We Lie Here: A Thriller, page 22
Another report by Deputy Wagner details an encounter between the two men. Sheldon had videotaped Bud poking beneath the Marshes’ Mercedes. Bud had claimed that he’d dropped a tennis ball and it had rolled beneath the Benz; he was simply trying to retrieve it.
Maryam Marsh had reported that Birdie had let the air out of their tires and that Bud had assaulted her in his general store.
Not nice people, the Sumners.
These pictures of the pendant and Beloved that I’d just discovered in the manila folder . . .
Maybe back in the eighties, lightning bolt pendants were a “thing” for girls at Inglewood High School, like chokers and checkered Vans were for my friends and me. In our clique, Kayla, Cheyenne, Tiana, and I wore matching puka shell necklaces to Magic Mountain, and then we’d wear tie-dyed, torn halter tops to the mall.
And if the lightning bolt pendant was a clique thing, Felicia could no longer wear hers once she chose the Black Swans over Mom and the Fast Girls.
And Beloved. Along with Terry McMillan and Alice Walker, Toni Morrison had been one of the most popular Black writers back then. Beloved had been made into a movie, with Oprah Winfrey helping a new generation find the book. Mom may not have understood the story, but she knew it must’ve been good if Oprah championed it. Ms. Morrison had probably come to read at a bookstore, and Mom had probably bought a copy and asked for her to sign it.
Deeper into the box, I find more pictures. Sheldon and Maryam dressed to the nines, smiling with Sammy Davis Jr. Sheldon, Maryam, and a little girl out on the lake in a fishing boat. That growing little girl wearing a pink leotard and tutu en pointe at a ballet barre.
That pouty, full mouth.
I’ve seen this woman before. The only daughter mentioned in the Marshes’ obituary:
Elizabeth.
There’s a picture of a handsome young man wearing a green-and-white football jersey.
And this man—Robert Gibson, my father—holds a football in one hand and uses the other to do a three-point stance as the pretty girl with the pouty mouth stands in fourth position on his back. She’s the dancer I saw in the yearbook, the one in the picture from the attic. E. at the lake. She’s Daddy’s ex-girlfriend.
I think I know who’s behind that scratched-out picture in Mom’s yearbook.
When were the pictures in this folder taken?
Daddy’s last year playing in a green-and-white jersey for Inglewood High School was 1986, his senior year. Did their love affair end once he graduated?
Did Dad cheat on Mom with Elizabeth? And did Felicia, pissed that she hadn’t been invited to the anniversary party, drive here to disrupt our celebration? Did she plan to show me proof that Rob and Elizabeth had found each other again after he’d married Mom? Was he planning to leave Mom for Elizabeth, but Mom got pregnant with Dominique before he could bounce? Did Dad feel guilty for wanting to leave his growing family?
Possibly.
No wonder Mom and Felicia hated each other.
I’d scratch out Liz’s picture, too.
And Dad: What the hell?
I understand why Mom keeps that go bag by the door.
No wonder Dad keeps his mouth shut most times and grinds his teeth almost all the time.
Does Mom know that there’s a picture of Elizabeth Marsh in her attic?
I glare at another picture, this one of Dad wearing a tuxedo and Elizabeth Marsh wearing pink chiffon. The look in his eyes is worshipful, adoring, smitten. It must’ve happened like this: He’d been in love with Elizabeth Marsh, but then they’d broken up. He met Mom, fell hard for her, so much that I was born, and then they married. Elizabeth Marsh showed her ass, Dad turned his head, Mom caught on and got pregnant with Dominique. They’ve resented each other ever since.
Makes sense.
Ugh. This woman wearing pink chiffon . . .
Was Daddy texting her a few nights ago when he should’ve been writing a toast honoring his wife?
I can’t stay here any longer. There’s plenty of air moving through the room, but my lungs are working too hard to keep me from suffocating. I grab the plastic tub, and on shaky, weak legs, I hurry over to the stairs.
The hatch is closed.
I shift the box to my hip and use my free hand to push the door.
The door won’t budge.
I use my head to push against the hatch.
No give. Like . . . not at all.
I back down the steps and place my hands on my cheeks to tamp down my waxing fear.
Breathe in . . . out . . . slowly . . . breathe . . . Okay. I climb the stairs and use my two free hands and my head to push.
The hatch doesn’t move.
I’m trapped.
42.
Sweat trickles down my spine as I bang on the hatch door. “Anybody out there?”
I can picture them now: Bud Sumner wearing his denim overalls stands beside his tobacco-stained-teeth buddy Gomer, and they’re laughing at me. Another friend—Skeet or Junior—is out on the deck splashing gasoline over the makeshift cross they’re about to burn. In the cold opening of this episode of Queen of Palmdale, I may be tonight’s victim.
“Please let me out,” I shout, not sure if being let out and still being surrounded by angry good ol’ boys is ever a good idea.
My calm is whittling down into splinters. I feel it poking at the undersides of my skin.
I pull my phone from my pocket to call 911 or Mom or . . .
NO SERVICE.
I wander to the wine rack beneath the staircase. I think about grabbing a dusty bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and guzzling from it like a can of Sprite. But I need a clear head.
I drift back toward the office.
One bar pops up on my phone’s screen.
I tap Dominique’s number.
Calling . . .
The phone beeps twice and the call drops.
That single bar disappears.
I shift north.
The bar returns.
I try Dominique’s number again.
Calling . . . calling . . .
Two beeps and the call drops again.
With my heart banging down to my ankles, I float back to the stairs.
Dust drifts down from the floorboards.
I sneeze, and maybe this sneeze will remind whoever’s up there that I’m a real person and that trapping me down here is cruel. This very real person wants to cry right now, but she won’t. If she’s still down here an hour from now, she will weep and open that bottle of wine.
“Okay, okay, okay,” I say, waggling my arms, forcing nervous energy to bubble out through my fingertips.
I charge up the ladder and ram my head and shoulder against the hatch.
Bam!
Yellow circles swirl before me.
The scissor hinges squeak and lift.
I peek out.
No one’s standing in the hallway.
I sniff. I don’t smell men, tobacco, or burning wood. Just pine forest and old furniture.
The panel is slowly dropping . . . this hinge is giving. I push the hatch door as far back as it can go, then duck into the basement for the tub filled with papers, photos, and crime reports.
Yeah, it’s time to get the hell out of here.
I’m almost happy to see Palmdale in the distance with its tract-home sameness, the brown air and the traffic.
Dominique has left me a voice mail. “Are you trying to call? Should I be worried?”
I text her: I’m good. No cell reception.
Should she be worried? Maybe.
Because how long had Mom and Dad been married when Elizabeth Marsh danced back into their lives? What could she and Dad possibly have in common today?
Yes, Rob Gibson was hot back in the day. He had that great smile and a wide receiver’s long muscles. He laughed and liked road trips to anywhere. He’d been a poor kid at USC on a football scholarship and had enough talent to be drafted to play for the Raiders. But he got hurt and became a PE teacher and high school football coach. Elizabeth Marsh, on the other hand, came from a family of dancers and musicians. I’ve seen the pictures: Count Basie came over for Christmas dinner, and Lena Horne sang at her christening.
My mother can be a supreme bitch, but she worked hard for Robert Gibson. She smoothed his edges and kept others from exploiting his good nature. Mom had his babies and lived in the freaking desert for him. To be frank, he should be throwing this party for her, not me.
Feels like I’m overheating, like my heart is boiling in my chest and my mind is broiling beneath my scalp. I’ve done too much thinking, too much living.
I can’t go home, not with all this . . . madness—Mom, Dad, Felicia, Liz—in my head. It’s too much. Instead, I drive to the Holiday Inn. Returning to Room 303 feels like a violation even though I’ve paid to stay here. The bed is made, and the air is so clean, cool, and sweet that I want to scoop a dollop with my hand and eat it.
The noise in my head fades as I stare at the plastic tub on the table. It’s filled with too much of my parents’ origin story.
I could bust up their marriage by asking questions about high school loves and extramarital affairs, about blackmail attempts made by a distant (and now-dead) cousin.
But I don’t want to do that. That’s not my job.
So why did I bring the plastic tub back with me?
Because maybe the reasons for Felicia’s death can be found in this container.
I find two videocassettes labeled E’S A.A. AUDITIONS. Elizabeth’s Alvin Ailey auditions? I grab the sheath of statements and flip through again. One from Alicia Campbell (“Nothing is real. Not her love. Not her hair.”) and another from Corbin Jefferson (“They were headed in that direction before everything went fucking nuts.”).
I know Uncle Corbin—he and Dad played ball together at USC.
An evidence sheet is clipped behind his statement. Investigators found a Cookie Monster house shoe, a Smith & Wesson revolver, a mountain bike three miles from the cabin, and . . . blood on the light switch plate and in the garage.
So . . . did Bud Sumner assault the Marsh family? Forcing them to run to their Benz with broken brakes? And then that car careened off a cliffside and they died?
With shaky hands, I look through more manila envelopes and folders stuffed with papers. The Marshes had a post office box near the Sumners’ general store. A key is taped to this sheet of paper. Does Elizabeth Marsh also have a key? Has she received forwarded mail?
I take this PO box statement and place it in my bag, then rummage through more manila envelopes and folders stuffed with photographs. I find an old-fashioned answering machine.
Ha. I’ve seen these things on the Tough Cookie set.
A label has been taped to the machine’s bottom: F. CAMPBELL. A few microcassette tapes fill a plastic bag, but there’s already a tape in the Easa-Phone.
I plug in the answering machine.
The LED digital display shows the number eight.
How do I listen to those messages?
I open the lid. There’s a label taped beside the cassette with instructions.
Okay. Awesome. Play.
“That crazy bitch is still harassing me.”
The woman’s recorded voice sounds warped. The technology is ancient.
“I went into town this morning. There she was. I went to lunch and she was in the parking lot. Y’all think I’m crazy, but she’s crazier than me. Girl, I’m getting scared. Call me.”
My mind ticks . . . ticks . . .
Who is this? When was this message left?
No time and date stamps.
“She’s here. I don’t know what to do. Where are you? Please pick up.”
The recording sounds muffled and scratchy, like the woman’s hiding beneath a blanket with the phone. She’s whispering, “I called the police again. They say there’s nothing they can do. They say she hasn’t done anything illegal.” She starts crying into the phone. “I don’t know what to do. What does she want?” Her frustration and fear come through, even on warped tape.
My phone vibrates on the desk.
It’s Shane yanking me back to the present.
“So?” he asks.
I’d called Shane ten minutes into my drive from Lake Paz—because I missed him, because I needed his touch and his brain. I may invite him to the dinner party, which would mean introducing him to my family.
And since I have this hotel room . . .
“You don’t sound happy inviting me up,” he says.
“No. Yes. I mean—I can’t wait to see you, but . . .” I push out a breath and close my eyes.
“But?”
Tears rim my eyes. “I don’t know me right now. For real, I’m losing my mind.”
“What’s going on?”
I tell Shane about the intruder, about Kayla’s request for my DNA, about losing Beloved.
“Take a breath,” he tells me.
I inhale. That breath catches in my throat. “I can’t. All the family shenanigans.”
“What did Teddy Roosevelt say about family shenanigans?”
A teardrop tumbles down my cheek. “That thing?”
“Exactly.”
“He was so wise.”
“Hell yeah. We’ll figure it out in person, yeah?”
“Yeah. Oh: don’t forget to pick up my inhaler from CVS.”
I need to breathe, especially since I’m so tired. I cringe seeing my reflection in the mirror over the desk. My eyes are swollen and bloodshot behind my Coke-bottle glasses. My nose is red and dry from being constantly blown. I look brittle. Even my hair looks like curly black straw. Who is this chick?
Shane may see me and see this place and decide that he does have something better to do back at home, that he’ll see me back in LA, that maybe we are rushing things.
I shower, shave, and pluck. In the bag that I left behind in this room, I find hair lotion and rub half the bottle into my dry mane. I find my contact lenses in my purse, but the thought of sticking them into my eyes . . . I skip the contacts.
The woman in the mirror almost resembles the one who arrived here last week. She’s in there somewhere, Yara under glass, banging her fists, begging to be let out on La Cienega Boulevard, right in front of Versailles Cuban Restaurant.
Back to Ye Olde Answering Machine.
In this message, a child is shrieking in the background.
The woman is now shouting into the receiver. “She’s here! She’s outside! What am I supposed to do? I called the police, but it just rings and—” There’s banging, and the child cries louder. The woman shushes her, but the child is too far gone to hush. “Where are you? I don’t know where he is. I’m so scared . . .”
The woman starts to cry into the phone, but not as hysterically as the child. No, she mews like an injured kitten. “I just wanna live my life. I just wanna be left alone. She wins.” Another whimper, and then: “Bye.”
There’s a click and a dial tone.
I take deep breaths until I stop seeing circles. I push aside the answering machine and open another folder stuffed with papers.
The first document is a slip of notebook paper with Detective M. Stall and a phone number written in red ink.
I dial the number.
No one answers, and the call rolls to voice mail. No one says if this is still M. Stall’s number. Does M. Stall actively work, or has he retired? No clue. After the beep, I say, “Hi. I’m Yara Gibson, and I’m calling about a case you worked on a long time ago up in Lake Paz. I’d appreciate if you called me back. You can reach me at . . .” I leave my phone number.
Which case?
I don’t know.
Who was the victim?
I don’t know.
What do you want?
I don’t know.
A part of me wants to listen to more cassettes, to learn if that crazy bitch went away, if the terrified woman survived the night. I’m shaking, though, and sipping air because the distress in these recordings . . . No, I can’t listen to any more today.
I shove the answering machine and the bag of tapes back into the plastic tub.
As I slip the folder back into the container, a piece of paper falls out. The document has been touched so much that it’s as thin as a snowflake.
STATE OF CALIFORNIA
MISSING PERSON REPORT
ELIZABETH MARIE MARSH
43.
Whoa.
Elizabeth Marsh was missing?
Most of the type on the report has faded, but I can make out a few things.
Marsh, Elizabeth Marie
Female, Black, 28 years old
5′8″, 115 lbs.
Curly brown hair, brown eyes.
Last contact: June 25, 1998
Report Type: Voluntary Missing Adult
Last Known Location: Lake Paz, CA
Detectives from the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department are seeking assistance in locating the above missing person. She suffers from depression, and the family is concerned for her well-being.
Boxes for “X-rays available” and “photo available” are checked yes.
The page is covered in fading handwritten swoops and sticks.
Another evidence sheet documents a prescription medication bottle containing sixteen OxyContin tablets found on the floor in the cabin’s kitchen.
Where is she now? Did she ever come back? Voluntary missing adult—does that mean that she just rolled out of bed one day and decided to leave without telling anyone?
I turn to the internet. There must be stories written about her disappearance. She was the daughter of a prominent musician and dancer. But results for Elizabeth Marsh include an Englishwoman who was held captive in the 1700s and another woman who teaches at Duke. Toward the end of my clicking around the web, I find an obituary for Sheldon and Maryam Marsh, a quick snippet on Elizabeth’s disappearance, and a brief article about Elizabeth taking over the dance school her mother founded. This article had been written almost nine years before she disappeared.
Daughter of Famed Dancer Takes Reins of Marsh School of Dance—December 12, 1989
Elizabeth Marsh’s promising career with Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater was cut short after just two months’ training when she and her parents went for an Independence Day drive in Lake Paz, Calif., nearly 100 miles north of Los Angeles. The family’s automobile, a blue Mercedes-Benz sedan, lost control on the winding roads of Angeles National Forest and swerved from the road and off a cliff.
