by Sue Fortin
I peer through the glass of the back door into the kitchen. Nothing is out of place. There are no cups or plates on the side waiting to be washed up. There’s no tea towel flung carelessly on the worktop or fruit sitting in the bowl waiting to be eaten. It looks like a show home. I try the handle to the back door but, unsurprisingly, it is locked. I rattle it all the same, just to be certain. I can’t see into any of the other rooms as the blinds are shut.
There are two bins by the side gate. Feeling like some sort of amateur detective, I go over to look inside them. It might give me an indication of how long it’s been since someone was here. The first looks like the recycling bin, with a few empty food boxes and drinks cartons lying in the bottom, but as I open the second, the smell that hits me almost makes me want to vomit and the buzz of flies that evacuate the bin makes me squeal, drop the lid and jump back.
There’s a piece of bamboo cane propped up against the fence. Picking it up and standing at arm’s length from the bin, I flick the lid up. The hum of flies and waft of something rotten assaults me but I’m more prepared this time and with my hand over my nose and mouth, I take a step closer. I peer into the bin from as far away as possible. There must be several full bin bags piled on top of each other, the last one to go in the bin sitting right at the top. White maggots, their colour a stark contrast with the black bin bags, wriggle and squirm their way around the plastic. With the bamboo cane I poke at the bag. It hasn’t been tied properly and I manage to flick it open.
I’m not sure what I’m expecting to see in there. Maybe my imagination is running away with me, but I’m relieved when I see food and drinks cartons. On the top is what looks like a piece of rotting meat, which would explain the flies. I flick the bin lid shut, relieved that it was nothing more sinister and then chide myself for an overactive imagination. What did I expect to find in there? A dead body?
Unexpectedly, a face pops up over the fence. A woman who looks to be in her seventies, with her hair neatly combed around her face and a small dash of red lipstick across her mouth, looks at me.
‘Are you from environmental health?’ she says. ‘About time you turned up. I’ve been calling you for days. That there bin hasn’t been emptied for weeks. Downright disgraceful. It would never have happened when Mr Kendrick was alive. It’s a health hazard.’ She eyes me again and produces a pair of glasses, which she perches on her bony nose. She has another look at me. ‘You ain’t environmental are you?’
‘Er, no. Sorry,’ I say. I have already rehearsed my story in case I spoke to any of the neighbours. ‘I’m actually a relative of Alice Kendrick. I’m from England and haven’t seen her for years. I’ve come over as a surprise.’ I smile broadly. It’s pretty near the truth.
‘A relative, you say? Of Ali Kendrick? I don’t remember her or her father ever talking about a relative in England.’
‘Oh, our families lost touch a long time ago,’ I say. ‘Didn’t even realise I had a cousin until recently.’
‘Well, you may be on a wild-goose chase. I don’t like to disappoint you, but Ali Kendrick isn’t here. I haven’t seen her for several weeks now. All that business must have been too much for her and she decided to get away for a while.’
‘Oh, no. Do you know where she is?’ The disappointment and hope are both genuine. By all that business, I assume the neighbour is referring to Patrick’s death.
‘She left me a note to say she was going travelling around Europe. Now, I’m surprised she hasn’t gone to England to find you, seeing as you’re long-lost relatives.’
I can detect the suspicion in her voice as she emphasises the long-lost bit.
‘Like I said, our families weren’t good at keeping in touch. You don’t happen to know where I can find her stepmother do you?’
‘Funny how you know she has a stepmother when your two families weren’t talking all this time.’ The neighbour might be old, but her brain is young and nimble.
‘We heard that Patrick had died from his wife’s family,’ I say, grateful that my brain is able to match hers for agility. ‘Her daughter sent me a message via Facebook. You know, the Internet.’
She waves me away with her hand. ‘I know what all that is, I’m not stupid.’
‘No, of course you’re not.’
‘Daughter, you say? Well, here’s the rub. Roma doesn’t have a daughter. Just a son.’
Shit. I’m sure Alice spoke about a stepsister once. I quickly try to remember what the stepbrother was called. ‘Nathaniel,’ I say. ‘Nathaniel sent me a message. Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’ve been travelling for hours. Can’t think straight.’
The neighbour appraises me once more. ‘Yeah, the kid was called Nathaniel. If you’re trying get hold of them, why don’t you message him back on Facebook?’
Bloody hell, she’s proving quite a match for me. Why wouldn’t I do that? From nowhere I manage a fast response. ‘We weren’t friends on Facebook and I can’t find him again. You know, all those privacy settings. You don’t happen to have their address or a phone number?’
I get another long, hard look from her before she makes up her mind. ‘Wait there.’ She disappears and comes back a few minutes later. She waves a piece of paper over the fence. ‘That’s their address and phone number. You may wanna ring first. She’s up in Jacksonville.’
‘Okay, thanks,’ I say, reaching to take the piece of paper.
She snatches it away. ‘First, though, you can do me a favour and put those bins out.’
I suppose I can’t complain. It’s a fair exchange and I really want that address and phone number.
The neighbour watches while I put the two wheelie bins out and then, once I’ve done that and she’s satisfied that I’ve fulfilled my part of the bargain, she hands over the slip of paper.
I retreat to the car and drive out of the cul-de-sac, making my way back to Jasmine Street. I’m probably not supposed to pull over and stop, but I do anyway. I’ll plead tourist ignorance and use my best English accent, flutter my eyelashes and offer sincere apologies if the police come by.
I call the number on the paper and it’s answered on the fourth ring.
‘Hello.’ The voice is female but that is all I can tell from the one-word answer.
‘Hi. Is Roma Kendrick there please?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Hi, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to get in touch with Alice Kendrick and I’ve been given your number. You don’t happen to know where she is, do you?’
‘Er … who is this please?’
‘I’m Clare Tennison.’ I wait for any recognition. There’s a silence and now I’m wishing I was speaking face to face. At least that way Roma wouldn’t be able to hang up on me, something which, the longer the silence, the more it seems likely.
‘I’m sorry. Do I know you?’ she says at last. ‘And why do you want to get in touch with Alice?’
‘No, you don’t know me. Before I was Clare Tennison I was Clare Kennedy. My father was Patrick Kennedy, although you will probably have known him as Patrick Kendrick. I’m trying to get in touch with Alice because … she’s … she’s my sister.’I hear the small intake of breath. ‘Her sister?’
‘Yes. I grew up in England with my mother. We didn’t have contact with Alice for a long time.’
‘Yes, I know that. Well, I mean I know about Patrick moving over here with his daughter but not about the name-change. Are you sure you have this right?’
‘Yes, I’m positive.’
‘I’m sorry, you’ve taken me completely by surprise,’ says Roma.
‘I expect I have. Sorry.’
‘It’s okay. Er, how did you get my number?’ asks Roma.
‘Alice’s neighbour gave it to me. An older lady, at number 25.’
‘Mrs Karvowski,’ says Roma. ‘She’s quite a character, that one. What did she say about Ali?’
It seems an odd question, but I run with it for now. ‘Nothing, really. Just that she hadn’t seen her for a few weeks.’ I h
esitate, wondering whether to add a further explanation and decide there would be no point not telling Roma. ‘The neighbour, Mrs Karvowski, said Alice had decided to go travelling. In Europe.’
‘Really? Just like that?’
‘I got the impression from the neighbour that things had been getting on top of Alice recently. She hadn’t told you that, then?’
‘No. She hadn’t.’
‘Have you seen or spoken to her recently?’ I press.
I don’t know whether it’s the hesitation or the tone of Roma’s voice when she replies, but she sounds distant and pensive. ‘No. No, I haven’t. Not for a while now.’
‘Mrs Kendrick, is there any chance we could have a chat in person, you know, face to face? Over a coffee, maybe?’ I’m sure I’d be able to gauge Alice’s stepmother a lot better if I could see her face to face.
‘Oh, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.’
‘Please, Mrs Kendrick. I’d really appreciate it. I won’t take up much of your time and I can drive to you.’ I look at my watch. ‘I could be with you within an hour.’ I realise I’m almost bullying her into agreeing, but I’m desperate. I’m sure I can get more information out of her once I have her as a captive audience, so to speak. ‘Please …’
‘I suppose I could,’ she relents. ‘Not today, though. Tomorrow?’
‘Thank you, I do appreciate that.’
‘Meet me in Jacksonville at the coffee shop on Village Walk at one-thirty.’
After the call has finished, I stay sitting in my car, musing over the conversation. I take out the photograph of Alice and Martha. Probably taken in the house I was just at.
If only I could get inside Alice’s house, I’m sure I’d find out more about her. Hopefully, Roma will be able to tell me some more tomorrow. I think of Alice’s friend, Martha. Now she would surely be able to tell me more about Alice. She’d have a totally different relationship with Alice than Roma would; it will help me to build up a clearer picture in my mind of who my sister really is. The real Alice Kennedy beneath the rather too sweet-and-kind facade currently sitting at home with my family. The little roll of emotion, I recognise now as jealousy, gives a tumble inside me, reminding me of the not-so-admirable quality I’ve discovered about myself recently.
I think back to Alice’s conversation where she mentioned Martha working as a waitress. I’m sure she said the Beach House Diner. It stuck in my mind as it reminded me of where my first Saturday job was; the Beach House Café in Brighton. Thank goodness for the ability to remember little details, always handy with my line of work, I suppose. Thank goodness also for my smartphone as I’m able to tap Beach House Diner, Amelia Island into the search engine and in a matter of seconds I’ve located the diner, got the zip code and programmed the sat nav.
Amelia Island is small and, within a few minutes, I’m pulling up outside the diner. It’s blue and yellow, with big, open windows, situated on the corner of what looks like one of the main roads through the town. Big lorries, laden with sixty-foot-long logs trundle past at what seems like two- or three-minute intervals. I assume they are heading to the sawmill I read about on the flight over when I was researching the area.
When I go into the diner, I look around for Martha. I’m looking for someone not dissimilar to Alice, long brown hair, about my height and weight. In fact, I realise I could be looking for either of us, me, Alice or Martha. A small, dark-haired Hispanic-looking young girl comes over.
‘Hi, welcome to the Beach House Diner. Table for one, is it?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ I smile warmly.
‘My name is Angelina and I’m your waitress today. Would you like to sit by the window?’
‘That will be fine.’ I follow Angelina through the diner and scan the area as I go. It’s big and must have at least seventy covers. The walls are white and with the big windows, the whole place has a light and airy feel. I sit down at the table and Angelina passes me a menu and runs through the specials. I order a glass of juice and Angelina leaves me to peruse the menu. She comes back a few minutes later with a glass and juice bottle balanced on a circular tray.
‘So are you here on vacation?’ asks Angelina as she takes the bottle opener from her apron pocket and flips the lid.
‘Kind of,’ I say, delighted with this opening that I didn’t even have to try for. ‘I’m actually trying to find a friend of a friend. Last I heard she worked here.’ I smile again at Angelina and she looks expectantly. ‘Martha Munroe. Does she still work here?’
‘Martha? Well, no. She hasn’t worked here for about a month.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ I say, hoping I look disappointed. ‘You don’t know how I can get hold of her, do you?’
‘You can’t. No one can. She’s gone off travelling with her friend.’
‘Really? Who’s that?’ And then seeing Angelina look at me suspiciously, I add, ‘I wonder if it might be someone I know.’
‘Alice Kendrick. You know her?’
‘Is that the girl who Martha lived with?’
‘That’s right,’ says Angelina, and I can almost see her lower her guard again. ‘Although, it beats me why Martha would want to go travelling with Alice. Not after what happened between those two girls.’
‘Which was?’ I prompt when it appears Angelina isn’t going to continue.
‘I don’t know if I really should be talking about them,’ says Angelina. ‘It’s kinda bad to speak behind their backs.’
‘But I am a friend of Martha’s. Did they have some kind of disagreement?’ I’m hedging my bets, but I feel I can’t let this opportunity slip by.
‘You could say that.’
Chapter 20
I look expectantly at Angelina, willing her to get on with it. She settles herself into the seat opposite me and leans forward, her hands clasped together in front of her.
‘Martha has always been such a good friend to Alice, right from the very first time Alice came into the diner. Alice had that look about her, the sort that said how sad and alone she was. Martha spotted it straight away,’ says Angelina. ‘You know why?’
I shake my head. ‘No, go on.’
‘Martha had once been just like that, alone and sad. Martha didn’t tell everyone but she confided in me about the things she had to endure at home. Her mother was none too good to her; she didn’t have a father either. Martha just wasn’t loved. She was a burden to her family.’
‘And she saw this in Alice?’
‘Yep. Martha recognised that in Alice. Martha really felt for that Kendrick girl. She went and talked to her. Each time Alice came in, Martha would always make time for her. Soon they became real good friends.’
‘So what happened between them?’ I ask.
‘The stepmother. She didn’t like Martha from the word go. Thought Martha was a bad influence on Alice. She didn’t like it that Alice now had a life and was going out and meeting people her own age and all that.’ Angelina takes a furtive glance around the diner. ‘I can’t stop long or I’ll get in trouble from my manager.’
‘Okay, so just quickly, how come Martha and Alice fell out but still ended up going travelling together?’
‘Alice was a quiet girl and totally under the thumb from her dad and stepmom. Martha used to encourage Alice to stick up for herself. After Alice’s father died, she asked Martha to move in. Martha was being kicked out of her home and had nowhere to go, Alice was lonely and really relied on Martha’s friendship, so it seemed like the perfect solution. Of course, Roma wasn’t happy about it. To cut a long story short, Martha and Roma had an argument about Martha’s influence on Alice, which then put a strain on Martha and Alice.’
‘They fell out over it?’
‘Yeah. Martha was all set to move out, said she couldn’t live in the same house as Roma.’ Angelina is enjoying retelling the events.
‘So, what happened next?’ Considering Angelina is worried about her boss, she’s not exactly rushing herself.
‘Well, they argued. Alice beg
ged Martha to stay and rowed with her stepmom, but in the end, it was Alice’s house, so evil stepmom didn’t have a choice. As it happened, she had to move back to Jacksonville and didn’t want Alice anyway.’
‘And now the girls have gone travelling?’
‘Yeah. Martha left a note on the manager’s desk that she quit. Sent me a text message to say she and Alice were travelling round Europe and that was that. I haven’t heard from her since. She never even replied to my messages.’
‘That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?’
Angelina shrugs. ‘Kind of, but Martha was like that anyway. You know, quick to move on. She never had any real roots here.’ She slides herself out of the bench seat. ‘I need to get on now. If you do catch up with Martha, tell her I was asking after her.’
‘Sure. Thanks for your time.’
After finishing my drink and leaving the diner, I find myself driving back to the Kendrick’s house. I park a little further down the road from Alice’s house this time, in the hope that I can avoid detection from Alice’s neighbour. I lock the car and walk slowly up to the house. I don’t know what has drawn me back here, but I know that the answers lie within. I have to get inside the house somehow.
The bins still stand at the end of the drive and I bypass them, heading straight for the back gate. I have another look at the windows as I go around the property. I can’t see any on the latch to let fresh air circulate through. If this were my house and I shared it with someone, I’d probably have a spare key hidden somewhere in case one of us got locked out. Would Alice do the same? It’s worth a look.
I go over to the back door and run my hand above the doorframe. Nothing. Too obvious? I lift the doormat and then the plant pot that is beside the back door. I can’t identify the plant from the withered stem and dried leaves – it’s a long time since there was any life here. I look around the back porch, trying to spot any other potential hiding places.
