“For what?”
“I think it was all the stress and the prospect of taking on even more responsibility that broke her. It was too much pressure, on top of her rocky relationship with Carl. And her brother’s problems, of course.”
Struggling to keep up with the revelations, I asked, “Which problems were those?”
“Money. He borrowed a lot from her over the years, and I gather he hadn’t repaid very much of it. Well, Laini was never good at setting boundaries or confronting others.”
That was odd. In the vision I’d had of her and Denise, Laini hadn’t seemed to have a problem confronting the employee, and she hadn’t succumbed to Carl Mendez’s pressure to marry her.
The maid came in then and set down a tray on the table in front of me — a demitasse of black coffee, a tiny jug of cream, and a side plate of almond biscotti. The look in her eye said, “Waste this cup, too, and I’ll tell the boss about the crown affair.”
I thanked her effusively.
Bethany said, “Once you’ve finished the kitchen, you may go, Sofia.”
“Yes, Miss Ford. Have a good weekend.”
Swallowing a bite of biscotti, I asked Bethany, “Did Kennick know about the shares?”
“Oh, yes. She said he was impressed, that he’d urged her to accept the offer.”
I’ll just bet he did. First loans and then shares — I wondered what else my sideways-smiling client had kept from me.
“But Laini wasn’t sure. She knew it meant more stress, I suppose. And when she felt overwhelmed, she’d get very down. She suffered from depression, you know?”
“I didn’t. Was she on medication?” People, I’d discovered, tossed terms like “depressed” around very loosely.
“I urged her to see a doctor or a therapist, but she refused. She said cycling out in nature was the best medicine for her.” Bethany glanced at my biscotti and then looked away. Resisting temptation? “I often wondered if she had bipolar disorder because she had such wild ups and such bad lows. I think it caused problems in her relationship with Carl.”
“You think that’s what caused their breakup?”
“You know about that, do you?”
I nodded.
Bethany glanced out of the window, as if seeing past scenes of domestic unhappiness. “It was a stormy relationship. Laini with her moods, and Carl with his temper. Well, I know all about that. I used to date him years ago and let me tell you, the man has serious anger issues.”
“Was he abusive?” I asked bluntly.
“To me? No.”
“And with Laini?”
“She never actually said so in as many words, but …” Bethany’s voice trailed off.
“Did she tell you why they’d broken up?”
“She didn’t give me any details, just said they’d called it quits. She arrived on my doorstep on Saturday morning with all her stuff — packed bags, coffee machine, camera — and asked if she could spend a few nights because she’d moved out of his place. She said Carl was taking it hard, and she didn’t feel comfortable staying there for the night.”
“‘Comfortable’ — is that the exact word she used?”
Bethany tilted her head, considering. “She may have said ‘safe.’”
“She spent the rest of day with you? Slept here on Saturday night?”
“Yes. Look, I did tell the police all this already.”
I could tell she was running out of patience.
“And how was she that night?” I asked.
“A little subdued, perhaps, but then she had just broken up with Carl. We shared a bottle of wine and spent the night chatting.”
“About?”
“This and that. Life, men, traveling, future plans for the business. She seemed better the next morning, calmer, more settled, you know? She had more color in her cheeks and said she was more certain of her plans going forward.” Bethany’s face crumpled under the weight of her distress. “At the time, I thought she meant life without Carl. Now, I realize that she’d made up her mind about ending it all.”
People who were planning to end their lives often did seem calmer and more settled just before they implemented their plans. For some, the hardest part was making the decision. Once that had been done, the follow-through was easier. When I’d seen her hand holding the note, I, too, had picked up on that growing sense of resolution and decision.
“When was the last time you saw her?” I said.
“Early Sunday morning, around eight o’clock. She said she was going for a drive into town to buy us a box of cider donuts for breakfast.”
“Cider donuts? I wouldn’t have said your body had ever come within ten yards of one of those,” I said.
“A rare seasonal treat.” Bethany smoothed a hand over her flat stomach. “Then she hugged me and kissed me goodbye. I never dreamed that would be the last time I saw her. But I should have known when she kissed me!” She punched a fist into her thigh, hard. “I mean, you don’t kiss a friend goodbye when you’re just nipping into town, do you? I should have known, or guessed. But I had no inkling of what she planned, honestly!”
“So, you think it was planned?”
“Well, I don’t think she just went for a stroll up to the quarry and on the spur of the moment decided to hurl herself off!” Bethany said acerbically. “Plus, she left a suicide note. And she sent me a text, you know, saying she was spending the day with Carl. And he got one from her, too, saying she was spending the day with me. That was deliberate.”
Bethany stood up and walked to the door. “I’ve told you what I know, and now I really do need to get going with my day.” Judging by the tears that were welling in her eyes again, she really needed to get going with a good crying jag.
“Right. Thanks so much, I really appreciate your insights.” I followed her out of the room. “Can I just ask about Jim Lundy?”
“Jim? He’s a funny little man — those ears! — but absolutely reliable and vital to our operation.”
“How did he get on with Laini?” I asked as we walked into the entrance hall.
“He adored her. He was always bringing her odd gifts. I advised her to keep her distance so he didn’t get the wrong idea, but I think she felt sorry for him. Always asking him how his arthritis was doing and giving him advice.”
“What kind of advice?”
“He’d had some kind of trouble, and she was helping him with that, but I have no idea what it was about.”
Bethany opened the front door and stood aside for me to leave. I stepped out, but before she could close the door, I squeezed in a final question.
“So, Laini wasn’t afraid of Jim?”
Bethany blinked. “No. Should she have been?”
– 25 –
I drove directly home, mulling over the interview with Bethany Ford. I hadn’t had any visions or intuitions while at her house — did that mean something? It occurred to me that I’d worn my smart coat to visit her, rather than my parka with the crystals in the pocket. Was that why I hadn’t seen anything? No, that thought was just stupid. I was getting as superstitious as my mother.
At the Andersen house, I changed into sweatpants, an old sweater and thick socks, and stuffed my hair into a messy bun secured by a pencil. I found the local news on the TV — which had shifted channels again — and checked to see if there were any official updates on either the Laini Carter or Jacob Wertheimer cases. There weren’t.
My phone pinged with a message from Professor Perry, asking whether I was ready to send him my completed thesis for review. When I was a teenager and grouching about homework and group projects, my father used to say, “Sometimes, kiddo, the only way out is through.” I needed to apply that advice to my thesis now — just do the work, finish it and then I could be free. Free to … do whatever I finally figured out I wanted to do with my life.
I turned off the TV, determined to get stuck into the difficult task of integrating my conclusions on grief studies, but as I turned away from the screen, I n
oticed something odd. The porcelain clown was back at the front of the shelf and facing forward again. Had Agent Singh done that yesterday? He’d been standing right there, and he looked like the sort who liked things neat and tidy. It had to have been him. Unless the house really was haunted? Perhaps what the Welcome to the nut-house message on the front doormat referred to were the peculiarities within its walls, and especially its freaking attic, rather than the copse of hazelnut trees outside.
The clown grinned at me, slack-mouthed and silent. I shoved it out of sight behind a stack of gardening books, making a mental note to restore it to its proper spot before the Andersens returned.
Lizzie kept giving me beseeching glances and running to the front door.
“Sorry, Lizzie. I need to work. We’ll go for a walk later.”
When she got excited at hearing the magic word, I flung a handful of dog treats in each of their bowls, like a bad mother trying to buy a half-hour of peace by bribing a toddler with candy.
I was still thinking about toddlers and mothers when I fired up my laptop in the study. Those photographs in Bethany’s trophy room of little girls in pageants had disturbed me. On a whim, and because procrastination had always been my middle name, I typed “child beauty pageants” into my browser’s search bar. And got close to five million hits.
As I scrolled through the results, read articles and watched videos, my earlier unease solidified into a growing sense of horror, because this whole child beauty business was nothing short of batshit bonkers.
A few years back, I’d caught an episode or two of the Toddlers and Tiaras reality show and found it appalling. But I’d assumed the program was about an unusual competition on the fringes of a dying beauty pageant industry, a bizarre but passing fad. Between what I’d seen at Bethany’s house and what I read now, I was learning that nothing could be further from the truth. Kiddy pageants with tiny little girls — some as young as two weeks old — who fiercely competed against each other were at the very heart of the industry. They were the nursery in which future beauty queens were sown and grown.
There were big prizes up for grabs, but I figured that competing must come at a high price. Surely girls taught to believe their tiny bodies and pretty faces were their most important assets were at a much higher risk of developing disorders such as anorexia, bulimia, body dysmorphia, depression and anxiety, and were destined to live under the lifelong whip of deeply ingrained perfectionism?
I rummaged in a desk drawer, trying to find a packet of Skittles — munching on the mouth-puckeringly sour candy usually helped keep my fingers out of my mouth. When I couldn’t find any, I made myself a pot of ginger root tea and then, with Lizzie and Darcy dozing at my feet, settled in to watch a bunch of YouTube videos featuring reality programs of child beauty pageants. It was horrifying.
The way the little girls were prepared (waxed, spray-tanned, bleached and made to diet) and coached (drilled in their routines, endlessly rehearsed and trained), and then prepped on the day (with fake hair, eyelashes, nails and even breasts, and slathered in heavy makeup) was grotesque, if not downright abusive.
Backstage, the tots were squeezed into disturbingly sexy outfits, then they snapped on their savage smiles, pranced out onstage and strutted up and down for the judges, who marked them on beauty, personality, talent and a certain mysterious quality called “poise.”
They sang, danced, juggled and tumbled. Occasionally, they tripped, fell, and forgot lines. It was a spectacle of glamor, bling and patriotism — every second song was God Bless America, and every other costume a dazzling confection of red, white and blue.
Backstage, the girls’ high energy and smiles fizzled into slumped shoulders and exhausted tears until everyone was called back out front for the crowning ceremony. Trophies and bragging rights went to the winner, bitter disappointment and crushing blows to self-esteem went to the losers, who maintained their unwavering smiles even as the hope and joy drained out of their eyes.
The pageants set girl against girl and mother against mother. These kids lost their childhoods the minute they entered the pressurized, sexualized, competitive world where the only acceptable standard of both appearance and performance was perfection. What did the girls take away from this dog-eat-dog business, I wondered.
Laini had grown up to be a woman who ran away from commitment and problems. Bethany had started a business — so she could finally have something under her full control? Because these kids had no control. They were living dolls. They may have had more intact limbs than the doll in the attic upstairs, but in their own way, they were just as creepy.
– 26 –
Sickened, I took a break, letting the dogs out for a run around the yard while I made myself a ham and jalapeno sandwich, washing it down with a beer before returning to my research.
The various reality TV series on toddler beauty pageants were made after Bethany and Laini’s time on the circuit, but after wading through pages of posts, newspaper archives and old photographs, I tumbled across an old documentary from 1986, called Little Queens. The program followed four girls through a single pageant, all the way from the face-painting, hair-teasing process backstage, through their rhinestone-studded, sequin-encrusted performances out front, and on to the final crowning of the winner.
One of the girls was Bethany Ford, and even at the age of around seven, it was easy to see the woman she’d one day become. Little Bethany was blond, beautiful and diligent. She sat still while her mother applied an inch-thick layer of makeup and tugged her hair into an intricate bouffant, nodding at last-minute instructions, rehearsing her pre-written lines over and over again. In front of the judges, her posture was perfect, her routines flawless, and her smile relentless. She did indeed try harder.
My phone rang, startling me back into the present. It was Ryan, inviting me around to his place that evening.
“Come around seven o’clock, and we’ll talk,” he said. “I’ll throw in a steak and a few beers.”
“Okay.” I could fill him in on what I’d discovered and pick his brain for new leads. And, if I was honest with myself, it would also be good to spend some time with him. “Do you have hot sauce?” I asked before he could end the call. “And I mean scorch-your-taste-buds, make-your-eyes-water, fire-your-endorphins, hot sauce.”
“Does Tabasco count?”
“No. Tabasco falls so far short of the fire-inducing blazing red-hot hell I seek that it may as well be ketchup.”
“I could buy you something this afternoon?” he offered.
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Chief. I’ll come armed.”
I returned to watching the documentary, catching glimpses of a girl who might have been Laini in the background of footage shot in the dressing room. Her mother was dragging a brush through her sleek black hair and fussing over her face. When all the girls were led out to wait by the stage for their turn out front, the camera panned across a boy sitting scrunched in a chair in the corridor, hunched over an old Nintendo device. When the black-haired girl passed by him, he glanced up, said something and then returned his attention to Mario Brothers or Donkey Kong. Could that be Kennick?
I paused the video and rewound, watched again, frame by frame. It was him. The same black hair and the same mole high on his left cheek. He was onscreen for less than a second and then gone. Had it been that way generally in his life — with all the attention focused on Laini? Laini’s beauty, Laini’s performance, Laini’s achievements. Poor kid. It couldn’t have been easy.
The camera cut to show the girls doing their thing out front, under the scrutiny of a panel of five judges. As each contestant walked out, she said her name, age and ambition — “When I grow up, I want to be a ballerina. Miss America. A pop star like Tiffany. A ballerina. Miss America. The president. Miss America” — before sashaying down the runway.
Every time a new contestant came out, her mother would take up position behind the judges’ table to cheerlead her kid through the rehearsed rou
tine. They mimed the movements and mouthed the words along with their onstage performer — gesturing for bigger smiles, straighter posture, more pizzazz — like puppet-masters remotely controlling their robotic marionettes. When the routine ended, the mothers returned to their seats, either hysterical with joy or sour-faced that their kid had botched it.
Bethany Ford confidently stated her intention to be a TV star. She wore a frothy dress edged with a swatch of pink ostrich feathers for her evening wear and a sequined top hat and matching tuxedo jacket over a white leotard and silver fishnet tights for her talent section, performing a three-minute show of magic tricks. They were pretty good, too. I watched closely but couldn’t see where she’d gotten the ace of spades from, or where the handkerchief had disappeared to.
When she finished with a graceful bow, the judges nodded and smiled, and the camera cut to Bethany’s mother in the audience.
“We’re in it to win it!” she said, her face glowing with fierce triumph.
Laini hadn’t been chosen as one of the four main girls followed in the documentary, which was a mistake, because she drew and held the eye like none of the other contestants did. When she stepped onstage, wearing a glittering dress the bloodred color of a ripe cherry, she lit up as though her inner glow couldn’t be contained by mere skin.
She seemed somehow more real than the other girls, and harder to forget. Her hair was darker and straight, her smile more mysterious. Where the others radiated in-your-face confidence, her charm was more playful, a little elusive. Almost fey. Where their charisma exuded out from them to the judges and the audience beyond like the shock wave of an explosion, Laini’s magnetism sucked you in, captivating you. You got a sense that she was playing at a fun game, not grimly determined to win a competition, and it was instantly more appealing.
The First Time I Fell Page 15