When artist, Nicole Jeffords, learns that a reputable psychic who often works with the police has had a vision that the remains of a fifty-year-old male may be buried under an artist's studio in Austin, she becomes convinced that the studio in quest...
The minute I saw the blood drain from Betsy's face, I knew who Janet Fairchild was: her sister whom she'd deserted almost thirty years ago and whom she certainly didn't want to see now. The sister who'd been emailing me off and on for months, Janet K. Johnson, only with a different last name. I studied her face: fine-featured, actress-pretty, smart as a fox. As I watched, she smiled at Betsy who barely acknowledged her.
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Janet Fairchild/ Johnson
What the hell was she doing here? Last I'd heard, she was in Miami working for a pharmaceutical company. That was maybe three weeks ago, and she'd said nothing about showing up at a mental health benefit in Austin. "I'm Janet," she said, introducing herself to the table. "Sorry to be late."
Seated beside her, newspaper columnist Michael Barnes asked what her connection was to the event. "Oh," said Janet, glancing hard at Betsy who didn't return her look, "I work for Andrews & Giles Pharmaceuticals. We sell a lot of our product to doctors treating clinically depressed patients." She had one of those soft, halting voices that drifted like fog through a conversation, each sentence ending with a question mark. Michael Barnes seemed enthralled. "You live here in Austin?" he asked.
"Funny you should ask that," Janet said with another meaningful look at Betsy. "My company just moved me here, which is great because I have family in Austin, and now I'll get to spend time with them."
Oh boy. Across the table, Betsy looked as if she was about to have a heart attack. "You okay, darling?" Malcolm asked.
Betsy took a quick sip of wine. "Yes, of course. It's just the work of putting an event like this together."
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Betsy
"I'm sorry," Janet said, leaning toward Betsy across the table, "I didn't catch your name."
Man, she had balls, sitting there in a navy blue silk gown, drifty-voiced and looking as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.
"It's Betsy Shapiro," Betsy said, looking her straight in the eye for the first time. She didn't introduce Malcolm, who sat beside her, patting her hand, elegant and youthful in his evening jacket. The keynote speaker was introduced just then and the table fell silent. Michael Barnes took the opportunity to slip away, as was his habit at these events, and test the social waters at another table. He had no idea of the giant, opera-worthy drama unfolding right beneath his nose at his assigned table, two sisters seeing each other for the first time in thirty years, one black, the other passing as white, and not a single person in the whole world knowing their secret but me.
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Michael Barnes, Arts & Culture Writer for the Austin American-Statesman
