The Club

by Jane Heller

  Wait, I calmed myself. The phone.

  Now that Claire’s killer was gone, the phone was free. I could beep Tom and he’d come and rescue me. Then I’d tell him what happened and he’d go and arrest the person. End of story. Case closed. And best of all, the whole thing would be settled in time for me not to miss the dinner I’d bought myself at the Stop ’n’ Shop.

  I reached for the phone, lifted the headset off the wall, and dialed Tom’s beeper number. Then I held the phone next to my ear and waited. Nothing happened. No ring. No recorded message. Nothing.

  I hung up and dialed again. Still nothing.

  Then I held the headset to my ear. Shit. There was no dial tone. The phone was dead! The line had been cut! Now I had absolutely no way out of the elevator!

  In a total state of panic, I began to pound on the walls of the elevator.

  “Help! Help!” I shouted, knowing full well no one would hear me. Two-hundred-year-old houses are built like fortresses—at least ours was. Besides, our closest neighbor was four acres away.

  I wracked my brains for a way out of the elevator. I checked the ceiling to see if there was a trap door. I checked the panel to see if there was an emergency power switch. I checked the floor to see if the squirrels had eaten a hole in it—a hole big enough for me to crawl through.

  Just as I was standing back up, I developed a terrible cramp in my calf muscle and fell to the floor.

  “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up,” I yelled, imitating the lady in the TV commercial for those medical alert bracelets. If I’d been wearing one, I could have set off the alarm and a kindly EMS person would have rescued me. It was something to consider for the future—if I had a future.

  “Help! Help!” I screamed in vain.

  Overcome by fear and fatigue, I curled up on the floor in a little ball, my knees tucked under my chest. I tried to calm myself, but my mind ran wild. What if Hunt decided to stay in the city overnight, as he occasionally did when he was working late? What if I couldn’t get out of the tiny, claustrophobic elevator, with no light, no air, and no place to lie down? What if Claire’s killer came back to the house to bash me over the head with a pitching wedge?

  I checked my Rolex, the face of which lit up in the dark. Six-thirty, it said. Even if Hunt’s dinner with Leeza only lasted until nine, he wouldn’t be home for hours.

  I almost cried as I considered my predicament, then I decided against it. I didn’t want to sap my strength. I had seen a movie once where these guys from Kentucky were trapped in a coal mine and told not to cry or even breathe hard if they wanted to make it out alive. But trust me, it’s hard not to cry when you realize that, even though you’re a forty-year-old with no history of bladder control problems, you nearly wet your pants!

  Focus on something pleasant, I commanded myself as I sat on the floor of the elevator, trying to ignore the heat and the dark and the lack of ventilation, not to mention the fact that a cold-blooded killer had just broken into my house and threatened me. Think about the dinner you’ll have when you get out of here.

  I closed my eyes and conjured up images of the meal I had planned for myself: of that sirloin steak, so juicy and tender and flavorful; of those luscious roasted potatoes, all crunchy on the outside and moist on the inside; of the sautéed zucchini, redolent with olive oil and garlic and chopped, vine-ripened tomatoes; of the crisp, dry Merlot I would wash it all down with.

  What if I die right here in this elevator and never get to sink my teeth into a meal like that again? I thought suddenly.

  And then I cried.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I slipped in and out of a kind of haze, never sure if I was asleep or awake. I was conscious of feeling very hot, though, and very closed in, as if a grand piano were standing on my chest.

  Once I realized that fantasizing about food only made me depressed, not to mention hungry, I began to concentrate on Hunt—specifically, how we met and fell in love, a period I like to call: “Hunt and Judy: The Good Times.”

  It all began eight years ago at Karen Benzinger’s wedding at Tavern on the Green. I wasn’t looking forward to the wedding, because Karen and I were no longer friends. Sure, we’d been pretty chummy in college, but then I’d gone on to a career in book publishing and she’d gone on to an obsession with finding a husband. She wasn’t interested in hearing about my cookbooks any more than I was interested in hearing about her blind dates, so we’d drifted apart. Then an invitation came in the mail one day: “Mr. and Mrs. Oscar Benzinger Request the Honour of Your Presence at the Marriage of Their Daughter, Karen Roberta, to Seth Alan Lieberman, at Tavern on the Green…blah blah blah.” So, she finally hooked one, I remember thinking as I read the wedding invitation and tried to come up with a really good excuse not to go. I mean, who wants to go to one of those circuses where the parents invite everyone they’ve ever said hello to and the bride and groom invite everyone they’ve ever said hello to and none of the guests really gives a shit about anything except whether the hors d’oeuvres are any good? But as the date rolled around, I found myself trudging over to Bloomingdale’s bridal registry and asking to see what the happy couple had selected and buying them the very thing I hoped no one would buy me when I got married: a crystal bowl. I ask you: in the larger scheme of things, what good is a crystal bowl and how many of them can you really use?

  The wedding was on a Saturday night, and since I wasn’t a member of the family or one of Karen and Seth’s married friends, I was stuck at what is commonly referred to at these affairs as “the singles table.” There I was, seated between a slick, game-show-host type, who said he owned time shares in a condo in the Poconos and tried throughout the evening to sell me one, and a thin, intense man whose idea of table talk was: “I think that’s my water glass you’re drinking from; yours is to your right.” But the evening wasn’t a total loss because sitting right across the table from me, sandwiched between a pair of identical twins named (no kidding) Jan and Fran, was Hunt, looking as miserable and out of place as I felt. About midway through the soup course, approximately five minutes into the band’s dreadful rendition of the already dreadful “Close to You,” he got up from his seat, walked over to me, and asked me to dance.

  I had been eyeing him, of course, willing him to rescue me from Mr. Time Share, who at that very moment was describing the heart-shaped Jacuzzi that came with the condo.

  Hunt was so handsome in his tuxedo—his golden hair gleaming, his blue eyes sparkling, his teeth whiter than white. Suddenly, there he was, offering me an escape.

  “Dance?” he’d said simply. “Please,” I’d replied, a little too eagerly, I imagine.

  Then off we went, onto the dance floor, where we were nearly crushed to death by men who couldn’t manage a simple fox trot and women who were wearing too much makeup and not enough clothes. Hunt was a wonderful dancer, I learned, as he navigated us through the crowd. We talked as we danced—the basic stuff like: “How do you know Karen and Seth?” And: “What do you do?” And: “How long do you think it will be before they cut the wedding cake and this thing will be over?”

  It turned out that Hunt had played racquetball with Seth, who was a dentist, twice. “Twice? And he invited you to his wedding?” I said. “Yes,” he said. “And now that I’ve met you, I think he did me a favor.”

  Oh, boy, I thought. The blond god likes me.

  We remained on the dance floor through “Feelings,” through “You Are the Sunshine of My Life,” even through the more up-tempo “Mustang Sally,” which the lead vocalist had retitled “Mustang Karen” after being told that a Mustang was what the groom had given the bride for a wedding present. Eventually, the band took a break so the main course could be served. We went back to our table, and Hunt asked Mr. Time Share if he would switch seats. I was ecstatic. For the rest of the night, we sat next to each other, ate, danced, talked about ourselves, talked about world problems, talked about when we could reasonably leave the party without offending our hosts. By the time the bri
de and groom finally cut the cake, we were in love. I mean it. Yes, it was fast, and yes, we hardly knew each other, but it happened—for both of us. I had just broken up with an aspiring movie critic named Greg, who, because he couldn’t get a job criticizing movies, criticized me instead. Boy, did my self-esteem take a bruising in that relationship! Hunt had just broken up with the lovely and talented Bree, who threatened to make his life miserable if he ever remarried, which he had no intention of doing. But then he met me—and I caught Karen’s bouquet. So much for intentions.

  He took me home from the wedding and moved into my apartment two weeks later. We were happy. Ecstatically happy. Deliriously happy. Hunt was the nicest, sweetest, most considerate man I’d ever met. A real gentleman, except in bed, where he threw caution—and manners—to the wind and made love to me the way I’d always dreamed about. No, he wasn’t Mr. Personality and he tended to wimp out when it came to his ex-wife and he couldn’t tell a joke to save his life, but he was honest and true and very different from all the weirdos I’d been meeting, and he made me feel loved in a way I can hardly describe.

  When did things begin to change between us? I wondered as I sat on the floor of the elevator and tried not to pass out. The air was fetid and stagnant. I couldn’t remember ever feeling so uncomfortable. When had my marriage begun to—

  Oh my God! What was that?

  I listened. I could have sworn I heard a noise. A car outside? A door opening? What?

  I checked my watch. It was nine-fifteen. Too early for Hunt to be home.

  I summoned all my strength and stood up. Then I pressed my ear to the wall of the elevator and listened.

  Another noise. It was a door opening! Someone was in the house! The question was who? Had Claire’s killer come back to torture me some more? Should I call out? Or stay quiet? I was paralyzed.

  I sank back down on the floor, terrified that the psycho from The Oaks had returned to finish the job.

  Please, God, I prayed, sweat pouring down my face. Please let me be saved. I know I haven’t been a perfect wife, and I haven’t been patient enough with Kimberley, and I haven’t lifted a finger to help the starving people of Rwanda. But please don’t let me die in this elevator. Please help me—

  Footsteps! I heard them! They were coming from the floor below!

  I began to shake uncontrollably, the terror so overwhelming I couldn’t make it disappear, even for a second. Visions of a gun, a knife, a pitching wedge, flooded my mind. Then blood—lots of blood. Mine.

  More footsteps!

  I huddled in the corner of the elevator, my heart beating so loud it—

  “Jude? Are you home?”

  Oh, thank God! It was Hunt!

  “Yes! Yes! I’m here!” I screamed and pounded on the walls. I had never been so happy to hear Hunt’s voice. Never. Not even when he’d stood in front of that half-drunk Justice of the Peace and said “I do.”

  “Jude? Where are you?” he called out.

  “In the elevator!” I yelled to him. “I’m trapped! Turn the circuit breaker back on and get me out of here!”

  I heard Hunt run down to the basement. A few minutes later, the light in the elevator went on and I felt a jolt as I began to ascend to the third floor, as per the original plan.

  Hunt must have raced up the stairs because he got to the master bedroom before I did. When he opened the elevator door and saw me curled up on the floor, he gasped.

  “Jude! How long have you been in here?” he said, then came to me, helping me up. I collapsed in his arms.

  “My God,” he mumbled. “You’re half-dead!”

  “Maybe two-thirds.” I tried to smile. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, you know that?”

  He gathered me up in his arms and carried me out of the elevator, over to the bed, then let me down carefully.

  “I’ll get you some water,” he said and ran down to the kitchen. Within minutes he was back with a tall glass of ice water, which I gulped down so fast I started to burp.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Just tell me what happened.”

  “First, I’ve got to call Detective Cunningham,” I said.

  “What’s he got to do with this?” said Hunt.

  “Someone broke into the house and was still here when I came home this afternoon,” I said. “Whoever it was hid while I got into the elevator to go upstairs and then he—or she—turned the circuit breaker off. The elevator stopped between floors with me in it.”

  “Jesus, I don’t believe this,” said Hunt as he pulled on his left earlobe.

  “It gets worse,” I said. “Our little mischief maker called me in the elevator from our second line.”

  “Called you? Why?” he said. “What kind of a kook—”

  “The kind that plays golf at The Oaks,” I said.

  “Aw, Jude. Don’t start that stuff. Not at a time like this.”

  “Listen to me, Hunt,” I said. “It was Claire’s killer who broke into our house and trapped me in the elevator. He called me on the phone and told me he was sending me a message.”

  “A message?”

  “Yeah. That if I didn’t stop asking questions and snooping around at the club, I’d be sorry.”

  Hunt’s jaw dropped.

  “I’m going to call Tom,” I said as I started to get up off the bed.

  “No,” he said, stopping me. “I’ll call him. You drink your water and rest.”

  “All right, but you’ll have to go downstairs to call him. The phone line up here has been cut.”

  “Oh, so that’s why I couldn’t get through.”

  “You tried to call?”

  “Yeah. Several times. I wanted to tell you I canceled my dinner plans with Leeza. When I couldn’t get through, I called the operator and she said there was trouble on the line. I figured I’d better come home and see what was going on. I would have been home sooner, but the train broke down in Norwalk. We sat on the tracks for forty-five minutes.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “At least you’re home now.” I patted Hunt’s hand. “Why did you cancel your dinner, by the way?”

  Hunt lowered his head. “I’ve been a mess all day,” he admitted. “I couldn’t get my mind to focus on business. I couldn’t think about anything but you and me, about how we were going to fix the marriage. I love you, Judy. I’m so sorry if I haven’t shown it.”

  He put his head on my stomach and cried. We both did. After months of acting like two ships passing in the night, we had finally connected, finally reached out, finally gotten in touch with each other. It was a poignant and powerful moment—a scene straight out of a TV infomercial during which contentious couples have a tearful reconciliation and then endorse a series of self-help videotapes.

  “If anything ever happened to you, I’d die,” he sobbed as I stroked the back of his head.

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I reassured him.

  “You’re damn right,” he said. “This is the end of that job of yours. No more police work.”

  I took my hand off his head. “No more police work? Are you kidding? We’re so close to catching Claire’s killer now. The guy is panicking. He’s going to reveal himself any day.”

  “Great, but he’s not going to reveal himself to my wife. I love her too much to see her hurt.”

  “I love you too,” I said. “Come lie down next to me for a minute.”

  He climbed onto the bed next to me and we held each other. Neither of us spoke for a while. Then he broke the silence.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you about the club,” he said. “Obviously, someone from The Oaks did kill Claire, no matter how badly I didn’t want it to be true.”

  I nodded.

  “And another thing,” he said. “I’m sorry I’ve been so wrapped up in making partner at F&F that I’ve been blind to how badly our marriage has eroded.”

  I nodded again.

  “And one more thing,” he said. “I’m sorry
I’ve been so passive in terms of Bree and Kimberley. I hate myself for the way I’ve been letting them manipulate me. But all that’s going to change. I promise.”

  I nodded again, then said, “May I ask what provoked all these ‘I’m sorry’s’?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Finding out about you and Detective Cunningham. About your working for Detective Cunningham. It made me see how far apart we’d drifted. You wouldn’t have kept all that a secret from me if we’d been close, the way we used to be.”

  “No, I wouldn’t have. I’m glad you see that now.”

  He kissed me. “I see it,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I approve of your being a police informant. I don’t approve of anything that might put you in danger, Jude.”

  “I love you,” I said again. “I always have. Even when you were being a boob.” I kissed him. “But working with Tom has given me something important to do, made me feel like I’m contributing to the public good in some small way. Think about it. Think how you would feel if you could help the cops catch the person who murdered somebody. Wouldn’t it make you feel worthwhile?”

  “Of course it would. It’s just that I want to protect you.”

  “Oh, Hunt. That’s really sweet.”

  “Just like I protected you eight years ago. From Mr. Time Share, remember?”

  We looked at each other and started to laugh, recalling Karen Benzinger’s wedding. “Do I remember?” I smiled. “I was thinking of Mr. Time Share only an hour ago. It’s what got me through my evening in the elevator.”

  We clung to each other and began to kiss, first tenderly, then feverishly, with more urgency. I had forgotten how warm and soft Hunt’s lips were, how succulent, how—

  “Whoa, Jude,” he said, pulling away. “Before we get carried away, we’d better call your friend the detective. The sooner we report what happened, the sooner he can catch the guy.”

  So much for feverish. “You’re right,” I said with obvious disappointment.

  “But the minute he’s out of here,” Hunt added, “I’m going to make mad, passionate love to you, Judy. I just hope you have the strength after what you’ve been through tonight.”