Keeping Secrets in Seattle - By Brooke Moss Page 0,50
the cereal box I was holding, and an idea sprouted in my mind. “Wednesday. Getting back to what Shawn said about Alicia, want to help me do some research while I’m in Portland?”
Betsy cringed. “If I dislocate my knee again…”
“No. No dislocated joints, I promise. Just a road trip to Portland. I’ll go talk to Chloe for a while, and then we can scope out Alicia’s folks’ house or something.” My pulse sped up as the idea grew. “What are you guys doing on Wednesday?”
Betsy pointed across the living room to a stack of file folders. “I was going to work from home this week.”
Kim grimaced. “I’m supposed to give Lizzy a bikini wax.”
Betsy and I shuddered in unison.
“Can’t you get out of it? For the sake of a covert operation?” I reached over and squeezed Kim’s hand.
“Okay, fine. But you…” She grinned right at me. “Have to be my assistant when I reschedule Lizzy’s wax.”
“Ugh. Fine. Do you have gas in your car?” I asked Betsy.
“Um, yes, a little.”
“I’ll pay to fill it up. We’ll need to leave early—Chloe said she’s in her salon by ten. I should be done within an hour. I want enough time to do some serious stalking. Time to catch Alicia in her lies.”
Kim’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly are you going to do if you dig up something major?”
“I don’t know.” I gulped. “If it’s major, I’ll tell Gabe. If it’s not, I’ll have to find a way to make nice with Miss Von Longorial.”
Kim yawned, then pulled her girlfriend toward their bedroom. “This had better be worth it.”
…
Driving with Betsy behind the wheel was always an experience. After having been raised on an eastern Washington farm for the bulk of her formative years, she drove all motor vehicles like lumbering combines, weaving in and out of traffic like she was herding charging cattle. Her faded Chevelle cut through the other cars on the interstate like a scene reminiscent of NASCAR, and her radio blasted rock music so loudly that our morning coffees vibrated in our hands. The bulk of the ride was spent listening to Kim and Betsy debate whether or not to paint their bedroom orange, so I decided to sit back and watch the buildings of the city slowly give way to the green western Washington landscape outside my window. Miles and miles of lush green fern and thick, mossy cedar trees stretched out ahead of us.
When we arrived in Portland, Betsy and Kim parked the car in front of Chloe’s salon. I stood on the sidewalk outside the historic brick building, adjusting my bright yellow pencil pants and black tuxedo shirt.
“We’re going out to breakfast. There’s a doughnut shop around here that puts bacon on their maple bars,” Kim announced with wide eyes.
“Bacon!” Betsy called from the driver’s seat.
I laughed as I backed away. “Okay, meet me back here in an hour, and bring one for me.”
Kim cast a scowl at the building. “Say hi for me.”
The meeting with Chloe went well. I was impressed by her salon layout, and even more impressed with the amount of responsibility I would have working there. At The Funky Fox, I was just a stylist. No real responsibility beyond cutting and coloring hair for Lizzie’s bevy of drag queen beauties, and a scattered female client here and there. In Portland I would manage the entire style floor and the aestheticians, as well as ordering products for the salon.
The idea of moving away from my beloved Seattle made my heart heavy, but the idea of getting out of Gabeville, and all of the painful memories that resided there, made my stomach dance with excitement. The idea of starting fresh in a new city made me feel empowered.
As soon as Kim and Betsy pulled up, bacon maple bar in tow, we headed into the suburbs. The thick downtown vibe of Portland gave way, allowing more space between houses and larger, damper green yards.
We sought out South Summit High School, then scoured the surrounding neighborhoods. Every time we came across a row of houses that appeared to be upper middle class or nicer, we cruised down the street, scanning mailboxes and front stoops for the names “Von Longorial” and “Long,” but found nothing.
“Are you sure this is the high school she said she went to?” Betsy squinted through her windshield with a frown, after an hour of searching had passed. “There aren’t very many fancy houses around here.”
The homes surrounding South Summit High were mostly modest