FAREWELL PERFORMANCE

Donna Huston Murray

Available worldwide

 

 

Chapter 1

 

I awoke with the terrifying sensation of floating above ground.

     I knew I was alive, because my heart was beating like a jackhammer, so that was good.

     Maybe I was just crazy.

     Crazy I could live with.

     I arrived at that reassuring point just as the woman on the bottom bunk emitted a window-

rattling snore, and everything came into focus.

     Jan Fairchild, Ludwig, Pennsylvania’s one and only cinema success, had come back east to film a going-home movie. To celebrate our famous classmate’s return, last night my best friend, Didi, hosted an old-fashioned pajama party. Seven of our closest high school girlfriends fattened up on chips, onion dip, and pizza, imbibed previously forbidden beverages, danced barefoot to oldies, and reminisced. Sprawled all over Didi’s house, we were presently sleeping it off—exactly like the teenagers we once were.

     Corky, an overachieving mother of two, didn’t miss a snore when I climbed down the ladder. Nor did she twitch as I blindly rummaged through my duffel for jeans and my favorite sweatshirt, the one that says, “whatever…” in lower case letters. It seemed especially appropriate this morning.

     Why? you may ask.

     Because sometime during the wee hours, one of us wanted to play that universally ill-advised game Truth or Dare. As if the obvious perils weren’t enough, a couple of former kittens chose to exhibit their very grownup claws.

     In other words, the game turned out just like you might expect.

     Didi never lost her smile. Naturally. Upbeat has always been my BFF’s default. She was determined to remain the good hostess no matter what was said.

     It was Jan Fairchild’s reaction to the verbal darts that worried me. In my experience, artistic types are especially vulnerable to criticism. Also easily bruised by it.

     After splashing my face with cold water, I wandered down to the kitchen. A peek out the window revealed a pale gray October sky that might or might not ease into blue. It was Columbus Day, and I promised to be home ASAP to let my husband, who heads a small private school, prepare for a board meeting. Our kids are old enough to leave alone, but they still need food, transportation, and sometimes a referee. Still, a few more hours catching up with my old girlfriends seemed a fair way to divide the day.

     Engrossed in yesterday’s real estate section, Ti, our only emissary to the corporate world, sat at Didi’s glass-and-iron dining table tapping her coffee mug with a crimson fingernail. Looking up, she grunted something I took to be “Good morning.” She appeared just as overworked and worn as when she arrived, but maybe that was normal for an investment banker.

     Stationed behind her kitchen island, Didi was humming either “Edelweiss” or the theme from Doctor Zhivago, I couldn’t tell which. In keeping with the weekend’s nostalgic theme, she’d forsaken her usual French twist to scrunch her long blonde hair into a ponytail. It was the style she’d worn in high school, but I was probably the only one who appreciated that detail. We exchanged smiles. Then I poured myself orange juice, selected an almond pastry, and sat down.

      “What will you do today?” I asked Ti just to break the silence. Last night’s festivities had barely dusted off the yearbook.

      “Back to D.C.,” Ti responded without losing her spot in the newspaper. “I’m just waiting for Jan.'

     A  minute later, Laura stumbled in looking swollen and surly. Still in her green sateen pajamas, a clump of dirty blonde hair covered half of one eye.

     “Ah, coffee,” she croaked. “Black.” After a steaming mug reached her hand, she muttered,             “Morning,” to the rest of us and slumped onto a seat.

     For contrast, Ann bounced out of the hallway fresh-faced and chipper. Dressed as if she’d already relocated to the mountains (her family’s goal), she wore broken-in jeans with a buffalo-plaid shirt and hiking boots.

     She addressed Laura. “Sorry if I kept you out of the bathroom. Didn’t realize you were awake.”

     Laura tilted her head, then plodded off with her mug of black coffee.

     “Is Jan up yet?” Ann inquired. “I’ve got to get home.” A school bus driver with four boys of her own, days off probably meant housework.

     “I haven’t heard her,” Didi remarked with a glance toward me.

     “You want me to wake her?”

     “Soon,” Didi confirmed with a nod. Since she was staying in town, Jan could always go back to bed after everyone left.

     A half hour later our famous friend had not yet appeared. In silence, we listened to Corky humming in the nearby shower. Impatient to get back to her children, Ann fidgeted. Ti glanced at her watch for the umpteenth time, and I decided I needed a manicure.

     Didi finally widened her eyes at me and jerked her chin toward the hall.

     I excused myself and slipped out of the room.

     A delicate tap on Jan’s closed door netted me nothing.

     “Jan,” I whispered, softly, then louder. “Hey, Jan. It’s Ginger Barnes. You awake?”

     I folded my arms and huffed. Add jet lag to the night we’d just had, and sleeping later than the rest of us was understandable.

     Still, waking up to say goodbye to her high school buddies wouldn’t take long, so I felt certain   Jan would want to do it. At the very least it was good PR, not to mention good manners.

     I knocked louder and called her name in a normal voice. “Jan, may I come in?”

     No response.

     I banged the door with my fist and shouted. “Jan! Jan, can you hear me?”

     Silence.

     Perspiration suddenly chilled my skin. I procrastinated for one fortifying breath, then turned the doorknob and let myself into the room.

     A stuffy, soiled-linen smell greeted me. Drapes on all but the hexagonal window over the bed bathed the area in a false twilight.

     Jan was nowhere in sight, but she had to be here—somewhere.

     Now that my eyes were adjusted, I noticed the bedcovers shifted off to the left. I inched across the room to see why.

     Jan lay face down on the floor. No motion disturbed the folds on her nightshirt, but she would not be breathing.

     Not with her mouth and nose pressed into a pillow.

     Not with blood matting the hair on the back of her head.

     The world seemed to wobble, and I was huffing like a runner who’d just finished a 5K.            Grappling for control, I fixated on a crooked lampshade.

     “Do the right thing,” my subconscious lectured. “Do the right thing, or you could be accused of murder. Rip, the school, the kids. It could all go sour.” Not that long ago it almost had.

     “Okay,” I agreed, as if reason had spoken. “Okay! Don’t touch anything you don’t have to.”       One quick look around, and I’d be out of there.

     But first make sure …

     I crouched down alongside Jan and fingered her neck for an artery. Her skin remained warm, but it was nowhere near ninety-eight point six.

      As expected, no pulse, yet it was the stiffness of Jan’s skin that prompted a shudder. The vibrant, magnificently talented Jan Fairchild was no more.

     I took a deep breath and considered what to do next. Upon arrival, outside forces automatically blanket everyone in the house with distrust. Me especially, perhaps, since I’ve been exposed to violent crime before. Coincidence happens, but—understandably—the pros won’t like the odds. Knowing this, I would be well advised to avoid even the slightest of mistakes.

     Not protecting myself with the information right in front of me fell under the mistake umbrella.

     Wiping my tears with the cuff of my sweatshirt, I braced for a repulsive experience, touching the back of Jan’s head where the blood had dried.

     Bile instantly soured my mouth. Beneath her cool flesh her skull had given way like a broken bowl. I had to drop both hands to the floor to steady myself.

     Gulping in air, this time I used my shoulder to wipe my cheek and mouth.

     Glancing around for an abandoned weapon, I noted a few pebbles on the floor across from the end of the bed. Meaningless maybe, but maybe not. They were too little to have harmed Jan in any way.

     My crouched position put my chest level with the bed’s dust ruffle. I lifted the fabric with my clean hand and peeked underneath.

     Lying in the dust was a red tube about half an inch in diameter and four inches long. A two-inch needle protruded from one end, making whatever it was look like a firecracker complete with its fuse. I knew better than to touch it.

     Looking upward, a small dash of brown on the sharp corner of the adjacent night table made Jan’s last moments clearer.

     Something—someone—had hit her on the back of her head at an angle that caused her to twist sideways and fall to the floor along with the bedclothes. Her injured head hit the corner of the night table on the way down. The pillow finished her off, either by itself or with help.

     Murder. There was no escaping the conclusion.

     I thought of the women waiting for Jan to emerge, and I thought of the simmering rancor of the night before.

     Tread carefully, my subconscious warned. I smoothed down my clothes and hurried from the room.

     After a quick stop in Didi’s steamy bathroom to wash my face and hands, I rejoined the others, settled now in the living room.

     Everyone swiveled to look my way. No one appeared especially anxious or alarmed. To be fair, I’d only been gone five or six minutes.

     “She getting up?” Laura inquired.

     “No.”

     “She blowing us off or what?”

     I allowed Ann’s chuckle to die away before I spoke again. 

     “Jan’s dead,” I related with a catch in my voice. “We need to call the police.”

 

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