Birdie’s loft was in an area known as Cabbagetown. Nestled just south of downtown, it had an incredible view of the Atlanta skyline. Brick and exposed beams were a reminder that the building was an old cotton mill that had fallen into disrepair before an ambitious developer saw the vision of this chic city dwelling and converted it into lofts. The area’s name derived from the ambient odor of its former inhabitants’ modest food choices. Outsiders used it as a term of derision. But Cabbagetown was a term of pride for its post-bellum Appalachian-transplant residents. Birdie loved the rehabbed building, because it reminded her of Manchester.
The main room was completely devoid of furniture, pictures, rugs or any adornment. Her bedroom consisted of a king size mattress on a low platform slab in the center of the floor. Blankets were scrunched up and feather pillows tossed indiscriminately on the expanse of the 1000 thread count sheets. In true Birdie style, there was no ‘right way’ to sleep. No careful tucking or pillow placement indicated the head or foot of the bed. She had unscented, white altar candles in clusters on the floor and a single paper lamp she used for reading. Books were stacked in the corners of the room and had started spilling along several of the walls. Two racks of clothing stood against the far wall under a series of high windows. Her closet overflowed with shoes, purses and accessories of every description.
The three girls piled into bed around Birdie, wedging her in so she couldn’t thrash. Using hardcover coffee table books as trays, they tore into their Mexican feast.
“Suspended, huh?” Mary Jane peeled the wrapper back on her soft taco, “Are you gonna’ go to another club or stick it out?”
“I don’t know. I’m too mad to think straight tonight. I’m sure I’ll have an opinion about it tomorrow. I just can’t believe he had the gall to say that we’re lucky . . . Prick.”
“Yup,” Grace mumbled with a full mouth, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
The three chatted about the evening and finally decided to crash at Birdie’s since dawn was breaking and morning rush hour had begun. Thank God for blackout drapes.
CHAPTER 11
Sam was the first up. She shuffled around the loft trying to wake up. Starting a pot of coffee she noted the digital clock read 12:17 p.m. Birdie’s bed was certainly comfy, even with three other people, Sam slept like a log.
The girls were a motley crew before they’d had their morning drinks. After being rousted from a dead sleep, silence prevailed until Sam passed out beverages. She handed Birdie an obnoxiously large pair of stark white, plastic rimmed Jackie Onasis sunglasses to help her deal with the sunlight. They passed around a container of make-up remover wipes since no one thought to wash it off before they fell asleep. Hair disheveled and make-up smeared made them look like a troupe of tired, slutty clowns.
As they were settling into their second cup, Mary Jane lit her first cigarette.
“I’m a little surprised you have a coffee machine Bird.”
Birdie was stretched out on the bed, sunglasses on, staring into space. “Most of the people I’m sleeping with drink coffee.” She deadpanned, turning her bug-eyed sunglasses in Mary Jane’s direction.
Mary Jane spit her mouthful of coffee back into her cup, laughing.
“I know you hens think I’m a bloody Cretin, but I do occasionally think about company. ‘Ave a look in the freezer Mary Jane - fresh box of fags, your brand even. Sam’s favorite lemonade is in the pantry next to Grace’s gum sweeties.”
Grabbing her cell phone, Sam headed into the bathroom. Settling onto the seat, she thumbed her phone. Three messages. She couldn’t help but hope one might be from Gio, who, having realized the error of his insensitive ways, was offering an apology. But she knew better.
“Sam, it’s Amanda. Could you call me whenever you get this? I need to talk to ya’ll. I’ve found something I think you need to see. I don’t care if it’s late, or early, or whatever.” The other two messages were also from Amanda. Her tone in each successive message intensified slightly. Worried, Sam hit call back. Amanda picked up on the second ring.
“Sam?” Amanda’s voice seemed strained, fighting background noise that sounded like wind.
“Hey babe! What’s goin’ on?”
“Where are you?”
“I just got up, we’re all at Birdie’s. What’s going on? You sound stressed.”
“I’m just north of Macon, heading your way. Can I meet ya’ll somewhere? I really need to see you.”
“Yeah, absolutely. Do you wanna’ come to the loft?”
“Sure, that’ll work. Can you tell me how to get there from 75?’
Sam recited directions for Amanda and asked, “Are you ok? You sound, well, freaked.”
“I am freaked, but I’d rather not talk about it over the phone. I should be there in about forty-five minutes.”
“Okay, when you’re at the gate, look up Beatrix McGregor, that’s Birdie. See you soon.”
Sam knew Birdie’s legal name because she’d gone to court with her on several occasions. One trip for parking tickets, two for drunk and disorderly and another two for speeding. Birdie had threatened bodily harm if Sam ever let “Beatrix” slip. Sam assured her that it wasn’t awful and in fact was kinda’ cute. But Birdie wasn’t having it.
CHAPTER 12
The phone rang and Birdie buzzed Amanda in.
Amanda’s hands shook as she took a package, neatly wrapped in cloth from her backpack. Setting it in front of her on the floor, she carefully pulled back the edges of the pillowcase, revealing a leather-bound journal.
“It’s her diary.” Amanda murmured.
Icy fingers stretched across Sam’s scalp as Mary Jane ran her hands up and down her arms, trying to smooth the goose flesh away. Birdie pushed her sunglasses up onto the top of her head, barely containing the wild twists of red hair that stuck out in every direction. Her eyes glazed a bit as she looked down at it. Grace gasped, “But that’s private. Should we be looking at Lena’s personal things like this? I mean, after she’s gone? I just want my stuff burned, please don’t read my crazy notes to myself if I die.”
Sam took Grace’s hand and caught her eye. “She’s gone Grace. Nothing we read is going to change how we feel about her. And if something happens to you, it’d be the same. No matter what you think you’re hiding, we know you better.” She smiled a little. “We would be the ones who get rid of your porn and vibrators before your family gets there.”
Grace blushed.
“I don’t care if me mum finds porn here, I just don’t want her to find the homemade stuff I’m in.” Birdie instructed.
“Ahem.” A wide-eyed Mary Jane nodded briefly towards Amanda who had stopped shaking and started smiling.
“Sorry Amanda, I guess that was pretty off.”
Amanda grinned, “Thanks for not treating me like a little kid. You guys each remind me of a different piece of Alex. Anyway, don’t worry Grace. She clearly meant for this to be found. And read.”
CHAPTER 13
Lena had gone home to visit her family a week and a half before she was killed. Amanda guessed it was then that she hid her diary behind one of the loose cedar planks that lined the large walk-in-closet dividing their rooms. It was the secret space they had shared since they were little girls, leaving notes and presents for one another. Lena must have known that sooner or later Amanda would look to see what lingering mementos were hidden behind the wall, only to discover the book of Alex’s innermost thoughts and confessions. It was clear that if the storm had blown over, Alex could have gone back, retrieved the diary and no one would have been the wiser. If Amanda found it, Alex would have told her the truth.
Amanda only stayed at the loft for an hour or so, having to be back in Savannah by dark. She lied to her parents, telling them she was going to a performing arts festival in the historic district and would be out all day. She prayed they didn’t think to check her odometer. Atlanta was a solid four-hour drive each way. She was exhausted by the time she pulled past the
guardhouse at the entrance of the gated community where they lived.
Amanda felt good about leaving the diary and all its clippings and scribbled notes with the girls. She was comforted by the feeling they’d know what to do with it. Her initial thought had been to give it to her parents, or perhaps the police so Alex’s murderers could be tracked down. The investigating detectives had filled her parents in on Lena’s job while they were questioning the family about her murder. After the funeral, her parents made several comments about her sister’s murder being a consequence of her lifestyle. Not that they felt she deserved to die, but that if she’d walked the straight and narrow no harm would ever have come to her. She could tell that they felt Alex invited her own death. It broke Amanda’s heart to think about those spoken words. She knew it was a defense mechanism. If they could name the reason, identify the fault, they could save Amanda from suffering the same fate. Their protective grip on her had tightened since Alex’s death. Amanda hoped it was a knee-jerk reaction that would ease with time. She was beginning to feel like she was suffocating.
She understood the disdain for Alex’s job and friends, chalking them up to night crawlers that lived on the underbelly of society. But Amanda saw things in a different light. The light Alex had shown her during their long talks about her adventures, the girls, and the side of life she’d never seen before. She was sure that if she tried to talk to her parents about Alex, they would either dismiss her ideas as sophomoric or be infuriated that Alex had somehow tainted her baby sister by exposing her to dangerous elements. Life outside the walls of their sequestered existence of golf, tennis and private education was to be discouraged. It was dangerous.
In the end, Amanda had decided turning the diary over to the foursome was the best thing to do. Something deep within told her they would not allow Alex’s death to go unpunished. Even if no one else wanted to dirty their hands with the task, these women would track her killer to the ends of the earth and make that person suffer in the most thoroughly imaginative way.
Amanda smiled to herself as she punched the garage door opener.
CHAPTER 14
Sam set her bag down on the kitchen counter and began sorting through the pile of mail she’d been neglecting since the whole ordeal began. She dropped the envelopes into three piles — bills, undetermined, and trash. Kicking off her shoes, she padded over to the couch in her stocking feet. Even though she’d slept a solid eight hours at Birdie’s, she was still feeling tired. Punching the ‘speaker’ button on her cordless phone, she dialed into her voicemail system, making notes about who had called and placing small stars next to those messages that required a response.
Logging onto her laptop, she scheduled bill payments. She sifted through the “maybe” pile of mail, sorting it into a new “keep” pile and the existing trash pile. She straightened all the papers and carried the stack of rejects to her shredder. Fishing her tablet out of her bag, she settled herself back into the couch cushions, pen poised for her favorite activity — list making. Nothing soothed her nerves like a little organization. Labeling things in her apartment was a guilty pleasure she indulged in when the daily stress closed in. The pads she bought were lined on one side and gridded on the other so she could make sketches and doodles of things she needed to remember in addition to her printed list. This tablet was her own version of a diary, but rather than thoughts, she recorded events, purchases, earnings, and interesting facts. To most, it would have looked like a hodgepodge of scraps. But to Sam it was a timeline. She took great comfort in ritual.
Flipping back through the pages of her pad, she thought about what Lena had written. She wondered if she would have been smart enough to leave such a detailed log of events in case her notes would have to speak for her. Pulling the cloth-wrapped diary from her bag, she leafed through the pages, letting her eyes skim the neatly penned cursive.
She walked to her computer and positioned the open diary on the glass plate of her scanner. Methodically, she scanned every page, converting them to PDFs and saving them to a memory stick attached to her keychain. She had been elected by the group to scan and archive the contents of Lena’s diary since she had all the requisite equipment and know-how to accomplish the task.
It took a few hours to record the entire book, but in doing so, Sam had had the opportunity to reread every page several times. She jotted cryptic notes onto the grid paper along with her sketches and hooked the pen clasp into the spiral binding.
“I’m scared. I don’t know where this will end.”
Those were the last words Lena had written in the diary, save for the notation “FLW.” In fact, “FLW” was the cryptic coda to each of the last five entries Lena had made in the chronicle of her truncated life.
Stopping to give her thirsty plants some relief from the drama-induced drought, she put Shostakovich on the stereo.
The task completed, she headed out to drop the evidence in her safe deposit box.
CHAPTER 15
Sitting next to Grace in an oversized, heated, massaging pedicure chair, Sam relaxed. A small Laotian lady worked on her feet. Kneading out knots and sloughing away the nubs of dead skin that built-up quickly from the eight-hour stints in platform shoes was a big job. Rocky, her favorite nail guy, worked on one of her hands, massaging and filing to perfection. Everyone at the salon knew Sam and Grace by name. In fact, they knew a lot of strippers because they tip better than almost anyone, earning them the royal treatment. Beauty being their business, it was all a legitimate tax write-off.
The girls were always bumped to the front of the line, even as walk-ins. The business types and suburbanistas glared as the girls were ushered back to the prime real estate.
“Tell me what you know, Rocky.” Sam said to the large Laotian man gently working her cuticles back with an orange stick wrapped in cotton.
The Rock was the nail man of choice because he kept Sam laughing, but also because he was one of the best nail techs in town. Standing at an impressive six foot three, Rocky had a boyish handsomeness and was straight as an arrow. Straight enough to realize that doing nails surrounds you with women all day long. Rocky’s station overflowed with the tall, gold-tone trophies he’d won for his modified Acura at specialty car shows. He had framed articles from magazines that featured his ride hanging over a small Buddha guarding his emory boards. He’d told Sam that he had come to the states when he was five. His English was perfect. He had a slightly thuggish, hip-hop way about him, but he was harmless.
“Not much. Got a show this weekend.” He continued to work Sam’s cuticles with a thoughtful look on his face.
“Did you hear about Lena?” Grace raised her head from the headrest.
Rocky bobbed his head in a nod, not looking up. “Yeah, that sucks. I can’t believe that shit.” He tapped the orange stick on Sam’s nail twice as a signal to switch hands.
“How’d you hear? Have Birdie and Mary Jane been in?”
“No, Princess Nikki was in the other day.”
“Oh?” Sam raised an eyebrow. “Do tell.”
Rocky shifted in his seat and sat upright, pinching his shoulder blades together, trying to crack his spine. “It’s just gonna piss you off, I don’t want to stir up shit.”
Sam glanced at Grace.
“BLOODY FACKIN’ ‘ELL!” Screamed a familiar voice from a partitioned back room.
“Birdie?” Grace looked at Rocky.
Rocky nodded without looking up, “Brazilian wax.”
“Hey Bird!” Grace yelled.
“Okay, spill it, Rocky.” Sam turned her attention back to the beefy twenty-something.
“Well,” Rocky puckered his lips, recalling the details “She was pretty high, which is normal.” He hushed his voice, leaned in and rested the orange stick lightly on his chin. “She was saying that Lena got what was coming to her.”
The pedicure ladies exchanged a look and the older one demanded in a shrill voice, “You pick your color!”
Rocky’s head snapped around as h
e bitched at her in Laotian. He gestured at two bottles of polish sitting on the table between the chairs. The two women stood and headed for the back room.
“Sorry, I told them to go have a smoke and get the paraffin bath for your feet.” he rolled his eyes back as if to remember what he was saying “She said that Lena got what she deserved and anyone who messes with her will get the same.”
Sam turned her face toward Rocky and Grace, mumbling, “Was she making it sound like she had something to do with it?”
“She was trying to act like she was in charge, you know, like she’s the boss’s girl and that makes her special. She just kept saying that she and Fedya are protected. She wasn’t coming right out and sayin’ anything specific. I couldn’t tell if it was the drugs or her talking. Too hard to separate the two.”
“EEEEEEEaaaahhhhhh. CUNTS!”
“Hey Bird, hang in there!” Grace yelled at the white half-wall.
Most of the women in the salon smirked, in sympathy for the wax ritual. A few had a puckered, distasteful look, probably for the language rather than the shouting.
Birdie yelled, “Are you birds warkin’ tonight, Grace?”
“Plannin’ to. I guess you’re not, huh?” Grace referred to Sam and Birdie’s suspension.
“YYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEE Haw.”
Grace and Sam stifled their laughter. “Wanna get some coffee? We’ll wait for you.”
“I fink a Scotch would be more like it . . . EEEEEEESSSSHHHHH.”
The nail ladies reappeared smelling like menthols. One of them carried a lavender scented paraffin bath and plastic bags. Working in tandem, they began the dip and drip process on Grace’s feet.
As if there hadn’t been a lull in conversation, Rocky blurted, “Plus, she has shit taste in nail color and always forgets to tip, soooooo, there you have it.” The ladies grunted their agreement.
It hadn’t occurred to Sam that Nikki could have had a hand in Lena’s death. She thought the comment about Fedya had more to do with show than actual fact.
Tea Leafing: A Novel Page 6
