Island of Lost Girls

by Jennifer McMahon

  “Nothing,” Rhonda said, looking away. She leaned back in her chair and turned to see if there was any sign of Peter yet. No. Still in the office with Crowley.

  Rumor had it, among the other volunteers, that Peter had the distinction of being Crowley’s first suspect. Rumor also had it that the police had impounded Laura Lee’s Volkswagen and that they’d found one of Ernie’s red pigtail holders in the front seat. Rhonda herself had overheard Crowley ask Peter if he had a set of keys to his mother-in-law’s VW, when she went back to get more pens from the storeroom.

  “I did,” she heard Peter admit. “But I lost my key ring about a week ago.”

  Rhonda could picture the key ring: a half dozen or so keys attached to a bottle opener and, of all things, a small white rabbit’s foot for luck.

  Afraid of being caught eavesdropping, she grabbed the box of pens and returned to the phone table, where she resumed drumming her fingers, waiting for the phone to ring. It was bullshit that Crowley was wasting his time questioning Peter. Everyone, it seemed, was wasting precious time.

  By the cash registers, Pat was holding a small press conference, her arm around the silent and tearful Trudy Florucci.

  “It’s times like these,” Pat was saying, “that pull a community together. The people of Pike’s Crossing are not the sort to just stand back and let tragedy overtake them. No, the people of Pike’s Crossing are going to go out there and find that little girl. Mark my words: we will find Ernestine Florucci. We will not rest until she is back in her mother’s arms, safe and sound.”

  Rhonda caught Warren’s eye. “God, I hope she’s right.”

  “She is,” Warren said, chewing his lower lip. “Aunt Pat is hardly ever wrong. And once she makes up her mind about a thing, there’s no stopping her—she’s like a force of nature.”

  Rhonda glanced around the room at the whirlwind of activity Pat had put into motion in less than twenty-four hours, and nodded. “That I can believe.”

  Rhonda and Warren were the only two volunteers for the moment. Peter was stuck in back with Crowley, the others had left.

  “So you believe her, then?” Rhonda asked.

  He set down his paper cup of cocoa, leaned in closer, and nearly whispered, “Wanna know what I believe?”

  Was he flirting? Had she been?

  Rhonda suddenly felt horribly guilty. How could she even be thinking about some unattainable guy while Ernie Florucci was still missing, being held under lock and key by the rabbit, or worse?

  “No matter what happens, we’ve gotta think positive,” Warren said, as if reading her mind. “Thoughts have power, Rhonda. That’s what I believe.” He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes tightly for a minute, then opened them, looking at her.

  Rhonda shook her head. “Actions have power,” she told him. “Ernie’s not just going to come walking back on her own. Someone’s gotta go find her.”

  AS THE PRESS conference was breaking up, a woman in hospital scrubs and white clogs came in. Behind her was a girl Rhonda guessed to be about twelve, shouldering a heavy-looking knapsack and looking flushed and out of breath, like she’d run the whole way.

  The woman in scrubs embraced Trudy and whispered something to her. The girl headed straight for the folding tables, opened her knapsack, and pulled out two large plastic containers.

  “I’ve got cookies and brownies for you guys,” she said, smiling. She addressed both of them but was clearly focused on Warren, who, with his disheveled teddy bear looks, was an adolescent girl’s dream. “I baked them myself. I’m Katy,” she said, extending her hand to Warren, “Ernie’s cousin.”

  She wore jeans, canvas sneakers, and a black T-shirt with a large-eyed anime character on it.

  She extended her hand to Rhonda, though even when Rhonda took it, Katy stayed focused on Warren. Katy had long, straight, blond hair that she wore pulled back in a braid. She had braces, but didn’t seem the least bit self-conscious about them. When she smiled, she showed her teeth and the metal flashed like jewelry.

  Warren peeled back the lid on the brownies and dug in. “These look amazing. You’re our savior.”

  Katy grabbed an empty chair and pulled it up between Rhonda and Warren, turning it so that she sat backward, legs straddling the seat, arms wrapped firmly around the wooden back.

  “Anything new?” she asked. Again, the question was clearly directed at Warren.

  “Not much on our end. Crowley’s been in there talking to the mechanic who works here, Peter, for about forty-five minutes now,” Warren reported.

  “My mom said they found the car the guy used but they don’t think the owner’s involved. Belongs to some nutty lady who didn’t notice it was missing. Lives over by the lake.”

  “You mean Laura Lee Clark,” said Rhonda. She felt odd discussing the details of the case with this girl. But still, it was good to have an in with Ernie’s family—to hear what the police had been telling them.

  “Peter’s mother-in-law,” Warren added. Clearly, he’d been paying attention to the rumors and gossip of the day.

  “Not technically,” Rhonda corrected. “I mean, Peter and Tock never got married.”

  “But they have a kid, right?” Katy asked. “A friend of Ernie’s. My mom said Ernie would go over to their house to play. This Peter guy totally knew her.”

  “Just because he knew her doesn’t mean he did it. I know Peter, all right? He would never do anything like this. Ever. I’d bet my life on it.”

  Katy and Warren exchanged a yeah, right look.

  “You guys know about the drawings, right?” Katy asked. Rhonda nodded. Warren shook his head, said, “What drawings?”

  “She made these pictures of her and the rabbit going on all these adventures together. He’d take her to this place called Rabbit Island. I bet that’s where she is right now!”

  Warren frowned. Chewed his lip. “Rabbit Island,” he muttered.

  “Time to go, Katy!” called the woman in scrubs, who Rhonda figured must be her mother. Trudy was still holding on to her arm, like she might crumple and fall without the extra support. Trudy glared at Rhonda with such fierce hatred that Rhonda felt her stomach do an icy drop down into her bowels.

  “See you guys later,” Katy said, taking her leave.

  “SO HOW WELL do you know Peter?” Warren asked once they were alone again. Peter and Crowley were still hidden away in Pat’s office—it had been nearly an hour.

  Rhonda took in a breath while she considered what to say.

  “We grew up together. Next door neighbors. He was like my big brother.”

  “You know, I thought you guys were a couple at first. Until Peter started talking about his wife and little girl,” Warren said.

  “They’re not married,” Rhonda said again, as if that made any difference. “And no,” she continued, allowing herself for half an instant to imagine that alternate universe where she and Peter were a couple and had been living happily ever after all along.

  “We’re just good friends.” She gave him her best and-I’m-just-fine-with-that smile.

  Warren nodded, plucked at his goatee. “So do you think he could have had anything to do with this, or is Crowley barking up the wrong tree?”

  “No question. Wrong tree entirely,” Rhonda said. “He’s wasting valuable time.”

  “But if it was his mother-in-law’s car…”

  Didn’t I just say they weren’t married?

  “We don’t know that for sure. I was actually thinking I might take a ride over to Laura Lee’s after I leave here. See what her story is.”

  “Mind if I tag along?”

  “What? Why would you want to do that?”

  “Curiosity. And besides, what else am I gonna do? Uncle Jim and Aunt Pat are all caught up here and it’s not like I know anyone else in town. Come on, you can show me the exciting sights of Pike’s Crossing.” He flashed her a warm smile that Rhonda, in spite of herself, found impossible to resist.

  “I don’t know if Laura Lee�
��s trailer counts. She’s kind of a nut job,” Rhonda warned.

  “I like nut jobs. Come on, every great sleuth has a sidekick, right?”

  “I don’t know…” Rhonda said. She eyed the hallway leading back to the office, thinking of Peter. Ridiculous. She didn’t need his permission or approval.

  “Okay,” Rhonda agreed. “Why not?”

  LAURA LEE CLARK’S trailer rested on a cinder block foundation about one hundred feet back from Nickel Lake. The trailer itself was an old metal one, covered in faded and peeling flamingo-colored paint. The yard was a forest of lawn ornaments, whirligigs, bird feeders, and bird baths. Rhonda led Warren through the gnomes, colored gazing globes, and wooden cutouts of fat women bending over, showing their knickers. Rhonda was trying to seem calm and composed, but inside, she was fuming. She had learned, on the drive over, that Pat, who had been friendly to the point of near nausea today, considered Rhonda a suspect.

  “What did your aunt say to you on the way out?” Rhonda had asked Warren. There was something odd in the way the ever-friendly Pat had pulled Warren aside and whispered in his ear just before they left the Mini Mart together.

  Warren’s face reddened a little at Rhonda’s question.

  “Come on,” Rhonda said. “I thought you were Mr. Think Positive, Surround Yourself with White Light and Don’t Ever Tell a Lie.”

  Warren laughed, chewed on his lip. “Hardly.”

  “So really, what’d she say? You both looked all serious and conspiratorial.”

  “She told me to stick close to you,” he admitted.

  “Why, does she think that bunny’s coming after me next?” It hadn’t occurred to her until that moment. The rabbit, she recalled, had gotten a good look at her. She was a witness.

  “Not exactly,” Warren said.

  “Well, what then?”

  Warren worked at his lip some more.

  “She thinks,” he paused, “that maybe you’re involved somehow.”

  “What, like I helped with the kidnapping?” Rhonda’s voice raised in pitch.

  “Relax,” Warren said. “Pat’s just a leave-no-stone-unturned person.”

  “So that’s why you wanted to come along? To keep an eye on me?” She was furious, mostly with herself for thinking that Warren had come along for other reasons.

  “Nah,” Warren smiled. “I came along ’cause I thought you were kind of cute.” He winked. “Listen, I can see you’re on the level. I’ll talk to Pat.”

  Rhonda kept her eyes on the road, hands gripping the wheel as she drove down toward the lake. They passed the Ducharme farm—a Jersey cow was poking her broad snout through the roadside fence, seeing if the pickings were any better out there.

  “So what is it you’re doing at school…computer science or something?” Rhonda asked after a few minutes of silence.

  Warren laughed. “I’m a film student.”

  “Really? You make movies?”

  “I’ve made one. A documentary about this place I used to work at: Story Town. It’s like a theme park with buildings and characters from classic stories. You know…like the old woman who lived in a shoe, Jack and the Beanstalk, that kind of thing.”

  “Just don’t tell me there are any big white rabbits,” Rhonda said.

  “Nope. Not a one. And my movie is more about the stoner culture of the kids working there than the characters themselves. Humpty Dumpty was a dealer. Cinderella was sleeping around.”

  “Ah. The dark underbelly of children’s entertainment,” Rhonda said.

  “Exactly,” Warren said. “And I’ve gotta admit, when I heard it was a rabbit who took this girl, it sounded right up my alley. I thought that maybe, I dunno, when it’s over, when Ernie comes out okay, I could do a little movie about it. You know…interview people and stuff. It’s a helluva story, don’t you think? I mean, this could be way bigger than what happened to that girl in Virginia.”

  THEY CLIMBED UP onto the tiny Astroturf-covered porch, ducking the bird feeders that hung along the edge of the overhang. Warren tapped at a set of parrot wind chimes while Rhonda knocked on the screen door.

  “If you’re the goddamn press, I don’t have anything to say!” came a voice from the depths of the trailer.

  “Laura Lee! It’s Rhonda Farr!”

  “Ronnie? Goddamn! Come on in.”

  Laura Lee greeted them in the kitchen, which was done in white and turquoise and looked as though it hadn’t been either remodeled or cleaned since sometime in the sixties.

  Laura Lee had giant red curls that must have taken hours to put in and were up so high and stiff above her head that Rhonda wondered how the poor woman kept her balance. Her eyes were painted silver and blue (nearly matching the kitchen décor) and she had two circles of rouge on her cheeks. Her lips were hot pink. She wore bright yellow stirrup pants and a T-shirt with a sequined parrot on the front. In one hand, she held a highball glass of pink wine with an orange slice, in the other, a thin cigarette.

  “I thought you were from the papers.” Laura Lee swayed toward them as she spoke, then jerked herself back so fast she stumbled. “Reporters came by earlier. They’ve been calling all day. I finally took the goddamn phone off the hook. Are you going to introduce me to your adorable boyfriend, or not?” Laura Lee touched Warren on the cheek. “God, you’re a looker!”

  “Laura Lee, this is Warren. He worked with me today at the volunteer center.”

  “Volunteer center? What are you, out collecting for charity? AIDS? Those bums, whatayacall’em now, homeless? Ha! Orphans, maybe? Oh, whatever it is, I’ll throw in a buck. Why not?” She turned and found her purse on the kitchen table and began fumbling to undo the clasp.

  “No, it’s nothing like that,” Rhonda said. “Pat set up a center at the Mini Mart for volunteers to help find Ernestine Florucci. We answered phones. Made posters. That kind of thing.”

  Laura Lee scowled at her. “Good for you, sweetie. Good. For. You. Is that why you’re here? To see if I’ve got the little dove tucked away under my bed? Well, you don’t have to bother. The police already checked.”

  “No! No, Laura Lee. That’s not it at all. I was just hoping you could tell us about your car.”

  “My car? Everyone wants to know about the goddamn car. The police took it, impounded it. They insist it was used in the kidnapping. Said they found some kinda evidence. Ha! I don’t know a thing about it. I take it out once, maybe twice a week. I haven’t driven my goddamn car since last Thursday! It’s been sitting in the driveway the whole time. The police had me down at the station all morning taking down my whole life history. Hell of a way to get your biography written, huh?”

  “So you didn’t notice if it was missing?” Rhonda asked.

  “Sweetie, I was here with my Lifetime movies. All the fans were blasting. I had a few goddamn glasses of sangria—I think I’ve earned that much, don’t you? I wouldn’t have noticed if the devil himself came prancing up from Hades and took my car. I can’t see the driveway through the living room windows, and the shades were drawn anyway to keep the heat out. I didn’t hear a goddamn thing. I got this telephone call around ten after three. Some lady from my credit card company wanting to offer insurance at a reduced rate because I’m such a good customer or some such bull crapola. Ha! The police tracked her down and that proved to them that I was home. As if I were really going to dress up like the goddamn Easter Bunny from hell and steal a little girl! Absurd! Don’t they know who I am?”

  Rhonda gave Laura Lee a weak smile and glanced over at Warren to see how he was taking all this. He seemed to be eating it up. He was smiling away at the crazy woman, and before Rhonda could keep the conversation on track, he went and blew it.

  “You’re an actress, aren’t you, Miss Clark?” he asked.

  “Why, yes I am! Have you seen my work?”

  “Warren’s a film student,” Rhonda said. “He makes documentaries.”

  This news produced a warm glow in Laura Lee.

  “You sure do look familiar,”
Warren told her. “What have you been in?”

  “Oh, far too many pictures to name, young man. Hundreds. Why, I bet if we were to turn on the TV right now, one of my pictures would be showing”—and before they could talk her out of it, Laura Lee was headed into the living room and reaching for the remote.

  “Sit, sit.” She gestured toward a faded love seat covered in a crocheted afghan. “Don’t mind the African,” she said. Warren gave Rhonda a startled look. “I put it there to hide a hole in the sofa. Goddamn cigarettes!”

  “It’s lovely,” Rhonda said, touching the gaudy afghan and biting her lip to keep from laughing. “Did you make it yourself?”

  “Hell no! Yard sale,” Laura Lee said, then turned her attention back to the television. “Here we go: Earthquake. I do a great scream in this film. God, I hope we haven’t missed my part! Chuck Heston was just a dream to work with. And I don’t care what kind of goddamn right-wing gun-nut wacko he is, either!” She held up a hand to silence any argument from Rhonda or Warren. “Ava Gardner, on the other hand, was a total bitch.”

  “You must have had quite a career,” Warren said. Rhonda reached over and pinched him, her hand well hidden by the bunched up “African.”

  “There’s nothing like a career in the cinema. Rhonda, honey, I have to say I was always a little disappointed that you didn’t choose a life in the footlights.”

  “Me?” Rhonda asked.

  “I mean, I know you were only children when you put on those plays in the woods, but you had goddamn talent. I know it when I see it. You had a gift.” She turned to Warren. “You should have seen her. She was magnificent. In her last role, she was Wendy from Peter Pan. She had me in tears. And what were you, dear, ten, eleven years old?”

  Rhonda nodded.

  “I never understood why you kids tore down that stage. You got yourselves all banged up. Probably could have been killed. And what for?”

  Rhonda shrugged. “It was a long time ago. I can’t remember.” She reached up and brushed back her bangs, feeling for the thin scar above her left eyebrow.