Now That She's Gone (13 page)

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

A
lone in the house with Cody, Kendall Stark tried to fall asleep. She knew her son would be up soon enough and would want to watch TV, so she figured there'd be no point in going to bed. She'd take over Birdy's spot on the couch, crash there, and when her son woke up she could lie there and drift back into sleep.

Sleep. Even the idea of it was beyond any genuine reality. She'd been pulled through a knothole by that awful TV show and the horrible so-called psychic. She felt shame for being part of what felt like was an ambush, an emotional hit-and-run. Pandora had come in with a wrecking ball of accusations, let it swing hard and fast at Katy's parents—her father in particular—and then just like that, pronounced her work done. Like she'd actually provided some kind of service to the couple, to the police, to the community.

She actually accused Roger Frazier of being a child molester and murderer and in the day and age they lived in, it was a coin toss as to which was a nastier label to give a person.

At least a murderer could serve his or her time and start over.

A child molester, good luck on that one.

Kendall searched for the cool side of her pillow. Her face was hot and the chamomile that Birdy had brewed for her did little to calm her nerves. She got up, went to the bathroom, checked on Cody, and tried again to pull the fragments of the longest night into some semblance of order.

She knew that when she returned to the office on Monday there would be a stack of messages for her. She was sure that Roger would get his lawyer involved as the TV show was pretty much endorsed by the Kitsap County Sheriff's Department.

Thanks to that nitwit public information officer, whose name, in her tired grogginess, she couldn't even retrieve just then. She hoped that he'd be long gone. Or at least have the good sense to be in his office tapping out the words for a resignation letter. The sheriff might be on that Alaska cruise just then, but Kendall Stark was pretty sure that he'd already heard about what had happened back home. Kendall was almost glad he wasn't there. She's seen him blow his top before and this one was undoubtedly of Mount St. Helens caliber.

Cody found his way to the couch.

“Hi, Mom,” he said.

“Hey, you. Come here.”

She pulled him up and tucked him under the blanket on the sofa. He was a hot sleeper, but she didn't care. Cody did something right then that took her mind off of what was rolling around in her brain. She wasn't thinking of the Fraziers, Pandora, Wyatt, or any of the craziness that awaited her.

Her little boy. She had one good thing in her life right then. Cody.

“I love you, Mom,” he said.

“Love you too. Let's rest. Mommy's tired.”

“But it's morning.”

“Let's pretend it isn't. Not yet.”

He smiled at her. “All right. I like that game. Let's pretend today hasn't started yet.”

Kendall held him and closed her eyes. She wished two things. That her husband was home, and that she could have a do-over for the night before.

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

J
uliana Robbins didn't especially like being on the other side of the camera, but her executive producer in New York had made it very clear that the cable channel was going to pull the plug on their show if they didn't get a bump in the ratings.
A big bump.
That meant publicity in every town or city that was a show location. Port Orchard was off the beaten track, but Juliana had connections with the producer at KING-TV's
Nightwatch
magazine. She'd gone to school with Theresa Mullins and though they were not close, they shared a kind of sisterhood in broadcasting. One stayed local and the other went out in search of something bigger. Neither really found what they were looking for. Juliana looked up Theresa's number and got her on the phone.

“Oh, it has been forever!” Juliana said, her voice more animated than ever. She wasn't being the caring, understanding Juliana to get her “get.” Those were the flavors of her persona she used to get those with a horror story, a family tragedy, to acquiesce to her request.

Theresa seemed surprised. “It has. I've been following your career. I'm thrilled for you. And, honestly, a little envious. I've been doing this for four years now and I don't know how much more I can take. The host is a real bitch.”

“That's awful. I love my team. The best ever, but I know how you feel. I've been doing this a while too, and I really would like to get into broadcast journalism. You know, something of true substance.”

“I hear you. Hey, you in town doing something?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. That's why I'm calling. I'm over on the Peninsula getting ready to do a show on a Port Orchard missing persons case.”

“Wow. That's really cool.”

“I'm glad you think so. That's why I'm calling. I was hoping you could do a segment on what we're doing here for your show.”

“We're kind of getting away from crime and misery,” Theresa said. “I love what you've been doing on
Spirit Hunters.
Wish I could help. But the subject matter is just too dark.”

“That's stupid and you know it. People like crime and misery, Teri.”

“I
know.
But that's the direction. If I have to produce one more segment on a new winery or a thrift shop makeover I'm going to puke into my Starbucks mug.”

Juliana looked at herself in the mirror and smiled. The wheels were turning. If anything, Juliana was quick on her feet. She didn't take no for an answer from anyone. Not some grieving father. Not some cop like Kendall Stark. And certainly not from an old broadcast school chum with a hunger for the big time.

“You can tell your EP that
Spirit Hunters
is about bringing closure and peace to people,” she said. “We're a very upbeat show.”

“Jules, you can't bullshit a bullshitter. I've seen the show.”

Juliana paused. “But has your EP?”

“Doubtful,” Theresa said, her tone giving away her feelings for what she really thought of the woman in charge of the show. “She's the one pushing for all the winery segments. She imagines that she's very highbrow.”

Juliana laughed. “TV
is
lowbrow. Lowbrow content gets high ratings. Right now they can't find enough hillbillies to put on a reality show. They're practically trolling the backwoods of West Virginia for the next Honey Boo Boo.”

“I know,” Theresa said, thinking it over a little. “Okay. I'll pitch it. No promises. How long are you in town?”

“There's kind of a rush on this. I need to do it tomorrow before we do the taping. Stuff happens after the tapings sometimes and we kind of need to leave town.”

“Now I'm totally hooked. It sounds like you're really helping people.”

“You know the name of the game.”

“Yup. Ratings. Ratings. Ratings. Nothing else matters. Nothing at all.”

Juliana let a little dead air seep into the phone. She knew that a long pause held power. It made whatever she had to say next seem very, very important. Contemplative.

“I really need this, Teri,” she finally said. “You need it too.”

“Why do I need it?” Theresa asked.

“Because New York talks and I'll make sure they hear your name.”

The next day, a three-member film crew from KING showed up at Swallow Haven for the interview. Juliana had the B and B hosts set up the living room with its view of Gig Harbor's sparkling waterfront.

“I promised that you'd be able to show their sign in the background,” Juliana told her friend Theresa. She indicated a large hand-carved sign that featured the name of the establishment and a charming arc of flying swallows.

“No worries,” Theresa said. “My executive producer will love that we're spotlighting a B and B in the interview. She'll probably try to score a freebie from the owners. She's done it before.”

“I know the type. The industry's full of people with their hands stretched out.”

“Glad that's not us, Jules,” Theresa said with a laugh.

“So not
us.
”

With the camera in place, the mic affixed discreetly on the lapel of her pale pink blazer—Chanel, Teri thought—Juliana Robbins talked about the importance of
Spirit Hunters
, how it brought closure to people, how Pandora's gifts were a marvel.

“She's the real deal,” Juliana said. “I'm a skeptic. I'm from New York where we see it all. Pandora is absolutely amazing.”

Theresa asked some questions about the show they were doing in Port Orchard.

“It's a real-life mystery. One day Katy Frazier was on the top of the world, top of her class, loads of friends, adored by every single person in town, and then zip . . . she was gone. Not a single clue to her whereabouts.”

“Do you think Pandora can unravel what happened to her?”

“The combination of Wyatt and Pandora makes them a true dynamic duo. They make up the force that is what
Spirit Hunters
is all about . . . they are the truth seekers from the world we live in now and world beyond.”

Theresa asked some questions about the accommodations at the B and B, and Juliana gushed about the hosts, the food, and the views.

“You haven't lived unless you've stayed here. This place really is to die for.”

Theresa grinned broadly. “Queen of the sound bite. That's you. My EP will love that last line.”

Juliana rolled her shoulder. “Give them what they want,” she said.

Theresa unclipped the mic. “And nothing more.”

“Right,” Juliana said, adjusting her collar. “When will this be on your air?”

Theresa smiled. “You'll love this. We had to cut a segment on—get this—a boutique pesto maker in Woodinville that the FDA just forced to recall all its outstanding inventory for
E. coli
contamination. Seems like the irrigation water they used for their basil fields was untreated sewage. You'll be on tonight.”

“That's good for
Spirit Hunters
,” Juliana said. “I love pesto, though. At least until you told me that.”

Theresa nodded.

“Yeah, now I think it's just gross. Next time you're in town, give me a heads-up a little earlier. I really would like to find my way out of Seattle. Better yet, put my name out there. You know what I can do. I can get things done. Like this. Like getting this interview set up at the last minute.”

Juliana gave her long-lost friend a quick but slightly stiff little hug.

“You're way too nice for New York, Teri,” she said, twisting her hair into a messy ponytail and giving her head a little shake. “Try LA or maybe even Portland. But yes, next time for sure. Drinks and dinner on me.”

Theresa didn't know what to say. Portland? That wasn't a step up at all. And why in the world would her friend say she was too nice for New York? She'd told off that dim bulb
Nightwatch
host more than a time or two. She even told a hot-air balloonist they were featuring that he was an ass when he said that a woman patron with large breasts could cause “another Hindenburg at the right altitude.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

K
endall wasn't sure how to read the look on Brit Frazier's face when she opened the door to the house that would likely become infamous once the TV episode aired. She looked a little tired. And why wouldn't she be? It was a very long night and one fraught with outrageous accusations, hurled at a family who'd been shattered by the loss of their daughter.

“Come in,” she said.

“I'm sorry about what happened.”

Brit shrugged a little and led Kendall to the kitchen where air was thick with the smell of a freshly brewed pot of coffee.

Katy's mother motioned to a cup. “Want some?”

“Yes, black,” she said. “Thanks.”

“I was hoping you would come, Detective.”

“Call me Kendall. We've been through a war zone together.”

Brit smiled faintly as she poured the blackest coffee Kendall had ever seen into two plain white cups.

“It felt a little like that, didn't it?” Brit said.

“Again, I'm very sorry. It never should have happened. Not like that. I had no idea.”

Brit stared into her cup. “I really didn't know what to expect. I knew that it was our last chance at the truth of what happened to Katy. You guys—not you personally—didn't do much. I'm not even going into that right now,” she said.

“I appreciate that, and again, I can't say too many times how sorry I am.”

Brit nodded. “I know. I can see it on your face. I just didn't know where else to turn and, well, I'm a believer in the spirit world and I absolutely believe that Pandora has the gift.”

“You really do?”

“I know that being skeptical is part of your job. But I've always been able to tap into things that were not readily apparent.”

“How so?”

“With the kids. I've always prided myself on my ability to see what was right in front of their faces, things that were roadblocks to their safety and their health. Issues at home that were bothering them, holding them back from being themselves.”

“You're not saying you're psychic?” Kendall said, keeping her tone respectful and as open as she could.

Brit laughed. “Goodness no. I'm not psychic. But I'm sensitive. I have an awareness about things that some people just can't fathom.” She paused, keeping her eyes on the coffee cup before looking up. “Makes me sound conceited or stupid. Or maybe both.”

Kendall shook her head. “No. Neither.”

“Thanks. That's why all of this and what happened last night is so horrible, so damning. It makes me feel like I'm such a fraud. That everything that I thought about myself was so, so wrong.”

“I don't follow,” Kendall said, though she did. She wanted Brit to dump out everything she was holding inside. The more she talked, the better.

“My husband. Roger. I didn't know. I didn't see.”

“See what?”

“What Pandora said happened here.”

“You think she's right?”

Brit nodded. “I think so. It crushes me. It makes me want to vomit. In fact, I threw up just moments before you arrived. I didn't see what was happening to my own little girl. She was so perfect. She was so happy. Or at least she seemed to be.”

“She never told you her father abused her?”

Brit stood up and offered more coffee, but it was just an excuse to break the tension in the room. The subject matter was so uncomfortable that it just didn't seem like the air in the room could take the words that she was saying and she needed to move away from them.

“No. She never did. She might have told her friends. She might have told her sister, but she never said a word to me. We . . . we . . . we just didn't have that kind of close mother-daughter bond.”

“Did you ever see a time when she was uncomfortable around her father?”

Brit thought awhile. She sat back down. “There was one time . . .”

 

 

Katy was on the sofa that faced out toward the sun-burnished Seattle skyline. Her father sat next to her, reading a magazine every now and then looking up to see if his daughter had stopped crying. Tears were unusual. Katy was always the girl who brought the shine and sparkle to every occasion. She didn't seem to have a care in the world, except being the best she could be. When she hit a brick wall and didn't get the A+ she felt she deserved and worked so hard to get, she sometimes let frustration manifest into tears. Brit was making dinner in the kitchen and she could watch the pair as she went about what she was doing. Lasagna that night. Whole wheat pasta because Naomi, then twelve, was on an attention-seeking quest of her own and was insistent that nothing but whole, healthy foods were consumed by anyone at the Frazier household. Brit didn't mind her youngest daughter's edicts about diet and exercise, but she was less than enthused about the gluey nature of whole wheat pasta.

“. . . It will be our little secret,” Roger said, putting his hand on Katy's shoulder.

Brit watched as her husband leaned in and whispered something in Katy's ear and then, after doing so, glanced back at the kitchen.

His gaze met Brit's and telegraphed that whatever it was that was going on was going to pass.

Later that night, while Roger undressed for bed, Brit asked him about what had been going on earlier in the evening.

“What is your little secret?” she asked from her side of the bed.

“Nothing.”

“Really? Nothing? Katy looked upset all evening. She barely touched her plate.”

“She's going through some things,” Roger said, sliding his sinewy frame under the covers and moving close to Brit.

“Roger, what are you two keeping from me?”

“It isn't that big of a deal. It's under control. I promise.”

“She's my daughter too. I have a right to know.”

“She is, but you don't. She's sixteen. It's not mine to tell.”

“She's not having sex, is she? Some boy at school we haven't met?”

Roger shook his head and laughed. “No. No, she's not having sex with some boy at school.”

 

 

“That's what he told me,” Brit said to Kendall over the kitchen table.

“You think that's important now,” the detective said.

Brit stood and turned away, looking out the window at the grassy lawn as a pair of Mexican landscapers prepared to mow and edge. Kendall wished she could afford some extra help. Her power mower was dead and all she had at her disposal was an old, very sad push-mower. No amount of reminding her that exercise after a long day behind a desk was good for her could convince her that the pain was worth the gain.

The Weed Eaters started and the two men moved in tandem, almost synchronized as they went back and forth over the edge of the lawn.

“You think it is important,” Kendall repeated.

Brit turned to face her. Dead eyed, unflinching.

“Yes, I do. I think so now. I mean, look, what kind of father and daughter have secrets that their mother cannot know about? When he said she wasn't having sex with a boy at school, was he saying the truth, but leaving out the part that
he
was having sex with her?”

By then Brit Frazier was crumpling and reaching back to grip the edge of the sink so she wouldn't fall.

Kendall went to her.

“Mrs. Frazier, please. Sit down. You're making a very big leap here. You're looking back into your life for a truth that might not exist, at the suggestion of a person you don't know.”

“Pandora knows. I don't need to know her. I trust her knowledge, her understanding.”

Kendall wanted to tell the grieving mother that putting such faith in Pandora was foolish. That there were other people she'd harmed along the way in her quest for stardom, attention, and followers.

“She called me this morning. You don't know her. You don't understand her gifts. I do.”

Kendall was surprised. She wondered why Pandora would call after the debacle that left everyone catching their breath and pointing accusatory fingers. The main reason that came to her mind just then was that Pandora was doing a little damage control.

“What did she say to you?”

Tears rolled from Brit's eyes to the tabletop. “She told me that Katy was in a better place and that it was good that I knew, that I could protect Naomi and that . . . and that—well, that you, Kendall Stark, you would find where my daughter's body is so I can lay her to rest. That you, Kendall, that you could bring my husband to justice for the evil that he did to our little girl. That's why you're here. She told me that she'd send you.”

Kendall couldn't stand the manipulation. She could see it so plainly, but her eyes weren't full of tears and there was no way that Brit had any clarity. She was being fed a hideous scenario and in her grief and in her compulsive need for answers, she was accepting it.

“I'm here because I was worried about you. I'm here because I'm going to investigate the case. I'm here because, like you, I want answers. But I can assure you I'm not here because Carol Kirkowski sent me.”

“Who is Carol?”

“That's Pandora's real name. Carol Kirkowski. She adopted Pandora for the TV show, Brit. I thought you knew.”

Brit, no longer crying, dabbed a napkin under her eyes, leaving a black smear of mascara.

“I don't care what she used to call herself. She's a miracle worker. And whether you like it or not, she's sent you to me. Now, please. Help. Do your job. Pick up the pieces where that insufferable Detective Mayberry let us down four years ago. I expect and accept that my daughter is dead. I accept that my husband was raping her. That he killed her.”

“That's a huge leap,” Kendall said, not sure what else she could say. The woman across from her was completely swayed by what the TV psychic had said.

“I'll do my best, of course. I'd like to talk to Naomi.”

“Naomi was only a girl when her sister went missing,” Brit said. “Leave her out of it.”

“Don't you want the truth? Sometimes sisters share things that they would never tell their parents.”

“You mean other secrets, ‘only between us'?”

Kendall got up and set her cup in the sink. The yard workers were attacking the laurel hedge that separated the Frazier place from the neighbors.

“Something along those lines,” she said. “Thanks for the coffee.”