“I used to be a guy. My name was Don Goodson,” Donna told people, in her deep, whiskey voice. At nearly six feet tall, with angular features and a prominent Adam’s apple, she looked as if she might be telling the truth. But she simply enjoyed the quizzical stares she got from such a remark. Donna Rose Goodson was just a big girl, the kind who in high school wears flats not to tower over every guy in her class. That wasn’t Donna’s style, however. Instead, she had a personality to match her height, bold and brash. In a crowd, she never went unnoticed, not just because of her size or her thick mane of long red hair, but her attitude. “Donna’s aggressive,” says an old friend. “She’s the type of person who moves into a situation and uses it to her advantage.”
Throughout that fall and winter, Donna, who had just turned thirty-nine to Celeste’s thirty-seven, had been a sympathetic voice. When the girls came into Studio 29, she’d told them to give her best wishes to their mom and to watch over her so Celeste didn’t become depressed. The girls passed her kind words on. In February, Jennifer came into Studio 29 and said, “Donna, we’re going to the Houston rodeo for our mom’s birthday. My mom wants to know if you want to come along.”
“Sure,” Donna said.
That Friday, February 11, Celeste arrived at Studio 29 ready to go, and they were off, leaving Donna’s 1998 Buick Regal in the salon parking lot.
The drive from Austin to Houston in Celeste’s bronze mist Cadillac was anything but leisurely. The kids drove behind in one of the Cateras, and they talked back and forth between the cars on walkie-talkies. At times Donna held on to the dashboard to keep from sliding out of her seat as Celeste, smoking a cigarette and talking on the telephone, wove in and out of traffic, setting such a frantic pace that they covered the 160 miles in less than two hours. On the way, Celeste talked about her marriage, bragging about the money Steve spent on her. When it came to the shooting, Donna was surprised when Celeste admitted she’d told the teens not to mention Tracey to the police.
“Why’d you do that?” Donna asked.
“I couldn’t imagine Tracey did it,” Celeste said.
In Houston, they pulled into the circular drive of the Doubletree Galleria Hotel, a curved edifice that overlooks Post Oak Drive, one of the most exclusive shopping districts in the country. On their way up in the elevator Celeste turned and grinned at Donna. With pride, she said, “You’re with a woman who fucked her way to the top.”
When a guy named Bubba called the suite, Donna realized Celeste had plans for that night. Someone Celeste had met at the lake, Bubba was supposed to bring a date for Donna, but his friend had backed out. Celeste appeared annoyed but said little when Bubba picked them up that night and drove them to Sullivan’s, an art deco chophouse. There, they met Bubba’s friend George and his girlfriend. Donna, not interested in a blind date, was relieved.
George’s girlfriend said she was sorry about Steve’s death and she asked Celeste, “How are you doing?”
“You don’t look like you’re letting it slow you down,” George observed.
“Don’t make me shoot you,” Celeste snapped back with a wide grin, forming a pistol with her fingers and pretending to pull back the trigger.
The others groaned. “That’s pretty cold,” Bubba said.
“You need not to say things like that,” Donna said.
But Celeste just laughed.
Next, they drove to a hole-in-the-wall bar in Bubba’s Jaguar. Celeste whispered to Donna, “Bubba’s got more money than Steve. You’re looking at my next husband.”
On the dance floor, Bubba and Celeste held each other and kissed.
Near closing time, Donna left. At the hotel, Kristina and Justin slept in the pull-out couch, and Donna bedded down in one of the two double beds with Jennifer, leaving the other open for Celeste. Before long she was asleep.
Sometime later Jennifer awoke—to the sound of Celeste undressing Bubba.
“No,” he whispered. But Celeste pulled at his clothes, unzipping his pants, and then her face disappeared between his legs.
Angry, Jennifer elbowed Donna.
Startled, Donna bellowed, “What’s going on?” She opened her eyes just in time to see Bubba grab his clothes and run to the bathroom. Jennifer switched the lights on.
Drunk, Celeste giggled. Minutes later Bubba emerged and quickly left.
The next morning, Jennifer and Kristina were angry. “I can’t believe you did that,” Kristina said.
“So what?” Celeste shouted, going on the offensive. “It’s none of your business.”
That afternoon, Donna and Celeste headed to Saks Fifth Avenue, to have their hair brushed into curls. Twice they missed their appointments, but the hairdresser didn’t complain when Celeste handed her a hundred dollar tip. In the store, Celeste bought a fringed cowgirl outfit she wore that night when Bubba, dressed in jeans and cowboy boots, picked them up for the rodeo. After the show—a mixture of bull riding, calf roping, and music—they ate sushi, then ended up at a country western bar.
After midnight, Donna, still stinging from the previous night’s episode, announced, “Bubba’s not coming to the room tonight.”
The man Celeste pegged as her next husband flushed with embarrassment. When she said she’d go home with him, he refused. He wouldn’t even drive by his house to show it to her, no matter how much she pleaded. After he dropped them at the hotel, the two women made their way to the Doubletree bar.
“He’s loaded,” Celeste told Donna. “He’s spent eight hundred dollars on us in the past two days.”
The following morning Celeste awoke to the kids holding a cake they’d baked for her before leaving on the trip. Candles lit, they sang “Happy Birthday.” A little while later the girls and Justin left for Austin. Once they were gone, Celeste called her bank.
“My money hit my account,” she said. “Let’s smoke a joint and go gamble.”
Celeste pulled a pot cigarette from her suitcase. She took a Coke can and used a pen to poke holes, then lit it and dropped it inside, breathing in the smoke as it wafted from the openings. Stoned, they lay around the hotel room, missing their checkout time, then their late checkout. After consuming a bag of the hotel’s chocolate chip cookies from room service, they finally called the bellman to bring down their suitcases. In the Cadillac, Celeste called OnStar and rattled off Bubba’s address. “I want to see his house before we leave,” she said.
“There aren’t any houses there, just apartments,” the operator said.
“No,” Celeste insisted. “He has a house.”
They drove until they were at a block of apartments. “We must be in the wrong place,” Celeste said. But just then the gates opened and Bubba drove out in his Jaguar.
“He’s poor,” Celeste said. “Guess he’s out of the picture.”
Driving east, they stopped at an ATM machine and Celeste pulled out money, then they headed to Lake Charles, Louisiana, to gamble. On the two and a half hour drive, Donna prodded Celeste, curious about her relationship with Steve. Three weeks after his death, Celeste talked about him like he’d been the love of her life. Perhaps she didn’t realize that Donna had eavesdropped on conversations in which she’d called Steve a fat old bastard and said she hated the thought of going to Europe with him.
Then Donna talked about her own life. Two years earlier she’d been living with her fiancé, a cop. “I was crazy in love with him,” she said. The relationship ended badly, so badly that she narrowly escaped jail. As Donna explained it, her fiancé brought home sensitive police documents that ended up in the hands of those he was investigating. Donna was charged with misuse of public information, a third-degree felony. In a plea bargain, she got a thousand dollar fine and five year’s probation. Six months later, they fought, and the court ordered her to attend domestic violence counseling.
After telling Donna about her Arizona charges for insurance fraud, Celeste commented, “I wonder why Tracey’s not in jail by now.”
“Maybe she’s working with the District Attorney’s Office,” Donna said. “Has she got information to bargain with?”
Celeste said nothing at first, then mused, “My attorney says they need two pieces of information to make a murder charge stick. One is the gun. The other one is Tracey. If I could get rid of Tracey, I could justify Steve’s death.”
“You’ve got a good lawyer?” asked Donna.
“I hired Charles Burton,” Celeste bragged. “He’s only lost one murder case. That was some guy who left his bloody clothes in a Dumpster and they found them. They’re not going to find my clothes in a Dumpster. I’m no dumb blonde like Anna Nicole Smith.”
Later, Donna discovered Celeste had a thing about the busty actress, even listing her OnStar password as Nicole. Then Celeste took the conversation where Donna had suspected it was headed. “How much would it cost to get rid of Tracey?” she asked.
Donna smiled and said, “For the right price you could get rid of anybody.”
“Do you know anyone who could do it?”
“There’s this guy, Modesto, he’s part of the Mexican mafia,” Donna said.
“How much do you think Modesto would charge?” she asked.
“About five hundred,” Donna answered, taking a long drag from her cigarette.
“When can he do it?” Celeste asked.
Donna smiled, “He’ll need the money first.”
Later, Donna insisted that she never intended to hire anyone to kill Tracey and that from the beginning she was playing along to squeeze money out of Celeste. “It was a you-don’t-con-a-con situation,” she says with a smirk.
In Lake Charles, Celeste handed Donna $500 to play the slots, which the tall redhead pocketed. At the craps table, Celeste dropped another thousand, then hooked up with a guy at the bar. A big loser that night, he took them for a comp dinner, and Celeste bankrolled him for $400, which he quickly lost.
“Let’s go,” Celeste said at about eleven.
This time, not wanting a replay of the trip to Houston, Donna drove.
“Pull into that ATM,” Celeste ordered as they passed a bank. When she did, Celeste withdrew $500 and handed it to her. “For Modesto,” she said.
The rest of the five hour drive, Celeste slept. As they pulled into Austin, at four that morning, a heavy fog clung to the road. “I want to drive you by Tracey’s,” Celeste said. “So Modesto can find it.”
Celeste then directed Donna to the corner house on Wilson. In the early morning hours of February 14, Tracey’s maroon Nissan Pathfinder was parked in the driveway.
“When can he do it?” Celeste asked again.
“I just need to talk to him,” Donna said.
Celeste dropped Donna at the salon to get her car. After driving home and changing, Donna headed to work. It was Valentine’s Day, and the salon was booked solid. But when she arrived, her check wasn’t what she thought it should be. Angry, she left and went to the Toro Canyon house.
“You don’t have to work there, you can work for me,” Celeste told her. “I can pay you four hundred dollars a week, and you don’t have to pay for anything. I’ll pick up all the tabs.”
From that point on, Donna worked for Celeste.
That day, Donna called Bruce Reynolds, a friend who owned a small plumbing company, to see if he wanted to go out. He agreed, met Donna at her house, and they drove to Toro Canyon at seven that evening. “She lives here?” said Reynolds, who was tall with an aquiline nose and a runner’s body. On the porch, Donna rang the doorbell, then ran and hid behind a tree, like an adolescent playing a prank.
“Donna, are you fooling with me?” he said as Celeste opened the door.
“Nah, this is the place,” Donna said, laughing and walking toward him. Then she pointed at the door. “This is Celeste.”
Donna immediately sensed a connection between them. At dinner at Louie’s 106, a small, posh downtown eatery, they talked and drank, Bruce seated beside Celeste in the booth. On her way back from the rest room, Donna saw them kiss. That night, Bruce slept with Celeste, and Donna bunked in Kristina’s room alone. By then the twins were rarely home. Kristina spent most nights at Anita’s or at Justin’s parents’ home, while Jennifer overnighted with friends or Christopher. Since the shooting, the house had become a frightening place for them. And once Donna entered Celeste’s life, they stayed away even more, wary of her brashness and what they’d heard about her past, including that she was on probation. At times they stared at her, wondering if what else they’d heard was true—that she’d once been a man.
“When will Modesto do it?” Celeste asked off and on during the ensuing days.
“Pretty soon,” Donna said.
For a week Bruce hung so close he seemed physically attached to Celeste. During the day, they slept in the master bedroom. At night, they circulated from bar to bar, with Donna as driver. Later, who brought up marriage would be a point of dispute. Donna and the teens would say it was Bruce, who seemed entranced with Celeste and her wealth. But he maintained that Celeste asked him to elope with her to Las Vegas. At times Donna thought that Bruce wanted to keep her separated from Celeste. She grew tired of it, worried he’d get in the way of what she wanted: more of Celeste’s money.
One day she told Celeste, “Modesto needs another thousand.” Celeste sent Kristina to an ATM machine and handed the envelope full of cash to Donna, who had noticed that Celeste seemed increasingly on edge. She didn’t like the rumors circulating through Austin, gossip that speculated Tracey hadn’t acted alone.
On the morning of February 16, Bruce had to work. Donna drove him home and then went to her mother’s house, where Donna lived with her teenage son, Henry. Celeste called, frantic. “I heard they’re talking about me at Studio 29,” she squealed, a manic edge to her voice. “Kim’s telling people I put Tracey up to killing Steve, and that the twins’ father died mysteriously. I want you to go there with me.”
Donna drove to the house to pick her up. She didn’t notice Celeste slip a butcher knife into her purse as they walked through the kitchen to the car, to head for the salon.
As Celeste had ordered when she called her, Kristina and Justin were waiting when Donna pulled into the parking lot. They immediately spotted Kim, a blond nail technician, smoking a cigarette outside the back door. Before the Cadillac even stopped, Celeste jumped out, charging at her with the knife. Kim turned and ran, her ankles tottering in her high heels. The following minutes could only be described as bedlam. Kristina and Donna grabbed Celeste and pleaded with her to throw down the knife. Appearing to acquiesce, Celeste tucked the knife inside her shirt, then stormed inside the salon.
“I want an apology,” she demanded, pulling out the knife. “And I want it now.”
Kristina again struggled with her mother, but couldn’t wrestle the knife away.
“I want an apology!” Celeste shouted even louder.
By then Jennifer had arrived, after seeing Celeste’s and Kristina’s cars in the parking lot. She grabbed Celeste’s arm and tried to wrench the knife from her. They struggled and Celeste pulled away. In the confusion, the knife grazed Kristina’s knee, cutting her, and plunged into Celeste’s forearm once and her left thigh twice.
By the time police arrived, Kim had fled, and no one pressed charges. Donna wrapped Celeste’s leg and arm in bandages, and they left for North Austin Medical Center. Celeste looked up at Justin as he helped her into the car. “Did you see how frightened they were of me?” she asked with excitement.
At the hospital Celeste said, “This was an accident. I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”
The doctor sutured her leg wounds and dressed the cut in her arm. The six-inch knife blade had come close to a large artery in her inner thigh, so he ordered that she be kept overnight for observation.
The next morning, Celeste was released, and that afternoon she and Donna dressed and primped to go out. When Donna was ready, she searched the house for Celeste and found her in what had been Steve’s office. “Oh, I shouldn’t have called you,” Celeste said, hanging up the phone as Donna walked into the room. Donna assumed Celeste had been talking to Tracey when she said, “It hasn’t been taken care of.”
“Modesto needs more money,” Donna said. “Another thousand.”
Celeste didn’t argue. She picked up the telephone and called Kristina. “I need you to get some cash for me,” she said. When Kristina and Justin showed up with the money and handed it to Celeste, she gave it to Donna. They both watched, eyes wide, wondering what was happening.
Bruce saw it as well. He’d been suspicious of Donna’s relationship with Celeste, assuming that Donna had an angle. The following afternoon he locked himself and Celeste in the master bedroom and called out to Donna, demanding she leave. “Celeste and I are getting married,” he said “We don’t want you here.”
“I need my things,” Donna replied. “Then I’ll be gone.”
He opened the door, and Donna ran inside and jumped on the bed. Celeste laughed when she crossed her arms and refused to move. When Justin overheard what was going on, he convinced Bruce to talk to him in the hallway and minutes later Bruce was gone.
“I told him to leave,” Justin said. “He won’t be back.”
That night, when they were partying at a club, Celeste said to Donna, “I hope no one ever says it’s him or you again, because you’re my best friend.”
Donna smiled, but she had no doubts about why Celeste wanted her as a friend: Celeste thought she could get rid of Tracey.
At the Toro Canyon house the days fell into a pattern. The cleaning lady circulated in and out, and the dry cleaner picked up the laundry, all of it, including the sheets and Celeste’s panties and bras. Most days, Celeste and Donna slept until three in the afternoon, then rose and dressed to go out for the night. Celeste always had a man around. The night after Bruce departed, she met Joey Fina, a tall, dark Italian with a melodic accent. He told her he’d solve all of her problems by taking her to Italy, where they’d live on a hillside vineyard. At the same time, she dated Cole Johnson, a good-looking, sandy-haired construction worker who tended bar at the 311 Club. Ironically, Johnson had the same name as Celeste’s older brother. Soft-spoken and polite, he was an old friend of Donna’s. On his nights off, the three of them bar-hopped together.
Celeste’s erratic behavior hadn’t gone unnoticed. Charles Burton cautioned Kristina to rein in her mother, lest there be talk about the young widow who wasn’t grieving. And not long after the Studio 29 incident, Petra Mueller, the owner, filed a lawsuit, charging that Celeste had destroyed her business by frightening away her clientele. Livid, Celeste told Donna she was going to hire someone to hack into the salon computer and delete all the customer files. For weeks after she learned of the suit, Celeste made a game of avoiding the process server who sat outside the gates on Toro Canyon. Evenings, Donna drove and Celeste ducked down in the backseat as they pulled out of the driveway. A block away, she sat up and laughed. Finally, Charles Burton called Donna, asking her to convince Celeste to take the papers. To get her to agree, Donna turned it into a game.
“She’ll be home in an hour,” she told the process server. “Come then.”
When he arrived, Celeste waited on the patio. Despite temperatures in the seventies, she wore a full-length mink with a matching hat and sunglasses. Covered in diamonds, she had on Chanel shoes and held a bag with diamond clasps. She had a martini in one hand and a see-through plastic bag filled with prescription drugs at her side. As the man stared at her, Celeste popped pills, then washed them down with a swig of vodka.
The man laughed, but Celeste never broke a smile.
When he tore the papers apart to give her the receipt, a staple fell to the floor.
“You can’t leave that. Somebody else will die around here,” Donna deadpanned. “Get on your knees and find it.”
With that, the man dropped onto all fours, searching around the patio, chuckling.
With his client acting so oddly, that spring Charles Burton told Kristina he wanted her to have power of attorney over her mother’s affairs. He said he worried about Celeste’s behavior, throwing away money and frequenting bars. It bred suspicion. Burton said he wanted Celeste back at Timberlawn. Perhaps he thought she belonged there. Or maybe it was as Donna and Kristina later maintained, that he said the police wouldn’t be able to arrest Celeste for Steve’s murder while she was hospitalized.
There was also the matter of the girls’ statements to the District Attorney’s Office. Mange wanted to talk to them, but every time it came up, Celeste became hysterical. Once, she had an anxiety attack on the steps to Burton’s office, and an ambulance had to be called. “He told us once Celeste was in the hospital we could talk to the D.A.,” Kristina said. “I was scared, but I wanted to help them.”
In truth, Burton didn’t need to be so concerned, since the investigation had stalled. Wines’s admission to Mange that he hadn’t interviewed Steve had caused a rift between the men. The detective thought about the case often but felt cut out of the investigation. Mange, on the other hand, couldn’t build a case on beauty shop gossip; he needed solid evidence, which he didn’t have. The prosecutor had no doubt Celeste was involved, but unless Tracey talked, he feared Celeste would go unpunished. The only way he had a case against her was to cut a deal with Tracey, and Tracey wasn’t interested. Loyal, she rebuffed every suggestion her attorney made that she work with the D.A.’s Office to get a lesser sentence. Even if it meant life in prison, Tracey was determined to protect Celeste.
Still, the investigation haunted Celeste. Donna thought her guilt ate at her. She rarely talked bad about Steve. Instead she portrayed him as her fallen hero, her one true love. And she mused often about what the police might be doing. One day, she complained that Burton refused to get her a copy of the police report, which was available to the public. “Call that detective and get the case number. I’ll get it for you,” Donna offered.
Celeste dialed Wines’s phone number, and when she asked, he quickly read it off.
“It must be right on his desk,” she said to Donna after she hung up.
“I think that cop’s mad at you,” Donna said. “He’s not going to let this drop.”
Celeste frowned.
Donna was fascinated watching Celeste. Like a chameleon, she acted one way with some people and like a different person around others. With Anita and her friends from the lake—Dawn, Marilou, and Dana—Celeste played the vulnerable widow, grieving for her husband. “With me, she was the promiscuous drunk,” says Donna. “Every night in the bars, and nothing she wouldn’t do.”
Always, she asked when Modesto would murder Tracey. “Maybe tomorrow,” Donna said. Or, “Later today.” Celeste called Tracey often, which Tracey interpreted as Celeste missing her. But when Celeste hung up, she frowned because Modesto hadn’t done the job yet. When she asked why, Donna made up excuses. Modesto was busy, had another job first, or planned to wait a few more days. Celeste took it well, never pushing.
If Celeste knew how to handle men, Donna knew how to handle Celeste; Donna led her on, and Celeste refused her nothing. When Donna mentioned liking something, Celeste gave it to her. One day it was a diamond cocktail ring, another, a jeweled pendant of the Dallas skyline. “She wanted Tracey dead so bad, I could have asked for her car and she would have signed over the registration,” says Donna.
Out every night and sleeping much of the day, Donna performed a job that evolved into shuffling Celeste to therapy sessions, brushing her hair, arranging for hairdressers and manicurists to come to the house, and running her errands. She never had time to do paperwork and pay bills. Soon the unopened mail piled up until it mounded over a corner of Steve’s desk. “You could hire my mom to do it,” Donna suggested.
The following day Donna’s mother, Frances Tate, came to the Toro Canyon house and spent the day sorting bills. There were credit card statements with hundreds of thousands of dollars waiting to be paid. After two hours of organizing, Celeste handed her a check for $800 for her services.
More and more, Kristina and Justin took over the work of running the house, so much so that Celeste made up lists for them, telling them what needed to be done, everything from buying new garbage cans to typing her letters. Celeste even sent Justin a thank-you card: “You’ve been really wonderful with everything you do for us … I couldn’t have survived the last two months without you.”
On the porch one afternoon, Celeste and Justin sat in rocking chairs looking out at the bluebonnets. As usual, she was on the telephone, this time with her psychiatrist, Michele Hauser. For weeks she’d told the doctor that she felt guilty over Steve’s murder. “If I hadn’t brought Tracey into our lives, he’d still be alive,” she said.
Justin listened as Celeste told Hauser she couldn’t sleep, blaming it on depression. When she hung up, she laughed. “Well, I told the partial truth,” she said. “I’m not sleeping, but it’s because I’m having so much fun at the bars.”
Busy with Donna, Celeste rarely saw Tracey. “Celeste. Call me—important,” Tracey wrote on a sheet of paper, faxing it from an Office Depot in late February. Later she wouldn’t remember what had been so urgent. “I think I was worried about her,” says Tracey. “When we talked on the telephone, she sounded like she was unraveling.”
Days later Celeste called Tracey in the middle of the night. “I’m out on Toro Canyon. Come get me.”
When Tracey got there, she found Celeste walking on the road. Tracey opened the door for her and they drove through the quiet neighborhood while Celeste talked. On the side of the road, Celeste cried over what the police might do. Tracey, the one already facing a life sentence, comforted her. “By then, I wasn’t in love with her,” Tracey said. “But I loved her.”
And still, every day, Celeste asked Donna if that would be the day Modesto would fulfill the contract and kill Tracey.
In early March, Donna told Celeste, “Modesto needs $2,500 to finish the contract. He has expenses.”
Again, Celeste told Kristina to go to the bank.
“Why?” Kristina asked.
“Because I said so,” she answered.
When Kristina returned, she found Celeste and Donna in the master bathroom. She handed Celeste the $2,500 in an envelope and watched as her mother gave it to Donna.
“What’s going on?” Kristina asked. “What’s between you and Donna?”
“Never mind,” Celeste said. “It’s none of your business. And I don’t want you asking Donna any questions. Stay away from her.”
With the hit imminent, or so she believed, Celeste had an idea. She and Donna left the next day for New Orleans. It was Mardi Gras. What better place to set up an alibi than with thousands of people to testify she wasn’t even in Austin?
That week, Anita had plans to help Celeste write thank-you notes for the flowers and remembrances that had poured in for Steve’s funeral. Instead her fax churned out a letter from Celeste: “I’m just too distraught. I can’t handle Steve’s death. I feel like I want to kill myself and be with him. I’m going back to Timberlawn.”
Days later Anita mentioned it to Christopher, who worked part-time in her office. “I’m worried about Celeste,” she said. “She’s really taking Steve’s death hard.”
“She’s partying in New Orleans,” he said. “I think she’s fine.”
Meanwhile, Celeste and Donna jumped from hotel to hotel in New Orleans, and what was to have been a three-day trip turned into ten. During the day they shopped, buying wild costumes and long, shiny metallic green, purple, and silver wigs. At night they walked Bourbon Street in leopard leotards, their hair concealed beneath the wigs. In platform shoes, they towered over the other revelers, attracting attention. One night they dressed like members of the rock group KISS, their faces painted white with black stripes. Nearly every night, Celeste slept with a different man. On the street during the parades, she tore open her blouse, flashing her breasts for the bright plastic beads thrown off the floats. A few nights, Celeste’s current boyfriend, Cole Johnson, flew in. When he left, she partied again, picking up a new guy in the bars or on the streets. While Celeste brought her latest man upstairs, Donna slept in the lobby.
When Celeste once again urged Donna to find out when the hit would take place, Donna pretended to call Modesto; no one answered. “Maybe he’s taking care of it right now,” she’d say.
With that, Celeste called Tracey. When she answered, Celeste hung up.
Finally, on the tenth day after they’d arrived, Donna said, “I need a phone card to call Modesto. We don’t want it traced.” They walked over to an Eckerd and Celeste bought one. While Celeste waited, Donna dialed her mother’s house on a pay phone. Donna’s teenage son answered, and they talked for half an hour or so while Celeste waited.
“When are you coming home?” he asked.
“Soon,” she said, feeling guilty about being gone so long.
“We have to leave now,” she told Celeste when she hung up. “Modesto has pulled out. I have a new guy who says he’ll do it, but he wants more money.”
“I need the car loaded in five minutes,” Celeste barked at the bellman. “I’ve got an emergency at home.”
This time, Donna called her fictional assassin Sam. “Sam’s going to do it, but we need to get the cash to him,” she said. Celeste pulled $500 out of the ATM. So far she’d paid Donna $5,500, without any results.
Back in Austin, Donna told Celeste she had to meet Sam at the Waterloo Brewery, a restaurant brew house. Once there, the two of them waited for a man who didn’t exist. When Cole showed up, he knew nothing about why they’d come. While Celeste had been watching Donna carefully, he distracted her, kissing her and nuzzling her neck. Donna got up and left for the bathroom.
“Did you see him yet?” she whispered to Donna when she returned.
“Yeah,” she said. “He’s come and gone.”
“Damn, I missed him,” she said.
“You have to be patient. He’s going to Mexico to take care of business. He’ll do it when he gets back.”
Celeste nodded.
Two days later Celeste had a limo take her to Donna’s mother’s house to pick her up for a night of clubbing. That night, they argued. Cole had a friend with him, and Celeste pushed Donna to sleep with him. When Donna threatened to leave, Celeste told her that if she did, she’d report her for driving while intoxicated.
As usual, Donna slept in Kristina’s room alone.
Still angry, early the next morning Donna packed her things. After she threw her bags in the car, she popped her head into the master bedroom. “I’m going now,” she said. “You two need to lock up the house. I’ve got my stuff. I’m not coming back.”
Outside, Donna pulled away in her Buick, and in her rearview mirror saw Celeste in her robe running toward the Cadillac. On the highway, Celeste chased Donna, blowing her horn and pulling in front of her and slamming down the brakes. Donna pulled onto the left shoulder and stopped. She walked back and found Celeste crying in her car.
“Don’t leave,” Celeste said. “Please come back.”
“No, this is over,” Donna said. “I’m leaving.”
With the car keys, Celeste stabbed at her wrist. “I’m going to kill myself if you leave!” she screamed.
“Here,” Donna said, pulling Celeste’s diamond ring off her finger and tossing it at her. “Take this and leave me alone.”
“I don’t care about the ring. I want you to come back,” she said.
Donna got in her Buick and left. Again Celeste followed, pulling beside her and trying to veer her off the road. At the next exit, Donna pulled off the highway and into a Container Store parking lot. A man walked by. “Call the police!” Donna shouted.
By then Celeste had screeched into the lot and pulled up directly behind her, preventing her from leaving. “Please come back to the house. I need you.”
“No, I’m not having anything to do with you,” Donna shouted. “Leave me be.”
They were still arguing when police arrived. One officer pulled Donna off to the side. “I used to work for this woman, and I’m quitting,” she said. “She doesn’t want me to go.”
In the end, the officers ordered Celeste to move her car. Then they called Kristina and asked her to pick up her mother.
“Please come back,” Jennifer told Donna on the phone the next day. “My mom won’t hurt you.”
Later, Donna and Celeste talked. When they hung up, Donna agreed to one more night together, to see if things would be different.
The limo arrived at Donna’s house about seven to drive them to the Dog and Duck, an Austin pub, for St. Patty’s day. Celeste had on a long, shiny green wig, and she’d brought another for Donna.
At the house, before they left, Donna handed Celeste an envelope in front of Cole and her mother, Frances. “That’s the money I owe you, the twenty-five hundred,” she said. “Count it. It’s all there.”
Frowning, Celeste took the envelope and threw it in her purse. Perhaps she decided money alone wouldn’t compensate Donna, that she wanted something else. Later, at the bar, the room swirled and Donna thought people were staring at her. Celeste leaned over and kissed her on the lips; Donna didn’t kiss her back. A short time later, Cole and Celeste left, leaving the limo behind. Donna had the driver take her home, and she woke up the next morning certain Celeste had slipped something into her drink.
That day, Donna left a message on Celeste’s answering machine. “I know what you did, and it wasn’t cool,” she said. “If I don’t hear from you in the next fifteen minutes, I’m taking the photos of you from New Orleans and selling them to the newspaper.”
Minutes later the phone rang. Celeste acted as if nothing had happened. “I’m out with Jennifer,” she said. “What do you need?”
“We have some unfinished business,” Donna told her. “Meet me at Baby Acapulco tomorrow.”
Celeste agreed.
The colorful Mexican restaurant off I-35 was busy the following day when Donna waited for Celeste. As soon as she arrived and sat down, Donna told her, “If you really want this done, I need the twenty-five hundred back.”
Celeste pulled the envelope from her purse and gave it to her. “I’m going back to Timberlawn on the twenty-first. My lawyer thinks I should,” she said. “Do it while I’m there.”
On March 21, Donna drove out to the Toro Canyon house and helped Celeste pack for Timberlawn. When they finished, Celeste handed Donna a check for $2,400 to keep her on her payroll for an additional six weeks. She also gave her a Texaco gas card, “So you can drive to Dallas to visit me.” Finally, she handed her a cell phone. “Remember, I want it done while I’m gone. Use this to call me.”
The code for the voice mail, she told Donna, was 10-02, the day Steve was shot. “That was the day he really died for me,” she said with a smirk.
Later, Tracey would say Celeste called her daily from the hospital. “I’m just feeling really guilty about Steve,” she told her. But perhaps, as she had from New Orleans, Celeste was calling to see if Sam had killed her yet.
With everything going on around her, not knowing when the District Attorney’s Office would change the charge to murder or when she’d be arrested, Tracey still didn’t blame Celeste. “I could have said no when she asked me to do it,” she says. “I didn’t.”
A week later Donna drove to Timberlawn with Joey Fina, who wanted to see Celeste. While she was there, Donna decided to line her pockets further.
“I want to get out of here,” Celeste told Donna. “Is it done?”
“No. If you want it done, that’s what it will take,” she said, handing her a scrap of paper on which she’d written $10,000. Celeste looked up at her, searching her face. Then she pulled out her checkbook and wrote a check for $7,650 to add to the $2,500 she’d already given her.
“It’ll be done when you get home,” Donna said, tucking it away.
When Joey asked what the check was for, Donna dismissed it by saying she was spending money for Celeste when she returned to Austin. Days later, Donna cashed the two checks, pocketing the $2,400 for her payroll check in cash and asking for a cashier’s check for the hit money. She then left for Lake Charles to meet a girlfriend and gamble.
On April 1, Kristina took the day off from Concordia College where she and Jen took classes and drove to Timberlawn for a joint session with Celeste and her therapist. Much of the talk was about money. Where in the past Steve had attempted to restrain Celeste, with him dead that job fell to Kristina. She had Celeste’s power of attorney, paid her bills, and saw the money flowing out faster than it came in. Much of it went to Donna Goodson.
First Dr. Gotway met with Celeste alone. Throughout the session, Celeste raged, calling Kristina disloyal. Gotway tried to calm her, to tell her Kristina was trying to protect her from her own destructive spending. When Kristina joined them, Celeste cursed at her and called her names, threatening to disinherit her. “There has been a role reversal,” Gotway noted in Celeste’s chart. “The daughter … finds herself in a difficult situation.”
“You hate me!” Celeste screamed at Kristina.
“That’s not it,” Kristina pleaded. “I’m just trying to take care of you.”
Three days later, back in Austin, Kristina called Donna Goodson. “Why’s my mom paying you all this money?” she asked.
For weeks, Kristina had been wondering about Donna, trying to figure out what part she played in her mother’s life. They partied together, but it seemed more than that. Celeste had told her not to ask Donna questions, to stay away from her. But when Kristina saw the $7,650 check on the bank statement, she couldn’t keep quiet any longer.
While Celeste had been occupied with Donna, Kristina had also started to consider the way her mother treated her, acting like she was an employee or a servant, someone to be ordered about. From Timberlawn, Celeste had continued calling and ordering her to do things, yelling and screaming. Both the girls considered the family sessions they had with Dr. Gotway a joke since Celeste coached them on what to say and what not to say. They weren’t allowed to mention Donna, for instance, or the parade of men coming and going from Celeste’s bedroom.
Not only had the time and distance allowed Kristina to take a good look at her life with her mother, but Justin pushed her to consider it as well. “She shouldn’t treat you like that,” he said. “She has no right.”
For the first time, Kristina began to believe that he was right. She deserved more.
“I don’t work for your mother anymore,” Donna told Kristina that evening on the telephone. “If you have any questions, you need to talk to her.”
Then Donna thought about Celeste and what she was capable of. “Listen,” she said to the teenager. “You and Jennifer do whatever you need to do to stay safe.”
After she hung up, Donna called Celeste. She’d been looking for a way to get out of the mess she was in with her, and this appeared to be the answer.
“We need to call this off,” she said. “Kristina is asking too many questions. She wants to know what’s happening with the money. Sam got nervous and took off with your money. We both got played.”
“God damn it!” Celeste screamed. “I’m getting out of here now!”
“You’re a liar,” the nurses heard Celeste blare at Kristina over the telephone. “You fucking little bitch, I told you not to talk to Donna. Now, come get me. I’m checking out of this hellhole tonight.”
Kristina was silent.
“Kristina, you and Justin drive up here to get me now. I told you I’m getting out.”
“No,” Kristina said.
“No? I told you to come get me now!” she screamed. “I want you and Justin to drive up here tonight and get me. I’m coming home.”
“No,” Kristina said again. “I won’t.”
“If you don’t pick me up, you’ll regret it,” Celeste threatened.
“I won’t,” Kristina said.
When she hung up the telephone, Kristina was both frightened and exhilarated. It was the first time she’d flatly refused to do as her mother ordered; it felt at the same time liberating and terrifying.
Minutes later Jennifer’s cell phone rang while she and Christopher were eating dinner in a restaurant. “Jennifer, I don’t know what’s wrong with your sister,” Celeste told her. “I need you to come up here right away and get me. I’m checking out.”
“We were just—”
“I don’t care!” Celeste screamed. “Get in your car and come get me!”
When Christopher and Jennifer arrived at Timberlawn three hours later, Celeste had her suitcases packed and was ready to go. “Take these,” she ordered Christopher, thrusting them into his hands. Then she ran for the elevator, not even bothering to sign herself out. In the car, Christopher drove with Celeste in the seat beside him. In the backseat, Jennifer stared at the back of her mother’s head, panic eating away inside her. She’d feared an event like this for weeks. Too much hung over all of them. Bill Mange, the prosecutor, had contacted Christopher and had a meeting scheduled with him later that same week. Jen knew her boyfriend wouldn’t lie for Celeste. He’d tell Mange everything. She wanted to talk to the prosecutor, too, but she was frightened. Every time the police came up, Celeste shrieked at her, “You don’t talk to them, ever.”
Like Christopher, Jennifer knew she wouldn’t lie for her mother. She had to tell the truth. When that happened, she knew Celeste would take revenge. But now the situation had become even more complicated; Celeste was furious at Kristina, and when her mother got this angry, bad things happened.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into Kristina. That little bitch,” Celeste stormed, dialing the telephone.
“Yes,” Kristina said when she answered.
“I want you home when I get there, young lady.”
“You shouldn’t treat me like this,” Kristina said. “You shouldn’t talk to me like this.”
“When I get there, I expect you to be home.”
The shouting escalated, Jennifer and Christopher jarred by the hard edge to Celeste’s voice. Finally, Kristina hung up.
Celeste seethed. “I am so angry I could physically kill Kristina,” she said.
In the backseat, Jennifer’s chest tightened. To her, Celeste’s words weren’t an idle threat. She believed her mother had manipulated Tracey into killing Steve. She’d spent her life watching her hurt and take advantage of people. She’d grown up fearing her, and believed that Celeste was capable of murdering both her and Kristina.
Christopher looked in the rearview mirror and his eyes met Jennifer’s. Without speaking a word, they both knew Celeste had crossed a line that night, and that the situation had just become even more terrifying.
The hours in the car on the way back to Austin were agony. Jennifer knew she could never go home again. It was simply too dangerous. And if she left, she had to find a way to hide, for Celeste never let go of anyone without a battle, and for her daughters she would mount an all-out war.
When they pulled into Austin, Christopher came to the rescue. “Celeste, drop us at my apartment, so we can get my car,” he said. “We’ll meet you at the house.”
Celeste did as they asked, screeching out of the parking lot.
“You can’t go home,” Christopher said as soon as she pulled away.
“I know,” Jen replied.
They also couldn’t stay at Christopher’s; that would be the first place Celeste would look. Instead, they went to Anita’s office. It was closed, but Christopher, who worked there part-time, had a key. They sat in the office in the darkness, afraid Celeste would find them. When she was angry, Jennifer knew her mother was capable of anything.
Kristina didn’t follow her mother’s orders that night either. She stayed at the Grimms’ house with Justin. “We can’t go home, Kris,” Jen said to her on the telephone the next day. “I’ve never seen Mom so angry. She said she could actually kill you.”
“I know,” Kristina said. Yet she wasn’t ready to sever the ties permanently. “We have to let her cool down.”
It wasn’t what Jennifer wanted to hear, but she wasn’t pushing Kristina. She knew how important Celeste was to her sister and how hard it would be for her to break away. Ever since Steve died, Kristina had worked hard to try to restore order to their lives. All to no avail, for with Celeste chaos always won.
The phone calls started that first night. At times Celeste pleaded; at other times she shrieked. The message was clear: She wanted the girls home.
When Kristina heard the voice mails, she felt ill. She’d never denied her mother anything, never blatantly disobeyed. But she knew she couldn’t go home, not yet, not until her mother changed how she treated her. When she pondered how to convince her mother that her screaming was abuse, Kristina came up with a plan. She and Justin would tape record the phone calls and messages; then Kristina could play them back for Celeste, letting her hear what Kristina heard on the telephone—emotional battery. From that point on, when Celeste called, Kristina and Justin turned on their tape recorders.
“Kristina, just because you’re nineteen doesn’t mean that you don’t have to do what I tell you to do. You want to move out, is that what you’re telling me?” Celeste screamed.
“I don’t know,” Kristina replied.
“That’s what you’re saying by deliberately disobeying me?”
“No.”
“If you want to continue going to college, if you want to continue to have your expenses paid without working, then you better get your ass home tonight, do you understand that?”
“Yeah.”
“Because I’m going to come over there tonight and get your car keys … I will change all the locks … I’m not playing games with you … are you willing to just say fuck it?”
“I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know? Because I’m—I’m a worse person than my father, who molested me? Is that what you don’t know?”
Over the days following Jennifer’s and Kristina’s refusal to return home, the calls became increasingly desperate. Celeste ranted and raved. She called Justin, Justin’s parents, Christopher, Christopher’s family, the twins’ friends, Anita, and everyone she could for help, but no one would tell her where the girls had gone. One afternoon Celeste pounded on the Grimms’ front door, pleading with Justin’s father to let her in. He told Celeste to leave. Inside the house, Kristina cried. The ties that bound her to her mother were strong.
“I’m not going to have my life run by a nineteen-year-old who thinks she knows everything in the goddamned fucking world,” Celeste raged during her next call. “I am your mother. You are not going to tell me what to do … I’m telling you this. If you choose to stay at the Grimms’, you’ll be sorry. I will get a restraining order first thing in the morning. You will not be allowed at my house, ever.”
Celeste tried to elicit Kristina’s sympathy, talking about her abuse, ranting about the horrors of her life. When that didn’t work, she argued that Kristina wasn’t acting as an adult. “If you had a problem, you should’ve said, ‘Mom, I don’t want to do this,’ instead of holding all this resentment and hatred inside of you … That’s the adult way … All you want to do is hurt me,” Celeste cried.
“That’s not true,” Kristina said, her voice heavy with sadness.
Hour after hour Jennifer’s and Kristina’s cell phones rang. When they didn’t answer, Celeste left long messages on their voice mails, or Justin’s, his parents’, or Christopher’s.
“I like how everybody’s avoiding my phone calls, Kristina. You’re just making it worse on yourself.”
On Justin’s cell phone, Celeste left a message saying, “Kristina stole Kaci, which is valued over five hundred dollars, so it’s a felony … I do not want to do this to my children, because I love them and Mother’s Day is coming up, but they’re leaving me no choice… The other thing to tell the girls is if—if, um, they don’t come here at five tonight, I’m not psycho or anything, I’m as calm as can be, but I will report them for stealing the keys to the house and everything else, since they don’t live here anymore. I will hire a private detective and track them down, because they were stupid enough to charge on the gas card. And I know, I know the area of town that they’re in, and I know where they go to school … If they don’t do it tonight at five, they will be sorry.
“I’ve disconnected both girls’ phones, and neither one have car insurance … please make sure you tell the girls that I love them, but I will have them arrested at school, because they’ve hurt me, and I think it’s only fair that they get humiliated.”
The days were torment for the twins. They were afraid, of both staying away and going home. Celeste accused them of stealing money and jewelry. At times they talked with their mother and agreed to meet her, but they never showed up at the Toro Canyon house. And always, Celeste called again.
It was the last conversation she had with her mother that finally convinced Kristina that Celeste wasn’t just abusive, she was evil.
“Why are you doing this to me?” Celeste said.
“Why are you doing this to me?” Kristina answered.
“You don’t care about me at all?”
“Yes, I do care about you.”
“Then, why don’t you come home? Why? Why don’t you come down and talk to me?”
“‘Cause I don’t want you to throw a scene.”
“I wasn’t going to hurt myself, Kris. What the hell do you think I went to the hospital for? I’m not gonna hurt myself anymore. I’m not gonna throw a scene anymore … Do you think that I’m worse than my father?”
“When you call me names, like ‘you little bitch,’ and you always say that I’m worthless and selfish. When all I ever do is do everything for you,” Kristina said.
“I just want you to know that I do not appreciate you butting into my business when I asked you not to,” Celeste warned. “And I was gonna, when you come home, I was gonna tell you exactly why, exactly what Donna has on me.”
“What does she have?” Kristina asked.
“I’m not telling you over the phone. ‘Cause you’ll just go and tell Justin and everybody else, right?”
“No,” Kristina said.
“What?”
“No.”
After a momentary pause, Celeste said, “I hired somebody to kill Tracey.”