41.
In my bedroom, I closed and locked my door, then sat in the armchair by the front window waiting for them to leave. I could hear them downstairs; the dining room was right below my room. Their voices were muffled, but I imagined they wondered what had gotten into me. I didn’t give a damn. It had been such a relief to tell them to go. I’d still be uncomfortable, living in a house that had been turned upside down, little price tags on every lamp and chair and dish, but I could deal with that, and my own bedroom was an untouched haven.
A half hour passed before I heard the front door close. From the window, I watched Jeannie and Christine walk down the porch steps and across the lawn to their cars in the driveway. I smiled, watching them go. Once they’d driven away, I sat down at my desk and turned on my laptop.
How to begin?
I Googled “Ann Johnson” and immediately knew the name was going to be of absolutely no help. I tried searching for images of women with that name. Pages upon pages of Ann Johnsons showed up on my computer, all looking at me with such haunting expressions that I couldn’t stand it and I closed down Google altogether.
I sat with my hands in my lap, staring at the screen. With his tech skills, would Danny know of some way of finding her I’d never think of? I shook my head to rid it of the idea. It didn’t matter. Even if he did, I couldn’t involve him. Maybe I could hire a private investigator, but would a PI have a legal obligation to tell the police if he or she managed to track Lisa down?
And then I remembered that someone had hired a PI: Steven Davis’s wife, Sondra. And she, I knew, would be easy to find.
It took me only a few seconds to locate her blog again. “Never Forgotten: A Meeting Place for Families of Murder Victims.” My gaze fell to the bottom of the page, where I clicked on the word contact, and a form appeared below Sondra Lynn Davis’s e-mail address. I chewed my lip for a couple of minutes, thinking through what I was about to do. Then I began typing.
Sondra, my name is Riley MacPherson. I am Lisa MacPherson’s younger sister. I was only two at the time of your husband’s death, and I’d never been told the truth about my sister’s role in it. I stumbled across your blog. I wonder if you could tell me if the private investigator made any progress in finding my sister or if he came to the conclusion that Lisa did actually kill herself, which is what my family has always believed.
I’m sorry for your terrible loss, and I’m sure you’re helping a lot of people through your blog.
I read it over several times, adding the sentence about believing that Lisa had killed herself only on the third reading, so that I gave nothing away. I added my phone number and signature, and then hit send.
* * *
I went for a run with my phone in my hand in case Sondra saw my message right away and called me back, but it wasn’t until I’d gotten home, taken a shower, and settled down on the floor in front of the living room cabinets that the phone finally rang. The number on the caller ID was unfamiliar and I held my breath after I said hello.
“Is this Riley MacPherson?”
I knew who it was without her telling me. “Sondra?” I asked.
“Yes.” Her voice was youthful, although I figured she was at least sixty. “I was so shocked to get your message,” she said.
“I’m sure it seemed strange, out of the blue.” I turned to lean my back against the cabinets. “My father died recently and I found articles about … everything that happened. And then I found your blog and realized that you thought Lisa might still be alive, and I just wanted to see if you ever learned anything from your private investigator.”
She was quiet a moment. “You didn’t know she killed Steven?” she asked finally.
“No,” I said. “I wasn’t even two at the time, and all my parents told me was that she was depressed.”
Sondra didn’t speak and for a moment I thought we’d been cut off.
“Sondra?”
“Your sister’s out there somewhere, you know,” she said. “She was never punished for what she did. It’s disgusting. My husband was so gifted, and he would have done anything for her and his other students. I think Lisa’s rise in the music world was too fast for her own good. She was spoiled and selfish, and—”
“Why do you think she’s … out there?”
“The PI we hired found evidence.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“A couple of people recognized her from a photograph. This was in San Diego.”
“San Diego! Why was he looking there?”
“I got a tip that she was in California. Someone—anonymously—sent me a note saying she traveled to San Diego by train.”
I could guess who that someone was. I was so glad I’d called Suzanne to stop the gift deed.
“Of course I received loads of other tips, sending the investigator on a hundred wild-goose chases,” Sondra said. “But this was the only one that got a nibble.”
“Did you tell the police?” I asked.
“Of course. They did nothing,” she said. “They believed she was dead and that I was obsessed. Which I was, but with good reason. If the PI had found nothing, I would have let it go. Eventually.”
“So … you said some people recognized her picture?” I prompted.
“Yes. She’d changed her hair, of course, but they were certain it was the same girl. They said she worked in a shop in Ocean Beach, which I guess is part of San Diego. The PI talked to the shop owner. He denied knowing her, but the PI thought he was lying. I don’t think the police even followed up on it.” Sondra sounded bitter. I supposed I would feel the same way. “I’m absolutely certain Lisa was living there back then,” Sondra said. “The PI was sure of it, but he just couldn’t find her.”
“So, did he keep looking?”
“Of course, but without any luck,” Sondra said. “And my money was drying up, and without being able to get the authorities interested … it was immensely frustrating.”
“I can imagine,” I said, trying to sound empathetic. “Can you tell me the PI’s name?”
“Well, I could, but he died about ten years ago so there’s not much point.” She hesitated. “Are you going to look for her?”
“Oh … well, honestly, I tend to think the police were probably right about her killing herself.”
I heard her sigh. “You know what my most fervent wish is?” she asked.
“What?”
“I’m sixty-three years old,” she said. “I only pray that I live long enough to see your sister found and brought to justice. That’s my hope and I won’t ever give up on it.”
* * *
When I got off the phone, I sat in a rocker on the back porch, opened my laptop, and looked for any Ann Johnsons who lived in San Diego. I searched for my sister’s features in each photograph that popped up, but I was beginning to think Lisa was wisely living a reclusive life. She probably turned away every time someone pulled out a camera.
It was growing dark, the crickets singing in the yard. I closed my computer and went into the kitchen to scavenge for something to eat. My mother’s Franciscan Ware was piled on the counter, a small price sticker attached to the bottom of each plate and bowl and cup and saucer, and I stood there removing those stickers with a sense of relief. Those dishes belonged to my childhood. I planned to keep every one of them forever.
* * *
I didn’t wake up until nine the next morning, and I lay in bed, stretching for a while, glad to have the house to myself. It was so quiet with nobody rummaging through the rooms. I planned to go through more of my father’s papers that morning, searching for something—anything—that might lead me to Lisa. But I suddenly had a different idea.
I got up and carried my laptop back to the bed with me. Surfing to one of the travel sites, I plugged in “New Bern to San Diego,” and a few minutes and seven hundred dollars later, I was booked on a flight for that evening.