by Tracy Weber
She didn’t reply.
“You don’t think he’s lying?”
“Honestly, Kate, I don’t know what to think anymore.”
Shannon doubted Michael? Seriously? His own sister, who thought her “baby brother” could do no wrong? My confusion disappeared, replaced by righteous indignation. “What’s wrong with you? You know better than that.”
Shannon flinched and took several steps back.
Easy, Kate, Dad whispered. Don’t make this worse.
I took a self-prescribed calming breath and forced my voice to be steady. “That text means nothing. Someone must have stolen Michael’s phone. They’re using it to frame him.”
“Kate, I want to believe that as much as you do, but why would someone frame Michael?”
The obvious answer was, so they can get away with murder. But I didn’t say that. Frankly, even thinking it made my stomach hurt. If Michael was being framed, proving his innocence might be a heck of a lot harder than I’d imagined. Especially if the person framing him turned out to be one of the investigating officers.
One thing didn’t make sense in Shannon’s story, though: the timing. “Michael told you about the police finding the text messages last night, right?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“But the police called him in to talk about new evidence this afternoon.”
“So?”
“Don’t you see? They’d already spoken to Michael about the cell phone. They wouldn’t have called him in again today for that. They found something else.” I met her gaze. “After they searched Gabriella’s apartment.”
“Oh my lord, you’re right. It’s even worse than I thought. They have something more than the text message. Something they found in the apartment.” Shannon sank onto the couch. “Kate, what do we do now?”
I slumped next to her. “I have no idea. Whatever the police found there, it’s gone now.”
After a few silent seconds, Shannon spoke. “What if it isn’t?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what if the evidence isn’t gone?”
I stared at her with a blank expression.
She nibbled her lower lip. “Michael was in the apartment when the police searched it yesterday, remember?” I nodded. “He told me that the police took a few items but not many. Mainly they took lots of photographs and videos. They didn’t take her computer, for example. They copied the files onto a flash drive.”
“You think there’s evidence on Gabriella’s computer?”
“Probably not, but that’s not my point. I’m just saying, it’s possible that the police missed something, or that whatever they found is still there.”
I shrugged. “I suppose that’s possible …”
“What if we went to the apartment and looked around ourselves?”
“Nice thought, but I already got caught breaking and entering once. I have no desire to repeat the experience. We won’t be much good to Michael if we’re locked in the cell next to him.”
“Who said anything about breaking and entering?” Shannon gestured toward the kitchen. “Come with me.” She dug around in the top drawer of the cabinet next to the refrigerator, which was stuffed with a messy assortment of pens, playing cards, rubber bands, and Post-it notes. Three full minutes and a loud “gotcha!” later, she held up a single key attached to an elastic wristband. “Michael used to live in that apartment too, remember? He gave me a key to use in an emergency.” She grinned. “Think this qualifies?”
“I’m not sure we should risk it. If we get caught, we might get Michael into more trouble.”
“How? The police have already searched the apartment, no one told us to stay away, and I have a key. Besides, if we don’t find anything, no one will ever know we were there.”
The thought was appealing. We could look around, learn more about Gabriella, and scoot off without anyone being the wiser. Still, there were risks. Maybe get-you-arrested risks. Dad’s frowning voice echoed in my head. Kate, don’t do it. Let the police do their jobs. No man is worth an accessory-after-the-fact charge.
I mumbled under my breath, “Sorry, Dad. You never met Michael.”
Shannon frowned. “Did you say something?”
I snatched the key from her hand. “Yes. Are you driving or should I?”
Cannon Beach rolled up the sidewalks early, even on the Friday of Sandcastle Weekend. At six-thirty, all of the retail shops were closed, leaving only restaurants and the ocean to entice tourists out of their cabins. Shannon parked the Mini Cooper on South Hemlock. We strategized as we walked along the empty sidewalk toward Gabriella’s apartment.
“What are we going to say if someone sees us?” I asked.
“Like who?” Shannon countered. “The pet store closes at five. I’m sure tourists will be out in the courtyard, but what will they care? As long as we look like we belong there, no one will think twice.”
“What about Crystal’s hair salon? It’s right below the apartment. She might hear us walking around upstairs and get curious.”
“Not a chance. She likes to party, remember? She locks up tight no later than four-thirty on Fridays.”
“I don’t know … She has a new kitten.”
“Crystal’s no crazy cat lady. At least she wasn’t when I hung out with her. I sincerely doubt a kitten will keep her at work on a Friday night.”
“And if you’re wrong?” I asked.
“I won’t be. But just in case, we’ll stop at the salon before we go up to the apartment. If Crystal’s there, we’ll go home and come back later.”
“What excuse will we have for stopping by?”
Shannon grinned. “I suppose saying you need a new haircut is out.”
“Funny. Real funny.”
She winked. “I’ll tell her I’m short-staffed for tomorrow’s fun run and ask if she’s willing to volunteer. If she says yes, all the better. I could use some extra help.”
We walked through the mostly empty courtyard and past the darkened storefront of Puppies in Paradise. Shannon marched confidently up the stairwell, making plenty of noise. I crept stealthily behind her, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
Shannon stopped at the entrance to CB Cuts and rattled the doorknob.
Locked.
She framed her eyes with her hands and peered around the sign covering the window. “Crystal, are you in there?”
No answer.
“I told you. She always closes early on Fridays.” Shannon continued marching upstairs without waiting for me to reply.
Dad chided me from the afterlife. I have a really bad feeling about this.
Frankly, so did I, but it was too late to back out now. I glanced down the darkened stairwell a final time to make sure no one was following, then hesitantly tiptoed behind her. When I reached the third-floor landing, Shannon stood outside Gabriella’s front door, looking confused.
“No crime scene tape?” she asked.
I shrugged. “It’s not a crime scene. Gabriella was killed on the beach, remember?”
“Huh. I’m kind of disappointed.” She pulled the apartment key out of her pocket, inserted it into the lock, and jiggled it back and forth.
The door didn’t open.
Disappointment-laced relief relaxed my shoulders. “Gabriella must have changed the lock.”
“Give me a second,” Shannon said. “The door sticks sometimes.” She pulled the knob toward her and played with the key. A loud click later, she pumped her fist through the air. “Got it!” The door squeaked open and Shannon marched through it. “Hello? Anyone home?”
She took three steps inside, then froze. “Oh, man.” She turned back to me. “I don’t think you should come in. Michael wouldn’t want you to see this.”
“What? Did the police trash the place?” I pushed past her. Visions of upended papers,
ripped-open couch cushions, and black fingerprint powder filled my imagination.
The reality was worse. Much worse.
The apartment itself was an adorable juxtaposition of shabbiness and charm. The air inside felt stale, but the homey living room was filled with light. The carpet was threadbare and the fixtures were dated, but the living space was painstakingly decorated. Gabriella had obviously made this place her own. In an odd yet comforting way, I felt like I was finally getting to know her.
She liked color. The room was painted in bright primary colors, and its worn purple couch had been accented by red throw pillows. The sofa faced a picture window with the same courtyard view as the one in Crystal’s salon, only one story higher.
The walls were what drew my attention, however, at least at first. They were covered with framed posters, each of which was a gorgeous study in tragedy. They had all been painted by the same artist: Frida Kahlo.
I closed my eyes and sighed. Of course. Gabriella’s tattoo was of Frida.
Frida Kahlo was the Mexican artist Gabriella had inked on her breast. Her connection to Frida made sense. Both had been beautiful, tragic, talented, and tortured. I walked around the room, examining each poster. The work over the couch was titled The Wounded Deer. In it, Ms. Kahlo’s head was attached to a deer’s body, which had been pierced by a hunter’s arrows. An innocent destroyed by an unfair world. In the poster mounted above the fireplace, Ms. Kahlo’s spine was broken; her body pierced with nails.
I felt unaccountably sad, as if the heartbreak depicted on each canvas were somehow my own. Had Gabriella simply been an admirer of fine Mexican art, or were her decorations symbolic? Was this how Gabriella saw her life? I reached up and touched the fractured spine, wishing I had the power to heal it.
Then I looked down at the mantle and realized what Shannon hadn’t wanted me to see.
A shrine to a life that Michael claimed had never existed.
My own metaphorical spine shattered, slicing my heart into pieces.
In the eight-by-ten portrait farthest to the left, Gabriella smiled at the camera, wearing the white cotton dress she was wearing in the wedding photo taped to Crystal’s mirror. She held a vibrant bouquet of yellow, orange, red, and pink Gerbera daisies. Michael gazed adoringly at her in a black tux with a yellow Gerbera daisy boutonniere. In the photograph next to it, the couple shared a wedding kiss so romantic it made my stomach churn.
Next up was a four-photo collage. Michael and Gabriella on the beach, cuddled next to a campfire, hiking in the forest, clinking champagne glasses. If Michael and Gabriella’s life together had been the sham Michael claimed it was, why did it look so real?
The shot on the far right was a family one: Michael, Gabriella, and Shannon roasting marshmallows over a bonfire. I recognized the location. It was near the driftwood-strewn alcove in which I’d discovered Gabriella’s body.
Shannon startled me from behind. “I’m surprised she kept all of this stuff.”
I pointed at the photo of the bonfire. “Who took that?”
Shannon picked up the photo and examined it closely. “I don’t remember anymore. Is it important?”
I pointed to the alcove. “That’s where I found Gabriella’s body. At least I think it is.”
“We used to go to that beach all the time. It’s less crowded than Haystack Rock.” Shannon frowned. “I think this was one of the photo shoots Michael and Gabby staged after the wedding. If so, we used a tripod.”
“Why?”
“So all three of us could be in the shot.”
“No, I mean why stage a photo shoot?”
“It was part of the show. Proof that Michael and Gabby could show to the feds.” She gestured to the mantle. “Gabby and Michael took tons of photos. Of the wedding, fake vacations, a honeymoon. This one was supposed to be of a family gathering.” She placed her hand on my shoulder. “The pictures don’t mean anything. The last time I was here, they were stored in a box in the closet.”
Why didn’t that make me feel any better?
She set the frame back on the mantle. “We should start searching. You take the living room and bedroom. I’ll take the kitchen and bathroom.”
“It would help if we knew what we were looking for,” I mumbled.
Shannon shrugged. “Anything.” She headed off to the kitchen. I turned to the living room.
The room was neat and organized, proof positive that Michael hadn’t lived here for quite some time. I tried to forget about the photos, but Gabriella’s eyes burned the back of my neck. Not like she was watching me, exactly. Not like she was mocking me, either. More like she was egging me on. Encouraging me to find something important.
I started with the desk in the corner. I booted up the computer, hoping that Gabriella hadn’t used password protection. No such luck. I tried her name, then several iterations of Michael’s. Next I tried Frida Kahlo and the titles I’d seen on the living room’s posters. No luck there, either. I leaned back and drummed my fingers on the desktop. What else did I know about Gabriella? The answer was unfortunately nothing. The cursor blinked at me blandly. Nice try, yoga girl. I gave up and tried searching the desk instead.
The top drawer contained pens, papers, paperclips, and staples. The second held envelopes, stationery, and a rubber-banded-together collection of bills. The bill on the top bore a red stamp: Final Notice. I slipped off the rubber band and flipped through the rest. Gas, electricity, water, cable. All past due. At the bottom was a credit card statement in Michael’s name, maxed out at eight thousand dollars. Minimum amount due, two hundred dollars. Payment due date, yesterday.
Did Michael know he was on the hook for all of this debt?
The answer, of course, was undoubtedly no.
I kept digging and found a checkbook register. If Gabriella’s entries were accurate, the account had less than a hundred dollars. For the past three months, she had only recorded equal, biweekly deposits of around six hundred dollars. Her waitressing paycheck, I assumed. Where had all of that supposed tip money gone?
Shannon called from the kitchen. “Kate, come take a look at this.”
I folded the credit card bill, tucked it inside my pocket, and joined her. “Find something interesting?”
She handed me a typed letter. “You could say that. This was on the refrigerator. Don’t freak out.”
I smoothed out the creases and quickly scanned from the top (dated three weeks ago) to Michael’s signature on the bottom. I looked up and met Shannon’s gaze. “What is this?”
“It looks like a love letter.” She lifted her eyebrows apologetically. “I told you not to freak out.”
My mouth filled with cotton, but I forced myself to read anyway, at least the parts that I could understand. Much of the letter was written in Spanish. It ended with a promise. My darling, being away from you has been harder than I ever imagined. I promise, we will be together again soon, this time forever. Te amo, mi cariño. Michael.
I turned the page over and examined the back. Blank. “Was there an envelope?” I asked.
“No. Just this, stuck to the refrigerator.”
I held it up to the light, hoping to decipher a hidden message.
“What are you doing?” Shannon asked.
“Looking for the punch line.”
“You think this is a joke? It doesn’t seem very funny to me.”
“I have no idea what it is, but it’s not from Michael.”
“I hate to second-guess you, Kate, but how do you know?”
“First off, who types a love letter?” She didn’t reply. I handed her the paper. “Second, look at that signature. It’s not Michael’s handwriting.”
Shannon’s voice matched her incredulous expression. “You think Gabby forged a love letter to herself and then hung it on the fridge?”
“Either that or someone was deliberately trying t
o deceive her.”
Shannon handed the note back to me. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
I folded the page and stuck it next to the credit card statement in my pocket. “You’re right, but none of this makes any sense. Let’s keep looking. Maybe she has more letters somewhere.”
We searched the rest of the kitchen. Nothing but the usual assortment of pots, pans, utensils, and a surprisingly well-organized junk drawer. The refrigerator and pantry were essentially bare, except for a couple of cartons of yogurt, a box of saltine crackers, and a bottle of desiccated-looking ketchup. “I guess Gabriella wasn’t much of a cook.”
Shannon shrugged. “I don’t know. The few times I came over, Michael did the cooking.” She waved her hand around the empty space. “There’s nothing here. I’m going to search the bathroom.”
While Shannon moved on to the bathroom, I headed to the bedroom, which was also decorated with Frida Kahlo posters. The dresser top displayed more candid photos of Michael and Gabriella next to a jewelry box filled with costume jewelry. No rings, wedding or otherwise. After twenty minutes of searching Gabriella’s bedroom, all I’d concluded was that she had great taste in lingerie and a truly kick-butt shoe collection.
What was I missing? There was something important in this apartment. I could feel it, as clearly as Bella felt the mailman turning onto her block. But what was it and where?
I flopped across the bed and stared at the poster mounted above it, frustrated. The Two Fridas stared back at me. The heart of the Frida on the left had been ripped open. The Frida on the right’s heart was still whole. Which one represented Gabriella?
I spoke to the painting, pretending that I was speaking to Gabriella. “What are you trying to tell me?”
The poster didn’t reply, at least not verbally.
Nonverbally, though …
I stood. My woo-woo yoga teacher senses were vibrating at high alert. The energy emanating from this portrait was strong. If I allowed myself to be vulnerable, what would it tell me? I glanced at the open doorway to make sure Shannon wasn’t looking, then placed my palm against Left Frida’s oozing heart. I closed my eyes, quieted my mind, and took a deep breath.
