Inside the house, Maggie saw a plush white carpet, modern furniture-steel and glass, cold and sterile. The walls were white, there were no paintings or anything on them, no wood grain anywhere. It was as if Margo’s mother lived in an antiseptic future where people didn’t age.
“It’s all new,” the woman said. “And it’s only temporary.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Maggie said.
“I wasn’t. I was explaining, because you looked shocked.”
“Maybe I was, a little. This place looks so cold. Is this the kind of atmosphere Margo grew up in?”
“My name’s Debra Murrant,” the woman said, ignoring the question.
The furniture was different-Margo had beachy rattan stuff, whereas here the sofa and chairs here were made out of soft white leather, the same color as the carpet-but the arrangement was the same. Two chairs opposite a sofa with a coffee table between. It was set up as if conversation were expected. Maggie didn’t see a television.
“There’s no easy way to say this,” Maggie said. “Margo’s dead.”
“Oh!” Debra’s hands went to her face. She staggered, as if she were going to fall.
In an instant Maggie was at her side. “I’ve got you.” She helped her into one of the chairs. “Can I get you anything?”
“Water. Kitchen. That way.” She pointed.
Maggie found a glass, filled it with water from the tap. Back in the living, room she gave it to Debra Murrant, who wrapped both hands around the glass with laced fingers and held it tight without drinking.
“How?”
“I think it was the man who killed Frankie Fujimori. She saw him, she could identify him.”
“I told her to leave it alone, but she wouldn’t listen.” Debra took a sip of her water, fingers white on the glass. “She was like a dog with bone about him and now it’s gotten her killed.” She sighed. “I suppose that means Jasmine will wind up with her horrible father.”
“I’m not going to let that happen,” Maggie said.
“How can you stop it?”
“They meant to kill Margo, but they killed me instead.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s a long story.”
Debra wiped the tears away from her eyes. “I have time.”
“But before we talk about that, I have some questions.”
“Of course,” Debra said.
“I need to know how she came to live with you and I wound up with my father?”
Debra’s eyes were moist, full of sadness. That and something else, a kind of fire. “Like your father, my husband Gil was in Viet Nam when it happened.” She stood up. “I’m gonna make some tea. How do you take yours?”
“Milk,” Maggie said. “Not cream.”
Horace drove around the block for the third time. Who the fuck was she talking to? How long was she gonna be? Another time around and people were gonna notice. The old lady neighborhood watch types would be on the phone to the cops.
Up ahead the yellow pickup he’d parked next to earlier started to pull away from the curb. Opportunity knocked and Horace answered. He was behind the truck, easing into the spot, even as it was vacating it.
He got out of the car, went to the hood, raised it. Not the best cover in the world, but believable for a few minutes. He looked at the battery, the oil covered engine. Sadie didn’t take good care of her car. It was something he was going to have to teach her. You never knew when you’d have to depend on your vehicle. If you weren’t there for it, it might not be there for you.
“What’cha doin’, mister?” It was a kid’s voice.
Horace grinned, like he was somebody’s uncle or something, pulled his head out from under the hood, turned toward a little girl and said, “Who wants to know?”
“I do.” The girl had bright red hair, green eyes and a face full of freckles.
“And who are you?” On one hand it was good the kid was talking to him, that way he didn’t have to pretend to be working on the car. But it was bad on the other hand, because he didn’t want her around when the Twin came out of that house.
“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
“Hey, you started it. My name’s Horace, what’s yours?” Stupid, he told her his real name. He was getting to be as dumb as Virge.
“Yeah, I guess. My name’s Virginia Wheetly. I live over there.” She pointed to a two story house next to the one the Twin had gone into.
“Ah, next door to-” he paused, “I forget her name.”
“Mrs. Murrant, but she likes me to call her Debra. She just moved in till she sells the house. She’s my friend.”
“Really,” Horace said. That explained the for sale sign.
“Yeah, My mom and dad work, so I got a sitter.”
“Debra’s your sitter?” Horace said.
“No, silly. Carole is, but when her boyfriend comes over I go over to Debra’s, because they think I’m in the way.”
“How can you be in the way if it’s your house?” Horace said, still smiling.
“Exactly. That’s why I’m glad Debra moved next door. She doesn’t think I’m in the way. Margo likes me, too.”
“Did she change her hair?” Horace said.
“Yeah, but I still recognized her. I don’t think her mom did at first, but I did.”
“You’re pretty sharp.” Horace turned back under the hood, pretended to fiddle with one of the battery cables. “Fixed.” He closed the hood. “See ya.”
He couldn’t get in the car quick enough. No way could he do anything here. Not now, not after giving the little brat his real name.
Maggie took a sip of the hot tea, then set her cup on the coffee table. She watched as Debra did the same.
“My daughter,” Debra said, “my real daughter, died of SIDS, sudden infant death syndrome. She was a brand new baby, only two days old. I was pregnant when Gil went away. I wrote him about Margo right after she was born, but I couldn’t write him when she died. I should have, but I was only eighteen.
“I had a job working for your mother at this place called the Last Chance Motel in San Diego, she was the manager.
“One day she asked me if I’d mind staying in her place and watching her baby girls for a few days while she flew up to L.A. in a small plane with a couple of Marines. They were going to a Grateful Dead concert.”
“She was just going to leave two brand new babies with you?” Maggie said.
“We were friends, besides, she was a Deadhead. Maybe you had to be alive at that time to understand.”
“I know about Deadheads.”
“Yeah, I guess you would. Jerry Garcia’s gone now, but his fans are still just as crazy about him, more maybe.”
“We’re getting sidetracked,” Maggie said.
“You’re right.” Debra took a sip of her tea, then continued. “The next day I’d just put Margo down in her crib, but you had a runny nose and wouldn’t stop crying. I was pacing back and forth in the living room, patting your back with every step, when the doorbell rang. It was the police.
“They told me the plane had gone down in the ocean somewhere between the coast and Catalina. They couldn’t find the wreckage. They knew your mother was on the plane, because when they contacted the base, they found a friend of the pilot’s. They also knew about the babies.
