Miss Me When I'm Gone

chapter 61



Diane’s theft and attempted destruction of Gretchen’s notebooks and files—plus the similarity of her car to one of those described by the librarian—proved enough for investigators to question Diane and take samples of her hair and fingerprints.

When the hairs matched the ones found on Gretchen’s coat the night of her fall—and the fingerprints those in Shelly’s house the morning of her death—they managed to get a confession out of Diane. When she’d begun to suspect that Gretchen knew about her father, she’d begun to track Gretchen—following her home, and to the library, afraid that Gretchen would report what she knew. She didn’t go in for the reading, obviously, but decided to confront her in the parking lot afterward, when she saw that Gretchen was all alone. Diane claimed to have no intention of harming her—just to talk to her, before the information got into the wrong hands. When it became clear that Gretchen not only knew about Diane’s father but suspected Diane of involvement in Shelly’s death, the conversation became heated. Diane pushed Gretchen. Diane said she didn’t mean for her to fall and hurt herself. When she saw how hurt Gretchen was, she panicked and grabbed her purse to make the incident appear like a mugging.

Shelly’s death was another story. Diane knew about Shelly and her father as early as high school. It was confirmed when Diane had overheard Shelly threaten to expose her father in 1985—and her father’s futile offers to pay for her silence. On her jog early that morning in 1985, Diane had stopped at Shelly’s house, determined to talk some sense into Shelly—with a first payment in hand from her own savings. Despite the early hour, Shelly had welcomed her old friend inside and begun brewing her a pot of coffee. But the conversation had quickly turned bitter. It was clear Shelly had made up her mind. Diane, realizing this, snapped.

When Shelly’s back was turned, Diane struck her on the back of the head with an iron that had been sitting on Shelly’s kitchen counter. When she realized what she’d done, she hastily removed what evidence she could find. She wiped the handle of the iron clean, washed her hands and face in Shelly’s sink, and took one of Shelly’s T-shirts so that she wouldn’t have to jog the last half block home in a bloody shirt. In the rush to get out quickly, she’d forgotten about the roll of money she’d brought in an attempt to bribe Shelly.

Even before she mentioned seeing Frank’s car in Shelly’s driveway, people naturally wanted to believe it was him. Diane’s father and Judy and Linda were already convinced of Frank’s guilt before she ever said a word.

I attended some of Diane’s trial, when my mother was able to watch my son, Joe—the spirited baby previously known as Charlie Bucket. He didn’t seem like a Charlie Bucket when we met him. Or even a Charlie.

Diane was convicted of murder one for Shelly, involuntary manslaughter for Gretchen. I was there the day they read the verdicts. It was important for me to be there—important for the book I was writing—a combination of Gretchen’s words and my own. That was what her family, her publisher, and I came up with. I’d quit my job after Joe was born, anyhow. After my first couple of days with him, I’d felt time would be better spent with him than in front of my old newsroom computer. I had no idea what I was going to do next, and no plans to decide till after he turned one.

When it was all over, someone tapped me on the arm outside of the courthouse.

It took me a moment to recognize Kevin—I hadn’t been there the day he testified. But I noted his snug maroon dress shirt and black-checked tie.

“Hey,” I said. “I almost didn’t recognize you without your stubble.”

He smoothed his tie against his chest. “And I almost didn’t recognize you without your little belly.”

“That’s kind of you,” I said. “I know it wasn’t little.”

“How’s the baby?”

“Good,” I said. “He keeps me pretty busy. He’s really into strained peaches at the moment. And flashlights. Those are, like, his two big things right now.”

We didn’t talk for long. Kevin still missed Gretchen, he said. And he would be sure to pick up a copy of the book when it came out. He wasn’t sure he’d want to read it, but he’d want to support Gretchen’s family.

“For that scene at Frank Grippo’s house, did you write it like I was there, or like I wasn’t?” he asked.

“Both ways,” I said. “The way she wrote it and the way you told it.”

“You think that’s how she’d want it?”

“I can only guess,” I admitted. “But I tell myself so. With every page.”

We headed away from the courthouse together as we talked.

“Are you going to be around town again?” he asked, when we reached a corner together. “Research for the book?”

“Probably not,” I said. “I’m almost done, except for the trial material.”

I watched him nod. I thought of telling him I’d dash off an e-mail to him soon, maybe to clarify the paperboy parts of the book. But I knew I had those parts down pretty well. There was no need to talk to him again—as much as I’d have liked to try to keep this person—with a tiny bit of Gretchen in him—close.

“Well,” he said. “I’m glad to hear you’re almost finished. It must be a hard book to write.”

“Hard. Yeah. I’ll be sad when it’s over, though. It feels kind of like something Gretchen and I are doing together.”

“I know what you mean. Hey, where’s your car parked?”

“In the garage around the corner.”

“You were smarter than me. I did street parking. I’m probably getting a ticket as we speak.”

“I’d better let you go, then.”

We said good-bye. I headed quickly to my car so I wouldn’t have to watch him walk away.