by Robin Spano
“Let’s go get Jules!”
“Whoa, I don’t have any jewels, though,” Clare said before contemplating if Lucy hated jewelry as much as she did. Luckily, Clare realized, Lucy was even lower maintenance than she was.
“Jules,” Jana said. “Jules the Bear.”
“Right.” Clare held her index finger straight up in the air in front of her. “Wait. Why?”
“Because in Sacha’s note, she says the answer is in Jules.”
“The answer to what? Hey, you said you’d show me the note.”
Jana peered into Clare’s eyes like she was appraising her soul. She took Clare’s hands and held them a moment before saying, “Okay. You pass the test.”
Clare laughed. “What test?”
“You’re cool. You’re here to help, not to hurt anyone.”
“Oh.”
Jana grabbed Clare and pulled her into her bedroom. The bed was unmade and clothes were all over the floor — exactly like on Clare’s last visit, though she had the presence of mind to pretend she’d never been in the room before.
On the wall, Jana had a framed Picasso print — a ragged blue man slumped over a guitar.
“Where did you get this painting?” Clare said, walking up to the print and peering at it closely. She wanted to be in the room with the man, in Europe all those years ago, but she shuddered when she realized she might not be able to climb back out of the painting — and the world back then seemed bleak and full of social injustices. It would be horrible to be stuck in a less enlightened time. She turned away and looked at Jana’s mess again.
“It’s Sacha’s. But when she started dating Wade she said the man in the picture depressed her, so we moved it to my room.”
Jana reached under her pillow and pulled out a folded sheet of lined paper. Clare thought it was funny, why Amanda wouldn’t have just shown her a copy. She wasn’t angry anymore — she felt like she was watching the situation from above, where no anger could exist because the issue wasn’t that important.
Jana handed the note over solemnly. “Read it.”
Clare unfolded the page.
If you’re reading this, pretty sure I’m already gone. I know I’m probably a danger to myself. But I can’t stop. I’m following the only path that makes sense to me. I’m so sorry to leave you like this. If people wonder why I died, you can tell them the answer is in Jules.
“That’s it?” Clare said before she could stop herself. Half of her brain was wondering why Jules was with Jana, why Sacha’s parents hadn’t insisted on having Jules shipped back with her things. The other half answered that Sacha’s parents were grieving too hard to think clearly. Jules had slipped through the cracks, and only Jana was vigilant enough to notice.
Jana said, “Sacha was cryptic. This note is probably code. I’ve been too freaked out to try to decipher it, but tonight — with you here — I feel like I can do it.”
“What do you mean by code?” Clare said. She glanced at the page, tried reading every second letter, then every third, but a hidden message didn’t emerge.
“I don’t know. That’s why I need your help.”
“Hm . . . I guess the first thing to rule out is the literal meaning. Is there physically an answer inside Jules? Like, hidden in his fur or something. Or inside that zippered pocket where the note was?”
Jana smiled indulgently. “She would hardly need code if her meaning was literal.”
“Yeah, but maybe it’s not code.”
“Fine, we’ll look, just to satisfy you,” Jana said.
Clare followed Jana into Sacha’s old bedroom — Clare’s room, for now.
Jana picked Jules up from the dresser and poked him in the missing eye. “Ow! Jules bit me.”
“From his eye? Maybe he doesn’t like being poked there.”
Jana pried back the eye socket just enough to peer inside. She held the small brown bear up to the light. “I think it’s a camera.”
Clare took Jules and peered inside the eye socket. It could be a camera. It could also be a beady little bear eye, dislodged and pushed back into the stuffing. She squeezed strategically and felt two different hard places — one right behind the eye where the maybe-camera was, and the other in the middle, near the back. She flipped Jules over and saw the zipper. “You think Sacha would mind if I opened him?”
Jana shook her head. “Tonight, you are Sacha.”
Clare stuck her hand into Jules’ back. Jana was right: he felt empty. As she was about to pull her hand out, though, she felt a small ridge. Could be the seam in the lining, but it felt more like a second zipper. She moved her finger along the seam until she found a zipper tab. She unzipped it, reached further inside the bear, and felt a thin piece of plastic.
She grinned at Jana. “Score, I think.”
Jana watched gravely as Clare opened Jules up wide enough to see a memory stick connected into the bear by some kind of wire. Clare wished she was sober so she could know for sure what this was — but a camera or even an audio recorder was looking pretty damn likely.
Clare looked at the alarm clock in her room: seven p.m. They’d dropped just after four. That meant around five more hours of being insanely high.
“Do you have any TUMS?” Clare asked. “Or Pepto Bismol?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“I want to be sober to crack this bear puzzle.”
“What would TUMS do?”
“It’s an antacid,” Clare said. “It should neutralize the effects of LSD.”
“Of course! You’re so smart, Lucy. All the times I’ve dropped and I never figured out the secret. Should we go find a pharmacy? I mean, I don’t want the trip to end, but we can always drop again. It would be so cool to find out if that works.”
“No.” Clare’s shoulders slumped. She set Jules down. “It’s a stupid theory. I don’t know why I even thought that.” She felt her veins throbbing inside her, like they were contemplating exploding. She felt her eyelids fall heavily and flutter as they stayed mainly closed. She felt Jana’s hand take hers and lead her to the bed to sit down.
“You’re okay.” Jana’s voice was warm, but Clare did not feel safe. “The drug does this sometimes.”
Clare opened her eyes to meet Jana’s. They looked friendly enough — not like an evil serpent turtle, anyway. More like a turtle fairy godmother. “Am I having a bad trip?”
“Just a bad patch. You’ll be okay.”
“How do you know?”
“Mountain Snow is powerful. If you try to fight it, it fights back. It probably didn’t like your antacid suggestion. But if you go with it, it will pick you up again. Here — drink your juice.”
Clare felt the cold juice glass as Jana placed it in her hand. The juice tasted good — maybe not desert island awesome like before, but strong, nourishing.
But all Clare could think about was how stupid she’d been to swallow that tab, how Amanda had been right — had been trying to protect her — and Clare had thrown all that away by being her stubborn, contrary self.
Clare’s mind started spiraling. Down, into the darkest part of her brain, where she asked herself, was she a fatally flawed fuck-up like her father, with no hope of ever rising above that fate? They both loved fixing cars, riding motorcycles, smoking cigarettes . . . maybe they were the same and there was no escape for Clare. Or was she like her mother — wearing blinders to the bleak reality all around her? Have another cup of tea, dear. Oh, don’t be angry — your father’s just out for a walk — of course he isn’t smoking. You’re leaving already? But I’ve baked these lovely cookies. Clare shuddered to think of the two of them, sequestered in their trailer in their folie a deux, her father slowly dying and no one willing to say it out loud, like if they didn’t name the disease he could stay alive indefinitely . . .
Jana grabbed Clare’s hand and yanked her up. “Come
on. We’re changing rooms.”
“Why?” Clare let herself be led into the living room.
“We all have dark spots in our lives. Don’t dwell on them or you’ll depress yourself.”
Had Clare been talking? Shit. Amanda was so right — she should not have trusted herself to take this drug. She was going to blow her cover in no time. “Um, was I talking?”
Jana laughed. “No. But I know Mountain Snow. Here, sit on the couch; it’s the most comfortable place in the room.”
Clare sat on the couch. It was blue, like the ocean. She felt kind of seasick, but not bad enough to stand up. She just rode the waves, pretending she was skippering a sailboat, pulling at ropes to keep the sails taut and the course true. Noah was on the boat, but he was being lazy. His feet were up on an overturned bucket as he reclined in a deck chair. Clare wanted to tell him to get up and help but there was no point — he looked like he might even be asleep. She put a hand to her forehead and scanned the horizon. And then she was the boat — way more fun — chopping through and feeling salt water lap at her hull. She was carrying Noah — which suddenly felt right — navigating for both of them and leading Noah to a safer place, where he could deal with having killed a girl and forgive himself for it. And then Jana appeared and Clare was Clare again. And Lucy.
Jana put Jules in Clare’s hands and bent down to study the stereo. “We need happy music, STAT.”
From the speakers, a guitar started strumming, and soon Kermit the Frog began singing “The Rainbow Connection.”
The song made Clare smile. The lyrics were sweet and hopeful, making Clare feel like Sacha had written in her note — that wherever she ended up, she was on the only path that made sense to her. She still felt weak, like she was recovering from a vicious virus that had attacked her whole system. But she also felt strong, ready to take on what came next.
“Are you ready to see what’s in Jules?” Jana unzipped the bear’s back, stuck her hand in, and wiggled it around. She frowned. “This memory stick is lodged in here. I don’t want to ruin Jules, but I don’t know how to get it out. I wonder if scissors would help.”
“We could wait until tomorrow,” Clare said. “Or until the acid wears off. I don’t want to ruin Jules, either.”
“We have to act now.”
“Okay.” Clare stroked Jules’ plush ear, silently telling him she wouldn’t let any scissors come near him.
FORTY-TWO
MARTHA
From the midtown fortieth floor, Martha looked out upon nighttime in New York. Below, the East River’s murky waters rushed down the length of the city. Part of her wished she could hop onto a working barge, ride it out to sea, and drift indefinitely. But the largest part of Martha was focused on this party.
She smiled at a terrible joke that a man in a well-tailored suit had just told — something about a bear and a beer in a bar. She sipped her gin and tonic. She made an equally lame but friendly reply.
“We’re so glad you came out tonight.” The Wall Street baron hosting the soiree touched Martha’s arm. “When your assistant called to cancel last week, we thought we were going to have to invite Geoff Kearnes.”
The man spoke lightly, so Martha laughed — though she felt the serious undercurrent. The host was a friend of Fraser’s; Martha had known him socially for years. But it was hardly the time to fall back on familiarity. His endorsement was to New York what Reverend Hillier’s was to Michigan. The nomination would likely be clinched before a New York primary happened, but she couldn’t afford to lose his support. “Back in full swing,” Martha said. “I’ll never stop missing Sacha. But I’m pushing forward, fresh each day.”
“Good, good. Here, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
As Martha was led away, her phone rang with Ted’s distinct ringtone. Ted knew her schedule — he wouldn’t interrupt unless it mattered.
“Sorry,” Martha said. “I need to take this.”
The host frowned. “I hope you’re not long.”
Ted was breathless. “Remember the blogger who interviewed you at LaGuardia?”
“Yes.” Martha hoped this was important enough for her to have snubbed the host.
“He knew Sacha as a kid.”
“Yes.” Martha, of course, already knew this. Though the photograph in Sacha’s box was still nagging her. Could skin color lighten as someone aged? She thought of Michael Jackson and realized that anything was possible.
“The blogger is trying to solve the case through the Internet. He knows about the suicide note, but he doesn’t believe Sacha killed herself.”
“I’m at a party, Ted. For work. Can we talk about this tomorrow?” But Martha’s mind had kicked into gear — how could Lorenzo already know about the suicide note?
“Sure,” Ted said. “Sorry. I forgot you were doing that. The soiree still shows as canceled in your calendar. I’ll email you the link to this latest blog post. You can check it out whenever.”
Whenever might as well be immediately. Martha slipped into the bathroom and pulled out her BlackBerry. She clicked the link Ted had emailed her.
On The Case
by Lorenzo Barilla
Sacha Westlake has been dead for 13 days and Whistler police are nowhere near finding a lead.
Maybe that’s because they’re not looking.
Yesterday, I interviewed Martha Westlake. She had the most to gain from Sacha’s death. Or is that the most to lose if Sacha remained alive?
Martha wished she’d brought her drink into the bathroom — she could use a heavy glug.
Today, I interviewed Wade Harrison, owner of the bar where Sacha worked.
Here are some facts I learned:
Wade and Sacha were sleeping together.
Wade is in the middle of a descent into financial ruin.
Wade’s wife is the legal owner of the bar.
Did Wade kill Sacha to keep his wife from finding out he’d been cheating?
Did Georgia Harrison kill Sacha out of jealousy?
Did Senator Westlake murder her daughter for political gain?
Or is the killer someone whom I have yet to interview?
If you have information that could help me find Sacha’s killer, please add your comment below.
Because yes, Sacha left a note. But this was no suicide note: she left it because she knew she was about to be murdered.
Martha held her phone in her hand and stared at it. As if her world wasn’t already upside down enough. She drew a long breath, plastered on her cocktail smile, and went out to find the host.
FORTY-THREE
RICHIE
Norris squirmed in his armchair in Chopper’s cabin. Richie watched Norris, wondered what was going on inside that small, tightly wound head of his.
Chopper bridged his hands in the air and said, “You need to let us in, Stu. What’s this big secret eating you?”
“I’m not cleared to say,” Norris said, making Richie want to leap across the coffee table to punch him.
Richie’s phone, nestled in the pocket of his raw denim Levi’s, was recording this conversation. He couldn’t hold back from saying, “I don’t think you’re cleared to take bribes from drug dealers, either.”
“Look, I know that. And I wish I never helped you guys.” Norris sounded like a six-year-old who maybe thought magic could erase his past actions, or that pouting would make people care. “I made a mistake taking your money. I should have just turned a blind eye and left it there.”
Chopper shrugged. “A blind eye still deserves a piece of the action.”
“But the money makes it official — it makes me complicit. And the fucked-up thing . . .” Norris pounded his fist against the soft leather arm of his chair. “The fucked-up thing is I don’t even want the money.”
Richie wanted to call bullshit on that, but he kept quiet.
He was glad wh
en Chopper said, “If you don’t want the money, why did you ask for ten grand for the undercover’s name?”
Norris’ lip twitched. “Because I didn’t have the cash.”
“Because of the cello?”
Norris shrugged. “And my wife. I take her to nice restaurants, give her extra money for shopping — she doesn’t question it.”
Chopper cocked his head, like he was trying to see his friend from a different angle. “But you’re the careful one, the guy who always has a reserve fund and another one to back it up.”
“I still have my RSPs. But they’re the one-year cashable kind. I couldn’t exactly wait to wire the money.”
Wire the money where? Richie wanted to ask. But Chopper met Richie’s eyes and shook his head slightly, and Richie knew he was right: Norris wanted to talk, but he was so skittish. It made more sense for Chopper to take the lead, coax what he could out of his old friend.
“You said this is bigger than us, Stu,” Chopper said. “What does that mean?”
Norris pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Can I smoke in here?”
“Yeah, why not? Normally I say no tobacco, but Lucy’s been lighting up like a little chimney.”
Norris’ hands were trembling so hard that he tore the first cigarette he tried to pull from the pack. He tossed both pieces in the ashtray, pulled out a second cigarette, and fumbled with the lighter until it was lit.
“First,” Norris said. “You guys have to know you’re protected. Wade, too. I have that in writing. None of you are going down when this is over.”
“So who is going down?” Chopper asked.
“Your friends in Seattle.”