Hard Fall

by Pascal Scott

“You have questions about a former resident?”

  “I do.”

  “Come with me, please,” the woman said. She began leading the way and then turned suddenly and stopped.

  “I haven’t introduced myself. How rude of me. I’m Mrs. Jessica Hope. I’m the director of Cowell Hall.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Zoe said.

  “And you are?”

  “K.M. McStone.”

  They went into a small room where Mrs. Hope took her place behind a polished wood desk while Zoe and Stone seated themselves in two guest chairs. On the gray wall behind Mrs. Hope hung a blue and gold pennant displaying the UC-Santa Cruz logo, a studious-looking banana slug wearing round eyeglasses and holding a book of Plato. On the desk, Zoe noticed a wooden business card holder. Zoe reached over and took one of the cards. Opening her concealed carry handbag, she tucked in the card and retrieved the photograph of the four girls. She slid it across the desk to Mrs. Hope, who adjusted her glasses as she looked at it.

  “Darn bifocals,” she said. “I just got these, and I can’t get used to them.”

  Zoe smiled sympathetically.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Hope said after a moment. “I remember these girls. They roomed on four. That was a few years ago. I don’t recall their names.”

  “One of them is Emily Bryson,” Zoe provided.

  “Emily Bryson. That sounds right.”

  “But you don’t know the names of the other girls?” Zoe asked.

  “I’m afraid not. My memory isn’t what it once was. But I think I can still help you. We keep a record of all residents, past and present. When a girl leaves us, she’s required to turn in her identification badge. Let me look. What year was this graduation?”

  “June 1987,” Zoe answered.

  Mrs. Hope went to a gray metal cabinet, removed a cardboard box, and brought it to the desk. She opened the lid and set it aside. Inside the box, photo IDs had been stacked horizontally, separated by alphabetical dividers for years past. Glancing at the photograph periodically, Mrs. Hope flipped through the alphabet silently for 1987, pulling out badges as she recognized faces. The first was the black-haired girl. She set the ID badge next to the photograph on the desk.

  “Teresa Barrera,” she said. “I remember her now. She was an exchange student from Mexico City. A very sweet girl, and she adjusted beautifully to life here. Yes. It’s coming back to me. I remember these four. They were quite the clique.”

  Zoe picked up the ID. It had the smooth feel of all things that are laminated. Teresa was beautiful, with her dark hair and mischievous eyes. Mrs. Hope continued her search. After a few moments, she pulled out the freckled blonde.

  “Karen Mann,” she said. “Banana Slug. That’s our nickname for our athletes. Karen won the Slug Award for women’s volleyball one year, if I recall.”

  The plastic alphabet made a snapping sound as Mrs. Hope continued her search. Zoe leaned forward in her chair, looking at Karen Mann. Stone was sitting back, letting Zoe work. Mrs. Hope found another ID and pulled it out for scrutiny.

  “Elizabeth Taylor Bundy,” she said. “I remember now. Elizabeth came to us on a Cary Scholarship. That’s a charity for former foster children. I remember Elizabeth because my husband and I were foster parents. Years ago when we were younger. There were no scholarships back then for children who were wards of the state of California. The Cary Foundation is a good organization. I looked into volunteering for them at one time because their emphasis is on education. ‘Anchor to education.’ That’s their motto and what they tell their recipients. If a foster child can anchor herself to education, she’s less likely to become unmoored when she ages out of the system at eighteen. Elizabeth was an excellent student, as I recall. But they all were, those four. Karen may have gotten by on her athletic ability, but the others were real scholars.”

  Mrs. Hope set the badge on the counter. Zoe picked it up and held it in front of her. Stone leaned forward.

  “Can I see?”

  Zoe handed the ID to Stone.

  “That’s not right,” Stone said after a moment.

  Stone looked up from the image of the girl in the ID and into Mrs. Hope’s bifocals. “That’s not right,” Stone repeated. “This is Emily. Emily Bryson.”

  Mrs. Hope shook her head.

  “No, that’s Elizabeth Taylor Bundy. Let me find Emily Bryson for you.”

  Her thick fingers searched under the B’s.

  “That’s funny,” she said after a moment. “Her badge seems to be missing.”

  She searched again.

  “We’re normally very strict about girls turning in their IDs, but sometimes they slip by us. It seems that Emily’s ID is missing. I’ll have to make a note of that. Although I suppose it’s too late to do anything about it now, really.”

  “Too late?” Zoe asked.

  “Well, yes. This is all coming back to me. Sometimes I forget things. But I remember them now, their circle. Emily’s girls, I think they were called. They were quite the clique, always together. After graduation, Emily moved to Mexico with Teresa. Those two were very—close.”

  She raised both eyebrows and nodded once at Zoe, implying that she was the type of woman who was too discreet to say more.

  “My God,” Stone mumbled and sat back.

  Zoe’s hand went to Stone’s shoulder and pressed it.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  The perishing past, that was what Whitehead called it. Elizabeth Taylor Bundy had taken her perishing past and transformed her unhappy existence into something entirely new. Elizabeth Taylor Bundy had become Emily Bryson, the privileged girl from a good family who wanted for nothing. It was identity theft, impersonation, fraud, and, perhaps, murder. Who else had motive to want Emily Bryson dead? There was no way to know for sure until Zoe found her.

  Zoe watched the evening lights come on in the hillside homes above the marina. She sat on her deck and remembered Mrs. Hope’s words. “Anchor to education.” Had Elizabeth Taylor Bundy, the scholarship recipient and former foster child, anchored to education? Zoe thought back to what Stone had told her about the Emily she knew. She was an exotic dancer, but only because it furthered her academic studies. They were scholars, Mrs. Hope had said. Zoe was following her intuition, the way she had learned at Psychic Pathways. Her intuition was telling her what to do next.

  ****

  Zoe pulled Peterson’s Guide to Colleges 1990 off a disheveled shelf of the main branch of the San Francisco Library. Skipping through the worn pages to the section for graduate degrees in women studies, she saw that there were several schools offering master’s-level degrees but only one with a PhD. That was Candler University in Atlanta, Georgia. Closing the book, Zoe knew what she had to do. To solve Emily’s murder, she would have to break the law, go against her ethics, and commit a venial sin. But if that was what it took, she would do it. To help Stone, she would do all that and more.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  “This is Elizabeth Taylor Bundy,” Zoe said. She had just gotten through to the admissions office of Candler University. “I’m calling to make sure you received my application for the doctoral program in women studies.”

  “Whatcha say your name was?” a woman asked in a syrupy drawl.

  “Elizabeth Taylor Bundy,” Zoe repeated more slowly.

  “Jus’ a minute, hon.”

  Zoe listened to several minutes of Muzak before the voice returned.

  “Ms. Bundy?”

  “Yes.”

  “I found you. Our records show that you were accepted to the women studies doctoral program. Classes start September 3. Did you not receive your acceptance letter? They went out last April.”

  Zoe thought quickly. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t. What address did you send it to?”

  “Lemme check. It looks like we have two addresses for you, one in Sausalito, California, and the other one is in Atlanta.”

  “What was the Atlanta address you used?”

  “Twelve sixty Briarcliff Road, Apa
rtment 1D, Atlanta, GA 30306. Is that your current address?”

  Zoe was busy writing it down. “Yes, that’s it. What was the Sausalito address, if you don’t mind.”

  “Eighty-seven San Carlos Avenue, Sausalito, CA 94965. Did you not get that one, either?”

  “No,” Zoe said. “They must have been lost in the mail. But I’m fine now, and that’s all I needed to know. Thank you so much for telling me.”

  “You’re welcome, hon. And congratulations. Remember that classes start September 3.”

  “I will,” Zoe promised.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  “Dory,” Zoe said.

  “Zoe?”

  “It is. It’s been awhile.”

  “I’ll say. Girl! I never hear from you anymore. Or from Stone. How’s she doin’? Still on the wagon?”

  “That’s something you’ll have to ask Stone. Listen, Dory, the reason for my call—”

  “Oh, hell. Shoulda known you wanted somethin’.”

  “Excuse me? If I remember correctly, five months ago, you called me because you needed somebody to bail you out of jail.”

  “Oh, yeah, right.” Dory cleared her throat. “What can I do you for, Ms. Martinelli?”

  “You can help me solve a murder.”

  “No shit. That’s my girl. Whadya need?

  “When you lived in North Carolina, you belonged to a local chapter of Girls with Guns.”

  “Yup. That’s how we met, darlin’.”

  “And didn’t you say one of the other girls in your club was dating a cop in Atlanta?”

  “Yeah, Melissa. Melissa Sexton. Oh, honey, it was a scandal in Brevard. White woman, black man. You can imagine.”

  “Do you remember his name, by chance?”

  “Matter of fact, I do. Washington, like George. Only it wasn’t George. It was James.”

  “James Washington,” Zoe repeated. “Atlanta PD. Thanks.”

  “Is this about Emily? Stone’s Emily?”

  “Can’t say. You know how it is.”

  “I do, sadly,” Dory said.

  “Speaking of Stone, she seems to think you knew Emily. She said when she showed you Emily’s photograph in her wallet, you looked as if you recognized her.”

  “She did, huh?”

  “She did. Level with me. Did you know Emily?”

  “Sorta.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I knew her from the club. The Kitty Club. I didn’t want to tell Stone.”

  “Because?”

  “Because I went there, to the club. As a customer.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re a lovely lady, Zoe. I’ll bet you’ve never wanted for company. But that’s not true for some of us. Sometimes I just get lonely for female companionship. Even if I have to pay for it.”

  “You’re not saying Emily was a prostitute, are you?”

  “No, no. She was strictly a dancer. That’s what I meant. And I only went there a couple of times. I did recognize her when Stone showed me her picture, but I wasn’t sure if she knew. I figured she did, but just in case she didn’t, I didn’t want to be the one to tell her what her girlfriend did for a living.”

  “I understand, and that explains it. But don’t sell yourself short. You’ve got a lot to offer the right girl.”

  “Thanks, Zoe. That means a lot coming from you. Listen, Atlanta can be a rough town. You be careful out there. And call me when you get back. Maybe we’ll go out. Have a drink. For old time’s sake.”

  “Maybe. Gotta go. Thanks for everything.”

  “Any time, babe. You’ve got my number.”

  “I’ve got it.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  “I can’t,” Stone said. “This is our busiest time of the year. Some of our graduate programs accept applications until the end of July, and then we’ve still got to process all the late admits before classes start in August. There’s no time off for anybody until Thanksgiving.”

  “You’re going to make me go all the way to Atlanta by myself?” Zoe pleaded, only half kidding.

  “Yeah, I’m afraid I have to. If you’re going. Really, Zoe, I’m not sure this is a good idea. If this Elizabeth Taylor Bundy person really did steal Emily’s identity and then murder her, she’s some kind of psychopath. I don’t know if you should go.”

  “Aww, I’m touched. You care about me, Stone. I promise I’ll be careful.”

  “And how are you even paying for this? I hope you’re not paying out of your own pocket.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ve got it covered. And no, I’m not paying for it myself. But I’ve got a question for you. How did Elizabeth Taylor Bundy get into a doctorate program with only a bachelor’s degree?”

  “Yeah, that’s something most people don’t know about graduate work. You don’t have to have a master’s to be admitted to a doctoral program. If the department thinks you’re qualified, it can admit you with only a bachelor’s.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Zoe said.

  “Not too many people do. I wouldn’t know it if I hadn’t worked in education for sixteen years. And while we’re on the subject, another small thing. If Elizabeth is pursuing a PhD in women studies, she would be in a doctoral program, not a doctorate.”

  “And the difference is?”

  “A doctorate applies only to certain fields of research study. The humanities fall under doctoral programs.”

  “Well, I’m impressed.”

  “Yeah, well, you don’t really need to be. It’s my job. But your job representing me is over. I don’t want you getting hurt for me. If this woman killed Emily, well, that’s just crazy for you to try to track her down by yourself.”

  “I’m going, Stone.”

  “I know you are.”

  ****

  “And how do you feel about that?” Maggie asked.

  “I’m worried,” Stone admitted.

  Maggie smiled in her gentle way. Stone had updated her on the strange story of Elizabeth Taylor Bundy and Emily Bryson and Zoe’s plans to follow Elizabeth to Atlanta.

  “It sounds as if you’ve developed feelings for this woman Zoe. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, since you allowed yourself to be vulnerable enough to feel for someone again.”

  “I suppose,” Stone said.

  “You’re worried about Zoe. Say a little more about that, please.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m worried because she’s going after a psychopath.”

  Maggie nodded encouragingly.

  “Anyone would be worried,” Stone added.

  “But you’re worried about her, about Zoe. Because if something happened to her?”

  Stone shrugged. Maggie tugged at her mala beads.

  “What would it feel like if something happened to Zoe? If she were taken from you.”

  Stone’s face flushed deeply.

  “I can see that idea upsets you,” Maggie said, looking concerned.

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Because it would be heartbreaking to lose someone again.”

  Stone could barely hear Maggie’s words over the pounding in her ears. Something was happening in her chest. It felt as if it were being squeezed too tightly in a bear hug. She tried to steady her breathing.

  “Yeah,” she heard herself say as if from a distance.

  “It’s not surprising that you’re worried about Zoe. Your heart is telling you that you can’t risk being retraumatized by losing yet another person you love.”

  “I never said I love Zoe,” Stone managed, her voice hoarse and tight, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

  “But you do, don’t you?”

  “My heart hurts,” Stone whispered.

  “Your heart,” Maggie replied. “Yes, your heart hurts.”

  “No,” Stone managed as she fell sideways onto the white pillows on the bamboo couch. The last thing she saw before darkness came was the gurgling water fountain with its smooth black pebbles and its yellow lotus flowers and its Zen calm.

&n
bsp; Chapter Thirty-seven

  On the evening that Zoe’s plane landed, Atlanta’s Hartsfield International Airport was on the verge of becoming America’s busiest transportation hub, having already claimed the title as the world’s largest terminal. Into that large busy-ness, Zoe found herself unloaded after a five-hour flight on Delta from San Francisco that arrived on time at 5:09 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time on Tuesday, July 10, 1990. She had flown comfortably in business class on Rich Coppola’s expense account. After hounding her for years, Rich had finally persuaded Zoe to agree to get her PI license. In return, he would pay for her trip to Atlanta to investigate the Emily Bryson case.

  At two and a half million square feet, the terminal was larger than some small towns Zoe had seen. Like major airports everywhere, there was an intentionality of purpose and the smell of diesel fuel in the air. Zoe found her way up the endlessly long escalator to Delta’s baggage claim and pulled her rolling suitcase off the carousel. At the Hertz counter, she picked up keys for a rental car, a sand-colored Toyota Corolla. “Beige or brown, Martinelli,” Rich had told her. “And nobody who looks like you gets away with doing surveillance in a convertible Roadster.”

  At rush hour, it took her a full hour to drive the twelve miles from the airport to the Michelangelo Hotel in midtown. Atlanta traffic was like nothing Zoe had ever experienced in the Bay Area. Not only was it heavy, in the sense of densely packed, two miles-an-hour heavy, it was filled with home-grown drivers who seemed to have passed a DMV test unique to the city. Virtually no one bothered with turn signals, and Zoe witnessed at least one vehicle crossing four lanes of traffic at a ninety-degree angle. If Stone had been there, she would have said, “They drive like you, Zoe.”

  While doing their hurry-up dance on the interstate, Atlantans were good-naturedly uninhibited about expressing their opinion of outsiders’ driving styles, especially if that style was slower and less creative than their own. She saw the middle finger of two drivers, one male and one female, as they passed her. She was not clear what she had done to annoy them.