by Lisa Preston
Cassandra slid a knife from the butcher’s block holder. Her other hand stroked the length of the squash before slicing the shaft just above the bulbous end. Daphne saw Vic’s hips twitch, one thigh lifting in unconscious protection of his crotch as the butternut squash shaft fell to the counter.
“So, Cassandra,” Daphne said, thinking of how Vic, for all his waffling about Minerva Watts, had been in her corner in front of the cop, in front of Lindsay Wallach. “I’m sure you’re busy and you need to go. Thanks for dropping the kids off.”
Cassandra lifted her purse, swung it from her shoulder, and at the door looked toward the living room where the TV covered the kids’ voices. Daphne thought she could read the woman’s mind, thought she saw Cassandra’s mental cogs turning on how to incite the kids.
“Just stop it,” Daphne begged.
Cassandra froze, then whirled to the entryway. “Cheer up, Jose,” Cassandra hollered before she stepped outside.
Vic came to the door and stood beside Daphne.
Cassandra made her parting shot as she got into her driver’s seat. “I shouldn’t have to do everything. They’re your kids, too.”
Vic’s jaw set, and Daphne gave Cassandra an unappreciated—much as she tried to will the woman to look at her—glare. She watched Cassandra go. And right then, she loved Vic through and through for not calling Cassandra on the lie.
The kitchen and living room and entryway all held pictures Daphne and Vic had put on the walls. He’d encouraged her over the years to make the place her own. He’d asked if she thought they should paint the walls, and what color. When she’d said she thought the plates and tableware would be more convenient in the cabinet closer to the dishwasher, he’d nodded and pulled canned goods out of the shelf where they’d always been stored, swapping the cupboards’ holds to the way things were kept in her childhood home. They’d smiled at the little ways different families made houses into homes, the different clicks and wavelengths people employed.
Daphne used Vic’s computer to find the phone number of the Ford car dealership the police officer had mentioned when they were in front of Minerva Watts’s house the day before. The clerk answering the phone sounded cheery for the end of the day.
“I’m calling about an, a, um, a transfer pending? I think you bought a car, a silver Crown Victoria, from a lady named Minerva Watts. Just this Wednesday. Two days ago.” The awkwardness of asking on a whim left her stammering.
“We don’t often purchase vehicles from individuals, ma’am,” the clerk told her in a hesitant tone. “Are you saying the vehicle was traded in?”
Daphne shook her head, feeling the wash of uncertainty born of conversing and probing out of her element. Then she reminded herself the woman couldn’t see her. She cleared her throat and said, “No. I think it was sold to you, to Fremont Ford. I think you bought it. Not a trade-in. Can you check on that, please?”
“Please hold,” the clerk said.
With the click, Daphne’s mind wandered to Minerva Watts’s car, then to the home on Eastpark Avenue. What was in the garage? In movies, she’d just go over there and break into the house, see for herself what was in Mrs. Watts’s garage.
A long wait with soft rock music passed before the car dealership clerk came back on. “Yes. It was purchased as a wholesale, um, this Wednesday.”
“A wholesale,” Daphne said, mouthing the word, furrowing her brow. “Do you know who came in to sell it? An older lady? A couple? All three of them?”
“Ma’am,” the clerk’s tone became more closed, “is there a problem?”
“No,” Daphne reassured the woman, in an automatic, unthinking response. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Ma’am, we have sales staff here until ten p.m., but the manager who handled this purchase is not in right now. It’s Friday night. Would you like to call back Monday?”
“Uh, sure.” Daphne hung up, despondent over the prospect. She could lose momentum by Monday. And if something dire were going on, Monday could be far too late.
CHAPTER 19
When I was sixteen, I dumped on my little sister like I was Hitler.
Daphne wasn’t hiding, sitting on the bed with the door closed, the old box of Suzanne’s papers and keepsakes strewn over the comforter. But downstairs, the kids had been noisy and hungry and half-arguing. After the four of them ate dinner, Jed and Josie taunted each other to the point of shrieking. Vic was bleary-eyed from the disturbance to his sleep schedule.
Ten minutes earlier, she’d kept herself from saying anything when Jed removed his glasses while petting Grazie. He left them on the floor for those few minutes. Of course, Josie came along and stepped on them. The damage might not be total but he’d smacked her leg and she’d kicked him in response.
“You … asshole.” Josie’s voice rose to end in a screech.
“Josie!” Vic said, lowering his newspaper and blinking. “Language.”
Daphne bit the insides of her cheeks, stemming a snort. He’d been napping in the easy chair and his dismay at his daughter’s comment struck her at once as out of touch and charming in its hope for a gentler world.
The TV was on. Vic retreated behind the newspaper. Grazie slept through it all like a dream and Daphne had to rouse the old dog to get her to come up to the bedroom refuge.
She slid off the bed now, limp papers in her hands, to avoid glances at the nightstand and its harbinger. This morning, when she’d left to see Arnold Seton and Vic was getting ready for his day, he’d picked up his grandmother’s ring, flipped it like a coin, and placed it back on the nightstand without a word. While he handled it, she’d stayed silent, dreading discussion, relieved beyond measure when he didn’t use words.
Sinking to the floor to keep the nightstand’s top out of view, Daphne burrowed her toes in Grazie’s fur and read, reread.
BETRAYAL, by Suzanne Mayfield, was a fine essay, a heartfelt, well-organized recounting of a teen having refused to take an excited baby sister out as soon as Frances and Reginald Mayfield would allow their just-licensed daughter to drive without a chaperone.
… And she so wanted to go with me that day and I so didn’t want her along. But for absolutely no good reason. For no reason at all. I dumped her. I broke her heart and … Suzanne’s confession spared nothing.
The composition received an A+, even with red-penned notes here and there about run-on sentences and adverbs and starting sentences with conjunctions. The English teacher had written comments about her sentence structure and use of the passive tense, then added a final scrawl: You are such a sensitive girl, Suzanne!
Daphne shook her head. BETRAYAL. She’d read the essay so many times. How much worse a betrayal was it for society to fail a member, for a member as vibrant as Suzanne to be a murderer’s victim? How much of a betrayal was it for a man to be unable to face his dead daughter’s coming birthday and to quietly take his own life in a hotel room to avoid facing that black day?
How much was she to blame for having never told her parents about Suzanne’s sneaking out at night?
She dreaded facing this idea, believing it was something to be mired in. Wallowing served no good purpose. But after today, she wallowed anew, finding some personal culpability in so many tragedies. And she marveled at the fortitude Lindsay Wallach had shown to call right away, as soon as she suspected Suzanne was in trouble.
Daphne stacked the essay papers with Suzanne’s other old notes and cards and closed the box, slipping it under the bed, thinking about the grade, the great grade, and the professor’s other written comment: Did you talk to your little sister about this?
She imagined the professor rising from his bed in the middle of the night, unable to sleep, wanting his beautiful, essay-writing, wild student to have made nice.
She pictured Ross Bouchard, years later, drunk and slipping to his death from a high rock ledge.
Or perhaps, he threw himself to the canyon depths, thinking about Suzanne as he fell.
“Suzanne,” Daphne whispered.
“Su … zanne.” Her voice broke and she stemmed a cry by pressing her lips together, bringing a hand to her mouth as she balanced rights and wrongs.
But betrayal? No. Daphne didn’t remember Suzanne dumping her. She had no recollection of the first day Suzanne was licensed, of begging to go for a ride with her big sister. Yet, Suzanne had ached over betraying Daphne.
Daphne wondered why it gave her an odd comfort to know her sister ached for her when she didn’t even recall an injury.
Downstairs, Daphne poured a glass of wine and pulled the newspaper from Vic’s sleepy grasp. “Need some fruit?” she asked.
He smiled and accepted, sipping before he told her, “A glass of wine is not a fruit serving.” He gave the glass back. They both knew he never took more than a few sips when his kids were home. “What’s on your mind, Daph?”
“The person in California who owned that blue Lincoln is dead. And that person was an older person who, at the last second, willed everything over to a charity that went belly-up right away.”
“What in the world are you talking about?” Vic asked, eyes wide as he looked around the room, then behind Daphne.
“Minerva Watts told me that first afternoon that they were stealing her car. And now she’s suddenly sold her car wholesale to a local dealer. Maybe that couple forced her to sell it.” Daphne turned and saw Josie standing at the living room’s edge. The girl’s glance flitted from her father to Daphne and back.
“I want to know she’s safe,” Daphne said.
“That,” Vic said, “is a very reasonable thing to want. I’m just not sure how it’s achievable.”
Daphne picked up the phone on the end table.
“Who are you calling?”
“My mom. I want to ask if she remembers Lindsay.” She snapped her fingers with a sudden recollection. “Oh, she’s gone for the weekend.” Hoping her mother’s bridge partner and family were enjoying the extra company, Daphne stashed the guilt of not going away with her mother and instead took in Vic’s little family. Jed had sequestered himself in his room now, but the door was ajar, and she could see his foot dangling off his bed. He’s reading, Daphne guessed.
Josie took Daphne’s usual spot on the couch beside Vic, who had dozed off. Daphne restrained herself from leaning down to kiss him before she turned away.
Besides, if she didn’t go back upstairs, poor Grazie might awaken alone up there and make an unnecessary trip down the steps. Daphne understood that Vic was pacing himself, trying not to cling to Josie, who had a sleepover planned for the next night. Vic would lose one precious night of his daughter being under his roof.
She felt a surge of sympathy for them both as she headed back for the stairs with her glass of wine.
Fingers tapped her arm and Daphne turned on the bottom step to see Jed’s hopeful face.
“Can you talk to Dad about me staying home tomorrow?”
Daphne sank to sit on the step. Vic could be awake again or be tuned out, dozing or reading, but she couldn’t tell from the stairs. “You don’t want to go see your grandfather?”
“G-Pop.”
“Right,” Daphne said, remembering how the kids had flared a few weeks ago when Daphne dared use the family’s pet name for Vic’s father. You don’t call him that! You don’t know him like us!
“It’s just, sometimes, well, it’s such a drag going there. It’s kind of creepy, too. Don’t you think? I mean, some of those old people are kind of creepy. They stare and say weird things and the whole place smells weird.”
Daphne nodded, her thoughts swinging to Grazie upstairs. “You know, one of the things I like and admire about your dad is the way he cares for his father.”
“Because you don’t have a father?”
“Because the way your father cares for his father is admirable. Your G-Pop is in a tough situation.”
“Forget it,” the boy said, turning for his room.
She heard his door shut and knew Vic had lost any glimpse of his son from the couch. She was startled to see her wineglass empty and Josie standing in front of her, scrutinizing.
“I’m going to get myself something to drink,” the girl announced.
Daphne rose and followed the girl into the kitchen. “Goodness, I was just thinking of myself when I came downstairs, wasn’t I? I’m sorry, Josie. What would you like?”
“I’d like to get it myself.” She pulled milk and juice and discount soda from the fridge. “Isn’t there any Diet Coke?”
Daphne nodded and pulled out the special stash of cans she’d bought to share, recalling Vic’s purchase of the on-sale, store-brand, non-diet soda and how she hadn’t contradicted his choice out loud, but bought what she and Josie preferred on her way home from work. Opening a cupboard with quiet care, Daphne got the glass with roses on it, the one Josie liked best.
Josie’s shoulders started shaking.
“What’s going on, Jose?” Daphne swallowed and corrected herself from using the girl’s parents’ little nickname. “Josie? What is it?”
“L-l-lainey said she didn’t want to hang out with me anymore.”
The most recent best friend, Daphne remembered, not allowing herself to get caught smiling about how Josie and her girlfriends were always declaring one or the other a BFF, with a very short understanding of what forever means.
Josie’s chin crumpled and her body shook with muffled sobs. Daphne let her arms encircle the girl’s small, unhappy body. Her lips brushed against the auburn hair, her voice addressed the pain right into Josie’s double-pierced ear. “Oh, Jose. Oh. She said that? Ow. God. Oh, Josie, Josie. That must have—”
“It hurts.” Josie’s arms folded as she hugged her own body and her jaw went forward. She sniffed, a ragged, wet sound that ended in a hiccup. “She’s such a—it was such a—”
Daphne nodded, screwing her face in anger, matching Josie’s expression. “Such a bitchy thing for Lainey to say.”
“Yeah.” The girl’s detachment vanished as she condemned the girl who’d hurt her and she let herself lean into Daphne’s sympathy, crying in earnest.
Daphne stroked Josie’s hair while the girl added details of the trauma—other kids who heard and laughed, the snickers and stares. Murmuring in sympathy to the doubled-over girl, she spied Vic in the kitchen doorway. She shook her head and mouthed, Go away. Vic’s mouth opened and one arm extended for his daughter and girlfriend.
No, Daphne mouthed.
Jed walked up behind his father, headed for the kitchen. The boy looked at the females in the kitchen, then at his father. His tongue poked the inside of his cheek, distorting his face.
Vic hesitated, then let his extended arm go around Jed’s shoulders. He steered his son away, glancing back at his daughter crying in the kitchen just once.
Josie took a final sniff, wiped her face, and smoothed her hair back. Daphne sat up a bit, leaning into the counter instead of the girl.
“I don’t care anyway,” Josie said. “I mean, I shouldn’t. No one should want to sit with someone who’s so bitchy. She can be a real bitch.”
Daphne reached the table near the stairs in the entryway in two long steps and grabbed the Kleenex box, pulling out tissues for herself and Josie.
Back in the bedroom after the kids had gone to sleep, Daphne pulled her keepsakes box from under the bed and stowed it on the closet shelf—just like at home, at her mother’s house.
Reopening the box top, she filled her hands with Suzanne’s papers. She frowned, thinking about how her mother had compiled the box not long after the funeral, stacking all Suzanne’s papers and photos and scraps and notes, then taped the cardboard carton shut. That the box had appeared on the girls’ closet shelf—on Suzanne’s unused side—and stayed there until Daphne moved out and took the box with her had never seemed significant before she talked to Arnold Seton.
While she understood why her parents hadn’t told her, at eleven, about the police search of her and Suzanne’s bedroom, she alone knew her mother had unwittingly sabotaged
the police’s sifting for clues.
Back in high school, when she was big enough to wear some of Suzanne’s clothes, she’d cut the box open and discovered her big sister’s personal papers, the beautiful, tantalizing bits of Suzanne. Once, when their mother caught her on the closet floor, the BETRAYAL essay in one hand and Suzanne’s old, girly, flowered address book in the other, Daphne had felt like a trespasser. But her mother had stroked her hair and told her it was all right for her to look. Just you. You’re my good girl.
Daphne again averted her gaze from the nightstand and felt Vic watch her. When he stepped into the bathroom, she sank to the bed and ogled the item that didn’t belong on the nightstand.
One rose wilted there, with Vic’s grandmother’s silver ring slid all the way up the stem. The bloom’s unwatered petals curled, the ruby color fading.
He came out of the bathroom bare-chested, holding his glasses, using his shirt to polish the lenses. “My vision’s blurry. I’ve got to see the eye doctor, get a new prescription.”
Daphne felt a memory prod. “Jed broke his glasses.”
“Maybe I have a brain tumor. Maybe that’s why things are blurry.”
“Actually, Josie broke them. Jed left them on the floor and she stepped on them.”
Vic stared through the window. “Do you think that’s it? Cancer? I can’t even make out the leaves on the trees out there.”
Daphne gave an uninterested sweep of the front yard. “I can’t see the leaves either. You don’t have cancer. We just don’t have clean windows.”
He kissed her good night and sighed a few words about what a day, what a week. And she thought so, too, but wondered if they thought of the same events when they reflected on traumas, small and large.
“My sister used to leave me notes,” she said.
“Yes. You’ve told me.”
Suzanne’s last note, the one she never found—the one that might not even exist—wasn’t a secret that rocked him when she confessed it more than a year into their relationship. But his own secret—Cassandra cheated so early in their marriage that Jed was a stranger’s biological son, so who knows if he was Josie’s birth father either—rolled him and remained a private detail he kept from everyone but Daphne.
