After half an hour she went over to her computer, sat down and, hating herself for her weakness, Googled Dory Colson.
With several clicks of a key she was looking at front page headlines and indistinct photos of a woman with her face a blur, her hands manacled, being hustled into a police car. Promising herself that each article she read would be the last, Alex continued on until late at night, reading everything she could find about the crime. She learned that Lauren and Dory Colson had been very close in age. According to the breathless reports in the paper, the Colsons adopted Dory after years of trying to have a baby, and then Mrs Colson, as so often happens, immediately became pregnant. At the time of her death, Lauren had been an up-and-coming country music singer who lived in Branson, Missouri, and was about to embark on a national tour. She had come back to Boston to have surgery and to recuperate from the procedure at her family’s home in the South End.
Apparently Dory, who still lived at home, began to suspect that her new boyfriend, a doctor named Rick Howland, was showing an interest in Lauren, although both the boyfriend and Lauren denied any involvement. There were some photos of Lauren, blonde and lissome, dressed in leather, jeans and chiffon. People who knew the family said that Dory had long been bitter about Lauren’s success. Tension between the sisters escalated. On the day of the murder, a deliveryman from the dry cleaner said that he heard the sisters arguing. Hours later, Dory called the police and said that she had found Lauren dead in the house. She was arrested that evening and charged with the murder. Within a few weeks she had pleaded guilty, and was sentenced to twenty years in prison.
Alex sat for a long time, staring at the blinking cursor. All right, she told herself. You did what your mother asked and now you know. Put the folder in a drawer and move on with your life. But despite the soundness of that decision, Alex could almost hear her mother’s voice, wondering how this could have happened to her child. It’s not my problem, Alex wanted to cry out. I’m not responsible for what happened to Dory!
‘Leave me alone,’ she whispered to the empty room.
The next day Alex took the train to Boston. She was excited to have been summoned for an interview at the prestigious Orenstein Gallery on Boston’s Newbury Street. But she had mixed feelings about presenting herself for a job. She felt vulnerable and definitely not at her best. She dressed carefully for the interview and covered the dark circles under her eyes with make-up. And, she thought, as she waited for the train to the Back Bay, it was a relief to be out of the house.
Louis Orenstein, a bronzed, balding man in his early fifties dressed in a bespoke silk suit, had a reputation for having discovered some of the premier artists of the day, especially in modern sculpture, which was Alex’s favorite art form. Louis needed an assistant and grilled Alex carefully about her credentials for almost an hour. When she left Orenstein said he would be in touch, and Alex was cautiously optimistic that she had made a good impression.
After the interview was over, she went to a coffee shop on Boylston Street and bought herself a cappuccino. She sat, staring out at the pedestrians passing by, trying to think about job prospects, but her thoughts continually gravitated back to Dory Colson.
In the course of her search on the computer the night before, she had easily located the Colsons’ address in Boston. The South End was not far from the Back Bay where Alex was now sitting. She knew that she should let it alone, but the idea of seeing that house where this mysterious sister had lived, grown up, and committed murder drew her like a magnet. She finished her coffee, left the coffee bar and looked in the direction of the train station. Then, telling herself that she just wanted to walk by the house, she started to walk toward the South End instead.
The South End of Boston was nothing if not newly chic. The Colsons lived on a quiet, tree-lined street, not far from the bustling shops, bistros and theaters which now gave vivid life to the once rundown Tremont Street. Alex had memorized the address. She arrived in front of the building and looked up at it. It was old brownstone with concrete pilasters and a wooden front door which was polished to a shine. Perhaps, at one time, it had been one of the nicer houses on the block. Now it looked distinctly less prosperous than its gentrified neighbors.
She thought about walking up to the front door, knocking and identifying herself. After all, she thought, Dory is your blood relative. But now that she was here she felt an uneasy certainty that she would not be welcome. As she stood at the foot of the steps, debating with herself, a bicycle skidded to a stop beside her. A handsome, bearded man, his chestnut hair pulled back into a ponytail, got off the bike. He was probably nearly forty, but he was dressed like a student in jeans and a down vest.
‘Excuse me,’ he said as he picked up the bike and waited for Alex to move out of his way. She stepped aside, and he began to carry the bike up the steps. Just before he got to the top he turned and frowned at her. ‘Can I help you?’ he said.
Alex hesitated. ‘I was . . . looking for the Colsons’ house.’
‘You found it. They live on the first floor,’ he said. He frowned at her. ‘Are you a friend of theirs?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Not exactly.’
‘Reporter?’ he demanded.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No. Not at all. It’s . . . I’m a relative,’ she said.
His frown cleared. ‘Oh, well come on in then.’
The man carried the bike to the top of the steps and looked back at her. Alex wanted to flee. Instead she climbed the steps behind him.
‘I’m Chris, by the way,’ he said. ‘Chris Ennis. My wife and daughter and I live upstairs. I have to carry this bike inside and leave it in the hallway or some druggie will steal it. Here, go on in.’ He pushed open the front door and stood back to let her pass.
Alex walked up the steps and into the dark vestibule. She saw the door to the apartment on her right and stairs leading up to the second floor. She peered at the nameplate beside the bell.
‘That’s the Colsons’,’ said Chris as he unwound a plastic-covered chain and began to fasten his bike to the newel post. ‘Go ahead and ring it. Elaine might be home. She’s the secretary at the Catholic church. Her schedule is flexible.’
Alex hesitated, and then rang the bell as Chris snapped the lock shut on his bike and removed a brown paper bag reading Free World Food from the basket.
There was only silence inside the apartment. Alex was secretly relieved. She had not intended to go so far.
‘No answer?’ he asked pleasantly.
‘No. I should have called.’
‘Do you want to wait?’ he asked. ‘Come on upstairs and I’ll make you some herbal tea. You can meet my daughter.’
She knew she should leave immediately, but curiosity gripped her. This man seemed quite familiar with the Colsons’ schedule. Maybe he knew Dory – knew something about her life. ‘Oh, that’s really nice,’ said Alex.
‘It’s no problem,’ said Chris, starting up the stairs.
Alex followed him. ‘Have you lived here a long time?’ she asked.
‘Oh, yeah. Forever,’ said Chris. ‘Joy and I moved in with some other kids when we were still students. Garth and Elaine were already here. They weren’t too thrilled at first to have a bunch of students living upstairs. Now we’re an old married couple, and we’ve all lived in this building so long we’re like family.’ He unlocked the door to his apartment and went inside.
It was like stepping back to the Age of Aquarius. Indian bedspreads covered crumbling plaster, and there was a huge peace sign on one of the doors. The shelves were lined with books and the furniture was old and somewhat shabby. An orange cat was splayed out on the floor and did not even flinch when Alex stepped over him. Potted plants hung in the windows from macramé hangers. Alex heard the sound of an earnest, thin voice singing along to a guitar accompaniment.
‘Hey, honey,’ Chris called out as he put the paper bag on the counter and began removing vegetables and tubs of organic rice and tofu. ‘That’s my daughter. She�
��ll never hear me,’ he said. ‘She’s lost in her music.’
Alex sat down at the kitchen counter. There was a papier-mâché picture frame in the shape of a sun on the wall. Inside it was a photo of Chris – much younger – next to a beautiful young woman with a beaded, feathered headband around her long, black hair and a beauty mark near her mouth.
Chris turned and saw her looking at it. ‘That’s Joy,’ he said proudly. ‘That’s my wife.’
‘She’s beautiful,’ said Alex.
‘She is,’ he said, smiling. ‘So, I’ve never seen you around here. Are you from Boston?’
‘Actually, I’m here from Seattle,’ said Alex.
‘And you’re related to the Colsons?’
Alex had no intention of revealing her exact relationship. ‘Distantly,’ she said. ‘I’ve never actually met them. Lauren was a country music singer, wasn’t she?’
‘Country music. Go figure. A girl from Boston. ’Course, Garth was from out west somewhere. Who are you related to? Garth or Elaine?’
Alex made a stab in the dark. ‘Um. My mother was a cousin of . . . Elaine’s. She told me about what happened with Lauren and her sister.’
Chris shook his head. ‘Yeah. That was a shock. I always thought Dory was a gentle soul. You can know a person for years and have no idea. I mean, that she would even be capable of doing something like that.’
‘Apparently she was jealous of her sister,’ said Alex.
‘Well, who wouldn’t be? Lauren was going places. Everything revolved around her when they were kids. Elaine used to home school Lauren, while Dory went to the public school. It was just for convenience’s sake. I mean, Lauren always had a music lesson or an audition. But still, I think Dory resented it.’ Chris suddenly stopped what he was doing and frowned at her. ‘Are you sure you’re not a reporter?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Alex protested, feeling instantly guilty.
The singing abruptly stopped. There was the sound of a door opening down the hall and a slim, ethereal-looking teenage girl with long, wavy chestnut hair and a short voile dress came into the room. She was probably seventeen, but looked younger. ‘Dad?’ she said. Then she saw Alex and frowned. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Hi, babe,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Got your homework done?’
‘Who is she?’ the girl asked.
Chris frowned. ‘I forgot. What did you say your name was?’
‘Alex.’
‘Alex, this is my daughter, Therese.’
‘Hi, Therese. Was that you singing?’ Alex asked.
‘And playing guitar,’ Chris said proudly. ‘She writes her own songs.’
‘Wow, you’re very talented,’ said Alex.
‘Alex is related to the Colsons,’ said Chris.
‘Lauren was gonna sing one of my songs on her next album,’ said Therese sadly. ‘But then . . .’
‘Lauren was Therese’s idol. And she said maybe,’ Chris reminded her, pulling two mugs down from the cabinet.
‘She promised,’ Therese insisted. ‘What are you doing anyway?’
‘I’m making some tea.’
‘Mom said you’d take me to practice,’ the girl complained.
‘Oh, that’s right. OK, babe. I’m sorry.’ Chris turned to Alex. ‘I forgot. I’m going to have to go.’
‘No problem,’ said Alex, standing up and feeling relieved. ‘I should be going anyway.’
‘Do you want me to tell them you were here?’ he asked.
‘That’s all right. I’ll give them a call. Thanks so much for your hospitality.’
‘No problem,’ said Chris, walking to the door. ‘Try ringing the bell again on your way out. Maybe Elaine’s back. Therese, get your gear.’
‘I will,’ said Alex. But when she reached the bottom of the steps and heard him close the door to the apartment above, she passed by the Colsons’ door without stopping.
On the ride home from the city she thought about what she had done. She felt as if she was compelled by an out-of-control kind of curiosity, even though common sense told her it could be a mistake. In her effort to find out about her sister, she had actually gone to the Colsons’ apartment, having found a way to get inside the building. Be honest with yourself, she thought. This is not going to go away. It just isn’t.
That evening after she had emptied a few drawers, forced herself to eat something nourishing, and watched a mindless reality show on TV, she knew that she was avoiding the inevitable. She went to her father’s desk and sat down. She picked up a pen from the silver cup by her own framed photo and pulled some heavy vellum paper out of the desk drawer. For a long time her pen hovered over the blank page. Finally she lowered the pen to the paper. ‘Dear Dory,’ she began to write. ‘You don’t know me . . .’
FIVE
The Museum of Fine Arts called her in for an interview and she went in dutifully, but might as well have taken a number. The interview was perfunctory, and the young woman who spoke to her let Alex know that she was only one of legions who had come in to apply. She arrived back home feeling exhausted and discouraged. After hanging her coat up in the hall closet, she picked up the mail that had come through the mail slot and began to thumb through the flyers, catalogues and bills. Suddenly she stopped, her heart skipping a beat.
Her address on the envelope had been written in a neat, squarish hand that strangely resembled her mother’s penmanship. For a moment, the sight of it made her feel weak. She looked at the return address. Framingham Prison for Women. Alex tore open the envelope and unfolded the single sheet of paper inside. The paper rattled as she gripped it.
Dear Alex,
I was surprised to get your letter. I don’t really know what to say. Yes, I always knew I was adopted, but I didn’t think too much about it. I figured if my birth mother didn’t want me, why should I want to meet her? It never occurred to me that she might be hoping I would look for her.
You said you wanted to come and see me if I wanted to meet you. I didn’t know you existed until I got your letter, but I guess if you want to come, why not? I am allowed to have visitors, so just come during visiting hours. I am always here. Ha, ha.
Sincerely,
Dory Colson
Alex sat down and reread the letter several times. She felt as if she was standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down. With each step she had taken so far, Alex had told herself that she didn’t need to go any further. There was still time to drop the whole thing. It wasn’t as if Dory could come and visit her. The next step would be different though. The next step would bring her face to face with this . . . sister. Maybe you should stop now, she thought. Maybe you should forget about this and not pursue it.
But there was no stopping at this point. Tomorrow, she thought, and wondered how long it would take to drive to MCI Framingham.
Alex parked in the visitors’ lot, got out of her car and obeyed the order, printed on signs every few feet, to lock the car. She straightened her jacket and the sweater underneath it. She had carefully adhered to the visitors’ dress code demanded on the MCI Framingham website. No denim, no sweats, no camouflage or suggestive clothing. And she had worn underwear, as the regulations required. She wondered wryly if anyone would check, and then realized, with a shudder, that it was quite possible that they would.
The prison sat at the edge of town but was clearly isolated, a world unto itself. Approaching the red-brick building with its peaked dormers and a flag on a tall flagpole, lifting and falling in the breeze, was almost like approaching a courthouse or a college classroom building. A closer look revealed tall chain-link fences and loops of barbed wire surrounding the open areas. Alex took a breath, opened the front door and went inside. At that point, any façade of normalcy vanished. She followed the signs for the visitors’ entrance and approached a small office walled off with Plexiglass. A uniformed guard sat inside, talking to another guard who was standing in an inner doorway.
‘Excuse me,’ said Alex. The man ignored her and continued to talk. A heavyset b
lack woman sitting on an orange molded plastic chair in the hallway reading a paperback romance novel shifted in her seat.
‘Excuse me,’ Alex repeated as a few more moments went by and the guard did not acknowledge her presence. She lifted up a fist and went to tap on the Plexiglass.
The woman in the chair did not look up from her book, but murmured, ‘Don’t do that.’
Alex glanced over at her. The woman did not meet her glance but her mouth was set in a firm line. ‘You best be patient,’ she said.
Alex withdrew her fist and stood, uncertainly, looking at her. Finally the guard finished his conversation and turned his cold, silvery gaze on Alex. He did not ask what she wanted.
‘Um, I’m here to see Dory Colson,’ she said.
‘Here’s your number and a key,’ he said, sliding a piece of paper out to her. ‘Put all your things in one of those lockers.’ He gestured toward the numbered cubicles against the front wall.
‘Everything? I brought some photos. Can I bring them in . . .?’ she asked. The guard had already turned away without replying.
Alex, frustrated by the guard’s abruptness, put the key in the lock and jimmied it angrily, to no avail.
‘Turn the key upside down,’ said the other woman calmly, turning a page, her gaze still trained on her book.
Alex removed the key and tried again. The locker door opened. ‘Thank you,’ she said, jamming her purse inside.
‘Can’t bring nothing in. Put it all away,’ said the older woman. ‘Empty your pockets too. Just keep enough cash to buy a card for the vending machines,’ she said, inclining her head toward a machine beside the lockers.
Alex looked at her, puzzled.
‘They gonna want you to buy ’em something to eat. The machines got hot food. Hamburgers and the like. But you can’t take cash inside.’
Sisters Page 4
