The walk to Nevada’s wasn’t a bad one. Through the park, band stand to my left, soccer field to my right, and out the other side onto Adams Street. Cross Nichols, Warwick, New York Avenue, and Walnut. Elm Street would be the fifth block I’d come upon. I moved swiftly, taking in nothing during the entirety of the walk, and made it to her front door in a matter of minutes. My next move was simple enough. Use my key for entry. Despite that understanding, I couldn’t seem to budge. I gritted my teeth and focused. Spoke the directions to myself. Put the key in the lock. Turn the knob. Step inside. Nothing major.
Across the way, Narciso Lopez’s flag of Cuba stared at me from Mrs. Rubalcaba’s porch. I tumbled Nevada’s key over and over again in my fingers. My eyes were closed, my breathing had suddenly grown uneven, and my brain was sending signals that my body completely ignored.
Stuck.
I don’t know what eventually enabled me to move. Was it a thought? Was it a memory? Shepard wasn’t standing at my back pitching bricks at me. What was it? I just know that after awhile I was stepping inside Nevada’s front door. I slipped out of my shoes and left them in the foyer and moved through the entry hall without turning on any lights, not so much as an effort to evade the suspicions of neighbors, but rather to avoid seeing the framed pictures hanging by the front door.
I made my way to the kitchen first. My socks did a poor job of insulating the cold from the linoleum floor. I briefly wondered how Nevada managed to walk around barefoot all the time. Briefly wondered about that and then forced myself to deal with the task at hand: find something in the way of explanation for her disappearance.
Above the oven, a cabinet door hung partly open. It was nearly empty inside, a box of penne pasta and nothing else other than dust motes. The cabinet above the sink held dishware and drink glasses. I closed the cabinet and did a slow pivot. My gaze lit on the island that centered the kitchen. Its countertop held a treasure of spices: cinnamon, paprika, onion powder, garlic powder, black pepper, salt. I frowned. Nevada was allergic to the culinary arts. She wouldn’t need all of those spices.
I slammed through drawers looking for a cookbook or scraps of paper with recipes scrawled on them. I found no recipes, and even if I had my real curiosity wouldn’t have been satisfied. It wasn’t about what Nevada was cooking, but rather who she was cooking for.
Feeling lethargic already, I pressed on anyway, checked the freezer.
Breyer’s ice cream, four-cheese-flavored pierogies, a hard frozen Jimmy Dean sausage roll, several Ice-Paks. In the fridge: a jug of orange juice, quart carton of apple juice, eggs, loaf of Wonder bread. Little else. Certainly no clues to a life that would end badly.
So deep was Nevada’s kvetching of the kitchen, she kept boxes of Ritz crackers, her snack of choice, stored in the bottom of a bedroom closet. She always kept the cases of Poland Spring water for Misty in the bathroom cabinet under the sink. And yet I’d chosen the kitchen as the starting point for my search. I shook my head and found my way to Nevada’s bathroom. Bulk rolls of toilet paper and paper towels were stacked on the top shelf in the closet. Several thick dry-off towels were rolled and stacked neatly on another shelf. Combs, brushes, bottles of hair sprays, a basin filled with bath sponges, and a few other items not worth mentioning took up the final shelf. I closed the closet, did my slow pivot again.
My reflection glared at me in the medicine cabinet’s mirror.
Inside, I found what you’d expect: Band-Aids, spare toothbrushes, tubes of toothpaste, disposable razors, deodorant. My hands shook slightly as I flipped over a square foil packet. It contained twenty-eight pills. Three weeks of orange, one week of white placebos. Aviane. Oral contraceptives, used to prevent a sexually active woman from getting pregnant. I painstakingly ripped each pill from the foil and pitched them in the toilet. It wasn’t the Passaic, but I still felt a sense of accomplishment as the water swirled and the pills swam to the sewer. I turned back to the sink, worked the faucet so I could get a handful of water to douse my face. My skin was warm like a driven car’s hood.
I’d had enough of the bathroom. I gathered my strength and stalked out into the hall with Nevada’s bedroom in my sights. The framed Serenity Prayer offered me none of what it promised as I passed by. I paused outside of Nevada’s bedroom and took a deep breath. Then my fingers were pushing on the bedroom door. It opened easily.
She’d left a nightlight plugged in a wall socket; a wash of pink covered the room.
Clothes were neatly hung in one of the walk-in closets. Shoes were stacked on shelves in the other. A hardcover book, The Purpose Driven Life, rested on the nightstand next to her bed. I thumbed through it, searching for a bookmark. There was no bookmark, but three fourths of the way through a page was folded back. I sighed at a life interrupted before a purpose could be discovered and fulfilled. Sad stuff. I placed the hardcover book back on the nightstand and started checking around some more. Socks, bras, panties and a collection of DVDs were in an armoire. It also held an assortment of pencils, pens, and empty notebooks. A matching armoire stood on the other side of the bedroom. The one I’d always used. Empty, every drawer, every shelf. In the far corner of the room was a new piece of furniture I hadn’t seen before. A semainier with a warm cherry finish and the typical seven drawers. I checked each drawer. Victoria’s Secret, Frederick’s of Hollywood, Trashy. Loaded with frilly lingerie. I slammed the last of the seven drawers closed. My mouth was dry. I needed water for my face and mouth both.
I stepped out in the hall and closed the door behind me.
That’s when I heard rustling in the living room.
I didn’t hesitate. I stepped out there recklessly.
The silhouette of someone was in the center of the floor. Caught.
I’d been careless the other night, let Shepard get the drop on me.
I wouldn’t make that mistake again. The best defense is often a strong offense.
I fisted my hands, moved forward, quickly.
Heard, “Wait,” and saw the silhouette flinch.
I relaxed at the sound of that tiny, startled voice, and eased my fingers open. Two steps to my right was a lamp. I turned it on. No longer were we in shadow.
Full bosom, dark eyes, Bowflex waistline, long shapely legs, skin the color of white bread toast, long black hair pulled back into a knot that fell just below her shoulders. Leonardo da Vinci’s La Gioconda. “Hello again, Mona Lisa,” I said.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I was about to ask you the same question…Siobhan.”
Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Figured it out, did you?”
I nodded. “Just today, at the MVC.”
“MVC?”
“Motor Vehicle Commission,” I said. “Used to call it the DMV.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I have Daley to thank,” I said.
“Daley?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I assured her. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“Nevada gave me a key when she went away a couple months ago,” she said.
“Okay.”
She held up a thick envelope, white with a green bar across the back of it. “I’ve been grabbing her mail. That’s been our arrangement for whenever she’s gone. It’s been mostly junk. I usually just throw that out. Don’t know if that’s the right thing to do, throwing it out, but that’s what I’ve been doing.”
“Seems right,” I said.
She waved the thick envelope. “But this looked important. I was going to put it on the kitchen counter. I planned on calling you about it.”
“You wouldn’t have reached me,” I said. “I have a new number.”
“Is this where I ask for the number?”
“This is where I give it to you,” I said. “And you pretend you could care less about it.”
She smiled again. “I answered your question. Now answer mine, please.”
“Yours?”
“What were you rooting around for, Shell?”
I heard myself say, “Sweet.”
Siobhan’s dark eyes were suddenly on her feet.
“You know of him,” I said.
She looked up at me. I repeated my statement, which moved her to glance at her feet again. “I have a confession,” she announced.
I nodded.
“I’ve told an untruth,” she said. “I spotted you outside when you first walked up. I needed to speak with you. I just threw these slippers on and…you must think I’m crazy, over here in my slippers.”
I swallowed. “I understand about the slippers. Say no more.”
We stood there in a concert of silence.
After a beat I said, “You were obviously close to Nevada. Tell me about Sweet.”
“Sweet?” she said, furrowing her brow.
“Please,” I said. “Don’t do that.”
She sighed. “I don’t really know him well. Nevada was very guarded about her relationship with him.”
“Relationship?”
“In the beginning I assumed as much. He came around often enough. She was guarded though, like I said.”
“She told you…”
“That he was a friend.”
“You believed her?”
She pursed her lips. “Yes, I did.”
I processed that, somehow moved and found my way to the couch. I plopped down on it, kneaded my temples. I could feel a headache working its way into my life. Nevada, even in absence, could bring me to the doorstep of a migraine with relative ease.
Siobhan made her way to the couch and stood over me. “What’s on your mind, Shell?”
“Lots.”
“Regarding Darren?”
I looked up. “Darren?”
“Darren Sweet,” she said, nodding.
“Didn’t know his first name,” I said. “I’ve been told he was Nevada’s pimp.”
I expected the nasty accusation to throw her. It didn’t. She stood statue still.
“Siobhan,” I said.
“He was a lawyer,” she said.
“Was?”
“Disbarred.”
“For?”
She found a spot next to me on the couch. Several feet away, though. It might as well have been inches. The skin on my forearms prickled as though she was running her fingernails up my arms.
“I wasn’t able to find out what for,” she said.
“You checked though?”
“Sure did.”
“When?”
She cleared her throat. “Right after Nevada’s…”
“You see this Sweet character as being capable of…”
Neither one of us, it seemed, could finish a thought.
“I was just curious,” she whispered. “I don’t really know why.”
“You think he was bad news,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
“Nevada and I talked about so much,” she said, sighing.
“But not Sweet.” Another non-question.
“That part of her life, the part with Darren, was sterile, untouched.”
“Sterile,” I said, snorting. “Clean. Sure.”
“Nevada was a dear friend, Shell. We bonded immediately.”
“She has enough lingerie in her bedroom for you and twelve of your closest female friends,” I said.
We sat together in silence, the span broken finally when she said, “Edge.”
“What was that?”
“Group home,” she said. “We all called it Edge. The full name was something longer. But I don’t remember what. I haven’t worked too hard trying to recall, either.”
I said nothing as she cleared her throat again.
“Ten teenage girls who were unable to live in their own homes due to significant and long-standing personal or family problems,” she said. “That was the business model, so to speak.”
I licked my lips.
“Not many people would look at me and imagine me in a place like Edge. The lingerie means nothing. Don’t judge Nevada, Shell. Judgment is so pointless.”
I didn’t agree but I said, “I’m sorry about Edge, Siobhan.”
“I am, as well, Shell. Everyone is sorry. You, me, Abuela.”
I slid over, attempted to put my hand on her knee. I don’t know what brought that about. It wasn’t my typical response. Siobhan looked at me. I expected a smile but didn’t get it. Instead, she gave me a look that immediately backed me up. Siobhan was full of surprises.
“Are you going to hold it against her if you find out something undesirable?” she asked.
“My focus is finding out what has happened,” I replied.
“I have to ask you something else, Shell.”
“Ask away,” I said.
“I really need you to answer this for me,” she said.
“I’ll answer.”
“This is important,” she said.
Raspy, her voice, all of a sudden.
“I’ll answer,” I repeated.
“Why,” she asked, “are you so concerned about Nevada’s…whatever she was doing with her life?”
My jaws tensed. “She might still be…I need to find out what happened.”
She frowned. “You studied Criminology in college? I believe Nevada mentioned that to me.”
“Justice Studies,” I said, “With a minor in Criminal Justice.”
“And your college studies make you feel like some kind of investigator?”
This was the second time that had been suggested to me.
I believed it to be way off mark…but…maybe.
“I just need to know,” I answered. “Persistence overcomes resistance. If I stay at it I believe something will turn up.”
“Need,” she said, nodding. “I can understand that.”
I thought that was the end of it.
But then she handed me the thick envelope she’d been holding, white with a green bar across the back.
I took it, looked at the sender’s address stamp. “What is this?”
Siobhan didn’t reply.
I looked up at her, asked the question again.
Strength came to her shoulders. She’d decided something. “Nevada was in the process of making sure you’d get the confirmation you’d need. She reached out to the company for some literature. She was always thinking ahead in that way.”
“Confirmation?”
“That her unborn child was yours,” she said.
“Nevada is pregnant?”
“Yes,” she said.
I took a deep breath and looked at the envelope again; from DNA Solutions according to the sender information.
“She vomited the last time we spoke,” I whispered.
“I can imagine,” she said, nodding. “Pregnancy wrecks havoc.”
“We had a moment of relapse about seven weeks ago. I was in Phoenix and I flew her out to be with me. It wasn’t the same as it used to be between us. She was there in body only. But…pregnant?”
“That’s not for me to ponder, Shell.”
“Pregnant,” I said. Reduced to a singular vocabulary focus.
“Now for another question,” Siobhan said, as I struggled to hold together my emotions.
I didn’t say anything.
“I’m going to think positive,” she said. “All of this will work out. Nevada will return. She’ll be okay and there will be a good explanation for her disappearance. She’ll resume her life and give birth to a beautiful little boy or girl.”
I swallowed.
“I have to feel that way, Shell. This is all so incredible. But I do have a question.”
The tang of coconut was strong in the fabric of Nevada’s couch. A wash of orange light created a prism of color and shadow on Siobhan’s beautiful face. The tick of my heartbeat pulsed in my ears. My mouth had gone completely dry. One more question might very well be one too many.
“Nevada and I talked,” she explained again. “A few times we talked after imbibing very capable Chablis.”
“I hope you won’t hold our discussions against her, Shell. She spoke to me in confidence. And I’m truly not one for gossip. Secrets told are secrets kept. I assure you.”
I noticed a dark spot high up at the corner bend of the ceiling. It might’ve been a bumblebee. Or a bullet hole. Or a moth at rest. It might’ve been a number of things.
“I want to stay positive,” she said. “But I have to ask you if this might be…if this…” She repositioned herself on the couch. Inched closer to me. If not for the question on her lips I was certain she would’ve reached forward and secured my sleeve, or my wrist, perhaps even my knee. “She told me about some trouble you had at one time. Two women that worked for you were kidnapped and murdered. Has anyone contacted you? Please tell me if anyone has.”
They were very good questions.
I opened my mouth to reply.
And a peculiar thing happened.
Dark, blurry images flashed in my mind like a film strip.
JW. Veronica and Ericka. Nevada.
And one more image, blurrier than the others.
Nevada’s unborn child.
Mine, as well?
So blurry was this final image, I couldn’t tell if the child were a boy or girl.
Siobhan said, “Did you hear me?”
Her voice halted the movies in my head. I glanced at her.
“Say something, Shell. Did you hear me?”
Yes, I had.
She wanted some answers. My mouth was still open.
But no words came.
TWELVE
AFTER AWHILE WE MOVED the silent conversation to the kitchen. I pulled down two glasses from the cabinet over the sink, rinsed them out, and filled both with cubes of ice and tap water. We settled ourselves in chairs on opposite sides of the glass-topped dining table. Siobhan tinkled the ice in her glass and took long swallows of the cold water and drummed her fingers on the table between gulps. I nursed my drink.
Triage: A Thriller (Shell Series) Page 15
