The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (100 page)

She fought the urge to smile in greeting. Several of the faces were familiar. She recognized burly Tony Ochoa and lanky, red-haired Gordon Ledbetter; they were the ones who’d retrieved her mother the time she’d wandered off in Los Reyes Plaza. And Benny Dickerson, who walked with a limp, a casualty of his gun discharging while still in its holster. He’d been the one to respond to her frantic call the night she’d woken up to find Betty’s bed empty. Benny had found her in the field between her house and Laura’s, shivering in her nightgown with no idea how she’d gotten there.

He approached Anna now, favoring his bad leg, a slope-shouldered man just shy of retirement with mutton chop sideburns that had been fashionable in the seventies but now, white with age, seemed to frame his bassett hound face like a pair of drooping ears. “Hey, Anna.” He spoke in a low voice, his eyes not quite meeting hers.

“Hi, Benny.”

“You okay?”

How could I possibly be okay?
she felt like screaming. Instead, she shrugged. “I’ve had better days.”

“This won’t take long.” For a brief, euphoric instant she mistook his meaning, but he was only referring to the booking process. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Not the sharpest pencil in the pack, as Monica would have said, but right now Anna could’ve hugged him. “Water would be nice,” she replied. Her throat was so parched she could hear a clicking sound in her ears when she swallowed.

He touched her arm. “This whole thing … it could all blow over by tomorrow.”

She could have held out in the face of indifference or even cruelty. But not sympathy. She choked back the sob that rose. The compassion in Benny’s drooping brown eyes was almost more than she could bear.

The following minutes passed in a blur. She was fingerprinted, then taken into a small room that doubled as a utility closet—paper towels and toilet paper were stacked at one end—where she posed for mug shots against a wall smudged from all the heads that had pressed against it through the years. Throughout it all, no one would meet her eyes. It wasn’t that they were coldhearted, more that they were fearful of letting their inexperience show. She didn’t know how she knew, she just did. Years of living in Monica’s shadow had left her skills of observation finely honed, for it was in those moments when people didn’t know they were being observed that they were the most transparent. She could see what made them tick. She often knew what they wanted before they did. The only thing she hadn’t seen was what made
her
tick. And she might never have known had it not been for Marc.

The thought of him plowed into her like a fist. She doubled over on the bench where she’d been temporarily parked. She wanted desperately to phone him, but he was miles away and even if he agreed to come, it wouldn’t be fair. He’d become involved in this mess, maybe even implicated. She shuddered at the prospect.

She looked up to find a middle-aged man in khakis and a blazer standing over her. She took in the ruddiness of his cheeks and web of broken blood vessels across his nose, like a map of every bar he’d been in—the same unrepentant bloom her dad had worn toward the end. He smiled, if you could call it that, revealing a row of smallish teeth below an expanse of gum. His pale blue eyes were cold.

“Miss Vincenzi? I’m Detective Burch. If you’ll come this way.” He gestured down the hallway; clearly he meant to interrogate her.

Anna was surprised to hear herself say, “Not without my lawyer.” A line from every cop show she’d ever seen. She didn’t even
have
a lawyer.

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged, but she could see he was annoyed. He dug into his pocket, tossing her a pair of quarters with a contemptuous flick of his wrist. He pointed toward the pay phone on the wall before striding off down the hall.

Anna clutched the change, hesitating. The only lawyer she knew was Monica’s, but somehow she couldn’t envision Gardener Stevens, with his burnished silver hair and monogrammed cuffs, being anything but irritated at being bothered on Sunday. She recalled Monica’s party last Christmas, the way he’d looked right through her because she hadn’t been the one taking his coat at the door, as usual.

Liz might know someone, but that would mean wasting her one call on the person she could count on the least. These past few days, while she’d been braving the storm unleashed by Monica’s death, where had her younger sister been? Hiding out, that’s where. Not that she blamed Liz. Wouldn’t she have done the same if she could?

Anna rose from the bench on legs of foam rubber, every eye on her now as she walked to the phone and punched in the one number besides her own and Monica’s that she knew by heart. Laura. Hadn’t she always been there for her? Stopping by at least once a week to see if she needed anything, seldom empty-handed. Usually it was something small she brought—a loaf of bread just out of the oven; a tool to replace one of the broken ones in Anna’s shed; and one time, a cat for the mice that had invaded her pantry. Look up
neighbor
in the dictionary, Anna thought, and you’d see Laura’s picture.

The phone was picked up on the fourth ring. “Kiley’s Feed and Seed,” Laura answered merrily, sounding out of breath, as if she’d dashed in from outside. Anna pictured her in what Laura called her “uniform”—sweatshirt and jeans, a pair of toe-sprung cowboy boots.

“It’s me. Anna.” She kept her voice low, a hand cupped over the receiver.

“Anna! Thank God. I’ve been trying to reach you. One of those damn reporters was at the door a little bit ago, wanting to know if I could comment on your arrest.” Laura sounded disgusted, as if at a cruel practical joke. Clearly she couldn’t conceive of its being true. “Don’t worry, Hector chased him off. Where
are
you?”

“At the police station.”

“You mean—?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Oh, God. How—?”

“They seem to think
I
killed her.”

“What on
earth
—?”

“I don’t know much more than that.”

“It’s an outrage! You’re no more a murderer than … than …” She broke off, maybe remembering Sister Beatrice.

“Apparently, they have other ideas.”

“Okay. First things first. You’ll need a lawyer.” Suddenly Laura was all business. “Let’s see … where is that number?” Anna could hear the rustling of pages at the other end. “Okay … here it is. We’ll get this straightened out, don’t worry. Hang tight, okay? I’ll be there as soon as I can.” She hung up.

Anna lowered the receiver into its cradle with infinite care. Worry? She was beyond worry—light years from anything she might have experienced in her previous life. What she felt now was a kind of numbness, like she’d had before the anesthesia for her root canal wore off and the pain came thundering in like a herd of elephants.

She returned to the bench, dropping her head into her hands. Not, as those looking on no doubt assumed, because she was overcome with despair, but because of the hysterical laughter she was stifling. How ironic: She’d once believed shedding her old, fat self would be the answer to her prayers when, in fact, it had been her undoing.

Six Months Earlier

A
NNA FROWNED AT HER
computer screen, biting her lip to keep from talking back, a habit that had once prompted Arcela, in her room down the hall, to poke her head in to see what all the fuss was about. Normally it was Monica who ranted and raved and Anna who absorbed it all in silence. Now she typed furiously:

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

RE: This sucks!

Dear Krystal,

What a creep! Your boss is lucky you’re not suing him for sexual harassment. In my opinion, he did you a favor by firing you. The last thing you need is to work for someone like him.

You’ll find something else, I’m sure. Don’t give up hope. Look how far you’ve come! Anyone else would’ve given up. The worst is behind you—I sincerely believe that. You’ve cleaned up your act and gotten your kids back. Finding another job is the least of your worries.

Let me know how it goes. Remember, I’m here if you need me.

Love,

Monica

She hit the SEND button and sat back. Answering Monica’s e-mail was the one part of her job that made it tolerable: For a few hours each day she got to be someone other than Anna Vincenzi. It wasn’t just knowing there were women out there more desperate than she was; it was the chance to slip out of her skin and into the persona she’d created—a Monica ennobled by the tragedy that had left her wheelchair-bound, who was kind and compassionate, whose heart of gold shone brighter than her star on Hollywood’s Walk of Fame. Never mind it was as far from reality as Venus from Earth. While answering those e-mails, Anna sincerely believed it. Just as she believed in the women whose lives had been derailed by circumstances or men or both and who clung to the hope that it would get better someday.
You don’t know your own strength,
she would write.
You’ll get through this; just keep the faith.
Advice she might well have taken herself.

She often wondered what they would think if they knew. Would they feel duped? Or worse, would they laugh at the idea of plain, plump Anna Vincenzi posing as her famous sister, as if she had the slightest idea what it was like to be dumped (for which you had to be with a man to begin with), sexually harassed, or pregnant for the fourth time in as many years? If they could see her, would they laugh even harder at the ludicrousness of her giving out fashion and beauty tips—on everything from shinier hair (don’t dye it, ever) to face-lifts (you’ll look good for your age but not a day younger) to what to wear on a budget (invest in quality accessories; cheap shoes and belts are dead giveaways)? Dieting was the only thing she knew from personal experience. She could have written several volumes on what not to eat, and when and how not to eat it.

Anna caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror on the closet door—a holdover from when her tiny office had been a maid’s room—and frowned. If she had no illusions about Monica, she had even fewer about herself. All her life, long before whole floors in department stores were given over to plus sizes, she’d been buying clothes designed to hide a multitude of sins. She was careful to avoid every no-no—horizontal stripes and splashy prints, skirts above the knee, slacks that stretched across the front to form “kitty whiskers.” The predominant color in her closet was black. The problem was that nothing ever disguised the simple fact that she was fat.

Growing up, her mother’s friends had tactfully referred to her as pleasantly plump, but over the years she’d found there was nothing remotely pleasant about being plump. These days those same ladies shook their heads and clucked in dismay, wanting to know why a nice girl like her wasn’t married. “You’re not getting any younger!” Mrs. Higgins, down the road, had remarked just the other day. As if Anna needed reminding. She was thirty-six and without a single prospect on the horizon. Wasn’t that reminder enough? Nevertheless, she’d learned to smile enigmatically, hinting that there might be a mystery man in the wings. They didn’t have to know her cat Boots was the only male with whom she shared her bed.

Anna smoothed back a stray wisp. Her hair was the plain brown wrapper in which she’d been delivered into this world and she wore it shoulder length, parted on one side and clipped back with a barrette. If she had to choose one feature that was her best, it would be her eyes—not the startling cobalt of her older sister’s, but the pale, hopeful blue of airmail envelopes and forget-me-nots.

She brought her gaze back to the computer screen, scrolling down to the last of today’s messages—Mary Lou from Tennessee, who was thinking about having her breasts enlarged and wanted to know what Monica thought. From its tone and plethora of exclamation points, Anna guessed her to be in her teens. She wrote back:

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

RE: Flatchested in Fayetteville

Dear Mary Lou,

It’s a huge step. Before you take it, you should be clear about your reasons. Do you think bigger breasts will fix everything that’s wrong with your life? Because nothing on the outside will change how you feel on the inside. I urge you to talk this over with a counselor or therapist first. You might be surprised to know that many of us adults haven’t forgotten what it’s like to be your age.

Best of luck,

Monica

She was printing out a batch of e-mails Monica might or might not look at, depending on her mood, when the intercom buzzed. “Anna? What’s taking you so long?” Monica’s voice carried a hint of exasperation, as if Anna were up here playing solitaire.

“Be right down.” She spoke with forced cheer. “I’m just finishing up.”

“Well,
hurry!
”

Anna stifled a sigh. With Monica, it was always urgent. But usually by the time she’d raced down three flights to see what the big emergency was, Anna would find it to be no big deal. One time Monica had forgotten altogether why she’d summoned her.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Anna injected a note of bemusement, as if Monica were an adorable, if somewhat spoiled, child she indulged.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to count to ten. Still fresh in her mind was the time she’d twisted an ankle in her rush to get downstairs—all because Monica needed more ice in her drink—and she was determined to maintain both her well-being and self-respect. If she were to fall and break her neck, let it at least be something worth dying for. Anna didn’t want it in her obituary that she’d perished rushing to replace the batteries in the TV remote control.

She took her time clearing off her desk. It was half past four. As soon as she’d tended to Queen Monica she could head home, where dinner, a hot bath, and the latest Ann Tyler novel awaited her. But first there’d be her mother to feed and bathe and put to bed. She prayed it would go smoothly tonight. This morning Betty had seemed almost like her old self, but Anna knew not to count on its lasting until she got home. Betty slipped in and out of her fog like a ship lost at sea.