Gun Games (13 page)

“No one I want to be with,” Eric told them. “I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.”

Chapter Fourteen

T
he bedroom was functional: Myra’s belongings were meager. She was neat. Her desk drawers and her clothing drawers were organized and sparse. It was one of the few times that Decker ever remembered a female closet with room to spare. Myra had six dresses, almost identical in style—short sleeves, V-necks in solid colors. She had four skirts, and a half-dozen each of sweaters, tees, and jeans. Her shoes were sneakers, a set of black pumps, and flip-flops.

Not much in the way of ornamentation—nothing frilly like stuffed animals, glass figurines, or heart jewelry. Nor was there anything rebellions; no Goth accoutrements, no combat boots, no chains, no signs of cigarettes or pot. She didn’t appear to be into athletics, she didn’t appear to be into drama. There was nothing to put your finger on and say: Hey, this was Myra. She was a psychologically impoverished girl.

Her books must have provided her with some escapism: the Harry Potter series in hardback, the Twilight series in hardback, and Gossip Girls in paperbacks. She had no CDs, but she did have an iPod and a cell phone. With a gloved hand, Decker checked her most recent calls. Most were from Mom, but there were several from Heddy, Ramona, and Lisa. Eric had called her cell once in the last few weeks. There were also several numbers with no names ascribed to them. Decker wrote down the digits.

He asked Marge, “Do you have a Bell and Wakefield yearbook?”

“I can get one.”

“I’d like to have faces to go with the names. In the cases of Heddy, Ramona, and Lisa, I’d like to have last names.” He went through some of Myra’s texts:
c u soon,
pick u up at 5.

It would take way too long to go over all her texts. Decker returned the phone to the nightstand. “I’d love to keep it, but I suppose I have to ask permission.” He regarded Marge. “Two kids from the same school kill themselves within a month and a half of each other. Both of them were . . . outsiders. What do you think?”

“That it’s often the outsiders who commit suicide. Plus, one was male; the other was female, different ages, different grades.”

“And the female had a history of depression,” Decker said.

“But . . .” Marge said. “It’s still two kids from the same school within a very small period of time. I’m thinking maybe some kind of suicide club or suicide pact or . . . Did they even know each other?”

“I’m wondering about the gun. Where did it come from?” The room fell quiet. Decker finally said, “I don’t see a computer.”

“Maybe there’s a shared computer,” Marge suggested. “I can ask Eric about it.”

“If we want to break into Myra’s personal life, we’re going to have to ask Mrs. Gelb for permission.” Decker raked his hair with his hands. “And unlike Wendy Hesse, she hasn’t asked for our help.” He returned his eyes to the closet. In the corner were two cardboard moving boxes. He pulled one out and opened it up. “Lookie here, Margie.”

Hundreds of drawings—pen and ink, pencil, crayon, pastels, watercolors—on random pieces of white paper, scratch paper with advertisements on the other side, a dozen sketch pads, and lots of napkins, newspapers, and Post-its: anything made of pulp.

“At last,” Decker said. “We’ve found the real Myra Gelb.”

“She was good.” Marge picked up some material on the top and regarded it with a critical eye. “Very good, as a matter of fact.”

There were faces, there were landscapes, there were still lifes and lots of cartoons and caricatures. They began to sort through the material one by one by one. An hour later, Decker was looking at a detailed pen-and-ink drawing of a big jock-type guy grunting on the toilet. The caption was
Dylan’s artistic output.
He showed the drawing to Marge.

“Dylan Lashay?” When Decker shrugged, she said, “Whoever he is, Myra wasn’t a fan. I’ll get a yearbook tomorrow.”

By midnight, Marge stood up and stretched. She’d been in the apartment for almost six hours, the last four of them spent in the bedroom. She heard footsteps. Eric knocked on the doorpost, and Marge and Decker came out of the room.

“What’s up?” she said.

“I just got a call from Dr. Radcliff. They’ve admitted my mom. I need to go to the hospital. I’d really like to close this up for tonight.”

“Not a problem,” Decker said. “We’re going to rope off the room with tape. Please don’t go in or out of it.”

“I guarantee you that won’t be an issue.”

“We’ll come back tomorrow. Thanks for letting us stay so late.”

“No problem.” Eric paused. “What are you looking for?”

“I know your sister was depressed. But she was on medication and seeing a psychiatrist. She was also functioning. She certainly was drawing a lot.” Decker paused. “Do you think your mother would mind if I took these boxes to the station house and looked them over?”

“What’s inside?”

“Your sister’s artwork.”

“My mom’s going to want them back.”

“Of course,” Decker said. “But this way, I can look through them and not be in your way.”

“I guess it would be okay.” Eric exhaled. “Sure, take them.”

Marge took one box, and Decker took the other. They were bulky but not heavy. Eric locked up the door, and the four of them walked to the elevator. When they got to the ground floor, Eric went out first.

“Give our deepest sympathies to your mom,” Marge said.

“I will.”

Decker hefted one of the boxes. “This may be a little awkward, Eric, but I’m going to ask it anyway. We couldn’t find your sister’s computer. Did she have one?”

Eric nodded. “She had a Mac. That’s weird.”

Marge lifted her box. “Maybe we’ll find it tomorrow.”

“That’s really strange. It’s usually right out in the open.”

“Could someone have taken it?”

“I don’t know who. But if it’s not there . . .” A beat. “I’m stumped.”

Decker said, “Sometimes people give stuff away before they act.”

Eric shook his head. “She only had a few friends. Ask them.”

“Okay.” Decker picked up his box. “Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”

But Eric didn’t appear to hear. “Do you think she might have left like a note on it or something?”

“Can’t say for sure,” Decker said. “But if we don’t look, we’ll never know.”

E
ven though Yasmine had told him that the boy writes first, Gabe always waited until she texted him. That way he knew that she had total privacy. His phone gave off a beep at 12:30 in the morning. He had been in his bed with the lights off, resting, thinking about her and getting very aroused.

r u up?

He felt his heart sing in his chest.

w8ing 4 u.
Without waiting for a reply, he texted:
that was a close one 2nite.

omg, i was going 2 have a heart attack.

u were cool. i was a real dork.

no, i was a dork. at least u talked.

if u call mumbling, talking.
Then Gabe wrote:
ur sister’s a brat.

daisy is daisy. it’s hard being in 11th grade.

Gabe smiled. Yasmine was probably one of those nice people who always saw the good in everyone.
i’m just protective of u.

:)
thx.

Gabe texted:
btw, someone’s been keeping secrets from me.

someone should talk!!!
She texted another line.
harvard!!!!
Another pause.
HARVARD!!!!

He texted back:
Maybe.

Maybe????? r u nuts?

there r other options.

Like?

Tell u l8r.

A long pause. Then she wrote:
r u going 2 college in the fall?

He wrote:
yeah.

:(

maybe i’ll stay here.

seriously, gabe, if u get n2 harvard, u go 2 harvard.

maybe.
A beat.
i want to hear u sing.

no.

c’mon.

no.

chick-en.

sticks and stones . . .

how long have u been singing opera?

i don’t sing opera.

Gabe smiled.
liar.

m not.

ok. u don’t sing opera. so what aria were u singing in the house over and over and over according to Daisy.

nothing.

c’mon yasmine enuf. i want 2know.

u’ll laugh.

Gabe texted back:
?????

Yasmine responded:
promise u won’t laugh.

of course i won’t laugh.

der holle rache.

“Der Hölle Rache”—the revenge aria from Mozart’s
The Magic Flute
sung by the Queen of the Night. It was an iconic piece of music, one of the first arias that children hear when introduced to opera. Yet it was one of the hardest bits of music to sing because of the coloratura required.

Not too shabby. Feeling mischievous, Gabe texted back.
lol.

shut up!

seriously, that’s really impressive.

not the way i sing it.

i don’t believe u.

u should.

so ur a coloratura soprano.

so they say.

who’s they? ur voice coach? u must have a teacher if u can sing der holle rache.

i do. my dad thinks i take piano lessons but i really take voice lessons.

The truth comes out. Gabe wrote:
ah. now things r making sense. ur mother is n on this?

yeah.

any1 else besides me know?

just u n ariella.

ah, ariella, the keeper of the secrets. i hope she’s a gd friend.

she is.

Sneaking around seemed to be the Nourmand family pastime. Not unlike Gabe’s own family. He texted:
i can’t picture all that coloratura coming from such a small chest.

ur horrible. now i’ll
never
sing 4u.

i didn’t mean it like that.
But of course, he did. He loved teasing her.

i h8 u,
Yasmine wrote
.

Gabe texted:
2 bad cuz I’m madly crazy 4 u.

A long pause. Then Yasmine wrote:
maybe i don’t h8 u.

Gabe wrote:
let’s kiss n make up.

kiss n make out u mean.

that, 2.
A pause.
i’m serious. when can i hear u sing?

never.

Gabe wrote:
come over this saturday. the deckers are going out 2 lunch 4 shabbos. They’ll leave at 10 so come at 11. i’ll play accompaniment 4u.

i can’t. i’ve got 2 go to shul. i already missed last saturday bcuz of u.

plzzzz?

gabe, I can’t.

:(

i’ll c what I can do. no promises.

Plzzzz, plzzzz, plzzzz???

i’ll c.

u know i don’t want 2 get u n trouble. i just miss u.

i miss u,2.

She added:
a lot.

Gabe wrote:
plz come, yasmine. i want to c u cuz I really like u, but i also really want 2 hear u sing. if u don’t come, it’ll be an entire week w/out c-ing u.

A long pause.
rn’t we on 4 thurs?

i can’t. have 2 meet with this agent and b at SC by 8.

agent?

yeah, musicians need agents 2 get jobs.

did he get u a job?

maybe. there’re openings 4 a pianist at some chamber music festivals in wyoming, texas n oklahoma. mozart piano quartet. i have to play it for him so i need 2 b perfect.