Bye-Bye, Black Sheep

by Ayelet Waldman

  I looked at Chantelle. She was a tall woman, with large hands. Strong, capable, nurse’s hands.

  “Where were you, Chantelle?” I said in a gentle voice. “Where were you on the night Violetta was killed?”

  “I was working,” she said.

  Thomas looked confused; his brows knitted together and his mouth open as if he were about to speak.

  Chantelle repeated, “I was working.”

  Thomas stared at his wife. “Be quiet, baby,” he said to her. “Don’t say anything else.” He stood up and pointed at me. “You, get out of this house. Get out right now.” He put his body between Chantelle’s and mine. “Go!” he shouted.

  I left.

  Thirty-five

  I wrote my report for Heavenly that evening. It took a long time, and multiple drafts. My first version included what I saw when I looked at Chantelle’s face as she created an alibi that her husband clearly knew was false. It included how I imagined the events took place. Chantelle received yet another phone call from her mother, the twentieth or thirtieth or two-hundreth saying that Violetta was coming home, that Violetta was going to try again, that Violetta was sure, this time, that she’d succeed in drying out. In Corentine’s voice was all the hope of a desperate mother, the hope that Chantelle knew was doomed to be crushed. I will never know, but I don’t think Chantelle drove down to Figureroa Street planning on hurting her sister. Perhaps she meant to plead with her to get out of town, perhaps all she wanted was her money back. In that first draft I put my own opinion, one that a defense expert could surely be found to validate, that the single blow to the back of her head had somehow been accidentally administered. Perhaps Chantelle had pushed Violetta, and she’d fallen and hit her head on the corner of the Dumpster behind which she was found. Perhaps Chantelle did hit her, but in a moment of rage, never intending to kill her. Or perhaps I am wrong, and Chantelle intended to kill her sister and leave her body in an alley near the corner where Violetta spent her life hustling money to feed her voracious habit.

  That was not the draft I finally submitted to my client. What I gave Heavenly was more precise, more accurate. It included only what I knew for sure to be true, that Thomas had given Violetta money, twenty-five hundred dollars, and told her to go away. That Violetta had instead called her mother, offered gifts, and then, when the money was stolen by her pimp, asked to come home one more time. The report I submitted included Thomas’s alibi, and Chantelle’s claim of one. I wrote that these alibis could be easily verified.

  With the report I included no bill. We would keep the small retainer Heavenly had given, I decided, but would accept no more. I did not expect to be paid for destroying a family.

  I delivered the report to Heavenly the next day. Al insisted on accompanying me, and we arrived at her apartment in West Hollywood at seven o’clock in the morning. She answered the door wearing a silk blouse and skirt, her hair tucked into a hairnet. I’d never seen her without her wig before.

  Wordlessly I handed her the report while Al stood, his arms crossed in front of his chest, looking stern but uncomfortable.

  We stood in the doorway while Heavenly tore open the envelope and skimmed through the document.

  “What does this mean?” she said. “Are you trying to tell me that they might not have been working that night? What difference does that make? So she and Thomas gave Violetta money? So what? We all gave Violetta money.”

  “There is no physical evidence in the case. There was no one who saw anything, there are no fingerprints, there is no weapon. All there is, is the money,” I said. “You hired me to find out what happened to your sister, and I’ve done the best I can.”

  We left Heavenly standing in her doorway, the pages crumpled between her long and impeccably manicured fingers.

  It took me a long time to decide if it was the right thing to do, but finally I called Detective Jarin. He never returned my calls, so eventually I wrote him a short note. I wrote about the money Thomas and Chantelle had given Violetta before she died. I wrote about the promise Violetta had made in taking it, and about how she broke that promise. Those were the facts I had discovered. Creating a narrative to explain those facts was up to him. In the end, he did what I had expected him to do: nothing. Perhaps he interviewed Thomas and Chantelle, perhaps he didn’t even bother to do that. I’ll never know. There were no arrests made in the case.

  I’ve done my best to keep up with the women on Figueroa Street. I visit from time to time. I buy a round of hot coffee. Sometimes I eat a burrito with Baby Richard. Jackie’s still out there, hustling. She’s a grandmother now, but that doesn’t seem to cramp her style. M&M left town a few months after I finished my investigation. She told me she was going to try her luck in Shreveport, that she had an aunt there who said she could stay with her until she got on her feet. She was talking about going to beauty school and learning how to do hair extensions. I don’t know if there’s much call in Louisiana for a white girl with that particular expertise, but I gave M&M some money and my phone number. She surely spent the former, but hasn’t made any use of the latter.

  I heard once more from Heavenly. I guess she knew somehow that I’d want to keep up a little, especially with her mother. Heavenly sent me a Christmas card that included one of those Christmas letters. Corentine’s heart surgery had gone very well, the letter said. She’d had an angioplasty and was doing better than anyone could have hoped. The letter also let me and its presumably multitude of other recipients know that since things were a little hard for Corentine right now the children were staying with their aunts. Chantelle had the girls. And Vashon? Vashon was with Heavenly. And he was doing just great. Enrolled in private school. On the soccer team. Got his wish of an iPod for Christmas. And Heavenly was doing her best to shake up his new school’s parents association. By all accounts they were both blossoming.

  I don’t know what narrative Heavenly, Chantelle, and Thomas have created to explain the facts I discovered, or whether their various narratives have any bearing on the truth. I do know this: In a while the murder of Violetta Spees will be transferred to the cold case unit, perhaps to the desk of Detective Stephen Sherman. At that time he’ll see the note I wrote, and perhaps he will make up a narrative of his own.

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