by Jill G. Hall
They scaled the cliff down to the deserted beach, removed their shoes, and tossed them on the rocks. She unhooked her nylons, pulled them off, and laid them aside too. The sand felt cool between her toes. She lifted the hem of her gown and draped it over an arm. Her blonde hair loosened as it blew around her face.
They walked toward the water, and Ricardo sipped from his flask again. Beads of rum clung to his mustache. He licked them off and offered her a sip. “Want some?”
She put her hand out to take it, to keep him from drinking more. But he snickered, raised the flask out of her reach, and stuck it in his coat pocket.
They walked along the shoreline, where the hard sand made a steady path for her feet. She inhaled the cool salt air, welcomed by her queasy stomach. The wind picked up, and she huddled into her velvet coat. “I’m okay now. Let’s go back up.”
At the water’s edge, Ricardo rolled up his tux legs, waded in, and turned around. “Come on.”
She shivered. “No. It’s too cold.”
He splashed toward her and beckoned. “Feels great!” Coming closer, he grasped her coat lapels and kissed her with his stinky breath.
“Leave me alone,” she cried over the sound of the waves. Pushing him away, she turned and started to walk back up the beach toward the cliffs.
He scrambled after her, grabbed a bruised wrist, and yanked her into the frigid water up to her knees. Cold spray flew around her.
“Let go!”
“Don’t worry. I won’t drown you.” He had a wicked glint in his eyes.
More frightened than she’d ever been in her life, she thought of the girl in Mexico. Is this how she had disappeared? Would Sylvia be his next victim?
As she tugged away, he tripped and almost fell.
“You bitch!” he yelled, rushing toward her again, his hand ready to punch her.
Certain that he was going to kill her, she backed up onto the sand, reached into the pocket of her swing coat, drew the gun, held it in the air, then aimed it at his chest. “Stop,” she screamed.
He laughed at her, a deep hollow laugh. “You’d never shoot me, mi amor,” he taunted.
How could she have ever thought she loved him? That hadn’t been love—it had been charm and lust—but now this was just intimidation and fear. Even still, as he lunged toward her, she was shocked when she pulled the trigger. Bam! Bam! Bam!
With a surprised look on his face, he stumbled, then fell back into the foamy wash.
She caught her balance from the kickback and stood motionless, trying to catch her breath, not believing what she had done. She stared at his body as it bobbed on top of a shallow swell. A crest approached, and with a pounding roar, it enveloped him and ebbed out toward the breakers.
A loud wave crashed on shore, and she watched as Ricardo’s body floated out further into the ocean. “Adiós,” she whispered at a rush of waves with tears in her eyes, saddened for the love she had thought she had and then lost. Mesmerized, she watched his dark form mingle with the midnight blue water and disappear from sight. The frothy tide lapped her bare feet, which broke the spell and alerted her senses. She shuddered, felt the weight of the gun in her hand, and tossed it into the water. It caught on a clump of seaweed. A fresh wave released it, set it free, and pulled it out and down into the watery silt.
Afraid Ricardo would rise up and come after her, she wanted to get as far away as possible and ran up the beach. Like in a dream, the fog began to roll in, and with each step, her bare feet sank deeper into the sand.
By the time she reached the rocks, exhaustion had set in, but somehow she summoned the strength to grab her shoes and nylons and scale the rocks, scraping her feet and the silver gown’s hem on the crags. Hot from exertion, she tugged off her coat and tossed it on the car’s hood. She opened the heavy door, climbed inside, and reached under the seat for the keys, where he always kept them. Her toes couldn’t touch the pedals, and she struggled to pull the seat up, turned the key in the ignition, shifted the car into reverse, and pushed on the gas.
Emerging out of the fog, a truck barreled down the road and honked. She slammed on the brakes and pulled forward just in time. Parked again, she began to shake. She put her head on the steering wheel and sobbed long and loud. Ten minutes had passed before Sylvia leaned over and grabbed tissues from the glove box.
She clasped Ricardo’s Madonna that hung from the rearview mirror and blinked a silent prayer before she slowly backed out again and drove toward the cottage.
Paul had taught her to drive. On her nineteenth birthday, he had insisted. “I know you’re nervous, but now’s the time.”
“But Milo takes me everywhere.” She had stuck out her lip and pouted toward Paul.
“Yes, but you never know when you’ll need to make a quick getaway,” Paul had teased back. It had been scary at first, but once she got the hang of it, driving had been exhilarating—whizzing by grapevines, wind blowing her hair, dust flying.
At the cottage, she parked in front and ran up the stairs, the hem of her gown heavy with damp sand. Her bare shoulders dotted with goose bumps, she let herself in. In the entry mirror, she examined her pale, tear-streaked face and asked her image, “What have I done?”
She dropped her necklace and earrings inside her handbag. The side zipper of her dress stuck, so she ripped it off and threw it on a bedroom chair. Then she slipped on slacks and a cashmere sweater. She wanted to stop and catch her breath but looked around the room. The satin-sheeted bed where Ricardo last slept reminded her of him, and she ran out the door and back to the Cadillac.
Navigating through the now dense fog on deserted streets, she finally pulled into the circular drive and around to the back of her house. Her watch said two thirty. Without a sound, she opened the back door and tiptoed up the rear steps, careful not to wake Ella and Milo. Lucy rushed toward her, whimpering with excitement.
“Hush, girl,” Sylvia whispered, and she scooped the puppy up. “Yes, I’ve missed you too.”
She pushed open the bedroom door, entered the darkness, and alit on the edge of her bed. With Lucy in her lap, Sylvia caressed the puppy’s smooth fur until anxiety began to subside and her eyelids fluttered closed, but then they opened again. Ricardo probably would have killed her if she hadn’t killed him first. The police would never believe that. Either way, she was the one who pulled the trigger and ran away. If his body washed up on the beach, they would come, handcuff her, and take her to jail. A plan had to be formulated—she needed to escape.
21
Her mother’s voice on the phone sounded frantic: “We heard there has been a windstorm in Phoenix. Are you all right?”
“Mom, San Francisco is nowhere near there.” Anne yawned and curled up on the daybed. She had spent the whole exhausting day parking cars. “I’m fine,” Anne said slowly. Mr. Block’s critique yesterday had put her in a funk, but she didn’t want to share any of it with her mother. If it hadn’t been for Fay, Anne probably would have jumped off the Golden Gate.
“You sound down.” Her mother always tried to cheer her. “I wish you could come home for Thanksgiving next week.”
“Me too.” This would be the first time she’d ever been on her own for that holiday, and she volunteered to cover at the hotel so Howard could be with his family.
“I suppose you’ll be spending the day with Karl.”
“Not exactly.” Even though he kept calling, she hadn’t spoken to him since that night.
“Did you have a spat?”
She didn’t want to tell her mother the gory details. “Some-thing like that.”
“I’m sorry, dear. If you want to move home, the card table is still set up.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Anne hung up thinking about their long-ago fight after her mother had asked her to clean up the art materials from the dining room for the umpteenth time:
“But I’m not finished with this project.” Anne stamped her middle-schooler foot.
“I’ve told you to move it to the basement.” She r
aised her voice. “You can have the whole place to yourself.”
Anne started to cry. “I can’t. It’s too dark.”
“Set up an extra floor lamp.”
“That won’t help. I need natural light. Can I set up a table in my bedroom?”
“Okay. Get the card table from the garage.” And so she did. That year, Anne decoupaged everything she could lay her hands on: cigar boxes, tackle boxes, trunks.
Her mother would come in and inspect the work: “You should put some more pink on this one and some sparkles on that one.”
Anne really hoped she wouldn’t need to move home. Thank heavens that when she talked to the bank, the mango check had cleared, and that when she handed Mrs. Ladenheim a new check, she had only responded, “Let’s just not ever let it happen again.”
Anne’s phone buzzed, and there was a text from Dottie: Did you see the postings about my show?
Anne swallowed and texted back: I’m so proud of you. How did it happen?
Dottie: Met this hunk at a party who owns a gallery.
Anne: Still painting circus acts?
Dottie: Yes, but you might say I’ve turned everything upside down.
Anne: I’m happy for you.
Dottie: Please come.
Anne: Too tight right now. She wished she could. It had been almost a year since Dottie had been there to visit. Anne picked up the key from the altar and played with it.
Dottie: Introduce gallery owners to you. Come.
Anne: Can’t
Dottie: Jet Blue has good deal on red-eye. Book it or fare might go up. I’ll reimburse you half.
Anne: You can’t afford that.
Dottie: Sure I can. Think about it.
No way could Anne run off to New York in two weeks. With a sigh, she dialed Fay to thank her for being so nice yesterday.
“Glad you called. I’ve got some news. I can hang your Hitchcock piece.”
Anne’s pulse raced. “What about Mr. Block?”
“The plonker warned it’s a one-off.”
“A what?”
“One time only. It’s a dark spot in the back, but everyone needs to go by it sooner or later to get to the loo. Can you drop it off soon? I want to get it up before the holiday weekend.”
“Certainly! I’ll slip it in a frame and deliver it to you tomorrow on my way to work.”
“That would be great.” Fay paused. “Where do you work?”
“At the St. Francis, parking cars.”
“Really? Do you like it?”
“Sometimes. I like the other staff, and I meet interesting people. It can be tiring though, and there are a lot of night shifts.”
“Customers just came in. See you tomorrow.”
Anne hung up. She wanted to tell Dottie the good news, but it was nothing compared to a solo show. Anne took a good shot of the piece and sat at the computer to do a Facebook post but then stopped and thought about it. Who was she trying to kid? A little piece back by the loo.
She took the photo transfer out of her portfolio and tacked it back up on the wall then Googled for more information on Sylvia Van Dam. An Arizona Sun newspaper article popped up. There on page three in large print blazed, Heiress and Fiancé Missing. A larger version of her engagement announcement picture—pearls around her neck, hair perfectly coiffed, and smile wide—ran with it. Unlike the party photo with Ricardo, this face had a childlike innocence. At twenty-one, she appeared much too young to get married, but in those days, things were different.
Anne printed out the image. On white rag paper, Anne flipped the copy upside down and moved the special marker back and forth over it. She pulled away the sheet to reveal, like magic, Sylvia’s countenance in shades of gray, her beauty barely visible. Anne picked up a small paintbrush and carefully dabbed in a little watercolor to give Sylvia’s features pizzazz: baby blue for the eyes, a pale pink for the lips, and off-white creams for the pearls and hair.
Anne had been afraid that adding these tints might ruin the transfer’s effect and mar the socialite’s exquisiteness, but they only enhanced her visage. With a smile, she pinned the piece to the wall, picked up a red pencil, and wrote below the transfer, Sylvia, where are you? A whiff of gardenia scented the air. Stunned Anne sat on the daybed and inhaled. It was as if the woman was communicating with her.
22
Sylvia waited until dawn and watched shadows cast across the wood floor as the sun began to make its way into her bedroom. Visions had raced through her mind all night in a kaleidoscope of fear and raw emotion, making it impossible to sleep. Lucy climbed out from under the covers and crawled over Sylvia. With plans finalized, Sylvia started to tremble, forced herself out of bed, and opened the safe behind her closet door. She pulled out all the cash, counted it, and slipped it into her handbag.
Sipping an Alka-Seltzer, she packed: a dressing gown, under-garments, a skirt, and a blouse, tossing them into a floral satchel. She needed to travel light. With her navy suit donned and her hair twisted up, she took a quick look around, trying not to cry. She might not ever see her room again. Lucy scampered behind as Sylvia turned the crystal knob and tiptoed down the stairs.
She stopped and watched Ella rattling in the kitchen while she fried bacon. Soon sunny-side up eggs would be set on a Haviland plate for her. Sylvia wished she could turn back the clock, before Ricardo and before all the trouble began. She wanted to run to Ella and apologize, feel those strong arms around her. But instead, she quietly crossed the marble foyer. She couldn’t face Ella, not this morning.
Lucy followed Sylvia out the door, scrambled onto the lawn, and rolled around. A dewy haze enveloped the front yard and dripped off the roses. “Mr. Lincoln,” Milo’s favorite bloom, had unfurled last week and would soon lose its petals. Milo was polishing the hood ornament on the Rolls Royce parked in the driveway. Too bad the flying lady wasn’t real. Sylvia wished she could climb on its back and be flown far from San Francisco.
She put her satchel down, and Milo looked up. His eyes filled with affection. “Mornin’, Miss Sylvie. Going somewhere?”
“Yes, Milo, I need a ride.”
“What about Mr. Lopez?”
“I broke it off.” She hated to lie. “He’s gone.”
Milo grinned. “Finally come to your senses.”
His words made her queasy with guilt. She walked over to Lucy, who had rolled onto her back to have her tummy rubbed. Tears flicked from Sylvia’s lashes as she crouched down to whisper, “Bye, sweet girl.” Then she trudged back to the Rolls.
Milo opened the door for Sylvia, but Lucy jumped in first. He reached for the puppy, but she scooted across the seat to the other side. “You sack of sugar!” Milo scolded, and he hurried around to the other door.
“Let her come along for the ride,” Sylvia suggested.
“You sure?”
“It’ll be okay.” She climbed in, and he set the satchel next to her on the seat. Lucy crawled around it and settled into Sylvia’s lap. Worried her suit might get mussed, she started to push Lucy off but changed her mind and let her stay. Her warmth and sweet murmurs were a comfort.
“Where to?”
“The train depot.”
He nodded and pulled out of the drive. “Heard it was some party last night.”
“Sure was.” She rested her head back on the leather seat. She remembered the Cadillac parked behind the house and thought of Ricardo. His face loomed in her mind, his surprised expression when she shot him. She broke out in a sweat and closed her eyes tight, willing his visage away. Paul’s blue eyes appeared and looked at her with concern. She wanted to go to him now and tell him what had happened, but he would try and convince her to turn herself in, and she didn’t want to go to jail. The police would never believe it was an accident. She didn’t even know what she was doing.
She opened her eyes, and Grace Cathedral, with its tall towers, emerged. “Stop at the church.” She pulled a scarf from her handbag, put it over her head, and flipped the ends around to the back of her nec
k. Then she pulled out dark glasses and put them on. Milo glided the Rolls to the curb. She slid Lucy off her lap, got out of the car, and looked around to make sure no one would see her. “I’ll be just a moment.”
She pushed open the cathedral’s heavy doors and stepped inside. It was cool, dark, and deserted. She removed her sunglasses and put them in a pocket. Her heels echoed on the tile as she walked down the aisle toward the altar—the same aisle she had planned to walk down on her wedding day, a day that now would never come.
Light from the stained glass windows reflected onto the side of her suit and pale face: ruby, sapphire, and emerald. Alone at the front of the church, she lit a votive and closed her eyes. “Please forgive me. I have sinned.” She paused and wondered if God really listened.
She didn’t know for sure if she believed, but if there really was a God, why would He allow someone as evil as Ricardo to walk the earth? Well, he certainly wasn’t doing that anymore. Would that God forgive her for killing Ricardo? She hoped so. It had been an accident, a reactive impulse.
She moved to the front pew and sat on a cushion, remembering her parents’ funeral years before. On that stormy day, it seemed as if the service would never end. The priest’s voice had droned on and on about their sacred lives. Sylvia hadn’t been able to cry or even pray.
In fact, she felt relief at their deaths. She’d never been able to be the good girl they wanted. “Sylvia, stop giggling and put your hands in your lap.” She could hear her mother’s high-pitched voice now. Maybe if her parents had lived longer, they would have grown to love her. She wondered again if they were in heaven and what kind of God would take a young girl’s parents from her.
A door slammed, which broke her reverie, and the memory flitted away. A tall priest appeared from behind the altar and moved toward her. She raced down the aisle and out the door.
Rushing to the Rolls she slammed the door behind her. Milo woke up and yawned. “Just restin’ my eyes.” He looked at her in the rearview mirror. “You okay?”
“Fine,” she said, but she really wasn’t. Her hands shook while she lit a cigarette. “To the train depot.”
