Dead of Summer

by Sherry Knowlton

  Alexa pretended not to notice Haley calculating the impact that all these visitors would have on the local economy. Instead, she asked Melissa, “Can you get me the details? After finding her like that, I feel like I should pay my respects. Maybe my mom will go along. Apparently, she knew Cecily pretty well.”

  “Sure. I have a related announcement about my exhibit. I’ve decided that the best way to honor Cecily is to go ahead with my new show. The photos are ones that I took on my RESIST trip to Thailand and India. I want to let everyone see the people she was trying to help.”

  “That’s this Saturday, right? Do you need a hand?” Alexa looked at Melissa. Melissa made her living running a small arts gallery, often showing her own photography along with other local artists’ work.

  “I’ll let you know. Right now I think I’ve got it covered. Pete Costello is helping me print some of the oversize photos. Of course, Schuyler will help me hang everything and set up. I need both of you to be at the opening though. You might be the only ones who show up.” Melissa’s tone was pleading.

  “Blair and I have the opening on our calendar. And I put it in the Chamber News so the whole business community knows about your big event.”

  “Of course I’ll be there, too. After hearing all those stories about your trip I need to see the pictures. I don’t have a date though. Can I bring Scout?”

  Her friends chuckled as Alexa reached for her purse. “Speaking of my big baby, I need to leave. He’s been alone all day.”

  On the drive home, Alexa considered Melissa’s news about all the people who were coming to pay their respects at Cecily’s memorial service. This woman had traveled all over the world in her efforts to stop human trafficking. Although many revered Cecily for her work, she must have made enemies among the unsavory element who profited from the sex trade.

  Would it even be possible for the police to track down her killer if the murder was payback for Cecily’s interference in an international trafficking ring?

  At noon on Wednesday, Alexa left the office and hurried to her half-day stint at the Women’s Clinic. She had negotiated time for this volunteer commitment with her father when she joined the family firm.

  Alexa breezed through the front door and into a packed waiting room. Wednesday afternoons were always busy. She smiled at the cheery yellow walls of the newly renovated space. Several toddlers squabbled over a plastic building set in a corner play area. Their mothers chatted with each other, casting occasional glances at their kids if the noise volume rose too high.

  Teenagers hovered over their cell phones, texting, tweeting, and checking Instagram. A few of the more mature women leafed through dog-eared magazines. The glazed look in their eyes suggested that they’d read the same editions on their last visits.

  Alexa stifled a grin as she noticed that every single one of the waiting patients sat bolt upright in the same uncomfortable-looking posture. Tanisha had picked out straight-backed, utilitarian chairs with only the slightest suggestion of padding. Judging from the women’s ramrod backs, the only thing these chairs had going for them was that they didn’t creak and totter like the old ones.

  The one positive outcome that had emerged from the clinic violence last autumn was this renovation. Abortion rights extremists had smashed the front window, shot the lead physician, Dr. Frank Crowe, and killed Emily Baxter, the clinic’s young accountant. After the extremists were arrested, the board had launched a fund drive to pay for repairs and a full-time security company contract. In a wave of support, the community had been so generous that there was enough money left for a substantial refurbishment of the facilities.

  “Child, I am so glad to see you.” Tanisha’s gray cornrowed braids bounced as she rose to greet Alexa. “Barb called in sick today, and I have to finish a big supply order before the end of the day. Can you manage intake for an hour or so?”

  “Sure. Where are we on the schedule?”

  Tanisha brought up the schedule on the computer screen at the reception desk. “Here. Tammy Sanders and Rajika Rideout just finished their paperwork. Carmen Foster is next. I’ll back you up on the phones.”

  With that, Alexa plunged into a whirlwind afternoon. She enjoyed her time at the clinic and the interaction with a wide variety of people and situations. Most of the services provided fell into the preventive care, annual GYN checkups, and early obstetrical care categories.

  However, Cumberland Clinic was one of the few clinics in the area that still provided abortions, a distinction that had drawn the wrath of the militant anti-abortion group the previous year. Alexa didn’t miss the weekly protests that had targeted the clinic in the past. A series of arrests, followed by the death of their leader at Alexa’s hand, had put a damper on the group’s public activism—at least for now.

  Tanisha surfaced from her computer around three o’clock. “You doing OK?”

  “I think so. The appointments are starting to thin.” Alexa gestured toward the waiting room. “Those three have all been through intake.”

  “Having you here is a blessing.”

  “I have one question though. Aurora Washington didn’t show up today. What do I do about that?”

  “Usually, we’ll call and ask if she wants to reschedule. I’ll put that on Barb’s list for tomorrow.”

  Alexa wrinkled her forehead. “Isn’t Aurora Washington a high school kid? Pretty with Shirley Temple curls?”

  “I don’t know if I’d ever describe a sister as having Shirley Temple curls, but you’ve got the right girl. I heard that she might be up for homecoming queen next year. She’s pretty popular, which is a miracle given her home life.”

  “Family problems?”

  “You know I’m not one for gossip, but that girl’s daddy left the picture years ago. And talk on the street says her mama has always been more interested in her next man than her two kids. The older brother is out on his own now, but Aurora is still at home.”

  “What a shame.”

  “I’m surprised that she didn’t call to cancel her appointment. That’s not like Aurora.” Tanisha’s brow wrinkled in concern.

  “Miss? I have a four o’clock appointment?”

  Alexa rose to help the teenager standing at the counter, but her mind was still on Aurora Washington. Another young girl, like Meg Wilson, who’d been dealt a bad hand when they’d shuffled the parent deck. At least Meg had found the Bertolinos; but girls were just so vulnerable at this age.

  Chapter Eight

  AT MELISSA’S OPENING, people spilled out of the gallery and onto the sidewalk, wineglasses in hand. Alexa wormed her way through the crowd to reach the door. She paused on the doorstep and surveyed the packed gallery, thankful that she’d dressed up for the occasion. She had changed out of a more casual outfit into this classic little black dress. Her shantung sheath might be a little too New York for a Carlisle opening, but what the hell. Melissa needed her best friends to be flying the flags at full mast.

  Not immediately spying Melissa, Alexa took in the photos. Done in black and white, the series of gritty portraits was haunting. Melissa had captured image after image of girls, boys, and young women in Mumbai and Bangkok. One set of photos showed prostitutes, bar girls, and bar boys at work in the sex trade. Another set showed rescued women weaving, making jewelry, or plying other artisan skills.

  The seamy pictures of the people caught up in the sex trade conveyed a theme of quiet desperation. In contrast, many of the women who RESIST had helped escape that life looked much healthier and more content.

  Alexa stood appalled before the photo of a Thai girl who couldn’t have been more than ten years old. If not for her skimpy shorts and a tank top, the child could be mistaken for a doll perched on the beefy man’s lap. The man, face obscured by shadows, was fondling the child. Melissa’s photo made Alexa’s skin crawl.

  “Powerful, isn’t it?

  Alexa looked over her shoulder at the man who had spoken. “Yes. All of Melissa’s work here tonight is outstanding. This is certai
nly one of the most compelling.”

  “I’m amazed at some of the shots she was able to get. She must be pretty gutsy to brave those streets of Bangkok at night.”

  “I’m not sure what was involved, but I do know that Melissa can be pretty single-minded when she has a camera in her hand.”

  “Sounds like you know Ms. Lambert well.”

  “We’ve been friends since we were kids. I’m Alexa Williams.”

  “Quinn Hutton.” The man extended his hand. “I teach at Dickinson. English.”

  Alexa smiled as she took in this arresting man. Tall and slender, he wore his charcoal sports coat, heavyweight linen shirt, and black designer jeans with an air of nonchalance. His thick black hair was cut long. The guy looked impossibly hip, but his air of élan seemed unforced.

  “I’m an attorney with a local law firm. And a connoisseur of fine photography, of course. It sounds as if you’ve been to Thailand?”

  “Yes. I spent a few years there, teaching English at a school in Bangkok. It was a great way to see Southeast Asia.”

  “Have you been at the college long?”

  “I’m just finishing my second year. Classes ended this past week. Graduation is Sunday.”

  A bustle of activity near the gallery entrance distracted Alexa. The crowd parted for a distinguished-looking man in a tailored suit with a muted pinstripe to make his way through the middle of the room. Although he didn’t seem to be making an effort to part the crowd, this man sailed through the packed room like royalty.

  As Alexa turned back to her conversation with Quinn Hutton, the young professor murmured, “Excuse me. I see someone I must speak to.”

  Before Alexa could respond, Quinn melted into the crowd.

  “Alexa. I am so glad you came. So far, the opening is fantastic.” Melissa popped out from behind a pillar. Exuberant in a flowing espresso-colored dress, the star of the evening looked like a chic gypsy.

  “As it should be. You’ve outdone yourself, Melissa. Your work is wonderful.”

  “Can you come with me? Jim isn’t here yet, and I need some moral support for my little speech.” Melissa didn’t wait for a response before seizing Alexa’s elbow and steering her toward a small platform area at the back of the gallery.

  When they reached the platform, Melissa released her iron grasp on Alexa’s arm and stepped onto the small stage. Schuyler, the anemic-looking gallery assistant, used a wooden hammer to tap on a Tibetan temple bell. A series of warm, mellow chimes rang through the gallery. After a few minutes and few more chimes, the crowd quieted.

  “Hello. I’m Melissa Lambert. I want to thank you all for coming to tonight’s opening. This exhibit will remain on display for the next several weeks, so please feel free to return or tell your friends to stop by.”

  Melissa’s voice quavered. “I stand here tonight with mixed emotions. These photographs have been a labor of love because the fight against sex trafficking has become a personal cause for me. Each of the people in these portraits that you see here has a story. Many of those stories are terrifying and dehumanizing. Others reflect a different experience: tales of hope and a journey toward independence. I hope that these works can give you a glimpse into their lives.

  “Of course the issue is much larger and affects many more people than you see in my photographs.” Melissa spoke with mounting passion. “Human trafficking is essentially modern-day slavery. As many of you know, RESIST, an organization in which I’m involved, is dedicated to the eradication of sex trafficking in particular. Because trafficking operates primarily in dark corners and underground, the actual statistics are hard to pin down. Some recent reports estimate that over twenty million people worldwide have been forced into sexual servitude or forced labor. UNICEF states that about two million children are exploited every year in the global commercial sex trade.

  “It’s easy to think of sex trafficking as a third world problem. But it’s not. It’s clear from the varying estimates that thousands of people, often children, fall prey to sex trafficking in the United States. According to the Polaris Project, the average victim may be forced to have sex twenty to forty-eight times a day. Often, victims are kept in line through brainwashing, psychological intimidation, physical beating, and drug addiction.

  “Sex trafficking is a nasty, degrading business that preys on the innocent and vulnerable. It must be stopped.”

  Melissa’s voice softened, and her eyes grew moist. “I owe a debt of gratitude to the remarkable woman who allowed me to travel with her to Thailand and India to capture these images. However, Cecily Townes died last weekend, killed in a brutal and senseless attack. All of us who knew and loved Cecily are inconsolable at her loss. I want you to hear about the organization that was so dear to her heart. The same organization that rescued many of the people you see in these photos.

  “Jack Nash, a board member of RESIST, is going to say a few words about Cecily’s organization.”

  Alexa recognized Jack Nash as the one who had arrived with considerable drama just a short while ago. He reminded her of the managing partner at her old New York City law firm: self-assured and totally confident as the center of attention.

  Nash smoothed his steel gray hair and tugged at each mono-grammed cuff before he spoke. “Thank you, Melissa. And thanks to all of you. I will be brief so you can return to your enjoyment of this impressive photography exhibit. Cecily Townes’ untimely passing leaves a void that cannot easily be filled. She dedicated her life to creating and sustaining an international network aimed at ending human trafficking and rescuing the victims of sexual slavery. Each year, RESIST helps thousands of women and children in India, Southeast Asia, and on the African continent.”

  Alexa tuned out Nash after a few minutes and studied the packed room. Haley and Blair stood near Melissa’s parents. She was surprised to see Graham and his wife, Kate, next to Mom and Dad. She recognized many other local faces, including Tyrell Jenkins and Trooper John Taylor.

  She returned her attention to the speaker when Nash’s voice rose.

  “One last important item. Melissa has generously pledged fifty percent of all sales from this exhibit to RESIST. Her work certainly speaks for itself, and I’m sure that many of you need no incentive to purchase Melissa’s photographs. However, knowing that the subjects of these photos, and many others like them, will benefit from your purchase may inspire you to consider additional works for your collection. Thank you for your attention.”

  As the crowd returned to the party, Melissa approached Alexa with Jack Nash in tow. “I wanted you to meet Mr. Nash. This is Alexa Williams, one of my best friends.”

  “Nice to meet you, Alexa. Williams? You wouldn’t be related to Norris and Susan Williams, would you?”

  “Why, yes. They are my parents. I practice law with Dad and my brother, Graham, in the family firm. And how do you know my parents, Mr. Nash?”

  “Call me Jack. I have known your mother since our days at Dickinson. Of course, I’ve met your father over the years at parties and the like.”

  “You run Children of Light?” Alexa moved sideways to let a couple squeeze past and raised her voice above the din. “I understand that Cecily Townes was also involved with your organization?”

  “Yes. Although our missions differ, both RESIST and Children of Light exist to help people in need. Children of Light focuses more on foster children. We run group homes and other services for both abused and neglected children as well as juvenile delinquents. Our adoption arm used to work more closely with RESIST on placements of foreign children. However, many countries are closing their doors to the United States adoption market.”

  Alexa smiled. “Some of my clients have adopted children in placement with Children of Light. Your staff has always been professional and caring.”

  “Thank you. I’ll pass that on to my management staff.” Jack nodded his head at Alexa and turned away. “Melissa, I don’t want to monopolize your time.” He patted the photographer on the arm. “I’ll let you and A
lexa get back to your guests.”

  As Nash moved away, Melissa whispered to Alexa. “That guy has a shitload of money. He lives in a huge mansion out at the foot of the South Mountain. You can’t see any of the buildings from the road, but I hear it’s an enormous complex. Fences around the entire property.”

  Melissa broke off her enthusiastic description and looked past Alexa with a delighted smile on her face. Her voice rose in greeting. “Tyrell. I have been meaning to call you, but everything has just been too sad and too hectic.” She threw her arms around the tall social worker in a hug.

  “Alexa, have you met Tyrell Jenkins?”

  “Hello, Ms. Williams.” Tyrell spoke before Alexa could respond. “We met earlier this week.” He turned to Melissa. “I’m glad to see that you’re out of jail, girl. When those park service cops carted you away, I thought you were bound to Leavenworth for at least ten years.”

  “Alexa and her friend came to my rescue, and the charges were dropped. I definitely learned my lesson about obeying the rules when visiting national monuments.” Melissa made a lame attempt at looking abashed.

  Tyrell put his arm around Melissa’s shoulders in another quick hug. “How are you handling this whole thing with Cecily? I can’t believe she’s gone.”

  “Me too. It’s senseless and tragic.” Although Melissa teared up, neither she nor Alexa spoke about their role in finding Cecily’s body.

  Tyrell winced. “I may be the last person who saw her alive. I mean, other than her killer. At least that’s what the police think. Two dudes wearing suits and packing heat questioned me for hours at the state police station. I was starting to think I was a suspect.”

  Alexa rolled her eyes at this ridiculous exaggeration. This guy was clearly the star in his own movie. Still, she couldn’t deny the good looks. At their first meeting, she hadn’t fully appreciated his startling green eyes.