Dance of Deception

by Trish Reeb

  For a good eighteen months afterward, Alex waited for the next person to die. No one did, and, eventually, the anxiety subsided and she stopped thinking about it. Now Taryn had died. Alex exhaled deeply. She rose from the sofa. "I’m out of tea."

  "Sit down. I’ll get it," Gino said, nabbing her mug from the table.

  She wrested it from him. "No. I will. I need to stretch a bit or I’ll get cramped from sitting." Gino followed her into the kitchen.

  Alex filled her cup with water and placed it in the microwave. While she waited for the beep, she stared out the window over the sink. The gray sky matched her mood. Good. After her parents died, she resented the sun shining carefree and happy, when her chafed insides throbbed with loneliness and grief. A year and a half passed before she could enjoy a sunny day, chirping birds, the sound of crickets or a good book.

  "Microwave’s done," Gino said. He opened the door and removed the steaming mug.

  "You sound like my first computer, 'File’s done,'" she sing-songed.

  Alex dunked the teabag in the hot water a dozen times before removing it. She handed the mug to Gino and they returned to the library.

  They spent the rest of their visit catching up on his life. He talked about the girls he dated. "Women," Alex corrected twice, with Gino chuckling each time. He’d not met anyone special yet.

  Alex’s heart swelled. He’d grown into a handsome, smart, and funny man. She knew now how parents felt watching their kids grow up. The wonder of it. Sad, hers hadn’t seen Matt marry, have children, and wouldn't see Gino graduate from college this year.

  At least they’d been spared Greg’s restlessness and taking off for parts unknown. Of course, had their parents lived, he might still be around. And whose fault was it that they'd died? To quell the guilt, she thought about the brother with whom she currently shared the warmth of the gas fire, the highly emotional, sensitive one of the four siblings. Twelve when his mom and dad died, he’d been devastated. She worried he’d never recover. He had, thanks to the Humbargers. Bless them. Sheila, a social worker, arranged for grief counseling where he learned to handle his loss. Not that he couldn’t express his feelings. He’d been good at that—too good, if the truth were known. Eventually, he'd learned to let go and move on, carrying the memories of their parents. Now, look at him. She felt like a proud mama.

  Gino left at five-fifty. The wind had picked up, a snowstorm imminent. Glad she had no plans to go out tonight, Alex flicked off the porch light. Starting for the bedroom, she paused. On the table in the foyer lay the card Gino had handed to her earlier. She read, 'Golden Locksmiths.' Ohmigod, she'd slept through the alarm clock and the doorbell yesterday. Tomorrow. She'd replace the locks tomorrow. Before she forgot, she scuffed her way to the keypad to punch in the security code.

  The doorbell rang ten minutes later. She jumped at the unexpected intrusion. What had Gino forgotten this time? Looking around, she didn’t notice a backpack or anything else lingering behind. She peeled back the edge of the curtain and peeked out. His hands behind him, Jordan Whitfield stood on the porch studying the ground.

  She jerked back letting go of the panel, fear skating up her spine.

  The bell rang again. A knock. Heart stumbling, Alex leaned against the door afraid to breathe. After two more tries, she heard his steps on the walk fade as he retreated. A car door slammed, an engine started. She counted to twenty and peered out the window. No car in the drive or in front. A green and white stream-lined package lay on the welcome mat. Flowers.

  She stared at them, breathing heavily as if they meant her harm. Should she fetch them or leave them to fend for themselves? If someone hid in the bushes she'd be an easy mark. Sorry, flowers, better you die than me. Alex groaned. When had the prospect of opening a door become a matter of life or death?

  The foyer tilted and spun. She leaned against the door waiting for the vertigo to pass. It lasted half a minute, far too long to lose control of one's mobility. How long would these spells go on? She planned to go to work tomorrow. Alex pushed off the door. She'd better call Ellery for a ride.

  Afterward, she clutched the phone in her lap. She still hadn’t talked to Taryn’s folks. It’d been three days. She couldn’t let any more time to pass. Taryn had programmed their number into her phone ‘in case of an emergency.’ Any imagined emergencies, had they taken the time to list them, never would've included murder. Murder didn’t happen to people you knew.

  She'd spoken to Taryn’s folks several times, like the time they’d flown to Las Vegas and Taryn won five thousand dollars on the twenty-five cent slot machine. Alex stared down at the phone. "Just do it," she said aloud. She accessed the number and pushed the call button.

  The phone rang. Once, twice. Taryn’s mom said hello on the other end.

  "Mrs. Richards? It’s Alex Tamburelli."

  A muffled whimper. "How are you, dear?"

  A man’s voice bellowed in the background. Alex heard the anger but couldn’t make out the words.

  "I’m sorry . . . my husband . . . ."

  Alex’s hands shook, her lips quivered, tears welling in her eyes. She’d called to convey her condolences and she couldn’t think or talk, the right words as distant as the miles between them. "I don’t know what to say."

  "I know. I don’t know what to say either because—" Mrs. Richards sobbed. "Because I think you loved Taryn, too."

  "Yes." Tears rolled down Alex’s face. "I’m sending you a hug."

  "Me, too." A sniffle.

  "I’m coming to the funeral."

  "We’ll finally meet," Mrs. Richards said, a hitch in her voice.

  "Yes." Though Alex and Taryn had talked often in their two and a half year friendship of going to Atlanta for a long weekend, they’d not gotten around to it. There’d been no urgency, knowing they had a lifetime ahead of them.

  Someone picked up the extension. "She’s dead because of you," a male voice boomed.

  "Raynard, what?" Mrs. Richards said. "Alex isn’t respon—"

  Click.

  "Alex, please forgive him," Mrs. Richards said. "He’s heartbroken and needs someone to blame."

  Alex placed a hand on her chest. "Why me?"

  "Raynard isn't thinking clearly and he’s being beyond ridiculous," Mrs. Richards said. "Sweetheart, forget it. His grief has made him crazy."

  "Uh—"

  "Please, Alex, can you forgive him?"

  "Of course."

  "I better go. He’s raging around here like a bull elephant. I look forward to meeting you, dear."

  The call ended. Alex laid the phone in her lap and stared into space, tears stinging her eyes like Mr. Richards’ words. God, she knew the call would be difficult, but never expected this. What did he mean? Did he blame her for not watching out for Taryn? In that case, wouldn't Jordan be as much, if not more, accountable? What else might she have done, or not done, that in his eyes caused Taryn’s death? She cupped her chin in one hand. Taryn's mom had been much more supportive than her dad when she'd decided to stay in Michigan. Perhaps he thinks I influenced Taryn. Sure, Alex wanted her here, but she'd never voiced her opinion. Taryn reached the decision without her input. Alex slumped into the cushions. Shoot, what if her friend had picked up on her true feelings? They could practically read each other’s minds. Now it made total sense why Mr. Richards deposited the responsibility for Taryn's murder right at her feet.

  PART II

  CHAPTER 17

  Monday, February 12

  Alex munched on a cinnamon raisin bagel and read the newspaper while she waited for Ellery's honk. Sami jumped onto her lap, wrinkling the paper.

  "Sami, quit. Not now. I love you, but I want the last few minutes to myself." Alex gently pushed the cat to the floor and resumed reading the obituaries, a habit she'd developed since her parents died.

  She gasped. "What? No! It can’t be." She read the brief notice again.

  A horn beeped.

  Alex threw the paper down and shoveled the rest of the bagel into he
r mouth. Coat on, bookbag and purse in hand, she hit the door and rambled out to Ellery’s car.

  Inside, she returned his stare. "What?"

  "Lincoln’ll survive if you don’t go in today, Lex."

  "But I won’t," she said, hitting the armrest.

  Ellery pressed his lips together and backed out of the drive.

  Alex sighed. "Don’t you want to know why I’m so agitated?"

  "You’ll tell me when you’re ready," he said.

  Alex could only hold her tongue a few seconds. "Do you know Jada Davison?"

  "Sophomore. Parents divorced last year. Former honor student turned hall walker."

  "How do you do that?" Though his words didn’t surprise her, his knowing so much about the students never failed to impress. A hands-on guy, Ellery practiced an open door policy and visibility in the halls. Unusual for most administrators.

  "She died. I read it in the paper this morning."

  Approaching Ford Road, he flipped on the blinker, his hand trembling slightly. "I’m sorry, honey. One of your students, right?"

  "Uh-huh. It didn’t say how."

  "I’m sure you’ll figure a way to find out." He glanced at her, a knowing look on his face.

  They drove along in silence for some moments.

  Alex gave him a sidelong look. "I forgot to ask. How’s Melissa?"

  Ellery lifted an eyebrow. "Melissa?"

  She laughed. "Your new granddaughter? I can’t believe you forgot after all the grandsons your three boys manufactured."

  He threw her a crooked smile. "Not used to her being here yet, I guess. It’s only been a couple of days. From what I hear, she’s perfect."

  They talked for a few minutes about when Ellery would get a chance to see the baby and lapsed into comfortable silence, the thrumming of tires on the pavement the only sound. No radio. Ellery seldom tuned in and Alex didn’t ask him to.

  After awhile, she said, "You missed the exit." She twisted around as they whizzed by it.

  He glanced at her. "What?"

  "You should've exited back there."

  "Sorry. Mind drifted."

  They rolled into the staff parking lot eight minutes later. Ellery dropped Alex off at the staff entrance. She inched her way into the building. To avoid contemplating the difficult day ahead, she thought of their trip into the city. She and Ellery certainly had their share of frugal conversations. Bet he spent the whole time thinking about Melissa and how he and Sheila would spoil her. She shrugged. Had to be, because he certainly hadn’t asked how she was doing. Unless he already knew, he always could read her like a book.

  Alex slogged down the quiet hall to the main entrance where young people shuffled through metal detectors and waited for security guards to search their bags. She sighed. Today more than any other, the pain-in-the-neck ritual would be vital to their sense of well-being.

  Over the sound of slamming lockers, a scream pierced the air. All heads swerved in the direction of the cry. Two female students stood amidst fallen books and scattered papers, one of them limp in the arms of the other, sobbing.

  Had she heard about Jada? Or had the girl’s anguish been over Taryn? Alex wove her way through the crowd to the girls and encouraged the friend to take her to the guidance center.

  The bell rang, announcing five minutes until first hour began. Alex helped prod students to class. Once the halls cleared, she slow-gaited to her office, a nine by ten jammed with outdated computer equipment and furniture from the fifties. Her home away from home. She sighed. If too many students at a time came to see her today, how would she give them the quality service they deserved? Or even fit them all in her office—crammed in like hens in the industrial coops.

  At the beginning of third hour, in lieu of the usual announcements, Lincoln High observed a minute of silence in memory of Taryn Richards. Alex sat in her swivel chair, head bowed, hands clasped on her desk. Whenever she prayed, she inevitably found herself thinking of something worldly. She attempted to clear her mind. But Jordan’s image jumped into the space reserved for Taryn. Alex’s head came up, eyes popped open. If he killed her, why'd he do it? And if not, who did? She had no idea where to begin hunting for answers.

  She stared out through the open door. For the first time since she arrived, no students waited in the reception area. Close to thirty teens had flowed through her office over the last two hours. Some wanted a hug. Others needed to talk about their favorite teacher. Everyone asked why. At least half cried, making it difficult to keep her own emotions in check.

  I need five minutes to myself, Alex thought, rising to close the door.

  The telephone rang.

  Maybe not. She grabbed the receiver. "Ms. Tamburelli, may I help you?"

  A sob. "Ms. T?"

  Her stomach contracted. "I was going to call you."

  CHAPTER 18

  "She gone, my baby’s gone," Mrs. Davison cried.

  Alex groped behind her for the chair. "I know," she said gently. "I don’t understand. Had Jada been ill?"

  Silence.

  "Mrs. Davison?"

  A hard sniff. "She changed. First her dad, then Ms. Richards. "

  Alex barely breathed.

  "I haven’t been myself either since . . . ." A long pause. "Are you there?"

  "Yes, I’m here."

  Mrs. Davison sobbed. "Some nights, she sneak out. I wanted to check, see if she home or not. Her room’s upstairs. Remember?"

  "I remember."

  "So afraid I’d find her bed empty. Oh, if only. . . ." Mrs. Davison moaned, a low sound from deep in her viscera.

  Alex tensed.

  "I went to the stairs." She let out a hard sob. "I called. No answer. She always holler back, ‘Yea, ma, I hear you.’ Part of me wanted to go back to bed, tired as I was, let Jada take the consequences. I kept going, I had to know." Seconds passed before she continued. "Jada look like she asleep," she whispered.

  Alex squeezed the receiver.

  "When I try to wake her . . . Ms. T, Jada swallowed my sleeping pills."

  Alex’s world tilted a little more. Suicide? She bit down on a knuckle and thrust the covered receiver an arm’s length away before the sob escaped. Alex swallowed the subsequent one and brought the phone back. "Is someone there with you?"

  "My sister here. She tole me to call the school. Since we close, I called you." A pause. "Maybe I should call the principal."

  "I’ll notify Dr. Pearson."

  "Oh, my baby girl."

  Alex had no words.

  "Wait a minute." The receiver clunked on a hard surface and Mrs. Davison blew her nose. Back on the phone, she said, "She left a note. I'll read it." The sound of crinkling of paper. "‘I’m sorry, Mama. Don’t be sad. You’re better off without me.’"

  Alex wrote the message on a slip of paper and stared at the words as if they were written in Arabic. They had not come from the Jada she knew.

  "Why, Miz T? Why would she take my pills?"

  Alex couldn’t move. Suicide, the third leading cause of death for teens, had for the first time claimed the life of someone she knew. The data sat in her lap with the weight of a Magic Eight Ball. Jada had become a statistic lumped together with other teens who found life not worth living. Not fair. Her death didn't tell the whole story, who Jada had been—a bright, outgoing girl, devastated after her father walked out of her life and into his secretary’s. Alex gritted her teeth. He might as well have tossed his daughter a hand grenade. Why did she think her mother would be better off without her since they only had each other? It didn't make sense.

  "Miz T?"

  "I’m here." Jada never struck her as someone who’d give up on life. Silently, Alex had to admit she had no idea what had been going on inside the girl's head. She sighed. "I’m afraid we’ll never know for sure why she did it."

  "What am I going to do?"

  Alex wanted to tell her she’d be fine. How fine had she been after her parents died? How many times had she told the story of her parents’ death, rep
eating the sequence of events aloud, before she believed it? Over and over, Mrs. Davison would tell how she found Jada, letting the truth sink in a little more each time.

  "Is your sister staying with you for awhile?"

  "I’m flying home with her to Tucson after the funeral tomorrow. You're coming?"

  "I couldn't be anywhere else."

  They spoke a few more minutes about the funeral particulars. After they hung up, Alex sat unmoving, thinking back to the end of last year when Jada’s father deserted the family. She counseled Jada and her mother for six weeks until school let out. She couldn't continue because she spent the summers at her family’s cottage in Traverse City. Alex had recommended a good agency, one she’d referred others to, but mother and daughter declined. Now she wished she'd pressed harder?

  She read Jada’s words. I’m sorry Mama. Don’t be sad. You’re better off without me. Maybe Jada regretted the way she handled herself since her dad abandoned them—not going to class, sneaking off and staying out all night, causing her mother worry. Alex stuffed the paper into the pocket of her black pants.

  She swallowed. Mrs. Davison's recovery would be a slow process and, truthfully, she'd never fully heal from her daughter's suicide. Alex shook her head. Guilt, real or imagined, would be impossible to overcome if she listened to the voices in her head—I was too self-absorbed, not really there for Jada, why did I leave my pills out? Alex buried her face in her hands. She knew all about those voices. No matter how many times people told her not to blame herself, she couldn't hush the voices that had lessened but never gone away.

  Alex clutched the chair’s armrests. Lately, her past and present had grown too close for comfort.

  She stood. Once she told Dr. Pearson about Jada, the girl’s name would disappear from Lincoln’s database, like whiteout on paper. Otherwise, phone calls from ‘Big Mouth,’ the computer system informing parents of their teen’s absences, would serve as a taser—zapping Mrs. Davison daily, paralyzing her with grief.