Twist of Faith

by Ellen J Green

  “Why take her purse, Papa?” she’d asked through clenched teeth and trembling lips.

  “I had it in my hand when I ran. I don’t know,” he’d answered. “Identifying her will be harder. Next to impossible.” Marie had backed up, afraid. “I didn’t do this thing to her, baby. You have to believe me.”

  Marie shook her head. “No.” A simple word that meant No, I won’t help you cover this up. No, I won’t take her purse. Or the murder weapon. No, I don’t believe anything you say.

  In the end it became yes. Yes, I will cover this up, hide the murder weapon, destroy evidence, lie, and run for the rest of my life. Yes. But the purse was the worst of it. Passport, identification, immigration papers. A wallet containing fifteen US dollars and change. A hairbrush. A lipstick. The remnants of an entire life story fit neatly into one black cross-body bag.

  For the longest time, Marie had spread the contents of that purse out and stared at them, marveling at fate. How random events could end a life. The ordinary Maybelline Coffee Kiss lipstick the woman had probably used that morning, like she did every morning, not knowing that swipe of color would be the last. She’d gone about her routine that day, taking the bus from social services to food banks to shelters, trying to put together a life for herself that would never happen. She should have left religion out of that equation. She would still be alive.

  “How much money are we talking about?” he asked.

  She knew she’d made a mistake in mentioning that. Now he was going to rob her and then kill her. Her back was against the brick wall, her body braced for whatever he was going to do to her. He leaned toward her, his face too close, his hand pinning one arm. Too close. She couldn’t breathe. Air went into her lungs and didn’t come out.

  She felt her sharp knife plunging deep into his stomach area before she’d even thought it through. She pulled him to her and cupped his face with one hand so that a couple walking by thought they were lovers. Her other held the handle of the blade. She pulled it out quickly, his body folding into hers. His eyes, open, held an expression of surprise.

  She whispered in his ear. “Shh. Go call Claire. She’ll patch you up. Tell her I’ll do the same to her if she doesn’t leave me alone. Can you remember that?”

  He held the brick wall with one hand to brace himself. His eyes clouding over. “You’re too stupid to know what you just did, you crazy bitch.”

  CHAPTER 60

  “You know the deal, Russell. I told you when we were out in the Pine Barrens.” Doug leaned forward in his chair. They were seated in his living room, the afternoon sun dipping down into the western sky, casting weird shadows across his carpet.

  Russell tapped at the photograph. “This isn’t a body. It’s a picture of a body.”

  Doug stood up and began a slow pace in front of the sofa. He didn’t speak for several minutes. “Same difference. This is too much,” he said finally. “What we need to be doing is figuring out how much to report, how to report it so it makes sense, and what parts we can keep to ourselves.”

  “There’s no way to be selective. If we turn in the photograph, where’d we get it? How long did we know she was missing? How about her car?”

  “Nobody knows about the car. It wasn’t official,” he pointed out.

  “Doug, they’re gonna run it for prints. Are mine all over it? And we took evidence from the back seat. Then there’s the letter opener and the tape we found in the woods. What do we do about that?”

  “If she’s dead, her body’s going to turn up. Eventually. And then they’ll put all this together anyway. So let’s sort it out first. We go in and tell the truth, no lies to remember. Just lies of omission.”

  “And Joanne?”

  Doug stopped pacing and looked at him. “She’s not in this. She can’t keep anything straight.”

  Russell’s mind was spinning all the angles around. “I did wear gloves when I drove her car back. But what about all the other photographs?” He knew Doug was right. They should have turned this in a long time ago.

  “They’re not relevant,” Doug said. Russell’s head snapped up. “Not really. We only need to turn in—”

  “It’s a string. We pull one end, the whole thing follows. And why is it okay to turn in Ava’s picture and not the others?”

  Doug sat back down in his chair. He was getting fidgety, running his hands up and down his pant leg. “Because those other bodies aren’t going to suddenly float down the Delaware River or come to the muddy surface of the soil with the spring thaw. This is self-preservation only.”

  “Okay. Okay. Let’s run this through. We say I opened the mailbox because Ava’d been missing for more than a week. I was worried. Her aunt didn’t seem concerned. It was wrong, blah blah blah, but the picture was in the envelope.”

  “Her car was there, in the driveway. Unlocked. Keys in the ignition. You went in the car”—he motioned to Russell—“before you realized anything had happened to her. She had a habit of doing this disappearing thing, so her aunt said. Makes sense.”

  “The letter opener and the tape we keep to ourselves,” Russell said. “What about the candlestick?”

  “If they start with Ava’s disappearance and probable death, they may never connect it to the priest. So the candlestick is irrelevant.”

  “But Ava’s death will lead to Marie. And that’s where they need to focus. She’s all the evidence they need.” Russell stood up and took a deep breath. “If this goes wrong, Doug—”

  “It’s not going to. We’re going to sit here, all day if we have to, and get everything pounded out. But tell me about the house. Joanne said she saw Claire? Like actually saw her?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. But I think it was Marie. The two looked a lot alike. Now why the nun’s sitting in a dark house, no clue.”

  Doug ran a hand through his hair. “You should’ve put a tail on her a long time ago.”

  “You mean I should have tailed her myself. There was no one else.”

  Doug looked at his friend. “I’m really sorry about Ava. I know you liked her.”

  Russell nodded. He felt a pang somewhere deep inside him when he let his mind sit still long enough to realize she was really dead. From the picture, it looked like she was attacked but put up a fight. And the death took place somewhere in the Pine Barrens. While he was asleep in her bed, his liver working overtime to get rid of the Pinot Noir from his system, she was being driven to the woods and slaughtered like an animal, the killer only hesitating long enough to snap a picture. Was Marie calculating enough to do that? And more curious, why would she? He shivered and his pocket started rattling. It took a few seconds for him to realize it was his phone.

  “Guess what?” she said.

  “What, Joanne?”

  “That blazer wasn’t Ava’s. I kept looking at it and it seemed too big. Then I pulled out a picture of us at Gail’s retirement party—when we went to the Victor Club? Ava was wearing her jacket. Except hers was single breasted. This one is almost identical but it’s double breasted.”

  “So?” He was getting impatient. Not in the mood for trivial details.

  “So the jacket I have has to belong to Claire. It was hanging right in that front closet. I saw it and assumed it was Ava’s. But it wasn’t. They just look the same.”

  “And?”

  “And, Mister Moody, I’m-Too-Busy-for-This, Claire’s jacket had something in the pocket.”

  “What?”

  “A pawn ticket. Philadelphia. ‘Joe’s Pawnshop—We Buy Gold.’ Eleventh and South.”

  “Why would Claire have pawned anything? She had money.” He was thinking out loud more than asking a question.

  “How better to hide something temporarily? I’m heading over there to see what it is before you talk me out of it. Bye.”

  He ended the call and looked at Doug. “So as we’re thinking about turning in the evidence for one piece of the puzzle, all the other pieces keep growing in number.”

  After two and a half hours of brainst
orming, interrogating each other, stopping and starting, backtracking, and fixing details, they landed on the perfect blend of outright truth and outright omission.

  Doug patted Russell’s back. “Are we ready? Calm, steady, just like we practiced. We’ve got this.”

  CHAPTER 61

  Marie stood with her back to the wall. She was having trouble breathing. She’d just left the man on the street to die. He’d still been standing, holding on to the brick to keep himself in place, when she’d rushed away. Maybe he’d crumpled onto the sidewalk. Maybe he was at the hospital now and the police were checking the surveillance cameras for the killer. Maybe.

  She’d come back to the hotel, locked the door, and chained it. It was a beautiful suite, luxurious, flowers filling the vases on the nightstand. Thick bedding, a Jacuzzi bathtub, and separate tiled shower area. Nothing bad could possibly happen in a space like this. She could just stay and order room service until her money ran out. How long would that be?

  She replayed what had happened over in her mind. What exactly had happened? He’d attacked her. He’d chased her and pulled her down the street back to the hotel with the intention of killing her because he was paid to do it. She had convinced herself she was crazy. That she was paranoid, connecting things that weren’t real. And here it was. Enough of a reality check, Dr. Rasmussen? This insane woman was now turning on her family. No other reason. Enough.

  Though no matter how many times she said the word enough, it didn’t register. It was never going to be enough. She wasn’t the one who started the war. The words said back there in the Bayside Inn were coming true. It’s dangerous out there. Indeed. Marie began to pace. What now? Where was she? What did she want?

  She stopped and closed her eyes, thinking of how the knife sliced his clothes but hesitated at the skin, resisting going through, stretching the skin that was protecting his organs, almost like God was giving her a chance to back out and run away. But she ignored it and pushed harder and felt the pop of the metal piercing his flesh.

  What was worse, stabbing someone or choking the air from their lungs? She’d done both now. Ava’d been cut but Marie hadn’t done it. She’d watched, horrified, unsure whether to attack Quinn or help him. She’d watched Ava’s face, twisting in pain but defiant till the end. Then Marie jumped in and wrapped her hands around the girl’s throat and watched her eyeballs roll back in her head. Saw her fight, felt her clawing at her hands, a spirit inside of her that didn’t want to give up. Struggling against a darkness that was inevitable.

  Marie released the air from her own lungs, let it stream from her mouth slowly now. She’d left the convent with her bags days ago, but religion had left her soul that day in the woods with Ava. And it wasn’t coming back. That day had brought nightmares and flashbacks and a repeated pondering of events from nineteen years before. Her thoughts went to the dead woman with the priest, even when she willed them not to. Wandering into the church that night, unaware. And though Marie hadn’t seen it happen, the images were in her mind as if she had. She’d certainly seen the aftermath.

  She’d seen the pictures of the woman. Dark hair. Hazel eyes. Fair skin. A look in her eye that said life had been unkind, but there might be hope. The photograph on her passport even showed a smile curling her lips just a bit upward, as if there was still something to be happy about. She’d arrived in Philadelphia not even four days before she was killed. Wandering about the city with nowhere to go. Until she’d stumbled upon the shelter of the church.

  Marie put her hands to her ears, trying to block out the memories of that night. The terrible fight between her and Claire after their father had abruptly arrived covered in blood, asking the impossible from the two of them.

  She’d agreed to go to the car that night in Brooklyn so Ross wouldn’t attract any more attention. She’d fetched the murder weapon and his bloody coat wrapped in a plastic bag, and more, a bundle that she carried against her shoulder. She’d returned to find Claire in a rage. She’d agreed to all of this—Ross, on the floor, covered in blood, had broken her down—but now she was in a panic, had folded herself into a big armchair, consoling herself with tears. She blamed Marie for feeling pity for the man, for the softness that always played in her eyes.

  “You’re a fool, Marie,” she’d spat, her eyes rimmed with red, her breath filled with wine. “You’ve destroyed us both.”

  Marie set the plastic bag on the floor. “Can you think of anyone but yourself, Claire?”

  “People are dead. And more will die, Sister.” Claire had jumped from her chair, semi-intoxicated, wobbly, and uncontrolled. “They will. You got us into this mess and you will pay with your own life. Mark my words.” She stormed to her bedroom and slammed the door.

  The noise made the hefty bundle in her arms squirm. She placed the child on the couch and covered her with a blanket. The girl who was not yet Ava opened her eyes, confused and disoriented from sleep. “Mamma?”

  Marie placed a cool hand on the child’s forehead. “Shh. Go to sleep.” She couldn’t help but notice the girl’s dress and arms were sprayed with blood. How could Claire just turn away from this?

  Promises made so many years ago had finally come home to roost. Marie walked into the bathroom and stripped off her clothes, turned on the shower, and watched how the steam filled the room. Then she stepped under the hot torrent, all the while considering her options. If someone attacked her, they were going to be surprised to find no softness in Marie’s eyes anymore, just hard, calculating self-preservation. And the knife she’d hold would absolutely be capable of piercing skin, flesh, and bone.

  CHAPTER 62

  The pawnshop was on the corner of Eleventh and South, another area of the city that had changed over the years. It was becoming more commercial, connecting more with the end of South Street closer to the Delaware River. The outside of the shop had little appeal to draw customers in. A large white We Buy Gold sign filled the grimy window. A neon Open light was in the upper corner. The glass door had the shop hours, the rules and regulations. This business survived by drawing the needy, not the browsers. It was small, crammed with all kinds of odds and ends people had either parted with for a quick bit of cash or surrendered by lack of payment.

  Joanne had learned the rules of the pawn business in one frenzied weekend in Vegas with her brother. Every item that was pawned was registered; the owner had to present identification and was fingerprinted. Sometimes even photographed. The ticket she held was for an item pawned a week and two days ago—not enough time for a payment to be due. But in order for Joanne to retrieve the item, the original owner—whoever had dropped the item off—would have to sign the ticket over to her. But she had absolutely no idea who that was, even if she wanted to try and attempt a forgery.

  Joanne put on what she thought was her best, most innocent smile and pulled open the glass door. The man behind the counter was older, balding, and not interested. He squinted up at her and dropped his head back down, though she was standing in front of him.

  She pulled out the ticket and placed it on the counter. “I wanted to know how much I owe on this.” She said it with authority though her palms were sweating, her hands trembling, so she shoved them in her coat pocket.

  He took the ticket and then pulled out a ledger book. No computers here. “You just left it. Not a whole lotta interest. Three twenty-seven even’ll do it.”

  Joanne tried to hold back the surprised look on her face. “You’ll take credit cards?”

  He nodded and disappeared in the back of the store. A few minutes later he came out with a cardboard box, about eight by eight square, and dropped it onto the counter. “Boss was hoping you wouldn’t come for it. He could sell it easy, maybe not here—not the right clientele—but the right collector? Worth a bundle.”

  “Can I see it?” She started to reach for the box.

  “Money. Then it’s all yours. And I need your ID.”

  “Fine.” She reached into her wallet and handed him her credit card.
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br />   He took it without realizing she hadn’t given him her driver’s license. He opened the box and pulled out a Polaroid camera in a plastic bag. A very early 1950s model. And three boxes of film. “The camera is not so rare. You can still find them. But not modified like this. To take modern Polaroid or Fuji film. Vintage made modern. How long have you had this?”

  “Lord, I don’t know. I’m a pack rat. Tons of stuff in my attic. Belongs to my grandmother. I dropped it off for her as a favor.”

  “Not unless you dyed your hair and gained some poundage since then.” He realized he’d been insensitive. “Sorry.” He pulled the photograph from an envelope that was shoved in an accordion file. “We take pictures when we take an item.”

  Joanne stared into the mugshot-style photograph of a thin woman, dark hair cut to just below her ears, part of her bangs swept across her face. Eyes cast downward. The picture was dark and blurred. It was hard to make out the features. Claire? “Okay, it’s my cousin. She was short of cash when she turned this in, and I wanted to do her a favor—pick it up as a surprise.” Her eyes were riveted on the date in the corner. The camera had been pawned two days after Ava disappeared.

  His face creased. “Can’t do it. You know that. Unless you can get her to sign over the ticket to you.” He pointed to the box printed on the bottom right-hand corner of the ticket. “Bring it back signed, with the money, and it’s all yours.”

  “Her whole name on the ticket is Claire Lavoisier-Saunders. Would I know that if she wasn’t related? She went to France. Won’t be back for at least three weeks. Help me out here.”

  “I don’t care if her name is b-o-b Bob. It’s not happening. It’ll be more than three twenty-seven when she gets back. Call for the total. You still got plenty of time on this.”

  “Fine. Do me a favor. Don’t open the camera or play with it, and especially not the silver button that takes the picture.” She pointed at it through the plastic bag. “It’s very fragile and it broke before. Just keep it safe and I’ll be back.”