And Now She's Gone

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  FIVE YEARS AGO

  LET NO MAN PUT ASUNDER …

  Some species in the animal kingdom evolve to resemble, behave, and smell like other animals. Ants, for example, are delicious but are dangerous to eat. They’re arrogant and confident creatures as they go about their day gathering and stowing food. Jumping spiders mimic ants and sneak unchallenged into their nests. These spiders are never spotted immediately by a colony that numbers in the thousands, and those spiders eat that colony’s baby ants.

  Chameleons and octopi mimic to survive, too, blending into backgrounds so well that they practically vanish. And it isn’t until they stick their poisonous spines into their prey or have stolen eggs from another creature’s nest or have gulped another animal whole that the victim finally realizes that the enemy had been there all along, living in its nest, on its piece of bark, or on her couch in her living room, all this time. By then, it’s too late.

  * * *

  Mrs. Dixon still drove a red Jaguar. She still lived in a two-story Spanish-Californian with a silver porch light and a succulent garden. She also was switching cell phones every eight weeks because she suspected that her husband was tampering with them. She couldn’t prove that he had. If she had taken apart any of those phones, there wouldn’t have been anything she would have recognized, that she could have pointed to as proof. No, “Aha! You did this! You’re spying on me!” indications.

  Sean would have never admitted that he tapped his wife’s phone, but he always hinted that he had. He knew things. Points of conversation that he wouldn’t have known if he hadn’t been listening. “Did Avery tell Martin that she gave her mother ten grand to buy a car?” he asked over dinner once. “Did Zoe change her mind about getting lipo?” He casually dropped these items into conversation, sprinkled these tidbits like caramelized walnuts in a salad.

  Each time, Mrs. Dixon gawked at him.

  Sean would smile, satisfied that he’d caught her off guard yet again.

  And then she would purchase another phone, under names she’d known throughout her life: Twyla, Naomi, Faye. She’d keep the old phone as a ruse. At one time, she was carrying six cell phones in her red Balenciaga bag. Didn’t matter, though. Sean only needed her to take a three-minute shower or to go out the front door to accept sandwiches from her neighbors—it only took him a minute to download his Inspector Gadget doodad onto her newest smartphone.

  On this Tuesday in August, she’d fallen asleep as she had been preparing arroz con pollo for dinner. She’d fallen asleep because that’s what pregnant ladies did if they sat still for more than a minute. This time, she awakened to discover that she’d burned the rice.

  It was late—that sherbet-colored sky beyond the kitchen’s new French doors (shatterproof, the salesman had boasted) warned her that she had less than an hour to maneuver.

  Sean would be home soon.

  The house stank—the smell clung to the smooth blue walls and had sunk into the cushions of the slate-blue suede couches, joining the reek of sadness and despair that haunted 595 Trail Spring Court.

  She dumped the rice and the pot into the trash can and ordered Chinese food. Orange chicken for him, kung pao beef for her. She opened all the windows, then schlepped back to the couch to watch Special Delivery.

  At 6:37, the black Range Rover rolled into the garage. She could hear the bass of the stereo and Biggie’s thick voice rapping over Herb Alpert’s “Rise.”

  Sean entered from the garage. He wore basketball shorts and Air Jordans and smelled of a woman’s perfume. Anise’s perfume. “What did you burn?” The first words out of his mouth.

  “Chicken and rice,” she said, watching television. “But don’t worry. I ordered Chow’s.”

  Sean walked over to the couch. He didn’t respond—he was too busy staring at his wife’s hair, styled that afternoon into a short Halle Berry haircut. Finally, he said, “You cut your hair. You look like a fuckin’ dyke.” He turned on his heel and climbed the stairs. The floorboards above her creaked and the pipes whooshed as the knobs on the shower demanded water.

  She didn’t react to his reaction because she wasn’t surprised. He was a hair freak. But her hair had lost its luster. Worse, her hair had been falling out.

  “It’s stress,” according to her stylist, Shannon. “Just start over. I’ll cut it and it’ll grow back stronger, since you’re on those prenatal vitamins—”

  “Shh,” Mrs. Dixon had warned. “I haven’t told him yet.” Even at eight weeks.

  Shannon only knew about the pregnancy because Mrs. Dixon didn’t want to use hair color. And anyway, she planned to tell Sean over dinner that night. She’d tell him, and he’d cry and they’d hug and he’d lift her up and spin her around and they’d laugh because she’d want to throw up from all the spinning and he’d promise that he’d be good, that she wouldn’t lose this baby, that this time she’d make it all the way through.

  She wasn’t that far along—her breasts had already swollen a cup size, but that was the only difference. Because of nausea and morning sickness, she had lost most of the weight she’d gained from stress and drinking, and now her clothes hung off of her and her cheekbones and clavicles jutted more beneath her brown skin. And her hair—that was different on this day, thanks to Shannon. And her eyes—they were brighter now and flickered with hope.

  This one will be a good pregnancy.

  No martini tonight. Instead, she sliced a lime and dunked two wedges into her Pellegrino.

  “Still drinking that bougie shit,” Sean noted, even though he drank the bubbly water with vodka all the time. He put on music for dinner—more Notorious B.I.G. Not the soundtrack she would’ve selected for this special evening, but what-the-fuck-ever. Anything to keep him happy.

  Sean had showered and had changed into trainers and a gray T-shirt. He sat across from her at the breakfast bar loaded with cartons of chicken and beef in various gravies. When Sean wasn’t glaring at her hair, he was glaring at the food on his plate.

  She wanted to tell him the news—good or bad news, she couldn’t tell at this point—but something told her to keep silent and so she did. The food was making her nauseous and sickness now bubbled up her throat. Her head pounded as she waited for the firefight to begin.

  He’d sent a few tracer rounds already. It stinks in here and Did you pick up batteries like I asked you to? and I don’t remember you asking me about paying for your fucking hair. Since then, the rumble of heavy artillery had moved in on her. She thought about the night he’d thrown glass noodle salad in her direction, not at her. She didn’t want to go through that again, but dread settled on her shoulders as darkness settled over the desert she now called home.

  How could she raise a child when she couldn’t even keep food in her own belly? When she was almost always scared that he’d …

  As his silence darkened, she became too scared to think. Even though this was their “normal”—moody silences, glares that could melt wax, levels of tension as thick as igneous rock—it drove her crazy. Being scared that her husband would conduct a one-sided food fight was nuts. That he would even think about throwing food at her was nuttier. That there was a history of him pelting her with Asian entrees? Fucking unbelievable.

  Once tonight’s storm passed, though, she’d tell him that they were gonna have a baby.

  They came to the end of dinner. Mrs. Dixon, now a sweaty, hollow mess, focused on the cartons she was plucking from the counter.

  Sean grabbed the dirty plates, forks, and spoons. These plates had been on their wedding registry. Everyday plates. Two-toned in blue and white.

  As she moved from the counter to the sink, her feet stopped working and she found herself splayed down on the tile. The left side of her head throbbed with hot and heavy heat. The room tilted as she blinked away sparks zapping white and red before her eyes.

  He’d punched her.

  She croaked, “Sean,” but that one word came out as a bark, since the impact of his size twelve Air Jordans against her abdome
n took her breath away. He punched her twice—right ear, right cheek—and snarled, “You a fucking dyke now?” Then he swept his arms across the breakfast counter, sending Chow’s Chinese flying all around the kitchen. Breathing hard, he stomped to the door that led to the garage.

  Back down on the tile, perfect drops of Mrs. Dixon’s blood flecked those empty spaces between grains of rice and spicy peanuts. Those drops were more perfect than the drops that last time, when she’d been thrown through the old glass patio door. She’d been pregnant then, too, and those drops splattered, a Pollock painting mixed with Swarovski crystals.

  Tonight, Mrs. Dixon wept as she climbed the stairs, as she passed the room she’d thought of as the nursery, as she passed hanging pictures of Sean and her dancing at their wedding, as she plodded and panted to the bathroom. She slammed and locked the door, then plopped down on the toilet seat. She reached beside her and pulled open the drawer to a wicker chest.

  Lotions, creams, soaps, and toners. And makeup. Lots of makeup. Bronzers, highlighters, concealers, correctors, primers, foundations; liquid, liquid powder, whip, mousse, pressed, stick, translucent, oil-free, wet/dry, satin; honey beige, NW400, cappuccino, almond, nutmeg.

  Some were good at hiding scars.

  Others were good at hiding bruises.

  Some lightened the greens and purples her skin took on in bad times.

  Others made her look as though she’d lain out on a Saint-Tropez beach with a le Carré novel in one hand and a Bloody Mary in the other.

  Only actresses owned this much makeup.

  But then, she, too, was an actress. She’d stood at the mirror how many times, with black eyes and swollen, bruised cheeks. She’d spackle all of this shit over her face while Sean, in another room, would ice his knuckles while sipping Jack and Coke. And then they’d go out.

  Smiles, everyone!

  Not tonight, though.

  She’d wear no makeup tonight.

  40

  Needing to remain alert, Gray decided against drinking alcohol or taking a pill for the twinges now revving near her navel. It had been a long twenty-four hours, and she needed coffee. Strong, black, and sweet, Sean would say, winking at her. Along with her biscuits and Nick’s biscuits, that’s what she’d ordered from the cat-eyed waitress—coffee for her and a glass of ice water for her guest.

  She sat facing Post & Beam’s exit. Never have your back to the door, Victor Grayson had told her. That’s a good way to die. Older couples in leisure wear trickled in for high-priced jerk catfish. The long-cooked greens were delicious but cost more than a decent salad anywhere else. Rum banana bread pudding—okay, that was worth the price.

  Tea Christopher entered the restaurant right as the server set Gray’s basket of biscuits and butter on the table. Today she wore a purple tracksuit with pink trim and busted high-top Skechers. She smelled of sweat, and that odor walloped the sweet aroma of freshly baked biscuits. She plopped into the chair across from Gray. “Sorry for asking last minute for you to come.”

  The server waited to take Tea’s order, but Gray dismissed her with a curt, “That’s all.”

  Unlike their first meeting at Sam Jose’s, Gray refused to feed Isabel’s best friend. She didn’t like nourishing liars and cons on her dime, or Nick’s. Let her savor the glass of ice-cold water against her hot, lying tongue.

  “How can I help you, Tea?” Gray asked.

  “You never told me for sure that you were done with the investigation.” Behind those glasses, Tea’s eyes looked as big as basketballs. “I’ve been texting you, and Isabel told me to get the check and her keys. Both sets.”

  “Ah. I’ll let you know.”

  “Know … what?”

  “About the keys, the check, the investigation being done.”

  “She told me that she sent the picture of her tattoo.”

  “What about the picture of Kenny G.?”

  “But…” Tea canted her head. “But she sent you Ian’s answers to the questions, and she sent you the two other pictures.”

  Gray snorted, rolled her eyes, and shook her head, just in case Tea still thought for a moment that Gray sorta believed her. “You really do think I’m stupid.”

  Tea gripped the edges of the table. “When will you be finished, Miss Sykes?”

  “Once I receive a picture that hasn’t been manipulated to look like your friend is holding a newspaper while standing in the breezeway of the Westin Kauai. Once I receive a freakin’ picture of the man’s dog. Not so hard to understand, is it?” The badger in Gray wanted out, and it clawed at her belly and throat.

  Over at the bar, a small man wearing a big Dodgers jersey was leering at Gray as he chewed on a straw. He winked at her and smiled to show off his dimples. Then he looked at his wrist to show off his Rolex.

  Bad time, bro. Gray scowled at him. Her mood had turned as black and bitter as the coffee in her cup, the coffee she hadn’t had a chance to sip or sweeten.

  “I don’t understand,” Tea said. “The Hawaii picture—”

  “The Hawaii picture’s fake,” Gray said, eyebrow lifted.

  Tea’s lips and cheeks quivered. “But … but … th-that’s the picture she … she sent. She sent it to me and she sent it to you.”

  “You sure you didn’t send it to me?”

  Tea’s tear-filled eyes shimmered behind her glasses. “Isabel’s alive, and she just wants you to go away.”

  “Keep your tongue from evil and your lips from speaking deceit.” She remembered that verse from Psalm 34—Mom Naomi would recite it to her at least twice a week, usually after the old woman had slapped her. For secular flair, Gray added, “By a lie, a man annihilates his dignity as a man.” Victor Grayson had recited Kant to her only once a month.

  With a shaky hand, Tea picked up the glass of water. The ice cubes clinked as she sipped.

  Gray broke apart a hot biscuit and refused to wince as steam stung her fingers. “Where is she, Tea?” She peered at Tea as she spread honey butter over the biscuit’s perfectly flaky bottom.

  Tears tumbled down Tea’s acne-scarred cheeks. “I can’t…”

  “Is Isabel Lincoln alive?” Gray bit into the biscuit, not tasting it.

  Tea nodded.

  “Where is she?”

  Tea shook her head.

  “I know shit about you that you don’t even know about you. You need to tell me.”

  Tea whispered, “I don’t know.”

  “Is she hiding at the cabin in Idyllwild?”

  Tea’s eyes widened and the muscles over her left temple jumped. Her lips disappeared as though Gray’s words had punched them in.

  “See? I know shit. Is she in Idyllwild?”

  Tea whispered, “No.”

  “At your house in Westchester?”

  “No.”

  “Should I bring Pastor Dunlop into this? He asked me to keep him—”

  “No.”

  “Ian didn’t poison Morris,” Gray said. “Mrs. Tompkins did. And she gave Isabel cash as apology. That’s just an F.Y.I.”

  Tea’s mouth moved but no words followed.

  “Who is Elyse Miller?”

  Tea started to respond, but then she squinted at Gray. “Who?”

  “Elyse Miller.”

  Tea blinked at her, then shook her head. “Sounds familiar but I don’t know her.”

  “She has mail.”

  “Where?”

  “At Isabel’s.”

  Tea kept shaking her head. “Maybe she rented from the Gardners before Isabel.”

  And that’s why there’s a Social Security card, résumés, and shit at your cabin?

  “Maybe,” Gray said. “Maybe I’ll ask the cops. They’ll want to know—”

  “I’m telling you the truth,” Tea said, voice raised. “She told me to do all of that.”

  “Do all of what?”

  “The picture—she told me to send it. The text messages—she told me to send those, too.”

  “How did Isabel meet Noelle Lawrence?�
�� Before Tea could deny knowing Noelle, Gray interrupted with, “Noelle called me and told me many interesting things. She was gonna tell me things about you but she disappeared. How did two such different women become friends?”

  Tea chewed her bottom lip, unsure of the answer. “Mentoring program?”

  Gray shrugged.

  Tea said, “Some program through UCLA, I think, for young women who were in jail. Wait. Noelle told you things about me? I don’t know her. I’ve never met her, but I do remember Isabel telling me that she stole.”

  “From?”

  “Someone she was with in jail, something that has nothing to do with me, with this.”

  “Why are you doing—”

  “Because Ian hit—”

  “Don’t lie to me.” By now, Gray’s heart was moments away from popping.

  Tea swallowed her lie, then licked her lips. She frowned, not liking the taste very much.

  Gray chewed the biscuit. The honey butter coated her mouth, and she didn’t like that. Nick was right: weird shit.

  “Once she found out that Ian had hired someone to look for her,” Tea was saying, “she gave me a list of things to do.”

  “What happened to the BMW?”

  “What BMW?”

  “Isabel’s.”

  “She drove a Honda Civic.”

  “Was the Bimmer Noelle’s car?”

  “I told you, I don’t know Noelle. I don’t know what Noelle drives.”

  “What about the car accident with the Maserati?”

  Tea sat up like a beagle. She knew the answer to this question. “Her ex-boyfriend—he kept telling her that she owed him more money. She kept paying him, but he kept jacking up how much the repairs cost.”

  Pity seeped into Gray’s spirit and she gaped at the young woman. A “palooka.” Tea was the very definition of the word. “Do you know about the money that Ian left on the breakfast counter right after she disappeared?”

  “I took it. She asked me to.”

  “And?”

  “And I…”