The Silent Sister (32 page)

A half hour passed before I heard the front door close. From the window, I watched Jeannie and Christine walk down the porch steps and across the lawn to their cars in the driveway. I smiled, watching them go. Once they'd driven away, I sat down at my desk and turned on my laptop.

How to begin?

I Googled “Ann Johnson” and immediately knew the name was going to be of absolutely no help. I tried searching for images of women with that name. Pages upon pages of Ann Johnsons showed up on my computer, all looking at me with such haunting expressions that I couldn't stand it and I closed down Google altogether.

I sat with my hands in my lap, staring at the screen. With his tech skills, would Danny know of some way of finding her I'd never think of? I shook my head to rid it of the idea. It didn't matter. Even if he did, I couldn't involve him. Maybe I could hire a private investigator, but would a PI have a legal obligation to tell the police if he or she managed to track Lisa down?

And then I remembered that someone
had
hired a PI: Steven Davis's wife, Sondra. And she, I knew, would be easy to find.

It took me only a few seconds to locate her blog again. “Never Forgotten: A Meeting Place for Families of Murder Victims.” My gaze fell to the bottom of the page, where I clicked on the word
contact,
and a form appeared below Sondra Lynn Davis's e-mail address. I chewed my lip for a couple of minutes, thinking through what I was about to do. Then I began typing.

Sondra, my name is Riley MacPherson. I am Lisa MacPherson's younger sister. I was only two at the time of your husband's death, and I'd never been told the truth about my sister's role in it. I stumbled across your blog. I wonder if you could tell me if the private investigator made any progress in finding my sister or if he came to the conclusion that Lisa did actually kill herself, which is what my family has always believed.

I'm sorry for your terrible loss, and I'm sure you're helping a lot of people through your blog.

I read it over several times, adding the sentence about believing that Lisa had killed herself only on the third reading, so that I gave nothing away. I added my phone number and signature, and then hit send.

*   *   *

I went for a run with my phone in my hand in case Sondra saw my message right away and called me back, but it wasn't until I'd gotten home, taken a shower, and settled down on the floor in front of the living room cabinets that the phone finally rang. The number on the caller ID was unfamiliar and I held my breath after I said hello.

“Is this Riley MacPherson?”

I knew who it was without her telling me. “Sondra?” I asked.

“Yes.” Her voice was youthful, although I figured she was at least sixty. “I was so shocked to get your message,” she said.

“I'm sure it seemed strange, out of the blue.” I turned to lean my back against the cabinets. “My father died recently and I found articles about … everything that happened. And then I found your blog and realized that you thought Lisa might still be alive, and I just wanted to see if you ever learned anything from your private investigator.”

She was quiet a moment. “You didn't know she killed Steven?” she asked finally.

“No,” I said. “I wasn't even two at the time, and all my parents told me was that she was depressed.”

Sondra didn't speak and for a moment I thought we'd been cut off.

“Sondra?”

“Your sister's out there somewhere, you know,” she said. “She was never punished for what she did. It's disgusting. My husband was so gifted, and he would have done anything for her and his other students. I think Lisa's rise in the music world was too fast for her own good. She was spoiled and selfish, and—”

“Why do you think she's … out there?”

“The PI we hired found evidence.”

“What kind of evidence?”

“A couple of people recognized her from a photograph. This was in San Diego.”

“San Diego! Why was he looking there?”

“I got a tip that she was in California. Someone—anonymously—sent me a note saying she traveled to San Diego by train.”

I could guess who that someone was. I was so glad I'd called Suzanne to stop the gift deed.

“Of course I received loads of other tips, sending the investigator on a hundred wild-goose chases,” Sondra said. “But this was the only one that got a nibble.”

“Did you tell the police?” I asked.

“Of course. They did nothing,” she said. “They believed she was dead and that I was obsessed. Which I
was,
but with good reason. If the PI had found nothing, I would have let it go. Eventually.”

“So … you said some people recognized her picture?” I prompted.

“Yes. She'd changed her hair, of course, but they were certain it was the same girl. They said she worked in a shop in Ocean Beach, which I guess is part of San Diego. The PI talked to the shop owner. He denied knowing her, but the PI thought he was lying. I don't think the police even followed up on it.” Sondra sounded bitter. I supposed I would feel the same way. “I'm absolutely certain Lisa was living there back then,” Sondra said. “The PI was sure of it, but he just couldn't find her.”

“So, did he keep looking?”

“Of course, but without any luck,” Sondra said. “And my money was drying up, and without being able to get the authorities interested … it was immensely frustrating.”

“I can imagine,” I said, trying to sound empathetic. “Can you tell me the PI's name?”

“Well, I could, but he died about ten years ago so there's not much point.” She hesitated. “Are you going to look for her?”

“Oh … well, honestly, I tend to think the police were probably right about her killing herself.”

I heard her sigh. “You know what my most fervent wish is?” she asked.

“What?”

“I'm sixty-three years old,” she said. “I only pray that I live long enough to see your sister found and brought to justice. That's my hope and I won't ever give up on it.”

*   *   *

When I got off the phone, I sat in a rocker on the back porch, opened my laptop, and looked for any Ann Johnsons who lived in San Diego. I searched for my sister's features in each photograph that popped up, but I was beginning to think Lisa was wisely living a reclusive life. She probably turned away every time someone pulled out a camera.

It was growing dark, the crickets singing in the yard. I closed my computer and went into the kitchen to scavenge for something to eat. My mother's Franciscan Ware was piled on the counter, a small price sticker attached to the bottom of each plate and bowl and cup and saucer, and I stood there removing those stickers with a sense of relief. Those dishes belonged to my childhood. I planned to keep every one of them forever.

*   *   *

I didn't wake up until nine the next morning, and I lay in bed, stretching for a while, glad to have the house to myself. It was so quiet with nobody rummaging through the rooms. I planned to go through more of my father's papers that morning, searching for something—
anything
—that might lead me to Lisa. But I suddenly had a different idea.

I got up and carried my laptop back to the bed with me. Surfing to one of the travel sites, I plugged in “New Bern to San Diego,” and a few minutes and seven hundred dollars later, I was booked on a flight for that evening.

 

42.

It was tourist season and all the hotels near the San Diego beaches were packed. So, after I arrived, I picked up my rental car and drove east through the darkness to reach a hotel in Mission Valley, where I'd been able to make a reservation. It was ten at night by the time I got there—one
A.M.
New Bern time—but I was wide awake. I sat in my room, staring at my phone, realizing I had no one to text that I had arrived safely. I'd left a phone message for Danny, telling him I was going out of town for a few days to see a friend, and now I felt sad and lonely. I missed Bryan. I missed Sherise. No one knew where I was and the one person I'd told I was going away, I'd lied to.

As usual, I couldn't sleep. Why should a change of coasts make any difference in my insomnia? I was anxious to do what I'd come here to do. I surfed the Internet on my laptop in bed, trying to make myself tired. At two in the morning California time, I gave in, took a Benadryl, and finally drifted off to sleep.

*   *   *

Most of the shops in Ocean Beach seemed to be on the main road, Newport Avenue, and I managed to find a parking place a couple of blocks from the beach. I had a few pictures of Lisa with me in my tote bag and my plan was to go from shop to shop asking anyone over the age of thirty if my sister looked familiar to them. A long shot, but it seemed like the only shot I had.

I'd never been to California before and it felt like another world. The sun was unnaturally bright as I walked along the sidewalk, and the palm trees that lined the avenue looked like tall skinny pompoms. The sidewalk was packed with people of all ages. A lot of students, I thought. Young mothers with kids in tow. Aging hippies. There were all sorts of shops. Antiques. Surf shops. Jewelry. A Pilates studio. Had Lisa walked on this same street? I wanted that to be true. I knew decades had passed—and maybe Sondra was wrong and she'd never been in Ocean Beach at all—but I felt oddly close to her here.

After talking to people in fifteen stores, I took a break in a coffee shop, feeling discouraged. I'd quickly discovered this was a young town, full of people who were barely walking when Lisa would have lived there. In each store, I'd shown the framed picture of Lisa, Danny, and myself, telling whoever I spoke with that the girl in the photo was my sister who had run away when I was two. I'd selected that picture because she was close to the age she would have been when she'd worked in Ocean Beach …
if
she'd worked in Ocean Beach … and she wasn't holding a violin. I'd worried that the violin might give her away as the famous prodigy she'd been, but I quickly realized that was a pointless concern. Twenty years was a very long time. None of the shopkeepers recognized my sister, and I began to wonder if I should be speaking to the straggly old hippies instead.

After my break, I resumed my hunt. I was about to skip the Pilates studio—had anyone even heard of Pilates twenty years ago?—but at that point I thought I had little to lose.

The ponytailed blond woman behind the counter in the dimly lit studio was no more than twenty-two, and she shook her head when I showed her the photograph. But an older woman, her gray hair in braids, stood next to me at the counter and she touched the edge of the carved frame with her fingertip.

“Oh, I remember her,” she said. “Only her hair was darker.”

I felt my heartbeat kick up, but I was afraid to get too excited. “That would fit,” I said. “I'm sure she dyed it. Where do you remember seeing her?”

The woman leaned her elbows on the counter to study the photograph. “She worked at this music store that used to be across the street.” She pointed through the window. “Grady's. I went in there a lot. I wish it was still there. I'd rather support an indie shop than buy all my music online, you know? She had a funny name, I can't remember what it was.” She looked at the receptionist. “What was it?” she asked, as though the young woman could possibly know.

“Got me.” The receptionist laughed.

My brain had perked up as soon as she said
music store
. That fit. It fit perfectly. The funny name did not.

“Her name was Ann Johnson,” I said.

“Really?” The woman looked at the picture again. “Maybe I'm wrong, then. I don't remember her name, but I know it wasn't Ann.”

“Well,” I asked, my hope fading a bit, “do you have any idea where she is now?”

“Oh, God, no. I haven't seen that girl in”—she looked toward the ceiling, thinking—“I don't know how long. You should try to find Grady,” she said. “The owner of the store.”

“Do you know where I can find him?” I asked.

“There's a jewelry store a block up.” She pointed east. “On this side of the street. The jeweler Sal was good friends with him.”

I'd already been in that jewelry store, but I hadn't met a Sal.

“Thank you so much,” I said, and I slipped the photograph back into my tote and headed out the door.

A funny name,
I thought as I walked the block toward the jewelry store. That worried me. But the music store fit so well, and that gave me hope. I wanted to hold on to that hope as long as I could.

*   *   *

The young guy in the jewelry store told me Sal would be working the next day, and I decided to wait till then to resume my search. Funny how I could run a half marathon without a twinge, but my feet ached from the stop-and-go walking through Ocean Beach.

I drove back to my Mission Valley hotel, took a long soak in the tub, and then spent the evening Googling “music store,” “Grady,” and “Ocean Beach.” On various music Web sites and blogs, I found people reminiscing about Grady's Records from back in the day. The shop apparently closed down in the late nineties. I searched for any reference to a female employee, with a “funny name” or not, but no one mentioned anyone from the shop other than Grady himself, and I finally went to bed for another long and restless night.

*   *   *

Sal was not a very trusting guy.

When I arrived at the jewelry store the following morning, the gray-haired, bearded jeweler sat at the worktable in the window, and he wore a blank expression as he looked at the picture of my sister through his safety glasses.

“Never seen her,” he said, resting his soldering iron on the table.

“Someone told me she might have worked at Grady's Records years ago,” I said. “And that you might know where I can find Grady.”