Hard Fall

by Pascal Scott

  “You know her? My Emily?” Stone asked.

  Dory forced herself to look away from the picture and into Stone’s eyes.

  “No,” Dory said. “But she was a looker, for sure.”

  Stone had been around enough bullshitters—hell, academia was full of bullshitters—to know a lie when she saw it. Dory was lying, Stone was sure of it. But why?

  From behind a folding table, Barbara tapped a wooden gavel.

  “The meeting of the Lez-B-Sober group of AA will come to order,” Barbara began. The room quieted to a hush.

  ****

  “This may sound like a strange question, but how well do you know Dory?”

  It was their semi-regular meeting at Café Flore. By now, the evening waitress was accustomed to ushering Stone and Zoe to “their” table each time they met, a private spot away from the foot traffic of the waitstaff and customers.

  “And what’s her last name, by the way?” Stone added. “I never did ask her.”

  “Duckworth,” Zoe said.

  “Duckworth? Is that a name?”

  “It’s Southern.”

  “I guess. Anyone ever call her Ducky?”

  “Not if they don’t want their nose realigned,” Zoe said. “Your and Dory’s little episode with the police wasn’t the first time I’ve bailed Dory out for drunk and disorderly.”

  “Oh, yeah? She does have a temper, doesn’t she? Is that why you two broke up?”

  “We didn’t really break up because we were never really together,” Zoe explained. “It was all a misunderstanding, really. I was recovering from a broken heart, and I rushed into what I thought was going to be just a simple hook-up. I was attending a Girls with Guns conference in North Carolina. I carry for my job. I don’t know why Dory carries. It may be a Southern thing.

  “In any event, I thought it was just a hook-up. You know, ‘What happens when you’re out of town stays out of town’? Dory took it much more seriously than I did, and before I realized what was happening, she’d moved across country and was expecting to live with me in my little houseboat.”

  “That happens sometimes, those misunderstandings,” Stone said. “I’ve been there myself.”

  “Have you?”

  “Yeah, I was pretty wild when I was younger. Turning forty made me slow down.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Zoe said. “Why do you ask? About Dory?”

  Stone hesitated.

  “Something strange happened when I showed her a picture I keep in my wallet. It’s of Emily, and I swear it seemed like Dory recognized her. I don’t know why exactly, but I got a funny hit off her reaction. And then when I asked her about it, she denied knowing Emily. But I swear she did.”

  “That is odd,” Zoe said. “Dory never mentioned anyone named Emily to me. But she wouldn’t have necessarily, especially after I told her to make other living arrangements. We didn’t have any reason to see each other after that. We don’t share the same social circle.”

  “I get that.”

  “Dory has a temper, but she’s not dangerous from what I know about her. If that’s what you were thinking.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I don’t know. It was probably nothing. It just seemed strange.”

  “I agree. Oh, before I forget, I need an object that belonged to Emily. For my class.”

  “Your class?”

  “My class in clairvoyance at Psychic Pathways. Next week, Reverend Southern will be teaching us about psychometry.”

  “Psychometry?”

  “It’s the art of reading objects. I’d like to bring something of Emily’s, something personal.”

  “Why not?” Stone said. “Guess it’s worth a try.”

  ****

  Stone went to the frosted-glass jewelry box that was still on Emily’s dresser. It had been more than four months since Emily’s disappearance, and Stone still didn’t have the heart to empty Emily’s room. She would, though, but not until she was ready. Opening the lid of the jewelry box, Stone removed a small object. It was Emily’s commitment ring. Stone still wore the matching pair, a silver band with waves of gold woven into the Celtic design. The Kitty Club didn’t allow its dancers to wear jewelry, especially wedding rings. Men didn’t want to see a ring on that finger. It was bad for business. Emily always left it at home when she went to work. Stone would give it to Zoe for her class.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “How’s the drinking?” Maggie asked.

  “I’m not drinking,” Stone said.

  “And how does that feel? Not drinking.”

  “Pretty much how you’d expect. Not great.”

  Maggie nodded. “How long has it been?”

  Stone checked her watch. “Twenty-two days, twelve hours, and twelve minutes.”

  Maggie gave Stone a bemused smile. “Now I’m wondering…are you finding the twelve-step meetings helpful?”

  “Not really,” Stone answered. “The judge gave me a choice of meetings or jail time. Some choice. AA is the lesser of two evils, I suppose.”

  “You’re not working the program?” Maggie inquired.

  “No.”

  “And I assume that means you don’t have a sponsor.”

  “That’s right. I don’t have a sponsor.”

  “Stone, we’ve talked in here a little about self-defeating behaviors—”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “And I’m wondering if you’re recognizing a pattern here in your resistance to the program.”

  Sometimes therapy annoyed the hell out of Stone.

  “Not really,” she said.

  Maggie held on to her mala like a worry bead.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Psychometry. What is psychometry?” Reverend Anna Southern asked without waiting for an answer.

  Psychometry, she printed with a black ink marker on the white board at the front of the room. When she had finished, she underlined the word three times and then faced the students of her clairvoyance class. Rev. Southern was a big woman in a big dress that floated around her body like a white cloud, revealing fleshy arms and an ample bosom. In her cleavage vibrated a quartz crystal from a silver chain. Her eyes sparkled, and her cheeks were flushed with enthusiasm.

  “Psychometry, from the ancient Greek psyche meaning spirit or soul and metron meaning measure. Literally, a measure of the spirit or soul. For our purposes, we’ll think of psychometry as the art of receiving psychic information through the energy of an object belonging to the person in question. Often that object is a piece of jewelry—a necklace, a watch, a ring—because those items are worn on the body and have gathered the body’s spiritual energy. When we talk about gathered energy, we call it the psychic imprint.”

  Rev. Southern turned to face the board again, writing the words psychic imprint and then underlining the words three times.

  “Psychometry may be defined as a reader’s increased sensitivity to the psychic imprint of objects. It’s the ability to receive visions, impressions, thoughts, or events by touching an object related to a person.”

  “Question,” Zoe said, raising her hand.

  “Yes, Zoe.”

  “Just out of curiosity, why do you use three lines? When you underline words on the board. I’ve noticed you underline them three times. Not twice. Not once. Three times.”

  Rev. Southern grinned. “Very good,” she said. “Did you hear that, class? Three times. Zoe observed that I underline words three times. Why three?”

  Once again, she didn’t wait for an answer. She turned back to the board and wrote the Magic of Three.

  “Omne trium perfectum. Everything in threes is perfect. According to the ancient Romans, anyway. So if I underline my words one time, you won’t remember them.”

  Glancing at Zoe, she smiled before underlining the Magic of Three one time.

  “Twice, hell no.” She underlined again.

  “But three times…” She finished the final line. “The third time is t
he charm. Literally. Good observation, Zoe. Now where were we? Oh, yes, psychometry. Now you may remember that I suggested you bring in an object for tonight’s class. Does anyone have such an object?”

  Zoe’s hand shot up.

  “Zoe, again.” Rev. Southern moved toward her chair. “What did you bring for the demonstration?”

  Zoe opened her purse and pulled out a small box. Removing Emily’s ring, she gave it to her teacher for examination.

  “Pretty,” Rev. Southern said. “A Celtic knot. Also known as the trinity knot or the triquetra, and we were just talking about the magic of three. The Celtic knot is magical, according to the ancient Gaels, who knew a thing or two about magic. They believed that wearing a ring like this protected its wearer from harm.”

  Rev. Southern closed her eyes and drew a deep breath while she cupped Emily’s ring between her palms. Zoe watched as Rev. Southern slowed her breathing, inhaling deeply and then slowly exhaling. After a few silent moments, she began the reading.

  “A shop,” Rev. Southern said tentatively. “A glass case. The deck is mirrored. The glass is polished. I see bright lights hanging from the ceiling. I see rings, shining. Silver. Gold.”

  She frowned in concentration.

  “Now I’m getting…roses. Red roses. A ring, silver and gold, and red roses,” she said. “And…fog. Now I’m getting fog. I can’t see what’s happening. I’m getting something dense that I can’t see through. It looks like fog. It’s gray and dense. It may be on a street. I think it’s a city street. It’s night. I see something coming through the fog.”

  The classroom was absolutely silent. Everyone was listening.

  “I see lights moving. They’re white. They’re going up, moving upward.”

  Rev. Southern opened her eyes. “That’s all. It’s gone.”

  She gave the ring back to Zoe. “Did any of that have any meaning for you?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Zoe answered. “I don’t know what it means.”

  ****

  “Do white lights and fog mean anything to you?” Zoe asked.

  “I don’t know,” Stone said. “What are we talking about?”

  “Psychometry. Here.”

  She slid the ring in its small white box across the table at Café Flore. “My teacher saw some white lights in the fog. That’s what she received from holding Emily’s ring.”

  “Huh-uhn. No clue,” Stone said. “That means nothing to me.”

  Stone picked up the ring and turned it over in her palm. It matched her own ring exactly, except in size. It was smaller, of course, for Emily’s slender fingers. Stone’s fingers were shorter and thicker. Stone took a swig of beer from the bottle that had just been set in front of her. God, there was nothing like that first sip of a cold beer. She had finished her court-ordered AA and was off the wagon.

  “Stone, I don’t want to keep charging you for something I’m afraid is going nowhere,” Zoe said.

  “I can appreciate that.”

  “It’s been seven weeks. I’ve investigated six leads and racked up more billable hours than I know you can afford. We’ve met five times, and we’re no closer to learning what happened to Emily than we were when we started. All we’ve done is eliminate people who we’re pretty sure didn’t do it. If someone killed Emily, and at this point, that’s still an if.”

  Her voice softened.

  “Did you ever think that maybe Emily really did end her own life? Sometimes we don’t know what’s going on with someone, even someone very close to us.”

  “No,” Stone said firmly. She felt her face grow hot. “She was murdered. It wasn’t suicide. Not you, too, Zoe. I thought you believed me.”

  “I do, I do,” Zoe hastened to assure her. “I just…I just don’t know anymore.”

  They finished their drinks in silence. At the gate, they said all the polite things you say when you know you’re ending something that doesn’t feel finished. They said it had been nice working with each other. They promised to keep in touch. When they hugged goodbye, Stone held the embrace a moment too long, reluctant to let Zoe go.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Seven weeks later, on the day of her forty-first birthday, Stone was standing patiently in line at Cliff’s, the hardware store in the Castro. She had awakened that morning alone, as she always was now. But today was different. Today was her day, April 28. She had survived another year. What was the cliché? Así es la vida. That’s life. It had been six months since Emily’s death. It was time to move on.

  She started by emptying Emily’s room. The retro Angela Davis poster had come down off the wall; Emily’s furniture and clothes had been given to the women’s shelter in the Mission; the plants had been moved into the living room; and now it was just the odds and ends that remained. Stone had run out of storage bags and was buying more at Cliff’s, where she had walked from her Victorian. It was Saturday, and the atmosphere inside the sparkling-clean store was chatty and light, busy with gay and lesbian customers.

  Ahead of her in line were two dark-bearded bears dressed in plaid shirts, Levi’s, and unscuffed work boots. The cashier had just finished helping a young woman, partially hidden from Stone’s view by the wide backs of the bears. With her spiky, gelled hair standing up straight as a flaming red exclamation point, the young woman was as tall as the men.

  “Thank you,” she told the cashier.

  Stone’s heart jumped a beat. That voice. That sweet, smooth contralto.

  The young woman walked to the door, her black leather-jacketed back turned to Stone. Stone stepped out of line and called out.

  “Emily?”

  The figure froze in place, just for a moment. Then she hurried out the door. Stone followed, the unpaid box of bags in her hand.

  “Emily! Emily! Wait!”

  “Hey!” someone shouted at Stone. “Hey you! Stop!”

  A hand came down on her shoulder, and she turned to see the cashier, his face contorting into a blotchy patch of red and white. Pushing the box into his arms, Stone rushed off down Castro toward Market Street. Weaving through the crowd, she collided with a wall of black cloth.

  “Watch it, sweetheart! What’s your hurry?”

  Stone pulled back from the cloth to look up into the powdered-white face of a Sister of Perpetual Indulgence.

  “Sorry, I’m sorry,” Stone said quickly, trying to peer past the drag queen toward Market Street. “I was looking for someone.”

  “Aren’t we all?” the sister replied.

  Stone craned her neck around the sister’s habit to stare down Castro Street, searching the crowd for a ghost.

  She was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Gavin Kelly didn’t return Stone’s first phone call, nor the second, nor the third. After the fourth try, Stone went to his office and refused to leave until he would see her. Only then did she get an answer.

  “The dental records,” he told her. “That’s how we knew the body I had on my table was your friend.”

  “You’re sure?” Stone demanded.

  Dr. Kelly huffed in frustration. “Yes, Ms. McStone, I’m sure. When a body can’t be identified visually or by fingerprints, we conduct a dental exam. The results are processed through a national repository, and the findings I submitted were identified as those of your friend.”

  “Emily Bryson,” Stone said.

  “Yes, Ms. Bryson. The dental records came from Indiana, as I recall. We were unable to find anything local. Did she see a dentist here, in San Francisco, anyone you’re aware of?”

  Stone thought back to Emily’s bright white teeth. She tried to remember Emily having a dentist’s appointment of any kind during the year they lived together but failed.

  “I don’t know,” Stone answered. “She never mentioned one.”

  “Whatever the case may be, to return to your question—yes, the body I examined was identified by dental records as Emily Bryson. I’m sure.”

  He sighed. “I know this is hard for you…”
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  Stone left before he could say more.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “It’s not unusual for this to happen,” Maggie said gently. “Grief can cause people to misread reality.”

  “I am not misreading reality,” Stone asserted.

  “I didn’t mean to imply that you are,” Maggie offered. “What I’m suggesting is that disturbing thoughts and emotions are a natural part of the grieving process. Catching a glimpse of the deceased on a crowded street is not an uncommon delusion.”

  “I am not delusional.”

  “A bad choice of words. I should have said occurrence. It’s not an uncommon occurrence. It’s not at all unusual for people like you, after experiencing a profound loss, to believe they have seen their loved one on the street after that person has passed.”

  “I know what I saw. What I heard,” Stone insisted.

  But even as she said it, a twitch of doubt was starting to jerk her out of certainty. Really, what had she seen? Or heard? The back of a tall girl in a leather jacket. A smooth contralto. Maybe Maggie was right. Maybe she really was delusional with grief. Emily was dead.

  Or was she?

  Part Two

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “Smart and poor or dumb and rich?”

  Emily Bryson, University of California at Santa Cruz freshman of the fall class of 1983, sat cross-legged on a fluffy, new navy blue area rug on the floor of her dorm room. Her dormmate, a first-year student from Los Angeles named Elizabeth Taylor Bundy, was on the rug, too, leaning against her bed. A third frosh, Teresa Barrera, an exchange student from Mexico City, was lying across from them on Emily’s bed, her head propped up against a set of nautically themed throw pillows. The fourth girl, a junior named Karen Mann, was sitting cowboy style in Elizabeth’s desk chair, which she had turned around so that her chin rested on the top rail.