Mama playing.
Am I still asleep? Thunder rumbled like distant drums, and the first drops of rain slapped the window.
I pinched my arm. It hurt for a full five seconds. Definitely wide awake. Still, the music drifted up.
Where in the hell is that coming from? Where, I suddenly remembered, is Jack?
I sat up abruptly. Last night’s clothes, still on. Thank God.
I stumbled to the hallway.
Chopin.
“Hello?” I called, moving tentatively down the stairs, the grand piano emerging into view like a black, shiny beast. I half expected to see Mama sitting there in her hospital gown.
The piano bench was empty, coated with a fine layer of dust.
The living room, empty.
The music still playing.
Nocturne No. 19.
One of three nocturnes my mother loved to perform.
Now its notes were filtering under the closed kitchen door.
Physically, achingly pulling me against my will.
I held my breath and threw open the door.
My eyes set on it the second I stepped onto the cold tile. Mama’s old radio by the kitchen sink, blaring. I thought it was broken.
I made four quick strides and flipped it off, whipping back to survey the room, getting my bearings in the sudden silence, trying to slow my heart. One of Granny’s pale green antique McCoy mugs sat on the table holding the dregs of cold coffee. It was next to a cheap fold-out driving map of Oklahoma I’d never seen before. The newspaper story of Jennifer Coogan’s murder was paper-clipped to it.
The louvered door to the laundry room began to slowly slide open.
Suddenly, the house wasn’t silent anymore.
It was filled with a bloodcurdling scream. Mine.
Jack emerged.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped.
“You purposely scare me,” I said, breathing hard. “Did you mess with the radio?”
He gave me an odd, pitying look.
“It’s a nice station. Classical. Out of Dallas.”
“Mama’s favorite,” I said dully.
“That’s where the dial was set when I turned it on.”
He stepped toward me and I lunged a step back.
“Is there anything that would calm you down? That’s not in the Xanax bottle?”
You getting the hell out of my house.
“Dr Pepper,” I said.
I dropped into a chair because my legs had turned to rubber. Jennifer Coogan’s sweet face smiled up at me from the newspaper article, telling me I was overreacting.
“I borrowed your computer.” Jack handed me my drink. “Checked into the newspaper articles. My FBI source emailed me some information on that girl who was murdered in Oklahoma. Are you calm enough to hear more?”
I nodded, itching to slap his patronizing face, considering the possibility that he had done more with my computer than use the internet. Most reporters-hell, most people-wouldn’t be caught dead without their own laptops or smartphones. I dredged my brain trying to remember what would be on mine that I didn’t want him to see.
“I thought it was possible that Jennifer Coogan was a hit.” He pointed to the headline on the table: WOMAN’S BODY FOUND IN LITTLE RIVER. “The FBI was called in briefly on it because it was unusual. Two agents from Oklahoma City. Both retired now. Jennifer was raped and shot in the back of the head, then dumped here.” He took a pencil and circled a blue squiggle that represented the Little River.
“She was duct-taped to a jumbo can of hominy and a six-pound can of ready-made nacho cheese sauce from the restaurant where she worked. One was strapped to her feet, the other around her chest. But everything else about it looks kind of professional.”
“A can of nacho cheese sauce,” I echoed miserably.
“The cans are details not released to the press. The killer or killers weren’t too bright if they intended to send her permanently to the bottom of the river. Kids out fishing found her body around dawn three days after she went missing. She’d washed up between a couple of rocks in a tiny inlet. The thing is, the girl was no one. A college student home waitressing for the summer. No criminal record. Conservative family. A career beauty contestant in high school. Runner-up in Miss National Teenager her senior year. Traveled very little outside the confines of her pageant schedule and her move to college. Not many girls her age lived a safer lifestyle.”
The idea that Jennifer Coogan was “no one” said volumes about Jack.
“How did you really get this stuff?” I asked.
He dumped the cold coffee in the sink, as if he didn’t hear me.
“There’s never been any connection drawn between Coogan’s case and your mother’s,” he said. “We probably shouldn’t read too much into them. Your mother does have mental issues.”
She didn’t when she put those articles in that box, I thought. And when did Jack and I become a “we”?
“So, one of your FBI sources found this information in an old file? Jennifer Coogan’s file? He just came up with it this morning?” My voice was sharp with skepticism.
“It’s a pretty sure bet that murdered girl and Anthony Marchetti have nothing to do with each other.”
“Whoever said they did?” Interesting that Jack had been drawn to Jennifer Coogan, too.
“You know, Tommie, I think it’s a good idea if I head out. I seem to be making you… agitated.”
And you’ve gotten whatever you could out of me, I thought.
As soon as the door clicked shut, I tossed the Dr Pepper can into a paper bag under the sink I’d rigged up for recycling and walked a direct path to the living room, where I threw the deadbolt. The prescription bottle was there, perched on the mantel, beckoning. My hand closed around it, and I wondered, not for the first time, why it had been prescribed for a man who hadn’t shown me a moment of visible panic in his life.
In seconds, I stood over the toilet in Mama’s bathroom, tossing the pills into the water and flushing them away.
I headed back to the laundry room feeling a whole lot better about myself.
Personally, I wasn’t done with Jennifer. My laptop was still on the dryer, fully charged. I unplugged it and powered it up on Mama’s desk. It didn’t take long to figure out that Jennifer’s sensational murder had resonated throughout the state of Oklahoma and into bordering Texas towns.
Beautiful, popular girl, brave enough to tackle Whitney Houston songs for the talent portion of her competitions. She dreamed of world peace and a career teaching deaf students, until she was raped, shot, and tossed in a river like trash in the town where she trick-or-treated and got her first kiss and made brownies out of a box at slumber parties. She’d been turned into a terrible cliché a hundred times over on blogs and murder websites that thrived on digging up dead girls.
I hit the jackpot with The Oklahoman’s coverage. When I searched in their archives for Jennifer Coogan, eighty-two stories popped up. They could be mine for $3.95 apiece or I could pay $19.99 for a bundle of twenty-five. Otherwise, I’d have to be satisfied with the headlines, the bylines, and the first two lines of each story.
I could tell just scrolling through the list that two ambitious reporters churned out double-bylined 1A stories for three weeks, inside follow-ups for months, and a front-page one-year anniversary piece headlined WHAT HAPPENED TO JENNIFER? The most recent brief, only six months ago, said that 48 Hours had been sniffing around, considering a segment. The producers were following up on a tip about Jennifer’s boyfriend at OU, who had disappeared around the same time as her murder.
I whipped out my credit card and spent the next hour and a half printing, reading, and highlighting.
Jack might not think Jennifer Coogan had anything to do with Anthony Marchetti, but I wasn’t so sure.
Then, in the schizophrenic manner that had become my life, I ran upstairs, dug the pink letter out of my purse, and checked to be sure, even though I’d memorized the telephone number days ago.