by Lis Wiehl
Allison and Nicole looked at each other. How could they best explain things to this girl who only seemed to see things in black and white? Their food came, and for a moment they were quiet as they lifted their forks and took their first bites.
Then Allison said, “Rick claims that he has been having blackouts. He told us that he has no memory of being there that night. I’ve never liked Rick, but there was something about the way he said it that made me believe it. We’ve also found an eyewitness who saw Cassidy in her condo with a different man—an unknown man—that night.” She didn’t mention that the witness was mentally ill. No need to bring that up yet. “It’s possible this witness even saw Cassidy being attacked. We need to know if someone else other than Rick killed Cassidy.”
Ophelia waited an uncomfortably long time before she finally said, “My stepfather beat my mother and he beat me. Beat us and worse.” She paused. “She’s dead now.”
“I’m sorry,” Allison said.
“I’m not,” Ophelia said flatly.
Nicole blinked.
Ophelia shrugged, her face impassive. “My mother wouldn’t leave him. He did terrible things to her. If she wouldn’t leave, then death was a better option.” She held out her left hand, which until now had been tucked under the table. “See my pinky finger?”
It was crooked, splayed out from the others.
“One summer my stepfather broke it, and then he wouldn’t allow my mother to take me to the doctor. He was afraid people would ask questions. All she could do was tape my fingers together. It didn’t heal correctly.” She put her hand back in her lap. “I could get it broken and reset now, but I won’t. It reminds me that there is evil in the world.” Ophelia leaned forward. “So why should I care about a man who beat his girlfriend?”
“Beating is one thing,” Nicole said. “Killing is another.”
“Is it?” Ophelia asked. “Is it really?”
Had her stepfather killed something in Ophelia? It would explain why her affect was so flat and emotionless.
“Besides . . .” Allison leaned forward, trying to catch Ophelia’s blue eyes. “If Rick goes to prison for a murder he didn’t commit while the real killer roams around free, that’s not justice.”
At the word justice, something in Ophelia’s expression shifted. “I have three special interests,” she said, which at first seemed a non sequitur. “They are cats, the stock market, and helping other women get justice. Do you know what a skip tracer is?”
“Skip tracers find people who don’t want to be found,” Allison said, trying to keep up.
Nicole was watching Ophelia, with her head tilted and one eyebrow raised. “Usually people who owe money,” she said.
“Correct. I’m like a skip tracer in reverse. I often help women get lost and stay lost. Only it’s not women who owe money. Well, I should be honest and say not usually. I did help a woman once who owed money to the mob. But to generalize, I help women and girls who are in untenable situations make new lives for themselves. I’m very interested in helping them find justice that may not be available under the traditional court system.”
“You do know that’s what we represent, right?” Nicole said. “The traditional court system?”
“So? It’s not perfect,” Ophelia countered. “Nothing is. If it were, then I wouldn’t have people seeking me out for help. And if it were, something would have been done about Rick McEwan assaulting your friend. Instead he got away with it.”
“But if Rick goes to prison—or is even executed—for a crime he didn’t commit, then that’s not justice either,” Allison said passionately. “Justice has to be fair for it to be justice. That’s why we need to be sure that Rick is really the one who killed Cassidy.”
Ophelia closed her eyes and was silent for a long time. Finally she sighed and said, “Okay.”
Allison wasn’t sure exactly what the girl was agreeing to, but she wasn’t about to interrupt.
Ophelia opened her eyes. “Tell me exactly what happened the night that Cassidy Shaw died,” she said. “And don’t leave anything out.”
CHAPTER 20
Allison’s head ached as she drove home from the meeting with Ophelia. Were they making a mistake by asking her to help? Ophelia had listened closely to every word she and Nicole spoke, asked a thousand questions, then finally said that she would try to uncover the truth.
As she pulled into her driveway, Allison couldn’t wait to go upstairs, kick off her shoes, turn on the air conditioner, and lie on the floor directly in front of it. Maybe the white noise would block out everything that had happened in the last day, the last week. She wanted to stop thinking. Stop remembering what Cassidy had looked like. Stop wondering if Rick had really killed her and why. Stop reliving the awful scene at the funeral. Stop speculating what Roland had actually seen.
But as soon as Allison opened the door, Lindsay hurried into the living room. She was wearing a navy tank top and shorts, an outfit that had once belonged to Allison. Now that Lindsay had finally stopped smoking, the sisters were about the same weight. The yellow nicotine stains were gone from Lindsay’s fingers, although Allison had noticed her inhaling wistfully whenever they passed through a cloud of cigarette smoke outside a shopping mall or restaurant.
In the months she had spent with Allison and Marshall, Lindsay had seemed to shed years as well as bad habits. With her face filled out and a healthy color in her cheeks, people no longer looked surprised when Allison introduced Lindsay as her younger sister. But today something else was different about her, something new.
“Are you ready?” Lindsay asked.
Allison didn’t answer. She was still trying to figure out what had changed. Then she realized it wasn’t something new, but something old. Lindsay’s hair was once again dark brown all over, without a single pink shock.
“Lindsay!” She put her hand up to her own hair. “Your streaks! They’re gone.”
Lindsay ducked her head and shrugged one shoulder. “I figured it was time for me to start looking like a grown-up.” She suddenly looked very young. “I did it while you were at brunch. I’ve also been practicing making flowers and hearts in my lattes. Everything has to be just the right temperature, and the milk has to be poured just the right distance from the cup. It felt wasteful to dump the mistakes. So I drank them.” Her words came out rapid-fire. “Only I think I drank way too much. Occupational hazard, I guess.”
“Why didn’t you use decaf?” Sometimes it seemed that Lindsay had just exchanged one addiction for another. Maybe once you were an addict, you always were.
“Oh.” Lindsay’s smile was rueful. “You’re right, I should have thought of that. I can’t wait until I can get my real machine. I mean, yours is cool, but the professional models are so much more powerful.” She bounced on her toes. “So are you ready?” she asked again.
Allison rubbed her temple. “Ready for what?”
“You said we could practice.” Seeing Allison’s blank look, Lindsay added, “For the meeting tomorrow with the loan officer?”
“What? Ohhh.” Comprehension dawned. It was the last thing she wanted to do, but Lindsay was right, she had promised. “Okay.”
Lindsay had tried for months to get a job, but in the down economy no one wanted to hire someone who had dropped out of high school. Not to mention someone who had a criminal record that included arrests for theft, prostitution, drug dealing, and drunken driving. The only alternative was to create her own job.
“All right, now just sit at the dining room table,” Lindsay directed. “We’ll pretend that’s the desk.” She went over to the coffee table and picked up a stack of printouts.
When was the last time they had played pretend? It had probably been twenty-five years.
Allison sat in a chair, straightened imaginary papers in front of her, then half rose from her seat, leaning forward and extending her hand. “I’m Annie Botinelli,” she said, using the name of the loan officer they were to meet with the next day.
&nb
sp; “Lindsay Mitchell.” Her hand was slightly sweaty. She squeezed Allison’s hand firmly. Breaking character, she whispered, “Is that the right amount of pressure?”
“It’s fine, Lindsay. Your handshake feels like you mean business.”
So many niceties were foreign to her sister. She had sold drugs, sold her body, but back then her business partners had been judged under the light of a streetlamp and by the color of their cash. Handshakes had no part of that world, unless it was as a cover to pass drugs or money.
“Nice to meet you, Lindsay.”
“Thank you so much for meeting with us today to talk about the coffee cart I want to open,” Lindsay said rapidly as they both sat down. “I’ve brought you my business plan.”
She handed Allison the sheaf of papers they had been working on for weeks. In some ways, the business plan was a formality. Allison’s credit was good enough that pretty much anything for which she was willing to cosign a loan would be approved. But making the plan had helped Lindsay think through what she could afford to do, what she could offer that would set her cart apart, and what she would do when the rains came and food carts weren’t as appealing.
Allison looked down at the business plan and then back up at Lindsay. “Why don’t you just tell me more about the cart?”
“Oh, um, okay.” She bit her lip. “My idea is to open a cart called Lindsay’s Lattes and More that sells coffee and cookies. I’ve already talked to the owner of a food cart pod near Portland State, and there’s space available. He has seventeen carts there, but right now none of them offers coffee and only a few have baked goods. The customers would be students and people who work downtown.” Lindsay was speaking in a slight singsong. She took a gulping breath. “Everyone needs coffee. Especially in Portland. This city runs on coffee. Well, coffee and beer, but I can’t be around that.” She colored. “Oh, shoot. I won’t say that last part.”
Allison nodded encouragingly, then prompted Lindsay to unleash her secret weapon. “Even if there isn’t another coffee cart in the pod, how are you going to compete with the larger coffee shops in the neighborhood?”
“What will make me stand out are my cookies.” She jumped up and ran into the kitchen and returned with a plate that held a peanut butter cookie, a molasses cookie, and her secret weapon, a cookie that she called Lindsay’s Special. It had chocolate chips, oatmeal, and coarsely chopped walnuts, and was absolutely delicious.
Tomorrow Lindsay would pack up more sample cookies and bring them with her on the bus. They would serve as an extra inducement for the loan officer to say yes.
“Not only will I give out free samples, but I’m also going to bring free cookies and coffee drinks to the people in the other carts so they’ll want to recommend me to their customers.”
They had already gone through the hoops to get a home-certified kitchen. As part of that process, the county declared that their kitchen would have to have operating hours, and during those hours Allison and Marshall were not to be allowed in. Even if it was their own kitchen. They had also purchased a dorm-sized refrigerator for the butter, cream, and milk Lindsay used in recipes, since she wasn’t allowed to store perishables alongside their own food.
Allison picked up the Lindsay’s Special and took a bite. The house was so warm that the chocolate chips were still soft. “Mmm,” she said, keeping in character. “Why don’t you tell me about the start-up costs?”
She barely heard Lindsay as she began going over the numbers that Allison already knew by heart. Opening a coffee cart was an expensive proposition. An eight-by-sixteen-foot food cart cost at least ten thousand. A professional espresso machine cost eleven thousand. It would take another fifteen hundred for a coffee grinder. And rent would be at least five hundred a month. Added all up, it was still going to cost something close to the cost of a car. But as Lindsay put it, “A car won’t make me money. In order to make money, I need to invest in this business first.”
Only it wasn’t Lindsay’s money, was it? For a second, Allison sucked on the thought like a sourball. Sure, Lindsay’s name would be on the loan, but so would Allison’s. And even if Marshall wasn’t signing it, it would still affect him if Lindsay defaulted. Something like 85 percent of small businesses went under during the first year. But Marshall had looked over all of Lindsay’s carefully drawn-up plans and projections and ultimately given his blessing. Lindsay had been sober for a year. She had attended NA—Narcotics Anonymous—meetings nearly every day, pulled herself out of her funk, and found there were reasons to live even when she wasn’t high.
And this was Lindsay’s dream, and she hadn’t had a dream for a long time. Years. Allison guessed she had stopped dreaming when she was thirteen and their dad died from a heart attack.
That terrible day was lodged in her memory. But as bad as it had been for Allison, it had been worse for Lindsay. She had cried so hard she’d thrown up. Allison could still picture Lindsay weeping, gagging, and moaning, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” her face red and sweaty and indescribably bereft as she lay curled on the bathroom floor. She had been going through a phase where she claimed to hate their father and had fought with him the night before he died. His death meant that they had never had a chance to reconnect. Allison suspected that Lindsay had never forgiven herself.
Afterward, Lindsay had embraced chaos as Allison embraced order. Two years later, when Allison went off to college, she had been glad to leave her troubled family behind. Out of sight, out of mind. College had let Allison be a kid again, instead of trying to parent her own mother and sister, to save one from drinking and the other from drugs. She had been happy to live in a dorm, happy to follow the rules, happy to push her tray down the cafeteria line, happy to scoop up bland food she hadn’t had to shop for and prepare. During those four years of college, Allison’s mother got sober, and her sister was sentenced to her first correctional facility.
Belatedly realizing that Lindsay had fallen silent, Allison looked up.
“Allison, you’re not even paying attention!”
In her sister’s voice she heard echoes of plaintive cries from their childhood.
“I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
Lindsay surprised her by squeezing her hand. “I’m the one who should be sorry, Ally. Yesterday was awful. Cassidy dead and then that man cutting his throat in front of everyone.”
“That’s why Nicole and I met with that woman today, because of what he said about seeing someone else at Cassidy’s place that night. I’m hoping she can figure out if Rick really killed Cassidy.”
Lindsay hesitated and then spoke in a rush. “But he probably did, Allison. I know you want it to be different. I know you don’t want her to have died because Rick got drunk at a strip club and decided to get back at her. You don’t want it to be because of something stupid. But I’ve seen people killed before, and it pretty much always involves somebody getting drunk or high and doing something stupid. Even if you find out the answer, I don’t know if it will make you feel any better.”
CHAPTER 21
If someone were to custom-design a place to drive her insane, Ophelia thought, it would closely resemble Diamonds. It assaulted her senses. The music was so loud she could feel the bass thumping in her rib cage. Underneath her elbows, the polished wood of the bar felt greasy. But worst of all were the smells. Diamonds reeked of stale sweat, mildew, perfume, cigarette smoke, industrial cleanser, and chicken wings.
A tonic water with lime, a file folder, and her wallet rested in front of Ophelia, who had taken a seat along the main stage. She was dressed in the same outfit she had worn to brunch: a comfortable old tank top, a pair of cargo shorts, white socks, and Vans. Her clothes were worn and soft, just the way she liked them. The only other women in the bar wore tiny pieces of spandex and were perched on cheap plastic heels.
Ophelia knew that while women did occasionally go to strip clubs, it was usually with a boyfriend or a rowdy group of women celebrating a birthday or a bachelorette party. As a woman a
lone, she had attracted more than a few looks when she walked in. But she figured Diamonds was in no position to get picky. There were only a half-dozen other customers present. Sunday night was clearly not prime time.
Rick McEwan had told Allison and Nicole that he had been at Diamonds after his shift ended on the night Cassidy was killed. Day shift for the Portland Police Bureau ended at four. That would have given Rick plenty of time to visit the strip club and still kill Cassidy before Allison and Nicole discovered her body.
Ophelia knew she had upset the two women earlier, although she wasn’t sure how. Maybe it was because she had asked so many questions about the condition of Cassidy’s body. Regular people—or neurotypicals, as they were called on the websites she liked to visit—had so many rules, rules they didn’t even know they had. You weren’t supposed to stand too close. You weren’t supposed to stare. You were supposed to take turns.
Death was one of the big conversational no-nos, along with sex, surgery, and anything that happened in the bathroom.
Taboos made no logical sense, but neurotypicals were oddly sensitive to them, the way Ophelia couldn’t stand the sound of a leaf blower or the scratch of a clothing tag.
The girl on the stage wore a blank expression as she slowly gyrated to the grinding beat of the music. She was dressed in an abbreviated white nurse’s uniform, complete with a cap, an outfit that Ophelia only recognized from old movies. She supposed the more current look of baggy printed scrubs wouldn’t be as appealing a fantasy. Now the girl took the cap off and tossed it backstage, then unpinned her long brown hair.
Over the girl’s head, a tiny movement caught Ophelia’s eye. A camera on the ceiling was panning the room. She tracked its path, wondered how long they kept the tapes.