That Last Weekend

by Laura Disilverio

  Geneva reached the outskirts of New Aberdeen on autopilot and slowed, still caught up in the past. She had fallen apart, unable to envision a future that didn’t hold a reporting job. She started to drink when she got home after a round of fruitless job hunting each day, worn down by the doors shutting in her face, the judgmental looks, the “Sorry, I don’t think you’re a good fit here” refrains. Vodka, just like her mother. Funny thing was, she didn’t even like it. The drinking was as much about punishing herself as it was about oblivion. She fell into a relationship—if you could call getting drunk together and sometimes ending up in bed a relationship—with a man she’d known in high school, an “underachiever,” Mama Gran called him with a sniff, and it wasn’t until he hauled off and belted her one evening that she woke up to what she was doing to her life.

  Making the turn into the station lot, Geneva blinked and came back to the present. Rotating her shoulders to loosen them, she maneuvered herself out of the car and stood for a moment, repeating the mantra she’d adopted during therapy: Be strong. Be kind. Breathe. A squat, tan brick edifice that had surely gone up in the 1960s, the sheriff’s station, located two miles west of New Aberdeen, looked innocuous plopped down on two acres with cows grazing in a nearby field. Two large urns on either side of the door held white chrysanthemums. They seemed an incongruously soft and decorative touch. A pair of uniformed officers came out the door, laughing. The sun was warmer today, and sweat sheened Geneva’s cheeks and brow as she squared her shoulders and entered. A blast of air-conditioning cooled her, and Sheriff Boone stepped forward, having parked behind the station and entered through another door.

  “In here.” His impassive face gave nothing away.

  She hardly had time to note that the reception area had been completely re-done since she was here twelve years ago, and catch a whiff of popcorn, before he had her settled in an interview room with pale peach walls she knew were designed to be calming. Fat chance. Her gaze flew to the one-way mirror on the opposite wall and she hoped no one was back there watching. She practiced her Lamaze breathing to calm herself while Sheriff Boone got a video recorder going and stated his name and hers. When he sat across from her and began to read the Miranda warning, the laminated card lost in his big hand, she stiffened. Pain shot through her abdomen and she wasn’t sure if Lila had kicked her or if it was shock from the knowledge that she was a real suspect.

  “Wait—I’m a suspect?” she interrupted him.

  He finished Mirandizing her and then said, “Just routine.”

  “Bullshit, Sheriff.” The part of her that had grown up in Englewood surfaced. The survivor part of her that had lain dormant for a few years. The part that had seen cops railroad her brother’s friends, their neighbors, and others, that had seen what happened when you were poor, black, and from a gang-infested neighborhood and got caught in the system. The legal system might have been designed to be fair and color-blind, but its practitioners in Geneva’s world wouldn’t recognize fair if it bit them in the ass. Good to know that Englewood Geneva was still there when she needed her. “As you may recall, I’ve been down this road. I’m not saying anything without a lawyer present.” Crossing her arms, she leaned back in her chair.

  “That’s your prerogative, of course,” Boone said, apparently unperturbed. He rested one ankle on his knee, giving her a glimpse of colorful socks that surely weren’t part of the official uniform. There was gray at his temples that hadn’t been there ten years earlier and a new two-inch scar, still slightly pink against his dark skin, arcing from near his ear to mid-cheekbone. He seemed less tightly wound than before, too, she thought, the therapist in her considering what might be responsible for the change. “You can call one in a minute. Before you do, though, I want to show you something.”

  Geneva feared it would be photos of a dead Vangie, but he pulled an ordinary glass out of a box she hadn’t noticed beneath his chair. It was encased in a plastic bag, and he centered it on the table between them. “I can’t ask you any questions without a lawyer since you’ve requested one, so I’ll assume for the moment that you recognize this as being from the B and B where you’re currently a guest.”

  Geneva licked her dry lips. “Could be,” she said.

  “It has your fingerprints on it.” When she said nothing, he used his forefinger to push it toward her. “And traces of strychnine inside it. We found it in the victim’s room.” He delivered the words with all the emotion of someone saying he’d located the dog’s lost chew toy under the sofa, or a misplaced glove in a jacket pocket.

  The words hit her like a shotgun blast, but she bit back the instinctive denial. Through suddenly numb lips, she said, “Lawyer.”

  His face went grave and he shook his head sadly as he packed the glass back into the box. “You know that insisting on a lawyer makes you look guilty, like you’ve got something to hide when I’m sure there’s a logical explanation. I want to have a simple conversation, clear this up right now so you can leave. Waiting for a lawyer is going to drag this out. You could be here all day.”

  A tap at the door made him look up with a twitch of annoyance. A uniformed officer poked his head in. “Sorry, Sheriff, there’s a woman here says she’s Ms. Frost’s lawyer.” Before Boone could respond, Laurel Muir sailed past the officer. Geneva had never been so glad to see someone in her life. Relief gushed through her. She stood and Laurel hugged her. She hung onto her friend convulsively. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “I got your voicemail and came as fast as I could.” Laurel pushed Geneva gently back into the chair. “You didn’t say anything, did you?” When Geneva shook her head, Laurel turned to face Boone. “What’s going on? Why did you bring my client down here, Sheriff?” She put her hands on her hips and managed to come across as if she was wearing an Armani suit rather than casual khakis with a Grissom University T-shirt. Geneva suppressed a smile of admiration, feeling more hopeful about her situation already.

  “Your client? Don’t you think there might be a little conflict of interest in that relationship, Your Honor?” Boone had risen when Laurel came in, a polite gesture Mama Gran would have given him full marks for, but his tone was acerbic. He faced Laurel across the table, a tic of frustration jumping at the corner of his mouth.

  “I haven’t been sworn in yet,” she said. “I need to consult with my client, so if you’ll give us the room …? And don’t forget your recorder.”

  Laurel remained standing until Boone had turned off the recorder, picked up his evidence box, and exited, closing the door with more firmness than necessary. Then she sank into the chair beside Geneva. “Tell me what happened. Why did he drag you down here?”

  Geneva met her friend’s eyes and said baldly, “He has the glass used to poison Vangie. It has my fingerprints on it and he found it in her room.” From the way Laurel’s mouth tightened, Geneva knew her situation was serious.

  “Have you any idea how it could have gotten there? Think hard—this is important.”

  Geneva was shaking her head before Laurel finished speaking. “I know that, damn it, but I can’t think of anything. I’ve been wracking my brain since he told me, but nothing comes to mind. I swear to God, Laurel, I never set foot in Vangie’s room this weekend.” She heard the nerves making her voice quaver and hated it.

  “That’s actually bad,” Laurel said. “If you’d been in her room earlier that day, we could have made a case that you touched the glass then.” She furrowed her brow, looking troubled. “Look, fingerprints on a glass are hardly conclusive. They could be mere smudges, or a partial. Maybe the Abbotts’ dishwashing practices aren’t as sanitary as they ought to be. Yuck.”

  Geneva refused to smile, even though Laurel’s last comment invited her to. “I didn’t do this, Laurel. I did not kill Vangie.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” Laurel clasped her hand and squeezed.

  “I thought about it, you know,” Geneva said in a low v
oice. “After the arrest. When I was a drunk, I’d sit at the bar some nights, the vodka heating up my blood, and I’d think of ways to do it. I blamed her for talking me into going with her that night to buy cocaine, for the arrest, for my getting fired. I blamed Vangie, and the icky, slimy part of me I’m not proud of wanted revenge. When I got sober, though, and got myself into therapy, I let myself accept that I had gotten into that car of my own free will; Vangie didn’t tie me up and force me to go. I wanted to go.” The words still tasted bitter, but she said them again. “I wanted to go. It seemed exciting, daring, something a glamorous, jet-set TV reporter would do.”

  “You don’t have to tell—” Laurel started.

  “I know. But I want us to be real friends again, so I want you to know who I really am.”

  “I know who you are.”

  “Bullshit.” She didn’t think she’d used the word in over two years, and now it was the word du jour. “We haven’t talked enough in these past years for either of us to really know who the other is. We can fix that.” Should she tell Laurel why she’d come back this weekend? What she’d said was true—Vangie hadn’t forced her to buy coke—but it wasn’t the whole truth. Problem was, the whole truth and what was in that envelope gave her a pretty damn good motive for hurting Vangie, and even though she trusted Laurel almost a hundred percent, she had Lila to think about now. She couldn’t risk it. She dragged a hand down her cheek. She’d missed Laurel these past years, and felt like someone had taken a knife and sliced away her college years and her early twenties so there was nothing but a gaping hole where that part of her life had been. She wanted to fill it in.

  Laurel’s expression softened. “I’d like that. I really would. Let’s get through this first. It’s probably best to let Sheriff Boone back in and answer his questions. Keep your responses short and don’t expand on anything. I’ll interrupt if there’s a question I don’t think you should answer.” She paused, biting her lower lip. “Or I can make a few calls and get you a local lawyer. Boone’s got a point about the potential conflict of interest. If I killed Evangeline, I’d have a vested interest in making you look guilty. Mrs. Abbott thinks I did it.” She slanted a wry smile.

  “No way!” Geneva’s eyes widened at the surprise of it, and then she chuckled. It released some of the pent-up tension and she was able to take a deep breath for the first time that morning. “I want you,” she said firmly. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Nineteen

  Ellie and Dawn connected in the breakfast parlor where dirty dishes testified that Geneva and Laurel had already eaten. Dawn wore an airy blue tunic, and her hair was loose, corkscrewing over her shoulders in glossy abundance. Ellie experienced her usual mild jealousy over the romantic spirals that were so different than her own straight blond locks. She reminded herself that Dawn’s hair would be a bitch to shove under a swim cap, and even more of a pain to shampoo and dry after her morning swim. Mrs. Abbott came in bearing two steaming plates of French toast, a harried expression on her usually calm face. Over the shree of a power saw slightly muted by being two or three floors above, Ellie asked her if she knew where Geneva and Laurel were.

  “I don’t know when they left,” she said, setting French toast in front of Dawn. “But I noticed their cars were gone when I let the appliance repairman in. Washing machine’s on the fritz.” She slid the other plate onto Ellie’s place mat. The line between her brows deepened. “Mindy’s car is in the lot, though, which surprised me. I haven’t laid eyes on her this morning—can’t imagine where she’s got to. If you run into her, please tell her that I need to speak with her.”

  “Will do,” Ellie replied, opening a yogurt she’d bought the day before and stirring in granola she had also purchased. “Diet,” she said when Mrs. Abbott gave her an astonished look.

  Collecting the dirty dishes and the plate in front of her, Mrs. Abbott sniffed and bustled out.

  “I found a snake in my bed last night,” Dawn said.

  “A reptile or a low-life man?” Ellie asked on a laugh, thinking she was joking.

  “Reptile,” Dawn bit out. “Dead, thank God.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “As a heart attack. Which the damn thing nearly gave me.”

  Ellie listened, forgetting to eat, as Dawn told her about finding the snake.

  “I meant to spend the night on the sunroom sofa, but I felt too exposed and ended up with my comforter and pillow in the Mustang. Surprisingly comfortable with the seat reclined, and more secure than any room in this house,” Dawn finished. “Mrs. Abbott gave me a new room this morning. If we hadn’t promised Laurel that we’d stay until we know what happened to Evangeline, I’d have been out of here at first light.”

  Tempted to tease her friend about sleeping in the car, Ellie remembered her own private grocery stash and shut her mouth. “Don’t forget we came in the same car,” she said tartly. “Don’t run out on me.”

  “I won’t. Want to interview Evangeline’s coworkers this morning?” Dawn asked, running a piece of French toast through the syrup pooled on her plate. “I went through old Facebook posts last night and found the name of her office. Then I mapquested it and got directions.” She held up her phone.

  “Good thinking,” Ellie said. “Might as well get it over with.” When Laurel suggested they try investigating, she’d been fired up, but a night’s reflection had made her wonder what they were doing. Who did they think they were—Rizzoli and Isles? Scott had echoed her thoughts in their phone conversation. “You should let the police handle it, El,” he’d said in his measured way. “There are procedures.”

  As the commander of a satellite operations squadron, Scott was all about procedures. It drove Ellie crazy when he wanted to “procedurize” their household routines, but this time she mostly agreed with him. However, it wouldn’t hurt to drive into town and ask a few questions at Evangeline’s office, and it would help kill time. Consequently, she knotted a light cardigan around her shoulders while Dawn fetched her purse, and they set out.

  Ellie let Dawn drive. It was clear Dawn got a kick out of vrooming the Mustang down the road, and letting her drive the powerful car made Ellie feel mildly sacrificial and therefore virtuous. A win-win. Dawn’s speeding didn’t scare her, not after she’d taught Shane and Aidan how to drive and ridden in the death seat while they got their mandatory hours to earn their licenses. Last night’s storm had left puddles on the road and Dawn steered the car through them deliberately, splashing up rooster tails of muddy water.

  “We should have a story,” Dawn said, breaking the silence as she parked the car in front of the two-story medical building where Evangeline had worked. She turned in her seat to face Ellie. “We can’t just walk in and say, ‘Hey, anyone got anything they’d like to tell us about Evangeline Paul?’”

  Ellie tapped a forefinger on her lower lip. “Good point. We could say we’re helping to organize the funeral and wanted to know if there was anyone she was particularly close to who might want to speak?” She said it doubtfully, but Dawn looked at her like she was a genius.

  “That’s brilliant,” Dawn said.

  They walked side by side into the building and located Orthopedics Specialists of New Aberdeen on the second floor. Taking a deep breath, Ellie pushed the door open. A quick scan of the waiting room revealed padded plastic chairs with metal frames; a coffee bar emitting an aroma that made Ellie wonder if it would be tacky to help herself to a cup; a handful of patients, some with crutches, casts, or complicated braces, looking resigned to a long wait; a television broadcasting a home-repair program; and a receptionist’s counter with a sliding frosted pane.

  They approached the latter and the receptionist gave them a professional smile, showing teeth grayed near the gums like Ellie’s mom’s. “Checking in?”

  “Uh, no,” Ellie said. “We’re friends of Evangeline Paul’s and we—”

  A shuttered look ca
me over the receptionist’s face. “She doesn’t work here anymore. If you’re bill collectors, I have to remind you that—”

  “We’re not,” Dawn cut in. “We—she’s dead.”

  It wasn’t the way Ellie would have chosen to break the news, but it silenced the receptionist. Her mouth fell open, making her look like a goldfish gasping for air. “Dead? Evangeline? How? What happened?” Before they could answer, she craned her neck and said to someone they couldn’t see, “Jasmine, did you know that Evangeline had died?”

  “No!”

  Another woman appeared in the aperture. In her early forties, Ellie guessed. Her golden skin, dark hair, and large dark eyes pointed to Indian or Pakistani heritage. “Is it true?” she asked. “Evangeline’s dead?” She didn’t have the singsong accent Ellie half expected; she sounded like she came from the Midwest, maybe even Nebraska, where Ellie had grown up.

  Ellie and Dawn nodded. “We’re friends of hers,” Ellie said again. “We’re helping to plan the funeral.”

  “Perhaps you’d better come back. There’s a door just there, to the left.”

  By the time Ellie and Dawn reached the door, the woman had it open and gestured them into a hallway floored with beige linoleum and walls painted a soft blue. Closed doors on either side probably led to exam rooms.

  “I’m Jasmine Dent,” she said, offering a slim hand for them to shake. She wore a short-sleeved gold polyester blouse that brightened her skin and a brown pencil skirt that emphasized full hips and thighs. “I’m the office manager. I probably knew Evangeline as well as anyone here did.”