Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [90]
I stifled a sigh, thanked her, and didn’t voice the opinion that she had been little more than catatonic. After hanging up, I immediately began Googling Ioan Banica.
By the time Emily arrived on Monday morning, I had gathered an arsenal of knowledge. But my smugness dehydrated a little when I saw her eyes. They looked sharp-edged and jaded beyond her years. But her motions were as prim and cautious as usual.
We spared less than two minutes on salutations. Emily wasn’t a small talk kind of girl.
“I was wondering if you had a chance to speak to your parents about accompanying you here,” I said.
She pursed her lips and adjusted a fold in her skirt. “I’m afraid it’s a busy time for them. Mother is on tour, and Dad’s picked up a second shift.”
“Oh, where is your mom now?”
“Helsinki, I believe.”
“Really? Because I thought I heard she was performing in New York,” I said, and watched her like a hawk on a field mouse, but her expression didn’t even flicker.
“Did you find that on the Internet?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “Misinformation. It’s becoming increasingly problematic.”
“It was on the quartet’s official website.”
“I’ll have to inform Mother of the error.”
Her prim certainty made me falter for a second, but I regrouped. “I saw a picture of your mother.”
If she was increasingly tense, I couldn’t tell. But then, one could say the same thing about pressed steel. “Some people think I look like her. But I don’t see it.”
“Romanian, isn’t she?”
“Yes. Born in Craiova. They have a very strong work ethic there.”
I nodded. “She’s quite beautiful.”
“I’ll tell her you said so.”
“I tried to call her.”
“I told you she wasn’t home much.”
“There was no answer.”
“She won’t have a cell phone. Thinks they’re invasive to the creative …”
“So I went to your house.”
I literally watched her face pale. Heard her catch her breath. Felt the tension tighten. “What?” Her voice was small, as if she were very young.
I let the seconds tick away, not because of any sort of ploy, but because for a moment I couldn’t bear to shatter the scenario she had so carefully crafted. But there was no skirting the issue. Not if there was any hope for her.
“Lots of people are ashamed of their families, Emily.”
It took her an instant to respond, but finally she breathed a laugh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not ashamed of my family. My parents may be strict, but only because they want what’s best for me.”
I ignored her lies. “My mother wouldn’t allow me to shave my legs until I was fifteen.”
“They insist that I make something of my life.”
“I was as hairy as a gorilla at my freshman dance.”
“When Mother was my age, she had already played for Gorbachev.”
“Dad told my first boyfriend he’d cut off his wiener if he touched my tits. Those are the exact words he used. In front of me. I thought I was going to die.”
“Dad’s ancestors were slaves. It’s documented. Some plantation in West Virginia. I believe that’s why he’s so determined to see his progeny succeed. Were you aware that slaves were forced to marry against their will so that the owner would have new blood?”
“I was fifty pounds overweight. With acne. I played the tuba, which I could barely fit into. My father called me Pork Chop. I’m not sure—”
“Pork Chop!” She was on her feet suddenly, fists clenched, face florid. “And you’re angry? Because of some pet name your father called you? My father gave me this!” Ripping the binder from her ponytail, she turned, clawing at her scalp. Against her dark hair I could see a jagged scar. “He dropped me … when I was six months old. Dropped me down the stairs! It might have been an accident. But we’ll never know. He was killed in San Quentin three years ago. They think it was a drug deal gone …”
Her voice paled to nothing. She was breathing hard.
“Your mother’s an alcoholic.” I dropped the words softly into the quiet.
She pursed her lips and glanced toward the window.
“You’re working two jobs to pay the rent,” I added.
“My mother is performing in Helsinki,” she said, but a tear had