Life Sentences (28 page)

“I’d like to move to this very spot.” Celeste laughed.

“The B&B is up for sale,” Max said. “Chuck says it’s time for him to retire. Want to buy it?”

For a moment Celeste was tempted to say “yes”. She looked at Max’s hopeful expression and then at the red brick and white clapboard building. “Maybe, but to live in, not run as a B&B. I’m not much of a cook.”

“You could learn.”

Celeste thought about all the scone and muffin recipes she’d been trying lately. She needed more than those to appease the appetites of hungry guests.

They sat on the stone bench near the edge of the property and watched the sun lower in the west. It became a spectacular orange, red, and purple sunset. And just as Celeste had hoped, the green flash shone as the red ball made its final descent. When it ended, Max held her arm and ushered her away in silence. It had been a perfect day.

Even without that ideal outing, Celeste couldn’t look forward to going back to Grosse Pointe Shores. But she must leave the pristine north country and face Marcus for one last time in his own environment.

Thinking about all those years she wasted with Marcus, Celeste realized that she wasn’t much different than Pilar. Hadn’t she let herself be swept away by Marcus’ charm, good looks, and his place in society? At first he made Celeste feel beautiful, smart, and capable until she couldn’t deliver a son. She also chose to stay in a relationship she knew was not good. A relationship that sometimes blinded her. A bond that smothered and almost killed her. When Celeste read the Isenburg book the night before, the study brought home the truth: Pilar and she were both taken in by charismatic murderers of one kind or another. People only saw what they wanted in others. What had Celeste seen in Max?

A
S QUICKLY AS
C
ELESTE
put clothes into a packing box, Marcus took them out. He threw them onto the bed they had stopped sharing long ago. Celeste never liked that bed anyway, but that wouldn’t be enough to get her through this awful scene.

“You can keep this up all day, Marcus, but I’m not changing my mind.” Celeste stood before him with a blouse in her hand.

Marcus seized her wrist. The force propelled Celeste forward. She dropped the blouse. “You can’t leave. Think of what people will say,” Marcus whined. “There’s never been a divorce in my family.”

“To hell with people and what they think.” She yanked her wrist free and rubbed the red finger marks away. “Their thoughts never got me anywhere. Their thoughts didn’t save Pilar, and neither did you.” Though her eyes burned, she refused to cry in front of Marcus anymore, or to look away in shame. “I’ve had enough. What is left of my life isall mine, no one else’s.”

“But Celeste,” Marcus shook her shoulders, “Pilar’s funeral was only a few months ago. Give it time.”

She shrugged loose from Marcus’ clutch. “I gave it thirty years. I have no more time.” The hate in her tone sounded good to her.

Marcus’ eyes almost formed perfect circles as his voice gained an octave. “I’ve been honest with you since Pilar’s death …”

“Murder,” she chided.

Marcus disregarded her correction. “You can’t do this,” he shouted. He whacked his fist against the dressing table. Perfume bottles and brush bounced across its surface. Chad’s tantrum flashed before Celeste.

“Watch me” Celeste picked up her purse. “I’ll have my attorney send someone here to pack my belongings.” She gazed around the bedroom. It looked as though it had been burglarized.

Before Marcus answered or had a chance to stop Celeste, she rushed out the door and slammed it. She skipped down the stairs and out the front entrance. As she drove through the gate and onto Lake Shore Road for the last time, Celeste hummed Frank Sinatra’s hit song,
I Did it My Way
. Speeding to her new condo, she heard Pilar’s voice kidding her about singing that song just as Celeste did the last day they spent together.

Celeste also reviewed the scene that took place earlierthat morning. Before the packing began, Marcus tried one more time to gain Celeste’s sympathy. Maybe he thought if he shared proof of his other family she wouldn’t leave him. When he handed her a stack of pictures and official documents to peruse, she had no intention of giving him any satisfaction. She refused to look at them. Those papers and photos only reminded her of how many years she let him fool her. “Just like Chad fooled Pilar,” she murmured.

Though Marcus hadn’t realized, Celeste always knew he had another woman. But Celeste didn’t want to acknowledge there could also be a son. She remained in denial until she saw them walking together near Tiger Stadium. Pilar had just turned sixteen.

Celeste confronted Marcus that very night about the boy. When he gave his rationale, she was painfully aware of the familiar spin. There were many times over prior years Marcus tried to tell her about his son. Yet, like Pilar with Chad, Celeste wouldn’t accept the truth. Celeste so wanted to believe nothing was wrong and that they could be happy.

Marcus’ awkward, self-centered attempts at confession always ended in his need for Celeste to forgive him. “I don’t see them anymore, “ he had said so many times, as if it made it better. Though Celeste heard the word “them” when Marcus used it, she continued to tell herself there was only a woman. Never would she let herself believe there could be a child, until that day she saw Marcus and him.

“What about the boy?” Celeste once shouted back after she finally faced the dreaded reality. “Who will take care of him?”

Celeste remembered as clearly as though it had happened earlier that day. Marcus lowered his head like a hurt child, obviously hoping to stir compassion in her. “I arranged a trust for him,” he said. “His mother gets an allowance, too. Both will be cared for as long as my identity remains unknown.”

“How thoughtful, Marcus,” Celeste responded with deliberate sarcasm. Marcus never let her know his mistress’ or illegitimate son’s names. He always said them, and her, and him.

That was as far as they ever got. Celeste never saw the pictures or copies of any documents until that morning. And Marcus sounded just as he did those other times. “I don’t see them anymore,” he said. He never realized that wasn’t the point.

C
ELESTE SWUNG HER CAR
into her new stall and bounded for the elevator. The quick ride to the top of the building took Celeste to her sanctuary far from Marcus and his childish pleas. Once inside her condo, Celeste calmed as she gazed out the cathedral window at Lake St. Claire across to the Canadian shoreline. While she once again pondered the drama of that morning with Marcus, Celeste retrieved the packet he had given her. She withdrew a picture and whatlooked like a contract from the envelope. “Poor Pilar.” Celeste fingered a photograph of a thirteen-year-old boy nestled between some woman and Marcus. “Just like the winners of the perfect American family,” she sneered at the threesome. Still, she was curious about the actual reason Marcus wanted her to have the pictures and a document that set the rules for child support and a form of alimony. Knowing him as she did, it had to be a self-serving motive. Celeste would probably never find out his reasons and didn’t care. She tossed the contents into a dresser drawer.

Celeste headed for her new, tidy kitchen to make a cup of tea. As she passed each room, she decided that condo living would suit her just fine. She liked the openness of the great room. She had picked the condo for its oversized windows which allowed in an abundance of sunlight. She no longer needed privacy and certainly had no reason to have space, as Pilar often put it. And like those silly gloves Pilar chided her about, Celeste didn’t need all the adornment, the stuff which was only a façade and cluttered her life. Still, her quarters weren’t as sparse as Pilar’s. Celeste indulged herself in a few niceties with the help of a decorator, particularly for her own bedroom — the master suite.

“Besides, I’m still looking at beautiful Lake St. Clair,” she told Phoenix, a tabby kitten newly adopted from the Humane Society. She scratched him under the chin. In response, he pulled himself into an arch. Then he stretched full length across the top of the couch to lounge in the sun.

Celeste picked up the gold frame holding Pilar’s graduation picture. She touched Pilar’s face, glowing with eagerness and hope. “I wish you could see me now. You’d be proud.” She set the picture down on the grand piano on which Pilar rehearsed for hours as a teenager. The piano and Pilar’s bedroom set in the condo’s guest room were the only pieces of furniture she moved from the Brookstone house. “I wish we could share every moment I have left.” Celeste stroked the piano.

While touring with the real estate agent on the day Celeste first saw the condo’s guest-bedroom, she decided right then to recreate Pilar’s room as though she would be coming home any day. Her antique canopy bed snugged one wall of the quarters painted in a similar soft pink as Pilar had chosen when she was eight-years-old. To either side were the matching night stands, and at the foot was Pilar’s toy chest still overflowing with stuffed animals, doll clothes, small battery operated cars, and a play doctor’s kit. Even the mauve floral print spread and awning, Pilar’s secret garden, were ready for a welcome home.

Celeste pulled a tissue from a box on the kitchen counter and blew her nose. She wiped her tear-dampened face. Would she ever get beyond the heartache?

She sat at the breakfast bar stirring her tea. She was stymied over what she should do next. Though there was a nationwide hunt for Tommy Johnson and Jane Carson, the police investigation seemed stalled. There had only been afew hints of Johnson’s whereabouts: Jane’s abandoned car found at the airport in Knoxville, Tennessee shortly after Pilar’s murder; their visit to Tommy’s father in Florida; and the description of an armed robber that sounded like Tommy. The couple also rented a motor home in Miami which was later found in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Then there was that young man who was killed in Colorado.

“Oh, my God. How many more victims will there be?” Celeste asked herself.

She picked up the telephone and called Max Whitefeather. Over the past weeks he had become a friend and confidante. They also discussed ideas and thoughts about how they could help in the search for Tommy Johnson and Jane Carson, as if what they determined made a difference to the police. No matter, Celeste felt better thinking she contributed, even if in a minor way. Better than sitting on her hands.

When Jane’s car was found in the early days of Tommy Johnson’s escape, and other information had been gathered from hotel clerks along the I-75 corridor to Florida, Celeste and Max were certain Jane was with Tommy. Max never said, but Celeste was positive he believed as she did, Jane had been a willing participant in the extortion plot from the beginning. Jane might even have encouraged Tommy to kill.

While Celeste waited to be connected to the warden’s office, she reminisced about past conversations with Max. He told her that shortly after the news of Pilar’s murder was out, Jane’s husband, with their nine-year-old son and seven-year-old daughter in tow, showed up in his office. Emmet Carson told Max he suspected Jane’s affair with a prisoner for months, but knew little about Pilar. Max admitted he was suspicious by nature, so he passed that information to the police. “One never knows who could be the murderer until he or she is caught,” Max explained. Right after that visit Jane kidnapped her children.

“H
ELLO
, M
AX
,” C
ELESTE ALMOST
shouted into the telephone. She was glad he finally came on the line and stopped her thinking about the Carsons. “What’s the chance we can get together soon?”

Celeste and Max planned to meet the following night in West Branch, a city on I-75 halfway between their two homes. While they had talked about their rendezvous, Celeste asked Max why he cared about finding Pilar’s murderer. She had felt he seemed concerned beyond a warden’s determination to right a wrong or to get the offender. He was even more determined than Marcus, but that wasn’t saying much. Through their telephone conversation Celeste discovered Max thought of Pilar as the daughter he never had. “I wanted to protect her without suspicion being cast that I favored Pilar, or give people reason to think I was overly fond of her,” he admitted. “I shouldn’t have given a damn about appearances. I might have saved her.”

C
ELESTE’S SPIRITS SOARED
. H
ER
body burned in anticipation. She scolded herself for acting like a foolish girl swooning over a recording star. After Celeste changed into pajamas and robe, she asked Phoenix. “Doesn’t this call for a glass of wine?” Phoenix purred as Celeste scratched his ears.

Celeste plopped on the couch next to the cat and turned on the TV. As she sipped the wine, John Walsh, the host of “America’s Most Wanted”, talked about a dangerous criminal who had eluded the police for nearly two years.

“Maybe Max and I should contact the producers of this show,” she speculated out loud, but looked at Phoenix as though he would answer. “They might have better luck than the police have had finding Tommy and Jane.”

C
ELESTE AND
M
AX MET
at the West Branch Country Club for cocktails and dinner. Though they each booked a room at Tri Terrace Motel, a Mom and Pop business sprawled lazily along route 76, they left in separate cars so as not to fuel curiosity.

Celeste was refreshed by the short drive east to the outskirts of town. The perfect late autumn sunset highlighted the remaining gold, orange, and red of the almost barren oak trees lining the streets of the snug community. But when the horizon ahead glowed in that pink moment, the time of day that always thrilled Pilar, Celeste’s heart sank. She ached for Pilar to be there with her.

Celeste spotted Max waiting at the club entrance. The fading sunlight seemed to hesitate for a moment at the top of his head to show off his newly styled hair. She smiled thinking about how Max must struggle to keep its wildness under control without using hair spray, which he had at one time acknowledged he despised.