Tag Archives: Mrs. Liang

Plaster of Paris; chapter ten, part two

Ms. Liang,” the inspector nods at my mother, then frowns.  There is the apparent problem of confusion of address with two Ms. Liangs in the room.

“You can call me Songbird,” my mother says helpfully, drawing a raised eyebrow from the inspector and a giggle from me.  “Or Susannah,” my mother adds, anxious to make Inspector Robinson more comfortable.

“How about Mrs. Liang,” Inspector Robinson says cautiously.  In this day and age, it’s more common than not to offend women by offering to call them ‘Mrs.’.

“That’s fine, too,” my mother says cheerfully.  “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Um, no, thank you, ma’am,” Inspector Robinson says, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.  My mother has that effect on people.  “Ms. Liang, would you please show me the mailbox??”  Inspector Robinson is so bewitched by my mother that she doesn’t even protest when my mother trails behind us as we retreat downstairs again.  I remember to lock the door.

“Here it is,” I say, stepping aside to let the good inspector view the remains of my mail box, which she probably saw on her way in.  She keeps her hands in her pockets as she examines the box—there isn’t much to see.

“Did you touch anything?”  She asks, her voice laced with weariness.  My mother looks at her sympathetically, which doesn’t escape the inspector’s attention.  There’s a rap on the door which startles my mother and me.  “There’s the team.  Why don’t you take your mother upstairs and wait for me there?”

“I didn’t touch anything,” I say rapidly.  “But upstairs, the front door, there are scratches.  I touched that, obviously.”  She nods, smiles briefly, then goes to let her people in.  I can hear one of them bitching loudly, probably raising his voice on purpose for my benefit.

“Christ, Inspector, this is fucking ridiculous.  Why the special treatment?  This chick your girlfriend or something?”  Inspector Robinson’s response is immediate and scathing.

“If you object to doing your job, Donaldson, let me know, and I’ll be sure to inform your supervisor of your distaste.”  Donaldson glowers at the inspector, but stops complaining.

“I like her,” my mother said admiringly as we reentered the apartment.  I don’t bother to answer as I head for the coffee table where I keep the mail.  I leaf through it, but don’t find anything other than bills and advertisements.  “Do you think she’s a lesbian?”  My mother continues speculating.  “That comment her coworker made gives me hope.”

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Plaster of Paris; chapter four, part two

I bring up Paris’s birthmother, something both of us have let slide.  She did call Paris the afternoon he was hit.  Is it merely a coincidence that on the day she calls, Paris is hit?  That’s too much to swallow, although coincidences do occur.  Lyle and I look at each other, thinking the same thing.  Where is Paris’s cell phone?  Lyle had assumed the doctors had it, but he isn’t sure.  We have to get the cell phone to find out if there is a record of Paris’s birthmother’s phone call.  I curse Paris silently for his love of drama.  If he had just told one of us who she was before he was hit, we wouldn’t have to waste time tracking her down.  Lyle and I both start shoveling in the our food as fast as possible, gabbing the whole time.

We are short in the way of suspects, and we start tossing things out into the air.  Lyle mentions that Jenna has been calling Paris on his cell lately, begging Paris to come back to her.  I am disconcerted as I thought she had finally gotten over Paris.  He hadn’t mentioned a thing to me about Jenna calling him, but it’s probably because he knew I’d give him hell for getting involved with her in the first place.  I can’t believe she’s calling him again.  They only dated for a month, and she’s acting as if they’re Romeo and Juliet.  Lyle is more sympathetic than I, however, remembering some of his own pathetic behavior at her age.  My face flushes as I recall a few of my own escapades.

Of course, Lyle can’t let it slide and wants to know why I’m reacting so dramatically.  I try to deflect him by returning to the suspect list, but he’s not having any of that.  With a flare of intuition, he guesses the story has something to do with Paris and crows in delight when I am not quick enough to come up with a plausible lie.  When I realize that he isn’t going to let it drop, I order him to finish his sandwich to give myself time to think.  I don’t like thinking about the incident, and I certainly don’t want to tell Lyle as it involves me, stupid behavior, and Paris.  I have a hunch Lyle won’t be happy to hear it once I’m through, but there’s nothing I can do about that since he insists.  Besides, maybe it’ll take his mind of Paris for a minute or two.

The tale isn’t pretty, nor is it particularly interesting.  When Paris and I were sophomores in college, I was desperately unhappy for many reasons and watching Paris date bimbos of both genders did nothing to cheer me up.  I decided I was in love with him and tried to seduce him.  It didn’t work, and I fled from the apartment, humiliated.  I slipped into a bar and proceeded to drink myself into a coma.  Some snake approached me and persuaded me to go home with him.  We were just about to leave when Paris showed up and prevented the snake from whisking me off.  Oh, I protested, but Paris simply slung me over his shoulder and brought me home.  When we got there, I promptly fell apart—as well as threw up—and Paris held me until I regained my sanity.  After reaffirming his love for me and the fact that we make better friends than lovers, he carried me off to my bed.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter four, part one

I hurry home and take a quick nap before hopping in the shower.  Nothing feels as good as the water running down my body.  The steam soothes the prickliness I feel, but to my horror, I start to cry.  The tears I’ve been repressing all night long storm to the surface and spill over, mingling with the shower water on the way down.  I start to sob loudly, unable to control my response.  I can’t control my shivering, no matter how hot I make the water.  I place my hand on the wall to steady myself, but my knees are trembling and I feel as if I’m going to fall over.  I close my eyes and try not to lose my balance.  My legs aren’t listening to my commands, and down I go.  I land on my ass with a thud—it’s cold on the ground.  I wrap my arms around my knees and just let the water fall onto me.

“Rainbow!  Where are you?”  My mother’s voice shouting for me jolts me out of the trance I have put myself in.  I am still on the floor under the pouring water, but it’s turned cold in the time I’ve been zonked.  My mother bursts into the bathroom and shuts off the tap.  She hauls me to my feet, clucking the whole time.  She’s talking to herself in Taiwanese as she wraps a towel around me.  I catch a phrase here and there, but my mind can’t process what she’s saying.  I idly wonder how fast she had driven as she seems to have made it across the bridge in good time.  Then again, I did take a nap, albeit a short one.  My mother ushers me to my room and sits me on the bed.  She rummages through my closet, pulling out a blue sweatshirt I got from A Brighter Day, the agency where I work, and a pair of blue jeans.  She finds a bra and underwear before presenting the pile to me.  I pull on the clothes without saying a word.  She watches as I dress myself, waiting until I’m finished before speaking.

“Are you all right?”  She asks the question deliberately, peering anxiously into my eyes.  She speaks English to make sure I understand.  Taiwanese may be her first language, but English is mine.  I look at her dully, not comprehending what she wants from me.  Am I all right?  My best friend is in the hospital because someone tried to make road-kill out of him, and she wants to know if I’m all right?  I pick at my fingernails, losing interest in the conversation.  All the nervous energy I was feeling earlier is now spent, leaving me as limp as a dish rag.  She walks over to me and deliberately slaps me across the face.  I rear my head back in surprise.

“What the hell did you do that for?”  I snap, some color returning to my face.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter three, part three

Per agreement, they didn’t try to find the teenager or even speculate about whom she might be.  Mrs. Frantz was too tense to relax, but Mr. Frantz managed to enjoy much of the local flavor, especially the spirits of the land.  He was fond of rum, which was plentiful in supply.  Mrs. Frantz sat in their hotel room and waited, dreaming of her baby boy.  By then, she knew she was getting a son, but she was cautious about investing too much emotion in him until she actually held him in her arms.  She just sat with the lights out, gazing outside her window, not really seeing anything.  Her husband would try to coax her to join him in his revelry, but she rebuffed him firmly.  When the first day melted into the second day, she began to get jittery.  Their lawyer had said the baby was born already, so she didn’t see the problem.  She was afraid to voice the fear niggling the back of her mind—the birthmother had changed her mind.  The second fear—the birthmother wanted more money.  There was none to be had.  The Frantzes had to borrow heavily to come up with the ten thousand, not to mention the trip to Tijuana.

Mrs. Frantz thought she would lose her mind as she waited for something that might never happen.  She rocked slightly back and forth to keep her mind off the tedium.  She watched as kids romped outside her window, happily oblivious to the woman gaping at them from inside her hotel room.  The maid knocked on the door for maid service, but Mrs. Frantz impatiently shouted at her to go away.  Mrs. Frantz didn’t want to be interrupted while she was obsessively worrying about acquiring her baby boy.  What would he look like?  Would he be a total stranger, or would she know him when she saw him?  Would they instantly connect, or would they have to work towards something?  She was afraid that she would look at her son and not feel anything other than panic and remorse.  What if she thought he was ugly?  What if he cried when she held him?  So many questions buzzed through her mind, she was unhappy that her husband wasn’t there to share her angst.

The knock on her door startled her.  She asked who it was and was relieved to hear her lawyer’s voice in reply.  She hurried to open the door, not remembering that she was wearing only a tank top and a pair of shorts.  Her lawyer didn’t seem to care, even though he himself was wearing a lightweight suit in charcoal gray.  He looked professional, but cool at the same time.  In his arms was an infant, cooing and batting his eyelashes as if he had something in his eyes.  Her lawyer was talking, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying.  Her mind blocked out everything but the sight of her son smiling at her.  Her week-old son who turned up the wattage when he sensed her eyes on him.  She didn’t touch him, but simply stared—memorizing every feature.  His large green eyes.  The few soft blond curls decorating his head.  The way his chubby fist waved in the air.  The little dimple poking into his right cheek.  He was her son, no doubt about it.

Mrs. Frantz gathered him to her chest, cradling him as if her life depended on it.  Everything else in the world ceased to exist—the lawyer, the bed, the television, the tacky wallpaper, even her husband who had straggled back to the room at some point.  She could only focus on the tiny bundle squirming in her arms, beaming up at her.  She felt a benevolent force smiling down at her as if to say, ‘This is your due; this is why you’ve struggled so hard.  Now, you are rewarded.’  She knew God’s voice when she heard it and renewed her lagging vows to the church.  From now on, she would tithe religiously.  From now on, she would attend every Sunday.  From now on, she would try to bring God into every portion of her life.  She felt it only fair in return for the miracle that was her son.  Her son.  It didn’t matter that she didn’t carry him or give birth to him because he was hers as surely as if he had been taken from her gut.  He even resembled her in coloring, though not in temperament.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter one, part two

“Rainbow!”  She greets me warmly, using my given name instead of Rayne which is what I prefer.  She and my late father were hippies and named me Rainbow Freedom Liang and my sister who is three years younger—almost to the day—Liberty Moonbeam Liang.  Or is that Liberty Justice Liang?  I can never remember her middle name, but I think it’s Moonbeam.  She goes by Libby.  She was also a birthday gift, but not a welcomed one.  She is three years and one day younger than I, and I used to think my parents did it on purpose.  “How are you?”  My mother has given up many of her hippie ways since I was almost killed the first time, but she refuses to compromise on my name.  We speak in English most of the time with Taiwanese interspersed in the conversation.  When we don’t want people around to know what we’re talking about, we switch to Taiwanese.

We chat in a laidback sort of way because that’s the kind of person my mom is, though she’s been more engaged with me the last few months.  She calls almost daily, and I see her once a week.  She lives in Berkeley, of course, which makes communication easy.  We talk about Libby—Liberty, as my mother calls her—who just emailed my mother asking her to fly out a month early for the wedding.  We are both amazed as our Libby loathes to ask for help from anybody.  Also, my mother is involved in many committees not to mention still teaching classes.  Plus, she’s a painter.  It would be difficult for her to take a month off from her various duties.  Libby lives in New York City where she’s a big pooh-bah on Wall Street engaged to a stock broker.  She’s also a major bitch.  I thought she’d be nicer after 9/11, but she’s pushed it out of her mind and refuses to talk about it.  Oddly enough, it’s the wedding which is making her act slightly more human.

My mother can’t go a month early, as we both know.  She hates to disappoint my sister, however, as she asks for so little.  How like Libby.  She doesn’t ask for anything for years then when she does, it’s over the top.  My mother goes on to inform me that Libby has requested that I get a move on with my itinerary for the wedding.  I heave a sigh.  Although she’s eased up on the dictums in the last month, she still tends to bark out orders as if she’s the general of an army.  Among them—I lose ten pounds, not get a new tattoo or piercing, shave my legs, and get a manicure and pedicure.  Not to mention the indignity of having to wear a pink fru-fru dress.  Pardon me, mauve.  The weight is gone, but not through any effort of my own.  I will get another damn tattoo if I feel like it, and as for the other stuff—we’ll see.

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Rainbow Connection; chapter eleven, part one

“You look luscious, my darling.”  Vashti smiles at me, her dark hair flowing around her voluptuous body.  She is nude—uncovering that body I so missed.  Her skin is the color of mahogany or cherry wood, or perhaps, chocolate ice cream.  She has no shame at showing me her body, all of it.  Her breasts are heavy with longing, her nipples dark with anticipation.  She has one hand coyly covering her pubic area, but there is a smirk on her face at the same time.  I am nude as well, and I am wet in anticipation.  I reach for her, but she stays my hand.  We are in a forest with only the barest sliver of a moon to guide us.  She is dark on dark—a nymph whom I worship.  I bow down to press kisses upon her polished toes, which she consents to graciously.  As I straighten up, she takes my hand in hers and clamps it to her breast.

I slip my hand between her legs and find her wet.  My entire hand slides inside her with no problem.  She plucks my hand out of her and sucks my thumb before letting go.  Without a word, we start walking hand in hand as the night grows darker.  Suddenly, the moon disappears completely.  I clutch her hand nervously as the peaceful woods turn spooky in the blink of an eye.  It is no longer comforting to be surrounded by darkness.  Vashti and I press against each other as the darkness closes around us.  We are gripping each other’s hand so tightly, our hands fuse together.  There is no separating us now, even if we so desire.  We are no longer walking as we are rooted to the spot.  My mouth is full of thorns which are pricking a thousand miniscule holes in my tongue.  I try not to swallow them as I do not want a hole in my stomach as well.  There is a howl in the distance that causes Vashti and me to cling to each other.

“Help me,” I whisper, but Vashti doesn’t hear me, so deep in her own fright is she.  Without warning, a pterodactyl swoops out of the sky and rips Vashti out of my arms.  I feel a searing pain in my hand as our grasp is severed, leaving me with a jagged wound where my hand used to be.  Vashti is moving her lips, but I cannot hear what she’s saying.  “Don’t leave me,” I moan, reaching out for her with my bloodied hand.  She reaches out her stump as well, but the pterodactyl has her firmly in his mouth and is flying away.  “Don’t leave me!”  I scream, panic flooding my body.  What will I do if Vashti is taken from my sight?  I try to run to keep up with her, but my feet are molded to the ground.  They are turning into mud as I watch Vashti fly further and further away from me.  “No!  Don’t go!”  I wave frantically, but she soon disappears.

“Wake up, Rainbow,” she says sharply, shaking me.

“What, huh?”  I jerk awake, my heart thumping.

“You were dreaming again.”  My mother has stayed with me for the week and into the weekend.  My body has pretty much healed except for remaining bruises, but my mind has become fragile again.  Mom  is looking down at me with rounded eyes.  There is concern, but also fear in them.  She’s spent enough nights by my bedside the last time around to know I had a nightmare.  When she catches me looking at her, she smoothes the worry out of her face.  “Want to talk about it?”  Mutely, I shake my head.

“What time is it?”  I whisper, snuggling under my covers.  I always feel vulnerable after a nightmare, and this time is no exception.

“Five-thirty,” my mother replies, holding out a glass of water to me.  “Sunday morning.  February.”  She knows the drill as well as Paris does.  I sit up and drink obediently, knowing that it’s a good idea to hydrate before trying to sleep again.  “Go back to sleep, Rainbow.  I’ll hold your hand until you do.”  I give her the glass before lying down again.  I slip my hand into hers, feeling a safeness I haven’t felt in years.  I close my eyes, comforted by her presence.  Soon, I fall into a dreamless sleep.  This time when I awake, I feel refreshed despite the earlier nightmare.  After performing my morning ritual, in slippers and robe, I pad my way to the kitchen.

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Rainbow Connection; chapter ten, part three

Ashley was agitated about her father, calling him a shithead in sheep’s clothing.  When Melissa pointed out that her father was well-known for his contributions to the community, Ashley openly sneered.  She told them they were idiots if they believed everything they saw or heard.  Her father was a first-class prick who had a mistress while her mother was dying of cancer.  This mistress wasn’t the first one, neither, but that’s only to be expected from a bigwig executive like him.  Her father was careful not to expose his wife to his peccadilloes, but she knew.  Everyone in town knew, and her so-called ‘friends’ were always the first ones to tell Janice something, ‘for her own good.’  Ashley vacillated between thinking her mother was a saint for putting up with her father’s behavior and thinking she was an idiot.

That wasn’t the worst part, however.  Ashley was in her father’s den one day, snooping for evidence of his infidelities.  Even though her mother was dead, Ashley still felt the need to protect her.  Ashley found a letter from a lover to her father asking for money because she was pregnant.  She was asking for fifty-thousand dollars for the abortion and for ‘emotional damages’, threatening to go to the media if he didn’t pay.  This was his last warning, the letter read, to do the right thing by her.  Ashley didn’t know who the woman because her father walked in before she could read the whole letter.  Her father freaked, ripping the letter out of her hands and screaming at her for spying on him.  Of course, she gave it right back to him for being a hypocrite before storming off to group.  Her father had caught her by surprise, coming home early like that.  Ashley had thought she was safe because her father normally didn’t come home before nine at night.

Ashley’s agitation that day is starting to make sense.  According to Maria, Ashley already suspected that her father was having an affair before then, but that piece of hard evidence would be impossible to ignore.  I wonder if she had started searching in hopes that she wouldn’t find anything to verify her vague suspicions.  When she first saw the letter, what was running through her mind?  Was she planning on confronting her father?  Or would she have kept it to herself, letting it simmer?  Knowing her even as little as I had, I knew there was no way she would have kept that information to herself.  Most likely, she would have tried to find the letter again to read the whole thing.  I would be surprised if Mr. Stevenson kept it after Ashley found it, however.  In fact, I’m surprised he kept it at all.  I also wonder what the mystery woman would have done if Mr. Stevenson hadn’t paid.  Would she have taken him to court?  Tried him in the media?  Infidelity is not a crime, but it could prove awfully embarrassing for him to be caught up in a nasty situation like that.  Then there’s the question of, is the mystery woman the same person as the one Ashley said she was becoming suspicious of?  If so, someone in group?  I shake my head.  This speculation is getting me nowhere.

The women are still talking about Ashley.  She felt betrayed by her father who was always her idol.  What if Mr. Stevenson killed his daughter to keep her from telling anyone about the letter?  I dismiss the possibility because he would have done it immediately after she read the letter if he did at all for that reason.  It makes no sense that he would have waited a day and a half before killing her.  I miss part of the conversation, but the women are only rehashing what they’ve already said.  My mind is drifting, so I almost miss it when Melissa comments that Ashley said she was going to make her father tell her everything.  When I pressed Melissa what Ashley meant by that, she shook her head regretfully.  She and Jean hadn’t wanted to push Ashley too hard because she seemed so distraught; now, Melissa wishes they had.  It’s mean of me, but I can’t help thinking that the only reason they wanted to know more was so they could have the inside scoop.  Many people crave fame and attention, and these women are no exception.

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Rainbow Connection; chapter nine, part two

“That Stevenson girl sounds like a real piece of works,” my mother says, returning to the former subject with little preamble.  “I think she stuck her nose where it didn’t belong.  If your group is involved, you have to find out more about the other members.”

“Maybe I could run the names by you,” I suggest cautiously.  Even though my mother is a fount of information, I don’t know what kind of confidentiality issues I’m running up against here.  Then again, I’m not a therapist, and I’m certainly not talking about the group on television.

“Only if you want to.”  My mother shifted on the couch to make herself comfortable.

I want to.  I trust that my mother is not going to run around blabbing about the information, so I run the names by her.  I only know the first names which makes it more difficult, but some of the names are quite unusual which should help.  I give names, races, and a brief description of each woman.  My mother doesn’t know Sharise, Jennifer, Maria or Leticia.  I include Rosie’s sister since she has bearing on the case.  She knows Tudd by sight and name, mostly because Stella knows her .  It surprises me as Tudd is decidedly not Marin material.  Turns out that Stella’s kids took judo from her.  Tudd went to Stella’s home twice a week because Stella had a home gym and preferred to have the lessons there.  It also surprises me to learn that Tudd taught judo, though I can’t say why.  She doesn’t teach any more, not since the rape.

My mother tells me the gory details because I only know the basics.  Tudd was walking home from work around eight o’clock—she’s a teacher in Marin County and stayed late for some reason—when two men dragged her into the bushes and raped her.  One of them left a cufflink that was quite expensive.  Stella’s impression was that Tudd knew at least one of her attackers, though no one was ever caught.  That leads me to wonder if perhaps Mr. Stevenson had been one of the attackers and something Ashley said in group triggered recognition in Tudd.  I grimace at my reasoning.  Even if it were true, there would be no reason to kill Ashley rather than Mr. Stevenson.  I say out loud that it was too bad the judo didn’t help, but my mother points out that it was two against one.  Also, there was a knife involved, so Tudd really didn’t stand much of a chance.

I move to the last member of the group—Astarte.  The minute I say her name, my mother’s face changes.  Up until now, my mother’s looked as if she’s solving an intriguing problem.  Now, there’s something else in her eyes, but I’m not quite sure what.  I’m not surprised that my mother knows Astarte, but I am perplexed at her reaction.  She leans back in the couch, sipping her tea.  There is a set to her jaw that hadn’t been there a minute before.  I open my mouth to say something, but shut it just as quickly.  I’m not sure I want to know what my mother has to say about Astarte, but I know that I can’t stop the momentum.  I nervously clear my throat and say her name again as my mother doesn’t seem inclined to talk.  Still, she doesn’t say anything for several minutes. Finally, I break the silence by asking in a small voice if she knows Astarte even though I already know the answer.

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Rainbow Connection; chapter nine, part one

“Rainbow, how are you?”  My mother asks as she ladles some tofu surprise onto my plate.  My mother is a vegetarian and serves the best meatless dishes I’ve ever tasted in my life.  If I could cook vegetarian food like that, I would be happy as a clam.  Now if she would just call me Rayne instead of Rainbow, I wouldn’t have anything to complain about.  I don’t think that’s going to happen.

It is Saturday night, and I’m having dinner at her house in Berkeley.  Lyle and Paris were supposed to come as well, but obviously, that didn’t happen.  It’s not the house I grew up in, but it’s still home.  My mother bought it after Libby went to college, right before the Bay Area became such a hot place to buy land.  If she were to sell her house now, she would triple if not quadruple her investment.  The décor is stuck in a time warp because my mother bought the place from a hippie, of course.  The carpet is orange, the furniture is yellowish with floral patterns and such.  There are Dali-esque prints on the walls and posters of the Grateful Dead.  I don’t mind that my mother is still a hippie, but I wish she had better taste in décor.  Surprisingly, she eschews the hippie clothing fashion and wears tailored clothing that looks smart on her.  Tonight, she is wearing a taupe pantsuit that is flattering to her slender figure.  She doesn’t look old enough to be my mother which is disconcerting.  She smiles and pours me more dandelion wine.

“Fine, Mom,” I say, eating as fast as I can.  “I’m in a therapy group for posttraumatic stress.  Did I tell you that?”

“You mentioned it.  How’s it going?”  My mother’s face creases into a smile.  She has been after me to get into therapy ever since the other murders.  I have been resistant up until now.

“Not so good,” I say softly, setting down my fork.  I am unsure whether I should tell her the next part because she’s been so worried about me lately, but I want her take on it.  “You know the two murders that have been in the news lately?  The daughter of the Godiva CEO and the maid?  Um, they were in my group.

”Oh, no!”  Mom is distressed.  “You’re involved in that?”

“Not directly.  The cops aren’t even sure the therapy group has anything to do with the murders.”

“I have a friend who lives in Marin,” Mom says earnestly, leaning forward.  I don’t question that as she has friends everywhere.  “She knew the Stevenson girl; they lived in the same neighborhood.  Apparently, my friend saw her the night she was murdered.”

“What?”  I sit up, my eyes widen with interest.  “Tell me what your friend said.”

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