The Ghosts of Lovely Women (21 page)

“No.”

“His not finding it significant is significant,” Derek said.

“Right. He’s not being very
authentic
, is he? Wouldn’t a grieving father want to jump at any clue that might bring his child’s murderer to justice? Why would he pick and choose? Why would he get downright angry?”

“Defensive, maybe?”

“Could he be the one she asked to “step down?” Maybe it refers to his candidacy?”

“And why would she want him to step down? Because it was her own father who signed on to that website? Because she had evidence of it?” Derek asked.

“But why would
he
of all people click the link? Wouldn’t he recognize his own daughter?” But even as I asked it I realized that it was possible that he had not. The girl was called “Nora,” and the picture, at first glance, didn’t look like the Jessica I had seen every day. She was in the wrong context, which was why it had taken me several moments to understand what I was looking at. If her father had clicked the link — if he had wanted to see a teenage girl undress for him — maybe he hadn’t given the girl’s face much attention. “God, I guess it could be him,” I said.

“Let’s hope McCall is quick to catch what you saw,” he said. He watched me for a moment and then said, “Because it is
her
job, you know.”

“I know. I know. I just — the more I get into the intricacies of this girl’s life, the more I want to champion her. This whole thing is unjust. It’s evil.” I sighed. “But speaking of jobs, I need to get started on these rough drafts.”

“Can I help?”

“That is so sweet of you. I don’t… well, actually — you can look over the notecards for me. Some kids used index cards and others have graduated to the computerized notes. Either way I need to know that they’ve organized them properly, that there are at least thirty of them, and that the information on each card is substantive and pertinent to their thesis. No summaries of the book.”

“Okay. And how do I know their thesis?”

“It will be clipped on the front. If each of them have that much intact, they get ten points for preparation.”

“Cool.”

“They’re allowed three options: summary, paraphrase, and direct quote. If it looks like a direct quote and it’s not in quotation marks, let me know. I need to give them the plagiarism lecture.”

“Got it.” He was already unpacking my back with great efficiency.

“Derek?”

“Yup?”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

He smiled. “Me, too.”

* * *

Ten rough drafts later my eyes were crossing and I had pulled out some hair. I needed a break. Derek had finished sorting the student notes and they sat in neat piles on my table. He had left the room some time before. I placed the cards, and the completed drafts, back into the bag. “You’re a marvel,” I called. “And I am a fourth of the way through. That’s excellent for Day One.”

“Good. Ready for some dinner?” He’d been rooting around in my kitchen, and something smelled absolutely wonderful.

“So ready I can’t believe it. What time is it, anyway?”

“Almost seven. I made some fajitas for us.”

“Yum. You know, I was thinking about Jessica again.”

“Yes?”

“These little “clues” she left — for me, and possibly Kathy, and also, it seems, for your sister — they seem more like a game than like reality.”

“Meaning what?” He came out with some drinking glasses and set them on my table.

“Meaning, I don’t know that she ever expected us, or wanted us, to figure them out. Maybe they had a totally different function. Maybe it just amused Jessica to make a reference that we would never get. To know those little clues were out there, but that they were safe from anyone’s interpretation. And yet, if she simply gave them a key, they would know everything…”

“Seems like a lot of work to go through.”

“Yes. But in her little note, she mentions “the miracle.” That’s another reference to
A Doll’s House
.”

“Oh?” He paused on his journey back to the kitchen. “How so?”

“All through the climax of the play, Nora keeps saying that a miracle will happen, that it will happen any moment now. She’s committed a crime — forgery — which she did out of love. She needed money to help save her husband’s life, and women weren’t allowed to borrow money without a man’s consent. Now she’s caught in a net, and she believes that when her crime is exposed, her husband will take the blame. That’s the miracle. But in Jessica’s case — well, it’s just her re-imagining the story again. Saying she doesn’t need a man to get her out of trouble.”

“And does he?”

“What?”

“In the story. Does her husband take the blame?”

“No. He blames her for everything. He calls her a hypocrite, a liar, a criminal. He fears that he will be thought her accomplice. He utterly betrays her idealism.”

“Wow. What a bastard.”

“Jessica thought so, too. But I’m worried about this, Derek. She said, ‘I make the miracle happen.’ So does that mean she’s going to take responsibility for something she’s done? Or is she going to
force
a man to take responsibility for something
he’s
done?”

“Her poem makes me think that it’s choice B.”

“Me, too, I think.”

Derek brought in dinner — which was delicious — and I ate and talked with him in a distracted way, still thinking about Jessica and her inscrutable actions.

Derek cleared the table and did my dishes. I packed my briefcase for the following day, and he appeared next to me with a quick kiss. “I should go,” he said.

I started. “Why?”

“Well, you seem like your mind’s on something else right now. And just because you’re my girlfriend doesn’t mean I’m going to assume that I can stay here.”

“I’d like you to stay.” I put my arms around him. “I was hoping you’d stay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. This morning — we were kind of rushed. I was hoping that tonight we could… take more time. Not that this morning wasn’t nice. It was very passionate.”

“Indeed,” Derek said against my cheek.

That did it. With something like a growl I grasped his arm and pulled him to my bedroom. He laughed and let himself be pulled, and we landed together on my bed. Outside the storm had become a true tempest, and lightning briefly illuminated our faces. On Derek’s, the text I read most clearly was devotion. I wondered what he read on mine; whatever it was, it seemed to encourage him, because he bent his dark head until he was an inch from my lips and said, “This is the beginning, Teddy.”

* * *

I dreamed of Jessica; she was in the Underworld, but she wasn’t clamoring to reach the blood, as the others were who craved re-animation. She was animated already, and just like her old self. She laughed when she saw me peeking into the dark hole that led to Hades’ kingdom. “Miss Thurber, I was just thinking about you,” she said. “Didn’t you read my book? Didn’t you look at my website? I’m getting revenge for Nora Helmer!” I realized then that it wasn’t Jessica at all, but an illusion — a tragic Echo who could only repeat things that Jessica had said in life.

I tried to reach her anyway. “Jessica, listen to me! You’re in danger. You’re in danger, and you shouldn’t be playing games. You’re just a girl, Jessica. You’re just a girl.” I was trying to warn her; hot tears burned my eyes and fell down my cheeks.

“You should come to New York!” said Jessica’s image. “You would love New York, Miss Thurber!”

“Jessica, what does it all mean? These puzzles of yours.”

“I’ll even buy you lunch. I’m an independently wealthy young lady these days. A wealthy young lady these days!” Then a noise, a horrible gasping noise, sent all of the souls running away, especially the girls, and even Jessica looked frightened…

I woke up, perspiring. The storm was over; it was still dark, but I could tell it was morning, and a fragrant breeze came in the window I had left open just a bit. P.G. snored in his basket at the foot of the bed, and Derek slept quietly beside me, his feet still intertwined with mine. I gently disentangled myself and ran a finger down his cheek before I got up, donned a T-shirt, padded into my living room and sat in a chair. I had the oddest feeling that I had just spoken with Jessica — that she had only just left my apartment — that the room still vibrated with the energy of her presence.

But I realized it was just a dream — I had dreamed about her, and about Will’s story from
The Odyssey
. I was thinking of what she had said to me on her phone message — about how she had said she’d buy me lunch. She had said, “I’m an independently wealthy young lady these days.”

I sat up straighter. Jessica had been raised in a wealthy family, but she had stressed that she was recently an
independently
wealthy person. And the money from her website had gone to women’s shelters — Mitch Menteith had said so. So what did Jessica mean? Where had she gotten the money to make her wealthy independent of her family?

I thought of Kathy Olchen’s note: “2000 dollars so far.” Was that the money that Jessica had made? Was this the “cash” that Kathy had asked Danny and Mitch Menteith about? Had Jessica gotten it from some man who feared exposure? The man who “wouldn’t step down?”

“Oh, no,” I said. It seemed as clear as day.
Jessica had been blackmailing someone
.

“But I’m telling you this: if I get shoved down a second time, you’re going to keep me company.”

—Krogstad,
A Doll’s House
, Act I

Half an hour later on Wednesday morning it didn’t seem quite so clear, and I felt nervous about even mentioning my conclusion to Derek. He had hinted, the night before, that I was getting a bit too caught up in Jessica’s murder, and perhaps I was. But the more I thought about her, the less I seemed able to stop thinking about her, especially because there were so many tiny threads connecting me to her life, her death. Still, I didn’t intend to pursue ridiculous notions. There were ways of finding out a bit more before I went off half-cocked, spewing theories to Derek or running to Detective McCall.

I still sat in one of my living room chairs, gazing out the window at the rain-washed world and trying to sort my thoughts.

Derek appeared in a pair of boxers, looking rumpled and adorable.

“Hi,” I said. “Happy May 5
^th
.”

“Cinco de Mayo.” His voice was still morning-ish, but he was making an effort to be sociable.

“There’s coffee on the stove,” I told him. “But you don’t have to be up yet. I don’t think it’s even six o’clock.”

“You left,” he said simply.

“I had a dream, and it woke me up.”

He had gone into the kitchen and was pouring coffee, but his eyes were on me. “Did you dream about me?”

“I wish I had. I can’t believe I didn’t, considering the lovely experience I had just before I went to sleep.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re spilling coffee!”

“Sorry.” He grabbed a paper towel and started mopping up the little puddle on the floor. “You’re distracting.”

I sighed and stretched. “I shouldn’t even be in a good mood. I had a bad dream, and Kathy’s wake is tonight.”

“Right.” He sobered and sipped his coffee, making his way to the dining room table.

“By the way, I have to banish you from my house today. I have to catch up with my reading for my grad class. I’ve been grading papers and falling behind, and now I need about six straight hours to read.”

“Okay. I’ll do all my department paperwork. What about tonight?”

“That is negotiable,” I said.

We smiled at each other in a comfortable silence. I was relieved to realize that I didn’t need to make desperate conversation with Derek, and he seemed to be appreciating that, too. Finally I stood up and stretched. “I need to get ready. I’d like to get there a little early today — do you mind, Green Week partner?”

“Fine. I’ll throw some eggs in a pan while you’re in the shower.”

“You keep feeding me, I’ll get used to it,” I warned.

“Then I’ll keep feeding you,” he said.

* * *

I walked down the second floor hallway, feeling generally contented, when a screeching girl grabbed her friend’s arm and yelled, “You
texted
me? I texted
you!”
The amazing coincidence had them both in a frenzy. I couldn’t imagine why anyone wanted to talk to anyone else on a cell phone, home phone, or even computer at 7:20 A.M.

“Quiet down, girls,” I said. They disregarded me. At this time in the morning, teachers are mere ghosts in the halls; many students don’t acknowledge authority until the first bell rings — it’s one of those unspoken rules they have among themselves.

I sighed and went to Room 202—my room. Rosalyn’s locker was just down the hall, and she stood there in the plaid uniform she’d shortened against regulations, rapidly punching buttons on her phone. “Rosalyn? Can I talk to you for a minute?” I asked.

She looked at me, bright and pretty as always but with a bit of exhaustion around the eyes, and said, “Sure, Ms. Thurber.” She hit one last button, then tucked her phone into her purse and picked up her book bag. I unlocked my door and she followed me inside; the room smelled musty. Rosalyn helped me open some windows, and I turned on the ceiling fans (St. James was not an air conditioned building).

“That’s better.” I sat on top of the radiator and Rosalyn sat on it, too. We were on equal footing this way — I wasn’t facing her from behind the desk of authority. “I wanted to ask you something else about the last day you saw Jessica.”

Rosalyn’s eyes widened. “Are you trying to figure this out on your own, too?”

My stomach gave a nervous jolt. “Who else is trying?”

“Danny. He’s being kind of weird to everyone. He thinks that he can, like, hunt down the perpetrator like the guy in the book. He said it’s a psychological puzzle.”

“But it could be a perfect stranger who killed her. It probably is.”

Rosalyn paled. “It’s so hard to believe.”

I touched her hand. “I know. And I’m sorry to keep bothering you about this. It’s just that questions keep popping into my mind, and then I wonder if their answers might help the police. Assuming someone has the answers.”