The Betrayed Wife

by Kevin O'Brien

  The bus came to a stop at Prospect Street, a couple of blocks before all the shops and restaurants on Broadway. The bus doors opened, and a few passengers started to get off at the stop.

  “Y’know, I’m gonna spend the afternoon on my own,” Eden said, quickly getting to her feet. “You go where you want for lunch. I’m not hungry. See you later.” She rushed for the middle door, which had already closed. “Door!” she shouted. It opened with a hiss, and she jumped off the bus.

  Steve was halfway out of his seat when the bus pulled away. Through the window, he glimpsed Eden heading east up a side street. He reached for the pull cord and yanked it to request the next stop.

  He couldn’t help thinking she was running off to meet someone.

  Eden was headed in the direction of Volunteer Park, which was only a few blocks off Broadway. She’d mentioned going there with her boyfriend yesterday. She was new to Seattle, but she knew where the park was. So if she was meeting someone, the park would be a logical choice.

  Steve moved to the bus door. It was still a block until the next stop, but he was impatient. He wanted to catch up with Eden. He’d follow his hunch and search for her in Volunteer Park.

  Steve had another hunch. In fact, he was now almost certain her scumbag boyfriend had never left for Portland.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Saturday—2:47 P.M.

  Portland

  “That was where I was standing when I heard the scream.”

  Sid Parsons, the Bristol Apartments’ caretaker, was in his early sixties and skinny, with a ruddy complexion and a gray crew cut. He had intense blue eyes that made him look a bit crazy. He reminded Sheila a bit of Dennis Hopper. He was dressed in a tie and a fall jacket, but his clothes had a slightly worn, thrift-shop look to them.

  The seven-story building was from the twenties or thirties. Sheila admired what had to be the original outside light fixtures and the detail on the front door. Sid obviously did a fine job maintaining the building. There were rhododendron bushes and a small patch of neatly mowed grass on either side of the walkway to the front door. Sheila had found a parking spot across the street for her rental car.

  She let Sid guide her by the arm to the mouth of a narrow alley. Two large dumpsters and four recycling bins were pushed against the side of the building. Sid pointed up to the rooftop. “That’s where she fell from,” he said. “She was naked—except for a pair of bikini bottoms. And like I said, she was screaming. A couple of the cops had a debate about that right here, while they were putting up the yellow police tape. By then, they’d covered her up, thank God. One of them said that if she’d screamed, it couldn’t have been a suicide. And the other cop said no, that wasn’t always the case. He knew of jumpers who screamed . . .”

  Sheila had half-expected Sid to ask for an ID or some kind of proof that she was a relative of Antonia’s. But when she’d buzzed him on the intercom and said they’d talked on the phone earlier, he’d come right out to meet her, no questions asked. And it didn’t take any arm-twisting to get him to start in with his account of how Antonia had died. Sheila had a feeling it gave Sid a sense of importance.

  With his finger in the air, he traced the trajectory of Antonia’s fall. “She flew straight down toward that first dumpster. And there’s no nice way of putting it. She hit the edge, so half of her went into the dumpster, and the other half hit the pavement there.”

  Grimacing, Sheila held a hand over her heart.

  “Blood was everywhere,” Sid went on, shaking his head. “I was covered in it. And the cops wouldn’t let me change or wash up for the first hour. The clothes I had on were ruined. I had to throw them away.”

  Sheila imagined the scene in front of her. She turned toward Sid so she didn’t have to look at the dumpsters. She figured it would be a while before she’d be able to look at a dumpster without thinking of Eden’s mother. She cleared her throat. “The newspaper article I read didn’t say if her death was a suicide, an accident, or foul play,” she explained. “I asked Eden, and she seemed pretty certain her mother didn’t commit suicide. What do you think?”

  “I’d rule out suicide,” he said. Then he stopped to squint at her. “You said you were a distant relative. How well did you know her?”

  “I never even met her,” Sheila admitted. “Antonia was a—a relative of my husband’s. But he hadn’t seen her in close to twenty years.”

  “Well, I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but—well, let’s just say that Antonia struck me as kind of a good-time girl. I mean, in my line of work, you end up getting to know people’s garbage, and hers always had a lot of booze bottles. Plus, she had a string of boyfriends coming in and out of here. I could barely keep track of them. I can’t see her getting down in the dumps and taking her own life.”

  Sheila thought of her sister, and she gave the man a sad little smile. “I don’t know if her drinking a lot and having several boyfriends automatically rules out the possibility of suicide. Did any of the boyfriends strike you as dangerous? Did any of them give Antonia trouble?”

  “I think a few of them gave her trouble,” Sid said with a little snort. “I don’t think she had the best taste in boyfriends. But I never heard about any of them coming back and threatening her, or anything like that. If you want to talk about the boyfriend who was trouble, then we should be talking about the daughter’s boyfriend. He was bad news.”

  “You mean Brodie?” Sheila said.

  “I never got the guy’s name.”

  Sheila dug out her phone and pulled up the photo she’d taken of Brodie and Eden in the corridor outside the ballroom. She showed it to Sid. “Is this the guy you’re talking about?”

  “Yeah, that’s him, a real lowlife,” he grunted. “Is the daughter still seeing him?”

  “She claims she isn’t, but I suspect she’s still talking and texting with him—unfortunately.”

  “You know, the minute that kid started hanging around here, suddenly we had trouble. There were break-ins. People got their mail stolen. I was cleaning up his trash in the hallways and stairwells. This is a nonsmoking building, and I smelled cigarette smoke in the lobby and stairways all the time. I even smelled dope once. All that started when he began seeing the daughter. And he was hanging around the building the day Antonia went off the roof.”

  Sheila’s eyes widened. “He was? Are you sure?”

  Sid nodded. “I know because I was cleaning up a bunch of trash he’d left in the hallway and on the front walk.”

  “Did you tell this to the police?”

  “Sure did. I guess they brought him in for questioning. Apparently, he had an alibi, because they let him go. They talked to the girl, too, of course.”

  “Was Eden around that day?” Sheila asked.

  Sid shook his head. “I don’t know where she was. I think she must have given her boyfriend a key because sometimes he came and went when neither one of them was even here.” He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his nose. “Anyway, in answer to your question earlier, if the boyfriend didn’t have anything to do with it, then I think Antonia’s death was an accident. You know, she had a thermos of booze up there, so they think she was pretty sloshed.”

  “Yes, the newspaper article hinted at that,” Sheila said.

  Sid put his handkerchief back in his pocket. “So before I forget, do you want those boxes full of Antonia’s stuff? I’d really like to get rid of them. They’re just taking up room.”

  “Yes, please,” Sheila said. “I—I think Eden would be happy to get them.”

  “Well, c’mon, follow me,” he said, heading toward the front door.

  “Do you know Eden very well?” Sheila asked.

  “No, not really,” Sid replied. He unlocked the door and held it open for her.

  “Thank you.” Sheila stepped inside the vestibule and onto an old tiled floor. “Wasn’t Eden around much?” she asked.

  Sid quietly closed the door behind him. “Well, I started working here about
a year ago, and I didn’t see the daughter until this summer. I don’t think Antonia would have won any awards for ‘Mother of the Year,’ if you know what I mean. I think the girl was away at school or living with the boyfriend until mid-July or August. That’s when I first noticed her—and the boyfriend not long after that.”

  Sheila remembered Eden saying that some friend of her mother’s helped raise her for a while. Maybe one of Antonia’s neighbors knew about the arrangement.

  “Was Antonia close to anyone in the building?” Sheila asked.

  Sid frowned and shook his head. “I’m pretty sure she didn’t make any friends here. Some of us went to the memorial service together. Only a couple of others from the building bothered. We compared notes, and no one seemed to know Antonia very well.” He nodded toward the lobby. “This way.”

  Sheila followed him up a few steps to the lobby. One wall contained rows of small brass mailboxes, each with a little window that had an apartment number on it. The carpet was worn, with a swirly, ornate pattern like something from an old movie theater lobby. The elevator with an accordion gate was original as well. By the stairs, Sheila noticed a slightly threadbare rose-colored sofa and a fake potted palm.

  “Have a seat,” Sid said. “The boxes are down in my apartment. Be right back.” He headed down the stairs.

  From her bag, Sheila pulled out the memorial service guest book. She was wondering about the woman who had helped look after Eden. Could she be among the mourners who had signed the guest book? Sheila wondered if the surrogate mother was a friend or former friend of Antonia’s from the Hilton. Maybe someone at the hotel could tell her more.

  While waiting for her plane at Sea-Tac Airport, Sheila had tried to track down a few of the other names in the guest book. She’d managed to get ahold of four people: two former Hilton employees that hadn’t seen Antonia in over a year and didn’t know much about Eden at all; a former boyfriend who had never even met Eden; and an old high school friend who hadn’t seen Antonia in over twenty years.

  If what Sid had said was true, she could check off all the guest-book signers from the Bristol Apartments. None of them had been very close to Antonia. It was strange that no one really seemed to know this woman who appeared to be the life of the party wherever she went. At least, that was the impression Sheila had gotten from Antonia’s Facebook page.

  Sheila felt something brush up against her leg. She flinched, startling the gray tabby that had silently padded over to her feet. Staring at her, the cat arched its back.

  “Oh, you scared me, you cutie!” she laughed. “I’m sorry.” She set the guest book aside and held out her hand toward the skittish cat, trying to show she was friendly.

  “That’s my Jasper,” Sid announced, a bit winded as he came from the stairway around the corner. He carried two medium-sized boxes. He plopped them down beside Sheila on the sofa. “The little son of a gun snuck out when I opened my door. He always does that.” Sid scooped the cat up into his arms. “I’ll help you take this stuff out to the car just as soon as I put this little guy back where he belongs.” He took Jasper’s paw and waved it at Sheila. “Say good-bye to the nice lady, Jasper.” Then he headed back toward the stairway with the cat.

  He’d left the boxes stacked one on top of the other. The carton on top was a slightly beaten-up shirt box from JCPenney. Sheila opened it. She found a collection of snapshots, at least a hundred of them. It was a hodgepodge of current digital shots and old, slightly fuzzy photos that must have been taken with an Instamatic and flashcubes. Practically all of the photographs were of Antonia through the years, alone or with friends or boyfriends. There were several pictures of Antonia at the beach or pool, taut and tan in her various bikinis.

  Sheila had to dig through a few layers of photos until she unearthed a picture of Eden. It was a school portrait from seventh or eighth grade. Eden looked awkward and cute, with badly cut bangs, a dimpled smile, and a striped turtleneck. Sheila turned the photograph over to look at the back. She found a note in loopy handwriting: To Mom—XXX—Love, Eden.

  Sid returned, and Sheila put the school portrait back in the box and set the lid back on top. “Did you know anything about the woman who helped raise Eden?” she asked. “Maybe there was a woman who came by to visit Eden or Antonia.”

  Sid shook his head. “Like I said, Antonia had a lot of guys coming by, but no women. None that I know of, at least.” He stooped down to pick up the boxes. “I need to watch my back here.”

  “Oh, let me take one,” Sheila said, getting to her feet. She grabbed the top carton.

  They carried the boxes out to her rental car and loaded them in the back seat.

  Sheila opened the driver-side door to get in, then stopped, quickly scribbled down her number, and gave it to Sid. “If anything should come up or if you hear from any of Antonia’s friends, please give me a call, okay?” She shook his hand. “Thanks so much for all your help. I really appreciate it.”

  “My pleasure,” he said. “I wouldn’t have felt right tossing out that stuff, but I didn’t want to hold on to it, either. So you’re doing me a big favor. And good luck with that—Eden.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “I think you’re going to have some trouble with that one.”

  Sheila watched him head back inside the building, then climbed behind the wheel of the rental. With the key still in her hand, she stared over at the alleyway by The Bristol and the first dumpster.

  She couldn’t help thinking about Molly. She never saw her sister’s body after she’d plunged seventeen stories.

  But she’d been the last one to see her alive.

  At Sheila’s insistence, Molly had moved back to Portland from Eugene for the summer and was living with their sick mother. After only two weeks, Sheila knew it was a huge mistake. Molly was still drinking and partying, looking up old high school boyfriends and going out with them. She called Sheila every day to complain about their mother’s nurses. The nurses called every other day to complain about Molly. Her mother called twice a day—just to complain in general. It was more work than ever before. Molly would feel insulted if Sheila didn’t trust her to handle a certain task; but when she tried to handle it, she’d screw it up, and then she’d phone Sheila or Dylan to come help her out. Dylan was working out of town a lot, so it was often left up to Sheila to handle everything.

  Between her sick mother, her crazy sister, and the poor, battle-fatigued nurses, the whole situation was bizarre. Sheila and Dylan began calling her mother’s apartment “Twin Peaks.” Sheila would call and leave a message for Dylan on the answering machine: “I’m swinging by Twin Peaks after work tonight. Do you want me to get takeout on the way home?”

  During this time, Sheila was still nauseated and terrified something was wrong with the baby. She kept checking in with her doctor, who told her to avoid stress—which made her want to kill him.

  One hot Thursday evening, after a bad day at work, Sheila figured she’d treat her mother, Molly, and the nurse on duty to Chinese food. She called Twin Peaks to ask them what they wanted her to pick up, but she got the answering machine. She left a message. When no one returned her call, she tried again an hour later, and the machine picked up again. That was unusual. Instead of swinging by Uptown China, their favorite Chinese restaurant, Sheila drove directly to her mother’s.

  The nurse wasn’t there. Molly was gone. And her mother was in the bathroom, crying on the floor. Her mom had fallen while trying to get herself from the wheelchair to the toilet. There was shit all over the place. She was on some new medication that gave her diarrhea, and the smell was horrible. Sheila gagged as she undressed her mother and got her into the tub.

  “Don’t . . . the baby,” her mother cried. “You shouldn’t. Just leave me here, and let me die . . .”

  While her mom was sitting on the shower stool, Sheila noticed a purple bruise forming on her hip. “What happened to Manuela?” Sheila asked. “Where’s Molly? Why are you here by yourself, Mom?”

  Her mother was too m
iserable and confused to answer.

  Manuela was the Thursday middle-shift nurse: a stout, fiftyish woman with glasses and a streak of gray in her black, lacquered hair. She showed up in time to help Sheila dress her mom and finish cleaning up the bathroom. She’d gone out to get a prescription filled for her mom, and had told Molly as much.

  Sheila did her best to swallow her anger. She had smeared poop on her clothes, so she went into Molly’s bedroom to find something to wear while she threw her and her mom’s soiled things in the wash. Molly’s room was a mess. She’d brought almost everything back from Eugene. And that should have included some items that actually belonged to Sheila.

  Ever since they were kids, Molly had had a habit of pilfering anything she wanted that was Sheila’s—clothes, records, toys, stuffed animals. Sheila didn’t care so much about losing the toys and stuffed animals since she’d outgrown them by the time her younger sister coveted them. But she hadn’t wanted to give up one stuffed animal, a monkey she’d cherished and named Micky—after Micky Dolenz from The Monkees on TV reruns. Yet, somehow, Molly had made Micky the Monkey hers. She’d even taken him off to college with her—along with several other things she’d pinched from Sheila. It was a mystery to Sheila why her sister needed some of those childhood treasures while away at school. And it was a mystery what had happened to them, because they were all missing now. It really irked Sheila, who would have liked to pass on to her own baby some of the things she’d cherished as a child—especially Micky the Monkey.

  Molly was still a slob. Her bed wasn’t made. Dirty clothes littered the floor. There were several half-filled glasses of soda or booze on her nightstand and desk, along with open bags of chips, an apple core, and other half-eaten snacks. In one of her calls to Sheila, Molly had complained that one of the nurses had refused to clean her room. “Molly, it’s a medical service, not a maid service,” Sheila had explained.

  “Well, they’re all just sitting around here, doing nothing most of the time,” Molly had argued. “And this one nurse got all pissed off at me because I asked if she’d mind changing the sheets on my bed. She changes the sheets on Mom’s bed. I really don’t see what the big deal is.”