* * *
For the next week, I was busy with work, finishing two projects and starting research on another. Of course I thought about The Trunk et. al, and Liz and I discussed everything over and over, trying to piece things together. But I only had so much brain space, and I had to shuttle The Trunk problems off to the side to deal with my business and life in general. I didn’t really know what the next steps should be, or if there should be a next step. I needed to sort things out.
So I looked forward to my hair appointment with Roxanne Campbell. Besides doing miracles with my hair for thirty years, we’d had so many insightful conversations that I considered her one of my go-to gals for discussion of the human conundrum, with our revelations all jammed into an hour’s appointment. There must be something about sitting in a barber’s chair, the elevated confessional of the vain, that made that possible. Roxanne Campbell was also funny, quick, and wise, and didn’t mind that I colored my own hair out of a box.
She snipped away, Keith Jarrett’s jazz piano riffs on her iPod in the background, as I relaxed in the chair and continued my review.
“As far as I know, nobody else is tying any of this together, and my hypothesis is based on just a bunch of coincidences, I guess; and overheard conversations, someone’s fascination with secret places, and superheroes. And then there’s the list. Now, I think that it was hidden shows that something is going on and—” I stopped myself, remembering Carol dredging up the old argument about my imagination taking me off into my own story. Fine. I would focus on the facts.
“What I know is Betty learned from Hannah that the police investigation into Shannon’s death in Gilcrest was a matter of routine, and that nothing suspicious was found. Everything seemed to make sense, if that’s what you even can say after a suicide.”
Roxanne shook her head; she knew the litany. “Barry told others of a depressed, alcoholic Shannon, who was isolated from society, worried that she may be fired or go to jail for irregularities in her accounts. He said she drank all by herself at home so nobody would know. Had blackouts, not responsible for her actions. Right?” she asked in a tired voice.
“Right. But then, she’s seen at that huge party in Frederick, supposedly drunk. If she was the type to stay at home and drink alone, as a lot of women are, why would she change her pattern and be so comfortable wasted in public? Shannon was shy, and the shame of relapse makes you want to hide. So that doesn’t make sense. But the photos on Facebook showed her drunk, which matched the story Barry Correda told everyone. Their colleagues at Binder Enterprises collaborated his story, too. The two sides of it is driving me crazy.”
“What did the photos look like?” Roxanne asked. She turned the chair around and handed me a mirror to look at the finished cut in the back.
“I didn’t see them, just heard about them from Kelsy and Hannah. Well, Hannah didn’t see them either, but rather heard about them from someone else. And Kelsy looked on the page because yet someone else had told her about it. Jeez Louise, how quickly the damage spreads,” I said.
Roxanne gathered the cape from my shoulders before I stood up. “All Barry Correda’s receptionist wanted to talk about was what a wonderful guy he was,” I said. “And then he talked in that horrible way about Shannon with the other guy! What a jerk! Don’t you find that confusing? You know, when ‘everybody’ says someone is ‘wonderful’ and you think they’re a fraud. I try to make the two sides fit together and they don’t. Maybe all of this is none of my business—”
“You can only control what you do, Lily. You can’t control others. But you know that! I don’t have to remind you,” Roxanne said as she handed me my purse. We hugged good-bye, and I stepped outside into the mid-day heat.
My hair looked great, and I did need to be reminded. When I got home, there was time for a walk along the river, and I strolled deep into the dark green tunnel of cottonwoods that was as cool as a long ago remembered frosted mint julep, but without the guilt or destruction. Other people shared the wide path with me, walking their dogs, running, or zipping by on bikes. Fishermen were fly casting in the river, and above the sound of the water I could hear the clanks of freight cars being coupled in the yards behind me. At the footbridge, I cut over to the other side of the river, and left the town behind.