by Camryn King
2
Mallory awoke to a gloomy Saturday morning and a foggy brain from too much vodka. The forecast called for rain that could later turn to snow. Appropriate, she thought, since she’d decided to visit Leigh this morning. It hardly seemed right for the sun to shine while she visited what remained of a light that had been extinguished way too soon. She rolled out of bed with a groan, pulled on boots, threw a coat over her pajamas, and dashed to the corner coffee shop. A long, hot shower and double shots of espresso helped wake her up and clear the fuzziness from her mind.
Thirty minutes later Mallory was outside again. She carried an umbrella but didn’t open it as she walked to her car. Rather, she welcomed the cold drizzle on her face, the wind whipping her misbehaving curls about her. Disheveled. Unruly. How Mallory felt right now. She started up her trusty Toyota and since it hadn’t been driven in almost a month, she let it idle until the engine warmed up. While sitting there she checked her voicemail and was surprised she’d missed calls. Obviously, the restaurant had been loud and she’d slept harder than she realized. Just as she pulled away from the curb, her phone rang. She plugged in her Bluetooth and turned up the volume on the stereo.
“I’m alive.”
Sam chuckled. “Just checking. Last night you had me a bit concerned. I know this is a tough time. How are you really?”
“I’m okay. Heard from Leigh’s mom last night, Mrs. Jackson.”
“How’s she doing?”
“I don’t know. I missed it. Probably best since I was three sheets to the wind.”
“More like three blankets.”
“Remind me next time that vodka is not my friend.”
“Wonder what she wanted.”
“Checking in on me, probably, same as you.”
“That was nice of her to think of you.”
“She also mentioned having something to give me and wanting me to stop by.”
“That’s why you’re up so early?”
“Early is relative, Sam. It’s after ten. I’m going to visit Leigh and wanted to try and beat the crazy Saturday traffic. Her mother doesn’t live far from there so I hope to see her, too.”
Seconds of silence. Mallory imagined her mystical friend Sam—the former IR-turned-lifestyle-column-writer after marrying her alternative music husband and having the baby named after a star—twirling a honey blond lock while trying to tactfully suggest that Mallory need not go to the cemetery to honor their friend. That Leigh was now a beautiful spirit, sparkling even, who was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Mallory saved her the trouble.
“I know what you’re thinking. That the whole funeral/coffin /graveyard thing is for the unenlightened. The unevolved.”
“Mallory, I would nev—”
“I know you wouldn’t. Not in those words. But I know how you feel about life and death, and I actually appreciate the perspective. It helped me cope with her loss. But I don’t view going to the cemetery the same way you do. I went there once before, about a month after the funeral.”
“And?”
“It brought me peace.”
“Then go, Mal. Honor Leigh in whatever way that works. Just remember to take care of you in that process.”
“Thanks, Sam. I’ll try.”
Mallory hung up and concentrated on driving. Even with her deliberate caution due to the wet pavement, thick traffic, and her paranoia from rarely getting behind the wheel, she still made it to the Queens cemetery in less than forty-five minutes. It took her another thirty to find the section where Leigh was buried and about the same time to find the simple slab of granite that marked her grave:
Leigh Serenity Jackson
Sunrise: June 15, 1985
Sunset: January 21, 2017
God granted us serenity. She rests in his arms.
Mallory blinked, swallowed hard and ground her teeth in an attempt to stanch her roiling emotions. But nothing could allay the tears. Reading that last line brought them down in a torrent, unstoppable, unwilling to be dammed. She fell to her knees before the stone. Cried. Stopped. Cried some more. The first time in more than a year since she’d allowed herself the luxury. Somehow being here with her best friend made it okay.
Reaching out, she touched the cold stone with a gloved finger and traced the letters etched in the gray granite. She ran her fingers along the roses that outlined the words and just then, noticed a bouquet of live flowers nearby, probably blown from their intended spot by the wind. Mallory reached for the pink and purple arrangement, dug a shallow cavern in the earth, and placed them there, supported by the stone. Moments later, or hours, who could tell, the stream of tears slowed to a trickle. Mallory pulled a crumpled napkin from her jacket pocket, blew her nose, wiped her eyes, and took a deep breath to get a hold of herself.
“Well,” she said firmly, her shoulders squared as she sat in front of the tombstone. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way . . .” She tried to smile but it wilted like the fading flowers near the stone. She took another deep breath with lips pressed tight. She wouldn’t cry again. Enough of that. Instead Mallory pulled the band from around damp, wayward curls, brushed them back and doubled up the band in her effort to tame them and pulled her jacket hood over her head.
“I probably look a mess,” she said, her eyes focused on Serenity. “I can hear you now, clucking your tongue like your mom does and saying, ’Ghul, ya shamin’.” It was a phrase that loosely translated to, Girl, you are a shame, or, Girl, you should be ashamed (of yourself). “Well, I’m not. At least not about the way I look. I felt bad for not visiting you earlier. You know, on the day it happened. Sam thinks it’s silly for me to come here anyway. She didn’t say it like that, but that was her meaning. Miss Woo-woo thinks I can talk to you from anywhere, and you’d hear me.
“I don’t know if that’s true, if you can hear me or even if you still exist out there.” Mallory shrugged, feeling strangely comfortable and relaxed. She pulled her legs up and rested her chin on her knees. “Part of me thinks that when you die, it’s over. The other part hopes that you’re still . . . somewhere. That somehow you know what’s going on.”
She paused to watch a flock of birds fly overhead in perfect symmetry. Heading south to warmer weather she supposed, even as she pulled the strings of her hooded jacket tighter around her and wished for earmuffs. She shifted and leaned on the cold, hard tombstone that verified her friend had once had a place in the world. It was a sorry substitute for the vivacious Leigh Jackson. That’s what Mallory would have told anyone who asked. But of course, no one had. She had told Leigh’s mother Barbara of a conversation with Leigh that took place not a month before the murder. How when she died Leigh wanted to be cremated, the same as Mallory, her ashes flung into the wind near the Caribbean island of her ancestors’ birth. Nobody’d heard her then either. Leigh was given a traditional Jehovah’s Witness funeral and looked positively stunning in a lacy white dress—one she wouldn’t have been caught dead in while living, Mallory thought semismiling at the pun—and was buried in a simple white casket with pale pink interior and silver trim. Mallory had never seen Leigh wear pale anything. Unlike the service her parents had planned, Leigh’s life had not been subdued. She laughed loudly, partied endlessly. She loved vibrant colors that matched her personality, paired with the highest designer heels she could find, and anything bling. There were no words to describe how much Mallory missed her friend.
“If you are somewhere having a voyeuristic experience of my life, then you know that my Why They Disappear/Why They Die series won the Pen. Hardly feels like a notable accomplishment considering the fucked-up circumstances that led to its creation. I got to tell your story though, and dozens of others who are dead and/or missing. A few got found, young runaways believed to be dead, a couple murderers arrested. So, that’s good. The main reason for doing it though was to generate enough interest for the cops to take notice, maybe even get a lead strong enough to have your case reopened. That didn’t happen and I feel it’s my fault. Hel
l, if my investigative journalism skills can’t help me find your killer, then just how good am I, you know?
“Everybody thinks it’s time for me to give up, let it all go and move on with my life—Ava, Sam, Charlie. Especially him. Next week he wants to talk about a new assignment, new story. He’s proud of the series but thinks doing it has driven me a little crazy. We both know that’s a lie. My insanity began way before you left.”
Mallory tried to laugh, but choked on the lump in her throat.
“Maybe they’re right. Maybe it’s time for me to let go. What about you, Leigh? Is that what you want?”
A gust of wind blew over, causing leaves to swirl and Mallory’s hood to fall back. She didn’t notice that the rain had turned to snow until flakes hit her face. She looked at Leigh’s name etched on the stone, then up at the bare, swaying branches, then back at the slab.
“I didn’t think so.” She shook her head and stood. “Guess I should be going even though I hate to leave you, my friend. Silly, I know. You’ve managed to be out here a year without me.
“Can you really hear me, Leigh?” She looked around, waited for another gust of wind, a crow to caw, something. Instead, it seemed quieter than ever, and suddenly a bit spooky, too. Mallory shivered. “If you can hear me, do me a favor, okay? Help me find the person who put you here and send them behind bars, where they belong. You and whoever that is are the only ones who know. If you can hear me, then it’s possible that you can communicate, too. Find a way. Help me out. Help me help you,” she finished dramatically, quoting one of their shared favorite movie lines as she swiped a final tear. “I love you, Leigh.”
Mallory kissed her fingers, touched them to Leigh’s name and hurried back to her car. Once inside she started the car, cranked the fan to high, and received a blast of cold air for her trouble. She turned the vents away from her and reached for the phone she’d left in the car, along with the bag that held it. Missed call. She tapped the screen to reveal a number that was unfamiliar. After turning on the wipers to clear snow-covered windows, she made a U-turn, headed out of the cemetery and engaged her Bluetooth. As soon as the call was answered, she knew who it was—Leigh’s mom.
“Mrs. Jackson, it’s Mallory Knight. I received your message the other night and totally intended to call you back. I’m so sorry.”
“No need to apologize, Mallory. I know you’re busy, writing award-winning columns and all.”
“Oh, you saw that, huh?”
“I did and was happy for you. I know how hard you work.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Jackson.”
“I’m sure Leigh would have been delighted as well. And you can call me Barbara.”
“I hope so, Barbara. She is the reason behind the series, and continues to be my inspiration in finding criminals and getting justice for their loved ones. I just left her, in fact.”
“You visited the cemetery?”
“Yes. I just left not five minutes ago.”
“I was there earlier in the week, on the anniversary, still somewhat in disbelief that my daughter sleeps in the arms of Jehovah.”
“You left the flowers.”
“I did.”
There was silence then as both women remembered the challenge that was Leigh and her mother’s relationship, from completely different perspectives. “How are you, missus . . . Barbara?”
“Gaining strength every day, child. Which is actually why I called.”
Mallory nodded as though Barbara could see her. She’d talked to Leigh’s mom less than a half a dozen times. The question that had plagued her since getting her call was about to be answered.
“I thought they were all gone but a week or so ago I found a bag of Leigh’s things and remembered you wanting to have something that belonged to her. At the time you asked it was just . . . well . . .”
“It was probably an insensitive thing to do. There’s no need to explain.”
“We all were hurting and still in shock. I can’t say time has healed the wound but it does make the pain more bearable. Anyway, when I found the bag I thought of you. I know what good friends the two of you were and I believe Leigh would appreciate my giving it to you.”
“Barbara, thank you so much. I would love that.”
“Is it possible that you can come by for it? I don’t drive much since having a seizure, and don’t like to take the subway either.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your health. That’s not a problem at all. In fact, I’m still in Queens and can stop by right now.”
“Okay, then. Hold on a moment.” Mallory heard a garbled conversation and thought that Barbara had placed her hand over the receiver. “We’ll only be here another half hour or so, but if you can make it within that timeframe . . .”
“I can.”
“Okay, Mallory. We’ll see you shortly.”
An accident and a GPS gone wild put Mallory at the Jacksons’ Jamaica, Queens doorstep at three fifteen, exactly twenty-seven minutes from when she’d hung up with Leigh’s mother. Parking in front of a single-family, one-story home with a fenced-in front yard and chipped cement steps leading to the front porch, she killed the engine and hurried through the gate and up the stairs to ring the bell. She waited, and when no one answered she added a gloved, muffled knock on the locked, metal screen door. Still no response and no sound from inside. Mallory turned and headed for her car, pulling out her phone to leave a message. Closing the gate, she heard the front door open.
“Mallory?”
She turned and though it was rounder, darker, and framed by a black and white knitted cap, saw a face so reminiscent of Leigh’s that it took her aback. She’d only met Barbara in person once before and had commented then on how the two looked more like sisters than mother and child.
“Hi, Barbara,” Mallory said in greeting while retracing her steps back to the porch. “Sorry I didn’t get here sooner. A detour caused by an accident got me all screwed up.”
“No worries.” It was said with a small and fleeting smile.
Like Leigh’s, Barbara’s skin was flawless, a warm and inviting cocoa brown. As she came closer, however, Mallory noted the dark circles beneath Barbara’s eyes and a shock of gray hair not covered by the cap, gray that Mallory didn’t remember being there when they’d met before.
“It looks like you’re leaving, so if you’d like, I can come back another time.”
“No need for that.” Barbara slid a strap off her shoulder, bringing Mallory’s attention to a large, bulging black duffel bag with faded white stripes. She placed her hands beneath the bag and offered it to Mallory.
“I don’t know what all is in there. Undoubtedly inappropriate though for her younger sisters. I never could understand Leigh’s showy extravagance or where that came from. We’ve always been simple folk. But not her. There was something about that girl, always chasing, wanting more. Especially right before it happened. She just . . . she changed. I tried to . . .”
The door behind Barbara opened. A middle-aged man—tall, lean—wearing all black and sporting a full beard stepped outside, giving a curt nod to Mallory before turning to lock the door. Mallory assumed it was Leigh’s stepfather and prepared to speak, but he closed the screen and stepped past her before she could form a word.
“I’ll go now,” Barbara said hastily, shoving the duffel bag into Mallory’s chest as her eyes followed the man’s quick movements. “We’re late for service.”
“Sorry I kept you waiting.” Mallory followed Barbara down the walk. “Thank you for thinking of me.”
A slight glance was the only acknowledgment Barbara gave her before she got into the car Mr. Jackson had already started, which he began backing up almost before Barbara’s door fully closed. Mallory watched him pull out, watched the car drive away while still clutching the duffel bag she’d been given. She got in her car and just sat there, digesting Barbara’s words.
There was something about that girl, always chasing, wanting more. Especially right before it happened. She
just . . . she changed.
All the way home it nagged at her, the comment on a continuous loop in her head. Leigh was ambitious, but so were a million other professional women in New York. She’d set her sights high and wanted the good life. And while she wasn’t above using her womanly wiles to gain an advantage, Leigh believed in a hard day’s work. She was smart and worked her butt off. But in the month or so before she died, Leigh had been different. Subdued. Preoccupied. Mallory had noticed. So had Barbara. When asked, Leigh had brushed off Mallory’s concern. Had her mother also tried and failed to get at the truth? What had Leigh been hiding? And who killed her, so no one would find out?
3
By the time Mallory arrived back home, the peace of spending time with Leigh had been replaced by a burning drive to investigate. Mallory shed boots, coat, scarf, and gloves and plopped down right on a rug in the living room with Leigh’s black bag. With a deep breath, she unzipped the bag and began removing its contents. The items inside were signature Leigh. Bold, colorful tops. A politically incorrect cropped jacket made of real sable. Corset belts and heeled thigh-high boots that were more like stilts to Mallory’s mind. Crystal-laden jewelry, silk scarves, CDs, a boatload of bangles, a couple small purses, a metallic clutch. Chargers for several electronic devices. Mallory frowned as she thought of those items and wondered if they were with the police, locked up as evidence in a case gone cold. Mallory set the CDs and a thin silver bangle aside, then reached for a mirrored jewelry box in the bottom of the duffel bag. She opened it and pulled out a thin booklet within a gold-plated case. An appointment book? A journal? Flipping through the pages, it appeared to be a bit of both, an appointment calendar with writing covering many of the lined pages. Mallory frowned at the familiar cursive written in black ink. It was definitely Leigh’s handwriting. Her friend was big on email and texting but outside of their work, Mallory couldn’t remember Leigh reading or writing much of anything.
