A Winsome Murder (4 page)

Deborah's new used plates had three sections too, just like Barbie's, only Deborah's weren't battleship gray, they were bright orange. Everything else in the apartment was white, one of those Chicago flats that had once been trimmed out in natural woods and ornate moldings until the landlord painted over everything in a quest for maintenance-free living units. Year after year, new white paint had been slopped over old white paint until there were virtually no distinctions left—white walls fading into white cupboards fading into white doors fading into white rooms fading.

Featureless.

Until Deborah moved in.

On this day, approaching night, cardboard boxes littered the floor amid scatterings of old newspapers. Deborah sorted through the few belongings she'd taken with her and placed and hung and shelved them around the room: a crimson red picture frame, sky blue pillows, a penguin snow globe, a purple shower curtain with clownfish swimming across it, a bright green swath of remnant fabric she was determined to find a use for, and a gold acrylic candy bowl she'd made herself in ninth grade art class.

The apartment brightened.

She had met someone.

Even Lambeau, the lime green parakeet she'd brought with her, was happy. He chirped and chirped. Rooting for her, she liked to think. A Packers bird in Bears country. She grabbed up the remnant, draped it over the cage, and Lambeau fell silent. She unpacked her last box, taking out hotel soap bars and mini shampoo bottles, a thick clutch of Culver's napkins, a short blue-and-yellow kimono, socks—lots of socks, multi-colored socks with individually colored toes—and her photo album. The cover on the photo album, hand drawn with crayons when she was
in high school, read “Deb's Mems.” It was empty now, but for a few old pictures that she'd managed to save. She would fill it soon, though, with other photos, she would fill it with a whole new life.

Deborah had been unpacking, and hitting garage sales and thrift stores, and cleaning all day. It was hot (no air-conditioning) and she was exhausted (no bed), so she cleared a space in the middle of the living room and stretched out on the cool hardwood floor. She took off her T-shirt and wiped the sweat from her face and neck. She took off her bra and stripped down to her lavender panties and lay there staring up at the white, cracked ceiling. She was so glad to be out of Winsome Bay, out of her shitty apartment by the lake, away from her father, and Gary and Neal, and everybody else there. Finally on her own.

She felt, and then could hear, the rumble of the “L” train. It trembled her body and felt good. She closed her eyes.

I feel like me again, she thought, and heard a door scrape open.

F
enyana came out of the bathroom. Deborah was lying in the middle of the living room like a magnificent nude figurine that had been unpacked from one of the boxes and not yet shelved. She lay there, very still, her eyes closed, like a brightly tattooed doll, a living matryoshka, vined and birded in rosehip reds and linden greens, her trimmed nest a soft lavender hill, her butterfly breasts, inked in monarch orange and blacks, her white thighs leafed dark lilac.

Fenyana walked over to Deborah, who smiled at the sound of her steps. She knelt beside her and whispered very softly, “Do not open your eyes.”

Deborah stayed very still.

Fenyana grazed the little doll's lips with hers, but did not kiss them. Deborah's lashes fluttered to stay closed as Fenyana whisper-kissed the length of her body, letting her long hair drag slowly over the so small breasts, her soft lovely stomach, her hips, then down, down to her own self, and there, the arched backs pleading, and then, “Fenyana, Fenyana,” cried the little doll as they lost themselves into one another, into feelings that swelled their hearts as if to burst and blushed their bodies red.

“I am filled with you,” Fenyana said, barely breath enough to speak. “I am drowning in you.”

J
illian sat at the Amish-built picnic table in her backyard talking with her friend Mara Davies and enjoying a much needed glass of wine. A beautiful summer afternoon, cool and still.

“Look at those clouds,” she said, leaning back.

If Jillian wanted, she could have had many friends, but she tended to stay to herself. She had friends, of course, particularly since she was always hanging out with the other moms at Michael's swim meets and baseball games, but she didn't socialize much outside of that. Especially since the divorce. It had been amicable, as amicable as divorces can be, but Nick had always been the favorite of their friends. He was lightness and fun, he was the talker and the laugher and the planner. Not that Jillian couldn't be fun also, but she generally took a back seat to his enthusiasm. And she didn't mind that, no, actually she liked it. She was, by nature, a little more thoughtful and quiet, perhaps too pensive at times, so, socially, their combination worked well. Everyone assumed they had the perfect mix of personalities. And Jillian did too. So it was quite a knee to the stomach when Nick left her for a slightly older, but very lithe and blithe, yoga instructor. A
yoga
instructor? she'd thought. Really? Could you at least
try
to be original?

Jillian and Mara had met years earlier at the American Library Association's expo when Jillian's first book came out, when she still dreamed about a Newbery Award and the call from Oprah. She and Mara had been good friends ever since, long distance friends though, as Jillian rarely got to Chicago. But Mara's work often took her to the neighboring cities of Madison and Milwaukee, and when it did they always tried to get together somewhere.

Mara reached under the picnic table and lifted a large fabric book bag onto her lap. She pulled out a thick stack of magazines and spread them across the table: ten copies of the latest
American Forum
.

Jillian let out a small squeak of joy. Her second installment.

“So what do you think?” Mara asked. “You happy with them?”

Jillian fanned open one of the magazines and breathed in the glossy smell. “Yes, yes, yes!” She flipped through it and found her story. She loved seeing her own words in print, her name in the byline.

“It's going well,” Mara said. “Kevin likes your writing.”

“Really? He does? Really?”

“Yes.”

“I can't tell. He doesn't say much, just sends me notes.”

“He's not the most personable guy, but he's a good editor.” Mara sipped her wine. “You meeting your deadlines okay?”

“Yeah, no problem. I mean, it's a lot different from writing a novel, but I love it. I don't wake up every morning thinking, ‘Oh my god, I have to write a novel today.'”

The only problem Jillian
was
having was that she needed more material. She had to get to Winsome Bay for more interviews: the police, doctors, family and friends, teachers, maybe the coroner. But between Michael's swim meets and summer basketball camp, and working concessions at the games and helping the boosters, she hadn't been able to get away. On her first trip to Winsome very few people were willing to talk, but she'd gathered enough information from phone interviews, the local papers, and public records to piece together the first few articles. But she knew so little about Deborah Ellison. Nobody would talk about her. Jillian knew her readers needed to know much more about the murder victim—her life, her aspirations—to have any empathy for her, but all she could learn was that the victim had abruptly left Winsome and moved to Chicago some time ago, and that she was the daughter of a local police officer. Nobody would tell her anything else. No known address. No phone number. No visits home. Nothing. Her life, work history, relationships were all a mystery. Deborah Ellison had virtually disappeared from Winsome Bay two years before her body had been discovered there.

“Well, here's to you,” Mara said, holding out her glass.

“You mean, to you.”

“It was your idea. You pitched it.”

“You set up the meeting.”

“Well, yes, I did.”

They clinked glasses.

“I'm so glad you're here,” Jillian said. “I miss you.”

“Move to Chicago.”

“Move here.”

“I wish.”

“No, you don't. Not really.” Jillian topped off her glass of wine. She took a glance toward Michael's bedroom window. “Light a cigarette so I can have a drag.”

“He knows you smoke, Jillian.”

“I quit again.”

Mara lit a cigarette and passed it to Jillian, who took a few drags, holding it under the picnic table. “So,” Jillian said, “how's Steven? You're still seeing each other, right?”

“Oh, yeah, we're fine, fine. We have a recreational relationship. It's fun. It's fine. It's not going anywhere. Works for both of us. It's very user-friendly.” Mara looked up at the sky. “Maybe I should move out here,” she said. “Find a nice country guy.”

“You'd implode out here, Mara.”

“What? I could do the rural thing.”

“Mara. There's no Michigan Avenue here, no Grant Park, no cabs, no symphony. Our idea of clubbing is a Friday night fish fry, and there's not a good cappuccino for fifty miles. Believe me, I tried the country guy thing.”

“How is Nick?” Mara asked. “You hear from him?”

“Sometimes,” Jillian said. “We get along fine. He's good with Michael.”

“Is he liking Florida?”

“He loves it. Never has to shovel a sidewalk again.”

“Is he seeing anyone? Dating?”

Jillian tried to fill Mara's glass of wine. “Drink with me.”

“Whoa, whoa,” she said, covering her glass. “I'm driving.”

“Oh, just stay, stay the night.”

“I can't. I have to get going.”

“Oh, come on. Please?”

“I can't. I'm meeting Steven at the Nite Cap. I promised.”

The back door opened and Jillian thrust her cigarette at Mara. “Shit, take this, take it.”

Michael came out, shirtless and in shorts. “Hi, Mara.”

“Hi.”

“I got a game tomorrow, Mom,” he said. “I need my uniform washed.”

“I already did it, honey. It's in the laundry room.”

“Thanks,” he said, walking away. “Bye, Mara.”

“Bye.”

He yelled back before he stepped inside. “Shouldn't smoke, Mom.”

“Shit.”

“I have to go,” Mara said, laughing. “I love you. Call me.”

T
he woman pulled her hair over to the side and took a long, lazy drag of her cigarette. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she searched the sheets for her underwear. Kevin Lachlan, tying his shoes, felt himself thicken again just watching her. She tugged on a T-shirt so gauzy thin that the dark puddle around her nipples seeped through. She leaned forward on her elbows, resting for a moment. Lachlan walked over and stood in front of her. He stroked her face toward himself, but she pulled away and dropped her head between her splayed knees, her T-shirt riding high up her swayed back, her beautiful back, her young back, with a zigzag of tiny moles across it. God, she was gorgeous. He wanted her again.

She didn't want him.

“No tip for you today,” he said, trying to be funny.

He wasn't.

He tossed an envelope on the bed and made a pot of coffee.

The woman walked over to the window. The sun was just coming up over Lake Michigan, bulging the horizon and tinting the Gold Coast's high-rises pink. She watched it break free from the water, which kidnapped it every night, as her grandmother once told her, kidnapped it and held it deep in the depths where dragons slept and thunder was brewed, but at dawn each day the angry sun would turn the lake into a caldron and burn itself free, as it was doing right now, streaking the edge of the eastern sky red. She slid the tall window open a crack and flicked her cigarette out. It fell to the pavement below, hardly varying its course. Already the day was hot. She felt the sludgy air worming its way into the air-conditioned room.

“Hey,” Lachlan called to her. “Let's go. I have work to do.”

She slid the window shut. “Cab?” she asked.

“Take the Red Line.”

“You are too kind.” She bent over and gathered up her hair. She could smell him on herself. “May I please use a shower?”

“Sorry,” Lachlan said. “I've got work to do.”

She pulled on her jeans and tucked in her T-shirt, wishing she knew a curse to leave him with, wishing she'd listened more closely to her
grandmother's tales, her grandmother who would stick a knife into a loaf of bread and spin it on the floor whenever there was lightning, her grandmother who liked to scare her with stories of the shadow monsters who lived in bottomless puddles and cut children to pieces and ate them.

“Come on,” Lachlan said, taking up a pile of submissions. “This isn't the Playboy grotto. I work for a living.”

She said nothing. She cursed her secret curses, grabbed the envelope off the bed, and left. Out the apartment door, down the windowless hallway, into the mirrored elevator, taking her 30 percent out of the envelope on the way down, through the lobby and the gawking security guards, outside, muggy, the walk to the “L”, the Red Line to work, crowded, hot, the stench of him on her still. Into the Bank Street Diner, busy, she handed her money over to Savva, grabbed her uniform and a dish towel, went into the bathroom, kicked off her pants and underwear and soaped herself, washing between her legs. She took off her shirt and scrubbed her stomach and breasts till they blotched red. She scrubbed them again, put on her uniform, tightened her apron, and went to work.

In his Gold Coast condo, Kevin Lachlan poured a third cup of coffee and skimmed the opening paragraph of yet another magazine submission, hoping this time to discover an original thought. He didn't. He tossed it into the trash and reached for another submission.

“The hell?” he said, examining a thick envelope.