The Mussorgsky Riddle

by Darin Kennedy

  My phone rings, shattering the moment.

  I fumble pulling the phone from my pocket, catching it before it hits the hardwood floor.

  “Hello?” I whisper, mindful of where I am.

  “Hi, Mami. How are you?” As I sit in the room of a girl who has almost certainly been dead the better part of a month, the sound of my own daughter’s voice sets my heart racing.

  “I’m good, sweetie. And you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “How’s Nana?”

  “She’s fine too.” She pauses for a couple seconds. “Mami?”

  I don’t like the sound of this. “Yes?”

  “Is it okay if I go stay with Daddy for a couple of days?”

  “Maybe.” The lump in my throat threatens to choke off my next words. “What does he have planned?”

  “He and his friend, Autumn, are going to the mountains this weekend and they want me to come along. He says there’s a horse stable near where they’re staying.”

  “Isabella, is your father there now?”

  “Yeah. He’s right here.”

  I take a deep breath. “I need to speak with him.”

  “He’s talking to Nana. Wait a minute.” She shouts for her father, leaving me to wait for an interminable thirty seconds for a voice that for eighteen months has brought equal parts bitterness and longing every time I’ve heard it.

  “Hello, Mira.”

  “Dominic.”

  “How are things?”

  “How are things? Seriously?”

  “What? Isabella said you wanted to talk to me, and here I am, as requested.”

  Dammit. Is it too much to ask for once in our relationship he be the one that comes across as a little bit crazy?”

  I swallow hard as I consider my next words. “I hear you have news.”

  “Oh. Rosa must have told you.”

  “She’s my mother, remember?”

  “You’re upset Autumn and I are finally making it official? Is that what this is?”

  “No. I’m upset you and the woman you slept with for the last months of our marriage are making plans to take my daughter away for a ‘fun-filled weekend in the mountains’ while I’m down here working my ass off trying to keep a roof over our heads.”

  “She’s our daughter, Mira, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Was she our daughter for the last year and a half where you’ve barely showed your face?”

  “You made it pretty clear I was anything but welcome in your home. Check your facts, Mira.”

  My breath catches in my throat. “And what makes you think I’d be cool with Isabella spending time with her?”

  “I called a few days back. Rosa said you were away on a case. Thought it might be fun to drop in and see Izzy and maybe free your mom up for a day or two.”

  “I’ll be home in a day or two.” The heat rises in my cheeks and I’m strangely relieved to be several hundred miles away. “Mom can keep Isabella till then.”

  “Your mother tells me you’ve been saying that for over a week now.” Dominic’s quiet chuckle sparks a twinge of pain behind my left eye as I remember simultaneously why I married him and why I divorced his ass. “I’m in town for a few days. Why won’t you let me help out? I’d love to spend some time with her.”

  “Where have you been the last eighteen months when I needed your help? Off to God-knows-where photographing penguins in Antarctica or wildebeests on the Serengeti instead of watching your daughter grow up.”

  “Funny, Mira. I didn’t hear you complaining about those photographs when you were spending the money they brought in. I’ve had some good months and some lean months, but if you check your records, you’ll find I haven’t missed a single month of child support.”

  “Yes, Dominic. The automatic payments from your bank have come on the sixteenth of every month for the last year. I’ll call the Vatican and have you put in for sainthood as soon as we get off the phone.”

  “Come on. Is the idea of Isabella spending some time with her father that horrible?”

  “You don’t call for almost four months, and now you waltz in with expensive presents and that whore on your arm and expect me to just roll over and be happy about it?”

  Dominic doesn’t speak for a moment. I’ve made him mad. I don’t know whether to celebrate or hang up immediately.

  “Look, Mira,” Dominic says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Last time I checked, you were the one who started sleeping in the guest bedroom after the whole thing with Sarah Goode last year. Scream at me all you want, but we both know what and who got in the way of us.”

  Eighteen months. Eighteen months and he finally said it. I prepare to strike back and fill the phone line with all the things I’ve waited a year and a half to say, but in the end all that comes out is, “Put Isabella on.”

  “Wait, Mira. I’m sorry.”

  “Put. Her. On.”

  A bit of static hits my ear, followed by Isabella’s quiet whisper.

  “Mami?”

  “Isabella.” As I search for just the right words to forbid my daughter from so much as setting foot in the car with Autumn, I look around the room. Julianna’s room. The room of a girl who will likely never see either of her parents ever again. Tears well at the corners of my eyes. “You know what? If your dad wants to take you to the mountains, that’s fine with me. Just be careful and call me every night.”

  “Thank you, Mami. Thank you, thank you.” She whispers my answer to Dominic and Mom and comes back on the line, her voice even brighter than before. “Daddy changed his mind. Says we’ll only be gone for a day. He thinks I’ll sleep better in my own bed.”

  “That’s nice, honey. Tell him I said thank you.” I bite my lip till it hurts. “Now, you listen to your father and be safe, you hear me? I’ll be home as soon as I can, sweetheart. I love you.”

  “I love you too, Mami.”

  Despite my best efforts, emotion chokes my last words. “Good night, Isabella.”

  I sit staring through unbidden tears at the phone in my hand for several minutes until a knock at the door brings me around.

  “Yes?”

  “Mira?” Thomas’ baritone reverberates through the door. “You okay in there?”

  Already calmer, I take a breath and answer. “I’m all right.”

  “I thought I heard you call out. Anything going on in there?”

  “Everything’s fine.” My intestines continue to unwind. “Had to take a phone call.”

  “Making any progress?”

  “Yes, but I need a few more minutes, please.”

  “I’ll go update the Wagners.” He pauses. “Let me know if I can help with anything.”

  “Will do.”

  Thomas’ footsteps echo as he heads back down the hall and it occurs to me I didn’t hear him approach. The fact Dom still has such a hold over me makes my blood boil.

  Okay. Half an hour, and not much to show other than a pair of jeans I can’t mention to the Wagners without causing them more pain. I’ve turned the place upside down. No diary, nothing but class notes in any of her folders and notebooks except the cute little heart on the cover inscribed with “JW + JF.” I refuse to leave until I have something to show for this. Surely she left some clue, picture, wrote something down…

  Wrote.

  I rummage through the main drawer of her desk and find a small collection of pens and markers, most chewed to within an inch of being unusable. One in particular, however, remains immaculate. In its own special corner rests an ornate silver Cross pen with gold flourishes, its only flaw a tarnished spot at the business end from hours of writing.

  Clearly Julianna’s favorite pen.

  I take a deep breath and grasp the pen in both hands, allowing my eyes to slide shut even as my mind opens. For several seconds, all I see are blue-green flashes on the back of my eyelids.

  “Come on, Julianna. Show me what you’ve got.”

  The cool metal of the pen warms in my hand.


  “You haven’t left me anything else. Come on.”

  Barely noticeable at first, a compulsion to write builds in my mind, my arm, my hand. Even stranger, it’s my left hand that itches to churn out a few paragraphs.

  Before the sensation can fade, I tear open the top notebook in the stack, flip to an open page, and let my fingers go to work.

  At first, the pen produces only the most basic doodles. Stars, cubes, smiley faces.

  Then, the number 8, followed by the number 1. Again and again. 818181818181818181.

  “What the hell is 81?” I half expect a voice to answer me, and am strangely disappointed at the silence.

  My hand is still for a moment before starting again with the doodles.

  A pair of eyes. Flowers. A checkerboard formation stretching into infinity.

  Then more numbers. And a pair of words.

  4:15 - Parking Lot.

  She’s meeting someone. But who?

  The pen continues to make its way across the page as an antiseptic stench wafts across my senses.

  421 North Reginald Road. Friday.

  Friday. The day she disappeared.

  Or one of the hundreds of other Fridays in her lifetime.

  Great thing about this particular talent? The specificity.

  My off hand continues to etch out a set of doodles I don’t recall ever putting on paper before, but no more words come.

  Tearing out the page from the spiral bound notebook, I fold it up and slide it into my pocket before making one last pass through the room. I get a few last impressions of Julianna, but no further clues as to her fate.

  I head back down the stairs to rejoin Thomas and the Wagners. Mr. Wagner stands as I enter the room.

  “You’ve been up in Julianna’s room for almost an hour. Anything you’d care to share?”

  “Nothing definitive. I picked up some impressions of your daughter. People and things that were important to her. A few specifics.”

  Wagner’s eyes flash with fire anew. “And?”

  “Nothing I’d hang hopes on.” I fight to keep the emotion from my face. “I’m sorry.”

  He lowers his head rubs at his temples even as Julianna’s mother deflates like a balloon on a hot summer afternoon. Thomas steals over to my side, the mere strength of his presence bolstering me even as the emotion wafting off the Wagners threatens to pull me headlong into their maelstrom of grief.

  “There’s really nothing more you can tell them?” He’s only trying to help, but the words still sting. “Nothing?”

  “Dammit, Thomas. I’m not going to lie to them.”

  Hearing me despite my whisper, Margaret Wagner leaves the room crying while her husband falls into his recliner and stares out the window. A gentle breeze works its way through the willow in the backyard, the lithe branches waving in lamentation for the little girl that no doubt used to sprint around their broad trunk. For the hundredth time that day, an image of Isabella’s face with her devilish grin and her all-too-wise eyes floods unbidden into my mind.

  “Mr. Wagner?”

  He looks up at me, his tired eyes red and swollen. “Yes?”

  “Julianna. She’s left-handed, isn’t she?”

  He nods. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious.” I take Thomas by the arm. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “What now?” Thomas asks as I lead him to the door.

  “It’s not much, but I’ve got something.” I glance back at Mr. Wagner in his dark leather recliner, his stoic facade crumbling like a sand castle at high tide. “We’re going to need the GPS in your car.”

  I don’t say a word as Thomas sits in the driver seat staring at the folded piece of paper resting in his hand. Turning it this way and that, he glances at me, his eyebrow forming a sideways question mark.

  “You wrote this?” he asks.

  “Sort of.” I take the paper back and study the scrawled pen strokes there. I remember writing the words, though it’s not my handwriting and the address is no place I’ve ever been or even heard of. “I picked up the only one of Julianna’s pens that didn’t look like a dog’s chew toy and my hand just started writing.”

  “From what you asked Mr. Wagner, I’m assuming it was your left hand.”

  “Yes.”

  His eyes fall to my lap where my hands rest. “But you’re right-handed.”

  Impressed he remembered this little detail, I grin, offering only a subtle nod.

  “Has anything like this happened before?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “Nothing quite like this, though if I made a list of all the things I’ve experienced in the last week and a half that are new to me, I’d have to buy a ream of paper.”

  “Wait.” He takes back the piece of paper and studies it anew. “Have you ever heard of unconscious writing?”

  “My college English Comp professor used to have us do exercises along those lines once a week. We would write as fast as humanly possible for fifteen minutes, not stopping for anything, trying to get at our subconscious thoughts. Some pretty awesome stuff came out of those exercises.” A quiet chuckle escapes my lips. “Some pretty weird stuff, too.”

  “And?”

  “This is nothing like that.”

  “I can’t believe I’m going to ask this, but do you think it was Julianna’s ghost talking with you?” He stares at me quizzically. “Or maybe, through you?”

  “Why, Dr. Archer, how far we’ve come in a week.”

  His knuckles blanch as he grips the gear shift. “Just trying to keep an open mind.”

  I give his arm a playful swat. “And I’m just yanking your chain.”

  The exasperation in his stare strongly suggests he prefers his chain unyanked. Noted.

  “Truth is, if I focus, I can sometimes pick up on psychic impressions left on objects. Learn stuff about their owners or people who handled the particular item. Emotions they felt, things they saw.” I gesture to the paper in his hand. “I guess it’s not that big a stretch to get an address.”

  “I guess not,” he says, “though a week ago, my answer would have been quite different.” Thomas studies the scribbles on the page. “So, this address…”

  “Was a place that caused Julianna great fear.” I cast my thoughts back to when I held the well-used Cross pen. “And sadness. Overwhelming sadness.”

  “No time like the present.” Thomas presses a button at the center of the console, shifting the screen to GPS, and taps in the address. “Let’s see where this takes us.”

  “421 North Reginald Road, Charlotte, NC.” A few seconds pass before a location appears on the map. Some sort of office park, the arrow is fixed atop the large building at its center.

  “Reginald Medical Plaza.” My hands come to my mouth out of instinct. “Can we take a closer look?”

  Thomas taps the touchscreen and the picture zooms in, dividing the building into its various practices. I note a dentist office, OB/GYN, internal medicine, and mental health. As Thomas shifts the screen so we can see what’s in the south corner of the building, however, the answer to our question comes into view.

  “That’s what we’re looking for.” I point to the screen. “Charlotte Center for Women’s Health.”

  Thomas drops his head. “Poor girl. She was planning to have an abortion.”

  “Or had one.” The emotions that overtook me as my hand scrawled the address in Julianna’s room rush back. Fear, trepidation, self-revulsion, and perhaps even a small bit of relief. “If she did, I’m betting she didn’t go alone. You’re seventeen, scared, ashamed. I don’t imagine many young women would even visit an abortion clinic without taking someone along for emotional support. Not to mention, if any procedure was done, she’d need to have someone there to take her home.”

  “That’s all fine and good,” Thomas says, “but I can’t imagine Jason could keep such a thing from his mother and we both saw Glenn Hartman’s reaction when he heard about the baby.”

  “And that leaves only one question.” I massage
my right eye where yet another headache is threatening to bloom. “Who else knew Julianna Wagner was pregnant?”

  hen I pull up to the Faircloth house the next morning, I’m half-surprised to see Veronica’s car in the driveway. After her response to our psychic freak show yesterday, I half expected she’d find somewhere else to spend her Saturday morning. On the flip side, she’s shown nothing but devotion to Anthony since we first met. And then there’s always the show itself. Whether we admit it or not, we all rubberneck at wrecked cars on the highway and the rescue crews trying to save lives and clean up the mess. If there’s a worse wreck than this thing with Anthony, I hope never to see it.

  I ring the doorbell and wait over a minute before Caroline opens the door. As exhausted as I’ve seen her, she looks like a gust of wind would knock her over, which is unfortunate because it appears another Charlotte thunderstorm is rolling in.

  “Good morning, Mira,” Caroline says. “Thanks for coming on a Saturday.”

  “No problem.” I hand her the trio of coffees I brought from the hotel coffee shop. “Your cappuccino is the large cup.”

  She takes her coffee from the cardboard container and looks past me out the door. “Is Thomas with you?”

  “He had an errand to run.” Though it took some convincing, Thomas agreed to go by the Charlotte Center for Women’s Health this morning and pursue that lead while I continued the work with Anthony. “He’ll be by later this morning.” I peer across Caroline’s shoulder, my pulse accelerating. “Did Jason come home yet?”

  “No sign of him. I know he’s mad, but he could at least call.”

  “At least.” I step into the foyer as Caroline closes and locks the door behind us and crane my neck to peer into the next room. “I saw Veronica’s car out front. Is she―”

  “In here.” There’s an edge to Veronica’s voice and with each passing moment the anxiety buffeting me from both Veronica and Caroline mounts. Something is wrong.

  I head into the Faircloth living room and find Veronica hunched over Anthony on the couch. The strain in the teacher’s voice and the fatigue and pain etched in Caroline’s features become instantly clear.