had made about Frank’s job.

5

JOHNWALTERS,my news editor, called a meeting at theExpress the next morning. The paper had already gone to bed when I had discovered Ben Watterson’s body the night before, but it was looking like tomorrow’s paper was in danger of becoming the Ben Watterson Memorial Edition.

John had gathered any of us who had interviewed or covered Ben Watterson in the past. Nobody had anything scandalous to say about him; he was credited with being a major force in Las Piernas’s growth and development. He had known some opposition from antigrowth groups, but even among his opponents he was highly respected. To others, he was all but a god. The Bank of Las Piernas had financed many local businesses.

Lydia Ames, who works on the city desk, was at the meeting. She had been dating Guy St. Germain, one of the bank’s vice presidents, for eight or nine months. Because she socialized with people in the bank’s higher echelons, she had been able to talk to a number of people that might have remained closemouthed otherwise. John asked her to give us an update.

“Several of the executives say that during the past week Watterson seemed agitated. Some of them are pretty upset. They feel they should have seen this coming.”