Drawing Conclusions (3 page)

four

Typically, we rose at
odd hours, but on this particular day, Trina, Jonathan, and Becky were gathered in the kitchen by 8 a.m.

“Where's Charlie?” I asked as I opened a window by the kitchen table and breathed deeply in the direction of the water. The news of Teddy's death was suffocating, and these small gestures were all I could do to alleviate my anxiety.

“We thought he was with you.” Trina placed a plate of fresh scrambled eggs in front of me.

“I see you found the food,” I said. “Thanks for unpacking the car last night.”

Trina and Jonathan came around the table, bookending me before I had a chance to run. Becky sat across the table and reached out to hold my hands in place.

“The funeral is tomorrow,” Becky said. “I have all day to design and sew a dress for you. It's going to be a magical dress, because it will let you disappear and reappear as you please. It will carry you and envelop you and protect you from the freaks.”

“Becky,
you're
a freak.”

“Yes I am, and I love you and I want to help and this is the only way I know how.”

“Then put the pedal to metal and start sewing.” I let her kiss my palms before she released me and departed in a swirl of heavy damask hiding her tiny frame.

“Remind me how she came to live with us?” I asked. Becky's outpouring of love caught me off-guard—we were more roommates than close friends.

“Charlie thought she was cute,” Jonathan said and then added, “apparently, she doesn't realize Charlie finds lots of women attractive.”

I shrugged my shoulders. Charlie's philandering was nothing new to me. I had bigger problems.

Trina pushed the plate toward me. “CeCe, you need to eat. Don't make me give you a lecture on nutrients.”

I spooned some eggs into my mouth.

“You also need to see that detective today.” Trina buttered my toast and put it in my hand.

“I don't like him,” I said as I force-fed myself the eggs.

“I agree,” Trina said. “He's pompous.”

I pushed the plate away from me in disgust. “He's an asshole, and my father already has him in his pocket. He probably moonlights as security at the labs.”

Jonathan rose from the table and adjusted the ratty pair of suspenders holding up his work pants. “If you'll forgive me, I don't think my presence is necessary for this man-hating session.” He gave us both a peck on the cheek. “I love you CeCe, and I'm going to miss Teddy.”

“Thank you Jonathan.” I winked at Trina, knowing full well Jonathan had just spanned the entire range of his emotions. He was a farmer at heart; I couldn't expect more than this stoic demeanor. Trina, our resident earth mother, had ample depth for both of them.

Trina waited for Jonathan to depart before drilling down on the detail. “Look CeCe, something is not right, and I think the police and your father are suspicious. Your dad is a doctor. He'd know immediately if Teddy's death was natural.”

“Thanks for the update.” The realization that my brother was dead was sickening, but the suggestion that foul play was at hand was not outrageous. Young men do not drop dead at their desks without some encouragement. My shoulders tightened as pressure filled the deepest pockets of my head.

“Should I come to the station with you?” Trina asked.

“It's okay, Trina.” I fumbled for Detective DeRosa's card in my pocket. “I can do it myself.”

“Your mom called,” Trina said with a cringe.

“Was she drunk?”

“Shit-faced.”

I folded myself into Trina's arms then and let the tears flow. Her hearty frame was warm and reassuring, yet I had never felt so alone in all my life. Teddy's and my birthday was only a month away. I stretched my hand out behind Trina's back and imagined Teddy pulling me up to the shore, flip-flops dripping at my side, ready for our birthday lunch. I wanted to hold onto the image, but I knew Detective DeRosa was waiting for me.

“You should go,” Trina said, releasing me.

“I know,” I replied as I grabbed my sweatshirt and headed off to the station.

–––

The Laurel Hollow Police Station was a hodgepodge of low-slung historical buildings connected by a series of ambling breezeways. The setting seemed more suited to misdemeanors involving hobbits and goblins than murder. It was unclear to me how anything of a serious nature could possibly be resolved under thatched roofs as thick as muffin tops. Detective DeRosa was waiting for me by the front door when I arrived.

“Thanks for coming in, Ms. Prentice.”

“If you don't call me CeCe, I'm leaving.”

“CeCe.”

“Yes, Frank?”

“Have you ever been here before?” he asked as he held the door for me. My head barely met the top of his arm pit putting him easily over six-two.

“Check the row of shoeboxes in the back and I'm sure you'll find a hand-written index card with a list of ridiculous stunts Charlie and I pulled in high school.”

“I did my research. Unfortunately your records were sealed. The underage loophole.”

Detective DeRosa led me into a bright, open room with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the harbor. A row of desks housed a police force of about twenty officers. The handful present appeared rather sedate as they sipped the last of their morning lattes.

“Jesus, it's almost worth getting arrested for this view.”

“I'm sure there's an inch or two left on your index card.”

I followed Detective DeRosa down a narrow hall to his office. Given the tight dimensions, the wall of leaded glass cabinetry, and the telltale sink, I guessed it was a converted butler's pantry.

“So this is where the help sits?”

“I'd like to be of help,” DeRosa said with his arms open to suggestion.

“But?”

“From what I gather, vegans pride themselves on self-sufficiency.”

“It's Freegan, not vegan,” I said enunciating the words clearly. “Freegans take what they can get. Vegans are picky eaters, the divas of alternative living.” The mention of food lifted my stomach in an unpleasant churn. I pursed my lips and bit back a bubble. The eggs and stress were not agreeing with me.

Detective DeRosa's phone trilled, interrupting our interview. I could hear a woman's voice rising in panic as he nodded with concern, but the drama was not enough to distract me from the uncomfortable gurgling in my stomach. I tried to remember if I had passed a bathroom on the way in.

“It's your housemate,” DeRosa said, pointing to the phone. “Trina.”

I nodded, afraid to open my mouth.

“She says there might be something wrong with the eggs.”

I nodded again, pointing at DeRosa's garbage pail with one hand while the other covered my mouth. In one quick motion, he grabbed a plastic recycling bin and shoved it under my chin. His timing was impeccable. I tossed my breakfast directly into the pail. Between the gut stabbing pains and the panting heaves, I was able to blurt out a few sentences.

“Is it just me?”

“No, your housemates are sick too.”

“I need to get to a hospital,” I burped. “There could have been rat poison in the Dumpster.”

–––

No more than three fine hairs on my forearm were trapped mercilessly under an inch of adhesive tape holding my liquid lifeline in place. The pinching had an almost pleasant effect compared to the knife in my belly. Screw the Abs of Steel disc stuck in my third-hand DVD player. A mouthful of rat poison will make you feel the burn a whole lot longer than stomach crunches. I rolled my head sideways and drew my legs into a fetal position.

“Trina, is that you?”

She was laid out in the bed next to me.

“Hey, CeCe.” Her mellow voice had a maternal quality that made me feel safe. “Your dad stopped by when you were sleeping, but he didn't say anything and he's gone now.”

“Then let me take this time to inform you that your cooking sucks.”

“Don't make me laugh,” she moaned. “I don't have any stomach muscles left.” With a Herculean effort, Trina rolled her hip forward so we were facing each other. “Since when does the catering hall contaminate their leftover food?”

“I don't know. This kind of shit happens in Manhattan all the time, and I know the major supermarket chains do it to discourage the homeless.” I tried to sit up, but it was useless. “We probably woke up because the painkillers are wearing off,” I said as I pressed the call button with the energy of a last-place marathoner crossing the finish line. “Let's see what drugs are on the menu today.”

A worried nurse shuffled in, followed by Charlie and Detective DeRosa.

“Hey Charlie, before I forget, pack a doggie bag of scrambled eggs for the detective,” I said.

Charlie hurried to my side, ignoring my sick-bed humor. “Something's wrong, CeCe. Really wrong.”

I looked over at Trina and braced myself for news that I expected neither of us wanted to hear. I had read about restaurants and food stores using rat poison to deter Dumpster diving. It wasn't exactly uncommon. What I didn't know was the lasting effects of poison. If defecating into a bag attached to my hip was in my near future, I was not going to be happy.

Charlie shoved his hands deep into his jean pockets. “I ate some eggs last night after the police left and you guys went to bed.” His confession was underwhelming, as if he had nabbed the last of the dessert.

“And you're not sick?” Trina probed.

“No, I'm fine,” Charlie replied.

“So it must have been something else we ate. Big deal,” I said.

Charlie nodded to Detective DeRosa, who had been fairly unobtrusive up to this point. “Charlie scrambled the eggs last night.” DeRosa addressed the room. “Then he divided them into portions. He froze some and left the rest in the refrigerator. We sampled and tested both parts, and the frozen portion is not contaminated. That's why Charlie is not sick. The other half contains traces of rat poisoning. You, Trina, and Jonathan ate the contaminated eggs. Jonathan, due to his size, processed the poison faster and was released an hour ago.”

“Are you suggesting Trina and I put on fifty pounds to beef up our resistance?” I asked.

“CeCe, cut the shit and listen.” Charlie rose from my bedside and positioned himself next to Detective DeRosa. I didn't need a body language expert to see whose side Charlie was on as he ran his hands through his hair in frustration and continued with his story. “After I ate the eggs, I turned off all the lights and reset the lights to nine a.m.”

“But when I went to make breakfast, the kitchen light was on,” Trina said. “I remember thinking that was odd.”

Even the nurse who had busied herself with my saline bag fell silent as we waited for someone to drop the bomb. Detective DeRosa lit up his iPad and tapped the screen with his index finger.

“We believe someone entered the house between the hours of four and six a.m. and poisoned the eggs in the refrigerator,” DeRosa said as he looked up from his device and stared straight into my eyes. For a brief second, I had a flutter of recognition, just as I had the first night we met. I considered the circumstance of our first meeting and decided that the intensity of the situation had created this déjà vu feeling. We had never met, yet when we did the impact was lasting. His glance distracted me, and I turned my head toward the window.

“Seriously, CeCe. This is important.” Charlie's chiding brought me back into the conversation.

“We have very little to go on,” Detective DeRosa continued, “but at this point, we think you were the target, CeCe.”

“What about Trina and Jonathan?” I said. “They got sick too.”

“Collateral damage,” Detective DeRosa replied. His iPad dinged, and he said, “I'll take this outside. It's your father; he wants an update.” He nodded to the group and stepped out of the room as we digested the knowledge that someone wanted me dead—or at least out of commission.

“Charlie, this is nuts. How can I be the target of anything?”

“I don't know CeCe, but someone killed Teddy and the police think you're next.”

five

Charlie drove us home
from
the hospital that afternoon. The car ride was dreadfully silent, and I was lost in wondering how the rest of the world was about to perceive me. Selfish, perhaps, but I was still feeling pretty low after hours of sickness. Within a day, I'd be surrounded by hundreds of mourners bowing to the awe of money and influence. There would be gawkers and curiosity seekers, opportunists and press hogs. I'm sure I would satisfy the paparazzi in my role as the underachieving, crackpot sister with an inheritance big enough to support a small nation. As word got out about the attempt on my lifestyle, there would be talk of self-involvement, as if I had somehow brought this on myself, a twisted form of Münchausen syndrome. Rejected sister fakes poisoning after the murder of her more popular twin broth
er.

“Hey,” I said to break the silence. “How bad will the funeral be for me?”

“It's going to suck for all of us,” Charlie said as he leaned hard into the gas pedal. “I'm going to be an outsider at my best friend's funeral.”

As if green living is somehow a direct threat to the establishment
, I thought. I wondered if my brother's death and the threat on my life were somehow connected to my lifestyle. Freeganism was alien to most, and I had often been accused of being overly idealistic. What drove me was a sense of logic. Why buy food, clothes, hell, even computers, when you can get them all for free? I'll admit, the Dumpster diving “ick” factor is high, but the rewards are enormous.

“Maybe I've gone too far in the past,” I conceded, now worried that either my link to my brother or my actions had compromised the safety of my housemates.

“The video didn't help,” Charlie said, referring to my how-to video on Dumpster diving, strategically filmed behind the cafeteria at the Sound View labs. It's amazing how much steak a medical grant can buy. Doctors, it turns out, eat pretty well.

“God, that was years ago. And you held the camera,” I said, reminding Charlie of his role. “Anyway, that video went viral faster than an outbreak of H1N1. Teddy thought it was hilarious.”

“Yes, but it embarrassed your dad at work,” Trina said. “You'll forever be positioned as the rebellious sister, despite Teddy covering for you.”

I didn't feel very rebellious at the moment. My stomach was sore to the touch, and I had to hold the seatbelt about an inch off my waist as Charlie took a tight turn. I grimaced and bit through a pain sharp enough to remind me of my resilience. It was this part of my personality that held back the torrent of tears and allowed me to focus on the horror of the situation without losing my mind.

Like me, both Trina and Charlie were deep in thought. I studied Charlie's face, a face I'd known since childhood. I had memorized every dip and pucker in his skin, the shape of his hairline as it fell over his ears, and the length of his nose in proportion to the width of his cheekbones. We spent the majority of our high school years in the back seat of his dad's car in full reproductive glory. We would kiss for so long that I could feel the pressure of his lips on mine hours later. By graduation, we had burnt out, realizing our strongest bond was Teddy. Teddy was Charlie's best friend and my rock.

Faces had always intrigued me, and I'm convinced the root of my obsession began with the glaring physical differences between me and my twin. Technically, we were merely roommates for nine months. Our conception involved two separate eggs, two separate sperm, and two separate sacs. Our dissimilarities, therefore, were not unusual and in fact quite common among fraternal twins. And as one pediatrician explained it to me, “Try to think of him as a brother who happened to be born on the same day.” Regardless, our differences irked me. I had no attachment to my parents; I'd spent the better part of my life avoiding my father and mixing my mother yet another cocktail. From the day I sensed the presence of a life form next to me, I wanted nothing more than to capture our brother/sister connection through a tangible feature. A hooked pinky, an attached earlobe, a cleft chin, bow legs, knocked knees. Really, I'd take anything.

And yet there was my brother Teddy with his mountain-man physique and thick mane of dark hair. He had more body hair than Bigfoot and hands that could crush a bag of walnuts. His Roman nose led an observer's eyes straight down to a full set of lips and the warmest smile this side of the East River. I, on the other hand, was five-three on a good day. I often wondered if my growth potential was compromised by sharing space with my larger twin. With my dirty blond hair and Nordic looks, I could pass in a crowd of WASPy North Shore girls. That Charlie dug my tomboy gig in high school was a compliment considering he could have bagged any girl in town. It was my fascination with similarities and differences that led me to paint portraits. I am a self-proclaimed expert in the human body from the neck up. I would let my father and brother analyze DNA under the power of a laser microscope; my interpretation of DNA flowed from the tips of my fingers through the end of my paintbrush, spilling out across a canvas. I knew faces, and at this moment, I could tell from my housemates' expressions that doubt and fear were overtaking rational thought.

“Hey guys, I think this is getting blown out of proportion.” I shifted in the front seat and addressed Charlie and Trina, although neither seemed to be on the same wavelength.

“I'm going to swing by the electronics store later and see if I can hustle up some used security equipment. I'm rigging the entire house with cameras,” Charlie muttered to himself, eyes glued to the road.

“I'll guess I'll have to throw out the entire contents of the kitchen,” Trina added, mentally cleaning out the kitchen cabinets.

“Please, can we focus on the facts?” I pleaded. “At this point, Teddy's cause of death is undetermined and there was no obvious evidence of a break-in. Am I right?”

Charlie nodded reluctantly.

“The rat poisoning is a little unnerving,” I said, “but it didn't kill any of us, and we still don't know that it wasn't the catering hall that sprinkled the poison. Maybe they had a rat problem?”

“Maybe someone just wanted to scare you,” Charlie offered.

“Okay, let's run with that.”

“Maybe your father didn't want you at the funeral,” Trina blurted. As soon as the words left her mouth, her face broadcast the fact that she regretted every syllable. “Oh my God, I can't believe I just said that. I am so, so sorry.”

Charlie restated the obvious. “The rift with your father
is
local lore at this point. You have to expect that people will be talking about it.”

“I realize that, but my father and I are trying to mend the past,” I said reflecting on the meeting with him the prior evening and that unexpected show of affection. “Look, he made the effort to come by the house and I'm grateful.”

“So you don't hate me?” Trina asked.

I reached into the back seat and felt for her hand. “It's okay, I'm not offended in the least. I expect to go back to being a persona non grata tomorrow.”

“You're going to be a persona con spectacle in the get-up Becky's been sewing,” Charlie said as he backed the ancient Gremlin, our only car, into Harbor House's driveway.

“Can you dial it back, Charlie?” Trina squeezed my hand. “CeCe, how are you not scared? Teddy's gone and you have no relationship with your family.”

“Remember when we started up Harbor House and my father stopped by unannounced?” I said.

“That was some serious daddy rage,” Charlie replied. “I think he called me a Commie.”

“He called Jonathan a Commie,” Trina corrected. “He called you a punk.”

“Anyway, Teddy came by later that day and said something that gave me the strength to continue with our plans for Harbor House. He encouraged me to create something bigger than us. He wanted me to live it, not just preach it.” I could feel Teddy's presence in the car. I looked up at Harbor House and the rolling expanse of farmland behind it. Ten years ago, creating a self-sufficient living arrangement had seemed daunting, but with the gardens blooming and the fields sprouting, the improbable had become my reality. And in part, it was thanks to a few words from my brother.

“Charlie, do you remember?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Charlie replied as memories of Teddy flooded his head. “He said, ‘CeCe, you can't fall off the floor'.”

A genuine smile spread across my face for the first time in two days.