The doors to the commune gallery are open and draped with garlands of white flowers. There are candles burning everywhere. A low chant vibrates the air. The front of the room is dominated by a large altar surrounded by floor cushions and a circle of chairs. Almost every seat is taken. Frank and I find two chairs in the back, off to the side. I see Anjelika and others of JJ’s young students sitting cross-legged on the floor cushions, eyes closed with their hands resting on their spread knees, palms up. Anjelika’s face is streaked with tears.
JJ is seated next to the altar on a large cushion, her body wrapped in meditative posture, still as the statue of Buddha next to her on a low table. This is not the fat, happy Buddha, his hands in the air that oversees my mother’s garden, but a slender, contemplative figure of carved wood. JJ looks positively ethereal in flowing white pants and a loose gauzy top, a row of white flowers fixed to her long braid. Her face is washed clean. The scorched red skin around her mouth and eyes has healed and there is fullness back in her cheeks.
The now famous portrait of Chrissy, naked, wearing only a floppy bow on her head, sits on the altar, surrounded by flowers and colorful butterflies. She looks out at us from her frothy white world with curious eyes as though wondering why on earth this room is full of somber-faced adults who look so sad.
A tall, slender man with graying hair steps forward and positions himself next to the altar. He is wearing white pants and a matching long-sleeved shirt. A red string is tied around his left wrist. He closes his eyes, puts his hands together in the prayer position, and bows slightly, first to the statue of Buddha, then to JJ, then to Chrissy’s picture, then to all of us.
“Welcome,” he says. “My name is Gordon Feinstein. I am the founder and main teacher of the Kenilworth Meditation Center. Welcome, everyone.”
Feinstein? My father’s voice thunders in my ears. Jew-Bu. Traitor. He would have spat the words. Abandoning your people for a tribe of do-nothing cowards who pretend sitting on a pillow is going to right the wrongs of this world. The memory makes me wince. My father was a torment of contradictions. One day, rejecting religion as an illicit, oppressive authority designed to camouflage the sins of the villainous rich behind a facade of holiness. The next day, railing at anyone, no matter how desperate or life-threatening their circumstances, who hid their Jewish roots.
“Dot.” Frank nudges me in the ribs. “You’re talking to yourself.”
Feinstein raises his hands and bows again. “We are gathered today in the Buddhist tradition to celebrate Chrissy’s short life, to remember how she enriched our lives while she was here, and to wish her well on her journey. If you are not of our tradition, please feel free to contemplate Chrissy’s life in whatever way works for you. It is also our tradition to chant, read poems, and to make statements directly to the departed or to the assembled group. We will start with a recorded chant. Please join in if you know it. For those of you who don’t understand the ancient Pali language, what we are chanting is roughly interpreted as: All things are impermanent. They arise and pass away. Having arisen, they come to an end, their coming to peace is bliss.
The chant starts softly and builds, rolling over and then through us. The vibration thrums my body like a pulse, touching something beyond conscious thought. I drift in a current of sound sensing all the others drifting with me. When the sound fades, I feel lost.
The teacher gently breaks the silence. “JJ has asked that I conclude our ceremony by reading from a book titled No Death, No Fear written by Thich Nhat Hanh, the great Buddhist teacher and poet. It expresses our beliefs about life and death.
“This body is not me; I am not caught in this body, I am life without boundaries, I have never been born and I have never died. Over there, the wide ocean and the sky with many galaxies. All manifests from the basis of consciousness. Since beginningless time I have always been free. Birth and death are only a door through which we go in and out. Birth and death are only a game of hide-and-seek. So smile to me and take my hand and wave good-bye. Tomorrow we shall meet again or even before. We shall always be meeting again at the true source, always meeting again on the myriad paths of life.”
I watch as tears slide from under JJ’s closed eyelids.
Feinstein bows again. “If there is anyone who would like to speak directly to Chrissy or to our gathering, now would be the time.”
JJ doesn’t move. Several people walk silently to the altar and bow in front of Chrissy’s portrait, speaking words intended only for her ears. I sense movement behind me and to my left. Manny, dressed in a dark suit and tie, walks across the back of the room and stands by himself in a corner scanning the crowd. He spots me, gives a quick nod, and continues to run his eyes over the gathering. I wonder if he expects Chrissy’s murderer to show up with a bright red M drawn on the back of his head.
When the last person sits down again, Feinstein introduces another chant followed by a cello solo so wrenching I am close to tears. He closes the service with a dedication of merit and goodwill to Chrissy and to the welfare of all living beings.
“The members of the commune have prepared food for us in the garden outside,” he says. “Or, if you are so inclined, you are welcome to stay here and sit with JJ in silence.”
Frank heads for the garden and I head for the bathroom. There’s a tug on my sleeve. I turn around expecting to see Manny. It is Kathryn Blazek, dressed all in black. Shiny rivulets of tears striping her cheeks.
“Could I talk to you for a minute?” she asks, and without waiting takes my hand and leads me down a short hall. We stop in front of an empty woodworking studio. The door is closed and the light is out, but I can see through a window that opens to the hall. The floor is littered with shavings, long curls of wood that look like Chrissy’s tumbled hair. “JJ needs support. I wanted Bucky to come with me, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He blames JJ for Chrissy’s death.”
“And you don’t?” I ask.
Kathryn sucks on her lips. “She did a lot of things that were unwise. But no mother would murder her own child. She loved Chrissy every bit as much as we do. I don’t blame her. She is suffering. We all are.”
“Dot? Everything okay?” Frank calls to me down the hall. He is holding two small plates of food.
Kathryn hoists her bag on her shoulder. “Will you tell JJ you saw me? I just want her to know I was here.” She looks around. “I guess I expected to sign a guest book. And I sent flowers.” She pats my arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. As they say, it’s the thought that counts.”
Before I can reply, she gives a nervous chortle and skitters down the hall.
Manny is waiting for us in the parking lot. He looks as tired as I’ve ever seen him. I introduce him to Frank.
“It’s Sunday. You should be home with your family,” I say.
“You sound like my wife.”
“Pence could have sent someone else.”
“He doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Who are you looking for?” Frank asks. “What do you think happened to Chrissy?”
Manny steps back. Sizes Frank up. He’s used to asking the questions, not answering them. People are walking to their cars. Manny waits until they pass.
“The mother paraded this kid around in the nude. What did she expect? That’s like waving a red flag at a bull thinking it won’t hurt you because you’re a vegetarian.” He moves closer to Frank. “You know her. The doc told me you study photography with her. What do you think of those pictures?”
“They’re beautiful. Unique. As good as anything you’ll see in a museum.”
“What about the content? Don’t you think it’s a little strange, a little risky, to put nude photos of your child, any child, on display?”
Frank’s mouth pulls down at the corners. He takes a few breaths. “I know JoAnn Juliette. I have never seen any indication that she would do something to jeopardize her daughter. She is totally professional. Her photos are works of art. Nothing else.”
“I
don’t know about works of art, but I do know a lot about pictures of nude children and what happens to them. Sorry to say bad things about your teacher, but in my opinion she is either the most naive person in the world or she’s got you fooled. She can sit up there all spiritual, but sooner or later I’m going to find some pervert in a chat room offering Chrissy’s pictures for sale. The ones she took and the ones he took.” He looks at his watch. “I gotta get going. Nice to meet you. Sorry to bad-mouth your teacher.” He leans in toward Frank and lowers his voice as more people walk past. “Just in case you learn anything that can help me, or you meet someone who gives you the creeps, maybe someone in your class, give me a call.” He pulls a business card out of his wallet and hands it to Frank. “You, too, Doc. Anything or anyone that seems out of place, let me know.” He sticks his hand out to Frank, and for a millisecond I think Frank is going to refuse to offer his in return.
As soon as Manny is out of earshot, Frank rips up his business card and drops it on the ground. “Son of a bitch, who does he think he is, asking me to report on JJ?”
“Parents are always at the top of the list of suspects in a child kidnapping. Manny has to suspect everyone until he finds the person who did this. He’s just doing his job. He didn’t mean to be offensive.”
“I don’t know what he meant. But I didn’t like it. He needs to slow down. Stop jumping to conclusions.”
Frank opens the car door for me and walks around to his side. He slides in and turns the key. The engine rumbles. “You do what you think is right, Dot. I know you like this kid Manny a lot. But if you ever spy on JJ for the cops . . .”
“He didn’t ask me to spy on JJ, just to report anything that seems strange or out of order.”
“Call it what you will, sounds like spying to me.”
CHAPTER NINE
THE WEEK AFTER Chrissy’s so-called celebration we are about to eat dinner at my house—grilled salmon, arugula salad, and a friendly sauvignon blanc from New Zealand—when JJ calls on Frank’s cell phone. It’s barely more than a month since Chrissy’s murder. He walks out of the kitchen into the living room. I stand at the stove trying to figure out what to do. If I put our plates on the warming griddle, the salad will get hot. If I don’t, the salmon will get cold. Frank would know what to do—he’s a master at making everything turn out at the same time. I scrape the salad into a bowl, put it in the refrigerator, and heat the plates. Dinner can wait. This is JJ’s first Christmas season without Chrissy.
“Are you sure?” Frank listens for a few minutes, says, “See you then,” and hangs up.
I reassemble the plates and bring them to the table.
“Class starts right after New Year’s. JJ says she’s ready. I hope she’s right, because I have stuff to show her and I need her feedback.”
“Seems a little premature, but sometimes reestablishing normal routines can be healing.”
“She thanked me for my support and said to tell you the same. She is asking all her students not to talk about Chrissy in class or ask questions. It is her intention to maintain her—and I quote—‘equanimity, attitude of forgiveness,’ and something called ‘metta.’”
“Metta means loving-kindness or goodwill.” I’ve taken a few classes in Buddhist psychology.
“Beats me why she wants to have goodwill toward the bastard who killed Chrissy.”
“It’s not for him, it’s for her. So her life is not consumed by loathing.”
Frank raises his glass. “If she can do that, she’s a better person than I am. If it was me, I’d want to kill the son of a bitch with my bare hands.”
The week between Christmas and New Year’s is slow for therapists and contractors. It’s a good time to get away. Last year Frank surprised me with a trip to Big Sur. A whole week hunkering down in a B & B, reading books and drinking wine in front of the fireplace while rain pelted the roof and scratched at the windows. This year is different. The PD is on high alert looking for Chrissy’s killer. All holiday leaves are canceled. Pence doesn’t order me to work, he doesn’t have to. Showing up when I’m not expected is a way to demonstrate my dedication to the team. Fran keeps everyone supplied with Christmas cookies. Eddie hangs around hoping someone will ask him to do something besides keep the coffeepot going. Frank makes a traditional Christmas dinner for some of our friends. My mother goes out for Chinese and to the movies with her women’s group. And Manny drops by my office at headquarters to tell me he’s in the doghouse with Lupe because he didn’t have time to help decorate their tree. Then he missed Midnight Mass and wasn’t home in time to watch Carmela open gifts.
“I don’t know why Lupe is so upset. Carmela’s too young to know about gifts. She likes to play with the wrapping paper.” He’s lost color in his face and his clothes look baggy.
“Anything new on your end?” he asks.
I tell him what Frank made for Christmas dinner. That we decided not to exchange presents, but to give each other a rain check for a weekend away.
“I mean anything new with JJ?”
“We haven’t seen her since the celebration of Chrissy’s life. But I know she’s going to start teaching again, right after New Year’s.”
“So she’s over her grief? That was quick. Guess that meditation stuff works. When you see her next, you might want to tell her that while she’s been sitting on her pillow, there’s a dozen guys who didn’t get to spend Christmas with their kids because they’ve been working overtime trying to find the creep who killed hers.”
“What kind of thugs do you work for?” Frank slams the door and throws his camera bag on my couch. He sits down, no kiss, no hello, no nothing.
“First night back at class didn’t go so well?”
“It was going fine until your pal Manny barged into the middle of the class, told everyone he was going to confiscate our hard drives, and dragged Anjelika down to the police station. She can’t be more than twenty-one years old. What in hell could she have done? She was absolutely terrified.”
I remember her from the student art show and the funeral. Meditating on a cushion, her eyes swollen from crying. “Young girls do a lot of things they shouldn’t,” I say. He glares at me, walks into the kitchen, pours himself a drink, and brings it back into the living room.
“I don’t think she understood what was going on. Her English isn’t very good.” He swigs his drink. “Right in front of everybody. She was in tears. JJ tried to stop them, but he threatened to arrest her. Maybe instead of shrinking heads, you should teach your favorite cop and his buddies some better techniques.” He sits down with a thud. “She’s a nanny, for God’s sake. A nanny. There’s three of them in class. They’re friends from Denmark or Norway. All they want to do is practice their English and take pictures of adorable babies.”
Manny is in the command center drinking a Starbucks latté when I go to headquarters the next morning. In Silicon Valley, cops prefer espresso to coffee and croissants to donuts with the occasional vegan-schmeared five grain bagel. Nobody has the heart to tell Fran.
He stands up when he sees me and raises his drink in salute. “Morning, Doc.”
“You look better than you did the other day,” I say.
“I think we got our man or I should say our girl.” He makes air quotations with his hands around the word girl. “I’m not being sexist; she really is a girl.”
“Nice looking one, too,” someone mutters just loud enough for me to hear.
“I guess you know that we detained the Stewarts’ nanny last night at her photography class. We had interviewed her along with the rest of their house staff. She was conveniently out of town when Chrissy disappeared. We took a look at her hard drive. She’s got photos of Chrissy all over the place. Probably got a boyfriend somewhere who did the snatch. Told him about the layout of the mother’s commune. She’s been there a dozen times at least, picking Chrissy up, dropping her off.”
“Anjelika was the Stewarts’ nanny? I didn’t know that.” I wondered if Frank did. If he did,
why didn’t he tell me?
“Don’t feel like the Lone Ranger. She’s a secretive girl. The Stewarts didn’t know she was studying photography with JJ on her nights off. She’s in the same class as your fiancé.”
“I know. I met her at an exhibit of student artwork.” Manny’s eyes widen.
“You knew she was Chrissy’s nanny?”
“No. Never came up.”
“Frank didn’t tell you?”
“I doubt he knew. He would have told me.”
Manny’s jaw waggles, chewing on this new piece of information.
“Were the images you found on Anjelika’s computer pornographic?” I ask.
“Depends on your point of view. Some in the bath, naked. Some naked in the pool.” I want to say that lots of people take pictures of their toddlers in the bathtub, but it’s not the time to argue.
“Why did you detain her?”
“We got a phone call.”
“From whom?” He’s making me pull this out of him, detail by detail.
“The father. He caught her packing a bag. With her passport in her purse. She still has months to go on her contract.”
“Bucky Stewart is too careful to not have thoroughly vetted Anjelika and anyone else who works for him.”
Manny shrugs. “That’s what he says, too. Says her references were golden.”
“Where is she now?”
“Right now she’s in the lobby, waiting for you.”
“Me?”
“Yup. Doesn’t want a lawyer. Only you. Shall we go?”
Anjelika is sitting on a bench across from Kathryn and Bucky. Bucky’s eyes are closed, his head tilted back, arms slack as though someone has siphoned out his insides, leaving only a wilted exterior. Kathryn sits rigid as a pole, clicking the lock on her handbag. The noise bounces off the walls of the empty lobby like distant claps of thunder. The minute she spots me, Anjelika jumps to her feet. Her hair is wet and spiky. She’s wearing running tights, short boots, and a sweatshirt emblazoned with a Norwegian flag. “Thank you so much for coming for me. I love Frank. He’s the best man ever. So nice. He loves you. Says you are the best psychologist. That you know how police think. Please help me make them know I’m honest girl who never hurt a baby. Please.” She says it over and over.
The Fifth Reflection Page 9
