Dead Letters

by Caite Dolan-Leach

  Another door opens back into the club, and we follow Jason through it. Several customers nod toward him, and he waves back before heading to a DJ station snugged up next to the stage. A song is ending, and a new girl is scooping up bills from the dance floor, letting men slide others into her garters.

  “Zelda wanted me to play a song for you when you showed up,” Jason explains, fussing with the sound equipment. An old song comes on, incongruous here in the club. As the familiar tune gathers momentum, Zelda saunters onstage.

  From the way Wyatt freezes, I can tell he’s fallen for the disguise too. For a moment, my heart stops; Holly has donned a black wig that resembles my and Zelda’s hair, and she is wearing one of Zelda’s kimonos. When I see her, I realize that I’ve been expecting Zelda to appear all along. Nat King Cole sings cheerily: “L is for the way you look at me, O is for the only one I see…” Holly dances coquettishly, mouthing along with the lyrics and baring various parts of her body in an imitation of old-fashioned burlesque. I find this much more sexy than the spangled-thong-and-pole exhibition, but that’s beside the point; I look at Jason in confusion.

  “Zelda wanted you to play this? For me?”

  “Yup. Don’t ask me why. She didn’t tell me, just said you’d figure it out.”

  I frown and look over at Wyatt, who wears a similar expression. “Any ideas?” I ask him. “Did she ever mention this song?”

  “I remember her singing it, a few weeks ago, but…I can’t think what it means,” he answers slowly. The trumpets blare, and Holly shucks off the kimono, revealing nipple tassels and nothing else. I watch her dance, wondering if there might be clues in the choreography. But the short song winds down, and Holly does a quick shimmy as she exits the stage.

  “Did she give you any other messages for me?” I ask Jason in desperate confusion.

  “Nope. She could be one mysterious girl.”

  “You were sleeping with her, right?” Wyatt growls. He sounds just a bit too protective and pissed off to suit me.

  “So what if I was? She wasn’t married,” Jason says, his dander clearly up. I smell a fistfight.

  “Can you tell me why you were at the barn the night it burned down?” I ask shrilly, trying to defuse the pissing contest I can see unfolding.

  “She texted me. Said she had a little surprise for me, if I brought some of the new stuff.”

  “Heroin,” I clarify.

  He gives me an entertained look. “Yes, sweetheart. But she didn’t use it that often. Or if she did, she had another hookup. I barely ever sold it to her. She wanted benzos,” he says with a shrug. I frown. “Texted me on the burner phones she bought a few months back. Said if we were going to be involved”—he coughs delicately and meets Wyatt’s eyes defiantly, double-daring him—“she wanted to be sure there was no record of it on her real phone. I thought it was kind of sexy,” he concludes with a fond smile. “Figured there must be a boyfriend or something.” Another malicious grin in Wyatt’s direction.

  “So you went over to the barn that night?” I ask.

  But Jason doesn’t get a chance to answer. The front door slams open, and two angry-looking cops storm in. I recognize the young one, Trent, from the police station, and he looks furious. The small handful of customers sit up straighter in their seats, and Jason leaps for the dressing room door in a nimble, instinctive movement. But his burly muscles slow him down. Trent manages to grab him and slam him against the wall.

  “Are you Jason Reynolds?” he growls.

  “Maybe,” Jason answers.

  “I’m taking you in for questioning for the murder of Zelda Antipova,” Trent tells him, not letting go of his shirt. Nat King Cole has begun to sing again, accidentally cued up in the hullabaloo. “V is very, very, extra-ordinary…” And as I watch Trent manhandle Jason toward the parking lot, I suddenly realize what my sister is up to.

  13

  Mingling with the smallish crowd of gawkers that has gathered in the parking lot of Kuma Charmers, I glance around nervously before yanking Zelda’s cellphone out of my bag. I scan through the emails she’s sent me, scrutinizing each one. I nod my head as I go, convinced that my theory is right. That clever fucking bitch. I knew it. Knew she was fucking with me. Wyatt looks at my shaking head and tense shoulders questioningly, but I wave off his curiosity and launch myself into the truck’s cab.

  “Let’s go home,” I say, realizing it sounds like an order. Wyatt doesn’t seem to notice. Still holding Zelda’s phone, I go back to the first email she sent me after the fire. Her nudge at the bottom…which, combined with the Facebook picture I saw, led me to the Bartolettis’, where I found out about Zelda’s loan. Then I had gone to the bank, where I found out about Zelda’s insane debt….I look at her second email, with its too-cute alliteration, then the next one, where she talks about her eulogy….I scan through most of the communication we’ve had since the barn, and I start chuckling to myself as I put more and more pieces together. Finally, I open a new pane to compose a message and type out a quick email:

  June 24, 2016 @ 10:37 PM

  Narcissistic, Nasty, Nuts, Necrotic Sister Mine,

  Now, now, now, Zelda. I’ve figured out your little game. Should have seen it coming, but forgive me, I was too preoccupied dealing with your aftermath to really focus on such diverting distractions. Dial M, right? I applaud your creativity, dear sister. You fucking psycho.

  Love,

  Not-so-nice, nearsighted, naïve Ava

  By the time I’m done writing, we’re close to home.

  “Did you know she was doing this, Wyatt?” I ask, pocketing the phone.

  “What?” he asks, startled. He has been quietly driving while I retraced my steps during the last few days.

  “Her little game. Did you know?” I look over at him, but he seems genuinely baffled. “No. Of course not. This is just for me,” I muse. “It would have to be.”

  “What are you talking about, Ava?” Wyatt has slowed the truck down, and he peers at me with concern. “What’s going on?”

  “Zelda’s not dead.”

  “What do you mean?” He looks at me with genuine alarm. “Ava, I know grief…er, one of the stages…”

  “I’m not in denial. She’s not dead. She’s been sending me emails since I got home.”

  “I know how hard this has to be for you—”

  “Damnit, Wy, I’m not crazy. She’s been toying with me this whole time. Look.” I show him the date and time of Zelda’s last email. He glances at it, swerves onto the shoulder, and throws the truck into park.

  “Jesus.” He breathes out in a huff and gets back onto the road. “Jesus Christ.”

  Soon he pulls into my driveway. I can see that his hands are shaking as he turns the wheel. “I mean, I know Zelda can be twisted. But this…” The truck crunches down the hill of the drive. He turns the ignition off and stares blankly through the windshield. I know it’s not funny, but I can’t help smiling at his distress. I do know how he feels.

  “Want to come in for a drink?” I ask with a wry expression.

  “Yup,” he says without hesitation. “And I want you to tell me just what’s going on.”

  “Let’s go sit on the upstairs deck,” I suggest in a whisper once we’re inside. Marlon is asleep on the couch, the fan directed toward him and turned up full blast. The sound muffles our steps. Opal has claimed the guest room, where I assume she is now.

  “What about your mom? Won’t we wake her?”

  “Are you kidding? We could go sit on her bed and she wouldn’t notice we’re there.” I gesture for Wyatt to head upstairs to the library and I head to the liquor cabinet, where we keep the decent but not cellar-worthy wine. It’s still shut with the combination lock; I realize I haven’t opened it once since getting home. I have to think for a bit before I remember the combo. The lock clicks open, and I take it off the clasp as quietly as I can. I don’t want to wake up Marlon and risk him and Wyatt bumping into each other. I can only imagine what fun that would be.


  It’s too dark to see well, so I use my cellphone to hunt out a bottle of red, since that seems to be what Wyatt prefers—and since I assume my progenitors will have polished off any white wine that’s been in the fridge, even the bottles I hid in the crisper. I leave the Silenus labels where they are, untouched, and search behind them, hoping for something French or Italian. Instead, my phone illuminates a slip of paper taped to a bottle. It reads, For Wyatt, darling, in Zelda’s handwriting. I pull the bottle out, and on the label is a sketch of a tormented-looking man, his arms crossed in front of his chest and shackled to two unseen objects. His feet are in irons, and his face is shrouded by a formidable beard. Underneath the engraved illustration, the wine is labeled “The Prisoner.” I pull the note off the bottle; on the back, Zelda has written, Caught between the two of us, as ever. Hope you can taste the poetry, and that Ava likes the flavor too.

  I climb the steps with a bottle of wine and two wineglasses for the second time that night, thinking of the repetitive patterns of home. How many times will I climb these steps, bottle in hand? In the library, I slide open the door onto the deck, where Wyatt is standing, staring out at the ruined remains of the barn. His shoulders are broad, his back muscular, and I feel a flicker of unease as I realize what this looks like. I ask myself what Nico would think if he were to witness this scene: starry summer night, lightning bugs winking in the tall grass, a bottle of red wine shared with my first love, my bedroom just a few steps away. The glimmer of guilt makes me swallow thickly, and I tug self-consciously on the low neckline of Zelda’s caftan, where I know that the slight curves of my breasts are visible. The wineglasses chink together, and Wyatt turns at the sound.

  “Note for you,” I say casually, setting the glasses and the bottle down on the rail and handing Wyatt the scrap of paper addressed to him. His face turns white.

  “Jesus. Zelda…” He trails off helplessly. “You just found this?”

  “Yep. But she probably planted it before the fire. I hadn’t looked in the cabinet for the good stuff yet, as she could have guessed. She knows my rituals. And she would have had a hard time slinking into the house to leave it during the last few days.”

  “Unless she pretended to be you,” Wyatt points out. True.

  “Who knows. I’m not sure what she’s really trying to accomplish. I expect she will slowly reveal herself.” I’ve got a corkscrew with me this time. I open the bottle and pour. “Do you know the wine?” I ask. Maybe it’s another clue.

  “No.” He drinks a big gulp. “So. She’s been writing you.”

  “At first I thought she just wanted to fuck with me,” I say.

  “She doesn’t?”

  “Oh, she does.” I laugh. “But it’s not just that. She’s playing a game. It’s a puzzle. She’s laying little clues, for me to figure out where she is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you ever play any alphabet games when you were a kid?” I ask.

  “Like in the car? That game with the license plates? Where you have to point out cars that have licenses that start with each of the letters of the alphabet, in order?”

  “Yeah, like that. Our father used to tell me and Zelda, when we were kids, that we were the whole alphabet to him, A to Z, and we contained the whole world between the two of us. It was a nice idea. And it spawned a series of alphabet games. Zelda loved them.”

  “Okay…”

  “She’s playing one now. Look.” I hold out Zelda’s phone. “She left this for me to find in her trailer, and she’s been sending me clues and emails on it. Oh, look. She’s just sent another email.” I open it.

  I’m not where you think I am

  “Jesus. You just got this from her?” Wyatt looks alarmed.

  “Yep. She’s been sending me clues. This was the first one.” I show him the photo of her in front of Bartoletti Vineyard.

  “But that’s for…B,” Wyatt says slowly.

  “A is for Ava. It always is,” I explain hastily. “B is for Bartoletti. I found out about her loans and went straight to the Community Credit Union, where we opened up bank accounts when we were little. C. D is for debt, which Zelda has lots of, and E is for…eulogy.” I show him the email beginning with the capitalized E and explain about the newspaper obituary. “F is the photo that Holly posted and captioned on Facebook, ‘Fucked-up Family Fun’—I think F is for all those things, including Facebook. Like Holly told us, Zelda asked her to post it ahead of time. Then G…” I pause, thinking. “I don’t know what G is for,” I say with a frown. Wyatt squints.

  “Could G be for…Grandma? Opal?” he suggests. My eyes open wider.

  “It could be. She showed up before I saw the photo, but it could have been a timing issue. Zelda can’t control everything, after all….”

  “And H?”

  “For Holly, I think. Holly Whitaker. The police asked me about her because she’d posted the Facebook photo. And she was the one in the photo that sent me to Kuma’s, looking for Jason.”

  “Okay, that’s K and J, obviously,” Wyatt says. “What’s I?” I hand him the phone again, and he reads the email, shaking his head. “I don’t get it.”

  “I is for intimacy, I think.”

  “You…got intimacy from this?”

  “Well, I thought she was referring specifically to intimacy with our mother, which I think she was. The ‘cold fish’ is the hint.”

  “The sturgeon?” Wyatt says, puzzled.

  “No, not the sturgeon,” I explain testily. “Zelda says it isn’t the sturgeon. It’s something my mother said to me the day I left for France. She was…fairly blunt in her analysis of my psychological shortcomings. Fear of intimacy topped the list. So I figured Zelda wanted me to go spend time with her. And I found an envelope in her drawer.”

  “You went through your mother’s drawers?” Wyatt looks scandalized.

  I realize this would be unthinkable in his functional home, where privacy is respected and people share willingly with one another. “I needed the corkscrew. Which I suppose Zelda predicted. Actually…” I think back. “That clever fucking girl. She filled the fridge with sparkling wine and locked up the liquor cabinet. She knew we would drink the bubbly that first night, because she planted it. Marlon couldn’t open the liquor cabinet because he doesn’t know the combo. I couldn’t find the corkscrew in its usual spot, so she knew I would go to that drawer when I went to see Mom.”

  “Good thing you rarely drink twist-offs,” Wyatt says. I snort. “What did the letter in the envelope say?”

  “It was just a note. It had Jason’s name doodled on it, and it hinted that I was supposed to look for a picture. So I checked her Facebook page again, and there was nothing. But then I was fussing with her iPhone and saw that she’d opened an Instagram account a few weeks ago. I logged into it, and there was a picture of Jason and Holly standing in front of Kuma’s. Come to think of it, I is probably for Instagram,” I say with a frown. “Either way. I knew she wanted me to go talk to this Jason guy, but I assumed it was because he was supposed to meet her at the barn the night it burned. I thought he might be able to tell me something about the night or the drugs, but instead…”

  “Instead, he played you a song. That L-O-V-E song, by Nat King Cole,” Wyatt finished.

  “Which got me thinking about the alphabet, just like she knew it would. Then, when the cops showed up, talking about m-m-m-murder…” I shrug. “A bit slow, I acknowledge. Should have seen it coming.”

  “No one can read Zelda’s mind,” Wyatt says darkly, patting my hand. “Not even you.” I get goosebumps where he’s touched me, and I realize I am thrumming with a red-wine buzz. Trouble trouble. I swallow some more. We’re reaching the end of the bottle.

  “She can read mine,” I say. “Always has.” I stare out at the water, frowning. “Could she have known the cops would come while I was there? How would she have worked out the timing?” I mull this over. “She’d want the letters to go in order….”

  “Anonymous tip
once you left the house?”

  “Do you think—do you think she’s watching us?” I ask, voicing an anxiety I’ve been feeling since Zelda’s first communiqué.

  “Maybe technological surveillance?” he suggests. The words sound faintly ridiculous, coming from him. “Spying on your phone—or hers, I guess—so that she knows what you’re up to?”

  “Could be.” I go to take another sip of wine, but my glass is empty. So is Wyatt’s. So is the bottle.

  “Should I go get another?” he says tentatively. I pause. There’s a secondary question here. We’ve both been drinking, and if Wyatt has much more to drink, he’ll probably be over the legal limit to drive home. Which wouldn’t necessarily prevent him from driving—the roads don’t exactly crawl with cops out in Hector, and we know where two of them are—but it would introduce a new element of hesitation into his decision of whether to go home. A decision that would also be rather emotionally impacted by the two bottles of wine we had just consumed. I know all this, and I know what it might lead to. I look at the illustration on the bottle, the man caught between two shackles, and I wonder if we’re going to talk about it, review what happened after I found him and Zelda together. I don’t know that I can. I also don’t know that we can avoid it. I nod yes.

  “Sure. Look for any more notes. Maybe Zelda has a tasting course planned out for us. I’m just going to check on Nadine and use the loo. I left the cabinet open. Try not to wake Marlon.”