Twist of Faith

by Ellen J Green

  “Don’t be mad at me,” the male voice said when I answered.

  “I’m not mad, Russell. How are you? How’s your head? And your shoulder?”

  “You know?”

  I picked up the brightly painted coffee cup, one of a set Claire had brought back from Mexico, and took a sip. “Yeah, well. After four days I went looking for you. I admit I was kind of pissed at you for disappearing on me, and then they told me. Russell, I’m so sorry. Really sorry.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Claire’s. I had to get away from Joanne and the courthouse. I just left work. They’ll probably fire me.”

  “Nah. I doubt it. Can I come and talk to you? Just for a minute?”

  I looked at the swirls of color that ran around the mug. “No. Uh-uh. I think I just want to be alone right now. Just me and my coffee.”

  He half laughed. “I’ll only take a minute of your time.”

  “The photo is gone. I spent the last couple hours taking this house apart and it’s not here. My best guess is that whoever came in here ransacked my mess and took it.”

  “Listen—”

  “And my aunt suddenly wants to bundle me off to Paris. Oh, and you got run over. I forgot to add that. But other than that—”

  “Are you finished? Because I’m coming over.”

  “Jeez. You and Joanne are a pair. All right. But listen, I was cleaning, I’m grimy, and I’m not changing. And secondly, I’m telling you up front I’m irritable.”

  “Really? Are you done?”

  “Yes. Ring the bell. I’ve got the house locked up tight.”

  I did as promised and didn’t so much as glance in the mirror before he arrived. My hair was pulled back in a ponytail and I could feel loose pieces flying around my face when I moved.

  I opened the door and stood there for a second. Russell’s head was partially shaved and bandaged and swollen. The bruising went all the way down the side of his face; he looked pale and drawn.

  “Come.” I motioned him in. “Follow me.” I padded across the living room into the kitchen. “Coffee?” He nodded. I handed him another cup that matched mine. We sat on the patio, saying nothing. Finally I looked him in the eye. “You look terrible.”

  “So do you,” he responded.

  Well, maybe I should have at least combed my hair. I glanced down at the shirt I was wearing. It was streaked with dirt. “It’s better to have a clean house and dirty clothes than the other way around.” I hesitated.

  “I’m furious.” Russell jumped into the lull.

  My eyebrows went up. “Because someone ran you over in the street like a dog?” I laughed. Then I realized that was horrible. “Sorry. A sad attempt at humor.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So, any leads on who hit you?”

  “Good question. The only real witness, the one that called the ambulance, said it was a dark-colored car. They have next to nothing. But I can’t shake the feeling that it has something to do with your missing photograph and the fact that I’ve been looking into the Owenses’ murder. Though I have no proof.”

  I raised my cup to him. “Great. Add that to my plate, right next to dead Mommy and the murder house. Why not?”

  “Ava, I’m serious. It’s just a hunch. But I think this thing’s a hornet’s nest.”

  My stomach twisted a little. “I believe it’s filled with something worse than hornets. What now, Russell?”

  “When is the last time you actually sat down and ate a meal?” he asked.

  I pushed out of my chair and headed back to the kitchen for more coffee. Russell followed me. “I eat. Maybe not a lot, but I eat.” I poured coffee into my cup.

  He was looking at the refrigerator. Pictures were held in place by magnets. There was one of Claire, Marie, and Anais outside of Anais’s house in Cherbourg, taken three years ago. I hadn’t come home from college that summer. Russell picked it up and leaned against the counter. He kept looking at the picture, then me.

  “What?” I asked after a minute.

  “I’m just looking at your mother. Both her parents are French?”

  “Her mother is. Why?” I asked.

  “Her father too?”

  “He was American. Irish, I think. He had black hair—turned gray later. Anais’s is dark too—well, was. Now mostly gray.”

  “Did Claire’s father live in France? Is that how they met?”

  I sat down. “No. From what I know, they met in Vietnam, of all places. Anais’s father was a diplomat in the French embassy. My grandfather was drafted and sent to Saigon. They fell madly in love. Got married; Marie and Claire were born here. But neither family was happy, from what I know.”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged. “Grandma Anais’s family was well-to-do. My grandfather was just a working-class schlub from Philadelphia. I’m not sure what they saw in one another. Maybe they weren’t sure either. One day Anais just packed up Claire and Marie and went to Cherbourg. Some of her family was back in France by then.”

  “Is he still alive? Your grandfather.”

  I shook my head slowly. “No, he died a year ago last month. Claire, and I guess Marie too, hardly knew the man, to be honest. He was never a part of their lives.”

  “So when did Claire and Marie come back to the States?” Russell tipped his coffee cup to drink but realized the cup was empty.

  I held out my hand. “I’ll give you the rest.” I poured it into his cup. “Marie joined a convent in France and then came over here to be with Claire. I think Claire came over in the early nineties sometime. I’m not sure of the date. She was an editor for French Vogue and they transferred her to the US.”

  “Where did they live?” he asked. “Ross and Anais, I mean. When they were living here?” His eyes were steady and interested.

  “Ross Saunders worked in the mills in and around Philadelphia. So I’m assuming they lived somewhere in the city. I’ll find out, if it’s important.”

  “Hmmm. Listen. I have an idea. Let me feed you one good meal. A really good, heavy, solid meal, and you tell me everything you remember or know about your mother, your aunt, Anais, and your grandfather . . .”

  “One condition.” I put my cup into the sink. “Call Joanne and fire her as my bodyguard. And from now on, we do this together. And I’m moving back here for now. No babysitters.”

  “Not a good idea—”

  “This is a deal breaker, Russell. I can take care of myself. I’m not living with Joanne forever while this house sits empty.”

  “When it comes to this, I’m not sure any of us can take care of ourselves. Look at me.” He pointed to his swollen face.

  “If someone wants to hurt me, they will, whether Joanne is with me or not. It may just put her in harm’s way too.”

  He sighed. “Lock the doors and windows? Keep 911 on speed dial? Call me if you hear anything weird in the house? I mean it.”

  “D’accord. So, how heavy a meal?” I laughed.

  CHAPTER 13

  We were seated in the courtyard at the Mexican Food Factory. After pondering a dozen other restaurants in the area, we’d agreed on this one. The seating outside was nice, the food was decent, and they served drinks.

  He pushed the basket of chips over to me. “Eat. Please.”

  I took a chip and nibbled at the corner. “What is it with you and my weight?”

  He shrugged. “Talking to a woman about her weight is a no-no, but in your case I’ll make an exception. You’re thin. Anorexic?”

  I hated that word. I shook my head. “Let’s not start this dinner off with a diagnosis hanging in the air. Okay?”

  He sat back in his chair. “So tell me what the deal was with you and your mother.”

  “The deal”—I leaned forward—“was that Claire, not to speak ill of the dead, was a bitch.”

  He smiled and shifted in his chair. “How so?”

  I considered my words. “She could be very mean. Angry all the time.”

  “Abusive?”

&n
bsp; The word stung. “Oh, I don’t know . . . but there was the not-so-occasional smack in the face. And there was yelling, name calling. I didn’t exist most of the time. As a kid I just found ways to entertain myself, stay out of her path.”

  “Sounds like it was hard.”

  I stared off into the bamboo planted around the courtyard. “We moved a lot, so I was kind of always alone, trying to adjust, off-kilter.” I took another bite of the chip. “Just trying to keep my balance, you know?”

  “Why’d you move so much?”

  “A million reasons. She didn’t like the community, the schools, the neighbors. It seemed like at least every year she was packing up.”

  “I’m surprised you managed to graduate high school.”

  “Ah, yes, well, there’s tutors for that kind of thing. I spent my childhood playing catch-up.”

  “So how’d Claire get her money? It takes money to live. Not to mention move. Didn’t she have to work?”

  I thought about it. “She started off as a magazine editor years ago, but she never worked after she adopted me. Anais’s family was loaded. I assume that Claire just got money from her.”

  “That’s interesting in and of itself.”

  The waitress came with our drinks. “Claire had some issues with her sister, too. Neither of them is easygoing. Was easygoing, in the case of Claire.” I cleared my throat. “Marie runs hot and cold and is a bit of a nut. Is this what you wanted to know?”

  “I’m a captive audience. Tell me anything you want to.”

  “When I was little, I never felt Claire wanted me. She tried so hard to put on this perfect face for the world, you know, or for whatever school system I happened to be in at that moment. She’d always smile, say the right thing, hug me, or touch me when people were around, but it was very different when no one was looking.”

  He swallowed a yellow pill with his margarita. “Percocet. Pain.”

  “Great combo. I guess I’m driving you home.”

  His hair, which had been getting longer, curling in the back, had been shaved closer to his head after the accident. But he still had the little unshaven patch of facial hair right under his bottom lip.

  “I always had this sense that we were different from everyone else. I had friends but I was never one of them, if you know what I mean.”

  “Different how?”

  I shrugged. “Not the same. Maybe it was because she didn’t want to get to know anyone. For us to be a part of anything.” I dipped a chip in salsa and put it in my mouth. “She wouldn’t come to the mother-daughter brunch at school. Or join the PTA fund-raisers. I’d bring home the info and she’d throw it away.”

  “Ever?” Russell asked.

  “Hardly ever. We were always outsiders no matter where we went.”

  A breeze was blowing gently across the patio. Soft Mexican music mixed with the sound of the fountain a few feet away. The tequila was clearly making its way to my brain.

  “So you grew up with that, just moving around, never getting to know anyone? How about Anais? She was a good grandmother?”

  I laughed. “It’s too bad you missed her. She was here after Claire died. Took the body back to France for burial. Yes, Anais was the best part of this adoption deal. For sure. Strong woman. Very strong. Quirky. Very French.”

  He leaned in, chewing an ice cube from his drink. “I imagine she was devastated at the loss. It’s not easy to lose a child.”

  “I thought she might stay longer, actually. Spend time with me and Marie. But she finished her arrangements and left the next day.” I tilted my head to the side. “She held herself together while she was here, though. Upset but composed. I don’t think I saw her cry.”

  The waitress came and placed food in front of us. Russell had asked me if there was anything I didn’t like on the menu. When I said no, he’d insisted on ordering for both of us. I wasn’t hungry anyway, so I didn’t mind. I’d gone to the bathroom while he placed the order. Now there were three plates in front of me. Guacamole salad, a mango-brie quesadilla, and grilled sea bass with red grits. “Russell, any one of these would have been fine.”

  He smiled. “Take some of it home. Anyway, getting back to your family.”

  “I was there, you know.” I caught his eye. “That morning when Claire was dying.”

  He looked startled at my choice of words. “Really?”

  “I found her on the floor in the hallway, near my bedroom door. Coming to me for help, I assume.”

  “Ava, that’s awful. She was still alive?”

  “Yes. She was. Her last words to me?” I smiled. “First she begged me for help. Then, while we were waiting for the ambulance, she prayed for my soul. Pleaded with me to be a better person.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly. “Really? What did she mean?”

  I bit my lip. “Not sure. I’m surprised she didn’t waste those breaths telling me I looked fat in my pants. She was always criticizing.” It probably came out harsher than I intended, because Russell had a shocked look on his face.

  He cleared his throat. “So, tell me about Claire’s father, Ross.”

  “I’m afraid my information about him is sketchy. He wasn’t a favorite topic of conversation in Claire’s house. Though I did meet him a few times.”

  He leaned forward again. “Really?”

  “Yeah. He and Claire had a few powwows. Not like family gatherings or anything. He’d meet her and they’d talk, but I wasn’t privy to the conversation. Then he’d leave. Just go on his way. And he never acknowledged my presence. Funny, huh?”

  “What was he like?”

  “The meetings weren’t casual get-togethers. He was abrupt, to the point. I stood off to the side. Both times Claire was—unsettled, I guess is the word, after we left.”

  “Hmmm. He was living in Philadelphia and would meet you wherever you were?”

  “Yes. Once was in Pittsburgh. That was more planned, because Claire told me about it beforehand. The other time he just showed up when we were walking down the street in Philly.”

  “And that’s it?” I nodded. He put the glass down. “Okay, there has to be someone who knows the whole Ross Saunders story. He’s the key to this. I just have a feeling.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “After the double murder, I’m going to be looking into his death next. And you”—he pointed at me—“have access to a treasure trove. Claire’s house. Dig. See if you can find any old letters or something in her stuff.” His eyes were a bit unfocused. His words weren’t slurred, but they were starting to melt together at the edges.

  “Do you always drink this much?” I asked. “And pop painkillers at the same time? Because I really need you to have a clear head, Russell,” I mimicked him. “No boozing. Clean up your act.”

  “Point taken. Bad, bad week. So bad . . .” Then he started laughing. “This is the most fun I’ve had in . . . never mind . . . Did anyone ever tell you you look like a cat?” He was chuckling.

  “No, you’re the first.” It was amusing to see him like this.

  “A skinny black cat with green eyes. One of those really slinky black cats. Cat woman.” He reached out and tugged on the ends of my hair.

  “Russell, give me your car keys.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Joanne had insisted on coming over to make lunch, bringing two bags of groceries and a cheese grater with her. I’d opened the door still in my pajamas, despite the fact that it was almost one in the afternoon. I’d been drinking pots of coffee and sitting on the patio all morning, unable to bring myself to so much as comb my hair. Joanne just stared when I opened the door.

  “Thank God I’m here.” She stepped over some reaccumulating clutter on the floor and continued into the kitchen. “I’m going to make the best grilled cheese. Wanna help?”

  “No, thanks, I’d only be in the way. I’m going into Claire’s office, look around a little bit, if you need me.” I started toward the stairs.

  A hint of a smile crossed her face. “Hmmm, might wan
t to stop by the bathroom and clean up a little while you’re up there.”

  The morning that Claire died was so distorted in my mind. I’d stumbled from my room on my way to find desperately needed coffee, the remnants of the pint of gin I’d swallowed down the night before still flowing through my veins. I’d been out late, parked at Cooper River, sipping the gin from one bottle and then tonic from the other. My version of a mixed drink. I was angry at Claire for insisting I come back from Montreal after college. I’d made a reasonable life for myself in Canada—friends, freedom, and fun. It was easier to forget there, to pretend I’d had a normal, inconsequential childhood. I really didn’t want to come back to her. I even appealed to Anais, who refused to get involved and refused to give me any money. She’d said, “Se creuser la tête puis faire avec.” Think hard and then deal with it. The reality was that I’d been in Canada on a student visa, and getting a job and staying permanently were more complicated than I thought. By the time I got off the train in Philadelphia, I was frothing with resentment. So I dealt with it by being more bitter and angry at Claire than ever before.

  Until the morning I saw her lying on the floor, in the hallway just outside her bedroom. She was dressed in her thin nightgown and robe, her hand pressed to her chest. She’d apparently been trying to reach my room when she’d collapsed. Phones in bedrooms, either landlines or cells, were tasteless and forbidden according to Claire, but in this case one might have saved her life. I had no idea how long she’d been lying there, but she was alive and asking for help when I leaned over her.

  I got my cell phone and called 911. When the ambulance finally arrived, she was no longer talking and her lips had taken on a purply hue. They hooked her up to all kinds of tubes, the two EMTs speaking quickly in a medical language I didn’t understand. I did understand, though, when they lifted her onto the gurney and took her out of the house, that it wasn’t good. Marie. Marie needed to know what was happening. I called her and got her voicemail. I left a message and headed to the hospital, trying to follow the ambulance, though I could only hear the sirens in front of me.

  When I reached the emergency room, Marie was there with her sister, as though transported on the wings of God. The two were huddled together. Claire was conscious and able to speak. I stood at the curtain and heard the words going back and forth in impossibly rapid French. It was so fast and the tone so hushed, I could only catch every third word. Then the words stopped altogether. Claire turned blue; codes were called and a nurse pushed me out into the waiting room. I never saw her alive again.