by Joy Fielding
She’d never sleep, she realized in that same moment, getting up and going to the bathroom, brushing her teeth and splashing some soap and water on her face, careful not to rub too hard around her swollen lip. Her mind was too full of disturbing sounds and images: Joan’s voice on the phone that morning; Joan’s body at the kitchen table in the house on Lombard Street; the gaping hole in the middle of her chest; Joan’s bedroom; Joan’s scrapbook; her brother’s name in Joan’s address book; the insurance policy with its damned double indemnity clause; a life brutally extinguished; two motherless children. Why? What did any of it mean?
“I’ll be awake all night,” Bonnie moaned, crawling back into bed, and closing her eyes. In the next instant, she was asleep.
In Bonnie’s dream, she was standing in front of her high school class, about to hand out their final exams. “This is a difficult test,” she was telling her students, peering across their bewildered faces, “so I hope you’re prepared.”
She moved quickly among the rows of desks, dropping an exam paper in front of each student, hearing assorted groans and giggles. Looking up, she realized that someone had decorated the room for Halloween, as one would a kindergarten class, with large cutouts of witches balancing on broomsticks; silhouettes of black cats with their backs arched; orange pumpkins with horrific faces, their eyes large empty black holes. “You can start as soon as I finish handing these out,” she told her students, concentrating on the task at hand. There was loud laughter. “Would someone mind telling me what’s so funny?” she asked.
Haze pushed himself away from his desk and sauntered toward her. “I have a message for you from your father,” he said, a hand-rolled cigarette falling from his shirt pocket to the floor.
“No smoking in this room,” Bonnie reminded him.
“He says you’ve been a bad girl,” Haze told her, looking toward the window, Bonnie’s eyes following his gaze, seeing a large cutout of a boa constrictor woven through the old-style, thick venetian blinds.
“No,” Bonnie protested. “I’m a good girl.”
The fire alarm suddenly sounded, students bolting for the door, knocking Bonnie down in their rush to escape, trampling her under their heavy boots. “Somebody help me,” Bonnie called after them, torn and bloody, as the cutout of the snake dropped to the floor and bounced to life, slithering toward her, its mouth opening in a chilling hundred-and-eighty-degree angle, as the fire alarm continued its shrill cry.
Bonnie bolted up in bed, arms stretched out protectively, the alarm still ringing in her ears.
It was the phone.
“Jesus,” she said, trying to calm the rapid beating of her heart with a series of deep breaths. She reached across her sleeping husband and grabbed for the phone, noting the time on the clock radio. Almost two A.M. “Hello?” Her voice was husky, hovering between panic and indignation.
“I understand you were asking about me.”
“Nick?” Bonnie leaned back against the headboard, feeling vaguely sick to her stomach, inadvertently dragging the phone wire across her husband’s face. Rod stirred and opened his eyes.
“What can I do for you, Bonnie?”
He either didn’t know or didn’t care that it was the middle of the night, Bonnie thought, picturing her younger brother as he spoke, his dirty blond hair falling across his close-set green eyes and small delicate nose, a nose that seemed altogether wrong for the rest of his tough-guy face. His voice was the same as always—a mixture of charm and impudence. She remembered how he used to make her laugh, wondered at what precise moment the laughter had ceased.
“I didn’t realize you were out of jail.”
“You should call more often.”
“You’re living with Dad?”
“Condition of my parole. Is there a point to this conversation?”
“Joan Wheeler was murdered today,” Bonnie said, and waited for his response.
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” her brother asked after a lengthy pause.
“You tell me, Nick. The police found your name in Joan’s address book.”
The phone went dead in her hands.
“Nick? Nick?” She shook her head, handing the phone over to Rod. “He hung up.”
Rod sat up, running a tired hand through his tousled hair, and dropped the phone back into its carriage. “You think he could have had something to do with Joan’s death?”
“Joan calls first thing in the morning to warn me that Amanda and I are in some kind of danger,” Bonnie said, thinking out loud. “A few hours later, she turns up dead, and my brother’s name turns up in her address book. I don’t know what to think.”
“I think we should let the police handle it.”
“The police think I did it,” she reminded him.
Rod put his arm around his wife, hugged her close to his side. “No, they don’t. They think I did it. I’m the guy with the life insurance policies on all of you. Double indemnity, remember?”
“Thanks.”
“Any time.” They settled in against the pillows, Bonnie’s backside pressed into her husband’s stomach, Rod draped, spoonlike, around her.
“Of course, there’s also Josh Freeman,” she said several seconds later.
“Who?”
“Josh Freeman, Sam’s art teacher. He’s also in Joan’s address book, and he’s another link between us.”
“Get some sleep, Nancy Drew.”
“I love you,” Bonnie whispered.
“I love you too.”
“I love you more,” Bonnie said, and waited. But Rod merely squeezed her arm and said nothing.
8
Joan’s funeral took place at the end of the week.
Bonnie sat in her front-row seat in the small chapel beside Rod and his children, amazed by the large number of mourners, trying to figure out who each one was, to determine what, if any, relationship each had with the deceased.
Rod had said Joan had no friends, only “drinking buddies.” And yet, the room was literally filled to the rafters, well over a hundred people crowded into the narrow benches and pressed against the walls, and they couldn’t all be casual acquaintances with whom Joan had merely shared a few glasses of wine. Nor could they all be business associates, although the back row’s coterie of immaculately dressed women whose hair never moved were unmistakably Joan’s cohorts from Ellen Marx Realty. True, there were probably a number of people present who hadn’t known Joan at all, who were there out of morbid curiosity, intrigued by the newspaper and television coverage, aroused by the specter of sudden, violent death in the midst of their normally peaceful community.
Bonnie’s gaze stretched across the room, like an elastic band, gathering all those present into her line of vision, and then slowly popping them out, one at a time. Captain Mahoney and Detective Kritzic stood near the rear door, the captain in dark blue, the detective in light gray, their eyes alert for any movement that might seem even slightly out of place. There were several undercover officers, and, like the agents from Ellen Marx Realty, they seemed fairly easy to spot: the young man with the brownish-blond hair and blue-striped tie who sat near the back of the room and trailed after everyone with his watery brown eyes; the two balding men in casual dress, standing near the rear door, whispering to one another through loosely spread fingers. Who were these people, if not the police?
But what of all these others, these men and women with tears in their eyes and catches in their throats? Who was the middle-aged couple consoling one another in the third row on the other side of the center aisle? Who were these people immediately behind her, sharing hushed memories of the dear friend they had lost? Could they really be talking about Joan? Bonnie pushed back in her seat, straining to catch part of their conversation, but their voices suddenly stilled, as if aware of her interest.
Joan had no living relatives outside of her children, no sisters or brothers to mourn her. An only child. Lucky her, Bonnie thought, warily glancing over her shoulder, half prepared to see her
brother waltz through the door, something he would do if only for the perverse pleasure of seeing the shock on her face. She wondered absently whether the police had contacted him, then pushed him rudely from her mind, concentrating on those present. She smiled at her friend Diana, there to lend moral support, nodded at Marla Brenzelle, sitting in the row behind Diana, dressed in a hot pink number that made her look more like a mother of the bride than a mourner at a funeral. But Marla was staring just past her, looking dramatically solemn for the several photographers who hovered nearby. Was everything a photo opportunity to this woman? Bonnie wondered, catching her breath as Josh Freeman entered her line of vision. Why hadn’t she noticed him before?
He looked exactly the way he did at school, she thought, handsome in a careless sort of way, as if his good looks were something of an inconvenience, a fact of life he’d learned to accept but never really felt comfortable with. His first appearance in the staff room at Weston Secondary had created an immediate buzz among the female staff, everyone wanting to know more about the soft-spoken widower from New York. But Josh Freeman had proved as inaccessible as he was attractive, sticking mostly to himself and rarely socializing with the other teachers, although he was unfailingly pleasant and polite whenever Bonnie had approached him. What was he doing here? she wondered now. How well had he known Joan?
“Mr. Freeman’s here,” she whispered across Rod to Sam, who glanced back at his art teacher and waved, as casually as if he’d just spotted a friend at a baseball game.
A woman gingerly approached, her steps halting, her eyes swollen with tears. “Lauren,” she began, taking the girl’s hands inside her own. It was hard to determine who was trembling more. “Sam,” she acknowledged, trying to smile, but her lips began quivering uncontrollably, and she had to clamp the palm of her hand over them to still them. “Lyle and I are so sorry about your mother,” she managed to whisper. “We just can’t believe this has happened.”
Bonnie became aware of a short, heavyset man standing behind the tall, blond woman, a protective hand on her shoulder. “She was such a wonderful person,” the woman continued. “I know I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for your mother, and everything she did for me. I just can’t believe she’s gone. I can’t believe anyone could have hurt her. She was a great lady. She really was.” A loud sob escaped the woman’s lips. Her husband’s grip tightened on her shoulder, creasing the delicate silk of her navy dress.
A great lady? A wonderful person? Who on earth was this woman talking about? Bonnie looked toward Rod, who was staring at the woman with bemused detachment.
Lauren stood up, drew the woman into a close embrace.
“I’m the one who should be comforting you,” the woman told her, pulling back, wiping stubborn tears from her eyes.
“I’ll be all right,” Lauren assured her.
The woman’s hand reached out and gently caressed Lauren’s cheek. “I know you will.” Again she tried to smile, this time with marginally more success. “Your mother loved you so much, you know. She talked about you all the time. Lauren this and Lauren that. My Lauren, she would say, my beautiful Lauren. She was so proud of you…of both of you,” the woman added in Sam’s direction, belatedly seeking to include him.
Sam nodded, quickly looked away.
“Anyway, if there’s anything we can do”—the woman broke off as Lauren lowered herself back into her seat—“you know where to reach us.” The woman’s eyes scanned across Bonnie, stopping at Rod.
Rod rose quickly to his feet. “Caroline,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m sorry we had to see each other again in such sad circumstances. Hello, Lyle.”
“Hello, Rod,” the man said, coolly.
“Rod,” the woman acknowledged without taking his hand. “You look well.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I guess I keep expecting justice.”
Bonnie found herself holding her breath, her eyes moving warily between the two obvious adversaries. Who were these people? Why the hostility toward her husband?
“Thank you for coming today,” Rod said, his voice very low, almost inaudible.
The woman turned her attention to Bonnie. “You must be Bonnie. Joan spoke very highly of you.”
“She did?”
“Take care of her children,” the woman urged, before turning on her navy patent heels and marching back up the aisle, her husband trailing after her.
Bonnie turned immediately to her husband. “What was that all about? Who are those people?”
“The Gossetts,” Rod explained, sitting back down, folding his hands across his chest.
Bonnie quickly recalled their names from Joan’s address book. Lyle and Caroline Gossett. They lived across the street from Joan. “Former friends” was how Rod had described them. “I take it you weren’t on the best of terms.”
“Can’t please everyone,” Rod said easily.
What happened? Bonnie was about to ask, but thought better of it. Now was hardly the time or place to expose and explore old wounds, she thought, deciding to ask Rod about it later.
Bonnie heard sniffling, looked past Sam to his sister, who looked lost inside a loose-fitting long blue dress. “Are you all right?” she asked, but Lauren said nothing, her hands twisting in her lap. “Do you want a tissue?” Bonnie extended one toward Lauren, who refused to acknowledge its presence.
Bonnie slipped her hand into Rod’s. Help me, she pleaded silently. Help me get to know your children. Tell me how to reach them.
How could he? she wondered, when he barely knew them himself.
They had refused to set foot in their father’s new house, to become part of his new life. Over the years, conflicting timetables and increasingly divided loyalties had reduced Rod’s once-weekly visits with his children to hit-or-miss affairs. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t their fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. It was just, sadly, the way things were.
The week had been a difficult one. Bonnie was obviously still a suspect. The police had been back several times to question her further, and to talk to Sam and Lauren. Bonnie wasn’t privy to these conversations, and neither Sam nor Lauren had shown any interest in sharing the contents of these discussions with either her or their father. In fact, they said little about anything, volunteered nothing, withdrew every time Bonnie approached. They left their rooms only to eat, and then only reluctantly. After several days of this, Rod had returned to work. Bonnie had been tempted to do the same, especially since her presence at home was less than appreciated. But she felt she couldn’t leave Sam and Lauren alone in a strange house. Not yet. She had to be there in case they needed her. At least until after the funeral.
“You’re a good girl,” she heard her mother say, and Bonnie’s eyes welled up with tears at the memory of another woman who had died much too soon. How ironic, she thought, that she was missing a week of school after all, although this wasn’t exactly the romantic holiday she’d been imagining. “You’re my good one,” her mother’s memory repeated, as Bonnie swiveled around in her seat, wondering if her brother might be among the mourners.
“What’s up?” Rod asked, his arm encircling her shoulder, pulling her toward him.
Bonnie shook her head, her eyes returning to the flower-laden casket at the front of the room. She adjusted the collar of her gray silk blouse and smoothed out the pleats of her black skirt, though there was nothing wrong with either of them. She heard a shuffling in the aisle, looked up to see Sam’s friend Haze, pushing his way in among a group of women on the other side of the aisle.
“Hey there, Mrs. Wheeler,” he said. “How’s it goin’?”
A tall, gray-haired man assumed the podium at the front of the chapel. “It is with deep sadness and regret,” he began, his voice low, “that we gather here today to mourn Joan Wheeler. And it says something of the high regard in which Joan was held that there are so many of you here today. Her kindness, her spirit, her dedication, her sense of humor,” he continued, and Bonnie wonde
red again exactly whom he was eulogizing, “are qualities she never lost, despite other tragic losses.”
The man continued, proudly listing Joan’s accomplishments, rhapsodizing on the love she had for her children, alluding only obliquely to the circumstances of her youngest child’s death, providing suitable euphemisms for Joan’s subsequent descent into alcoholism, mentioning that in the days immediately preceding her death, Joan had been filled with fresh resolve, had told him that she was determined to pull herself together, to put her house in order.
Not an easy task, Bonnie thought, remembering the state of Joan’s bedroom. She found herself drifting in and out of the rest of the eulogy, unable to relate the things Rod had told her about Joan to what she was now hearing. She listened as quiet sobs filled the crowded room. Who was this woman so many were crying for? She looked over at Sam. And why were her son’s eyes so dry?
And then the service was over and the pallbearers approached the casket, hoisting it onto their shoulders. Rod and his children followed after it, Bonnie hanging slightly back, keeping her eyes resolutely straight ahead, refusing to establish eye contact with anyone, almost afraid of whom she might see. The doors at the rear of the small chapel opened to reveal a blindingly bright afternoon sun, although the air was cold. I should have worn a jacket, Bonnie thought, shivering as she watched the casket being loaded into the hearse.
She was suddenly aware of noise, of cars going by on busy Commonwealth Avenue, of people crowding around her. She wondered absently how many of them would be driving to the cemetery. None, she would have guessed before the service. Almost all, she would probably say now.
She spotted Josh Freeman out of the corner of her eye.
“Mr. Freeman,” Bonnie called after him, wending her way through the mourners, wondering fleetingly why she was addressing her colleague by his proper name. “Excuse me, Mr. Freeman. Josh…”
He stopped, turned around. “Mrs. Wheeler,” he acknowledged, a slightly puzzled look settling across his face. Was he surprised to see her here? Hadn’t he known that she was Sam’s stepmother?