D. Gilles - Colder Than Death

“All she did was cry the first couple of days in the hospital. She was convinced that she would spend the rest of her life looking like a hideous female Frankenstein monster.”

“Did you hang together?” I asked.

“Not in the conventional sense,” she said. “We didn’t start going to bars or shopping together or cruising around looking for guys, if that’s what you mean. We were different people who never would’ve met if it hadn’t been for the simple fact that we were assigned to the same hospital room. Brandy lived only to have fun and I didn’t know what the word meant. I was…serious. And rigid. And very boring. But meeting each other under the circumstances that we did had a profound effect on both of us. You see, Del, because of her facial scar, Brandy had to readjust her lifestyle.”

“Which until then consisted of going out and raising hell,” said Quilla.

“But she had resigned herself to staying in until the scar healed,” said Gretchen. “I stayed in all the time, afraid of my own shadow. So we spent time together. Talking. Mainly, talking. She was everything I wasn’t. Sexy. Vibrant. Cool. Full of life. And I was everything she wasn’t. Bookish. Contemplative. Overly analytical. Brandy was fearless. I was petrified of the world. I don’t know how much you know about me, Del, but when I was a child my father was accused of murdering my mother.”

I said nothing to indicate that I knew. My only reaction was to shake my head slowly back and forth, the expression on my face one of compassion.

“The world I lived in not only accused my father of something horrible,” Gretchen continued. “But it put him into a mental institution for twelve of the most formative years of my life. The world was a dangerous place to me. Ironically, Brandy made me realize that it wasn’t. On paper, I was supposedly smarter than Brandy. I had the straight A’s and I won the full scholarship. She barely made it through high school and she was working as a waitress. But she understood the value of being alive. She couldn’t wait to start living. She wanted to travel the world. Her problem was that she was unfocused. She had a narrow view of life’s possibilities. She was street smart. Had a tremendous personality. But, as I said, undirected. She had no game plan. But she knew that she wanted to experience life to the hilt.”

Gretchen looked at the floor for several seconds. When she looked back at me she was crying.

“Brandy and I lost touch when I went back to college,” said Gretchen. “We e-mailed each other a few times, then she stopped responding. I called her a bunch of times and left messages, but she never called back. When I came home for Christmas I went to her apartment, but it had been rented to someone else. I tried to find her, but she was gone. I assumed she had begun to travel that world she wanted to see so badly.”

“How did you happen to dedicate the book to her?”

“You know quite a lot, don’t you,” she said, shaking her head. I wasn’t sure if it irritated or impressed her. “I began writing Young Adult novels as therapy for myself. All my stories were about teenage girls in crisis. In my own case it was with issues of loss. I was also fat when I was a kid. And having a father in an institution didn’t help my image with the kids at school. And when I wrote The Cheerleader Wore Black it really was Brandy’s story, so it seemed natural that I dedicate it to her. I always had this wild notion that one day she would pick up the book and see her name and get in touch.” She looked with great affection at Quilla. “Instead, this wonderful child called me.”

They smiled at each other. The affection and respect they shared was enviable and touching.

“Can you think of any other information about Brandy that could be of help?”

Gretchen shook her head. “I don’t think so. The ironic thing is…was…I didn’t even know that she’d been considered a runaway.”

“Nobody did,” said Quilla. “Nobody gave a damn. And if Perry Cobb wasn’t such a boob he would’ve talked to you as soon as Aunt Brandy’s body was identified.”

“In fairness to Perry,” I said. “How could he have known that your Aunt and Gretchen knew each other?”

“You’re not defending him, are you?” said Quilla indignantly.

“No, but think about this: you only found out about their friendship by accident when you stumbled on the book dedication. So how could Perry have known?”

Quilla smirked as if to say, “If you say so.”

“What I don’t understand,” said Gretchen. “Is how Brandy being found and my mother’s disappearance became connected?”

“It started with Perry Cobb’s observation of your visit to the Funeral Home. It linked you with your father. He was in your car.”

“What does my father have to do with any of this?” asked Gretchen sharply. She glanced at Quilla.

“When Perry saw him he became a suspect.”

“Of what?”

“Of killing Brandy,” said Quilla gently.

Gretchen rolled her eyes and looked at Quilla. “When Brandy disappeared my father was working nights as a hotel clerk in downtown Youngstown. He didn’t have a car or a driver’s license. It expired while he was away and when he came out he was afraid to learn to drive again. He was afraid of almost everything and everyone and…this is so stupid. Let’s get something straight. My father did not have anything to do with the disappearance of my mother. I know all about the rumors and theories, but I know all the facts too. If Perry Cobb plans on dredging up the old nonsense about my Dad killing my Mom I’m going to… ”

“He probably will, but if your father was working in Youngstown nine years ago and unable to drive, I’d say that pretty much rules him out.” I leaned forward and touched her left hand. “I know this has to be enormously unsettling for you.” I spoke softly, utilizing my best skills as a salesman, which, in the end, is what all Funeral Directors are.

“To say the least,” she snapped. “Is there anything else? You said this was one of the things you wanted to talk to me about. What’s the other thing?”

I paused for a few seconds. I would have to be extremely delicate. “Quilla and I had a conversation today. We may have stumbled onto a pattern that might not only help find Brandy’s killer, but could give some answers to what happened to your mother… ”

“My mother?”

“And even more incredibly,” said Quilla. “There’s someone in Del’s past who might’ve met the same fate as aunt Brandy and your mom.”

“What?” Nervously, Gretchen looked back and forth at Quilla and myself.

“We think,” I said. “That the person who killed Brandy had something to do with your mother’s disappearance.”

Gretchen tightened up. Her voice cracked. “Brandy disappeared something like twelve or thirteen years after my mother.”

“Fifteen,” blurted Quilla.

“Quilla got me to thinking about a girlfriend of mine who went away fifteen years ago.”

“Went away?” barked Gretchen. “I hardly think that someone who went away is comparable to someone who vanished off the face of the earth like Brandy or my mother!”

I explained the nature of my relationship with Alyssa, how she broke up with me and the letter and postcard.

“She sounds like someone who was sensitive enough to your feelings to drop you a note saying good-bye. Trust me on this: when someone vanishes they don’t send you a postcard. What does your girlfriend have to do with my mother and Brandy?”

“We may be completely off base,” I said. “And I want to emphasize that this is a theory about what possibly could be a pattern of… murder.” The word hung in the air for about ten seconds before I continued. “We think it’s possible that twenty-four years ago someone murdered your mother, fifteen years ago the same person murdered my girlfriend and nine years ago the same guy murdered Brandy.”