A Family of Strangers

by Emilie Richards

  She was talking about a problem called confirmation bias, and she was right. Sometimes cops pegged a murderer early in the investigation, and from that point on they only looked for evidence that would prove they were right. “What do you need—”

  But she was way ahead of me. “Drive to Seabank. Call Mom as soon as I hang up and give her some reason I didn’t fly home this morning. But not the truth. That would kill Dad. Once you get there, take the girls back to the town house and stay with them until I’m able to come home. Can you do it? You can work in Seabank, can’t you? They’re in school during the day. And if you’re there, you can help Mom if she needs you.”

  She made the trip sound like a cozy holiday. I pictured our family toasting marshmallows and singing “Now the Day Is Over.” I could play cheerful auntie and give comfort to our mother, the same woman who wouldn’t grab my hand if she was sinking in quicksand.

  The whole idea was crazy. I hardly knew Holly and Noelle. When I was with them, they rarely spoke and always refused my invitations to swim in my parents’ pool or collect shells on the beach.

  I was such a bad aunt that I was usually relieved when they refused.

  I tried once more to change her mind. “Are the authorities looking for you yet?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then just come home. Please. Right now.” My voice was growing shrill. “Drive to another city if you think you need to, and get a plane home from there. I mean it. It would be a big deal for a sheriff to arrest you in Florida and take you back to Arizona, unless he has an open and shut case. Maybe the navy will give Bryce leave so you can work this out together.”

  “Are you going to help or not?”

  “What if I say no?”

  “Then Mom’s going to be alone with the girls. And she won’t know why I’m not there, because I’m not calling her or anybody else. In five minutes I’m going to disappear.” She drew in an audibly ragged breath. “This is the last call I’m making on my cell phone.”

  “What am I supposed to tell her?”

  “You’re the journalist. Come up with a story.”

  “Wendy—”

  The line went dead. If I tried calling back, I knew she wouldn’t answer. As far as Wendy was concerned, we were finished.

  Where had she called from? I’d heard background noise as we spoke, cars passing on what might have been a highway. Last year after Wendy lost a cell phone, I’d helped her place a tracking app on her new one. Now I went through the steps to locate her, but the app had been disabled.

  I zipped down to recent calls and hit Wendy’s number just to be sure. I waited until I heard her voice again, but as I had predicted, this time the voice was a recording. She told me, in the sweetest, most genuine way, that she was sorry to miss my call, asked me to leave a message and wished me a good day.

  Of course nothing about the recording was true. Wendy wasn’t sorry to miss my call, and she’d made it clear there was no point in leaving a message.

  Worst of all? I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to have any good days, not a single one, in the near future.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I’m only a mediocre liar. Although Wendy graduated from Seabank High, our parents sent me to Catholic schools, my education culminating in an all-girls academy one town away. The nuns and lay teachers were as relentless as my mother, and I quickly learned they could spot any lie unless it had a large dollop of fact mixed in. Since lining up facts and bending them slightly is tedious, most of the time the truth is the easier path.

  Unless I’m working.

  Now I remembered that lesson as I tried to come up with a story to tell my mother. Mentally I listed facts I could use. Arlie Gracey adored her older daughter. She was sinfully proud of Wendy’s accomplishments. Like my father, my mother also hoped that one day Wendy would take over the family business. Finally, she adored her grandchildren and wanted the best for them.

  So far so good.

  Then I listed facts I couldn’t use. Wendy was afraid she was about to be arrested for murder. She wasn’t coming home anytime soon because she planned to disappear. While she’d made her phone call to me from Phoenix, I had no idea where she planned to go from there.

  Of course the facts I couldn’t use were the ones Arlie would most want to hear.

  I was still considering my story when my cell phone blasted Rachel Platten’s “Fight Song,” my tongue-in-cheek ringtone for Mom. I didn’t want to answer until I had my story straight, but we had no time to spare.

  I held the phone to my ear. “Mom.” Just as I had with Wendy, I waited. She usually ran over me, too.

  “Ryan Rose, have you heard from your sister?”

  I’m named after Mom’s mother, Rose Ryan, while Wendy is named after Dad’s. Mom flipped my grandmother’s names, for which I have always been grateful. Now I tried to form a mental image of the woman who had named me, molded me and driven me crazy far too many times.

  Was she at the hospital waiting to bring my father home? Were they home already, in their bedroom, which was large enough for a family of ten? And where were the girls? I couldn’t picture my nieces at all.

  I cleared my throat. “We just got off the phone.”

  “What in the world is going on?”

  I was digesting the fact that Mom had called me, despite knowing I was an unlikely choice. My sister and I only speak every month or two.

  “There’s a long list of other people I’d expect you to call first,” I said, buying time.

  She ignored that, which led me to believe she’d probably already called them. “She was supposed to fly home from California hours ago. The girls are at a Saturday field day at their school, but one of the teachers just called. Wendy didn’t pick them up, and they’re still waiting. I assumed she’d gotten home and headed straight over to watch them compete.”

  Clearly she was upset, since Wendy had been in Arizona, not California. “Are the girls okay?”

  She continued as if I hadn’t asked, and each word was louder than the one before. “I know her plane got in on time. I just checked the website. She knows I have to pick up your father today, and she’s not answering her cell. The school wants to know what to do with my grandchildren.” She paused and then said, loudest of all, “And why would she call you?”

  I uttered my first lie. “She said she wasn’t able to get hold of you.”

  “Nonsense. I’ve had the phone with me all afternoon.”

  “I don’t know about that, Mom, but she didn’t catch her flight, and she asked me to drive to Seabank and take care of the girls until she can make arrangements to come home.”

  “She called you and asked you to drive all that way, just for the hours it will take her to get another reservation?”

  I skirted the truth. “I think there was more to it than she said. Whatever caused her to miss the flight seems complicated. She says she’ll let us know more soon. Meantime, I said I’d drive over and stay with the girls until Wendy gets home.”

  “This isn’t like her. Are you telling me everything?”

  “She was in too much of a rush to go into detail.”

  “Do you have any idea how this affects us? Your father needs a quiet house and my complete attention. This morning his doctor told him that from now on he should eat a low-fat vegetarian diet. Preferably vegan. No dairy, no meat. Do you think I know how to prepare that kind of food? He’s a steak and potatoes man. He thinks salads are rabbit food.”

  We both knew that if Dad had been eating rabbit food, he’d probably be out on the tennis courts right now instead of recovering from bypass surgery.

  “I know it’s major,” I said. “That’s why I’m happy to fill in for Wendy so you can devote yourself to kale and lima beans.”

  “You think this is funny?”

  “Am I laughing? I know it’s going to be hard on
him and you. That’s why—”

  “Yes, I heard you. You’re happy to drive here and care for the girls.”

  Just minutes ago Wendy had insisted I move my entire life across the state of Florida to take care of her daughters. On top of that I was supposed to lie to our parents. I understood my mother was feeling stressed, but so was I.

  “I promised Wendy I would help,” I said. “Would you prefer to handle it by yourself?”

  “Of course not. I need you right this minute. I’ve never understood why you moved all the way to the other side of the state. You could have found a job near Seabank. And now, when I could use your help, you’re four hours away.”

  “I offered to come and stay last week. You declined.”

  There was another silence. I was getting tired of them. Mine, hers, Wendy’s. So many thoughts unspoken.

  “When can you get here?” she asked at last.

  “Not in time to pick up the girls, obviously. I have a party going on in my backyard. I have to pack. I have to assemble work to do while I’m there. It’s going to be eleven or so before I arrive, and everybody will already be in bed.”

  “Then come tomorrow. I don’t want you disturbing your father tonight.”

  “Can you manage until then? Can somebody else pick up Holly and Noelle?”

  “You think schools today let just anybody make off with students? No. I’ll have to go and keep your father waiting, because I don’t have a choice. But he needs rest and quiet tonight. I don’t see how I can make sure of it.”

  This kind of confession, and the slight tremor in her voice, were unheard-of, and I unbent a little. “I’m sorry, Mom. I really am. I wish I could sprout wings and fly, but since I can’t, I’ll just get there as fast as I can.”

  “I don’t know why your sister called you.”

  “Maybe because I’ve had so much practice disappointing you.” I hung up and went outside to find Sophie.

  * * *

  The party ended just before dark when clouds moved in, rain threatened, and my neighbors began to come home. The air felt unbearably heavy, and what breeze there was smelled of ozone. The crew straggled off a few at a time, and everyone except Sophie was gone by the time lightning split the sky and the downpour began.

  As I packed, Sophie lounged on my bed, her laptop positioned so she could use the keyboard. At her feet was a growing mountain of jeans and T-shirts.

  Nobody sets out to be a journalist for the money. My Honda Civic is old enough that no one would guess it’s a distant cousin to newer models. My duplex is a rental. The last paint job faded before the brushstrokes dried; the windows don’t seal, and my next door neighbor comes and goes on his Harley at all hours of the night. Still, I could never pay what it’s worth.

  Delray Beach is an expensive community, and this location is ideal. I can ride my bike along A1A or over to Atlantic Dunes Park where I can lie in the sand and listen to seagulls. Finding it wasn’t luck. When he saw my first apartment, my father bought the three duplexes on this property, claiming they were a great investment, and immediately moved me into this one. I earn most of my rent by managing the others.

  The wardrobe on my bed reflected the state of my finances. Earlier I found a dress at the back of the closet. Since it didn’t look familiar, I guessed that my mother or Wendy had given it to me hoping I wouldn’t embarrass them at some event. Now it was draped over a chair to add to the growing stack.

  Several years ago Wendy had given me a peach-colored leather tote with myriad interior pockets, but now after a search, I located it on a closet shelf, speckled with mildew, the result of a particularly steamy summer and a faulty air conditioner. I settled for canvas bags a PR firm had created to advertise Out in the Cold’s first season. One set, the more popular, read, You Can Run, But You Can’t Hide with the show’s name beneath it. The other claimed, There’s Nothing Colder Than A Corpse. We still have lots of that one stored away. I guess women don’t want to be seen in public with “Corpse” stenciled on their shopping bags.

  Now I opened one of the corpse bags and began to toss. “I need enough clothes to last a week.” I was talking to myself and to Sophie if she wanted to listen.

  Sophie looked up from her laptop. “You think you’ll only be gone a week?”

  “Wendy’s town house has its own washer and dryer. Hopefully I won’t be there long enough to fall in love with them.”

  “You’re sure she said Phoenix?”

  After the rest of the crew had gone, I’d filled Sophie in on the phone call with my sister. Being Sophie, she hadn’t tried to sympathize or comfort me, knowing how much I would hate either. Instead she’d immediately begun to scour the internet.

  The world might look at Soph and see a part-time grocery store cashier who likes to eat as much as she likes to cook. She favors the brightest colors and anything that sparkles, and she invites her ex-husband, Wayne, back into her life and kicks him out again on a regular schedule. All of that’s true, but I look at her and see a good friend who happens to be an insomniac with an exceptional intellect who entertains herself by uncovering secrets.

  Sophie is completely trustworthy. I never have to tell her how important it is not to share what she finds. This time I didn’t have to tell her much at all. She knew immediately how best to help.

  “She said Phoenix,” I told her, “but my mother thought she was flying back from California. Maybe she was there first or planned to be later, or maybe Mom isn’t thinking straight. Anyway, I’m assuming Wendy meant somewhere in the area. Greater Phoenix?”

  “That could mean Mesa and Scottsdale. They call it the Valley of the Sun. So far nothing’s turning up. Unless she was involved in a fight with the WetBack Power Gang. Two gang members’ bodies were found last night in Chandler. Or maybe she was dressed as a red-haired man in a pickup truck and just kept going after she killed a pedestrian.”

  “Would everything that happened last night be online already?”

  “Not for normal people.” She looked up. “Tell me more about your sister.”

  Wendy was easy to describe. “She’s beautiful, one of those classic blue-eyed blondes, like Grace Kelly or Margot Robbie. Tall, willowy, thin enough but never skinny. She wears expensive jewelry, expensive scent. She can talk to anybody about anything. She has all the social graces I forgot to learn.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your social graces.”

  We’d had the same mother, Wendy and me, although my version had been older and less focused. Still, Arlie Gracey couldn’t be faulted. I had just preferred not to be in situations where I always had to be on my best behavior.

  As I began to load sandals and athletic shoes into another bag, I realized how little I’d told Sophie about my sister, probably because Wendy had so often overshadowed me. “She was one of Seabank High’s golden girls. You know, homecoming princess, member of the national Honor Society, a star in the drama department. She planned to act professionally, but she met Bryce in her second year of college and married him in her third. When she got around to finishing her education, she changed to marketing.”

  “If she has all those attributes, she was probably a whiz.”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t work much at first. Bryce is a fast-track submarine commander, and they traveled a lot.”

  “Kids?”

  Obviously I’d been remiss in mentioning my nieces, too. “Two girls, Holly and Noelle, eight and six. Guess what month they were born?”

  “Somebody climbed out of his sub and swam to shore around March?” I smiled. “Christmas babies, but not until Wendy was in her late thirties. I don’t know if she and Bryce had trouble conceiving—my mother did. More likely she was just waiting until they could settle down. Wendy looks like Mom, and Noelle looks like Wendy. I favor my father’s family, dark hair, brown eyes, shorter and wiry. Holly looks a little like me and a whole lot like
her dad.”

  “You know I have two girls. They’re out of the house now, but when they were young I would never have disappeared and left them, not unless I had one hell of a reason.”

  “Judging from our call, she thinks she has one.”

  Sophie kept her cashier’s job at least partly so she could hobnob with strangers and sharpen her investigative skills. Now she used her expertise. “If I’d asked you yesterday if your sister was the kind of person who might run away and leave a mess for someone else to clean up, would you have said ‘of course’?”

  “The thing is, I don’t think Wendy’s ever made a mess. She set the standards in our family, and they were high. Sky high.”

  “That’s a hard act to follow.”

  I clutched a flip-flop to my chest. “Growing up I realized I would never be anywhere near as perfect as she was. I remember feeling so relieved, so I stopped trying and just lived my life.” The flip-flop went into a bag, and I examined my collection of running shoes. “It worked out. I’m happy.”

  “Is she?”

  That stumped me. Wendy and I never talked about feelings, except the most superficial. We might admit we were afraid Dad’s surgery wouldn’t go well, but we would never discuss the way we felt about him.

  “While you’re home mull that over,” Sophie said. “If she was trying to change her life, it might have prompted this situation. Maybe she was somewhere she shouldn’t have been, doing something with someone she shouldn’t have been with, for instance.”

  That felt wrong, but having a friend who wasn’t involved was helpful, and I didn’t want to stop her. “I hope I won’t have time to mull. I hope she’ll figure this out and come home before I have to tell my mother the truth.”

  “Maybe she’ll change her mind and tell your mother herself before you even get there. Any chance?”

  To save face Wendy could dance around details, but lying outright would be new—although next to being accused of murder, lying seemed incidental.