“When are you going to have kids?” Linda asked Rachel.
“Soon,” Rachel said. “Really soon.”
“I repeat,” Michelle said. “Are you knocked up?”
“Who knows?” Rachel said. “But, no, that’s not why we got married.”
“Don’t expect me to babysit,” Michelle said. It was surprising how easy it was to watch The Real World without sound. She had no problem following it whatsoever. It was basically fight-fight-fight montage fight-fight-fight montage.
“I wouldn’t,” Rachel said. “But what if you decide you want to? What if you get married young, like all the Brewer women?”
“Oh, I might get married young. But I’m never having kids. Never.” Michelle hadn’t had her childhood yet. She wanted to find a job or a man that would allow her to live very well. She wasn’t naïve. She realized that both required effort. Different kinds of effort, but effort. And while it would probably surprise her sisters, she had decided that a job was better than a man. For one thing, you could move from job to job with much greater ease than you could move from husband to husband. She was going to find whatever job paid the best for the least amount of work, even if it was boring as hell.
She rode down to Fells Point with Rachel and Joshua. She had forgotten that Joshua was part of the equation now, even though he and Rachel had been sharing her apartment for more than six months. Joshua was just that kind of guy, easy to forget. Once in the apartment, he seemed comically out of place in the feminine environment that Rachel had created in the little one-bedroom under the eaves of an eighteenth-century rowhouse. Michelle realized they would probably be moving before long. She wondered if she could take over Rachel’s lease. Again, that would require a job.
Rachel and Joshua did not go to bed right away. Michelle had the sense they were waiting her out, trying to keep her entertained so she wouldn’t go out, after all. Good luck, she thought. Toward midnight, as Rachel struggled to keep her eyes open, Michelle said sweetly, as if conferring a kindness: “I’ll let you two go to bed. But I’m restless. I think I’ll go get a nightcap over at John Steven’s.”
“So late?” Joshua said. Already trained to do Rachel’s dirty work. Oh, won’t you be a good little Brewer man, following your wife around like a dog.
“It’s not late at all for someone my age. And if that storm comes through as promised, there will be plenty of time to sit indoors.”
“It’s just not safe,” Rachel said. “For someone alone, I mean. I worry.”
Michelle laughed as she adjusted her coat and scarf. Their grandmother had given Bambi an old mink and Michelle had taken it over, even had it tailored and repaired at great expense. A boyfriend’s expense. She loved it when someone-always a girl, and almost always an unattractive one-said: “Fur is murder.” Michelle would say blithely: “No, it’s the consequence of murder. As is most of human history, all the way back to Cain and Abel, so get over it.”
“I really wish you wouldn’t go out,” Rachel said. “We have bourbon here, a bottle of Romanian wine, from the cheap barrels at Trinacria-”
“Oh, what’s the big deal, Rach? Do you think I’m going to go out the door and never come back?”
“Well,” Rachel said, “it wouldn’t be unprecedented in our family history.”
Michelle wavered for a moment, but she had too much pride not to follow through on her plans. She went out into the night, snug in her coat, giddy with her prospects. Attention, sex, money, love. The first two were almost always available to her and she was after the third now. Love could wait. The sky was clear, and even in the city one could see the stars. It was impossible to imagine a blizzard was coming.
When Rachel and Joshua woke up the next morning, Michelle was sitting in the little kitchen with a cup of coffee from the Daily Grind, reading a Beacon-Light she had found on their neighbor’s doorstep. Neither Rachel nor Joshua asked her about her evening, and she didn’t volunteer any details. She was her father’s daughter. Free as the breeze, accountable to no one, hardwired to understand probability, if not possibility.
March 21, 2012
Susan Borden had told the original investigators many things about herself, as detailed by the witness sheet. There was her full name (Susan Evelyn Borden). Her date of birth, February 25, 1956, in Salisbury, Maryland. Social Security number, her address at the time, which turned out to be only a few blocks from her current home, which had popped out of the MVA files in a matter of seconds. She had given a detailed history of her employment at the bed-and-breakfast, said she counted herself a friend of the owners, for whom she had worked about two years. But she had been away the week that Julie went missing, down the ocean with a new boyfriend. Total shock, never saw it coming, didn’t have any insight. When Baltimore City cops picked up the case fifteen years later, they hadn’t done much more than call her and review her statement from ’86.
Rereading this file now, Sandy could see the gaps. Susan-Susie-didn’t say how she knew Julie, just left the impression that the friendship had been subsequent to the work relationship. She gave up Salisbury, her hometown, but she didn’t volunteer where she had been between Salisbury and Havre de Grace. Her work history included: “Hostess, various Baltimore restaurants.” Yes, Susan Borden had been very careful to omit any detail that led back to Susie the dancer.
He made a strategic decision to let her stew a little bit before they met. She was a responsible citizen, at the same address for more than twenty years now. She wasn’t going to bolt. He called and left a message, asking her to call him back and set up a time to discuss an old case. He said case on purpose, leaving it general.
Two days later, he called and left another message. Detective Sanchez, would like to talk to you about the disappearance of Julie Saxony.
The next day, he called and repeated the same message, almost word for word.
By the fourth day, he was pretty sure he was being ignored. Okay, she could be out of town, on vacation. She could be one of those people who no longer listen to their messages, just check the caller ID and call back the numbers they know, ignore everyone else. He called a neighbor, using a reverse directory to pinpoint the number. He said he had a delivery for Susan Borden but couldn’t get an answer at her house.
“Her husband is always there. He’ll sign for it. Assuming he can.”
That was interesting on a lot of levels. Husband? Not according to any records he had found. And-assuming he can. What was that about?
“Has to be her, nobody else. It’s certified.”
“Well, she gets home at four. But, seriously, you could leave it on the steps. It’s not like people around here steal.”
Oh, country people, so smug. Go read a copy of In Cold Blood, you all so safe in your houses.
Sandy arrived at 5:45, although he had intended to be there closer to 5:30, figuring that gave a woman enough time to take off her pantyhose and put on comfortable shoes, maybe get a snack, but not start dinner yet. That was what his guardian, Nabby, had done upon her arrival home each day. Mary had changed to flat shoes, but stayed in her work clothes, as pretty and fresh at the end of the day as she was at the beginning.