Violet Dawn

by Collins, Brandilyn

  Vince started the tape, stating the obligatory introduction of time, date, place, and names of those present. His first objective was to learn the habits of Ms. San — any piece of information that might become relevant should the woman fail to appear soon. He opened with the standard general questions for a missing person of Ms. San’s age. Did she have illnesses? Was she on any medication? Any sign or diagnosis of Alzheimer’s? How about stroke? Had she ever disappeared like this before? Did she tend to go off for walks by herself?

  According to Francesca, Ms. San was in perfect health and extremely proud of it. “Not even medication for cholesterol,” she said. And no, Ms. San would not disappear like this; it was highly irregular; and would they please do something about it now?

  Francesca drew a breath. “Another important thing I haven’t had the chance to tell you — the dog is missing.”

  Frank looked up from his notes, eyebrows rising. “We saw the sign out front. What kind of dog?”

  “A trained Doberman.” Francesca’s gaze roamed to the window overlooking the backyard. “His name is Bravo. I feed him every morning on the back patio. He’s always there, waiting for me. But not this morning. I called and called for him.”

  Vince rubbed his forehead. This didn’t sound good. Dogs were habitual creatures, not likely to miss a meal.

  “Would Ms. San take him on a walk?”

  “No, never. Edna doesn’t like dogs. Bravo wasn’t a companion. He was a servant.”

  A servant. Something in her voice as she spoke the word. Bitterness?

  Francesca’s tone remained tight. “And the french doors in the kitchen that lead out to the patio were unlocked, and the burglar alarm deactivated, even though it’s always on at night. I turn it off when I arrive each morning.” She locked eyes with Vince. “Please. You have to start looking for Ms. San.”

  “I understand your concern. But it’s important we gather all the facts first.” He held Francesca’s gaze. “All right?”

  Briefly she nodded.

  “Back to the dog.” Vince shifted in his chair. “Anyone but you and Ms. San know Bravo? Anyone else he’d be friendly with?”

  “No. He was trained to be vicious with anyone who set foot on the property. He would bark and snarl, and attack if I or Ms. San gave the command.”

  “What about gardeners? You must have a lot of people taking care of property like this.”

  Francesca nodded. “A crew of three comes once a week and spends most of the afternoon. I put Bravo in the garage while they’re here.”

  “What’s the name of their company?”

  “Sprenger Lawn and Garden. They’re out of Spokane.”

  Spokane. How like Edna San to hire a gardening crew from that far away when there were plenty in the area. Part of her “Keep your distance, Kanner Lake” persona.

  “All right.” Vince waited while Frank caught up with his notes. “Ms. Galvin, Officer West indicated that you have a routine with Ms. San. Tell us what you did last night and what happened this morning.”

  Francesca launched into her story, revealing Ms. San’s pampered lifestyle. Francesca’s last responsibility each day was to draw a bath to be ready at 9:00 p.m. Ms. San would take the bath, then read in bed until she fell asleep. Last night all seemed normal. About 9:15 Francesca retired to her own quarters, the house Vince had seen tucked in the trees. Upon leaving the main house, she ensured that the alarm was on. In her own home, she felt tired and went to bed soon. At 6:00 a.m. she got up, letting herself into Edna’s house about 6:40. The warning beep for the alarm did not sound when she opened a side door with her key. At the control pad in the kitchen, she discovered the alarm had been deactivated. She also noticed the french doors hanging slightly open.

  As Francesca talked, Vince watched her body language, her eye movements, for any sign of deception. He glanced at her carotid artery. Was her pulse beating faster than normal? Didn’t seem to be. Sometimes a woman’s neck would show telltale red blotches, but Vince noticed nothing of that nature either. And lying eyes tended to pull toward the dominant side. Francesca was clearly right-handed, but a number of times she glanced left when thinking.

  Normally, Francesca continued, she would first feed the dog, who would be waiting with impatience for his one meal of the day. But this morning — no Bravo. She walked out to the deck, called his name. He failed to appear. She could have begun preparing breakfast — a bagel with cream cheese, fresh fruit compote, and black coffee, but the unusual circumstances alarmed her. Francesca mounted the stairs to check on Ms. San. The master bedroom door stood wide open. The bed was still made from yesterday. Francesca looked about the room but noticed nothing missing. In the closet sat Ms. San’s purse with sunglasses inside. “She’d never go anywhere in the summer without those sunglasses,” she added.

  Frank tapped his pen against the notebook. “About the bed. Any chance she’d have gotten up and made it herself?”

  Francesca gave a small smile. “Ms. San wouldn’t know how to make a bed if her life depended on it.”

  There was that tone again — that something. Resentment toward Ms. San? “Was the bathwater still in the tub?”

  “Yes. But that’s typical. I let it out in the morning and clean the tub. I also take care of the clothes she’s dropped on the floor. But today — no clothes.”

  “Is the water still there?”

  “Of course. I hardly worried about letting it out, what with my concern for Ms. San.”

  “Good.” Vince could see her rising impatience. “Almost done here, and then we’ll check around. First — anything unusual in the house lately? Any threatening phone calls? Someone trying to get on the property? Maybe someone in town threatening Ms.San?”

  Francesca’s gaze dropped to the table, her forehead creasing. “There is something. I wouldn’t have thought much about it, except now . . .” She hesitated. “Ms. San tends to be abrasive. No doubt you know that. A lot of people don’t know how to talk to her, and small things set her off.” She raised her eyes to Vince, mouth tightening. Small wrinkles puckered above her lips. “There was an unfortunate incident in town yesterday morning. I wasn’t present when it occurred, but I certainly heard about it — all the way home. Ms. San was absolutely livid.”

  Frank’s pen poised over his notebook, questions on his face. Vince looked from him to Francesca, feeling a little tug in his gut — that inexplicable prescience he often felt when on the verge of hearing important information. “What happened?”

  Francesca lifted her chin. “According to Ms. San, the girl who works at Simple Pleasures threatened to kill her.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Rachel is sneaking out of the house.

  She stands in front of the mirror, checking herself out. Not bad. She’s thirteen but is dressed to look sixteen. At least. Makeup’s done pretty decent. The black liner makes her eyes look extra big. Mascara lengthens her lashes. Her light-brown hair looks good against the red shirt, and her jeans are tight.

  A towel is rolled up and pushed against her bedroom door, blocking any spill of light. She’s supposed to be asleep.

  Sure — on a Saturday night. While Rosa and latest boyfriend Jack get high with their druggie friends in the den.

  Rachel’s radio is quietly playing the Backstreet Boys — “Quit Playing Games with My Heart.” She mouths the words, watching herself in the mirror as she churns her hips. Yeah. She moves like she knows what she’s doing.

  She glances at the clock radio’s red digits. Nearly midnight. Time to skip this joint.

  Off goes the music. And the light. A streetlamp sheds a dull circle of illumination through her open window — enough to see the bedcovers plumped up with pillows. Rachel slips the long strap of a small purse over her head and shoulder so the purse rests against the opposite hip. At the window she thrusts one leg out over the sill, leans low so she won’t scrape her back, brings out the other leg, and drops four feet to the ground with a light thump. Hunched over, she scurries toward the st
reet.

  Suddenly — headlights. A latecomer to the Rosa Brandt party.

  Rachel jerks back, heart thudding. Presses herself against the side of the house. If the person sees her and tells Rosa, she’ll get beat for sure. A vision fills her head of the punches and how much they’ll hurt. Jack will probably help . . .

  Yeah, well, things could be worse, the way he’s been looking at her lately.

  Rachel closes her eyes. Swallows hard. Waiting. Daring to pray.

  Even though God probably won’t listen to a nobody teenager, especially when she’s trying to slip out at night. Then again, if there is a God, He’s put her in this position, so He owes her something.

  Please, God. Don’t let me be caught.

  Rosa’s raucous laughter tumbles through the night. Rachel pictures her mother in the yellow short skirt, spilling out of her low-cut blue top. Rosa’s hair is now double-bleached, almost pure white. Stiff as straw. She’s taken to wearing “dazzling pink” lipstick that borders on purple. And her blue eyes, once so pretty, now have a watery look.

  The newcomers — sounds like a couple — greet Rosa. The man makes some lewd comment about her clothes, and Rosa responds with fake disapproval that drips with private pleasure. Rachel’s heard that tone a thousand times, but tonight it sends a knife through her chest. The stab is sudden and brutal, and the pain radiates through her body. Hiding in the dark with the house’s siding pressed against her back, Rachel feels the world open up and swallow her — the world with all its disappointment and hurt and overwhelming loneliness. For a crazy moment she longs to be with Rosa and the partying crowd, to laugh and drug it up and dance the night away, just so she can belong.

  That’s crazy, Rachel; you do belong. To her friends who await her at the beach. Carey and Stacey and Kim will be there, and that new guy in school, Brandon. Plus a dozen or so others. But something way down deep in Rachel’s soul cries that they’re all misfits just like she is. That none of them have parents who care, that they too are all desperately seeking something . . .

  Footsteps on the porch. Rosa and the couple are heading inside.

  The front door shuts.

  Music kicks on.

  Rachel lets out a shaky breath. And with it she blows out the nutty thoughts in her head. The pain in her chest disappears, and there’s no knife, none at all. In fact, there is nothing left in its place but a sort of deadness.

  Her friends are waiting.

  She lingers another minute just to make sure all is clear. Then she runs diagonally toward the street, away from the hated house with its peeling paint and two wooden slats broken on the little porch. What is wrong with her, thinking even for a second she wanted to be a part of her mother’s world?

  She hits a corner and turns left. Down a block, walking swiftly now, and a right turn. As she spots the beach ahead, Rachel knows that somebody will bring weed for sure. They’ll all sit in the circle, passing the joint. Rachel will sit with them but she won’t smoke it. She hopes no one will make fun of her. So far everybody’s been cool. But even if they do, she won’t take one puff. The mere thought terrifies her. Rachel has seen and heard and felt what drugs have done to Rosa.

  And if there’s one person I never want to be like, it’s my mother.

  NINETEEN

  Paige rubbed her forehead, fighting her tiredness and the vivid scenes flashing in her brain.

  The tickle and bump of something in the hot tub.

  Edna San’s glazed eyes.

  She shook her head. No time for remorse now, and certainly no time to slow down. She still had to clean the deck.

  Paige forced herself through the garage back door, carrying the broom, and stopped in her tracks. The grass. Flat and smooth. The perfect path of Edna’s body, from deck to door. In the dark, she hadn’t noticed. Paige closed her eyes. Why had she thought merely using a sheet could keep this from happening? The makeshift gurney had only bent the grass all the more.

  She let go of the broom. It fell onto the grass with a shoosh . Back in the garage she fetched a rake from the metal cabinet. Beginning just outside the garage door, she raked the flattened blades, nudging them to stand proud, point their chins toward the sun. She was careful not to dig too hard into the dirt. Kicking that up into the grass would leave its own telltale marks.

  Marks.

  In her house, her car. They were now being cleaned and swept away. But the stain in her mind and heart — wouldn’t it be there forever?

  For the millionth time Paige wished for that sister to talk to. She pushed away the thought. Even if The Promise she’d believed last night came true, she couldn’t tell the closest friend in the world what she’d done. How wrong it would be to weight someone else with such a secret. That person would either have to tell or become a part of the crime herself.

  Exactly what crime had she committed? Paige raked on, frowning. Tampering with evidence? Obstruction of justice? She’d heard the terms on TV but wasn’t sure what they meant. One thing she did suspect — whatever the names for what she’d done, she’d go to jail if they caught her. Probably for a long time.

  Paige backed up, raked another area. After a few minutes she stopped to check her work with narrowed eyes. It was better but certainly not perfect. There was no way to return every blade of grass to its former position.

  She just had to hope nobody came looking.

  She checked her watch. Oh no. Ten minutes after nine.

  Swiftly Paige put away the rake, then returned outside to pick up the broom. She swept the deck with ferocity, taking extra care around the hot tub. When that was done, she hurried to the bathroom, peeled off her pajamas and threw them along with the clothes she’d worn last night — still wet and crumpled on the floor — into the washing machine. These were followed by the gloves she’d used and the sheet. She dumped in soap, pulled the silver knob. Water whooshed out as the cycle began.

  In her bedroom Paige dressed for work in her typical understated colors. Dark jeans, flat sandals, a cream-colored knit top. Sarah Wray, her boss, would stand out in stark contrast, donned in bright hues of pink or orange or green, with sparkly shoes and chunky jewelry. Paige’s short black hair had long since dried from her shower. She crossed to the bathroom to apply gel, working the strands upward into spikes. Next, makeup. With her smooth and tanned skin, she needed no foundation. Just a little blusher. She spent most of the time on her eyes — her best feature — donning various tones of shadow, liner, and mascara.

  She pulled back from the mirror and studied herself. Green-blue eyes looked back at her. Were they the same as yesterday? Could anyone see the new secrets they held?

  Paige picked up her watch, lying on the bathroom counter: nine forty-five.

  Time to drive into town — and feign her way through an ordinary day.

  TWENTY

  Vince leaned back in his chair, studying Francesca’s face. She had spoken of the alleged death threat toward Edna San with such factuality that for a moment Vince thought he’d misunderstood her words.

  “The girl at Simple Pleasures?” Frank frowned at Vince.“Know who that is?”

  Vince’s gaze drifted to the tape recorder. “I’ve seen her a couple times. She’s new in town.”

  And she wasn’t easy to forget. Vince guessed she was in her early to midtwenties. A classic beauty with black hair cut far too short for his taste and the most incredible eyes he’d ever seen. They were a light, almost translucent green-blue. He’d nodded to the girl once at Java Joint, the coffee shop across the street from Simple Pleasures. She’d nodded back, then looked quickly away. Something about her had tugged at Vince. He’d sensed a painfulness about the girl, a loneliness.

  He cleared his throat and looked to Francesca. “Tell us what you know about the incident.”

  She nodded. “As I said, I didn’t see what happened. I was driving the car around for Ms. San, as there were no parking spaces directly outside. She had impulsively decided to go into Simple Pleasures to see if they had any
silk flower arrangements. Why, I don’t know. As I pulled up to the curb, she was waiting on the sidewalk absolutely fuming . Saying the — ” Francesca tilted her head — “I won’t say the name she called the girl. Saying the girl had been clumsy and should be fired. Ms. San had said as much to the owner of the store. When Ms. San was walking out, this girl apparently muttered the threat at her back — loud enough for others to hear. Words to the effect of wanting to strangle Ms. San.”

  Vince raised his eyebrows. “Do you know who was present to hear this, other than Ms. San and Sarah Wray?”

  “No idea. I didn’t even look into the store when I drove up. I don’t know how far inside I could have seen through the windows anyway.”

  Vince exchanged a glance with Frank. This wasn’t much to go on, but they’d have to investigate. He checked his watch. Time was ticking. “Ms. Galvin, all right if we go take a look at Ms. San’s bedroom?”

  “Yes, please.” She pushed back her chair. “It’s on the second floor.”

  As Vince rose, he realized his headache was gone. For now, anyway.

  He picked up the tape recorder. Frank brought his notebook and camera. Francesca led them up the wide and lustrous staircase with sheened banister. Lining one wall of the staircase were photos of the Hollywood elite posed with Ms. San, dating years back. Vince recognized the faces of Audrey Hepburn, Cary Grant, Bette Davis, Doris Day. All of them perfectly poised and glamorous and arrayed. Not one family picture. Vince knew Ms. San had long ago divorced all four of her husbands but she did have two grown children. The coldness of that egocentric display of photos crept into Vince’s veins, and he turned his eyes away. His thoughts skipped to his married daughter, Heather, and her little girl, Christy. How long had it been since he’d spent time with his granddaughter?

  At the top of the staircase Francesca turned left, treading over a thick Persian rug. “Ms. San’s quarters fill this side of the house,” she said over her shoulder. They reached the open door and she stood aside, allowing them to enter.