No Such Person

by Caroline B. Cooney

  Mrs. Warren posts only about her sons. How brilliant, handsome and interesting they are. Her female friends post the same about their children. They’re all basically saying, Yeah, your little boy can use a fork, fine—but my little boy multiplies four-digit numbers.

  The site does not seem to be a cover for the sick activity of drug dealing on the Connecticut River.

  Miranda looks at the same two little boys sitting fifteen feet away and is overwhelmed. Is this to be her life? Suspecting nice people? Thinking evil of them?

  What is her point?

  The point is to identify Jason Firenza and get him in trouble, instead of Lander. The Warrens have nothing to do with anything.

  Jack is talking on his own cell to his cousin Tanner, a girl apparently on the cutting edge of computer communications. She is instructing him in the use of  Vine, on which he will put the little video of the lime-green tow rope. Tanner has decided that the hashtag for everything will be #LanderAllerdon. That’s what the world is going to check.

  On the phone, Miranda’s mother drones on about raising money.

  “Lemme use the iPad,” whispers Jack. She nods, and he takes it into the living room, saying into his own phone, “Tanner, what will it accomplish to show the video? Rimmie was so far away when she filmed the powerboat that you can’t recognize Jason Firenza.”

  Miranda would like to hear Tanner’s answer, but her mother says, “There’s no other choice, Rimmie. We’ll have to sell one of the houses.”

  Sell one of the houses?

  Miranda knows immediately that no one will buy the West Hartford house. It is a big rambling old place built in the 1930s, in a style called Tudor, which means it has timber framing on the outside, huge chimneys and small windows. It is costly to heat. It has no walk-in closets. It has no granite countertops. It’s not on the best street. It doesn’t have the best yard. It would take a fortune to fix up.

  But the cottage might actually sell overnight. It has a world-class view. It is waterfront. There is a legal dock, however small. It has a beautiful acre and a half of sloping land, with magnificent trees and thickets of native mountain laurel and rhododendron. Weekenders—not just from Hartford, but also Boston and New York—love this location.

  Sell the cottage.

  Jack is now chatting with Tanner about the best utilization of Lander’s Twitter account.

  Her mother says, “Shall I swing by the cottage and get you on my way to the shoreline?”

  The Connecticut River is a serious barrier. Picking up Miranda will add a lot of time to the journey. And what use will Miranda be?  Will the defense lawyer even want the little sister there? Certainly Lander never wants the little sister there.

  Miranda forgets how frightened she was a few hours ago. The house is full of little boys, noise and pancake mix. In a minute this girl Tanner will have a plan of action and anyway, Miranda does not want to be in a car with her mother, listening to this awful talk of dollars. “I’m fine, Mom,” she says. “Don’t make the detour for me.”

  Through the open front door and the torn screen, Miranda sees a large four-door silver sedan coming down the drive. It is an old Crown Victoria, a model frequently used by the state police.

  She grabs Jack’s shoulder and whispers, “Take the iPad, go home and do everything Tanner tells you.”

  Jack frowns, unwilling to cooperate.

  Nobody ever wants to leave the Allerdon cottage. It has a pull for the neighborhood that Miranda loves. To be the center of activity is as wonderful as the river itself.

  When the cottage is sold, the buyer will tear it down and build a mansion worthy of the site. Part of the reason kids swarm here is that the house is all but a shack. It is built for fun by the river. Its purpose is summer. The other reason is that her parents love kids. They love feeding them and reading to them, playing badminton or catch with them and dragging out the keg of Legos for them.

  Gone. It will all be gone.

  The Crown Vic parks. The doors open. A tall man wearing a suit and tie gets out of the passenger side. Miranda has not seen him before. She doesn’t want to see him now.

  “The police are here,” she whispers to Jack. She taps the iPad. “This is what they want. I tricked them. I switched my iPad with Lander’s. They left yesterday with mine.”

  The driver of the Crown Vic also gets out. He too is wearing a suit and tie.

  Miranda calls to Henry. “Go answer the front door, Henry. Tell them I’ll be there in a minute!”

  Jack is full of admiration. “Rimmie, you are something!”

  Her mother is saying, “But selling a house is very slow. We have to find a whole lot of cash somewhere else and we have to find it fast.”

  Miranda pushes Jack to the screened porch. “Hurry,” she breathes. The overgrown mountain laurel, climbing roses and rhododendron will hide Jack when he slips out the back. She will stand at the front door, keeping the police attention on herself, making sure they don’t glimpse Jack and what he has in his hand.

  She is turning everything over to Jack and his unknown cousin Tanner. But if anybody gets in trouble, it will be her, not Jack. He’s only twelve. What does he know?

  Actually, he knows a lot. He is brilliant on a computer. What will he find?  Will he find Jason Firenza?

  Or proof that Lander does know about the drug dealing?

  And if they do find Jason Firenza, what about the fact that only Lander touched the gun and only Lander’s fingerprints are on it?

  What if finding Jason Firenza makes it worse?

  What if Jason Firenza vanished because he saw Lander kill Derry, and he does not want to testify against her?

  I do not believe that, Miranda tells herself. I will not believe that. Jason Firenza tried to murder Derry on the river last Saturday and yesterday he succeeded in murdering Derry with a gun and my sister is an innocent bystander, and I don’t care about fingerprints. So there.

  “So we’re calling relatives,” says Miranda’s mother.

  Miranda crosses the living room floor. She tries not to burst into tears. If her parents are steeling themselves to call family and beg for cash, she can face down some state trooper.

  The front porch is not screened. Big old rockers and sagging wicker chairs wait comfortably in the shade. Henry chats happily with the two men, who remain on the grass just below the steps. Hayden sucks his thumb.

  Sell the cottage.

  If the cottage is sold, it will kill Miranda.

  No, actually. It won’t.

  A man has been killed. That is the point.

  Henry is explaining to the police that he lives a few houses upriver and that Miranda babysits for him and his little brother all the time.

  Miranda comes to the door.

  They introduce themselves. They are detectives.

  Not the local constables. Not the resident state trooper.

  Detectives.

  Their goal is to find evidence that will incriminate Lander. “Are your parents home, Miranda?” they ask courteously.

  They haven’t met Miranda, but they know who she is.

  “No. I’m actually on the phone with my mother right now. Mom?” she says into her cell phone. “I think that sounds like a good plan. And if we have to sell a house, it has to be the cottage. I can call a real estate agent. You want me to do that while you do the lawyer?”

  “Oh, my darling girl, you are so wonderful. Let’s wait a day or two. I think your father will find enough money for a retainer, so that at least the lawyer can visit the jail and handle the arraignment.”

  “Arraignment.” What a terrifying word. Full of judges and cells with bars.

  How can this be happening to Lander?

  Miranda swallows in horror. “Give Lander a hug for me.” It occurs to her that they might not be able to hug Lander; that her parents may have to speak through bars or bulletproof glass.

  She slides the phone into her jeans pocket and waves hostess-fashion at the chairs and rockers. “Plea
se sit down,” she says to the detectives.

  “Miranda, we have the search warrant. We need to get in and look around.”

  “Maybe when my parents get home.”

  “The warrant gives us permission.”

  Miranda pretends she has never watched television, has no idea what a warrant is, wasn’t around last night and can’t fathom what’s going on. But seven-year-old Henry, who supposedly does not watch any rough, violent TV, says firmly, “Rimmie, once they go to a judge and get a warrant, it’s all over. They have to come in.”

  “I don’t think so,” says Miranda. “I think there are times when they can’t, like when a grown-up isn’t home.”

  The detectives ask Henry if his parents are home. They don’t want little boys around while they detect.

  “No, they’re never home,” explains Henry. “We’re always here.”

  This is a wild exaggeration but it certainly distracts the detectives. Miranda doesn’t clear things up. Besides, it’s never been clear. Where are Mr. and Mrs. Warren all the time?

  Geoffrey chooses this moment to show up. He doesn’t shove through the bushes as usual, but comes down the driveway. Either he’s grown up or— No. He just has his hands full and can’t fit through bushes. He’s carrying his fishing equipment and with difficulty is balancing something else as well. He sees the two men, he sees the Crown Vic, he sees Miranda on the porch and he pauses.

  She wonders vaguely why his towel is still lying on the dock when he’s coming from his house. It can’t mean anything except that he forgot it when he headed home. Doesn’t she have enough trouble without worrying about other people’s towels?

  “Who’s this?” the police ask Miranda.

  “Another neighbor. We let people who don’t have their own docks use ours. Geoffrey likes to fish off our dock.”

  Geoffrey is wearing khaki shorts and a huge T-shirt, which makes him look even heavier. Miranda and Geoffrey are not Facebook friends, although Miranda generally wants to know everything about everybody and never turns down a friend request. I’m judging him by his extra pounds, thinks Miranda.

  She has a sick, swampy vision of a life in which she is judged; judged as the sister of a murderer. A life in which she visits that murderer in prison. In which everybody will wonder what it’s like to grow up with a murderer. In which Miranda carries this hideous truth through every hour of every class for two more years of high school.

  “Are you okay, Rimmie?” asks Geoffrey. He sets his fishing gear carefully on the grass and straightens, throwing back his shoulders, as if willing to beat the police up should Miranda require this.

  Normally she would be insulted. Of course she’s okay. But this time she blinks away tears. “No. I’m not okay,” she says, hoping this will touch the hearts of the detectives and they’ll get in their car and leave.

  Geoffrey comes forward with the other thing he has been holding. It’s a platter of cookies. There is no wrapping over them. The scent of cinnamon is strong. “My mom made them for you,” he says.

  “Thank you,” she says, but she is not thankful. Food is what you send for funerals. Geoffrey’s mother must believe that Lander did it; that Lander is now a death in the family.

  Geoffrey’s mother has not brought the cookies herself, because she doesn’t know what to say. She’s forcing poor Geoffrey, tongue-tied at the best of times, to do the talking.

  Miranda does not have to hold the plate, because Henry and Hayden take it, biting into cookies they do not finish, then trying another one to see if the icing is thicker. Henry offers the police some cookies. “Take the bitten one,” he says generously.

  Geoffrey says to the detectives, “Are you here because of Lander?”

  “Yes. What’s your name, son?”

  He spells his name. “Lander didn’t do it,” he says calmly.

  His firm factual voice is reassuring. The detectives’ skeptical nods are not. Miranda sits down hard, her knees buckling from anxiety.

  The detectives say, “Geoffrey, why don’t you sit here on the porch and keep Miranda company while we’re inside?”

  “Are they allowed to do that?” Geoffrey asks Miranda. “You think I should go get my dad?”

  Geoffrey’s father is yet another invisible parent. He too works in Hartford, but unlike Miranda’s father (who during the school year commutes only two miles from the West Hartford house), Geoffrey’s father commutes year-round from here. It’s a hard drive in summer, and a brutal drive in winter. Geoffrey’s mother is an interior decorator who works anywhere and everywhere. Geoffrey is usually alone.

  “They are allowed,” says Miranda. “Have a seat,” she adds, desperate for Geoffrey to stay; desperate for allies.

  Geoffrey sits. He’s a very solid person. He completely fills that chair. She tries to smile at him but her lips are quivering. He half reaches toward her, as if to pat her hand or her shoulder, but it isn’t a gesture he’s comfortable with, and the hand hangs there, not knowing what to do.

  Me too, thinks Miranda, very close to sobbing. I have no idea what to do.

  “Miranda,” says one detective, “it turns out we took your iPad yesterday when we wanted Lander’s.”

  “Oh,” she says. “Is that what happened to my iPad? May I have it back please?” She can’t even look at them. She is supposed to be the world’s best exaggerator and she can’t even fake innocence for five seconds. She looks at Geoffrey instead. He looks more alert than usual. Almost shocked.

  Why?  What is it to Geoffrey that the police do or don’t have Lander’s iPad?

  “Miranda, where is Lander’s iPad?” says the detective sharply.

  “Don’t yell at her,” says Geoffrey just as sharply.

  Is he protecting Miranda or the iPad? Does Geoffrey know something?  What could Geoffrey know about Lander’s situation?

  Towels, she thinks. Rivers. Drugs.

  “I don’t know where Lander’s iPad is,” she says. This is a true statement, because Jack could have taken it anywhere, although it’s a fairly safe bet that Jack has run up to his room, which is crowded with electronic devices, and is now working with Tanner on sending the entire world messages. Find Jason Firenza. She wonders how fast Tanner and Jack work and what they have in mind, anyway, since her own mind is empty.

  “Why was your iPad in Lander’s room?” asks the detective.

  “We share sometimes.”

  This is untrue. The sisters share approximately never. In fact, the white shirt with the lace sides may be the last thing they ever share. Miranda bursts into tears. When will she and Lander be real sisters? Ever? Probably not. They had their chances and blew them all. “What have you found out about Jason Firenza?” Miranda cries. “He really did it. I know you know that! You know Lander hasn’t done anything!”

  The detectives look at her gently and go into the house.

  They can believe that Jason Firenza is the driver of the boat and the trafficker of drugs. But Lander is the killer.

  Geoffrey coaxes Henry and Hayden to go home. Then he sits awkwardly on a rocking chair, not rocking, staring at the front yard.

  Ants crawl up on the cookie plate.

  “I brought the kayak back,” he says.

  What is he talking about? Miranda focuses on Geoffrey again. He has a large head: big jaw, big forehead, big amounts of hair. Now he shrugs a little. Big shoulders, too, she thinks.

  “Lander paddled down to Two Willows to meet Jason,” says Geoffrey. “That was on TV. So that meant your kayak was still at the marina. So I brought it back.”

  “Your parents drove you all the way and dropped you off and you paddled back?”

  “No. I swam down.”

  “Two miles? And then across the whole river?”

  “I do that all the time. I’m captain of my swim team.”

  Miranda sits in the terrible heat, overcome by how little she knows about anybody. Even Lander. Does she know a single thing that matters about her own sister?

  Yes, s
he tells herself. I know my sister is innocent.

  But Miranda does not know this.

  The awful possibility of Lander’s guilt wavers in her mind, like a heat mirage on a hot tar road.

  She is in an interview room with a woman who claims to be her lawyer.

  The woman is heavy and lumpy. She wears a navy-blue suit in a fabric Lander would never put on her body. A tight knit shirt reveals rolls of fat. The lawyer wears no earrings, necklace or bracelet. Her watch has a leather band. Her hair is yanked back into a thin, graceless ponytail.

  It is frightening. No kind, gentle attorney for a homicide case, but a woman who can’t be bothered with frills. Because when you face prison, everything else is a frill.

  The policewoman removes one cuff and fastens it to the chair. Lander brings her free hand to her face, reassuring herself that the hand still works.

  The policewoman leaves them in private.

  “Your parents retained me,” says the lawyer.

  My parents know I’m here.

  Lander’s pretense that this would go away in the night, that nobody would ever know, that she would walk away stained in heart but not in public, is destroyed.

  Her parents, who spend their lives admiring her, displaying her, bragging about her—her parents know that she is in jail, accused of murder. They have found this criminal attorney. It is late Saturday afternoon. They found this woman at jet speed. Lander can’t imagine her parents achieving this.

  “How are they?” whispers Lander. She knows the answer. They are in the same shape Lander is in. How can this be happening? they are screaming silently. Make it end! Make it go away!

  She struggles to breathe evenly.

  The lawyer says, “Lander, you were brave and correct to say nothing to the police. That was a good decision. But I am your lawyer. You must talk to me or I cannot help you. We don’t have much time because your parents cannot afford much time. I am expensive. Your parents are broke.”

  This is such an odd statement that fear gives way to annoyance. “Broke?” she echoes irritably.