by Joy Fielding
The front door suddenly opened, a woman appearing on the outside landing, watching Bonnie, as if she had been aware of her presence all along. “My goodness,” the woman said. “It is you.”
“Hello, Adeline,” Bonnie said, surprised to hear her voice so strong. She stopped, her feet immediately taking root.
“I thought it was you when I saw your car pull up. I said to Steve, ‘I think we have a visitor. I think it’s Bonnie.’”
“And what did he say?” Bonnie asked.
The woman shrugged. “You know your father. He doesn’t say much.”
Bonnie nodded, not sure whether to stay where she was or to continue up the pathway. Not that her feet gave any indication they would cooperate, she realized.
“I kind of thought we might get a visit after your phone call,” Adeline continued. “I said to Steve, ‘I bet Bonnie pays us a visit.’”
“Here I am,” Bonnie acknowledged.
“So I see.”
“This isn’t easy for me,” Bonnie said.
“It doesn’t have to be so difficult.”
“Is my brother here?”
“Not at the moment.”
Bonnie felt her shoulders sink, although she wasn’t sure whether it was with disappointment or relief.
“Why don’t you come inside and spend a few minutes with your father?” the woman continued. “Seeing as you’ve come all this way.”
Was she being sarcastic? Bonnie wondered, fighting the urge to turn around and flee. The truth was she didn’t know this woman her father had married very well at all. She’d seen her only seldom since their wedding, talked to her only when she had no other alternative. Exactly the same way Rod’s children treated her. What goes around comes around, Bonnie thought.
“We won’t bite,” Adeline Lonergan added, her wide smile revealing both rows of teeth.
Bonnie was about to say no, but her feet, rather than backing their way down the front path, suddenly propelled her forward. “I see you’ve made some changes,” Bonnie said, nearing the front door.
“About time, wouldn’t you say?” Adeline’s blue eyes almost twinkled under a soft gray fringe of hair.
Bonnie was too busy staring at the interior of the small house to reply. The heavy flowered paper that had once covered all the walls had been literally whitewashed. White walls were everywhere—the halls, the kitchen, the living and dining areas. Pale green sheers had replaced the dark velvet drapes of the main rooms, light maple substituted for heavy mahogany. Whites, yellows, and greens stood in for burgundy and black.
“Like it?” Adeline asked, inviting Bonnie into the living room, and motioning for her to sit down on the pale yellow sofa.
“It’s certainly different,” Bonnie allowed, the only concession she was willing to make. In fact, her heart was racing. She felt giddy and light-headed, as if she were Dorothy newly awakened in the Technicolor world of Oz.
“Those dark colors were so oppressive. And depressing,” Adeline added, lowering herself into a mint-green chair. “How have you been?”
Bonnie took a second to calm herself. “All right,” she said, then wondered what the question had been.
“Everyone is well, I hope.”
“We’re all fine, thank you.” Bonnie fidgeted in her seat. She noticed a Bible sitting on the coffee table beside the latest edition of Vanity Fair. “My father…?” Bonnie looked toward the hall, head spinning, her brain unable to digest the changes her eyes were perceiving. She felt her body reel, grabbed the arm of the sofa to steady herself.
“He knows you’re here. He’ll be down in a minute, I expect. Old bladders are just one of the joys of aging.”
Bonnie nodded, already regretting her decision to come inside. “You’re looking well.”
“I watch what I eat and try to stay in shape. I have a Debbie Reynolds tape that I exercise with a few times a week, and your father and I go for long walks every day.”
Bonnie stood up, walked to the window, stared outside, trying to picture her father walking by with her mother, but the image refused to come. Her father had always been too busy to go walking with her mother. “What about your travel business?”
“Oh, my daughters took over that several years ago. Your brother is working there now.”
Bonnie’s head swiveled toward her father’s third wife. “Really? And how is that working out?”
“Very well, from what my daughters tell me. Nick has changed a lot in the past eighteen months.”
“I hope you’re right.” Bonnie checked her watch. It was almost seven-thirty. “Look, I have to go. Will you tell my father…”
“Tell me what?” a voice asked from the doorway.
Bonnie’s head snapped toward the sound.
“Hello, Bonnie.”
“Dad,” Bonnie acknowledged, the word heavy on her tongue, like a wad of cotton.
Steve Lonergan folded his hands against his chest and drew his shoulders back, a gesture Bonnie remembered from her youth, one that had always filled her with anxiety. Even now, she felt her pulse quicken, although the almost delicate old man who stood before her, his white hair receding into nothingness, his skin oddly translucent, was hardly a figure of fear. Age was shrinking him, Bonnie realized, common sense telling her he’d never been as tall as he stood in her memory, but surprised anyway by his obvious mortality. His face still bore a thin veneer of toughness, but there was a softness in his light hazel eyes that Bonnie couldn’t remember having seen before.
“What brings you out this way?” Her father walked into the living room, easing himself into a green-and-yellow-striped wing chair and beckoning her back to the sofa.
“A student of mine lives in the area, and I needed to drop something off for him,” Bonnie heard herself reply, feeling the soft cushions of the sofa collapse under her.
Her father chuckled. “You were always a terrible liar.”
Bonnie’s face flushed a deep red. Was she a bad liar because she hated lying, or did she hate lying because she was so bad at it? “A student of mine lives in the area,” she repeated, “and I was hoping to talk to Nick,” she admitted after a brief pause.
“Nick’s not here,” her father said.
“I know.”
“Adeline gave him your message. Didn’t he get in touch?”
“Yes, he did.”
“You’re looking a little tired,” her father said suddenly, and Bonnie felt her eyes well up with tears. “Working hard these days?”
“Well, it’s been a busy time.”
“So the police tell me,” her father said. “I guess now I have three grandchildren I’ve never seen.”
For an instant Bonnie was speechless.
“How is my granddaughter?” her father asked.
“She’s fine,” Bonnie whispered, her words wobbling into the air, dropping to the ground. Someone emptied a pail of blood over her head today, she almost shouted, but didn’t. She wanted to jump from her seat and run from the room, from this house where she’d known only unhappiness, from the oppressive dark flowers that were threatening to burst through the whiteness of the walls, but she couldn’t move. Imaginary vines had wrapped themselves around her ankles and wrists, tying her to the sofa, securing her to her past, refusing to let her break free.
“She’s how old now? Three? Four?”
“You know how old she is,” Bonnie reminded him.
Steve Lonergan nodded. “Well, let’s see. She was born two months after your mother died….”
“I don’t want to talk about my mother.”
“Really? I thought that’s why you might be here.”
“I’m here to see Nick.”
“Nick’s not here.”
Bonnie closed her eyes. This was stupid. Why had she come? Again, she tried to push herself out of her seat, but her body refused to cooperate. “Did Nick ever say anything to you about his relationship with my husband’s ex-wife?” she ventured.
“He has an alibi for the time of her de
ath, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“You?” Bonnie scoffed.
“It was his day off work,” Adeline interrupted, “and he was helping us around the house.”
“You’re his alibi?” Bonnie repeated incredulously.
“Why would we lie?” Adeline asked.
“And what about today?” Bonnie demanded, ignoring the question. “Another day off?”
“I believe it was, yes. It varies from week to week, from what I understand. But I don’t know where Nick went today. He’d already left by the time we woke up.”
“That’s all right,” Bonnie told them, using her hands to push her body away from the sofa, rising unsteadily to her feet. “I know where he was today.” She walked to the front door, refusing to glance up the stairs, to acknowledge the ghosts waiting just behind the bedroom door. “Just tell him to stay away from my daughter,” Bonnie said, throwing open the front door and racing up the pathway to her car before anyone could say another word.
What was the matter with her? Bonnie glared at her reflection in the car’s rearview mirror. Her eyes stared back reproachfully, tears still hovering, lids already showing signs of swelling. “Don’t you cry,” she told herself. “Don’t you dare cry.” What had possessed her to go back to that house? What had she hoped to accomplish by confronting her father and his wife? Had she expected her father to throw himself at her feet and beg her forgiveness? I’m sorry I was such a lousy father; I’m sorry for the pain I caused your mother; I can’t live any longer with the guilt of her death. Is that what she’d been hoping to hear?
What was her father doing living in that house? Hadn’t he been all too eager to leave? Wasn’t he the one who’d walked out, the one who left her mother alone with two children? What right did he have to be back there? To be happy there? How would her mother feel if she knew?
“I should never have gone there. I’m stupid. Stupid.” Bonnie hit the side of her head with her hand. “I need my head examined, is what I need. How could I have gone back there?”
What was it her father had said? That he assumed she’d come to talk about her mother? Why had he assumed that? What could he possibly think she’d have to say to him? What could he possibly think she’d want to hear from him?
“Just as long as you give Nick my message,” she said out loud, sighing with relief when she saw the sign announcing she was back in Weston.
Of course, it was possible Nick hadn’t had anything to do with what had happened to Amanda. What possible motive could he have for wanting to hurt her child after all? What could he possibly hope to gain?
The only person who had anything to gain from something happening to either Amanda or herself was Rod, Bonnie realized with a gasp, her foot inadvertently pressing down on the brake, jolting the car to a sudden stop. The car stalled. “Now, you’re really being stupid,” she said, restarting the engine, grateful there’d been no one behind her. “I won’t have to wait for someone to shoot me,” she said. “I’ll get myself killed.”
What was she thinking about? Rod was the kindest, sweetest man in the world, despite what a few of Joan’s friends and neighbors might think. What exactly had Caroline Gossett meant at Joan’s funeral anyway? “I keep hoping for justice,” she’d said. What did that mean?
So what if Rod had insurance policies on her and his children? Lots of men carried life insurance policies on their families.
On their children? a little voice asked. Double indemnity?
Rod didn’t have an alibi for the time of Joan’s death, the unwanted voice continued. He’d met with her brother without telling her.
He’d been sleeping in his office at the time of his ex-wife’s death, Bonnie silently countered. Her brother had come to see him about some wild idea for a series. Rod hadn’t told her because he hadn’t wanted to upset her.
Or maybe there was another reason for Nick’s visit to the studio. Maybe the two men had other things to discuss.
Like what?
Like murder, the little voice said.
Again Bonnie’s foot slammed on the brake. This time, loud honking erupted around her. Bonnie glanced in her rearview mirror to see the man in the car directly behind her giving her the finger, his angry lips contorting around the words “women drivers!” “Great,” Bonnie said. “Thank you very much.”
Don’t forget about Haze, the little voice continued as soon as Bonnie’s foot reached for the gas.
“Haze had no motive for killing Joan,” Bonnie said. “She may have been a tight-ass, but I hardly think that’s motive enough for murder. He may not think much of me as a teacher, but killing me isn’t going to get him a passing grade.”
Unless he, too, stood to gain financially from Joan’s death. Unless someone had offered him a share of future spoils. Possibly a friend who cared more about his mother’s Mercedes than he did about the bullet through her heart. Ding dong, the witch is dead!
“Jesus Christ,” Bonnie said. Could she really be thinking these things? Could she really suspect her husband and her stepson of murder?
Bonnie turned the car onto Winter Street, her house appearing, like a mirage, at the second twist of the road. Rod’s car was in the driveway, and Bonnie pulled hers in beside it and shut off the engine.
Home sweet home, she thought.
12
The next day she went to see Caroline Gossett.
The modern bungalow was painted yellow, with gray shingles and black awnings. It stretched across the land like a lazy yawn, open and twisting in odd and unexpected directions. Rather like my life, Bonnie thought, as she proceeded slowly up the winding stone walkway to the black front door, careful to avoid looking over her shoulder at Joan’s house across the street. “What am I doing here?” she asked out loud, a question she seemed to be asking with alarming frequency of late. “I must be nuts.”
Bonnie pressed the doorbell twice in rapid succession, heard it respond with the first bar of “London Bridge Is Falling Down.” There was a long narrow panel of glass on either side of the front door, and Bonnie tried to peek inside, but her view was hampered by the gathered sheer curtains that fell across the windows like a heavy film. What she could see of the interior of the house looked elegant and upscale—dark wood floors, a baby grand piano in what was likely the living room at the back, a tall brass sculpture of what appeared to be a nude woman.
She should have phoned first, she decided now. She should have phoned and asked whether she would be welcome, what would be the most convenient time to drop by. That would have been the reasonable thing to do, the polite thing. As it was, she’d simply obeyed a sudden, unfortunate impulse and driven here directly after school was finished. She didn’t even know if Caroline Gossett would be home. It was barely past three in the afternoon. The woman was probably still at work. If she worked. Bonnie had no idea what Caroline Gossett did with her time, whether she was a busy executive or a stay-at-home mom, if she did volunteer work or if she worked out eight hours a day at the local gym. She knew nothing about Caroline Gossett at all, other than that the woman lived across the street from her husband’s ex-wife, and that she’d obviously thought the world of Joan.
Every time that Bonnie had tried to broach the subject of Caroline Gossett with Rod, he’d waved her questions aside with an impatient hand and a frown. He had no interest in discussing the past, he’d told her. Caroline Gossett was a frivolous and superficial woman with misplaced loyalties. He’d had no use for her when he was married to Joan; he certainly had no use for her now.
So, what am I doing here? Bonnie wondered again, bypassing the bell to knock loudly on the door. Joan spoke very highly of you, she remembered Caroline saying at the funeral. Why had Joan spoken of her at all?
“Hold your horses,” a voice called from inside, footsteps approaching. A woman’s face appeared behind the soft fabric of the side panel curtains, pulling them sharply aside, her blue eyes obviously taken aback by what they saw. “You’re Rod’s wife,” Caroline Gossett s
aid, opening the door and staring at Bonnie with undisguised curiosity.
Caroline Gossett was as tall as Bonnie remembered, but thinner, less imposing now that she was out of her navy silk dress and into a pair of jeans. Her blond hair was pulled into a short ponytail, and her pink cotton shirt hung loose over her hips. She wore no makeup. Even still, she retained a certain elegance.
“I was wondering if we could talk,” Bonnie heard herself say.
“Sure,” the woman said easily, backing into the front foyer. “Come on in.”
Bonnie stepped inside. “Thank you. I know I should have called….”
“No, it was probably better you didn’t. The element of surprise and everything.” Caroline Gossett closed the front door and motioned toward the kitchen. “Would you like some lemonade? I just made a fresh pitcher.”
No, I shouldn’t, Bonnie thought. “Actually, yes,” she said. “I’d love some.”
“This way.”
Bonnie followed Caroline Gossett into her large square kitchen. The room was white and yellow, with earth-toned Mexican tiles on the floor, and a series of framed charcoal drawings of women and children on the walls, obviously by the same artist of the pictures in Joan’s living room. Either the women had very similar tastes or there’d been a sale at a local gallery. “These are lovely,” Bonnie remarked, her eyes moving from a picture of a mother holding her newborn baby in her arms to one of a middle-aged woman cradling an old woman, probably her mother.
“Thank you.”
“I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you,” Bonnie ventured, thinking she should probably say this, even if she didn’t mean it.
“Actually, I’m glad for the break. I was getting a little cross-eyed.” Caroline Gossett opened the refrigerator, took out a large pitcher of pink lemonade and poured them each a glass.