Charlotte Had A Boyfriend : 17

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it," Mason said.

"The hell of it is," Drake groaned, "there isn't any bridge!
There's only a chasm, and when you come to it
you're going to have to jump."

— Erle Stanley Gardner, The Case of the Glamorous Ghost

---

 

I didn't get out of the car. I sat there, struggling with myself. I turned to my mother, and in an urgent tone, asked her, "Mom. Mom. Please, drive away for a little bit. We need to talk, okay? I really need to talk with you about this."

She stared at me, studying my face for a few moments. I could see her first impulse was to push me out of the car. The idea that you learn to swim when you're tossed in the deep end.

"Please," I said. "I have to tell you a few things before I walk in there. Okay? Please? It's important."

She huffed loudly, but she relented, putting the car in gear and driving slowly away. She didn't go far; just until we were out of sight of Aunt Hanna's house. Once there, she turned off the engine and said, "Okay. Talk. Tell me what's so important."

"Look," I said, nervous, anxious, fumbling, "Look. This isn't a thing that I can solve. I don't think *anybody* can solve it. I don't believe any crime was committed. What this is, is just Charlotte being Charlotte. Charlotte being crazy. Charlotte wanting attention. Charlotte getting everybody all worked up over nothing. I'm sorry, but that's what I see. I went through as much of that file as I could—"

Mom opened her mouth to interrupt, but I said, "Wait. Mom, please. Listen: what this is really about is Charlotte not letting go. But it's not even the guy she's not letting go of: she's stuck on yet another of her crazy ideas. That's all. She never was his girlfriend, let alone his fiancée. She didn't come up with this story until a month — an entire month! — after Ross disappeared. She didn't say a word about any of it until that Mayda woman was out of the country!"

"Mayda left the country?" Mom asked. I guess she hadn't read the file, or hadn't connected the dots.

"She moved to Barcelona, in Spain!"

"Why?"

"To play on their soccer team."

Mom scratched her cheek, thinking.

I added, "The thing is, Charlotte says that Mayda killed Ross. If the police even suspected that, they never would have let her leave the state, let alone the country."

Mom shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Neither of us spoke for a few seconds.

At last Mom admitted it. Her mouth twisted this way and that, and grudginly she said, "I know."

"You know?" I echoed. "And yet you still want me to do this?"

"Alright," she said. "Yes. I mean, I know the whole thing is a crock. And yes, your cousin Charlotte can be too much. And sure, your Aunt Hanna will do backflips to give Charlotte whatever she wants, whether it makes sense or not."

Mom glanced back over her shoulder in the direction of Hanna's house.

She took a steadying breath and went on. "Still... do you know what would make both of them happy? If they know, if they see, that you are digging into it, that you're running down leads, talking to people, looking for evidence, turning over every stone, seriously working it... You get the picture."

"And then? How long do I go on doing that?"

"Until you run out of road."

"What does that mean?"

"When there's nothing else for you to look at. When there's no one else to talk to. When there are no more stones to turn over. When there are no more questions to be asked. That's when."

I shook my head. "They aren't going to like it when I don't find anything."

She reached over and squeezed my hand.

"Don't worry, Mason. Don't worry. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. You go, and you do what you can. Investigate to the best of your ability. Be thorough. Take your time, be thoughtful. Keep notes, so you can write an extensive, exhaustive report at the end.

"When you get that far, talk to me. First you and I will talk. Okay? At that point, we'll work out a strategy. Somehow you'll have to present your findings, your report, to Hanna and Charlotte." She paused for a moment. "Maybe you should tell Hanna first, and then Charlotte."

She chuckled. "Maybe, if you're lucky, she won't want you to tell Charlotte your conclusions."

"God! That would be a load off!"

Mom got a sly look. "I might be able to steer Hanna in that direction. We'll see when that day comes. Anyway: Don't worry. Don't hurry. Do your best. Keep good notes."

"Got it," I said. "Okay. Thanks, Mom."

 

---

 

She started the car and put her hand on the gearshift. Then she stopped herself.

"Oh, I nearly forgot! Listen, Mason. New subject: This is something else entirely. Okay? Completely unrelated. Your grandmother's engagement ring: You know what it looks like, don't you?"

"Uh— no," I replied, drawing out the vowels. "Why would I know a thing like that?"

She gave me a disappointed look. "My mother's engagement ring," she specified, as if that clarified the matter.

I shook my head. The additional words didn't help.

Mom touched her ring finger with her right thumb and index finger, as though the ring was there. "It's a filigree gold band, with a tiny diamond between two tiny emeralds."

Huffing, Mom pulled out her phone, struggling with it until she arrived a picture, which she held out to me.

"Ohhh," I intoned, getting it. "I remember it now: The ugly ring."

"It isn't ugly," Mom corrected. "It's old fashioned. In any case, My mother gave it to *me*. While you're at your aunt's house, keep your eyes open. Look at your aunt's fingers. See whether she's got it. I'm pretty sure Hanna took it."

"Do you want me to just ask her?"

"No! Of course not!"

"Is it worth a lot of money?"

"I don't know. Maybe. The thing is, if it *is* worth money, the money doesn't matter. It has a lot of sentimental value. That's what's important." She was silent for a moment. "I think Hanna might have taken it and given it to your cousin Charlotte. It's the kind of thing she'd do. If you don't see it at Hanna's house, look for it at Charlotte's place. Okay?"

"And what do I do if I see it? Do you want me to steal it back?"

"What? No, of course not!" She considered the question again. "Unless... unless you think it— No, no. Don't do anything. Just tell me if one of them has it."

 

---

 

She brought me back to Aunt Hanna's house.

"Mom, listen: please. Will you please come in with me?"

She laughed. "Not a chance! I'm staying out here, in the real world." She patted me on the shoulder and mussed up my hair. "Don't worry. You're a big boy. You can handle it. All you have to do is listen."

I took a breath and opened the car door. Before I got out, Mom had one more caution to share with me.

"Mason, one last thing: I know I said this already, but it's important. Make sure you don't call Charlotte crazy or anything like that."

"I won't," I said, stepping out and closing the door. "Of course not."

Mom hit a button to roll down the window on my side. I bent down and looked at her.

"I mean it," she said. "You've got to put a hobble on your tongue. You call her 'crazy' a lot. Pretty much every time her name is mentioned."

I laughed. I suppose it was true. But anyway, I had to ask: "What's a hobble?"

She shook her head, and thinking I was joking, drove off, leaving me alone.

There was no way I could know it, but that was the last time I ever saw my mother.

Well... that's not accurate, strictly speaking. But it may as well be.

 

---

 

Aunt Hanna's house is a little cottage with a well-tended lawn and flower garden, surrounded by a white picket fence. It's the absolute picture of familial normalcy. The house was in good repair, freshly painted. The windows were so clean, they shone. It's hard to believe that this picture-perfect, apple-pie, Norman-Rockwell homestead could produce someone as furiously out-of-kilter as my cousin Charlotte.

Okay, I have to stop that. I have to quit putting down Charlotte in my head, or I'll end up saying something out loud that I should keep to myself. After all, I don't hate Charlotte. She's never done anything to hurt me. She's annoying. That's all. Unfortunately for everyone, she's annoying on a scale and intensity that's way out of bounds.

If you don't know Charlotte, can't have any idea how much work she can be.

For one thing, she's an incurable hypochondriac. She can't hear about a disease or illness or syndrome without thinking she has it. She expects everyone to take her imaginary symptoms seriously.

Just for example, if she sees a commercial — aimed at old people, by the way! — for a pill that treats restless leg syndrome, she watches wide-eyed, rapt, and the moment the announcer finishes listing the symptoms, Charlotte cries out, "I have that, too!"

I don't know how many times I've heard her say that silly phrase — about brain tumors, heart problems, communicable diseases — All the while, she's young and perfectly healthy. She's always been that way, as far as I remember. And I don't think she's ever been seriously ill.

Once, back when Grandad was alive, he was a week away from getting a second knee replacement. We were out in the backyard at his house. He was trying not to complain, but when somebody asked how he was feeling, he made a face and confessed that there are times when his bad knee simply *locks* and won't move or bend in any way. "There's nothing I can do but wait until it releases," he told us. It was very painful and inconvenient, and one of the reasons he was going for the operation.

Unfortunately, Charlotte was there. We were sixteen at the time, and as Grandad talked, her eyes grew bigger and bigger, and I thought to myself, God damn it, Charlotte! Don't say it! Don't say it! but she went ahead and exclaimed, "I get that, too!"

I wanted to curl up and die, but Grandad was good: he simply pretended he didn't hear her; he let it blow by.

Okay: so Charlotte is a trip. I've got to put that thought on a back shelf, or I won't be able to do this so-called investigation for my aunt.

I entered the gate, and stood on the path to the front door. I stopped for a moment and tried to clear my thoughts, pushing away my negative attitudes toward Charlotte. I needed to be ready, feeling positive, for Aunt Hanna.

I hope I haven't given the impression that Aunt Hanna is as difficult, intense, or off-kilter as Charlotte! No, not at all! Aunt Hanna is the nicest, sweetest person. Her only problem is that she gives 100% credence to all of Charlotte's crazy ideas, and that takes her off into the high weeds. As long as the conversation steers clear of her daughter, Aunt Hanna is just fine.

Unfortunately, Hanna is a widow; Charlotte is her only child, and she dotes on Charlotte. Her buy-in to Charlotte's worldview is so complete, it's practically cultish.

 

---

 

Aunt Hanna has a close family resemblance to my mother; she's got the same face, the same curly hair, and the same comfortable... padding, I guess you could say. Hanna is a younger, smaller version of my Mom.

Like Mom, she prepared a fantastic, overabundant lunch. First, three homemade pizzas: one with grilled steak and sauteed onions; the second, a simple margherita; the third, with roasted vegetables. Accompanied by a simple, but abundant, salad, dressed with oil and vinegar.

She didn't talk business or mention Charlotte while we ate. She asked for news of my family (which is funny, knowing how often she and my mother talk on the phone), and told me some of the town gossip. Once those topics were exhausted we discussed the weather and politics.

Hanna cleared away the dishes and the uneaten food, and set out coffee and cookies. Only then did she broach the business at hand.

I dreaded it, honestly, despite my mother's pep talk. At that point, I was totally convinced that Charlotte never had a boyfriend at all, let alone the poor guy who disappeared. Imagine my surprise when Hanna moved her chair in close to mine so we could look at the pictures on her phone together.

"This is Charlotte and Ross on the day they met," she narrated. "You can see it was a football practice. Charlotte happened to be walking by, and a stray football struck her in the foot. The pointy part of the ball hit her right on her instep! Ross came running over..." I'm leaving out a lot of details, but the way Hanna told it (which must be the way Charlotte tells it), it was a perfectly normal "meet cute" and as Hanna said, "It was the start of everything!"

Well, for several reasons (one of which I'll tell you below), I expected this to be the one and only photo of Charlotte and Ross together. But it wasn't! There followed picture after picture after picture: selfies of the two of them in various places... near a river, on a bridge, after a football game, fastening a lock to a fence (?), enjoying a picnic in the park, bundled up for a walk in the snow, eating breakfast at a sidewalk cafe...

They hugged, they kissed, they held hands, they smiled cheek to cheek... I couldn't get over it!

I was speechless. I was floored. She actually knew the guy!

And he looked normal! An all-American football boy.

"They were going to be married," Aunt Hanna told me, wistful, as she swept through the seemingly endless series of photos.

But then... the photos ceased. They abruptly stopped. We'd seen them get through Halloween, Thanksgiving, and the beginning of the Christmas shopping season, but nothing beyond.

"Christmas?" I asked, realizing what should have come next. There was no Christmas, no New Years, no winter break.

"Um, yeah," Aunt Hanna admitted, seeming embarrassed, as though I'd caught her out. "They were supposed to come up here for Christmas, but..."

"That's when they broke up?"

Hanna quickly sat up straighter, a little alarmed. "Oh, no, no, no. They never broke up. Don't *ever* say that when Charlotte's around: it will set her off. No, no."

"What happened then?" I asked. "According to Charlotte?"

"Oh, December... that's when that Mayda woman began casting her net, weaving her spell over poor Ross! Charlotte tried to give him space, to let him experiment, before she and Ross settled down, but unfortunately—" she heaved a heavy, tragic sigh "—the poor boy was murdered."

"Why, exactly, would Mayda murder Ross?"

"Oh, that's easy!" Hanna replied with a smile, happy at knowing the answer, as if this was a quiz about her favorite soap opera. "Mayda wanted to take him away from Charlotte, and when she realized that Ross would never leave my Charlotte, Mayda told herself, If I can't have him, nobody can!"

"I see," I said, keeping my tone neutral. "And does Charlotte have any idea *how* he was killed?"

"Of course! Mayda stabbed him in the heart with a hunting knife — a long blade with a serrated edge — and left his body in the desert, so it would be eaten by—" (she looked up to help her recall, then counted them off on her fingers) "—crows, vultures, coyotes, wild dogs, wolves, and hyenas."

"I don't think there are any hyenas in the United States," I ventured.

"Hmmph," Hanna scoffed, a little put out. "I guess Charlotte can explain that to you."

I let that blow by without further comment.

"Does Charlotte have any proof? For any of this?"

Hanna gave me an offended look. "Of course she does. What did you think? That she just made it all up?" She bristled a little before continuing. "We know that Mayda left his body in the desert, because it was never found! And because of the mess, the blood, the blood splatter, that's why she made the truck disappear, and got rid of all her clothes."

Now she lost me. "What are you talking about? She got rid of all her clothes?"

"Yes! Haven't you read the stories?" she asked. Stories?

"Do you mean, like, the news stories?"

"Well those, too, I suppose... yes! Anyway, Mayda, on the night of Ross' murder, ran all over the countryside in her birthday suit! Can you believe it? The brazen hussy!"

"No, honestly, I can't believe it. I didn't see that in any of the reports I read."

"I'm not surprised." She shot me a disappointed look, then informed me: "It's in the Iodine story. You know."

"The Iodine story?" I repeated. "I don't know what that is."

She huffed, clearly a little uncertain herself. "Well... look it up, then!" she exclaimed, and threw up her arms. "I don't know why you're asking ME all these questions. Shouldn't you be asking Charlotte?"

I scratched my head. "Honestly," I began, then quickly changed tack: "See, Charlotte, being immersed in the story, is going to be a lot more *emotional* in the telling, I'd expect. I wanted to get the big picture first, before I dig into the details with her."

Hanna nodded. "That makes sense." She ran her hands over her face. "Oh, Lord. You can't imagine, Mason, how much stress this puts on all of us. That's why I want you to dig into it, to get to the bottom of it. Maybe you can find his body... find his truck! At the very least, find out what happened. That's all we want." She shook her head. "But those lazy, good-for-nothing Robbins police have simply given up. *MY* guess is that Mayda bewitched the police... the police chief, maybe... but Charlotte says that's beyond her powers."

God help me, I almost laughed at that.

We spoke a little more, about money, about the car, and so on. Aunt Hanna gave me the title to the car, already signed over.

"How soon can you be in Duxbridge?" she asked. "If you get there next Sunday, a week from today, Charlotte has the day off, and she can brief you, or you can interview her... or whatever it is you need to do."

 

---

 

We were at the end, as far as I could tell, of all that Aunt Hanna was able to tell me. Although all we'd done was sit, talk, and look at pictures, I was tired, worn out. I felt as though I'd been through the wringer. I needed to stand up, stretch, and move around a little. I excused myself and went to use the bathroom.

I don't visit Aunt Hanna very often, but each time I do, I'm surprised by the same thing: the reading material in the bathroom. It's a throwback to my late Uncle Samuel, who'd sit on the toilet by the hour, reading. Somehow I never remember it's there until I see it, tucked between the throne and the window.

Back when I was a kid, the little collection seemed both magical and funny. My uncle kept a heavy wire mazagine rack near the toilet, stuffed with recent magazines, comic books, and one or two mystery novels. It wasn't a static collection, either: each time I'd go, I'd find a different selection, and I'd end up entranced by whatever comic book he happened to be reading.

I smiled to see that the rack was still in place, although the comic books were gone. They were replaced by womens magazines. As far as mystery novels, there was only one.

It was an old paperback with yellow, brittle pages, published by Pocket Books back in 1962. The cover art was mildly suggestive, showing a woman covering her naked body with a cloth that flowed out and became the title of the book, which was Perry Mason solves the case of the Glamorous Ghost, by Erle Stanley Gardner.

The idea that Aunt Hanna had taken up Uncle Samuel's habit of reading on the toilet — especially now that she lived alone and could sit in a more comfortable chair anywhere in the house — struck me as a little humorous. When I returned to her kitchen, I teased her about it. She brushed off my jibes with a slight sweep of her hand. "It makes me think of him," she told me, and of course I felt like a jerk for what I'd said.

Then she brightened up and asked, "Did you see the book I left in there?"

"Perry Mason?"

"Yes! You know your uncle was a big fan of mysteries... I've started reading them myself now. Agatha Christie, of course... but he has a few of those Perry Mason stories. I look at them every day, and finally, one day, they made me think of you!" She sighed and pressed her lips into a flat frown. "And then... and so—" she sighed— "when we weren't getting anywhere... I thought maybe you could be our detective." She smiled at me. "You could be our Perry Mason." She clasped her hands together. "You can take the book, if you like. It might inspire you!"

I understood what she meant: she was disappointed by the private investigator she'd hired. Then, inspired by her dead husband's old book collection, she got the idea of hiring me, instead.

 

---

 

As I was leaving, Hanna ran and fetched the book. She pressed it into my hands, insisting that I take it. "Be our Perry Mason!" she chirped, smiling and nearly dancing with excitement.

Then another thought struck her. Her expression abruptly changed, and she took hold of my arm. "Mason," she breathed, in a low voice, as if she didn't want to be overheard, "Don't mention Caleb to Charlotte. I'm not sure whether she's heard the news, but, I don't think you want to be the one to break it to her."

"Caleb?" I asked, puzzled. "Caleb Wrexler? What about him?"

"He got married," she hissed in a breathy whisper.

I blinked. I shook my head. I couldn't see what she was getting at.

Seeing the confusion on my face, Hanna frowned. "Caleb was Charlotte's first boyfriend," she explained, as though speaking to a five-year-old. "She's never gotten over— well, you know."

"Oh, yeah," I responded. It all came back to me in a moment. "Don't worry: mum's the word."

"Good." She smiled and patted me on the arm.

 

---

 

So... Caleb. He was a big part of the reason I didn't expect Charlotte to have any kind of boyfriend, let alone this Ross guy. You could have knocked me down with a feather when Hanna began scrolling through those photos of Ross and Charlotte. Until I saw the pictures, I assumed the whole thing took place, from beginning to end, strictly inside Charlotte's head.

Caleb was the reason why I thought that way. Not that I remembered him. Not really, not at first, until Aunt Hanna mentioned his supposed connection to Charlotte, but back when it happened, the experience indelibly colored my view of Charlotte.

We were all fourteen, fifteen, when Charlotte took a shine to Caleb Wrexler. He, for his part, had zero interest in her.

She tried all kinds of antics to get his attention. He was always polite — he was a nice kid. She took his civility as proof that he was in love with her. She kept trying to do things with him, to walk with him, to get partnered with him in school activities...

Caleb made the mistake of never saying a clear 'no' to Charlotte. Instead, he'd make polite excuses for not walking with her or not talking with her or whatever Charlotte proposed. Since he never closed that door, she kept knocking on it and peeking inside.

Finally, she hatched a plan. She brought four bricks, a folded-up cardboard box, and some packing tape in her backpack to school. Near the end of the schoolday, she went to the girls bathroom, where she packed the bricks with some wadded-up paper in the box, and sealed it up.

Then she lurked at the school's front door until Caleb came out. She appealed to his polite, gallant self, and asked him to carry the box home for her, "because it's so heavy."

He brought it to her house. She introduced him to her mother. He ate some cookies and drank some milk. Then he left.

For Caleb, that's where it ended. He did a favor for a girl in his class. He would have done the same for anyone. For Charlotte, that's where their love story truly began.

She told everyone they were girlfriend and boyfriend. She'd show up at his house, and if he wasn't home, she'd visit with his mother. (His father had no patience for Charlotte.) She gave Caleb cards, letters, and presents at school, and gave herself cards and presents she claimed were sent by him.

She pestered any girl who took an interest in Caleb, and was especially vindictive to any girl Caleb even smiled at.

It finally ended when Caleb's cousin Ellen came to visit just before Christmas. She was our age, really good looking, and a stranger to most of us. While she was in town, Caleb brought her along everywhere he went. She was friendly, nice, open, and funny. Everybody liked her. Except Charlotte. Her presence, her vicinity to Caleb provoked an extreme jealousy in Charlotte. Someone clued Ellen into Charlotte's delusion, Ellen thought it would be fun to poke the bear, so to speak. Anytime Charlotte was around, Ellen would vamp it up with Caleb, clinging to him, draping herself over him, leaning on him, hugging and kissing him, calling him "sweetheart" and "babe" and other silly names, all in a very exaggerated way.

It was great entertainment for the rest of us, but Charlotte was fit to be tied. Ellen's over-the-top behavior broke a dam, in a way. Before then, no one ever spoke openly about Charlotte's obsession. Charlotte was not only intensely jealous, she was fiercely possessive and vindictive. In other words, all my classmates were afraid of her. Or at least they didn't want the trouble that would follow from crossing her.

After Ellen returned home, Charlotte found that no one would listen or give any credence to her imaginary relationship with Caleb.

Nevertheless, Charlotte still continued, low key, to keep tabs on him, and Caleb didn't dare date anyone until he left for college. The general understanding was that he didn't want to subject a girl he liked to Charlotte's craziness.

But now he was married. For sure, I was not about to mention Caleb's name to Charlotte at all.

 

---

 

Oh, one more thing about Caleb: once, when talking about Charlotte's obsessions, he characterized her in this way: "Charlotte's approach to life is this: the only tool she has is a hammer, so everyone's head seems like a nail."

 

---

 

I decided I'd leave for Duxbridge/Robbins the next Saturday. That way I'd have a week to get ready; time to put all my affairs in order. For the trip itself, I'd take an entire day to drive down there, and after taking it easy Saturday night, I'd be as rested and as ready as a person can be, to face Charlotte Sunday morning.

I didn't really need all that time, but there was no point in rushing. There was no deadline, after all. In fact, there was a positive benefit to moving slowly and deliberately.

I spent my evenings that week sifting through the papers my mother had given me. After a certain point there was a lot of repetition. After all, the story was dirt simple: Two people went out to the desert. One came home; the other took off for parts unknown.

I made a lot of notes and did a lot of thinking. It occurred to me that the most promising avenue of investigation was finding Ross, who I assumed must still be alive. Absent a body, no one could prove he was dead, let alone murdered. I decided I'd start in Robbins, gather all the facts I could, and talk to anyone who knew Ross, including his family. I'd make a list of places Ross might go; places he felt safe, places he was curious about, places he wistfully mentioned from time to time...

I wouldn't tell Charlotte that I was looking for Ross until I absolutely had to. She wouldn't take it as good news; she'd take it as proof that I wasn't listening to her and didn't know what I was doing.

In fact, when it came time to say that I'd be spending my time and energy searching for Ross, I'd tell Mom to talk Aunt Hanna first, to get her on my side.

When Charlotte gets an idea, it's like a nail, driven deep into her brain. You can't move it or change it. So I'd have to be careful when I got anywhere near that nail.

 

---

 

Aunt Hanna's remark about "the Iodine story" puzzled me, but I didn't spend much time on it. She mentioned it in connection with Mayda returning from the desert naked — a fact (?) I didn't find referenced in any of the papers I had.

"It's in the Iodine story," Hanna said.

I googled it, but all I came up with were pages about the history of iodine: its discovery and use. Nothing related to Ross, Mayda, or Charlotte.

My mother had no idea what it meant, either.

 

---

 

Saturday, the day I intended to leave, was pouring rain. It was torrential. So I put off leaving for Robbins until Sunday.

I spent the day watching old Perry Mason videos. They weren't bad. It passed the time. I was surprised at the quality of the images, considering how long ago they were made.