of both my parents before I was thirty, endured a marriage to a man who humiliated me with his actions at least once a year, put myself through graduate school while working full-time, and gotten a doctorate in the shortest amount of time possible. Now, I was involved in something totally out of my realm of experience, and the thought of it made me sick and more than a little crazed.
The weather was beautiful: bright, sunny, and clear, and in direct contrast to my mood: dark, cloudy, and complicated. I was furious at Max for leaving me on Broadway, and I was mad at myself for allowing her to convince me to do something I knew wasn’t right. Kathy’s death also weighed heavily on my mind. Parents sent their children to our school thinking they would be safe: a Catholic institution, a long tradition of graduating strong, independent women (and a few men), and a peaceful setting all contributed to a feeling of safety and well-being. An occasional stolen car was all we normally had to deal with. Now, we had murder to add to the list of things people thought about when they conjured up St. Thomas.
I made a left and headed up the hill in the village to Starbucks. At a little after seven in the morning on a Saturday, it was open, but not crowded. I went up to the counter and ordered a grande French roast—black, no sugar—and a banana muffin. I paid and took a seat at a small round table near the back of the cafe.
I could feel myself coming dangerously close to sliding under a wave of self-pity as I watched couples come and go in the coffee shop. It also occurred to me as I sat there that probably none of the patrons were murder suspects. So, there I was, a divorced, earless murder suspect, eating alone in Starbucks. It doesn’t get much sadder than that. Unless you’re a nineteen-year-old dead girl in a Volvo casket, I reminded myself.
I shoved the remainder of the muffin in my mouth and washed it down with the dregs from my coffee cup. I crumpled everything into a little ball and shoved it into the metal garbage can by the door. A young man with a skateboard under his arm started in, saw me, and held the door open. “Why don’t you go first, ma’am?” he asked politely.
Ma’am. Thanks. I managed a smile and walked out onto the sidewalk, stopping for a moment to adjust my pocketbook on my shoulder. I started down the street, taking in the river, the boats swaying gently on the small waves right beyond the train station, and the sun’s rays dancing across the river’s surface. I made a conscious decision to remain very angry at Max but to stop feeling sorry for myself. Being angry at Max would at least burn a few calories, but feeling sorry at myself would force me to eat the entire box of Godiva chocolate that I had in the refrigerator.
Max picked me up at ten for our day of shopping at the Westchester, a mall near my house. We got there at ten-thirty, found a spot near the elevator, and were cruising the carpeted floors of the mall in no time.
I was still feeling a little icy toward Max, but she didn’t notice. She was too involved in spending more money than the gross national product of some smaller nations.
We spent an hour or so stocking up on cosmetics and hair accessories at Sephora, the large cosmetics retailer on the bottom floor. Max’s hair was only a few inches long, but she bought some jeweled barrettes and some kind of turban that she said was essential to making home facials successful. I wandered around the bath aisle, finally picking up some kind of shower gel that promised, “serenity, sensuality, and a feeling of well-being.” Whatever. It smelled like coconut. I also picked a lipstick called Jennifer, which was a muted peachy brown and not nearly dramatic enough for Max who stuck her tongue out in disgust when I showed it to her.
I finally let Max know how furious I was when we sat down to lunch at the City Limits Diner, located at the east end of the mall.
“I thought I would give you
The weather was beautiful: bright, sunny, and clear, and in direct contrast to my mood: dark, cloudy, and complicated. I was furious at Max for leaving me on Broadway, and I was mad at myself for allowing her to convince me to do something I knew wasn’t right. Kathy’s death also weighed heavily on my mind. Parents sent their children to our school thinking they would be safe: a Catholic institution, a long tradition of graduating strong, independent women (and a few men), and a peaceful setting all contributed to a feeling of safety and well-being. An occasional stolen car was all we normally had to deal with. Now, we had murder to add to the list of things people thought about when they conjured up St. Thomas.
I made a left and headed up the hill in the village to Starbucks. At a little after seven in the morning on a Saturday, it was open, but not crowded. I went up to the counter and ordered a grande French roast—black, no sugar—and a banana muffin. I paid and took a seat at a small round table near the back of the cafe.
I could feel myself coming dangerously close to sliding under a wave of self-pity as I watched couples come and go in the coffee shop. It also occurred to me as I sat there that probably none of the patrons were murder suspects. So, there I was, a divorced, earless murder suspect, eating alone in Starbucks. It doesn’t get much sadder than that. Unless you’re a nineteen-year-old dead girl in a Volvo casket, I reminded myself.
I shoved the remainder of the muffin in my mouth and washed it down with the dregs from my coffee cup. I crumpled everything into a little ball and shoved it into the metal garbage can by the door. A young man with a skateboard under his arm started in, saw me, and held the door open. “Why don’t you go first, ma’am?” he asked politely.
Ma’am. Thanks. I managed a smile and walked out onto the sidewalk, stopping for a moment to adjust my pocketbook on my shoulder. I started down the street, taking in the river, the boats swaying gently on the small waves right beyond the train station, and the sun’s rays dancing across the river’s surface. I made a conscious decision to remain very angry at Max but to stop feeling sorry for myself. Being angry at Max would at least burn a few calories, but feeling sorry at myself would force me to eat the entire box of Godiva chocolate that I had in the refrigerator.
Max picked me up at ten for our day of shopping at the Westchester, a mall near my house. We got there at ten-thirty, found a spot near the elevator, and were cruising the carpeted floors of the mall in no time.
I was still feeling a little icy toward Max, but she didn’t notice. She was too involved in spending more money than the gross national product of some smaller nations.
We spent an hour or so stocking up on cosmetics and hair accessories at Sephora, the large cosmetics retailer on the bottom floor. Max’s hair was only a few inches long, but she bought some jeweled barrettes and some kind of turban that she said was essential to making home facials successful. I wandered around the bath aisle, finally picking up some kind of shower gel that promised, “serenity, sensuality, and a feeling of well-being.” Whatever. It smelled like coconut. I also picked a lipstick called Jennifer, which was a muted peachy brown and not nearly dramatic enough for Max who stuck her tongue out in disgust when I showed it to her.
I finally let Max know how furious I was when we sat down to lunch at the City Limits Diner, located at the east end of the mall.
“I thought I would give you
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