The Mirror and the Mask (3 page)

“Look,” said Jane, finishing her soup. “You've actually come at a good time. I have a job, but it's not pretty.” She explained about the flooded dry-storage room. “I'm headed down there myself. I could use an extra pair of hands.”

“Sure,” said Annie.

“There'll be some heavy lifting.”

“Not a problem.”

“I'll pay you what I pay the other two guys who agreed to help. Twelve seventy-five an hour. It might take the rest of the day.”

“Count me in.” She hopped off the stool, ready to get to work.

 

Terrance and George paired off, as did Annie and Jane. Henry acted as straw boss, moving the tall racks, as they were emptied, out into the hallway and helping the flooring crew pull up the old vinyl flooring.

As they worked, Jane and Annie talked. Jane learned that Annie had received a degree in folklore and mythology from the University of Colorado, Boulder.

“My major interest was in Greek and Roman mythology,” said Annie, hoisting a sack of rice over her shoulder. “I did my senior thesis on the mirror and the mask as they're used in the myth of Medusa.”

“The woman with the snakes in her hair.”

“It's a fascinating story with lots of variations. She was a beauty. Either she was raped by Poseidon in Athena's temple or she had consensual sex with him. Either way, Athena saw it as sacrilege and punished her by turning her golden hair into serpents.”

“Why didn't she punish Poseidon?”

“He was immortal. Medusa wasn't.”

“Figures.” Jane hefted a fifty-pound sack of flour out into the hall.

Annie followed with the rice. “Athena also turned Medusa's face into something so horrible, so ugly, that when men looked at it, it turned them to stone. Apparently, Athena didn't want any handsome young men to sleep with her.”

“Sex as rape, or sex as sin.”

“Yes, but it's more than just a story about sex. It's about the destruction of innocence.”

“A theme that interests you?”

“Very much.”

Jane wondered why, but it seemed too intrusive to ask for details. Instead she said, “What about the mirror and the mask?”

“You really want to hear this? Most people change the subject after the ‘destruction of innocence' part.”

Jane laughed as she walked back into the storage room. “No, I'm interested.”

“Okay. Stop me when your eyes start to glaze over. It's all about paradox and duality. The hero as victim and the victim as hero. A mirror is something that reveals; a mask is something that conceals. But when you think about it, mirrors and masks are dualities as well as paradoxes. You see your reflection in a mirror—but it isn't you. You're separate. Sometimes a mirror is an illusion—it shows you only what you want to see. And with a mask, you can hide behind it, but the real you is still there. I think that's the way life works. Nothing is ever simple, just what you see on the surface—the mirror's reflection or the mask.”

“Do you think we all wear masks?”

“Pretty much.”

“All the time?”

“Not every minute. Not with everyone.”

Jane didn't disagree. “What did you intend to do with a degree in folklore and mythology?”

“At the time, I wasn't thinking that far ahead. I was fascinated that Greek and Roman gods and goddesses could be both good and bad, heroic and flawed. I guess I was hoping that if I studied them, I'd learn something about myself.”

“Did you?”

“The jury's still out.”

The more they talked, the more Jane found herself wanting to know Annie's story. “How long are you going to stick around looking for your dad?” she asked, standing with her hands on her hips, gazing at the shelf they'd just emptied.

“As long as the money holds out. I was thinking about hiring a PI, but it would cost too much. I did an Internet search. Everyone who looked halfway decent was priced way out of my range.”

Jane picked up a case of lychee nuts. “What's the name of the bar your friend saw your dad at?”

“That's just it. She can't remember, except that it was on West Seventh in St. Paul.”

“That narrows it down some,” said Jane, feeling a sudden stabbing pain in her right leg. She set the case down and leaned one hand against the wall.

“You okay?” asked Annie, touching Jane's shoulder.

“I just need a minute.” The last thing she wanted was for Annie to get the impression she was old and out of shape. Forty-four wasn't
that
ancient.

“The thing is,” continued Annie, picking up a sack of sugar, “I can't leave. Not yet. Not when I feel so close.”

“What's your dad's name?”

“John Archer. I left home right after I graduated from high school. The only time I went back was the year I turned twenty, for my mom's funeral. I only stayed a couple of days.”

“Where's home?”

“Traverse City, Michigan.”

“What'd your dad do for a living?”

Annie set the sack on an empty rack. As she turned around, she tucked a shock of blond hair behind her ear. “He flipped houses. Bought them cheap, fixed them up, and resold them at a profit.”

“And you have no idea why he disappeared?”

“None.”

If Annie thought Jane was asking too many questions, she didn't let on. Jane had a reason for asking them. “Your father's never tried to contact you?”

“I assumed he was dead. But then my friend said she saw him, so
I had to come see for myself. Tracy, my girlfriend, and I went to the same high school. She knows what he looks like because she was over at our place all the time. He's probably changed some, but she seemed positive.”

“Was your mother ill before she died?” asked Jane. The pain in her leg felt a little better. She put some weight on it, just to make sure it was steady, and then picked up the case of lychee nuts and continued on out into the hall.

Annie followed with another case of lychee nuts. “No, it was a heart attack. Completely unexpected.”

“She must have been awfully young.”

“Forty-one. She didn't like doctors. My dad said she'd been unusually tired before it happened, and had some bad indigestion, but they both thought it would pass. It was a real shock when she died. Dad took her to the hospital, but it was too late. Her heart was too damaged. I was so angry at her at the time that I didn't really deal with her loss. I see the world very differently now. I wish I'd had the chance to put things right.”

Jane had been thirteen when her own mother died. Deaths always left unfinished business behind.

They talked for a while about Jane's past—how she'd grown up in England, returning to the United States with her family when she was nine. She explained that her father was a criminal defense lawyer and her brother a photographer and videographer. Their conversation ranged widely, and yet, over the course of the next few hours, they kept coming back to the loss of their mothers.

“How come you left home right after high school?” asked Jane, pulling the last bag of sugar off one of the racks.

“I wanted to be on my own. Make my own decisions, my own mistakes. You know what it's like when you're that age. You think you know everything.”

“It takes a bit more living to grow some healthy humility.”

“Tell me about it.”

They worked in the storage room for the better part of four hours.

When they finished, Jane invited Annie up to her second-floor office. As Annie sat at the desk filling out a W-4 form, Jane sat down in the love seat behind her.

“I might be able to help you find your dad.”

Annie turned around. “Are you serious? How?”

“I have a friend who's a PI. I've worked with him on a couple of his cases.”

“You worked with him?”

“Another one of those long stories. For now, let's just say that I'll talk to him, see what he can do to help. I promise, he won't charge you.” She saw a faint glow of hope rise in Annie's eyes, which in turn gave Jane a sense of satisfaction. It made her feel as if she was doing something real, something tangible for another human being. Maybe that's what was missing in her life.

“I'd be so grateful.”

“Write down where you're staying and be sure to include your cell number. Oh, do you have a picture of your dad?”

“I made a bunch of copies before I left home,” she said, digging a small stack out of a pocket in her cargo pants. “Here.” She handed them over.

Jane glanced at the snapshot. John Archer, wearing nothing but swim trunks, was sitting at the edge of a pool holding a beach towel and mugging for the camera. He was nice enough looking. A square face and prominent chin. Shaggy brown hair.

Annie turned back and finished filling out the form. “If you can help me, I'll owe you forever.”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I'll talk to my friend, get his thoughts on the subject, and then I'll see what we can do.”

“Would it be pushing too hard to ask if you needed any more help around here?” She handed Jane the form.

Jane checked the phone number at the top of the page to make sure she could read it. “Count on it. I'll give you a call tomorrow, okay?”

Speaking slowly but with evident emotion, Annie said, “You know, I've never considered myself lucky before, but thanks to you, maybe that's about to change.”

 

 

 

S
usan Bowman stood at the window in her office, eyes closed, hands clenched, waiting for the fear to go away. Her best friend, Kristjan Robbe, the man she'd counted on for years to listen to her troubles and offer not only a compassionate ear but also sage advice, had somehow morphed into a risky, even dangerous association.

Susan had known Kristjan longer than she'd known her second husband, Jack. They'd first met in a real estate class twelve years ago, when they were hoping to become licensed agents. Susan's first husband, Yale Llewelyn, had died the year before, leaving behind a massive debt. Everyone told Susan to get into real estate, that if she worked hard, she could make a good life for herself and her two kids. It was the midnineties, when the real estate market was still booming.

A year later, Susan and Kristjan joined the same company, and the same branch office. Kristjan had just married, and for a time, Susan, Kristjan, and his wife, Barbara, got together in the evenings for dinner and drinks. All their easy camaraderie ended when Barbara gave birth to a daughter. Twin sons came along eighteen months later.
By then, Susan's career had taken off and she'd met the man of her dreams—Jack Bowman. Her friendship with Kristjan cooled, although she did see him occasionally at this or that corporate function. But no matter how much time had elapsed, it always seemed they could pick right up, as if their separation had been only momentary.

In early 2005, when Susan was made the branch vice president of the Northland Realty office in Hastings, she invited Kristjan to move from the Woodbury office. He'd been having problems with his branch VP, so she offered him the chance to work with her. She thought it would be win/win. He was a solid agent with a good sales history but hadn't been progressing in his career the way he'd hoped. Hastings, a small town about thirty-five miles southeast of the Twin Cities, was a bedroom community for the metro area and a growing town in its own right, with real estate selling at a fast clip.

Kristjan had come on board in the fall of 2005. They both commuted from their homes in St. Paul. In 2006, Susan and Jack moved into a new home just outside the city limits of Stillwater. Jack was a successful contractor and this was his dream house, built by his own company and designed down to the last detail by him. It was a wood, glass, and steel structure set into a steep bluff above the St. Croix River. It wasn't only Jack's dream house, but hers, too. With few exceptions, this was the life she'd dreamed of since she was a child. And that was the essence of the problem.

A knock on her office door brought her crashing back to the moment. She turned and said, “Come in.”

Her administrative assistant, Amy Lahto, stuck her head inside.

Amy was divorced, in her late fifties, a chain-smoker who took well over a dozen breaks each day to step outside and light up. Susan put up with it because she liked Amy's gutsy personality. She got her work done and that was all Susan cared about.

“I'm leaving,” said Amy. “It's getting nasty out there.”

Ice crystals hitting the outside glass registered. “Oh, you're right. Have you heard a forecast?”

“Rain, sleet, and snow—in that order. I was hoping to make it home before the roads turned into a skating rink.”

“You go,” said Susan, checking her watch. It was still early, not even six. She often stayed late these days. “Everybody else gone?”

“Bob's still here. His commute's pretty short. Oh, and Kristjan just came back from a showing. I think he wants to talk to you.”