So, when the head of the Spring Youth, Muskegon, chapter insisted she apply to Hope College on a Christian Youth scholarship, she didn’t blink. What was wrong with that? These were good people. A couple of them were a little scrambled, but for the most part, these were kind, modest people. People who baked banana bread.
When Katy won the scholarship to Hope College, mid-June, she was whirling with excitement, didn’t think twice about landing straight on the honors list and maybe more. That’s the way things happened for Katy. Quiet, pragmatic, redheaded Katy with wavy hair and green imploring eyes.
She didn’t notice, much, the attention in her Film & Television seminar from Brad or Lars or Danek. Even though it was obvious. Anyone could see it. You would have to be a complete imbecile not to see them all circled around, leaning in, facing her.
Film & Television 101 was not in the curriculum, by any means, but Katy had a yen to learn documentary filmmaking and travel the world to places with exotic names and somehow save everyone.
Brad, Lars, and Danek took the class because Katy did.
Brad, tall and spindly. Lars, short with sandy mop hair. Danek, dirt-haired, glasses, and smarter than Hope itself. It was clear Danek was destined for greatness, even with his funny little glasses, one day you would see him in The New York Times perhaps. An article maybe. But for now, the three freshmen, along with their beloved Katy, sat listening to Professor Wishik’s theory of film, which didn’t so much amount to a theory as a concoction of thoughts, thrown in a pot, boiled up and served as a stew. Oh, Professor Wishik. You really were behind the times.
This fluorescent room, these blue chairs with metal legs, these white beech laminate tables, everything plastic and pale, a gutless kind of learning place, dry as chalk.
Somehow through the draining drone of facts and names and titles came an assignment.
Find a subject. Make a documentary. Simple enough.
Now Katy leans in, as do Danek, Brad, and Lars, as the quest is taken up.
Danek says it, almost out of the blue. The others talking, distracted.
“That Krause case.”
A lean in, a pause.
“That Krause case. From the ’70s. That girl. You know, the one that went here.”
Brad and Lars stay silent, taking their cue from Katy. She will make the decision.
“The dead girl?” Katy doodling, somewhere else.
“Yeah. The Hope student.”
Silence.
“It’s an unsolved case. They never solved it.” Stupid. That’s what unsolved means, Danek kicks himself. Katy turns him into a dolt, tongue-tied. If only he could get her alone sometime, out of the way of this mediocre audience. Maybe he could introduce her to his parents.
“I dunno.” Lars had something more sunny in mind, maybe a documentary about snowboarding.
“No, you know. I think we should. It’s got everything. And it’s all here. We could do the research ourselves. Interview the people.” Katy now up from her notebook, quick, animated.
“Um. Wasn’t that like twenty-five years ago?” Lars sees Aspen in his future. A History of Snowboarding. They would start with skiing and move on. He would research. Vail. Steamboat.
“They’re still here. The parents. Live down on Rose.” Danek nudges, sees a win coming.
Silence. Brad draws in his notebook, waiting for the verdict, apathetic.
“Oh, I love it! Can we? Can we please?” Katy leans in to Brad and Lars, pleading.
The boys look at each other. She has no idea, does she? How they think of her when they turn out the lights. It’s silly, almost. Is she blind? They’d kill Professor Wishik himself and boil him in a pot if she said so. Not understanding why. Maybe it was the fact she didn’t care so much. How she said marriage was stupid and had yearnings to travel the world by herself. By herself! A girl by herself in Bali! India! Singapore! What a funny girl she was. Independent. Giddy. What would become of her?
Danek settles in, a victory. “Of course we can. I mean, if you guys want to.”
Just some stupid assignment. Coulda been anything. Coulda tossed a coin and it’d turn out different.
TWO
“Twenty-five years from 1978 to 2003. Twenty-five years wherein, you name it. Computers. A personal computer. A laptop. An Internet. An email. A new thing, called Friendster. A newer new thing, called Myspace, burbling. A ‘social network,’ whatever that was. A phone in the car. A mobile phone the size of a brick. Now a cell phone. A cell phone that takes a picture. A cell phone that takes a picture and sends it to your friend . . . in London. Yes, folks, twenty-five years.”
Danek pauses.
“If twenty-five years can discover the Internet, the cell phone, this thing the iPod, can twenty-five years discover the secret of a girl murdered, abandoned, by the side of the road?”
He likes his introduction. He finds it provocative.
On the way out to Rose Heights, the furthest thing from his mind was any sort of emotional impact probable here. Danek was not an emotional person. And PS: He didn’t believe in Christ either. That was a fantasy. A fairy tale. Something cooked up to tame the masses. Poor-people solace. That all existed so the have-nots wouldn’t cut the throats of the haves. What a trick.
Yes, he went to Hope College and yes it was a Reformed Church school. But Danek was too smart for all that. Fine, believe in your fairy-tale magic. I’ll take my degree, GRE, my valedictorian address, my effusive letters of recommendation, my 4.0 average, and shuffle off to graduate school someplace with an actual fucking name. Cornell. Johns Hopkins. Maybe Princeton.
What will happen to all you people? Will you stay here? The thought alone filled him with dread. He shuddered to think, would not let himself think, about the myriad curses that would have to befall him to land him forever . . . here.
Maybe he would come back for Katy and put her in his big mansion back East. They would decorate the Christmas tree together and she would make eggnog and he’d drink and fuck the daylights out of her and she would never, ever think of Brad or Lars or anyone else from this piss-hole pot because he would own her. It would be a Tudor house. A wreath on the door. A dog. Maybe a Lab. Chocolate.
These were the thoughts circling, dizzy, through Danek’s brain as they pulled up to 2226 Rose Avenue, the home of Lt. Colonel Charles Krause and his kindly wife, Dotsy.
THREE
It wasn’t long before she realized she could stop a room by walking into it. Dorothy Elizabeth Burke. Dotsy. No, she probably shouldn’t have come to New York, being a kid from the sticks and all—Odessa, Texas, to be exact.
She was a painter, for God’s sake. She was a painter and this was the last of the ’40s and New York City was the place to be. A whir of excitement. Christ, she couldn’t let it pass her by.
And with that kind of talent, it was only a matter of time, she had her finger on the pulse. Her teacher, Mr. Kaufman, told her he’d seen nothing like her paintings. They spoke of landscapes of the mind. Dreamscapes, he called them. And often, he pointed her out in class. “Let’s look at Dorothy’s interpretation.” No, it wasn’t work. It was interpretation. That’s how far ahead of them she already was. Her classmates would mutter under their breaths, but it was true, wasn’t it? Anyway, it seemed to come easy to her, a fearless kind of talent, almost chance.
At first, walking into a bar, restaurant, club, it had been frightening for Dorothy, all the attention. The venal undressing. The outright staring, goddammit. But, met with a shy cowering, however real, somehow made it worse. No, she couldn’t let herself cower. She learned, instead, take a step in, stop, give ’em a second, then eyes to the ground and sideways to the bar. Make bashful coy.
By the time she would reach the bar, there would already be at least three of them, swarming, scowling, vying, chest to her, hearts to her, plotting to get in there.
She was not pretty, nor sweet, nor cute. She was, quite simply, a drop-dead, stop-traffic gorgeous, ink-haired, green-eyed beauty with alabaster skin an
d bone structure Veronica Lake would envy. And those lips, almost obscene. Sweetheart lips. Kill-you lips. That girl knew how to pout.
She, in fact, knew all the tricks. She was a quick study. Sure, she was just some hick from Odessa, Texas, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t open a magazine and copy a picture, a hairstyle, a sigh. That didn’t mean she couldn’t look at Rita Hayworth in a too-tight sweater and say, yes, I see, I see how you do that. And, all of these things, her calmed-down but sometimes disarming small-town-girl accent, her rarely used but sometimes essential provincial ways, in combination with her kill-yourself good looks, made her, instantly, agonizingly, unforgettable, and, ultimately, irreplaceable.
The painting just made it worse. That she was talented . . . a final blow.
And so it would’ve been, would’ve gone, until she’d end up celebrated in the Met or cherished on Park Avenue or possibly both . … . until she met Edward.
Edward.
For years after, the name alone could make her gulp and grab the nearest cocktail.
It was funny how she met him. How he saw her across the bar. Make no mistake, she liked to drink. Dotsy was out, every night, a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other, from the day she got to New York to the day she left. She burned it down. Dotsy was not going to let life get away without her. She wasn’t going to miss the party. She was the party.
Seeing her across the bar, surrounded by admirers, he could only smile, that first time. A knowing sort of smile. I’ll get you. Don’t you worry. I’ll get you, my pretty.
And then, weeks later, at a party downtown, there she was again. This time in red. Well, why not, it was Christmas season, why not wear red? And wasn’t she radiant. A red felt dress. A crimson ribbon bow. Was the dress the present or was she? A wink of a dress, a siren number.
It was that night they would consider their first night. Not that it amounted to much. No sleeping, or even leaving, together. But it was that night they both knew. It was obvious.
This was trouble.
How horribly and blissfully and careeningly they fell in love. Catapulting themselves to a world far, far above and away from the everyday dross. They might as well have been part of the sky-line. The moon. The stratosphere. That Wedgwood locket he’d given to her, a simple bauble, a dumb surprise, more precious than a ship of gold.
It was, then, like the paintings, a dreamscape, those eight months. She knew it to the date, never forgot it. December 20 to August 13. The bliss-time of her life. Years later she would look back at that whirling, staggering time. The nights of laughter, running through thunderstorms half-drunk, him on her, next to her, in her, in the alley, laughing, crazy, they were crazy, mad with lust or love or what was it, a longing when the other wasn’t there worse than a junkie. She pined for him, a bottomless thirst.
A weekend up at Cape Cod. Seared in her memory. July 3, 1949. The happiest day of her life. Floating around in the water, she on top of him, only three feet of water and floating on his back, pretending to be . . . what? Laughing and splashing—the whole thing—ridiculous! Back then, in her white-and-blue polka-dot bikini, the most stunning girl on the beach, in Cape Cod, on the Eastern shore for God’s sake. And he’s proud, just fucking proud to be with her.
Edward.
Tall and too thin and from a good family. Edward from Boston who’d seen it all. Edward who was mad about his stop-traffic girl from Odessa. His half-yokel, half—movie star he couldn’t stop thinking about, fucking too much, aching for. Oh Lord, let me just spend the rest of my days fucking this girl I love more than I love myself. Which is not much, now that I think about it.
He blindsided her.
When he broke it off. He took his hand and reached into her chest and pulled out everything a girl from Odessa, Texas, can hold.
Why did he do it? How could he have done it? Was it his family? Was it him? Was it someone else? Was it simply being too much in love? Or was he not . . . actually, too much in love? Was he not in love at all? Was she just a fucking fool?
These were the questions that ran through her head, maddening, over and over and over again, kicking her arm out to the nearest glass, throwing her feet out, one in front of the other, to the nearest bar. You see, I’m pretty. You see, I can still stop a room.
And she could, whether at the Downbeat Club or the Onyx or the Three Deuces. She was not less, no, no even more fetching now. There was a sort of melancholy you wanted to shake out of her. A name you wanted to kiss off her lips. And she would go, every night, just as she’d gone before. She didn’t give herself one night to mourn he-who-she-would-not-speak-of. Not one night. Dress. Check. Heels. Check. Stockings. Check. Lipstick. Check. Like an army routine. This list, this habit. This was the only thing holding her up. If she hadn’t had the checklist, and the bar, and the eight million suitors . . . she would not have made it through.
Still, at the end of the night, alone, having flirted and smiled or even kissed, she would stare in the mirror, those sweetheart lips frozen, that alabaster arm shaking shaking shaking, and watch as that mascara came down in little pieces, droplets, streams. And she would stay frozen, watching her real self, her alone self, what she’d become. After Edward.
And what she’d become was becoming something different, fast. The admirers were still there, yes. Thank God. But inside, the flasks, the shaking. Hidden bottles under the cupboard. Night panics. Her thoughts racing. How easy it would be to break this bottle and take that sharp edge and put it in my neck, my wrists, my gut.
Oh fuck! Fuck this body, fuck this heart. Why?! Why did he do it?
And so, as the nights were getting longer and slurrier and more careless, dangerous, slapdash nights with seedier mornings, it wasn’t a difficult decision to make when Lt. Colonel Charles Krause came waltzing through the door of Clark Monroe’s Uptown House, went up to the drop-dead girl at the bar, a girl with pitch-black hair and ghost skin, and said, “I’m going to marry you and take you back with me to Michigan.”
She laughed at the arrogance. They all did. But looking into his sky-blue eyes and blond crewcut hair, weighing the odds of her ending up with her throat slit on the street against those ice-blue eyes and a place called home with a front porch swing and a man who loved her, she knew. She said to herself, under her lips.
Yes.
FOUR
Danek wasn’t about to let anyone leave without realizing he was the smartest kid in the room. The most talented. The one who was going places.
He hadn’t thought, driving up to this humble little home, classmates in tow, over the gravel and through the pines, that he would give a flying fuck what these old geezers thought.
Er, he meant, the parents of the victim. Lt. Colonel and Dorothy Krause. I mean, they were ancient. They would probably just blather on the whole time. They would probably smell like soup.
He was prepared. He had a notepad. Different pens. Black with felt tips, for writing faster. He would get what Lars, Brad, and, oh . . . even Katy . . . missed. He, alone, would figure it out. He, alone, would be the hero.
He was not prepared. When the door opened and he saw that face. Jesus. You would not have guessed that Dorothy Krause was in her seventies. I mean, he knew they had children earlier back then, but holy smokes. He thought . . . not thought exactly, maybe felt, when that door opened and that face appeared . . . he felt drawn to walk up the stairs behind her, into the study and stay there, in this house, this home, for the winter.
They were good people.
Yes, it’s a simple phrase. One he could hear himself saying in the documentary. He would pause, then, for effect.
Danek Mitchell, what a dreamer!
She had made tea and an assortment of cookies, which they first refused, then picked at, then devoured. Everything placed gracefully on a silver serving tray, a silver service, wasn’t that what it was called? You just didn’t see it anymore. Tea in a silver serving kettle, on a silver tray, with teacups, tiny dishes beneath, and precious little flowers, daintily
flaunting their tricks. Sugar, milk, lemon, if you need it. They just didn’t do it like this anymore.
Dorothy Krause. Dotsy. With sable hair, ivory skin, that perfect, damned-near-perfect-placement face and those green, almost emerald eyes.
Simple really, there in a vanilla blouse, gray wool pants. Nothing showy. There were lace embellishments of some sort on the blouse, he couldn’t remember, something small and sweet. But her way, her soft, gentle, unassuming way. Her sheer grace. It was disconcerting. Had Beth Krause, yes, Beth Krause, the one they were here about, the one they were gonna win an award with, the one found crumpled by the side of the road, had Beth Krause inherited this grace? These willow eyes? This unassuming, intoxicating nature?
If so, you could see why she was dead.
FIVE
And that could be something, too. The taste of a shell, or the dodge of a hand . . . something always, not infuriatingly, but rivetingly . . . just out of reach.
Danek tried not to think about Dorothy Krause in this way. It was inappropriate. It was ridiculous. And yet.
A sentence never uttered.
A something never had.
He wondered what she carried around underneath that ebony, ink-like crown.
She was a raven.
Odd, wasn’t it, that he should feel this, feel anything really, this . . . grappling. And yet, there it was, right in front of him. He wanted to laugh. Wished he could laugh.
He found himself thinking of her, drawn to her name.
Dorothy Krause. What had it been before? Maybe he could ask her. But how could he ask her?
Matter of fact.
Put it with a lot of other questions.
Bury This Page 3
