tonight.” He took off before she’d had a chance to say anything, running down the beach with a football and a gaggle of friends.
That chance meeting was like something out of a science fiction novel, because Margo was the name of her twin sister and she was buried at the bottom of the Pacific in that plane with her mother and those Marines, somewhere between Catalina and the coast.
She’d wondered about it off and on for years. Such a strange coincidence, a boy she didn’t know calling her that. Sometimes, late at night, when she was caught in that world between sleep and not sleep, she’d imagine Margo was alive. But then she’d put it out of her mind, because it hurt so much to feel so incomplete, a sailboat set adrift with no sails, no rudder.
She wanted to cry, she was so happy. Margo was real and now. Maggie was looking at her picture and Margo had her face. She was alive. A kind of pleasure rippled through her. Maggie felt good all over.
She got up from the cool cement floor and went into the house. Straight to the living room and the phone books. She picked up the Orange County edition and found an address on Pacific Coast Highway, 913, #1310. And a phone number. Maggie picked up the phone, put it down and went for the door. Nick had her car, but she knew how the busses worked.
Still in Levi’s and sweatshirt, she caught the bus in front of the Safeway, rode it to Seal Beach, where she changed and took the Orange County Bus to a stop only a block past the Sand and Sea Condos.
She stepped off the bus to a cool morning breeze. It was 9:00 and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It was going to be another hot day. But it was chilly now. She held her breath against the diesel fumes as the bus pulled away. The place where Margo Kenyon lived was so close. Maggie’s heart thudded as she let the breath out. She walked slowly toward the condo entrance.
“Didn’t see you go out, Ms. Kenyon,” an elderly guard said.
Maggie ignored him as she followed a sidewalk that wound between the condos and the beach. There were several buildings, each with four units in them, two upstairs and two down. The smaller buildings were clustered about a larger one that was home to several units. Maggie was checking the numbers on the doors when she heard a child scream out.
“Mom!”
Maggie turned to see a little girl scramble down the steps from the main building. She stood, frozen in place as the child jumped the last two.
“Margo!”
Maggie spun around and saw a big man moving toward her, not running, but walking fast.
“Mom!” The child charged across the green lawn. Instinctively Maggie went to her knees, arms open. In an instant, the girl wrapped Maggie in a strong hug. “Don’t let him take me.”
The man was getting closer. He would have been handsome if he didn’t have the acne scars. Not what you’d call a pockmarked face, but close.
“Promise you won’t ever leave me again,” the girl said.
Maggie turned back to the man. He looked determined.
“Promise!” the child said again.
“I promise,” Maggie said.
“I was worried, Margo,” the man said.” You went away without telling the cops. They took it out on me.” Maggie recognized him from television. Bruce Kenyon the lawyer, Margo’s husband, the defender of Frankie Fujimori.
“Really?” Maggie said for time.
“Arrested me. Assholes. I was out before they had a chance to book me. They’re going to regret it.”
Bruce Kenyon had the prettiest blue eyes and shocking blond hair, but neither was able to soften his look. He was a man consumed. Maggie didn’t want to get on his wrong side. She was about to tell them who she was, but the child’s grip was tight. The girl was afraid of him, so Maggie held her tongue.
“Are you alright, Jasmine?” Bruce Kenyon said.
“You can’t take me. Mom’s here now.” The girl squeezed Maggie even tighter.
“No one’s taking anybody,” Maggie said. Was he really here to try and take the girl?
“We need to talk,” he said.
“Not now.” Maggie knew the way to deal with lawyers was not to talk to them.
“I came all the way out here.”
“It’s Sunday. It’ll keep.” You had to be firm, otherwise they walked all over you.
“What happened to your head?”
She touched her forehead, winced when she touched the bruise. “Bumped it.”
“Come on, Mom.” The child eased out of the hug, pulled on her arm.
“Margo?” Bruce Kenyon implored.
“Tomorrow!” Maggie turned and let the child lead her away from the man.
“Fuck it.” He sounded disgusted. “I’ll call you.” Apparently there wasn’t any love left between Margo and Bruce Kenyon.
Maggie followed Jasmine to a condo that faced the beach. The door was marked 1310. Margo’s house. Jasmine opened the door and Maggie followed her inside.
The living room was bright, with light beige carpets, rattan furniture with floral print cushions, two lamps with glass bowls stuffed full of sea shells for bases, tropical prints on the walls. Maggie guessed Hawaii.
“Can I go to next door and play with Sonya?” Jasmine said.
“Sure,” Maggie said.
“Thanks.” Jasmine was out the door before Maggie could say another word.
Alone now, she walked around the condo. She went to the bedroom, saw a Queen size bed, rattan end tables, a painting of a palm tree swaying in a storm above the bed. Margo was a water woman. An island woman. Maggie smiled, because she was too.
She turned and gasped. For an instant she thought she was face to face with her twin, but it was only her reflection in the floor to ceiling mirrored closet doors. She frowned, pushed the hair out of her eyes. She was dripping with sweat. What a way to greet her sister for the first time. Before she could stop herself, Maggie slid open the closet. She had to know more about her twin and what better way to know a woman than by her clothes?
“Yuck.” Maggie ran her hands through the hanging suits. What kind of woman lived by the beach, decorated an apartment so wonderfully, than dressed like that? Old lady lawyers. Not real people. Maggie closed the closet and went back to the living room.
The timer on the VCR under the TV said, 9:15. Fifteen minutes till Nick’s Sunday show. He didn’t come home last night, but wherever he’d slept, he’d be out of bed for that. If she’d been thinking clearly, she’d have realized it earlier. He was always at the station an hour or more before the show. She could have called him there.
She went to the kitchen, where she saw a handbag and two bags of groceries that begged to be put away. In less than a minute she was as familiar with the kitchen as if it were her own. She put away the groceries. Ten minutes till Newsmakers with Nick. She found coffee and filters for the coffee machine.
Back in the living room with black coffee, she turned on the television. She took a sip and watched as Carry Ann Close, Nick’s co-host, came on the screen. She apologized for Nick’s absence.
“It is this newswoman’s sad duty to report that Nick Nesbitt’s wife, Maggie, was found murdered last night. Her nude body was discovered, battered and broken, behind the Whale, a bar frequented by gays, in Long Beach. It’s not known yet if she’d been sexually assaulted-”
Maggie stared at the set, stunned as Carry Close cut to a live camera outside of the Whale. The whole thirty minutes was spent on the murder. It was those men, Horace and Virgil. It had to be. They’d mistaken her for Margo yesterday. They must have followed her and Gordon. Then somehow they found the real Margo, killed her and dumped her there.
Her first instinct was to call the police. She looked around the room. No phone. But there was one in the kitchen. She got up, sat back down. What about the promise she’d just made to the child? What would happen to her if Maggie called the cops?
