I shake my head.
“After you pressed the button, while you were waiting for the elevator to come, what could you see?” Tarin persists.
“I don’t remember. Lift doors, I suppose.” I want to lie down on the floor and cry. How do I get away from these people, from this situation?
“Yeah, but on the ground floor they’re mirrored on the outside, right? All fancy-schmancy. Looking one way, you’d have seen the doors to the Sunset Grill restaurant reflected. Looking the other way you’d see the little fake shop—you know the one I mean?”
“Fake shop?”
“Wow, Cara. Do you not notice anything? Big glass bulge in the wall, with gold shoes and diamond-studded handbags inside it? There’s a poncho in there that I wanted to try on and no one could get inside the goddamn glass case for me. There’s supposed to be a key, but could I find a single staff member who knew where it was?”
“Poor dear Mama,” says Zellie. “It must be so hard to be you.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but what the hell is the point of having a glass bubble stuck to the wall with merchandise inside it that you want people to buy, and then when they want to look at it, you can’t find the key?”
“I don’t remember seeing anything reflected in the lift doors,” I say. “I was knackered. I was barely looking, barely aware.”
“Well, we’ve narrowed it down to four rooms, I guess. That’s better than nothing.” Tarin squeezes my arm. It hurts. “And Zellie and I can help out. We can get it down to three.”
“How?”
Tarin walks over to the door of room 325, pulls a key card out of her shorts pocket and holds it against the metal pad. A green light flashes and the door opens. “The room you went to wasn’t this one,” she says. “This one’s ours—mine and Zellie’s.”
No. I refuse to believe it. Something’s not right.
Tarin’s holding the door open, waiting for me to come in. Zellie’s already inside, kicking off her sandals.
“Are you coming in or what?” says Tarin. “We’ll ring reception and get the names from Riyonna—the guests in the other three rooms—then order room service. Aren’t you starving? I could eat a fucking horse. With guaca-fucking-mole, obviously—no chance of the horse arriving without, not at this resort. We can eat on the balcony, there’s plenty of room. Cara?”
“Three twenty-five is your room?”
“Well . . . yeah? I mean, that’s why I’m in it. Problem?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Tarin’s mouth flattens into a line. “Tell you what? Tell you when? I have told you. I just did.”
“When I said I remembered the room Riyonna sent me to was on the third floor. Why didn’t you say then that your room’s on the third floor?”
“It’s irrelevant. Why would I mention it? There must be fifty rooms on this floor. I didn’t know we weren’t easily going to be able to get the number of the room you got sent to, and I didn’t know you’d end up narrowing it down to four rooms that included mine. Satisfied?” Tarin’s hand is on her hip now. My doubts are delaying her dinner.
I don’t know if I’m satisfied. I’d like a chance to think without her watching my every move.
“Of course,” I say. If I play nice, it’ll be easier to get away. “Listen, I’m going to go back to my casita. I’m not especially hungry and I need to do a few things, so . . .”
“What things? Don’t you want to know who’s in the other three rooms?”
“Yes, but I really just need—”
Tarin’s burst of laughter cuts me off. “You really just need to learn to speak your mind. You don’t wanna have dinner with Zel and me? Fine. I don’t care. If you suspect me of hiding Melody Chapa in my hotel room because it’s one of the four in your lineup, go right ahead. I’m not offended. I think it’s hilarious!”
“I just want to be on my own for a bit, that’s all.” Why do I sound as if I’m pleading with her?
“Okay. Well, I’m going to find out who’s in those other three rooms, and if the police are on their way. I want to know what the hell’s going on. Don’t you?”
Behind her, Zellie appears, with her strawberry-blond hair up in a bun on top of her head. She glances at me, makes sure I register her not-impressed look, then opens a door behind Tarin. It juts out into the narrow entrance corridor, blocking my view of the room. I hear the sound of a tap running and smell vanilla.
“I don’t think you and I can find out very much,” I tell Tarin. She’s right: I should be more straightforward instead of always trying to smooth things over. “We’ve got no authority to ask questions. If there’s anything dodgy going on, the police will sort it out. Yes, like you, I want to know what’s going on. Of course I do—this is the most bizarre thing that’s ever happened to me. I’m as intrigued as you are, but I don’t think we’re going to get the answer today.”
Tarin’s biting the inside of her lip. “You know what? I’m not sure the Arizona police are the guys we need right now. They’ve already been and gone—no surprise there. Melody Chapa was murdered in Philadelphia—what the hell does that have to do with them? Not their problem! If Mrs. McNair’s right and Melody left Swallowtail last night, I don’t believe any Arizona cop is gonna find out she was ever here in the first place. Their life’s much easier if they don’t find that out. See what I mean? Something as big as this that crosses state lines—that sounds federal to me.”
“Are you saying you think we should contact . . .” I leave the question unfinished. I’d feel too silly saying it.
“Yeah. The FBI.”
This is too much for me. Way too much.
“I have to go,” I whisper. “Sorry.”
“Cara? Cara! Are you actually running away from me? Oh, my God!”
The lift comes quickly, thankfully. I don’t allow myself to breathe until the doors are shut and I’m moving away from Tarin Fry and toward safety.
Back in my casita, I order room service—a chicken Caesar salad and an orange juice—to come in exactly an hour and a half. I feel my face heat up as I specify my desired delivery time, even though Swallowtail is the kind of place where you can do that and no one will bark, “Look, you’ll get your food when you get it, okay?”
I run myself a bath, wishing I had some of Zellie’s vanilla oil or whatever it was she was using. Instead, I make do with the little bottle of Swallowtail bath and shower gel that smells of eucalyptus and something citrus-y. I pour it into the hot running water, breathing in the scent. God, that’s good. Who needs vanilla?
While I wait for the tub to fill, I walk around my casita. It’s still as beautiful as it was when I was last here—I didn’t imagine it. I touch walls and countertops, feel the softness of rugs and the cool tiles against the soles of my feet, and make a point of not thinking about Tarin Fry, Melody Chapa, Bonnie Juno, Kristie Reville . . . I didn’t know any of those names yesterday, and for the time being I intend to pretend that I still don’t.
I should check Instagram. Jess or Olly might have commented on the photos I posted earlier. The thought of looking—of facing up to whatever my children might want to say to me—is terrifying. I also need to see whether Patrick’s replied to my email.
I swallow hard. I’m so tempted to put off the moment of reckoning until later, to have my bath and dinner first, but if I do that I won’t enjoy either.
And if I don’t, if I look now, I might be too upset to eat.
You didn’t really think you could leave it all behind, did you, Cara?
My hands perform the necessary actions while my brain blanks out. It’s the best way, the only way. I have to know what’s there waiting for me.
My whole body sags when I see it’s good news. Well, not news, really, but certainly good. Definitely not bad. There’s no email from Patrick, but there’s a comment from Jess under one of the pictures I posted. That must mean she stayed up late—later than I’d have allowed. It’s 7:30 P.M. in Arizona, so eight hours later in England: 3:30 A.M. S
he left her comment at what would have been midnight her time.
Beneath my photo of the two colorful cocktails, she’s written, “Yeah looks great thanx for not taking me with you. Dad and Olly have been driving me mad. Olly’s an infuriating little squit!! Why did you go off without telling us?! WTF is going on? Are you and Dad breaking up? You better not! Dad is incaperble of doing proper parenting, btw. Me and Olly are at Granny’s. It’s too hot, none of the windows open and there are radios talking shiznit in every room. She leaves them on all the time!! Come back!!!!!xxxxxx.”
Olly and I, not me and Olly. Incapable, not incaperble.
I start to cry, missing home, happy that Jess sounds like Jess. She’s okay. They’re okay. Everything will be fine, somehow.
On her Instagram, Jess has posted a photo of a closed window with paint peeling off its frame. I recognize Patrick’s mother’s house. Olly always sleeps in the attic room and Jess in the main guest bedroom. I leave a comment beneath the picture: “I will come back, soon—on Tues 24 Oct. Dying to see you, darling. Lots of love to you and Olly xxxxx. And no, Dad and I are not breaking up, I promise.”
Can I promise that? Too late. The comment’s up.
Patrick wouldn’t leave me and the kids. No matter what. Not even if I make him have one more child than he wants.
Are you sure about that?
Tarin’s words come back to me: “I’d say you have a problem of some kind and you don’t know how to solve it. Which proves you’re unimaginative. There must be a way to deal with it. If I knew the problem, I’d give you the solution.”
Please, God, spare me Tarin Fry’s prescription for how to improve my life.
I flop in my scented bath for an hour, looking at the list of activities on offer at Swallowtail. If there were a workshop on decision making, I’d consider signing up—“What to Do in Impossible Situations” or something like that.
My chicken Caesar salad arrives with an unasked-for bowl of guacamole, which makes me think about Tarin again. I wish I hadn’t made it so obvious that I suspected her of deliberately deceiving me. Thinking about it rationally, she’s right: there was no reason for her to say, “Wait! Third floor? That’s where my room is!” when I first mentioned it.
I don’t honestly believe Tarin and Zellie are hiding anything—anything, in this case, being an officially dead girl whose parents are in prison for her murder. The idea’s laughable. Embarrassing. I’m going to have to find Tarin at some point and apologize. In my desperation to extricate myself from her overbearing clutches, I overreacted.
Finishing my food, I push my plate aside. I wish I could push my thoughts away as easily, stop them from circling back to Melody Chapa.
She must be dead. There was a whole trial, huge amounts of money spent, no doubt, on prosecuting, defending, appealing. It was all over the media for years. The whole of America can’t be under the illusion that this girl is dead if she isn’t. It’s impossible. That ought to be my starting point. Or even better, not mine—someone else’s. Ownership is the last thing I want—this is nothing to do with me.
I want to find out the end of the story, though. Who was the surprise guest on Bonnie Juno’s show, the one who changed everything and caused suspicion to shift from the Revilles to Annette and Naldo Chapa?
I reach for the iPad and type the names “Bonnie Juno” and “Melody Chapa” into the search box together. Some of the first results that come up are YouTube clips. The top one, as well as the most recent, is dated 2014 and has the tagline: “Bonnie Juno talks Melody Chapa on the Ken Hayun show: the Bloody Sock Controversy.”
I click on the white arrow and the clip starts to play.
Bonnie Juno Interviewed by Ken Hayun, CNN June 23, 2014
KH: My next guest needs no introduction. Welcome, Bonnie Juno. Thank you for being with us today.
BJ: Always a pleasure, Ken. Thanks for having me on the show.
KH: I didn’t expect a “yes” from you, Bonnie. I’ll be frank: I thought you’d said all you had to say about Annette and Naldo Chapa.
BJ: I thought so too, Ken, now that justice has been done and those two evil monsters are behind bars where they belong. But certain other people—people determined to bury their heads in the sand—keep putting misinformation out there like it’s going out of style, and I can’t let that go unchallenged, for poor little Melody’s sake, for the sake of her memory.
KH: Well, I guess I can underst—
BJ: Even with her murderers behind bars, injustices can still be perpetrated against her, and that’s what I believe is happening here. This latest outpouring of trash from Ingrid Allwood—I refuse to call her “Doctor,” she doesn’t deserve the title—is the perfect example of—
KH: Bonnie, I’m glad you raised Dr. Allwood’s recent opinion piece. We did invite Dr. Allwood to join us here tonight. Unfortunately she declined our invitation.
BJ: Yeah, I just bet she did!
KH: For those of you at home who missed it, we’re talking about Dr. Ingrid Allwood’s article in the New York Times—
BJ: It’s not an article, Ken, it’s a piece of worthless trash. Just ’cause it’s made out of words doesn’t make it any better than trash. It’s an insult to poor little Melody is all it is. I swore to myself I’d always defend her interests to the best of my ability, and that’s why I’m here today. What Allwood’s doing, it’s all lies—dangerous lies designed to attract sympathy for Annette and Naldo Chapa. Hey! I’ve got news for the American public: some people in prison are actually guilty, whatever you enjoy watching on your TVs. All these shows about the system framing innocent people—they’re twisting people’s minds! A little girl is dead, the right people are locked up, and I’m determined to keep it that way.
KH: Bonnie, you clearly feel passionately about this—
BJ: Damn straight.
KH: Sure—but can we talk about a specific point raised by Dr. Allwood in the New York Times—Melody Chapa’s sock, with the blood on it? She says—
BJ: No, Ken—sorry to cut you off, but you’re already wrong, I’m afraid. Allwood doesn’t say anything at all. That’s the problem! She has no conclusions or even theories to offer. She doesn’t seem to think the Chapas are guilty of murder, but neither will she admit to suspecting Kristie and Jeff Reville. Who does she think did it, then? Santa Claus? She asks plenty, and answers nothing—that in itself is highly misleading. Just leaves those questions hanging there. It’s a rhetorical trick, and most people are too dumb to see it. She’s trying to make everyone think that the answer, if only we knew it, would surely point to Annette and Naldo Chapa’s innocence.
KH: Wait—let me drill down a little here. No, please—I really want you to address this key point that Dr. Allwood made. To do that, we’re going to need a recap of the uncontested facts. Nate Appleyard saw the sock with blood on it—a child’s white sock—inside Kristie Reville’s car on the day that Melody went missing. But when detectives searched the car, the sock wasn’t there. Some time later—forgive me, I can’t recall the exact length of time, but it was some weeks, I think—a bag was found that turned out to be Melody’s schoolbag. Am I right so far?
BJ: Entirely correct.
KH: Okay. Inside Melody’s schoolbag, the sock was found. Stained with blood that turned out to be Melody’s. Nate Appleyard was asked by detectives if this was the same sock he’d seen in Kristie Reville’s car and he positively identified it: same stains in the same places—no question about it.
BJ: Yeah.
KH: And so Dr. Allwood raised the question, and I must admit it seems a valid one to me . . . let’s say Annette and Naldo Chapa wanted to frame the Revilles—
BJ: That’s exactly what they wanted. They set the whole thing up and it nearly worked. Poor Kristie Reville, who’d always been a good neighbor to them, taken care of their little girl while Annette was too busy with her high-flying career. Annette and Naldo Chapa were prepared not only to kill their poor sweet daughter in cold blood, but also to frame an innocent
couple who’d never done them any harm. That’s why I call them the embodiment of evil, and I’ll stand by those words till the day I die. They make my skin crawl.
KH: So let’s imagine for a second that you’re the Chapas, you’ve murdered your daughter and you want to frame Kristie Reville. You somehow manage to get Melody’s bloodstained sock inside Kristie’s car—that’s quite a coup, right? Kristie Reville told detectives categorically that she always locked her car, that she never forgot—she was very security conscious, especially when she visited her masseur Victor Soutar, who lived in a down-at-heel neighborhood—
BJ: Look, Ken, I believe Kristie thinks she’s telling the truth there. I believe she thinks her memory’s a hundred percent accurate on that point—but I think she’s wrong. We all make mistakes once in a while: leave things unlocked that we could have sworn we locked up safe and sound. When Kristie visited Victor Soutar the day Melody disappeared, she left her car unlocked. Annette and Naldo Chapa, having murdered their daughter, drove to Soutar’s place and planted that bloodstained sock in Kristie’s car. Kristie was emotional that day, remember? She was losing faith in Soutar’s ability to help her conceive a child. Locking her car would have been the last thing on her mind.
KH: Well, with respect, Bonnie, that’s your hypothesis: that she didn’t lock her car and that the Chapa parents planted the bloody sock. No one saw them doing that, did they?
BJ: That’s correct, no one saw them. The other part? Incorrect. It’s not only my hypothesis. It’s also the verdict of a jury, and therefore the hypothesis of the American judicial system, which I respect even if you and Ingrid Allwood don’t. If Annette and Naldo Chapa murdered Melody—I’m saying “if” to indulge you, Ken; we both know it’s not an “if” anymore—then of course they planted the sock. How else did it get inside Kristie’s car? Doesn’t matter that no one saw them. We know it must have happened.
Keep Her Safe Page 11
