Crime Writers Read online

  ‘Yes, Sergeant?’

  ‘I'm coming out there right now,’ Harding replied. ‘Do you want to stay on the line with another officer until I arrive?’

  ‘I'll put it on speakerphone,’ I said. ‘Just hurry.’

  I hit the button and replaced the receiver.

  ‘On my way,’ Harding said.

  ‘He'll be here in a few minutes, Jen,’ the imposter said. ‘Try not to upset yourself, okay?’

  ‘Give it a rest,’ I said with a sigh. ‘And stop calling me that.’

  ‘Calling you what?’

  ‘Jen. That's what Edward calls me.’

  ‘Now, honey, I know this move has been stressful for you but…’

  As he rambled on, an idea came to me. You see, most of our furnishings had not yet arrived from Arizona, but a few had - including a box of Edward's personal belongings. And what had Edward immediately unpacked from the box and put on the night table next to the bed? Our wedding photo.

  That would be an indisputable proof that this guy was an imposter. Case dismissed. Lock him up for breaking and entering and maybe something much worse.

  ‘Jen?’

  I tried to smile. ‘I'm going to go upstairs for a few minutes, uh, darling.’ Play along, get along - that was my new credo.

  ‘Good,’ he replied. ‘Why don't you splash some water on your face? Maybe it'll help clear your mind.’

  ‘I'll do that.’

  My legs felt like spaghetti strands as I made my way up the grand staircase. Could this guy possibly imagine he could get away with this? He must be insane, I thought. An escaped mental patient.

  Oh, God, maybe that's it! Maybe he really believes he is Edward. Maybe he stole Edward's wallet, and because of some short circuitry in his brain, he now thinks he's my husband.

  Stay cool, I told myself. Don't upset him. If he really is unstable, who knows how he'll react if I continue to confront him? Sgt. Harding will be here soon. Just stay calm.

  ‘Jen, are you all right?’

  His voice made me jump. ‘Much better,’ I sing-songed, doing my best June-Cleaver-on-happy-pills act. ‘I'll be down in a minute.’

  I tiptoed toward Edward's night table in the bedroom. Relief washed over me when I spotted the familiar silver picture frame. But when I picked up the wedding photograph, my heart slammed into my throat. I closed my eyes and opened them again. But nothing change.

  There I was wearing white and lace, looking the way a man dreams about his bride looking on his wedding day. And standing next to me with a tan face and bright smile, wearing a tuxedo with a white tie and cummerbund, was the impostor.

  ‘Jen?’

  I dropped the picture and heard it crash. He was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed like the casual guy in a Sunday advertising circular. “Get away from me,” I said.

  ‘It's okay, Jen. Sergeant Harding is here.’

  Harding rounded the corner as if he'd just been introduced on Leno. ‘Hello, Mrs Kimball,’ he said, spreading his hands. ‘So what seems to be the trouble?’

  ‘This man is claiming to be Edward,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, stop it,’ the man countered. ‘This really has gone far enough.’

  Harding turned to the impostor. ‘Where have you been the past two days?’

  ‘Right here, for crying out loud. Jen and I were unpacking. We just moved from Arizona. Look, Sergeant, I am sorry about all this. We had a little disagreement this morning, but I thought it was all settled. Here - ’ He walked over to the shattered frame. ‘This is our wedding picture.’

  Harding examined the photograph. ‘Is this your wedding picture, Mrs Kimball?’

  I shook my head. ‘He must have done something to it,’ I said. ‘Trick photography or something. He's about the same height as Edward, but aside from that, they look nothing alike.’

  The phony Edward stepped forward. ‘You have to face reality, Jen.’ He said in a soothing tone. ‘Did I fake all these IDs too?’ He handed Harding a Fendi wallet - Edward's Fendi wallet. I gave it to him for his birthday. There were three picture IDs. All read EDWARD BLAINE KIMBALL. All had the mystery man's picture on them.

  Harding examined the items carefully and then looked at me.

  ‘They're fake,’ I said. ‘All of them.’

  Harding nodded, but he was humouring me now. ‘Mr Kimball, do you mind if I talk to your wife alone for a minute?’ In other words: I'll straighten out the hysterical bimbo for you, bub. Part of the job.

  My voice was strong and measured. ‘He's not Mr Kimball, and I am not his wife.’

  Harding ignored my outburst and kept his eyes on ‘Edward,’ who nodded his consent and left the room. Once we were alone, Harding closed the door, took a deep breath and rubbed his face. ‘You know how this looks, don't you, Mrs Kimball?’

  ‘Like I'm raving mad,’ I replied evenly. ‘But I'm not. He is not Edward. He has fake IDs and he tampered with our wedding photo. He must be a lunatic of some kind. He must…’

  Harding held something in front of my face, and my words drifted off. Reality, something that has always been so firmly planted for me, was being ripped up by the roots. ‘No…’

  ‘This is the photograph of Edward you gave me no more than an hour ago,’ Harding said. ‘Take a look at it.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Take a look, Mrs Kimball.’

  I looked. It was a picture of the imposter.

  My head spun. I felt faint, though I had never fainted in my life. It couldn't be; it just could not be…

  ‘There are two explanations for what's going on here.’ He continued. ‘One, you are not a well woman, Mrs Kimball. Two, you are a spoiled brat who craves attention - and let me tell you, lady, I don't appreciate your involving the police in your little mini-drama.’ He flipped the photograph onto the bed in disgust. ‘Get professional help, Mrs Kimball. I'm a busy man.’

  He stormed out of the room. I could not move. Somewhere in the distance I heard a door close and then: ‘Jen? Are you all right, honey?’

  My head did not stop spinning until, mercifully, I passed out.

  I have always dreamed a lot. Since I was a little girl my sleep had taken me on vivid, nocturnal voyages that do not fade away when I awake. I remember everything, which is not always good. I do not claim to be a prophet, and I do not believe we see the future in dreams, but, well, let me tell you what I dreamed.

  I could see myself standing in an alley. I was watching from afar, like Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window, helpless to prevent whatever horror might befall my other self. The stench of spoiled garbage was overwhelming. Broken cinder blocks, overturned trash cans and shattered glass lay about. A single light bulb at the end of the alley cast the only illumination. I stepped forward.

  Up ahead, I could see Edward's Mercedes. I took another step and suddenly I could see a whole lot more. Resting on the steering wheel was Edward's head - or, at least, what was left of it. Blood covered his shoulders and dripped off the dashboard, forming a murky puddle on the floor near his feet.

  Now I could make out someone in the seat next to him. But who? I squinted and then saw who it was. No surprise, really: It was Edward the impostor. He reached into the pocket of Edward's custom-made English suit and took out his wallet. He pocketed the money, checked the ID and then turned and looked at me - looked at me - looked straight into my eyes - and smiled.

  I sat up in the bed, gulping down deep breaths. A light film of perspiration coated my skin.

  ‘Feeling better?’ The impostor stood in the doorway, that horrid dream smile still on his lips.

  I stood and stumbled a few feet in his direction. ‘Please,’ I said angry with myself for sounding so weak. ‘Tell me what you want. I'll do anything you say. Just stop - ’

  He started towards me, but when I backed away again, he sighed and shook his head. ‘I have work to do,’ he said in a tone of surrender. ‘I'll be downstairs in the study.’

  And then it dawned on me. I suddenly knew how I coul
d prove he was an imposter: Edward's aunt.

  Rose Kimball was Edward's only living relative. The old goat was over seventy and lived in Boston, but she would know this guy was a fake in two seconds. Rose and I, to be honest, had never been very close. To be more precise, the old goat hated me. Like many people I have come across she equated beauty with gold-digging and thus took an immediate dislike to me.

  But now Rose would be my salvation. She knew Edward better than anyone and would be able to tell just by the voice that this man was an impostor. I reached for the phone next to the bed and quickly dialed her number. After four rings, she answered: ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Rose.’

  ‘Hello, Jennifer.’ Her tone could frost a wedding cake. ‘What can I do for you?’

  For once, her snootiness did not bother me. The important thing was that she had recognised my voice right away. ‘Someone wants to talk to you,’ I said. I put my hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Edward’ I called. ‘Your aunt is on the phone.’

  The imposter picked up the extension downstairs. ‘Rose? Is that you?’

  He knew her name.

  ‘Oh, Edward, I'm so glad you called.’

  The hope soaring inside me nose-dived. ‘That's not Edward!’ I shouted.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Rose snapped.

  ‘It's all right, Aunt Rose,’ the impostor said in a maddeningly calm tone. ‘Jen has been under a little strain lately.’

  ‘I'm not under any strain! You're not Edward! Tell him, Rose. Tell him you know he's a phony.’

  ‘I most certainly will not,’ Rose huffed. ‘I warned you about her, Edward.’

  ‘She'll be fine, Aunt Rose. I think it's the move. How are you feeling?’

  They chitchatted for several minutes before saying their goodbyes. I sat there with the phone in my hand, my mouth agape. The impostor did not even sound like Edward.

  My head felt as if it were splitting in two; nothing made sense anymore. Before my call to Rose, I could see how the whole thing could be possible, if not rational. You see, my dream earlier had provided an explanation for this whole mystery: The impostor had simply pushed Edward's body out of the car and decided to take his place. He had somehow tampered with the wedding photograph and might have even paid Harding off to switch the wallet pictures. I'm not suggesting that this made sense, mind you, but at least it was within the realm of possibility.

  But not now. Aunt Rose would never go along with such a scheme. She could not be bought - the old goat had more money than God - and, more importantly, she loved Edward unconditionally. There was no way she would go along with such a stunt, no way at all, unless…

  But no, that was impossible - impossible and irrational and utterly ridiculous. Better not to think of it. That left me with only one other possibility - a possibility that kept poking me with a long finger: Maybe I had indeed lost my mind.

  Maybe I was going through some sort of nervous breakdown. It's not the kind of thing you can look at very objectively, but only someone completely insane would not begin to question her own sanity after all this.

  ‘Edward?’ I called down sweetly, Donna Reed-on-saccharin.

  ‘Yes, darling?’

  ‘I'm going to take a hot bath. Can we talk after that?’

  ‘I'd love it. Don't worry, darling. You're going to be all right. I'll take care of you.’

  Oh, right, sure. I went into the bathroom and turned on the water. I had no intention, however, of taking a bath. I tiptoed down the stairs and passed the study door. A minute later I was in the garage, standing beside Edward's car. I was not sure what I was looking for. Bloodstains, perhaps - a clue of some kind. But I found nothing. The front seat was spotless, just as Edward himself had always kept it. There was just one little problem.

  The interior color was not the same.

  Edward's car had a specially designed burgundy interior: This car's interior - the impostor's car - was grey.

  I almost cried out. This was not Edward's car, and I was not insane. The man in my house was not Edward. Part of me felt relief. Part of me felt mounting terror. It brought me back to an earlier fear, which had swept through me when Rose insisted that the impostor was her nephew. There was only one way Rose would go along with such a lie: if Edward had told her to.

  There, I said it. I knew, of course that this was not possible. I would sooner believe that Rose could be bought off than believe Edward was somehow behind all this. Yet the more I thought about it, the more bothersome it became. Eliminate the impossible and what do you have left?

  I quietly opened the door of my Jag and slid into the seat. As I pulled out of the driveway, I glanced behind me. Through the study window, I saw the impostor talking on the phone, watching me.

  It took me half an hour to find the alley - mostly because I had to make sure I wasn't being followed. When I got there, everything was exactly as I had seen it in the dream - the darkness, the bare light bulb at the end of the alley, the awful stench.

  Holding my breath, I hurried toward the Dumpster. It would have been quite a spectacle to those who know me to see Jennifer Kimball down on all fours in a filthy alley reaching through the buzzing flies for something under a Dumpster. But those people did not know what Jennifer Kimball had gone through in the past. Not anymore, however. Not ever again.

  I felt around until my hand hit metal and pulled it into view. A gun - a .38, actually, Smith & Wesson. I checked the chamber. I was sure there were going to be blanks. It was the only explanation for everything that was going on. I emptied the five chambers that were left intact. The bullets were real. No blanks.

  I dropped the gun as though it were on fire. Yet again, nothing made sense, absolutely nothing. It was as though I had woken up one morning and all the laws of nature had been changed. E did not equal mc squared. The Atlantic Ocean was a landmass. The earth was flat. And the clear line between life and death was suddenly very blurry.

  I turned the corner and was greeted with yet another surprise that tore at my sanity: a 1997 blue Mercedes 500, brand-new, New Jersey plates AYB 783. Just where it had been in the dream.

  I moved closer to the car and peered through the back window. There was a body slumped across the front seat, the head resting on the steering wheel.

  With something beyond horror, I realized that my hand was grasping the handle. The car door swung open slowly. I swallowed and reached in to pull the head back. At the last moment, as I stared at the dried blood on the burgundy interior, I had a second to wonder why, if Edward was behind all this, he had not let the impostor use his own car. And in the split second, the answer came to me: Edward's Mercedes was state's evidence and would be needed in another scheme.

  The head on the steering wheel shot upright and smiled at me. ‘Hello, Mrs Kimball.’

  I jumped back, tripping over a can and falling to the ground. I clambered back up as he got out of the car and faced me. Suddenly, everything made sense. All the pieces were coming together. And it wasn't a pretty picture.

  ‘It can't be!’ I shouted, though in truth I knew it had to be. It was the only thing that fit. You see, Edward was not behind all this. Edward was indeed dead.

  ‘It's over, Mrs Kimball.’

  Sgt. Harding stepped out of the Mercedes as a police car pulled in behind us. Two men got out and pointed guns at me. One was Edward the impostor:

  I turned back toward Harding. ‘I don't - ’

  ‘Understand?’ he finished for me. ‘I think you do. We found your husband's body here the night he was murdered.’

  Time to play Dumb Dora. ‘Murdered?’

  ‘You killed him, Mrs Kimball, just like you killed your first husband.’

  Time to play Grieving Widow. I produced tears. ‘Gary died in a car accident.’

  ‘His car went over a cliff and into a ravine,’ Harding agreed, ‘but you pushed it. You also collected a half-million-dollar insurance policy on him.’

  Shocked. Insulted. Confused. ‘What are you trying to say
?’

  ‘When we found Edward Kimball's body,’ he began, ‘his ID still had your Arizona address. The only emergency number listed was for Mrs Rose Kimball, an aunt who lived in Boston. When we told her what had happened, she immediately suspected you. Now, I've listened to a lot of weird old ladies, so I didn't pay much attention until I did a little background check. Edward Kimball had recently purchased almost three million dollars' worth of life insurance. Imagine that.’

  I'd been conned. Me. ‘This proves nothing,’ I said firmly.

  ‘Right again,’ he continued. ‘You were very smart about it. You knew your husband the international trader was actually a drug dealer and, as a result, his murder would look like a hit. But like Rose Kimball, I suspected otherwise. So we came up with the idea of creating another Edward.’

  ‘I still don't - ’

  ‘You, were right, of course. The wedding photo was a little bit of trick photography. The IDs were police forgeries. We picked up another Mercedes, but we couldn't get one with the burgundy interior so we used a gray one.’

  ‘So you wanted me to think Edward was alive?’

  He shrugged. ‘We were playing a little mind game, that's all. You knew you shot him in the head. But after all this, you began to have doubts. You began to wonder if Edward had somehow survived, if he had somehow discovered your plan and pulled a fast one on you - switched your real bullets for blanks, used a little ketchup to make everything look nice and bloody. And now maybe he was wreaking revenge on you with this impostor: That was what you thought, wasn't it?’

  His face was so damned smug.

  ‘So you came back here to check the gun for blanks and prove to yourself that Edward was alive,” Harding continued. “And once you turned that corner, Mrs Kimball, you gave it all away. There was only one way you could have known where the gun was or about this alley. Because you killed him.’

  I spotted a sliver of hope. ‘Can I borrow a cigarette, Sergeant?’

  He tossed me a pack. I took one out and lit it. I expected to choke and start coughing - I had never tried a cigarette before - but I found it rather pleasant and somewhat comforting. ‘Suppose I had not thought Edward was behind it?’ I asked.