Now That She's Gone (7 page)

Kendall clicked on the link. A grainy black-and-white video started to roll.

The producer, a middle-aged male, spoke next.

All three laughed.

Pandora crushed out her cigarette butt with the pointy end of one of her Manolos.

The tape ended and Kendall felt a wave of nausea roll to her stomach. How could anyone believe this crap? How could the Fraziers invite these people into their home to dissect their family tragedy? She scrolled though the hundreds of comments and there were only a very small handful of people who seemed to feel the same that she did. By far and away, the clip viewers were completely supportive of Pandora.

Kendall had read enough. She knew that her first stop after taking Cody to the Cascade School the next morning would be Brit Frazier's coffee shop.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

B
renda Nevins hated the idea of cutting her hair. She loathed coloring, chopping, or changing her signature look more than anything she'd ever endured. More than being locked up in prison, which she considered to be the worst thing that had ever happened to her. She knew that she needed to alter her appearance, but at what cost? If she couldn't be the person the world expected her to be, what was the point of anything she was about to do?

She applied the black hair dye she'd found in the homeowner's medicine cabinet. She looked at the glint of the scissors and the knife and shook her head. There were a million uses for sharp objects, but cutting her hair was not one of them. She put her wet, black hair up in a clip, turned on the shower, and surveyed the scene.

It wasn't the Four Seasons, but she had stayed in far worse places than the one that was her refuge at that moment. She let the water from the shower pour over her, sending some inky blackness down the drain. She lifted her head back and let the spray of the showerhead run over her teeth. She missed her Waterpik. The prison rule-makers considered the device that sent a needle-sharp stream of water a potential weapon. Brenda had hated rules. Sonicare toothbrushes were allowed for “dental use only” but half the women in her unit at the prison used them as vibrators.

As the water caressed her body she ran her hands over her breasts and marveled that they felt so real, so unencumbered by scar tissue, as she'd read other women had supposedly endured. Her heart was beating slowly just then. She had that part of her personality that allowed her to compartmentalize her trauma and drama into separate spaces in which no part would touch the other. No overload. No crossed circuits. For how she lived her life, she needed more than anything to stay focused. Keep control. Aim high. Get what she wanted.

Brenda was free at the moment and she intended to stay that way.

She turned off the water, pulled back the shower curtain, which made a slightly melodic scraping noise, and stepped out. She reached for a towel and applied its softness to her face. So much better than those nearly crisp towels at the prison. Though it indeed wasn't the Four Seasons, she thought the towels smelled just like spring.

The mirror was fogged and she rubbed a washcloth over it.

She looked good with black hair. Her skin didn't fight with the change. It looked natural. She finger-combed it a little, considering one last time whether she should cut it or just leave it. Long hair was sexy. She was sexy right then.

She needed to stay that way too.

“I'll be out in a minute, babe,” she called out.

Brenda didn't like to be rushed. Not when she was thinking about what to do next. She knew she had to think fast. Not move fast. Moving fast could get her caught. It was better to synthesize a plan that used her best attributes and left the excess baggage behind. Be nimble. Be ready.

Be cunning.

She tucked the towel around her body and wrapped another over her still damp hair. One last glance at herself in the mirror and she went toward the bed.

“You look scared,” Brenda said.

No answer.

“Don't worry. It will all be over soon. I promise.”

Janie Thomas didn't say a word. She looked at Brenda with the kind of haunted eyes of a fox caught in a leg trap. Tears oozed from her eyes.

Brenda produced a knife.

Janie turned away. Her heart was racing and she was all but certain that this was the way she was going to die.

“Don't worry, babe,” she said. “I'm just going to cut a little hole in the tape so you can take a drink.”

Brenda sat on the edge of the bed, admiring the sturdiness of the knots she'd made of the cut pillowcase—again the handiwork of the knife. She learned the skill of slicing and dicing with precision from Edna Hale, a woman imprisoned at the Washington Corrections Center for Women for attacking a boyfriend and making certain that he'd never cheat on her again. Lorena Bobbitt had become a quasi-celebrity when she'd sliced off her husband's penis for similar reasons, but not Edna. Slicing it off in a fit of rage, a bloody payback for betrayal was one thing.

Feeding it to the family's dog was something entirely too disgusting for mass appeal.

“Never hesitate,” Edna had instructed Brenda when they were on kitchen duty one time, early in her incarceration. “That's the key. Go fast, go deep, and never look back.”

“Good advice,” Brenda said. “But you forgot one thing.”

Edna wiped the sweat off her hairy upper lip.

“What's that?” she asked.

Brenda knew she'd made the same error. They were there together, pulling kitchen duty. Nevertheless Edna was too dumb to get it.

“Never get caught,” Brenda said.

Janie Thomas started wriggling. It made Brenda think of one of those “Magic Fingers” beds she'd slept on when she was a child in a place two levels below the house that she and Janie were hiding out in.

Brenda let out a loud sigh.

“Look,” she said, her tone suddenly sharp. “You want me to cut your lips? No one wants to kiss bloody lips. Hold still.”

Janie shut her eyes.

Brenda repositioned herself over Janie to ensure that she didn't move so much and ran the blade down the center of the silvery duct tape and a sliver of red dripped down.

“Look what you made me do, you stupid bitch!”

Janie let out a muffled cry.

“I swear that you are almost more trouble than you're worth. If I didn't love you so much I'd cut your head off right now, babe,” she said.

She knew she could do that. But not now. Not when she needed Janie. Useful Janie. Puppy dog Janie. The prison superintendent who had been her ticket out from the razor wire into the world of fresh air, quiet nights, men she could pick up, beguile, ride in the backseat of a car, and then . . . do what she did best.

Second best.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

S
econd Cup, Second Chance was located on Bay Street in what had once been an antique shop and before that, a waterfront warehouse. Inside, it had been stripped of the doilies, old tables, and other questionable antiques and was outfitted with a distinctly modern vibe. It was as if Apple Computer had come in and taken over the space. The mix of the old wood with the brushed steel finishes of the tabletops and the Eames-style chairs (all white, with one turquoise one for a tasteful quirk) made it modern, fresh, and very teen friendly. In the back corner was the espresso bar. In the opposite corner, a gigantic flat screen showed teenagers' artwork on a rotating basis. Kendall Stark had never been inside before, and she was impressed.

Brit Frazier was talking to a teen.

“We have rules, Sammie, and they are simple. You can spend all day here if you like, but you cannot sleep here. The city won't allow that. You can take a shower. I do have meals at nine, eleven, and four. More than anything, I want you to work with a mentor to help you find your way out of your situation and on to your ‘Second Chance.' That's what we're all about.”

She looked up, caught Kendall's gaze, and nodded. She mouthed the words “just a minute” and motioned for Kendall to take a seat across the room.

A moment later, she came over with two cups of coffee.

“It's about the show, Detective Stark. Isn't it?” she said, sitting down.

Her directness surprised Kendall. She was probably adept at reading people; her history as a guidance counselor was a strong indicator of that. Also, in that moment with the girl Sammie, Kendall could tell that being direct, kind, and honest was probably the course Brit Frazier had always chosen.

“Yes. How did you know?” Kendall asked anyway.

Brit poured a packet of blue sweetener into her cup and swirled its contents with a spoon.

“Small town,” she said, almost with a sigh. “Everyone's been talking about it. I know your sheriff had reservations about participating, but I convinced him. It isn't like we have anything to lose. It's been four years, you know.”

Kendall sipped the coffee. It was a very dark roast, the kind she wanted and needed after a night of tossing and turning over what she'd read about
Spirit Hunters.

“Mrs. Frazier, do you know anything about these producers, their tactics?”

Brit Frazier pulled a loose strand of her red hair and rested it on her shoulder. Her expression was hard to read and she didn't jump to answer right away.

“Do you?” Kendall asked.

“I heard you the first time, Detective. I have read the posts by those who are less than happy with the results of the show. There are an equal number if not more who feel that their circumstances shifted into something more bearable after
Spirit Hunters
came to town.”

“More bearable? How do you mean?”

Brit drank more coffee. “You couldn't possibly understand and that's fine. I remember when I was counseling kids at South and telling them that I understood, I was lying. I wanted to understand. I said so. But you can't. You can't ever know how another person feels when the unthinkable occurs.”

Kendall nodded. Brit didn't know all that much about her, but she was right about that. She'd interviewed countless people who'd undergone tragedy of immense magnitude and she held their hands, cried with them, told them that everything would be all right. That they'd survive.

“I'm not saying you don't empathize with me and my husband. I know you do, but let's face it. We're stuck in a limbo from which we cannot escape. If
Spirit Hunters
does anything with Pandora and Wyatt's help, then maybe we're a step closer to getting a little freedom from what's holding us down.”

“You mean closure?” Kendall asked.

Brit shook her head. “No such thing. We both know that. But one thing I know and you don't is that every night I go to bed and wonder what's become of Katy. I wake up with the same thought. I'm stuck in a time warp. It's ruining my relationship with my husband and Katy's sister.”

A teen with blue and orange hair came over to the table.

“Ms. Frazier, I finished cleaning the kitchen. Can I work in Katy's Place for a while?”

“Go ahead, Melissa. And thanks for asking,” she said.

“Katy's Place?”

Brit indicated the corner with the big flat screen and the teen artwork.

“My daughter was good at just about everything. Classes. Tennis. She was also quite an artist. We put in the creative space for teens in her memory.”

“That's lovely,” Kendall said. “You said her memory. So you think—”

Kendall's words trailed off a little and Brit cut in.

“Yes, she's dead.”

“But there isn't any evidence.”

“My daughter would never have left us. She was happy. She was well-adjusted. An achiever.”

“Maybe she felt pressure to be the best,” Kendall said, echoing a note Nick Mayberry had made in the file.

“I've heard that theory before, Detective. And I don't buy it. That kind of theory comes from someone on the outside looking in. Katy was never pressured to be the best. She wanted to be the best because it made her happy. Not because Roger and I wanted it. We're not like that. In fact, I find beauty in all kinds of imperfection. Imperfection is not a weakness.”

“But this show . . . you know it's fake, don't you?”

Brit shrugged. Her eyes lingered on Melissa before she looked back at Kendall.

“Maybe. Probably. I don't really know. I know only one thing that's good about it and that cannot be disputed by anyone.”

“And what's that?”

Brit got up. “You're here, aren't you? You are working this case now, aren't you? I begged the sheriff to put you on the show. No one else. I figured that just maybe a woman with a child of her own would dig in a little deeper to find out what happened to my daughter.”

“Nick Mayberry did a very thorough job,” Kendall said. “I don't know that I could have done better. Not with what he had to work with at the time. There really wasn't much to go on.”

“You can do better. I have faith in you, Detective. I have hope that you will find something that everyone else missed. Maybe with Pandora and Wyatt's help you'll do what should have been done four years ago.”

Kendall didn't know what to say. It was a challenge and, in a weird way, a threat at the same time.

Brit made her way over to Katy's Place, turning to look in Kendall's direction one last time.

“Find out who killed my daughter. Find out. Let her rest. Let all of us rest.”

Kendall gulped down the rest of her coffee, got behind the wheel of her SUV, and drove up the steep incline that was Division Street to the complex that housed most of the county's law enforcement agencies, including the sheriff's department, the jail, and the courthouse. She knew why she'd been tapped to do the show and no one else. Brit Frazier and the sheriff had a history. It was a long time ago, before either was married. When she called for help, he had only one choice and like it or not Kendall had been drafted. That pip-squeak PIO Brad James probably didn't even know about any of that.

Why would he? He was all about proving himself on his own terms. He wanted to put Port Orchard and Kitsap County on the map. It was going to be a feather in his cap, the likes of which hadn't been seen since the remake of
Walking Tall
was filmed up north in the county.

Kendall dialed Birdy as she went inside the sheriff's office. “You want to do lunch today?” she asked.

“Sure,” Birdy said. “You might be too big a star for that soon enough.”

Kendall took a breath. How did everyone know what troubled her? “It's about that,” she said, finally.

“I figured. Puerto Vallarta?”

“Sounds good. See you there at noon.”

 

 

Puerto Vallarta has a great big red neon sign that proclaims
IMMEDIATE SEATING
and it was never—at least as far as anyone in Port Orchard knew—turned off. It wasn't because the place never filled up, because it was always busy. But it was large enough to get people to a table with scarcely a minute to wait. Birdy and Kendall were seated in the sunken fountain area, next to an automated tortilla maker. A pretty young woman named, quite appropriately, Bonita operated the machine, carefully stacking the corn and flour disks as they rolled off the heated conveyor belt into a wire basket.

“I cannot miss having one of those,” Birdy said.

“Me too.”

“Do you know what you want?”

“Yes, but I can't have a margarita.”

“That kind of day already?” Birdy asked.

“Yeah. It's just a little of everything. All coming at me at once. Steven. The show. Mrs. Frazier. Brenda Nevins. It's like a steady drip of disaster after disaster.”

“More like a deluge,” Birdy said.

“Right. More like that.”

A waiter came and they ordered. Birdy got two soft chicken tacos and Kendall ordered the tortilla soup.

“And a basket of those,” she said, indicating the mountain of corn tortillas that Bonita was putting into small flat containers.

After the waiter left, Birdy asked about Steven.

“That's got to be what's really putting you at odds with the world right now.”

Kendall didn't want to cry, and she knew if she said too much about what she was feeling she'd dissolve into tears.

“I guess I can't talk about that, Birdy. I want to. I know that it would probably help, but I don't know much more than what I'm feeling and thinking and suspecting and I don't like living on assumptions.”

“Of course. You want the facts.”

Kendall looked down at the basket of chips and salsa.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“So let's talk about the
Spirit Hunters
show. What's the latest on that? Did you find anything of interest in the file I gave you, such that it was?”

Kendall shook her head. “Not really. I mean, who can be sure that the crime scene—if there was a crime—was actually at the Frazier residence? It could have been anywhere. Those blood drops don't tell us much—and we don't even know whose blood it was anyway.”

“Right. It wasn't Katy's, that's for sure.”

“Yeah, and according to the report they tested it against other members of the household and they indicated no match to the mom, father, or sister.”

“Right. So I'd say that's a dead end. Unless we're going to test everyone in Port Orchard.”

Their food came and they both picked at their plates. Neither felt particularly hungry. Lunch was seldom about eating anyway.

“What are you going to do?” Birdy asked.

“With the show?”

“Yes, the show, but also the case.”

Kendall swallowed. “I'm meeting with the producer tonight. Dinner at Cosmo's.”

“That should be interesting. When are you going to meet Pandora and Ogilvie?”

“I guess the show protocol is that no one meets Pandora until after their investigation. I'll go on camera with Ogilvie tomorrow.”

“That should be fun,” Birdy said with full-on sarcasm.

Kendall nodded. “Just what I've always wanted.”

“And the case,” Birdy said, “what are you going to do there?”

“How do you mean?”

“You're going to reinvestigate, aren't you?”

Kendall smiled. Birdy knew her well now and with Steven gone she felt like there was no one else who really understood who she was, what made her tick. At least anyone who she felt the same way about. Birdy was just like her. She was a puzzle solver. She was the kind of person who liked to pick up a trail and follow it to the very end, no matter how hard, how painful.

How hopeless it might seem.

“I am. I'm going to try to talk to a few of Katy's friends, her father, her teachers, anyone who might give me a little insight. Her mother is pretty wrapped up in trying to do good for the other troubled kids of Kitsap County that I doubt she will really open up. Nothing probably could be harder than being a guidance counselor and having your kid run away. Or worse.”

Birdy asked that her second taco be wrapped up to go.

“Elan will devour it in one bite,” she said.

“How's he doing?”

“Great. We're both doing great. My sister has backed off and things have calmed considerably. I almost don't want to say it out loud because I'm afraid it will jinx it.”

“Say it, Birdy.”

Birdy smiled. “All right, Kendall. I hope I get to keep him.”

Kendall smiled back and the two women laughed.

“That sounded like he is a puppy or something,” Birdy said. “But you know what I mean, don't you?”

“I do. And I hope you get to keep him too.”

It was sunny when the detective and the forensic pathologist went through the massive swinging doors after paying for lunch—Kendall's treat this time. The air felt clean and there was a gentle breeze. Wafting through it was the smell of Bonita's amazing corn tortillas. The
IMMEDIATE SEATING
sign blasted away at a now-empty parking lot.

 

 

Brenda Nevins scanned the pages of the Mason County
Journal
. She didn't care what was going on in the Middle East, in politics, in the state of the world. None of that mattered. Nor did she care about the Kardashians or any other low-wattage celebrity who would come and go. She was above all that. She was beautiful and she knew that her body—however fake her breasts—was a gift to the world. She only cared about one thing, how her little escape from prison was playing in the local paper.