by Laurie Nave
Natasha was brushing her hair when Celia walked into the interview room. She nodded to Celia but didn’t stop, taking her hair layer by layer because the brush was too soft to go through her thick tresses. Natasha had complained about it numerous times, but a real brush was “too dangerous,” she always said with a roll of her eyes. Celia set up the recorder and opened her thick folder, and then she just read her notes, giving Natasha time to finish brushing. They had an hour. Sometimes Natasha talked the whole time; sometimes she did other things until she felt like talking, and Celia had learned not to be impatient.
“So,” Natasha said, taking the seat across from Celia. “How’s Bart?”
Celia chuckled. She wasn’t sure when her social life had become part of their conversations, but Natasha was very interested in the men Celia saw and why she saw them. “I hear he’s fine.”
“Oh my, another one by the wayside. You’re almost as ruthless as I am.”
“Well, I never had the chance to date Chip Rogers,” Celia said good-naturedly as she turned on the recorder.
“Men like him are why it is necessary to be ruthless, trust me,” Natasha said dryly.
Celia had learned to pretend to laugh at these comments while listening closely. Often, there was something substantial behind the humor. “Oh really? So he’s nothing like his romantic comedy persona then, I assume.”
“Are they ever?” Natasha shifted in her seat. “I know you don’t smoke, but...”
“You do,” Celia finished. She pulled a pack of Natasha’s favorite brand out of her jacket pocket. Natasha smiled and took the pack. She pulled out a cigarette and held it out so that Celia could light it with a match from the small packet she had in her other pocket. “You know, I still can’t believe they let you smoke during our little visits.”
“They’ll do anything if you flash them,” Natasha quipped, and Celia dropped her jaw in surprise. “I’m kidding, hon.” She leaned forward. “You have to pay them for that.” Then Natasha sat back and laughed.
Celia didn’t probe because it was usually impossible to tell when Natasha was lying. Besides, her earlier quip about men was much more interesting. “So which man-made you ruthless first? Obviously not poor Chip.”
Natasha sighed with annoyance. “Not that old song again.” She took a long drag, blew smoke to the right, away from Celia’s face, and flicked the cigarette against her chair. “Everyone always thinks it’s dear old dad.”
“Well, he was your final victim, so you can understand my curiosity.”
“Are you saying all little girls whose daddies play in their panties end up murdering them? It’d be a lonely world.” Narrowing her eyes at Celia, Natasha licked her lips.
Studying her notes, Celia continued. “So no hanky panky with dad. But again, he was your final victim. Sexual abuse isn’t the only way to be abusive.”
“Daddy loved me, in his way. He didn’t touch me, he didn’t beat me. He loved me, loved my face, loved my talent, and especially loved the money and fame. The more I mattered to everyone else, the more I mattered to him.” Natasha shrugged. “Proud papa.”
“So then, why—”
“I didn’t specify what he was proud of,” Natasha said, crushing her half-smoked cigarette. “He disappointed me. So what happened with Bart?”
“He disappointed me,” Celia said dryly.
Natasha stilled for a moment, the pack of cigarettes in her hand. Then she threw back her head and laughed. “And that’s why I chose you,” she said, lighting another cigarette. “At least you didn’t kill him.”
Celia laughed and changed the subject. “So enough about your father for today. You talked about some of your earlier crimes, the small ones. I’m just going to ask, will you tell me about your first murder?”
A buzzing sound interrupted them, and Celia jumped slightly at the vibration in her jacket pocket. She’d placed her cell phone there, and the officer hadn’t frisked her today. They seldom searched her closely anymore. In any other situation, she would have celebrated the oversight. Today it annoyed her. She was even more annoyed when she saw that the call was from John. He knew where she was, and he had already called twice before she arrived at the prison. His intrusiveness was a problem.
“Your admirer?”
“My boss. I never should have told him about our interviews.”
“He’s jealous?”
“You know, I think he actually is. He’s nosy and overbearing in a way he never has been, and he’s dying to slip some sort of teaser into the paper.”
“You know what the contract says.”
Celia turned off the phone. “I do, and so does he. He’s angry. He’s redirected stories to some other journalists as punishment. It’s a ridiculous temper tantrum.”
“Surely the petty bastard can’t hurt your career?”
“You know, I’ve stopped being surprised at what petty bastards can do.” Celia turned a page in her notebook and resettled. “Enough talk about bastards and admirers. I don’t want to ruin both our days. So let’s get back to the story. We’re ready to talk about murder.”
“I think it’s time, yes. Of course, you know I’ve been sizing you up just as you have been sizing me up during our conversations. I feel confident I was right about you. Now we can begin talking about the murders.”
Celia tried not to lean forward too eagerly. She knew she was being tested in each interview, and she knew that if she had failed, the interviews would be terminated. That was the primary reason she still had not told John about the story. Celia wasn’t going to get anything good until she had passed the tests. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“There’s a diner I like to go to for coffee very early in the morning,” Natasha began, crushing her half-smoked cigarette onto the table. “It is very quiet there, and almost always empty. I am not entirely sure how the owners stay in business. But they are a shy old couple, and they do not follow Hollywood or gossip or any other type of privacy invasion, so they never knew who I was. It was my private haven, and I went to great lengths to keep it that way.”
“I can understand that,” Celia said, nodding. “I’m sure there was almost no place you could go and not be recognized and hounded.”
“Exactly.” Natasha pointed her unlit cigarette at Celia. “This was very important to me.” She waited for Celia to light it and then took a long drag before continuing. “That is why I could not let anyone change things.”
“And your first victim, he changed things,” Celia finished Natasha’s thought.
“It was more than that. Tom Hayles, had he been a stranger, would have been easy enough to tolerate. I always dressed inconspicuously, and I never had my hair done or makeup on, so to most people, I would not have looked like the woman they knew from magazines. But Tom was a person from the past.”
Celia leaned forward slightly and rested her chin on her upturned palm. “You already knew him?”
“Oh yes,” Natasha waved the smoke around as she gestured. “He attended the private high school that my father insisted I attend. He was two years older, but still, I knew him. And he knew me.”
Celia noticed Natasha’s tone and slightly narrowed eyes betrayed her detached manner. “And what did he think he knew?”
Smiling, Natasha flicked ash onto the floor. “He thought I would worship him as the other girls did. And he thought I was naïve. He asked me to a school dance, and I said yes. Of course, he was expelled before the dance took place.”
“Expelled? Why?”
“Before the dance, my father allowed me to meet him for a movie. He had a car, but Father believed I was too young to ride with him. Tom had some cigarettes and a bottle of vodka and suggested we go driving instead. I had hoped until then that he might have an interest in me, but when he suggested the drive and the alcohol, I knew. I knew what he was.”
“So he got you intoxicated, and then he...took advantage?”
“He underestimated me. I had been sneaking a bit of Father’s vodka fo
r years. I was never intoxicated. And he would probably say I humiliated him, the spoiled bastard. In return, he threatened to tell everyone that we had sex.” Natasha sighed. “It was fortunate for me that drugs were discovered in his locker on Monday.” She smiled at Celia.
“Yes, very lucky,” Celia smiled back. “Where did you get—“
“Of course, no one ever really knew where the drugs came from. You know how impulsive teenagers can be. He was expelled, and he slinked off like a kicked dog.”
“Until you saw him in the diner.”
“He did not notice me, so I began to watch him. He wore a suit that looked more expensive than it was. I noticed that he spoke to a wife on one phone and a mistress on another. He was the same as he had been. Of course, after several mornings he attempted to say hello. A man like this cannot help himself. Still too stupid to remember me, but I knew that my sanctuary wasn’t a sanctuary as long as he was there. And one morning he would not be stupid.”
Celia watched as Natasha smoked in silence for a few minutes. She had met with her enough times now to understand the undercurrent of anger in her eyes. Natasha was still cool, of course, but the slight hardening around the corners and the way her fingers gripped the cigarette made it clear that she was still angry remembering Tom. Natasha would take her time telling the story, however, always the consummate actress. Celia had learned to wait through the silence rather than probing.
“I followed him several times. He was always on his phone, telling his mistress what he would like to do to her, telling his wife he could not be home for dinner. The parking garage where he kept his car was older, with no cameras and very little activity. It was easy to approach him and ask him for a light. He never saw the gun.”
“Yes, the gun,” Celia noted. “They were never able to trace it.”
“No. I can thank my father for that. He knew many things from living in Russia during the Cold War.”
“And you only used it once.”
“Of course. To use the same gun again would connect people. Only an idiot would use the gun more than once,” Natasha shrugged. “I left the garage and went home. The clothing was washed and taken to one of those charity drop-bins. I did what many have done with the gun, I tossed it into the river.”
Celia wrote in her notebook as she absorbed Natasha’s retelling of the murder. There was a strange logic to her actions, and her story - so matter of fact, Celia almost understood how the murder made sense. She was learning that Natasha had a logic to every choice she made. Sure, the logic might be cold and criminal, but it was logical. Considering Celia’s issues with the persistent and slightly creepy Bart, she could empathize with the actress’s desire to have a part of her life that was safe from threatening interlopers.
“Have I shocked you?” Natasha interrupted Celia’s thoughts.
“Actually, no. I was just thinking about how there is an understandable logic as to why you killed him. Which is a little disturbing,” Celia chuckled.
“I thought you might see that. I’m sure you’ve encountered people who threatened your sense of personal space.”
Celia didn’t mention Bart; she knew Natasha was probing. “Yes, I think most of us have.”
Keith knocked, and as he entered, Celia packed her things. Natasha greeted Keith and smiled as her guard entered. Both women exited Room 4 without a word.
“You look deep in thought,” Keith said.
“She still has some of that dramatic ability,” Celia said.
“That she does. She can almost make you feel sorry for her.”
Celia didn’t respond, but she agreed. In fact, the more they talked, the more able Celia was to see things from Natasha’s perspective. She guessed it was because she too had a pragmatic way of looking at things, along with a strong sense of self-preservation. Not only had Celia learned her way of looking at things wasn’t stereotypically feminine, but it also wasn’t always traditionally black and white. After all, Celia had done a bit of maneuvering and manipulating to further her career, she thought to herself, remembering Paul Singleton. Sometimes you had to do what you had to do.
When Celia picked up her personal from the clerk, Sabria remarked, “I guess I forgot to get your cell phone. Or you didn’t bring one. Let’s keep that oversight to ourselves.”
Celia chuckled as she powered up her cell phone, but her gut felt heavy as she typed in her password. There were almost 20 text notifications from an unknown number. Since blocking Bart’s number the weeks before, she had received several calls from someone whose number was marked “Private Caller.” She knew it was him, and these texts were probably him as well. How was she supposed to block him when he could just spoof another number or get one from an app? Celia screen-shotted each notification. She would read them when she returned to her office.
After locking her door and settling in her chair, Celia opened the string of messages. Just as she suspected, they were from Bart.
“Please talk to me.”
“You blocked my number. I had to use another one to reach you.”
“Why are you ignoring me? What are you afraid of?”
“You can’t just unilaterally cut me out like this!”
“Who are you screwing now? Where are you?”
“Your car is not at work. Who are you with??”
“I’m not going anywhere! Talk to me!”
By the time Celia got to the last message, she was angry. What was wrong with him? She wished she had never agreed to go on the first date with Bart. Part of her thought she should be a bit afraid, but she was so mad, it overrode any sense of fear. He was not going to disrupt her life. She took a screenshot of every message before deleting them. She deleted the number as well. Yes, he’d probably get a new one, but she wasn’t going to change her number; she’d had it for years. What a pain in the ass it would be to have to change it and notify everyone. Bart didn’t deserve that kind of effort and inconvenience.
Pushing Bart to the back of her mind, Celia began to listen to her interview with Natasha and add to her notes. She had no doubt what Natasha would do if confronted with a man like Bart. Celia chuckled. The death penalty was way too high a price to pay for a pathetic man with a bruised ego. She’d had to think of something else to deter him.
At 4:00, A knock interrupted Celia’s progress. “Yes, who is it?”
“Gladys poked her head into the office, and her expression was full of worry. “There’s someone here to see you, but I’m not sure he is who he says he is.”
Celia closed her laptop. “Who does he say he is? Atilla the Hun? I’ve never seen you so pale.”
“He says,” she paused and looked behind her. “He says he’s your father.”
“No way.” Celia sighed and walked to the door.
It was her father. He was thinner, and he had less hair, but it was definitely him. He looked almost as concerned as Gladys. “I’m sorry to just show up. I knew you wouldn’t be happy about it. But your landline was disconnected.”
“You might as well come in,” Celia sighed, opening her office door a bit wider.
“Should I bring in coffee?“ Gladys asked.
“No,” Celia said sharply. “Sorry, we won’t be here long.”
Celia’s father, Stewart, looked around the office as he sat in the chair she offered. He couldn’t meet her eye, and Celia had to admit that satisfied her a little. She didn’t sit in her chair. Instead, she sat in front of him on the edge of her desk, wanting to be taller than he was. “So why are you here?”
“I needed to talk to you.”
“Really, after all these years, you needed to talk? What happened to your new family?”
Stewart winced. “She left me. She left me two years ago.”
“Hurts, doesn’t it?”
“I deserve that.” Stewart sighed. “I deserve much worse after what I put you and your mother through.”
“You don’t get to talk about mom. If that’s what you came for, I think we’re done.”
“Why in the world would I want to talk about your hygienist’s sister? Is she why your new wife left?”
“No, well, possibly. But not for the reason you think.”
“Then what? I have work to do. It’s a paper. We have deadlines.”
“Her sister’s name was Judith. Judith Vandiver.” He looked at Celia, expecting the name to mean something to her. “She’s Bart Vandiver’s late wife.”
Celia opened her mouth, but she didn’t speak. It wasn’t what she’d expected her father to say. The walk back to her chair gave her the chance to hide her shock, and she sat slowly. “So you were married to Bart’s wife’s older sister? Did you know him? Does he know you?”
Stewart shook his head. “I met him once, at a family gathering. They didn’t stay very long. I got the idea he didn’t want to be there at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, they eloped, for one thing. Melina’s family wasn’t happy about that. And after they were married, Judith hardly ever visited. I know her parents traveled to where they lived, but they seldom came to town to see the rest of the family.”
“Maybe he didn’t feel welcome.”
Stewart frowned and shook his head. “I don’t think so. I know it’s a touchy subject, but Melina’s family was very kind. Even though...” he cleared his throat. “Even though Melina and I got together in the most selfish, wrong way, they accepted me.” He looked down at his hands.
Celia wasn’t moved by his discomfort at all. “Good for them. So why are you here?”
“Well, her parents never thought her accident was an accident. And Bart has shown up at some events lately.”
“I know. He said they were still close. He was trying to be supportive.”
“That’s the thing.” Stewart sat forward. “He wasn’t. He didn’t even want them to see her body. He wanted her cremated. It was the hospital that called them to tell them she’d died, not Bart.”
