Sixth Victim Read online

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ How a conversation can suddenly flip upside down, Cecelia should be angry instead, that ever-waiting compassion slid under the mantle of her temper, curled up and purring beside her.

  ‘Thank you. Sometimes knowing your pet was happy and that he had a good life doesn’t seem enough. Her name was Petal. She was a rescue cat, yet I’d like to think it was the other way around, she rescued me. I got her when I first came to this wonderful country. She slept with me in my bed and licked me every night on the chin because she accepted me. Oh dear, I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. But you know, I would have given half of my years to have her company.’ She turned to wipe her eyes. ‘I keep on thinking about her and how she won’t be waiting to sit on my lap and kneading her paws on me anymore. To love anything is so painful.’

  How helpless this woman suddenly appeared. Grief, it was always down to grief which makes people behave the way they do. Grief and happiness, two of the most powerful forces in life, yet there were others. With her back again turned to Cecelia in that moment of kindness, Cecelia’s hand fluttered in the air not knowing whether to touch her for comfort. Are you okay? A stupid question to ask when it was obvious, she wasn’t.

  ‘What I am doing now,’ said the woman who once owned a cat called Petal wiping those tears away. ‘Is choosing a flower from every pot. I am going to make Petal the most wonderful bouquet in the world or perhaps it should be called a wreath,’ her voice slipped again. ‘But whatever. This is a celebration of my little darling’s life. We shall all die one day, so while I’m alive, I’ve got to enjoy it. It’s important to be grateful for the time we’re given. Don’t you think?’

  Her smile was sweet, warm as if she put her entire soul into it so that Cecelia couldn’t help returning her smile.

  ‘I meet lots of interesting people working with flowers…’ for a moment she looked preoccupied as if she were counting her thoughts. ‘But once again, I am talking too much. You were telling me about your friend. Is she a friend or someone you are trying to impress?’

  ‘I have never met her before.’ Private business shouldn’t be discussed, but this was a person who had just opened up her heart to her. And besides, buying flowers was not as easy as she supposed it to be. ‘I thought that if I took her flowers it would break the ice.’

  ‘And flowers do. They make many silent communications for us mere mortals. I believe flowers have a soul, or if they don’t, they should. That’s the bohemian side in me. Do you have any ideas on the sort of flowers you would like to give this person?’

  ‘No, not really. Something cheerful perhaps—something like those chrysanthemums over there.’

  ‘Is she French or is she dead?’

  ‘No, neither I don’t think. I mean she’s not dead,’ said Cecelia scrunching her eyebrows in annoyance. ‘Obviously, she’s not dead.’ Was this woman playing with her again? ‘I am not going to her funeral.’

  ‘Which means, you would never go to her funeral even if she were dead?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t mean anything of the sort unless you want it to. I’ve come to this shop to buy flowers. I thought flowers would give me a good introduction. I didn’t expect to endure this questioning.’

  ‘You’re right. I asked about the young lady only because if she were French; chrysanthemums would be an insult. They’re flowers for funerals which is why you should never give chrysanthemums to a French person unless of course for a funeral.’

  Exacerbated by this woman’s sense of flippancy, Cecelia stared back hard. True she was an English person in America away from her homeland and normally, Cecelia would have made allowances, but this bubbly humor was provoking even if she had just lost her cat. Only so much kidding around and wordplay one could have when talking. There must be another florist.

  ‘I think I’ve changed my mind about the flowers. I’ll buy chocolates instead.’

  ‘Oh dear, I think I’ve just lost a sale.’

  Cecelia shrugged and with a blank smile raised her indifference by moving to the door.

  ‘I guess that’s life.’

  ‘I guess,’ answered Cecelia.

  ‘Okay. I’ll quit the wise-ass remarks—isn’t that what you Americans call it?’

  ‘We actually call it, good manners. I wanted to buy some nice flowers for a person I’ve never met, but with you, it’s like a dress rehearsal for war. I never knew buying flowers could be so difficult.’ Angry, Cecelia’s temper showed in sparkling sarcasm. People – young women were being murdered and it wasn’t prettily. Didn’t the English, known for their eccentric sense of humor understand what pointless tragedy was all about? But when she looked at this flower woman expecting her to show some hint of remorse, there was none, except that exasperating glint of merriment. Cecelia’s hand was on the door.

  ‘Carnations,’ the flower woman called after Cecelia. ‘And pink ones. Wait, I’ll give you a bouquet, it will my gift to you as a way of apology.’

  Cecelia stopped. Why did she need to be so weird?

  ‘Pink carnations represent gratitude. It should do the trick,’ the flower woman walked to the heavenly paradise of flowers confident that Cecelia would return. Without looking she began selecting the most perfect carnation blooms. Long-stemmed and beautiful like elegant ladies. She carefully wrapped them in pink tissue paper. ‘By the way, my name is Phoebe, it means brightness and radiance. My namesake was also one of the Titans, and depending on which you choose to believe, she delivered Paul’s epistles. It gets better. Phoebe was also a prophet. Isn’t it wonderful to know the meaning of one’s name? But whatever, I am a wonderful person.’ She grinned again impishly. ‘You took the bulk of my grief and you are the first person I told about Petal.’

  An irresistible draw tugged Cecelia towards this maniac woman. An apology was something Cecelia admired and should be met halfway by giving this oddball a second chance. A silent exchange with Cecelia returning, she had been won over. A little smile from Phoebe who readily took these long-stemmed blooms to her counter. Fascinated, Cecelia watched in obedience the sure and deft hands quickly stringing a handsome bouquet together.

  ‘I can’t change the way I am. I know I’m awkward and opinionated, but I’m a good person. I stand up for those who can’t stand up for themselves. Usually, I am a lot better mannered than this,’ she handed the bouquet to Cecelia. ‘I feel I should make up to you for my outbursts. You’ve seen me at my worse and forgiven me. I would be interested to know how you went on with your interview. I’m pretty sure my flowers will do the trick. What do you say? A fair exchange?’

  Taking the carnations out of Phoebe’s hand, Cecelia’s assessed this strange English woman. She wasn’t completely contrite because she showed spirit, a flicker of amusement in her eyes made her attractive. A fair exchange would if this Phoebe told her about England be beneficial. England was a place where one day Cecelia would like to visit.

  ‘I prefer to pay for them,’ Cecelia went for her purse.

  ‘Accept them as a gift,’ said Phoebe pushing the money gently away. ‘At the end of the day, there are always flowers leftover. We sell them to funeral homes a lot cheaper. I’m not mean, but on this occasion, I would sooner give them to a person like you. So please, take them. And yes, I am the owner of this business, and these are my flowers.’

  Nothing in life is free was Cecelia’s problem; she was inclined to hold back, but instead, shrugged, and took the flowers. If only this Phoebe wasn’t so glib then perhaps, they could be friends. But perhaps this was defensive behavior by the flower lady.

  ‘Thank you,’ Cecelia smiled while holding the flowers as she left the premises. ‘It’s very kind of you.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me your name?’

  She stopped, stunned by the question. ‘Cecelia, it’s not a name I’m fond of.’

  ‘St Cecilie was the blind patron of music and also a talented musician,’ smiled Phoebe. ‘I have a bet that you’re a talented musician.’

  ‘No, I’m afraid yo
u’re wrong.’

  ‘Ah,’ but Phoebe refused to give up. There must be someone wonderful about her name. ‘Then you must be a good singer.’

  Cecelia smiled.

  ‘Yes, I guessed right. Bye, bye Cecelia, I hope to see you again.’

  Phoebe was right about the flowers; they did have a positive effect on the mood. Looking at the pink heads now gently swaying as she walked, a good feeling came merrily to her heart, this was a beautiful gift to give. One good deed follows another and sometimes quickly. If her plan to have Miss Leigh open up about what had happened didn’t work, she would at least have circulated kindness.

  ‘Yes, can I help you?’

  The woman answering the door was unexpectedly tall. A straight, good postured young woman whose soft voice had an accent that wasn’t easy to detect.

  ‘I’ve come to visit Mary Ann Leigh.’

  First impressions gave the notion that this tall woman didn’t fit the picture Cecelia stored vividly in her mind of a victim. At five feet eight or nine, she looked too tall to be raped. Although slender, she also looked aggressively fit. Long ash blonde hair staggered over her shoulders and down her back while striking blue eyes stared warily yet interestingly at her. It could be that she hadn’t spoken to anyone for a very long time. One of those strange moments when Cecelia felt she had met this woman before but couldn’t say when or even how.

  ‘And you are?’ she asked interested her head to one side.

  ‘I am Cecelia, a journalist. And the reason I am here is for your story—but before you close the door on me. I believe that every woman raped has the right to speak out.’

  ‘Now that’s a very controversial remark,’ said Mary Ann uncertain in her smiles but still amused. ‘Would you like to come in? I also think that everyone should be heard no matter how eccentric. Honesty counts for something in my books. I’ve never been interviewed by a journalist before.’

  Walking off having given Cecelia the look of approval, she left her door open leaving Cecelia in turmoil. Should she go in and close the door to the world? For a recently raped victim, Mary Ann Leigh showed too much trust. Closing the door, Cecelia followed thoughtfully puzzled behind her.

  It was a feminine house, perfumed, frilled with ornaments, too fussy for Cecelia, and yet still nice. The hallway wasn’t dark but full of light, colors helped this light and airy house. A potpourri of delicious and edible smells shouted out, hey, I’m a female, look at me.

  ‘I like my peace and quiet,’ she said pointing to her carpet.

  Thick and deep, a light green lawn which certainly did keep out the noise. This was a woman who aspired to live well and not cut corners.

  ‘I am glad of the company. Won’t you enter,’ she moved to the middle of the room and held her hands out decoratively.

  It was a room full of the energy of space. Nice, but not the sort of room that Cecelia felt comfortable in, was this a showhouse.

  ‘Now, if you had been a man, I would not have opened the door to you,’ said Mary Ann standing by the doorway after Cecelia had entered. ‘I’m doing my best to keep my mind balanced, but it hasn’t been easy these last nine days. You can understand my apprehension. Won’t you sit down?’

  Floral covered armchairs in a duck egg colored room, calming colors, and yet not homely. The room smelt of lavender, relaxing and comforting and yet staged. Busy eyes waited on Cecelia.

  ‘You have a beautiful house.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she smiled. ‘I spend most of my time here. Now, what can I get you to drink? Tea?’ head cocked to one side, she smiled again touching the side of her jaw gently presenting herself favorably.

  An oval face, and beautifully made up, pale pink lipstick on a not too generous mouth. But the eyes, startling blue, the brightest blue ever. And with her long blonde hair, she should have been pretty, but she wasn’t. Something was missing about her, such a shame. But with the right balance of personality, charm, and interest, physical beauty fades to make way for personality.

  ‘I take it the flowers are meant for me?’ asked Mary Ann looking at the bouquet.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Cecelia held out the pink paper-wrapped arrangement of flowers. ‘I was thinking about getting some yellow carnations…’

  ‘Ah, dianthus caryophyllus, one of my favorite flowers. But does anyone know that the yellow dianthus is the flower of regret? An apt choice for me because I do regret taking that excursion that evening. I think constantly about this unfortunate decision. There was no need for me to go out that late.’ Yet when Mary Ann smile, there was a falseness to it. As if the stage light of the theater were upon her. ‘Yet you bought me these charming flowers, so I shall take them from you and thank you. I will take them to the kitchen and drop them into the sink for now. We can’t have them dying because of our selfishness. I won’t be a minute.’

  Mary Ann was not the imagined victim. Walking like a gazelle, long, slender footsteps, treading surely, but conscious of herself.

  ‘Would you like some coffee?’ called out Mary Ann from the kitchen. ‘I have caffeinated or decaffeinated. I drink caffeinated in the morning and then in the evening, it has to be decaf.’

  ‘I’ll have whatever you’re having,’ called out Cecelia now looking about her. Being in a strange place was always disorientating.

  ‘What was that you said?’ asked Mary Ann appearing from behind the door. Like a cheetah in the dark, she moved without sound.

  ‘Whatever you’re having. I’m easy to please.’ Startled, yet still retaining her composure, Cecelia’s heart rattled quicker.

  ‘What a gracious guest you are. Now, this is why I prefer women to men. They have much more style, more class. I won’t be a minute. Cream, sugar?’

  ‘Yes, two sugars please.’

  ‘And yet you are so slight just like me, but I’m afraid I have to work at it. Gym five times a week. Well, I used to go down to the gym but now I work out here. I’ll just make the coffee. I have cookies, would you like some? I make them myself—but not for me. You are the first person I have seen for quite a time. Have you heard of Shakespeare?’ Mary Ann was again by the door and cocking her head to one side with her startling blue eyes, she was going to look after her house guest.

  ‘Yes, I have heard of Shakespeare…’

  ‘The Bard,’ broke in Mary Ann to disappear into the hallway. ‘I trained as a Shakespearian actress. I played Ophelia once in London, England. I was said to be the best.’

  The victim was an actress, it made sense why she came back to Los Angeles. It might be a little unkind, Cecelia mused eyes touching on indulgent ornaments, a shepherdess, crook in hand, it could be Mary Ann in a china dress. A stage victim-act which would explain why Mary Ann wanted attention. The tick of nothing played on.

  Less than a minute, Mary Ann returned with a tray of coffee and cookies, fresh with happiness and doing her very best to be pleasing. The cups and saucers were bright as if Mary Ann spent her time in the kitchen buffing up the crockery.

  ‘None for me, thanks.’ Cecelia shook her head.

  ‘Hmm,’ pursed Mary Ann with more than a shadow of disapproval before putting the plate back on the table quietly like a threat. ‘Now you want to talk about the rape.’

  ‘Yes, mam, I do.’ Cecelia held on to her cup and saucer in dutiful respect.

  ‘Now let me ask you,’ Mary Ann leaned forward as if to extract as much meaning as she could from this little interchange. ‘Is this the sort of thing you would say to another female, calling her mam, or did you say it believing this would please me? Because you have whether you consciously knew it or not. I studied playwriting. I am proposing to put my life into a stage play.’ She held her chin up. ‘But what can I write about? Nothing has happened to me. Nothing which doesn’t happen to anyone except this, the rape, but at least it’s something to write about. Does that sound vain?’ She pulled her skirt over her knees conscious of their slenderness.

  ‘No,’ nodded Cecelia.

  ‘Well, what were you go
ing to ask me? Oh, before you start, would you mind if I get my little recorder? I like to capture as much as I can about my life. I’m afraid my life has been quite dull until now. I won’t be a minute.’

  Usually, the procedure happens the other way around with Cecelia taping their conversation, she had her recorder with her. But to have two recorders going at the same time seemed a little bizarre. Besides, she was in the victim’s house.

  In the background, the tick of life came from an ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. Under the glass dome, the gilt brass still shone. A pretty timekeeper, but not an original. And not to Cecelia’s taste. Looking about this neat house, Cecelia nodded that she had done well for herself. Nice house, nice furniture although a little too fancy. Studied in England was an accomplishment. Yet, there were no pictures of Mary Ann on the stage. Not a vain actress… But this room, this house so unhealthily clean something which could never be said of Cecelia. Life for her took priority above cleaning. Not lazy, no, just different values and a unique way of cataloging her possessions. She would leave them where she put them down. But she was getting better. But to clean the house every day, why? There was something on the mantel. A small trophy with an inscription. Snooping over to the mantlepiece, Cecelia’s journalistic nose leaned closer to read the inscription.

  To Mary Ann Leigh 2010, best Newcomer to Acting in her theater role, The Little Girl of Texas.

  ‘Do you want to drink your coffee before we start?’ Mary Ann returned carrying her tape recorder.