The Girl in the Mirror
Page 12
“I guess.”
“But they’d have no reason to…”
“Right.”
“Is this mojo something someone can do from far away? You know, remotely?” he said.
“Sure.”
Lou stopped pacing and sat on the edge of his desk. “Okay, the way I see it, there are two reasons why someone wouldn’t want you to get any information about Peter Moody. One: he’s guilty as hell and they don’t want him being blamed for his parents’ deaths for whatever reason. And two—”
“The person in that grave is not Peter Moody.”
“That’s what I was thinking.” He walked back around the desk and took a seat. “I need to make a few calls.”
“Lou, what are you planning to do?”
“Going to dig up a corpse.”
Sarah entered the garage from the kitchen, carrying two beers. Her car was already up on the scissor lift, and she could see Eddie’s legs, clad in faded blue overalls, sticking out from underneath. She and her father had been working on the Galaxie for sixteen or seventeen years—she couldn’t recall exactly—and, like her father, Sarah knew every bolt, wire, and hose. She was perfectly capable of changing the oil herself, but she and Eddie both knew he loved the car like a son and always enjoyed getting his hands dirty.
“I’m setting your beer on the workbench,” she said, taking a swallow of hers.
This was the only time she enjoyed drinking beer. She had tried ordering one at a baseball game once in college and found it disappointing. She was in Los Angeles with Joe, who was twenty-one at the time. The Dodgers were playing the Mets. In addition to the beer, he’d bought her a hot dog and peanuts, but nothing helped. A few days after she turned twenty-one, she drove her car into the garage because it was “making a funny noise.” Instead of getting right to work, Eddie went into the house and brought back two Modelos. Then, he toasted his daughter.
“I’ve been waiting years to do this,” he said, clinking bottles with her.
And that was when beer at the old homestead was the best thing in the world.
“So, where is everybody?” she said as Eddie used his heels to roll the car creeper back out with him on it.
“Katy is hanging out with friends and your sister is at Costco.”
He stood, walked over, and took a long swallow of beer. Then, he returned to the car, popping the hood to take a look at the engine while the oil drained. He continued working as they talked. Shaking his head, he turned around and showed her a frayed spark plug wire.
“When’s the last time you changed these?”
She smiled. “I think what you meant to say was, when’s the last time you changed them.”
“Right.” He went back to work. “So, what’s happening with that case?”
“Oh, Eddie… I asked Rachel not to tell you.”
“She didn’t. You just did. You can’t outsmart your old man.”
“No shit. Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask. How in the world did you know I’d sneaked out of the house that time in middle school?”
“I heard you on the phone with Alyssa. You might as well have broadcasted it on the nightly news.”
“Whew! And all these years, I thought you had this sixth sense. You know, like Grandma.”
“Nope, just the five.”
“Look, I’m helping the police chief out with one of his cold cases.”
“That involves ghosts.”
“Yeah. But I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.” She took another swallow of beer and burped.
“You always were a good burper.”
“Eddie, I know you don’t like me talking about supernatural stuff. For whatever reason. Which is why I didn’t tell you.”
“Well, don’t forget. I grew up around that kind of stuff. And my opinion is, nothing good can come from it. I don’t want anything to happen to you, Sarah.” He stopped and turned to her, looking serious. “You and Rachel and Katy are my world. ¿Sabes?”
“Yeah, I get it. But don’t forget, I have St. Michael.”
“I’d feel better if you invested in a good aluminum baseball bat.”
“I’ll think about it,” she said, and finished her beer.
“So, you and Joe. No chance you guys are going to—”
She looked away. “He’s seeing someone at the moment.”
“Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “And you?”
“Well, if you must know, I have a date tonight.”
“Not a ghost, I hope.”
“Nope, a normal guy. We’re going to the singles’ dance.”
He came over to get his beer. “That’s great, mija. Make sure you don’t scare him off with all that crazy supernatural talk. And your hair could use—”
“Hey. As a matter of fact, I’m going to the salon right after this.”
She kissed him on the cheek. He set his beer down and returned to the car.
“Not every girl gets to kiss her mechanic,” she said.
“And not every mechanic will work for free beer.”
She watched as his upper body disappeared under the car and wondered why he was so afraid of the supernatural. Did something happen? But instead of analyzing it further, she decided to get herself another beer.
The nursing aide whose name was Hildy knocked softly and slowly opened the door to Colleen Moody’s room. As usual, she found the old woman seated by the window that looked out over the small garden at the retirement facility. It was after sunset in Lawrence, Kansas, and Hildy had come to help Colleen change into her nightgown, brush her teeth, and comb her hair.
She had grown fond of the old woman, patiently listening to her ramble on about family members long departed, and her daughter, Nicole. Nowadays, her only visitor was her younger brother, Owen. To the aide, he seemed to be an impatient man with a lot on his mind. But, to his credit, he passed the time conversing with his sister about the old days, which Colleen had safely retreated to. Also, he read to her from the newspaper until she fell asleep.
Colleen was unaware that the aide was in the room. She imagined her clothes were floating away from her body, as if she were lying in a deep pool with no bottom. Magically, her nightgown would descend on her—the one with the little daisies around the collar. It reminded her of the one her daughter loved when she was little and wore to bed every night until the fabric thinned and tore at the seams. Colleen was forever repairing that nightgown with the old Singer sewing machine, she remembered.
The old woman had been thinking a lot about her daughter lately. And she wondered why it was she never came to visit. She had recalled Owen saying something about it once, but she couldn’t remember the details. That happened a lot. To her, details were like grains of sand forever slipping through her fingers. She missed Nicole. And she missed her husband, though she was still angry with him.
Despite her mental condition, she knew Morris was gone. She’d gotten it into her head that he’d run off with the cashier at the Golden Corral, where they used to eat dinner on Sundays. The woman—what was her name? Jessie! She was half Morris’s age, and she had always had her eye on him. It was shameful. When he didn’t come home that day in November before Thanksgiving, Colleen knew. Her husband had given in to temptation and gone off with the dirty schemer and paid off her brother to sell their home and move her to this strange place.
“I hope they’re both very happy,” the old woman said as Hildy helped her into bed.
“Who, dear?”
“Morris and that… Why, I can’t even say it. Jessie.”
The aide knew the truth, though. “I’m sure he feels terrible about it.”
“Well, he should. Leaving me here like this. Shameful.”
“Why don’t you close your eyes, Colleen? Would you like me to read to you?”
The old woman looked at the aide sharply, as if seeing her for the first time.
“Can you please try again? Please can you call my daughter?”
Hildy fluffed her pillow. “I’ll try.”
“Goodnight, Colleen,” the aide said. “Don’t forget to say your prayers.”
Thirteen
There were dozens of hair salons in Santa Barbara, and Sarah felt as though she’d tried every one. She was still looking for that “magical” stylist who would make her hair look stunning every time. As she sat waiting up front at one of the more trendy establishments on State Street, her legs were crossed, and she was absently pumping her right foot up and down.
She’d been reviewing her listings on her phone, something she often did to reassure herself she was a successful realtor. At the top of the screen there was a banner with Sarah’s name and photo. She’d gotten lucky the day they took the headshot, having found a stylist who hadn’t felt the need to “experiment” on her hair. Unfortunately, that woman had moved to Idaho.
As she scrolled down, she saw a crisp photo of each property followed by the house’s details and price. She smiled, remembering how awful her pictures had looked when she was starting out. It was Joe who had taught her about camera angles, lighting, and the million and one other details that went into making her listings “pop.”
Joe. Sarah tried imagining him married to someone else, an exercise she’d gone through hundreds of times since the divorce. What kind of woman was he looking for? She had known the man for most of her adult life, and as far as she knew, she was everything he ever needed. Well, except for the part about becoming Catholic and wanting kids.
And as long as she was performing a forensic autopsy on the rotting corpse of their former married life, what in the world did she want in a man? Well, that was easy: Joe. But a different Joe—one who would convert and have sex with her every night until she got pregnant. Okay, if push came to shove, maybe she could let the conversion part slide. But he would have to agree absolutely to the children—Liesl, Louisa, Brigitta, Marta, Gretl, and Joe Jr.—being raised Catholic. Was that too much to ask? Sarah realized she was doing it again—praying. Begging God to make an exception in her case and perform a miracle. Fat chance, Sarah.
“Sarah?” She looked up to find a stylist whose name was Dante smiling at her. “Are you ready?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”
Dante seemed nice, though she suspected that wasn’t his real name. From what Sarah could glean, he had served in the military and decided he liked cutting hair better. His fiancée was still serving, and they were hoping to eventually move to Portland where she had family. Sarah had been very specific, and after he shampooed her, she asked Dante to trim no more than a quarter inch. She also wanted him to flat-iron her hair and put it up in a bun.
As the stylist prattled on about his life, Sarah thought about Michael Peterson. Being the suspicious person she was, she wondered why he had agreed so readily to go out with her. Trying not to be conceited, Sarah was aware she was attractive. So, why not? But since discovering her abilities, she always felt a little self-conscious. Then again, why couldn’t God have put someone in her path to distract her from the now-canceled Joe & Sarah Show?
Dante had worked fast, and before Sarah knew it, he was ready to try out some bun styles. Having long hair, Sarah had lots of options. They tried a top knot bun, ballet, twisted, angular, and several others. Nothing seemed to satisfy her, though. Dante stepped away and looked at Sarah like someone observing an abstract painting in a gallery.
“I think I’ve got it. We’ll go with a low-side chignon.”
She scrunched her nose. “Are you sure? I don’t even know what that is.”
“Trust me.”
When he was finished, Sarah looked at herself in the hand mirror. “Wow, you were right.”
He walked her to the front desk and peered out at the sky which, so far, looked clear. “Make sure not to let it get wet.”
“Roger that.”
Thrilled with her hair, Sarah left her stylist a generous tip. Before walking out, she lingered at the front desk. People who pay good money for their hair also need good realtors. Smiling engagingly at the receptionist, she pulled out a few business cards.
“Okay if I leave these on the counter?”
Sarah realized she was nervous as she and Michael walked into the Santa Barbara Woman’s Club, which was located near the mission. She had been lucky and found a biscuit-colored strapless evening dress and matching shoes for the occasion. The dress was modest by most standards. She knew from experience that though this was a singles’ dance, it was sponsored by her parish, and Fr. Brian would be there for sure, if not judging, then proctoring. As she looked around at the other women, many of them in their twenties, she realized they must not have gotten the memo. Skin City.
Fortunately, the rain had stayed away, and Sarah’s hair looked perfect. Michael helped her remove her gray wool dress coat and handed it to the check girl.
“So, what do you think of the place?” Sarah said as she and her date walked toward the ballroom.
“Nicer than I expected.”
“They do a lot of weddings here.” She noticed his horrified expression and tried to recover. “Not that I was implying…”
“Gotcha,” he said and walked on ahead of her.
When she saw the cash bar in the corner of the ballroom, she sighed. Thank God. She’d had only sparkling water at dinner and felt she needed to loosen things up. Not that dinner wasn’t good. They had laughed together at all kinds of things—books, movies, reality shows. Somewhere during dessert, Sarah had the impression that Michael “got” her. And she began toying with the idea that a life without Joe might be possible.
The DJ was blasting soft rock hits from the nineties, most of which Sarah remembered from her childhood and wished she could forget. When they segued into “I Want It That Way” by the Backstreet Boys, she burst out laughing.
“What?” Michael said.
“Sorry, it’s that music. I mean seriously, Weezer not good enough?”
“Maybe I can bribe the DJ.”
“It’s fine.”
They stood that way for a few moments. Then, “I Will Always Love You” by Whitney Houston came on.
“So, what do you think?” Michael said. “Want to dance?”
“Why not?” This was promising.
He took her hand and led her to the dance floor. They both stuck to the traditional box step, and he made sure his hands were where they should be. She felt herself settling into his arms and had to concentrate on where she was stepping. Then, Michael tensed, and they stopped moving. She noticed he was staring at the ballroom entrance. When she turned to look, she noticed Fr. Brian entering the room, sharing a laugh with a couple she recognized from church.
“Looks like the cavalry has arrived,” she said. “Better watch your step tonight.”
But Michael wasn’t amused. He kept looking at the priest, and Sarah tried to comprehend what was going on.
“Do you know Fr. Donnelly?” she said.
“I’ve seen him.” He turned back to her, trying to smile. “Sorry, I was a little surprised a priest would be attending this kind of function.”
“He always does. One time, he told me he was scouting for future couples he could marry. Michael, is something wrong?”
“I…” He winced and touched his stomach. “Sorry, that fish I had at dinner isn’t sitting too well. I’m going to visit the restroom. If you’ll excuse me.”
“Sure.”
She watched as he headed toward the entrance, making a wide circle around the priest, who had seen Sarah and was making his way through the crowd toward her.
“Sarah,” Fr. Donnelly said as he gave her a hug. Then, looking around, “Don’t tell me you came stag?”
“No, I— Actually, my date stepped away.”
“Wonderful. Can’t wait to meet him. In the meantime, can I buy you a drink?”
“Hm.
An old tightwad like you buying a girl a drink? Must be the dress.”
“It’s very becoming. No, I’m encouraged. I’m betting on your happiness, Sarah.”
As they walked toward the bar, she thought about Michael’s odd behavior and said, “You might want to save your money, Father.”
“Nonsense. Now, what’ll you have?”
No sooner had Fr. Donnelly bought Sarah a glass of wine than someone cornered him, asking to speak in private about some urgent parish matter. He made his apologies to Sarah and left her standing at the bar. She moved off to one side, holding her unmemorable cabernet and watching the entrance. Ten minutes had gone by, and she was getting worried about Michael, hoping the problem wasn’t serious, when she heard something.
She set her glass down on a nearby tray and took her phone from her black leather crossbody bag. “Hello?”
“It’s Michael.”
She moved farther away from the crowd and covered one ear with her free hand.
“Where are you?”
“I can’t tell you how embarrassed I am. I think I might have gotten food poisoning.”
“Oh, no. Do you need me to drive you somewhere?”
“No. Look, I’m a mess. I…threw up on myself.”
“Michael, I don’t care about that. Let me drive you to urgent care.”
“I’ve already left. I’m at a pharmacy. Going to grab a few things and head home. Can you Uber it?”
“I guess.”
“Again, I’m sorry, Sarah. I’ll call you in a few days when I’m feeling better.”
“Okay.”
She returned the phone to her purse and picked up her wine. She was about to put it to her lips when she noticed a bloated black fly floating on its back, furiously working its wings. Disgusted, she set the polluted drink down, retrieved her coat, and walked outside. It had started raining again, and she could feel her hair transforming into something out of a nature documentary.
“So much for happiness,” she said.
The thought of ordering an Uber and slinking back to her empty house was more than she should bear.