Twist of Faith

by Ellen J Green

  CHAPTER 70

  Joanne stared at Ava’s death photo. It looked so real, but she had to have taken it herself. The eyes were vacant, but then maybe that’s because there was nothing in her soul to begin with. The longer she stared the angrier she became. She lied to us. Used us. Marie’s face had been completely vacant of expression too, Joanne had noticed, during their brief jail conversation. Her voice didn’t betray any emotional connection to the fact she was confined in a six-by-six cell, while sitting straight-backed on the plastic chair.

  Joanne stood up and started to pace. Russell was at the airport—he would catch her; he had to. She imagined his reaction, how surprised and angry he’d be that it hadn’t been Claire after all—just dear, sweet, conniving Ava. Her mind flashed to memories of Ava and Joanne’s son sitting side by side at the kitchen table, building something with Legos. How could any of this be true?

  She was steeling herself for Russell’s devastation, her anxiety increasing as the seconds ticked by. Moments later she heard the familiar sound of his car engine pulling up in front of her house. She sat and put her hands in her lap, her head down. She heard the door open and then shut, footsteps across the hardwood floor.

  When she didn’t hear any words for almost a minute, she looked up. Russell was standing in front of her, hair tangled, eyes wild, hands in his pockets.

  “I guess you finally found her, huh? Where is she?” She looked past him, almost thinking she might see Ava lingering in the doorway in handcuffs.

  “In the air somewhere over the Atlantic. Joanne—”

  She was on her feet. “No. No. You were too late? You missed her? How?”

  “The plane was lifting off the tarmac by the time I got through security.” He dropped a paper on the coffee table. “I had to stand in line for half an hour to buy a ticket so I could try and catch her at the gate.”

  She picked the paper up. “Returnable, I hope?”

  “Yeah, returnable.”

  “Are you effing kidding me? She’s gone? Call now and have her detained when she lands. Where’s she landing?”

  “Direct to Cuba.”

  Joanne was quiet for a few moments. “Cuba? Seriously? Land of Fidel and the Bay of Pigs?”

  Russell shrugged. “Quick direct flight. Impossible to track her from there. No extradition or cooperation to be had.”

  Joanne grabbed the dead-Ava picture from the coffee table and crumpled it in her fist. “Shit.”

  His face flushed.

  “You know what I think?” She watched him carefully. “I think there was no direct flight to Cuba. I think you saw her, talked to her. I think you made a choice to let her go.” She grabbed her phone. “I’m going to call the airport to just see what flights were going out—”

  “Stop.” Russell walked to where she stood and took the phone from her hand.

  Her eyes shot daggers at him. “You know, it never occurred to me that at some point you’d turn on me. What happened? Did Ava eat your soul while waiting for her flight?”

  Russell shook his head. “No, she ate my brain.” He dropped down onto the sofa next to her. “And the whiskey didn’t help either.”

  “I think you have about thirty seconds to start talking before I throw you out of my house.”

  He half turned toward her. “From the beginning, this didn’t make any sense. Something was off. I couldn’t get to it exactly, but it was there.”

  “Yeah, Ava was bullshitting us the whole time. That’s what was off. Then she ran off, leaving us to believe she was dead and that Claire was alive.”

  “Yes, she did have us running in circles. But why’d she drag us into this in the first place?”

  Joanne stood up and rubbed the fronts of her thighs. “I need coffee. You want some?”

  He nodded and readily accepted the mug filled to the brim, taking a large sip before he spoke again. “Ava isn’t random or careless or stupid. She wanted a cop involved, and you were a conduit to a cop.” Joanne felt her face crumple at those words. Russell reached out and touched her arm. “I mean, that’s not all you meant to her. Just in terms of this case.”

  “So why’d she need a cop? If she took all the pictures, and did all the killing—and I’m assuming she did—wouldn’t that be risky?”

  “Not if she was planning on disappearing anyway. And not if she thought she could control the cop.”

  “Control you? She’s not that dumb.”

  He propped his chin up with his hands. “Maybe not so dumb, she did a pretty good job of it. But I think this all served a larger purpose. Getting me to find out her mother’s name. That’s what this has all been about. That’s what everything was about.”

  Joanne said nothing. Her mind was whirling the pieces of the puzzle around, trying to make them fit. Then she stood up and put the cup on the coffee table. “So Claire knew she was killing people?”

  His fingers were steepled, the tips just touching. “I think she figured it out when Ross died. That’s why she made her come home from Montreal. To keep an eye on her. Make her stop.”

  Joanne put her head down and laced her fingers over the top of it. “Makes no sense. Why pretend she was Claire?”

  Russell stood up. “That’s the funny part. I’m not sure it was intentional, at least at first. She said she grabbed the big coat because it was like a blanket. Warm. The only phone she had was Claire’s that she found in the desk drawer in the office. I’d taken hers by that point. She called her own phone, thinking Marie had it. But you called back. And then I called her.”

  “So why’d she go out to the Owenses’ house that day, acting like she had no idea what happened there? I don’t get it.”

  He shrugged. “To get the ball rolling with us, to play the legitimately confused victim, to draw Quinn out. You pick.”

  “That fucking bitch.”

  He had no answer. “You asked me how I could let her go? I begged her not to get on that plane, but not for the reasons you think. Either way—stay or go—she’s doomed. I let her go to save you. Both of us, really.”

  Joanne’s eyebrows shot up. “How’s that?”

  “If I detained her, she was going to take us down with her—all the withheld information, interference in a criminal investigation, obstruction of justice. We would have been arrested, and you might have been sitting right next to her in the county jail.”

  “So how do you figure she’s doomed by traipsing off to Europe or wherever? First class, I assume.”

  “One, because Marie will have a high-powered attorney making bail as soon as her mother knows she’s in jail. Seven hundred and fifty thousand cash. And trust me, Marie’s going after Ava as soon as she gets a chance. And two, because Ava’s walking into a trap she made for herself. Anais will never accept that she’s killed six people, including her grandfather, just to get her mother’s name. There’s no way out for her.”

  CHAPTER 71

  The water was rough; the Mediterranean Sea rocked the long boat until my already-twisting stomach felt ready to empty itself. I was a bundle of nerves, looking over the itinerary every ten minutes, trying to decide where to jump ship. It would be almost seventeen days until we hit the Balkans. Kotor, Montenegro, might be my last stop, but enduring seventeen days on this ship was going to be difficult.

  Anais had been quiet since the airport. She hadn’t asked me about Marie or about why I’d needed to flee the States so suddenly. Her silence was like a storm in the distance—I could see dark clouds gathering but could only watch and wait. She had some plan, I was sure, and the whats and hows were putting me on edge—paranoid. The only thing I knew for certain was that I needed her to willingly hand over the bank account she’d set up for me and the money she’d put in it—that was key, if I was going to get away from this situation and figure out where my new life would begin.

  I heard the door open but didn’t turn around to see her come in. I was too busy taking in the clear crescent moon from our balcony deck chair. She slid into the seat next to m
e, the jangle of her bracelets hitting the armrest. She swung her feet up. I smelled a hint of liquor on her before she even opened her mouth.

  “So, tomorrow we hit Toulon. Do you know where you might be getting off this ship?” Anais asked.

  I gave a slight shrug. “Not France. So you’re stuck with me for a few more days.”

  “Two days in France, then three stops in Italy. Take your pick.” Her lips curled upward. “You’ve been so quiet since we’ve been on board. You didn’t want to eat in the dining room? Or have drinks with me?”

  “I’m not hungry, Grand-Maman.” I tried not to look at her.

  “You don’t look well. Those dark circles under your eyes are taking over your face. And maybe they should.” She turned her head and a glint of light hit her diamond earrings, scattering a prism across the balcony. This woman had been my heart and soul at one time. My grandmother, mother, protector, teacher. “Why is that? Guilt? Guilt has a funny way of chewing up the soul. Are you feeling guilty, Ava?”

  Was I? Nervous, impatient, angry, on edge—all those fit better.

  “Where’s Marie?” Anais asked. “I’ve been patient but I really need to know—right now. I haven’t been able to reach her.”

  Here we go. “She stabbed my forgery man. She’s in jail.”

  Anais shot upright, glaring at me. “In jail? For murder? And you waited a day and a half to tell me?” She started to stand. “I need to get her out of there.”

  “It wasn’t my fault, Grand-Maman. The police grabbed her right before I left Philadelphia.”

  Whenever Anais was angry, her French became more rapid and clipped. I could barely catch the meaning of her next words. “She couldn’t reach me by phone so she mailed a letter last Thursday to the house. I got it before I met you at the airport, when I went home to pack a few things.”

  “What’s it say?” I felt my pulse rise. Marie was sitting in a filthy jail cell three thousand miles away and she was still messing with me. “Did she tell you she and Quinn choked me in the woods? Working together, I might add. That she left me for dead? Did she tell you that in her little letter? Or did she leave that out?”

  “She said Quinn came to her and forced her hand. That it was because of her that you’re still alive.”

  “Pffft” was all I could manage.

  “She said she tried, Ava. She tried to help you after they left you in the woods—leaving you a knife to cut the tape, your purse. And your car. Not to mention the precious camera you tried to steal from her closet.”

  “She wasn’t doing me a favor by leaving the camera. She hit me with it when she saw I had it. And it was a letter opener she dropped next to me, not a knife. My purse was soaked and ruined, but yes, there was cash in it. I lay in those woods, bruised and beaten, tied up for two days before I could get myself out. No food or water. Animals running around me. She had no clue if I was dead or alive, so now she did me a favor?”

  “She didn’t let Quinn kill you, so yes—”

  “She just let him cut me, kick me in the head—”

  She whipped around to face me. “I’m not saying it was right, but Marie’s always held on to some romantic image of her father and what he did years ago, so it doesn’t surprise me it came to this, but I doubt she wanted you dead.” She waved her hand at me. “You survived.”

  “Really? I survived?”

  “So tell me why you’re pretending to be dead to everyone, Ava? Why this plan to take a cruise and disembark? It’s a little dramatic.”

  I stared out the window. “If I’m dead, they won’t come looking for me, so maybe Marie did do me a favor there after all, leaving the camera with me. It all worked out.”

  “Who’s looking for you? All four men are dead—including your grandfather.”

  I looked at her sharply. What had Marie told her? “You haven’t given me any details of where the money is,” I said. “What bank. Where do I go when I land in Hanoi?”

  “We have many days still to talk about that.”

  The old woman stood up and went into the cabin. I heard her lift the phone and place an order. When she came back she seemed charged and determined. “You look like you haven’t had a bite in days—I ordered you a little something. And then I want to hear your side of what happened.”

  I thought for a fleeting moment about how easy it would be to jump from the boat and swim toward the lights. The air was warm, thick, and salty, and I wondered if the Mediterranean Sea was the same. How far were those lights?

  “Marie said some things in the letter,” she said, “and I haven’t been able to sleep since. This family is in shambles. When you first came to us—”

  “Please don’t—”

  “I begged my daughters to turn their father in to the police. To turn you in to social services. And I made some decisions—decisions to not let all of you live with me, not give them money to buy their way out of this—so I’m to blame, in a way, for some of this.”

  What she was saying was true, and I didn’t know how to respond. At any point along the way Anais could have ended this by letting us all come to France. Quinn never would have followed.

  “I thought they’d give in at some point,” she continued. “I was beyond angry at Ross for pulling my daughters into the middle of his mess with that disgusting little priest. But time passed—”

  “Grand-Maman—”

  “And now Claire’s dead. Ross is dead. You, for all intents and purposes, are dead too. So what did all this get me?”

  “What did Marie say in her letter? Can I see it?”

  Anais’s face turned a shade of red and then blanched. “She said Polaroids were taken after Ross and his friends died. That not only were they all murdered, but someone used that stupid camera I sent to Claire to take pictures afterward.” Her head was down, her fingers kneading her forehead. “Ava, why?”

  “She blamed me?”

  “I’ve been sick about it, and I can’t find an answer.”

  “No—”

  “If you’d used any other camera I never would have known. But that camera I had altered only takes black-and-white. Terrible black-and-white pictures, at that.”

  There was a knock on the door. I got up and opened it, returning moments later with a tray of cheeses, two glasses, and a carafe of white wine. I poured one for Anais and then filled my glass to the brim.

  “There’s no other camera like it. Finding that little man in Cherbourg that tinkered with cameras, having him alter it, was a joke for Claire. A sentimental joke.”

  “I went to Bill Connelly. I did. I only wanted to know my mother’s name so I could try and track down my family. But not only wouldn’t he tell me, he threatened me. Another shitty priest. He threatened me, Grand-Maman. He called me names.”

  “So you killed him? My God, Ava.”

  I folded my arms as if I wanted to fold up into a ball and disappear. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “It was exactly like that. And the Owenses? The man who was butchered with the hammer? Ava? You did that?”

  “The one butchered with a hammer was the one who decided to stage the affair scene in the church after my mother was dead. He undressed her and put her next to that disgusting man. I overheard more than any of you realized, understood more, remembered more. It took me years to piece it all together. But they all deserved what they got.”

  She looked a sickly gray. “What’s the matter with you? I raised you, almost. In the summers. This isn’t possible. Ross saved you that night.” She tried to stand up, but her legs were wobbly and she stumbled and fell back down into her seat.

  “After he helped orphan me. And yet even when I begged him, when he knew what I’d done to the others, he still refused to tell me my mother’s name. Why?”

  She took a long drink and then held the glass in her lap. When she looked at me there were tears in her eyes. “And Claire?”

  The wine burned going down my throat. The moments before Claire died, when she was in the emergency room, s
he’d been whispering to Marie. I couldn’t hear it, but Claire had been looking at me. That minute between the two sisters kept me up at night.

  She got up and staggered into the bedroom. I wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or if she needed to get away from me as fast as she could. I reached for the carafe and refilled my glass. Then I followed her. She was holding a letter—Marie’s letter?—tightly between her fingers.

  “I took Claire’s body back to France not just to bury her but to have a real autopsy done. A thorough autopsy. And you know what they found?”

  “What?” I felt my heart sink. I couldn’t lose the love of this woman. I had to make her understand.

  “An elevated potassium level that maybe is consistent with a heart attack. But Claire was a relatively young woman in good shape. It didn’t add up. They also found some needle marks, very faint. Six of them on her upper right arm. One very fresh, like she was given a needle that very morning she died.”

  “You think I elevated her potassium or something? Stuck her with needles? Anais,” I begged. “I was back and forth to the doctor’s with her before she died. They were giving her B12 shots. You have to believe me. I didn’t do this.”

  She leaned toward me, her face only inches from mine. “I think you’d been poisoning Claire for months. After you got back from college. That’s why Claire was sick for so long, complaining of those headaches, tired all the time. But when pills didn’t work, you escalated to injecting her. Six times?”

  “No, no, no, no.” I whipped my head back and forth and the tears fell, rolling down onto my cheeks. “Grand-Maman . . .” I couldn’t have her believe this. I’d admit to everything else I’d done, but not this.

  “At first I wasn’t sure if it was Marie or you. I needed to stay away from both of you until I figured it out. But then I realized it had to be you—because she knew what you’d done? She’d threatened to turn you in? That’s what I think. You destroy everything you touch.”

  I recoiled from her words. “You’re wrong. I’ve admitted to the rest of it. But I didn’t do this to her.” I tried to put my hand on her, but she shoved me away.