Invisible

by Lorena McCourtney

  I sat up. I felt like one of those cartoon characters slowly reassembling itself after being flattened by a steamroller. I filled my lungs with a deep breath. My neck felt crinked, as if my head had made a 180-degree swivel. I had a pain in my right elbow and blood trickling from a cut on my chin.

  I ignored pain and blood, closed my eyes, and concentrated on branding that face into my memory. A square face. Beefy. Flab around the eyes, making them look small and piggish. Wide nose and broad forehead, heavy jaw. Thick neck. Hair? I wasn’t certain. He’d been wearing some kind of cap.

  But I can remember that face. I’ll never forget that face. I’d know that face if I ever saw it again.

  Yet what good did that do? I had no license number. No description of the vehicle other than it was a pickup, maybe dark colored, and had something on the rear to fasten a cable to. The high-pitched voice of the smaller man was a little unusual, but was that his usual voice? Under less-stressful conditions, he might have a perfectly normal sounding voice.

  I drove home feeling more discouraged than I had on nights I’d seen nothing. The vandals had come and gone, and all I had was the floating vision of a heavy-set face and body. I couldn’t even put a definite age to it, although I knew he was no teenager. Forties, maybe.

  I caught a few hours sleep before church the next morning, where, since jumping jacks were hardly appropriate, I resorted to pinching the web of flesh between thumb and forefinger to stay awake during the sermon on the empowerment of self-reliance.

  Afterward I drove directly to a little shopping center, the one where I’d almost gotten run down, and rushed into the one-hour photo developing shop. I wasn’t certain how to take the film out of the camera, but the pleasant young woman at the counter did it for me. I killed time eating a taco salad and milk shake until I could pick up the photos. I was so eager I opened the envelope right there at the counter.

  I held my breath as I flipped through the glossy photos. Dismay was my first reaction. Flowers? Thea’s petunias and geraniums and marigolds. Ferns. Was that all there was on this roll? A dark shadow … Thea’s thumb? She’d taken a number of thumb pictures over the years.

  Then there we were, Thea and me posed on the back steps, all dressed up for our once-a-year birthday splurge on lobster at Victorio’s Seafood. Kendra had come dashing up the basement steps on her way somewhere, saying, “Oh, don’t you two look grand! We should have a picture.”

  Thea had beamed, saying, “I’ll go get my camera!”

  “Smile!” Kendra had said gaily as she aimed the camera at us. “Pretend you just won a million dollars!”

  I shoved that photo aside. Nice to know my image hadn’t yet become too invisible to show up in photos. But underneath was the important photo, the one I was hoping for. After Kendra had taken our picture, she’d handed the camera back to Thea, and Thea had playfully aimed it at Kendra.

  Kendra hadn’t wanted her photo taken. She’d raised her hands in startled protest. “Oh, don’t do that! I hate having my picture taken.”

  I’d thought at the time how odd that was. A beautiful girl not wanting her photo taken? Kendra hadn’t managed to cover her entire face, although one hand did hide her chin.

  One thing about the circumstances of the photo I hadn’t remembered.

  Kendra had been wearing that clingy, backless dress that evening, the black one with exotic red flowers. The slit exposed her leg to the upper thigh, long and slim.

  The other thing about the photo was something that had apparently happened so briefly that I hadn’t noticed it at the time. But the camera can catch a frozen split second.

  And what the camera had caught on Kendra’s lovely face was a stark panic of fear.

  Fear.

  Was it an eerie prophecy? Because now a young woman in a black-and-red dress lay dead in the morgue.

  But surely Kendra couldn’t have been afraid of Thea and me! So what was this about? Why had she feared having her photo taken?

  It was almost 3:00 in the afternoon by the time I got home. I headed for the bedroom and a nap but then remembered my plan to invite the Margollins and Mac MacPherson to dinner. I was tired from the long night and little sleep, but I very much wanted to make amends for last night.

  I dialed Magnolia’s number and, not giving her a chance to jump on me, did a hasty apology about last night and an invitation for dinner tonight all rolled into one. “Or if you can’t make it tonight, tomorrow will be fine.” As a token of appreciation for Magnolia’s matchmaking efforts, I added brightly, “I really would like to get to know Mac better.”

  “I’m afraid it’s a little late for that.” A definite up-on-her-high-horse note there. It might take more than ham roll-ups to appease her.

  “What do you mean?” I asked cautiously.

  “Mac picked up and left this morning.”

  “Already? Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know. South, I think.”

  “Is he coming back?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “But I thought he was staying for several days—”

  “Apparently something changed his mind.” That statement was so heavily weighted with meaning it could have sunk a battleship.

  “You mean just because I—”

  “He was really looking forward to meeting you.”

  “He was?” I was astonished. Mac hadn’t come into this as a happy wanderer ambushed into an unwanted widow trap? He’d really wanted to meet me?

  “Yes, he was. I’d told him all about you, and he was very interested. And then you sneaked out like a deadbeat avoiding a bill collector.”

  I was briefly baffled by what Magnolia could have told Mac to arouse his interest. She’d embroidered a bit, I suspected. I tried to use that to make myself feel less guilty about letting her down, but it didn’t work.

  “I’m sorry, Magnolia, I really am.”

  And it wasn’t just guilt. I was sorry. I’d missed out on something that might have been very good.

  Mac MacPherson was not pickled eel.

  12

  Detective Dixon called Monday morning.

  “We’re going to have to ask you to come in and take a look at the body after all. The couple from Philadelphia said she isn’t their daughter.”

  “And you haven’t determined that Kendra is safe somewhere?”

  “I’m afraid not. There seem to be some … discrepancies about Kendra. You’ve never heard from her?”

  “No.”

  I told him about the photograph and that in it Kendra was wearing the dress that matched the description of clothing on the body. I guess I was hoping he’d say they could use that to make identification, and they wouldn’t need me at the morgue.

  No such luck.

  “The photograph may be helpful, but we need a visual ID.”

  I swallowed. Kendra’s body. With a gunshot in the chest. In the water for several days.

  “But what you may be able to give us, of course, is a negative identification, that the body isn’t your friend Kendra. In that case, if she’s actually missing, the photo may be helpful in finding her.”

  I knew he was trying to put an upbeat spin on this, and I appreciated the effort. Although on second consideration, it made me feel only a smidgen better. Because I’d still be looking at some murdered young woman, whoever she was.

  Lord, help me to do this.

  “It’s quarter of nine now,” Detective Dixon said. “How about I pick you up at 11:00?”

  So soon?

  “Or this afternoon, if you prefer,” he added, as if he’d heard my thoughts.

  “No, 11:00 will be fine.”

  I spent the time before that hour reading some comforting verses in Proverbs and Psalms and trying not to let morbid imagination get out of hand. I didn’t wait for Detective Dixon to come to the door when I heard the car in the driveway. I picked up the photo and my purse and went out to meet him. He opened the passenger’s side door for me. He still looked more like a
wrestler posing as a businessman than a police investigator. Except for that gun under his jacket.

  “You’re sure you’re okay with this?” he asked.

  “Whether I’m okay with it or not, you need me to do it, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Inside the car I handed him the photo. “This is Kendra. It was taken about six weeks ago, just outside her apartment.”

  I didn’t point out the dress, but I knew Detective Dixon noted it. He gave no indication, however, whether or not Kendra resembled the body that had been pulled from the river. Being careful not to influence my identification one way or the other, of course.

  What he did say was, “It looks as if she didn’t want her photo taken.”

  “She was quite distressed about it, actually.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “No. Except that she was, in general, a rather … secretive person. But she was nice, very sweet and considerate. A responsible renter.”

  He turned the snapshot over. “May we keep the photo?”

  “Yes. Of course.” It occurred to me that I’d still have the negative, though I didn’t know what use I’d have for it.

  And then we went to the morgue.

  *

  There were a few formalities. Detective Dixon introduced me to a woman in charge, tall and lean, wearing white pants and lab jacket and thick-soled shoes. I showed my identification and signed my name in a logbook.

  I’d read enough detective and mystery novels to know a little of what to expect, so I wasn’t horrified by the sound of laughter behind a closed door as the woman led us down a long hallway, her shoes squeaking as she walked. Life goes on in the midst of death. Maybe someone was telling a good morgue or corpse joke.

  I also wasn’t surprised by the formidable double doors at the end of the hallway, or the glaring fluorescent lights, surfaces of stainless steel, chilled air, and antiseptic scent. I expected the impersonal aura of the room. I wasn’t shocked by the big refrigerated unit with individual pull-out compartments that held remains of the dead.

  Yet none of that prepared me for when the woman rolled one of the compartments out and I saw a body draped in a green sheet. Or for the moment when she pulled the sheet back just far enough to expose the face of the dead woman.

  Kendra.

  Not an instant of doubt in my mind, even though I felt a reeling moment of blackness. I heard a gasp and realized it was my own. Detective Dixon’s hand was already on my arm to steady me, and I was grateful for the support. The top of my head felt as if it might float away.

  Not because the body was in a dreadful state. I couldn’t see the horror of the fatal gunshot wound. Marks of an autopsy, which I knew must have been performed, were not visible. In spite of the fact that she hadn’t been treated to cosmetic touches by an undertaker, Kendra’s face was still delicately beautiful. Her skin was pale and bloodless, a single abrasion on her temple, her dark hair tangled but not matted.

  Yet there was a horror here that had been absent at the many funerals I’d attended. Because here was no impartial disease or accident or old age. Here was murder.

  “Did they find a bullet when they did the autopsy?” I whispered.

  “Yes. It may be helpful at some point. Can you identify her?” Detective Dixon asked gently, although I’m sure he already knew my answer. He pulled the sheet up an inch and tucked it around Kendra’s chin, an almost protective gesture that touched me.

  “Yes. It’s my neighbor. Thea’s renter. Kendra Alexander.”

  I signed something confirming my identification, but I have no memory of going out the double doors or walking down the long hallway. I blinked at the sudden blaze of summer sunshine. We were outside, standing above wide concrete steps leading down to the sidewalk.

  “You have guts, Mrs. Malone,” Detective Dixon said.

  I didn’t feel as if I had “guts.” I felt drained, a bit woozy and disoriented. A faint scent of antiseptic and other unidentifiable chemicals lingered, more in my head than nostrils. I grasped the metal railing and breathed deeply, trying to bring in fresh clean air and expel the tainted.

  Back in the police car, I propped my purse in my lap and wrapped my fingers around the clasp to keep them from trembling. “Now what?”

  “Now we pour a big cup of coffee into you.”

  That wasn’t what I’d meant, but even in the heat of the summer day it was exactly what I needed.

  Detective Dixon pulled into the drive-through window at a McDonald’s. He ordered two large coffees. Black. I was so rattled I didn’t even think to tell him mine should get a senior discount. Then he drove the police car around the building and parked in shade on the far side of the lot. He took off his tan jacket. I wondered when, if ever, he took off the shoulder holster and gun.

  After several minutes of sipping strong coffee, I repeated the question. “Now what happens?”

  “Now we try to find out more about your friend so we can notify her next of kin. And we figure out who did this to her and nail him.”

  “I think I told you her family is out in California. She never talked much about them, although I don’t think there was any family estrangement. I never did know why she left California and came here.”

  “We’ll check into all that.”

  “Will you investigate the man she’d been seeing?”

  “Oh yes. Now that we have positive identification, he’s definitely a person of interest. You have no idea who he is?”

  “Not a clue. I saw him once, but all I can say is that he’s tall and lanky. An angular face. Walks with a swagger. He seldom came to the apartment, and he was very skittish the one time Thea and I bumped into him there. Kendra usually met him somewhere.”

  “You mean as if they were … sneaking around?”

  I didn’t like to get into this, because it made Kendra look sleazy, but there was no avoiding it. “Thea and I suspected he might be married.”

  “Sounds possible.”

  “Have you found out anything about her?”

  “Not having positive identification of the body, we’ve done only some preliminary investigation so far. We ran the name through the files and didn’t find any criminal records. Not even a traffic ticket. But now we’ll dig much deeper, of course. The photo you furnished will help.”

  “Bottom-Buck Barney’s should have some information. Kendra must have filled out a job application and listed references.” I felt sudden embarrassment. “But who am I to be telling you how to investigate?”

  Detective Dixon grinned, apparently not offended by my unsolicited suggestions. “I think we can use all the help we can get on this one.”

  “There’s another case I’d like to ask you about.”

  He lifted blond eyebrows. “Not another murder, I hope?”

  “Oh no, nothing like that. But there’s been this vandalism out at a little rural cemetery called Country Peace. Maybe you’ve heard about it?”

  “I’m with the city’s major crimes unit, so that would be out of my jurisdiction. But I do remember seeing photos in the newspaper. Makes you wonder what’s wrong with people, that they get their kicks doing something like that.”

  “My friend Thea’s aunt and uncle are buried there, and their tombstone was overturned. Thea was so upset about it that after her passing I decided to … do something about it.”

  “You contacted the authorities?”

  “Yes. But it didn’t sound as if the county sheriff’s office could do much. So I’ve been going out there almost every night to watch for the vandals. And Saturday night—”

  Detective Dixon turned in the seat so rapidly that his coffee tidal-waved over the edge of the cup. “You’ve been doing what?”

  “Watching for the vandals. I stash my car down the road a ways, and then hide behind Aunt Maude’s tombstone and—”

  “Let me get this straight. You, just you alone, you’re sitting out there in the dark, in the middle of the night, all alone in a cemetery?”


  “You’re repeating yourself.”

  “I’m having a hard time picturing it.” He paused. “I’m not sure I want to picture it.”

  “Picture a tombstone resembling a Volkswagen Bug. Yours truly swigging 7-Up and doing jumping jacks to stay awake. But I wasn’t alone. God was right there with me, just as he always is.”

  Detective Dixon shook his head. “You’ve got guts, Mrs. Malone,” he said again.

  More guts than brains, I suspected he was thinking.

  “You don’t happen to have an unmarried granddaughter stashed away somewhere, do you?” he added.

  The disconnected question momentarily befuddled me. “Granddaughter?” I repeated. Then I realized what he was getting at and felt a nice glow at the roundabout compliment. “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Shucks.”

  “You don’t happen to have an attractive unmarried grandpa stashed somewhere?” I challenged.

  “No.”

  “Shucks. Now to get back to my stakeout at the cemetery—”

  “Mrs. Malone, I really have to ask you not to do that anymore. It could be dangerous. Kids get out like that, drinking and partying, you can’t tell what—”

  “They weren’t kids. And I don’t think they were drinking.”

  “No?”

  “No. It was two grown men. I’m not sure how old, the big one maybe in his forties, but definitely neither of them teenagers. They were driving a pickup, probably four-wheel drive, with something on back to fasten a cable to.”

  “Probably a trailer hitch.”

  “They’d wrap the cable around a tombstone, fasten it to the pickup, and pull.”

  “You could see all this from a distance, in the dark?”

  “It was dark, but I wasn’t far away. I sneaked up to within a few yards of them. But then I fell in a ditch, so I didn’t get close enough to the license plate to feel the numbers, and I know that’s what you need.”

  Detective Dixon groaned. “Mrs. Malone, you shouldn’t … you can’t—”