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I glanced at Heather. She was perked up, her face tight and serious. There are so many of them, she’d said when I first met her, and when I asked her what she meant, she said, Dead girls.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” I asked Jenny, because I sensed her break was almost over and our time was almost up. “Anything at all?”
Jenny looked thoughtful, and for a second I pictured her thirty-five years ago, wearing high-waisted jeans and a puffy blouse, her hair teased out. “Viv was beautiful,” she said at last, surprising me. “I remember she said something about acting. She was originally going to New York, but she wasn’t serious about it. She just wanted to get away. She didn’t have the crazy beauty that models have. She was one of those girls who was beautiful the more you looked at her, if that makes sense.”
“Yes,” I said.
“It was something about her face, the stillness of it,” Jenny said. “She was sad—at least the Viv I knew was sad. Nowadays she’d probably be a perfect candidate for therapy, but we didn’t have that option then. And she was also angry, especially toward the end. I do think she was hiding something, though I suppose I’ll never know what it was now. Oh, and one more thing.” She pushed away her coffee cup and looked at me, her eyes hard. “Since they pulled our phone records and all, I always wondered why the police never asked me about the phone calls.”
Fell, New York
October 1982
VIV
Jenny never spent her days off at home. She talked a lot about sitting in front of the TV eating candy as her perfect day off, but when the day came she never did it. Instead she spent her days off at the mall, spending her small paycheck on records or makeup or new shoes—loafers or low, pointy heels in rainbow colors like bright red or bright yellow, shoes she couldn’t wear to work at the nursing home but wanted to have for “going to a party.” Viv had never seen Jenny go to a party, but then again she hadn’t been living with her all that long.
Today she was at the mall again, probably to see a movie or drink an Orange Julius or do any of the things Viv would have done at the mall back in Illinois six months ago. Instead of sleeping, Viv used the time home alone to find the traveling salesman.
She pulled the phone over to the kitchen table, using its extra-long cord, something Jenny had so she could wander and talk at the same time. Next to the phone she thumped down Fell’s phone book and her notebook with a pen. Then, still in her terry bathrobe, Viv went into the kitchen, took out a box of Ritz crackers and a jar of Velveeta cheese with a knife, and sat down to work.
She flipped to the back of her notebook and took out the photographs Marnie Mahoney had given her. There were only three that had what she wanted in them, but three was plenty. They all showed the Sun Down Motel at night, the lights on the corridors contrasting to the dark. One showed Mr. White opening the door of his room with a key. The second showed Helen entering that same room. The third showed Viv herself, leaving the AMENITIES room with a chocolate bar in her hand, walking back to the office.
Viv looked at herself in the photo, the girl she couldn’t quite believe was her. She had a nice profile, clear pale skin, her hair pushed back from her face and clipped into a barrette. Anyone would think she was a nice enough girl, a pretty girl, if a little sad. Viv thought, Who am I?
But the girl wasn’t what was valuable about the photo. All three pictures had caught a car in the parking lot, the back end of the car cut off by the frame. If you put the first and third photos together you could piece together the license plate number. The second photo, framed just right, caught the entire thing.
The traveling salesman’s car.
Viv glanced at the telephone. She should call Alma Trent; she had promised she would. Alma had told her get something, anything, and she’d help identify the man who checked into the motel. But Alma also hadn’t believed Viv. She’d thought the entire thing crazy.
Viv spread some cheese on a cracker and flipped through the Fell phone book. She closed her eyes and summoned the acting classes she’d taken after high school. She’d been good at acting, good at being someone else. It was one of the few things that made her feel better, being another person for a while.
She got into character. Then she called the DMV.
“Hello,” she said when she got someone on the line. “I’ve just received a call from my insurance company that there’s a problem with my husband’s registration. Can you please help me?”
“Ma’am, I don’t—”
“He’s away on the road,” Viv said. “My husband. He’s traveling for work, and if he comes home and finds our insurance canceled, he’ll be so angry. So angry.” She tried channeling Honey from Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?—helpless, sweet, a little pathetic. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know what the problem is. Can you please just check?”
“It isn’t—”
Viv interrupted by reciting the license plate number and the make and model, which she got from the photo. “That’s the one. We’ve had it for years. Years. I don’t know how there could be a problem all of a sudden. My husband says—”
“Please hold, ma’am.”
There was a click, and silence. Viv held the receiver, her hand slick with sweat.
There was another click. “Ma’am, I don’t see a problem with this registration.”
“Are you sure?”
“There’s nothing wrong at all. It’s registered to Mr. Hess with no changes.”
Mr. Hess. Viv felt light-headed, but she forced herself to keep calm, stay in character. “Oh, thank God,” she said. “And you’re sure the address is right?”
“You’re still on Fairview Avenue?” the woman said.
“Yes. Yes, we are.”
“It all looks fine to me.”
Viv thanked the woman and told her she’d call the insurance company back to work it out. Then she hung up. She had cold sweat running down between her shoulders, beneath her bathrobe. Her mouth felt dry and hot.
She ate another cracker and drank some milk, then flipped through the phone book again, breathing deep. She let Honey go and let her mind travel, thinking up a new character.
There were only two Hesses in the phone book, and only one was listed on Fairview Avenue. Viv got into character again—tougher, brassier this time—and called the number.
A woman’s voice answered. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Hess?”
“Yes.”
“This is your husband’s scheduling service.” Viv tried to sound brisk, professional, like a secretary in an office. “We’re not sure if we’ve made a mistake over here. Do you know if your husband is on his way to New York today?”
