Searching for Celia (9 page)

“I’m sorry. I may have already said too much. This is still an open investigation.” Callaway steps back and pats her coat pockets in a furtive search for cigarettes. “I will let you know as soon as there’s any news.”

We say our good-byes and leave through the sliding glass doors. Edwina and I watch from the ambulance bay as DC Callaway gets into her car, slams the door, and lights a cigarette before driving away. “Charming woman,” Edwina mutters.

I smile in spite of myself. “Who knew there were so many shades of beige?” Edwina links my good arm with hers and together we traverse the parking lot. The skies have cleared since earlier this afternoon and a clean scent of cold, rain-washed concrete fills the streets as we begin the short walk back to Celia’s flat. The early evening is brisk, even pleasant, but my mood remains dark.

“So Celia has a criminal record?” I ask gently.

Edwina stiffens beside me. “Yes, but only minor offenses,” she says defensively.

“The things Callaway mentioned don’t sound minor.” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “Especially when taken as a whole.”

“Come now, Dayle, don’t be so naïve.”

“How am I being naïve?”

“Celia engaged in work that is risky and challenging. She deals with some very bad people, but only for a greater good. It’s not as if she sits in an ivory tower writing all day.”

Ignoring the insult, I continue. “I understand that her work is difficult but—”

“Most of the charges Callaway listed—charges that were dropped, by the way—came after Celia helped organize some of the protests in London last year after the government introduced a huge rise in university tuition fees. Celia was brave enough to stand up for her beliefs and now this, this
detective constable
, wants to paint Celia as some common criminal. I’m sorry, I am just not having it.”

“It’s okay,” I reassure her. “I wasn’t questioning Celia’s character. I know the kind of person she is. I was simply trying to understand Callaway’s accusations, put them into some sort of context.”

Edwina softens slightly, squeezing my uninjured arm. “Sorry, Dayle.” The gap-toothed grin briefly reappears. “I didn’t mean to attack you. I’m just rather protective of my lovely girl, that’s all. Protective and proud.”

“No problem. I understand.”

But as we approach Celia’s building, I’m still troubled. There is apparently so much I don’t know about Celia. Suicide attempts. A criminal record. What
else
don’t I know?

We enter the run-down mansion at 10 Rosslyn Hill and ascend the rickety staircase to the second floor, stopping in front of flat number 5. Edwina taps the unlocked door, which swings open at her touch. She steps inside and gasps.

I duck under her arm and enter the flat, which has been thoroughly ransacked. Clothes are strewn everywhere, drawers pulled from the dresser and overturned, loose papers cascading across the desk. The cupboards have been hastily thrown open; dry goods and dishware, swept from the shelves, lay torn and broken on the floor.

“My God,” I whisper, turning a full circle and trying to comprehend the scene. Edwina recovers before I do and quickly inventories Celia’s few valuables: computer and office equipment, case files, some family jewelry.

“Nothing significant seems to be missing,” she pronounces. “In fact, I can’t see that anything is missing at all.”

“The money,” I say suddenly.

“What money?”

“Whoever was here must have wanted the five thousand pounds from behind Celia’s mattress.”

Edwina lunges toward the bed.

“It isn’t there.”

She stops suddenly.

“It’s still in my backpack,” I explain.

She looks at me, wide-eyed.

“It’s been there, along with the cell phone and credit card, since early this afternoon.”

Wednesday

5:08 p.m.

“You mean to say you’ve been walking around London with five thousand pounds in your rucksack?”

I nod. “After receiving the threatening photo, I figured the money was safer with me than in an unlocked apartment,” I explain. “And by the looks of this place, I was right.”

“What are we going to do?” Edwina collapses into a kitchen chair and covers her face.

“Call DC Callaway, I guess, then get ready for my speech.”

Edwina looks up in shock. “You still intend to go?”

“I have to. I’m the keynote speaker.”

She shakes her head. “Dayle, you’ve had no sleep for what, two days? You arrive to find your friend may be dead, you get pushed onto a train platform and break your arm, and now the flat where you’re meant to spend the night is ransacked. I think the organizers would understand if you canceled.”

“I can’t,” I argue. “I made a commitment. And the conference might help take my mind off things. At least for a while.”

I pick up the phone and dial Callaway’s numbers, office and mobile, but both go to voice mail, where I leave what I hope are not-too-frantic messages, telling her the flat’s been ransacked and asking her to return my call.

Edwina and I exchange looks. “Now what?” she asks.

“Clean up the place. Then I better get dressed.” While Edwina sweeps up the broken dishware and tidies the kitchenette, I collect the scattered papers and pile them on Celia’s desk, then fold Celia’s clothing and bundle the items back into her wardrobe and dresser. Once the flat is at least navigable again, I use my good arm to clear a spot on top of Celia’s mattresses. With Edwina’s help I lift my suitcase to the bed and open it, surveying the contents. “This is strange,” I say.

“What’s that?” She peers over my shoulder and into the case.

“Whoever ransacked the flat had time to rummage through drawers and papers, overturn lamps, do some major damage, and yet, this suitcase wasn’t touched.”

She frowns. “So?”

“This is Louis Vuitton luggage. Inside there’s a ruby pendant, a Rolex watch, a ruby-and-diamond ring, and two cashmere sweaters. We assume whoever was here wanted the cash from behind Celia’s bed, but they could have taken this suitcase and sold it, along with everything inside, for much more than that. And there’s a MacBook in my laptop bag that hasn’t been touched.”

“Maybe they wanted that cash for a reason,” Edwina offers.

“Like what?”

She shrugs. “Because they wouldn’t have time to sell your things? Or maybe there’s something special about that money—the serial numbers, perhaps.”

I slump to the bed beside the suitcase, which slides against my thigh. “I give up. This is just so bizarre.”

I glance from the clock, which shows quarter after five, to my broken hand. “I’d love to wash my hair before the conference.”

“I can help.”

“Really? That would be great.” I secretly hoped she’d volunteer but wasn’t sure how to ask.

“Certainly. First, just allow me to tidy the bathroom. Celia is not exactly house-proud, as you can see.” Edwina pulls off her Doc Martens and rolls up the sleeves of her powder-blue Oxford shirt, revealing solid, muscular arms, a shade of mahogany one degree darker than the skin of her face and neck. Somehow she finds, within the ruined kitchen, hidden beneath the sink, a bottle of dish soap, a short-handled scrub brush, and a box of bicarbonate of soda.

I take off my sweater and observe at the bathroom door, barefoot, in only a bra and jeans. She works quickly, scrubbing the mold and soap scum from the corners of the tub, then salting the surfaces with the bicarbonate and rinsing the whole thing clean. She is thoughtful and focused as she works, probably not even aware of the melodic tune she hums beneath her breath.

With a damp cloth she wipes the sink, the edges of the tub, and the top of the toilet before folding a large bath towel and placing it on the floor. She beckons me into the bathroom and motions for me to kneel, bracing my elbows on the side of the tub. I curl the cast to my chest, where the sudden brush of pebbled plaster gives me chills. “Cover the cast with your opposite hand,” Edwina advises, stationed behind me. “So it doesn’t get wet.” My swollen fingers barely bend as I tuck them beneath my chin.

“Can you get closer?” Edwina gently presses my spine and I feel the weight of her shadow over my shoulder.

“I think so.” I scoot forward until my knees touch the tub. Then I lift my neck and bow my head, bobbing and craning to the height of her outstretched palm.

“Yes. Just like that,” she encourages as she turns on the hot and cold taps, letting the water mingle as it flows through the plastic attachment that serves as a makeshift showerhead. An intermittent hiss of water droplets flashes across her hand as she checks the temperature, waiting patiently for it to rise.

“This always takes forever,” she whispers, half exasperated.

“That’s all right.” I press closer and breathe in the warm steam billowing from the bottom of the tub, which now smells clean and briny, retaining only the faintest memory of mold.

She says something, but I can’t make out her words above the water’s murmur, churning so close to my ear. “I’m sorry?”

“Shampoo—honeysuckle rose?”

“Fine,” I reply.

I close my eyes and surrender to Edwina’s touch. Her strong hands are firm and confident as she lathers the shampoo and scrubs my scalp, massaging with her fingertips. She moves in smooth circles that start at my crown and move outward, skirting the edges of my temples and brushing the notch atop my spine. She hums as she works, in time with the rhythm of the water.

After rinsing the shampoo she applies conditioner, which smells like chamomile and gardenia, earthier and more pungent than the shampoo. The scent, condensed and enlivened by the steam, circles my head like a perfumed garland. My consciousness flickers, winnowing to a pinpoint, and I wish I could kneel here forever, blessed by her expert hands and the warmth of the water.

Edwina rinses away the conditioner, carefully clearing the folds behind my earlobes. She turns off the taps, and as the last droplets sputter through the showerhead now coiled at the bottom of the tub, she wraps a clean towel around my head and pats my hairline dry.

A gentle tap on my back informs me I may stand. I rise unsteadily, balancing the awkward weight of my plaster-cast wrist. Edwina takes my good elbow and guides me back to the bedroom. There is a cloudy mirror, cloudier now with condensation, hung on a nail above Celia’s dresser. Edwina takes the chair from Celia’s desk and positions it in front of the mirror, then motions for me to sit down. She drapes the damp towel around my neck, then grabs a comb and holds it inches above my head. “Right or left?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you part your hair on the right or on the left?”

“Oh.” I squint at myself in the mirror, a small figure made smaller by her square-shouldered form, stationed sentry-like behind me. “Near the middle, but slightly to the left and a bit off-center. It should fall right into place.”

She nods and combs my hair straight back off my face, then pushes it forward, looking for the natural part. “Well, well,” she says mischievously, “one rarely sees this.”

“What?”

“Dark hair with light roots.”

“I’m naturally blond,” I explain.

“Why the change?”

“I needed a new literary identity. Dayle Salvesen, unsuccessful but serious blond novelist, became Candee Cronin, best-selling brunette and author of the
Assignment
novels.”

“Do you like the darker color?”

I shrug. “I’m used to it now. But it was weird, at first. When I saw my reflection in a mirror, I didn’t always recognize myself.”

Edwina parts my hair several times without satisfaction, then impulsively grabs the towel from around my neck and rubs my hair wildly, sending it flying in several directions. As she combs it neatly back into place, her gray eyes soften.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing.” She presses the edge of the comb against her generous bottom lip.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

She glances down, shaking her head. “I didn’t notice until just now how much you look like my Celia,” she whispers. “Without makeup and with your hair combed back, there’s such a strong resemblance.” Her hands float slowly around my face, pausing to highlight each feature. “Same high cheekbones, thin eyebrows, narrow chin.” She leans forward, nearly brushing my ear with her lip as she scrutinizes my reflection. “Your eyes are blue and hers are hazel, but the shape of the eyelid is similar. Dayle, you could be sisters.”

I want to reply but my throat is too tight to speak as I stare into the mirror at the solemn, pale, reflected face, which at the moment appears to be Celia’s. My gaze rises from my own face to Edwina’s behind me and I see that she is weeping, silvery tears that course silently down the high tan planes of her face. Edwina weeps because she misses Celia, and I cry too, but not because of Celia, or even because of my son. I cry because it has been so long since anyone touched me with such kindness, such casual compassion, as Edwina does now, with one hand squeezing the comb and the other cupped softly at the base of my skull.

*

After Edwina helps me change into my clothes for the lecture, an off-white silk Gucci blouse with navy blazer and skirt, she putters in the kitchenette, making tea, while I sit before the mirror and apply my makeup with one hand. The radio drones softly in the background, Top 40 pop music and inane call-in conversation, but at the top of the hour the tone turns serious with an updated news report about the ongoing fears of an imminent terrorist attack.
And in more local news,
the reporter continues,
the body of a young woman has been found dead near Waterloo Bridge. Police have yet to release the woman’s identity.

My whole body goes numb as Edwina lets out a strangled cry, doubling over as if she’s been punched. I want to go to her and hold her up before she collapses, but I can’t move. I feel like a rag doll, limbless and unhinged.

“God! Celia. No,” Edwina coughs out between sobs.

“It might not be her,” I say in a strange voice that sounds brittle and distant. “I’ll call Callaway.”

Moving across the room, I reach for the phone on Celia’s desk but my hand shakes so badly I have to sit down and hold the phone in my lap, trying to keep it still. Twice I punch the wrong numbers and must hang up and try again.