Who She Was

by Braylee Parkinson

  To fit the part, I’d taken my hair out of the bun and fluffed it out in a carefree, tamed afro. I’d thrown on capris, a tank top, Birkenstocks, and a backpack. Yes, it was still chilly out, but that never stopped anyone in Ann Arbor from dressing like it was mid-June. I’d added glasses and a hippie charm necklace I’d worn in college. It was still winter, but a warm spell had given us temps in the high forties, so I’d thrown on a vintage jean jacket. It may have been a little overkill, but I blended in well with the eclectic Ann Arbor scene. I ordered a non-fat mocha and sat at the front counter for a while, watching Lacresha work. Nervous, shaky hands led to sincere apologetic whispers, but she was doing better than she thought. A caring manager encouraged her. I almost felt bad for what I was about to do, but there was no getting out of it. I needed information.

  “This mocha is great.”

  “Glad you like it.”

  “Are you new?” I asked casually.

  “Yes.”

  “Welcome. I love this place. Best mochas in A2.”

  No response.

  “Is that an accent I hear?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where ya from?”

  “New Orleans.”

  “Nice. I love that city. You a student?”

  “No, I just moved here with my son. He’s two. We’re…starting over, fresh and new.”

  Her smile was genuine and hopeful. Starting over could mean a lot of things. After Hurricane Katrina, fleeing the Gulf Coast was not uncommon, but that disaster was well in the past now. Perhaps she had left Louisiana for another reason.

  “So, what made you choose Michigan?”

  “Got a few good friends here. They helping me get things in order. My life was messed up back home. After Katrina, it was just too hard to get things together. I was just a kid when it struck, but nothing was ever the same after that. No more struggling. I’m ready to make it big in this life.”

  She was working hard to hide her accent and vernacular, but she kept slipping into her southern drawl.

  “Do you plan on going to school?”

  “Eventually, but my friend says she goin’ help me get thangs together and git me in a program. She owns a daycare, so I don’t gotta worry ’bout nothin’.”

  “That’s so cool. Well, welcome to A2.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What do you think of the city?”

  “Haven’t seen much, but I like what I’ve seen.”

  “It’s a great place. A2 is unique. I think you’ll like it.”

  “Me too. I don’t miss Louisiana as much as I thought I would. Would you like some key lime pie? Maybe lemon cake. It’s all made in house.”

  I considered the lemon cake but decided against it.

  “No, I’m just tanking up on coffee for lab tonight.”

  “What you taking?”

  “Chemistry.”

  “Oh man, I couldn’t handle that.”

  “It’s challenging, but I like it. Nothing worthwhile is easy, right?”

  “Amen,” she said, before flipping on a blender to mix a drink.

  “So, did you come here to visit and decide to stay?”

  “Naw. It was more like a leap of faith. I hadn’t been here before I moved.”

  “Really? How did you make friends?” I asked.

  She hesitated and looked at the ceiling before answering.

  “Well, they kind of found me. Thank God they found me,” she said in a serene voice.

  I spent the next few minutes making small talk and working to pry any small details from her. Lacresha was nice and eager to tell parts of her story, but she kept the major points to herself. I felt guilty taking advantage of the young girl’s optimism and naivety, but over the next week, I continued to stop by for mochas and lattes.

  On day six, I took Martin with me. Sneakiness comes easily to him, so when I told him the plan, he was excited and ready to help. I took him in and introduced him as my chem. lab partner.

  “Hey,” Lacresha said.

  “Hello,” Martin said, his eyes sparkling with admiration.

  Today, Lacresha’s hair was swept up into a bun, and her dark skin held a new glow. She had now mastered her job, and must have been getting used to Ann Arbor, because her southern hospitality was on full display. She talked freely with Martin, who I think genuinely liked her. He maintained eye contact and the two of them ignored my comments the way potential lovers ignore the third wheel. Towards the end of our stay, I got up and went to the bathroom. Standing at the mirror, I fluffed my unruly locks, washed my hands, and pulled out my phone to check invisible text messages. I counted to thirty before returning to my seat. Martin winked at me the moment I sat down. We stayed for a few more minutes, and then made our excuses and left. Chem. lab was waiting.

  We made our way to the car, cool, calm, and collective. Once we were pulling out of the parking space, Martin began to talk.

  “She told me she’d had a hard time, wasn’t ready for anything new. Said her last boyfriend had not been ‘nice’ to her. She stuttered a bit, looked down when she said it. I think you were right. Something’s up with her.”

  “What do you think that something might be?”

  “No idea.”

  “Where is she living?”

  “She didn’t give me an exact address, but it sounds like she might live with Madelyn. She said she’s staying with a friend.”

  “What else did you find out?”

  “Sounds like she was in an abusive relationship. I asked about yoga and she mentioned that her yoga teacher is amazing. Maybe Madelyn Price is a good lady?”

  I listened as we cruised through Ann Arbor. Was I exploiting a young single mom and my lonely brother-in-law? A twinge of guilt welled up in my throat.

  “You really liked her, didn’t you?”

  Martin shifted in the passenger seat. We let the silence linger for a few minutes, and then I spoke.

  “You liked her. Martin, I shouldn’t have involved you in this. I won’t ask you to do anything like that again. It was unfair.”

  “It’s okay. I’m always asking for more responsibility. Well, you gave it to me. I did…kind of like her. She’s so pretty.”

  “Well, maybe you’ll go back and visit her after all this is over. Madelyn doesn’t know who you are, so there’s no reason for you to be connected to this debacle. Afterwards, go back and ask for her number again. She might be a nice girl to get to know.”

  Martin was visibly uncomfortable now. The faint hue of a blush crept onto his cheeks. He looked like a schoolboy in love.

  “How old is she?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “Maybe she likes younger men.”

  “Sylvia!”

  “Just saying.” I laughed and slugged him in the arm.

  “Whatever. Let’s stay on topic,” he said, stifling a laugh.

  “How’d she find the yoga studio?”

  “Didn’t say, but she did say she’d met the friend she’s staying with in New Orleans. Madelyn has some ties there, right?”

  “Yes. So did Liza.”

  “You’re thinking Lacresha met Madelyn in the Big Easy, kept in touch, and moved in with her?”

  “Sounds like it. That would lead to knowledge of the yoga studio.”

  “Wonder how they met. Lacresha is quite a bit younger than Madelyn.”

  “Maybe a yoga conference? They have that in common.”

  “Okay, I guess that works, but the bigger question is, what does it have to do with Liza’s murder?” Martin asked.

  “No clue.”

  “Madelyn may have instructed others to kill Liza—maybe for money, or just for fun.

  “But what would be the motive?”

  “That’s the thing. There isn’t a motive. Madelyn isn’t moving in on Carson, she didn’t have financial ties, and the yoga studio has nothing to do with Liza.”

  “Do you think we’re missing something?”

  “Have to be. I just don’t know what it is�
��yet.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The rest of the work week stretched on without revealing much information about Liza’s murder. I spent Thursday and Friday on the computer, typing in various combinations of words I thought might bring up valuable clues. Saturday is generally my day off, but I spent six hours searching through old deeds and newspaper clippings at the library. That night, I passed out before having dinner and didn’t wake up until a little after six a.m. the next day.

  I keep the Sabbath as much as I can. There are times when I need to work, but I almost always keep my standing date of 6:30 a.m. Mass. That Sunday morning, I put on a suit and headed to St. John’s as usual. By 7:15 a.m., I was normally on my way back home.

  That Sunday, I waved to the familiar faces—most topped with white hair—before sliding into the second-to-last pew at the back of the church. Mass started at 6:29 a.m. and lasted forty minutes. Father Keegan gave a gentle homily encouraging us to welcome the stranger, regardless of who the stranger happened to be. After the procession from the sanctuary was complete, I slipped out of the pew, genuflected toward the altar, and finished the solemn event with a holy-water-laced cross on my forehead.

  Generally, after Mass I keep my head down, wave at a few acquaintances, and share a brief chat with Father Keegan, who has been my priest since the beginning of time, and head home. On this particular Sunday, however, he held my hand after our cordial handshake and quietly asked, “May I have a moment of your time?”

  Father Keegan and I have known one another for decades. He was the priest at the Catholic school I attended as a child. At the time, he’d been a spry young man eager to save young souls. Now he was slightly less spry, but still an excellent priest. He had helped me navigate the emotional waters around Derek’s death.

  In answer to his question, I said, “Sure, Father Keegan.”

  “I’ll be in the social hall in a few minutes. Do you have time to wait?”

  “Absolutely.” I grabbed a cup of coffee, waved to several elderly parishioners, and received a few kisses from blue-haired ladies. Ten minutes later, Father Keegan pulled up a chair at my solitary table.

  “How are you doing, my friend?”

  “Doing well. Is everything okay?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Are you working any cases?”

  Generally, I don’t answer that question for anyone who doesn’t need to know, but Father, being my priest and a confidant, was in a gray area, so I told him yes.

  “I see. Someone came here asking questions about you.”

  “Really? Did he or she leave their name?”

  “No. The woman wasn’t very friendly, and she refused to leave her name. She was small, petite, and her hair was pulled back into a bun. The questions she asked were intrusive. I guess she thought an old priest would just fold and answer them.”

  A mistake indeed…Father Keegan had been a priest in the heart of Detroit for several decades before moving to a suburban parish; he knew how to handle intruders, and kept a Glock handy.

  “I’m working on a high-profile case. Do you remember the story about the woman who was killed in Brightmoor? It was a about two years ago. She was a Northville stay-at-home mom, married to a doctor.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember that.”

  “Her husband asked me to find her killer.”

  “Oh, Sylvia, why do you always want to make things hard on yourself? I thought you usually refused murder cases. You’re a PI—this could be dangerous.”

  “Don’t worry. I will be careful. What did this woman ask you?”

  “She wanted to know where you lived and which Mass you attended. I told her I was not at liberty to disclose any information. It was disturbing that she knew that you attended this parish. She wasn’t friendly, Sylvia. I don’t know if she’s dangerous or not, but you should be careful.”

  Madelyn Price was obviously investigating me…Very strange that she wanted to know about my church habits and where I lived.

  “Will you try to snap a picture of the woman if she comes back? She’s very sly and coy. If I confront her without any definitive evidence, she’ll deny everything.”

  “I will use my fancy phone to snap a picture, but keep in mind that you don’t know who she is yet.”

  “No, but I have a good idea that it is my number one suspect. Her name is Madelyn Price. Throw her name out if she comes back; see if she reacts.”

  “Do you really think she’s a murderer?”

  “Part of the reason she’s my number one suspect is because she was so reluctant during my interview with her, and I think this murder is rooted in the past. She didn’t want to answer questions and, like you said, she’s not friendly.”

  “Sylvia, have you considered getting out of law enforcement? Derek was so proud of you. He wouldn’t mind if you went a different way.”

  It was true: Derek wouldn’t care what I did. He’d always been my biggest fan.

  “Thank you for saying that. I know it’s true, but I feel an urge to do this work, so I’ll be in law enforcement until it doesn’t inspire me anymore.”

  “It’s not your fault, the thing that happened. You don’t have to make up for something that isn’t your fault, Sylvia.”

  “Father…I do this because I feel called to do it. You know what it’s like to be called to something, right?”

  He nodded. “You’ve got me there. Just be careful, Sylvia.”

  “No worries. I’m always careful.”

  “Well, I hope that this case is solved soon. It’s not comforting to know that someone is snooping around trying to get information about you.”

  I wondered if Madelyn knew she was my number one suspect. I felt a little violated, but recognized how hypocritical that thought was. We were both suspicious of each other and searching for answers.

  “Don’t worry, I’m a crack shot,” I said, winking and getting up to leave.

  “See you next week!” Father Keegan called after me.

  ***

  On the walk home, I pondered the meaning behind Madelyn’s questioning of my priest. She’d asked about my faith when I interviewed her. Had she been on a fact-finding mission too? We were both playing the same game. Back at home, I checked my messages. One of Carson’s coworkers had left me a voicemail.

  “Mrs. Wilcox, I know you called me a few months ago, but I have been so busy, I’ve just now had a chance to get back to you. If you are free, please stop by the hospital this evening. I will be able to chat about Liza and Carson.”

  The coworker’s name was Dr. Breanna Freeman, but I didn’t remember calling her. In fact, I was sure that I hadn’t called her because I was satisfied with the conclusion the police had come to. Carson wasn’t a viable suspect. Even so, I was curious about what this woman wanted to tell me, so I decided to play along and go to the hospital. I waited until after 8:00 p.m. that evening, hoping that the doctor might have a lull in the action.

  I waited for half an hour before Dr. Freeman could get away and speak with me. She stood almost six feet tall, slender and agile. I watched her bounce through the hallway of the hospital with speed and grace, her close-cropped curly gray hair dancing in the air.

  “I suppose you are Mrs. Wilcox,” she said, towering over me, giving my hand a firm shake.

  “Yes. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

  “Of course. Anything to help find Liza’s killer. Let’s head to the lounge downstairs and chat a bit.”

  I grabbed my briefcase and followed her to the stairwell.

  Dr. Freeman took the two flights of stairs with a fierce fit of energy. I raced to keep up with her. She was a tall woman with a confident stride. The lab coat flowed behind her as her long legs moved over the stairs.

  “I never use the elevator…Keeps me young.”

  In the cafeteria, Dr. Freeman grabbed a plastic cup of peaches and an apple. I went for a bottle of grapefruit juice and followed her to a booth at the far end. We sat opposite one another, the doctor struggling to fold
her long legs beneath the table.

  “So, you want to know about Carson and Liza?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said pulling out a pen and notepad out of the briefcase.

  “Well, Liza was a sweetie: nice, simple, and quiet. She was always present for her shifts, smiled and did what you asked her to, but she wasn’t a go-getter.”

  “How so?”

  “She didn’t want anything else in life. Most of the girls come through here as CNAs because they want to be nurses or doctors someday. Liza was one of the few who never planned to advance beyond a CNA—that’s like the worst job you can have here. They deal with all the stuff no one else wants to.”

  “Did she like the job?”

  “I don’t think so. I think she liked working here, but she wasn’t enthusiastic about that job. It was like, ‘I’m here, I’ll work, but if you need anyone to go home…’ She wasn’t the person to call if you were short-staffed.”

  Lazy, I thought, in between scribbling notes. This description was a bit contradictory to what Peter had told me. He had speculated that Liza impressed Carson in the workplace.

  “So, what can you tell me about Carson and Liza’s relationship?”

  “I think it was love at first sight. Carson is so gentle. He’s always kind and warm with the patients; he was the same way with Liza. In fact, it was after a doctor got nasty with Liza that they started dating. Liza was just cowering in the corner while a doctor berated her about changing out sheets in one of the emergency rooms, and Carson stepped in to defend her. He was still smooth and calm, but he let the other doctor know that it wasn’t okay for him to talk to anyone like that. That was how it all started.”

  “So, Carson isn’t a ‘Type A’ person?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. What I will say is that he is a very kind and warm person. He still has some of the tendencies of a Type A person, but not like what you see on TV. He’s gentle, and he was especially gentle with Liza.”