A Family of Strangers

by Emilie Richards

  “The law’s not always right. Nothing is black or white.”

  “You’re trying to be judge, jury, sister and daughter. You can’t be. You shouldn’t be.”

  Teo rose to clear the table, but I put my hand on his arm. “Thank you. I listened.”

  He leaned over and kissed me. “Do what you need to.”

  On the trip home I considered swinging by my parents’ house, but I wasn’t up to telling my mother what I’d learned. I wished I could bask in the warm glow of my night with Teo, and in our budding respect for each other’s differences. But even though I’d left Wendy with the impression I’d said goodbye forever, I still had doubts.

  At the town house I took care of mail—just mine now. Wendy’s mail would probably pile up at the Pronghorn post office indefinitely. Afterward I checked the phone and discovered the line was dead. Wendy had finally gotten around to canceling the phone service.

  Without Holly and Noelle or Bismarck, the house seemed starkly empty. The refrigerator was almost empty, too, and I made a mental note to buy groceries before I picked up the girls that evening.

  At some point I had to call Sophie and report what I’d learned, but at the moment I wasn’t ready to face another explanation. Upstairs I lay down to nap on the same bed where Wendy had slept. Instead I stared at the ceiling.

  When had my sister turned into a monster? My mother thought the change had begun after Greta’s death. As terrible as that must have been, how had the drowning transformed her from the perfect daughter, student, friend into someone who, in the most positive scenario, had pulled a gun on a former lover as retaliation for abandoning her?

  What was the connection? Greta had abandoned Wendy, too, only not by choice, by drowning. Had that memory lingered in Wendy’s subconscious to make her react in terrible ways to every abandonment in her future? Had Bryce paid a price, too, for abandoning her to his job?

  I wasn’t a psychologist, but children and adolescents routinely suffered abandonment. How many of them lost their moral compass?

  Too tightly wound to sleep I got up. Wendy’s scrapbooks were still in the bottom drawer of the bedroom dresser, and I pulled out the one filled with photographs, paging through them again and watching my sister-mother turn from an adorably chubby infant into a toddler and then a girl.

  Photos of Greta began to appear. The more I gazed at them, the more I felt this was a girl I would have been friends with. I remembered my mother’s story about the bouquet with the chocolate bar hidden among the flowers. When had she and Wendy grown close? Had she cared that Wendy was prettier? Had she been happy in Wendy’s shadow?

  Then Greta began to blossom, too. Since Wendy was in most of the photos, I examined her, as well. Was she happy her friend was turning into someone she might have to compete with? Did friendship override jealousy?

  I came to the last photo of the two girls together. I hadn’t paid attention to it before, but now I realized it might be the last one taken before Greta’s death. They weren’t arm in arm, as before, but then they were no longer children. They were adolescents, moving from middle school to high school. Hadn’t my mother said that Greta died right before Wendy went into ninth grade?

  They looked happy enough, but almost anything could be hidden behind a smile. I slid the photo out of its holder and carried it to the window where the light was best. I searched their faces, although I wasn’t sure why. Wendy’s hair was nearly white from hours in the sun, and her skin was tanned. Greta’s dark hair was shorter, but beautifully cut in layers to frame her face. Her cheekbones were high, her eyebrows perfectly shaped, and her lashes were long and dark. My mother had said Greta would have been striking, but I saw real beauty here, the kind that would deepen with age.

  I almost missed the necklace. I would have missed it entirely if it hadn’t looked so familiar. I held the photo closer, and after a moment I took it with me to my nieces’ room. Noelle’s carved wooden box was still hidden under a stack of unworn sweaters, a testament to how much she loved her absent mother. I sat on her bed and lifted the top. Inside were the same familiar objects, but only one interested me. I lifted a necklace, half a heart on a tarnished chain, and held it next to the photo. For the first time I noticed that the heart had words engraved in it, but they were too worn and tarnished to read.

  I stared at both photo and necklace for a long time, then I slipped them into my pocket.

  * * *

  After I waited on the high school line for a full ten minutes, Claire Durant finally came to the telephone. “Ryan,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Claire, did you know my sister in middle school?”

  She seemed surprised by the question, and possibly relieved, since we hadn’t spoken since she’d given me the yearbook and I’d been plunged headfirst into family secrets.

  “No,” she said, “my family moved here at the beginning of our sophomore year.”

  I was disappointed. “Oh.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I was hoping to talk to somebody who knew Wendy and her friend Greta...” I searched for Greta’s last name. “Harold, I think. Greta Harold. She died the summer before she was supposed to start high school, but you wouldn’t have known her.”

  “No, but I knew about her. Adolescents take death especially hard. When I arrived, people were still talking about the way she drowned.”

  “Is there anybody you know who’s still living in the area and might have known her? Anybody who went to school with her? With Wendy?”

  “I’m going to assume you have a good reason for asking this?”

  “Me, too.”

  “I gave you Diana Gordon’s yearbook.”

  “You had your reasons. I’m still trying to absorb them.”

  I half expected her to ask me what I was absorbing, but she didn’t. Claire had told me it was her job to keep secrets.

  “Diana is a physical therapist at a clinic on the outskirts of town. I think her married name is Reynolds. I can’t remember the name of the clinic, but somebody told me she’s very skilled. Why don’t you try her?”

  “Thank you. And thanks for...the yearbook.”

  “I’m glad to help.”

  I went to my laptop. Maybe I was trying to avoid the moment when I told my mother what I’d learned. But I knew for certain I wanted to talk to Diana Gordon Reynolds before I talked to Mom that evening.

  Before her death, Greta Harold wore half a heart on a chain around her neck. In the same photo, Wendy’s neck was bare. Yet now, residing in my pocket, was a necklace like Greta’s. And unless the necklace was flipped when the photo was taken, the half in my pocket was exactly like the half she had worn.

  I hoped Diana, the same Diana who had badly defaced Wendy’s yearbook photo all those years ago, could explain.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  I considered multiple ways to persuade Diana to talk to me. In the end, at noon I made the trip to Mangrove Bay Physical Therapy, located at the end of a strip mall filled with exclusive shops. Once inside I asked the young receptionist who was juggling paperwork if Diana had time to see me.

  The woman who came out to greet me looked nothing like her Seabank High senior photo. She was slender and attractive, with long brown hair that glowed with red highlights, and sassy black-framed glasses. She smiled warmly and held out her hand. We shook.

  Diana launched right in. “Jenny said you’d like to make an appointment. What do you need help with?”

  I moved to one side, hoping she would follow, and she did.

  “I’m not here for an appointment. I’m sorry that was the impression I gave. But you went to school with Claire Durant, and she suggested I talk to you.”

  “I missed your name.”

  She hadn’t missed it, I hadn’t given it. Now I was afraid she wasn’t going to like it.

  “I’m Ryan Gracey. You w
ent to school with my sister.”

  She didn’t miss a beat. “You don’t look like Wendy.”

  “No, I look like my father.” I didn’t elaborate, and if that clicked for her, she didn’t show it. “Please don’t let our relationship influence you.”

  She didn’t smile. “Why do you think it might?”

  “I have your yearbook. Claire gave it to me. I guess somebody picked it up at a garage sale. You probably don’t remember, but you more or less destroyed Wendy’s photo.”

  “It’s a little late to say I’m sorry, isn’t it?”

  “This has nothing to do with the photo, honestly. Or the yearbook. But I need to talk to somebody who knew Wendy and her best friend in middle school, Greta Harold. I know it’s not fair to just corner you this way but—”

  “Are you the same Ryan Gracey who produces Out in the Cold?”

  I was so surprised I didn’t answer.

  “Yeah, I’m a fan, so sue me.” Diana smiled a little. “I listen to true crime podcasts when I run. Yours is one of the better ones. Your name made me think of Wendy, which is why I remember. I didn’t know you were actually related.”

  “We’re years apart.”

  “You aren’t going to like anything I have to say about your sister. Are you sure you want to talk to me?”

  “That probably makes you the person I most need to talk to.”

  She still looked skeptical. “Are you doing a story on Greta’s death?”

  I shook my head.

  “Okay. I don’t have anybody to see for the next two hours. I was going to catch up on charts, but I can spend a few minutes with you.”

  We walked to a café several doors down. At the counter I asked for a bagel with cream cheese, but Diana only wanted coffee. Once we had our order, we tucked ourselves into a booth at the back. Suddenly the whole encounter struck me funny, and when Diana asked why I’d laughed, I turned up my palms.

  “I’ve done this talk-over-coffee thing a lot. Nothing good ever comes of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I gave her a brief description of my Starbucks encounter with John Quayle, and the aftermath. I didn’t tell her about Ella.

  She leaned forward, the stiffness in her spine melting away one vertebrae at a time. “That was you? At the time your name didn’t register. An officer and his dog were shot?”

  “They saved my life.” I decided sharing something more might be helpful for our rapport. “He’s my guy, and the dog is happily retired and living with him.”

  “Happy ending. Good for you.”

  “I’m guessing my sister wasn’t kind to you in high school.”

  She played with her coffee spoon. “I was the gawky girl she always made fun of. And she did it so tactfully. She’d suggest I take up the hems on my skirts, or give me the address of a salon where I could get a better perm, or tell me new glasses would look so much nicer. She’d always do it in front of other girls, like she had my welfare in mind. Of course, I don’t know what she said when I wasn’t around. I shudder to think.”

  “That sounds so cruel.”

  She grimaced. “Those years were tough. My father had a stroke when I was ten, and my mother had to care for him until I came home in the afternoons. Then I took care of him while she went to work cleaning office buildings. I shopped at thrift stores, used the same frames for my glasses every time I got a new prescription, and the perm? My mother saved for a year to take me to the beauty school for my birthday. I hope the girl who did it went on to a different career.”

  “I bet your dad’s condition spurred you to become a physical therapist.”

  “It did.”

  “So that’s Wendy.” I paused. “How about Greta? Did you know her well? Because my mother tells me that she and my sister were best friends until Greta drowned.”

  “They weren’t friends as long as that.”

  “No?”

  “They were close for years, true. Greta more or less basked in the glow of Wendy’s friendship. But in middle school she started coming into her own. She realized people liked her for herself, not for her connection to Wendy. And she also saw the way Wendy manipulated things so Greta was always on the sidelines.”

  “Are you guessing, or did she maybe tell you this?”

  “Both. But one of the reasons Wendy picked on me was because Greta and I became friends that last year before she died. She started sitting with me at lunch instead of at Wendy’s table where the popular kids sat. She invited me to her house.” She set the spoon away from her and folded her hands. Her coffee was untouched. “I still get Christmas cards from her mom.”

  I had my opening now. “I have a photo of Wendy and Greta. I think it may be the last one Wendy had of them together before Greta died.” I took it from my pocket and held it out for her.

  She held it up to see it better. “That’s how she looked in the last photos I have of her, too. You’re probably right. She died on the sixth of June, 1986. I put flowers on her grave every year.”

  I was touched. “From the photo it looks like she and Wendy were still friends.”

  “Greta tried not to make enemies. But by then, your sister wasn’t happy with her. Not by a long shot. And Jeff was the main reason, I guess.”

  She returned the photo, and I set it on the table. “Jeff?”

  “Jeff Fishler.”

  The name was familiar, and I mentally paged back through the yearbook. “Was he homecoming king in high school?”

  “A shoo-in. He was also voted the most likely to make a hole in one. He’s a pro golfer now.”

  “That’s why the name sounds familiar.” I didn’t follow golf, but my father did, and once he’d mentioned that a guy playing in a tournament in Naples had graduated with my sister.

  Diana continued. “In eighth grade Jeff started hanging out with Greta, and they got about as serious as anybody does in middle school. Wendy tried everything to get his attention, but when he made it clear he preferred Greta, Wendy told her she was disloyal. Greta didn’t buy it.”

  “I went to a girls’ school. I think I’m grateful.”

  “Lucky you. It was a big deal between Wendy and Greta. In middle school, of course, everything is a big deal, but Wendy wouldn’t give up. She flirted with Jeff, belittled Greta. Finally Greta just stayed as far away from her as she could.”

  I lifted the photo again. “I noticed the necklace Greta’s wearing here. I wondered if it’s a friendship necklace of some kind. I thought maybe Wendy had the other half and just wasn’t wearing it in this photo.”

  Diana didn’t have to look. “No, Jeff wore the other half.”

  “The photo’s not clear. I can’t read the writing.” Nor could I read it on the half in my pocket.

  “It’s what they call a mizpah necklace. A silver one, very pretty. Jeff was Jewish, and the words are a quote from the Old Testament. When the two parts come together, the quote says something like ‘The Lord watch over us while we are apart.’ That’s not exact, but it’s something like that. Jeff wore one half, and Greta the other. I remember because, at the time, all I wanted in the whole world was for some boy to like me that much.”

  I hadn’t taken a bite of my bagel, and now I shoved the plate away, my appetite gone. “Were Jeff and Greta a couple the summer she died? Was she still wearing his necklace?”

  “Yes, and he was, too.”

  I struggled to find a way to ask the next question, but I didn’t have to. Diana went on.

  “After she died, Jeff wore his half all the way through high school. He said it was a tribute to Greta, that her half was lying somewhere on the bottom of the gulf. When they found Greta’s body—” she took a deep breath “—hers was missing. Either it came off when she was trying to get to shore, or it washed away in the waves that swept her down the beach.”

  I sat very
still, trying to find a way to explain the half in my pocket. I finally met her gaze. “Diana, is there any chance that Jeff might have given his half to somebody else after he graduated? As a keepsake? Maybe even to my sister because she and Greta had once been so close?”

  “No, he despised Wendy. I’m sorry if that’s harsh, but he did. Jeff thought your sister was responsible for Greta’s death. If she hadn’t left Greta alone in the water that night, even if she did run back to find help like she said, then Greta wouldn’t have drowned.” Diana was frowning now. “Why are you asking?”

  “Just a mystery I’m trying to solve.” I managed a smile. “That’s what I do.”

  She wasn’t convinced. “There’s more to it, isn’t there?”

  I had to use everything inside me not to fish the necklace out of my pocket and place it in her hand, fold her fingers over it and tell her to get in touch with Jeff. Instead, because nothing that I now believed could ever be proven, I stood. “You’ve been a real help, Diana. You’re happy now? Your life smoothed out after high school?”

  “Husband, kids, job. I’m happy.”

  “I’m so sorry my sister treated you the way she did. For what it’s worth? I believe every word you said.”

  I walked out of the café without telling her how lucky she had been that Wendy had only bullied her.

  Because now I knew my sister was capable of so much worse.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  On my drive back to the town house, I went over every sentence of my conversation with Diana. I knew exactly where her story led, but one detail that hadn’t resonated at the time haunted me now.

  Diana had given the date of Greta’s death as the sixth of June, 1986. I wanted that to be wrong. I didn’t want to be led even farther into the darkness of my sister’s heart, but once I was home and on my computer, I found an archived article about the drowning. And Diana had been right.