Mariah Stewart - Cold Truth

Cass sighed wearily. At least she’d been older when she’d lost her family. She had vivid memories of her mother and her father and her sister. If she tried really hard, she could almost recall the sound of their voices. Almost, but not quite. It had been a long, long time ago.

Twenty-six years this month.

And now another little girl would have a sad anniversary to mark, year after year. It occurred to Cass that what Linda Roman’s daughter would most remember of her mother would be the date on which she died.

Cass emptied the bottle into the sink and tossed it into the bin, which she rarely, if ever, remembered to put out on recycling day. She opened the refrigerator and searched for something she could reheat in the microwave for dinner, but nothing appealed to her. She called in an order for takeout and took a quick shower in the bungalow’s one small outdated bath.

It was long past time to renovate the bathroom-not to mention the kitchen-but every time Cass thought about it, and considered the options, she got a headache. Once last summer, at Lucy’s insistence, she’d made it all the way to the local home-improvement store to check out what was available, but she’d returned home in less than forty minutes, her head spinning. All she’d wanted was a simple tub with a shower, a new toilet, a new sink. Some new tile. But she’d found all the selections overwhelming and left with less of an idea of what she wanted than she’d had when she’d set out.

I like things simple, she was thinking as she dried her hair and towel-dried her legs. Simple, easy, basic.

The only real improvements she’d made since she’d moved in were to purchase a new microwave-a necessary fixture because it enabled her to reheat leftovers or takeout faster-and a new refrigerator, because the other one had given up the ghost three years ago. Other than those two items, she hadn’t even bothered to change the color of the walls or the old carpets.

But I will, she assured herself. As soon as I have time, I will.

She recognized her procrastination for what it was. Just as she recognized that for the past hour, she’d thought of anything but the body in the marsh.

Linda Roman.

Cass dressed in sweatpants and an old rugby shirt left behind by an old boyfriend, and slipped into a pair of rubber flip-flops. She rarely wore anything else on her feet in the summer months when she wasn’t working, though she’d be hard-pressed to explain why they appealed to her so much. They were not very practical, as foot-coverings went, and yet she’d bought them in almost every color she could find. Pink, yellow, red, blue, white, turquoise, and this year’s new favorite, orange.

She walked the four blocks to the new Mexican take-out restaurant and picked up her order. She considered staying and eating there-the place was almost empty-but the owner of the restaurant was all too eager to discuss the crime with her.

“Hey, Detective. You in on that investigation? The body down by Wilson ’s Creek?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, were you there? Did you see it?”

“Yes, I was there.”

“Must have been something, eh?”

“Yes.”

“So, you guys got some clues? Suspects? I know they’re saying on the TV that you got no leads, but sometimes they say stuff like that to throw off the killer, you know?”

“The investigation is just beginning.” She had her wallet out, waiting for him to give her a total for her order so she could pay and escape, but he was holding on to the bag containing her food as if it were a hostage. He held her captive and was going to take advantage of the situation, so he’d have some inside dirt to dish with the breakfast crowd in the morning.

“I heard they just found out who she was. Linda Roman was her name, they said. Didn’t ring a bell with me. Did you know her?”

“No. I didn’t know her.”

“Someone who was in earlier said they knew her from the bank. You bank there?”

“Yes. Now, if I could just-”

“Say, I’ll bet my cousin Roxanne knows her.” He snapped his fingers. “She works for that bank. Different branch, but I bet they all know one another. I think I’ll give her a call and see if-”

“Dino, I hate to cut this short, but I need to get moving here.”

“Oh, right, right. Sorry.” He laughed self-consciously and rang up the total on the old-fashioned cash register. “It’s just so weird to have something like this in Bowers Inlet, you know? When I heard about it this morning, I said, ‘Hey, no way.’ Then when some of the guys from the newspaper stopped in at lunch and told us what was going down, I said, ‘No shit!’”

Cass handed over a ten-dollar bill and waved off the change, anxious to leave the small storefront and its owner’s excited curiosity. She pushed open the screen door and headed back onto the quiet streets of Bowers Inlet. The sidewalks were deserted now at almost eight P.M., the other year-round residents no doubt all at home watching the special news reports pertaining to the murder. She wondered who among them might have known Linda Roman; who, behind the shades of the houses Cass now passed, might be grieving over her death. As a cop, Cass knew she shouldn’t let it get to her, but it did. God knew, it did.

She turned up the narrow walk in front of her small house, noting that once again this year the grass grew in stubborn tufts from the coarse sand in the front yard. This weekend she’d make it a point to pull it all up and rake out the sand so that it lay flat and weedless. Maybe she’d even put a pot of some kind of summery flower out there near the sidewalk. If she got around to it. Which she probably wouldn’t.

Gramma Marshall used to keep pots of petunias out there at the end of the walk. Red petunias. The pots were still in some forgotten corner of the garage. Cass had never tossed them out, but neither had she ever filled them. Lucy, on the other hand, would look for them if Cass suggested it. Lucy couldn’t sit still for more than five minutes, and had never been one to let things be.

She went up the worn wooden steps and through the screen door that opened onto the porch that ran across the front of the house, noted the screening that encased the entire porch had a rip here and there. Put it on the list of things to do, she told herself as she unlocked the front door and headed for the kitchen. Just put it on the list.

Cass slid some of the burrito from the take-out container onto a plate, and took a bottle of water from the small pantry. She tucked the bottle under her arm and grabbed a fork from the drawer next to the sink and carried her dinner into the living room, where she sat on the same worn sofa she’d sat on as a child, and looked under the cushions for the TV’s remote control. She caught the special report on the day’s events on the local station, and stared at the screen as the anchor repeated all the details of Linda Roman’s sad death.

Cass sat the bottle on the coffee table and rested her elbows on her knees. She’d been fighting off a bout of melancholy since early that morning, carrying it around inside her and trying to pretend it wasn’t there. Everything she’d done all day-from the interviews she’d conducted, to the photos she’d viewed and the reports she’d written, to the beer she now swallowed-everything had been calculated to keep her from focusing on what had happened to Linda Roman in that marsh, because thinking too much could take her down roads she did not wish to travel. It was too late now, however. She’d made eye contact with the still photo of Linda and her family. She’d allowed herself to feel what Linda Roman’s child would feel, and she knew she was lost.

“Son of a bitch,” she whispered as videos of Linda Roman appeared on the television screen. Linda with her husband on their wedding day. Linda with her newborn daughter. Linda and her sister on the beach with their babies not two weeks ago. Watching was making Cass sick.