“What about you? What do you think?”
“If I was JJ and the police already suspected me, I wouldn’t give them more reasons to be wary.”
“She just wants to move on. She’s very forgiving.”
“A little too forgiving in my opinion. You said it yourself, you can’t understand why she isn’t more angry.”
“Well, maybe I’m learning something from all this. Hostility only makes for more hostility. It’s like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. Wasn’t it the Buddha who said, ‘When seeking revenge, first dig two graves’?”
One week later, the investigation is still stalled, the autopsy report is still pending, and Frank and I are still walking on eggshells around each other. I want to ease the tension between us, so I agree to go with him to see JJ’s new creation, something she started working on at the retreat to honor Chrissy’s birthday. To be perfectly honest, I don’t want Frank to be alone with her. Petty of me, under the circumstances. The poor woman has just lost her child. On the other hand, grief creates a vacuum that drives some people to fill it with anything they can lay their hands on: booze, food, compulsive travel, other people’s fiancés.
JJ guides us down a long hall. She is wearing flowing russet-colored pants and a loose, hand-crocheted ivory sweater. Her feet are hidden in the folds of her pants, giving her the appearance of gliding like a Russian folk dancer.
“The galleries and the workspaces are on this floor. The apartments are on the second floor. He climbed the fire escape, you know, the man who took her.” Her eyes shift inward, downward, backward, looking at something I can’t see. It is a minute before she blinks back into the present.
The building is quiet. Cooking odors from upstairs waft down to the first floor. Someone is playing the guitar. We walk over old wooden floors, varnished to a high sheen. Paintings line the white walls, each one carefully lit. Whoever restored this building did so with love and good taste.
The door to JJ’s studio is painted the color of an angry sea. She takes a key from her pocket and unlocks it. I remember Bucky’s accusations about the building being unsecured. Every door in this hallway has a lock. She turns on the light. Frank and I both gasp.
Hanging from a steel frame is an unfinished tapestry of Chrissy. It must be thirty feet high and twenty feet wide. I step back. It’s hard to focus in the low light. What looks like embroidery is actually a collage: dolls, stuffed animals, pacifiers, baby bottles, diapers, and children’s clothes—shoes, hats, tiny socks, all sewn or glued together to form Chrissy’s likeness.
“It’s okay to touch it,” JJ says. “I want people to touch it.” She brushes her fingers across an assemblage of pink quilted onesies that form a ruffle. “I asked Bucky to give me some of Chrissy’s things to incorporate, but he refused. Told me I was being morbid. I think it’s beautiful. Chrissy would have loved it.” She turns to Frank. “What do you think?”
He opens his mouth. No words come out. His hands are turned, palms up, like a supplicant. He takes a breath. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. A photo montage, maybe. But this? This is alive, moving, it’s almost supernatural.”
JJ smiles. “And you, Dot? What do you think? It’s far from finished.”
I stifle the first thought that comes to mind. You’ll never finish it because this is how you’re keeping Chrissy alive.
“Come on,” she says. “I can take it. Lord knows I’ve had enough criticism in my life.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Tears thud behind my eyeballs. I turn my head so neither JJ nor Frank can see my face.
JJ puts her hand on my arm. “What is it?”
It takes me a moment to find the words and a second moment to dare to say them aloud. “Every stitch, every scrap, done with such care. It’s overwhelming. Heartbreaking.” Tears roll down my face despite my efforts to hold them back. Frank looks shocked. JJ looks pleased.
We sit together quietly while JJ boils water for a pot of tea. “As I said, I’m far from done. Look at all this stuff I’ve collected.” She turns to a worktable piled with boxes, trinkets, and bolts of fabric. She pulls something from a pile of cloth and shakes it loose. It’s a blanket. Pink with green butterflies.
“Where did you get that?” I ask.
“I bought it. Chrissy loved butterflies. She had cutouts of butterflies all over her room, on the walls and the ceiling. They glowed at night. Made her feel safe. She even had a butterfly farm. We watched the larva grow until they burst their cocoons and then we released them in the garden. At first she was so happy for them and then she got very sad when they flew away.” She smiles at the memory and hugs the blanket.
“Do the police know you have such a blanket? Did you tell them where you bought it?”
The teapot screams in the background.
“No. Should I have?”
I take a deep breath. “You do know that Chrissy’s body was wrapped in a blanket just like that one?”
“I do.”
“That’s why it may be important to the investigation to know where you bought it. If you’d prefer, I can tell them.”
“Would you? I’m not comfortable talking to the police. They’re working hard, but I know they think I’m responsible for what happened to Chrissy. They don’t say it out loud, but I know that’s what they think. If I were them, I’d be thinking the same thing.” She turns off the stove.
“It’s just that details like this sometimes help the investigation.”
She turns. Starts assembling a tray of handmade mugs for the tea.
“I got it at the Dollar Store. In East Kenilworth. I bought it for the butterflies. I was going to cut them out and sew them on the tapestry.”
“Did Chrissy ever have a blanket like this?”
“Not that I know of, unless her father bought her one. Although I doubt that Bucky shops in Dollar Stores. It made me feel better to know that when she died Chrissy was wrapped in butterflies. That whoever took her had a little shred of humanity left in his heart. Don’t take that away from me. Please.” She turns her back and begins the business of pouring tea.
“Are you seeing anyone? Like a grief counselor?”
“I went to one meeting of the Families of Murdered Children. I felt great empathy for their losses, but I couldn’t relate. They were all consumed with anger.”
“And you’re not?”
She shakes her head. “Everyone expects me to be. People think I should be camping out on the steps of the police department complaining that they’re not doing enough to catch her killer. As you know, I’m a Buddhist. I try to hold compassion in my heart. Only a tortured soul would hurt a child. Chrissy was love. If I’m bitter or angry, I destroy my life and dishonor her memory.”
The Dollar Store in East Kenilworth is on the main drag, between a carniceria and a place to send money back to Mexico, safe, secure, and guaranteed. At least that’s what I think the sign says, given my tourist-level Spanish. I don’t know what I’m doing here except to get my facts straight before I talk to Manny or Pence. That damn butterfly blanket may or may not be a link to Chrissy’s murder. There’s only one way to find out.
A buzzer sounds when I open the front door. The place is stacked, floor to ceiling, with an assortment of plastic junk. A tiny dog runs at me from nowhere, yapping and growling.
“Chispa, calmate.” A command emanates from the back of the store. “He’s a nice dog. Don’t be afraid. But don’t pet him.”
No worries. I’m not about to put my hand anywhere close to the little beast’s mouth.
The voice from behind the curtained doorway belongs to a tiny human, barely as tall as my shoulder. A toy-sized man with a toy-sized pet. “How can I help you?” He steps behind a low glass counter. Only the top of his body is visible over the case of batteries, cameras, and cheap watches. So precious they need to be kept out of the way of thieving hands.
“I’m looking for a baby blanket.
One that is green and pink with butterflies.”
He purses his lips. “Popular item,” he says and scurries away. A minute later he’s back, dragging a stepladder. He climbs, reaches for a cardboard carton, and nearly falls off the ladder under its bulk. I grab one end, and we set it on the floor. He goes up again, this time dragging a large plastic bag from behind another box. It falls to the floor with a soft thud. He gestures at the bag. “What one you want? I got bears, ducks, kitty cats, puppies . . .”
“Butterflies, I want butterflies.”
“Mariposas, everyone wants mariposas.”
“What everyone?”
He’s on his knees, pawing through the stack of blankets. Bits of fluff float in the air.
“Last week, I had one hanging in the window. A white lady with a long braid bought one. Wouldn’t take the one in the window. Said it was faded. This from China. What does she expect?”
“One person. That’s what you mean by everyone?”
He stands up holding a pink and green blanket with one hand and massaging his back with the other. This man could use a lesson in product placement. His popular items should not be hidden on a high shelf behind a box.
“This the one you want?” He shakes it out. More fluff flies in the air.
“Yes.”
“That’ll be $5.99.”
“I thought this was the Dollar Store. Everything a dollar.”
“You want a blanket for a dollar? Go to the Salvation Army.” He starts to shove the blanket back in the bag. I take it out of his hand. “I got something here for a dollar.” He shoves an oversized pair of joke sunglasses at me. I open my wallet and hand him a twenty. He gives me a dirty look, then digs in his pocket and pulls out a wad of bills.
“You’re like that other lady. Wants to give a credit card. I don’t take credit cards. What did she think I am, Bloomingdales?”
“What other lady? The one with the braid?”
“No. Another woman. In a business suit. She doesn’t need to shop at my store, I can tell you that.”
“When? When did she buy the blanket?”
He lets out a big sigh. “Why you want to know?”
“It’s important.”
“So’s my time.” He eyes the change that’s lying on the counter.
I push it toward him. “Will this help?”
He puts it in his pocket and heads toward the back of the store, little Chispa following, his tiny toenails tapping on the floor. A minute later they return, shuffle and tap, shuffle and tap. He lays a wall calendar, decorated with a picture of the Virgin Mary, on the counter and flips through the back pages. “It was this date. Maybe a day after or a day before.” He points with a smudged finger. “I remember because it was before the holiday. I had a lot of customers and she wanted to examine every blanket like she was swaddling the baby Jesus.”
“So it was Christmas?”
“No, lady.” He turns the calendar so I can see the page. “Turkey day. Thanksgiving.”
My stomach drops. Chrissy was kidnapped the day before Thanksgiving.
“You’re absolutely sure of this?”
“Wait a minute. I’ll get the surveillance tape.”
“You have a surveillance tape?”
“In my head.” He taps his skull. “Isn’t that right, Chispa? I remember everybody who bought anything from me. You remember this lady, too, don’t you?” He looks at his dog who immediately starts to pant and wiggle. “She was afraid of Chispa. Imagine being afraid of a dog so tiny. Wanted me to put him in the back. I didn’t do it, did I, perrito?”
“What did this woman look like?”
“Tall. Taller than me.” Everyone but the dog is taller than he is. Even me.
“I don’t look at white women too close. They gonna sue me. Hispanic women, that’s another story.”
I fold the blanket.
“You want a bag? Ten cents unless you got one of your own.”
I’m not giving this creep another dime. I pick up the blanket and my purse and head for the door. He follows after me. “Why you so interested? What’d she do?”
What indeed? That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. The sixty-five-thousand-dollar question is what am I going to do with this information?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FIRST THING NEXT morning I’m in Manny’s office. He doesn’t look any more rested than he did on Friday. His eyes are sunk deeper in their sockets and his warm bronze complexion has faded to the color of day-old coffee with cream.
“Somebody, a woman, bought a baby blanket, exactly like the one Chrissy’s body was wrapped in, at the Dollar Store in East Kenilworth a few days before Chrissy was kidnapped.” I dump the blanket on his desk.
He doesn’t move a muscle. No giveaways. No tells. “And you know this how?”
“The proprietor remembered her because she wanted to use a credit card and she was afraid of his dog.”
“Did you just wander into the Dollar Store on a whim?”
“No. Let me back up. JoAnn Juliette has the same blanket. She bought it to use in an art piece she’s making in Chrissy’s memory. Frank and I were at her studio. I asked her where she bought it and she told me. The store owner remembered her from only a few days ago. And then he remembered that some other woman had bought the same blanket. The woman who tried to use a credit card.”
“Okay. And you concluded what?”
“He didn’t have a very detailed description, but it didn’t sound like the nanny.”
He smiles. “I’m not interested in the nanny. Never have been. I only wanted the family to think I was so they’d relax. When suspects relax, they make mistakes.”
My first reaction is to demand to know, if Anjelika was never a suspect, why he felt it necessary to put her through that tortuous hours-long interrogation. Scaring her so much she ran back to Norway. My second reaction is to ignore my first and stay on topic.
“If you think someone in the family killed Chrissy, doesn’t that suggest that the person who bought the first blanket was Kathryn Blazek?”
“Could be Lady Gaga, too. What we need is physical evidence to connect Blazek to the blanket and the same blanket to Chrissy. I doubt the Dollar Store has exclusive rights to sell baby blankets. The world’s a global village, Doc. You can probably buy that same blanket in thirty-five countries.” He shifts in his seat and winces. “Recycled chairs. Killing my back. Let me ask you a question. You give this guy any money?”
“For the blanket, yes.”
“That’s it?”
“I let him keep the change from a twenty for his time. What’s with the questions? You’ve been looking for that blanket for weeks. What are the odds that I found it here, literally at our front door, and it doesn’t have anything to do with Chrissy’s death?”
He cocks his head. “It’s interesting. I grant you that. Worth looking into. But this mystery woman might have bought the blanket for somebody else. Maybe the proprietor sold ten blankets just like it to ten other people and didn’t tell you because he thinks you’re a mark and wants you to keep coming back to pay him for more bogus information.”
Manny’s starting to sound more and more like Eddie. Cynical and suspicious.
“Kathryn has money,” I say. “Why would she buy a blanket that won’t make it past the first washing in a run-down store that specializes in selling crap to poor people?”
“Maybe she did it for her husband. The woman’s a regular Camilla Parker Bowles. Hangs on year in, year out, while her husband makes whoopee with Princess JJ.”
He has a point. I’ve had that thought myself.
“Too many maybes, Doc. If someone in the family did this, my money’s on Bucky. He’s a powerful man who buys whatever he wants. First he wanted his wife, then he wanted JJ, and now he wants Chrissy, full-time, total custody. He admitted as much to me when I interviewed him.”
“If he wanted custody of Chrissy so badly, why would he murder her? That doesn’t make any sense.”
&n
bsp; “That’s why I’m still looking at registered sex offenders.”
He stands up, pushing out of his chair like a middle-aged man. “Let’s go, Doc. We need to tell the chief about the blanket.”
“Let me get this straight,” Pence says, counting on his fingers like he’s the teacher and I’m a child. “JoAnn Julliette showed you a blanket that matches the one her dead baby was wrapped in.” I nod. “You asked her where she bought it, she told you, you went to the store, the store owner verified that sale from last week and told you another woman had bought an identical blanket days before Chrissy was kidnapped, and you suspect Kathryn Blazek was that woman.” I nod again.
He turns to Manny. “You’ve seen this blanket?” Manny nods. “It matches?” He nods again. “Did either parent buy a blanket like that when Chrissy was still alive?”
Manny’s cheeks flush red. “I don’t know.”
Pence’s face is even redder.
“You don’t know? Guess that means you didn’t ask. Your job, let me remind you, was to ask both parents, the stepmother, the nanny, and the family dog. If they even twitched at the question, you should have dug deeper. Basic police work. As of now, we have nothing. No threats, no ransom requests, no disgruntled employees, no similars, and no possible 290 sex registrants. All we have is the family. And the blanket.”
“We don’t know if the person who bought the blanket was Blazek.” Manny’s face has gone from red to purple. As if things weren’t bad enough in his life, now I’ve humiliated him in front of the chief.
Pence stands and looks at his watch. “Let’s find out then, shall we?”
“We’ll take your car,” Manny says. “I don’t want to go in a patrol car, not in that neighborhood.”
“First I need to get something out of the trunk.” Manny peers over my shoulder into the abyss. Flashers, battery cables, eight rolls of toilet paper, a six-pack of water bottles, and a bag of protein bars long past the expiration date. This is California. We have to be prepared for an earthquake. Nothing worse than being stuck on the road without toilet paper and something to read. I rummage through a pile of newspapers I saved after Chrissy was kidnapped and find one with a photo of Bucky and Kathryn on the front page. The headline reads “Prominent businessman’s infant daughter abducted from her bed.” It’s a posed picture from a fund-raising event a year before Chrissy’s death. The Bucky I know today is a gray specter of his former self, all the pluck and brashness of a man totally in control of his world leached out of him. Kathryn looks about the same, courtesy of a pound of makeup and an unchanging hairstyle. I show the paper to Manny.
The Fifth Reflection Page 13
