Scrapbook of Murder

by Lois Winston

  According to Lupe, Renata suffered from both severe arthritis and diabetes and could barely walk, but her frail body did little to mask the clarity and intelligence emanating from two hawk-like, crystal blue eyes that spoke of a northern Spanish ancestry. I sincerely doubted even the most insignificant detail ever escaped the woman.

  She raised both eyebrows over the rim of the coffee cup she held with both gnarled hands. Blue veins bulged beneath her paper-thin skin. When Elena introduced me and explained the reason for our visit, Renata gestured to the two chairs across from the table and said, “Sit.”

  Lupe and I settled in at the table. Elena poured coffee for us and took the seat next to her mother. Without asking if we’d like any, she began slicing the cake and passing it around.

  No one had to twist my arm. My taste buds had kicked into overdrive the moment I’d entered the apartment. When it came to sweets, my willpower took off for parts unknown. I grabbed my fork and savored a mouthful of shear bliss. Elena’s cake rivaled any Cloris had ever baked, but in a head-to-head competition that included ending with a spotless kitchen, Elena would win hands-down.

  “We spent all day together yesterday, Lupe,” said Renata. “What could possibly have happened since then that you need to talk about?”

  Lupe took her time stirring milk and sugar into her cup, then took a sip before placing the cup back on its saucer before answering. “I wanted to speak with you in private, not in front of other family members.”

  “So you brought your friend? What could you possibly say in front of her that you couldn’t say in front of the family?”

  “While cleaning out Mami’s house, I discovered a suitcase of old family photos in the attic.”

  Renata glanced at me. “What’s that got to do with your friend?”

  “Anastasia was Mami’s neighbor. You met her at the funeral.”

  Renata studied me, as if searching her memory, then nodded in my direction. “Yes, I remember you now.”

  “Anastasia is a craft editor at a magazine,” said Lupe. “I asked her to make albums from the photos for my children.”

  “And you want to know who the people in the photographs are?” asked Elena.

  Lupe shook her head. “No, most of the photos are labeled.”

  “Then what?”

  Lupe opened her purse and withdrew the envelope. “This was hidden in the suitcase. It’s a letter from Mami addressed to me. She wrote it several years ago.” Lupe passed the envelope across the table.

  A pair of black frame glasses hung from a chain around Renata’s neck. With shaking hands, she settled them onto her nose before picking up the envelope with Lupe’s name written on it. As she fumbled to remove the single sheet of paper inside, the snapshot of the newborn fell out, face up, onto the table.

  Elena lifted the photo and stared at it while her mother silently read the letter. I thought I noticed Elena’s lower lip tremble for a split second, but she quickly scooped up a forkful of cake, shoved it in her mouth, and began chewing. Maybe I was mistaken. Or maybe not, given the faraway expression that had settled across her features as she continued to stare at the baby in the photograph. Perhaps she was the relative we should question about Carmen’s baby, not her mother.

  “Did you know?” Lupe asked her great-aunt.

  Renata grabbed the photo from her daughter’s hand. Without glancing at it, she shoved it, the letter, and the envelope back at Lupe. Indignation suffused her face and colored her words as she spoke. “Of course not.”

  “There’s nothing you can tell me?” asked Lupe.

  Behind her glasses Renata’s eyes narrowed into slits. “I told you I don’t know anything.” She then turned to Elena and said, “I’m tired. Please show our guests out.”

  Lupe and I looked at each other. Renata definitely knew something, but she’d probably take whatever information she had with her to her grave. We rose, leaving our half-eaten cake and half-drunk coffee, and followed Elena back to the apartment’s entrance. As we put on our coats, Elena whispered something in Lupe’s ear.

  “What did she say to you,” I asked after the door shut behind us.

  “She wants us to meet her at the coffee shop across the street. She’ll come as soon as she settles Renata down for a morning nap.”

  I was now more convinced than ever that I hadn’t imagined Elena’s lip quiver when she looked at the photo of Carmen’s baby.

  Lupe and I walked across the street to the coffee shop. With so many people off from work today and schools closed for the Thanksgiving holiday, the place was jam-packed. A long line of customers, mostly teenagers, snaked from the counter nearly to the door. I spied an empty table toward the back of the café and made a beeline toward it to claim it for us while Lupe queued up to place our order.

  Elena arrived just as Lupe had inched her way to the front of the line. She waited with her while the barista made our drinks. Then the two of them joined me at the table. They both took off their coats and draped them across the backs of their chairs before taking their seats.

  No one spoke while Elena fidgeted with a packet of sugar and spent an inordinate amount of time stirring the sweetener into her coffee. All the while she kept her head down, avoiding eye contact with her niece. Lupe sat on the edge of her seat, her eyes shifting from me to her aunt, impatiently waiting for Elena to speak.

  Elena continued to avoid the subject. She finally raised her head and opened her mouth but instead of speaking, she raised her cup to her mouth and sipped at her coffee.

  I’d had enough. I cleared my throat. When she turned to look at me, I said, “Out with it.”

  She placed her cup back on the table, took a deep breath, and forced out a huge sigh as she nodded. “What I’m about to tell you is a secret I’ve kept for half a century.”

  EIGHT

  “Carmen and I were not only cousins,” Elena began. “We were the best of friends. Even though we lived in different towns, we went to the same Catholic school and often spent overnights at each other’s home from the time we were five or six years old. One night when we were fourteen, we made a mistake that changed our lives forever.” She paused for a moment, looking unsure about continuing. Finally, she sighed heavily before adding, “Carmen’s life far worse than mine.”

  I didn’t need a crystal ball to see into the future—or in this case, the past—to know Elena’s tale would end with Carmen getting pregnant that night.

  Lupe and I leaned forward, straining to hear Elena’s soft voice, little more than a whisper, over the din of the crowded coffee shop. “What happened that night?” prodded Lupe.

  Elena took a few sips of coffee, stalling another few seconds before continuing. “We had only recently entered our freshman year of high school. One of my classmates invited me to a party her brother was throwing that Saturday night. He was a senior and on the football team. Their parents were going out of town for the weekend and leaving their kids home alone. I asked if I could bring Carmen, and she agreed.”

  “Your parents didn’t know about the party, did they?” I asked.

  Elena shook her head. “They never would have let us go. They were very strict. We weren’t even allowed to date yet.” She lowered her head and stared into her coffee. “Carmen and I both chafed at our parents’ old-world ways. They kept us from having fun. Nothing was going to stop us from attending that party. We were very naïve.”

  Or stupid.

  “Carmen spent Saturday night at my house,” she continued. “My family lived in Clark back then, Carmen in Union. We told my parents we wanted to go to a movie. My father dropped us off at the theater, but as soon as he drove away, we walked the few blocks to the address of the party. When we arrived, we discovered the party wasn’t what we’d expected.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Lupe.

  “There were five boys, all seniors, and the sister of one of them. She was the classmate who’d invited us. We knew we should leave, but she begged us to stay to help even out the boy
/girl ratio until some other girls arrived. Because she looked so nervous, we agreed.”

  Elena scowled and shook her head before continuing. “She led us into the living room and introduced us to the boys. Someone handed us drinks. That was the last thing either Carmen or I remembered before we woke up half-naked on the floor in a darkened basement rec room. Our blouses were open, our bras undone, our skirts hiked up, our underpants missing.”

  Lupe’s jaw dropped. “My mother was raped? That’s how she got pregnant?”

  Elena nodded. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She grabbed a napkin, swiped the tears from her face, then blew her nose.

  “What did you do?” I asked.

  “The only thing we could do. We straightened out our clothes, sneaked out of the house, and walked back to the theater.”

  “You didn’t tell anyone?” asked Lupe.

  Elena shook her head. “We felt too ashamed, not to mention guilty as hell. Things like that didn’t happen to good girls.”

  I reached across the table and placed my hand over Elena’s. “What happened wasn’t your fault.”

  “In a way it was,” she said. “We never should have gone to that party. We were asking for trouble.”

  “So you just went home and pretended nothing happened?” asked Lupe.

  “I did call the police,” said Elena, “before calling my father to pick us up.”

  I was confused. “So, you did report the rape?”

  “No, I pretended to be a neighbor and complained about loud music and underage drinking going on at the house.”

  “Were the party-goers arrested?” I asked.

  She snorted. “Of course not. Rumor had it they were hauled off to the station, and their parents had to come get them, but no charges were filed.”

  “Why not?” asked Lupe.

  Elena shrugged. “Times were different back then. People didn’t take underage drinking as seriously as they do today. I knew nothing would happen when I placed the call, but doing so made me feel better, at least for a few minutes. And I’ll bet the girl who invited us and her brother wound up in a heap of trouble with their parents.”

  “But why didn’t you report the rapes?” asked Lupe.

  Elena sighed. “Like I said, times were different back then. These were boys from good families in a wealthy suburb. We were Cuban immigrants. No one would believe us. We’d be accused of making up a story. The scandal would destroy our families. We couldn’t do that to our parents. They’d worked too hard to get to where they were.”

  “But it wasn’t your fault!” said Lupe, raising her voice. “You were raped!”

  Elena shot a fearful glance at the nearby tables, but all the other customers appeared engrossed in their own conversations or had their heads buried in their cell phones.

  “And Carmen wound up pregnant,” I said. “How did she explain that?”

  “She put off telling her parents as long as she could. When she finally broke down and told them she was pregnant, they demanded to know the name of the boy. She refused to tell them. They thought she was protecting him. Only I knew the real reason. She couldn’t tell them because she didn’t know. The father could have been any one of the five boys at the party.”

  “What about the other girl?” asked Lupe. “Was she also raped?”

  Elena snorted again. “At school Monday she accused us of bad manners for ducking out of the party without thanking her for inviting us.”

  “Did she mention anything about the police?” I asked.

  “No, although I think she suspected we’d placed the call. From that day on she never spoke another word to me, but I often caught her giving me the evil eye.”

  After everything I’d gone through since the death of Dead Louse of a Spouse, I now question everyone’s motives. The needle of my Suspicion Meter veered deep into the red zone. “Do you think she set you and Carmen up?”

  Elena and Lupe both stared at me. “I…I never considered that,” said Elena. “Until about ten years ago.”

  “What happened ten years ago?” I asked.

  “There was that major sex scandal at the school.”

  “I remember,” I said. “A group of seniors competed to see who could have the most sex before graduation.”

  “Specifically, sex with virgins,” said Elena. “They called it ‘Cherry Picking’ and kept a secret chart listing their conquests.”

  “Are you suggesting this wasn’t a single scandal?” I asked. “That it was a long-standing tradition at the school?”

  Elena nodded. “I think I was targeted for a cherry picking that night.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she fought to blink them back. “When I asked if I could bring Carmen to the party, I wound up handing her over on a silver platter.”

  “If that’s the case, why didn’t previous victims come forward?” I asked. “We’ve certainly seen that occur in other sex scandals lately.”

  “Yes, lately,” said Elena, “but not ten years ago. Attitudes have changed drastically over the last decade. Besides, most of those other cases involved serial rapists or child molesters, not different groups of boys over many years.”

  “Did you and Carmen ever discuss the case at the time?” I asked.

  She nodded. “The defense argued that not only was the sex consensual, but that their clients were the victims of an orchestrated campaign to score a huge monetary settlement. They painted the rape victims as money-hungry vultures. Is it any wonder no alumni came forward admitting they were also victims in previous years?”

  “They’d be accused of jumping on the cash bandwagon,” I said.

  “Exactly.”

  Lupe had remained silent, her jaw tightened, while Elena spoke of the sex scandal. When she finally spoke, she practically spit out her words. “Someone has to pay for what happened to you and Mami. What was that girl’s name?”

  Fear filled Elena’s features. Her hands shook. “I…I don’t remember.”

  Lupe leaned halfway across the table. “How can you not remember?”

  “It happened half a century ago. No good can come from digging into the past, Lupe. Besides, no one will pay, so what’s the point?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Lupe.

  “Your mother is dead. She can’t press charges.”

  “You can,” said Lupe.

  “But I won’t. I have no proof to back up my accusation.”

  “What about my mother’s baby? Isn’t that proof? We could demand DNA tests to find out who the father is.”

  “No,” I said, agreeing with Elena. “First, you don’t know how to find your sister. She may not even be alive at this point. And as for DNA tests, even if you could get a court order, a match isn’t proof of a rape. The father would claim the sex was consensual, and that he never knew about the pregnancy.”

  “Besides,” said Elena, “do you really think that girl or one of those boys would back up my story after all these years? Why would they? They’d have everything to lose by doing so and absolutely nothing to gain.”

  Lupe’s eyes widened. “You remember their names, don’t you?”

  Elena rose and forcefully stuffed her arms into her coat. Without making eye contact with either of us, she said, “I need to get back to my mother. She’ll be waking from her nap soon and wonder where I’ve gone.” Without saying good-bye, she turned her back on us and strode from the coffee shop.

  “How dare she not tell me?” asked Lupe as she stared at Elena’s departing back. Her voice trembled, and her eyes filled with tears. Whether from anger or hurt or a combination of both, I wasn’t sure.

  “She’s carried a tremendous amount of guilt for fifty years,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She feels responsible for what happened to your mother. She brought her to the party.”

  “All the more reason she should want to help me find the rapist. She owes it to my mother.”

  “I think she regrets telling you as much as she did, Lupe. We stirred up some
long-buried secrets Elena would have preferred stayed buried.”

  “Then why did she tell us anything?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not a therapist, but maybe she thought it would bring her some closure after all these years.”

  Lupe stood and grabbed her coat from the back of her chair. “Well, now I need closure.”

  I hurried to keep up with her as she stormed out of the coffee shop. “How do you expect to do that?” I asked once we’d arrived back at her car.

  “I don’t know, but I’ll think of something. There has to be a way to find these creeps.”

  “And then what?”

  “I intend to confront them.”

  I saw this as a really bad idea with no chance of ending well. However, discretion being the better part of valor—or more likely in my case, the coward’s way out—I decided against voicing my opinion. I carried my own guilt regarding Carmen. It’s why I not only agreed to make the photo albums for Lupe but had accompanied her to meet with Renata this morning. I doubted I’d have the courage to say no if she asked me to help track down her mother’s rapist.

  ~*~

  After Lupe dropped me off back home, I bypassed the house and immediately headed to Zack’s apartment. “I think she’s asking for trouble,” I said, after catching him up on the events of the morning. “But how can I dissuade her?”

  “If she’s determined to follow through with trying to dig up the past, I don’t see how you can,” he said. “But for her own safety, she should hire a private investigator rather than nosing around herself.”

  “That’s a brilliant idea.” Especially if Lupe asked for my sleuthing help. That’s when I’d suggest hiring an expert.

  “As long as she takes it. And by the way,” he added, “I spoke with Patricia. She had the same advice for Cloris and Gregg.”