by ACF Bookens
"I am," I said quietly. "I'm so sorry for your loss. Would you like to go somewhere—"
She cut me off. "So did you kill her?"
I paused, took a deep breath, and then said, "No. I didn't kill your daughter. I didn't even know her."
"Well, that's what you say, but maybe you and she were having an affair, and she realized she could do better." Her tone was acid, and I didn't let anyone talk to me that way.
"Mrs. Leicht, you have just called me both a liar and insulted my value as a romantic partner. Do not speak to me that way." I took another deep, slow breath as she glared at me. "I'd like to help you, but that expression about honey instead of lemons does apply here." I moved out from behind the counter and pointed toward the cafe. "Please, let's sit." No one else was in the store yet, and I knew Rocky would manage the register if need be. For my sake – and for Mrs. Leicht’s if she didn't pull it back a bit – I needed to deescalate this situation.
Lizzie’s mom glared at me a moment but then followed me to the cafe, where I deliberately chose a seat by the window just so that there would be witnesses. Then, I caught Rocky's eye and asked politely, modeling the tone I appreciated in all my conversations, especially with strangers, "Could we have two decaf lattes, please?"
Rocky smiled and began prepping the espresso. I saw her face sour, though, when Mrs. Leicht said, "What's the point of decaf?"
"With my complements," I said as I glared at my companion. This woman did not need any stimulants. "Now, please tell me what you are trying to find out. As I said, I'd like to help, Mrs. Leicht."
Mrs. Leicht looked at me, seemed to decide something, and said, "I'd like to know what she looked like when you found her."
I was caught up short by the question. I remembered, of course, every detail from Lizzie's body in that moment, but somehow, I hadn't anticipated that her mother would want to hear about that. "Honestly, she looked peaceful."
"That's not what I mean," I could still hear the edge in her voice, but there was also weariness now, too. "Please, just describe her to me."
I looked at the woman a moment longer, tried to think quickly about whether I might be compromising Tuck's investigation, and decided that maybe this hard thing could actually be a kindness. So I described her – the way her body was positioned, how her hair was styled, what she was wearing, even the hot pink lipstick she had chosen for her first shift.
When I finished, Mrs. Leicht seemed puzzled, but it took her a minute to say anything. "But her arm, well, her lack of arm. You didn't mention that."
I studied Mrs. Leicht's face and said, "I didn't. I couldn't see she was missing an arm because of the position she as in. I only learned she was an amputee the next day."
Rocky brought over our lattes, and Mrs. Leicht downed the steaming hot beverage in a single swallow. I wasn't sure how she'd done it, but it was impressive in a fire-eater at the circus kind of way. "Is that important?" I asked after I took my own small sip and discovered it was laced with a delightful hint of cinnamon.
The look she gave me this time wasn't so angry, more inquisitive. "It might be. But not because she was an amputee." I definitely heard a little defensiveness in that last sentence.
I nodded. "I wouldn't think so." I thought back on the disability rights reading I'd been doing and remembered all the times people had said that all abled people saw in them was their disability.
Mrs. Leicht gave me an appraising glance and then sat back in her chair, as if conceding that she didn't need this to be a fight. "Right. Okay, then, well, mostly, I was wondering if you'd tell me you saw a prosthetic arm near her body."
The surprise must have shown on my face because Mrs. Leicht said, "She'd been fitted for a very state-of-the-art one recently, and it's missing."
I tried to stop my brain from leaping to the "so that's why you're here" assumption but wasn't quite successful. "I see," I said to buy myself some time while I thought. I knew next to nothing about prosthetic devices, but I thought they were one-of-a-kind and, thus, not really something worth stealing. But maybe I was wrong. "Are you thinking someone stole it?"
Mrs. Leicht shook her head and the purple tips of her hair swayed just slightly. "Not likely. It was custom made for Cassandra." She paused and then studied my face for a moment as if making a decision. "No, I was wondering if she'd brought it with her. She hadn’t really wanted to get it but found she had trouble getting work without it. So she had relented." She looked out the store window at the foot traffic on the street. "When I went to look for her this weekend, it wasn't in her apartment."
Now, it was my turn to interrupt. "You said you went looking for her. Was she missing?"
She nodded. "I hadn't heard from her in over a week. That was unusual. We talked most every day, but recently, her calls had been more infrequent, and she hadn't been picking up when I called. This past week, though, I didn't hear from her at all, and I got worried."
I thought about my mom, about how quickly she'd panic. I'd say twelve hours without hearing from me would probably have her launching a national search. "And when you got to her apartment?" We were making progress here, so I tried to tread lightly. The woman was warming to me, but I sensed I could scare her off if I pressed too hard.
"The arm wasn't there, but neither was she. No sign of her . . . the funny thing was," she studied my face again before continuing, "it didn't really look like she was gone either."
"You mean nothing was really missing? Not like she'd packed to move or something?"
"Exactly. It looked like she'd gone to the store and would be back soon." The anger from before was now morphing into something more tender, more achy. "I'm the co-signer on her lease, so the landlord told me she was paying her rent and had paid ahead by three months. But he hadn't seen her for a week either."
"So then you went looking?" I had to rein myself in, keep from charging ahead with my questions.
"Yes, I had no idea where to look, so I checked everything online. I went through every like, every posting, and finally I came across a mention of this town on a page she'd liked. It was the only lead that seemed out of place. So I followed it, and here I am." She looked at me for the first time like a woman who needed something, like a grieving mother.
I reached across the table and put my hand over hers. "That must have taken hours. I looked at her pages, too, but I never did figure out how she found us here." I felt that tug about the back of my brain, that nudge to pay attention because something needed attending, but I didn’t have the space in this moment to think about anything else. I just had to hope some of my brain would keep working while I followed this conversation carefully.
Mrs. Leicht's fingers squeezed around mine. "So you have been looking?" The plea in her eyes was intense.
"Oh yes, everyone here has. We didn't know your daughter, but she was a St. Mariner, and that counts for something here." I felt the emotion snag in my throat.
She let out a shuddering gasp and then said, "Why?"
I put my other hand over hers. "We don't know. But the sheriff, Tuck, he's the best. Really. He has barely slept since we found Lizzie's body."
"Is that the name she was using? Lizzie?" A light came into her eyes.
"Oh yes, I'm sorry. It's the only name we had until yesterday, and so I'm afraid I think of her as Lizzie. But for Cassandra, Tuck has been chasing every angle. Even has Max and I helping out." I felt like I was probably treading a fine line here by revealing that Max and I were doing research. I was taking more of a risk in exposing Max and me than was maybe necessary, but I tried to do what I would want people to do for me in the same situation. If someone I knew had been murdered in a town where she knew no one, I would want to hear everything.
"Max, that rude man from the restaurant is helping?" She looked skeptical, and I couldn't blame her. Max, on the surface at least, didn't inspire a great deal of warmth or confidence.
"Yes, he is helping. He really liked your daughter. Thought she was the best bartender he'd ever seen, and not j
ust because she could pour a great drink. He said she really listened." I thought back to the way Max had looked when he'd told the story of the patron who never talked or ordered food. He had been wistful, and I wonder if he related to that man, if he wished he had someone like Lizzie to talk to.
Mrs. Leicht asked, "How are you two helping? Are your private investigators or something?" Her tone was a little skeptical, which felt wise.
I laughed. "No, not at all actually. Just nosy neighbors with a penchant for research and information. We were looking into the name that Cassandra," I slowed down to make my brain associate that name with the young woman whose story I was desperate to understand, "chose to use here. Maybe you can guide us a little. She went by the name Lizzie Bordo."
A small smile spread across Mrs. Leicht's face, and I took a deep breath. "That's the name she chose, huh? Figures." She sat back and dropped her hands into her lap as she gazed out the window for a few minutes before she spoke with the wistfulness of memory. "When Cassandra was fourteen, our neighborhood association decided to enact a policy that teenagers couldn't trick or treat. 'Too raucous and inappropriate' the announcement said."
Mrs. Leicht's face was practically glowing with tender emotion. "Well, Cassandra was never one to be told what to do – she gets that from me," she said as she met my gaze, "so she decided she was going to trick or treat, and her costume was going to be outright raucous and inappropriate. She fashioned a Victorian dress out of a turtleneck, a doily and an old prom dress she got at a thrift store. Then, she stuffed some of her brother's clothes and crafted a head and arms out of my old pantyhose. But the piece de resistance was the papier-mâché axe she embedded in the doll's chest. It looked very real, and when covered in theatrical blood that she got from a make-up artist I knew, it was gruesome."
I could picture a young Cassandra, all petulant with her dark, sleek hair and fair skin in that high collar as she strolled around the neighborhood. I liked this woman more and more. "I take it the neighborhood association didn't appreciate her act of rebellion?"
"No, they didn't. Even tried to fine her. But Cassandra insisted it wasn't a costume, just self-expression. The next year, every teenager was on the streets with little signs on their backs saying, 'This is my act of self-expression.'" Mrs. Leicht looked at me again. "I couldn't have been prouder."
"Your daughter sounds like an amazing person." Again, I found myself wishing I'd known her.
"She was, she really was. I don't know a person who would want to hurt her. That's what's so puzzling about this." Now, all that rage that was bouncing against me before was washing through the air as sorrow. "Do you have any leads?"
I so wanted to tell her about Davis, about Galen's friend Effie who had come to town from Boston, but I knew that would be crossing a line. So instead I said, "Nothing firm, but the more we know, the more we can find who did this. Can I ask you one more question?"
Mrs. Leicht nodded.
"Bordo? I mean it's close to Borden, and Borden would have been too obvious, but for a bartender to choose a variant of the spelling of a wine?"
"Oh, that's easy. Cassandra hated wine, so I expect that was tongue-in-cheek." She smiled again.
I laughed. "Okay, don't tell Max though. He has some vision of her being a Francophile who appreciates fine vintages."
Mrs. Leicht said, "Deal. But maybe steer him away from that idea so he uses his research time on more productive angles." She stood, and I rose with her.
"Consider it done." We walked back into the bookstore, and I saw that Marcus had come in and was talking to a young father and his toddler son about the Carl board books. "I'm always here, Mrs. Leicht. If you need anything or just want to talk, please don't hesitate. And if you think of anything the sheriff might need to know for his investigation?"
"I'll definitely let him know." She turned to go but then looked back. "Actually, could you tell him about the prosthetic arm? That might be important, but I'm too tired just now. I just want to go and lay down."
"Absolutely." I walked with her to the door and took her hand in both of mine for a minute. "I’m sorry I have to ask this, but it’s important. How did you know your daughter was murdered?"
Mrs. Leicht looked at me with confusion. "I didn’t. Not when I got here, but when I checked into the hotel, the clerks at the front desk were talking about how a woman with one arm was killed in town." Tears welled in her eyes. "Hell of a way to find out." She let out a shuddering breath and went through the door.
I watched her walk toward a rental car parked on the street and then picked up my phone and called Tuck.
7
I had no idea what to make of what Mrs. Leicht had told me except that it was clear that Lizzie had disappeared from Boston on purpose and quickly. She clearly didn't want anyone to follow her, and only someone as diligent as a mother – or a would-be murderer – could have figured out where she was. Something about that fact was bugging me, but every time I tried to chase down the thought, it ducked behind another one and hid.
So I left it up to the professionals. It took Tuck's two deputies three hours each before they finally found the Facebook page with mentions of quaint towns on the East Coast to see Lizzie's response to someone's post about St. Marin's. "Is it quiet and secluded?" was her question, and the man who had posted originally said it was.
She had asked her question months ago and only acted on it now. But clearly, something had been brewing in this young woman's head for a long time. Now, to figure out what.
I would have spent the whole afternoon spinning about that question if Mom hadn't come in to take me to lunch so we could talk about our fundraising event for NDRN. We weren't publicly announcing that the event was spurred by her murder, but everyone involved knew the impetus.
Mom had decided on a casual evening at the local roller skating rink because it was the largest space available on short notice and because it was the one spot in the area that had made every effort to be accessible to as many people as possible. The rink was wheelchair accessible and allowed chairs on the rink floor, and Mom was excited to tell me about how the rink owners hired guides for blind people so that they could skate freely without fear of running into anyone. They also provided rhythmic lights for the deaf but avoided strobe lights in case someone had a seizure disorder. The place sounded amazing in every way, but I was surprised that Mom was going for something so laid-back. She was usually more of a cocktail dress and tux kind of woman.
"Well, our speaker for the evening pointed out to me that often the most everyday things are often inaccessible to people with disabilities, and so I went on a hunt to find something fun and simple that we could ensure was available to everyone. Roller skating sounded like it." Mom looked pleased as punch, and I was glad. She really was in her element with this event-planning stuff.
"Well, I guess I'll do my usual from my teenage years and hug the wall for the first two hours and then, about the time I get the hang of skates and push off, the event will be over." I grinned at Mom.
"Harvey, you have many gifts. Coordination is not really one of them, but I've always admired your willingness to try anything, especially if it's to help someone else." Mom leaned over and kissed my cheek. "Now, let's talk money."
Mom's fundraising ideas, beyond tickets, included food – Lu, Lucas, and Rocky's mom, Phoebe, were on tap for that – a cash bar that Stephen and Walter would staff, and a silent auction featuring accessible devices, software, and tools as well as the usual books, gift baskets, and stays at people's timeshares. Her hope was to raise five thousand dollars through these things as well as bring in some larger checks through personal calls and letters.
"That all sounds amazing, Mom, but you mentioned a speaker. Who is coming?" I could tell by the way Mom had held back this tidbit for last that she was excited. She was nothing if not a showperson.
She shrugged in an expert performance of modesty and said, "Oh, a friend of a friend had a connection with Annie Segarra, and she said she�
�d speak."
The name rang a bell, but fortunately, I didn’t have to dredge into my memory banks for too long before Mom filled me in. "She’s a disability rights activist who is amazing. Funny. Smart. And she advocates for body positivity and LGBTQ+ rights, too. You really need to follow her Insta page."
I laughed. My mother had just "Insta." "Okay, I will. She sounds amazing. Quite a coup there, Mom." I held up my hand, and my mom didn’t hesitate to give me a high-five. Who was this woman?
"She has a really big following, too and said she’d help spread the word. I think we’ll sell out." Mom said as she gathered up the baskets from our greasy burgers and fries. Mom knew good food in all its forms, something I was glad I had inherited from her. "Tickets go on sale tomorrow. Can I list your shop as a purchase location? Annie said she’d send a few dozen of her #thefutureisaccessible T-shirts for you to sell.
"Of course. But the event is Wednesday. Is that too short a timeline?" We'd had great events that we pulled together in a matter of days, but this one might be a harder sell given the topic. It seemed to me that the rights of disabled people were still pretty unrecognized at best and labeled as "buck up and make do" at worst. I just wasn't sure we could drum up enough enthusiasm in less than a week.
"We only have three hundred spaces available because of fire code, but I'm launching, with Galen's help of course, a big social media campaign today. So I think we'll have it under control. Just be ready for a big crowd in the morning."
I was still a little nervous, but if Mom was determined, anything could happen. "You got it." I made a mental note to be sure to ask Marcus if he could come in early tomorrow. "Thanks, Mom. This is going to be great."
"Now, let's talk about you." Mom leaned back in her chair and gave me her most motherly look. I felt something give way in my chest, and I started to cry.
"Oh, Harvey, I knew something was wrong. But what is going on?" She had stretched her hands across the table to hold mine.
"I don't really know, Mama. It's just Daniel . . . and Max." My voice broke into shuddering gasps, and I couldn't continue.