Who Killed My Husband? Page 2

  “I can imagine,” Jack said with a nod. “You seem close. Now, can you tell me about yourself? Do you live alone?”

  Jack went through a series of basic questions with Shelby. The longer she sat in the room with him, the more she fidgeted. She could hardly sit still, constantly running a hand through her hair or tapping her foot or biting her nails. Maintaining eye contact with her was difficult.

  “Are you alright, Ms. Lynn?” Jack asked during a lull in the conversation, as he scribbled down her answers. “You seem nervous.”

  “I’m a little on edge, yes,” Shelby answered, her voice suddenly hard. “These past few days have been stressful. Especially after yesterday.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and Jack looked up at her.

  “Were you especially close to Mr. Jones?”

  Shelby blinked rapidly, looking away from Jack. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You were a friend of the family who lived next door, and you appear to be very close with Mrs. Jones. I’m simply asking if you had a similar relationship with her husband?”

  Something wasn’t right. Shelby was becoming increasingly distressed. Her face had grown bright red and if Jack wasn’t mistaken, she appeared to be sweating.

  “Ms. Lynn?” Jack put down his pen. “I need you to be honest with me. A man is dead.”

  With those four words, Shelby burst into tears. She bowed her head and cried soundlessly, but he could see the shaking of her shoulders.

  Jack cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”

  “I can’t believe he’s dead,” Shelby cried, choking each word out between sobs. “He can’t be dead. I love him!”

  It took everything in Jack to keep a straight face. He was whooping with delight on the inside. Finally, this was something he could work with!

  Darren Jones’ mysterious death was Jack’s first ever solo case as a detective. Before now he’d been working under the wing of more experienced men and women, learning the way things worked and gathering experience. Now he was on his own. Until now he’d been terrified that he was going to hit a dead end with this case.

  “Were you involved in a relationship with Mr. Jones?” Jack asked, once Shelby’s sobs subsided. She hiccuped softly and wiped the remaining tears from her face.

  She stared at the floor silently before speaking.

  “Yes. For almost two years now.”

  “I’m assuming Mrs. Jones is unaware of your relationship?”

  “Yes! Of course,” Shelby was looking anxious again, fiddling with the hem of her shirt and looking over at the door guiltily. “Please don’t tell her.”

  “There’s no reason for me to tell Mrs. Jones anything right now,” Jack said. “If it looks like your relationship with her husband could have anything to do with his death, however, I will have to tell her.”

  “It has nothing to do with it!” Shelby cried, anger flaring in her eyes. “How could you suggest that!”

  Jack sighed and put a hand to his forehead, taking a deep breath. “I don’t mean to upset you. This is an investigation, and we have to consider all possibilities.”

  “Darren loved me,” she said, a stubborn light shining in her eye. “He was going to leave Rochelle so we could be together.”

  “When did he tell you this?” Jack asked, picking up his pen again to jot things down.

  “The first time was seven months ago,” Shelby answered, ducking her head. “It just hasn’t been the right time yet. He didn’t want to hurt Rochelle.” She paused. “Neither did I.”

  “Did you and Darren ever argue about your relationship, or about him leaving Mrs. Jones?”

  “Of course we did.” Talking about Darren seemed to have given Shelby a new vigor. Her eyes shone and she was eager for every question. “It’s stressful being with a married man. But I knew we would be okay in the end. Well, we should have been.”

  Shelby visibly deflated, brought back to the reality of the situation. “Please find out who killed him,” she murmured.

  Approximately fifteen minutes later, Jack had collected all the information he needed. He showed Shelby to the door, and watched from his office as she and Rochelle embraced and left together. Shaking his head in bewilderment, he returned to his desk and put pen to paper.

  Suspect: Shelby Lynn.

  ***

  A week passed, and Jack made no progress. The excitement that came with the discovery of Shelby’s affair had completely disappeared within 24 hours. All investigations on Shelby came up with dead ends.

  What she had told him was true. She’d lived next door to Darren and Rochelle Jones for years, and phone records indicated an increase in contact between herself and Darren over the past two years. Shelby had a solid alibi for her whereabouts during the time of Darren’s disappearance: she’d been at a local book club most of the evening and then went out for coffee with her sister. There was no evidence pointing towards Shelby having a hand in Darren’s death.

  If he was even dead at all.

  Darren couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this case than met the eye. How could there not be anything left of the body, not even a single speck of ash?

  Jack switched on his desk lamp. The sun was setting, casting the sky in hues of purple and orange. He removed his glasses and rested his elbows on the desk, examining the papers strewn in front of him.

  A photograph of Darren Jones’ license plate lay on top. Jack couldn’t help but obsess over the image. He’d stared at it for hours already just today, never mind all the days before. A license plate didn’t just fall off like that. Especially not so conveniently right before the car burst into flames.

  Someone had to have removed it. Someone who didn't want the identity of the owner of the burned car discovered. And why at the edge of town? If someone wanted him gone , why wouldn't they go out of town.

  Jack shot up in his seat, back rigid. He smashed his glasses back onto his face and began rifling through the papers again. His heart was racing and his fingers fumbled.

  He found Darren’s file. His full name stared up at Jack, at the very top of the page: Darren Robert Jones.

  According to the file, Darren worked several towns over from where he lived--approximately a 50 minute drive. Most would not consider this a terribly long commute, but Rochelle had mentioned to Jack how her husband hated his job and the drive it took to get there. Yet he often would stay out there overnight or come home late at night, something she always found curious but didn’t dwell on.

  Now Jack was dwelling on it. What if there was some significance to this town, in Darren’s eyes? Something he’d be willing to “die” for?

  It took one simple search to find what Jack was looking for. Within minutes Jack had found evidence of a man named Robert Jones living in the very town Darren worked in. He had the same birth date and everything. If this man was in fact Darren, he really hadn’t tried hard enough to disguise himself.

  Jack set out to find the mysterious Robert Jones within the hour. He’d been hoping to be home by 8, but now that was out of the question. He sped down the highway, tapping his fingers anxiously on the steering wheel.

  It took longer than 50 minutes to arrive due to traffic, but finally Jack found himself pulling onto the street his search had indicated Robert Jones lived on. He rolled slowly down the street, peering out his window until he found the house he was looking for.

  Jack parked across the street and emerged from his car, suddenly feeling incredibly nervous. What if he was wrong? What if Robert Jones had nothing to do with Darren Jones? What if this were some strange sort of coincidence?

  Shaking his head to clear his mind, Jack strode across the street, removing his badge from his jacket pocket so as to have it ready. A motion sensor light came to life as he walked up the driveway, bathing the front yard in light. Jack flinched but continued on.

  As soon as he knocked, a dog started barking hysterically beyond the door. Someone shushed the dog before cracking
the door open. It was a woman.

  “Can I help you?” she asked cautiously. It was hard to see her in the dim light, but she appeared to have light hair and skin.

  “Detective Jack Blanks,” he said, holding his badge up close to the door. She squinted against the darkness. “Who am I speaking with?”

  “Jackie Jones,” the woman said, looking Jack up and down with a critical eye.

  “May I speak to a Mr. Robert Jones?”

  “My husband just got home from work. He’s had a long day. Can this wait until the morning?” The woman closed the door further, so that Jack could only see a sliver of her body and the hallway light shining from behind her.

  “I’m afraid not. It’s urgent that I speak to your husband immediately.” Jack shook off the feeling of unease he was still carrying on his shoulders. He was on the right track, he could feel it.

  With a sigh of frustration, the woman retreated from the doorway, shutting it in Jack’s face. Moments later Jack heard elevated voices from inside the house, although he couldn’t make out the words.

  Jack leaned sideways, craning his neck to peer in through the front window. It sounded like that’s where the voices were coming from. It appeared to be the living room. A couch and two armchairs were arranged against the far wall, pointing towards the television which was closer to the window. Right in front of the couch, arguing vehemently, were Jackie and a man.

  The man had his back to the window. He wore a dark gray shirt and dark jeans. A towel was slung over his right shoulder, shifting up and down as he gesticulated wildly. The woman was facing the window but didn’t seem to have noticed Jack yet.

  The man turned his head sideways and pointed at something off to his left--the front door, presumably. Jack whipped back from the window, both of out of fear of being seen and out of shock.

  It was Darren.

  This is what Jack had come here for. He’d been seeking out Darren masquerading as Robert, but part of him had never expected to actually find him. Yet here he was, standing in some strange suburban home with a woman who was not Rochelle Jones, despite the fact that everyone presumed him dead.

  Jack slid a hand into his jacket, running his fingers along the holster of his gun. Hopefully he wouldn’t need to use his weapon, but even from outside he could tell that tension was thick in the air.

  The shouting stopped abruptly. Silence stretched on for a full minute, before the lock clicked in the front door and it swung open again. Jackie faced him with bloodshot eyes.

  “Robert needs a few minutes. I’m sorry for the wait.”

  Jack narrowed his eyes. She was visibly shaken. Her knuckles were white from clutching the doorknob, and she kept shooting nervous glances over her shoulder.

  “Ma’am, I apologize. I need to see your husband right now.”

  Jackie sputtered a response, but Jack didn’t hear her. He pushed past her and into the home despite her protests. His hand was still resting on his weapon when he burst into the living room.

  “Stop!” he shouted, drawing his gun and pointing it at the frozen back of Darren Jones.

  Darren had been in the middle of stepping out the back door. A backpack was slung over his shoulder and a jacket had been hastily put on. He put his hands up and turned to face Jack, keeping a wary eye on the gun pointed at his chest.

  “Darren Jones,” Jack said coolly. “You’re not dead at all, are you?”

  ***

  “I’m going to kill him.”

  Those five words reverberated throughout the room. Everything seemed to have frozen.

  Rochelle and Shelby sat side by side on the couch. They were in Rochelle’s home, and Jack stood before them. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot and scratching the back of his neck.

  “Rochelle,” Shelby whispered, placing a hand on her shoulder. She refused to meet Jack’s eyes.

  “Get off me,” Rochelle snarled, recoiling from Shelby’s touch. “My husband left me. He faked his own death because he has another family!” She stood up from the couch now, trembling so badly that she had to clench her hands into fists. “He has two sons, and I had no idea!”

  Shelby remained silent. She stared down at the floor, her face white. Two stark contrasts: one woman angry with rage, the other frozen with shock.

  Jack stuck around for an uncomfortable half hour, doing his best to ensure that Rochelle wasn’t about to embark on a murderous rampage and dealing with the aftermath of the discovery he made. Shelby he wasn’t so worried about, as she seemed to be handling things much better.

  After he left, Rochelle and Shelby sat side by side on the couch in utter silence. Shelby was still staring into the distance, her eyes bloodshot.

  “Why are you so upset?” Rochelle asked, turning to her neighbor. “He didn’t leave you. At least he’s not dead.” Her voice sounded several octaves too high.

  “I’m just surprised,” Shelby murmured, swallowing with difficulty. She then stood up. “I think I should head back to my place. I’ll stop by tomorrow morning to see how you are.”

  Rochelle stared up at Shelby for a moment. “Um, alright.” She said slowly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” An undercurrent of grief was creeping into Rochelle’s tone again. Shelby fled the house as quickly as she could.

  Back in her home, Shelby paced endlessly. Back and forth, back and forth. She wrung her hands, pulled her hair, and cried for the first time since she heard the news. She beat her fists against the wall until her knuckles were red and cracked.

  She collapsed onto her bed and inhaled deeply, trying to calm her racing heart.

  “It can’t be true, it can’t be true . . .” she whimpered. “He wouldn’t do this to me.”

  Everything was blurring together. Fatigue and grief were making the world a whirlwind of mixed senses and emotions.

  After an hour had passed, Shelby sprung from the bed. Her eyes were dry, although they still had the telltale look of someone who’d shed countless tears. She bolted for her closet.

  Flinging open the doors, she rummaged along the floor until she came up with an old shoebox. It had been shoved all the way at the back.

  With trembling hands she lifted the lid and caressed the metal weapon within.

  Rochelle picked up the phone as soon as Shelby shut the front door. It took her three attempts to dial the number correctly, but finally the phone was ringing.

  “Hello?”

  “Michael. It’s Rochelle.”

  “Is this your house phone?”

  “Yeah, sorry. My cell’s upstairs and I needed to hear your voice.”

  “Is everything alright? Do you need me to come over?”

  “Yes--” Rochelle’s voice broke and she put a hand to her mouth. Her shoulders heaved silently.

  “Darren faked his death.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Darren’s not dead. He has another wife and two kids and he pretended to be dead so he could live happily ever after with them.”

  At that moment, a young boy poked his head into the living room. He was about six years old, with short black hair and dark skin which matched both his mother and father’s. “Mommy?” he said hesitantly.

  “I need to go, Austin’s here.” Rochelle was whispering into the phone now. “Please come over.”

  With that she hung up the phone and turned back to her son. “Come here, sweetie,” she said with arms outstretched.

  Austin rushed into her arms, burying his head in her hair. “Mama,” he said quietly, his little voice trembling. “I miss Daddy. When is he coming home?”

  That’s when Rochelle began to cry.

  ***

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Darren Jones did not move from his place on the couch, where he sat with his head in his hands. Even as the knocking came again, reverberating throughout the house from the front door, he didn’t budge.

  Whoever was demanding entry into his home hit the doorbell now, barely waiting for the sound to d
ie away before hitting it once, twice, and three times more.

  “I’m coming!” he shouted, smashing his fist against the couch cushion as he stood up. It wasn’t nearly satisfying enough. He needed to break something.

  Darren stalked towards the front door. His hands were clenched into fists. He was seeing red. Every time he let his mind wander he envisioned his wife’s face when she found out the truth. The way she held their children close to her, away from him. The accusatory look in her eye as she fled the house with them.

  All because of her. That stupid woman, Rochelle. Because of him, too, the detective who found him out.