by Laurie Nave
“You haven’t eaten your cake,” Natasha pointed out. “It isn’t poisoned, is it?”
Celia laughed. “Not at all. I am just not a big eater of sweets. I mainly learned to cook to prove my mom wrong.”
“Well, that sounds like an interesting story.”
“It’s not very. My mom didn’t want anyone in her kitchen. She was rather obnoxious about it. So I learned to cook out of spite, and then so that I could render her speechless.”
Natasha laughed. “Well, well, it looks like I’m not the only one who likes to win.”
Celia shrugged. “Most of life is a competition, after all.”
“Yes, it is, one that I intend to win until the end.”
“Some might consider getting away with four murders winning. In a strange way, of course.”
“Well, except I didn’t get away with them, did I?” Natasha sat back and licked her fingertips.
“You only got caught after killing your father. If that hadn’t happened, you would have gotten away with them.”
Natasha’s expression darkened, and she shifted in her chair. “I guess in that way, my father won. Damn him.”
“Why did you kill him?”
“We’re not ready for that part of the story,” Natasha replied shortly.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to touch on it yet. I was just curious since we were discussing him.”
“I do plan to talk about him, but not today. I don’t want to have indigestion after this lovely cake.”
Celia scanned her notes. “In that case, let’s go way back. I asked you in our first interview if you remembered much about your life before you moved to the states.”
“Yes, I remember the question. I do remember some things. I remember my mother. I remember being told stories, and I remember that one time when I was sick, I slept in the bed with her. I don’t know where my father slept. I have a vague memory of people I assume were my grandparents.”
“Would you say you were happy as a child?”
Sighing, Natasha crumpled her napkin and then brushed the crumbs onto the floor. “What is a happy childhood? My parents took care of me. My father provided for us. My mother was very attentive. Until she left, I lived what I assume was a life like anyone else. I was an independent child. That is what my father always said.”
“So no abuse or trauma?”
“That is always the hypothesis, isn’t it? No one ever beat me. My parents’ marriage was less than ideal. There were fights, which mostly consisted of my father yelling and my mother cowering. I remember slipping through the back door and escaping to the yard or somewhere down the street from time to time.”
Celia smiled. “Would you say you were an obedient child?”
Laughing, Natasha tapped the table. “What do you think?”
Celia thought for a minute. “I think you were very good at seeming compliant.”
“Who, me? I was the model child!”
Celia laughed. There was no doubt Natasha knew how to wrap others around her finger, even at a young age. Who wouldn’t use that to their advantage?
“I generally did what I wanted; however, I learned how to work the house rules to my advantage I suppose. Most young people do, at least once they become teenagers. It did get harder after my mother left, but I eventually learned my father’s methods too.”
Natasha wouldn’t have been openly defiant, Celia thought. It didn’t fit with her cool nature. Not that Natasha didn’t likely get angry at times. There had already been a couple of moments where Celia had sensed an undercurrent of it. The day the new guard walked Natasha in, for example. The actress had been smarmy and flirty, but it was apparent she was not happy that the guard tried to control her in a domineering way.
“So now it’s your turn again.” Natasha pointed. “Tell me more about your not-so-apple-pie family. Are they nearby?”
“Oh, god no,” Celia replied. “I was raised just outside the Bible belt.”
“Churchgoing family then?”
“Mom and I did go to church a bit when I was very young. She was involved with some ladies’ group there. All that changed when my father left.”
“How so?”
“For some reason, once he left, we were different. Our status was tainted, I guess. All those ladies group women dropped her, and we stopped going. I didn’t mind; it meant I could sleep in on Sundays.”
“So, you and your mother were close.”
Celia studied Natasha; the actress already knew they weren’t close. “No. Mom got bitter, and my father became insufferable with his trophy wife and a new set of kids.”
“I take it he wasn’t a good part-time dad.” Natasha chuckled.
“Hell, no. I stopped visiting him when I was fourteen. I think he was relieved.”
“And no touching reconciliations years later.”
“Hardly,” I snorted. “I assume my father hasn’t traded up in the last several years. My mother died in 2010.”
Natasha’s sad expression seemed almost sincere. “I’m sorry about that.”
“I was in Haiti. I didn’t make it back for the funeral.”
“So...” Natasha smirked. “No desire for marriage or family?”
“Is it cliché to say I am married to my career?”
“Maybe a little. But a career gives you tangible rewards, and it doesn’t demand blowjobs.”
Celia laughed so hard her eyes began to water. “Oh my god, so true. Sex is nice, but—“
“But it’s a fairly steep price to pay for sex.”
“Also true. And no variety.”
“Poor Bart. Does he know his hopes for fairy tales are futile?”
“He’d better.”
The five-minute warning knock came, and Celia began to wrap the cake in the cellophane she’d used to bring it. “We have two weeks until our next interview. I’d like to start talking more about the jump from actress to murderer. I’m no psychologist, but I have trouble believing that you went from a controlled professional straight to a serial killer. I want to explore that.”
“I assumed you would. You’d be surprised though. Sometimes a controlled professional is just a cover for darker impulses. There are more ways to win than killing. Success is the ultimate win. Don’t you agree? You’ve certainly won in your field.”
“I suppose I have. I’d like to think I’m still winning.”
“I’m sure you are. Your career is as important to you, as mine was to me. Staying where we are and not moving forward isn’t who we are.” Natasha pouted a bit. “I suppose I can’t keep the rest of the cake, can I?”
“No, they told me I’d have to bring it back out with me. I wondered if they just said that so they could have a slice too.”
“I wouldn’t blame them. After a slice of that, Keith will really want to get into your pants.”
“Oh God, no more men please!” Celia rolled her eyes. She knew Keith had an eye on her, but prison guards were a no-fly zone.
“Hmmm... sounds like there’s a story there. Maybe I’ll want to explore that in our next meeting.”
Keith knocked, and they both laughed. “You ladies must have had fun?” He looked confused.
“Oh, Celia is a lot of fun,” Natasha said, winking as the other guard led her out of the room.
Keith and Celia walked down the hallway in silence. He entered the code, and the doors opened. They were almost to the entry when he turned to her. “Hey, Celia—“
“Want some cake?” She interrupted. “I have some spoons in my pocket. I was planning on leaving it with the clerk at the desk.”
“Oh,” Keith said. “Sure, it looks great.”
When they got to the front desk, Celia cut a piece of the cake for Keith and the clerk, Myra. Myra’s reaction to the first bite was similar to Natasha’s, and Celia told her to take the rest home. Keith enjoyed it too, though he looked a little disappointed that she had interrupted him in the hallway. Sorry, Keith, no-fly zone. She told Keith to be nice to Myra so he co
uld take some home too.
Her cellphone rang as she walked to her car. It was John.
“Hey, Celia, are you heading back from the prison?”
“I just walked out. I should be back after lunch.”
“Okay then. I’d like a status report when you get here. I also have something else I’d like you to look into. I think it’s your kind of thing.”
“Sure,” Celia replied. “I’ll text you when I get back.”
Celia tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and started her car. Ever since she’d set John straight, he’d avoided her a bit. This new story was probably a way to get back into her good graces. Or it was a carrot to convince her to spill all the details about her interviews with Natasha. Either way, Celia knew she’d need to be on her guard. John never did anything without an agenda.
“So I was thinking about how long you’ve been here,” John began as Celia walked around her desk as sat. “I’ve been thinking about how we can expand the writing you do.”
“That sounds interesting.” Celia smiled.
“You’re adept at outlining the implications of things like corruption, negligence, and topics that sometimes go over the public’s head.”
And often yours, John.
“I’d like you to consider a weekly byline, sort of a general inform-the-public series, almost educational. You could do what you do best, lay out the facts.”
Celia’s smile froze in place as she thought about John’s words. It was typical. It seemed like a compliment, but there was also a dig. This time the dig was in reference to her drama-based interviews with Natasha.
“I think it would really bump up our numbers, yours included, and you could share your expertise.”
“I’ll think about it,” Celia said. “I’ll have to see if it will fit in with the other stories I have in progress and the exclusive interviews with Natasha.” See, I can dig too.
“I understand,” John smirked. “You do that.” He left the office, closing the door loudly on his way out.
Celia opened the folder titled “Prison” and began typing up her notes from the day’s interview. She’d listen to the recording later. When she got to the word parents, she paused. Celia hadn’t been completely honest with Natasha. She knew her father was single again; his trophy wife had taken the kids and left. That probably explained why he kept reaching out, continuing to reconnect. And somehow, knowing he was alone made Celia even less inclined to return any of his calls.
Sorry, Dad. You used up your chances.
Chapter 9
It was the fourth time Bart had called. Celia sighed and turned over her cell phone. He’d left repeated apologetic messages, hoping to talk with her to “straighten things out.” At first, Celia had considered indulging him. However, after the third rambling voicemail, she became completely turned off. Hopefully, if she ignored him, he’d just give up eventually.
As she worked, Celia periodically eyed the file labeled “Prison.” Every time she interviewed Natasha, she listened to the recording, consulted her notes, and created a transcription of sorts. Then, she printed the transcription and placed it in the file folder. It was the only story she was working on that wasn’t digital storage only. For some reason, Celia felt compelled to print each transcript, in case some unheard-of technology travesty erased the digital records. It was a bit obsessive and paranoid, but Celia couldn’t seem to help herself. Today, however, she resisted the temptation to open it.
John was pleased with the bits and pieces of her visits with Natasha that Celia had chosen to share. He still didn’t like the fact that they were sitting on the story; he was paranoid about getting scooped or having one of the prison employees leak Celia’s visits. Any early preview of the story, however, and Natasha would halt the interviews. Delayed gratification was not John’s strength, but he grumpily agreed.
As soon as Celia got home, her phone rang. She swore, but wasn’t Bart this time; it was her friend, Marlene.
“Hey Celia, you’ve been a stranger!” Marlene was almost always upbeat.
“I know,” Celia said. “I’ve been churning out story after story. You know I work for a slave driver.”
“John can be an ass, but I think your biggest slave driver is you,” Marlene countered. She had worked for him for years; it was how Celia met her.
“You could be right,” Celia laughed. “How’s the restaurant business?”
Marlene and her husband owned an authentic Italian restaurant; she’d left The Journal to open it. Dave, her husband, was a great businessman, and Marlene had her grandmother’s almost magical gift for cooking. Even Celia couldn’t replicate Marlene’s Italian cheesecake, and she’d repeatedly tried.
“It’s crazy too. I was worried in the beginning when things started slowly. But now Dave is trying to figure out how to make more space for us without moving locations.”
“That’s great! I saw the piece in the paper about it. I need to get over there to sample the new dishes.”
“You do! Of course, you’ll get the friend discount if you wash some dishes.”
“On second thought, maybe I’ll just have it delivered.”
Marlene laughed, and her dogs started barking in the background. “Shut up Rossini! Puccini!”
“I still can’t believe you named your great Danes after Italian composers. Or that you have two Great Danes in that townhouse.”
“That’s actually why I called,” Marlene said. “We bought a house. We’re moving.”
“Congratulations,” Celia said. “I thought you’d live in that townhouse forever.”
Well,” Marlene giggled, “we need more room...”
Celia didn’t answer for a few seconds. Then she understood what Marlene meant. “Oh my goodness. When?”
“About six months from now. We’d all but given up. I wasn’t even taking shots anymore.”
Marlene was 39, and she and Dave had been trying to have a baby for almost as long as Marlene had known her. Celia didn’t relate to the urge, but she always tried to offer the appropriate support. “You’ll understand when your clock starts ticking louder,” Marlene always said. Celia was 38, and her clock had never ticked. However, she was glad Marlene and Dave were getting what they wanted.
“I’m glad for you and Dave, Marlene. About the house and the baby.”
“Thanks,” Marlene gushed. “I want you to put the 27th on your calendar. We’ll be in the house, and we’re having a housewarming and gender reveal.”
“Oh...wow.”
“I know, I know. We used to make fun of those. But now that I’m finally pregnant, I want to do everything.”
“I’ll be there,” Celia promised. “Let me know what I can bring.”
“Actually, I think we need a girls’ night before the party. I want to hear all about your love life!” Marlene teased.
“I’d be glad to have a girls’ night, but it’ll be a boring night if that’s the only topic.”
“Oh come on, I’m married. I have to live vicariously. Surely you have some drop-dead gorgeous man in your life.”
“Drop dead gorgeous doesn’t necessarily mean sane and normal,” Celia said dryly.
Marlene’s voice changed. “Oh, it sounds like there’s a story there. What’s his name?”
“His name was Bart. He got clingy and then kind of crazy. I can’t seem to shake him.”
“That sounds a little disturbing, Celia. Is he stalking you or something?”
Celia laughed. “You’ve been watching Lifetime again, haven’t you? It’s fine.”
“Your problem is you are just too irresistible. They just can’t stay away from you.”
“Oh god, you already have a pregnancy brain, don’t you?” Celia smiled. “So when do you want to have this girls’ night?”
They set a night to meet, and then Marlene chatted for a few more minutes before saying she needed to throw up, so Celia ended the call. Marlene was sharp and loyal, and her husband had his finger on the pulse of a lot of the b
usiness in town. Their friendship had been enjoyable and beneficial. They deserved happiness.
Celia was considering what to bake for the housewarming when someone knocked at her door.
“Oh great, you’re home,” Bart said as Celia opened the door. He was holding a bouquet. “I think we should talk.”
Anger was Celia’s first impulse, but she forced herself not to react. “Bart, there’s nothing to talk about.”
“But I need to apologize. I was an ass. You were right. We weren’t exclusive yet.”
“Bart,” Celia held up a hand. “It’s fine, you’re forgiven. I think we should both just move on.” She began to close the door, but Bart stepped forward.
“Please, Celia,” he said. “Just one conversation to clear the air. Then, if you still don’t want to see me, I’ll leave you alone.”
Celia opened the door wider and stepped back so that Bart could walk into her place. She followed him to the living room, and when he sat on the sofa, she sat in an armchair.
“You look great,” Bart said.
“Thanks, you too. So what’s on your mind?”
“I’ve been thinking about our argument. I was wrong. I was moving too fast. We were having a good time and I was pushy.”
“It really is okay, Bart. It was a stupid move on my part too. I was having a rough weekend.” Celia hoped if she took some blame he’d be appeased and finally drop it.
“Me too,” Bart said, moving closer. “It was all a stupid misunderstanding. Can we just forget it, pretend it never happened?”
“I’d like that too,” Celia carefully responded. “You’re a great guy, Bart. I’d hate for us to leave it on bad terms.”
“Thank you, Celia,” Bart said, taking her hand. “I think you’re pretty awesome too.” Celia withdrew her arm, but Bart continued. “Would you be interested in dinner Saturday night?”