Missing Brandy (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 2) (3 page)

“You were going to tell me about your husband’s death, at least I think you were.”

Trisha Liam swallowed. “His death was unexpected. Swift. It was hard on Brandy. They were close, you see. Mitch had a way with her. They were pals, and since his death, she’s been … not so happy—at least, not around me. But she has her friends and stays after school. Brandy’s a good girl. That’s why I can’t understand this. Why she’d leave.”

I put down my pen and studied this woman who seemed so bereft. My mom told me that some people were immersed in sorrow. It came to them in layers, life hitting them like giant waves, one lousy deal after another, and I thought if anything else hit her soon, she’d just disappear like cotton candy melting in the mouth.

“Tell me about your husband’s death,” I asked again.

She hitched up her slacks and folded her hands. “What does Mitch’s death have to do with Brandy?”

“The more I learn about you and your late husband and the rest of Brandy’s life, the easier it will be for me to find your daughter. I know it doesn’t seem logical, but you’ll just have to trust me or get another investigator. It’s the only way I know how to work, Mrs. Liam. Trisha.”

“It happened suddenly.” She was silent for a bit, weighing words, I guess.
“Sometimes I think the sudden things must keep on happening over and over. A change of seasons brings it on, for one thing. Or a year’s turning. Another spring without him and I wonder how far gone he is underneath the cold ground. With the first cherry blossoms in Prospect Park, I think of him in court, him and his bow tie, or the first time we met.”
[ This is repeated, in parts word for word, later on (also marked with a comment)—wanted to mark it in case it wasn’t intentional.]

She stopped. And speaking of far gone, that was Trisha Liam right now. She was staring into the distance. “When we met, he was defending a member of the mafia. How could he do that, I asked him over coffee, and he answered. One thing led to another. Next thing I knew, we were married; then Brandy was born, and then …”

I pulled out the desk chair and sat, scribbling in my notebook. “When did the school call you? I need the exact time, Mrs. Liam.”

“They didn’t. And it’s Trisha, please. I’ve already
asked
you to call me Trisha.”

“So how did you know she was missing … Trisha?” I emphasized the name. I’m such a cold rat. “Is she usually here when you get home?”

“No. I had this feeling, you know, even though I was in court this morning. It was a feeling I couldn’t shake, a fright, like something horrible had happened. I usually call Brandy after school, but today—like I’ve already told you—I left a message on her cell phone about noon. She usually checks her messages at lunchtime. When I didn’t hear from her, I phoned the office. That was about two fifteen, two twenty.”

Trisha stopped talking. Fear slid down her face like a haunting sheet.

“And?”

“And they said …”

I felt my heart climbing into my throat. “And they said what, Trisha?”

“And they said she hadn’t been in school all day.”

Trisha Liam swayed. I thought she was going to faint.

“She’d faked an excuse?”

“She wouldn’t do that. My girl would never do that.”

I said nothing.

“They said I’d called and told them there was a death in the family and Trisha wouldn’t be back in school until Monday.” She put a hand to her chest.

“Who said you’d called?”

“Someone in the office—Betty, I think. Yes, that’s her name. She’s the one who usually answers.”

“So anyone could have called and said they were you and excused Brandy from school for three days?”

She shook her head several times, her body bent. She was drooling. “Tell me she’s all right. She’s been missing since she left this morning. I didn’t kiss her goodbye. She slammed the door.” By now Trisha Liam’s eyes were wide. She was thrusting her arms out to me. “God, you’ve got to find her. Please say you will. She’s all I’ve got. When I think of her all alone … maybe she’s hurting …”

I couldn’t bring myself to hold Trisha Liam. Mom would have. She’d have melted in a flash, but I didn’t have the stomach for it, not tonight. “We’ll find her. I swear we will. The police and the FBI are already looking. How would this Betty woman know she was talking to you?”

“I don’t know. Brandy’s never been ill. I’ve never had to call the office.”

It was getting stuffy in Trisha Liam’s conservatory. I didn’t tell her that, but I could hardly wait to get out of there. I told her I might have more questions and as soon as they entered my head, I might have to knock on her door.

“Anytime. I won’t be sleeping.”

Chapter 4

Brandy. Her Diary, Part One

When I got home, you’d think I’d fall asleep I was so dog tired, but after Denny’s warm greeting and my telling him about Trisha Liam and her missing daughter, my eyelids wouldn’t function. So I slipped into my study, and by the light of my iPhone and the comfort of Mr. Baggins purring like a fire engine beside me, I began reading Brandy’s diary.

Me? I’m an everyday kind of teen with curls so tight on damp days they stick to my scalp. I can feel them winding up. They move like baby snakes, all slithery, while I reach for my alarm clock. That’s why I don’t always pay attention in class—especially History. My kinks and my zits drive me wild, to say nothing of the braces. I’ve had them on for a year and will probably need them for most all of high school. That’s what Dad said before he decided to die.

You’d have loved him. He took me to ballgames. We’d walk to Borough Hall and take the subway to 161st Street, and when we got to the stadium, we’d hold hands, swinging our arms high and fast. It was like taking a ride on a high-flying machine, that’s what Granny called it. Dad bought me hot dogs and soda and talked about winning and losing and when winning’s important and when it’s not. When I was seven, I could name all the Yankee pitchers, but now I’ve lost touch.

First Dad died, then Aunt Caroline moved to London. The wrong ones went away and left me, and now I’m alone with Mom. Except for Granny Liam, of course, but she goes in and out.

Mom never thinks of me. She never listens to me, but Mrs. Coltran says that’s not true. She knows my mother loves me. I wish I could believe her. My mother’s so out of it. Come to think of it, I can’t even tell you what she looks like. Except for when I close my eyes tight, all I see are bags under her eyes caused by the tinted glasses she wears.

Like here’s one. Frankie—she’s one of my friends—a girl, would you believe. Anyways, when Frankie got her nose piercing, a turquoise little nob of a job with a touch of gold around it, fits real nice on her right nostril. Well, I thought I might try it, but they all said, “Better ask Pah-tricia, you know how she is.”

I refuse to call my mom Trisha, by the way. I like the name Trisha too much. I told her I’d call her Patricia, but not Trisha like she wants to be called instead of Mom. So when I started calling her Patricia with the accent on the “Pah”—like this, “Pah (hold it for two beats)-tricia”—she said to stick with Mom.

Anyway, why did I bother asking her about the piercing? Clara had one, I told her. I just made that up because I knew she’d never see Clara because Clara doesn’t come to the house and Pah-tricia doesn’t come to the school. But I told her about Frankie’s piercing and how she got it and what it looked like and where she got it—on Seventh Avenue in South Slope, real close—and I wasn’t even finished talking, see, and she just interrupted and said, “No.” Slammed right in and stopped me. Didn’t look up from her papers she’s always reading or anything. Matter of fact, she didn’t look at me the whole time I was talking.

Sometimes I do this thing where I don’t stop, just keep up the talk like a machine gun—rat-a-tat-tat, that’s what Dad called it—cover one thing and then another like you’re spooning different foods onto your plate without stopping. I do it to see how long she can go without looking at me. I timed it once, and you want to know something, she can go almost ten minutes without lifting her eyes from the page while I’m pumping out the words. That’s how she is.

Heather wouldn’t want a piercing, I know that. But Heather loves her mom, which has its goods and its bads because the way I figure it, Heather doesn’t know how brain-washed she is.

Heather says Mom’s afraid. Whatever. I try to be nice and all, but Pah-tricia doesn’t care what I’m thinking. She never tries to talk to me. I start up with this or with that, makes no diff, but I can tell she’s not listening. Like tonight, I tried to tell her how boring gym is and could she write me an excuse because of the cramps, but she doesn’t get it. Know what she said? She told me there’d be lots of things I wouldn’t like doing and lots of cramp days, I’d get them once a month, so I’d better get used to them, and I should just buck up. Her words. Now what the hey? What does ‘buck up’ mean? You’ll be happy you took gym when you’re older, she says. But, Mom … I begin and watch her wince because she wants to be called Trisha, and I can’t do it because there’s a Trisha in my class and I like her. She’s not in our group or anything only because she’s too busy, and anyhow she lives in Flatbush, which is way far away. I’m not quite sure why she lives there or why anybody lives there, to tell you the truth, or how she made it to our school. But she’s nice and all, only she studies all the time and never hangs out with us. Polly said she’s on scholarship. Polly knows everything.

Getting back to Mom. Pah-tricia, I mean … But mighty woman had spoken, and now she’s disappearing into her tent. I can see it in her eyes beyond those yuck-tinted glasses she wears. Excuse me while I barf. Whatever. So you know what I do? I stand still except for my feet, which rock onto their sides.

“Don’t do that. You’ll ruin your shoes, and I just spent $89 for them.”

I’m barely moving, and Pah-tricia’s not looking up, but she knows I’m rocking onto my sides without looking? Like I’m not worth $89? Like, don’t kill my vibe, that’s what she’s doing. Heather’s mom made her a tee shirt that says,
Witch
,
Don’t Kill My Vibe
, but I like my poster better. See, when Heather told me about it, I had to have one and went online and bought it. The real thing,
Bitch
,
Don’t Kill My Vibe
.
That’s one good thing about Pah-tricia, she lets me use her card if it’s going to be below $25. Anyway, Heather’s tee is black and has a witch’s hat over the words. Heather had it framed.

Too cute, Polly said. Polly hangs with us. Polly’s rich and likes both her parents but can’t stand her older brother because he smokes in his room, and the smoke travels under his door and down the hall and seeps into her room and chokes her. Polly’s a Catholic, a practicing one. So are we, but we don’t practice. Practicing means Polly has to go to Mass every week or at least sit in a church a lot. Polly showed us how to genuflect and make the sign. It’s a special thing you do with your hands to ward off devils, she told us. Gives me the creeps. But the only devils I have are the ones in my mind—that’s what Granny Liam told me one day when her head was on straight.

The other person I know who smokes is Aunt Caroline, my dad’s sister, the only one left on his side of the family. Mom hates her. Says she has no discipline. Aunt Caroline’s this author, and every time she writes something, it makes it onto the
New York Times Bestseller List
because she puts weird stuff in them and has a good agent—that’s what Dad told me once—so now she thinks that whatever she says is cute. Mom’s words. But I like Aunt Caroline. She invited me to see a play once. I forget what it was called. I hated it, but pretended I loved it—some grown-up thing. But Aunt Caroline had this black limo pick me up, and I remember Dad standing in front of the windows in his study looking out at me and waving as the driver helped me into the car. I might not make it without him.

Wouldn’t you know, Aunt Caroline wailed at Dad’s wake and disgraced the family, Mom said. Granny Liam said it was like an angel was standing at the casket squeezing Caroline’s tits. “How could you die and leave your family?” Aunt Caroline blubbered. Too creeped out if you ask me. In the hearse on the way to the cemetery? That was the worst. I was hemmed in between Caroline and Pah-tricia. Each one sending the other barbed thoughts, Granny told me afterwards.

When Dad died, it killed Granny’s mind. Like a wounded bird wing, a puff of smoke, it was gone in a month. Then it came back, some of it, but now it flits around. You never can tell what’s going to come out of her mouth, that’s why I like being with her.

Granny across the street from us with a maid and a cook, and sometimes she calls me up and says, “Don’t tell your mother, but Cook’s made pea soup. Come on over for supper, and we’ll tell ghost stories starring your mother and Aunt Caroline.” That’s how she talks. What Granny doesn’t know, if I told Pah-tricia, she wouldn’t hear it anyways. She doesn’t listen to me. So if I wasn’t doing something with my friends, I’d take my books and run over to Granny’s because Granny would make sure that I’d done my homework before she started telling her stories. And the food is better at her house, too.

Don’t get me wrong, Pah-tricia isn’t all bad. Not totally. And she does try hard to cook. It just doesn’t turn out good. Better just to swallow it and get dinner over with.

Dad used to say I can pretend with the best of them. But I couldn’t with him. He always knew what was on my mind.

And another thing, when I told Pah-tricia about the Earth Day celebration last month, making sure to set my fork down quietly and keep my hands in my lap, sitting up straight like she wants me to and sipping at my water glass, she said it sounded like a Communist plot. Her words. She said the school is wonderful and has a rich tradition of academia—barf on whatever that is—and I should study as hard as I can and learn everything. “Drink it in.” That’s one of her favorites, but when it comes to philosophy and who to vote for and stuff, the teachers should stay out of it, and she didn’t care if I didn’t listen to them. That’s when I zinged her good. “Like, I s’pose, you don’t listen to me.” That got her. She stopped and did that thing with her lips I hate where she presses them close together like you’re supposed to do when you blot them. She said a lot of teachers were close to being Socialists, and when I looked it up, being a Socialist didn’t sound like such a bad thing, except about the private property part.