Perfect Little Ladies

by Abby Drake

  Elinor did not want to order room service for dinner. She’d been closed in on the plane, stuffed into a taxi, and sitting in her hotel room for two hours. Elinor detested being alone. She blamed CJ for that; she hadn’t, after all, even been alone in the womb. For some reason, CJ never minded solitude. Another way that the twins weren’t exactly identical.

  Elinor marched into the open-air dining room and asked for a table for one.

  “In the front,” she requested. That way she could gaze at the people strolling on the sidewalk and maybe not feel as alone.

  She ordered a dirty martini (not for its taste, but because she’d recently read that olive juice was good for the skin) and a pineapple shrimp dish. She turned her attention to the happy tour ists in their plastic sandals and hibiscus-print shirts, with their digital cameras dangling from their necks. Halfway through her martini, Elinor realized she was being watched, too.

  CJ decided that reading would be a good distraction from all the nonsense created by her sister. She brought the cordless to the guest room at the top of the back stairs and went into the bedroom that she’d thought was too small. She changed into old sweats and a T-shirt, then sat in the wing chair with her feet on the footstool in order to avoid dozing again. She opened the book and began to read.

  An hour or so later she got into bed and napped after all.

  She woke up—no dreams this time—and realized the light in the room had changed from late afternoon to pale dusk. As enticing as it might seem, she decided she couldn’t very well stay in bed until Elinor came home on Friday.

  She could make dinner. Yes, that’s what she’d do.

  She’d make something elaborate that would take a long time.

  She’d pour a small glass of wine and sip while she was cooking.

  She’d turn on the news like a civilized American.

  She’d call Kevin to check up on Luna.

  Maybe she’d call Elinor to see if her cell worked.

  Yes, there was plenty to do so she wouldn’t be tempted to return to Malcolm’s room, to Malcolm’s bed.

  Running her hand through her knotted hair, CJ grabbed the cordless and trundled downstairs. She scooted into the kitchen and halted abruptly.

  There, at the sink, stood Malcolm.

  Twenty-nine

  “CJ?”

  “Mac?” She hated that she’d called him Mac and not Malcolm. She hadn’t called him Mac to his face since, well, since then.

  He laughed a small laugh. “Fancy meeting you here. In my kitchen.”

  “I…I was upstairs. Asleep.” She wanted to comb her hair the right way. She wanted to brush her teeth. She wanted to put on the things she’d left behind . . the batik with the matching shrug, the capris, the cropped top. She wanted to thank God that as soon as she’d gone to Elinor’s bedroom to try on the housekeeper’s dress, she’d ducked into Mac’s room, straightened the comforter, closed the door.

  “Is Elinor here?” He never referred to E as his wife, not to CJ anyway.

  CJ shook her head. “She had a crisis with the dress for the party. Her seamstress is in Philadelphia.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Philadelphia?”

  “I don’t think she expected you here.”

  There was silence a moment. That’s when CJ noticed he had one hand on a wine bottle that sat on the counter.

  “Wine?” he asked.

  “Sure.” She hoped she sounded nonchalant.

  He retrieved another glass from the cabinet and filled both halfway. He handed her one.

  “Cheers,” he said.

  She smiled and sipped. Then she realized he hadn’t asked why she was there. “My decorators,” she suddenly said.

  “What?”

  “I’m having the house painted. Elinor said I could come here because of the paint smells. You know what that’s like.”

  “Sure,” he said, asking no more explanation. “When is she coming back?”

  CJ wished she could take out a bowl and some salad greens. It would give her something to do while she stumbled over the lie. But it was his kitchen, not hers, so she stood in one place and drank from her glass. “Tomorrow.”

  “That must be some crisis.”

  She nodded. “I guess.” She couldn’t very well have said Elinor wouldn’t be home until Friday. Let her sister deal with her husband on that.

  “So,” Malcolm said. “We’re alone then?”

  They’d known each other nearly thirty years. They’d shared, well, everything once. Almost everything. She still thought about him more than she should. And now she didn’t know what to say. “Janice was here earlier.”

  “I know. She’s back in Washington now. She’s having a problem with her job. She tried talking to her mother, but you know how well they get along.”

  Or, rather, don’t get along, CJ thought. The same way E had often argued with Father, parent and child, too much alike.

  “So that’s why I came. To talk to Elinor about Janice.”

  “Well,” CJ said, “it’s too bad you missed her.” She sipped her wine again, trying to avoid Malcolm’s eyes. He looked tired. His hair had more gray than the last time she’d seen him; his shoulders were a little slumped.

  “We could sit down,” he said.

  “Or I could make a salad. You could turn on the news.” She supposed that sounded odd, but in the moment, it was the best she could do.

  “Sure,” he replied. “That would be good.”

  He moved toward the dining area and clicked on the television. CJ opened the refrigerator and pulled out the drawer to the vegetable crisper. And soon they were like an old married couple, saved from conversation by CNN and romaine.

  At another time, in another place, Elinor might have been flattered. She might even have been tempted to do God-only-knew-what. After all, the man was not unattractive.

  Toying with her martini, Elinor tried to casually study him without being noticed.

  He was tall with dark hair. From where she sat to where he sat, she could not tell if his eyes were dark or light. He was young—well, younger than she was. In his mid- to late thirties. A black tank top clung to his rippled abs and curved around well-sculpted arms.

  Like Elinor, he was alone.

  And he kept looking at her.

  She turned her gaze back to the sidewalk, to the colorful paper lanterns that lined the street, to the thatched kiosks with the racks of coconut tchotchkes and bountiful beads and T-shirts in shades of tropical fruits. She had chosen to stay at the Cayman Cabana instead of a downtown or beachfront hotel for the same reason she had flown coach: no one would suspect Elinor Harding Young to mingle with the middleclass, straw-tote-bag set.

  Tomorrow morning she’d get a cab. Even then, she wouldn’t ask to be driven straight to the bank. She’d already studied the booklet of attractions that was displayed on the rattan table in her room. She’d decided to ask the driver to bring her to the shopping district in George Town. No one would question why a woman was alone if she wanted to shop.

  The pineapple shrimp arrived and she said no to a second martini. As much as she would have enjoyed its glow, she could not trust herself while that man sat three tables away.

  Picking at the shrimp, she wondered if she’d ever been this damn scared in her life.

  Maybe she should call Mac. Tell him what happened. Tell him the truth. Would he be her savior, or would he divorce her? After all these years of marriage, why didn’t she know?

  Because of CJ, of course. Because of the fire that Father had started between them, then he’d gone and died and left Elinor to deal with the ashes.

  Maybe she should call Remy. Ask him what to do. But would he dismiss her as a hysterical woman, no longer worthy of his love?

  Love? Ha ha.

  “Excuse me.”

  Elinor pulled her eyes from the sidewalk.

  He was standing beside her, the muscle man from three tables over. He held a drink in each hand.

  “I hate eating alon
e. Can I bribe you with a martini?”

  She looked at the angle of his jawline, the thickness of his neck. She noticed his eyes were brown, liquid brown. His lips were just full enough to be quite inviting, his black jeans just tight enough to hint at stimulation of the very best kind.

  Pushing back her chair, Elinor stood up. She was close enough now to feel his heat. She plucked the glass from his hand, then set it on the table. “You’re welcome to sit here, but I’m afraid I can’t join you. It’s been a long day, and I must meet my husband.”

  She picked up her bag and exited the restaurant, aware that she’d barely touched the pineapple shrimp and would be hungry by morning.

  It might have seemed like a chicken thing to do, but Poppy didn’t much care. She went downstairs, slipped past the study, and breezed through the kitchen on her way out the door.

  “Tell my husband I’ve gone to the club and didn’t want to interrupt him,” she said to Nola, who was emptying the dishwasher.

  “Then you’ll see him there. He went with his brother. He said you might be sleeping and I shouldn’t disturb you.”

  When she arrived in Momma’s driveway, Poppy called Manny. She supposed she’d reach his voice mail, but she wanted to let him know she’d like to see him in the morning. That way she couldn’t back out.

  “Detective Valdes.”

  It wasn’t his voice mail but his voice.

  “Oh,” Poppy said. “Oh, dear, is this Manny?”

  “Manuel Valdes, yes it is.”

  “Oh. Manny. Well, hello.”

  “Hello. Who is this, please?”

  “Well, it’s me,” she said. “It’s Veronica Landry, your sister’s friend.”

  Silence.

  “It’s Poppy,” she said. “The redhead.”

  He laughed, but it wasn’t an unpleasant laugh. “Poppy. Right.”

  “I need to see you. On law enforcement business.” She hadn’t known what else to call it. “May I come to your police station tomorrow?”

  “Sorry. I’m off duty tomorrow.”

  “Oh,” she said again. “Well.”

  “How about Friday?”

  By Friday she might have changed her mind, retreated into her Poppy, scared-little-girl mode. “No,” she said, “Friday might be too late.”

  For a few seconds, Manny said nothing. Then he asked, “Where are you now?”

  “In Mount Kasteel. At my mother’s.”

  “Do you know how to get to Brooklyn?”

  Poppy, of course, had no clue. But she did have one of those navigation things that Duane had made sure were installed in both of their cars so they “could always find one another,” he’d said. More than once she’d thought it was really so he could find her when he needed an advance on his allowance. “If you give me an address, I can find it.” At least she’d paid attention when Duane taught her how to use it.

  Manny rattled off an address, then added, “I hope you like kids.”

  “Kids?”

  “It’s my house. I have three kids, and they can get pretty loud.”

  Poppy told herself it didn’t matter that Manny had three kids and no doubt a wife. She was not going to do what she was going to do in order to win a man…or even to get a date. The truth was, he was the first police officer she’d known whom she felt she could trust. And it was high time she set a few things straight.

  For her own sake.

  For Elinor’s sake.

  For Momma’s sake, too.

  She went into Momma’s house and did what she needed to do. Then she entered Manny’s address into her car’s navigation system and headed for Brooklyn, alone.

  Thirty

  A picture of the Virgin Mary hung over the television, which was tuned in to a program where people were dressed like they lived on a deserted island and were playing some sort of game. None of them appeared to have recently showered, and all were shouting.

  Two boys (teenagers?) were sprawled in front of the television. One of them wore a sweatshirt with a hood pulled up over his head.

  “Gentlemen,” Manny said, “we have a visitor. A lady.”

  The boys hauled themselves to their oversized feet. They were both taller than Manny. They had dark hair and dark eyes and wide, sparkling smiles.

  “This is my eldest, Enrico, and my youngest, Alejandro. Boys, this is Veronica.”

  They took turns shaking her hand and said, “Yo,” or a ver sion thereof. Manny said he also had a daughter, Marisa, who was at a friend’s.

  “They’re twelve, thirteen, and fifteen,” he said. “And their sole purpose in life is to drive me insane.”

  “That’s right, dude,” the eldest jested. “And don’t you forget it.”

  The boys laughed and resumed their positions in front of the TV. Manny rolled his eyes and looked at Poppy. “I am blessed,” he said, and she could tell that he meant it.

  They returned to the narrow entry hall, where Manny picked up the large satchel she’d brought.

  “Follow me,” he said, and so she did, through a French door that, like the rest of the house, was framed in dark wood. “It’s an old house,” Manny said. “It’s a little tired, but it’s home.”

  She wondered what it was like for Manny’s kids to have a father who lived under the same roof, a father who protected them, loved them, every day. For all the money Poppy’s father had left Momma, it hadn’t filled up the hole Poppy felt whenever she saw kids with their dad.

  The room they went into was too small for the overstuffed sofa and the wide wooden desk and had the aura of a man. In place of end tables, there were stacks of magazines with book bags teetering on top. Manny grabbed a bunch of newspapers off the sofa and gestured for her to sit down. He moved to the other side of the desk and sat. Behind him was a wall-length bookcase that held more magazines, books, and a number of trophies, though Poppy couldn’t make out what sport the little gold man on top played.

  The trophies, however, reminded her of her satchel.

  “So,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  She’d sat too far back on the cushiony couch, so she had to struggle to move forward to open her bag. “I think my husband is blackmailing my friend, Elinor, because he knows I’m a thief,” she said. “Actually, at first I thought he was sleeping with her, too, but now I think it’s just blackmail.” She dipped into the satchel, surprised that her hands were not trembling. Then, one after another, extracted the trinkets. “This is from the Lord Winslow,” she said, pulling out the call bell. “And this from the Waldorf, and this from the Plaza before it was turned into condos. That was a shame, don’t you think?”

  In less than a minute she had a dozen of Momma’s treasures lined up on Manny’s wooden desk.

  “There are more back at Momma’s,” she said when she was finished. “Now you’ll have to arrest me.”

  Manny cleared his throat and inspected the collection assembled before him. “Well,” he said. “Before I arrest you, I’d like you to explain what this has to do with your friend and the half million dollars.”

  She adjusted her shawl and curled a few strands of hair. Then she took a long breath and launched into a full explanation of Duane and his brother and the old silver mine and the money they needed to get it going again.

  “It’s too much coincidence,” she added.

  Manny nodded. He was a nice man, she was sure she’d been right about that. She guessed his family was lucky to have him.

  Then he said, “But Poppy, help me understand. Does your husband really think he can get away with the blackmail? These trinkets are pretty, but they’re hardly worth five hundred thousand.”

  “Oh, they’re just the beginning,” Poppy replied. “He over heard me talking to Momma about our big secret one day, about how it was me, not Momma, who killed the gardener.”

  Manny didn’t flinch or squirm or even look aghast. “What gardener?”

  “It was a long time ago, but I killed him all right.
Momma took the blame. She said he was peeping in the window. At me. Alice. Elinor. CJ.”

  “But he wasn’t?”

  “No. We’d been there earlier, but we’d gone down to the lake. He wasn’t there then. By the time he arrived, he saw Momma. She was on the couch having sex with Mr. Harding, Elinor and CJ’s father.”

  Poppy paused for a breath. Manny said nothing.

  “I forgot my movie star magazine, so I went back to the cottage to get it. I saw Sam Yates peeping through the window. I came up behind him and saw what he saw. He was laughing and muttering something about his ticket ‘straight to retirement.’ Then he spotted me. He raised his rake and tried to hit me. But it got tangled up in my hair. I grabbed the pruning shears. I stabbed him in the back.” Saying it out loud was not as difficult for Poppy as she’d once thought it would be. She’d never told a single, solitary soul, not even her therapist. Momma had made her promise; she’d said it was for Poppy’s own good, that Momma would handle confinement much better than Poppy could.

  Manny stayed silent.

  “Don’t you see?” Poppy asked. “Momma let them arrest her. She served five years in jail. Poor Momma!”

  “And your husband heard all of this?”

  “I told him he misunderstood. But he knows about these little trinkets. And I think he also knows how to use other people’s indiscretions to his advantage.” There was no need to reveal that each time he had asked for more money, Poppy had been afraid to say no. “Don’t you see?” she went on. “If he doesn’t get what he wants now, he’ll expose Elinor’s secret. If you arrest him for blackmail, she should be safe.”

  “So it won’t matter to you what he says about you?”

  Poppy shook her head. “It’s time I paid for my crimes. But Elinor doesn’t deserve this. It’s not like she killed anyone.” She didn’t add that Duane wouldn’t even have known Elinor if Poppy had listened to Momma and not married him.