He Will be My Ruin
Page 5
But no phone.
I know she didn’t have it on her when she died. The funeral home arranged for all personal effects to be shipped along with the body when it was transported to San Diego. All that came were a pair of earrings and a watch.
Did it go missing somewhere along the way? Would someone be sick enough to steal a phone off a corpse? The last I remember, Celine raved about how great the camera was on her iPhone. I guess someone could make some money off of it. But her earrings were diamond, her watch a Michael Kors. Why steal a phone and not the jewelry? Missing earrings are less likely to be noticed than a cell phone . . .
I dial Celine’s number with shaky fingers for the first time since her death. My throat tightens at the sound of her smooth, sultry recorded voice on the other side, telling me that she’s not available. Her voicemail picked up immediately, so the battery must have died.
I hit redial and listen to Celine’s voice four more times before forcing myself to move on.
Grabbing a sheet of paper and a pen from her desk, I begin my list of things I need to do tomorrow. The first one: ask the police about Celine’s phone.
I run my thumb over the touch screen of my phone. It’s both a godsend and a curse. I bring it along with me everywhere, even on those sweltering hot days when I’m elbow-deep in dirt and reception is spotty.
People’s entire lives can be uncovered in phones.
Maybe someone took Celine’s phone and it had nothing to do with making some easy cash. Maybe there was something on there that someone didn’t want uncovered.
Or maybe I’m just tired and delirious.
I toss the pen aside and pick up the dried yellow rose that I found in the main compartment of the lockbox. Celine certainly couldn’t have held on to it to preserve its beauty, I note, rubbing the shriveled brown-tinged petals between my fingers. There’s still a hint of moisture in the base of the flower. It can’t be that old.
I inspect each item pulled out of the box more closely now. Ticket stubs to a Broadway show of Romeo and Juliet—Celine’s favorite—from years ago. I remember her seeing this with “the love of her life” Bruce. The jackass who broke up with her one day with an “it’s not you, it’s me” excuse. A few weeks later she found out that the “it’s me” part involved a redhead from her History class, which sent her into an emotional spiral.
It was the one and only time she has ever accepted a luxurious gift from me, in the form of an all-expenses-paid trip to Jamaica for the two of us. The only reason she agreed was because she was wallowing so deeply in misery that she couldn’t think straight. Plus, it was already booked and nonrefundable.
I flick the ticket stub away with disdain, wondering why she’d keep it. That was Celine, though, ever the sentimentalist; even when the good memories were weighed down by the ugly aftereffects, she wanted to keep the evidence. A true glutton for punishment.
I find several tickets to memorable auctions, too. Attending the high-profile sales—witnessing the rich wave their money away with a paddle, one lucky winner walking off with a valuable piece of history—was like attending a gold medal game at the Olympics for Celine. Sometimes she’d call me afterward. It’d usually be the middle of the night on my side of the world, and I’d simply listen to her giddy voice, imagine her flushed cheeks, and I’d smile.
I find another card, from a Manhattan area florist, with a woman’s handwriting in blue ink.
I still care very much about you. ~ J
If that doesn’t smell of romance . . . and perhaps heartbreak . . .
On impulse, I turn my phone back on and punch in the number on the back of the card. A woman answers after the third ring.
“Hi, you delivered flowers to me recently and I wanted to thank the sender but I’m not entirely sure who they’re from.”
“Oh, well that’s a little awkward, isn’t it?” The soft-spoken woman chuckles. “Bear with me for a moment while I restart the computer. I was just about to leave for the day. Had the lights off and everything.”
“I’m sorry.” If I were a more patient person, I would offer to call back tomorrow.
“That’s quite all right. We’re always happy to help our customers.” She hums softly. “We just opened two months ago and I’m still getting used to this system. So . . . what day did you say they arrived?”
“That’s the thing. I’m not exactly sure.”
“Oh?” There’s a hint of suspicion in her voice now, where there was only willingness before.
I quickly jump in with “I was away on vacation for several weeks and I came home to find them on my doorstep. If you’ll just check for delivery to . . .” I recite Celine’s address.
“And what is your name again?”
“Celine Gonzalez.”
“Well, it says here that you signed for them.”
I bite my bottom lip. “My neighbor must have signed for me. She was looking after my place while I was gone.”
“And she left them on your doorstep?” I grit my teeth with the long pause. “I’ll have to speak with the owner before I share any more information. We have privacy laws that we need to adhere to.”
I heave a sigh. “Look, Celine was actually my best friend. She passed away recently. I’d like to contact the person who sent these flowers to her and make sure they know what happened.”
There’s another long pause. “I’m sorry to hear that. Can I call you back tomorrow?”
“Sure.” I give her my number, doubting that I’ll hear from her again unless I go down there in person and bully the owner into giving me answers.
But I have learned one thing. Someone sent flowers to Celine within the last two months. Maybe it was the guy in the picture and maybe the rose in my hand was one of them, which would mean he was someone important to her, and she was someone important to him. And it sounds like maybe he screwed up.
I curl up with a blanket on the couch, listening to the soothing chorus of tick-tick-ticks from the shelf of clocks above, inhaling a hint of Celine’s lavender perfume on the cushion as my exhausted and naturally suspicious mind spins.
A missing cell phone.
Flowers from a guy she never told me about.
A stack of money.
A picture of a naked man hidden away in her lockbox, with dramatic proclamations scrawled across the back.
I know she didn’t have it on her when she died. The funeral home arranged for all personal effects to be shipped along with the body when it was transported to San Diego. All that came were a pair of earrings and a watch.
Did it go missing somewhere along the way? Would someone be sick enough to steal a phone off a corpse? The last I remember, Celine raved about how great the camera was on her iPhone. I guess someone could make some money off of it. But her earrings were diamond, her watch a Michael Kors. Why steal a phone and not the jewelry? Missing earrings are less likely to be noticed than a cell phone . . .
I dial Celine’s number with shaky fingers for the first time since her death. My throat tightens at the sound of her smooth, sultry recorded voice on the other side, telling me that she’s not available. Her voicemail picked up immediately, so the battery must have died.
I hit redial and listen to Celine’s voice four more times before forcing myself to move on.
Grabbing a sheet of paper and a pen from her desk, I begin my list of things I need to do tomorrow. The first one: ask the police about Celine’s phone.
I run my thumb over the touch screen of my phone. It’s both a godsend and a curse. I bring it along with me everywhere, even on those sweltering hot days when I’m elbow-deep in dirt and reception is spotty.
People’s entire lives can be uncovered in phones.
Maybe someone took Celine’s phone and it had nothing to do with making some easy cash. Maybe there was something on there that someone didn’t want uncovered.
Or maybe I’m just tired and delirious.
I toss the pen aside and pick up the dried yellow rose that I found in the main compartment of the lockbox. Celine certainly couldn’t have held on to it to preserve its beauty, I note, rubbing the shriveled brown-tinged petals between my fingers. There’s still a hint of moisture in the base of the flower. It can’t be that old.
I inspect each item pulled out of the box more closely now. Ticket stubs to a Broadway show of Romeo and Juliet—Celine’s favorite—from years ago. I remember her seeing this with “the love of her life” Bruce. The jackass who broke up with her one day with an “it’s not you, it’s me” excuse. A few weeks later she found out that the “it’s me” part involved a redhead from her History class, which sent her into an emotional spiral.
It was the one and only time she has ever accepted a luxurious gift from me, in the form of an all-expenses-paid trip to Jamaica for the two of us. The only reason she agreed was because she was wallowing so deeply in misery that she couldn’t think straight. Plus, it was already booked and nonrefundable.
I flick the ticket stub away with disdain, wondering why she’d keep it. That was Celine, though, ever the sentimentalist; even when the good memories were weighed down by the ugly aftereffects, she wanted to keep the evidence. A true glutton for punishment.
I find several tickets to memorable auctions, too. Attending the high-profile sales—witnessing the rich wave their money away with a paddle, one lucky winner walking off with a valuable piece of history—was like attending a gold medal game at the Olympics for Celine. Sometimes she’d call me afterward. It’d usually be the middle of the night on my side of the world, and I’d simply listen to her giddy voice, imagine her flushed cheeks, and I’d smile.
I find another card, from a Manhattan area florist, with a woman’s handwriting in blue ink.
I still care very much about you. ~ J
If that doesn’t smell of romance . . . and perhaps heartbreak . . .
On impulse, I turn my phone back on and punch in the number on the back of the card. A woman answers after the third ring.
“Hi, you delivered flowers to me recently and I wanted to thank the sender but I’m not entirely sure who they’re from.”
“Oh, well that’s a little awkward, isn’t it?” The soft-spoken woman chuckles. “Bear with me for a moment while I restart the computer. I was just about to leave for the day. Had the lights off and everything.”
“I’m sorry.” If I were a more patient person, I would offer to call back tomorrow.
“That’s quite all right. We’re always happy to help our customers.” She hums softly. “We just opened two months ago and I’m still getting used to this system. So . . . what day did you say they arrived?”
“That’s the thing. I’m not exactly sure.”
“Oh?” There’s a hint of suspicion in her voice now, where there was only willingness before.
I quickly jump in with “I was away on vacation for several weeks and I came home to find them on my doorstep. If you’ll just check for delivery to . . .” I recite Celine’s address.
“And what is your name again?”
“Celine Gonzalez.”
“Well, it says here that you signed for them.”
I bite my bottom lip. “My neighbor must have signed for me. She was looking after my place while I was gone.”
“And she left them on your doorstep?” I grit my teeth with the long pause. “I’ll have to speak with the owner before I share any more information. We have privacy laws that we need to adhere to.”
I heave a sigh. “Look, Celine was actually my best friend. She passed away recently. I’d like to contact the person who sent these flowers to her and make sure they know what happened.”
There’s another long pause. “I’m sorry to hear that. Can I call you back tomorrow?”
“Sure.” I give her my number, doubting that I’ll hear from her again unless I go down there in person and bully the owner into giving me answers.
But I have learned one thing. Someone sent flowers to Celine within the last two months. Maybe it was the guy in the picture and maybe the rose in my hand was one of them, which would mean he was someone important to her, and she was someone important to him. And it sounds like maybe he screwed up.
I curl up with a blanket on the couch, listening to the soothing chorus of tick-tick-ticks from the shelf of clocks above, inhaling a hint of Celine’s lavender perfume on the cushion as my exhausted and naturally suspicious mind spins.
A missing cell phone.
Flowers from a guy she never told me about.
A stack of money.
A picture of a naked man hidden away in her lockbox, with dramatic proclamations scrawled across the back.
