by Vicki Lane
“No problem, Ben. Elizabeth made that very clear. We’re just doing a little amateur investigation here.”
“So, any idea who might have attacked her?” Ben peered at Hawkins over the stack of Styrofoam coolers in his arms.
“Ideas, but nothing positive.”
“Aidan is out on bail, Ben,” Elizabeth offered. “He could be—”
“He’s out? Has anyone told Kyra?”
“I don’t know—”
“I’m going to give her a call.”
Ben disappeared into the workshop and Phillip stood. “Time for me to get back home— stuff to do. But I have one more name for your list.”
“Who?” Elizabeth frowned as she tried but failed to think of another possibility.
“Tawana Brawley.” And with this cryptic utterance, Phillip Hawkins took his leave.
* * *
Elizabeth was pondering this name when Ben came out of the workshop. “I spoke to the housekeeper. She said Miss Kyra was taking a nap. I got the impression she didn’t want me talking to Kyra, but I’ll call back in an hour.”
He looked down the road where the gray car was disappearing around a bend. “What was that Phillip was saying— Tamara Brawley? Who’s that?”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “Tawana Brawley was a teenager, an African-American teenager who went missing for several days in New York. She was found— alive— in a garbage bag. She was smeared with dog poop and— how do they say it?— racial epithets were written on her.”
“When was this?” Ben grimaced with disgust. “That’s terrible— what makes people do these things?”
At first Elizabeth didn’t answer, her mind full of the memory of the impassioned eleven-year-old Rosemary, following the case for a current events project. The Tawana Brawley affair had engaged all of Rosemary’s budding idealism. At the time, Sam and Elizabeth had been surprised at so much fervor on the subject in their young daughter until Sam had suggested that it could be a reaction to the Mullins tragedy of the year before.
“Maybe Rosie feels like she couldn’t do anything about what happened there and she wants to do something for this little girl,” Sam had said, watching his daughter carefully pen a letter to Tawana. “There must be some connection.”
Ben’s voice broke into her memories. “Was this recent, Aunt E? The name kind of rings a bell but I don’t remember hearing any—”
“No, you probably wouldn’t have— it was in 1987.”
Ben was solemn as he said, “It does sound kind of like what happened to Kyra, but I don’t see the connection. I mean, if it happened that long ago—”
Elizabeth looked at the corncrib just a few yards from where they were standing and remembered the naked, frightened young woman who had been imprisoned there. It was hard to find the words but finally she spoke. “It was a hoax, Ben. Eventually Tawana Brawley confessed she’d done it to herself.”
Ben said nothing for a moment. He stared angrily down the road and seemed to be thinking hard. “That theory is—”
“— a piece of crap?” Elizabeth asked, hoping to lighten the moment.
“Shit. That theory is a piece of shit. I can’t believe you would listen to something like that— not after seeing her, the way she was—” He broke off with an impatient gesture and started back for the truck.
“Ben!” She hurried after him. “We have to consider all the possibilities. Kyra’s father says that she’s unstable— that she had a kind of breakdown after her mother’s death. I don’t know…maybe the shock of what happened to Boz—”
Ben climbed into the truck, slamming the door with unnecessary force. Over the roar of the engine, he shouted, “I’m going in to see Kyra— before your boyfriend puts her in jail. What the fuck is he thinking?”
“Ben!” Elizabeth called, “Ben, wait!” but he was gone.
* * *
He had come back, of course— eventually. The next morning he had been busy in the greenhouse taking cuttings and starting seeds for the fall and winter crops. Elizabeth had come down to help, but Ben’s cool manner and monosyllabic responses to her attempts at conversation had driven her away and she had spent the remainder of the day in the workshop constructing wreaths. The following days had seen a gradual warming trend— as long as the subject of Kyra was avoided. Though he had not said so, Elizabeth guessed that when Ben left the farm every evening as soon as the last bit of work was done, he was going to see Kyra. She was heartsick at the barrier that now existed between her and her nephew— but she was unable to share his complete faith in Kyra’s story.
On Tuesday Ben announced that Kyra was doing much better and that he was helping her to get set up in a studio in the River District. “It’s not in The Wedge where Laurel’s studio is,” he said. “It’s in a funky old place called the Candlestation. Kyra’s gotten really energized about getting her show together for the QuerY. She’s even working on a new piece— a kind of homage to Boz.”
When Elizabeth asked if he thought Kyra would be safe at her studio, Ben looked at her coldly before replying. “There’re lots of studios in the Candlestation and people all around. And she’s still spending most nights at that mansion in Biltmore Forest. Besides, safe from who? You and Phillip don’t think there was any attacker.”
* * *
All of this was in Elizabeth’s mind on Thursday morning as she made the farm’s scheduled deliveries: fresh packaged and potted herbs to the organic supermarket; herb, baby lettuce, and flower petal mélange to four different restaurants. She squeezed in a quick trip to the art supply store to purchase some of the materials for the painting class, then ate the sandwich she had brought with her as she drove to AB Tech, arriving a little before one.
The parking lot for the Pines Building was crowded. Elizabeth at last found a place on the far side, parked the farm delivery van, gathered up her bag of supplies, and made her way to the low brick building. She was surprised at the variety of the students: all ages and ethnicities were represented. Ahead of her on the sidewalk, two young men in vast baggy jeans, the crotches sagging almost to knee level, trudged through the deep water of their adolescence. Each held up his voluminous garment with one hand, a necessary sacrifice to fashion. Two beautiful Asian girls hurried by, giggling at some shared secret. In the building’s lobby a knot of intense-looking young people argued in what, to Elizabeth’s unaccustomed ear, sounded like Russian. Gray-haired ladies pulling sewing machines on little rolling carriers hurried purposefully down the hall, and a gaggle of cheerful, developmentally disabled adults was shepherded out the door toward a garden plot across the street.
A cluster of more young people gabbling away in rapid Spanish were entering a room labeled ESL. Elizabeth looked around, hoping to find a similar sign directing her to Beginning Painting. She couldn’t see one but she did notice a small, bespectacled woman, carrying a bag from the art supply store and heading down the hall to the right. Elizabeth followed her.
“Excuse me, are you in the beginning painting class? I’m not sure where to go.”
“I am.” The woman smiled and pointed to a sign on the wall. “Down here.”
The room was full of long paint-spattered tables. The chairs at the tables were almost all taken, but Elizabeth found a seat on the far side of the room and began to study her classmates, wondering which one was the second Mrs. Peterson, the woman who had become Kyra’s stepmother. It’s got to be one of the younger ones— in her thirties, I think Laurel said. That narrowed the field considerably, as most of the members of the class were on the far side of fifty. There were three candidates in that age group, Elizabeth decided. There was the beautiful young woman with long straight chestnut brown hair, a shining face, and a white T-shirt tucked into tight jeans. Too young and innocent, Elizabeth decided, turning her attention to the tired-looking woman sitting next to her wearing polyester pants with a matching top. She smiled nervously at Elizabeth, then began copying the schedule that had been chalked on the blackboard— And this one’s to
o dowdy to be a homewrecker.
Finally there was the glamorous blonde with big dangling gold earrings, an oversized white linen shirt that suggested a painter’s smock, tight cropped pants, and high-heeled sandals that Elizabeth recognized from the pages of The New Yorker. My god, those must be, what’s the name, something about a train— Jimmy Choos. Oh boy, I’ve got a real feeling this is the one.
The low murmur of conversation stopped as an attractive woman with a mop of gray-blonde ringlets entered the room. “Good afternoon, class. I’m Daphne and this is Beginning Painting. We’re going to start right in with a warm-up exercise, and I’ll be coming around with the attendance sheet and a parking permit card for you to fill out before you leave. We have three hours and I want to make the most of it.”
Daphne began passing out large sheets of newsprint and an assortment of ratty pencils. “We’re going to start with blind drawing—”
“I thought we were going to be painting,” the blonde whom Elizabeth had tagged as the second Mrs. Peterson complained. “I did drawing last year.”
“Drawing is the basis we begin with.” Daphne continued on, unperturbed. “This exercise is almost a meditation; it helps you to focus on seeing, which is vital to a painter. Too many people draw their ideas rather than what they actually see. As a painter, you need to approach your subject without preconceived ideas and rely solely on what your eyes tell you. Now, I want each of you to draw your hand, using a continuous line and without looking at the paper. Begin at the wrist and let your eye travel very slowly around the outline of your hand. While your eye is moving around the outline, your pencil should be making the same outline on the paper.”
There were a few muffled groans and the blonde was heard to say, “We did that in my class last year.” But soon the whole group was at work, each focused intently on drawing.
It was like a meditation, Elizabeth realized as her eye slowly followed the outline of her little finger: up…up…slowly…out and back a tad…and again for the wrinkle at the knuckle…slowly…slowly…dip down for the cuticle…back around for the fingernail—
“De-doo-deedle, de-doo-deedle-doo.” The tinny computer melody of a cell phone broke into the heavy-breathing silence of the class. Elizabeth gritted her teeth and tried to regain her concentration.
“Well, when can you get to it?” the blonde was saying. “I don’t want my husband to see that scratch. He’s a maniac about his cars.”
Elizabeth looked up to see the blonde, cell phone trapped between ear and shoulder, drawing blithely on with repeated glances back and forth from hand to paper. At the front of the room Daphne was frowning as she handed the attendance sheet to an elegant white-haired woman.
“I don’t care about that,” the blonde went on without lowering her voice. “I’m bringing the car in today at three-thirty and I expect you to take care of it right away. God knows we’ve given you enough business—”
Elizabeth watched in amazement as she saw the small woman she had spoken to before class rise deliberately and take the blonde by the elbow. A look of mild amusement was on her face as she escorted the surprised blonde, in midconversation, out the door. The smiling woman returned immediately and took up her pencil. Elizabeth caught her eye and grinned, giving her a thumbs-up signal.
Elizabeth’s neighbor whispered, “I’m glad she did that; I sure wouldn’t have had the nerve. But I hate it when people do like that with cell phones. It’s just so rude. I know how that lady feels though— about getting her car fixed. I’m driving my husband’s car while mine is in the shop and I’m in fear and trembling of getting a scratch on it.”
Back to the hand, another fingernail…slowly…and down…down…a little jog at the knuckle…have my handsalways had all these spots?…are they freckles or those old-lady things, what did Gramma call them? liver spots?…slowly…slowly—
“Okay, let’s stop and take a look.” Daphne came to the center of the room, ignoring Blondie, who, her call completed at last, was returning to her seat.
“But I haven’t finished—”
“It doesn’t matter whether you finish; this is just an exercise. Now, people, what do you think about your drawings?”
They were amazingly good. Most bore a real resemblance to hands, allowing for occasional squiggly digressions. Elizabeth’s neighbor shyly held out her drawing. “I thought that was fun. I was pretending there was a tiny bug crawling around the outline of my hand and my pencil was following him.”
The woman’s face didn’t look tired anymore. Her gray eyes were shining and a sweet smile lit up her otherwise plain face. “I love classes like this. They can just take your mind off all your problems.”
The time passed quickly. Daphne discussed the supplies they would need, outlined what they would be doing in the coming weeks, and finished the paperwork attendant to the class. They did more blind drawing and then gesture drawing— working rapidly this time instead of slowly. By four o’clock, Elizabeth was happy that Hawkins had asked her to take the class. Then, with a rueful start, she remembered why she was there.
Omigod, I’ve got to make friends with Blondie. I don’t know, Phillip. That may be asking too much.
When Daphne called for the class to finish up, Elizabeth took her parking permit card up to the desk. The attendance sheet was lying there and she could see, in rounded printing with a little heart to dot the i, for god’s sake,the name Kimberly Peterson. With an inward groan, she hurried back to her table and collected her belongings. The blonde was making for the door, her high heels tapping as she dialed a number on her cell. Elizabeth called a hasty “See you next week” to her neighbor and dashed for the door.
She caught up with her quarry outside. Blondie was moving toward the parking lot, stiletto-heeled sandals setting a rapid, clicking pace as their wearer chattered once again into her phone. “I’m leaving class now; I have to go by the car place…she didn’t!” The enormity of whatever it was she didn’t do halted the blonde in her tracks, and Elizabeth was forced to resort to hastily stopping and investigating the contents of her shopping bag as if she were looking for some missing item.
Finally the call ended and the blonde made for her car, a shiny red BMW with a small scratch on the right front fender. As the red door swung open, Elizabeth, just passing by, on the way to my car, stopped and said, “Wow, that’s a beautiful car!” She stuck out her hand and added, “Hi, I’m Elizabeth— how did you like the class? I think Daphne’s a good teacher. I’m really looking forward to next week when we start using paint.”
The blonde looked up and stared blankly at Elizabeth. “Oh, were you in there? Well, I guess she’s okay but she should have given me more time to finish.” She studied her fingernails. “I’m going to miss next week anyway— we’re going to the beach house.”
“How nice.” Elizabeth forced a smile. “Well, see you week after next, then— what did you say your name was?” Lame, she thought with an inward groan, very lame.
The BMW purred into life and the blonde, checking her lipstick in the rearview mirror said with a yawn, “Sondra…with an ‘o’…Sondra Shields.”
“Well, hell,” said Elizabeth, watching the BMW shoot off. Sondra was on her cell phone again and narrowly missed a young man crossing the street in an electric wheelchair.
“I swear, those things are a real curse.” The soft voice at her elbow belonged to her neighbor from class, the quiet-looking woman with brown hair. “My husband put one in my car but I always pull over to use it.” She smiled shyly at Elizabeth. “Daphne kept us so busy we didn’t even get to introduce ourselves— I’m Kimmie.”
“And I’m Elizabeth. Nice to meet you.” Elizabeth tried not to let her face reveal the major reshuffling of assumptions that was taking place at this moment. Kimmie! As in Kimberly? Surely this dowdy little mouse can’t be The Bimbo?
“And it’s good to meet you. I think this is going to be a really fun class.” Kimmie peered around the parking lot. “I swear, I forgot I was in my husba
nd’s car. Oh, there it is, over there. Sometimes I can’t remember anything.”
Kimmie—Kimberly?— gave a little waggle of her fingers and continued on to her car— a huge white SUV. Elizabeth stared after her. Could there have been a Kimmie on the class roll as well as the Kimberly Peterson she had seen? She didn’t think so. But how in the name of goodness could this sweet-faced frump be the mistress Marvin Peterson had married so indecently soon after his wife’s murder?
As the big car pulled out of the lot, Elizabeth saw its license plate and her questions were answered. The vanity plate read, “MP # 1.” She was pretty sure it had nothing to do with military police.
CHAPTER 13
WHAT MISS BIRDIE SAW
(THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 8)
OH, REALLY GREAT JOB, SHERLOCK! TERRIFIC! What astute profiling! Oh yeah, real good…Phillip’ll be proud of you all right. What’s that thing— don’t “assume”— it makes an ass out of you and me.
Elizabeth was still berating herself as she drove across the bridge on her way home. How could she have spent the whole class sitting next to her quarry and, effectively, ignoring her? “And how the bloody hell can Kyra call that meek, ordinary-looking woman a bimbo?” And what about the white SUV? She said it was her husband’s car. What if it was Kyra’s father that Julio saw down by our mailbox? Would he have done something like that to his own daughter? Sick— this whole thing is sick.
As Elizabeth neared Miss Birdie’s house, the sight of her little neighbor on the porch gave her an idea. Maybe Birdie saw the same white car Julio saw— she always pays attention to the comings and goings around here. Let’s see what she can tell me.
Birdie was sitting on one of the newly bottomed straight chairs, a pile of beans in her lap. A bushel basket two-thirds full of fat, pale green runner beans was beside her, and a long, sharp darning needle glittered in her hand as she added another bean to the string she was making. “Git you a chair, Lizzie Beth. I’m just stringin’ these soup beans here in the cool of the evenin’. I do love a bowl of shucky beans come wintertime.”