by Kyra Davis
“You want me to make up a fictional character for the sole purpose of killing him?”
“If you think he should pay for his crimes with his life, then yes. But be sure to make it into a story. Any story that has a good villain deserves a good hero…or heroine.” She gave me a meaningful look. “Be sure that you thoroughly develop your protagonist. Give readers a reason to root for her. She doesn’t have to be perfect, just human. If she’s troubled, then provide insight into what those troubles are and how they originated. Explain the source of her anger and her motivations for going after the villain. That part’s important, Sophie,” Melanie had said, her tone getting sharper, underscoring her point. “Readers need to understand a protagonist’s motivations even if the protagonist herself doesn’t.”
I had gone home that day armed with the floppy disk, and for the first time since my father’s death I had turned down Scott’s offers of distraction. Instead, I had sat down at my computer and started typing. I created Alice Wright, a journalism major with an enormous amount of emotional baggage who was investigating her father’s homicide. The killer was a horrible man, although I had stopped short of making him pure evil. I didn’t want this to be a cartoon villain; this story was too important for one-dimensional characters.
Then a funny thing happened. While creating my fictional world I found less desire to escape the real world I lived in. I don’t want to say that I became more centered (that sounds a bit too Taoist for me), but I did feel calmer and I was ready to cope with my life—even if Dad was no longer a part of it. Every week or so I would take my newly written chapters to Melanie, who offered me advice and constructive criticism, and after two years of writing and rewriting I had finished my first novel. I also had a divorce decree, so there were two milestones to celebrate.
I never did try to get the Alice Wright book published. I couldn’t give some agent or editor the opportunity to reject something of mine so deeply personal. Instead I stashed the disk in a safety deposit box and spent the next year writing yet another book. It was about an investigative journalist named Alicia Bright. In that book Alicia had to track down this lovable but slightly deranged murderess who took pleasure in castrating and killing bartenders who specialized in making lemon drops.
If I hadn’t had Melanie to talk to back then I would have exploded. Now Melanie was asking me to save her, and how had I handled her request? I had made it about me and my feelings regarding Anatoly. I bit into my lower lip and replayed Melanie’s words one more time in my head. “Readers need to understand a protagonist’s motivations even if the protagonist herself doesn’t.”
I was the protagonist in my own life story and I had totally misread my motivations, or rather I had been right the first time around. This wasn’t just about besting Anatoly (that was just a really great bonus). The truth was that I wouldn’t be doing any of this if a big part of me didn’t feel compelled to do everything in my power to put Melanie’s mind at ease. If that was the goal, then I needed to get past the pettiness and start working with Anatoly a little better, even if he wasn’t working well with me. I would call him tomorrow and tell him about my meeting with Tiff and then we would find out who had killed Melanie’s husband.
“Sophie? Are you okay?”
I pulled myself out of my contemplation and forced a smile. “I’m fine. Let’s just start this movie before all the popcorn’s gone.”
10
In the Andes there’s an entire order of monks who have taken a vow of silence. They spend their days in peaceful and cooperative coexistence. If nothing else, this proves that communication is overrated.
—C’est La Mort
When I left Mary Ann’s it was nearing eleven o’clock, and it wasn’t until I was sitting at a stoplight on Geary that I remembered I had turned off my cell phone while being pampered by Tiff and had neglected to turn it back on. I corrected the problem and cursed under my breath when I noted that I had two missed calls, both from Melanie. I tapped the button for voice mail and put my phone on loudspeaker.
“Sophie, it’s Melanie. Could you call me when you have a moment? I think it just hit me that Eugene’s not coming back. I’m alone and…he’s not coming back. You’re already doing so much for me and I have no right to burden you with more, but I need to talk to someone…well, if you aren’t too busy could you call? I’ll try your home number.”
Then the second message: “I just tried your home and you’re not there. I didn’t leave a message.” Then a strangled sob. “I know this is simply a panic attack. But I’m alone, Sophie. I’m sixty years old and I’ve lost the only man who ever loved me. I loved him, too, but I treated him so appallingly. I’ll be all right, but I do need someone to talk me through this. Call me…please.”
Shit. My phone told me she had placed that call five hours ago. I had just promised myself that I was going to be there for Melanie, but when she had needed a shoulder, where had I been? At Mary Ann’s, watching Errol Flynn redistribute wealth in Sherwood Forest. I punched in her number but only got the answering machine. Great, she had probably cried herself to sleep.
When I got home I changed into something more comfortable and then plopped down on my couch, Mr. Katz curled up next to me. “I really wish I had gotten that call earlier,” I whispered to him. I checked the time again, eleven-twenty-five, way too late to call. I called, anyway.
“Hello, you’ve reached the O’Reilly residence. Please leave your message after the beep.”
“Melanie, it’s Sophie again. You’re probably asleep right now, but if you’re awake, could you pick up? I’m worried about you.”
Nothing. I hung up the phone and stared at the wall. I had this vague feeling that something was wrong, and that it was more than just Melanie being upset about Eugene. But this feeling was based on nothing. Melanie probably was asleep. She might have even taken a sleeping pill, which is what I would have done in her position. I just needed to relax and call her tomorrow. I clicked on the television and f lipped through the channels until I got to Comedy Central. Laughter and sleep is what I needed tonight. I could be a good friend tomorrow.
At exactly 8:00 a.m. the next morning the shrill ring of my phone jarred me out of a very nice dream involving both Johnny Depp and George Clooney. Without opening my eyes I fumbled for the phone and pressed it to my ear. “This had better be good.”
“It’s not good,” Anatoly growled.
“You.”
“Yes, me. When were you planning on telling me about your meeting with Tiff Strauss?”
“Right around the time you told me that Melanie had found a letter written by Peter Strauss to Eugene.”
“I was going to tell you…right after my interview with Tiff.”
“Uh-huh. Next you’ll be trying to sell me the Brooklyn Bridge. And what’s the deal with you calling me at 8:00 a.m.? Do I need to add passive-aggressive to your list of character f laws?”
“Passive-aggressive people try to upset those around them in subtle ways. I’m not trying to be subtle.”
I hung up the phone.
Two seconds later it rang again. “I wasn’t done,” he snapped when I finally answered.
“I was.” I hung up again.
The third time he called I let the answering machine pick up. “Sophie, I know you can hear me. Pick up the phone!”
I put a pillow over my head.
“If you don’t pick up I’m going to come over, and this time I’m not going to pretend that you look good without your makeup.”
I snatched up the receiver. “You used to tell me that I looked sexy in the morning!”
“You do, when you’re naked. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of that now, is there?”
“I’m going to hang up again….”
“Don’t. I talked to Tiff last night and we need to compare notes.”
“I won’t compare notes or anything else until I’ve had at least two cups of coffee. You know that.”
“So we’ll meet at Starbuc
ks. I’ll even buy the first round.”
“Of coffee? Am I supposed to be impressed by that?”
“I’ll meet you at the Starbucks on Polk in one hour,” Anatoly said, ignoring my last comment.
“Make it three hours. I have to finish up with Johnny and George and I don’t want to feel rushed.”
“Johnny and George?”
“The men who were entertaining me when you called.” Let him think I was having ménage à trois. That should be enough to screw up his morning.
“Are you talking about Johnny Depp and George Clooney?” Anatoly asked with a laugh. “Are you still dreaming about them?”
“Shut up. I’ll see you at eleven.” I slammed down the phone, squeezed my eyes shut and tried to reconjure the dream. Three seconds later my cell phone rang. I snatched it from my bedside where it had been charging without even bothering to check the number on the screen. “Why can’t you just leave me alone!”
There was a moment of silence and then a very tiny, very wounded voice. “Are you mad at me?”
“Johnny,” I breathed. Not Depp, the other, much less appealing Johnny. “No, I just thought you were somebody else.”
“Nope, just me,” he said with a little more self-assurance. “Is someone giving you a hard time? Is there anything I can help you with?”
“No, I’ve got it covered. Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s still early for me. Could we talk later?”
“Sure, sure, but the thing is I thought you might want to talk to Maggie today.”
“You got me an appointment?” That news was enough to get me into a sitting position. “Does she want to meet me in Pleasant Hill? When?”
“Actually, she can meet you in San Francisco. She and Rick are going to meet with Carl Pearson, you know, the guy who’s been on all those news shows speaking out against stem-cell research. They want him to endorse Fitzgerald, and I guess he lives in Sausalito or something, so they’re meeting in Frisco—”
“It’s San Francisco,” I said.
“That is so cute the way you defend the name of your city like that! I can just see you with your fists all clenched up and your nose wrinkled. Do you wrinkle your nose when you’re mad? You seem like the kind of girl who would. You have an adorable nose, did you know that?”
I give up. “Johnny, when do I get to meet Maggie?”
“Rick wanted to take Maggie to Neiman’s to meet Mary Ann. All he does is talk about her, ‘Mary Ann this and Mary Ann that.’ She met him after work for drinks the other day—Mary Ann, that is. I ran into them in this little wine bar. I hung out with them for a while but I kind of felt like a third wheel so I split. Besides, Rick was so absorbed with Mary Ann he barely noticed that I was there at all. The guy’s seriously in love. So anyway, yesterday Maggie went up to Rick and said, ‘Hey, when am I going to meet this Mary Ann person?’ and Rick said, ‘Well, why don’t we meet her after our morning meeting with Carl Pearson?’ and Maggie thought that was a great idea so…”
I pulled up my knees so that I could use them to support my head. This conversation was going to kill me. Seriously, if I had to listen to Johnny go on like this for another hour I was going to f lat-out die.
Hey! Maybe Johnny killed Eugene! Surely someone capable of being this annoying was capable of all sorts of other sordid things. Maybe he killed him because…because Eugene wouldn’t chat with him at the watercooler?
I was pretty good at convincing myself of things but that one was a stretch.
“…so they called Mary Ann and they’re all going to have lunch together at the Rotunda. It’s supposed to be just social and Maggie doesn’t like to talk to media people when she’s trying to be social, but if you just show up coincidentally, you know, to see Mary Ann or something, then I bet they’d invite you to eat with them. You’re Mary Ann’s friend after all and so Maggie’s really nice and…”
“Johnny, what time should I show up at Neiman’s?”
“One o’clock, at the Lancôme counter. Can you make that? Because if you can’t maybe I could—”
“I can make it.”
“Good, because I know you wanted to talk to her and she’s not going to be able to attend my dinner party tonight. You’re still coming though, right?”
I brought my fingers to my temples. I had completely forgotten about the party. If I met Maggie for lunch, did I really need to go? Probably—there could be other people there who knew Eugene and had useful information.
“I’ll be there tonight,” I interjected as soon as he took a breath. “I appreciate your inviting me, since we’re just friends.”
“Of course I invited you. I always think it’s best for men and women to start as friends because then when the relationship grows into more they have a strong foundation. What do you think?”
“Goodbye, Johnny.” I hung up quickly. How did Fitzgerald deal with him?
I rolled out of bed, plodded into the bathroom and looked in the mirror, and that’s when I really woke up. I looked great! My skin, which I’ve always been reasonably content with, looked incredible, and with the new eyebrows…I mean damn! And I was going to see Anatoly! How often does one get to meet up with their ex when they’re looking their absolute best? The day was looking up—until I remembered Melanie. God, how could I have forgotten about her hysterical calls last night? I retrieved the phone and dialed her home.
Answering machine.
Melanie had once told me that she liked to get up early. She even claimed to take the occasional stroll at sunrise, a habit that I believed to be indicative of some kind of mental illness, but whatever. The point was that her not being home early in the morning didn’t mean anything.
So why didn’t it feel right?
I shook my head in an effort to expel my budding concerns. It was good that Melanie was out, better that than hiding under the covers attempting to treat her anxiety with bon-bons and Montel Williams. I could talk to her later.
Shortly after trying to reach Melanie I called Mary Ann, who quickly agreed to include me in her lunch plans. So far so good. I strolled into Starbucks at twenty minutes after eleven and discovered, to my immense irritation, that Anatoly hadn’t arrived yet.
I walked outside and looked up and down the street, then stood outside the door to wait. Eventually he came walking around the corner at a pace that suggested he was in no major rush to get anywhere.
“You’re late!” I snarled as we both walked into the café.
“You can’t convince me that you’ve been here for more than five minutes.”
“That’s not the point I…you’re glowing.”
Anatoly looked away quickly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your skin looks great! It’s almost as smooth as mine and…Tiff gave you a facial last night, didn’t she? You were her last client!”
“Grab that table over there,” Anatoly said, steadfastly avoiding my eyes, “and I’ll get us some coffee….”
“Don’t change the subject!” I reached out and stroked his cheek. “Damn, Anatoly, it’s like a baby’s butt!”
“Shh!”
“So did she apply a mud mask?” I said, raising my voice so those around us could hear. “Or did you just ask her to exfoliate? Oh, my God, she waxed your eyebrows, too, didn’t she! Look how pretty they are!”
“Go sit down at that table before someone else takes it,” Anatoly growled.
“Aren’t his eyebrows pretty?” I asked a blond man sitting by the window.
“Fabulicious,” the man agreed with a rather pronounced and undoubtedly cultivated lisp. “Who do you go to?”
“He goes to Mojo,” I answered before Anatoly had a chance. I nudged Anatoly in the ribs and said in a stage whisper, “See, I told you the guys would be into it.”
“Sophie, sit down at the table now or I’ll tell the barista to pour you a decaf.”
I skipped to the table knowing I had achieved my goal; now there were three guys in the place actively checking Ana
toly out.
“So what did Tiff tell you?” Anatoly asked when he returned with our drinks. He had been thoughtful enough to get me a Frappuccino without my having to ask for it, but nonetheless I tasted it carefully.
“It’s not decaf, just regular,” Anatoly said, reading my mind. “At least it’s as regular as a Light Espresso White Chocolate Mocha Frappuccino with extra whipped cream can get.”
I gasped. “This has been my new favorite drink for the past month! How did you know?”
“Deduction. I figured out what was the most complicated thing I could order and got you that.”
I smiled. He was so not over me. The specialty Frappuccino was a token of his affection.
“You never answered my question,” Anatoly said as he sat opposite me. “What did Tiff tell you?”
“Basically she told me that her brother was a freak but in a nonoffensive kind of way.” I recounted Tiff’s tales about her brother’s previous passion for being a mascot, his frequent vacations to conspicuously nonexotic locales, his interest in politics and the way he championed the rights of ugly people. I also told him about my impending lunch date and dinner party. Anatoly took notes the whole time.
“So now I’ve given you the rundown,” I said after taking a long sip of my drink. “What kind of dirt did she share with you?”
Anatoly shrugged. “Basically the same thing.”
“If that was true you wouldn’t have had to take notes just now. Seriously, tell me what she said to you.”
“Not much.”
“Damn it, Anatoly, will you stop holding out on me?”
“Sophie, she didn’t tell me anything. I had planned on getting her to talk by making up a story about losing a parent to suicide, but as soon as I tried that she started going on and on about how amazing it was that she had met two different people who had lost a family member to suicide in one day. Every time I tried to get her to talk about Peter she would bring the conversation back to how incredible the coincidence was. I couldn’t get her off the subject.”
