Death of an Irish Diva (8 page)

Vera had just finished making all the phone calls. She had switched her Thursday night dance class to Wednesday night, and thankfully, all the families could arrange their schedule to accommodate. Keeping the studio open on Thursday nights for one class just didn't make sense.

She turned to the computer and began working on her summer brochure. She would offer several workshops and camps, along with a six-week ballet refresher course.

She heard the bell on her studio door ring. Someone was coming into the studio. She turned to face Leola Reilly.

“Why, Leola, hello,” Vera said, turning around in her chair.

“I thought this was your studio,” Leola said, looking around. “Oh, look at that poster of Baryshnikov!” she exclaimed. She wore the same denim skirt she'd worn when Vera first met her. Very long, closer to the floor than her knee. There was something odd about it. It fit her snugly, so it was kind of sexy, and it even had a slit going up the center of the back. But yet Vera was certain it was meant to be conservative, because of the length and because of the flat shoes she wore.

“Hmm,” Vera said. “Beautiful dancer. Can I help you with something?”

“I wondered if it was too late in the year to sign Elsie, my daughter, up for classes. I know she couldn't be in the recital. It's too late for that. But she'd like to stay in shape, you know, kind of audit some classes.” Her well-shaped and plucked eyebrows were lifted in interest.

“Sure,” Vera said. “I didn't know that she dances.”

“Well . . .” She sat down across from Vera's desk. “She's a talented ballet student, but she sometimes lacks interest. More interested in boys, I'm afraid. At thirteen, she's all hormones.”

“I see,” said Vera, suddenly feeling a bit uncomfortable. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe mothers of thirteen-year-old girls discussed their daughter's hormones with acquaintances. “Well, as long as she wants to dance, she is welcome here.”

Vera gathered a stack of paper together and looked down at it, hoping Leola would leave, but she sat there.

“I was hoping for a schedule,” she said, tucking a strand of mousy brown hair behind her ear.

“Oh,” Vera said. “Bring her by on Wednesday at seven thirty. I have a group of ballet students about her age at that time. Lovely group of girls.”

Just then a hippie couple walked by the studio. Emily's parents. Vera's heart sank. What could she say to them? Anything? It looked like they were heading to the bakery.

She glanced back at Leola, who had also been looking at them.

“So, I hope you don't mind my asking,” Leola began as her face softened. “What exactly happened between you and Emily?”

Vera jumped back in her chair. She hardly knew this woman, and she asked such personal questions. What was her problem?

Her rose-painted lips were smiling, but her eyes seemed cold.

“It was nothing personal,” Vera stammered. “I mean, I hardly knew the woman.”

“Funny.” Leola sat up in her chair. “Rumor has it that you killed her.”

Vera's face flushed with embarrassment. She was certain steam would come pouring out of her ears at any minute. Whereas now Leola's face was cold as stone.

“What?” she said, clutching her chest. She felt like she couldn't quite catch her breath.

“You heard me,” Leola said.

“I'm sorry, Leola,” Vera said, gathering herself. “I don't listen to ugly rumors, and if you are going to get along in Cumberland Creek, you shouldn't, either.”

“That's not a typical small town rumor,” she said, smirking. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap. Perfectly manicured, with her nail polish matching her lipstick.

“No,” Vera managed to say. “People who know me would never say such a thing.”

“I don't know you very well, Vera, but I'm an attorney and I'm thinking you might need representation,” Leola said.

Oh, so that was it. She was trying to drum up business.

“Well, thanks,” Vera said, smiling, relieved. “I have a lawyer. You met Bill?”

“Your ex-husband? Bless his heart,” she said with her lilting Carolina accent. “If it comes to pass that they file murder charges, I wouldn't think an ex-husband lawyer would be the way to go. Especially not that one.”

Vera knew what that “Bless his heart” really meant, as only a Southerner would. This woman had Bill pegged. He wasn't the brightest bulb in the pack. Right now he was more concerned with his penis than anything else. Honestly, it was hard to believe her ex-husband, the father of her child, was living with a twenty-four-year-old woman.

“What makes you think they'd charge me?” Vera asked.

“Look, I know the pressure on these small towns when there's a murder like this. The DA will want answers. The cops will have to give them something,” she said. “You don't want that to be you.”

“But I didn't kill her. I didn't like the woman, but I wouldn't kill anybody.”

“Do you know how many innocent men and women go to prison every year?” Leola asked.

“Well, I—” Vera started to say, and then she immediately thought of Cookie, innocent, yet kept in jail for weeks, which was something Vera had never understood.

“I'm just saying if you need help, call me. Don't call Bill Ledford, for God's sake,” she said, with a knowing look in her eye.

“I don't understand why these rumors are flying. I've never done anything wrong in my life. Okay, everybody knew I didn't like Emily, but I had my reasons. She pushed me,” Vera said.

“She pushed everybody,” Leola said when the ringing of the studio phone interrupted.

“Excuse me. I really have to get this,” Vera said. When the call was over, she intended to turn back around to ask Leola what she meant by that. Just exactly how well did she and her husband know Emily McGlashen?

When Annie walked into DeeAnn's Bakery, the scent of cinnamon nearly made her swoon. She looked around and saw the Greenbergs sitting in the corner. She waved to them and ordered a coffee and a scone.

They looked incongruous in their dark hippie clothes in DeeAnn's chic, bright pink–walled bakery. It wasn't just their barely clean clothes. It was also their somber appearance. She was beautiful, with deep brown eyes setting off the longest eyelashes Annie had ever seen. A strong jawline and nose. She recognized the look because she'd seen it on many of her Jewish friends and relatives. Her father, even darker complexioned, smiled at Annie, but it looked as if he didn't smile much.

“Hello,” Annie said, shaking his hand, then her hand.

They exchanged greetings.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” Annie said after she sat down.

Emily's mother, Rachel, looked down at her fingers. A tear fell onto her hands. She fussed with the beads that fell carelessly onto her chest.

“My wife, she's not taking this well.”

“Of course not,” Annie said. “I'm not sure any mother could.”

The woman glanced up and smiled a bit. “Thank you.” She looked frail and haunted. A walking ghost.

“The thing about Emily is that she was new in town and a bit of a mystery to us.”

“You are working with the cops.” He said the word
cops
as if it were the nastiest word he's ever spoken.

“Sort of,” Annie said. “I'm a journalist, and I'm helping with the research.”

“What research?” he asked. “She was killed. And we need to find her killer. What is there to research?”

“I'm working on a book right now about a local group, a cult, that may have some involvement in your daughter's death.”

“What? Why Emily?” Rachel said after a few moments of consideration.

“Well, she had these tattoos that were runes. This group has used runes in the past. Did you know anything about her tattoos?”

He shrugged, and she nodded in the negative.

“Look, the police haven't ruled out the connection, but I don't think that's the case. But nobody here knew much about her, including me. While you're here, you should cooperate with the police,” Annie said. “They are trying to find Emily's killer. I'm sure you want that, as well.”

Donald Greenberg clicked his tongue on his teeth. “Not Bryant.”

“Would you speak with him if I were there?” she asked.

“Maybe. If he maintains a sense of respect. This is our daughter,” he said. “She is not a thing. They've done an autopsy, which we didn't approve. Her body is . . . Well, we hardly recognize her.”

“I'm sorry about that,” Annie said. “It took a while for us to find any family at all.”

“I see.”

“She was an enigma. On the one hand. she was very public with her life, with the Irish dancing and her history interests. On the other hand, nobody knew much about her. We didn't know what to do. It's almost as if she was trying to throw people off or something. Some documents said she was from Ireland. Others, from California. One said she was from New York. And, of course, you have different names.”

Her father bristled. “This is so typical of her. She had this real thing about being Irish. At first, I thought it was because of the dancing. But it became like an obsession with her. But she's an American through and through.”

“When she found out she was adopted, she rejected our heritage and changed her last name. It's not like we're practicing Jews, but it still hurt,” Rachel said. “She never seemed to get over it. She was loved. Not just by us, but by everybody where we live. Love is love and has nothing to do with blood. But she left us, anyway.”

Annie was startled. Was it that easy to walk away from a part of your heritage? Erase a part of your past? Ignore it and it will go away?

“Did she have ties to anybody in Ireland? I mean, the name . . .”

“I don't think she's related to anybody in Ireland,” her father said. “She was adopted in California, where we used to live. The agency said her parents lived in the area.”

“I've often wondered why she came here, to Cumberland Creek, of all places,” Annie said. “It's a small town surrounded by mountains. It seems she was worldly. Why here?”

The Greenbergs looked at one another.

“She traced her lineage back to Cumberland Creek. The McGlashens have been in California for generations. But she said the first that came here settled in this valley a long time ago,” he told her. “It was important to her, and we tried to support it. But, man, I never could wrap my head around that.”

Annie, a little distracted by his dreadlocks, wondered when his hair had been washed last.

“From what I hear,” Annie said, “the McGlashens who founded this area had very few descendants. Or so the story goes. It's interesting that she claimed heritage here.”

“She hired someone to help with the tracing. A scholar. What was his name?” he asked his wife.

“Luther Vandergrift.” She spoke succinctly, and Annie felt her throat clutch. That just might be the link she needed.

“So with the earthquake and everything, they stopped digging,” Vera said after swallowing a bite of strawberry pie. “Oh my God, Annie, you've outdone yourself with this pie.”

“I just am so inspired by the strawberries around here. I try to get some from the Mennonite Farmer's Market every week. The boys love them, too,” Annie said, beaming.

“Who was it that said strawberries are the fruit of the Goddess?” DeeAnn said as she stretched over her scrapbook.

“It was, um, you-know-who,” Sheila said after a few moments.

“She who shall remain unnamed,” Vera said jokingly.

Annie glared at her, then softened as Vera began cooing over the pie. “Look,” Annie said, “I know she was a part of this group, that we all miss her.”

The room filled with silence. The cutting of the paper, the click of Sheila's laptop, the sound of Sheila's printer going off, it all stopped as the women looked at Annie.

She was different from them, but they all cared about her. The only other scrapper at the table who wasn't from Cumberland Creek was DeeAnn, who had lived there for thirty years and in some circles was still considered an outsider. But not in this one.

Vera knew that Annie felt out of place, still. She wondered if she would ever feel completely at home here, though she tried. She also knew that she and Cookie were close. It hurt her more than any of the others when Cookie disappeared. Vera's mind sifted through the changes since then. The most glaring one was the lack of Cookie at their crop; the other one was that Annie and Detective Bryant had gotten closer. It was as if something had happened during that case that brought them together. Vera couldn't imagine the specifics. But that friendship skirted along some dangerous turf. That she knew.

Annie went on.

“I miss her, too,” she said. “But the fact is, she escaped from jail and disappeared into thin air. She never reached out to one of us. Before that, we welcomed her into our lives, into our hearts. She used us.”

“For what?” Vera said. “It's not like she took our money or set us up for murder or—”

“I really think that she didn't mean for any of it to happen,” Paige interrupted. “I think it was all a mistake.”

“What do you mean?” Vera said.

“Well, she shouldn't have been in jail in the first place,” Paige said. “That was mistake number one.”

“Well, the real killer is there now,” DeeAnn said and sighed. “I'm grateful for it.”

“But then . . . I don't know.” Paige twisted a blond strand of her hair and looked off, as if she hadn't heard DeeAnn at all. “She was always a bit off. It was almost like she never belonged here.”

“Yes!” Sheila said. “That's exactly how I feel when I think about her.”

“You are wrong,” Annie said. “She was here for a reason. She was supposed to be here. I'm certain of it.” Annie started to pack her things up. “I promised Mike I'd be home early tonight. So, I'm on my way.”

Annie had just purchased a new case for her scrapbooking materials. It was a big black bag on wheels. The inside of it offered special slots and pockets specially designed for scrapbooking ephemera, like pens, stickers, paper, adhesives, ribbons, buttons, and other embellishments. Annie fit at least two scrapbooks in the bag. It appeared to be so easy to stay on top of what she was working on: she just slipped her things in the bag, zipped it up, and rolled away with it. Vera needed to get one of those bags—so sleek and contemporary, compared to her bulky bag.

“Oh, before I go . . .” She turned before heading out the door. “I found out from Emily's parents that she was using a researcher who helped trace her roots to Cumberland Creek. It turns out that Luther Vandergrift was freelancing as a genealogist.”

“What?” Sheila cried. “You've got to be kidding me.”

“So how well did Emily know Luther?” Paige asked, setting down her glass of wine.

“Well, that's what I'm trying to find out. I'm going to see him on Monday. I mean, she definitely hired him, but I don't know that they had much to do with one another once she moved here,” Annie told them.

“You're going to see him?” Vera said, aghast. “I can't believe you'd want to be in the same room with him.”

“I won't be. He'll be behind glass,” Annie said and smiled. “And it's as safe as it could be. After all, he's in jail still.”

“But still,” Vera said, her stomach twisting. “I don't know how you do it. How you face a man like that.”

The others nodded in agreement as they each tended to their own projects in front of them.

“I'd be more worried about who murdered Emily. They are still at large, and the evidence is scant,” Annie said and turned to leave.

“Honestly,” Sheila said, looking up from her screen, “you don't have to remind us of that. Be careful walking home, Annie.”

Vera shuddered. As far as she knew, she was still the only person of interest in the murder case. It felt unreal to her that she would even be suspected of such a hideous crime.
This is how Cookie must have felt.
It was probably worse for her because they actually held her in jail for several days.

After Annie left, Vera looked around the table. It felt empty without her. No, the crop wouldn't be the same without Annie. She'd been in Cumberland Creek three years now, a cropper for two.

But then again, it still felt empty without Cookie, as well. And she'd been with them a little less than a year.

Shortly after Cookie left, Emily had shown up in town. Vera's studio had been starting to show signs of the bad economy—but she at least had been making a profit. But between her ex-husband's shenanigans and Emily's business practices, she no longer made a profit and now was just able to pay the bills. More than anything, it saddened her that her students and their families could be so easily fooled by Emily and her propaganda. Ballet was the foundation of all dance. And more than that, well, hadn't she given these families all that she had for the best years of her life?

Vera decided to think about something else.

She picked up the photo of the young dancer she was making a scrapbook for, and she was lovely. She would be graduating from high school and going to college to study medicine. Vera was so proud of her. She cut the photo in an oval shape and placed it on the page, which had tiny little glittering stars all over it. The photo needed a mat. Hmm. Which one should she use? If she used the blue one, it would pull out the blue of her eyes. If she used the yellow one, it would bring out the yellow flowers on the dress. Decisions, decisions.