by Jac Simensen
“Of course. I’ve only just met Gordon, but he does seem quite a solemn bloke.”
“Exactly,” Mary said, nodding. “He’s not the boy I’ve known for twenty-nine years. Karen’s brain cancer and death have left him confused and emotionally damaged. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not asking you to spy on him. Just be sensitive to his moods and let me know if you think he’s acting depressed. That’s all. I’ll call from time to time and check up on the four of you; you and I can talk then. Here are my contact numbers; you can always reach me on my cell.” She removed a business card from the back pocket of her cutoff jeans and placed it on the bedspread. “Are you okay with that?”
Nila scanned the card, which read “Gowns by Milton.”
“Is Milton your husband?”
“He is. Milt’s a fashion designer. He used to be a costume designer for the film studios and still has a celebrity following. We do wedding gowns and formal gowns.”
“How exciting. Perhaps one day he can do a wedding gown for me?”
“Milt would be pleased to create something sensational for you when the time comes. Just be sure to marry well—Milt’s services don’t come cheap. So, you’re okay if I call every week? That won’t be an imposition?”
“That won’t be a problem. The four of us will get on just fine, I’m sure of it.”
5
Detective Doyle held the phone to his ear while he flipped through the stack of gruesome photos lying on his desk, photos he’d retrieved from the coroner’s photographer. A call from Chief of Detectives Browning directly to the coroner had insured that no additional prints of the photos would ever be made.
The phone crackled to life. “Sorry I had to put ya’ll on hold.” A voice with a distinct Southern drawl called out. “It was the Chief, he don’t like to be kept waitin’—likes to throw his weight around.”
“Yeah, same everywhere,” Doyle grunted. “Like I was sayin’, Sergeant, the girl you’re askin’ about is dead. This Amy Cartwright had a heart attack and died. She was only twenty-four.”
“Drugs?” Sergeant Crowley asked.
“Nothin’, she was clean. She was staying by herself at her parents’ house when she died. Took a while before the body was discovered. It had started to decompose—pretty nasty.”
“Let me start over, Detective. That interruption got me all confused and—”
“Good idea,” Doyle said. “All I got was that you found the Cartwright girl’s car at a probable homicide scene.”
“That’s right. Nearly new Corvette, an expensive, high-performance model, was in the parking lot of a local liquor store in Hopkis, a rural Florida town just a few miles south of the Georgia border. We called in the Pennsylvania plate number and Amy Cartwright was ID’d as the owner of the car. A customer found the young store clerk bleeding behind the package store’s counter and called 911. By the time the EMTs got there the clerk was dead. He’d been shot three times at close range. Twice in the chest and once in the neck. The cash register drawer was open, and all the money gone.”
Doyle sat up straight. “He was shot in the neck, you said?”
“Yeah, shot in the throat at point-blank range. It was a bloody mess—neck all torn up.”
Doyle flipped through the photos on his desk to the image of Amy Cartwright’s throat wounds. “You’re positive it was a gunshot wound—not caused by somethin’ else?”
“What do ya mean? It had to be a bullet wound; it was too torn up to be a knife wound. I don’t know anything more—haven’t seen the coroner’s report yet.”
“Was there a surveillance system in operation?” Doyle asked.
“Yeah, there was. The owner of the business is well known around town as a miser and he had put in a cheap, black-an’-white system, so the images of the suspect weren’t real detailed or clear. All we could tell for sure was that the suspect was a female—a medium-height female—with long, light-colored, probably blonde hair. No clear facial details are visible.”
Doyle frowned. “Not much to go on.”
“Hell no,” the sergeant replied. “We was hoping that we could find out more from the owner of the Corvette—obviously that ain’t gonna happen.”
“Obviously. Find anything useful in the car?”
“Weed—a half-dozen roaches in the ashtray. There was a plastic zipper bag in the glove box full of jewelry: rings, bracelets, earrings. Forensics are checkin’ the stuff out now to see if any of it is real.”
“Look, Sergeant, I’m sorry to be a pain in the ass, but I need to have a written request from your office to release contact info for Amy Cartwright’s parents. An email under a letterhead would do. You know, procedure.”
“No problem. We just need to find out what to do with the Corvette after forensics release it. I’ll get on the email as soon as I hang up. Thanks for your help.”
6
It was exactly six weeks since Mary had returned to Boston. Nila and Gordon had settled into a routine. Nila got up with the twins in the morning while Gordon checked his email, made himself breakfast, and then read the paper. Gordon took over in the afternoon while Nila went out to the beach or drove the old Buick into town. In the evening, Nila occasionally threw together a simple meal—more often, one of them picked up sandwiches, burgers, pizza, or a Chinese takeout. Nila was addicted to American fast food. After dinner, Gordon would work on the computer in the small study that also served as a secure hurricane shelter. Nila would put the twins to bed, wash the dishes, and then read or watch television. Sometimes they watched a movie together. Gordon usually got up with the girls during the night when they fussed, unless Nila heard them before he did. Mrs. Kavlosky was happy to be rescued from retirement, and cleaned and did the laundry two afternoons a week.
Nila had just come in from the beach. Although it was only April, it felt like summer, and she hadn’t bothered to put a cover-up on over her bikini. She looked in on the twins, who were fast asleep. Gordon wasn’t in his study or the kitchen, so she assumed that he must be napping as well. The old-fashioned, yellowed-white wall phone in the kitchen rang and she rushed to pick it up before the noise woke the babies.
“Seven-five-two-double-six-two-four.”
“Nila, haven’t you learned? The Yanks just say ‘hello’ when they answer the phone.” It was Nila’s sister, Della.
“Doo-Doo! How wonderful to hear your voice!”
The sisters chatted for ten minutes, about how Della had finally made the decision to move in with her boyfriend, their mum’s health, and business at the family travel agency. Then it was Nila’s turn.
“It’s quite remarkable—I’ve never taken care of identical twins before. It’s like they’re one being in two bodies, as if their brains are wired together. When they play with toys, it’s like there’s one baby with four hands. And they’re so dear. Such beautiful children, almost always smiling and happy.”
“Are they really exactly the same? Can’t their father tell them apart?”
“Oh no he can’t. I’m the only one who can tell them apart. Gordy thinks he can—but he can’t. He often mixes them up…By the way, he’s asked me to call him ‘Gordy.’”
“How do you know who is who?”
“Not telling—it’s my special secret.”
“You two are still getting on? You and Gordy?”
“Gordy is really sweet. He’s polite, funny, and never cross. It’s like staying with a close friend.”
“Is he still grieving for his wife?”
“Not outwardly—no tears and hardly anything ever said about his poor wife. There’s a shroud of sadness hovering around him but nothing more. I don’t know whether he’s holding it all in or if he’s already let it out and is moving on with his life.”
“Last call you told me he wasn’t bad-looking.”
Nila moved the phone to her other ear. “Actually, he’s quite handsome and…”
“Hmm, any messing about goin’ on?”
Nila chuckled. “Well, under differe
nt circumstances who knows? Hold on just a minute.” She reached out with her free hand and closed the door to the hall, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Late Wednesday night, the twins woke me, so I got up to change their nappies—that’s another thing: they always need changing at the same time. Really—always. Anyway, it was a hot night, and I was groggy and knackered. Gordy came to the nursery; the only light was from the bathroom off to the side. He saw that I was almost finished and just stood in the doorway. He didn’t say anything. As he was going back to bed, he paused and looked at me. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I can see why they pay you to model.’ I looked down and realized that I wasn’t wearing any knickers!”
“You are joking!”
“Really, no knickers! It’s so warm here that I usually sleep starkers, and the top I’d pulled on barely came to my navel.”
“That’s it? He hasn’t followed up?”
“No, he hasn’t said a thing.”
Nila heard excited squeals coming from the nursery. “Sounds like my princesses are stirring. Better get them ready for their dinner. Thanks so much for the call. I’ll ring you up next time. Gordy doesn’t mind if I use the phone. He’s very generous with his money…I’ll call you at the office next Tuesday, like we planned. Love you. Cheers.”
The twins were plotting an escape from their cribs and didn’t notice when Nila entered the nursery. Julie had managed to pull the fitted sheet from the mattress and had it slung over the crib rail. Janna squatted in her crib, trying to free the sheet from her mattress as well.
“All right, you two imps—I caught you in the act!”
Julie squealed and slapped one hand against the crib rail while she held on with the other hand. Janna tried to stand in her crib but fell over onto her side.
“Maa,” Julie called. “Maa.”
“No, it’s Naa...Naa. Nanny. Nanny.”
“Maa,” Julie cried again, while Janna bounced up and down, echoing the cry. “Maa, Maa.”
Nila shook her head. “Maybe we should settle on Mammy instead of Nanny—you’ve got the Maa part down to a tee.” She shook her hands in the air and rolled her head. “Mammy, Mammy!” she called in a theatrical voice.
Gordon stood in the doorway, grinning. “Where’d you learn about Mammy?”
Nila hadn’t heard him approach the nursery. She dropped her hands and swiveled in his direction. “Couldn’t sleep last night, so I watched the end of a dreadful old documentary series about what happened to Negros after your Civil War. Why did white Americans paint their faces black, their lips white, and pretend to be Negros?”
“Oh, you mean minstrel shows? A long time ago white people used to put on what they called minstrel shows—live variety shows imitating black comedians and singers. Nobody does it today. It would be considered highly racist.”
“I should think the coloreds wouldn’t have much liked being mocked that way. Did the coloreds paint their faces white?”
Gordon grinned. “In America, we say ‘blacks’ or ‘African-Americans.’ The terms ‘Negro’ and ‘colored’ aren’t really used anymore. I don’t know what black people did. We didn’t have a lot of blacks in the town where I grew up. Not like the South—like here in Florida.”
“I have a bunch of colored—er, black half-brothers in Africa.”
Gordon screwed up his face. “I thought you were English?”
“I am. Just after my sister Della was born, Dad and Mum packed up the two of us girls and moved from London to Ghana, back to where Dad’s family’s from. I was only about three or four.”
“Your father’s African?”
“Hubert. Dad’s name is Hubert. He was born in Ghana but has dual citizenship and a British passport. His father—my grandfather—was British. Dad met Mum when he was in London at university, and they married when he graduated. Mum says that he was never happy living in England. She’d spent most of her life within fifty miles of London, her birthplace, but after a while she could see that either she’d have to give living in Ghana a go, or he would eventually leave her. Guess their marriage was doomed from the start. He’s a handsome man. I take after him more than I do Mum. Mum’s fair—and so’s my sister, Della. Dad has a dark complexion—darker than mine. Like I said, Dad’s father was British—Caucasian—but my grandmother—her name’s Juba—is African. Mum stuck it out in Ghana for just over a year before she left and took Della and me back to London. She said that our grandmother did everything she could to make Mum’s life miserable and to chase her away. For a while after we left, Dad used to send Della and me little presents. I was going on five when we returned to England and can only remember bits of our time in Ghana. I still have a small carved wooden bird he sent—a voodoo charm, Mum said. That’s my only link with him. I have no real memories of dear old Dad.”
“So, you don’t have any connections with your father? You don’t really know much about his life?”
“Only what I learned from my gran, Mum’s mother. Before she died, she told me that after their divorce, Dad married a local woman and had lots of kids. They’re all boys, and black as coal, she said. I’ve always fantasized that one day I’d go to Ghana and find him, put out my hand, and say ‘Hi, Dad. I’m your daughter, Naki.’ I’ll never do it, though. After ‘Hi, Dad,’ there’d be nothing more for either of us to say to each other.”
“Naki?” Gordon said with a puzzled look on his face.
“That’s my Ashanti clan name; it means first-born.”
“I see,” Gordon nodded. “Your parents’ story is kinda like my parents’ story, but in a different way.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, mostly my parents lived apart, but they stayed married. No divorce. When he was about forty, Father started spending the week living in Boston: working, womanizing, gambling, drinking, and raising hell. He always came home on Saturday afternoon and then went to church with Mother, Mary, and me on Sunday morning.”
“He was that religious?”
The left corner of Gordon’s mouth turned up in a half-grin. “Not religious at all. We’re Unitarians; that barely qualifies as a religion.”
Nila frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Unitarians believe in one God, if that. It’s sort of a minimalist religion for people who don’t want lots of rules. Father came home every weekend because he could never admit to himself that he wasn’t a doting husband and father. As far as I know, he and Mother slept in the same bed on Saturday nights. From Saturday morning ’til Sunday afternoon, Mother would be sober and cheerful. As soon as he left, she’d start drinking again.”
“I still don’t understand why he would do such a thing.”
“He needed to pretend that we were a happy family. Ever hear of Nathan Hale?”
Nila shook her head.
“Well, old Nate was my great-great-great-uncle and one of the heroes of the American Revolutionary War. He got caught spying on the British troops and they hanged him from a tree. Over the years, there have been lots of famous and infamous Hales in New England: senators, a governor, and a Supreme Court justice. In the self-important, twisted world in which my father was raised, the pretense of propriety was more important than how one lived. Father was a judge—a federal judge—and an important man.”
“What about your mother?”
“Mother’s ancestors came to this country from Germany a long time ago. They were industrialists who built factories and got rich making blankets and uniforms for the Union troops during the Civil War. She was an only child, so the family fortune—or what was left of it—fell to her. She died a year and a half ago and left this beach house to me and a lake house in New Hampshire to Mary, along with enough stocks and bonds so that neither of us really needs to work again.”
Nila shook her head again. “What I meant was: how did your mother put up with your father’s infidelity?”
“Father’s sins were never mentioned. We all lived with the charade that his important work required him to be in Boston six nights a week.
Mother loved him deeply and was willing to accept him on whatever terms he offered.”
“Gordy, that’s really sad. It must have been unpleasant for you.”
“Not really. Mary’s seven years older than me. She sorta took over the role of father—and when Mother was blotto, she filled in for her as well.”
“That explains why you and Mary are so close.”
“She’s a mom, a dad, and a sister all in one. Mostly she treats me like her brother, but sometimes like her son. We’ve been through a lot together.”
“How about Karen’s family? You’ve said she had a similar upbringing.”
Gordon shook his head. “Karen’s mother, Adele, came from an old New England family, but the similarity with the Hales stops there. Adele’s an ethereal-type academic who teaches drama at Boston College. She had two kids in her twenties and then divorced and never remarried. Karen was an out-of-wedlock surprise who came along years later. Karen’s half-brother is a lawyer like me, and her half-sister owns a real estate business. Unlike their artsy mother, they’re pretty much old-school New England conservatives.”
Nila lifted Julie from her crib while Gordon picked up Janna. They sat the two babies on the large changing table. “This one needs changing. Yours?”
Gordon pulled Janna’s diaper away from her waist to inspect it. “Phew, mine too.”
“If you take their nappies off and clean them up, I’ll draw a bath,” she said.
Nila filled the tub with warm, sudsy water and returned. “Here, I’ll take Julie. You bring Janna in.”