Dead Ringer

by Ken Douglas

  Those two men had been after her. They’d recognized her in the Safeway and had been waiting for her on the beach. If it hadn’t been for those homeless men under the pier, who knows what could have happened? That Virgil was big.

  She faced into the spray, drank more water. She needed a clear head. She needed to run. She shut off the shower, dried off, jumped into Levi’s and a sweatshirt. She stuffed twenty bucks into a back pocket, in case she was hungry as she jogged by the donut shop. It happened sometimes.

  But once outside, she decided to jog down to the beach, where she could run full out. She started as soon as she hit the sand and she poured it on when she got to the place where those men, Horace and Virgil, had tried to trap her the night before. She glanced at the pier, thought about stopping, remembered the disappearing bottle of wine and decided against it. She took a look at the pool. The glass walls glowed orange, reflecting the rising sun. It was no threat now.

  Past the pool, she saw the country and western bar. She ran to it, ran past it, through the Safeway parking lot, then the sprint home. In front of the duplex, she doubled over, hands on her knees, dripping sweat. The headache was gone. She was still thirsty, but this was an honest thirst, her body craving the water she’d lost as sweat.

  She turned on the garden hose, drank, then sat on the front steps. It was Sunday, still early. The neighborhood was quiet, save for a cat across the street. She watched while it prowled under a car, looking for God knows what. Then it crossed the street, slinked under Gordon’s old Ford and all of a sudden it was out of sight.

  Gordon’s car reminded her of the garage out back. Part of their rental deal with him was that they got the garage, Gordon parked out front. He didn’t seem to care. Besides, nobody in their right mind would ever think of stealing his car. What could they get? Maybe fifty bucks.

  Nick stacked the old newspapers in the garage. Every other month or so he called somebody to come and collect them. Till then he kept them stacked by paper, filed by date. He said he kept them that way in case he ever wanted to go back and check a story, but Maggie knew it was because he was an obsessive organizer.

  That Virgil had said something about her being in the paper. Maggie felt as if she were back in the frozen foods section. Goosebumps shivered up her arms.

  The garage seemed huge without cars. Nick still had her Mustang. The newspapers were stacked up against the wall that butted up to the house. Maggie skipped over the Times. She read it faithfully. If what she was looking for was there, she’d have seen it. But she never even glanced at the Long Beach Press Telegram. Nick hardly did either. Still, it was a newspaper and as such, Nick felt he should subscribe. He was a newsman, after all.

  She took the top paper off the stack, leafed through it, leaving it in a pile on the cement floor when she was finished. To heck with Nick. Thirty papers followed. She gasped when she opened the thirty-first, because the girl staring out at her from the second page had her face.

  She’d half expected it. Had been hoping for it most of her life, but had given up thinking about it after she’d married Nick.

  She read the caption under the photo,

  This time Huntington Beach resident Margo Kenyon struck out in her petition attempt to keep convicted child molester and murderer Frankie Fujimori behind bars. Ms. Kenyon declares, Fujimori is sure to kill again.

  She devoured the article, learning that Margo’s ex-husband, attorney Bruce Kenyon, had defended Fujimori seven years earlier. A month after an innocent verdict, Fujimori had raped and murdered a four-year-old child. Fujimori was declared mentally incompetent. Two years ago Margo had started a petition campaign, which gathered over a hundred thousand signatures and convinced the parole board Fujimori wasn’t ready for society. However, on his next attempt at parole, the board ignored Margo’s petition and released him.

  “Margo,” Maggie whispered.

  She closed her eyes and pictured her birth certificate. Box number 5. Twin, born second. She had an older sister. Dead just days after her birth, lost to the deep when the small plane her mother had supposedly taken her on had crashed into the ocean halfway between San Diego and Los Angeles. But somehow, like Maggie, her twin hadn’t been on that plane.

  She sighed and flashed on the Sunday before high school graduation. She’d gone down to Huntington Beach with a bunch of friends to celebrate. They’d been playing in the sand and the surf since noon, but her fun had been dampened because she’d been worried about her best friend’s blouse. She’d borrowed it, washed it with her red sweatshirt, turning the once white blouse pink. She’d been waiting all day to tell her and just as she was about to a hunk had come up to her, kissed her on the cheek and said, “Nice suit, Margo.” Then, “See you at the dance tonight.” He took off before she’d had a chance to say anything, running down the beach with a football and a gaggle of friends.

  That chance meeting was like something out of a science fiction novel, because Margo was the name of her twin sister and she was buried at the bottom of the Pacific in that plane with her mother and those Marines, somewhere between Catalina and the coast.

  She’d wondered about it off and on for years. Such a strange coincidence, a boy she didn’t know calling her that. Sometimes, late at night, when she was caught in that world between sleep and not sleep, she’d imagine Margo was alive. But then she’d put it out of her mind, because it hurt so much to feel so incomplete, a sailboat set adrift with no sails, no rudder.

  She wanted to cry, she was so happy. Margo was real and now. Maggie was looking at her picture and Margo had her face. She was alive. A kind of pleasure rippled through her. Maggie felt good all over.

  She got up from the cool cement floor and went into the house. Straight to the living room and the phone books. She picked up the Orange County edition and found an address on Pacific Coast Highway, 913, #1310. And a phone number. Maggie picked up the phone, put it down and went for the door. Nick had her car, but she knew how the busses worked.

  Still in Levi’s and sweatshirt, she caught the bus in front of the Safeway, rode it to Seal Beach, where she changed and took the Orange County Bus to a stop only a block past the Sand and Sea Condos.

  She stepped off the bus to a cool morning breeze. It was 9:00 and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It was going to be another hot day. But it was chilly now. She held her breath against the diesel fumes as the bus pulled away. The place where Margo Kenyon lived was so close. Maggie’s heart thudded as she let the breath out. She walked slowly toward the condo entrance.

  “Didn’t see you go out, Ms. Kenyon,” an elderly guard said.

  Maggie ignored him as she followed a sidewalk that wound between the condos and the beach. There were several buildings, each with four units in them, two upstairs and two down. The smaller buildings were clustered about a larger one that was home to several units. Maggie was checking the numbers on the doors when she heard a child scream out.

  “Mom!”

  Maggie turned to see a little girl scramble down the steps from the main building. She stood, frozen in place as the child jumped the last two.

  “Margo!”

  Maggie spun around and saw a big man moving toward her, not running, but walking fast.

  “Mom!” The child charged across the green lawn. Instinctively Maggie went to her knees, arms open. In an instant, the girl wrapped Maggie in a strong hug. “Don’t let him take me.”

  The man was getting closer. He would have been handsome if he didn’t have the acne scars. Not what you’d call a pockmarked face, but close.

  “Promise you won’t ever leave me again,” the girl said.

  Maggie turned back to the man. He looked determined.

  “Promise!” the child said again.

  “I promise,” Maggie said.

  “I was worried, Margo,” the man said.” You went away without telling the cops. They took it out on me.” Maggie recognized him from television. Bruce Kenyon the lawyer, Margo’s husband, the defender of Frankie Fujimori. />
  “Really?” Maggie said for time.

  “Arrested me. Assholes. I was out before they had a chance to book me. They’re going to regret it.”

  Bruce Kenyon had the prettiest blue eyes and shocking blond hair, but neither was able to soften his look. He was a man consumed. Maggie didn’t want to get on his wrong side. She was about to tell them who she was, but the child’s grip was tight. The girl was afraid of him, so Maggie held her tongue.

  “Are you alright, Jasmine?” Bruce Kenyon said.

  “You can’t take me. Mom’s here now.” The girl squeezed Maggie even tighter.

  “No one’s taking anybody,” Maggie said. Was he really here to try and take the girl?

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  “Not now.” Maggie knew the way to deal with lawyers was not to talk to them.

  “I came all the way out here.”

  “It’s Sunday. It’ll keep.” You had to be firm, otherwise they walked all over you.

  “What happened to your head?”

  She touched her forehead, winced when she touched the bruise. “Bumped it.”

  “Come on, Mom.” The child eased out of the hug, pulled on her arm.

  “Margo?” Bruce Kenyon implored.

  “Tomorrow!” Maggie turned and let the child lead her away from the man.

  “Fuck it.” He sounded disgusted. “I’ll call you.” Apparently there wasn’t any love left between Margo and Bruce Kenyon.

  Maggie followed Jasmine to a condo that faced the beach. The door was marked 1310. Margo’s house. Jasmine opened the door and Maggie followed her inside.

  The living room was bright, with light beige carpets, rattan furniture with floral print cushions, two lamps with glass bowls stuffed full of sea shells for bases, tropical prints on the walls. Maggie guessed Hawaii.

  “Can I go to next door and play with Sonya?” Jasmine said.

  “Sure,” Maggie said.

  “Thanks.” Jasmine was out the door before Maggie could say another word.

  Alone now, she walked around the condo. She went to the bedroom, saw a Queen size bed, rattan end tables, a painting of a palm tree swaying in a storm above the bed. Margo was a water woman. An island woman. Maggie smiled, because she was too.

  She turned and gasped. For an instant she thought she was face to face with her twin, but it was only her reflection in the floor to ceiling mirrored closet doors. She frowned, pushed the hair out of her eyes. She was dripping with sweat. What a way to greet her sister for the first time. Before she could stop herself, Maggie slid open the closet. She had to know more about her twin and what better way to know a woman than by her clothes?

  “Yuck.” Maggie ran her hands through the hanging suits. What kind of woman lived by the beach, decorated an apartment so wonderfully, than dressed like that? Old lady lawyers. Not real people. Maggie closed the closet and went back to the living room.

  The timer on the VCR under the TV said, 9:15. Fifteen minutes till Nick’s Sunday show. He didn’t come home last night, but wherever he’d slept, he’d be out of bed for that. If she’d been thinking clearly, she’d have realized it earlier. He was always at the station an hour or more before the show. She could have called him there.

  She went to the kitchen, where she saw a handbag and two bags of groceries that begged to be put away. In less than a minute she was as familiar with the kitchen as if it were her own. She put away the groceries. Ten minutes till Newsmakers with Nick. She found coffee and filters for the coffee machine.

  Back in the living room with black coffee, she turned on the television. She took a sip and watched as Carry Ann Close, Nick’s co-host, came on the screen. She apologized for Nick’s absence.

  “It is this newswoman’s sad duty to report that Nick Nesbitt’s wife, Maggie, was found murdered last night. Her nude body was discovered, battered and broken, behind the Whale, a bar frequented by gays, in Long Beach. It’s not known yet if she’d been sexually assaulted-”

  Maggie stared at the set, stunned as Carry Close cut to a live camera outside of the Whale. The whole thirty minutes was spent on the murder. It was those men, Horace and Virgil. It had to be. They’d mistaken her for Margo yesterday. They must have followed her and Gordon. Then somehow they found the real Margo, killed her and dumped her there.

  Her first instinct was to call the police. She looked around the room. No phone. But there was one in the kitchen. She got up, sat back down. What about the promise she’d just made to the child? What would happen to her if Maggie called the cops?

  What was the matter with her? It was her sister. It could have been her. She got up, went out to the kitchen, picked up the phone, dialed 911, then hung up before it had a chance to ring. Margo was dead. Nothing she did could bring her back.

  And she’d promised the child, Jasmine.

  That stopped her. She’d promised not to let her father take her away. What was she, eight? Ten? He must be awfully bad if a kid like that was so afraid of him.

  Her hair was in her eyes again. She pushed it back, went back into the living room and slumped down onto the sofa. The TV was still on. Carry Ann Close was talking about how dangerous it was becoming for women in Southern California. What planet was she from? It had been dangerous for a long time. Maggie picked up the remote, clicked off the TV. Let Carry Ann tell it to somebody else.

  She wanted to bury her head in her hands. She’d found a sister, only to lose her before she got to know her. Life was so unfair. Tears welled in her eyes. They would have been close.

  “Come on, Maggie,” she said to herself. “You don’t have time to cry.” She wiped the tears away. She needed to find out as much about her sister as she could before Jasmine came back from her friend’s.

  She went back into the bedroom. She’d only glanced at the stuff in the closet earlier. Margo must have had something a normal person might wear. Nope, not a pair of Levi’s anywhere to be found. Not a cut off sweatshirt, no old, comfy T-shirts, no broken in running shoes. Everything looked new.

  She spied a checkbook on the nightstand next to the bed. Checks, three to a page on a three ring binder. Was Margo in business? A quick scan told Maggie no, but she had a little over forty thousand in her checking account.

  Her mortgage was twenty-five hundred dollars a month. She deposited the same amount around the first of every month. The notation on the stub said, “Jack-child support.” The ex-husband couldn’t be all that bad if he was shelling out that kind of money.

  In the drawer under the checkbook, Maggie found a savings account booklet, simple, the kind any child might have. She whistled when she saw the figure, Three million, three hundred and eighty-six thousand dollars and seventy-five cents.

  She also found a schedule of classes. Margo was a student? Apparently. She was taking a full load, going five days a week, but they were freshman classes. What kind of thirty-one-year-old woman had over three million bucks, dressed for power and went to college? What was she studying to be?

  Numb, Maggie went back out to the kitchen, picked up the purse, took it to the sofa. She dumped it out. Another checkbook, a normal one, a little over seven thousand dollars in the account. Walking around money? A pink wallet. Pink? A little over three hundred dollars in it. She put it back, took out the driver’s license.

  Margo Sue Kenyon. Height 5?7?. Eyes. Blue. Hair. Blonde. DOB. “Oh my God!” Maggie gasped. She should have been born on May 10, but she wasn’t. March 5 is what the license said, two months before Maggie. Something was wrong. If that was true, they weren’t twins, they weren’t even sisters. It wasn’t possible.

  Maggie looked at the photo, a mirror image of her own. Margo’s husband, Jasmine, the wrongful identification of the girl found dead. They all pointed to the fact that Maggie and Margo were twins. There was no other explanation. Therefore the birth date was wrong. Had to be. Why?

  Did Margo know she had a twin? Did she get fake ID to hide it? She would’ve had to have done it years ago, before Jasmine. Befo
re the husband. Again, why?

  Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she was kidnapped at birth, stolen from the hospital. Maybe. The new parents, the fake parents, could have gotten a phony birth certificate, raised the child as their own. Maybe.

  Maggie slipped the license back into the wallet, dropped the wallet back into the purse, gathered up the other stuff-lipstick, too red, make up, too light-blush, mascara, mousse. Made up, she must have looked like Dolly Parton. She looked up at the bookcase. There were some photo albums on the bottom shelf.

  She moved over to the bookcase again, sat on the floor and took out one of the albums. She shivered at the first photo on the first page. Margo in a cheerleader’s uniform. Maggie had been a cheerleader. She closed her eyes. She had her own photo albums in Long Beach. Most she could live without, except the one that documented her own high school life, the one with the pictures of her parents in it.

  She looked at more pictures. Margo at the beach in a yellow bikini. Margo with a young Bruce Kenyon in a Marine Corps uniform. An officer. Margo and Bruce on an island somewhere. The Caribbean? Hawaii? Margo pregnant. Margo in the hospital. Margo holding a baby, smile a block wide, a glow in her eyes that radiated out of the photo. Margo, Bruce and a baby girl, a Christmas tree behind them. Maggie looked across the room, saw where the Christmas tree had been. Margo had lived here a long time.

  Maggie turned the page, almost dropped the book. Margo on Second Street, standing in front of the candy store next door to the Lounge. The pink sign by the entrance was less than a year old. Maggie could have been inside the Lounge with Nick. They could have met. Known each other.

  All of a sudden, a sadness welled up in her. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor. She bit her lip to stop the feeling, but it didn’t work. Quiet tears streamed down her cheeks. She was powerless against the emotion.

  “Mom!” Jasmine said, almost a whisper. Maggie looked up, face wet. Jasmine was in the middle of the living room with another girl. Cafe au lait skin, wide brown eyes. “What’s wrong?”