Yellow Mama E zine

Duplicity

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By Marcelle Rayner

 

        I was sitting in the dentist office on Tuesday afternoon, awaiting my turn, but my thoughts were entirely on the events of the previous evening when my colleague and good friend, Camille Draper, had been found strangled to death in her home.

          There was only one other patient in the office when a man entered and took the seat one away from me. Shortly after the next patient was called in, the newcomer began a conversation with me. I suppose he noticed that I was preoccupied and the nervous fidgeting of my hands.

          He said, “You alright?’

          “What?’

         Are you alright?”

         “I’m okay. Just mulling over some sad news. Something personal.”

         “Sorry to hear that,” he replied, then said “I wonder if I could ask you to help me with something?”

         A bit intrigued, I said, “What would that be?”

         “I’m going to need to account to the police for my whereabouts last evening between about 7 and 9 pm, and I was alone. I have no alibi.”

         “What are you being questioned by the police for?”

         “A convenience store was robbed during that time, and the getaway car was registered to me. It was a car I sold about 6 months ago, but the registration had never been changed. Unfortunately, I had a similar incident in my youth on my record. No conviction, but enough to cause suspicion.”

           “What do you want me to do? I don’t even know you.”

          “Maybe you could say you were with me. I don’t know – not any place public that could be checked, maybe your apartment?”

           “Why would we be in my apartment? There would have to be a reason.”

           We both sat in silence.

           “I’m an art teacher,” I said. “We could say I was giving you a private lesson.”

           “That might work.” He seemed excited.

           “Wait a minute. Why am I doing this? I don’t know you from Adam. Maybe you did rob that store.”

           “I swear to you that I didn’t. But to sweeten the deal, I can offer you some cash – maybe $2,000?”

            I had just recently drained my bank account to help Camille out of a bad personal situation, so this was somewhat appealing.

            “I’m going to have to give this some thought. What’s your name? How can I reach you?

            He told me his name was Roy Dugan and we exchanged cell phone numbers.

             Just then the nurse called me in to see the dentist.  “You’re up, Mr. Perry,” she said.

            When I came out, he was gone and I thought, oddly enough, that I didn’t remember seeing him sign in when he entered the office. The whole episode was surreal, but it was nothing compared to the events of the next few days. I soon realized I would have my own alibis to worry about.

            The detectives came calling the next day at the offices where Camille and I worked. It was a small real estate office, and all the people who worked there were close. But it soon became apparent to the officers from conversations with the others that Camille and I were particularly close. When my interview time came, it was clear that the officers felt they might be on to something from me.

           “How close were you and Camille Draper?” from the lead detective.

           “We were good friends.”

           The officer lifted a brow.

            “Not intimate; not that kind of friends.”

            “What did you know of her personal life?”

            “I knew she was married, but I’d never met her husband. I think he worked offshore or something. He wasn’t around much.”

            “Would it surprise you to know that Mrs. Draper showed signs of abuse? That she had reported several violent incidents, but always refused to press charges?”

             It would not have surprised me, but I said nothing. Just shrugged and shook my head.

             “Can you account for your whereabouts on this past Monday evening between 7 and 9 pm?”

             Now this was a problem, not only because of my real whereabouts, but also because of my weird conversation with Dugan the previous afternoon.

             When I didn’t reply, the detective said, “I think you need to come with us, Mr. Perry.”

             I accompanied the lieutenant to the precinct, trying to sort out what exactly I should say. His partner had left us, but now came walking in with none other than Roy Dugan! I was sitting at the lieutenant’s desk and quickly turned in my chair so as not to be seen. I said in a low voice, “Is there somewhere private we can talk?”

            Seeing my sudden discomfort he said, “Sure, come this way.” We slipped into one of the interrogation rooms. “Who’s the man who just came in with your partner?”

           “That’s Mrs. Draper’s husband, Roy Draper. It’s standard procedure to check out the spouse in a murder case, and even more so because of the evidence of abuse in this case. What’s he to you? I thought you said you never met him.”

          “I didn’t meet him as Roy Draper.”

           I thought to myself. “This guy is trying to make me the patsy.”

          “Mr. Perry, I need to ask you again, where you were on Monday evening.”

          “Yes, and I think I need to tell you.”

         “Camille came to me some weeks back, desperate. The abuse – both physical and mental – from her husband was escalating. Finally, she’d realized that no matter what she did, she wasn’t going to fix her marriage. She had begun to believe that her life might be in danger.

          She had spent many years in India with her parents who were in the diplomatic corps. She still had a few friends and contacts there, and felt if she could only escape and get there, she might be able to start a new life. She would be difficult to trace there.

          She didn’t have any money, so I bought the Air India ticket for her. Used up a big chunk of my savings. Her husband was supposed to be offshore for another week. I was to pick her up Monday night at 8 pm to take her to the airport. When I got to her apartment, the police and ambulance were there, lights flashing. I stayed around long enough to learn that Camille was dead, then I left.”

          “And how did you meet her husband?”

         As thoroughly as possible, I told the lieutenant about the approach by Roy “Dugan” in the dentist’s office the day before and his strange proposal.

           “It seems clear to me that I am in some danger from this guy. He obviously knows who I am and found out somehow that Camille planned to leave him. He is stalking me.”

           “It does seem somewhat bizarre, but let’s not jump to conclusions. Your explanation does support what we had already been thinking, but the evidence so far is circumstantial. We can check out your story with Air India and we can check with his employer, but it still doesn’t put him at the scene.”

           “What should I do? He’s thinking if I don’t agree to alibi him that I was indeed involved in her trying to escape. Maybe even thinks I was her lover.”

           “I agree that your situation is a precarious one. Let me check with my partner and see if he’s made any progress.” The lieutenant left the room and was gone some time.

           “Draper is claiming that, unbeknownst to his wife, he was taking private art lessons and that his teacher could alibi him. Gave us your name and mobile phone number.”

          “Oh, great! What should I do?”

          “Try to be calm, Mr. Perry, I don’t think you’re in any immediate danger. This guy beats up women. We think the autopsy may be helpful - DNA. Just be careful. If he calls and asks if we contacted you, tell him not yet. Give us a few days.”

          On the way home, I bought a gun, although I never heard from Roy Draper again.

          The DNA evidence proved that Roy had been with Camille within hours of her death. In addition, the fool tried to get a refund for the Air India ticket! In the end, he admitted to strangling his wife in a fit of rage at the thought that she was trying to leave him. He is in prison now.

          Justice, I guess, although it’s too late to help Camille.

           My poor friend. I miss her.

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        Marcelle Rayner is a native of the Big Easy, now resides in Houston, TX. She is just beginning her literary journey, so all feedback is welcome. 

       You can find additional stories written by Marcelle at this link: www.spillwords.com/author/marcellerayner/

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            Luke Lester is an artist and writer from Victoria, Canada. He has recently been published in Absolute Underground, Black Petals, Flash Fiction North, Paragraph Planet, Ultramarine Literary Review, and Yellow Mama. More of his art and writing can be found on his blog: The Other Place.

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