by Sylvia Warsh
I got up, wondering if Jill had told me the truth or if she was a good liar.
When she opened the door, two big guys with tattoos stood there. “Hey, Jill, baby, whatcha got for us today?”
She let them inside, and we all stared at each other.
“I do some business on the side,” she said to me, nervous again. “Key chains.”
I nodded. Couldn’t care less what she was dealing.
I mumbled my goodbyes and slunk past them out the door.
“Hey, Jill, who’s your friend?”
She closed the door and I headed for the elevator. I was so out of there.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The lawyer’s secretary had called and said the papers for the estate were ready. So after work, I changed into my knock-off designer jeans and touched up my hair and makeup. I’d never been to a lawyer’s office before.
I took the subway downtown to King Street, then walked east a few blocks. It looked like one of those sketchy neighborhoods that artists made funky, and while it was still cheap, the developers moved in. New condos were going up behind boards. Upscale furniture stores beside shops selling cigarettes and hot dog buns.
When I got to the street number, I stopped, surprised. It was a storefront. I’d pictured something different. Something more private up some stairs in an office building. At least the blinds were closed inside the window and you couldn’t see in. Randall Webb, Law Office was painted in small block letters on the glass.
I opened the door and walked in. The reception desk was piled neatly with folders. Some chairs sat near the window. A door behind the desk was open, leading to another room. A man was talking on the phone in the invisible distance. I headed over.
Once at the door, I got shy and just stood there. Randall Webb was leaning back in his leather chair behind a desk. Not what I expected. Thinning brown hair, kind of long for a lawyer pushing fifty. The sleeves of his white shirt rolled up.
“Look, there’s not much more I can do,” he was saying into the phone. “They’re cracking down on drunk drivers these days…”
Webb looked up and saw me. Without missing a beat, he waved for me to sit down in a chair in front of the desk. He got rid of the guy on the phone and stood up.
He gave me a big smile. “You’re Carol’s kid, aren’t you? I’d know you anywhere.” He came around the desk and put out his hand.
I took it shyly. He sat down in a chair beside me. Clean jeans. High-top runners.
“She was a beauty. You look just like her.”
I smiled like a dork.
“We were kids when we met. Grade ten.”
“Seriously?”
“I had a crush on her. But she was in love with Freddy from day one.”
“Then you knew my father too?”
He grinned. “Skinny little guy.”
“And you knew the other dudes in the band.”
“Iggy and Stu, yeah. They were the cool guys. I was the nerd. I did my homework. They played music. The rest is history.”
For a second I was irritated with my mother. She could’ve picked anyone and she picked Freddy. Then it dawned on me that I wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t.
“You were just a kid when…You don’t remember anything, do you?”
I shook my head.
“Lucky,” he said. He smiled sadly. “You were real cute. A neighbor was looking after you when I got there. Then Child Welfare came in. It broke Carol’s heart to give you up. No shortage of offers for you. She asked me to sort it out.”
“You arranged for my adoption?”
He fixed his eyes on me, searching. “I hope it worked out.”
I didn’t want to make him feel bad. I shrugged. “Yeah. Sure.” Wasn’t his fault I didn’t get along with Shelley.
“You got some money coming when the paperwork’s done. Mostly from the sale of the house.”
“House?”
“Don’t remember that either, eh? She asked me to sell it. The money paid for her legal fees. Appeals. None of it helped.” He shrugged. “There’s a good chunk left. It’ll take awhile for you to get it.” He looked at me like he was sorry. “I’ll send you a statement, so you can see what’s what.”
Then he smiled again. “Got something for you.” He pointed to the floor behind him. “It’s been cluttering up my office.”
He got up and ducked into a corner behind his desk. When he stood up, he was carrying a leather guitar case.
“It was your father’s. Carol kept it all these years.”
I jumped up, tingling all over. He put the case down on his chair. I just stood there staring.
“Go on,” he said. “Open it.”
I flicked open the latch and raised the cover. The light hit the shiny wood. A Gibson! The best guitar in the world. And even better: my father had played it. I lifted it in my arms like a baby.
“You play?” he asked.
I smiled and nodded, plucking the strings. It was out of tune.
“Hey, Mr. Webb!” Someone was in the front office.
A man poked his head in the door. “Gotta talk to you, Mr. Webb. Cops said I violated parole. That’s bull! All I did was stick a note under her door…”
Webb stayed calm, must’ve been used to this kind of interruption. “I told you not to contact her. That means no note, no phone call, nada. Wait outside.”
“I love her, man. I’d never hurt her.”
Webb walked over to the door and put his hand on the dude’s shoulder. “I’ll be with you shortly. Wait outside.”
While he was busy, I noticed some papers lying in the guitar case. I put the Gibson down carefully on my chair and picked through the sheets. It was music, some with notes written by hand.
Webb freed himself from the guy and came back into the room.
“Did you meet Diane?” he asked. “She said she was bringing you some of Carol’s stuff.”
I nodded. “You know Diane too?”
“Just on the phone. Never met her. Carol talked about her when I came to visit. I was glad she’d made a friend who wasn’t in for murder.”
I was confused. “Diane looked after her in the infirmary.”
“Yeah. I guess she got brownie points for that. Maybe it was her get-out-of-jail card.”
“Diane was a prisoner?”
“She tell you otherwise?”
“She said she was a nurse.”
“Maybe in some other life. I wouldn’t want her to nurse me. She’s a con artist. Bilked old ladies out of their savings.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
I could hardly see straight going home, I was so mad. People on the subway kept their distance. Must’ve had smoke coming out of my ears. I hugged the guitar case like there was a machine gun inside. I wished. That jailbird Diane really conned me. I’d fallen for her story, all of it. If she lied about who she was, what else did she lie about? She was one of the people who claimed my mother was innocent. Was it any less true if Diane was a liar?
I shivered and stared out the window of the subway. We were speeding through the black tunnel. If my mother was a killer, this was where my life would stay—in a dark tunnel. I thought back on everyone I’d talked to who knew her. They all believed she was guilty.
I had to speak to Diane again. Get the truth this time. I’d shake her until she coughed it up. What did I do with the scrap of paper she’d written her address on? I prayed it was on the coffee table at home where she’d left it.
I lugged the guitar up the stairs of the subway and down the street. It was heavy, but I loved every inch of it. Had to be careful not to bang it in the elevator to the third floor. I was panting when I finally put it down on the rug in my living room.
I rushed to the coffee table. Diane’s note was right there on top of one of my hairstyling magazines. Place wasn’t far. Cabbagetown. There was a phone number. But I wasn’t going to call. Then she could bolt and avoid me. I’d take my chances she was home. If not, I’d wait.
I checked the clock in my tiny kitch
en. Nearly eight. My stomach was growling. What did I eat today? Not much. I threw some cheese between two slices of whole-wheat bread. I scarfed it down, grabbed a chocolate bar and ran out the door.
After a couple of subway stops, I was there in fifteen minutes. The street Diane was staying on was not the best. Not the worst either. I passed a lot of old houses with drooping porches. Then I found it. A big Victorian number, not quite falling down.
The front door was unlocked, but then I was stuck in a small hall with numbers and push buttons on the wall. And a locked door. I pressed the bell for her apartment, number 204. No answer. So either she wasn’t home, or she didn’t want visitors. I wasn’t giving up that easy.
I pushed someone else’s bell. Some dude answered. I said in my sweetest voice, “I forgot my key. Could you please unlock the door?”
“Who’s this?” he asked.
“Diane,” I said.
The buzzer rang and I opened the door. Nice guy. Too trusting though.
I climbed up a dark wooden staircase to the second floor. I knocked on 204. Nothing. Maybe there were people she didn’t want to see. Like one of those old ladies she’d swindled.
“Diane! It’s me. Amanda.”
Dead quiet. So maybe she didn’t want to see me either. Now what? I wasn’t going to be a pussy and slink away. I banged on the door. I was going to stand up for myself.
“Diane! Open up!”
I looked down the hall. Two more apartments. If I was disturbing anybody, they didn’t come running.
I grabbed the doorknob and jiggled it around to let her know I meant business. The door opened! I stood there like an idiot. Well, I wasn’t the only one. She wasn’t too swift, leaving the door unlocked. Anybody could walk in.
I pushed the door open farther, waiting for her to screech. But it was dark inside. She wasn’t home. I felt along the wall and turned on the light switch. Small tidy kitchen.
The living room was dark. I could wait for her there. I groped at a floor lamp in the shadow. Flicked it on.
I froze. She was lying on the sofa, out cold in her green scrubs. Her pageboy hair fell over her face.
“Diane?” I came closer. A rubber strip was tied around her arm above the elbow.
I felt sick to my stomach. I knew what the stuff on the coffee table was. A bent spoon, a lighter, a small vial of water, some cotton balls. The needle had dropped to the floor.
I bent over her. Touched her arm. Shook her a bit. “Diane?” I tried to find a pulse in her wrist. Either she didn’t have one, or I was doing it wrong. Didn’t really matter anyway. She was too cold to be alive. Crazy lady od’d.
I stood up fast, my heart thumping. I’d never seen a dead body before. It was like a shell. The person inside was gone.
I used the cell on her coffee table to call 9-1-1. I gave the operator Diane’s address and said I was pretty sure she was dead.
“Can I have your name please?” said the voice on the line.
I freaked out. I disconnected and dropped the phone like it was on fire. I had to get out of there. This had nothing to do with me. But the cops would jump to conclusions if they found me there. I couldn’t do anything more for Diane.
I stuck my head into the hall to make sure it was empty. I was about to jump out the door, but something held me back. I turned around and tiptoed back into the living room. Like she was going to wake up.
I picked up her cell from the rug where it had fallen. My number was in it. The cops would roll through the list and find me. They’d put two and two together and come up with five.
I dropped the cell into my purse. Then I ran.
CHAPTER NINE
I took the side streets going home. Still freaking, I looked over my shoulder every other minute. As if someone was following. As if I was guilty of something. The only thing I was guilty of was bad timing. An hour earlier and the 9-1-1 call might’ve helped. Don’t get me wrong— I was sorry Diane was dead. But all I could think of was that I couldn’t ask her any more questions. I would never know any more about my mother.
When I got home, I took out the only bottle of liquor I owned. Peach brandy that Shelley gave me when I moved out. I instantly felt guilty. I’d been avoiding her calls. There was no one else I could talk to about this. I had to tell somebody.
I drank down a glass. Then I punched in her number.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” I said.
Pause. “Hi, kid.” Her voice had an edge to it. “What’s up?”
“Something happened. Something terrible.” I heard her breathe into the phone, waiting. “Diane, the one who told me about my mother—I mean my birth mother—she’s dead! I found her lying there. I called nine-one-one. I was so scared…”
“Slow down! When was this?”
“Fifteen minutes ago! I just got home. I’m still shaking.”
“That’s horrible. What did the police say?”
“I didn’t wait around for them.”
“Ambulance guys?”
“I called nine-one-one and took off. You think that was bad?” Suddenly she was my mother again.
“Probably the best thing, considering.”
Yeah, considering my real mother died in prison.
“What were you doing there?”
“I wanted to talk to her. She knew Carol. I had some questions.”
Hesitation. “You better leave all that behind you.”
“I have to know the truth.”
“It’ll only hurt you.”
“Why are you so sure? What if she didn’t do it?”
She waited a few seconds. Then she said, “I’ve been around a lot longer than you. Trust me. Let it go.”
“Trust you? You lied to me about the most important thing in my life. I’ll never trust you again!”
I pushed the button to disconnect. I felt stupid right away. I was on edge and taking it out on her.
I poured myself another glass of peach brandy. It went down nice and warm.
I took the guitar out of the case and put it down on the sofa. I looked over the papers inside the case. Sheets of music. Some Vandal Boss songs I recognized. Shelley had an old boom box she used to play in the salon. Those funny little audiotapes when I was a kid. I remembered hearing Vandal Boss songs for the first time when I came in to watch her cut hair. And here was their own sheet music! Notes in the margins, words underlined. Awesome!
Underneath the pile was a big envelope, no writing on it. I took out the one sheet of yellowed paper inside. It was one of those pages that already had the staff lines printed on it. The musical notes were printed by hand. Not round like the printed ones. These were just strokes with tails, like someone going real fast to get it all down. Then below each bar, lyrics in small tight letters to fit them all in. At the top it said, “Best Girl.” In the bottom corner was a signature: Freddy Allan. For my best girl, Mandy.
I just stared at it. My heart pounded. Tears rolled down my face.
You came along and broke my heart
Best girl, best girl.
Without even trying right from the start
Best girl, best girl.
Now you’re walking
Now you’re talking
Girl, you’re sweet as candy.
I never knew I could love so true
My own sweet baby Mandy.
For my best girl, Mandy. He loved me. My dad loved me! All the bad things I heard about him fell away. I read the words again through my tears.
Hey, wait! Those chords, those words— they were the lyrics from “Playgirl,” Stu Van Dam’s hit song. A couple of lines were different. The rest of the song was the same. I looked for Stu’s name on the sheet. Nada. Then I saw the date below the signature. December 3, 1990. My birthday! My dad wrote it for my birthday. I was four years old. A month later he was gone.
A shiver ran down my back. Would Stu have killed him for a song? Not just any song. The song that made his career. I looked at the sheet, picking up the Gibson. I
hummed it, then tried the rest of the notes. They went up and down in the same places as “Playgirl,” but it was hard to tell. There were letters of the alphabet above the music notes. Guitar chords. I strummed the chords slowly and sang the words. Wow! Now I recognized it. Stu had improvised to fit the song to his voice. But it was the same song! Stu had stolen it from my dad.
I found the cell number Stu gave me when he came to the salon.
“Yo!” he answered.
“Stu?” I tried to control my anger. “It’s Amanda.”
“Yeah, babe. What’s up?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Lucky break. Come to Brooke’s tomorrow night. Rockin’ new artist playing his first gig. You’ll love it.” He hung up.
I gritted my teeth.
CHAPTER TEN
The next day I photocopied the “Best Girl” sheet in the salon office. I kept myself calm the whole day, playing out what would happen that night. I would tell Stu I knew what he’d done. At first he’d deny it. Then I’d show him the photocopy. Finally he’d see that I had him. He’d confess. I would call the cops and they’d take him away. Okay, things probably wouldn’t go quite that smoothly. But my mother’s name would be cleared. I wouldn’t be the kid of a murderer anymore.
Later that night, I changed into my knock-off designer jeans. They’d already seen my poofy skirt. Besides, I wanted them to take me seriously. I wanted to look grown-up. It’s hard to do that in a poofy skirt.
Their rocking new star wouldn’t go on till after ten, the usual club time. I wasn’t interested in him, so I showed up at Brooke’s with time to spare. I walked through the bar. No Stu. I went through the same door as last time and stepped into the hall. I knocked on the office door where I’d found Brooke before. No one home. I headed back the other way and opened the wide door toward the stage. Lexy and a few other guys were setting up for the show.
Without looking up, Lexy said, “Show’s in an hour. Come back then.”
I walked in, all confident. He was just a kid. “I was talking to your mom the other day, remember? Old family friend.”