Who She Was Read online

  “Does Liza have family in the area?”

  “Yes.”

  I waited, but nothing came.

  “May I have their names?”

  “I’d rather leave them out of it.”

  “That’s not possible. If you want me to take the case, I need all the information. Things might get uncomfortable. If you don’t want that, we can’t move forward.”

  A pained look came across his face. Murder can drive a serious wedge between family members, but there was no getting around talking with them.

  “Mr. Stark, I understand how hard this must be for everyone involved, but I will need to talk with Liza’s family. Did she have any siblings? Are her parents alive and in the area?”

  “Liza has a brother, Peter Abernathy, but they weren’t close. I doubt he’d know anything. Her parents-Ralph and Janice Abernathy-live in Livonia, but we rarely saw them.”

  I paused and allowed Carson to rattle on about the insignificance of Liza’s family. The curious thing about marriage is that it provides a false sense of familiarity. You live, eat, and sleep with your spouse. The repetition of seeing that person every day creates the fabrication that you know them better than anyone else, and maybe you do, but then again, maybe you don’t.

  “I would still like to speak to Liza’s brother and parents, just to be thorough. May I have contact information for Peter, Madelyn, and Mrs. and Mr. Abernathy?” I asked, forcing a smile that I hoped was reassuring.

  Carson continued the unbroken eye contact. A few silent, motionless minutes passed before he pulled out his phone. His pupils were faded and coarse, like blue jeans that had been washed too often. His movements were rigid, but stealthy for a man of his height; calculated and mechanical. He gave me the information and slipped back into that blank stare. I could almost hear the wheels in his head turning.

  “Do you need money now?” Mr. Stark asked.

  “Just the retainer. You can transfer the money online when you get a chance.”

  We shook hands and I walked him out, informing him that I’d be in touch when I had information to share. After that, I gently closed the door and took a moment to compose myself. The past bubbled up in my soul. Losing a spouse was one thing, but losing a spouse and having no idea why they were gone was unbearable. The feeling was all too familiar. I shook off the thought and called Marty into the office.

  “We’ve got a case.”

  “Yes!”

  “Don’t get too excited. We’re in over our heads.”

  Chapter Two

  We closed up at six that evening. I pulled a gift-wrapped box out of my desk drawer and handed it to Marty before turning out the lights.

  “Syl…you didn’t have to get me anything.”

  “Don’t make a big deal. It’s Christmas, for goodness sake. Everybody needs a gift.”

  I watched him blush.

  “Let’s get outta here. You got plans? Midnight Mass is on tap if you’re free.” I said, grabbing my umbrella.

  “I do have plans, but thanks.”

  Probably a lie, but I let it go. As we headed out down the narrow staircase, Martin fired off a series of questions about Carson Stark. Do you think he did it? What do you think the cops will say about you taking the case? What do you want me to do?

  At the bottom of the staircase I turned to face him, remaining silent. My first inclination was to snap and tell him to settle down, but then I remembered how much I owed him. He had given me a purpose, and for that, I was eternally grateful. I adjusted my features, softening my hardened frown. Recognizing the look that said, “Slow down; pace yourself,” Martin nodded gently. I unfurled my umbrella and opened it before stepping out into the rain.

  “Want a ride?” Martin asked.

  “No, thanks. I’ll walk.”

  “Sylvia, it’s a downpour out here.”

  “I know. That’s why I wanna walk. Merry Christmas.” I blew him a kiss and headed for the crosswalk.

  Living five blocks from the office made it nearly impossible to drive, even when the weather was miserable. As Martin pulled away, the chilled rain began to turn into sleet, and the slosh of my boots in the cold puddles increased my feelings of loneliness and regret. The meeting with Carson Stark had pushed me deeper into a somber mood. There’s something depressing about spending the holiday alone in a place where you should know people. The opposite is true of out-of-town Christmas vacations and I wondered again why I hadn’t booked a flight.

  I’d spent the previous Christmas in Quebec City, sipping iced wine and nibbling on poutine in a cozy bed-and-breakfast. I’d spent a week in the old section of the city, making temporary friends of random strangers and meandering along the frigid, snow-covered cobblestone streets. The companionship of the strangers I met was too short to sour, but long enough to satiate the need for human contact. I’d returned after New Year’s Day feeling refreshed and ready to get back to my world of all work and no play.

  I was born and raised in Detroit and had spent most of my life in southeastern Michigan. My parents, who still lived in Detroit, tolerated yearly visits, but we had not been close for a long time. At ten years old, my twin brother, Simon, had disappeared one day when we were playing at the edge of the dead-end street adjacent to our house. The loss of Simon had destroyed our family, causing me to seek refugee somewhere far away from my parents.

  I’d attended a boarding school in Connecticut as a teenager, but something had drawn me back to Michigan for college. Ironically, Michigan is the place where I feel most alone. My haunted past had followed me around the state, with the ghost seemingly incapable of leaving Michigan. During my time in Connecticut, I’d been free of the guilt of being the twin that hadn’t been abducted, but returning to Michigan had rekindled painful memories of my brother’s absence. Currently, I live in Ypsilanti, Michigan, a little college town about forty minutes from Detroit. Ypsilanti is historic-district-meets-the-ghetto, with a cross-hatch of college life. The town is sandwiched in between Ann Arbor and Superior Township in Washtenaw County, and it serves as a cheaper option for those who want to live close to the culture and beauty of the Ann Arbor area. I moved to Ypsi for graduate school and fell in love with the place. It has a Midwest swagger with a hint of southern hospitality and an edge of danger. If you get a flat tire, someone will stop and help you change it, but if you leave your front door unlocked, someone might come in…and maybe take a thing or two. People speak to each other when walking down the street, and hippies, scholars, students, and drug dealers manage to co-mingle without much friction.

  Shuddering underneath the umbrella, I felt the chill of isolation. The street was quiet and calm, but the glow of windows warm with Christmas Eve cheer filled my peripheral vision. I should have invited Martin over for a drink, but there was a part of me that didn’t want company. The loss of Derek reminded me that some parts of life were dark: there was no way to eliminate them. Accepting that fact had helped me deal with the sorrow. Instead of thinking it would end, or that I needed to fight against the pain, I accepted that most days would be no better or worse than the previous day. Derek would always be in the corner of my mind, silent, but ever-present.

  I have learned that staying busy and productive is a great way to repress loneliness, but there are times when busyness fails to distract from the truth. Even so, I was going to do my best to let this new case consume me. As I stuck my key in the front door, I began to organize a plan of action to find out who killed Liza Stark.

  I headed to the kitchen and tossed half a box of linguini into a pot. In a second pot, I mixed Parmesan and cream cheese to make a simple but adequate Alfredo sauce. I poured myself a glass of Riesling, tossed the pasta and sauce together, and sat down at the long wooden table for a silent dinner. After that, I sighed and faced reality. The night was not over yet, so I had better start getting myself in order.

  Midnight Mass was the last place I wanted to go, but since it was Christmas Eve, it would be a stop along my lonely Christmas journey. The
re is nothing quite like Midnight Mass, but you don’t remember that until you walk through the door of the church. The inclination to curl up with hot cocoa and watch It’s A Wonderful Life always tempts me to stay home, but once I arrive at church, I remember why I go every year. I’m drawn by the smell of frankincense and myrrh weaving through the air, the flickering flames of candles lit in oblation, and the collective warmth of the people in the overcrowded church, many of whom have not been to Mass since Easter, or the previous Christmas Eve. I never want to go until I get there, but I never acknowledge that truth, until I arrive.

  I took a shower before slipping on a cardigan, a long, pleated black skirt, and boots. As I waited for the clock to move closer to midnight, I started to review the preliminary questions that preface all murder investigations. Who wanted Liza Stark dead? Who had the means to kill her? How did she end up in a vulnerable position that allowed her to be killed?

  The issue of who wanted Liza Stark dead was important, but not as important as how she ended up being vulnerable to murder. Some people aren’t likable, or they make enemies along the way. There might be a few people who would like to see them dead, but very few enemies are going to act on that impulse. Also, a complete and total stranger can kill you if you end up in the wrong place at the wrong time, so there was a chance that Liza’s murder was purely coincidental. She was in one of the worst neighborhoods in the country. Getting murdered in Brightmoor was easy, but being in Brightmoor was not. So, the first question was: how did she end up in a time and place that allowed her to be killed?

  Since it was Christmas Eve, there was little research that could be done. I wrote my three essential questions on a piece of paper, took it to my home office, placed it on the desk, and forced myself to close the door. Life is more than work, I told myself.

  The snow continued to fall throughout the evening. At a quarter to twelve, I reluctantly headed out into the bitter, wet cold. I arrived at the church moments before the procession started. Just about every seat was taken and the air was full of incense. Warmth emitted from the packed pews. I slithered into a small space on one of the back pews, next to a family of six. The toddler was bouncing on his mother’s knee and squealing with delight. I flipped down the kneeler and said a few prayers before the music for the procession started.

  ***

  Christmas Day dawned with a cold, empty silence that left me distracted and aloof. A light, wispy snow was falling, and the temperature continued to drop throughout the day. I skipped my run that morning and curled up on the couch with a cup of tea. I spent the day alternating between my bed and the tattered beige recliner in the sitting room. My breakfast and lunch consisted of soup I’d made from my Thanksgiving turkey. In the evening, I felt restless and decided to find a movie to watch. After thirty minutes of a sappy story about international house-swapping and falling in love, I stole one last look at Jude Law and turned off the television. Time to do something constructive.

  Being a PI is difficult because you’re in law enforcement, but you don’t have the perks that regular cops do. I have access to public domain information on the internet, but I can’t just tap into a database and pull up interesting tidbits about a victim. Instead, I must find evidence the old fashioned and least reliable way…by talking to people. I didn’t think anyone would appreciate me interrupting their Christmas dinner to ask questions about a homicide, so I decided to do the cyber-sleuth thing.

  The first question about the case was: what the hell was Liza Stark doing in Detroit? Southeastern Michigan living has two very simple rules: know your place and stay there. Liza Stark was a white female from the suburbs—and not one of the blue-collar, United Auto Workers suburbs. There was really no legitimate reason for her to have been in the Brightmoor district of Detroit. There aren’t many businesses in that area except for churches and liquor stores, and even those are sparse. It’s a safe assumption that people who live in Brightmoor stay in the area and rarely, if ever, venture out of the neighborhood. Someone living in Brightmoor wouldn’t end up in Northville Township, an upper-middle-class suburb that is light years away from most neighborhoods in Detroit. Someone living in Northville Township might end up in Brightmoor if they were searching for something they had trouble getting in their neighborhood. Even so, they would have to know someone in Brightmoor. Who did Liza know in that area? How would she have met them? Initially, I thought that drugs might have beckoned Liza below Eight Mile Road, but an article posted a few months after her killing said that an autopsy showed she didn’t have any drugs in her system. Carson Stark had already told me about the second theory: Liza was a desperate housewife looking for a thrill with some young have-not. The third one, of course, was that Carson himself had murdered his wife. None of these theories really pushed the right buttons for me, but I thought that the infidelity angle was worth looking at.

  It is possible to be madly in love with someone who likes you enough to stay, but who has no problem lying to you. The tears and anguish Carson Stark had showed had seemed real, but who was to say that the Liza he knew was the only one that had existed? Maybe there was some drug-dealing, stolen-car-wheeling guy who had satisfied Liza’s primal urges. Since becoming a private detective, the bulk of my work had been focused on infidelity cases. Humans are capable of a high level of deceit. Liza could have gotten herself into a deadly affair; perhaps her lower-class beau had demanded money, and she had refused.

  Before the night was over, I had some basic facts about Liza. She’d attended Stevenson High in Livonia, but no graduation date was listed. She’d also spent two years at Schoolcraft College, but never completed a degree or certificate. At the time of her murder, she was thirty-four years old and a stay-at-home mom—by all accounts just your average suburban wife. Her life before marrying Carson was a little less certain. Her work record was spotty. She’d been a Certified Nursing Assistant for a while, and a substitute teacher, but neither career had lasted long. She’d taken classes in Early Education in college, but they hadn’t amounted to much. Some people take time off between high school and college for jobs or to travel, but Liza did not seem to be a part of the working world until she was twenty-two. That seemed odd, but not completely out of the question. Some people are slackers.

  I ran Liza’s name through the online white pages and found addresses in Livonia, New Orleans, Louisiana, Northville, and Detroit. The dates indicated that she had lived in Livonia as a child, in Detroit as a teenager, and in Louisiana and Northville during her adult life. It was strange that she’d lived in Detroit at all, and it was even odder that she’d lived there as a teenager, but virtual white pages are notoriously inaccurate. The listing probably had another woman with the same name mixed in with Liza’s address results.

  I also checked Liza’s social media pages, but there wasn’t much to see. Perhaps she had made sure to keep the security on her social media pages tight, and strangers were not able to view the bulk of her information. I couldn’t be sure, but her list of friends was rather sparse. Her page had a picture of Carson and the kids, minus herself, and she had twenty-nine friends. She hadn’t posted anything since 2009, two years before she was murdered. Of course, social media had just been picking up steam around that time, so it wasn’t too strange that she didn’t have much information, but it did pique my interest. Posting on social media and having “friends” is by no means a sign of normalcy, but for a stay-at-home mom in a posh suburb, it would be a great place to boast and possibly brag about your world. She was beautiful, married to a doctor, had two kids, a phenomenal zip code…all the surface things that people think produce happiness. Of course, I know from experience that the more people you include in your life, the more difficult it is to be happy. Perhaps Liza had come to a similar conclusion and decided to keep her life private. Or maybe she’d turned to an outside source for some type of release.

  I scrolled through the few posts on Liza’s page and found minimal, very guarded information. There were no thuggish-looking folks
on her friends list. After a few hours of scouring the internet, my vision was blurred from too much time in front of the computer. I closed the laptop, grabbed my phone, and called Martin.

  “She was hiding something,” I said, as soon as he picked up the phone.

  “Why do you think that? Oh, and Merry Christmas,” Martin said. I could hear the muffled sound of a video game in the background.

  “Her social media pages are sparse. There’s one single solitary photo of her…the rest are of her family, but none of those photos have her in them. She’s never with the family because she’s different.”

  “How’s she different?”

  “I don’t know, but she’s different from them.”

  The noise in the background stopped.

  “Tomorrow, I will set up appointments with Carson, her best friend, Madelyn, and the store owner. I want to see where Liza lived. After the holiday break, contact her former coworkers. She taught at St. Bart’s for a year. Talk to the principal and any teachers who worked with her. I’ll also call the 8th Precinct and get in there to see the case file.”

  “You think that Liza did something to get herself killed?” Martin asked.

  “I think that there’s something her husband doesn’t know that contributed to her murder. I know how it is to have secrets.”

  Chapter Three

  The day after Christmas, I woke up feeling restless, but one glance outside revealed slick, glistening sidewalks. Damn ice…I’d hoped to get out of the house early and get the adrenaline going, but running on ice was impossible. Instead, I decided to work the phones. The goal was to set up appointments with Madelyn Price-the friend, Peter Abernathy-the brother, and the owner of the liquor store where Liza’s body was found.

  I tried Madelyn Price first. A soft, calm voice informed me that I’d reached Madelyn before the message provided several options. Press one for information on yoga classes, two for mental health services, and three for personal inquiries. I pressed three and left my name, the reason for my call, and my number on the voice service. Next, I called Peter Abernathy and got his voicemail. His voice sounded angry and rushed, but he’d managed to contain himself and record a relatively professional sounding message.