Sheila hadn’t gotten a chance to ask Eden about her “other mother,” Cassandra. Now she’d have to wait for the girl to cool off before broaching the subject with her—and that might take another hour or another couple of days, depending on how long Eden held a grudge.
Steve emerged from the bathroom with some tissues wrapped around his index finger.
“Did you get all the glass out?” she asked, switching off the Dustbuster.
He nodded. “It was a big piece.”
“Don’t you need a Band-Aid?”
“It’s fine,” he muttered, still not looking at her.
She approached him. “Honey, I know you think what you just witnessed was pretty crazy, but there was a reason for what I was doing—”
The doorbell rang.
Sheila sighed. “That’s probably the pizza. I’ll get it.” She set the Dustbuster on the counter. “Why don’t you go upstairs and try to convince Eden to come down and eat? She probably won’t talk to me. But over dinner, I’ll do my best to explain to both of you what all that nonsense with the bourbon was about.” Sheila worked up a smile and patted his shoulder. Then she started for the door.
A few steps behind her in the front hallway, Steve turned and silently treaded up the stairs.
Sheila collected the pizzas and salads at the door and made sure the delivery girl had been tipped. Carrying everything into the kitchen, she started to wonder about Dylan, and how much longer he’d be at the police station.
As she set down the pizza boxes, she listened to the familiar rumble of Steve running down the stairs. “Eden!” he yelled. “Eden, where are you?”
He staggered into the kitchen. “Did Eden come down here?”
Wide-eyed, Sheila shook her head.
“She’s not in her room,” Steve said, out of breath. “Her stuff’s gone, too. She must have slipped out, Mom. She’s not here.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Saturday—8:01 P.M.
Dylan wondered if he’d ever get out of there.
At least the cops hadn’t put him in one of those stark interrogation rooms with the one-way mirrors. Dylan was in a slightly cramped office, sitting in a hard-backed chair across from the same lanky, forty-something detective with the square jaw and receding hairline who had interviewed him earlier. His last name was Laskin. A cluttered old metal desk was between them, and somewhere, amid all that clutter, a small, digital voice recorder caught everything Dylan said. Detective Laskin had asked his permission to record the session. He’d also reminded Dylan that he could have his lawyer present. An hour and a half ago, Dylan hadn’t thought it was necessary. But now he was beginning to rethink that decision.
He’d already gone over his revised, uncensored story twice while the detective listened, jotted down a few things, and made a chain out of paper clips. The other cop—the stocky young blond guy who’d come to the house with Laskin—had quietly stood in the office throughout Dylan’s first retelling of what had happened with Ms. Warren. He’d left about forty minutes ago. But Dylan could still see him through the window that looked out onto a busy, open office. There were more cops milling around, six desks with ancient computers, a water cooler, and a Mr. Coffee machine—which explained the burnt coffee smell. Dylan noticed the stocky cop casually migrating from desk to desk, talking to his peers.
Detective Laskin had already assured Dylan that they wouldn’t go public with the more intimate details of his story as long as the information had no bearing on the outcome of their investigation. Still, it seemed a safe bet that the blond cop was telling his pals out there about the witness in Laskin’s office, now recanting an earlier story to admit he’d banged a homicide victim just hours before her murder. Every once in a while, Dylan caught one of the cops looking at him—and maybe it was just his imagination, but they seemed either smugly amused or disgusted by his presence there.
He’d already given Laskin every juicy detail of his encounter with Miranda Warren, using all of his public relations expertise to finesse things with the detective. He explained how he’d been caught by surprise earlier when they’d shown up at his door with the news about Ms. Warren. And they’d questioned him in his home with his daughter present, so naturally he had been reluctant to tell them how he’d been intimate with her teacher. But he was trying to set the record straight.
Now the detective wanted to hear it a third time. It was embarrassing. Dylan was tired, and sweating. His Italian-wool sweater was too warm for the stuffy, humid little office. He just wanted to go home.
“You indicated earlier that I wasn’t a suspect,” Dylan pointed out, shifting around on the hard chair. “Is that still true? Because I can’t believe you want me to tell this story again. I swear to you, I didn’t leave anything out of the last two versions I just told you. You’ve gotten the whole, unabridged story here.”
Laskin nodded. He was still playing with his paper clips. “Just one more time, from when the two of you left the school.”
Dylan rubbed his forehead. “Oh, God.”
“The thing is, Mr. O’Rourke, for all we know, Miranda Warren might have had a stalker—or a student who was in love with her, or a student who had a grudge. There’s a chance someone might have seen you with Ms. Warren, maybe even when you two were in the car together. And maybe that set them off. Your story here might provide us with a motive for her murder. Whoever broke into that house and shot her didn’t steal a thing. Now, please, when you left the school, it was getting dark out.”
The phone rang, and the detective answered it. Dylan guessed the call must have had nothing to do with Ms. Warren or him, because Laskin put down his paper-clip chain and started hunting through a stack of papers on his desk. Then he got back on the line and said something about an incident report dated September third.
During this lull, Dylan remembered what Brooke had mentioned about someone following her around. Had the same person been watching him and Miranda Warren? He thought about crazy Leah next door. God only knew what she was capable of.
He’d left the kids alone in the house, and now he wondered if they were safe.
Or maybe Leah was targeting Brooke. She didn’t seem to regard Sheila or the kids as any kind of competition or threat—or at least, she’d indicated that today. But if Leah had been following him and seen him with Miranda Warren, that could have sent her over the edge. And if she’d murdered Miranda Warren, she might go after Brooke, too.
Or was he just tired and paranoid and jumping to conclusions? Maybe he was simply overreacting to the horrifying revelation that Leah was back in his life. She was crazy, but was she really capable of murder?
He wondered if he should say something to Laskin. But then he’d have to explain about Leah. He didn’t mind that so much—especially if it got her off his back and out of his life. But he’d also have to expose Brooke. The police would want to question her about the woman who had been tailing her and that phone call in the middle of the night.
And if he said anything, he’d be stuck there for at least another two or three hours.
As soon as the cops let him go, he would phone home to make sure everyone was okay.
Then he would call Brooke.
Detective Laskin finally hung up the phone. He leaned back in his chair and picked up his paper-clip chain again. “Okay, Mr. O’Rourke, so—you two left the school together, and it was getting dark out . . .”
*
Both Sheila and Steve had tried to call Eden, but there had been no answer.
Though they had a ton of food, neither of them were able to eat more than a slice of pizza. Sheila hadn’t eaten all day, but she had absolutely no appetite.
At Sheila’s suggestion, the two of them sat at the dining room table with their pizzas and Cokes. Part of her just needed to get out of the kitchen, where Steve had witnessed that bizarre scene between her and Eden. Besides, the dining room table seemed an appropriate choice because she wanted to have a serious discussion with Steve.
&nbs
p; She told him about her trip to Portland, along with everything she’d learned about Eden’s mother and Cassandra. Steve was mildly surprised to learn about her secret trip. But the revelation about Eden’s other mother was no shock. He said Eden had told him earlier tonight about Cassandra raising her. He said Eden hadn’t given any indication that this Cassandra person might be dead—just that she and Antonia had been crummy mothers.
Sheila also told him about the attempts on her life—the brakes on her car, the shorted-out washing machine, the Visine in her cranberry juice, and the ground glass in the bourbon.
He was astonished. “Why didn’t you say anything, Mom?” he asked, leaning forward, elbows on the table.
“It was all happening in plain sight, in front of everybody,” she said. “I knew each little incident was connected and premeditated. But I didn’t have any proof. I figured Eden was responsible for everything—until about a half hour ago, when I saw her ready to swallow that bourbon with the ground glass in it. That’s why I knocked the drink out of her hand.” Sheila picked up her half-eaten slice of pizza. “You must have thought I was crazy. Clearly, Eden thought so.”
“Mom, I saw her today in Volunteer Park. She was meeting that Brodie guy. He’s not in Portland. He keeps telling her he’s leaving, but he hasn’t yet.”
“Why am I not surprised?” she replied, nibbling on the pizza. “I was blaming her for everything, including the garden. But I’ll bet it was that sleazy creep all along.”
“Eden said she’s certain he didn’t trash the garden.”
“Well, obviously the guy’s been lying to her about a lot of things.”
“She said Dad figured out who wrecked the garden.”
Sheila put down the slice of pizza and stared at him.
“I have a feeling it’s the lady next door. Before leaving for the police station, Dad told me not to open the door if she came over to the house. He said she’s crazy. I guess he went over there this afternoon and talked to her about the dog barking or something.”
Sheila had been wondering last night whether Leah might be responsible for destroying the garden. But what could the woman next door have against her?
Steve took a swig of Coke and glanced at his watch. “Do you think one of us should try phoning Eden again? Or maybe we should call Dad.”
There was a hard thump on the front door.
Sheila got up from the table and hurried to the door, with Steve right behind her. She looked through the peephole. No one was outside. She thought about the noise they’d just heard. It hadn’t really sounded like someone knocking, but more like something had hit the door.
“Who’s out there?” Steve whispered, hovering behind her.
“I don’t think it’s anybody.” She opened the door and peered outside. She still didn’t see anyone.
“Look,” Steve said, pointing to the front stoop.
Sheila glanced down at the spattering of dirt, gravel, and mud. She turned and noticed the grimy dirt mark on the door. Somebody had hurled a dirtball at the house—and just missed the stained-glass window in the front door. Sheila stared out toward the lawn, searching for someone hiding in the shadows behind a tree or bush. She couldn’t help thinking that, at any minute, the perpetrator would throw another dirtball—this time, at one of them. She dared to take a step outside. “Eden?” she called. “Eden, are you out there? Please, I want to apologize.”
There was no answer. It was quiet, except for the sound of the wind and the light rain. A few leaves scattered across the wet lawn.
“Mom, there’s something in the front seat of the car,” Steve whispered.
He’d scared her for a moment, but then Sheila looked over toward the Toyota and remembered. “Oh, those are just a couple of boxes full of pictures that belonged to Antonia.”
“Do you want me to get them?” he asked.
“It can wait, honey,” she said nervously. “They’re okay out there.”
But Steve went into the kitchen and returned a few moments later with her car keys. Sheila figured that at least there was an alarm on the fob, in case they needed it.
She kept thinking that Eden was probably out there in the dark, watching them. Or maybe it was her boyfriend, Brodie. Someone had thrown that dirtball. Was it to draw them out of the house for some reason?
“Hey, Eden?” Steve called, brushing past Sheila and handing her the keys as he stepped outside. “Hey, Eden, are you out here? We’ve got pizza inside!”
Sheila reached out to stop him, but she was too late. He started toward the car.
Reluctantly, she followed Steve to the Toyota. The rain was more like a light mist, but it was still damp and cold out. With the device on the fob, she unlocked the car, and the parking lights blinked. Sheila expected to feel a gravel-packed dirtball smack into her face at any second. Or maybe it would be something worse.
Usually, Steve was pretty timid about things that went bump in the night, but here he was, grabbing the boxes out of the car. Maybe his curiosity about Eden’s mother had overridden his wariness of the situation. Or maybe he was just being brave for her.
Sheila shut the car door and pressed the locking device on the fob. The car lights blinked again. “Here, let me take one of those,” she said, catching up with him.
“I’m fine,” Steve said. As he carried the boxes toward the house, he kept stopping to glance around.
Sheila followed him to the front door. She figured if Steve went over the photographs with her, maybe he’d recognize someone he’d seen hanging around outside the house or at school.
She was about to shut the door, but someone came charging up the driveway, seemingly out of nowhere. Sheila froze. It took her a moment to recognize Leah from next door.
“You took my dog, didn’t you?” she screamed. “What did you do with her?”
It dawned on Sheila that she hadn’t heard any barking since she’d returned home.
Steve set the boxes on the foyer floor and came up behind her. “Is that the crazy lady from next door?” he whispered.
“Yes,” Sheila said under her breath. She made sure to place herself between Steve and Leah, who flounced up the walkway to the front stoop.
She shook her head at the woman. “No, we haven’t seen your dog.”
“I don’t believe you,” Leah hissed. Her tawny hair was a tangled wet mess. Sheila wondered if she was drunk. “You’re lying.”
“Why would one of us take your dog?” she asked calmly. “And if we had it here in the house, you’d certainly hear it barking. Anyway, I have no idea where your dog is.”
“Are you sure your husband didn’t see her?” Leah pressed.
“I’m positive.” Sheila glanced down at the dirt on the front stoop, which was quickly turning into mud from the rain. Then she glanced at Leah’s hands. They were dirty. “And if you throw anything else at our house again, I’ll call the police. Is that understood?” She backed up and started to close the door.
“I thought your husband would know where Trudy was because he was the last one to see her,” Leah said.
Her hand on the door, Sheila stopped to stare at her.
Leah’s eyes narrowed. “You see, the dog slipped out and ran away when Dylan came over to fuck me this afternoon.”
Sheila was stunned speechless.
“Jesus,” Steve whispered.
“You mean, Dylan didn’t tell you?” Leah’s face lit up with a superior smile. “Oh, yes, the two of us go way back. We had a very serious, very passionate affair years ago. It was wonderful. You remember the black roses, Sheila? I sent those because I felt sorry for you.”
Sheila remembered the roses all right. She felt sick to her stomach.
And all this was being broadcast in front of her son.
“Dylan used to say you weren’t bad-looking,” Leah went on. “I saw you from a distance often enough when I was watching your house. But I didn’t realize until the other day, when you came by, that up close, you’re rather plain and frum
py . . .”
Sheila felt Steve pulling at her.
“Get the hell out of here!” he yelled, stepping between her and Leah. “You can’t talk to my mother like that. My father said you’re crazy. He would never touch you—”
“Stevie, don’t even bother.” Sheila tried to pull him inside. She could feel him shaking.
“Really, he wouldn’t touch me?” Leah laughed. “Well, just ask your sister, the pale blond one. She saw us from your kitchen window this afternoon.” Hands on hips, she grinned at Sheila. “Dylan and I did it in my dining room. He had me on the table. The girl was watching.”
“Get out of here!” Steve screamed. He swiveled around.
Before Sheila knew what was happening, he pushed her inside the house. Then he slammed the door shut. “Mom, don’t listen to that crazy skank,” he said. He held onto her arms so tightly that her circulation was nearly cut off. “Dad said she was nuts. He would never . . .”
But then he trailed off, and his grip on her arms loosened. “You don’t actually believe her, do you?”
“Of course not,” Sheila lied.
She remembered those black roses, and she knew her husband.
But their son didn’t need to know.
Sheila worked up a smile and wrapped her arms around him. He was still trembling. “Thanks for coming to my rescue, Stevie,” she said, patting his back.
She pulled away and double-locked the door. She realized she was shaking, too. Any minute now, she expected a rock to smash through one of the front windows.
Bending down, she took one of the boxes and carried it into the kitchen. She set it on the dinette table, then reached over and pulled down the window shade so that they wouldn’t have to see the house next door.
Steve followed her with the other box, setting it on the seat cushion. “How about that wacko anyway?” he said with a skittish laugh. “I can’t believe her, throwing dirtballs at the house and coming up to you and saying that crazy stuff.”
Sheila went to the other windows with a view of the house next door and lowered the shades. She knew Steve was trying to convince himself that what the woman had said wasn’t true.
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