The Bessie Series - Books 1-3

17. Ravenspond

Upstairs in the MacIntyre home, a striking black woman in an orange sherbet pant suit and French manicured nails lounges on Bessie’s bedspread. A vibrant turquoise necklace sparkles around her neck. Across from her, Leila sits cross-legged in khaki shorts and a Leonard Cohen T-shirt. The dog, Mouser, sleeps on an area rug, one eye on the visitor.

The woman sips a glass of white wine. An open bottle perches on a wooden chair beside the bed. Goldfish swim lazily in the aquarium on the dresser. In a semicircle on the chenille bedspread, photos are lined up in chronological order.

The woman picks up an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven picture of Ashley. Her daughter is all glammed up in full movie star makeup and garish chandelier earrings. Her wild curls are glued back from her face. “I remember this,” she comments wistfully. “What, a few summers ago? They made their own headshots to send to Toronto.”

Leila stares at Sophie Moreno, acutely aware of her pain, and not knowing what to say. In wisdom beyond her years, she says nothing.

Sophie picks up the shot of Bessie, almost unrecognizable with her hair teased up and sprayed to within an inch of its life. Her eyebrows are painted pitch black. Navy blue eyeliner, false eyelashes, and blood red lipstick complete the look. “You think maybe they ran away to Vancouver?” Sophie takes another gulp of her wine. “Sorry, sweetie. I shouldn’t be laying this on you, especially now with your mother gone.”

Leila watches her visitor for a moment before climbing off the bed to pick up the bottle. She refills the exhausted woman’s glass. Sophie begins to drink too quickly while the young girl sifts through more photos, one by one.

An hour passes. Sophie is quite drunk now, lying back on the bed, the bottle empty. She mumbles, “’Member, Lee? How they go’ all dress up and preten’ to be Joni Mitchell an’ Diana Ross that whole one summer? Switch outfits ever’ other day?” She giggles from the effects of the alcohol. “Always fightin’ o’er those damn wigs. Who got to be Joni. Who got to be Diana.”

Leila picks up a photo of Ash in the Joni wig and silently hands it to Sophie. “I lef’ more wine in kitchen. Please?” Sophie begs, holding the picture close to her eyes. Leila disappears out the doorway. The woman giggles again. “At least Ashley really kinda looks like Diana.” She gazes intently into the face of her daughter. “Why didna notice that before?” Suddenly, she tosses the snapshot on the floor. “Those stupid wigs.”

Bolting upright on the bed, she yells, “Wigs! Wigs. Lee, Leila?” She chases the girl down the stairs to the kitchen where she’s uncorking a bottle of wine, a discarded shopping bag on the counter. “Ne’er min’ that. Ne’er min’ that. Wigs! Where those damn wigs?”

They stare at each other in the quiet of the kitchen. Judging from the light from the screen door and windows above the sink, it’s mid-afternoon on a steamy hot day. A dog yaps-yaps-yaps in the distance. A lawn mower hums. A child screams delightedly, splashing in a pool, a sound that echoes across from another yard.

yaps-yaps-yapsSophie is beside herself. “Wigs? Where’s the wigs?”

Leila sets down the wine and heads back upstairs to Bessie’s room, Sophie stumbling after her. Getting on her knees, the girl opens the heavy lid of a cedar trunk at the foot of her sister’s bed. Sophie crouches down to hold up the top as the girl sorts through layers of sweaters, boxes, discarded dolls, and other childhood paraphernalia. Leila takes everything out and lays it carefully on the floor beside the trunk.

“Nope. They’re not here,” Leila says, looking into the smeared makeup of the frantic woman beside her.

Dead sober now, Sophie jumps to her feet to grab the phone from Bessie’s side table. She dials a number she knows by heart, almost shouting, “Put me through to Detective Eric Pederssen, please. Urgent. Very urgent.”

Mouser lifts his head to watch her intently from his position on the rug.