by Lis Wiehl
“It’s fine, Lindsay. Your handshake feels like you mean business.”
So many niceties were foreign to her sister. She had sold drugs, sold her body, but back then her business partners had been judged under the light of a streetlamp and by the color of their cash. Handshakes had no part of that world, unless it was as a cover to pass drugs or money.
“Nice to meet you, Lindsay.”
“Thank you so much for meeting with us today to talk about the coffee cart I want to open,” Lindsay said rapidly as they both sat down. “I’ve brought you my business plan.”
She handed Allison the sheaf of papers they had been working on for weeks. In some ways, the business plan was a formality. Allison’s credit was good enough that pretty much anything for which she was willing to cosign a loan would be approved. But making the plan had helped Lindsay think through what she could afford to do, what she could offer that would set her cart apart, and what she would do when the rains came and food carts weren’t as appealing.
Allison looked down at the business plan and then back up at Lindsay. “Why don’t you just tell me more about the cart?”
“Oh, um, okay.” She bit her lip. “My idea is to open a cart called Lindsay’s Lattes and More that sells coffee and cookies. I’ve already talked to the owner of a food cart pod near Portland State, and there’s space available. He has seventeen carts there, but right now none of them offers coffee and only a few have baked goods. The customers would be students and people who work downtown.” Lindsay was speaking in a slight singsong. She took a gulping breath. “Everyone needs coffee. Especially in Portland. This city runs on coffee. Well, coffee and beer, but I can’t be around that.” She colored. “Oh, shoot. I won’t say that last part.”
Allison nodded encouragingly, then prompted Lindsay to unleash her secret weapon. “Even if there isn’t another coffee cart in the pod, how are you going to compete with the larger coffee shops in the neighborhood?”
“What will make me stand out are my cookies.” She jumped up and ran into the kitchen and returned with a plate that held a peanut butter cookie, a molasses cookie, and her secret weapon, a cookie that she called Lindsay’s Special. It had chocolate chips, oatmeal, and coarsely chopped walnuts, and was absolutely delicious.
Tomorrow Lindsay would pack up more sample cookies and bring them with her on the bus. They would serve as an extra inducement for the loan officer to say yes.
“Not only will I give out free samples, but I’m also going to bring free cookies and coffee drinks to the people in the other carts so they’ll want to recommend me to their customers.”
They had already gone through the hoops to get a home-certified kitchen. As part of that process, the county declared that their kitchen would have to have operating hours, and during those hours Allison and Marshall were not to be allowed in. Even if it was their own kitchen. They had also purchased a dorm-sized refrigerator for the butter, cream, and milk Lindsay used in recipes, since she wasn’t allowed to store perishables alongside their own food.
Allison picked up the Lindsay’s Special and took a bite. The house was so warm that the chocolate chips were still soft. “Mmm,” she said, keeping in character. “Why don’t you tell me about the start-up costs?”
She barely heard Lindsay as she began going over the numbers that Allison already knew by heart. Opening a coffee cart was an expensive proposition. An eight-by-sixteen-foot food cart cost at least ten thousand. A professional espresso machine cost eleven thousand. It would take another fifteen hundred for a coffee grinder. And rent would be at least five hundred a month. Added all up, it was still going to cost something close to the cost of a car. But as Lindsay put it, “A car won’t make me money. In order to make money, I need to invest in this business first.”
Only it wasn’t Lindsay’s money, was it? For a second, Allison sucked on the thought like a sourball. Sure, Lindsay’s name would be on the loan, but so would Allison’s. And even if Marshall wasn’t signing it, it would still affect him if Lindsay defaulted. Something like 85 percent of small businesses went under during the first year. But Marshall had looked over all of Lindsay’s carefully drawn-up plans and projections and ultimately given his blessing. Lindsay had been sober for a year. She had attended NA—Narcotics Anonymous—meetings nearly every day, pulled herself out of her funk, and found there were reasons to live even when she wasn’t high.
And this was Lindsay’s dream, and she hadn’t had a dream for a long time. Years. Allison guessed she had stopped dreaming when she was thirteen and their dad died from a heart attack.
That terrible day was lodged in her memory. But as bad as it had been for Allison, it had been worse for Lindsay. She had cried so hard she’d thrown up. Allison could still picture Lindsay weeping, gagging, and moaning, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” her face red and sweaty and indescribably bereft as she lay curled on the bathroom floor. She had been going through a phase where she claimed to hate their father and had fought with him the night before he died. His death meant that they had never had a chance to reconnect. Allison suspected that Lindsay had never forgiven herself.
Afterward, Lindsay had embraced chaos as Allison embraced order. Two years later, when Allison went off to college, she had been glad to leave her troubled family behind. Out of sight, out of mind. College had let Allison be a kid again, instead of trying to parent her own mother and sister, to save one from drinking and the other from drugs. She had been happy to live in a dorm, happy to follow the rules, happy to push her tray down the cafeteria line, happy to scoop up bland food she hadn’t had to shop for and prepare. During those four years of college, Allison’s mother got sober, and her sister was sentenced to her first correctional facility.
Belatedly realizing that Lindsay had fallen silent, Allison looked up.
“Allison, you’re not even paying attention!”
In her sister’s voice she heard echoes of plaintive cries from their childhood.
“I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
Lindsay surprised her by squeezing her hand. “I’m the one who should be sorry, Ally. Yesterday was awful. Cassidy dead and then that man cutting his throat in front of everyone.”
“That’s why Nicole and I met with that woman today, because of what he said about seeing someone else at Cassidy’s place that night. I’m hoping she can figure out if Rick really killed Cassidy.”
Lindsay hesitated and then spoke in a rush. “But he probably did, Allison. I know you want it to be different. I know you don’t want her to have died because Rick got drunk at a strip club and decided to get back at her. You don’t want it to be because of something stupid. But I’ve seen people killed before, and it pretty much always involves somebody getting drunk or high and doing something stupid. Even if you find out the answer, I don’t know if it will make you feel any better.”
CHAPTER 21
If someone were to custom-design a place to drive her insane, Ophelia thought, it would closely resemble Diamonds. It assaulted her senses. The music was so loud she could feel the bass thumping in her rib cage. Underneath her elbows, the polished wood of the bar felt greasy. But worst of all were the smells. Diamonds reeked of stale sweat, mildew, perfume, cigarette smoke, industrial cleanser, and chicken wings.
A tonic water with lime, a file folder, and her wallet rested in front of Ophelia, who had taken a seat along the main stage. She was dressed in the same outfit she had worn to brunch: a comfortable old tank top, a pair of cargo shorts, white socks, and Vans. Her clothes were worn and soft, just the way she liked them. The only other women in the bar wore tiny pieces of spandex and were perched on cheap plastic heels.
Ophelia knew that while women did occasionally go to strip clubs, it was usually with a boyfriend or a rowdy group of women celebrating a birthday or a bachelorette party. As a woman alone, she had attracted more than a few looks when she walked in. But she figured Diamonds was in no position to get picky. There were only a half-dozen other customers prese
nt. Sunday night was clearly not prime time.
Rick McEwan had told Allison and Nicole that he had been at Diamonds after his shift ended on the night Cassidy was killed. Day shift for the Portland Police Bureau ended at four. That would have given Rick plenty of time to visit the strip club and still kill Cassidy before Allison and Nicole discovered her body.
Ophelia knew she had upset the two women earlier, although she wasn’t sure how. Maybe it was because she had asked so many questions about the condition of Cassidy’s body. Regular people—or neurotypicals, as they were called on the websites she liked to visit—had so many rules, rules they didn’t even know they had. You weren’t supposed to stand too close. You weren’t supposed to stare. You were supposed to take turns.
Death was one of the big conversational no-nos, along with sex, surgery, and anything that happened in the bathroom.
Taboos made no logical sense, but neurotypicals were oddly sensitive to them, the way Ophelia couldn’t stand the sound of a leaf blower or the scratch of a clothing tag.
The girl on the stage wore a blank expression as she slowly gyrated to the grinding beat of the music. She was dressed in an abbreviated white nurse’s uniform, complete with a cap, an outfit that Ophelia only recognized from old movies. She supposed the more current look of baggy printed scrubs wouldn’t be as appealing a fantasy. Now the girl took the cap off and tossed it backstage, then unpinned her long brown hair.
Over the girl’s head, a tiny movement caught Ophelia’s eye. A camera on the ceiling was panning the room. She tracked its path, wondered how long they kept the tapes.
High-stepping in blue platform boots, a girl walked up behind her. Her blue Afro wig, Ophelia estimated, was eighteen inches in diameter. Her tiny blue outfit was set off by a silver garter belt.
She batted long tinsel eyelashes at Ophelia. If one fell in her eye, it seemed likely that it would cause damage. “My name’s Velvet,” she said. “Can you buy me a drink?”
“Sure.” Ophelia pulled out a twenty, letting the girl see that there were many more. Money always talked to neurotypicals.
The girl murmured to the bartender, then turned back to Ophelia. “Are you thinking of being a dancer?” She looked her up and down.
“No.” Ophelia took another sip of her Coke.
Velvet tilted her head. “You’re a lesbian, then?”
“No.”
“Then why are you here?”
The bartender handed the girl her drink. It sported not one but two paper umbrellas.
Ophelia appreciated the girl’s direct questions. So many neurotypicals communicated with body language or other nonverbal signs instead of simply saying what they meant.
“Just trying to figure a few things out.” Ophelia gestured at the ceiling. “Is there someone I can talk to about seeing older tapes from that video camera?”
A corner of Velvet’s mouth quirked in what Ophelia recognized as amusement. “That’s not a real camera. It’s just for show, to keep people from getting rowdy. If someone starts acting up, the bartender points to it and threatens to turn the tape over to the cops. Only there is no tape.”
Undeterred, Ophelia took a photo of Rick from the folder and slid it over. “I’m interested in whether anyone here knows this guy.” In the purple glow of what passed for mood lighting, his gray eyes shone silver, like a wolf’s.
A flicker ran across Velvet’s face. “So you’re a cop?”
“No. I am not a cop.” Although if Ophelia were a cop, it would have been legal for her to lie about being one. Not that she would. She found it hard to say one thing and mean another.
“Then what are you?”
“Just someone who’s trying to figure out if this guy was in here last Wednesday night, what kind of mood he was in, how long he stayed . . .”
“I’ve seen him on TV,” Velvet offered. “He’s the one who killed that lady, right? The TV crime reporter?”
“That’s what they’re saying,” Ophelia said. “Her friends have asked me to find out more about what happened. So have you seen him here? I’ve heard he might be a regular customer.”
“I’ve seen him. But I’ve never said more than a few words to him. I don’t think I’m his type.” Velvet shuddered. “Maybe that’s a good thing, huh?”
“Do you think you could find me someone who knows him better?” She tapped her wallet. “I can make it worth your while.”
Velvet considered this. She looked at the wallet, then up at Ophelia, then back at the wallet.
“It’s for that girl’s friends, you said?”
Ophelia nodded.
Velvet seemed to come to a decision. “Come on. I’ll take you upstairs to the dressing room, and you can talk to the girls there.”
As Ophelia followed her, Velvet said over her shoulder, “Besides, you’re making people in here nervous. You don’t fit, and they don’t like that. Customers come here because they know what to expect, you know what I mean?”
“No,” Ophelia answered honestly as she followed Velvet down a narrow hall. No purple mood lighting here, just flat fluorescent.
Velvet started to laugh. But when she turned back again, she must have seen something in Ophelia’s eyes. She stopped. “Look, the reason guys come here is because they know exactly what to expect. They know no girl here will reject them. If a guy meets a regular girl out in the real world, he doesn’t know how she’ll react if he talks to her. But here, girls are always interested in him. For as long as his money holds out, anyway.”
In her own way, Ophelia understood what Velvet was saying. The men who came here were people who longed for closeness, but had no idea how to achieve it.
If Ophelia had thought that being in Diamonds was bad, being in the upstairs dressing room was much, much worse. It was crowded with five girls, five suitcases, drinks, hot curling irons, cans of hairspray, and tubes of body glitter and mascara. Cell phones were ringing, two girls were arguing over a missing bikini top, and in the corner a TV was blaring away. It was showing a silly program all about relationships, supposedly a comedy. It was a very neurotypical show.
Lockers lined two of the walls. The other two had worn wooden benches facing white Formica counters topped with long mirrors. Above the mirrors, white lightbulbs were spaced every six inches. This might have looked glamorous, like something out of Hollywood, if a third of the lights, by Ophelia’s estimate, were not burned out.
A tall brunette wearing nothing but a G-string looked at Ophelia curiously. She was brushing her teeth. A redhead wearing a thong and matching tiny bikini top was ironing the wrinkles from a satin ball gown.
Velvet clapped her hands. “Okay, girls, this nice lady wants to know if any of us have recently talked with that customer who killed the blond TV reporter woman. You know, the one who’s been all over the news? She was this lady’s friend.”
Ophelia bit her lip so she wouldn’t correct Velvet, and instead held up photos of Rick and Cassidy. Neurotypicals liked to help. And they would want to help a friend of the dead woman.
One by one, the girls came over to talk to her.
“That guy Rick comes in alone, he drinks, he gets a little drunk, he leaves,” the brunette said. “He’s looking for someone to listen to him while he goes on and on about how nobody appreciates him.”
“And do you?” Ophelia asked. “Listen?”
She shrugged. “Until someone who’s a bigger spender shows up. But I wasn’t working that night.”
The redhead said, “Sure. I remember that guy being in on Wednesday. He was saying things like, ‘You don’t know what kind of day I had.’ ”
Ophelia straightened up. “What time was this?” If it had been after Cassidy was killed, Rick might have come in trying to establish an alibi.
The girl shook her head. She wasn’t looking at Ophelia, but rather at the TV behind her. “I don’t remember. When I walk out of here, I wipe my mind clean, just like pressing Control and Z on the computer.” She smiled broadly, which was confusing
.
But then Ophelia followed the girl’s gaze. She was unconsciously mimicking the smiling face of the actress on the screen. When the actress raised her hands to her mouth, the redhead made an abbreviated version of the gesture.
Monkey see, monkey do. Evolutionarily, it must have been a useful trait at some point.
The last girl to talk to Ophelia wore a platinum wig and white angel wings made of feathers. “My name’s Angel.”
“How apropos.”
Angel shrugged, and Ophelia wondered if she knew the word.
“I saw Rick that night. That Wednesday. He comes in here two or three times a week, and if I’m working he always wants me to sit with him and listen to him talk. Of all the girls, I probably spent the most time with him.”
“Did he ever get angry with you? Or even hurt you?”
Angel reared back. “No. That’s why it’s so hard to believe what happened. He was basically nice.”
“Really?”
She hesitated. “He did get jealous if I talked to other customers.” Tugging off her wig, she rubbed the fingers of her free hand over her scalp.
Ophelia narrowed her eyes. The girl had a dark-blond shoulder-length bob and a turned-up nose. She didn’t need to look at the photo again to know that Angel looked a lot like Cassidy Shaw. “Do you always wear that wig?” she asked.
“No.” Angel’s voice dwindled. “I look like her, don’t I?”
“There’s a resemblance.”
“He even told me one time that I looked like his old girlfriend.” She shuddered. “Now I guess I know how creepy that is. And I thought I had pretty good intuition about people.”
“So what time was Rick here on that Wednesday? What did you talk about?”
“It was late afternoon. He was upset. Talking about having a bad day, but I didn’t ask the details. I tried to take his mind off things. The only time he really lightened up was when his friend came in.”
“Friend?”
