I nodded silently. The city’s sheer crush of humanity did make it easy for a person to blend in, but I suspected Poppy Parnell and her fans hadn’t been able to find me—assuming they had tried—because I had legally changed my name from Buhrman to Borden. Aunt A knew about the name change but seemed uncomfortable with it, sending all holiday and birthday cards addressed only to “Josephine.”
“I’ve called the police several times already,” she continued. “They’re usually able to dispel the campers for the night, but they just come back . . . and bring their friends. And the police claim they can’t do anything about that so-called journalist unless I get a restraining order, which seems like making a mountain out of . . . well, out of a smaller mountain.” Aunt A shook her head wearily. “Maybe I should. I know your sister’s thoughts about it. She said that Parnell woman has been going through her trash. Her trash. If I catch that woman anywhere near the trash cans, I won’t be able to set that court date fast enough.”
“Lanie . . . lives in town?” I asked, piecing together her words.
Aunt A smiled gently and took my hand. “She does. You should call her, Josie. Let her know that you’re here. You two have a lot of catching up to do.”
I pulled my hand away. “There’s nothing I want less than to catch up with my sister.”
Our old bedroom was just as we had left it: the walls covered in blue-and-white-striped wallpaper; the twin beds spread with matching blue-and-white quilts; a long-forgotten stuffed bear propped against the pillows on my bed. The hulking computer still sat atop the white desk, the corkboard behind it still dotted with faded snapshots and ten-year-old invitations to high school graduation parties. Dusty pink bottles of Bath & Body Works body sprays and Victoria’s Secret perfume still lined up on the dresser, and there was an Ashlee Simpson album still inside the CD player/alarm clock.
I picked up a small model of the Washington Monument from the desk, rubbing my thumb over its jagged tip, broken when Lanie, angry that I had told Aunt A she skipped school, had flung it at me. It had once been a tangible reminder of happier times, a memento from a family vacation to Washington, DC, taken the summer before everything had been completely destroyed. It was our father at his best: eager to share his extensive knowledge of American history, almost giddy during the tour of the White House’s East Wing. Even our mother, though she disliked crowds and had been in a rather bleak mood at that point, seemed to enjoy herself. We took in the cherry blossoms and the monuments as a family, and then my father and I headed for the National Museum of American History, while my mother and sister went to the National Gallery of Art, chattering excitedly about the impressionist works they would see.
I set down the souvenir and crossed to the family photos Aunt A had assembled for us, framed snapshots clustered on the walls. My fingertips brushed the dusty frames, skirting the images within that seemed from another lifetime: Lanie and me as grumpy infants in our mother’s arms, her eyes tired but her smile wide and genuine; Lanie and me at five years old, looking on with giddy grins as our father carved a jack-o’-lantern with a wicked-looking kitchen knife; Lanie and me flanking Ellen as the three of us perched on a bale of hay, Pops holding bunny ears up to Lanie’s head, Grammy laughing and only half in the shot. I stared at my sister’s childish, innocent face and fought the urge to rip all the frames from the wall.
Instead, I sank down onto the bed, pulling the stuffed bear into my arms. Lanie and I had received matching bears as Christmas gifts when we were five. I had named mine Brother John after the oversleeping friar in the nursery rhyme. We had learned the song from our father, who would sing it to us each night. Because our father otherwise never sang—he always said he couldn’t carry a tune even if it had handles—the song took on an almost mythic quality. Brushing matted fur out of the bear’s beaded eyes, I began to sing quietly.
“Are you sleeping, are you sleeping? Brother John, Brother John. Morning bells are ringing, morning bells are ringing. Ding dang dong, ding dang dong.”
Without knowing why, I shivered. Why had the familiar tune unsettled me?
I squeezed the bear to my chest and wished desperately that my arms were around Caleb instead of this little sack of fake fur and beans. Poor Caleb, alone in our apartment and still weary from jet lag. He was probably too tired to make himself dinner and had ordered in pad thai. I struggled to remember if there were even any groceries in the refrigerator. I wanted to be home, taking care of him.
I texted him to say that I had arrived in Elm Park and that I loved him, but I was almost immediately overwhelmed by a flurry of responses inquiring about the morales of Ellen and myself and when I wanted him to come. Any answers would have been lies, and I couldn’t bring my fingers to form them. Instead, I closed my Messages app and promised myself I would send him a note in the morning, a ploy that would permit me to ignore the questions and simply apologize for failing to respond. I could claim I turned my phone off so I could get some sleep, or better yet, that my phone had died and I had forgotten the charger at home.
And then someday, maybe I would finally stop lying to the man I loved.
In the meantime, I flouted Aunt A’s warning to not listen to any more of the podcast, plugged in my earbuds, and hit Play.
Excerpt from transcript of Reconsidered: The Chuck Buhrman Murder, Episode 3: “The (Un)Usual Suspects,” September 21, 2015
One of the questions I’m asked most often is: “Poppy, if Warren Cave didn’t kill Chuck Buhrman, who did?”
I don’t really have an answer. To be perfectly clear, I’m not even certain that Warren Cave didn’t kill Chuck Buhrman. He seems sincere to me, but gut feelings aren’t the same thing as evidence. He might have shot Chuck Buhrman, he might not have. All I’m doing is considering all the possibilities.
Let’s explore some of the alternate suspects.