The Fortune Teller's Daughter

by Diane Wood

  After Bella left, Nathalie made her way to Jacqueline St. Clare’s flat, where Josh and Nigel were carrying out a search. It was small and messy and only furnished with the basic necessities, but there were a variety of family photos above the small television and even more in her bedroom. Some were obviously of her parents and siblings, but others appeared to be of grandparents, cousins, uncles and aunts, and it dawned on Nathalie that even though Jackie had lived poorly, she obviously had a lot of family support—a lot of people who would mourn her. Nowhere in the flat was there a photo of Bella.

  The search turned up a small amount of marijuana, Jackie’s address book and a letter from a credit company demanding immediate payment on an outstanding debt. Pinned to her rusty fridge by magnets were a variety of overdue unpaid bills, including telephone and electricity.

  At the end of the day, they’d learned that Jackie was heavily in debt and that those bills that did get paid had been done so on Bella’s credit card. Obviously Bella would now have to be interviewed and as Bella outranked Josh, a more senior officer would need to be involved. Bella would not be happy.

  By the time she got home, Nat was exhausted, her sense of loss and loneliness enveloping her. Heating a can of baked beans, Nathalie ate in the lounge room, sipping bourbon and Coke and listening to her Crossing Jordan CD. It was the first meal she’d eaten all day and although she had to force herself to bother, the warmth of it in her stomach felt good.

  She curled onto the lounge, her mind traveling to Alex—to the warmth of her smile, the intelligence and humor in her eyes and to the peace Nat had felt when she was near. She’d experienced nothing like it before, not even with Christine in the early days.

  As devastated as she felt, her anguish didn’t translate to tears. Instead it coldly highlighted the worthlessness of her life. While George had produced two beautiful children, who, if left alone by Mother, might just go on to live normal, ordinary lives, she had done nothing—produced nothing of any worth or value to anyone. That thought left her bitter and despairing.

  How tempting to go to sleep and never wake up.

  At some point while she lay staring blankly into the distance, Nathalie fell asleep.

  * * *

  The voice was loud and accusing but the words seemed meaningless. Then she was being lifted and held by her throat, and she knew she was very small, but still she struggled. It was so hard to breathe, and Mother’s face was so close, so vicious and angry. And still she couldn’t understand the words.

  Then she was on the floor and the floor was slippery with blood. She tried to scramble away, but slithered instead in the gory mess as the voice continued to ramble and rant. That was why she couldn’t understand the words—they were angry and garbled. The smell of blood was everywhere. Then suddenly she was having her clothes ripped from her body and someone was kissing her face, holding her close—sobbing. And she was even more frightened.

  “I loved her,” the voice was repeating in words she understood. “I loved her, but she was going to betray me again, so I had to do it. But I have you and you’re part of her, so I’ll let you live. But you must do everything I say…you must never tell…you must never betray me.”

  It was Mother’s voice and her grip was painful and cold.

  Then she was in a forest, naked, cold, dirty and very scared, but the smell of the damp earth was better than the smell of blood. Still the fear remained. There was Bad Mother’s voice and pain—so much pain—and her own voice, childlike and small, screaming and begging, and the overwhelming horror of it all.

  The screaming woke her—her own voice, adult and large, and the pain and terror, and her breathing in desperate, lung-bursting gasps, her arms protecting her face. Even with her eyes open and the lights blazing, the terror remained, causing her to bring her knees to her chest, the sofa cushion clutched protectively in front of her. “Oh God, Oh God,” she gasped aloud. “Please make it stop.”

  * * *

  The rest of the week went quickly as the investigation plodded on. Bella had taken time off work and Nathalie contacted her daily by phone. Outwardly Bella appeared untroubled by her lover’s death, but then she’d never have shown it if she’d been devastated.

  In Jackie’s address book they found Renee Young’s phone number and address and it was then that Nathalie remembered that they’d never found any kind of organizer, address book or contact list among Renee Young’s personal effects or in her home.

  “That’s very strange,” she commented to the team at the next morning’s meeting. “I don’t know of anybody who doesn’t keep some kind of record of people’s phone numbers and addresses, even if it’s only in an old notebook. She didn’t have any addresses on her computer, and her mobile lists only phone numbers, but no addresses.”

  “So what are you thinking?” asked Josh seriously.

  “What if the killer knew Renee Young, but the other victims were drawn from her address book? After all, we found Young’s address and her phone number in Cameron and Djanski’s address book and Young’s in St. Clare’s. So it stands to reason that both of them would have been in Young’s as well.”

  “Random lesbian killings taken from one woman’s address book?” replied Josh thoughtfully. “That could make sense. If we can find the address book, we might find the killer.”

  * * *

  On Friday night, Nathalie had a meal with Josh and Grace. She didn’t feel like it and didn’t stay long, but she liked Grace and knew that Josh was worried about her.

  The meal was delicious and Grace was funny and warm and obviously just as concerned as Josh, but even so, Nathalie was struggling. Watching them together and feeling the love between them only made her feel even more isolated and alone. She would have loved a hit of something to make her feel better, but in the end she decided to stop at the Liquor Barn instead.

  * * *

  Saturday was bright and sunny and Alex was lunching with the boys. The break from work gave her time to spend in her garden and spring clean the house and when that was done she’d started on her mother’s house and garden, until eventually Norma had told her to find somewhere else to channel her energies. In the end she spent more time at the center, making sure she avoided Wednesday.

  On Friday, Alex had got the news that one of the clients she’d seen quite regularly had committed suicide. She felt a huge sense of responsibility. That night, instead of heading straight home, she drove around aimlessly. Twice she passed Nathalie’s apartment block, slowing to look up at her window. How she longed to be with her. But Nathalie’s past had killed her sister and she couldn’t forgive that—especially the pain it had caused her mother. So she kept on driving, wishing deeply that she’d never met Nathalie Duncan.

  Alex told Michael and James that she’d seen Nathalie.

  Assuming that Nathalie would have told Alex she was seeing someone else, Michael was stunned to find out she’d told her the truth.

  “Why didn’t you tell us about your sister?” James had asked gently. “About the circumstances?”

  Shrugging, she said, “Her death and Mum’s breakdown had such an impact that I didn’t want to dredge it up again.”

  “So Christine lived with Nathalie’s brother,” James stated. “But was Nathalie there when she died?”

  “She claims she was at university, but she admits she introduced Chris into the family…was Chris’s lover.” Alex hesitated for a moment, looking down at her hands. Then looking up. “They let her become a drug addict and then kept her isolated from us.”

  “But surely your sister made her own decisions?” Michael stated quietly. “After all, she was nearly nineteen when she died.”

  James looked puzzled but remained quiet.

  “Why are you defending them?” asked Alex, annoyed. “She wasn’t even fifteen when they seduced her into their awful way of life.”

  “Do you think Nathalie knew who you were when you got involved?” James asked, trying to deflect Alex’s ire.

 
“My mother asked the same thing,” she admitted. It was a question she’d asked herself a hundred times since, but even now she wasn’t sure what she thought. In the end, her anger answered. “Given her family’s moral values it wouldn’t surprise me if she did know,” she said quietly. “Maybe she thought it would be fun to seduce Christine Martin’s sister.”

  Irrationally, Michael felt the need to continue defending Nathalie. “You know, Alex,” he said slowly, “it was you who chased Nat, not the other way around. And you didn’t know who she was, so how would she know you? Did she seem like she was gloating when she told you why she’d finished it with you?”

  Irritation and confusion showed on her face

  “Well, did she?” he persisted quietly.

  “Michael, for heaven’s sake…” stated James, “What are you doing?”

  “No, James,” he retorted, raising his hand. “It’s important Alex ask herself these questions, because it seems she’s trying to talk herself into hating Nathalie—blaming her for things way beyond her control.”

  “Thanks for the support, Michael,” mumbled Alex, stung by his words.

  He was getting in too deep, but it had to be said. “It’s just that you said that at fifteen your sister didn’t understand what she was getting into, but wasn’t Nathalie also only fourteen or fifteen at the time?”

  “So?” she asked, shaking her head.

  “Well, we know Nathalie didn’t have the stable, supportive upbringing that Christine had.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I guess it means that while your sister may have been lured into that lifestyle, she had alternatives. What you have to ask yourself is how much choice Nathalie Duncan had about anything in her life at that time.”

  They were looking at him as if he were an alien.

  “I’m sorry, Alex,” he continued, unable to stop. “I’m not used to you being so judgmental, and it saddens me to see you this way—especially about someone I know you love.”

  “Loved,” she murmured irritably. “All I feel now is disgust and regret that I ever met her.”

  “Do you feel that way about your sister as well?”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” interjected James angrily.

  Without looking at him and directing his conversation to Alex, he said, “It’s just that Christine stayed with Nat’s family for more than four years, so the presumption has to be that she did the same things—the drugs, the sex, the parties. For all you know, maybe your sister did what Nat did and recruited others into the family.”

  “How dare you? You have no idea what my sister was like,” Alex spat angrily, rising to her feet. “Even Nathalie admitted Chris was decent. Why are you taking her side?”

  “Yes, why would you?” snapped James, rising to stand beside Alex. “You know nothing about what happened in that family, except what Alex has told us, and you hardly know Nathalie Duncan. What’s going on?”

  Michael was trapped by his own words. “I know how it sounds,” he mumbled anxiously, “but thing are rarely as black and white as they seem. Someone has to play devil’s advocate.”

  It was weak, and the look in James’s eyes told him he had a lot of explaining to do.

  “I don’t understand what you want from me,” Alex said quietly when James had renewed their drinks. “Do you think I should just forget the role Nathalie and her family played in my sister’s death?”

  “Alex, I’m sorry,” he began, glancing at James, who glared back. “I’m just worried that you’re reacting how you think you should, how you think your mother would expect you to. Rather than how you actually feel.” Sighing, he continued. “You’re my friend and I love you, but I think you’re making a mistake.”

  For the longest time she looked at him with a mixture of hurt and suspicion.

  “It must be time to drop in on Trish and Jenny,” James declared, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “They’re expecting us for afternoon tea.”

  “Let’s do it,” replied Alex pointedly. “Suddenly I feel like a change of scene.”

  They didn’t get home until after ten. The visit with Trish and Jenny had been a success and the tension had eased gradually, but Alex had remained cool toward Michael, and Michael felt awkward and disloyal. Later they dropped her home, before continuing the drive in silence.

  “You’ve hardly spoken to me all afternoon,” Michael said finally as he and James sat with a joint and a cappuccino. “Are you still mad about what I said to Alex?”

  “I guess I’m waiting for you to explain,” James replied caustically.

  “Explain what?”

  “Well, for starters, why you suddenly appointed yourself Nathalie Duncan’s advocate? But even more importantly, how you knew what age Christine Martin was when she died?”

  “Alex must have mentioned it at some time,” he replied with a racing heart and dry throat.

  “No, Michael,” James stated, shaking his head, his eyes never leaving his lover’s face. “That’s not true and you know it.”

  A wave of anxiety rolled over Michael. He’d never lied to James nor cheated on him, now he felt like he’d done both and was about to be found out. “Oh God, James, it’s so complicated,” he muttered with a sigh. “So hard to explain.”

  “But you’re going to try, right? After all, we’ve got all night.”

  * * *

  On Saturday, Nathalie rose late, sporting a bad hangover. The nightmares had returned to the way they’d always been and it was almost a relief. At least they related to something tangible in her life, whereas the more recent ones were full of pain and terror and emotions that belonged to someone else.

  After a hot shower, toast and lots of coffee, she went rummaging among her personal papers until she found the crumpled copy of her birth certificate that Mother first had given her when she’d applied for her driver’s license. Since then it had been used for numerous purposes.

  The document was registered in Sydney, Australia, stamped and witnessed and appeared to be genuine. Certainly the passport office thought so, because they’d issued her a passport. But if it was genuine, what did George mean when he said she wasn’t his sister?

  George definitely wasn’t adopted. He looked too much like Mother, whereas she and Mother didn’t bear the slightest resemblance. She’d always explained that by her mixed race. Now suddenly this lack of resemblance took on huge significance. It wasn’t that she believed George. In his present fixated state he’d say anything to get her to stay, but why didn’t she have any memory of her early childhood and of the beatings George said Mother gave her?

  It was time to find some answers.

  The birth certificate listed Charlotte Silver as her mother and Abraham Duncan, birthplace New Orleans, as her father. It was dated the same week she was born. According to the birth certificate, Charlotte had been eighteen and Abraham Duncan twenty-six at the time of her birth. Her obvious first step would be to check the authenticity of the birth certificate with the Registrar of Birth, Deaths and Marriages on Monday—her additional day off.

  In the meantime she needed to talk to George, but after all that had happened, she could hardly ring the house.

  In the end Nathalie rented a car that wouldn’t be recognized and parked near the house. Nobody came or went during Saturday evening, and both cars remained in the open garage. By ten o’clock she figured they weren’t going anywhere and returned home to bed.

  Sunday was another bright, sunny day, but it didn’t make Nathalie feel any better. The ache of missing Alex hadn’t decreased and neither had the effort it took just to get through a day. Constantly she’d find herself drifting into memories of Alex’s warm, gentle smile or her quick, open laugh. Then she’d remember how it felt to be in her arms, the smell of her skin and the feeling of safety when Alex held her after one of the nightmares.

  With these thoughts came burning anger that fate would allow her to fall in love with Christine Martin’s sister. Perhaps this was God
’s idea of perfect revenge? Then she would force these emotions away, an act of sheer will practiced over a lifetime of burying feelings that served no purpose. You did what you had to and moved on. That was all there was.

  It wasn’t until nearly lunchtime on Sunday that anyone emerged from the house and then it was George’s girlfriend, Belinda. Driving George’s car, the young girl took off down the road. Nathalie followed.

  When Belinda alighted at the shopping mall, Nathalie approached her.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked nervously, looking like a startled deer.

  “I want to see George, but I can’t ring the house, so I want you to give him a message.”

  “He was very upset when you left and so was your mother,” she accused. “She yelled at him a lot for something he said to you. Maybe it’s better if you don’t have contact.”

  “I’m his sister, Belinda,” she argued. “How can we not have contact?”

  “And she’s your mother, but you don’t seem to care for her much.”

  “Will you give him the message?” she said, ignoring the girl’s comment. “I need the chance to talk to him again, to sort out our differences.”

  Reluctantly she nodded. “But you must never tell your mother. She frightens me.”

  “With good reason” were the words that flashed through Nat’s mind as she walked away.

  On Monday, Nathalie went to the Registrar of Births, Deaths and Marriages with her passport, driver’s license and police identification card to apply for a copy of her birth certificate. But there was no record of the birth. Nor was there a record of George Malcolm Silver. She could only conclude that someone in the Passport Office had been paid by Mother to issue Australian passports to her and George.

  It would make sense, if she were illegally adopted, that Mother would lie about where she was born, but why would she lie about George’s birth? The physical resemblance was too extraordinary for him to be anything but her biological son, so why the false documentation? And where did she go from here? Confront Mother? The thought invoked a dark terror that made her shudder.