The Washington Lawyer (10 page)

Approaching the city, centered around the university, the terrain became hilly. As she passed a sign, “W
ELCOME TO
O
XFORD
,” she recalled things she and Vanessa did together for the first fourteen years of their lives. Making out with boys near the reservoir. Buying beers at Craig's Market after Vanessa told him, “Dad sent us,” and drinking them behind the high school building. Hiding in the trees of the park to smoke Pall Malls and recite Ingrid Bergman's lines from Casablanca. Vanessa peeling off her clothes and swimming nude at night in Hueston Woods Lake with Allison as the lookout.

Midway across the Atlantic she'd begun to wonder if Mother—and that's what she insisted the girls call her, not mom—was responsible for Vanessa's death. Vanessa had always been gorgeous, but a perfectly normal girl. They were twins in spirit and personality.

Then at the age of fourteen all that ended. Allison remembered the two of them staying up all night, the night before Vanessa was leaving for New York to accept the position with the Premier Modeling Agency that Mother had worked so hard to get for her. This was the culmination of eight years of effort by Mother—enrolling Vanessa in every beauty contest, having her try out for TV spots, and paying for her lessons in learning how to walk and pose like a model. All the while Mother ignored Allison, the A+ student and athlete, while George, their father, stayed out of Mother's way in this and everything else.

Though the idea was Mother's, Vanessa was excited about going to New York. She was also nervous and scared. But Allison was worried. From stories and memoirs she'd read of washed-up former models, she knew what awaited Vanessa. Mother was robbing Vanessa of her youth, pushing her into a world of hell.

And what was it all for? Allison now asked herself, rain spattering the car. All because Mother had once been a runner up to Miss Ohio, and she was sick of her dreary life and job in the university's development department.

Allison turned left from Route 27 onto High Street, passing on both sides box-like red brick university buildings scattered across well-tended areas of grass. Then she passed the president's beautiful white wooden house and the hockey arena, finally entering the commercial heart of the city with banks, movie theaters, bookstores, and restaurants.

Stopping for a red light, she noticed the yellow brick building that had once been her Dad's store, its brown sign with white letters, “B
OYD
'
S
H
ARDWARE AND
V
ARIETY
. I
F YOU NEED IT, WE HAVE IT
,” faded so badly as to be barely legible. When she and Vanessa were growing up, business had been good, but then Home Depot opened up outside of town, and Allison recalled Dad saying, “They're killing us on price,” as his customers drifted away. Then she remembered coming back here to visit Dad after his first stroke when Mother had shuttered the store. Now workmen were tearing down the boards, and a sign in front proclaiming “O
PENING
J
ANUARY 1 UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT
.” Perhaps Mother had found a buyer.

Allison hadn't been home since Labor Day, she recalled. She didn't care much about seeing Mother; she had wanted to see Dad before she flew off to Israel. But with his second stroke, he “disappeared into another world,” as Vanessa had said.

On the first step of the white colonial on a one-acre wooded lot Allison reached into her purse and pulled out a house key. Before she could turn it, Mother was standing there, her eyes red and bloodshot. Her face puffy. Allison tried to hug her, but never affectionate, her mother pulled away.

“I'm so sorry.” Allison didn't know what else to say.

Mother began crying. Allison cried with her.

“She was an angel,” Mother said. “An angel.”

“Does Dad know?”

“I tried, but couldn't get through.”

Allison dropped her black duffel and walked upstairs. She hoped somehow he'd speak. At least recognize her. She sat next to his bed. “I'm Allison, Daddy.” He gave her a blank stare. She loved him so much. He had always been there with encouragement and support. “You can do great things, Allison.”

She sat still and looked around. On the wall were his military medals. In high school in Oxford he had been a star halfback and was awarded a football scholarship to Ohio State. But it was during the Vietnam War and he was a patriotic American so he had enlisted in the Marines. Saving two of his wounded comrades, he took a bullet in his leg. He was awarded a Silver Star for gallantry in action and a Purple Heart.

He returned home and worked with his father in the hardware store. His football career was over. He saw no point in going to college. He had never been bitter. He was proud he had served his country.

After fifteen minutes, she left his room and wandered around upstairs. The door to Mother's room was closed. She stepped into Vanessa's, sobbing for what she'd lost, looking at the stuffed bunnies and Barbie dolls, gazing at the framed photos of Vanessa from
Vogue, Bazaar
, and
Elle
.

She cried, and she cried more.

When she was finished, she crossed to her own room, still cluttered with college leftovers and copies of some of her articles. She had taken all the athletic trophies with her when she moved to Providence. Downstairs she found Mother sitting on the sofa sipping vodka on ice in a water tumbler looking through a family photograph album. I have to try to get along with her, Allison told herself.

But sitting down next to her, looking at the old pictures did little to soothe Allison. On the left she saw Vanessa being crowned Miss Teen Ohio as a gold tiara was placed on her blond head. The whole family was standing next to her. On the right, Allison receiving a national honor society award with only Dad and Vanessa in that one.

They were always so close. Twins. How can anyone who isn't one understand it?

She remembered the two of them infuriating Mother by talking in an imaginary language, calling each other Alley and Van instead of “the beautiful names” she had given them.

The phone rang. It was Sara Gross, the school friend, now a doctor, whom she had called from the Israeli airport. “I'd like to come by and talk to you. When's a good time?”

“As soon as you can.”

Thirty minutes later, Allison opened the door for Sara. She was wearing a white doctor's coat, her stringy brown hair hanging loose, her tortoiseshell glasses pushed up on her hair. She hugged Allison, then turned to the twins' mother, who put down the album and stood. Sara tried to hug her, but she pulled away.

“I'm so sorry, Mrs. Boyd.”

She began crying again.

“Let's go outside,” Allison said.

The rain had stopped. They walked to High Street, Allison noticing students, some rushing to class, loaded down with book bags. Others were hanging out on the corners, or going into a bookstore. As they walked along the sidewalk Allison said, “Listen, I really appreciate your help.”

“C'mon. I owe you big time for teaching me how to dribble and shoot baskets. Without your help, I would never have made the team.”

“Naw, you just needed more self-confidence. That's key in sports.”

“Before we talk about your sister, how about you? You look exhausted. This is an incredibly tough experience. I want to prescribe something, to make it easier for you?”

“You mean drugs? Tranquilizers?”

“Just to help you through the next couple of days.”

“Sara, you always accused me of being a health nut, and I haven't changed. I never take any medicine unless absolutely necessary.”

“What about talking to your minister?”

“Phil Barnes is a moron.”

“I could put you in touch with a counselor at the hospital.”

Allison ran a hand through her hair. “How could a counselor help? With all the grief I feel? But don't worry. I'm tough, I'll survive.”

“Speaking of which, how's the leg?

“It hardly hurts at all. Those Olympics seem like so long ago.”

“You were great.”

Sara sighed.

Allison was eager to talk about Vanessa “So tell me what you found.”

“Well, for starters, your mother wouldn't permit an autopsy. That limited my options. Still, I did what I could.”

They were passing Ozzie's Restaurant. “Let's go inside,” Sara said.

At eleven thirty, the place was only half filled, mostly with students, loud and raucous. Two women with babies in strollers in a corner. Sara led Allison to a table near the women. The smell of French fries in the air. The waitress in a short-skirted pink and white uniform, who looked to Allison to be about twelve, came over.

“Just coffee.”

“How about some eggs?” Sara asked. “You look like you haven't eaten in days.”

“I'm okay.”

“Two orders of scrambled eggs with toasted English muffins,” Sara ordered, then turned to Allison. “I can't imagine the pain of having my sister die.”

“With a twin, it's worse.”

“I still can't believe it.”

“Now tell me what you learned.”

“I took a blood sample for analysis. I examined her body and studied her medical records from Dr. Miller's office.”

Allison somehow felt alarmed.

“Not to worry. He won't tell your mother. Well anyhow, Vanessa had a heart condition known as hypertrophic myopsy. Were you aware of that?”

Allison nodded. “But she never let that stop her from doing anything.”

“Yes, that's the Vanessa Boyd I remember.”

Sara pushed the glasses down over her eyes, reached into her purse, and took out some papers. “She also had traces of marijuana and some alcohol, but not a great quantity. Without an autopsy, I can't say whether any of these caused her heart to stop when she was swimming, or whether it was something else that caused her to drown.”

“Such as?”

“A sudden swift current. A rip tide. Muscle cramp.”

“Any bruises on her body? I mean evidence of a struggle? Like somebody forced her under the water?”

“You think someone killed her? That it wasn't an accident?”

Allison pounded her fist on the table. “The story I was given over the phone was total and utter bullshit.” Allison was getting loud; the two young mothers were staring at her. One baby started crying. Sara motioned with her hand for Allison to keep it down.

“I know my sister. You know her, too. She'd never take a trip like that herself. She always attracted men like a magnet. She drew them to her and loved being with them, particularly the movers and shakers. She hated being alone. She wouldn't anymore go to Anguilla herself than I would fly to the moon. Some man had to be there. And he had to be responsible.”

“Well, I looked and I didn't see any bruises. But that's not dispositive. Someone could have lured her into the water when she was too wasted to swim—or held her under without leaving any bruises. But there is one thing …” She hesitated.

“What?”

“I did see something suggesting Vanessa wasn't alone in Anguilla.”

“What's that?”

“Irritation and inflammation on the inside walls of the vagina.” Sara spoke in a clinical voice.

“You mean she was raped?”

“No. Probably just prolonged intercourse.”

“Prolonged intercourse,” Allison sighed. “That's Vanessa. At least that makes sense.”

“Which means she may have gone there with a man, or perhaps met him in Anguilla.”

“Either way, some scumbag man's involved,” Allison's voice rose again. “Son of a bitch left her to die. He abandoned her on the beach where her body could've been chewed up by seagulls.”

“I'm sorry, Allison. That's all I learned.”

Allison said. “Wait till I catch the bastard. I'll strangle him with my bare hands.”

Allison left Sara, then walked to the gray stone Blake's Funeral Home. The outside was dingy with peeling paint on the wooden front door, but a shiny clean black hearse parked in front.

Inside, steadying herself against a beam and looking at Vanessa in the open coffin, Allison thought Bruce must have worked hard. He'd restored the body to a good likeness. Had to be a tough job between the Caribbean climate and the lapse of time.

She sat down in silence, staring at her sister's body. At Vanessa's calm, still face, resting and at peace. In contrast, Allison was boiling with rage. Who did this to you, Vanessa? I swear to you he'll pay for it.

She asked Bruce, “What came with her body?”

“Wallet. Passport. Airplane receipt. Jewelry. I gave them to your mother.”

“Cell phone?”

“Negative.”

Allison planned to get them back at the house. She should have them.

“Oh, and a shipping ticket filled out by someone in Anguilla.”

“May I see it?”

“Sure.”

Bruce went into his office and returned with a wrinkled piece of beige paper. Allison studied it. “Har Stevens, Police Commissioner” was the signature. The man she'd spoken with. Under his signature was a phone number. She memorized it. As soon as Bruce left, she punched the number.

“Har Stevens here.”

The voice and British accent, she remembered. “Mr. Stevens, this is Allison Boyd. We spoke yesterday.”

“Of course. Vanessa Boyd's sister.”

“I'm afraid I wasn't very coherent.”

“Under the circumstances, it's only natural.”

“Now I'm calling to clarify some matters.”

“Unfortunately, I don't have any further information.”

“I want to know what happened to my sister in Anguilla.”

“Miss Boyd. I'm very sorry for your loss. From our investigation, we learned that your sister came to Anguilla by herself. She was staying at the Corinthian Hotel. I spoke to the hotel manager, who said she went swimming alone at night. Her body washed up on the beach in front of the hotel. Our first rate medical examiner concluded she drowned.”