“Huh. Zelda didn’t mention you,” Jason says casually, and I see Wyatt clench his teeth. He turns back to me. “But she did say you were going to pitch up here eventually.” He pokes my collarbone to emphasize the “you,” and I recoil. He’s standing too close. “C’mon back inside, I got something for you.” He turns and waves us back toward the strip club. He goes in through the back door, and the three of us follow, Holly confident, Wyatt and me tentative.
The dressing room is brightly lit and smells of perfume, cigarette smoke, and something chemically clean—feminine hygiene spray? I don’t quite recognize it. The blonde who was onstage when we came in is reapplying lipstick, and a petite girl with wide-spaced eyes is back-combing her hair, teasing it into a frizzy, voluminous halo. I try not to stare, but it is a wonderfully foreign world. I wonder if Zelda really has been back here. She would love its tawdry disarray. We’re led into a hallway, and through a glass door, I glimpse a small room bathed in red light. A completely naked woman is grinding mechanically, a spookily empty expression on her face, and I can see a pair of knees poking out from beneath her. Wyatt coughs behind me, and I know he’s noticed.
Another door opens back into the club, and we follow Jason through it. Several customers nod toward him, and he waves back before heading to a DJ station snugged up next to the stage. A song is ending, and a new girl is scooping up bills from the dance floor, letting men slide others into her garters.
“Zelda wanted me to play a song for you when you showed up,” Jason explains, fussing with the sound equipment. An old song comes on, incongruous here in the club. As the familiar tune gathers momentum, Zelda saunters onstage.
From the way Wyatt freezes, I can tell he’s fallen for the disguise too. For a moment, my heart stops; Holly has donned a black wig that resembles my and Zelda’s hair, and she is wearing one of Zelda’s kimonos. When I see her, I realize that I’ve been expecting Zelda to appear all along. Nat King Cole sings cheerily: “L is for the way you look at me, O is for the only one I see…” Holly dances coquettishly, mouthing along with the lyrics and baring various parts of her body in an imitation of old-fashioned burlesque. I find this much more sexy than the spangled-thong-and-pole exhibition, but that’s beside the point; I look at Jason in confusion.
“Zelda wanted you to play this? For me?”
“Yup. Don’t ask me why. She didn’t tell me, just said you’d figure it out.”
I frown and look over at Wyatt, who wears a similar expression. “Any ideas?” I ask him. “Did she ever mention this song?”
“I remember her singing it, a few weeks ago, but…I can’t think what it means,” he answers slowly. The trumpets blare, and Holly shucks off the kimono, revealing nipple tassels and nothing else. I watch her dance, wondering if there might be clues in the choreography. But the short song winds down, and Holly does a quick shimmy as she exits the stage.
“Did she give you any other messages for me?” I ask Jason in desperate confusion.
“Nope. She could be one mysterious girl.”
“You were sleeping with her, right?” Wyatt growls. He sounds just a bit too protective and pissed off to suit me.
“So what if I was? She wasn’t married,” Jason says, his dander clearly up. I smell a fistfight.
“Can you tell me why you were at the barn the night it burned down?” I ask shrilly, trying to defuse the pissing contest I can see unfolding.
“She texted me. Said she had a little surprise for me, if I brought some of the new stuff.”
“Heroin,” I clarify.
He gives me an entertained look. “Yes, sweetheart. But she didn’t use it that often. Or if she did, she had another hookup. I barely ever sold it to her. She wanted benzos,” he says with a shrug. I frown. “Texted me on the burner phones she bought a few months back. Said if we were going to be involved”—he coughs delicately and meets Wyatt’s eyes defiantly, double-daring him—“she wanted to be sure there was no record of it on her real phone. I thought it was kind of sexy,” he concludes with a fond smile. “Figured there must be a boyfriend or something.” Another malicious grin in Wyatt’s direction.
“So you went over to the barn that night?” I ask.
But Jason doesn’t get a chance to answer. The front door slams open, and two angry-looking cops storm in. I recognize the young one, Trent, from the police station, and he looks furious. The small handful of customers sit up straighter in their seats, and Jason leaps for the dressing room door in a nimble, instinctive movement. But his burly muscles slow him down. Trent manages to grab him and slam him against the wall.
“Are you Jason Reynolds?” he growls.
“Maybe,” Jason answers.
“I’m taking you in for questioning for the murder of Zelda Antipova,” Trent tells him, not letting go of his shirt. Nat King Cole has begun to sing again, accidentally cued up in the hullabaloo. “V is very, very, extra-ordinary…” And as I watch Trent manhandle Jason toward the parking lot, I suddenly realize what my sister is up to.
13
Mingling with the smallish crowd of gawkers that has gathered in the parking lot of Kuma Charmers, I glance around nervously before yanking Zelda’s cellphone out of my bag. I scan through the emails she’s sent me, scrutinizing each one. I nod my head as I go, convinced that my theory is right. That clever fucking bitch. I knew it. Knew she was fucking with me. Wyatt looks at my shaking head and tense shoulders questioningly, but I wave off his curiosity and launch myself into the truck’s cab.
“Let’s go home,” I say, realizing it sounds like an order. Wyatt doesn’t seem to notice. Still holding Zelda’s phone, I go back to the first email she sent me after the fire. Her nudge at the bottom…which, combined with the Facebook picture I saw, led me to the Bartolettis’, where I found out about Zelda’s loan. Then I had gone to the bank, where I found out about Zelda’s insane debt….I look at her second email, with its too-cute alliteration, then the next one, where she talks about her eulogy….I scan through most of the communication we’ve had since the barn, and I start chuckling to myself as I put more and more pieces together. Finally, I open a new pane to compose a message and type out a quick email:
June 24, 2016 @ 10:37 PM
Narcissistic, Nasty, Nuts, Necrotic Sister Mine,
Now, now, now, Zelda. I’ve figured out your little game. Should have seen it coming, but forgive me, I was too preoccupied dealing with your aftermath to really focus on such diverting distractions. Dial M, right? I applaud your creativity, dear sister. You fucking psycho.
Love,
Not-so-nice, nearsighted, na?ve Ava
By the time I’m done writing, we’re close to home.
“Did you know she was doing this, Wyatt?” I ask, pocketing the phone.
“What?” he asks, startled. He has been quietly driving while I retraced my steps during the last few days.
“Her little game. Did you know?” I look over at him, but he seems genuinely baffled. “No. Of course not. This is just for me,” I muse. “It would have to be.”
“What are you talking about, Ava?” Wyatt has slowed the truck down, and he peers at me with concern. “What’s going on?”