Last Fairytale, The (11 page)

The tone of Vonnegon’s voice was as close to reverent as anything Bree had ever heard.

Richard Ducane released one aching sob as he grabbed Vonnegon’s outstretched hand. He held on as though the other man was a life preserver.

The surprises just didn’t stop with this guy.

Who knew there was that kind of tender in there?

Mack led Gen and Bree down a station hallway early Friday morning. “We need to find out this Catherine’s real name so we can track her down. Actually, we need a name for her and the cross-dresser on the break-in tape.”

He gestured at an open door. “So as you look through the mug books, keep an eye out for both of them. We’re hoping they each have a record and a booking shot.”

They entered a conference room, nearly empty but for a long, Formica-topped table crowned with a stack of thick manila folders. An open package of fluorescent highlighter tape was placed to one side. A brace of chairs were shoved haphazardly around the room. The dingy beige walls were marred with brown scuff marks near the floor. There was a video camera mounted in the corner with a clear view of anyone sitting, coming, or going.

“Have a seat. We pulled a selection of general troublemakers and those known to do B and E. It’s a place to start.” He tapped the files. “The photographs are in here. I’m sure you don’t want me to stay and chat, so you can get right to it.”

Gen put her purse down on the end of the table. She ignored the chair Mack offered and instead sat with her back to the camera.

Bree followed suit.

“Exactly what are we looking for?” Gen took the top file from the stack and opened it.

Mack pointed at the highlighter tape. “Flag every headshot you find that even remotely reminds you of the lady on the boat or the guy on the tape. It’s a longshot, but the cross-dresser might’ve been busted in drag once. You never know.”

“Got it.”

Hackett moved to the door. “Good luck. We need a break.”

They began to thumb through the pages.

The first woman staring back at Gen had a complexion that was white as snow. Her eyes looked as if her pupils were dilated. She slapped the page over and continued to the next, a female with dark goth-style hair and no glasses. Definitely not Catherine.

The first few mug shots were freaky. As she continued on, she was struck by the normal appearance of many of the folder’s inhabitants. All ages, from teenagers to a woman as old as Abe Vigoda and twice as wrinkled.

Bree’s words mimicked her thoughts. “These people look like someone you’d see in the mall.”

“Surprisingly average, aren’t they?”

“Makes me feel bad,” Bree said. “I had to stop reading what they’d been arrested for. It’s too bizarre to think someone I met on the street could knife somebody during a holdup.”

“Drugs, mental illness. A rough start in life.” Gen frowned. “As much as I complain about my family, I was very lucky.”

“Me too. I probably need to thank my dad.”

Thirty minutes later Gen had worked halfway through her stack. She was about to close a file when she paused over the picture of a short-haired, twenty-something girl.

The face looked familiar.

She marked the page with a strip of tape and slid the open file across to Bree. “Check this out.”

They shook their heads in agreement.

“It’s her,” Bree said.

Gen returned to the mug shots. “Let’s see if we can hit the jackpot and find the burglar.”

Mack stuck his head in the door. “We just got a call from Taylor Vonnegon. Says his half-brother hasn’t been in contact with anyone at Elergene for about a week now. His name is Russell Yates, and he’s on the Board of Directors.

“Vonnegon says he’s concerned because Yates and Ducane had been spending time together. He says he’s worried they may have gotten involved in something illegal. Says Yates had a tendency to experiment with things, like Ducane.”

“Odd.” Bree pushed back from the table. “Vonnegon didn’t mention a brother. We’ve had a couple of conversations, so it seems like he would.”

Mack shrugged. “Anyway, we now have another person of interest in this case, but we’re not sure how it fits. Any luck here?”

“Yeah, we think we found one.” Gen stabbed a finger toward the page. “This woman looks an awful lot like the girl on the boat.”

“Good work. I’ll tell Garcia we might have a match. We’ll see if we can track down–” He looked closely at the name beside the mug shot. “Stephanie Catherine Robeson. Looks like maybe she gave you her real name. Arrested for vagrancy about a year ago. Keep going, will you? See if anybody else fits the bill, although I hope we’ve found our gal.”

“Could be now we’re getting somewhere.” Gen said.

“Yeah, let’s hope so. Be right back.”

When Mack was out of sight, Gen slid a small notebook from her purse and copied the information about Robeson.

“What are you doing?” Bree asked.

“I’m thinking she screwed with us and it’s time for payback.” She looked at Bree. “Let’s see what we can find out about her. On the QT, of course.”

The stark anguish exhibited by the Ducane family stuck with Bree, and the reality of looking at mug shots troubled her. Every one of them was someone’s child, or sister, or mother. She stopped resisting the message. Friday night, she called Cooper to request the Strickland guest room for the weekend.

Her sister whooped with joy, overturned the canister of goat milk she was about to put in the cooler, and lamented the loss of the half-pint of ice cream the spill represented. No matter, she’d laughed. Her thighs were begging for mercy.

Although Ben Lomond lay seventy-five miles south at the end of a busy commuter run, the freeway to Santa Cruz was clear on Saturday. Bree hurtled down the 101 and mused about the change in scenery.

Going north, the population grew richer, more hip, increasingly self-absorbed. Heading south, the residents evolved into people with concern for themselves, yes, but also for their fellow earthbound travelers.

North to money, south to spirit.

Why didn’t Yahoo Maps track that?

The roadside grew more and more wooded as she approached the Ben Lomond turnoff. The mouth of the drive that ran up to the Strickland’s rustic ranch-style home was marked by a rutted opening in the trees.

As she grew close, she spied a waiting group of mop-headed urchins. The youngsters leaped with glee and spun as a unit to race her back to the house, wild with laughter.

“She’s here, Mommy! Aunt Breezy is here!”

The hollow in her chest clutched with an emotion she couldn’t name. They’d christened her Breeze years ago, making her name jive with their own. She liked the sound. It made her feel connected to the birds and the wind.

As she pulled up in front of the house, it occurred to her the only other thing she felt as bonded to was her shortcomings.

She made a wish that her article about Andrew Ducane’s death would bring attention to her talent for writing, shore up her confidence, and put her back on track.

* * *

The next morning Cooper woke Bree with a whisper and a steaming mug of coffee. She was already dressed in cords and a sweater, and she shrugged into a wool jacket while her sister stretched.

“Come on,” she said. “There’s time for a walk in the woods before the munchkins turn our world into a horror flick.”

The goats nickered as they passed. Coop raised a finger to her lips as though they ought to understand the need for silence. The pair hiked across a carpet of leaf litter that was centuries in the making, then uphill into the mist.

They followed a path through the old-growth forest of Ponderosa pine, oak, and madrone. The overcast began to clear as they gained the hilltop fifteen minutes later and perched, side by side, atop a group of moss-covered boulders.

They would wait here for the sun.

Cooper hugged Bree tight to her side, then brushed a loose strand of hair back behind her sister’s ear.

“Talk to me,” she said.

Bree surprised herself when she began to cry. Cooper held her until her shoulders stopped quaking.

“It’s just been intense lately, that’s all.” It was a lame excuse, but she hoped the vague explanation would suffice.

“Nice try. My sister’s been missing for more than a year. I want her back.”

“I’m right here.”

“No, you’re not. You took a powder when stupid Steve bolted. You haven’t been present since his highness took off. It’s time to come back now. Steve left, Bree. We’re still here. And we didn’t think he was all that special, anyhow.”

Bree cut her eyes to Cooper. “What?”

“Oh, he was nice enough. But elusive. Always on the fringe. He didn’t roll up his sleeves and get in the middle of the fun.”

“He was a little tough to get close to.”

“I got the impression he didn’t want to scratch the carefully crafted veneer.”

Bree scowled. “You might be right.”

“Sisters know.”

“Coop, why do I attract guys who can’t tell the truth about how they feel?”

“I don’t know, Bree. Maybe stupid Steve was something you needed to experience so you could realize you can do better. Maybe now you can get rid of that part of you that thinks you deserve someone who’s emotionally out to lunch.”

“So you’re saying I think I deserve to be treated like shit?” Bree felt the swell of tears return.

“Maybe you do believe that on some level. Remember in the movie when Juno’s dad told her the right man would always think the sun shines out her ass, no matter what she does? Some men are capable of being there a hundred percent. I’m saying you haven’t found the right guy. You need to set your sights higher. Make sense?”

“I’m so messed up.”

“Who isn’t?”

“You’re not. You’ve got your life together.”

“Hah! Right. I’m good with Sam, but that’s because I got lucky. Your challenge is to accept who you are and where you are. You gotta get in step with your inner bitch and embrace her. Put your arms around every part of you and dance. Understand?”

Bree laughed in spite of her mood. “You want me to lighten up.”

“Okay Bree, truth. What’s really going on with you? It’s not just Steve, it’s more than that.”

Bree sniffed.

“I have enormous patience. I can wait you out.”

Bree wiped her nose on her sleeve. “What if I don’t know?”

“Guess.”

“If I were guessing, I might think–” She paused. “I think I’m stuck because everything I wanted, everything I thought I wanted to have, and to be–” She stopped again. “The journalism dream, the dream of being married and having a family, like you. None of it happened. Nothing I’ve reached for has ever worked out. I’m afraid to want anything again.”

She broke down and sobbed against Cooper’s arm. When the crying passed, Cooper spoke.

“Nothing has changed. You’re still my beautiful, smart, talented sister, Cambria Butler. I understand how you might feel the way you do, but here’s the truth, Bree. As far as I can see, only one thing didn’t work out. Granted, he was important to you. But God has bigger plans.”

“How do you know? Maybe I deserved to be dumped.”

“That’s crazy and you know it. But see what you said right there? You believe that.”

“What about writing? Explain that. I tried so hard.”

“I can’t explain that, Bree, other than to say you’re successful in your work now. You’ve made a good life for yourself.”

“It’s not where everyone expected me to end up.”

“The people who really love you have no expectations. We just want you to be happy. And happiness is your choice, Bree. It’s time for you to get unstuck and get excited about whatever will come next. I’m convinced it’ll be wonderful. So is that why you’ve been avoiding us?”

“Yeah. Because I feel guilty.”

“Listen, we don’t care if you’re a lesbian who drives a trash truck, as long as you’re a happy lesbian.”

“That’s a career move I hadn’t thought of.”

“What, gay? Or a truck driver?”

“Driver. Interesting, though, that you even mentioned gay.”

“Why? Livvie acting out more than usual?”

“No.”

“What else is going on?”

“Well, a couple weeks ago I found a dead guy.”

Cooper’s head whipped around so fast she almost fell off the rock. “Talk about dropping a bombshell. Was the dead guy gay?”

“It’s complicated. Let’s just say there’s a cross-dressing connection.”

“Jeez. I hope he-she wasn’t in your bed.”

“No.” Bree laughed again and wiped her eyes. “No, the dead guy was a client. An interview for a client, anyway. He died before I could talk to him. Seems men will do anything to get away from me. Is this included as one of the wonderful things you’re sure will happen next?”

“I don’t know. Did he leave you money in his will?”

“Oh Coop. Always looking for the silver lining.”

“You should try it, Bree. All right, here’s the last thing I’m going to say. For a while, anyhow. It’s time for you to get on with it. I get that things didn’t turn out the way you wanted, but playing the victim doesn’t work. Life is waiting. Wonderful things can be yours. If you’ll take a deep breath and dive in again, I predict good things will happen.”

“I want to believe that.”

“Then do. Believe it, Bree. Life is good.”

“Life is crap.”

“Well, there’s no question that it can be, but that’s a really negative belief to hold onto.”

Cooper stood and dusted the back of her cords, then held out a hand and helped her sister up. “I’ve got news for you. You’ll find out what crap really is when we get back to the barn.”

* * *

Twelve-year-old River and his younger sister Sunday were gathering eggs as Cooper and Bree emerged from the leafy canopy behind the house. Storm Strickland was playing air guitar and crooning
Climb Every Mountain
to the chickens, apparently attempting to distract them so they wouldn’t notice their hard work getting bagged from under their beaks.

His face lit up like neon when he saw them. He twirled with his arms in the air, sending poultry flying in all directions. “Mom, where have you guys been? Dad is making blueberry pancakes!”

The kids crowded around, joyous, bursting with life, each taking turns telling a different story. Bree looked at her sister over the children’s heads and smiled. “You did good,” she said.

“So did you. You just don’t see it yet.”

They trouped into the kitchen to find Sam humming a tune, tea towel slung over his shoulder, flipping hotcakes on the stove.

“Bree,” he cried. “Save me from this wild bunch of lunatics. I live with crazy people.”

The kids surged around their father and clung to his legs, yelling in protest.

“See?” Sam said, laughing.

Cooper met Samuel Strickland during her senior year of college. They crossed paths on a campus hillside one warm spring night where they’d gone separately to watch an eclipse of the moon, and were married in Inverness three years later.

Bree hoped one day she’d have a story like that to tell her own kids.

“Back off, spawn. Back, I say,” Sam demanded. “If the pancakes end up on the floor, we’ll have no breakfast and Aunt Breezy will be very, very mad. We can’t let her miss a meal. You know how she gets when she’s hungry.”

Bree shrieked in mock anger and launched herself into the fray.

* * *

Sammy rattled a napkin-draped bowl of homemade sweet potato fries and set it down on the table, then handed Bree an icy glass of beer.

“Now that the big people are alone,” Cooper said, “will you please tell us more about what the heck’s been going on?”

“Cooper says you found a body,” Sam said. “That doesn’t sound like a fun night out.”

“Yeah. Andrew Ducane. He was an interview assignment. When I got to his office, the building was deserted and he was on the floor. Apparently he’d just died. They don’t know how yet. Or they’re not saying.”

“Poor man,” Cooper said.

“He was just a boy. Only twenty-seven years old and already head of their research department.”

“What kind of research?” Sam asked.

“I’m not sure exactly what the company does, but apparently they have a contract with the government to experiment with mushrooms.” Bree sipped her beer. “Wow, Sam, this is really good.”

Sam raised his glass in a salute and said, “Shrooms? Really?”

“Not that kind of mushrooms, dolt. More likely they were trying to turn the roots into something the government could use.”

Sam snorted. “The feds probably have them making weapons or something. Forget all the good things they could be focusing on.”

“What do you mean, husband?”

“Fascinating stuff, mushroom mycelium. Shall I give you the spiel about all the incredible functions it performs in our ecosystems and, if we get smart, what we will someday be able to do with it?”

“Oh boy.” Cooper made a sour face. “Here comes the bio lecture.”

“Hey, no complaints. You knew you married a science nerd. Anyway, mushrooms show great promise in the field of micro-remediation. Some types actually eat petrochemicals. Other types absorb heavy metals. Someday mushrooms will be commercially available as natural pesticides and cancer treatments, too, I’m sure of it. We haven’t even begun to explore the possibilities.

“I’ve thought about building a spore house so we can grow our own. For food, of course. Maybe after the beer is perfected.” Sam downed a generous gulp and smacked his lips. “Ahhhhh. Good stuff.”

Cooper snickered. “So will it be the best little spore house outside Texas?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Mock if you must, wife, but I don’t hear you complaining about the results of all my projects.” He indicated her glass. She raised it in a silent toast.