“Was it him?”
Aunt Trish and I reached for one another at the sound of Mrs. Andora’s voice, at the state of her in the doorway of the kitchen. She had always been thin, but on the morning of Denise’s funeral, she was skeletal. Her skin was gray and loose, and a dirty bra strap hung limply off her shoulder.
Aunt Trish arranged her expression into one of pure capability. “He won’t be calling here again.” She went over and tucked Mrs. Andora’s undergarments back into her clothing.
“Did you read it?” Mrs. Andora was looking at me over her sister-in-law’s shoulder with provoked animal eyes.
I nodded, petrified. Sheriff Cruso’s interview had been devastating.
“We think the killer planned the attack, picking Denise Andora as his first victim, and keeping her under his surveillance,” he’d told the reporter at the Tampa Bay Times. “The design of the sorority house on Seminole Street, where four of the five victims lived, allows an observer to learn which room a girl lives in. Each second-story room has a large window. Any person watching the girls enter the house at night could see the lights in the room come on a few seconds later.”
When asked why he thought Denise had been targeted, Sheriff Cruso had reportedly run a hand down his face. “I hate to make the Andora family feel bad,” he’d answered, “but Denise knew a lot of people. We think it was probably someone known to her, and the other girls were collateral damage.”
Denise knew a lot of people. The polite language was what gave the appearance of impropriety. Denise was gorgeous and got asked out a lot, and she knew how to enjoy sex, which was a quality I admire about her to this day. It was the dancing around the truth that made it seem like she had something to be ashamed of, that gave others license to blame, and you better believe they used it.
“Remember,” Aunt Trish said, patting Mrs. Andora’s bare upper arm, “we are setting the record straight today.”
“Can I help?” I asked.
Aunt Trish glanced at Mrs. Andora, who nodded. “There’s a reporter from the Tallahassee Democrat doing a piece about Denise,” began Aunt Trish. “We’ve invited him back to the house after the burial. He’s looking forward to speaking to you about Denise. Who she really was, from her best friend and the president of the smartest sorority on campus.”
I clasped my hands at my pelvis and said with regret, “I was told not to speak to the press.”
“Who told you that?” Aunt Trish laughed brashly. Whomever had said such a thing was sorely mistaken.
“An alumna. Her name is—”
“You’re the president. I thought you decided.”
“Certain things I can.”
“People are looking at us like it’s our fault, Pamela,” Mrs. Andora said in a pleading voice that didn’t sound right coming from her. Mrs. Andora was someone who lived life with élan. She was a prankster who seemed to have an inside joke with everyone she knew. I’ve always thought there was something quietly seditious about a funny woman, but he took her humor when he took Denise. “The Shepherds asked us not to attend Robbie’s funeral.” Mrs. Andora stared at the floor as she said this, and I remembered that public humiliation was still a judicially sanctioned practice in some countries.
“You saw the person.” Aunt Trish did not have to remind me. “You are the only one who can reliably say that he wasn’t anyone Denise knew.”
I bit down on the inside of my cheek, feeling torn in two.
“Put that in a nice bowl,” Aunt Trish said of the fruit salad, as though the issue had been settled, then huffed away, in search of more of my work to rectify. The old Mrs. Andora would have rolled her eyes, whispered a clever remark, shared a laugh with me. This Mrs. Andora gazed around her house like she hated every square inch of it.
“What would Denise make of all this?” she asked with an ugly sneer. I followed her eyeline. The flowers, the food, the rented plastic chairs we’d set out in the den for extra seating.
“She’d still be upstairs doing her hair and wouldn’t have seen any of it yet.” I was reassured when Mrs. Andora nodded, agreeing. I’d said the right thing, the thing that showed I knew Denise the way she knew Denise.
“Do you know I told everyone no lilacs, because Denise is allergic to lilacs?” Mrs. Andora laughed, squeezing and releasing her long, thin neck with one hand, over and over, like it was a second-by-second decision to allow herself to keep breathing. “In case she walks through the door, I don’t want her sneezing. That’s how much I still don’t believe it.”