(2012) Colder Than Death (14 page)

“I'll try to simplify,” I said, clearing my throat.

“I prefer details,” she said.

“Alright. Since Brandy Parker's body was found Quilla's been hell bent on finding the killer. She's also made it clear that she doesn't have much faith in the abilities of the man investigating the case.”

“Perry Cobb,” Gretchen said. “I remember his father.”

“I suggested that Quilla give Perry the benefit of the doubt and that, since I'm acquainted with him, I would talk to him on her behalf, which I've done. Seems that his investigation couldn't find anybody who was still around town who knew or remembered Brandy.”

“He never talked to me,” said Gretchen.

“That's one of the reasons why we're here,” I said. “He'll be contacting you.”

“I'll be happy to talk to him,” said Gretchen. “But I don't know how much help I'll be. My friendship with Brandy lasted only a few months.”

“How’d you meet her?”

“In the hospital,” she began. “About four months before she...disappeared. I base that on the fact that three months after I met her I left for college, which was in September.”

“The last time anyone saw Aunt Brandy was on October twelfth,” said Quilla. “And the only reason I remember that is because I was in this dumb play at school and she came to see me and she sent me an opening night telegram wishing me good luck and telling me to break a leg and stuff. I
still
have it.” Quilla's eyes filled with tears.

Gretchen reached over and touched Quilla's hand. “Brandy and I shared the same room. She'd been in a car accident.”

“A drunk plowed into her car. Broadside.”

“Why were you in the hospital?” I asked innocently.

Gretchen matter-of-factly said, “I tried to kill myself.”

******

I felt stupid and embarrassed for asking the question. There really wasn't any reason for me to know. I could feel my face turn red and I shuffled awkwardly in my seat, trying to think of an appropriate response. Before I could say anything Gretchen spoke.

“I'm very up front about what I did. It makes most people uncomfortable. Please don't be. It was nine years ago. I'd received some difficult news about my mother. I had hired probably the most prominent detective in Youngstown and he managed to track down my mother to a fishing village off the coast of Maine. He led me to believe that it was indeed she and we were actually making plans to go there and attempt to make contact. I was a sophomore in college and I worked two part-time jobs year-round to save the money to pay for the detective and after all was said and done...the woman turned out
not
to be my mother. It was more than I could bear. I swallowed three bottles of Advil. I really should've died.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Getting back to Brandy,” she continued. “She was incredibly lucky to be alive. The only real damage, other than a broken wrist and several deep gashes on her legs and torso, was a scar on her right cheek that went from an inch or so from her eye to the rim of her upper lip.”

“I have some pictures before and after she had plastic surgery,” said Quilla. “Aunt Brandy hated that scar. It was supposed to go away eventually. She used to cover it up with tons of make-up.”

“All she did was cry the first couple of days in the hospital. She was convinced that she would spend the rest of her life looking like a hideous female Frankenstein monster.”

“Did you hang together?” I asked.

“Not in the conventional sense,” she said. “We didn't start going to bars or shopping together or cruising around looking for guys, if that's what you mean. We were different people who never would've met if it hadn't been for the simple fact that we were assigned to the same hospital room. Brandy lived only to have fun and I didn't know what the word meant. I was...serious. And rigid. And very boring. But meeting each other under the circumstances that we did had a profound effect on both of us. You see, Del, because of her facial scar, Brandy had to readjust her lifestyle.”

“Which until then consisted of going out and raising hell,” said Quilla.

“But she had resigned herself to staying in until the scar healed,” said Gretchen. “I stayed in
all
the time, afraid of my own shadow. So we spent time together. Talking. Mainly, talking. She was everything I wasn't. Sexy. Vibrant. Cool. Full of life. And I was everything
she
wasn't. Bookish. Contemplative. Overly analytical. Brandy was fearless. I was petrified of the world. I don't know how much you know about me, Del, but when I was a child my father was accused of murdering my mother.”

I said nothing to indicate that I knew. My only reaction was to shake my head slowly back and forth, the expression on my face one of compassion.

“The world I lived in not only accused my father of something horrible,” Gretchen continued. “But it put him into a mental institution for twelve of the most formative years of my life. The world was a dangerous place to me. Ironically, Brandy made me realize that it wasn't. On paper, I was supposedly smarter than Brandy. I had the straight A's and I won the full scholarship. She barely made it through high school and she was working as a waitress. But she understood the value of being alive. She couldn't
wait
to start living. She wanted to travel the world. Her problem was that she was unfocused. She had a narrow view of life's possibilities. She was street smart. Had a tremendous personality. But, as I said, undirected. She had no game plan. But she knew that she wanted to experience life to the hilt.”

Gretchen looked at the floor for several seconds. When she looked back at me she was crying.

“Brandy and I lost touch when I went back to college,” said Gretchen. “We e-mailed each other a few times, then she stopped responding. I called her a bunch of times and left messages, but she never called back. When I came home for Christmas I went to her apartment, but it had been rented to someone else. I tried to find her, but she was gone. I assumed she had begun to travel that world she wanted to see so badly.”

“How did you happen to dedicate the book to her?”

“You know quite a lot, don't you,” she said, shaking her head. I wasn't sure if it irritated or impressed her. “I began writing Young Adult novels as therapy for myself. All my stories were about teenage girls in crisis. In my own case it was with issues of loss. I was also fat when I was a kid. And having a father in an institution didn't help my image with the kids at school. And when I wrote
The Cheerleader Wore Black
it really was Brandy's story, so it seemed natural that I dedicate it to her. I always had this wild notion that one day she would pick up the book and see her name and get in touch.” She looked with great affection at Quilla. “Instead,
this
wonderful child called me.”

They smiled at each other. The affection and respect they shared was enviable and touching.

“Can you think of any other information about Brandy that could be of help?”

Gretchen shook her head. “I don't think so. The ironic thing is...was...I didn't even know that she'd been considered a runaway.”

“Nobody did,” said Quilla. “Nobody gave a damn. And if Perry Cobb wasn't such a boob he would've talked to you as soon as Aunt Brandy's body was identified.”

“In fairness to Perry,” I said. “How could he have known that your Aunt and Gretchen knew each other?”

“You're not defending him, are you?” said Quilla indignantly.

“No, but think about this: you only found out about their friendship by accident when you stumbled on the book dedication. So how could Perry have known?”

Quilla smirked as if to say, “If you say so.”

“What I don't understand,” said Gretchen. “Is how Brandy being found and my mother's disappearance became connected?”

“It started with Perry Cobb's observation of your visit to the Funeral Home. It linked you with your father. He was in your car.”

“What does my father have to do with any of this?” asked Gretchen sharply. She glanced at Quilla.

“When Perry saw him he became a suspect.”

“Of what?”

“Of killing Brandy,” said Quilla gently.

Gretchen rolled her eyes and looked at Quilla. “When Brandy disappeared my father was working nights as a hotel clerk in downtown Youngstown. He didn't have a car or a driver's license. It expired while he was away and when he came out he was afraid to learn to drive again. He was afraid of almost everything and everyone and...this is so stupid. Let's get something straight. My father did
not
have anything to do with the disappearance of my mother. I know all about the rumors and theories, but I know all the facts too. If Perry Cobb plans on dredging up the old nonsense about my Dad killing my Mom I'm going to... ”

“He probably will, but if your father was working in Youngstown nine years ago and unable to drive, I'd say that pretty much rules him out.” I leaned forward and touched her left hand. “I know this has to be enormously unsettling for you.” I spoke softly, utilizing my best skills as a salesman, which, in the end, is what all Funeral Directors are.

“To say the least,” she snapped. “Is there anything else? You said this was
one
of the things you wanted to talk to me about. What's the other thing?”

I paused for a few seconds. I would have to be extremely delicate. “Quilla and I had a conversation today. We may have stumbled onto a pattern that might not only help find Brandy's killer, but could give some answers to what happened to your mother... ”

“My mother?”

“And even more incredibly,” said Quilla. “There's someone in Del's past who might've met the same fate as aunt Brandy and your mom.”

“What?” Nervously, Gretchen looked back and forth at Quilla and myself.

“We think,” I said. “That the person who killed Brandy had something to do with your mother's disappearance.”

Gretchen tightened up. Her voice cracked. “Brandy disappeared something like twelve or thirteen years after my mother.”

“Fifteen,” blurted Quilla.

“Quilla got me to thinking about a girlfriend of mine who went away fifteen years ago.”

“Went away?” barked Gretchen. “I hardly think that someone who went away is comparable to someone who vanished off the face of the earth like Brandy or my mother!”

I explained the nature of my relationship with Alyssa, how she broke up with me and the letter and postcard.

“She sounds like someone who was sensitive enough to your feelings to drop you a note saying good-bye. Trust me on this: when someone vanishes they don't send you a postcard. What does your girlfriend have to do with my mother and Brandy?”

“We may be completely off base,” I said. “And I want to emphasize that this is a theory about what possibly could be a pattern of... murder.” The word hung in the air for about ten seconds before I continued. “We think it's possible that twenty-four years ago someone murdered your mother, fifteen years ago the same person murdered my girlfriend and nine years ago the same guy murdered Brandy.”

“I don't know how much you know about what happened between my mother and father twenty-four years ago,” she stated. “I was only two when my mother left, but I've devoted my life to finding her. I'm convinced of three things: my father did not kill her, she was not kidnapped and she is not dead. No. Let me rephrase that last part. She may have passed away in the twenty-four years since she left, but she did not die at the time of her disappearance. Based on the information I've obtained through my own research and the work of private investigators, there is good reason to believe that she was alive and well for the first fifteen years from the time she went away. There are several trails. All drying up for one reason or another.”

“Are you still looking for her with the hope that she's still living?” I asked.

“Of course,” said Gretchen. “But I would also find comfort--and closure--if I were to find out that she is no longer alive. Quilla certainly is aware of the pain of not knowing the whereabouts of someone you love, and from what you say about your girlfriend, I assume you do too.” She sighed. “Looks like we three have quite a little bond.”

“If Quilla and I are right, that bond may be even stronger,” I said.

Quilla placed her hand on Gretchen's forearm. Gretchen smiled at her, looked at me and firmly said, “You'll never convince me my mother was murdered unless I see her body.”

“I know this will sound gruesome, Gretchen, but... considering where Brandy's remains were found, Quilla and I came up with the possibility that... ” I stopped myself. What I was about to say would be jolting for her. “...that your mother and my girlfriend could be in random mausoleums at Elm Cross cemetery, just like Brandy Parker.”

Gretchen gasped. “Gruesome isn't the word.” She paused for a moment. “What makes you think something this horrible happened?”

“It's all part of a theory,” Quilla said.

“Sounds pretty farfetched. I can't take it seriously.” There was a dismissive finality in her tone. She looked at her watch. “Are we about finished? I have to take my father to his ophthalmologist and I should leave now.”

“I'd say we're done,” I said, standing up, feeling we needed another twenty minutes of discussion on the topic, but knowing that Gretchen was incapable of it. “I have to get moving too.”

The three of us walked awkwardly and silently out to the car until Gretchen spoke. “Holy shit, we almost forgot, Del!” Gretchen and I turned to Quilla. She looked at Gretchen. “Near the end Aunt Brandy got interested in cemeteries, remember?”

Gretchen paused for a moment, then smiled and nodded her head. “Vaguely. It was kind of touching. One of the nurses was involved with that... what's it called?”

“Making tracings of headstones,” I said.

“Yes. In Brandy's new frame of mind she became open to new things, however odd. The nurse's enthusiasm for taking tracings turned Brandy on to it. I think they went out and did it together a few times. That's about all I remember.”

Before Quilla got in the car she hugged Gretchen. As she ran around to the driver's side, I smiled stupidly at Gretchen and she back at me. What was there to say? How do you make small talk after a discussion like we'd just had? As we pulled out of the driveway Gretchen waved. I wasn't sure if the gesture was for Quilla or both of us. We'd gone less than twenty yards when Quilla said, “Isn't she neat?”