by Kira Saito
“Good afternoon, sugar. How are you feeling today?” Chris took a seat beside me. His button-down white shirt contrasted sharply against his tan skin and his ever-present cowboy hat was fixed in place. “Sugar? Is there anyone home?” He waved his hand in front of my face.
“I’m reflecting,” I said.
“On what?”
“On if I killed Zoe.” I hadn’t meant to say those words aloud. They somehow slipped out as if they had been resting on the tip of my tongue for three years.
“What, wait, whoa, slow down. Where is this coming from?”
I turned to face him. He had his laptop open. He was typing away while staring directly at me. “The detective who is investigating Zoe’s disappearance is here. The only suspect in her disappearance is dead and yours truly is the suspect in his death. My life just went from shit to shitter overnight.”
“Wow, when did this all happen?”
“Last night.”
“While we were having Mexican? Well, I’ll be your alibi. There is no way you could have hopped on a flight and gotten back that quickly.”
“Kind of before we had Mexican.”
“Before?”
“I don’t remember the details. I was surfing the deep web and was fantasizing about hiring a hit man to kill Jay Simmons, the suspect, but I don’t recall actually going through with it. According to the records, I did contact him and transferred some Bitcoin funds to one of his accounts. I vaguely remember bits and pieces but not the whole picture.”
“Hold on,” he said as he opened a blank Word document.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“What any good researcher does, I’m taking notes. Keep talking, sugar, we’ll uncover the truth eventually.”
“What if I don’t want to uncover the truth? What if the detective is right and I’m a violent psychopath who murdered the suspect and maybe even my own daughter?”
“Well, isn’t it better knowing the truth than living some twisted lie your entire life? Isn’t going to prison and doing the right thing better than running away and hiding in the shadows?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Hiding in the shadows sounded like a perfectly reasonable solution to my mounting problems. I had read somewhere that about one-third of murders went unsolved in America. The odds of me not getting caught were on my side.
He wasn’t put off by my attitude. He continued to type away at a rapid pace. His eyebrows were knitted in concentration as he stared at the screen and then back at me. “Look, I know you didn’t do it. What we have to get to the bottom of is who did do it, so we can clear your name.”
“How do you know that I didn’t do it? You’ve spent a few hours with me and you’ve already built a profile? You have no idea what I’m like. You have no idea about of the messed-up things that I’ve done…” I thought about how I had almost beaten Jay Simmons to death and the multitude of other messed up deeds that I had committed.
“I may not know everything, but I know enough. I know that you think that you deserve all of this because you’re abusing pills. You think that your current addiction makes you weak and that you don’t deserve a second chance. Well, sugar, listen to me, even the thief on the cross was given a second chance. Only the Big Man upstairs can judge you and from what I’ve read He’s pretty merciful when it comes to giving second chances.”
“Oh shit, you’re one of those alt right fake news reporters who believes that the Bible is being pushed out of society and that Satanists really run our government aren’t you?”
“The truth is stranger than fiction, but that’s a story for another day. What I’m trying to say is that I’ve seen people I love be where you’re at. Some of them got out alive while others chose to give up. Not one of them was a bad person. The difference between the people who lived and died was choice. It may feel like that you’re alone and no one cares, but people are more understanding than you’re willing to believe. ”
“It must be the heat down here because you and Madame Queenie are spouting the same brand of Kool-Aid. You two see something in me that isn’t there. There is nothing left to redeem in this shell, I’m an empty vessel going through the motions. I’m not going to suddenly see some imaginary light or scream that I’ve been redeemed or some nonsensical religious drivel.” A few months after Zoe had disappeared, I had gone to a local church in hopes of finding answers from the divine. Instead of some mystical experience, I had gotten close to the pastor. A little too close. His wife had caught us making out in his office and that was the end of my journey. I was deplorable, and no amount of prayer was ever going to redeem me.
“Maybe we have a point, and you’re not willing to admit that you see it. You don’t have to give me a yes or no answer but maybe, just maybe, you’re popping those pills to punish yourself? Deep down, you want to hurt yourself because you weren’t able to protect your daughter, is that it?”
I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell him to shut-up and for a minute was tempted to take all of the paintings off the walls and smash them into a million pieces. However, there was truth to what he was saying and no amount of denial on my part was going to turn that into fiction. “Wait. You’re not going to make a YouTube video about this, are you?” Paranoia crept in at the thought of having every detail of my life on the internet. At least real reporters had some dignity and gave you a bit of dough to tell your story. These fake news reporters had no morals or boundaries.
“Not everyone is your enemy. You can trust me. I promise, I’m not going to hurt you,” he said as he stopped typing and turned his whole attention my way.
I studied him for a few seconds. Those were the words that every man I had trusted said to me before everything went down the drain. Slowly, he extended his arm and placed it around me. I was stiff and robotic; however, I didn’t want to move. It had been so long since I had genuine human contact and it felt good. I felt a small piece of me fighting to live again. Maybe the world wasn’t entirely filled with bad people. Maybe this fake news reporter with his stupid sense of fashion was one of the good guys.
“Children, are you ready?” Madame Queenie made her grand entrance. Her hazel eyes rested on me and I felt the sudden urge to confess that I had basically trashed my room. Her presence made me feel as if I were a naughty high school student again and not merely a drug-addled screw-up.
I stood up. “Before we go in, I want to let you know that I might have broken some of the items in my room. I’ll pay for them.”
Madame Queenie’s cheerful expression turned dark. “Those items that you broke cannot be replaced, they’re antiques and way above your pay grade.”
“I’m sorry. If you want me to leave, I’ll go,” I whispered so that Chris wouldn’t hear.
“One more stupid move, and I’ll ask Mrs. Dubois to pick another reporter who is more suited to the job, do we have an agreement?” Her voice was stern.
“Yes, Madame Queenie. I’m sorry. I promise there will be no more broken items or immature displays of rage on my part.”
“Good. I’ve sent that detective on his way; however, he said that he’ll be staying in town to keep an eye on things. I’m assuming that the interview didn’t go as you expected given that he’s sticking around? He’s desperate to get to the bottom of your daughter’s disappearance. He’s a good man that one.”
I shrugged. “I have no more expectations from people anymore, really. I’m in so deep that I can’t see one inch in front of me or behind me. He’s accusing me of things that I haven’t done, but if that makes him a good man then fine.”
She placed her arm around me and guided me towards Mrs. Dubois’ room. “Well, focus your energy on helping others and maybe you’ll start seeing clearly again. Maybe, you’ll even find the answers to the questions that are haunting you,” she said as she opened the door to the bridal suite. “Remember, even if you don’t believe in this method of investigation that doesn’t mean that Mrs. Dubois doesn’t so no mocking and scoffing.”
&
nbsp; Chris and I glanced at one another and nodded in unison. We both knew that whoever got exclusive information on this story would go down in the history books. America hadn’t been this gripped by a case since the tragic murder of Jon Benet Ramsey. Despite all of my acts of stupidity and rebellion, I was lucid enough to understand that I couldn’t mess up this opportunity. It was my last shot at survival.
My eyes adjusted to the darkness. We were met with the same scene as before. Mrs. Dubois sat behind a table dressed in her gothic wedding dress and antique jewelry. Candles lit the room and cast shadows on the numerous pictures of Charlene Dubois in happy and carefree poses. The pictures contrasted sharply with the tragic wails that filled the air along with words that were muffled between sobs.
“How are you doing today, Mrs. Dubois?” Chris’ cheery voice lightened the tense atmosphere. I observed that he was gifted at changing the atmosphere from dark and dreary to light and cheery. Maybe that was the reason his YouTube channel was so popular.
“It’s too much … The pain is too much … Dead … My angel is dead … Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna, in die illa tremenda: Quando caeli movendi sunt et terra. Dum veneris iudicare saeculum per igne,” Mrs. Dubois wailed. “All hope is lost. It’s my fault. I was a bad mother. I should have known better. I should have protected her. I should have done things differently.”
I took a seat and was emotionless as Mrs. Dubois continued to weep and moan. After a few moments of letting her beat herself up over her shortcomings, I had to interrupt. “Mrs. Dubois, with all due respect, I think that you’re being too hard on yourself. From what you’ve told us, you don’t sound like a bad mother at all. In fact, you sound like a wonderful mother.”
Madame Queenie shot me a “drop dead” look. I had forgotten that I wasn’t supposed to interject my personal opinions into the case. “Kate …”
“No, it’s alright, Madame Queenie, let her continue.” Mrs. Dubois stopped wailing long enough to construct a complete sentence. “Why do you think I was a good mother?”
Chapter Nineteen
Kate
“You were a great mother because you did everything in your power to try to understand Charlene. From what you’ve told us, you worried and cared enough about her to tell her when she was wrong.”
“Did you do that?” Mrs. Dubois turned the tables on me.
“Excuse me?”
“Did you care enough about your daughter to argue with her? To tell her that she was wrong when she was?”
The room was silent. The creaking of the ceiling fan up above grew louder, the room became hotter, the breathing of the people became more intense. Everything was on steroids. “Yes, I did. In fact, most of our arguments revolved around me calling her out on things that she shouldn’t have been doing.”
“Then that makes us equals, doesn’t it?” Mrs. Dubois asked.
I shrugged. “I suppose it does.”
“Very well, I would like to continue with the session,” Mrs. Dubois said. Her voice was firm and devoid of the previous torment that had plagued it. Somehow my own little confession had given her strength.
“It’s alright, Mrs. Dubois,” Madame Queenie said gently as she took a seat and started to shuffle the deck of tarot cards. “If you aren’t ready to continue, we can do this another time. It may get much more painful.”
Mrs. Dubois sighed deeply and nervously played with the pearls that hung around her neck. “I want to know more,” she said. “I want to know the specifics of how it happened. How did my daughter die?”
“Are you sure?” Madame Queenie asked.
“Yeah, are you really sure? That is such a loaded revelation that you’re asking for,” Chris said giving his opinion for the first time.
“Yes, I am sure,” Mrs. Dubois said taking a deep breath.
“Well then, we must continue.” Madame Queenie shuffled the cards that rested on the table. “You need to ask a question. Make it as specific as possible.
“What was the cause of her death?” Mrs. Dubois asked.
Madame Queenie shuffled the cards again before placing them on the table. “Pick a card and I’ll tell you what I know.”
Mrs. Dubois took her time as she deliberated between the various cards that rested on the table. She finally settled on one and handed it to Madame Queenie who studied the card with a tense expression on her face. The room was on steroids again. Beads of sweat dripped off of Chris’ forehead as well as Madame Queenie’s. There was a collective intake of air as we waited for Madame Queenie to make her big reveal.
“Betrayal,” she said after a pause that seemed as if it had extended into eternity. “It was betrayal that was the ultimate cause of her death. Charlene Dubois is dead because someone dear to her betrayed her in a cruel and unsettling way. She had faith in this person, but in the end, it became clear that the person in question could not be trusted.”
“Who?” Mrs. Dubois asked. “Who betrayed my daughter and how did they do it?”
“The cards don’t give a name, they never do, nor do they give a face. They only reveal that it was someone close to her.”
“I see,” Mrs. Dubois said. “I see …” The tears began again. “The person who betrayed her. Are they the same person who killed her directly?”
Madame Queenie shook her head. “No. The person who betrayed her is not the same person who is responsible for killing her directly. The two incidences are related but separate.”
“I see. Do I know the person who betrayed her? Do I know the person who killed her?”
Madame Queenie shuffled the deck again and asked Mrs. Dubois to pick another card. She studied the card carefully before responding. “Yes, you do know the person who betrayed her, but you do not know the person who killed her.”
Mrs. Dubois stood up. Her wails became louder and louder until she finally collapsed on the King-sized bed and curled up into a little ball. “Leave, all of you leave!” she screamed. “All of you are Judas’! There is not a good one in the lot of you! How am I supposed to trust any of you again? I trusted you. I trusted you and you betrayed me in a manner so cruel, so dramatic that I shall never recover! How am I supposed to trust anyone again? Trust? I'm not upset that you lied to me, I'm upset that from now on I can't believe you!” She said quoting Friedrich Nietzsche.
Madame Queenie gave us apologetic glances. Chris and I stood up and closed our notepads. I wanted to give Mrs. Dubois some words of support, something, anything that would prompt her to rise up and find some sense of sanity, but her wails only continued to grow more intense.
“And it is time for us to go,” Madame Queenie said ushering us out the door and into the hallway.
“Why did you have to do that?” I asked.
“Do what?” Madame Queenie looked at me as if she hadn’t just destroyed an innocent woman’s universe.
“Why did you have to go and tell her that bullshit that isn’t even true?”
“Here we go again. Who says what I told her isn’t true?”
“Sugar, she has a point. Any decent investigative journalist knows that they shouldn’t form any opinion until all of the facts are clearly presented to them in a logical manner. We don’t have any proof that what Madame Queenie said isn’t true.”
I turned to face him. “That’s bullshit and you know it. Reading the future from a stack of cards isn’t logical. It’s not rational and it has no shred of scientific evidence to back it up.”
“That’s your perspective,” Chris said as we walked down the hall. Madame Queenie’s figure loomed over us.
“Chris is right. You’re assuming what I’ve told you is fiction because deep down you can’t accept what happened to Charlene Dubois. You can’t accept her fate because you’re worried that Zoe’s life may have ended in the same manner. I get where you’re coming from; however, I ask that you please put your emotions aside and reflect on this case.”
“Madame Queenie! Madame Queenie! I demand that you get back in here right now. I want only yo
u.” Mrs. Dubois’ voice beckoned from beyond the door.
“I’ll be just a minute,” Madame Queenie said as she went back into the room and left Chris and I alone in the hall.
“Sugar, you’re not going to get anywhere if you don’t open your mind a bit,” Chris said.
“I’m trying but putting all of my hope in some stupid card trick feels like a waste of time. If you can honestly tell me that you believe that we’re going to solve this case, then I’ll try to be more positive.”
“Look, I don’t know what the deal is with those cards. What I do know is that those two ladies in there know a lot more about this case than they are willing to let on. Maybe the whole tarot card thing is a front. Maybe they know what really happened to Charlene and are using the cards to reveal the truth to us in a less obvious manner.”
“Why would they do that? If they know what really happened to Charlene why don’t they just go to the police? Why all the drama and the big show?”
“I don’t know. I’m only seeing what you’re seeing. But maybe they don’t trust the police to do what needs to be done …”
“What does that mean?”
“Sugar, I don’t have all the answers. I’m on the same train as you’re on. We’ve got to work with those two ladies if we want to get a story assembled. Can you do that: Can you manage to fake it until you make it?”
“God, it’s going to be hard, but I’ll try.”
“That a girl.”
I had already messed up so many times that I couldn’t keep arguing with Madame Queenie over who was right and who was wrong. Like Chris perceived, there was more to the story than we were being led to believe.
Madame Queenie emerged from the room with a serious expression on her face. “What do you suggest we do next? How are we supposed to find out this mystery person who betrayed Charlene Dubois? If the cards don’t give names or any other specific details, what are our options?” I asked her.