Your Eternal Lies
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“The next day was Sunday. The sun had been up for a couple of hours before I woke. I couldn’t sleep any longer, so I got out of bed and walked outside the room to look around. I didn’t see anyone on the grounds or in the house, but there were several people working in the yard and some children playing with balls on the lawn.”
I looked back at her from across the table where we sat. “So what did you do?”
“Nothing,” she said. “It was too early for church, so I went back inside my room to read.” She sighed. “That’s all I remember until I awoke in this bed.”
She smiled as if that explained everything.
But it didn’t. Not even close. It only left me more confused. Why would God have allowed something like this to happen? If he hadn’t done anything, then why would He allow an innocent woman to be accused of murder? And how could He let someone who wasn’t guilty die without telling him about it?
Why not just tell her herself?
Maybe because you’re still alive and can tell me yourself. Maybe you’ve already told me, but I’m not hearing you. Or maybe it’s your will and you don’t want her to know. That made sense. But then again, God didn’t seem to mind letting us know when He wanted to talk.
I thought of Jonah being swallowed by a whale. He’d known exactly where he was going. There was no way to mistake his destination. Then there was Jesus dying on the cross. He’d chosen His own death over our punishment for our sins. So why wouldn’t He care whether someone died in their right mind or not?
He cares, but sometimes His reasons are mysterious. You may never understand them. Just keep praying.
If God cared enough to save someone like Jonah, surely He would spare the life of one innocent woman.
I kept trying to make sense of things, but they remained confusing.
When I returned to town after leaving Mrs. Bixby, I found the sheriff waiting for me. He took me into his office and closed the door behind us.
“What did you find?”
“We talked to every witness and everyone who saw Mrs. Bixby leave the inn. No one knows what happened except her maid, Sarah.”
“How did you get Sarah to speak?”
“Her husband is sick in bed with pneumonia, so I spoke with her while she tended to him.”
“Did you ask her if she heard anything suspicious last night?”
“No. We assumed she knew nothing since she worked alone in the inn last night. What makes you think she might know something?”
“You should have asked her yourself.”
Sheriff Conner shrugged. “Sometimes women don’t say much. They prefer men to speak for them. Besides, I didn’t think it wise to question her in front of her husband.”
“And you’re sure none of these witnesses heard anything suspicious last night?”
“Not that I recall.”
I nodded. “Thank you. Did you notice anything odd about Mrs. Bixby’s appearance?”
“Yes, she seemed to be favoring her right leg.”
I frowned. “Was it swollen?”
“No, sir. I checked. But I noticed she was limping badly this morning when I escorted her to church.”
I felt sick. “Can you imagine what she must have gone through last night? To lose her husband, then to be accused of killing him—all in the same day!”
“Sir, you need to calm down.” He held up his hand to stop me. “You’re making quite a scene here.”
I glared at him. “Are you accusing me of losing my temper?”
He cleared his throat. “Look, sir, I—”
I waved him off. “Don’t bother apologizing. You’re right. I shouldn’t have lost control.”
I turned to go.
“Wait,” he called out. “Just hold on. Can we discuss this later? In private?”
“Sure. Call me tonight.”
I headed for my horse, ignoring the curious stares from the townsfolk. I rode away from town with a heavy heart.
Mrs. Bixby deserved better than this. How could anyone accuse such a sweet lady? Her only crime was loving another man.
While I was riding along, I thought of her words.
You can’t lie to God.
Had God lied to her? Was she really dead?
As I continued toward home, I realized I needed answers. I decided to ride to the inn where I could hear firsthand what happened that evening. As I reached the inn, I glanced around for any sign of the innkeeper. I had a feeling I’d run into him before I entered the building. The moment I stepped inside, I spotted Mr. Bixby sitting in a chair near the fireplace. He looked frail, pale, and weak.
My first instinct was to rush to his side and take his hand.
Then I remembered the last time I’d seen him when he’d been standing outside of town talking to the sheriff. I wasn’t surprised to see him wearing the same clothes as yesterday. It was obvious he hadn’t bothered changing. I couldn’t blame him. I doubt anyone would notice he’d changed his clothes anyway.
I walked over to him and tried to smile. “Mr. Bixby, I came to check on how you were doing.”
He stared back at me without saying a word.
“It looks like you haven’t slept yet.”
His gaze shifted to his wife’s portrait hanging above the mantel. For some reason, that made me uncomfortable.
“Have you eaten?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
The innkeeper looked away. When he finally spoke again, his voice sounded distant. “Do you want to come upstairs and talk?”
I hesitated. I wondered if it was too soon. If he still blamed himself for Mrs. Bixby’s death. “Actually, there’s something else I wanted to show you.”
I went to the desk and opened a drawer. Pulling out a piece of paper, I handed it to him.
“Is this yours?”
He unfolded it and read it aloud. “‘Dear William: Your father told me your mother passed away today.’ That’s all it says.”
The innkeeper sat motionlessly. He didn’t seem to notice me. “Where did you get this?”
I shrugged. “It just fell out of my pocket.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Why would my father write such an upsetting message?”
“Maybe he wrote it to give you closure.”
“Closure! Yes, that’s exactly what I need right now. Thanks.” He folded the note and put it in his coat pocket. Then he stood up. “Excuse me. I’m going downstairs to eat breakfast. Perhaps you’ll join us?”
“No, thank you. I’ve got other plans.”
He paused. “What are they?”
“I promised Mrs. Bixby that I would help her find justice.”
***
I took a seat across the table from Mrs. Bixby and waited for the innkeeper to bring our food. After we ate, I asked Mrs. Bixby if she knew why the sheriff wanted me so bad.
She shook her head. “No, not exactly. All I know is that he thinks I killed my husband. I don’t understand why he thinks I did.” She rubbed her forehead. “I swear, I never meant for my husband to die.”
“Did you love each other?”
Her eyes widened. “Of course, I loved him. We were married twenty-six years.”
“Twenty-six years!” I exclaimed. “And no one suspected anything until now?”
“There weren’t many people who ever saw them together,” she said. “Only family members, neighbors and the occasional guest at the inn.”
“How often do you see the sheriff?” I asked.
“Not very much anymore. But every once in a while I see him passing through the village or at the jail.”
“Why does he think you killed your husband?”
“Because of what I said in my letter. About how I wished I could have done more for my husband.”
“Was there ever any indication that your marriage was unhappy?”
“Well, yes. There were times when we fought about money. They say money ruins everything.”
“Who?”
“God knows. Maybe that’s why he’s angry.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“When I read the letter, I felt guilty. So I ran to the sheriff to confess. Of course, I had nothing to confess to.”
“You mean to tell me that after reading a suicide note, you confessed to murdering someone?”
“I guess I was desperate to clear my conscience.”
“But the sheriff didn’t believe you? And now he’s searching for you?”
Mrs. Bixby sighed. “If only I could prove to him that I didn’t kill my husband.”
I nodded. “Perhaps I can help you with that.”
***
We drove to town and parked outside of the sheriff’s office. The building was surrounded by a high fence topped with barbed wire. A sign hung next to the gate that said “Sheriff’s Office.”
A guard inside watched us as we approached the front door. “State your business.”
“I’m here to see Sheriff Wallace.”
He glanced down at a clipboard and jotted something down. “Follow the directions on the sheet.”
My heart raced. Was I really doing this? My stomach churned. Would I be able to face the sheriff without breaking into a nervous sweat?
As I followed the instructions, I noticed a large man standing near the back of the room. He wore a dark blue uniform with gold buttons. His badge identified him as Sergeant Belden. It was easy to imagine him swinging a gun instead of writing notes.
Sergeant Belden pointed to a small door. “Go in there.”
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. Standing in the middle of the room was a wooden chair with a leather seat and backrest. In front of the chair was a metal box with a lock and key attached. Next to the box was another sheet of paper. Reading the instructions, I discovered that this was where the prisoner sits while being questioned.
“Have you been accused of killing anyone before?”
“Yes, I shot a man once.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Really? How’d that happen?”
“He tried to rob me.”
The sergeant turned away from me and spoke to the other guard. “Get Mr. Wallace out of his office and bring him here.”
After the sheriff came inside, the sergeant led him over to stand beside me.
“Good morning, Miss Bixby,” he said.
I gave him a smile. “Morning.”
“So what brings you here today?”
“Actually, I came to ask you some questions.”
“About your husband?”
“Yes. Why is it that you’re looking for me?”
“It seems you sent a letter saying that you wanted to take your own life. You also wrote about having an affair.”
“That was all true.”
“Do you still want to end your life?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I just wish I hadn’t written those things in the letter.”
“Does your husband know you wrote that letter?”
“No. No one but God has seen it.”
“Are you ready to go home?”
“In a minute, if I may speak freely.”
He nodded.
“Why did you search for Mrs. Bixby? Did you find any evidence linking her to her husband’s murder?”
“She’s under suspicion because of what she wrote in her letter. If you knew how the police operate, you wouldn’t feel so surprised.”
“I understand,” I said. “But let me tell you something else.”
“Oh?”
“Before I left Chicago, I went to the cemetery where my daughter is buried and prayed to God not to make me a murderer. I made a promise to do anything he asked. But I never thought I would be accused of killing my own husband!”
The sheriff studied my face for a few moments. Then he leaned forward. “Miss Bixby, I’m going to give you a chance to explain yourself.”
“Thank you. Now, listen carefully. First, I am no killer. Second, I’ve always loved my husband. Third, I never told anyone to search for me. Fourth, I don’t remember leaving my house. Fifth, when I first saw you, I recognized your voice and remembered seeing you several years ago when you visited my family. Sixth, I have nothing to hide and will answer every question truthfully.”
I took a deep breath. “I’ll start with the day of my husband’s death. I got up early and spent most of the morning making breakfast. After lunch, I baked cookies until dinner time.”
“How long did you bake them?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Did you ever taste test them?”
“Once or twice.”
“What kind were they?”
“Cocoa pecan.”
“You didn’t eat them?”
“Of course, I ate them.”
“Did you leave the oven on?”
“Yes, I left it on.”
“Was there smoke coming out of the kitchen?”
“Smoke?”
“Smoke.”
I frowned. “Not much, but yes, there was a little bit.”
“When was the last time you checked it?”
“A couple hours later.”
“And after you left the kitchen, did you check again?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you notice that the stove had caught fire?”
“Well, I forgot to look at the clock. When we returned to the kitchen, everything looked normal except for the smell of burned cookies.”
“Where are the burnt cookies now?”
“They’re in the garbage can outside.”
“Did you put them there?”
“Yes, I placed them next to the trash can.”
“Did you burn any other food?”
“No.”
“Were there any matches in the drawer?”
“I believe there were two. One was mine and the other belonged to my husband.”
“And where are the matches now?”
“I threw them away.”
“Just like that?” The sheriff raised an eyebrow.
“Yes.”
“Okay then, let’s talk about the night of your husband’s death. Where were you?”
“At home.”
“With your husband?”
“Yes, as usual.”
“As usual, he wasn’t drinking?”
“No, he rarely drank before bedtime. He usually fell asleep reading his Bible.”
“What happened after supper?”
“We watched television for a while.”
“Anything unusual happens?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Did you hear a gunshot?”
“Yes, right around ten o’clock.”
“Any idea who fired the gun?”
“My husband.”
“Could you identify him?”
“I think so.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I woke up and saw my husband lying dead beside the sofa.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He said ‘help.’ Then he started bleeding from his mouth.”
“So you rushed over to him and found him covered with blood.”
“Yes, he was dying. So I called for help.”
“Who was the first person to come running into the room?”
“Mr. Cooper. He helped me get my husband onto the floor and began performing CPR.”
“Why didn’t Mr. Cooper call for the doctor immediately?”
“It was only seconds before the ambulance arrived.”
“How did the paramedics react when they saw the scene?”
“They couldn’t believe it. They asked if I knew what caused it, and I told them my husband shot himself. That was when I learned that some people believed he’d been murdered by someone he hired.”
“Do you know who those people could be?”
“No. I heard one rumor that claimed it was a man named John Smith, but I dismissed it as nonsense because I’ve never met the man.”
The sheriff sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “All right. Let’s move on. How did you find yourself in jail?”
“One evening, just a few weeks ago, my husband came home and asked me to take a walk. We walked down the street and stopped at a neighbor’s house.”
“For what purpose?”
“To discuss our finances.”
“How did you feel about that?”
“I thought it would be good for us to sit down together and work through things instead of letting problems pile up.”
“What happened once you reached the neighbor’s house? Did you tell your husband what you wanted to discuss?”
“We talked briefly, and then I mentioned something about the financial troubles that were affecting my family.”
“And how did he respond?”
“He didn’t seem very interested.”
“In fact, he seemed pretty upset.”
“That’s exactly what he was doing. It took a lot of coaxing to convince him to return home with me.”
“After dinner, did you have any more money trouble to discuss?”
“No, nothing else occurred that day.”
“And you didn’t see your husband again until the morning of his funeral.”
“Right. After church services, we went home, changed clothes, and attended the funeral.”
“Is that all you had planned for the day?”
“Yes. But before we left, I checked my bank balance to make sure I still had enough cash to pay for the burial.”
“You mean you didn’t go shopping or do any other errands?”
“No, not that day. There was no reason to.”
“Because you hadn’t been charged yet.”
“Exactly.”
“But you had been charged. Didn’t you realize you were being held in contempt of court?”
“Of course, I realized that. What I failed to understand is why the judge didn’t explain it to me sooner.”
“Your attorney should have explained everything to you,” the sheriff said. “Especially since you’re a lawyer too.”
“My attorney did mention the possibility that I might lose the case, but she also promised to appeal it.”
The End