Lady Killer (7 page)

“For reals.”

“Did Trish mention any other friends she had? Maybe a friend who might know something about where they could be?”

“No way. She had us. She was loyal to us.” Giulia frowned, and Mary let it go.

“Did you check the bedroom? I’m curious to see if her clothes are missing. Or if there are any signs she packed anything, or he did.”

“I didn’t check.”

“Where does she keep her suitcase, do you know?”

“I dunno. We keep ours under the bed.”

“I’ll check that, too.” Mary filed it away. “By the way, where’s their computers?”

“He didn’t have one, I know that. She told me he never liked ’em. He said he had ADD.”

Mary thought back. He had been a poor student. He could have been undiagnosed, back then. “No e-mail or anything?”

“T had it.”

“I want to look upstairs.”

“I’ll go out and smoke.” Giulia turned, but Mary touched her arm.

“Wait, I have a job for you and the girls. I want you to go up and down the street and interview the neighbors.”

“Why?” Giulia frowned.

“When there’s a crime, cops canvass the neighborhood to find out what people saw. They interview them to get witnesses.” Mary walked into the dining room and picked up one of the photos from the credenza. “Take this with you. Show it to the neighbors when you talk to them.”

“Don’t need it. I got a picture of them in my cell phone.” Giulia’s eyes narrowed, so that with the eyeliner tattooing, they looked like two black dashes. “So what do I ask in this interview?”

“Ask people if they saw Trish last night, or recently. Ask if anyone saw them leave and if they were alone.” Mary was thinking out loud. “Ask them, what time was it? Did they carry suitcases? Did they leave alone in the BMW? Did someone go with them and maybe follow them? Did it look like she was forced? Did they hear any yelling last night? How about a scream?”

Giulia frowned in confusion.

“I’ll write it down for you.”

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Giulia reached into her purse for her cigarettes.

M
ary entered the bedroom and flicked on the light switch, feeling oddly as if she were walking into her alternative life, the world of what-if.

He was so crazy about her. He loved her since high school.

She shook the thoughts off, disturbing as they were, and concentrated on the task at hand. A large king-size bed sat against the far wall, between two windows covered by closed shades. The bed’s black quilted comforter was completely flat and four zebra-print pillows sat in neat layers, but at the foot of the bed lay a heap of clothes. Mary picked up the top one. It was a woman’s sweater, black with silvery glitter scattered on one padded shoulder, reeking of smoke and perfume, and underneath it lay another sweater, red with tiny red beads in the shape of a heart. It had to be Trish’s clothes, and from the looks of it, she’d been trying to find something to wear at the last minute, or maybe packing to go somewhere.

Mary set the clothes back down and looked under the bed for suitcases, but there was nothing there, not even a single dust bunny. She straightened up, looked around, and out of curiosity, went to the dresser. It was neat and clean, covered with more photos of the beaming couple. Flush against the large dresser mirror sat two open jewelry boxes, his and hers. His was smaller, of black leather, and most of the tray was empty except for a few gold chains, sets of cufflinks, a stainless-steel Rolex, and a set of black studs. Something glinted underneath the studs, and she moved the jewelry aside with an index finger.

A high school ring winked back at her, and she remembered the day he’d gotten his class ring. Their first date had been that night. He’d asked her out one Wednesday at their session, their books side by side on the kitchen table, momentarily forgotten.

You mean, like a date?
she had asked him, amazed. It was all that she had hoped for.

That night, in the car, he’d showed her his ring, and she’d misunderstood, thinking for a thrilling moment he was going to offer it to her. He didn’t, but the ring and the romance were knotted together in her mind, unsettling as it was, in retrospect.

She shooed the memory away and looked at Trish’s jewelry box, which looked like the treasure chest in a Disney cartoon. Gold chains of all sizes glittered from a hanging bar on the open lid, golden bangles sat stacked in a lopsided heap, and gold earrings overflowed their little trays. Mary lifted up the tray. Underneath, more gold chains and bangles covered the bottom, almost hiding a set of car keys, still with the rubber keychain from the dealership. They must have been an extra set. Impulsively she took the car keys and slipped them into her jacket pocket. Then she went quickly through dresser drawers, piles of neatly laundered and folded undies, socks, polo shirts, and shorts. Neither Trish’s gun nor her diary was there.

Mary straightened up and eyeballed the room. A long closet stood open, its louvered panels slid aside, and she went over and searched the pockets on the hanging jackets and pants. No diary. No gun. She grabbed a footstool, undoubtedly used by Trish, and searched the top of the closet, stocked with sheets and electric blankets. No gun. Then she bent down and searched the bottom of the closet, where shoes lay in piles. No gun, no suitcases, no nothing. Mary stood up and dusted herself off. Beside the closet was a bathroom, and she looked inside, turning on the light.

It was large and white, with two side-by-side sinks on a single, long, superclean vanity. On Trish’s side, an electric toothbrush upright in a holder, and a thin bar of Neutrogena sat in a white plastic dish, and his side was almost a mirror image. A chrome blow dryer sat on the sink, and all the towels on the racks had been folded and were in size order, from bath towel to facecloth. The mirror over the sink had to be a medicine chest, and Mary opened it.

The left side was plainly male, an orderly lineup of shaving cream, deodorant, aftershave, and a clean silvery razor. Nothing remarkable, so she opened the other side. It was Trish’s, and it had a push dispenser of Cetaphil moisturizer, foil tubes of Bobbie Brown masques, and jars of La Mer and Lancôme creams that lined the skinny shelves. Underneath, front and center, lay a yellow blister pack that read Tri-Sprintec. Birth-control pills.

Mary picked them up and examined them. Sunday was the last pill missing. Monday’s pill hadn’t been taken yet. Today was Tuesday. So, assuming that Trish took her pill at night, when the rest of the world did, that meant she hadn’t taken her pill last night before bed. She must’ve thought she’d be right back.

Mary felt a chill. She surveyed the clutter with new eyes, then saw, next to the soap, a pair of women’s wire-rimmed glasses. That meant Trish wore her contacts last night. Again, she must’ve expected to be right back, if not the same night, the next day. So wherever they’d gone, it had to be in the city or driving distance from it, to return the same night.

Still Mary was no closer to knowing where Trish was, and it would be nice to find a suitcase or two. She returned to the bedroom, where she noticed something she hadn’t before. Two night tables flanked the bed; again, the one on the left held a
Sports Illustrated
magazine, a black electric clock, a small lamp, and an ashtray. On the other side of the bed, the top of the night table was clear, with an electric clock and an empty ring stand. Evidently, Trish’s. But no ashtray.

Odd.
Trish smoked, so there should be an ashtray next to the bed.

Mary went over to his night table, then pulled the drawer open. She half-expected to find an arsenal, but no. The drawer was almost empty, save for some pens, a pack of Hall’s cough drops, and some receipts. She went through the receipts, looking for anything unusual, but they were for clothes, shoes, and undershirts, from JoS. A. Bank, Nordstrom, and Target. She closed the drawer and walked around the bed to Trish’s night table. The surface was characteristically neat, but dull-looking in the lamplight. She ran a finger over the surface and checked her fingerpad. It was dusty. And again, no ashtray.

Mary pulled open the drawer, and it contained a few
Cosmopolitan
and
People
magazines. She checked their dates. December; months ago. She followed her hunch, left the room, and went down the hall to the other room and turned on the light. It was a spare room with a desk. An overhead fixture illuminated a single bed, neatly made, flush against a light-blue wall, across from a wooden desk with an older Dell laptop. Trish’s computer. Mary went over and moved the mouse. The screen came to life, the screen saver yet another photo of the couple. She clicked on AOL, which signed on automatically, and watched the e-mail load for the screen name TRex193.

Mary skimmed the list of incoming e-mail, the usual spam about penis enlargers, stock tips, and pleas for money from Ethiopian royalty. Seven e-mails piled in from Giulia, Missy, and Yolanda, and Mary clicked on one, which read: T, WHERE ARE YOU? I’M OUTTA MY MIND! She clicked on a few of the others, also from the Mean Girls. She closed the e-mail, logged on to the Internet history, and scanned the websites Trish had visited last. They were all the same:
www.protectionorder.org, www.domesticviolence.org, www.womenslaw.org
.

Mary’s heart sank, and she turned away. Next to the desk was another louvered closet, and she slid the door aside. Black Tumi suitcases sat piled one on top of the other. So they hadn’t gone on a trip. She searched the closet for the guns, just to make sure, but found nothing. She turned around, preoccupied.

Next to the bed sat a white night table with an electric clock, a pump bottle of Jergens hand cream—and an ashtray. She walked over to the night table and opened the drawer.
People
magazine from last week. She stepped back and almost tripped on the black cord of a cell phone charger, then put two and two together:

Trish had to have been sleeping in here. It made sense, together with the fact that she was miserable. The birth-control pills were a loose end, but Mary didn’t need to go there. They had separate bedrooms, or at least fights frequent enough for Trish to sleep in here. Mary closed the drawer. No gun, no diary. Trish could have the gun with her, but where was the diary? Then a thought struck her.

She still had one place left to search.

Outside, Mary chirped Trish’s Miata unlocked, using the keys from the jewelry box. She opened the door and climbed inside. The car matched the house, with its gleamy white enamel paint and beige interior, and it was equally clean. She shut the door and opened the tan console between the seats. Nothing but a cell phone charger, E-ZPass statements, and an open pack of Trident. She closed the console lid and popped open the glove box. The lid hung open, revealing a multicolored stack of folded maps.

Mary blinked, surprised. There had to be at least ten maps squeezed in there, which was nine more than most people from the neighborhood had, and ten more than most women, especially from the neighborhood. She herself had one map of Pennsylvania in her car, which her father had given her and she’d never used. She pulled out the maps, wondering if the gun was hidden behind them. It wasn’t, but sitting in the glove box was a slim clothbound book, also black.

Mary reached for it and opened it up. The first page read,
Patricia Maria Gambone,
and it was written in ballpoint in perfect Palmer method, with detached capital letters. She opened the book near the front and read the page:

I know he’ll just love it and I can’t wait to see his face when he opens it! I never thought I’d be this happy in my life!

The diary! In a car?
Mary considered it, and it made sense. Trish couldn’t leave her diary in the house, where it could be found. Her car would be the second-best place, both secure and private. She flipped ahead, scanning the entries. Evidently, Trish didn’t write in it every day, only from time to time.
God knows what we’ll do for Valentine’s Day. He’s drinking again, and when I called him out, he blew up. He started screaming that I was a lying whore and that he was going to kill me with his bare hands.
Mary turned the page and a Polaroid picture fell out, and she picked it up.

It was a horrifying photo of Trish, and it looked as if it had been taken in the bathroom. A hideous red bruise, just beginning to go purple and black, covered her upper arm. The edge of the photo caught her profile, and she had obviously been crying. Mary’s mouth went dry. She replaced the photos and read ahead a few pages, picking up words here and there.
Terrified. Scared. Screaming. Punched. Hurt. Bruised. Cut. Gun.
There were more photos. Red bruises to a taut stomach, and one that made a cut near her navel. It sickened Mary, and she put them back with care. It was the perfect set of proofs for a lawsuit that would never go to trial. She felt disgusted and bitter at the law, at justice, and most of all, at herself.

She skipped to the most recent entry, praying it could provide a clue about where Trish had been taken. She turned to the last page, and her cheeks flushed hot:
I went to see Mary but she didn’t do anything. Now I don’t know what to do. If you’re reading this now, whoever you are, I’m already dead. But at least this can prove he did it.

“Hey, Mare, yo!” somebody shouted, and Mary slapped the diary closed with the photos inside and looked through the windshield.

“MARE!” It was Giulia, hollering from down the street, because South Philly was a neighborhood without volume controls.

Mary waved to Giulia through the windshield, shoved the diary in her purse, and slipped the maps back in the glove box. She gave the car one last look around, got out, and chirped it locked, while the Mean Girls
clack-clack
ed down the sidewalk like a tiny black locomotive, puffing smoke.

And it looked as if they’d picked up a passenger.