All About Evie (ARC)

by Cathy Lamb

  “Splendid. I need a tad bit of”—she leaned in and whispered—“the la la cigarette.”

  Oh my goodness. Even churchgoing Mrs. Gaddo? What was the world coming to? “Ah. I understand. Well. They’re probably still sleeping.”

  “Fine. I’m off to God’s home—church. You know I’m leading the choir, right? We sound like a choir of angels.”

  “I’ve heard it’s a talented choir under your direction.” No, I hadn’t heard that. That was a lie. I heard that the choir sounded like frogs choking, but I liked Mrs. Gaddo.

  “We lift our words up to the Lord in prayer and thankful-ness.”

  They also lifted up torturous noise. I was being uncharitable, and I told myself to shut the heck up, so help me God.

  “I’ll come for my la la cigarette after church, then,” she said, still smiling, her steel cross swinging on her neck.

  “I’ll tell them.” Sundance jumped up on my legs. Even with only three legs, he’s a fine jumper. He wanted a hug, so I hugged him. He licked my face.

  She leaned in and whispered, “The Good Lord made marijuana so my hips wouldn’t hurt, that he did. Blessings all to him!”

  “Blessings to Jesus.”

  “Praise be to God!” She gave me a squeezy hug. “I’ll be by

  176 Cathy Lamb

  your bookstore later to buy some of your coconut chiffon cake.

  I heard you have that in? It tastes so delicious with the . . .” She wiggled an invisible joint with her fingers and winked at me.

  “And I’ll need a juicy romance. You know my authors. Have any new ones? You do? Perfection. So, must go. God is waiting!

  And he doesn’t judge my la la la!”

  I would have to agree with her on that. I don’t think God judges pot smokers. Surely He has much better things to do.

  I did think of Chief Ass Burn. He might well sit in judgment of my mother and aunts, swinging his handcuffs.

  This was not a safe situation.

  I warned my mother and aunts that night. “Chief Ass Burn will most likely arrest you if he finds out what you’re growing in the greenhouse.”

  They laughed. They were making new hats. They were sending them to a hospital on the mainland for a fund-raiser for kids. They were using faux flowers so the “hats will last until Kingdom Come and beyond that into eternity,” Aunt Camellia said.

  “You have to take this seriously,” I begged.

  They pshawed me and attached more faux daffodils, wisteria, and tulips, a tiny lizard (clearly, faux), a yellow parakeet, and three butterflies on wires so they wiggled about. It sounds silly, but the Dr. Seuss–like hats were a creative, moving, colorful sight to behold.

  “We are healing others,” my mother said. “Physically and mentally. We should call ourselves The Hat Healers.”

  “We are simply selling happy sticks,” Aunt Camellia said.

  “Everyone likes to be happy.”

  “We have a side business, and we’re going to Antarctica,”

  Aunt Iris muttered. “It’s purely, practically economically driven.”

  What I felt purely, practically? Alarm.

  The next morning, early, before I went to work, I grabbed coffee and sat down at our cozy beach on a log and stared at the other islands across the white bubbles of the waves. The sun was coming up, a soft yellow, slashes of cotton candy pink and

  ALL ABOUT EVIE 177

  a deep orange spreading across a few puffy clouds. The birds were busy, a song here and there, the trees whispering in a slight wind.

  Sundance sat right next to me on my left while Butch and Cassidy wrestled and ran. Mars and Ghost were exploring the trees. In the distance I could hear Shakespeare and Jane Austen whinnying.

  I had woken up deeply sad.

  This periodic morning sadness has happened to me my whole life, but always on my birthday. I remember when I turned four, I had woken up sad and cried my eyes out. My parents were so worried as they were having a birthday party for me and had bought me a pink princess dress.

  Over the years I have tried different things to bring me out of that morning sadness, which I have nicknamed Sucky Sally Sadness to give it some humor and me some control.

  I have told myself, “It’s hormones. You’re fine.”

  I have told myself, “Get up. The longer you stay in bed and wallow in self-pity, the worse it will get.”

  And, “Suck it up. Stop whining. There are billions of people on this planet far worse off than you.”

  I have made myself list ten things that I loved or that I was looking forward to while lying in bed, that sadness a weight like a blanket of rocks, suffocating all light and air.

  “In the morning, our nightmares might still be with us,”

  Aunt Camellia said, trying to help. “Turn it around and embrace your daydreams, your hopes.”

  “If you wake up sad, kid, get your buttocks up,” Aunt Iris said. “Start moving. Get something done.”

  “Pull your red gardening boots on and head to the garden,”

  my mother told me. “You know you find your peace there.”

  What causes that morning sadness? I don’t know exactly. The truth is that I have often felt a lost aloneness, as if I didn’t belong, as if I was in the wrong place. I love my parents, love Jules, love my aunts, but I have always felt different.

  I thought, even as a child, that I felt alone because of the premonitions. That it was the premonitions that were making me

  178 Cathy Lamb

  feel isolated. No one else in my family had them, so that right there, plus the fear and stress they brought on, set me apart in a terrifying way.

  And yet.

  There was always something else there, too. Something I couldn’t put my finger on. It was a loneliness, a tearful well, a hole that was unfillable, settled deep in my soul.

  I never understood it, but I’ve come to terms with it.

  I ignore it, put it aside as best I can, and try not to think about it, because there’s nothing to do about it. There’s no way to fix it, so to speak. That’s the hard thing I’ve learned: Sometimes we have a problem, but it’s not fixable. It won’t be fixable.

  It is there. Always.

  Over the years I finally realized that I must accept the hole I sometimes feel within myself and not dwell in it. Why let it take any more time out of my day than it already does? Why try to figure it out? There is no answer.

  I finished my coffee. I stood and put my toes in the ocean, as did Sundance, my faithful, furry friend. I listed ten things that I loved, including my family, the ocean, the islands, my animals, and Marco. I pulled myself together and went to work, because this is what we do when life falls apart: We buck up and we go to work and we take care of people and our responsibilities.

  Why? Because we must.

  And maybe that answer is, boringly, dully . . . perfect.

  The new chief, Reginald Ass Burn, came to my bookstore on Monday, his stomach tightly pulled in by his bulletproof vest.

  His eyes were narrow and squinty like pinto beans, his face puffy like a smashed marshmallow.

  “Hello. I am Chief Reginald Ashburn the third, and I understand that you are Evie Lindsay.”

  “Hello,” I said. I put out my hand, and he shook it. He squeezed my hand too tight, held it too long, stared at me too intently. His eyes dropped up and down my body quickly, but enough so that he knew I would see it. He wanted to make me

  ALL ABOUT EVIE 179

  feel checked out. Evaluated. Inwardly I said a bad word that started with an F, slowly.

  I hadn’t wanted to prejudge him simply because other islanders said he was arrogant, sarcastic, sour, unsmiling, and petty with his raft of tickets. But here he was, and it looked like people were right.

  “It’s nice to meet you.” I disentangled my hand from his sweaty clutch. “Can I help you find a book to read?”

  “As you can see, I’m on duty, so I can’t look now, young lady.” He puffed out his chest.
<
br />   It was the tone. Condescension. Superiority. He was correct-ing me by saying As you can see, I’m on duty, I have things to do, busy me, and yet. There he was. In my bookstore.

  “Oh. Well, I won’t disturb you when you’re on duty and searching for criminals in my bookstore. Have a nice day.” I turned away, but not before I saw a slightly surprised expression cross his face, followed by irritation at my sarcasm.

  He stayed, standing in the middle of my yellow bookstore with a scowl on his face, in the midst of my white shelves, my nonfiction and fiction and biographies and mysteries, my beloved books. He walked to the café and examined it, unsmiling, as if he were expecting to find a criminal between the purple tables, then he walked out to the deck and checked out everyone there, too. Apparently there were no criminals or potential crimes taking place among the townspeople and tourists, the families and couples, and the grandparents, who you really have to keep an eye on. The whales and seagulls were behaving, so he had nothing further to do.

  He headed back in and stopped at the cash register where I was working.

  “You are the owner of this place?”

  This place. It’s a bookstore, you idiot. He already knew I was the owner. “Yes. This place is called Evie’s Books, Cake, and Tea. I am Evie.” Too bad I didn’t get a premonition about him.

  I don’t get premonitions for the vast majority of people I meet,

  180 Cathy Lamb

  but it would be nice to see him working at a cat litter factory instead of staying here.

  He stood there, staring down at me, and I met his gaze. I didn’t miss the way his eyes dropped for a second to my breasts yet again, the creep. He was gross. Skin crawly gross. It was a power thing with him, and it was likely he didn’t like women, particularly women who didn’t cater to him or who made him feel threatened in any teeny-tiny way.

  “How long have you had this place? How long have you lived here on the island with your husband?” He looked at the third finger of my left hand.

  “I feel like I’m being interviewed.” I didn’t smile.

  “You’re not being interviewed. I need to know about the shop owners, about the people who live here, as I’m here to protect you.”

  “We’re a mellow lot. There will not be much protecting to do.” I deliberately did not answer his question. “How is Chief Allroy doing?” I knew exactly how the chief was doing. He was staying with his daughter and son-in-law in Seattle. I had gone to school with his daughter, Packy, real name Patricia, and had talked to her this morning.

  He garumphed. “He is making progress, but he will be out for a while to rehabilitate. His age being a factor.”

  I laughed. The chief was only sixty-five. Give me a break.

  “Chief Allroy is in excellent shape. He runs five miles a day. He sails his boat. He chops wood.” I let my eyes drift to his gut, then back up. He saw it.

  “I noticed you didn’t answer my questions,” he said.

  “I noticed that I am not required to answer your questions,”

  I said.

  His face tightened. He didn’t like that. He liked to be obeyed.

  “I’ve heard things about you.”

  “I’ve heard things about you, too.”

  He seemed surprised, displeased. Who was this woman talking back to him? Where was the fear? The respect? Where was the ego-stroking? I bet the women on the police force in Seattle couldn’t stand him.

  ALL ABOUT EVIE 181

  “If you’ll excuse me?” I didn’t wait for him to answer. I smiled at the couple behind him, waiting to pay. They had a stack of books. “Welcome!” I said, putting their books on the counter right in front of the fleshy chief, who was then forced to move his heaving gut.

  I could feel his eyes on me as I smiled and chatted with the couple. He wasn’t too bright, but he was bright enough to see that my demeanor changed when I wasn’t talking to him.

  And there was San Orcanita’s new, temporary police chief: Angry. Passively aggressive. Jacked up on himself.

  He was a threat to my mother and aunts, no doubt about it.

  C h a p t e r 1 8

  Betsy Baturra

  Multnomah County Courthouse

  Portland, Oregon

  1976

  Betsy Baturra and Johnny Kandinsky’s trial began. Betsy and Johnny at the defense table, their four attorneys crowded around.

  Their attorneys were competent. They actually cared. They all seemed exhausted, rather pale.

  The prosecutor, Alfred Morningside, made his opening statement. He was a prissy man, in a pin-striped custom tailored suit, a white kerchief in his pocket, his fingernails buffed. He painted Peter, Johnny’s father, to be a saint. He listed how Peter worked hard at his company where he sold used cars, how his wife had left him with two children for a lover and had had no contact with the family for over three years. “He was a dedicated family man, a single father, who loved his children, Johnny and Tilly. . . . ” He droned on and on, sanctimonious, arrogant.

  Alfred pontificated about how Johnny and Betsy were at Johnny’s house and how Peter had been knifed in the chest “in cold blood,” for nothing other than “the money that Johnny would inherit.” Then Alfred, who had a second major in drama and loved how the courtroom had become his personal stage, said in a deep voice, “Betsy Baturra and Johnny Kandinsky planned and executed the murder of Peter Kandinsky.”

  ALL ABOUT EVIE 183

  Shaylee Jefferson, Betsy’s attorney, stood to address the jury when Alfred was finally done droning on and on, loving all of the attention. Peter, born Pyotr, was not a saint, she said. He had made many enemies in Portland, he had been sued on multiple occasions by people to whom he sold a car that broke down the first day, if not right off the lot. He owed money to many people and had declared bankruptcy in Idaho, where he previously lived, and in Portland. He had been in an altercation at his car lot with a homeless man, whom he had beaten sense-less but who had left the area, could not be found, so could not testify. Peter also was in a screaming match with a woman in the parking lot of a grocery store over a parking space and had rammed her car with his, totaling it.

  He had been, at best, a neglectful father. He had beaten Johnny and Tilly. He had beaten his wife, Gabriella, though she had been too afraid to go to the police, according to Johnny.

  Betsy grabbed a knife to defend Johnny, his father hitting Johnny in the face twice, Shaylee said. “She thought he was going to kill Johnny.”

  Johnny’s attorney, Orlando Mendelbaum, said that Johnny would admit to killing his father with the knife in self-defense.

  “He thought he was going to die.”

  Yes, both Johnny and Betsy said they killed Peter Kandinsky with the knife from the kitchen.

  Different stories, so which one would the jury believe? But would it matter? They were both charged with murder—who held the knife, well, that wasn’t legally relevant if they both planned it together. . . .

  The trial ground on. Experts came and went. Police officers, detectives, forensics, the state medical examiner, etc.

  Johnny took the stand first and was questioned by Alfred, the prissy prosecutor. “Where did you meet Betsy Baturra . . . How long have you dated . . . Are you in love . . . What did you do together . . . When did your father meet her? Did your father like her? Why or why not? Did she like him?”

  “My father didn’t like Betsy because he doesn’t like any women.”

  184 Cathy Lamb

  “What about your mother?”

  “He hated my mother because she wanted to leave him. My mother did not run off with her lover. She did not have a lover.

  You lied about that. She wanted to take Tilly and me and move away from my father, back to Mexico. My father couldn’t accept that. My mother was beautiful, and she was his posses-sion.” Then Johnny took a breath, his hands in fists, his jaw tight. “I believe my father killed my mother.”

  That brought the entire courtroom to a screeching halt. For a moment, no o
ne moved, then it was chaos. Only Betsy wasn’t surprised. Johnny had told her a few months after they started dating that he thought his father killed his mother two years ago, when they were in Idaho, that he hadn’t been able to figure it out when he was fifteen, that he couldn’t believe it, he was too scared to believe it, but he knew the truth now. What Betsy didn’t know was that Johnny was going to bring it up at trial.

  Alfred was stunned down to his perfectly folded white handkerchief. This had not been revealed to him! He had been told by one of Peter’s partners in the used car business that Peter’s wife had left the family, run off with her lover!

  Even Betsy and Johnny’s attorneys looked stunned. They had not heard that part.

  The judge pounded his gavel.

  “Move to strike!” the prosecuting attorney yelled, his dainty hands moving through the air like axes. He loved that he got to make a dramatic gesture! “Move to strike!”

  “It’s relevant to the case,” Orlando stood and said. “Johnny and Betsy were defending themselves, obviously, from a man with a violent past—”

  “You have no proof that your father killed your mother,” the prosecutor breathed, his face red as he pointed at Johnny, making sure his perfect profile was to the press. Hopefully they’d take a photo! “None.”

  “How do you know?” Johnny said. “How do you know?”

  Chaos again.

  ALL ABOUT EVIE 185

  The jury was excused and then the judge told the attorneys to approach. Phrases like “not relevant” and “this never came up before” and “We have had no time to address this, research this . . .

  you can’t allow this, it’s new evidence, not vetted . . . Johnny’s making it all up . . . playing the jury . . . this is a lie . . . it goes to the threat that Johnny felt in the house, that Betsy knew of . . . it goes to the character of the man who was killed . . . it’s abuse . . .

  it’s a pattern . . . it gives weight to his self-defense . . . Are you serious?”

  The judge allowed Johnny to speak after the jury came back in. “My mother, Gabriella Cortez Kandinsky, was abused for years. My mother’s family was from Mexico. They worked in the fields. Her father died when she was six. He got pneumonia and no hospital would admit him because he was illegal. They gave him cough syrup and sent him home.