I get another long, hard look from her before she makes up her mind. ‘Wait there.’ She disappears and comes back a few minutes later. She waves a piece of paper over the fence. ‘That’s their address and phone number. You may wanna ring first. She’s up in Jacksonville.’
‘Okay, thanks,’ I say, reaching to take the piece of paper.
She snatches it away. ‘First, though, you can do me a favour and put those bins out.’
I suppose I can’t complain. It’s a fair exchange and I really want that address and phone number.
The neighbour watches while I put the two wheelie bins out and then, once I’ve done that and she’s satisfied that I’ve fulfilled my part of the bargain, she hands over the slip of paper.
I retreat to the car and drive out of the cul-de-sac, making my way back to Jasmine Street. I’m probably not supposed to pull over and stop, but I do anyway. I’ll plead tourist ignorance and use my best English accent, flutter my eyelashes and offer sincere apologies if the police come by.
I call the number on the paper and it’s answered on the fourth ring.
‘Hello.’ The voice is female but that is all I can tell from the one-word answer.
‘Hi. Is Roma Kendrick there please?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Hi, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to get in touch with Alice Kendrick and I’ve been given your number. You don’t happen to know where she is, do you?’
‘Er … who is this please?’
‘I’m Clare Tennison.’ I wait for any recognition. There’s a silence and now I’m wishing I was speaking face to face. At least that way Roma wouldn’t be able to hang up on me, something which, the longer the silence, the more it seems likely.
‘I’m sorry. Do I know you?’ she says at last. ‘And why do you want to get in touch with Alice?’
‘No, you don’t know me. Before I was Clare Tennison I was Clare Kennedy. My father was Patrick Kennedy, although you will probably have known him as Patrick Kendrick. I’m trying to get in touch with Alice because … she’s … she’s my sister.’I hear the small intake of breath. ‘Her sister?’
‘Yes. I grew up in England with my mother. We didn’t have contact with Alice for a long time.’
‘Yes, I know that. Well, I mean I know about Patrick moving over here with his daughter but not about the name-change. Are you sure you have this right?’
‘Yes, I’m positive.’
‘I’m sorry, you’ve taken me completely by surprise,’ says Roma.
‘I expect I have. Sorry.’
‘It’s okay. Er, how did you get my number?’ asks Roma.
‘Alice’s neighbour gave it to me. An older lady, at number 25.’
‘Mrs Karvowski,’ says Roma. ‘She’s quite a character, that one. What did she say about Ali?’
It seems an odd question, but I run with it for now. ‘Nothing, really. Just that she hadn’t seen her for a few weeks.’ I hesitate, wondering whether to add a further explanation and decide there would be no point not telling Roma. ‘The neighbour, Mrs Karvowski, said Alice had decided to go travelling. In Europe.’
‘Really? Just like that?’
‘I got the impression from the neighbour that things had been getting on top of Alice recently. She hadn’t told you that, then?’
‘No. She hadn’t.’
‘Have you seen or spoken to her recently?’ I press.
I don’t know whether it’s the hesitation or the tone of Roma’s voice when she replies, but she sounds distant and pensive. ‘No. No, I haven’t. Not for a while now.’
‘Mrs Kendrick, is there any chance we could have a chat in person, you know, face to face? Over a coffee, maybe?’ I’m sure I’d be able to gauge Alice’s stepmother a lot better if I could see her face to face.
‘Oh, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.’
‘Please, Mrs Kendrick. I’d really appreciate it. I won’t take up much of your time and I can drive to you.’ I look at my watch. ‘I could be with you within an hour.’ I realise I’m almost bullying her into agreeing, but I’m desperate. I’m sure I can get more information out of her once I have her as a captive audience, so to speak. ‘Please …’
‘I suppose I could,’ she relents. ‘Not today, though. Tomorrow?’
‘Thank you, I do appreciate that.’
‘Meet me in Jacksonville at the coffee shop on Village Walk at one-thirty.’
After the call has finished, I stay sitting in my car, musing over the conversation. I take out the photograph of Alice and Martha. Probably taken in the house I was just at.
If only I could get inside Alice’s house, I’m sure I’d find out more about her. Hopefully, Roma will be able to tell me some more tomorrow. I think of Alice’s friend, Martha. Now she would surely be able to tell me more about Alice. She’d have a totally different relationship with Alice than Roma would; it will help me to build up a clearer picture in my mind of who my sister really is. The real Alice Kennedy beneath the rather too sweet-and-kind facade currently sitting at home with my family. The little roll of emotion, I recognise now as jealousy, gives a tumble inside me, reminding me of the not-so-admirable quality I’ve discovered about myself recently.
I think back to Alice’s conversation where she mentioned Martha working as a waitress. I’m sure she said the Beach House Diner. It stuck in my mind as it reminded me of where my first Saturday job was; the Beach House Café in Brighton. Thank goodness for the ability to remember little details, always handy with my line of work, I suppose. Thank goodness also for my smartphone as I’m able to tap Beach House Diner, Amelia Island into the search engine and in a matter of seconds I’ve located the diner, got the zip code and programmed the sat nav.
Amelia Island is small and, within a few minutes, I’m pulling up outside the diner. It’s blue and yellow, with big, open windows, situated on the corner of what looks like one of the main roads through the town. Big lorries, laden with sixty-foot-long logs trundle past at what seems like two- or three-minute intervals. I assume they are heading to the sawmill I read about on the flight over when I was researching the area.
When I go into the diner, I look around for Martha. I’m looking for someone not dissimilar to Alice, long brown hair, about my height and weight. In fact, I realise I could be looking for either of us, me, Alice or Martha. A small, dark-haired Hispanic-looking young girl comes over.
‘Hi, welcome to the Beach House Diner. Table for one, is it?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ I smile warmly.
‘My name is Angelina and I’m your waitress today. Would you like to sit by the window?’
‘That will be fine.’ I follow Angelina through the diner and scan the area as I go. It’s big and must have at least seventy covers. The walls are white and with the big windows, the whole place has a light and airy feel. I sit down at the table and Angelina passes me a menu and runs through the specials. I order a glass of juice and Angelina leaves me to peruse the menu. She comes back a few minutes later with a glass and juice bottle balanced on a circular tray.