Monthly Archives: December 2019

Rainbow Connection; chapter eight, part three

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Lyle is captivated by the same idea that fascinates me—whether Rosie’s comments in group contributed to her demise.  If so, then someone in the group killed Ashley.  That is not something I want to think about, but it’s not something I can ignore, either.  If someone is a murderer in the group, then I need to know who it is.  I do not want to be part of a dangerous situation again.  I close my eyes, not wanting to deal for a moment.  Just as I am getting over the last murders, it’s starting again.  I am just beginning to sleep through the night—this could be a set-back for my progress.  I curse under my breath, but Lyle and Paris catch me.  They flash looks at each other before turning their focus on me.  Their sympathy is more than I can bear.

“Stop it, you guys,” I say crossly.  “Don’t start treating me like a child again.”  We finish our dinner, and I do the dishes while the guys go into the living room and turn on the news.  I can hear it through the door, and they boys are still watching when I join them.

“Sheldon, it’s been established that Rosalita Chavez was the housecleaner of Ashley Stevenson when she died.  She had been for more than a year.  The police are not saying whether that connection is the principle one, or if the fact that they both belong to the group was the principle connection.  Most of the people involved in the murders are willing to say off the record that the latter is more likely the case than the former.”  Dee-Dee Reynolds, another thin, blond anchor woman blinks vapidly at the camera.  It is clear that she is reading from cue cards and not very well.  She has to move her lips slightly before she actually says what she’s supposed to.  She lowers her voice before adding, “The board of A Ray of Hope is   seriously considering closing down the group because of the murders.  Carol Sayers, the group leader has this to say about it.”  Cut to Carol.  I can’t believe she’s talking about it again.

“Dee-Dee, I stood up to the board today.  I told them that this group is the last hope for some of these women who cannot afford to individual therapy.  I have nothing but admiration for the women who have gone through difficult times but are making it to the other side.  If there is one thing I want to get across to the public, it’s that these women are not victims but survivors.  I know that sounds trite, but it’s true.”  Carol is facing the camera with her serious face on.  She is dressed professionally in a skirt, heels, blouse and jacket.  “Many people wonder how I can work with posttraumatic women for so long without getting burnt-out, but they are my inspiration.  I challenge the public to imagine living through what some of these women have gone through and not crumbling under the pressure.”  I click off the television before the guys can protest.

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Rainbow Connection; chapter eight, part two

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I slip into the building.  The receptionist is on the phone and she holds up her finger in a one-minute gesture.  I look around me and spy a list of numbers on the receptionist’s desk.  It’s the phone numbers for all the employees of the clinic.  I don’t know how to snag it without her knowledge.  She turns her back briefly and without thinking, I grab the sheet of paper.  I walk quickly to the bathroom and lock myself in a stall.  I scan the list to see if anything sparks my memory.  I dismiss the men’s names outright which leaves me with twenty or so names.  I concentrate on the last names and don’t see anything until I hit the ‘T’s’.  There is a Leticia Torres.  The name rings a bell.  It’s the woman I saw interviewed on television, the sister of Rosie.  The piece of paper says she’s an outreach worker.  I snort at the catchall phrase, but I pull out a piece of paper and a pen from my purse and scribble her name and number down.

I return to the lobby where the receptionist is still on the phone.  I slip the sheet back on to her desk without her noticing.  I wait for her to get off the phone, thinking of a cover story in the meantime, hoping I don’t run into Carol.  I am too wired to sit and wait, so I look at some of the reading material.  There is literature for different social services, none of which seems very interesting.  There are a couple of children’s magazines as well, and these are well-thumbed with pages missing.  I look at the corkboard on the wall closest to the door.  There are advertisements for roommates, for therapy with sliding scales, for safe places.  I wonder how many of these services get used.  Despite the unrelenting cheeriness of the place, I sense an underlying sadness which isn’t easily chased away.  There is a woman in the lobby who hasn’t looked up once since I entered.  A white woman with straggly blond hair, thin to the point of anorexic, with an eye so blackened, it’s swollen shut.  She looks to be in her early twenties, but has already given up on life.

“Lou Ellen Barker,”  The receptionist calls out in a clear tone.  The white woman starts, jumps up from her chair and hurries over to the desk.  Her voice is too meek for me to hear, but she’s ushered into the back office area in a manner of minutes.  The receptionist turns her attention to me.  “Ma’am.  How can I help you?”  Ma’am?  I swallow my outrage at the form of address and smile at her.

“I’d like to see Leticia Torres, please,” I say with my best diction.

“Why?”  The receptionist does not smile at me.  She is a thin, black woman with exquisite cheekbones.  Herr eyes are hard, however, and her lips are set.

“Um, it’s about her sister,” I stutter.  I wasn’t expecting a hostile response to my request, and I’m thrown by it.

“Uh huh.”  The receptionist is not giving an inch.

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Rainbow Connection; chapter eight, part one

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“It’s about time, girl!”  Paris coos into the phone.  “I was getting performance anxiety waiting for you to call.”

“Don’t flip out on me,” I caution him as I walk to the well-lit corner of the street.

“What?  Oh my god, you’re hurt!”  Paris screeches theatrically.  He only turns on the camp when it’s the two of us as it is now.  “Miss Thing is probably walking as we speak, ignoring what Sister Paris done told her.”

“Paris, I need you to pick me up.”  I read him my street coordinates, not in any mood to joke.  “Please hurry.”

“I’ll be right there.”  Paris drops the act and clicks off the phone.  As I wait for him, I keep an eye out for any suspicious activity.  I’m afraid the car will come back to try to finish the job, but nothing happens.  I’m able to relax by the time Paris comes barreling down the street towards me in his black Honda Accord.

“Hey,” I say as I drag myself into the car.  I feel as if it ought to be three in the morning rather than nine-fifteen at night.

Of course, Paris wants to know what happened.  I ask where Lyle is and am informed that he’s waiting at the apartment because Paris wanted alone time with me.  He still hasn’t started the car, and I know he won’t move until I give him an explanation.  I take several breaths before blurting out that someone tried to run me over.  I quickly amend the statement, saying that perhaps the person was merely trying to scare me.  Paris, who had started to pull away from the curb as soon as he saw I was going to speak, nearly runs into a lamppost.  I implore him to keep his eyes on the road while I tell him my pitiful saga.  The more I think about it, the angrier I get.  Why is someone trying to run me over?  It’s not like the last time when I actively took a part in the investigation.  I’m trying to keep out of this investigation, but am being targeted just the same—first by the cops, then by the murderer, if that is who tried to run me over.

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Rainbow Connection; chapter sever, part two

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“May I help you?”  Carol asks sharply, her face scrunching up.  “This is a private meeting, you know.”

“Sorry to intrude,” Inspector Robinson says, flashing her badge and not looking at all sorry.  “I’m Inspector Robinson.  I’m investigating the homicide of Rosalita Chavez.  This is Detective Brady.  She is investigating the homicide of Ashley Stevenson.”  Detective Brady nods, but her eyes are scanning the crowd.  Cop eyes—they don’t miss a thing.

“What do you want?”  Carol’s tone is combative, which is not ideal for talking with the police.

“We would like to say a few words to the women here,” Inspector Robinson says, still rooted to a spot just inside the doorway.  It is clear that she is taking the lead on the case with Detective Brady content to play second fiddle.  Presumably, she’s used to it with Sergeant Grimes as her boss.  “If that’s all right with you.”  Her tone is courteous, but it’s an order and not a question.

“I don’t have a choice, do I?”  Her good humor restored, Carol acquiesces with grace.  The cops stand behind Carol so most of us can see them without moving in our seats.  The women on either side of Carol move their chairs to get a better view.  Unexpectedly, Detective Brady speaks first.

“The homicide of Ashley Stevenson is a puzzling thing,” she begins, fixing her eyes on the person across from her which happens to be Tudd.  Tudd starts squirming under the scrutiny.  “While she has been a troublemaker for most of her short life, she is far from a delinquent.  She comes from money and as far as we can tell, has not ventured too far into the seamier side of life.  Just your ordinary teenage girl with ordinary rebellions.  So why was she killed?  That’s what we’re trying to discover.

“Her father is another matter.”  Detective Brady has slipped into a rhythmic telling of her saga which draws her listeners in.  “He is a powerful man with many enemies but not the type to kill a daughter of an enemy to make a statement.  So, if the killing isn’t personal and it isn’t because of her father, then what is the motive?  That is the stopping point.”  Inspector Robinson takes over.

“Rosalita Chavez was a single mother whose son was killed in the gang wars.  Rosie, as she was called, raised a fuss about it to whomever she could get to listen.  She’d go to the cops and harass them to arrest someone.  She wrote her congressman every day.  She was determined her son’s death wouldn’t be for nothing.  As a result, there were some powerful gang members irate with her for stirring up trouble as they saw it.  She was threatened several times to keep her mouth shut, which she didn’t do.

“So it would seem that this was a retaliation murder.  An execution, if you will.  However, we have ascertained beyond a reasonable doubt that her death wasn’t gang related.  She is not dating anyone, nor does she have any shadowy figures in her life.  What does that leave?  Now, we know.  Someone in her position probably has a shady character or two tucked away somewhere.  If so, we can’t find that person.  Reluctantly, we have let go of gang-related motives for the time being.”

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Rainbow Connection; chapter seven, part one

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The next Tuesday, I am on edge all day.  I snap at everyone at work, and no one knows why.  I have yet to tell anyone at work about my involvement in the therapy group because I don’t want to be the object of more pity or worse, suspicion.  Quinn hangs around me looking like a lost puppy, but I pay her no mind.  She’s past getting on my last nerve, and I don’t want her around.  She is slow to take the hint, though, as it seems she’s used to being ignored or abused.  Unfortunately, the more I ignore her, the more she tries to get my attention.  I wonder why she’s so persistent about pursuing me when we are obviously such different people.  I surmise it’s the thrill of the chase and leave it at that.

“Rayne!  Pay attention to me!”  Quinn hits the top of my monitor after fruitlessly trying to get my attention for the past fifteen minutes.

“Quinn, I’m trying to work.”  I am a bundle of nerves waiting for group.  The police haven’t found much concerning the new case.  Rosie didn’t have a boyfriend, nor was there any strange man in her life who might have wanted to do away with her.  Her surviving child appeared broken up about losing her, but looks can be deceiving.  I read every bit of information I can about the murder because I desperately want the murder to have nothing to do with the group.  I just can’t be involved in another investigation.

The other thing that disturbs me is that Carol was on television again speaking about the newest case.  She did the rounds and declaimed the possibility that the murders had anything to do with the therapy group.  She looked professional and serious and in control.  I can’t shake the feeling that she is using a tragic situation for her own means.  She isn’t crude about it, but she makes sure to mention her upcoming book during every show she’s on as well as the clinic.  It makes me queasy to think that she will benefit from the deaths of two women even though I know it’s the American way.  I have wavered back and forth about whether to attend the group tonight.  I have a feeling it’ll be more upsetting than healing, but I want to know what the other women think about the murders and Carol’s behavior.  If I am honest with myself, I also want to see Maria again.

“Rayne!”  Quinn whacks me on the back which I find annoying beyond belief.

“Quinn, please.  Not today.”  I fight the impulse to slap her, but just barely.

“Then when?”  Quinn is pouting again.  My head starts thumping; I just want to get rid of her, so I acquiesce.

“Tomorrow.  We’ll have a drink after work.”

“Great!”  Instantly, Quinn’s face is wreathed in smiles as she bounces away.  I suppose one night with her isn’t too much to ask for momentary peace.  Zing!  My sister has emailed me, much to my dismay.

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Rainbow Connection; chapter six, part two

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“Gary, we are here with Carol Sayers, the facilitator of the therapy group that Ashley was mandated to attend before her death.  Ms. Sayers, what can you tell us about Ashley?  Was she mentally disturbed?  Do the police think the group had anything to do with her death?”  The anorexic blond anchorwoman with her forced smile and wide-eyed stare stacks her questions in true journalistic style.  She may think it sounds assertive or exciting, but it’s merely sloppy and confusing.

“The police have not informed me of any connection,” Carol says calmly.  She is wearing a nice black skirt which reaches her knees and a snug-but-not-tight white sweater.  She has even applied makeup for the occasion.  “I firmly believe that Ashley’s demise has to do with her personal life and not the therapy group at A Ray Of Hope of which I am the facilitator.  I don’t think you realize the good work this group does for the women involved.  It’s a healing from trauma group, and many of these women have no other resources.  We are nonjudgmental, supportive and nurturing.  I believe this group makes a real difference in the lives of these women.”

I sit up in shock.  How can she talk about the group like that on television?  Granted, she doesn’t reveal any names or divulge any pertinent details, but I’m uncomfortable with her talking about it at all.  The women who attend the group do so under the assumption that it’s anonymous and private.  I don’t think prospective members would feel comfortable joining a group that is supposed to be confidential, but is high-profile.  It also strikes me as odd that she is talking about Ashley’s death if she truly believes her support group has nothing to do it.  It makes me wonder what her agenda is.  It seems almost predatory of her to seize the unfortunate occasion to promote herself.  I don’t want to hear the rest of the interview, but I can’t make myself turn it off.

“Take the night of Ashley’s murder.  I was at home researching on the internet certain points for my upcoming book on the dynamics of group therapy as I do most nights.  If it weren’t for the disrupting event of her death, would I have even remembered what I was doing?  Most likely not.”  Carol turns, stares right into the camera and smiles.

“I certainly don’t!”  The anchor laughs artificially, careful to keep her face slightly turned towards the right to show off her best side.

“My point is, everything takes on more significance when a tragedy such as this occurs.”  Carol nods her head wisely.  “It’s natural to think that because Ashley was in a therapy group when she was killed that the two are related.  As I learned in Psych 101, however, correlation does not mean causation.”  The anchor quickly wraps up the interview, thanking Carol insincerely for being there.

I watch the whole fifteen-minute feature without learning much more than I already know.  The few new facts I glean are:  Ashley didn’t have a girlfriend or boyfriend at time of death; her father is seeing someone, but no one knows whom; despite all her troublemaking, Ashley was a creative girl who got high grades when she bothered to attend classes.  Her father was not interviewed, most likely because he refuses to talk about the situation.  I gulp the rest of my beer, my mind still on Carol’s interview.  Why didn’t she mention it at group tonight?  I think it’s unprofessional of her to not at least drop a hint casually that she would be on television talking about the group.  I wouldn’t have pegged her for an avoider which makes her reticence even more intriguing.  I shrug.  It could be nothing more than opportunistic posturing by her.  I noticed that she managed to get a plug in for the book she’s working on.  I don’t like it, but I can understand.  She even mentioned the name of the clinic, so perhaps she was trying to drum up support for A Ray of Hope.

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Rainbow Connection; chapter six, part one

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“Welcome back,” Carol smiles at us warmly, though with a tinge of sadness.  “As you all have most likely read, we are one less in number.  Let’s have a moment of silence.”  As we dutifully quiet down, I look around the room.  Everyone else has shown up, but no one looks too happy about being here, me included.  I see the distrust in each woman’s eyes.  How are we going to deal with this?  This is a trauma group, after all, and what is more traumatic than dealing with the aftermaths of a murder?

“I think this is crazy,” Jennifer bursts out as soon as Carol indicates that the minute is over.  “I think the group should be disbanded.  We have a lunatic running around.  Who knows who he will kill next?”  She quickly crosses herself which causes more than one woman to roll her eyes.

“We don’t know her death has anything to do with this group,” Carol points out reasonably.  “The police have thoroughly question me about the group, and I think they’re satisfied that no one here had motive to kill Ashley.”  From what I’ve read in the papers, I wouldn’t be too sure about that.  The papers imply that the police are hot on the trail of the killer who is a part of this group.  I look around the room again, scrutinizing the faces.  To my consternation, Maria is looking back at me.  She smiles and winks.  I look her over more carefully.  She has thick, black hair pulled back in a simple braid.  Her face is devoid of makeup, but she doesn’t need any.  Her dark brown eyes are wide-set, and her skin is a chestnut brown.  Her lips curve generously when she smiles, which seems to be often.  I can see the tops of her full breasts as they peek out from beneath her low-cut t-shirt.  I realize that I’m staring and quickly look away.

“I think we should have police protection,” Jennifer says.  “I don’t feel safe here.”

“Girl, the police don’t have no time for protecting nobody,” Sharise, the cop’s ‘widow’ says with a snort.  “They too busy catching dope dealers and busting up the ‘hood for stupid shit like that.”  It’s clear that she’s no fan of the police, even if her dead boyfriend had been on the force.  Or perhaps, because of it.

“We are perfectly safe,” Carol says, raising her voice slightly.  “As I said, there is no evidence that Ashley’s murder had anything to do with this group.”  She glances at her watch before saying, “Since this is a trauma group, let’s explore how we feel about Ashley’s death.  Who would like to start?”  The ubiquitous pen is in one hand, the pad of paper in the other.  I have to give her credit, however; she’s discreet.  I rarely think about her taking notes unless I happen to glance over at her while someone is talking.

“Shouldn’t have happened,” Tudd says gruffly, her eyes fixed firmly on something in front of her.  “So young.  So much life left.  Shame.”  She subsides after her terse eulogy.

“She was so spirited,” Astarte begins, spreading her hands to the side.  “I may not have been on her wave-length all the time, but I appreciated her perspective.”  I look at her hard.  I don’t trust someone who is so forgiving of someone who made a pretty horrible accusation about one’s husband.

“She’s in hell,” Jennifer says fiercely, daring anyone to contradict her.  “She laughed at the church and fornicated with other women.”

“Jennifer, that is inappropriate,” Carol says firmly, pausing in her scribbling.  A few heads bobble in agreement.

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Rainbow Connection; chapter five

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“Rayne!  The police!”  Paris looks at me with wide eyes even though neither of us is a stranger to the police.  During the last investigation, they talked to one of us at least every other day.

“Sergeant Grimes, Ms. Liang.”  He is over six-feet tall, rangy with a buzz cut and muddy brown eyes.  He is not prepossessing at all, except for the stare which all cops cultivate.  “Detective Brady.”  He nods at a shapely blond with a curvaceous figure not disguised at all by the black pantsuit she chooses to wear.  Her light green eyes are fringed with blond eyelashes—a contrast that should be off-setting, but is seductive instead.  Wire-rimmed glasses cover her eyes.  She is carrying a pad of paper.

“What can I do for you?”  I struggle to keep my voice matter-of-fact so he can’t read the panic on my face.  What can I tell them that won’t make me sound phony, or, worst of all, guilty?

“May we come in?”  The sergeant barges into the room, ignoring the fact that I haven’t answered his question yet.  “We just have a few questions to ask you about the murder of Ashley Stevenson.”  He pauses expectantly, waiting for me to fill in the blanks.  Resigned, I usher him and Detective Brady into the living room.  I gesture for them to sit, but they remain standing.  So do I.  “This won’t last long.  I just have a few questions I have to ask you.”  The sergeant’s voice is genial, as if he’s discussing different flavors of tea.  “Please have your roommate leave.”  Paris exits the room without saying a word.  I know he’s huddled in his bedroom, straining to hear what is being said.  “Ms. Liang, how did you know Ms. Stevenson?”

“We were in a group together,” I say firmly, hoping that will be the end of it.  Of course it isn’t, and they persist in asking me questions.  What kind of group?  Group therapy; therapy group—take your pick.  What was the group specifically for?  For some reason, I am reluctant to answer this question.  “Trauma healing,” I finally mumble, hoping they’ll let it go.  Of course they don’t.  How often does the group meet?  Who is the leader?  Who in the group didn’t like Ashley?  I finally protest as the content of the meetings is confidential.

“Nothing is confidential in a homicide investigation, Ms. Liang,” Sergeant Grimes shoots back as he looms over me.  Neither of us is sitting—he because he refused a seat; I because I won’t put myself at a further disadvantage by sitting down.  The man is over six-feet tall, so he’s already a foot taller than me.  The detective is discreetly scribbling away while the sergeant and I exchange glares.  I wish the cop from the other case, Inspector Robinson, was in charge of this investigation, but I understand that it’s outside of her jurisdiction.

“Sergeant Grimes, why are you asking me about the group?”  I stare at him as haughtily as I can.  “I only went one time.”

“You were involved in another homicide investigation quite recently,” the sergeant explains, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.  “Perhaps you weren’t as innocent in the last case as you make yourself out to be.”

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Rainbow Connection; chapter four, part three

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Wednesday is uneventful, and I am grateful.  I wake up Thursday morning, cautiously optimistic.  For once, I have slept for several hours on end.  Paris isn’t up yet, which isn’t unusual for him.  He had gone on a date with Lyle last night and hadn’t return home by the time I went to bed which was a little past midnight.  This morning, I make an omelet because I’ve been hankering for one the last few days, but I hadn’t had the energy to actually make one.  Actually, I want scrambled eggs, but I’m no good at that so I stick to omelets which are easier for me to make for some reason.  I toss in some gouda cheese, mushrooms, and onions.  I am not as good a cook as Paris, but I can get by in a pinch.  I toast two pieces of bread to go with my eggs and pull out the tub of butter for my toast, not margarine.  I rarely use butter, but when I do, I infinitely prefer the real thing.  Margarine doesn’t taste right to me.  I pour myself a tall glass of orange juice and sit down to eat.

After I make a dent in my food (ok, six bites.  It’s a dent for me these days), I open the Chronicle to aid digestion.  I toss the front page aside as I save it for last.  The funnies aren’t very funny; the sports’ page only brings bad news.  After I read every other section, I glance at the headlines of the front page.  What I see makes me almost throw up my breakfast on the spot.  There is a big picture of Ashley, only she looks more like Marilyn Manson than Courtney Love.  Her hair is dyed dark brown but that’s not the remarkable part.  The knife slashes across her pretty face overshadows anything she’s done with her hair.  Her shirt is torn to shreds by a knife as well, and there are gaping wounds decorating the top half of her body.  At least, that’s my inference as the picture is cut off right above her breasts, and that part of her shirt is sliced to ribbons. Her eyes are wide with shock.  A moan rises from inside of me, forcing its way out.  My first impulse is to fling the paper in the corner and pretend that I never saw the picture, but being an ostrich is not an option.

I make myself to read the headline.  ‘Punk Princess Perforated!’ would have been appropriate, but the Chron is not that crass.  Or that ballsy.  Instead, the headline read, ‘Marin County Debutante Slain!’  Not nearly as catchy, but nevertheless accurate.  My eyes drop to the article.  Ashley Stevenson, seventeen years old.  A senior at Marin Academy.  Her daddy is a CEO with Godiva Chocolatier.  Her mommy was independently extremely wealthy before she died of cancer.  I steel myself to read the rest of the grim news.  Her body was found in the tennis courts of her school which were usually locked for the night, but were open last night for some unfathomable reason.  Her body was found by the cops who patrol the grounds once or twice a night.  They wouldn’t have noticed except the door to the tennis courts was wide open which it never was after school hours.  By the time they reached the body, she was already dead.  Stabbed.  Suspicion of drugs.  The paper hints of sexual interference, but refuses to elaborate.  “Mr. Stevenson is devastated,” a ‘close family friend’ says tearfully.  “My daughter should not have died,” Mr. Stevenson declares, looking twenty years older than his age.  “I know the police will get to the bottom of this.”

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