“They have?”
“Yes. To be honest, it wasn’t that I didn’t want you to play the game. But it’s not just any game. It’s something so dangerous that if you mention a word about it to anyone, we’ll both end up dead in a ditch.”
“I won’t tell. I promise. I just want to help you out.”
“Okay, then. We’re a team.”
“A team of good guys?”
“Yes. We’re the good guys. Now let’s get out of here.”
“Okay. But first can you tell me one itsy-bitsy thing?”
“What’s that?”
“Tell me your name.”
I work my brain around a few lies, but I finally give up. If she’s seen me around the library and followed me to the construction site, I’m guessing she knows where I live and work. “My name’s Crystal Love.”
“That’s pretty,” she says. “Pretty like your face.”
“And what’s your name?”
“Mimi McCoy.”
“That your real name?”
“Yeah.”
We get up and push our way through the bar and out onto the quiet street. The night has turned leaden, the air scented with seaweed. The foghorn bellows like a cow. A drizzle dampens my face. I survey the top of Mimi’s frazzled hair, where beads of moisture have formed. An old adage comes to me. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
“Are you cold?” I ask.
“I’m always cold,” she replies, her duffel bag thumping from behind. “You get used to that when you live on the street.”
“So why don’t you come to my house? You can take a shower and sleep on my couch.”
She pauses midstep. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I’m not a lesbo. I just want a friend.”
I force a laugh. “It’s nothing like that—I promise. I just thought that now that you’re in on the game, it’s safer if we sleep in the same place. And I’m sure you could use a little break from the streets. We’re friends, remember? You told me that.”
Mimi glances over her shoulder. “You think we’re being followed?”
“I know we are. You need to stay close to me. I’m worried for your safety.”
I start walking away, and she skitters up from behind. “How far?” she asks.
“Just a few blocks. Why? You tired?”
“Are you kidding me? I can walk ten miles in my sleep.”
“There’s just one thing. We need to be extra quiet. My landlord doesn’t allow overnight visitors.”
“I’ll be as quiet as a snowflake.”
“And you’ll need to shower. That way if she sees you, she won’t guess you’re from the streets.”
“A real shower? I haven’t had one of those for so very long.” She takes a few quick steps. “But what about my clothes? They stink. They’re awful. I can’t pretend to be anyone else if I’m wearing these.”
She’s right, of course. I’ll have to do some shopping. “You can sleep in one of my T-shirts, and then tomorrow I’ll get you some clothes.”
“Really? You’d do that for me?”
“Yeah. Now that they’ve seen you with me, there’s no telling what they’ll do. So you’ll have to dress like a normal person and do everything I say. Think you can do that?”
“I can!” she exclaims.
“Not so loud.”
“Sorry. I promise to be quiet from now on.”
Kathi
July 16, 2016
I serve dinner on the terrace. The moon glows high overhead. Far out on the darkened ocean, the lights from a half dozen oil derricks shimmer and shine. I’m a little bleary from the wine, but there’s no need to chatter right away. Arthur is telling me about his screenplay, one of those Bruce Willis–type things where buildings burn and people die and a rogue policeman saves the day. It’s not the kind of movie I like, but I get caught up in the story anyway.
“That’s a lot of death and destruction,” I say when he finishes up.
Arthur laughs. “That’s true. But there’s also a love story. The guy saves the girl.”
“And they live happily ever after?”
“Of course.”
“Perfect. Who do you see in the lead roles?”
“I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves, but maybe Brad Pitt and Jennifer Lawrence?”
“So older man and younger woman?” I try not to show my disappointment.
“I’m told that’s what sells these days. Now, enough about me. Tell me about your novel.”
I take a bite of quiche and almost choke. Am I crazy, or do I taste the Gruyère? “It’s just a little story,” I say. “Nothing grand like yours.”
“I’d like to hear about it.”
“Well, to start with, it’s a romance novel.”
“Romance?” His eyes light up. “Are you kidding me? That’s where the money is. I would write one if I could.”
“Really?”
“Really. Give me your pitch.”
I’ve studied writing magazines long enough to know what a pitch is, but I can’t help fumbling for my words. What should take only three or four sentences drags on. “And they live happily ever after,” I finish up, my face all sweaty and warm.
“That’s great,” Arthur says. “I have a producer friend who might be interested in purchasing the film rights to your novel.”
“You do?”
“I do. And those rights can go for hundreds of thousands of dollars. Even millions.”
Millions? I flash on how lovely my life would be if that happened. I could pay off all my debt and sell this house and buy a home I truly love. Travel the world with a man like Arthur. I picture us sharing a meal at a Paris café and feel a little faint.
“Do you have an agent?”
I come back to earth. “No, but I’ve contacted Harlequin.”
“So your plan is to cut out the middleman?”
“I suppose it is.”
“Brilliant. More money direct to you. Well, when you’re ready to share some pages, I’d be happy to give you my input.”
“You have time for that?”
“For you? Yes. I do.”
“That’s so kind.”
“Actually, it’s selfish.” He reaches out to brush my cheek. My heart skips a full beat. He smiles and drops his hand. “Now . . . about our conversation the other day . . .”
“Yes?” I linger on a bite of salad. Is that garlic in the dressing?
“Have you had any luck locating Mabel McCarthy’s money?”
“No. None.” Even the pistachios taste salty. What in god’s name is happening here?
“No revelatory thoughts on where it might’ve gone?”
I shake my head.
“Don’t you care to learn the truth?” He sounds a little frustrated.
“Of course . . . it’s just . . . does the endive taste bitter to you?”
“Endive always tastes bitter.”
I take another bite. “It does, doesn’t it? I don’t like it.”
“Then why did you serve it?”
“Because . . . well . . . I guess I don’t know.” I giggle.
“You don’t know a lot of things.”
I set down my fork. Is he being mean?
Arthur tenses and peers into the darkness. “Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“Footsteps?”
“No . . .” Mr. Calico darts into view. “Oh, look. It’s just my neighbor’s cat.” The little guy heads inside.
Arthur frowns. “You allow him in your house?”
“Why, yes. Don’t you like cats?”
“I’m allergic.”
“Oh. He doesn’t come around very often.”
“Let’s hope not.” We finish our meal in an uncomfortable silence, and then Arthur seems to perk up. “Let me grab that hostess gift. It’s a very rare port.”
“Oh, but I really shouldn’t—”
“But I insist. I was lucky to find it for a great price at Montecito Liquor. It’s
the perfect way to celebrate our special night.”
Our special night. “Well, then, yes, I’ll have a glass.” It’s not like I have to drive anywhere. But Arthur does. Unless he doesn’t. My pulse begins to race. “Let me clear the table first.”
“Absolutely not. It’s my chance to serve you. Please just sit and relax. Did you have a dessert planned?”
“Just plum sorbet.”
“Perfect. I’ll be right back.”
I think to argue, and then I don’t. How nice to have a man take care of me. Rich never cleared a plate in his life. My favorite Albinoni adagio drifts from the outdoor speakers. I relax into the haunting melody and smile upon Arthur’s return. He sets down two heaping bowls of sorbet followed by my mother’s holiday wine glasses filled to the very brim.
“I found this beautiful crystal in the cupboard,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind if we use it.”
“Not at all. I inherited the set from my mother. It was one of the few fine things she owned. I like to bring them out on special occasions.”
“Of which this is one.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Now, let’s toast.”
“To what?”
“To us.”
I raise my glass and take a sip of the port. I try not to grimace. It’s horribly bitter. Maybe the bottle has gone bad?
“Your turn to toast,” he says.
“Oh no . . .”
“I insist.”
“Well then . . . a toast to your screenplay. I bet it will make a wonderful movie.” There’s a tingling on my tongue. Is that how it starts? How I relearn my sense of taste?
“And to your romance novel. I know it’ll be a resounding success.”
I take another sip of wine and then another. Now my tongue feels numb. From far off the train horn sounds. Within seconds the metal beast charges through the flats of Montecito, its wheels screeching around a curve.
“That must be hard for you to hear,” Arthur says.
“I used to like it. Not anymore.”
“How could you?”
Bats dart across the moonlit sky. A barn owl screams from above. A breeze bathes me in warmth, and I want nothing more than to sleep.
“I wonder what it takes to step in front of a train,” Arthur says.
“What?”
“I don’t think I’d be brave enough to do it. Would you?”
“Of course not.”
“Did they find drugs in Rich’s system?”
“No.” I don’t like the turn in the conversation. “Are you suggesting . . . ?”
“Suicide? I guess I am.”
“He didn’t do that.” I set down my glass. “He wouldn’t.”
“No? Then what? Murder?”
“Of course not. It was an accident.” My voice is fading.
“You believe that?”
“I do.”
“Was he drinking?”
“They found a little alcohol in his system. Not much.” The lights of Montecito begin to move beneath my feet. The stars overhead join them, whirling past me like some crazy carousel. The moon spins like a top.
“It’s getting chilly,” Arthur says. “Let’s head inside.”
I wobble to my feet. How embarrassing. I’ve had far too much to drink. I tip to one side and then tip to the other. Then I stumble and hit the ground.
“Here, let me help you.” Arthur gathers me in his arms and lifts me up. “Well, there’s a surprise. You’re heavier than you look.” He staggers into the living room and drops me on the couch. His lips grow close enough to kiss as his warm breath mingles with mine. I should feel excited, but I only feel dizzy, my limbs as heavy as lead. Something bad is happening. Could it be a stroke? I open my mouth to beg for help, but not a single word comes out. The air squeezes from my lungs, and my heart lunges in my chest. For god’s sake, help me. Help me, please.
“Kathi? Kathi? Kathi?” Arthur’s head floats above me like a balloon, expanding and contracting with each breath. This must be the end. I’m about to die. Don’t just stand there. Do something. Call 911!
“Kathi?” Arthur snaps his fingers in front of my eyes. I try to answer, but the lights go out.
September 30, 1990
I fainted at the grocery store and ended up in the emergency room. I begged the doctor not to tell Rich I was pregnant, but he only frowned and shook his head. Afterward, Rich dropped me off at home and didn’t return for two whole days. I cried until I made myself sick. Could there be anything worse?
When Rich finally showed up this morning, he refused to listen to me. Wouldn’t let me kiss him or touch him. Just gave me his ultimatum. Either I give up the baby, or he’ll divorce me and file for sole custody of Jack. He says he can do that because of the depression. Hiding a pregnancy for six months is proof I’m sick in the head. He’s contacted a local adoption agency and says if I want to stay married, I have to keep my pregnancy a secret and give our baby away at birth. How can he ask such a thing? How can I make such a choice? I tried to call Aunt Genny, but he ripped the phone cord out of the wall. He says if I ever tell her about the baby, our marriage will be over. I’m so scared. So lonely. If only I had a friend. But all I have is Rich.
Crystal
March 14, 2016
I park my car beneath the sagging branches of an ancient acacia tree. The only light comes from slivers of moonlight sifting through the fog. A shallow pond stretches before us—dark, smelly, and fermenting. The dark waters are home to seasonal flocks of ducks and geese kept fat by a handful of zealous locals. I can’t see the birds, but I hear them warming their bodies inside the clusters of lakeside willows.
“I don’t like it here,” Mimi says.
“Then get out of the car and walk home.”
“I won’t leave you alone. It’s not safe.”
“I can take care of myself.”
Mimi twists in her seat. “You don’t understand. See over there? Between the railroad tracks and the freeway? It’s where mostly bad people live.”
“I thought it got cleared out weeks ago after that drunk stepped in front of the train.”
“It did. It gets cleared out at least once a year, usually after a fight or when someone’s found dead. But eventually the ruckus dies down, and the homeless find their way back.”
“You ever live there?”
“No way.” She sounds offended. “I may be homeless, but I have my standards. That place is dirty and violent. It’s filled with addicts, mentals, and predators who have nowhere else to go.”
“Well, hopefully we don’t come across any of them tonight.”
“I have my switchblade if we do.” Mimi lifts her good hand, and a knife snaps from a simple black handle cradled in her palm. Its slender blade glitters, silver like the underbelly of a snake.
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“Being homeless is illegal.”
“You know how to use it?”
“I do.”
“Good.” I peer into the darkness and shiver. I’m not sure if it’s Mimi’s words of warning or the deadly blade or the incoming fog, but the place gives me the creeps.
An ambulance blasts past us on the nearby freeway, its deathly wail a slap in the face reminding me to check the time on my cell. Eight thirty. We’d better get ourselves into position. I want to be close enough to overhear the men. I can’t wait to see how this goes down.
“Come on,” I say, throwing open the car door.
“Where to?” Mimi asks, sinking low in her seat.
“Closer to the railroad tracks, near the entrance.”
“But won’t they see us? Hear us?”
“Not if we hide really well.”
“Maybe we should stay in the car.”
“We have a game to play. Remember?”
“But I’m hungry.”
“We’ll get something later at Taco Bell.”
“Yippee!” She slips out of the car.
“Keep quiet, and follow me.”
I creep over to the clump of trees and bushes that line the entrance to the lot. Tendrils of fog slip around me, bringing a chilling cold. Drips of moisture have pooled on the leaves, slapping the ground with every breeze. After making our way through a patch of bamboo, we settle onto a graffiti-covered rock.
“What part of the game is this?” Mimi asks, wiggling back and forth.
“The part where we wait to find out the truth.”
“Fun.” She’s quiet for a moment but then starts squirming again. “After the truth, can I have two burritos and two tacos? I’m really, really hungry.”
“You can if you shut up.”
“All right.”
The ocean sits on the far side of the pond. The waves crash in the distance.
“I’m cold,” Mimi whispers, reaching for my hand.
“Don’t touch me,” I say, shaking her off.
“Why not?”
“I don’t like to be touched.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“That’s kind of weird.”
“Whatever.”
A car drives by, its headlights blurred by curling mists of fog. I hold my breath, but it’s just a police car on the prowl.
“I think my ducks live here,” Mimi says in a wistful tone.
“What?”
“My pet ducks, Yin and Yang. Before my real dad went away, he bought them for me. I was probably eight or nine.”
“Oh.” Enough with the sharing.
“My mom didn’t like them. Said my dad had only done it so she’d be forced to think of him every time she cleaned up their crap.” Mimi leans forward, flicking her blade in and out. “Maybe that was true. When I got them, they were so tiny I could fit them in the palm of my hand. I loved them so much I would cover them with kisses. I remember my mom saying if I didn’t stop all the kissing, I’d kill them with my love. But I didn’t stop, and they got bigger and bigger, and pretty soon they wouldn’t fit in the cage anymore. So we put them out in the garden, where they ate my mom’s favorite flowers and pooped all over the place.”
“So how’d they end up here?”
Mimi sighs deep and sad. “One day my nanny took me to the movies, and when I got home, they were gone. My mom said they’d make friends at the bird refuge and have a much better life. That was a lie, of course.” Her voice breaks, and she wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “I wanted to see them, but my mom said I’d gotten too attached. Sometimes I come here and look for them. They’re all white, except Yin has a black spot under her eye and Yang a red mark on his face.” Mimi starts to whimper, and I stiffen. I don’t want to feel anyone’s pain. I have more than enough of my own.
What She Gave Away (Santa Barbara Suspense Book 1) Page 19