Best Girl (5 page)

The elevator smelled like piss. I took it up to Jill's floor and wandered down the hall past the graffiti. Someone had spray-painted an exclamation mark as big as me on the wall. I got that. Life was full of surprises. It felt strange meeting these people who knew my dad. I wasn't sure I liked him. It sucked, finding out my real dad wasn't such a great guy.

I found her apartment number and knocked on the door. I heard kids shouting and dishes clattering inside. I knocked again. Finally the door swung open. A large chick (okay, she was fat) stood there, one hand on a humungous hip. Long brown hair pulled off her face in a headband.

“I said come after lunch. I'm busy now.” She started to close the door in my face.

“I'm looking for Jill Hanes.”

She held the door open a crack. “You're not a cop?” She looked me up and down, nervous now. Yelling inside got louder. “Shut up!” she barked behind her.

“I'm Freddy Allan's kid. I wanted to talk to Jill about him.”

She opened the door wide and smiled. “You're kidding. Freddy Allan's girl? That's a name I haven't heard in a long time.”

The phone rang in another room. She waved at me to follow as she waddled into the kitchen and picked up the phone.

“Yeah, I got it,” she said into the receiver. “Give me half an hour.”

Three little kids sat at a table, getting orange SpaghettiOs all over their mouths.

“Grandma!” one said. “I want chocolate cake for dessert.”

The others piped in, “Me too!”

Jill bent toward them in a threatening pose. They kept eating, unfazed. “Listen up! I'm going into the other room with this lady, and I don't want to hear squat out of any of you.”

They stared at me, their mouths moving. It was weird to be called a lady. I still felt like a kid. But they were three or four years old, so to them I was a lady. With a start, I thought: I was around their age when my world fell apart.

Jill led me into the living room. Toys everywhere. Dolls and stuffed bears and plastic tea cups all over the dirty carpet. I moved a sticky rubber dinosaur to sit down on the tattered sofa.

“So, you're Freddy's kid.” She tilted her head, watching me. “I can see the resemblance. He was a great guy. Terrible what happened to him.”

“I heard you two were…going out.”

“Oh.” She looked down. “I guess it was no secret. Yeah, I was crazy about him.” Then she studied me like she was trying to find him in my face. “We toured together. I would've done anything for him. I was a kid. I thought he loved me.”

I tried to picture Jill young and thin. “He broke it off?”

She looked away. “One day he just said there was somebody else. He said I deserved better! What a line. Just like that. I was young, he said, and I'd find the right guy. But I didn't want the right guy. I wanted
him
.”

I nodded to be polite. “Were you there that last night?”

“You mean when…?” She nodded. “We shared a cab home—he was so wasted. The whole way I tried to persuade him he loved me. I don't think he heard a word.”

“Then what happened?”

“We stopped in front of his house and he got out. Never saw him again.”

“You were angry he dumped you.”

“Sure…”

“Angry enough to…?”

“Just what're you getting at?” Her face went red. “Man, you've got nerve, girl. I didn't have to let you in here. You got no right…Besides, everyone knew Carol did it.”

The phone rang. She picked up the handset beside her. “Yeah, it just came in,” she said, turning away from me. “Same terms as usual.” She hung up.

“What if she didn't do it?”

“What? Oh. Look, I don't know what she told you.”

“She died last week.”

She tilted her head. “That's tough.” She pursed her lips. “Doesn't change anything. Why would I kill him? I loved him.”

“People do funny things when they're hurt.” So maybe that was true. “He was leaving you for another chick.”

“That was his story. Could've been giving me a line.”

I was running around in circles. “You and the cab driver were the last ones to see him alive. Did the cops talk to you?”

“Yeah. They wanted to know if I saw anything. Maybe another car. Someone hanging around. They asked the cabbie too.”

“Did you see anything?”

“I was so mad I couldn't see straight. Freddy got out of the car, and I told the cabbie to burn rubber. Wasn't in a state to notice anything.”

“What about the cabbie?”

She shook her head. “You're wasting your time, honey. She did it.”

Someone knocked at Jill's door. I jumped.

She heaved herself off the couch. “He was right about one thing,” she said. “I deserved better.” She waved at the shabby sofa and chairs. “Never got it. Just a daycare and mouths to feed. Nobody looking out for me but me.”

It was time to take off. I still needed my job.

I got up, wondering if Jill had told me the truth or if she was a good liar.

When she opened the door, two big guys with tattoos stood there. “Hey, Jill, baby, whatcha got for us today?”

She let them inside, and we all stared at each other.

“I do some business on the side,” she said to me, nervous again. “Key chains.”

I nodded. Couldn't care less what she was dealing.

I mumbled my goodbyes and slunk past them out the door.

“Hey, Jill, who's your friend?”

She closed the door and I headed for the elevator. I was so out of there.

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
he lawyer's secretary had called and said the papers for the estate were ready. So after work, I changed into my knock-off designer jeans and touched up my hair and makeup. I'd never been to a lawyer's office before.

I took the subway downtown to King Street, then walked east a few blocks. It looked like one of those sketchy neighborhoods that artists made funky, and while it was still cheap, the developers moved in. New condos were going up behind boards. Upscale furniture stores beside shops selling cigarettes and hot dog buns.

When I got to the street number, I stopped, surprised. It was a storefront. I'd pictured something different. Something more private up some stairs in an office building. At least the blinds were closed inside the window and you couldn't see in.
Randall Webb, Law Office
was painted in small block letters on the glass.

I opened the door and walked in. The reception desk was piled neatly with folders. Some chairs sat near the window. A door behind the desk was open, leading to another room. A man was talking on the phone in the invisible distance. I headed over.

Once at the door, I got shy and just stood there. Randall Webb was leaning back in his leather chair behind a desk. Not what I expected. Thinning brown hair, kind of long for a lawyer pushing fifty. The sleeves of his white shirt rolled up.

“Look, there's not much more I can do,” he was saying into the phone. “They're cracking down on drunk drivers these days…”

Webb looked up and saw me. Without missing a beat, he waved for me to sit down in a chair in front of the desk. He got rid of the guy on the phone and stood up.

He gave me a big smile. “You're Carol's kid, aren't you? I'd know you anywhere.” He came around the desk and put out his hand.

I took it shyly. He sat down in a chair beside me. Clean jeans. High-top runners.

“She was a beauty. You look just like her.”

I smiled like a dork.

“We were kids when we met. Grade ten.”

“Seriously?”

“I had a crush on her. But she was in love with Freddy from day one.”

“Then you knew my father too?”

He grinned. “Skinny little guy.”

“And you knew the other dudes in the band.”

“Iggy and Stu, yeah. They were the cool guys. I was the nerd. I did my homework. They played music. The rest is history.”

For a second I was irritated with my mother. She could've picked anyone and she picked Freddy. Then it dawned on me that I wouldn't be here if she hadn't.

“You were just a kid when…You don't remember anything, do you?”

I shook my head.

“Lucky,” he said. He smiled sadly. “You were real cute. A neighbor was looking after you when I got there. Then Child Welfare came in. It broke Carol's heart to give you up. No shortage of offers for you. She asked me to sort it out.”

“You arranged for my adoption?”

He fixed his eyes on me, searching. “I hope it worked out.”

I didn't want to make him feel bad. I shrugged. “Yeah. Sure.” Wasn't his fault I didn't get along with Shelley.

“You got some money coming when the paperwork's done. Mostly from the sale of the house.”

“House?”

“Don't remember that either, eh? She asked me to sell it. The money paid for her legal fees. Appeals. None of it helped.” He shrugged. “There's a good chunk left. It'll take awhile for you to get it.” He looked at me like he was sorry. “I'll send you a statement, so you can see what's what.”

Then he smiled again. “Got something for you.” He pointed to the floor behind him. “It's been cluttering up my office.”

He got up and ducked into a corner behind his desk. When he stood up, he was carrying a leather guitar case.

“It was your father's. Carol kept it all these years.”

I jumped up, tingling all over. He put the case down on his chair. I just stood there staring.

“Go on,” he said. “Open it.”

I flicked open the latch and raised the cover. The light hit the shiny wood. A
Gibson
! The best guitar in the world. And even better: my father had played it. I lifted it in my arms like a baby.

“You play?” he asked.

I smiled and nodded, plucking the strings. It was out of tune.

“Hey, Mr. Webb!” Someone was in the front office.

A man poked his head in the door. “Gotta talk to you, Mr. Webb. Cops said I violated parole. That's bull! All I did was stick a note under her door…”

Webb stayed calm, must've been used to this kind of interruption. “I told you not to contact her. That means no note, no phone call,
nada.
Wait outside.”

“I love her, man. I'd never hurt her.”

Webb walked over to the door and put his hand on the dude's shoulder. “I'll be with you shortly. Wait outside.”

While he was busy, I noticed some papers lying in the guitar case. I put the Gibson down carefully on my chair and picked through the sheets. It was music, some with notes written by hand.

Webb freed himself from the guy and came back into the room.

“Did you meet Diane?” he asked. “She said she was bringing you some of Carol's stuff.”

I nodded. “You know Diane too?”

“Just on the phone. Never met her. Carol talked about her when I came to visit. I was glad she'd made a friend who wasn't in for murder.”

I was confused. “Diane looked after her in the infirmary.”

“Yeah. I guess she got brownie points for that. Maybe it was her get-out-of-jail card.”

“Diane was a prisoner?”

“She tell you otherwise?”

“She said she was a nurse.”

“Maybe in some other life. I wouldn't want her to nurse me. She's a con artist. Bilked old ladies out of their savings.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

I
could hardly see straight going home, I was so mad. People on the subway kept their distance. Must've had smoke coming out of my ears. I hugged the guitar case like there was a machine gun inside. I wished. That jailbird Diane really conned me. I'd fallen for her story, all of it. If she lied about who she was, what else did she lie about? She was one of the people who claimed my mother was innocent. Was it any less true if Diane was a liar?

I shivered and stared out the window of the subway. We were speeding through the black tunnel. If my mother was a killer, this was where my life would stay—in a dark tunnel. I thought back on everyone I'd talked to who knew her. They all believed she was guilty.

I had to speak to Diane again. Get the truth this time. I'd shake her until she coughed it up. What did I do with the scrap of paper she'd written her address on? I prayed it was on the coffee table at home where she'd left it.

I lugged the guitar up the stairs of the subway and down the street. It was heavy, but I loved every inch of it. Had to be careful not to bang it in the elevator to the third floor. I was panting when I finally put it down on the rug in my living room.

I rushed to the coffee table. Diane's note was right there on top of one of my hairstyling magazines. Place wasn't far. Cabbagetown. There was a phone number. But I wasn't going to call. Then she could bolt and avoid me. I'd take my chances she was home. If not, I'd wait.

I checked the clock in my tiny kitchen. Nearly eight. My stomach was growling. What did I eat today? Not much. I threw some cheese between two slices of whole-wheat bread. I scarfed it down, grabbed a chocolate bar and ran out the door.

After a couple of subway stops, I was there in fifteen minutes. The street Diane was staying on was not the best. Not the worst either. I passed a lot of old houses with drooping porches. Then I found it. A big Victorian number, not quite falling down.

The front door was unlocked, but then I was stuck in a small hall with numbers and push buttons on the wall. And a locked door. I pressed the bell for her apartment, number 204. No answer. So either she wasn't home, or she didn't want visitors. I wasn't giving up that easy.

I pushed someone else's bell. Some dude answered. I said in my sweetest voice, “I forgot my key. Could you please unlock the door?”

“Who's this?” he asked.

“Diane,” I said.

The buzzer rang and I opened the door. Nice guy. Too trusting though.