“Yep,” I finally answer through gritted teeth, after reading the eulogy a few times. I can hardly lay the blame at Zelda’s doorstep without revealing what I know. Which she knows, goddamn her. How did she get the thing printed? I will try to remember to research how you go about getting an obituary in the local paper. Though this will no doubt look a bit odd, given that I’m meant to have just done it. “It was a mistake. I’d had a few glasses of wine, was feeling maudlin.” I shrug. “I emailed it yesterday. We can print a retraction if you want.”
“Why in God’s name would we do that? I think it’s lovely, Ava.” Opal leans over and gives me a wet kiss on the cheek. “It’s honest, spoken from your real heart. I think everyone can appreciate that.” She rubs my shoulders insistently. Marlon doesn’t look convinced, just raises his eyebrows and sips his coffee. I feel one of the phones vibrate in my pocket.
“I have to go give Mom breakfast,” I say quickly, trying to beat a fast retreat. “Then I guess I’ll head back to the station, answer their questions.” Marlon nods.
8
Hardly able to convince my mother to choke down the banana I offer her, I throw up my hands in exasperation after five minutes of negotiation. I imagine this is karmic justice for some refusal of mine as a child, but this thought does nothing to assuage my irritation with her. I prop her up in bed and leave her with my laptop, the screen open to Netflix. I think she’ll be able to figure it out, but I tell Marlon to check in on her occasionally. Opal is hard at work scrubbing the kitchen and bathrooms, which I appreciate. She may be obnoxious, but at least she’s tidy.
I’m still annoyed at the last email Zelda sent. She knew that Marlon likes to escape in the mornings. She knew he would flee the ladies of the house and buy the newspaper.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Everybody Loves a Dead Girl, Everybody Loves a Murder Plot (Or, the Most Poetical Topic)
June 24, 2016 @ 10:05 AM
Ever-loving twin,
Enjoy my eulogy? Truly, no one but you is qualified to deliver such an epic elegy, a timeless remembrance of my early exit, but I feared you wouldn’t get around to it in a timely manner. The fire department should be getting in touch with you very shortly (if they have not already done so) regarding my untimely departure, and you’ll be expected to go forward with my funeral very soon, but I thought I would cut to the chase, head things off at the pass, jump the gun. I expect Marlon wants to get back to the Sunshine State (wait, that’s Florida, the land of his birth. What is California? Google says: the Golden State. Our sun-kissed golden boy), so you’ll have to get cracking on the arrangements. Thankfully, we don’t have much family to notify. And the locals were already sharpening their pitchforks and marching on the vineyard; I’ve saved them the trouble of setting me on fire. They’ll be waiting at the top of the drive to say a very unfond farewell. If you please, I would like you to sing something really awful. Like “Danny Boy” or “Wind Beneath My Wings.” I’d like Mom to wear something black and matronly, please, and I’d like the whole thing to be as campy as possible. White lilies, somber faces, the works, Ava dear. I know your secretly ironic aesthetic is up to the task. If you need inspiration, just ask Wyatt. He’ll unwittingly provide you with all the material you need. In the meantime, enjoy this little audio clip.
Never forget,
Z is for Zelda
I play the file from Arcade Fire’s Funeral that she has sent along with her email as I head back down 414 to town. We listened to this song, “Crown of Love,” in high school, sharing one pair of earbuds branching from our black iPod. I park in the lot behind the station. I refuse to get another ticket; God only knows how many Zelda’s racked up. Before hopping out of the truck, I check Zelda’s phone again: nothing. I tuck the phone into the glove compartment of the truck. I don’t want it to ring while I’m talking to the police; that could make for an awkward explanation.
The same young cop greets me in the reception area and ushers me into a windowless room. He offers me a Coke, which I accept, and I twiddle my thumbs for a few minutes while I wait for the officer in charge of my sister’s case. I slurp the cool liquid, reflecting not for the first time that it is some sort of magical elixir that cures hangovers. When someone finally enters the room, I’m close to nodding off, but I snap to attention. I hate cops, but not as much as Zelda did. Does.
“Ava Antipova?” he asks me brusquely. He’s a squat, balding man with a substantial potbelly.
“One and the same. My father, Marlon, said you wanted to ask me a few questions? About Zelda.”
“That’s right. I’m Officer Healy, in charge of your sister’s case. We’re just trying to get a little information on where she was during her final days—”
“So you’re pretty sure she was the one in the barn?” I interrupt.
The officer clears his throat. “Well, yes, ma’am, at the moment that seems the most likely. We’ve spoken to some people who’ve established that Ms. Antipova—Zelda—slept in the barn regularly, and the text message she sent shortly before the fire began seems to confirm that she intended to sleep there that night—”
“—but the doors were locked, and the fire burned a touch too quickly to suit y’all,” I finish for him.
“Well, in a manner of speaking, yeah. I don’t want to leap to conclusions, or for anybody else to, for that matter, but we think we may be looking at a case of arson, and possibly homicide.”
“Lemme guess—your prime suspect is this Jason guy. The one she texted?” I can only imagine what the poor sucker did to Zelda to have her framing him for murder. Maybe he’d been giving her the silent treatment too.
The cop looks at me with a perceptible shred of dislike. I can see he doesn’t like me taking the wind out of his sails, deflating his brilliant deductions, but it’s hard for me to feel impressed by a guy who’s trotting around the dance floor exactly as my sister has choreographed. Then again, it’s probably not fair to blame him for that; he doesn’t have a lifetime of experience with Zelda’s games, and he has no reason to suspect that she’s playing him now.
“He is a candidate, yes. We’d like to find him, but we don’t have much information to work with. No last name, and the contact details your sister had in her phone were linked to a TracFone registered in your name.”
I sit up straight at this. “I’m listening,” I tell him.
“We understand that you’ve been living in France for the last twenty-one months? Paris?” He consults a sheet of paper in his file. I suspect this gesture comes from watching cop dramas, rather than from a genuine need to remind himself of one piece of information.
“Grad school,” I answer with a nod.