Searching for Yesterday (10 page)

I figured that would get her interest, and I was right. Slowly but surely she drew the comforter back until it cleared the top of her head, then her forehead, and then one eye. The exposed eye opened, blinked a few times, and then focused on me.

“This had better be good,” she muttered. Her head shifted so that she could see the clock on her night-stand. “Eight fifty-four!” she said. “This had better be
really
good.”

I'd been thinking the same thing. “Would I come here and get you out of bed at this time of day for nothing?” I asked, stalling.

“For your sake, I sure hope not.” Betts was sitting by then, her hair flattened against one side of her head and rising in a big wave on the top. She had the comforter
pulled around her and was looking around the room as though she was trying to figure something out. That made me think she wasn't awake enough for a serious conversation — not yet anyway.

“So, what's the big secret?” Betts asked.

“Uh, it's about that guy. Kruel.”

A smile spread over her face. “Really?” she said. “Did you hear something about his band? 'Cuz he told me people are already comparing them to ... um, I can't remember the name of the other group, the one he said they were like, but Kruel said they're pretty famous. They almost had a song in the top hundred last year.”

“It's not about the band,” I told her.

“Oh. Well, what then?”

“It's about you going out with him.”

“Kruel?” A deep sigh rose from her and she smiled again at the sound of his name. Well, not actually his name. You know what I mean.

“Yes, him. Betts, I know you were out with him last night.”

A frown crept onto Betts's face. “Is
that
the big secret you came here and woke me up for?”

“No, there's more.” I took a deep breath. “I know that he was drinking — and driving.”

“Where'd you hear that? Wait, don't tell me. It was
Greg
, wasn't it?”

I didn't much care for the tone she used when she said Greg's name, but I let that slide. “What difference
does it make where I heard it? That doesn't change the facts.”

The frown on Betts's face had deepened into an outright glare. “For your information,” she snapped, “Kruel knows what he's doing. He told me right up front not to worry about it — he knows his limits and he's always careful not to go over them. So there.”

I stared at her, not sure I believed what I'd just heard. “He knows his limits,” I repeated, my voice incredulous.

“That's right. He told me himself, he wouldn't take a chance on driving if he didn't feel he was perfectly in control.”

“Betts, listen to what you're saying. This isn't okay — none of it. Not his age, not the lying, not the drinking and driving — no matter what he says about knowing his limits.”

Betts flopped back on the bed and yanked the comforter over her face. “Just leave me alone, Shelby. I don't want to talk about this right now.”

“You'll
never
want to talk about it,” I said. Muffled words rose from under the comforter. It sounded like, “Karen, bake your own towel!” but I was pretty sure that wasn't what she'd said.

I stepped forward and tugged at the comforter, just enough to pull it off her face. She scowled and sat back up, making a big show of lifting then dropping her shoulders while she gave a huge sigh.

“Kruel is the coolest guy I've ever gone out with,” she said. “And I'm going to keep on going out with him. So leave me alone.”

It was time to get tough, though I'd hoped it wouldn't come to that.

“I came here to ask you to promise not to see this guy anymore. The whole thing is totally messed up and you know it.”

“Yeah, well that's just what
you
think,” she said, her chin up and eyes blazing. “Just because
you're
satisfied to go out with some
kid
from high school doesn't mean I am. Since I met Kruel, I've realized why I haven't been happy with any of the guys I've dated. They're too immature. I need someone older — like Kruel. And now I have him, and if you're really my friend, you'll accept it and be happy for me ... and stop hassling me about it.”

“If I'm your friend,” I said levelly, “I'll do everything I can to stop this thing before you get seriously hurt.”

There was silence. I'm not sure how long it lasted, but it seemed like a long time. It was probably only a couple of minutes, but it felt like a lot more.

“And what exactly do you mean by
that
?” Betts finally said.

“I'll tell this guy how old you really are, for one thing,” I said. I was surprised at my own words. I hadn't planned to say that at all.

“Too late,” she said. “I already told him I'm only
seventeen. He doesn't care. In fact, he said he'd already thought I was younger than I said the other day.”

The other day! It seemed impossible that this had just started a few days ago. How could Betts be so determined over a guy she barely knew? Despair washed over me.

“I'll tell your parents,” I said.

“You wouldn't.”

“Yes, I would.” My voice was shaking and I didn't know why. My throat felt sore and tight.

“You do that, and I will never speak to you again as long as I live.” Every word was clipped and precise and very, very cold.

I shrugged to show her I didn't care. Of course, the gesture might have been more convincing if I hadn't started to cry then. Tears came, and they weren't fake or forced. And all the while that I stood there with my chest aching and my face wet and hot, Betts sat still and watched me without the slightest show of emotion.

After a few moments, I crossed the room blindly, into her bathroom, and closed the door behind me. Anger and hurt filled me. I sat on the toilet seat and pulled at the toilet paper, dried my eyes and blew my nose. I sat there for what seemed a long time, trying to collect my thoughts.

When I stepped to the sink I saw that my face was flushed and my eyes puffy and red. I took a facecloth from the shelf, wet it with cold water and held it on my
eyes for a few minutes. It helped, though if my mother had walked in she'd have known in a split second that I'd been crying.

A few deep breaths and I went back into Betts's bedroom. She was lying back with the comforter pulled up to her shoulders, staring at the ceiling.

“Don't do it,” she said.

I didn't answer, but walked out of her room and down to the end the hall. There, I hesitated, knowing Mrs. Thompson was in the kitchen and that all I had to do to protect my friend was turn left, go there, and tell her.

Instead, I crossed the foyer to the front door and let myself out.

“Something's bothering you.”

I looked at Annie, surprised at how quickly she'd picked up on what I thought I'd hidden quite well.

“It's nothing to do with this,” I said.

“Are you okay, though?”

“Sure. I'm fine.”

“Well, if there's anything I can help with ...”

“Thanks, Annie. I appreciate that. I really do. But it's not something I can talk about ... because it involves someone else.”

“I understand,” she said. “Oh! Before I forget to tell you, Kayla called to see if I could come in a few days this week, to train and stuff. She wants me to come in at four o'clock today, so she can show me some basics, and then, when they close, she's going to teach me how to do a few arrangements.”

“Sounds great,” I said. I was genuinely happy for her too, not just that she had a job, but that she'd be working with someone who'd known her mother so well. I was sure they'd talk about Gina lots of times, and maybe that would help Annie feel closer to the mother she no longer had.

I reached across the Nortons' kitchen table where we were sitting and picked up the carved dragonfly that was there, along with the other things that made up the little collection Annie's mother had left for her. As I turned it over in my hand, I wondered how the last week of Christmas holidays had gotten so complicated. Was it possible that the only thing on my mind a few days earlier had been getting to know Annie a bit better? And now, here I was, in the middle of what seemed to be a dead-end investigation with her and on the verge of ending a lifelong friendship with my best friend Betts.

“My mom wouldn't let me touch that when I was a kid.”

I glanced up at Annie's words, drawn back to the moment, and the fact that we were back to going over the same old things. And getting nowhere.

“When Nanny brought all of these things to her place, she let me keep them in my room. Until my mom came back for me, she said. I put them in the bottom of my dresser drawer and never touched them — for years. I remember thinking how proud she'd be
when she came back to get me and saw that I hadn't broken anything.”

She stared at the dragonfly in my hand for a moment and then picked up the teardrop-shaped stone and rubbed it lovingly between her palm and fingers. “I bet she worried about this stuff a few times, especially since it was with me and Nanny. She was always saying things like, “Nanny lets you get away with everything,' and “Nanny sure didn't let me do this or that when I was your age.'”

I smiled. It sounded a lot like the things I'd heard from my own parents about
my
grandparents when I was younger. I was glad to think that Annie had, at least for a while, been with her grandmother after her mother left. Sadly, that was the only relative she had — that she knew of, anyway. And it didn't seem that we were likely to find her father, since Gina hadn't even told her best friend who he was.

I sat the dragonfly down and picked up the old black-and-white picture of Annie's grandmother. The eyes in the picture looked bright and happy. It was hard to believe they now stared out blankly from an aged face in a nursing home.

I sat the picture down. The things it made me think about were too unsettling.

Next, I picked up the note — as though I hadn't looked it over so many times that, like Annie, I had it memorized. Even so, I read it again.

Dear Annie,

Me and Lenny are going to the city to make a better life for ourselves. I'll send for you soon as we get a new place and get settled. Go to your grandma's house and tell her you will be staying with her for now.

Love,
Mom.

I found myself staring at something I hadn't noticed before, wondering how I'd missed it. Then, as always happens when clues start to come together in my head, other things tumbled into place: a few innocent words, something that had seemed insignificant — things that were so small I'd thought they couldn't possibly have been important.

“Shelby?”

My throat had tightened and I could barely answer Annie with a strangled, “Yes?”

“What is it? You've gone so pale. Are you feeling sick?”

I was feeling sick, all right. And I didn't know how I was going to tell Annie what I needed to say. I asked for a glass of water while I tried frantically to sort through my thoughts.

She hurried to the sink where she rinsed a glass and then filled it from the cooler. When she sat it on the table in front of me, I could hardly squeak out a “thank you.”

“Maybe you should lie down for a while,” Annie suggested. She sounded a bit nervous. Probably thought I was going to pass out there on the kitchen floor.

“I'm okay,” I said after I'd taken a few sips and some deep breaths. “I, uh, just had a thought that ... well ... it's pretty upsetting.”

She sat down across from me, her face serious. “What?”

“I can't ... it's just a thought ... it's probably way off.”

“Tell me. If it's about my mother, I have a right to know. We'll figure out if it's right or not later.”

What she'd said was true and I knew it. She did have a right to know, but I didn't want to be the one to tell her. Still, helping her find her mother had been my idea. I couldn't just walk away from it because it had gotten unpleasant.

“Annie,” I said, reaching out and taking her hand, “I think it's possible — and remember, this could be completely wrong — but, well, I'm not sure your mother ever left Little River.”

Annie stared at me like I'd been talking in some foreign language that she didn't understand. I waited, silently, for it to sink in. There was more I needed to tell her, but I had to give her time to absorb that much first.
“I don't understand,” she said at last. “You think she's still
here
— in town?”

Deep breath.

“I hate to say this,” I said, meaning it with all my heart, “but I think it's possible that Lenny killed your mother, and then pretended that they left town together to cover it up.”

“No,” she said. Her voice was very calm. “That can't be.”

I said nothing. I waited.

“There's no
evidence
of anything like that,” she said after a few moments.

“There's no evidence that your mother ever left Little River,” I answered quietly.

“But she left this note.” Annie's hand's trembled as she reached across the table to take it from me. She held it up in front of me as though I hadn't seen it before.

“Someone wrote that note, but I don't believe it was your mother,” I said. I wanted to blurt it all out — everything that had just come together in my head — but I knew I needed to take things slowly for Annie's sake. After eight years of believing her mother had left her, the idea that something far different than that may have taken place was going to be difficult for her to absorb. I wanted to give her time to take in each bit of evidence slowly.

“You have no proof of that.”

“I think I do.” I paused and cleared my throat, searching for the right words. “Look at it closely, Annie.
Look carefully at the words that were used. Ask yourself if there's anything there that doesn't fit.”