by Meg Tilly
She wasn’t there.
“Sarah!” He burst into the bathroom even though it was pointless. He knew before the door bashed into the doorstop that the bathroom was empty. “Dammit.” He ran his hands agitatedly through his hair, rubbing his scalp in an attempt to force his brain cells to think . . . Think!
Nothing.
He reentered the bedroom, his eyes scanning for clues. Her purse is gone. Her shoes are, too. Not her coat, though. Why didn’t she bring her coat? Must have stayed in the hotel. Downstairs maybe, in the restaurant getting a bite to eat! He was on the move, back out of the bedroom into the living room, heading for the door, when he saw out of the corner of his eye a piece of paper placed on the coffee table. He snatched it up.
Mick,
Phillip called. I’m meeting up with him. Have to break the news about Vicki. It’s not going to be fun. Love you. Hope you weren’t stuck too long at the station.
—Sarah xo
Was the messy printing of her handwriting because of her injury, or was it a result of the drugs? Probably it’s a combination of the two, he thought as he sprinted down the hall. He jabbed the elevator call button. She’s with Phillip. Phillip Clarke. Should be safe. A longtime family friend. So why was the notion of that filling him with dread? The elevator doors glided open, he stepped in, and pressed the button for the lobby. The couple already in the elevator took one look at him and drew closer together. Mick turned his back to them and focused on the illuminating floor numbers above the door, as if that would make the elevator move faster. Where is this feeling of panic coming from? Am I freaking out? Is this some sort of anxiety attack? Sarah’s ex is in jail. She should be safe. Or maybe this unease is tied up with the Vicki mess? Mick had read enough newspaper articles, seen enough true crime shows to know that it’s usually someone close to the person. A family member, a friend, or a lover . . . Mick’s stomach clenched further. Was it a crime of passion, for monetary gain, or to silence someone, or all of the above? Phillip Clarke ticks at least one of those boxes, maybe more. That Sarah knew about Phillip’s relationship with Vicki might put her at risk as well. The elevator doors opened. Mick tore out into the lobby, through the front doors, out onto the street, and ran full tilt up the block, turned right on Lexington. He didn’t have the address, but he knew the distinctive building that somehow managed to blend the grandeur of a historic old post office with a sophisticated modern flair. Mick had clocked it because he’d thought it would make a good visual backdrop when shooting in New York. He would figure out the floor when he was in the lobby. Then the memory of standing in the elevator with Sarah yesterday flashed before him. When the floor number twenty-eight lit, her back had stiffened and her chin had lifted. Phillip Clarke’s office was on the twenty-eighth floor.
55
“Jane,” Phillip called in a singsong voice. “I brought you a little surprise!” He was acting odd, but grief presented itself in strange ways. Perhaps this frenzied excitement is a coping mechanism, Sarah thought as she followed his slight, bird-legged frame through the mudroom, which had a door leading to the back garden. Two pairs of muddy Wellingtons sat neatly on a rubber mat by the door. One adult-sized, and a miniature pair, that were pale pink with a sparkly bow at the back. There were also two pairs of gardening gloves. Both items looked damp, as if Auntie Jane and her mini-me had recently been mucking around in the dirt. One of her boys must have had a little girl. How nice for Auntie Jane. She’d always bemoaned the fact that she’d only had boys. A wide-brimmed straw gardening hat hung on a hook. Oversized dark movie-star sunglasses that were quite fashionable a decade ago dangled from the hat’s adjustable chinstrap. A smaller straw hat hung on a lower hook and had purple plastic sunglasses with specks of glitter embedded in the frames. Sarah paused, taking in the cozy tableau. Kevin was incarcerated now. She didn’t have to run anymore. The future was wide open. Someday, perhaps she would open her parents’ house in the Hamptons and re-create the memories of her past with her future children. She could always adopt. There were plenty of kids who needed homes. And she and the children would dance on the beach at dusk with the fireflies, have hot dog roasts, and go to The Palm as she did with her parents, sun-kissed, sticky with sweat and particles of sand. She bent over and gave the little pink boots a gentle pat. When I have children, I will tell them stories of their grandparents and cook and garden with them, too.
“What is wrong with you, woman?” Phillip’s angry voice cut into Sarah’s daydream. “Can’t you follow the simplest instructions?” Sarah’s head jerked up, guilty, as if she’d been caught stealing candy, but Phillip hadn’t been talking to her. He was glaring into the kitchen. Awkward. Sarah heard Auntie Jane murmur something but couldn’t make out what she was saying. Nevertheless, it wasn’t appropriate for him to be taking out his frustrations on Auntie Jane, who was a dear little soul. Sarah straightened and hurried forward. “I specifically requested that you lock the kid in her room.”
“Be reasonable, Phillip. You called Mrs. Bailey an hour ago. Hadn’t checked with me before instructing our housekeeper to give our entire staff the rest of the day off, even the gardeners. You knew I was planting. And the nanny? Seriously? You can’t expect the child to spend the entire day locked in her room by herself. It’s inhuman.”
Sarah rounded the corner and looked into the kitchen over Phillip’s shoulder. “Hi, Auntie Jane,” she said with a jaunty wave, as if she weren’t plopping herself in the middle of a marital minefield. “And who is this little cutie?” Sarah asked, because there was a small child with pale-blond pigtails and large blue, blue eyes peeking out from behind Auntie Jane’s legs.
“Goddammit.” Uncle Phillip smacked the back of his hand against his palm. “Get her out of here.”
“Sarah . . . ?” Auntie Jane had turned pale, as if she were seeing a ghost. “Is that you?”
“Now,” Uncle Phillip hissed out through clenched teeth. Auntie Jane hoisted the little girl onto her hip and ran from the kitchen. Okay. That was just weird. Sarah could hear the little girl crying and Auntie Jane attempting to soothe her as her footsteps fled down the hall, up the circular staircase. “I’m surrounded by incompetence,” he muttered. Sarah turned to look at him. His face was mottled with suppressed rage. People dealt with the death of a loved one in different ways, but this was unacceptable. Sarah could hear the tread of footsteps overhead, fainter and fainter, and then the far-off thud of a door closing. Suddenly, Phillip hitched up the waistline of his slacks and then stormed through the kitchen to the arched doorway Auntie Jane had just exited through. I really wish I’d stayed at the hotel and enjoyed my book. Sarah stepped into the kitchen. There were crayons and a partially finished drawing on the breakfast table in the nook.
“Jane,” Phillip bellowed. Sarah glanced over. He was standing at the foot of the stairs. “Dump the damned kid and get your ass back down here. I need your help.” He strode back into the kitchen, smoothing the strands of his gray hair back into place.
“Sorry about that,” he said, attempting to smile congenially, as if he hadn’t just had a meltdown. “Can I get you a drink?” He smoothed his shirt into his pants as he strolled to the refrigerator. He swung the fridge door open and peered inside. “Cider, white wine, juice boxes, mineral water . . .”
“I’m okay for now. Look, Uncle Phillip, I don’t mind the little girl. Seriously. She’s welcome to stay down here with us. If you want to know the truth, I really adore children. Had always planned to have a ton of my own someday. So, you’d be doing me a kindness. Truly.”
Sarah heard a gasp and turned to see Auntie Jane standing in the doorway staring at her, her hand rising to her throat. “He . . .” Her gaze darted to her husband and then back to Sarah again, her eyes wide. “He said you didn’t—”
“Jane.” His voice cracked like a whip. “A picnic. We need a picnic.”
“Yes . . . Yes, of course.” She crossed the kitchen to the pantry a
s if in a daze. Okay, Sarah thought. These painkillers are messing with my mind. I feel like I’m missing half the content of these conversations. Auntie Jane reappeared from the pantry a moment later with a wicker picnic basket. She placed it carefully on the white marble kitchen counter as if it were made of glass. Her gaze flickered up from the basket to lock with Sarah’s, only for a moment, but the impact was like a fist to Sarah’s gut. The expression in Auntie Jane’s eyes was almost luminous with sorrow. Then her head tipped downward like the broken stem of a flower. She moved to the fridge and opened it like a sleepwalker. “We have some nice cold fried chicken,” Auntie Jane said to Uncle Phillip in a tentative voice. “Would that do?”
“Fine.” He seemed agitated. He was standing in the breakfast nook staring out the window at the rear garden beyond.
Auntie Jane took a Tupperware container of chicken out of the fridge and placed it in the basket. “There’s also some leftover chocolate layer cake. Would you like some of that?”
“Woman, I don’t care what you put in the basket. Just pack the damn lunch and let’s get on with it. I’ve got to return to the city later today.” He turned from the window. “Excuse me.” He crossed the kitchen. “I need to grab something from my study. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared into a room down the hall. Sarah caught a quick flash of lovely mahogany paneling and bookcases before the heavy wooden door swung shut behind him.
“Can I give you a hand, Auntie Jane?”
“No . . . no . . .” the elderly woman murmured. The color still hadn’t returned to Auntie Jane’s cheeks. She seemed suddenly old, shaken. The kitchen was quiet, just the sound of Auntie Jane packing a few more items into the basket, Uncle Phillip thumping around in his study, and the faintest sound of the soaring score of a children’s movie playing upstairs.
A wave of melancholy swept over Sarah. She had always thought of Auntie Jane as relatively content, with a good marriage. Apparently, nothing was as it seemed. One thing is for certain. I’m going to start shopping for a new lawyer. I refuse to have abusive people in my life. Perhaps the man is polite to me, but how he treats his wife speaks volumes. Once her divorce was finalized, the trust her parents had set up would be dissolved. For the time being . . . Sarah slipped her hand into her purse and pulled out the package of M&M’s. “I know we are eating soon, but . . .” Sarah shrugged and managed a grin, trying to lighten the mood. “Would you like a couple? You know, an amuse-bouche?”
“No, thank you, dear.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No. Don’t worry, dear. He gets like this sometimes. I’m so glad you dropped by. Seeing your face reminds me of happier times. When you smile, you look so much like your mother.”
“I miss her,” Sarah said softly.
“Me too.” Silence fell over them. Just the distant sound of Uncle Phillip banging around in his study. Then Auntie Jane straightened her shoulders. She seemed to come to some sort of decision. “Sarah.” There was an urgency in her voice. “There is something you need to know—” A door slammed, jerking both of their heads in the direction of the hallway where Phillip was fast approaching. “Later,” she whispered, then busied herself with the latching of the picnic basket. She looked demure as always, the dutiful wife incarnate, but Sarah could see a stubborn set to Auntie Jane’s jaw that spoke of rebellion. Sarah hoped so, not only for Auntie Jane’s sake, but for the small granddaughter who was living with them as well.
56
“I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Clarke is not in the office at present.” Mr. Clarke’s secretary smiled at him perkily.
“Yes. I am aware of that,” Mick replied. “Mr. Clarke is with Sarah Rainsford. I was supposed to go with her, but I got held up at a meeting.”
“You must be mistaken,” Hannah said helpfully. “He’s not with your friend. He had to go to his home in Westchester. His wife needed his assistance with something. A plumber or gardener, I can’t remember.”
Mick had wiped his face in the elevator, but he couldn’t do anything about the cold sweat congealing under his jacket. He kept a pleasant smile on his face even though his insides were vibrating with tension. “Ah, yes.” He snapped his fingers. “That’s right. I was supposed to meet them there. Mr. Clarke and his wife are contemplating selling the family home and making the apartment in New York their residence since the”—his brain scrambled through conversations with Sarah, then flashed to the photos on Phillip Clarke’s desk, tossed up a Hail Mary, and went with it—“boys are grown. Sarah remembered the lovely old home from visiting as a child and wanted us to take a look at it since we are relocating here.”
“Oh!” Hannah brightened, her mouth shaped into a little circle. “How wonderful. I’ve never seen it, but I heard it’s simply beautiful.”
“However, I’ve misplaced the address.” He smiled at her with all the boyish charm he could muster. “You wouldn’t happen to have it, would you?”
“I do! Here, let me write it down for you.” She called up Phillip Clarke’s address on her computer, scribbled it down on a piece of notepaper, then handed it to him. “There you are. Enjoy!”
“Thank you,” Mick replied. “You’ve been so helpful.” He spun on his heel and headed for the elevator.
“If you get a chance, would you let Mr. Clarke know?” he heard the secretary call after him. “I’m a new hire, and I need all the brownie points I can get.”
“Absolutely,” Mick called over his shoulder as he broke into a jog. He yanked out his cell phone and got to work. By the time he’d exited the building, he had a helicopter waiting to fly him to Westchester. He stepped off the curb, hailed a cab, and hopped inside. “How long will it take to get me to Pier Six? Located at South Street and Broad?” Mick asked the cabdriver.
“Twelve minutes.”
“I’ll give you a hundred extra if you can make it in six.”
“You got it, Mister,” the cabbie said with a wild look in his eyes. “Better hang on tight.” As the taxi peeled out into the traffic, Mick inputted Detective Kostas’s number on his phone keypad and listened to it ring. It went to voicemail. Mick called his precinct and had him paged.
57
Phillip seemed to have a certain spot in mind because he’d had them cross the backyard at a quick clip. They had passed the lap pool, went through a gate, and were now tromping across an elaborate garden with an abundance of flower beds, mature shrubs, and trees. Auntie Jane was lugging the picnic basket. Sarah offered to help carry it because it was clear Phillip wasn’t going to assist, but Auntie Jane waved her off. “I’m stronger than I look,” she said. Sarah was grateful for the navy waxed rain jacket with a quilted tartan lining Auntie Jane had draped over Sarah’s shoulders as they had followed Phillip out the back door. The jacket was quite effective at cutting the wind. Sarah tipped her head and rubbed her cheek against the corduroy collar. It reminded Sarah of her mother, who had worn the exact same raincoat but in sage green. Had she and Auntie Jane purchased the raincoats together on one of their famous shopping sprees? Sarah’s purse was banging against her thigh, and the weight of all the extra junk inside was starting to make her shoulder ache.
Phillip was striding ahead of them in a businesslike manner, as if he were Hitler inspecting the troops. His fisted hands were shoved into his sports jacket pockets, causing his elbows to poke out in an odd fashion. Must be hard for him to march around with that stick up his ass all the time. Sarah pulled her attention back to Auntie Jane, who had the picnic basket hugged to her chest and was huffing a little. Her cheeks were flushed. “My right hand is strong and able if you’d like to take a little break?”
“I’m fine. Truly.”
“Okay. Let me know if you change your mind.” They walked a little farther in silence. “Is your granddaughter going to be okay, left alone in the house?” Sarah asked.
Auntie Jane’s gaze darted over to Sarah like a startled sparr
ow. “I . . .” Her lips parted as if the inhalation she’d just taken was trapped halfway down her throat. She blinked, then fixed her eyes on her husband’s back. “I turned on Frozen.” Auntie Jane glanced over again. “It’s her favorite movie. She would watch it over and over if I let her.” A sad smile graced her lips. “Listen,” she whispered softly. “There is something you need to know.”
Phillip turned abruptly. His eyes were cold, hawklike. “What are you two talking about?”
Sarah saw a slight tremor ripple through Auntie Jane, but she met her husband’s gaze straight on. “Lilly,” she said in a clear, calm voice. “A terrible misunderstanding has happened. I’m not sure how it came to pass, but it needs to be rectified.”
“Bullshit.” Phillip stormed over, grabbed Auntie Jane’s arm. “You will tell her nothing,” he hissed as he dragged her away from Sarah. The picnic basket tumbled from Jane’s arms, the contents scattering on the ground. He stopped near a large deep hole hidden by a copse of trees. There was a good-sized northern red oak tree lying on its side. The root ball was wrapped in burlap and wire mesh. There was also a large bag of fertilizer, a spade, and a backhoe. Auntie Jane started crying, obviously upset about the fallen basket.
“Hey, dude, seriously?” Sarah dropped to her knees, causing her injured abdomen to complain. She didn’t care about the damned picnic, but clearly her aunt did. Sarah turned the basket right-side up. “Just because you’re feeling crappy,” Sarah said, anger flaring as she returned the fallen food to the basket, “doesn’t give you the right to manhandle Auntie Jane.”
“Shut up, you spoiled brat!” The viciousness in Phillip’s voice jerked Sarah’s attention from the fallen food to him.
“Wow,” she said, getting to her feet. “Nice to know how you really feel.”