The Truth Commission (19 page)

“What's all this?”

“It's stuff I'm fabricating for a tabletop installation,” said Dusk.

Don't mention the dead shrews,
I silently urged her.
Do not mention the shrews
.

She didn't. I'm not sure what the law enforcement perspective is on small-scale taxidermy, but I didn't want to find out.

He picked up a tiny book that was going to sit on the shrew's glass-topped coffee table.

“Go ahead,” said Dusk. “It's a photo album.” She helpfully handed him a magnifying glass.

His movements were almost reverential as he pulled it out. The album is one of my favorite of Dusk's creations. It's three by one and a half inches, with scaled snapshots of shrews inside acetate sheets.

He brought the book close to his face and then held the magnifying glass over it.

“Huh,” he said, and shook his head as he put the photo album back in its slot in her workbox. “Are those rats?”

“Shrews,” said Dusk.

He had her unfurl her flexible knife case and shook his head again at the scalpels and other instruments. I guess there's no law against taxidermy tools.

“So you make embroidery,” he said, looking at me. “And you make really small things.” Pointing at Dusk. “What about you?” he asked Neil.

“Neil makes paintings,” I put in. “Plus, he's interested in film. And podcasting.”

“Norm's an amazing writer, too,” added Dusk.

Officer Jones seemed to remember himself. “No drugs in here? No stolen goods?”

“No, sir,” said Neil. “Just art.”

The officer gave his head another shake, seemingly overtaken by wonder. “So is this the kind of thing Tyler's doing?” he asked. “He never talks about what he does at school.”

“Tyler's very talented,” said Dusk.

“And closed mouthed,” said Neil.

“Our whole family's artistic,” said the cop. “If G. P. Academy had been around when I was a kid maybe I'd have gone there. I love watercolors.”

“You know what would be cool?” said Dusk to the officer. “A watercolor series focused on crime. You know, watercolors of jail cells. Watercolors of cop bars. Like Edward Hopper–type stuff, but harsher.”

“I prefer Andrew Wyeth,” said Neil. “Ms. Choo is going to teach us dry-brush techniques later this term.”

“Wyeth would have made badass crime paintings,” said Dusk.

It was such a good idea that we were all nodding by the time she finished speaking, the officer most vigorously of all. “Yeah. Nontraditional subjects. I've felt ready to move out of flowers and trees for a while now.”

“Oh, my God, it would be so cool,” said Dusk.

Office Jones looked like he wanted nothing more than to sit cross-legged on the lawn of the apartment building and talk about art. But something brought him back to his responsibilities. Perhaps it was a glance down at his shiny black shoes.

“Okay. Well, I think you better find another way to find your friend. You can't keep creeping all over private property and staring into people's vehicles.”

That hadn't been exactly what we were doing, but I didn't want to say that because the officer was a frustrated watercolorist and probably a bit sensitive and tortured. Maybe I could tell the truth. It was getting to be such a habit.

“We're actually looking for my sister,” I said.

That got his attention.

“She has been, uh, going missing. I think she might be in an apartment around here.”

“An apartment,” he repeated. “That's all you've got to go on?”

“It's kind of a complicated story,” said Neil, and I could sense him feeling protective of me.

“Is that right?” Now the cop sounded like he'd never even seen a watercolor, much less painted one.

“My sister's always been very . . . private. Since she got back from college, she's started disappearing. I'm just kind of worried about her.”

Neil looked at me. Dusk, who'd gotten out of the car while the cop was examining the art, looked at me. And I thought,
Screw it.

“My sister's name is Keira Pale. She's a graphic novelist. You might have heard of her.”

Something passed across Officer Jones's face.

Even people in this town who don't read comic books or graphic novels know my sister. Along with the jazz singer Diana Krall, she's the most famous person the place has produced. So far.

“She might have bought an apartment. Or a house. We don't know. I just want to be sure she's okay.”

Neil and Dusk nodded.

Again, something moved behind the cop's eyes, and I felt my stomach clench in response.

For a long moment, he seemed to consider. Then he said, “Why don't you give me your number. If I hear anything, I'll call.”

“Are you allowed to do that?”

“I'm not making any promises. Just tell me how to get in touch with you.”

“Okay.” Neil handed me the prescription pad and I wrote down my cell phone number and handed it to the cop, who frowned.

“Really? A scrip pad? Really?” he said.

“It's okay. It's discontinued,” said Dusk.

He sighed. “I'm Ed Jones.”

We introduced ourselves again, this time by first names only.

“Does that school of yours hold classes for older folks? Like night school?”

“Sure,” I said. “Or we can talk to our watercolor instructor. See where else she teaches.”

“Also, you're not older,” said Dusk. “At least not much.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that. All right then. Good luck to you all. And stop sneaking around.” He smiled at us like he couldn't help himself.

“Thanks,” we said.

We stood on the sidewalk and waved as he got in his patrol car and drove away.

“He knows something,” I said. “About Keira.”

Neil and Dusk nodded.

“So how do we find out what it is?” asked Dusk.

“We told him the truth. Now we just have to wait.”

“If he doesn't do those crime watercolors, I'm going to have to do them, Wyeth-style,” said Neil as we got back in Dusk's little Civic.

Mouth Breathing Is an Interest of Mine

After Dusk dropped me off, I decided that I'd go crazy if I had to sit around waiting for Officer Jones to call or for my sister to show up so we could tail her. In the meantime, I could investigate her teacher. Waiting for her to seek help or report him herself wasn't working.

I logged on to my Facebook and sent a message to Roberta Brown Heller II, she of the snarly attitude.

A little number one appeared above my Messages box.

. . . ??

I ignored her and continued. My hands shook a little as I typed, and I had to keep going back and fixing typos.

It had taken me ages to summon the courage to say that much, and then I bumped the mouse and the incomplete message was sent.

“Shit,” I muttered.

Correction: *highly*

It's complicated.

It was time to plunge in. Keira had sworn me not to tell, but I had to. For both our sakes. I let out a long, thin breath.

There was a minute, two-minute, three-minute pause before the message blinked again.

It occurred to me that Facebook was about the least secure platform to have this conversation. This was way too volatile to get into specifics.

Go on.

Another long pause from her.

Okay.

Then Roberta Heller II messaged me her digits and I took out my crappy pay-and-talk cell phone and prayed I had enough minutes to get through a short conversation. Then again, I also prayed that I didn't have enough minutes because I was starting to get scared again and wished I'd just minded my own business.

After I dialed and waited for the phone to ring on the other end, I thought I could hear the sunny, dirty sound of California in the slight static. Probably just my imagination.

Roberta picked up before the first ring finished.

“Talk,” she said.

“It's Normandy Pale,” I said.

“I know who you are. I've looked you up. I know that Keira has a sister called Normandy Pale. I've even seen some of your work on your school's website. Holy shit. I had no idea a person could do that with embroidery. Chuck Close's tapestries are the closest thing I can think of.”

Predictably, I felt a flush of pleasure. You could seriously get me to do or say just about anything if you gave me a few compliments first.

“Your whole school seems pretty cool. I had no idea there were schools like that up there in Canada.”

“We're lucky,” I said because it was true.

“Artistic family,” she said. “Do your parents make stuff, too?”

“My dad used to do World War dioramas and whatnot.” She'd probably seen his work satirized in the Chronicles, but politely didn't mention it. “And apparently we had an uncle who was a carver.”

“Huh,” said Roberta.

“Anyway, I'm hoping that what we talk about here can remain private.”

“You don't know me,” said Roberta. “Why would you assume I'm trustworthy? Is it because you're Canadian? You clearly aren't from Texas. A girl from the Big Hair state would never make that mistake.”

“You're from Texas?” I asked.

“Connecticut,” she said.

Roberta Heller's rapid changes of topic reminded me of Dusk, and I felt strangely comforted.

“It's just a request.”

“I can't promise anything. We've had some bad things happen around here in the recent months. It's only now starting to feel like we might be able to get past it.”

“What kind of things?” I asked.

“You called me,” said Roberta Heller II.

I heard my breath whistle through my nose and into the receiver.

“Are you a mouth breather?” asked Roberta. “Because that's an interest of mine. One of my housemates is a chronic mouth breather. It gives him a distinctive audible style.”

“Not usually,” I said.
Come on, phone,
I silently urged.
Run out of minutes already.

“Okay. Enough pleasant chitchat and social warm-ups,” said Roberta. “What's up? What's your sister been telling you about our edumacators here at CIAD?” She pronounced it “
See
-yad.”

“My sister told me that a teacher at the school was bothering her.”

“With worshipful feelings of adoration?” asked Roberta.

“No. Like being too intimate with her. Then he did . . . worse.”

“Wait. Which teacher?” demanded Heller II.

Something stopped me from telling her his name. Just in case. Just in case what, I didn't know. “She just said that he was really young. And that they hung out and went hiking.”

“No,” she said. “That's not right.” Now it was Roberta Heller II's turn to breathe windily into the receiver. “When we lost the two of them so close together, it was like . . . part of the program died. All that talent just: poof. Gone. But it was unrelated.”

“What do you mean, ‘lost the two of them'?” I took a deep breath. “My sister said he assaulted her. That they went hiking and he”—I couldn't bring myself to say the actual word. It was too irrevocable—“assaulted her.”

The receiver went silent as though Heller II stopped breathing. “
What?
No. No. All you need to know about—”

The automatic pay-and-talk operator took that moment to interrupt the call.

“No,” I said. “Look, I'll get some minutes and call you back.” But the line was already dead.

This was an emergency. I would use our home phone. The excuse for a long-distance call to California would occur to me later.

I slipped out of my room and found my mom on the couch, quilt over the knees, feet up on the peeling fake leather ottoman, large mug of coffee at her side. I could tell she was on the line with my aunt who lives in Alberta, and that it would be a long one.

I would Skype Roberta Heller! Except that wouldn't work, because when Skype actually allowed me to log on (a rarity), it usually froze up about thirty seconds into the conversation.

Facebook. I would let RH II know that I was just running out to get some minutes on my phone and I would call her back.

With a heart going like bongos, I hustled back into my room and opened Facebook. There was a message.

My fingers flew as I thumped in a reply.

I sent the message and slowly closed my laptop.