Just Fall (9 page)

Ellie shakes her head. When did she learn to think like this? This kind of attention to the details of distraction and deception is another new tool in her belt, necessity being, as they say, the mother of invention.

She half laughs to herself as she realizes that changing her appearance is as far as she has gotten in terms of formulating a plan. And a plan is what she needs.

She thinks a little more, idly twisting her ridiculous nails so the crystals explode the sun into sparkles on her bare thigh.
Okay,
she thinks,
the first thing, what’s the first thing I should do? If I can just figure that out, then I will know the next.

Her thoughts drift to Rob, back to the beginning. It was on their third date that she began to hope this could be something serious. Something more than what she had thought he was: a body between, the bridge between getting over Hugh and moving on to something “real.” Rob had arranged for dinner at Per Se because she had casually mentioned it was on her bucket list of restaurants. He ordered wine with assurance, was charming and witty and solicitous throughout their meal, asked her questions, was just so
interested
in everything she had to say. He had a car waiting to take them home, this time to his place. His apartment was masculine in a standard way, dark wood, leather chairs, but an attention to detail was revealed by the bouquet of yellow tulips on the coffee table and a lovely large-scale photograph of a woman floating suspended over a bridge. He made love to Ellie tenderly that night, a contrast to the fierce animalistic passion that had marked their first coupling. When she woke in the morning, he was up, sitting next to her on the bed, sipping coffee, freshly showered. As relaxed and casual as if she lived there. Soon she did.

Ellie sighs. Then she sees him, Harry, last night’s conquest, jogging down the beach.
Shit.
Images flood into her brain. The cocktails they knocked back at the bar. How she carefully slipped Seconal into his last two drinks. Stumbling to his room. The sloppy kisses. Harry’s laugh as he stumbled and fell onto the bed, pulling her down on top of him. Her revulsion as his chapped, greedy hands cupped her naked breasts. The relief she felt when he abruptly passed out, snoring, drooling. The way she startled awake from her wary, shallow doze when he woke several hours later. How she whispered in his ear,
“What a fantastic lover you are, baby.”
His confusion. Her reassurance that they had done it, that she was satisfied, too sore to go again. How she shuddered with relief when he fell asleep once more.

Swiftly, she rises and makes her way across the beach toward the first open-air café she sees, one that spills out onto a wooden deck adjacent to the sweet little hotel it services. She passes through the deck and into the café and realizes she is starving, can’t even remember the last time she ate. The first thing is to eat. She asks the nut-brown hostess for a table.

Seated, she catches a waiter’s eye and orders: eggs, bacon, toast, home fries, mango, coffee with cream. The order placed, she drums her fingers on the table, suddenly unable to think of anything but food. She can’t remember ever feeling so hungry.

With a smile, the waiter deposits Ellie’s food in front of her. The scent of the food makes her dizzy. She starts with toast and coffee.
Just eat.
Forks up some egg.
Just eat.
Home fries. A bite of bacon. A sip of coffee. A luscious chunk of mango. More eggs.
Just eat. Then I’ll know what to do next.

But as the couple seated next to her pays their check and leaves, she notices the local paper they have left behind. MAN FOUND DEAD AT LUXURY HOTEL, the headline screams. Ellie grabs for the newspaper.

Trembling, she scans the article. Phrases swim in and out of her view:
“…an unidentified man…not registered at the hotel…” “Detective Lucien Broussard…” “…room registered to a woman…” “…police not releasing her name at present…”

But the detail, the crucial detail, is not in the article. Ellie exhales. So far, so good. They know he is dead. That was part of the plan. The crucial detail’s omission? That was a calculated risk that paid off.

But then her stomach sours. She pushes her plate away. Something about seeing the cold details of the murder she has committed in solid black and white.

Ellie’s thoughts turn to Rob. How could she have seen none of it? Or did she just blithely commit to willful ignorance? Hide the truth from herself when it was staring her in the fucking face? It wouldn’t be the first time in her life. Sometimes a smart woman can be so stupid. The food she just gobbled rises in her gullet. Her hand covers her mouth. Who is this person she has become? Devious and deft. Predatory when necessary. Murderous. The word thunders through her brain. Murderous.
Murderess.

A tendril of her newly dark hair flops in front of her eyes, startling her. She feels foreign in her own skin. Itchy and burning, skittish and scared. What has she done?

She signals for the check. Fuck this. She is going right to the airport. She is flying home to New York on the first plane she can catch. She doesn’t even know if Rob is still alive! If he is, she has no assurances he will remain so. And what has she become for this man, this stranger? A killer. She hates herself. And she hates him, this man who lies as easily as he breathes. How could she have believed a word he said? Done the things she has done? She is frantic. She throws cash down to pay for her breakfast. Stumbles to her feet. She is flushed, shivering in a clammy sweat. She runs from the café, oblivious to the startled looks of staff and patrons.

Ellie stared down at her sleeping sister. Cancer had wasted her body; treatment had cost her her glossy blond hair. Dark circles wreathed her eyes. An oxygen feed tubed her nose. A broken doll.

For five years they had spiraled down this dark tunnel, the first faint lights of hope swallowed by an all-encompassing darkness.

Mary Ann stirred. One clawlike hand batted limply at nothing and then dropped onto the pink thermal blanket. They were in their childhood bedroom. Mary Ann had come home from the hospital to die.

Ellie looked around. Their twin beds on opposite sides of the room, Mary Ann’s all rosy pinks, Ellie’s dark purple. The shelves that housed their books and a few childhood relics, a favorite doll, a Monopoly set. Ellie’s desk, a jumble of textbooks and makeup, her iPod and keys; Mary Ann’s neatly laden with tissues, pill bottles, a water bottle, and a bedpan.

Ellie had been sleeping on the sofa in the family room. She was grateful college orientation was only three months away. She would never be able to sleep in this room again.

Ellie stroked the star-shaped pink plush pillow nestled next to Mary Ann’s emaciated body. Picked it up. Pushed it down into Mary Ann’s fragile face, covering her nose and mouth.

The bookshelves began to rattle, their shaking mimicking the trembling in Ellie’s arms as she pressed the pillow harder onto Mary Ann’s face. Ellie twisted her head to look at the shelves, never relaxing her pressure. She saw the china plate emblazoned with “My love will stop when this rooster crows” tip from the top shelf and arc through the air in slow motion. Weird. That plate was always kept in the kitchen.

The plate hit the hardwood floor and shattered into a hundred pieces.

A rooster crowed, its raucous call echoing hollowly. What the hell?

Ellie startled awake to midnight shadows. She was in her bed. She looked over at Mary Ann’s. It was empty, neatly made. Stuffed animals ringed the edges in lumpy silhouette. There was a rap at the door. Her mother opened it without waiting for a response. The light from the hall spilled in, a harsh yellow. Her father stepped into the room.

“She’s dead,” her father choked out. “The hospital just called.”

The routine of investigation clicks into place with all of its satisfying familiarity. Lucien is oddly grateful. Here is a body that has to go to the coroner, fingerprints taken first in the hope they would identify the victim, witnesses that have to be interviewed, a crime scene to be photographed, evidence to be analyzed. There are things he can
do.
After months of chasing the elusive vapor trails of children gone missing, swept from the streets of the island only to vanish without a trace, a solid, corporeal dead body feels like a gift, albeit a macabre one.

Lucien assembles his team, assigns tasks, puts what they know so far on the murder board in the squad room. He calls the coroner, Alphonse Dafoe, and after the expected exchange of gallows humor, asks that Dafoe put a rush on the examination of the corpse.

He reports to his captain, who approves of the team and the delegation of tasks, but who can’t hide his agitation. Already, Bonnaire is fielding calls from reporters, as well as from the governor general and the prime minister. Not to mention the wealthy and influential CEO of the chain that owns the Grande Sucre and is in the process of building another multimillion-dollar resort on the island.

“This has to be our absolute priority, Lucien,” insists Captain Bonnaire. His right eye twitches, a tic Lucien has seen before when the captain was under pressure.

“Of course, sir. As for the missing kids, I suggest Detective Gagnon run point. She’s been working very closely with me and—”

“No, no, no. There is nothing more to be done about the kids at this time. All eyes must be focused on this hotel murder.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue with me! We have no leads on any of the children and you know as well as I do that given how long they’ve been missing, they are probably dead.”

Ire floods Lucien, along with a sick, sinking feeling. He knows Bonnaire is probably right about the kids being dead. It’s a likelihood he hasn’t allowed himself to name.

Bonnaire continues. “But without bodies, we can’t even declare them homicides!” His eye twitches faster.

Bonnaire takes note of the distress on Lucien’s face and his tone softens. “I’m as sick about those kids as you are, don’t think I’m not. But we’re stalled there, you know it too. Now go catch me a murderer.”

Lucien nods once and leaves Bonnaire’s office.

Lucien knows Bonnaire to be a good man (although more ruthlessly political and ambitious than Lucien could ever be), and the captain’s seeming callousness more a function of the external pressures he is now enduring than disregard for the fate of the missing children. But Lucien also knows that if these four unfortunate children had been the offspring of white tourists instead of island kids, it would be quite different. This thought he shoves from his mind. It is pointless; its truth makes it no less frustrating.

Back at his desk, Lucien takes a moment. Surreptitiously he reaches into his bottom drawer and pulls out a sealed plastic bag. Inside is a blue-and-green chiffon scarf. He slides open the bag’s seal and takes a quick whiff of the aroma imbued in the delicate fabric. It smells of perfume and powder, hard work and church Sundays. It carries the scent and the memory of his mother. Hastily he closes the bag and shoves it back into its hiding place under cold case files and the half-eaten packet of shortbread.

Lucien had been an only child, raised by a single mother, a hardworking woman who spent most of her life toiling in one of the island’s high-end resort hotels. His mother had started in the kitchen doing prep work, rising after many years to become an assistant banquet manager. She had applied to work in the kitchen initially (after Lucien’s father left one season to work on a cruise ship and never returned), rather than as a maid (which would have been an easier path), because she figured if she were a kitchen worker her son would never go hungry. And Lucien never had. She had made certain he was fed and schooled and loved. She had encouraged his intellect and made him go to Sunday school. She was both mother and father to him, took him fishing, played catch, made him lunches, checked his homework.

She finally retired at the age of fifty-nine, just after Bertrand had been born, anticipating a new chapter of relative leisure and the joy of helping to raise her grandson. She died abruptly of a heart attack just three weeks later.