We Lie Here: A Thriller, page 25
A Knott’s Berry Farm postcard:
Bee, you stupid bitch. You weren’t good enough for him then, you’re not good enough for him now. You should just kill yourself.
And on and on and on.
“And Felicia was mailing you, too?” I ask, my pulse drumming in my head.
She nods. “It felt like an invasion. Like a poltergeist in my home. Except that Liz wasn’t supernatural. She was demonic, but she wasn’t supernatural.”
“So eventually, what happened?”
Mom grabs her lighter and a pack of cigarettes from the coffee table. “Eventually, Liz and I smoothed things out. She stopped harassing us, and Rob and I just let her be and didn’t bother her anymore.” Mom’s eyes disappear behind all that cigarette smoke now curling around our heads and licking at the ceiling. “But that’s when I started doing this.” She lifts her cigarette.
“Why did Felicia still believe that she was missing?” I ask.
Mom rolls her eyes. “You know the answer to that. You saw it firsthand. Lee was not well, Yara. She was brilliant in so many ways, but that gift and her illness tore at parts of her sanity.” She pulls a crushed pack of Nicorette from her back pocket and pops a piece.
“Do you think . . . ?” I say. “That Elizabeth Marsh . . . ?”
When I don’t finish my thought, Mom looks over to me.
I take a deep breath, then push out, “Left that weird postcard and broke into our house?”
Her eyes glaze, and she turns away from me. Her jaws work that piece of gum. She doesn’t say the words, but her actions say, Yes, I do.
I grip my elbows. “Is she the reason you always threatened to leave us?”
Mom laughs, a sudden, harsh sound. She waves a hand, then lights another cigarette. “You were a child. You misunderstood.”
I bristle. “But you said those words. Once, you took Dom with you and left me behind. And another time, you left all of us for weeks.”
She chuckles. “I probably did say those things, and those were bluffs to get your father to behave. I’d never desert something I fought so hard to win. And Dom was so young . . . We just drove down to LA, stopped at McDonald’s, and drove right back. And that time I was away longer? Track meets with the team. For nationals. That’s all. He just pissed me off at the right time, ha.”
She chomps Nicorette and stares at the cigarette between her fingers. “Sorry that you heard all of that grown-up stuff back then. You must hate me.”
A headache starts behind my right eye, because a little part of me does hate her. No child wants to believe she’s a burden to her mother.
Mom’s cigarette hovers inches from her lips. Her hand shakes and the cigarette bobs, and the smoke makes her eyes glisten. “I miss her. Sometimes, I wish I could see her again but . . .” She flushes. Mom lost this fight, a rare thing, and it makes us both uncomfortable.
I appreciate her candor. By the way her voice quavers and that cigarette wobbles, she loathes this part of her life and probably hates that I know she’s been rejected by friends.
Every villain is a heroine in her own story. I want to call Elizabeth Marsh and hear her version of their beef. I want to tell her that Mom doesn’t hate her anymore, that she doesn’t have to skulk around in the shadows and send threatening postcards. That we can get her help if she needs it; if she did kill Felicia Campbell, she will need as much as possible. We’re a family who took in stray dogs from the highway and loved Noodles, Cecily, and Jupiter until their deaths. Not that Elizabeth Marsh is a stray dog, but I’m just saying . . . We were flea-infested, scarred from random nips, and the stinkiest house on the block, but sometimes love bloomed at this house on a dead-end street in the wasteland.
Ooh! That would be a great surprise—Elizabeth coming to the anniversary celebration, bygones being bygones. If she came, I could also ask her about Felicia—why she came to Palmdale, if she and Felicia met back on Friday night, and if we could talk later about what happened next.
After I take medications to treat my irritated eyes and nose, I text Cousin Alicia.
Do you have a number for Liz Marsh?
The ellipsis bubbles beneath my text message.
Why??
Did something happen???
I just want to check something
I talked with the detective on her case
He says Liz voluntarily left
Right, Alicia answers, and that she came into the police station
She said that she was leaving the state
She wrote us a letter saying the same thing
Here’s the last number I have
Alicia sends a phone number with a 213 area code.
Be careful
Something is seriously wrong with her
My stomach rolls, and I think about the nasty letters Liz sent my mother.
I love her but
THAT BITCH IS CRAZY!!!!!
I wouldn’t call her if I were you
49.
The gardener is here, and the drone of his lawnmower makes me look away from the phone. The aroma of grass, dust, and gasoline slips past my bedroom window.
My phone vibrates again—a second text warning.
If you do call her, be prepared
I quickly save the 213 number in my contacts as Elizabeth Marsh.
I’ve seen glimpses of Liz’s mental state from the police reports and the letters Mom shared with me. She’d been a little off, sure, but was she a sociopath? Doubt it. Women, especially Black women, are always mislabeled and judged harshly for expressing emotion. Still, I’ll tread carefully even as I give her the benefit of the doubt.
If she moved to the Virgin Islands, that region is four hours ahead of California. It’s ten o’clock there, not too late to call. I dial the number and the line rings . . . rings . . . rings . . . The automated voice mail tells me to leave a message.
I don’t.
The chili powder and onions simmering for Mom’s enchiladas beat back the scent of sticky-green cut grass, and my stomach growls.
Maybe I’ll call Elizabeth Marsh again after breakfast tomorrow. If she’s already here, we can meet for lunch. If the situation veers into nutso territory, Kayla will be close by.
Outside, Javier aims his Weedwacker at our shrubs. The cranberry-colored sky above him looks like the desert is on fire.
My phone vibrates in my hand—a text from the number I saved as Elizabeth Marsh.
Who is this??
A thrill spreads through me like new sunshine.
Hi!
You don’t know me but I’m Yara Gibson
Daughter of two old friends of yours
Robert and Barbara Gibson
A pause.
How did you get my number?
Alicia Campbell gave it to me
She didn’t know if you were still using it
Looks like you are!!!
Yay!
I just want to be left alone, Liz texts.
The energy I’m getting from Elizabeth Marsh is not one of excitement. It’s more annoyance, irritation.
I take a deep breath and my lungs resist. The inhaler—I forgot to take it out of Shane’s bag. I reach for my inhaler on the nightstand. Twenty puffs left. I leave it on the nightstand since I can breathe okay for now.
Felicia and I haven’t spoken in years, Liz texts.
She’s a liar
She’s a cheater
She’s bad news
I should’ve kicked Felicia to the curb and stayed friends with Bee
Didn’t you and my dad date?
Yes I did date Rob but I lost
I wish them the best
Does she still love Robert Gibson? Does she still think about him?
They’ve been together for a long time now, Liz texts.
That’s unexpected but whatever
Good for them
Good night Yara Gibson
But I have more questions!
What can I say to keep her hooked?
Someone wants to give you something
Never lead off with what “something” is. Write a cliffhanger, my writing mentor advised, so that the audience tunes in next time. Humans are naturally curious, and they have to see what comes next—from Eve eating the apple to who gets knocked off next in Game of Thrones.
But there is no ellipsis, and no further texts come from Elizabeth Marsh. She doesn’t bite. She doesn’t care about a talking snake in the garden or who survives the red wedding.
It’s been crazy here, I text.
I’ve found things that you’ll want to see
My phone doesn’t buzz. My head aches from willing her to text back.
Guess Elizabeth Marsh isn’t the average woman.
Maybe, because of that tragic accident with her parents, she stays far enough away from all cliffs to avoid falling off.
But I’m not going away, not without a last shot.
Felicia told me EVERYTHING, I write.
Really, she texts.
Time for a reunion then
I can’t wait to hug you and squeeze you to death!
I drop the phone.
Those words . . . I can’t wait to hug . . . I dig in my purse and find the note left on my windshield on the night someone keyed my car.
I can’t wait to hug you and squeeze you to death!
Did Elizabeth Marsh . . . ?
The crumpled note in my hand shudders as I look at the same words on my phone.
50.
Are you here in Palmdale right now?? I text Elizabeth Marsh.
No response.
Eventually my phone’s screen fills with texts and emails from everyone in the world except Elizabeth Marsh. Megan, the event coordinator at Rancho Vista Golf Club, has sent up an early-morning flare. A brussels sprouts E. coli recall is in effect, and thus there’ll be no brussels sprouts for Saturday night. She’s offered to let me sample vegetable dishes, a rare thing since vegetables are the bridesmaids on a plate, never the bride. But Megan has also met my mother.
And now I sit at a table in the golf club’s Desert Willows ballroom, staring past the full glass windows. Sprinklers shoot streams of silver water across impossibly green lawns. Old men wearing chinos and golf caps swing, stoop, and bullshit in the cool of the morning. On the table, three small plates sit at my hands.
Glazed carrots.
Sauteed spinach.
Steamed broccoli.
The broccoli tastes like boiled paper, so plain that I’m annoyed.
Though the spinach is delicious, Mom may not want to smell like garlic while wearing faux couture.
The carrots are delicious as well. They’re also inoffensive, and the lovely orange will pop against the filet and shrimp scampi.
I text Mom, who’s now putting girls through their paces on the track.
She immediately texts back her approval.
Megan, a round pink woman who kinda looks like the Megan I always sat next to on the bench during PE because of asthma (for me) and a tilted uterus (for her), claps her hands and apologizes for the last-minute change.
I flick away her apology. “If this is the worst thing that can happen, I’ll take it.”
A dust storm is brewing west of the city, and this one is the real deal. The golf course crew is scurrying to remove flagsticks, empty trash receptacles, and take down umbrellas. As I walk back to my car, I notice no birds are flying through the air. My phone vibrates with an alert.
DUST STORM WARNING TILL 11:00 A.M.
AVOID TRAVEL.
CHECK LOCAL MEDIA
My phone vibrates again, this time, with an email from VitalChek.
Thank you for placing your order with VitalChek. We have received your request for a Public Marriage Authorized Copy: Barbara Nicole McGuire/Robert Louis Gibons. Unfortunately, there is no record of marriage.
“What?” I drop the phone onto my lap, then I immediately catch the megatypo: Gibons, not Gibson.
Did VitalChek make that mistake, or did I give them a misspelled surname?
I find my original request: Gibons.
Of course there wouldn’t be a Robert Louis Gibons and Barbara Nicole McGuire. I hit the Jeep’s steering wheel, pissed that I made such a dumb mistake and that I waited so long to request a certificate.
Mom will have her glazed carrots and framed ceremonial marriage certificate. Nothing else, Universe. Stop right there.
The sky is no longer a brilliant blue. A wall of dust that reaches the sun looms in the horizon. Time to find clean air. I’m closer to the Holiday Inn than the house, so I head there. The wind has already picked up by the time I rush across the parking lot toward the lobby. I throw a glance west—dust has burst like water from a dam and now rushes toward the Antelope Valley. Awestruck, I stand at the sliding entry doors with my jacket pressed against my mouth and watch as the storm billows and bulges just a mile away.
My phone vibrates with a text from Mom.
U okay??
I send a thumbs-up and hurry to the elevator.
Back in Room 303, I open the curtains. Sand pellets strike the glass. There’s nothing to see except swirling brown nothingness. I plop on the bed and pull my laptop from my bag to resubmit my request for my parents’ marriage certificate. This time, I check for errors. G-I-B-S-O-N. M-C-G-U-I-R-E. All good.
I toggle over to Google and search for 26 Mount Welcome Way, Christiansted, Virgin Islands, the location of Elizabeth Marsh’s condo. I see only overgrown trees, a single-lane road, and a dialysis center. A gated courtyard with stairs leads up to yellow condos on a hill.
I search Zillow for the same address, but this time, those yellow condos on the hill look out to a harbor. A unit in the same development is for sale. It’s cute inside—glass-door cabinets, granite countertops, a hilltop pool, and a private balcony. It can be mine for only $298,000. There’s no public tax history or data on the year it was built.
A search for Elizabeth Marsh + Virgin Islands Saint Croix doesn’t yield anything, either. It’s been twenty years since she maybe left the continental US, and there was a husband whose name I don’t have. But she could’ve remarried three times by now and taken the last names of each spouse.
There is no way for me, a regular citizen, to know. Time to make a call.
Kayla answers on the first ring. “What’s up? Got something for me?”
I pause, then ask, “Was I supposed to get you something?”
“I was just hoping you learned something new, or maybe Will had contacted you.”
“Ah. No. I have a request, though. I’m looking for an old friend of my mother’s. They had a huge girl fight back in high school, but over the years, they smoothed things out. I’d love to fly her here, but I don’t have a reliable address. Could you look in your computers? She lives in the Virgin Islands.”
Kayla laughs and laughs, then laughs some more.
“What’s so funny?”
“Dude, I’ve been a low-level detective for less than a year. I can search LA County. I don’t have computer programs that go east of Vegas.”
“You sure?” I ask, skeptical.
“This isn’t TV, Yara.”
“What if I tell you . . . ?”
“Tell me . . . what?”
“Nothing. Never mind,” I tease. “Because if I say anything, then you’ll lock me out even more than you have and—”
“Does this ‘friend’ have anything to do with Felicia Campbell?” Her voice is hard. “If you’re withholding information—”
“I’m trying to reach a mutual friend of Felicia’s and my mother’s. She may know more than what she’s saying. I have her phone number and an address in Saint Croix, but . . .”
Kayla says nothing.
Outside, dust has dropped the earth into the dark of night, the end of times. The wind screams as this brown blizzard rages outside the hotel.
“What aren’t you saying?” Kayla asks. “Yara—”
“She and Felicia were supposed to meet Friday night.”
“Are we talking about Liz Marsh?”
“Yes,” I say. “They were supposed to meet at Bucelli’s Italian near Walmart. Your turn.”
“You haven’t told me anything new. The autopsy confirms that pasta was her last meal.”
And a complimentary tiramisu. “You were gonna fingerprint the bottles in her car.”
“Only her prints were found on the bottles,” Kayla says. “Now, it’s your turn.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Felicia thought Liz Marsh was dead.” I bite my lip.
“Yara—”
“Your turn.”
“I can arrest you for obstructing an investigation.”
“Only I’m not obstructing,” I say. “I don’t know Liz Marsh. I didn’t even know Felicia, remember? But I’m hearing lots of oral history.” A lie. Kinda. Not only oral history. Written down and official police history, too.
“This is stupid,” Kayla says, then sighs. “An anonymous caller tells me that they know who forced Felicia Campbell into that lake. I’m supposed to meet this person tonight, and it would be great to have an idea who it may be before I go traipsing into the Red Roof Inn an hour before midnight.”
Red Roof Inn at eleven o’clock? That’s never a good idea.
I push out a breath. “Fine. Felicia reported Elizabeth Marsh missing in 1998, but she wasn’t missing. Even when presented with evidence, Felicia continued to believe Liz was dead. That is, until Friday night, when Liz invited her to dinner at Bucelli’s near the Walmart.”
Kayla doesn’t speak.
“Hello? You still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” But she sounds hollow. “You talked to Liz?”
“We’ve texted.”
“She say anything else?”
“Not really.” I wait a beat. “Do you want her to say something?”
“How about, ‘I forced that bitch into Lake Palmdale’? Mind if I take your—”
“No, you cannot.”
“You don’t even know what I’m about to ask—”
“You cannot have my phone right now.” I snort. “Dude, I’m in the middle of party planning. On Sunday, if you still need it, I’ll lend it to you, but right now—”
“We can look at cell phone—”
“No.” I peek out my window to the Martian-red world we’re in. Along with the howling winds, I hear shrieking car alarms.
