Angels Burning

by Tawni O'Dell

  He does practically rip my head off for not telling him earlier about my conversation with the ladies at the Sanctuary regarding Miranda Truly and her somewhat unhealthy relationship with her sister, Adelaide, and her nephew Eddie’s attempt to kill her with an ax.

  “You need to decide if you’re a law enforcement officer or a glorified babysitter who ignores the rules and does whatever the hell she wants,” he told me roughly.

  When he put it that way, I kind of preferred the second option.

  In all fairness to Nolan, when I came out of the academy with commendations for sharpshooting and academic excellence I looked like I had all the makings of a dedicated, level-headed, proficient trooper and might be a prime candidate for his beloved Criminal Investigations Division.

  Nolan was not quite thirty but already a supercop by then. Already in CID. Already had the presence and demeanor of a leader and possessed that rare combination of gruff empathy and subtle sanctimony that made witnesses and suspects alike want to earn his esteem if only so he’d be on their side; he was a bully with a conscience.

  He took an interest in me, not entirely professional but mostly. For all his sexist bluster, Nolan is a big supporter of women’s rights. He has three daughters who all graduated from college, moved away, have careers and families, and manage to continue to love him even though he wasn’t the most attentive father in the world and their mother probably fills their heads with tearful tales of neglect and woe during her constant visits, but I could be wrong about that. I shouldn’t judge his wife. If she does complain about him, she probably has every right to do so.

  Nolan had high hopes for me. Law enforcement in general is still very much a boys’ club, and if municipal police departments have the metaphorical equivalent of a chain-link fence around them to keep females out, the state police have ten-foot-thick, towering stone walls with a fire-breathing dragon at the gate. He thought I could be one of the first women to break through the ramparts. Instead, I let down myself and my gender in the worst possible way: I let a man get to me.

  My feelings for Nolan had become a distraction and were causing me to act recklessly. Sleeping with John to arouse his jealousy was incredibly stupid, hurtful, unprofessional, and just the beginning. I saw a future where I’d end up screwing every trooper in my barracks because I couldn’t have the one I wanted.

  I’ve never told him why I left. I’ve allowed him to believe that I couldn’t hack it and, in a sense, I couldn’t. I let my female desires come before my public-servant duties, and I know he would never be able to forgive me for that, but I’ve often wondered if he would care about me at all if I put being a cop in front of being a woman.

  I try to enjoy the drive as much as possible. I watch the green humped hills fly by my window while Nolan stares straight ahead, yet I know his eyes behind his glasses are darting all over the interstate searching for signs of motorists behaving poorly or strangely or in need of assistance.

  It’s another sunny day without a cloud in the hazy, Vaseline-coated empty blue sky. This weather makes it impossible for me not to recall childhood summer memories full of greasy, sweet county-fair smells, the lazy buzzing of bees, warm pavement beneath bare feet, and the promise each day presented no matter how badly the one before had ended. I was a kid but no longer a baby, old enough to know better but not old enough to know best: the recipe for hope. I miss that feeling.

  I called Nolan the minute I discovered the comforter in the photo of Aunt Adelaide. There was no point in trying to begin a full-on investigation in the middle of the night. He decided to wait for daylight.

  In the meantime he contacted the local barracks where Adelaide lived and found out her surviving daughter, Angela—now in her sixties, happily married, residing in Ohio, a grandmother of seven—had called the police recently because she couldn’t get in touch with her mother. She said they talked frequently and she was worried because of her advanced age.

  The cops found her place empty and her door unlocked. Her purse, wallet, and car were still there.

  Nolan didn’t uncover Adelaide’s suspicious disappearance during his own investigation because she isn’t a Truly and she doesn’t reside in his zone. She was born a Thorpe and married Joey Bertolino, the middle child of another big, sprawling family, but this one made up of hardworking, hard-playing Italian miners. She was only related to the Trulys through her sister Miranda’s marriage to one.

  Despite these factors, and even though the missing-persons report was only filed yesterday, I know Nolan’s beating himself up for not catching the connection, but because she’s been reported missing, he’s already able to have a team waiting here to search the place. There will be no more delays in discovering what happened to Great-aunt Adelaide if something happened to her at all.

  The circumstances aren’t looking good for her, though. Women in their eighties don’t just disappear. They also don’t usually kill teenage girls, especially not by swinging heavy objects at them hard enough to crack open their skulls. Even though Addy may turn out to be the owner of the comforter that was wrapped around Camio, it’s doubtful she was her killer.

  Since Nolan neglects to tell me anything about the search for my brother during our drive, I assume this means he has no news. I’m trying not to think about what will happen if we don’t find Champ. I’m worried for his welfare, but I have to admit I’m worried about mine, too.

  I’m fifty years old. I’ve never been married or had children. I’ve never even had a pet. I don’t consider myself to be a good candidate for instant motherhood.

  I used to wonder what kind of mother I’d be and the thought would often scare me. I wanted to believe I’d be a good one, but I didn’t have a good role model.

  Our mother always did whatever she wanted to do without giving much thought to what she should do. She only tended to our needs when they coincided with her own or she was bored, but I know she didn’t think she was neglectful.

  I once heard a boyfriend ask her as they were departing the house for the night if my siblings and I would be all right staying home alone. Mom flashed me one of her dazzling smiles that always made me want to do her bidding and kick her teeth in at the same time.

  “Dove is smarter than any grown-up I know,” she said sweetly and probably truthfully. “And besides, what’s so hard about staying home? She knows how to change diapers and call the fire department.”

  I was eight.

  But truth be told, being left alone to fend for ourselves didn’t bother me as much as her disinterest in our lives. I had lots of friends and spent time hanging out at their homes starting when I was in elementary school all the way through high school.

  I saw moms drop whatever they were doing to rave over a gold star on a spelling test or an art-class project. I saw them sit down at the kitchen table and ask about their daughters’ days and listen to every inane detail. I saw them surprise their daughters with outfits they bought at Rankin’s, and Tiger Beat magazines they picked up at the newsstand, and packs of silver- and gold-plated barrettes they grabbed on their way out of Woolworth’s, with explanations that were given almost as afterthoughts but to me were astounding proclamations of intimate vigilance.

  “I saw this when I was out shopping today, honey, and I thought it would look cute on you.”

  “Look who’s on the cover! I know you love this actor.”

  “I picked these up for you; I remember you told me you lost a barrette in gym class last week.”

  My mother never could have done any of that for Neely or me for the simple reason she didn’t know anything about us. She went to her grave not knowing our favorite colors, favorite music, what we wanted to be when we grew up, the names of our friends, what scared us, what made us laugh, what we did in school that day because she never asked.

  She might come home one night with a whole stack of movie magazines she wanted to read and we’d all sit on the couch and look at them together, or sometimes when she had an extra-generous boyfriend
, she’d buy us an expensive pair of shoes or a coat or a dress, but it was always stuff we’d never wear because it wasn’t what we liked.

  From watching my friends at home with their moms, I learned the most important aspect of a mother’s love was not the intensity but its reliable consistency.

  I don’t know what kind of mother Great-aunt Adelaide was to her two daughters, but I’m willing to bet she was a good one. I get a mindful, nurturing vibe from her before we even set foot inside her home.

  I was right about the size of her house. It’s barely more than a cabin. From the outside it looks like a child’s drawing: a square base, a triangle for a roof, two identical-size windows with parted curtains symmetrically placed on either side of a red door. It’s painted yellow and has two rows of red tulips planted in beneath the windows.

  The only thing missing from the picture is a curlicue of gray smoke coming from the chimney and an orange cat sitting in front of the door.

  The paint is peeling. The windows need washing, the flowers need weeding, and the driveway needs patching, but the place doesn’t look run-down; it exudes the honest shabbiness that comes from the passage of time and the owner’s inability to keep up with repairs and maintenance, whether it be for financial or physical reasons or both. One glance at it and I know the owner cares.

  I step out of Nolan’s car and walk past a bunch of very bored troopers who are trying not to appear nosy but are soaking up every detail. I’m glad I decided to dress seriously today in a pair of navy trousers, navy blouse, and a cream boucle blazer. (Not real boucle but close enough. I got it for a song at T.J.Maxx.)

  I join Nolan and we step into the house together. Two CSU guys are quietly going about their jobs gathering evidence. We turn to each other smiling, then immediately rearrange our mouths into frowns as we realize the inappropriateness of the expression under the circumstances, but on the inside we’re both thrumming with excitement: the house reeks of bleach. Someone had something very messy to clean up.

  We put on latex gloves and head in opposite directions.

  The interior echoes the exterior. The furniture’s upholstery is fraying, the throw rugs are old and worn out, and the wallpaper is an outdated paisley print yellowed with age, but everything is clean and neat.

  I feel like I’ve stepped inside a life-size seventies diorama. The only thing missing is a wall phone and a TV set inside a huge fake wood console sitting on shag carpet. Addy does have a flat-screen, although a small one, and a cord-free phone. According to Nolan, she doesn’t own a cell phone. She also doesn’t have a computer or a microwave. An old-fashioned radio shaped like a toaster with knobs the size of halved Ping-Pong balls sits on a Formica-topped table in the kitchen. Copies of Reader’s Digest and Ladies’ Home Journal are stacked on an end table next to a lamp with a ceramic base shaped like a collie and a shade decoupaged with autumn leaves.

  One wall is completely covered with family photos. She and Miranda may have been estranged, but the bad feelings on Addy’s part apparently weren’t strong enough to have made her want to forget her sister and her progeny existed. There are too many people from too many time periods for me to identify all of them, but I recognize some. She has photos of Camio, Jessy, and Shane long after they were taken from her.

  I notice one photo is missing. A nail juts out of the wall above a faded square of wallpaper where the sun hasn’t shown in years.

  Next to this empty space are a few old-timey, sepia-shaded photos of two little girls I assume to be her and Miranda. She has photos of them in their teens and as young mothers with their first babies in their arms. Looking at the pictures I don’t see any signs of ill will on either of their parts, not in their body language or expressions.

  I find her wedding picture. She doesn’t have a formal staged one. It’s her and Joey standing at the top of a set of church steps. She’s holding her bouquet and waving. He’s looking at her, not the guests, and smiling broadly at her. I like that.

  Not much can be seen of the church. It appears to be a humble one. White wood with cement steps. The doors are propped open. It looks familiar to me, but all the churches around here do.

  She has two more photos taken in front of the same church. In each one she’s holding a swaddled baby in her arms and Joey stands beside her in a dark suit, still not smiling for the camera but smiling at each of his daughters in turn. I like this, too.

  The baptisms, I wonder, then it strikes me what’s out of place about the church. Surely the Bertolinos are Catholic, which means they would have attended the nearest Catholic Church, and back then that meant going all the way to Hellersburg. I know that church and it’s an impressive gray stone edifice with marble stairs. Maybe this humble church with its weathered white wood had been the one Addy’s family attended. Usually the father’s religion won out over the mother’s, especially if it was a battle between Catholic and Protestant, but maybe smiling Joey had loved his new wife more than his old religion. I bet that went over well with his mama.

  There are plenty of photos of Angela and Layla growing up, every school photo from every grade, hung in its proper place in the progression of their young lives.

  Layla was barely out of high school when she got pregnant with Shane. We’ve checked the records. Layla Bertolino had three children, Shane, Jessyca, and Camio, with fathers listed as unknown on their birth certificates that we’ve now been led to believe were the product of a union with her cousin Clark Truly. The three children went to live with Clark after a drunk driver in a Dodge Ram pickup T-boned Layla’s car. There’s no reason to doubt what Shawna told us. Why else would Addy have let them go?

  What a triumph that must have been for Miranda when she told the sister she hated that her beloved grandchildren were freaks spawned by first cousins and the father was her own son. Or did this knowledge disgust Miranda even more than it did Addy? After all, she supposedly hated Addy. The feeling didn’t seem to be mutual. Addy seemed to only fear her.

  Regardless, Miranda took her grandchildren from her. She was the big winner. I can imagine her victory speech.

  We’re taking them, Addy. They’re Clark’s children. Don’t make us prove it. We don’t want to call outside attention to this and we don’t want the children to ever know. It’s for their own good. How much do you love them? Enough to let them go and never see them again and let them have a normal life? Or is your need to keep them so strong that you would tell them the vile truth behind their parentage and ruin them?

  I take down one of the photos with the church in it and remove it from the frame to see if anything is written on the back. Nothing. I try with the other two.

  Suddenly it comes to me and my head swims with memories of stained glass and Nolan on a respirator.

  I hurry off, looking for Nolan, and find him in the guest room staring at a bed made up only with sheets. The comforter is missing but the incriminating bed skirt is still on it.

  I hand Nolan the photo.

  “This is the church at Campbell’s Run,” I tell him. “The family has a tie to the place where Camio’s body was dumped.”

  He studies the picture.

  “Good work,” he says.

  I’m momentarily stunned and equally thrilled by his praise, but my good mood only lasts a second as I consider the bed in front of me and what it’s telling me.

  “Look at this,” I say to him, and grab one of the pillows off the bed. “She even has the matching throw pillows. She has the whole set, and it’s not cheap. Whether she bought it for herself or someone gave it to her as a gift, she obviously loved it. There’s no way she used the comforter to wrap up a dead body.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying if Addy were present and a willing participant in Camio’s murder, she would’ve objected to using the comforter and used a different blanket. If she wasn’t present or wasn’t able to object . . .”

  I don’t finish the sentence. I don’t need to. Both Nolan and I are holding out little h
ope for a happy ending to her disappearance.

  I follow him into the kitchen.

  It’s one more small, spotless room that looks like nothing has been touched in it for the past forty years. I don’t see a single modern appliance. Not even a food processor or a blender. The toaster is a shiny silver affair with a red-and-white-striped cloth cord that looks sturdy enough to drop from a ten-story building without putting a dent in it.

  A set of canisters made of tarnished copper line one counter. A drying rack holds one plate, one cup, one fork, and one spoon. A snarl of steel wool sits near the sink faucet. One of her dish towels has fabric sewn to a corner along with a button and is looped through a drawer handle and fastened. My grandma did the same thing with hers. She said it kept her from misplacing them.

  The stove is an old gas range. Sitting on one of the back burners is a cast-iron skillet.

  I walk toward it, slowly, softly, holding my breath as if the pan were a living thing that might bolt if it hears or senses me.

  It can’t be this easy passes through my thoughts. I’m still wearing the latex gloves I put on earlier. I pick up the skillet by its handle and feel the heft of it. I turn it over as a matter of course, not expecting to find anything. Flaky patches of orange rust speckle the bottom and a small dark stain near the perimeter catches my eye.

  I don’t have any glasses on me. I hold the pan away from my face at arm’s length, hoping the mark will come into better focus.

  “Holy shit,” I hear Nolan say behind me.

  He reaches around me, puts his hand over mine, and brings the skillet up to his face.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “If I’m not mistaken,” he says in a whisper, reinforcing the same sensation I had that our evidence might disappear if we spook it, “it’s hair stuck to a clot of dried blood.”

  Within moments, our discovery is confirmed. Slowly but surely every bored trooper manages to wander in and eyeball the weapon.

  “Someone killed that girl by smashing her skull in with a skillet, then put it right back on the stove?” one trooper asks me. “That may be the coldest murder I’ve ever heard of.”