Someone yelled something in the background. “I gotta go, they’re having a problem with the drums. I’ll dig through her phone and see what I can find.”
She hung up before I got a good-bye in, but a few minutes later, a text came from KitKat’s old number. At first, it didn’t feel right to open it, a ghost, a message from beyond the grave. And when I did open it, there wasn’t a phone number—instead, Hillary had sent me a photo of KitKat holding hands with a man at least ten years her senior. He was wearing a yellow shirt and a Red Sox cap; she had on a Binghamton University sweatshirt and a red polka-dot skirt. I vaguely remembered KitKat telling me she’d done her undergrad work at Binghamton. Anthropology, I think, probably because they didn’t have a degree in being quirky.
This pic was labeled GBU in her photos, Hillary wrote. No clue who he is. Never seen him before, but I hope it helps.
I stared at her picture with tears in my eyes. She was smiling in the photo, happy enough to look almost alive beyond the pixels. I only had a few photos of her and none of them were of the two of us—group shots from the Save Our Bluths run, brunch Instagrams, party candids. For two weeks, I’d carried around the abstract knowledge that she was gone, the day-to-day understanding that I wouldn’t see her in the foyer or at a party. But looking at her picture with her cat by my side, the hard reality of her death hit me square in the chest. It wasn’t fair. It never is, but seeing her so vibrant in this small digital scrap only reinforced the fact that she was taken from us too young, too violently, and seemingly without sense. And my task—whether Philip agreed or not—was to put all the pieces together.
I sat down on the couch with my laptop. Baldrick knocked into my shin with his head, and I reached down to scratch him behind the ears. BU for Binghamton University, like her sweatshirt. I pulled up the college website and plugged in all the G names I could think of. Greg L, two hits. Gerald L, none. George L, fourteen names came up.
But only one of them was George Parker Lennox.
Chapter 17
ANGELS OF THE SILENCES
Professor George Parker Lennox taught music theory, the History of Rock, Intro to New Wave, Punk Theory, and Yacht Rock Senior Seminar. That explained Steely Dan and Billy Bragg. He’d authored an intro-to-music textbook and written the foreword to a book on the Talking Heads. The headshot on his bio matched the man in KitKat’s photograph, Red Sox cap and all. He had a blog. He had a Twitter feed.
And he had a wife.
The tape was starting to make sense now. He was the unavailable one and that’s why he was ending it. It wasn’t a breakup, it was a farewell. He probably assumed that she hadn’t contacted him because she understood the tape. And now I wondered if my interception made me responsible for telling him what really happened. Bronco had no reason to be jealous—it was over between the two of them, it might have even been over before the tape was made. There was too much heartbreak in those lyrics for it to be a fond farewell and a fuck-you.
But it also meant that GPL’s wife could be a suspect. Binghamton was only a few hours away, and it wouldn’t be the first time in history that a wife took care of her husband’s mistress. If I was trying to prove Bronco’s innocence, she was making a pretty strong case for herself without even knowing it.
I scanned KitKat’s cupcake blog, her Facebook, her Twitter for any conversations that might have tipped the wife off. If they were having an affair, they’d kept it very quiet. He’d never left a comment, wasn’t listed as a follower or a friend. But he was going to have to find out she was dead someday, and I was probably going to have to be the one to tell him.
I was shaking. I closed the laptop. Baldrick yowled and I poured out the last of the cat crunchies into his dish. He ate while I put on my coat and walked down to the grocery store for distraction, silently begging, Please don’t let me run into anyone, please don’t let me . . .
“Hi, Jett.” I was surprised to see Randy by the vegetable corner. Key Food seemed too pedestrian for him and Lovelle; I always assumed they got all the supplies for Egg School and their own kitchens at a more free-range grocery store. “Picking up some goodies for Bronco’s care package?”
Bronco. I had completely forgotten that I was supposed to visit him tomorrow.
Randy had a full basket of organic and gluten-free offerings. All I had in my basket was the cheapest, smallest bag of cat food that would get Baldrick through until the direct deposit fairy magically planted money in my checking account. Right now, my washerwoman duties were the only thing keeping me in MetroCards and Trader Joe’s.
“That and a few other things,” I lied, hoping it would explain the cat food.
Randy nodded. “Lovelle and I have a box of things other customers have dropped off—some puzzle books, snacks, stuff like that. But if you could pick up some soy cheese and a couple of those egg-free, casein-free cookies they have over at Hotte Lotte, I know he would appreciate it.”
“Can’t you guys just send some egg-free cookies?” I asked. “Those ones that you get are pretty good.” For being dry and disgusting, I thought. I had accidentally ordered one a few months ago when I’d been too hungry to make an informed decision and had regretted it the whole time it was crumbling in my mouth.
Randy looked at me like I’d asked him to burn down his store and use the insurance money for bail. “This is about community support, Jett,” he said. “We need to show Bronco that we’re all rallying behind him.”
“I just know he really likes the cookies you guys have—”
He cut me off. “You’ll be riding with Bryce; he’ll pick you up. Just remember, no raisins in anything. Prisoners can use them to make booze.”
“They could start a distillery and sell it to hipsters in Williamsburg,” I joked. “I bet guys in seventies running shorts and cop-show mustaches would line up to drink Raisin Jack.”
Randy didn’t find that funny. Truth is, I didn’t either. I was feeling bitter and mean about everything. He muttered some kind of good-bye and went back to buying kale. I looked at the cat food in my basket and decided that was all I was going to buy. I liked Bronco, but this week, there was only enough cash to feed one man in my life, and it was going to have to be the fluffy one.
Chapter 18
A GIRL IN TROUBLE (IS A TEMPORARY THING)
My ride to Rikers was the skinny kid from brunch with the Dr. Who T-shirt, only this time he was wearing a sweater vest over a short-sleeved plaid button-down. He drove a blue Honda Accord that was more rust than metal and had a radio receiver plugged into a Discman. There wasn’t even a clock.
“I’m Bryce,” he said, handing me a cup of coffee. “You’ll have to hold it in your lap—no cup holders.”
“Here,” I said, handing him The Bridge. “To thank you for giving me a ride.”
He looked at it like I was handing him a dead roach. “Keep it,” he said. Guess I couldn’t blame him for that reaction.
I got in the front seat and wondered if the car would hold together on the ride. We sat in the heavy morning traffic in silence until he cleared his throat and asked how I knew Bronco. I told him about living upstairs from KitKat, that I knew them both from parties, that I didn’t believe he was capable of this.
“So . . . ,” he drawled. “Are you the bitch that said Bronco was seen leaving the apartment?”
“No!” I said insistently. “No. I’m the one that found her body.” I don’t know why I told him that as though it would clear my name; all it probably did was give me more motive to narc. “I saw him leave that morning, but that wasn’t unusual.”
“Yeah, he was over there, but someone got the times mixed up, told the cops he was seen leaving that afternoon. That’s not possible.”
I drank my coffee. “What, are you his alibi?”
Bryce sighed and looked at me hard. “Look,” he said. “You can’t tell anyone I told you this, but I know he didn’t do this.”
“So why can’t I tell anyone?” I replied. “You know, like his lawyer?”
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“Because he doesn’t want it getting out . . . that he was with me. He was doing a muscle show at the Inconvenience Lounge, same as every other Wednesday, and he spent all afternoon getting ready.”
“What’s a muscle show?” I asked, and immediately felt like a Pollyanna.
Bryce rolled his eyes and took a sip of his coffee. “It’s exactly what it sounds like,” he said. “Afterward, we went back to my place—hope I don’t have to spell that out for you too.”
This was a revelation, to say the least. “But what about KitKat? Wasn’t she his . . .”
“His bestie and his beard,” Bryce said. “He said she was his girlfriend when his family visited. They’re those kind of snotty born-again types who think gay sex should stay between Dad of the Year and the kid he’s diddling down the street. I didn’t like it, thought he should be honest with them, but he just wasn’t ready. Some people never are.”
If I thought about Bronco hard enough, I was more surprised that he pretended to be straight than that he wasn’t. “But in Bushwick, seriously? Why stay closeted here, of all places?”
“Because you can’t just be gay in one place,” said Bryce. “Admitting he was dating me meant broadcasting back to everyone in Armpit, Arizona, that he was out and proud. And being black, gay, and dating a white boy? He said he just wasn’t ready to face his family with all that.”
“So how do I know you didn’t kill her to force him to come out?”
“Bitch, please,” he said. “You watch too much SVU. I adored KitKat. She was going to bake our wedding cake . . .” He sighed and stared somewhere beyond the traffic. “. . . when he finally told his family about us.”
I’D NEVER EVEN been to the principal’s office, let alone a prison visiting room. I was immediately seized with the fear that they’d somehow find contraband in my purse: a pocketknife I’d thrown in for a picnic because I needed the bottle opener; a strip of condoms forgotten from a long-ago hookup; a chocolate bar that could, in theory, be a brick of cocaine. I had visions of being slammed against a wall and strip-searched, forced to don an orange uniform and bunk with some murderous junkie named Sherrie. She’d tattoo me with a Bic pen; Sid and my parents would have to visit by phone through panes of Plexiglas. . . .
But instead, the guards nodded at the contents of our care package and waved both Bryce and me through to the sterile room. The yellow walls had just the opposite effect than was probably intended. There was no way anyone could feel happy or relaxed when an armed guard was glaring at your every move, as though each embrace was a secret transaction of drugs, weapons, cash, or contraband Snickers.
Bronco didn’t look out of place here. He was a big guy, covered in tattoos, though his Mohawk was now wet down and plastered to his head. The only difference was that his eyes were sweet and sad and soft. They didn’t have the hard look that the eyes of the man two tables down being visited by his mother had.
“We’re going to get you out of here,” Bryce said, reaching across the table.
Bronco pulled away. “Not here,” he hissed. “I don’t want any trouble.”
Bryce shrank back like he’d been slapped.
“How are you holding up?” I squeaked out.
“Well, I think I’ve had more visitors in the last two weeks then I’ve had since I was ten, when I had my appendix removed in the fifth grade.”
“Next time I’ll bring you a coloring book,” I joked, opening up the care package. “I think there’s some crosswords in here to pass the time until then.”
Bronco smiled for the first time since we arrived. Bryce didn’t like my stealing his thunder and quickly added, “There won’t be a next time—we’re going to get you out of here. We’re holding a benefit and Lovelle says that we should raise enough money to secure your bail.”
“That’s a relief,” he said. “It’s not so bad in here; quiet mostly. But the food is going to kill me—all that animal fat, ugh. I feel so sick and sluggish all the time.”
“We’ll get you a juice detox when you get out,” Bryce promised. “I would have brought some tea, but they don’t allow anything labeled ‘herbal remedies’ in here. Just work out as much as you can, sweat and drink lots of water. It won’t be much longer.”
I let the silence settle for a minute before I spoke again. “We missed you at KitKat’s memorial,” I said, cringing at my clumsiness and hoping he didn’t notice. So much for my L.A. gumshoe routine.
He either didn’t know it was an interrogation or didn’t care. “I just couldn’t go,” he said. “I got as far as the door and I just started bawling. There wasn’t anything I could take from her place that would preserve her memory better than I could in my heart.” He paused to wipe tears from his eyes. A weird little storm settled over Bryce. I was sorry I’d said anything—at least in front of his boyfriend.
He took a deep breath, wiped his eyes with the sugar-skull tattoo on the back of his hand and continued. “And I didn’t want everyone there treating me like a widow. It wouldn’t have been fair to Bryce or to anyone else.” And when no one was looking, he reached under the table and squeezed his boyfriend’s hand.
I wanted to ask Bronco about George Parker Lennox, but I felt weird asking in front of Bryce. I squirmed a little, and Bronco seemed to pick up on the vibe. “Babe, you think you could get me a soda?” he asked. “They won’t let us carry cash.”
“I don’t think they carry fruit spritzers in that machine,” he said.
“At this point, I don’t even care,” he said. “A Dr. Pepper would taste so good.”
Bryce rolled his eyes and got up, muttering about high-fructose corn syrup.
“Something you want to say, Jett?” Bronco said in a low voice.
“Did KitKat ever mention anyone else she was dating? Someone you were her cover for?”
He drew back his hand and went quiet for a minute. He glanced over to make sure Bryce was still wrestling with the vending machine.
“I knew she was in love with someone else,” he said. “I’d water her plants sometimes when she went away to see him, and I overheard her on the phone one time, asking about his wife, but I never got his name. I tried to tell my lawyer, but without a name, it didn’t do my case much good.”
“Does the name George Parker Lennox sound familiar?”
He shook his head. “No—why do you want to know all this?”
Before I could answer, Bryce came back with the soda and Bronco took a grateful—if not staged—swig. I tried to give him a look that said, I’ll explain later. All I got back was a glance that I translated as hopelessness.
Chapter 19
WHEN YOU WERE MINE
I took what was left of my paycheck to Trader Joe’s and stocked my fridge with frozen meals and carton soups. I bought shampoo and toilet paper. I swallowed a sample cup of caramel corn and snuck a second when the sample girl wasn’t looking. I stopped by Hartford and hid Philip’s packet of dirty dainties in my Trader Joe’s bag, and when I got off the subway there was a message from Sid. Got behind on work, he wrote. I’ll be by a little after six. Need me to bring anything?
Just the usual, I wrote back.
A cheap bottle of wine and a corkscrew. One of these days, I’m just going to buy you one.
Then you won’t have an excuse to come over anymore. I added a little smiley face so he’d know I was joking.
I’ll always find an excuse, he wrote. You have all my records.
WHEN SID SHOWED up, he had two brown paper bags, one in his fist and the other under his arm. “Look what I found the other day,” he said, setting the wine down on the table and holding out Cyndi Lauper’s She’s So Unusual. “Cyndi was my first crush. I haven’t thought about this album in years, but it was right up front in a box of vinyl at the bookstore next to the liquor store. Thought we could listen to it tonight.”
“You know how the turntable works,” I said.
He went to the living room while I got our enchiladas out of the oven. I hadn’t heard �
�Money Changes Everything” in years, but I still knew the tune enough to hum a little under my breath.
I came out of the kitchen and almost dropped the plates. There was something intimate and sexy about the way Sid was working to open the bottle of wine, his lean hand wriggling the cork with a soft squeak against the green glass. I had to remember to breathe, to set the plates down, to hold on to the glass he placed in my hand instead of letting it fall slack between my fingers.
“You have any luck finding the guy who made KitKat’s tape?” he asked, ruining the moment he didn’t know we were having.
“George Parker Lennox,” I said. “A professor in Binghamton.”
“Ooh, hot for teacher,” he said. “How very Van Halen.”
“Yeah, except I don’t know what to do now,” I said. “He’s married, and I don’t think he knows she’s dead.”
“You should return the tape to him,” he said. “You should be the one to tell him. In person.”
“How?” I asked. “I can’t just call him up and say, ‘Hey, your girlfriend is dead and I have your tape.’ Besides”—I took a bite of my enchilada—“he lives in Binghamton, I don’t have a car, and I’m sure as hell not taking the bus by myself to some strange city to tell a guy his mistress got murdered.”
“You think he killed her?”
“I doubt it,” I said. “Not with the songs he chose.” I handed him the track list I’d typed up. “He broke up with her, sure, but he didn’t kill her.”
Sid chewed thoughtfully for a minute. “You’re quite the Rockford,” he said, grinning out of the left side of his mouth. “I wouldn’t have put all that together.” My heart did that little hollow flutter thing it does every so often when I’m about to fall in love, and he continued. “Look, if you want to go—and I think you should—I’ll go with you. We might even be able to borrow Terry’s car for a day. He’s rarely in any shape to drive it.”
The Big Rewind Page 8