by April Henry
“I’ve been thinking - are you sure it was this dishwasher guy? He just seems so - little. Cindy’s probably two inches taller and at least his weight. Wouldn’t it have been hard to strangle her? It seems like she could have easily fought him off.”
Unconsciously, Tyler began to twist his hands together, reminding Claire of the marks on Cindy’s neck. “Maybe. Except for two things. We’ve got the blood alcohol level back on her. It was point-one-three, making her well over the legal limit. Kind of explains the cheerleading routine thing.” They looked at each other, remembering Cindy shaking her pompoms - and her breasts - in Richard Crane’s face. “And the other is that the pathologist says her airway was already compromised before she went out in that parking lot. She’s got asthma, and it wasn’t very well controlled - at least it wasn’t last night.” Claire flashed back to the blue inhaler she and Nina had seen in Cindy’s hand. “This Juan guy might not even have meant to kill her.”
“What does he say about what happened?”
Looking down at his shoes, Tyler ran the back of his thumbnail over his lower lip. “We probably won’t be asking him any more questions for a while.”
“Is he still unconscious?”
Reluctantly, Tyler nodded. “He seems to respond to his name. And he’s squeezed his wife’s hand a few times. There’s some bleeding in the brain. The doctors say they don’t know when he’ll wake up - or what kind of shape he’s gonna be when he does.”
“And is Kevin already out on bail?” Claire couldn’t hide the anger in her voice.
“Hey - the judge made the decision about bail, not me, Claire. He’s one of Minor’s most prominent citizens. Or at least one of the richest. He’s not considered a flight risk. And there’s a lot of sympathy for a man who finds himself going temporarily off on the creep who murdered his wife.”
“Have you thought about whether Kevin might have had another reason for beating that guy up?”
“What do you mean?” The expression in Tyler’s small brown eyes was unreadable.
“Maybe he did it so he wouldn’t talk - so he couldn’t tell you he wasn’t guilty. I think” - Claire ventured Jessica’s hypothesis - “I think maybe Cindy’s husband was having an affair with Belinda.”
“What makes you think that?” For once, Tyler looked like he was really listening.
“When she tried to stop him from beating up that guy, she called him Kevvie. No woman would call a man that unless she was intimate with him.” It didn’t sound as convincing as it had when she and Jessica had both heard the way Belinda addressed Kevin.
“So? They’ve known each other for nearly twenty years. And you’ve gotta remember -
I’ve got proof. I’ve got that guy on tape with Cindy’s ATM card.”
“But what about what he said when you arrested him? I heard him saying something about being innocent.”
Tyler shrugged. “My Spanish isn’t too good, and he doesn’t have any English. Something about how he didn’t do it - how original! Just once I’d like to have some SOB tell me he was guilty.”
“Did he say anything else?” Finding it an effort, Claire kept her voice non-judgmental, patient.
“Maybe something about finding Cindy’s wallet in the garbage bin.” Tyler didn’t meet her eyes. “It’s an easy out. That way he can claim he’s not the guilty one. That he just took advantage of an unexpected opportunity.”
“He could be telling the truth, couldn’t he? Couldn’t the person who killed Cindy have taken her wallet and then dumped it later? Maybe whoever did it even put it in a place where they know someone might find it and keep it? Like in the garbage outside a hotel kitchen?”
“Anyone can make up a story to fit the facts,” Tyler said. “Maybe aliens did it. Maybe it was a contract Mafia killing. Maybe if was a fluke suicide. But I think what happened is that this guy tried to take advantage of Cindy and things got out of control.”
Claire thought of what Martha had said. Occam’s Razor. The simplest explanation that fit the facts. Was Tyler’s the simplest? Did it fit the facts? “Did you find semen on her body?”
Tyler flushed, as though they were both back in seventh grade health class, squirming bundles of hormones. “No. We didn’t. You ever stop to think that maybe this mope couldn’t get it up - and maybe that made his so mad that he killed Cindy?” He shook his head in frustration. “And that’s all I’m gonna say about this, Claire. I shouldn’t even have said as much as I have to you.” He turned back to the bar before she could ask any more pesky questions.
When Claire turned back around, she saw that Dante was next in line for the buffet. She hurried to join him. As she tried to fit everything she wanted on one plate - slices of melon, steamed asparagus spears with hollandaise sauce, boiled new potatoes, a roll, tortellini and finally salmon - she continued to question what Tyler had told her. But if Juan deJesus hadn’t killed Cindy - who had?
As she and Dante walked back to the table, he asked her what she and Tyler had been talking about. She summarized it briefly for him.
“I don’t think the dishwasher did it, Dante. That’s what Tyler wants to think, but maybe it’s too easy.” She stopped talking as they took their places at the table.
The expansive mood of the afternoon seemed to be carried over to the dinner. People laughed, teased, boasted and ordered drinks from the two harried barmaids that circled the room. Letting the conversations eddy around her, Claire wondered if she was wrong to think that it hadn’t been a stranger who killed Cindy. But wasn’t that what Tyler was leaving out of the equation? That Cindy was the type of person who was more likely to be killed by someone she knew than by someone she didn’t? And what about what Nina had told her? Who had Cindy been primping for? Remembering the aloof way he had watched his wife, Claire was willing to bet it hadn’t been Kevin. And if Kevin had been having an affair, that might give him reason enough to kill his wife. Had she discovered his affair - or had Kevin discovered one of Cindy’s own?
There were other people to consider, too, Claire thought. Wade, for one. Cindy had lost herself in someone else’s arms at the prom. She had broken up with him, and everyone remembered how haggard he had appeared back then. Even watching Cindy from behind his dark glasses, his face had been naked with longing.
And now that she had Sawyer’s information, could Claire even rule out Logan, who might have heard one voice he couldn’t ignore, urging evil?
And knowing that Cindy’s airway was already compromised, could even Belinda be a suspect? It would be easy to become hysterical if you had just killed someone. And Cindy’s death would be a neat way of freeing up Cindy’s husband.
The problem with figuring out who might have killed Cindy, Claire realized, was that there were too many people who had good reasons to have done it.
###
The baked salmon had been consumed long ago, the ears of corn reduced to gnawed cobs. Claire pushed back her chair and excused herself. She was pleased to see that she had managed to make it through the entire meal without spilling a single drop on her dress, which surely qualified as a miracle. But after she had taken only a few steps toward the hall - and the bathrooms - Jessica caught her arm in a rustle of silk.
“Let me walk you out,” Jessica’s breath was warm against her ear.
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Let me hold your arm and walk you out.”
“Why?” Claire asked. Even though she felt a brush of annoyance, she continued to move forward as Jessica requested, her old friend’s arm looped through hers, their heads close together and hips bumping.
“There’s a big brown glob stuck on the back of your dress.”
“What?” Claire started to look behind her, but Jessica tugged her arm.
“Don’t look! I don’t think anyone else has noticed. And you don’t want them to. It looks kind of, um, like...”
“Like what?” Claire could feel the redness creeping up her neck and ears.
“Like somet
hing biological.” Jessica raised her free hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle.
“Oh, crap, Jessica. Or I guess I should say not crap. I know what it is. It’s a Rasinette. There’s this vending machine right outside our room, and I got some Raisinettes because I was hungry. I was eating them on the bed before I got dressed. Then I sat down right before we left to fix my shoe - and I must have sat on one.” Suddenly the absurdity of the situation overcame both of them. They barely made it to the safety of the hall before sagging with laughter.
“Here I am swanning about and I’ve got what looks like a piece of shit stuck to the back of my dress.”
“I’ve done worse,” Jessica leaned her head back against the red flocked wallpaper, which looked more suited to a turn-of-the-century bordello than a pioneer’s rough-hewn cabin. “Once I was having dinner with a producer, and after I want to the bathroom I tucked my skirt into my nylons. I walked the whole length of the restaurant’s dining room with people staring at my butt. And not just at an ordinary butt - but at my butt looking big and bulgy.” She wiped under her eyes, then inspected her knuckle. “Damn - my mascara’s running. Come on - let’s both get cleaned up.”
Claire followed Jessica into the bathroom. Twisting and turning, she couldn’t see the Rasinette, even in the mirrors above the sinks. She could feel it, though, on the underside of the curve of her bottom. She tried scratching at her fingernail, but it wouldn’t budge. When three more women came into the bathroom, Claire put her back against the wall.
“I only could ask this of a friend,” Claire whispered in Jessica’s ear, and suddenly it felt like that’s what they were, friends, “but do you think you could help me get this thing off?”
“Sure,” Jessica said, and grabbed Claire’s hand. Obediently, and ignoring any odd looks, she followed the other woman into the handicapped stall. Jessica put down a paper cover, then perched on the very edge of the toilet seat and gestured for Claire to turn around. “Can you lean forward or something? I’m going to try to get peel it off in one piece.” Claire bent down and put her hands on her knees.
The whole absurdity of the situation - her punctured vanity, her preposterous position, and the fact that they were now hiding out in the handicapped stall - caused giggles to continue to bubble forth from Claire. She was glad that the sound of the other women’s chatter and the constant flush of toilets drowned most of it out.
“There,” Jessica said finally. “I managed to get it off in one piece. Thank goodness for acrylic nails. That sucker was really stuck.” She stood up and handed Claire the flattened Raisinette, which was now about an inch and a half in diameter, with a raised center from the raisin. Claire made a face and dropped it in the toilet. Tomorrow, she resolved, she would give up eating junk food for good.
“Is there a stain?”
“Not much of one. Your drycleaner should be able to get it out. Luckily, it’s sort of in a shadow.”
“A shadow?” Claire began, then stopped. “Oh, I get it.” She bet size four Jessica’s butt had never been accused of casting a shadow. Mentally, she shook herself. It was silly to feel jealous, especially now that she knew how insecure Jessica was. She tried again. “I really appreciate your covering for me. Scraping something off my butt in the handicapped stall is going above and beyond.”
“I’m know for doing my best work in the handicapped stall,” Jessica said. She smiled a private smile, but didn’t explain further. “Besides, don’t you remember how you saved me in Mr. Grotting’s history class in seventh grade?”
Actually, Claire had forgotten until now. “Oh, yeah. That was the day you wore white jeans and your period started.”
“I started to get up, and then you pulled me down. At first I got mad at you, because I didn’t know what you were doing. Then I figured it out, and I thought I would just die. When everyone had gone you took off your sweatshirt and tied it around my waist and walked with me to the office to call my mom. If it weren’t for you, I would have been the pariah of seventh grade. The Girl Who Bled on Herself.”
“When you’re thirteen, nobody wants to know that kind of thing happens.”
“No one likes to know that kind of thing happens now. Women are all supposed to be perfect. We’re not supposed to have periods or get wrinkles or age spots or crow’s feet or stretch marks. We’re supposed to look eighteen forever.” Jessica sighed, ignoring someone who rattled the door. “In New York, I’m starting to feel so old. In fact,” she looked up coyly through her lashes, “on the back of my head-shot it says I’m thirty. If I put down I was thirty-eight, I’d be washed up. The only parts you get if you’re thirty-eight are moms. Frumpy moms. And at the same time, every bus that stops in the Port Authority Terminal is filled with eighteen-year-olds with perfect skin, pert little breasts and legs that go all the way to the ground. And of course they not only act, but they can sing, they can dance. And kids are the only thing producers want these days. Somewhere in New York or L.A. right now, some twenty-four-year-old is lying to some producer, saying she’s eighteen. When she’s just beautiful and perfect the way she is.”
Jessica’s blue eyes were shining like sapphires, her dark hair springing up in tendrils from where she had pulled it back. She was completely beautiful, but Claire knew she would be as deaf to that message as any of the twenty-four-year-olds she was lamenting. Instead, Claire opened the door to the handicapped stall.
“Let’s go back to the party before we miss Sawyer’s speech.”
2Q2STOM
Chapter Twenty-eight
When they slipped through the door to the Westward Ho! room, Sawyer was already speaking. He was a natural orator, blunt and folksy. When he made eye contact with you, for a second it was as if were speaking directly to you, not thinking about the others at all. Even the waitresses paused, surprised as flies trapped in amber, to hear him evoke years-old memories. He began with a brief reference to the Fourth of July and his time in Vietnam. For a minute, his expression shifted, became shuttered. Claire thought to herself that he must never have come to terms with the chunks of time gone missing from his life in the POW camp and then the rehab hospital.
“I didn’t know then what I was fighting for,” Sawyer said. “But then when I became a teacher, it began to make sense to me. I saw all these young people who were hungry. Not hungry in a physical sense, the way I had seen peasants in Vietnam, but hungry for their lives to have meaning. Still, there were those in Minor whose lives had meaning even then. Like Richard Crane, here.” Richard glanced up. Even with his hair falling over his eyes, Claire could see that he was coloring deeply. “He had a life of service, even then. Although he admired them, he didn’t want to be the football player making the winning touchdown,” Sawyer nodded in Wade’s direction, causing him to straighten up, “or the actress taking a bow after a standing ovation,” and Jessica gave a little gasp and put her hand on her chest. “No, Richard was content to take their pictures so that others could connect with that moment. And today millions of people worldwide are making connections with the help of his modems.” There was a smattering of applause from the audience.
“Or take Martha Masterson. She’s doing gene therapy research now, did you guys know that? Someday, children born with cystic fibrosis won’t have to die, thanks to her. Do you know how much pride I feel when I think about her being in my biology class? Even then, though, I could sense that she would soon move past anything I could teach her.”
Sawyer went on to flatter most of the people who were there, effortlessly weaving in everyone from the garbage hauler (“his company has tirelessly promoted recycling”) to the travel agent (“spreading some of our wealth - and along the way, our ideals - to third world countries”). He mixed the serious with the not-too, telling funny stories, like the time Alex built a working replica of a guillotine for history class and nearly severed his index finger, or the time Jim ate a cigarette butt to avoid being suspended for smoking - but then got so sick that he voluntarily gave up cigarettes for nearl
y a month.
Jessica was sitting between Claire and Dante, and at one point Claire’s vision focused on the other woman. She was watching Sawyer with her lips parted, her eyes soft and dreamy. Even twenty years ago, Sawyer had had that effect on women, and his rugged handsomeness probably didn’t hurt him at the polls now. Claire told herself that she would still vote for Sawyer if he were wall-eyed, fat and balding, but she had to admit that his looks and beliefs made for a pretty nice package. While she was thinking this, Sawyer went on to hit the high points of his platform (children are the future, public schools need to be fully funded, the plight of the environment can’t be ignored), without ever specifically mentioning that he was running for governor.
The finer points of the last part of his speech were lost, though, when the Minor Miner mascot appeared behind Sawyer and began waving at the crowd. People broke into laughter, and he stiffened, perplexed and nearly angry, unaware that a giant miner had appeared behind him, wearing a headlamp and coveralls and waving its enormous four-fingered hands. When he finally turned around, he abandoned his speech with good grace and led the crowd in their old cheer.
We don’t need picks,
We don’t need tools,
To beat you guys,
‘Cause Minor rules!
Although the Minor Miner traditionally never spoke, he accompanied the chant by swinging his giant foam rubber pick up and down in a chopping motion, which the crowd accompanied with rhythmic clapping. For a moment, Claire thought of Cindy, of how she would have run to the front of the room to join Sawyer and the mascot, how she would have kicked and yelled and shaken her hips. Looking around the table, at the faltering expressions on the faces of Wade, Richard and even Jessica, she knew they were thinking the same thing, too. It was, Claire realized, easier to like Cindy now that she was dead.
