by Luanne Rice
The detective had knocked on the door, asked if Nicola would be willing to talk to him.
“Does she need a lawyer?” her mother had asked.
“No, not unless she wants one. That’s certainly her right,” he had said.
“I’m fine, Mom,” Nicola said, because she knew she was innocent. The irony was, when Pete had called her after being interviewed by the detective, she had told him he had to get a lawyer, that he should have done it before talking. And fortunately he had been able to retain Mac Green, a legend in Connecticut.
She turned to Detective Reid. “Ask whatever you want.”
They sat in the living room. Her mother perched on the footstool beside her like a Drala warrior, a protector deity in the Tibetan art Nicola had studied at Yale.
“When is the last time you saw Beth Lathrop?” the detective asked.
“I’m not sure. I can’t remember exactly,” Nicola said. She’d never been good at lying, and she tried to keep her face inexpressive.
“Well, in general. This summer?”
“Spring, probably.”
“Before the baby was born?”
“It’s hard to remember—it’s been a blur, you know? Taking care of an infant?” she said, practically babbling so he wouldn’t ask any more.
“I see,” he said.
“Do you have children?” her mother asked.
“Uh, no,” he said.
“Well,” her mother said with a small laugh. “You can’t possibly imagine what it’s like. Especially caring for a baby alone. It’s hard to keep track of anything but formula and diapers.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” he said. He smiled and turned his attention back to Nicola. “I thought Pete would be helping more. By the way, I thought you two had moved into Beth’s grandmother’s house.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘moved in,’” Nicola said. “We stay there sometimes.”
“But you’re here. Is there a reason you’re not living together right now?”
“I’m not sure that’s any of your business,” Nicola said.
“Tell him, Nicola,” her mother said.
Nicola shot her a furious look. Shut up, she thought. Don’t go there; don’t say anything.
“Nicola, what happened?” the detective asked.
“The name of the game is fear,” her mother said.
“Of what? Did he threaten you?” the detective asked. “Or hurt you?”
“For God’s sake!” Nicola said, jumping out of her seat. “I’m not going to say anything bad about Pete, all right? There’s nothing to say! He’s completely devastated—his wife was murdered, and I moved out as soon as I heard. It felt like the right thing to do, to let him be with Sam and grieve, okay? And I need that too.” She choked up, thinking of Beth. “I loved her.”
“Oh, darling,” her mother said, standing up to hug her. Nicola sobbed on her shoulder. She heard the detective rising from his chair. She glanced over and saw him place his card on the front table.
“Please call me anytime, Miss Corliss,” he had said, and he had let himself out.
Nicola couldn’t stop crying after he left. She had so many feelings boiling inside: sorrow, confusion, guilt, and the most terrible yearning to go back in time and make everything be okay. She lay down on the couch and closed her eyes for ten minutes, but she couldn’t relax. She turned on her side, facing the front window and thinking about looking out.
“I suppose you’re hoping he’s back,” her mother said, watching her.
“Mom, stop,” Nicola said. But she knew Pete had been there early that morning, willing her to see him and come outside, return to him. Despite what she had told Detective Reid about leaving Mathilda’s house to give Pete time to be with Sam, there were additional complicated reasons that she was afraid to admit, even to herself.
Jean went to the window, pulled the curtains wide open. From the way her shoulders stiffened, Nicola knew that Pete’s car was idling across the street. Jean stared him down.
“Mom, stop looking out.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Jean said, folding her arms and glaring across the street. “He must have watched the detective arrive and leave so he’d know when to station himself right back here in your face.”
Nicola knew her mother wanted Pete to see her angry expression, to feel her displeasure. It was more than that: Jean hated Pete. At first, she’d been so proud that Nicola was working at the prestigious Lathrop Gallery, but her pride hadn’t lasted. She blamed Pete for wooing Nicola, getting her pregnant, diverting her from her high-achieving path, stealing her chance for excellence. Pete hadn’t introduced her to his mother, and Nicola thought it was because Mrs. Lathrop would feel the same way about her—that she had ruined Pete’s life.
Nicola was still a Catholic girl at heart, and she knew that adultery was a sin. She wouldn’t trade having Tyler for anything, but she felt guilty for so much of what she’d done. She believed she would have to pay for it, somehow.
“Pete wants us to work it out,” Nicola said.
“Well, I hope you don’t want that.”
“That’s why he’s here . . . ,” Nicola said.
Her mother didn’t turn around. Nicola was glad, because she didn’t want to see the shame and disappointment in her mother’s eyes. Nicola had fallen in love with a married man and had had his baby. In her mother’s view, Nicola had ruined her life as well as Beth’s and her family’s.
Her mother would never understand how Pete had helped her feel like part of an alien world, how he had taken her under his wing and assured her she belonged, that she was as good as all the rich people who bought art. He had come from a working-class background just like Nicola’s, and it was as if he sensed every insecurity she had. He gave her what she needed—a level of acceptance and understanding—even before she knew she needed it. He was a magician who could read her mind. He had made her feel adored.
“He’s Tyler’s father,” Nicola said.
“Women have raised children alone before,” her mother said, tapping her own chest. “Case in point.”
“I know, and I’m so lucky I had you. But Dad left—he didn’t give you a choice. Pete’s right here. We just have to get through this. It will get better.”
“Through this?” her mother asked, finally turning from the window. “His wife’s murder? The fact he’s a suspect? And that you are?”
“I’m not!”
“You’re not stupid; I know that,” her mother said. “But in this case, you are being a fool. It was written all over that detective’s face. He thinks he killed her for you. To be with you. He might think you planned it together.”
“That’s crazy! I never would! And Pete wouldn’t either—and he didn’t! Mom, you don’t know the art market—the painting that was stolen is extraordinary. I can’t even imagine trying to set a price for it. That’s the motive—an art thief killed Beth for Moonlight. And it’s not the first time it’s been stolen—or caused a death.” She said it with conviction, precisely as if she really believed it.
“You’re being naive,” her mother said. “You’d rather believe in a cursed painting than see the truth. Your boyfriend killed his wife.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying. This is a terrible time for Pete. To lose Beth this way. He’s beside himself,” Nicola said. Tyler stirred in his crib, waking up. She lifted him out and nuzzled his head.
“What I understand is that it’s terrible for Beth. And her daughter and the baby. And her sister.”
“Mom, I know. I’m heartbroken. Pete is too!”
Her mother was tall and strong, her hands callused and rough from her job. She had sharp cheekbones and a long straight nose she’d inherited from her French Canadian father and English mother. Her long dark hair had a single wide white streak on the left side that had been there as long as Nicola could remember. She was the crème brûlée of mothers: hard shell on the outside, total mush on the inside.
“You sound very sympathe
tic to Pete,” Jean said.
“Of course.”
“Then what are you doing here?” Jean asked in a flat tone.
“I . . . we . . .”
“I know you had a fight. I realize there’s stress,” her mother said. “But some women get through that without running home to their mothers. Honey, I know you’re scared. You are scared to death. I don’t know what he did to you—put the fear of God into you, I can tell. Did he hit you? Knock you down?”
“No, Mom, he never would; I swear.”
“Did he confess to you?”
“I told you, no!”
“Nicola, I know my daughter. I can tell when you’re lying. And when you’re terrified. I think you know he did it. Either he told you, or deep down inside, you just feel it.”
“You are so wrong,” Nicola said. She tried to sound as if she was outraged at her mother’s ideas. She told herself the man she loved could never have killed anyone—but she stayed awake as long as possible every night because every time she fell asleep, she dreamed of seeing Pete with his hands around Beth’s neck.
She kept trying to tell herself dreams meant nothing. She was probably reacting to his anger, the intensity of it right after Tyler was born. Pete had still been officially living at home with Beth and Sam but spending every possible moment with Nicola and their son. He would apologize, telling her he loved her, he loved Tyler—if only she would quit nagging him to leave Beth. If only she would keep the baby quiet when he visited so he could think. He was a brilliant man, and changing diapers was beneath him.
So to keep him happy, she had tried so hard to push aside her wish that they could be a real family, living together during these first days and weeks of Tyler’s life. She loved taking care of their baby. She wanted Pete to love him as much as she did. It killed her that Pete didn’t share in the joy, that he seemed about to explode in rage whenever she asked him to feed or change or even walk Tyler until he fell asleep. So she had stopped asking.
What had happened to the girl from Bard? That strong, funny, sexy, smart, sure-of-herself person named Nicola? How could someone so dynamic have turned into a mouse? She was positive that if she ever met her old self, she’d be scared of her.
But she wasn’t scared of Pete—she told herself that over and over. The pressure of the police investigation was getting to him, because he wanted them to go after the person who had invaded their home and killed Beth instead of wasting their energy on him. Not because he had anything to hide.
Well, almost anything. Nicola thought about what she’d seen Pete stash in the boarded-up dumbwaiter in the upstairs hall, above the kitchen in Cloudlands. Murderers kept trophies, didn’t they? Is that what Pete was doing? She bit her lip hard, trying to block the image from her mind.
It didn’t work.
It had absolutely devastated her to see him doing that, and that’s when she had left. She had driven straight home to her mother. But she had to admit to herself: even before Beth’s murder, she had started to wonder whether he could hurt her and Tyler.
She told herself now that she was being crazy. He hadn’t killed his wife and unborn baby. He wasn’t keeping trophies. His current moods were related to helplessness over the ridiculously misguided investigation. He needed Nicola as much as she needed him. He had always told her she brought light into his life. Her fear was so misplaced.
She sighed and rose to her feet.
“What are you doing?” her mother asked.
“Going home with Pete,” she said.
“Please, no,” her mother said. “Listen to your gut. I know you, sweetheart. You came here because you’re terrified.”
“That is not true. I just had to . . .”
“What?”
“Let him get through the funeral. Beth’s cremation. But now it’s over, and it’s time for us to go home.”
She went into her old bedroom, packed up Tyler’s diaper bag and her backpack with the few things she’d brought with her, and kissed her mother goodbye. Jean didn’t say a word. Carrying Tyler, Nicola walked out the front door.
Pete grinned through the windshield, his blond hair tousled, his pale gray-blue eyes shining with expectation and happiness. He got out of the car, opened the back door, took Tyler and buckled him into his car seat. He turned to Nicola, wrapped her in his arms, rocked her as they stood right there on the sidewalk. She knew her mother was watching.
“It will be better,” he whispered into her ear. “I promise. I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” she whispered, closing her eyes. Just before she did, she spotted a big black car parked down the street. Was it the detective, watching her? Were she and Pete about to be arrested? Or maybe it was just a car service, waiting to drive one of the neighbors somewhere. She didn’t know what to think anymore. She closed her eyes so tight she saw stars.
16
Kate flew through the cerulean sky, holding the controls steady as the Citation X hit turbulence over New York. She looked down at towering cumulonimbus clouds threatening thunderstorms on the ground. The jet bucked. Charlie MacDougal, her copilot, had white knuckles. Kate didn’t often say it out loud, but she loved rough weather. She did her best to steer above or around it for the passengers’ sakes, but when it was unavoidable, she rode through it and felt exhilarated, the way she imagined ocean racing sailors welcomed high winds and big seas and the chance to perform to the max.
She began her descent, and the clear blue gave way to dark gray. Clouds boiled around the jet, but she’d left the thunderheads over Fairfield County. No lightning in eastern Connecticut, just rain and the first storm gusts blowing in. After one stomach-dropping bump, she touched down at Groton-New London.
“That was special,” Charlie said.
Kate laughed. Taxiing from the runway to the terminal, she was surprised to see Conor’s car parked outside the anchor fence, windshield wipers going. They hadn’t made plans to meet. The ground crew rolled stairs to the port side, and Jenny, the flight attendant, opened the jet door. Kate adjusted her uniform jacket, tucked stray tendrils of hair up into her French twist, and exited the cockpit.
Jeremy and Peyton Pratt were regulars. He was a Hollywood producer, and she was a documentary director. They owned houses in Watch Hill, Rhode Island, and Brentwood, California, and they chartered jets at least twice a month, always requesting Kate as their captain.
“I’m sorry about the bumpy ride,” she said, greeting them in the cabin. It was lined with cream leather seats and polished exotic woods, a haven for the rich customers who flew Intrepid.
“Well, you can’t control the weather,” Jeremy said.
“Kate, do you have a minute?” Peyton asked.
“Sure, what is it?”
“Kate. I’ve known you a long time. I can only imagine what you’re going through, losing your sister. I’ll cut right to the chase. I want to make a documentary of her case.”
Kate paused, taken aback. “Thank you, Peyton, but no. We don’t need to relive this.”
“I understand,” Peyton said. “The whole thing must bring back the trauma of when you were young.” She paused, waiting for Kate’s reaction. “Being tied up all night. Your mother’s death—oh my God.”
Kate stared at her, stone faced.
“For Beth to have survived that experience and then to die in such a violent way. I just can’t tell you how affected I feel. This will not be a sensational, ripped-from-the-headlines, crime-of-the-week production.”
“Kate, Peyton knows what she is doing,” Jeremy said. “She will have your family’s interest at heart.”
“It will be an in-depth study of Beth,” Peyton said. “The fact she ran the very gallery where the defining moment of her life occurred: the trauma in the basement.”
“The defining moment?” Kate asked, thinking of all the shimmering, beautiful moments of Beth’s life. Love had defined her, not tragedy.
“Can we schedule an on-camera interview?” Peyton asked.
“No,” Kate said. It was all she could manage. She couldn’t even fake a smile as she turned her back. She heard the Pratts mutter as they gathered their belongings. She barely made it to the head before throwing up.
Her body remembered everything from those hours when the Andersons had tied them up in the basement. Retching over the toilet, she could feel her chafed wrists, bound to Beth’s and their mother’s. The weight of their mother’s body, slumping over, pulling at the ropes. Beth stiff, shaking uncontrollably and leaning into Kate for as much comfort as she could give.
Beth had spoken gibberish through the cotton gag.
“Beth, I’m here,” Kate had tried to say, choking on the cloth they’d stuffed into her mouth behind the strip of duct tape. She struggled like a madwoman to get free, but the harder she pulled, the tighter the ropes felt. She had known her mother was unconscious, but as time went by, her body grew cold, and the unthinkable hit Kate: her mother was dead. Yanking violently, she knocked her mother’s body over on her side so that both she and Beth were trapped beneath her. Beth screamed behind the gag. Kate had stroked Beth’s wrist with her thumb, trying to signal her to calm down, to stop fighting. She had been terrified that Beth would choke too.
“Hey, Kate.”
In the plane on the tarmac, she heard Conor’s voice now. He’d climbed the gangway and stood in the cabin. She washed her mouth out with water, spit into the sink, wiped her lips. Glancing in the mirror, she saw her eyes red rimmed and wet with tears she hadn’t even realized she’d cried. Stepping into the cabin, she saw him standing there, watching her.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She started to nod yes, but instead she shook her head no. He put his arm around her, sat beside her on the wide leather sofa along the starboard bulkhead.
“Those passengers who just got off? The woman wants to make a documentary of my ‘sister’s case,’” Kate said. “Is that how you see her—as a ‘case’?”