by Betty Webb
“Sounds good to me. And call me Lena.”
At first glance, the kitchen was every woman’s dream. Big skylight shining on a cream marble floor and countertop, mahogany cabinets, a prep island as long as a ’76 Cadillac, a shiny Sub-Zero refrigerator, and a massive Viking range that could have prepared a meal for the entire crew of a marauding longboat. On closer inspection, I saw that one of the cabinet doors hung crookedly, and a large crack ran the entire length of the marble countertop.
But the toddlers she settled into matching high chairs weren’t in perfect shape, either.
Despite their obvious injuries—scars from old cigarette burns running up and down their arms—they looked happy and well cared-for. I thought back to the media coverage of their parents’ arrest and trial and guestimated that Fiona had been fostering the twins for around eight months.
Crooning something sappy from The Sound of Music, she began spooning yellow gook into the toddlers’ mouths. “So what do you want to know about Kyle?” she asked, after the boy spit the gook into her face.
Me, I would have gagged, but she just laughed, wiped it away, and thrust another spoonful into the spitter’s gaping maw. This time it stayed in.
“Fiona, do you think Kyle murdered that family?”
“Does a bear shit in a Manhattan subway?”
“Uh, no.”
“There’s your answer.”
In denial, just like Kyle’s aunt. I tried a fresh approach. “Let me see his room. If he’s as innocent as you claim, it’ll give me an idea of what he’s really like, not what the arresting officers say he’s like.”
She was silent for so long I thought she was going to deny my request, but eventually she nodded. “Upstairs, first room on the left, right next to the twins’ nursery. Won’t do you any good. Cops took everything.”
Before she could change her mind, I left her shoveling more food into the toddlers’ mouths.
Two of the stairs creaked loudly, and one of the balusters had crumpled under the weight of the heavy oak handrail. More evidence that the Etheridge household was tight for cash, probably the reason they had started fostering in the first place. Fostering pays, which is one of the reasons it sometimes attracts the less-than-kid-friendly.
Once I walked into Kyle’s room, I understood why Fiona had allowed me access. The room was almost as large as the master bedroom across the hall, and twice as crowded. No electronics, though. The police would have taken them away. Still, it was nice, for a change, to see a kid’s room that hadn’t been trashed.
Nothing but the usual boy-clutter. Shoulder pads, a catcher’s mask and mitt, an aluminum bat, hockey knee guards, and a few items I couldn’t identify. But sports played second fiddle to the supposed killer’s obsession with animals. Only one sports poster decorated the walls: a photograph of Hank Aaron hitting his seven hundredth and fifty-fifth homer. The other posters showed various young animals at play: colts, puppies, kittens, kangaroo joeys, tiger cubs, fawns…There were so many, you could hardly see the pale blue walls that perfectly matched the bedspread.
Kyle’s obsession with animals didn’t stop at posters. In a large Plexiglas cage on the top of the chest of drawers, two gerbils snuffled happily through wood shavings while a third exercised its stumpy legs on a wheel. In the corner, a forty-gallon aquarium played home to an assortment of colorful fish swimming around a tiny plastic castle. On a sunlit window seat, two fat gray kittens snuggled alongside an equally fat mixed-breed puppy.
Other than Hank Aaron, the only human presence in the room was two photographs on the nightstand. One showed Fiona with a man I took to be her husband. The other was of a still-blond Ali, her face glowing. When I opened the nightstand’s drawer, I found it bare.
The desk drawers looked the same. The police hadn’t left so much as a paper clip. There was nothing under the bed, either, nor in the chest of drawers.
As I crossed the room to check out the closet, a movement out of the corner of my eye startled me. I turned to see a minor scuffle between two of the aquarium fish—an orange and yellow something-or-other nipping at the fins of a blue something-or-other. Amused, I watched as Bluefish—who had to be twice the size of its attacker—head-butted Yellowfish, knocking him into the side of the tiny castle. Chagrined, Yellowfish swam away with Bluefish chasing him through a small forest of seaweed. I’d started to turn away when I noticed something out of place.
The fish fight had moved the castle about a quarter of an inch, revealing what looked like a white strip of plastic underneath. It was probably nothing, but I dipped my hand into the cool water, lifted the castle off its base…
And pulled out a fat plastic envelope waterproofed by generous application of duct-tape.
At the sound of footsteps on the stairs, I stuffed the envelope into my carryall. I was just drying my hand on my jeans when Fiona stepped into the room. Fortunately, she didn’t notice.
“So, you think this looks like the bedroom of a homicidal maniac?” She sounded more relaxed now that the twins had been fed.
“Not at first glance.”
“Hmph.” She stared at the two fish. They were fighting again.
Eager to turn her attention away from the aquarium, I pointed to the kittens and pup on the window seat. “Who’s taking care of Kyle’s pets now?” I asked, although I could guess the answer.
“Me, since I have so much time on my hands.” She walked over to the seat and scratched a variety of heads. Only one, the puppy, opened its eyes briefly in grateful acknowledgement. “Kyle’s rescues. Along with dozens of others. Squirrels. Snakes. A desert tortoise with a broken shell. Carried home a three-legged coyote pup, once. Turned it over to Adobe Mountain Wildlife Rescue. Always nagging me to drive him up there to visit it. Know how far that is?”
I nodded. The rescue center was on the opposite side of the county.
“Damn near thirty miles. He named it Bruce. Cute little thing. Semi-tame now. Never be returned to the wild. Too crippled up.”
For obvious reasons, it was rare for foster parents to allow their wards to adopt animals. When a child is on the move through the foster system, he or she must remain unencumbered. Only once had I been allowed to keep a pet, a yellow dog named Sandy. It hadn’t ended well.
Not for me, anyway.
“Why’d you let Kyle keep all of them?” I asked Fiona. “If he was moved to a different foster home he’d be forced to leave them behind.”
“We were having adoption papers drawn up when, well, when Ali’s family was killed.”
“You were going to adopt him?” I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice.
“Still will when this mess is over.”
That day sounded like a cold day in Hell to me, but I let it slide. “What does his aunt think about that?”
A variety of emotions swept across her face: anger, contempt, pity. “She knows it’s for the best. Given her criminal record, they’d never allow her to take custody. She loves him, though, so we’ve promised to let her see him. We drive him over to her trailer every week, drink crappy coffee in that greasy spoon down the street while he visits.”
I noted her use of the present tense, as if nothing had changed. “That must be a comfort to them both.”
“Hmph. I happen to believe, although I’ve never said this to Kyle, that the less he sees of what remains of his so-called family, the better. Still, love is love, no matter where you find it.”
There was nothing to say to that, so I opened the door to the closet, peered inside. Nothing. The closet was as empty as the drawers.
“They really cleaned everything out, didn’t they?”
“He had a laptop and iPod we bought for him, but the cops impounded them. Along with his cell. They hauled out cartons and cartons of stuff, all the new clothes we bought for him. Probably looking for blood stains.” She sniffed.
“D
id Kyle keep a journal?”
“What teen doesn’t? The cops took it before I could do anything. I would’ve burned or buried it in the backyard before I let them get their hands on it. And I can guess your next question, so no, I never read his journal. Kids have a right to their private thoughts. Especially foster kids.”
“Then you don’t know what he wrote about.”
“Nope, although I guess Ali figured heavily, young love and all that. If you’re finished here, let’s go back downstairs before the twins make a break for it.” The rushed tone came back into her voice.
We went downstairs, where I discovered that before Fiona had come upstairs to check on me, she’d cleaned the twins up and transferred them to a large playpen filled with stuffed animals. The boy was trying to eat a teddy bear while the girl poked a turtle into his ear. Fiona picked up each in turn, giving prolonged hugs. I couldn’t tell if they appreciated it or not, because both tried to ram their toys into her eye. Maybe they were aiming for her mouth.
“What’s going to happen to them?” I asked.
“There’s a long line of people wanting…” Suddenly hoarse, she cleared her throat. “…wanting to adopt them, so they’ll be fine. Caucasian newborns and toddlers, they’re the adoption superstars. It’s the mixed-race children and older kids, teens like Kyle, who have trouble finding permanent homes. Given your own background, you ought to know that.”
Yes, I did. After entering the CPS system at the age of four, I’d dragged my garbage-bag suitcase through a dozen foster homes before I aged out of the system at eighteen. In a way, it was understandable. Not everyone felt comfortable caring for a parentless child who’d stabbed someone. Oh, well. Water and blood under the bridge.
“How ’bout some coffee?” Fiona asked, gesturing toward the kitchen. “I was up with the twins half the night, and if I don’t get a jolt of caffeine, I’m going to fall flat on my face.” Without waiting for my answer, she headed for the kitchen again.
The coffee tasted like mud, but I drank it anyway. Anything to keep her talking. Back in the living room, the twins gibberished happily to each other.
“What does Mr. Etheridge do?” I asked.
“Glen owns a print shop. Used to employ fourteen people. Down to eight. Economy, you know.” She looked around, at the damaged countertop and broken cabinet door. “We’re barely hanging on, so the money from fostering helps. Some, anyway. We wind up blowing it on the kids. Kyle and the twins aren’t the first we’ve fostered, they’re more like the…” She closed her eyes, counted silently, opened them again. “Right, right. They’re the sixteenth kids we’ve taken in. Need everything from underwear to shoes. Glasses. Hearing aids. Prosthetics. The state’s supposed to cover those expenses, but we add to it out of our own pocket. Our sofa’s so old Napoleon probably warmed his ass on it.”
I surveyed the kitchen again. Chips on the mahogany cabinets, a couple of drawers with broken pulls. Such bedlam wouldn’t be everyone’s cup of tea, especially in Scottsdale. Curious, I asked, “How does your husband feel about this?”
She laughed. “Glen wouldn’t notice if the refrigerator fell on his head unless it clipped one of the kids on the way down.”
“He likes kids, then?”
“Came from a big family. Eight brothers and sisters, he was the youngest. Me, I was one of those lonely-onlys, spent my childhood wanting a big family, so when Glen and I married, I got pregnant right off the bat. We had Drake and a year and a half later, Emilie came along. Happiest years of my life.” Her smile faded. “Both away at school now. Empty nester, that’s me.”
“Thus the foster thing.”
“Seemed like the perfect answer. Extra money, and kids running around again. You don’t know how quiet an empty house can be.”
I thought back to my apartment over Desert Investigations, the lonely nights there. But I said, “You’re right, I don’t.”
“You get used to a certain level of noise,” she continued, her hurried speech slowing, warming. “And you get used to doing things for other people, not for yourself. Hey, I know I look like hell, but I’m okay with it. The babies keep me off the streets, right? If I had my way, Drake and Emilie would still be living here and attending ASU, letting me fuss over them, but no, Drake was determined to be an aerospace engineer and just had to go to Cal Tech. Emilie’s at Julliard.”
“She’s a musician?”
“Cello.” Fiona’s wry expression didn’t hide the pride in her eyes. “You have any idea how much a decent cello costs?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued, “You’re looking at ten thousand for starters, and they go up from there. God help us if she gets a job with a symphony orchestra. We’d have to take out a second mortgage on the house. A third, I mean. Already have a second.” She brightened. “Maybe she’ll get a job with the Phoenix Symphony. Then she could move back home, save us some money.”
She looked into the living room, where the twins’ babbling had stopped. “Uh oh. When it gets quiet, that’s when you have to worry. Excuse me while I go check.”
Fiona was gone long enough for me to reflect on some of my own foster mothers. Madeline topped the list of the good ones, with Mrs. Giblin close behind. Some women seemed to be born maternal, whether they could give birth or not. Whereas others…The act of giving birth was no guarantee of decency. If it had been, the twins wouldn’t be covered with scars.
Fiona finally returned, smelling like shit. Literally. “They’ve found a new game,” she grumbled, as she wetted down a towel in the sink. “Look, can we wrap this up for now? I need to spot-clean the carpet.”
“One more question.” The one I’d purposely put off until last. “Did Kyle shoplift?”
She didn’t turn around. “What makes you ask that?”
“The Cuisinart Elite IV sitting in his aunt’s kitchen.”
Her answer was so soft I had to ask her to repeat it. “We give him an allowance,” she finally said.
“That model can run to six hundred dollars.”
She dropped the towel into the sink and turned to face me. “Oh, all right. Yes, Kyle used to shoplift, but he hasn’t done that in a long time.”
“The Cuisinart looked brand new to me.”
“Appearances can be deceiving.” She bent down and began hauling out bottles and cans of various cleaning solutions. “Not that I haven’t enjoyed our little chat, but I’ve really got to spot-clean that carpet before the stains set.” She straightened back up and blew a stray hair out of her face. “Now, if you don’t mind…”
We were at an impasse, but fortunately I was able to talk her into seeing me again tomorrow at three, the twins’ nap time. By then she would have either come up with a better cover story for Kyle’s supposedly former bad habits, or tell the truth. I hoped it would be the latter.
“You’ve given me a clear sense of Kyle,” I said, as she hustled me through the reeking living room. “Maybe tomorrow we can talk more about his relationship with Ali.”
Opening the front door, she said, “Sure, but long story short, they were a real-life Romeo and Juliet couple.” For a moment, fear flickered across her face. “And you know how that turned out.”
As the door closed behind me, I recalled how the play ended.
With a double suicide.
Not wanting to wait until I got back to Desert Investigations, I drove down to the end of the block and parked under a shady eucalyptus. After making certain she wasn’t peeking out her window, I pulled the envelope out of my pocket and slashed through the duct tape with the penknife I kept in my carryall.
Unwrapped the notes inside. Most were the usual moony teenage professions of love. Except for the last one.
It read…
I HATE MY PARENTS. I WISH SOMEBODY WOULD JUST KILL THEM. MAYBE YOU????
XOXOXO
LUV LUV LUV YOU MADLY
ALI
Chapter Seven
The next morning I learned that the Camerons’ former maid, Eldora Morales, already had a new job. Once she returned from her vacation with her family in Mexico, Margie Newberry, the Camerons’ next door neighbor, called around on her behalf, finally securing her a position with a family in Paradise Valley, an even more upscale community west of Scottsdale. Armetta Zielsdorf, her new employer, had graciously given her permission to speak to me, even though it meant Mrs. Zielsdorf would have to prepare lunch for herself, her four children, and three visiting friends. Judging from the burnt smells emanating from the kitchen, Mrs. Zielsdorf wasn’t much of a cook.
Driven out of the house by the stench, Eldora and I sat on the back patio, overlooking Camelback Mountain and the one hundred foot-high rock formation called the Praying Monk. The day’s heat hadn’t climbed to its peak yet, and an updraft from the canyon below kept the temperature bearable. Over glasses of iced tea, Eldora told me her story.
After being widowed, she came north—legally, she stressed—to find a job so she could send money home to her children and her mother and father, who were caring for them. Several stints as a hotel maid later, she wound up with the Camerons, where she stayed for twelve years, until their deaths. According to her, the Camerons had been the perfect employers and both children were utterly delightful.
“Even Ali?”
Eldora avoided looking at me by turning slightly so that she faced the Praying Monk. He perched so tenuously on the face of the mountain that it looked like he was about to tumble down to the street below. “Miss Ali a nice girl. Not kill her parents.”
“Look at me, Eldora.”
She turned back, but her eyes still wouldn’t meet mine. Somewhere in her fifties, Eldora’s hair was long, streaked with gray, and braided into one long plait down her back. Her short-nailed fingers fluttered nervously on the table’s surface.
“Nice girl. Very nice.”
Eldora wasn’t in denial about Ali and any misbehavior problems the girl might have had; her hesitancy came from the fact that maids who tell tales soon found themselves out of a job. The trick here would be to ease her past that concern.
