by Joan Opyr
“Feel better?”
“Do you know what time it is?”
She looked at her watch. “Eleven-thirty.”
“And it’s Tuesday?” She nodded. “Then I don’t feel any better. I should have been in French three hours ago. I need to call home. Can I use your phone?”
“There’s one in the kitchen and one in my bedroom. You’ll have more privacy in my bedroom.”
“Thanks.”
I sat down on the edge of Sylvie’s bed, a futon on a low wooden frame. The walls were cream-colored and plastered with a lot of framed photos of vintage motorcycles. I recognized the old Harley-Davidsons, but the other bikes were obscure.
My father answered on the second ring. Emma and Sam were still at the hospital, and Sam was walking again. Hugh wasn’t sure when he’d be released. Knowing my brother, he’d check himself out in the next hour or so.
I went back into the living room. Sylvie had moved from the rocking chair to the sofa. I sat down next to her.
“Is everything okay?”
“It’s back to normal, anyway.” I covered up a yawn with the back of my hand. “I’m sorry I fell asleep like that. I didn’t mean to.”
“Don’t be sorry,” she smiled. “But if you feel awake enough, I’d like you to finish what you were saying.”
“About Frank and his three kidneys?”
“And everything that led up to it.”
I began with coming home to find the note on my pillow and wound up with Emma and I sitting in the House of Pancakes.
“So, I just blurted it right out. I said, what would you say if I told you the dead man was Frank Frost? She didn’t even bat an eyelash. She said that’s exactly who she thought it was, and for proof, she brought up the three kidneys. My sister Ruth got a look at the autopsy report.”
Sylvie was watching me intently. The gold rims around her pupils were shining brightly. “My father only had one kidney. He had a younger sister on dialysis. She died shortly after the transplant surgery. I think it was the only unselfish thing he ever did.”
I said nothing, waiting for her to continue.
“So they must know. They know she lied, and they want to know why.”
“Maybe,” I agreed, “but it could be that she made a legitimate mistake. Maybe she really thought it was Burt.”
Sylvie leaned back against the arm of the sofa and closed her eyes. “You still don’t believe me.”
“I’m just trying to cover all of the bases. You were six years old. Your father disappeared sixteen years ago. If you saw what you think you saw, if it wasn’t a dream, then he’s dead, and that means that your mother deliberately lied to the sheriff. If he’s not dead, then he might have changed a lot. Your mother might have forgotten exactly what he looked like. Either way, there are a lot of possibilities that the sheriff will have to take into account. The best thing your mother can do right now is to keep telling the same story, even if they ask her a thousand times. That’s what my mother’s doing, even with me.”
“Did you ask her about my father?”
“No, I didn’t. I couldn’t. She wanted to know how I knew that was Frank and not Burt. I told her the truth—that you’d seen him in your mother’s kitchen the day before he died.”
“What did she say?”
“She said he probably wanted money. Frank was always short on cash. She was just surprised that he waited this long to come back.”
“Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he’s been getting his money long distance.”
“Blackmail?”
She nodded. “What if he knew what happened to my father? He might even have guessed. My mother’s not poor—my grandfather left her the bulk of his estate. He didn’t approve of Aunt Agnes marrying Fairfax, so he wrote a lopsided will. My mother tried to make amends, but Agnes wouldn’t touch it. She said she and Fairfax had plenty of money.”
“Do they?”
“He’s got family money, or so he says. Haven’t you heard about his rich East Coast relatives?”
“Endlessly from my grandmother, who’s impressed by that kind of thing. Before she claims you as her friend, she sets you up on a spreadsheet.”
Sylvie laughed. She looked more relaxed now, but her fingers played nervously with a loose thread on the sofa.
“So,” she said, “do you have any classes this afternoon?”
“Two. Do you need me to leave?”
“That’s not what I meant. I was just thinking that if you were free . . .”
“I’m free,” I replied too quickly. “I’ve missed one, why not miss them all?”
She smiled. “You might wish you hadn’t said that. I’ve got a confession to make, Bil. Before you fell asleep, you said something about having seen me in Spokane. Do you mind if I ask you when exactly that was?”
I avoided her gaze, not wanting her to read anything in my response. It was bad enough that I’d quizzed her about it. She was free to do whatever she liked, and with whomever.
“In Jackie J’s,” I replied, keeping my voice as neutral as possible. “Tipper and I went shopping and then to Jackie’s for dinner.”
She seemed embarrassed, and I stared at her, puzzled.
“Oh, I thought you’d seen me earlier.”
“Where were you earlier?” I asked, unable to keep myself from sounding suspicious.
“That’s the confession part. I ignored your advice and went to see a private detective. I found his name in the Spokane phonebook.”
I must have looked as dumbfounded as I felt.
“I just . . . I wanted to see if there was anything he could do that we couldn’t. I know what you said about poking around quietly, but I got scared. I called this guy, and then I went up to see him. He said he’d be discreet.”
“And?”
“I don’t know. He was more expensive than you thought—he wanted five hundred dollars a day. That was all I had in my savings account.”
I looked around me dubiously, and Sylvie blushed. “My mother’s footing the bills while I’m in college. She set up a joint checking account for me, and she gets all the statements. I closed my savings account and paid the detective in cash.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“You think I’m a spoiled rich kid.”
“No, I don’t. Who am I to talk, anyway? My father just gave me four hundred dollars to pay for a truck repair. I haven’t worked since I came back from Seattle. I live at home on student loans and mooch off my parents. If anyone’s spoiled, it’s me.” And I certainly didn’t know what it was like to be terrified of my own father, I thought silently.
She said, “I gave him an abbreviated version of what’s been going on, leaving out what I saw that night in the backyard, and asked him to look into Frank’s disappearance. I hired him for one day on the condition that he not come down to Cowslip to interview anyone.”
“What can he possibly find out that way?”
“He says he does most of his work by fax, Internet, and telephone. Except for the divorce cases, of course, which seem to constitute the bulk of his business.”
“He follows cheating spouses around?”
She nodded. “Gruesome, isn’t it? I think he’s a photographer who got into investigative work.”
I hoped she hadn’t wasted her five hundred bucks. I also hoped that he’d be as discreet as he’d promised. “So, when do you get your report?”
“Tonight,” she replied. “Five hundred dollars paid for twenty-four hours. That’s why I wanted to know if you were busy. Are you up for another trip to Spokane?”
“Why doesn’t he just phone you?”
“I’d rather he didn’t. I’m probably just being paranoid, but I don’t want his name cropping up on any record of calls either to or from this number. I called him from a pay phone to make the appointment. Besides, I’d rather meet with him face to face.”
“I’d probably have done the same thing. When do you want to leave?”
“He told me to be there
at eight, so we don’t need to leave here until six. You can go back to sleep if you want, either here or in my room.”
“Don’t you have a roommate?”
She laughed. “Not so you can tell. She spends every waking moment these days with the Lesbian Avengers, planning actions.”
“What about you? You went to the early meetings, didn’t you?”
She shrugged. “I decided it wasn’t for me. I’m not the Lesbian Avenger type.”
“Obviously,” I smiled ruefully, “neither am I. A. J. used to . . .” I stopped short. A. J. was the last person I wanted to bring up. My stomach did three jackknifes and a swan dive before Sylvie spoke.
“What about A. J.?”
I forced myself to meet her look squarely. I might be a fuck-up, but I wasn’t a wimp. “A. J. used to call me a Saturday night dyke. I don’t think she meant it as a compliment.”
“Probably not.”
I stared at the floor, the window, anywhere but directly at Sylvie. Finally, feeling a desperate need to say something, I said, “I’ll take the sofa. I’ve gotten used to it, and you’ll be more comfortable in your own bed.”
“Fine,” she agreed. “Should I set the alarm for five p.m.?”
“That’s fine. It usually takes me about half an hour to wake up completely.” She got up to leave. “One more thing,” I said, stopping her. “You don’t by any chance have a contact lens case and some saline, do you?”
“I don’t,” she said, “but I’m sure Nancy does. I didn’t know you wore contacts.”
“You don’t remember my glasses? I got them in first grade. They were hideous.”
“Guess I forgot. I’ll go search Nancy’s room.”
She came back a few minutes later with a case and a bottle of disinfecting solution.
“It’s a good thing Nancy wears contacts,” I said, peeling a lens off my eye and depositing it into the case. “These were beginning to fuse to my corneas.”
“She doesn’t,” Sylvie said. “My roommate is a bit of a Casanova. She keeps a spare toothbrush, contact lens stuff, and anything else an overnight guest might need in the bottom drawer of her dresser.”
“She’s a regular Girl Scout,” I observed wryly.
“Good thing for you that she is. Can I get you anything before I hit the hay? A blanket, a glass of water?”
A goodnight kiss?
“Nothing,” I answered. “Just give me a good shake at five, and if I don’t wake up right away, be persistent. I’m a heavy sleeper.”
“Right. Sweet dreams.”
Chapter 21
A low, sexy voice was murmuring in my ear. “Do you want to take a shower?”
I smiled, my eyes still shut. “That sounds like fun.”
“You’ve got time for a quick one,” the voice went on, “but you’ll have to get up now.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve already showered,” she said. “It’s your turn. I picked out some jeans and a T-shirt I think will fit you. I stole the jeans from Nancy. You two are about the same size.”
I opened my eyes, awake now.
“Could you hand me my lens case? I left it on the coffee table, and I can’t see a thing.”
“Here you go,” she said.
Sylvie came into focus, and I smiled at her. She looked fresh, like she’d actually had a full eight hours of sleep. Her hair was tucked back behind her ears, and gold hoop earrings reflected onto the golden skin of her neck.
“I think I’ll take that shower,” I said, painfully aware of my own disheveled grubbiness.
“There’s a clean towel on the rack, and the clothes are on the vanity. I hope you don’t mind,” she looked away, “but I got a pair of boxer shorts for Christmas. I’ve never worn them.”
“It wouldn’t matter if you had,” I said without thinking. “I grew up with four siblings. Wearing other people’s underwear is not a novelty.”
To stop the perpetual motion of my mouth, I hurried off to the bathroom. Even though I desperately wanted to linger under the hot spray, I got in and out quickly. I dried off and examined the clothes on the vanity. Nicely faded button-fly jeans, a white T-shirt, and the boxer shorts, which were plaid. She’d even thought to supply a pair of socks.
“You ready to go?”
“All but the shoes,” I replied. “You know, I’ve got a new shirt out in the truck. Tipper picked it out for me yesterday. He tried to make me buy a necktie as well.”
“I love women who wear neckties,” she said.
My heart stopped, and then resumed beating at a rapid rate.
Sylvie handed me her bomber jacket. “Here, you’ll need this. It’s pretty cold out there.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve got a red anorak my mother bought me. She’s always complaining that I never wear it. I don’t really like it.”
“Count yourself lucky. I expect your mother has better taste than mine.”
I followed her down to the parking lot. The wind was biting, and I began to wish I had a hat. Sylvie seemed oblivious to it. I hoped she wasn’t one of those die-hard prairie women. Emma always said I had thin blood, which was her way of saying that I was a wuss.
“It’s really cold,” Sylvie said.
Thank God. This being Idaho, the parking lot was filled with four-by-fours, and at least three of them were red Toyotas. It took me a moment to figure out which one was mine.
“She’s over here,” I said at last. “I really should get a bumper sticker or something to help me spot her.”
“She? Have you named your truck?”
I began to feel foolish until I saw that she was smiling at me.
“Sue, Sue the Toyota. I’m an animist at heart. I don’t name my shoes or anything, but I do name motor vehicles.”
She laughed. “It’s a nice truck,” she observed, climbing in. “I love my bike, but it’s not practical. Come November, I’ll have to borrow the farm truck.”
“It’s fine to be practical,” I said, “but I long to be exciting. I love motorcycles. Emma would have a cow if I ever got one, though.”
“You can ride mine anytime you like.”
“Really?”
“Have you ever ridden before?”
“Sure. Tipper had a dirt bike when we were in high school. Since I practically lived at Fort Sister, I learned to ride around the same time I learned to shoot. My mother was furious. She’s violently opposed to motorcycles and firearms. Don’t ask me to explain it. She used to be quite the tomboy herself. In fact, she had a motorcycle when she met my father. She was the scourge of my poor grandmother’s life. Imagine grooming a debutante and ending up with Dennis Hopper.”
Sylvie laughed. “You can ride my bike without fear of recrimination. Just make sure your mother doesn’t see you.”
“Is your detective downtown or on the outskirts of town?”
“Downtown, just head for Division Street. I’ll give you directions once we get there.”
I backed out of the parking lot and headed for the Washington border. We drove along in silence, Sylvie resting her head against the window. Once we were heading north through the rolling wheat fields of the Palouse, I looked over at her. Her eyes were tightly shut, though I didn’t think she was asleep. Still, she didn’t open her eyes and we didn’t speak to one another until we were thirty miles outside of Spokane.
“Where to?” I asked quietly.
Sylvie yawned and stretched. “When we get to the Division Street exit, take any of the streets that head downtown. Park wherever you can in the shopping district. We can walk from there.”
I nodded. “Do you mind if I turn on the radio or play a cassette or something?”
“No, I don’t mind. I didn’t think your radio worked.”
“Oh, it works fine. I just didn’t want to wake you.”
“That was nice, but I wasn’t really asleep.”
I picked a cassette at random from the pile on the seat between us and hoped it wouldn’t betray
my bad taste. I listened to a lot of different kinds of music, but in the car, I liked to play stuff I could sing to. As it turned out, it was one of the tapes I’d compiled myself, various tracks from various albums that had taken my fancy.
Sylvie smiled happily as the first strains of Willie Nelson’s Stardust began to play. “That’s excellent, Bil. I was afraid it was going to be Melissa Etheridge.”
Now I was truly worried. “Don’t you like Melissa Etheridge?”
“Don’t panic,” she laughed. “Of course I do. They’d revoke my dyke membership if I didn’t. Still, it’s nice to hear something different. Every time I get into a lesbian’s car these days, she’s playing Melissa or k.d. lang or the Indigo Girls. This used to be the love that dare not speak its name.”
“And now it won’t shut up?” I shook my head and smiled. “Aren’t you a little too young to be jaded?”
She laughed and stretched again, her breasts pressing against the front of her shirt. I gripped the steering wheel tightly and concentrated on the road, willing myself to be a paragon of self-control. Besides, she might not listen to k.d. lang, but that didn’t stop her from dining with her twin.
“I suppose I am jaded,” she said. “Just ignore me. I love all of them. Well, most of them.”
“Care to be more specific?”
“Not until I know you better. I don’t want to end up on your bad side.”
“I don’t have a bad side.”
She closed her eyes again. The picture of her sitting in Jackie J’s swam before my eyes and splashed cold water on my libido. I slackened my grip on the steering wheel. When I turned onto Division Street, she sat up and yawned. At Sylvie’s direction, I parked the truck in front of Nordstrom’s. It was quarter to eight.
After we’d walked about seven blocks, I said, “I could have parked closer. There are plenty of spaces around here.”
“I think they’re vacant for a reason. I didn’t want anything to happen to your truck.”
“How about my body?”
“I’ll take care of that.” She stopped and smiled reassuringly. “I’ve been taking karate for the past five years. It was my mother’s idea. She takes it too.”