Red House Blues (28 page)

Claire sat on the low rock wall wishing she
had a cigarette and a double shot of espresso. What a lousy time to
give up smoking. At least the detectives had finally finished with
her and moved on to other victims. All she told them was that she
and her girlfriend Suzan were in the house helping Nick pack up his
belongings. They stuck to that story, that he was a friend moving
back to California to his parents. The three had been trapped in
the attic room by a fire. No, they didn’t know how it started. No,
they hadn’t seen or heard anyone else in the house. The detectives
asked about Suzan and Nick’s previous injuries. Claire told them
there wasn’t any connection between the two accidents but that they
could always check with Harborview if they needed the gory
details.

They asked her about the dead woman, did
Claire know her. She answered truthfully that she didn’t. They lost
interest in her when the crime scene technicians arrived and the
medical examiner had the body transported. Forgotten, Claire
watched the various officials “process the scene”, as she had heard
one of the cops call it, everyone walking slowly under the
spotlights. She knew she should use the opportunity to get out of
there before someone thought of more questions. Get up to
Harborview and see how Suzan and Nick were getting along. She sat
motionless as if glued to the rock. Claire knew it must be shock.
Her body as well as her mind were inert and numb.

She yearned to call Tony and tell him what
had happened but Tony was no longer someone she could confide in.
When she got back to Bellingham everything will have changed
between them. She wanted to understand why he had lied to Suzan and
to her, why he had conspired with Sean and these Seattle
psychopaths. She didn’t think she would ever understand what had
prompted the betrayal and deception that had resulted in so much
pain and death. No matter what the reason behind it, what Tony did
was inexcusable. She could never forgive him.

She didn’t want to be a bitter, distrustful
woman. Claire had seen how Suzan had crawled into herself, had
shriveled up like desiccated fruit after Sean left her, a young
woman growing old in the span of a few years. Please don’t let that
happen to me, she begged the universe. If only she could punch Tony
so hard in some tender area that he would feel a tiny fraction of
the hurt she felt. But along with that thought was the knowledge
that she would probably love him forever. That was the worst of it.
She loved him still, no matter what he had done. How does anyone
heal from a wound that deep, she wondered

Suzan was sitting beside Nick’s bed when
Claire tiptoed into the hospital room, still smudged with soot and
smelling of smoke.

“Hi Suze,” she whispered. “How is he?”

“He’s down for the count for a while. They
had to re-stitch him and put a new cast on the leg but he should be
okay. What did you tell the cops?”

“Nothing much. Just that we were there
helping Nick move out. I could tell they suspected there was more
to it. They been here?”

“Not yet, but I suppose they’ll turn up
eventually.”

“Bank on it. They want to talk to Nick about
the dead woman.”

“It was a woman? Did they say who she
was?”

“They wouldn’t tell me but I overheard
enough. Looks like it was Marla.”

“Marla?” What was Marla doing there?

“Yeah. They think she started the fire. One
of the other housemates caught her at it and shot her. At least
that’s what I was able to piece together.”

“It must have been Ferlin. He had a gun when
I was at the house with Marla.”

“No, it couldn’t have been Ferlin.
Firefighters found him out cold in the basement,” she said. “They
brought him out while I was talking to the cops. He’s still in
I.C.U. downstairs.”

“This is all just plain crazy. Nothing makes
sense.”

“Maybe not,” said Claire. “Could be we’ll
never know what kind of doggie-do we inadvertently stepped in.”

“Wonder if there’s anything on the
news.”

“I suppose we could get a nurse to turn on
the TV.”

“No, it might wake up Nick. He needs as much
rest as he can get,” said Suzan. “How about if we go down to the
cafeteria. There should be a TV and I could use a cup of hot tea.
My throat feels like a piece of raw meat.”

“
Good idea. Wonder if they
have soup. I’m starving.”

“Nothing new there, you’re always
starving.”

Claire borrowed a wheel chair from the
nurse’s station for Suzan. She was still not steady on her
feet.

“Just thought of something,” said Claire as
she wheeled Suzan into the elevator. “Do we know what happened to
the infamous notebooks?”

“Got it covered. When they cut off Nick’s
old cast the packet was still wedged in the top of it. Really
surprised the nurse who did the cutting. I’ll never know how he
managed to get it in there. I imagine he’s going to have a notebook
shaped bruise.”

“He still has the notebooks?”

“No, he passed it to me before they shot him
full of meds,” said Suzan. “I put them in the drawer of the bedside
table and that’s where they stay until we get a chance to look at
them.”

“You haven’t read them? God, that’s the
first thing I would have done! What are you waiting for, Suze?”

“Guess I’m afraid of what I might find. I
wanted so badly to know what Sean was thinking but now, after all
that has happened . . . I don’t know anymore. People died because
of a few cheap pocket notebooks that might contain nothing more
than drugged-out scribbles and a grocery list. I couldn’t stand it
if it all comes down to nothing.”

“Eventually you’ll have to read them? Unless
you’re considering burning them.”

“Of course not. I just need more time.”

“There may not be time, Suze,” said Claire.
“Don’t know if it has occurred to you, but when the cops find out
about them they’ll be marked evidence and we will have lost our
chance.”

The cafeteria was nearly deserted except for
a pair of kitchen workers at the steam table. Claire and Suzan took
a table near the windows and Claire went to find them some food.
Suzan sat in her uncomfortable plastic chair, fluorescent lights
hissing overhead, a collection of dusty aspidistras in a room
divider planter beside which an old man was frowning into his
coffee. Such a strange still life in a place of sickness and
worry.

Beyond the windows it was
still dark. The clock on the wall above the cash register said
five-twenty. Hard to believe, thought Suzan, it had been a over
twelve hours since they had gone to the house on Fir. It seemed
like a century. She expected any time now her nerves would uncoil
and her hands unclench. The overdose of adrenaline retained a firm
grip.
How long before I feel safe again,
can relax, forget, go on with my life?
It
wasn’t going to happen any time soon.

She was starting to remember what had
happened, those terrifying moments in the attic as the fire licked
the other side of the door, sucking the air out of the room. The
crackle of wood catching alight, the acrid stench of smoldering
carpet. Scraps of memory. Nick grabbing her arm, throwing her to
the floor. She couldn’t see where Claire had gone but she had heard
her cough. Nick pulled a blanket from the bed and drew it over the
two of them. That was when they heard the second shot. They were as
good as dead at that point. They didn’t have a chance of getting
out of the attic, out of the house. A house that old, that dry
would go up like a match, so full of junk furniture and garbage. On
the other side of the door was conflagration and death. Suzan felt
the heat against her face through the door. Only a matter of
minutes left. It was likely to be quick. She was glad of that. She
held tight to Nick until the darkness circled in on her.

Then there was nothing until she woke up on
the rough grass at the foot of the porch steps. She knew she had
been unconscious. Still, she had the distinct memory of someone
being there in the room with the three of them. A woman in a long
dress. An angel? Is that what you see as you die? Suzan remembered
being so cold, shivering within the circle of Nick’s embrace.
Chilled to the bone while a fire raged on the other side of the
bedroom door on the landing. It had been so strange. No doubt a
hallucination brought on by shock and fear yet she couldn’t forget
it. It lingered on the fringes of her mind like the remembrance of
a loved one’s perfume. Suzan had heard stories of out of body and
near death experiences. This was different. She wasn’t floating
near the ceiling watching herself die. If anything she was quite
solidly trapped within her paralyzed body.

How had the firefighters gotten the three of
them out of that room, down the burning staircase and out of the
house? It was not possible. Suzan didn’t believe in divine
intervention any more than she believed in crop circles, yet
undeniably they were all three still alive. So maybe she would have
to rethink a few things.

There were a number of things to rethink and
very soon. Suzan didn’t want to move forward, and by moving plunge
past where she could turn back. Until she opened them she could
still choose to toss the notebooks into the garbage. There was time
to refuse to know but the window was closing.

Claire returned with a tray crowded with
plastic ware piled with scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and two styro
cups, one containing coffee and the other tea.

“Hope this stuff is warm.
They were out of soup. They had this in aluminum pans under glow
lights,” said Claire, placing a plate in front of Suzan as if she
were serving at a five star restaurant.
Such a tender soul, such a loving friend. I’m going to miss
her.

The realization came as a surprise. She had
made a decision without being aware of it. She wouldn’t be
returning to Bellingham with Claire, at least not right away. It
was going to be the hardest thing she ever did telling her that
things had changed.

“Shit, forgot the sugar for your tea. You
want lemon while I’m at it?” said Claire.

“Never mind. I don’t need it really. No
amount of sugar and lemon is likely to help much anyhow.”

Claire took a sip. “You’re right. Damn, this
coffee is pretty bad. I’d get fired if I served this sludge. Still,
it may get the job done.”

Suzan took a hesitant bite of gelatinous
scrambled egg, more concerned with the need for sustenance than any
real desire to eat.

“Okay, Suze, let’s get it over with,” said
Claire when they returned to Nick’s room. He was still asleep.

Suzan was just then wondering how to tell
Claire she was going to stay in Seattle until Nick was on his feet,
so she wasn’t immediately sure what Claire was referring to.

“Get what over with?”

“The notebooks, of course,” she said. “Why,
what else did you think I meant?”

“Nothing. Are you sure you don’t want to
wait until Nick is awake and we can do this together?”

“Why wait? By the time he wakes up this room
could be crawling with cops.”

Suzan sighed and retrieved the packet of
notebooks from the drawer where she had stashed them. Three
three-by-five spiral notebooks with tattered blue cardboard covers.
Nothing written on the cover, front or back. She flipped open the
cover of the top notebook and silently began to read her husband’s
cramped uneven hand. Sean had written with a cheap ballpoint pen
that tended to glob on the down strokes and smear where, being left
handed, he dragged his hand over the line. Someone less familiar
with his script would have had a nearly impossible time deciphering
his words.

She followed his thoughts page after page
with a sick dread. And with a feeling of terrible sorrow at the
disintegration and confusion spread before her on the tiny pages.
These were the merest scraps of thought, the start of a lyric that
went nowhere, disjointed observations with no conclusions.
Incomplete and confused. The product of a drugged and depressed
mind. How could any of these sad meanderings threaten anyone, she
thought, wanting to weep at the senselessness of it all.

Suzan had skimmed half way into the third
book when a name caught her attention. Paging back a bit she reread
more carefully what she had just skimmed. There it was again.
Marla! Sean had probably never known the importance of what he had
scribbled there. It was part of a conversation. Hard to say what
about the conversation interested him enough to record it. Maybe it
had been nothing more than that it had concerned Kiki Zell, whom he
had idolized but never met.

“Holy . . .,” Suzan said under her
breath.

“What? You found something?”

“I don’t know, could be. Give me a minute to
reread it.”

Suzan went back to the beginning of the
notebook and reread it carefully this time, page by page, line by
line until it was etched into her brain. People had died for this.
She was heartsick.

“We were right, Claire. I wish we weren’t
but we were. I don’t think Sean even knew the magnitude of what he
wrote, the poor stupid jerk.” Tears welled in her eyes.

“Well, are you going to share or do we play
twenty questions?”

Suzan pulled a tissue from box by the bed.
“Damn, I can’t believe this. I didn’t cry when he died but now I’m
a blubbering mess.”

Claire took her hand and gave it a light
squeeze.

“There’s nothing any of us can do about it
now, Suze, but it might help us make sense of the madness if we
knew how it began.”

“Sure, you’re right. I wish Nick would wake
up but he needs his sleep. I suppose we can fill him in later,”
said Suzan, glancing at the still, pale man on the bed beside them.
She took a ragged breath.

“Here’s how it seems to have played out,”
she continued. “The same night that Alaskan fisherman was convicted
of KiKi Zell’s murder Sean had a conversation at the Comet with
Jonson, the deli guy. Jonson gets all nostalgic. He tells Sean that
he remembered something strange that happened the night KiKi was
killed. Sean writes that Jonson told him he’d been ‘shit-faced
drunk that night’. Those were his words. Someone confiscated his
keys and put him into a taxi for home. He assumed it was the
bartender. That night at the Comet . . . this is where it gets
interesting . . . he tells Sean he finally remembers that it was
Marla who put him in the cab.”