The Vanishing Girls

by Callie Browning

  “Really? I’d like to see them. Do they live in the gullies?”

  “Them ain’t from ‘bout here; you find them in Europe, Asia... those kinds of places.”

  “How did you get one?”

  “Used to live in Europe. You think I was always uncultured swine like this pig?” he asked, flapping a half-eaten pig ear at her. He laughed at the look on her face.

  She had to admit that Clifford’s laid back style and attitude weren’t the only clues that founded her assumptions. He spoke roughly and his lunches usually looked like the dregs of something a cat coughed up.

  “Sorry,” she said sheepishly. “Did you like it there?”

  “In a way. Didn’t get to see much of anything ‘cause I was always working or studying. I was almost a doctor, just didn’t do the last exam.”

  This time the look of shock on Eileen’s face was much harder to hide. She peered at him, searching for the distinguished features that people usually associate with doctors. Instead, she saw the weathered face of a man who wouldn’t ask much of life if it didn’t ask much of him. The questions piled up inside her head, questions that Clifford knew she would ask.

  He nodded, his face smug. “Probably wondering what I’m doing here, helping young Davis dress up duppies and sweeping the yard, nuh?”

  “W-well… it’s honest work.”

  “You full of shite, Eileen. Just talk straight.” His eyes were serious for a moment before he pressed the cover back on his container and stared at it for a moment before he spoke. “Life in those places as a doctor wasn’t for me. I tried too hard to fit in and the drugs didn’t help. Lucky for me, I came back home and hit rock bottom. I say lucky because it had to happen for me to realize I only want to be myself at the end of the day.”

  Eileen bit her lip. It took real courage to strip oneself down like that. It made her admire Clifford even more.

  “This is a step down from doctoring, but I still get to deal with anatomy - that’s a fancy word for bodies in case you didn’t know.” He grinned at her. “Holden Senior hired me and I’ve been here ever since. I get the weekends to deal with my little farm and I like it here with young Davis.”

  “So you’ve known the family for a long time,” Eileen said carefully.

  “Well… as long as anybody could.” Clifford watched Eileen with interest. “Why do you ask?”

  “The brothers are just so different, you know?” She shrugged, not entirely sure how to explain what she wanted to say. “But I guess even though they don't get along that they still love each other.”

  “Ah.” He stared back at her with knowing eyes. “Sometimes love is more about duty than affection. Even though young Davis resents his brother, that doesn’t mean he won’t do the right thing. No matter what the right thing might be.”

  Eileen scratched her head. She could only hope Clifford was right.

  Chapter 21

  Complications

  Holden looked up at the building and flexed his fingers against the chill of the night air. The taxi had left him in the gravel courtyard that surrounded Eileen’s apartment building and now Holden stared at it with his heart in his throat. Five minutes had passed since he'd arrived, and he'd considered leaving more than once. He had seen how headstrong Eileen had become about finding the Cane Slasher. In others, her focus would be considered obsessive; in Eileen, it was just one example of how determined she was about everything she did. But her theory about Paul had forced Holden into an untenable position. He knew that this might be his only chance to fix things before Eileen went off on a tangent and did something that couldn't be undone.

  Holden took his time going up the stairs, his mind whirling as he walked to the threshold. He rapped on the door twice. Shuffling footsteps approached before he saw her eyes glare at him from between two wooden louvres.

  “Good evening,” she said. The chill in her voice stabbed at the pit of his stomach like an icepick. In the space of twenty-four hours, he had gone from feeling the warmth of her body against his to being greeted like an encyclopedia salesman with bad breath.

  “I tried calling, but you didn't answer the phone. I hoped I could come inside and talk for a minute.”

  Eileen raised an eyebrow as she sighed and unlocked the door before stepping back and gesturing him into the apartment. That was when he first noticed the marks on her hands.

  From afar, they looked like bruises on her caramel skin, extending from her right wrist almost up to her elbow. But when Holden stepped into the apartment's light, he realized they were paint blotches; a mixture of blues, purples, greens and blacks that had coalesced to form angry blemishes on her hands and forearms. He was about to ask what they were when he caught sight of the living room.

  “I didn't know you were such a good painter,” he said in surprise.

  But in the back of his mind, the cogs turned and he realized it was the only thing that made sense. The hand-painted sign to advertise the floral arrangements. The cleaning cloths. The tiny brush she carried around to dust things.

  Her paintings leaned against the walls, like foot soldiers guarding the throne room of a beloved queen. Every canvas was complex, deeply layered, wrought out of something so deep that Holden wasn't sure where the art ended and Eileen began.

  The portraits featured some of the island's iconic settings like Broad Street and the Garrison, but it was the people that stood out. Some of them featured solitary young women on lonely beaches or in open fields. One square canvas focused on the rear view of a woman walking naked down a busy city street. No one stared at her, and she seemed oblivious to everyone else as she walked blithely out of a luxury store, her arms weighed down with shopping bags. Despite not seeing her face, there was a lightness in the woman’s step, as though being happy with herself was the only thing in the world that mattered.

  Yet, the one that captivated Holden was the scene at the Garrison Savannah that hung above the chair, the only decoration on the otherwise bare walls. In the background, the colours of the centuries-old military post and its race track were more subdued than in real life, the hues muted and demure. A woman walked on the race track's loose golden sand carrying something swaddled in its bright blue and yellow folds. He pointed at the painting. "This one is stunning."

  Eileen stepped in front of it so that herded and shoulders covered part of the canvas and said, “Yeah…I paint sometimes.” She put her hands on her hips and met his eyes. “But that’s now why you came here.”

  “Err…yes.” Holden rubbed his hand across his forehead, suddenly remembering why he had dared to enter the lion’s den. “I’m not going to lie. I was caught off guard by what the Grenadian student said. As much as Paul and I don’t get along, it’s another thing to believe that he's a serial killer.”

  She stared at him blankly, her eyes clearly telling him that she was so far unimpressed with his speech.

  “You think I want to cover up for Paul, but that’s not the case." Holden squeezed the nape of his neck and started to pace. "Look, you have to understand…I’m in a ticklish position and I got angry because I felt like this was just another bunch of crap Paul created that I have to clean up.”

  “Meaning what? That you want me to keep my mouth shut?”

  “No. When I left today, I went to talk to Paul.”

  “You did what?” Eileen’s mouth hung open and her hands balled into fists at her sides as she glared at him.

  Holden folded his arms across his chest and looked her in the eye. As angry as she was, he also knew that he had done the right thing. “Just wait a minute. I didn’t tell him what you said. I asked him some questions, and I truly believe that Paul has nothing to do with these killings.”

  “Oh, so I’m supposed to believe that? Should I just keep locking my door and hope that the Slasher picks another young woman to kill instead of me? That’s how you want me to protect myself?”

  “Please lower your voice.” Holden let out a breath. “I know Paul didn't do it because he's hemo
phobic. He gets sick or faints whenever he sees blood. Why do you think Clifford and I always say something is a 'bloody' shame when we talk about Paul? It's because we're making fun of the fact that Paul hired a mortician. That's why Paul only drives the hearse and that stupid carriage.” Holden pressed his lips together. “It’s also why my father put so much pressure on me to look after everything after he died.”

  Eileen squinted at Holden, her comprehension at odds with disbelief. “Is that why Paul was at mortician school for so long?”

  “Yes…at first my father thought Paul just was just playing the fool. But when Paul kept failing and getting sick, my father finally gave up and just told him to come back home." Holden rubbed his head with both hands. "All of those girls were cut; if they had died in another way, then I’d be more inclined to consider Paul.”

  “So why did you question Paul if you didn’t believe it was him?”

  “I wanted to know if he was loaning his car to anyone. He said he hadn’t. Not even his wife drives it.”

  Eileen shifted from one foot to the other. “As much as I want to 'drop a dime on someone' as they say on TV, I guess we’ll have to keep looking.”

  Holden looked relieved that Eileen didn’t think he was trying to cover up for his brother. For too long, he had paid for Paul. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life regretting that doing so had caused him to lose her.

  “Is there anything else?” Eileen’s raised eyebrows were clear in their meaning: she’d listened, but she wouldn’t simply swallow his explanation. Holden stood there for a moment, suddenly aware that as much as he wanted to stay, he couldn't do so without a plausible excuse. He couldn't blame Eileen for wanting to mull over what he had said; he would have to give her time. “Well…the taxi left. Do you mind if I use your phone to call another?”

  While he waited for his transportation to arrive, Eileen offered him a glass of juice. And as he sipped, Holden looked at the paintings. His eyes hopped from one to the other, unable to choose a favourite. Finally, he asked the obvious question, even though he knew he would kick himself if it sparked action on her part.

  “Why aren’t you a full-time artist? Your work is very good.”

  “I don’t think so,” she replied as she glanced critically at the canvas closest to her. “This one needs something…a detail that would make it sparkle.”

  “I’m not very artsy,” he admitted. “But they make me feel something deep in here,” he said, touching his chest.

  She blushed.

  “I’m not against nudity. It’s uh…very pleasing,” Holden gestured vaguely at the painting of the woman on Broad Street. "But why are so many of the women naked?”

  Eileen smiled and cocked her head to the side as she studied her art. “I think they’re me. Or at least the me I want to be.”

  Holden averted his eyes. It wouldn’t do to stare at a painting depicting a nude employee, even if they had shared a kiss. He wondered if it would be any less immoral to buy a painting and keep it at home. Surely no one could judge him then.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s herself…not a slave to fashion or society’s expectations. Who knows? Maybe I'm so idealistic that I have to paint a world that gives me the freedom this one won't."

  Holden grinned at her cocky retort. An idealist forced to live without perfection was a difficult space to occupy without some sort of release. “It certainly explains how you’ve managed to carve out job satisfaction at a funeral home.”

  She threw back her head and laughed.

  “It’s true. The makeup, the flowers…you’ve certainly got an eye for these things.”

  “Why, thank you.” Her smile was enough to warm his heart.

  “So why didn’t you ever tell me that you painted?”

  She lifted a shoulder half-heartedly. “I don’t know. I wasn’t sure if they were good. Plus, I never planned for the world to see them.”

  “Why not?”

  She sighed. “Some people have diaries, but when my mind is in turmoil, I pick up my brushes.” She looked at him from uplifted eyes, “Would you want someone to read your diary? To weaponize your words against you?”

  Holden swallowed, suddenly feeling like he was taking up too much space, inhaling too much sanctified air. “No…I’m sorry. Your work is private. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  She wiped her hands on a cloth as she turned away. “It’s alright. Recently, I’ve come to grips with the idea of other people seeing them if I ever plan to sell any of my work. I imagine that they’ll ask about the symbolism of the pieces and I’ll have to get comfortable with such questions.”

  Holden scrutinized the large canvas as he turned over Eileen’s words in his mind. He drew closer to the painting, inspecting the woman at the centre of it. Whatever was in her hands looked like it was wrapped in the blue and gold panels of the national flag. No matter what this painting was about, it was sure to be intriguing. He pointed at it. “May I ask about the symbolism?”

  She smiled. “In time.”

  A horn beeped outside. Eileen pulled back the curtain. “It’s your taxi.”

  As usual, when it came to Eileen, time was playing yet a cruel trick on Holden. “Thanks for the juice and for giving me a chance to explain.”

  Eileen nodded and extended a hand to him. Grateful, he clasped it in return and kissed her cheek before he walked out the door and closed it behind him. His heart skittered as he thought about her on the other side of the door alone without him, possibly going to shower and wash the paint off her skin. The thought made him jog down the steps so he wouldn't be tempted to pay the taxi driver for his trouble and go back up the stairs to wile away the night with Eileen.

  Holden glanced up at the apartment as he drove away, his mind roving over their discussion. Clifford talked ad nauseam about anything and everything, while Eileen seemed content to only disclose information when necessary. It might have been related to her being an orphan, but Holden sensed there was more to it.

  Chapter 22

  Whine and dine

  It didn’t take long for Eileen to realize that her desperation to find the Cane Slasher had made her irrational. She yearned to find the culprit, to see them sweating as they were bolted inside a cell and left to rot, but she had to admit that having Paul arrested would be akin to being in a placebo group; she’d tell herself everything was okay while the problem persisted. Holden had made a good case for eliminating his brother as the perpetrator but without a suspect, all Eileen had were a handful of mystifying clues: four victims, the sighting of a fancy black car, and newspaper ads.

  So Eileen did the only thing she could: she whined to Holden.

  “You gave Derricks the ads ages ago,” Eileen groused the next morning as she yanked her hair in frustration. “Why haven’t the police arrested someone?”

  Holden sighed. “You can’t just arrest people, Eileen. All they know is that someone is running ads for different jobs. It could be an employment agency.”

  She squinted at him. “With women going missing every time they run an ad and a drunk man answering the corresponding phone number at midnight?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I run ads too. I wouldn’t want officers throwing me in jail just because of it.” He tapped his pen on the edge of the ledger and took his time framing his statement. “Look, this isn’t easy for the country, the families or the authorities. The police have to investigate to make their case. Justice isn’t linear.”

  “It shouldn’t be crooked either," came Eileen’s bitter retort.

  "I'll tell you what.” Holden dug into his pocket for a ten-dollar note. "How about you go to the bakery and get some pastries for everyone? I'll talk to Derricks by the time you get back."

  By the time she returned with six soft turnovers, Holden was sitting at the lunchroom table with a cup of tea and his mouth pressed in a firm line. He muttered thanks when she placed the warm coconut pastry in front of him and looked down at the desk as he spoke. “De
rricks said everything we gave him is circumstantial. The ad you got from home that Anna may have circled might carry a little more weight, but the one in the cane field is iffy.”

  “‘Iffy’?” she repeated. “And what do you mean by a little more weight?”

  “How can we be sure it was Anna who wrote the note and not someone else?”

  Eileen was exasperated. “Anna lived alone! Who else could have written it?”

  Holden sipped too quickly and recoiled as the tea burned his tongue. He was flustered and it showed on his face. “I get that. You get that. But it’s not always so simple.” He rubbed his singed lips. “You've got to realize that this crappy economy isn't only affecting us. Derricks said he's the police had budget cuts too and it's not affected the man power he can commit to following up on leads. Officers are already working overtime to patrol neighbourhoods."

  Eileen frowned. Even she had to admit that the situation was tough all around.

  "But don't worry; he said he would look into it a bit further this afternoon.”

  But that afternoon was not to be. At 2:15 p.m. the wail of sirens issued from three different directions, growing louder and louder as they descended on the junction in front of Davis and Sons. Eileen ran to the plate glass door with a daisy wreath in her hand and watched as the traffic parted like the Red Sea as cars mounted sidewalks and a vendor blocked the funeral home's door with his boxed cart. The sirens reached a deafening din as motorcycle outriders, an ambulance, and the police commissioner’s car met at the crossroads, converged into a convoy and raced down the street.

  Eileen turned in alarm to Clifford who quirked an eyebrow at her and said, “Can’t be nothing good.” He twisted his mouth as though he’d sucked something sour and went back to reading the cricket scores. As the sirens faded, Eileen picked up the spray bottle and returned to the viewing room, her mind uneasy.

  An hour later, she would ponder the inherent benefits and disadvantages of working at a funeral home. She had almost finished setting up the viewing room when the phone rang; Holden took the call. His face was solemn when he beckoned to her. Her heart plummeted. Had they been too late to stop the killer again?