“Yes, I am.” Becca looked disconcerted as Jo pushed back her chair, the metal grating over the concrete. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes. Please call me when you’re prepared to enter the house again. And when you’re prepared to be honest with me about what happened there.” Jo extended her hand, and after a moment Becca accepted it. Jo shook her hand twice, firmly, and turned to go. The Broadway Market Video was a few blocks away. She would rent the Shrek films on her way home.
“Joanne? Jo?”
There was a pleading note in Becca’s voice, and she turned back reluctantly. Becca came to her, and studied her so closely Jo wished for her sunglasses.
“My name isn’t Hawkins,” Becca said finally. “It’s Healy. I’m the daughter of Scott and Madelyn Healy.”
Jo waited. Becca seemed to want to say more. She struggled for words and then lifted her hand helplessly.
“You’re the scientist.” Becca walked away. “Google us.”
Chapter Three
Becca phoned Joanne Call three nights later. She could tell Jo wasn’t crazy about the proposed location of their meeting, but she agreed to join her at the Wildrose. She could tell she was even less crazed about seeing Marty and Khadijah waiting at their table.
“Becca, I’m not particularly interested in a coffee klatch tonight.”
“I know. I should have told you.” Becca wanted to touch Jo’s arm, but didn’t. She realized she was subjecting her to considerable discomfort, and she didn’t do so lightly. “I just need to have my friends with me if we have to talk about this.”
At least the Rose was dark enough that Jo couldn’t wear her damned mirrored shades, and her eyes reflected her internal struggle. She finally nodded brusquely and allowed Becca to lead her to the long table in the back.
The Rose was Capitol Hill’s iconic lesbian bar, but business had yet to kick up for the night. It had been two years or more since Becca had been here, and the place seemed smaller every time she saw it. The wood plank floors were still scuffed and uneven, the ceiling still strung with limp strings of electric stars. But shabby nostalgia aside, to Becca the Rose was well-loved faces and laughter — good times here with friends, over many years.
Becca had tipped the barkeep to let her slide a couple of tables together for her small group, to allow Jo as much physical space as possible. She saved a spindly chair with its back to the wall for her, allowing her to survey the blood-red walls of the room.
“Hello. We’re the chicks you didn’t meet the other night.” Unsmiling, Marty extended her hand across the table, and Jo shook it briefly.
Becca threw Marty a chiding look. “Marty Coleman, Khadijah Berry, this is Joanne Call. I’ve known these strange girls since middle school.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” Khadijah’s smile was warm. The many bracelets encircling her wrist clicked pleasantly as she clasped Jo’s fingers. “Thanks for trying to help our friend.”
Jo seemed as uncomfortable with Khadijah’s friendliness as Marty’s hostility. “I haven’t helped her much, yet.”
“Through no fault of your own. Sit, sit.” Becca knew her voice was overly bright. She needed food, now. She may not have slept much the last few nights, she might be distracted and irritable, but her appetite, as always, sailed along full titty to the wind. She waved down a server with multiple lip rings.
“I’ll have your four cheese hero.” Becca pointed to Marty and Khadijah. “They’ll have the turkey rueben and the pasta asiago. Oh, and a side of your roasted potato wedges, please. And a hummus plate.” She turned to Jo, who was staring at her. “How about you?”
“Tea. Earl Grey. I ate earlier.”
Becca hoped Jo would survive this unwelcome socializing without bursting into flame. She also hoped Marty would be able to contain her natural pitbullish protectiveness and stop glaring at the poor woman. Khadijah’s fingers brushed lightly over Marty’s wrist, attuned as always to her partner’s bristling energy. Even through her daze, Becca noted the effortless, nurturing connection between them, and for the hundredth time she blessed and envied them for it.
Jo would be miserable with small talk, so she girded her loins and began. “So. Do you know the truth about my parents?”
“I know what autopsy reports and the Seattle Times considered the truth in nineteen seventy-eight, yes.”
Becca blinked. “You sound skeptical.”
“Not necessarily.” Jo clasped her hands on the table. “All sources state clearly that your mother committed homicide as well as suicide. That she shot your father, and then herself, the night of your fifth birthday. But I’m keeping an open mind.”
“Okay.” Becca absorbed Jo’s bluntness. “I guess that’s good.”
“I’m considering two factors.” Jo’s shoulders were relaxing as she warmed to her topic. “If you’re right about your mother’s message, Becca, she could be denying the official verdict on her death. I happen to consider that a credible report. Interestingly, EVP speakers rarely lie when they make factual statements.”
“What’s your second factor?” Marty asked.
“The autopsy report. The police believe Madelyn Healy shot her husband in the chest, and then herself in the head. But it strikes me odd that the bullet entered her eye. That’s a highly unusual way for a woman to kill herself, all but unheard of. That also lends credence to the possibility that things didn’t happen as—ˮ
Becca stopped listening and went away in her mind. “Jo, you’ll want to understand this.” Khadijah’s voice was faint in Becca’s ears, but she sounded kind. “Becca’s in pretty rocky shape, emotionally. She has been, ever since she heard that voice last week. It would be best if we didn’t bring up real graphic images of her mom’s death.”
There was a pause. “But…it happened so long ago.” Jo sounded honestly puzzled, and Becca opened her eyes. “And surely, Becca, you’ve always known how she—ˮ
“Of course she knows.” Marty growled. She was turning a fork rapidly in her fingers. She caught a look from Khadijah and set it down. “She just doesn’t like to remember that shit. Jesus, who would?”
“That’s why we’re here, though.” Braced by her friends, Becca could play brave as the image of her mother’s dead face faded. “What else do you need to know, Jo?”
Jo stared at the table. After a moment she looked up. “All right. What about your phobia, Becca? I know you were ly — you weren’t very honest with me, about its origins.”
“But how do you know that?” Becca was intrigued in spite of herself. Or maybe she just wanted to delay talking about the doll. Jo was right. She had lied, but she was amazed Jo had caught her at it. She seemed an unlikely interpreter of the nuances of human interaction. “You just met me, Jo. How could you tell I was—ˮ
“Oh, girl, you suck at lying.” Khadijah shook a napkin onto her lap as their food arrived. “You’re terrible at it. Always have been.”
“The worst.” Marty spun the hummus plate on the table. “I tried to teach you to lie in the eighth grade, Bec, when guys started asking you out. You were hopeless.”
“Becca, I’m not prying into highly personal areas without good reason.” Jo frowned. “I know this is difficult for you. But if this phobia is connected to your parents’ deaths, it might shed some light on your mother’s message.”
“Okay. I get it.” Becca picked up her sandwich and dug in. The ensuing chewing took up thirty seconds, allowing time to whitewash her mind. She could only talk about this if she didn’t picture it. “The night it happened, my parents were arguing. Again. We were in the living room. My mother handed me a doll and went into the kitchen. My father went after her. There were two shots. I was still holding the doll when the police broke in.”