Birthday Girls

by Jean Stone

  “We will miss her greatly,” Sondra continued, “but her legacy will go on.” She lowered her head as though she could speak no more—which, Kris hoped, she could not—and stepped away from the microphone.

  Larry returned. “Again, let me thank all of America for your support at this difficult time,” he said soberly. “And if she could, I’m sure that Abigail would thank you too, her loyal viewers, her ardent fans.”

  Kris lowered her head. She did not want to see more.

  Edmund clicked off the remote.

  “Did you know?” she asked.

  Slowly he shook his head. “I can’t imagine how Larry convinced the board …” He shrugged with resignation. “I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

  Doesn’t matter? Kris wanted to shriek. It didn’t matter that a man who hated Abigail, who used her, who was plotting behind her back to destroy all that she had, was now going to capitalize on her death? It didn’t matter that he had coerced Edmund’s own daughter to play out his sick, twisted fantasy?

  Shaking her head, Kris tried to tell herself this was not her business. That it wasn’t her business and she should simply butt out.

  “Maybe a strong dose of hard work will help Sondra get herself together,” Edmund said quietly. “She has the baby to think of now.”

  Kris sucked in a breath. “Yes,” she replied. “I suppose she does.” Still, she couldn’t help thinking this was certainly one scenario that Abigail hadn’t counted on. Her plan to ruin Larry had obviously backfired: the worm had rescued himself in the end. And now it looked as though, by using Sondra, he would continue to benefit from Abigail’s work, from Abigail’s struggles for success, from Abigail’s success.

  No, it wasn’t a scenario that Abigail would have expected. Abigail, Kris thought, shaking her head again. Abigail, wherever you are.

  In the distance the doorbell rang. Edmund winced.

  “I’ll get it,” Kris said. She could have waited for Louisa or the butler to answer it, but Kris was glad to have a reason to leave the room, glad to not have to face Edmund and tell him what a ruse this all was.

  She expected to see the bevy of reporters who had been camped at the entrance, with drool forming at the corners of their mouths from having just learned the press briefing news.

  But when Kris opened the door there were no reporters. Only three men in suits, one holding out a badge.

  “Sergeant Donnelly,” the man with the badge said. “We’d like to speak with Mr. Hardy.”

  “If you mean Abigail’s husband, his name is not Hardy. His name is Desauliers. Edmund Desauliers.” She remained in her place.

  The sergeant did not blink. “Just tell him we’re here.”

  “Edmund, you don’t have to speak to them without your attorney,” Kris warned after she led the men into the study.

  “I don’t need an attorney, Kris. I haven’t done anything.”

  “Please,” she said, “let me call one.”

  He shook his head, then moved toward his desk. “What can I do for you gentlemen this time?”

  Sergeant Donnelly gestured toward Kris. “We’d prefer to speak with you alone.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “No.”

  “Then Ms. Kensington can stay. She was my wife’s best friend. She is as eager as I am to find out what happened to Abigail.”

  Kris was amazed at the control Edmund had, at the way in which he was polite, yet firm, with the police. Deep inside, however, she sensed his emotions were rollercoastering.

  The sergeant coughed. “The estimated value of your wife’s corporation is approximately two hundred million dollars. Is that correct?”

  Kris gasped. She had no idea Abigail’s empire had grown so large.

  “In round figures, yes, you could say two hundred million.”

  “Who gets the pie?”

  “If you’re asking who inherits Abigail’s business, Hardy Enterprises is a privately held corporation. No one ‘inherits’ it. There are investors involved. A board of directors …”

  “What about her share?”

  “My wife owned 40 percent.” He hesitated, then added, “it’s mine now. But without Abigail, it may be fairly worthless.” He did not mention Larry or Sondra or the announcement that the show would go on.

  “And what about her personal estate? This house, for instance?”

  “This house is not mine. It will be turned over to the Hardy Foundation for historic preservation.”

  “Money?”

  “Money?”

  “Your wife’s money, Mr. …”

  “Desauliers.”

  “Yeah. Her money. Her investments. You know what I mean. Who gets it?”

  “Me, I suppose.”

  “You suppose?”

  Edmund dropped into the chair behind his desk. “Yes. Yes. All right. Except for what she left to a few charities and to the servants, I’ll get most of her money. But, God, I didn’t kill her.”

  Kris slid onto the sofa. The police roamed the room.

  “This is asinine,” she said. “Can’t you see how upset Edmund is? You people have already proclaimed Abigail missing and presumed dead. You have her suicide note. Can’t you accept that and leave him alone?”

  The sergeant ignored her. “One more question. You are an art dealer, are you not, Mr. Desauliers?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is my understanding that you recently acquired some rather expensive paintings for a client who changed his mind.”

  Kris had no idea what the sergeant was getting at, but she knew there could be no connection. Abruptly she stood up. “Look, this is going too far.” She turned to Edmund. “Really, Edmund, you shouldn’t answer another question without a lawyer present.”

  The sergeant shrugged. “It’s his choice.”

  “Maybe I’d better not,” he said.

  “Fine,” the sergeant answered. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Kris watched them leave with a sinking feeling in her heart. For although she knew it was smarter for Edmund to consult an attorney, she could not dismiss the fact that because he wanted one, it automatically brought him under suspicion.

  The June cover of Savoir was going to feature Howard Stern dressed as a bride. “Outrageous, yes, but so very Howard,” Maddie had proclaimed when she presented the idea. The magazine editor went wild.

  “Explosive!” he’d shouted.

  “Hilarious!” stiff-lipped Virginia had agreed.

  The others, as usual, merely nodded in yes-man, yes-woman corporate correctness.

  However, with the anticipated abundance of pre-summer advertisers and subsequent early print deadline, Maddie needed contact sheets right after New Year’s. Thankfully, Howard had consented to come out to her studio, and thankfully, Timmy had offered to spend his school vacation helping his mother set up the shot. Lately Maddie seemed to wake up every morning with a headache that made even the thought of work repulsive.

  She’d blamed the headaches on too much sex. Putting off Cody had not been easy; she’d told him she simply had to concentrate on her work, that constructing a simulated radio announcer’s booth in her studio was no easy task. When he offered to help, she’d laughed and said that was all she needed—to watch him sweat and not be able to undress him and make love to him right there on her studio floor. It had, at least, seemed a more plausible excuse than admitting—to either Cody or herself—that she’d really rather be sleeping with Parker.

  And now, as she proudly watched Timmy adjust the lighting on the dummy control board, Maddie realized it had been wise to turn down Cody’s offer. Besides the distraction his presence would create, she would not have had this time with Timmy. She noted her son’s intensity as he squinted and angled the tungsten lamp with concentrated deliberateness. She smiled.

  “Let’s do a test,” she said to Timmy. “You can sit in for Howard. Get the Polaroid, okay? It’s on my desk in the office.”

  While he was gone Maddie studied his work. Despite what
many thought, she knew that the key to a great photo was not the concept, the subject matter, or the film. It was the lighting. Always the lighting.

  She focused on the silver-gelled light that bounced off the microphone and would highlight Stern’s face. The idea was to have the radio giant seated at the controls, posed in an organdy wedding gown and veil, talking into the microphone to his imaginary audience of the day, the June brides. Dressed to relate, Howard might say.

  Walking around the set, she decided the silver gel should work, that Timmy was learning, and learning well. Maddie never liked to think that she preferred Timmy over Bobby; it was just that she and the younger twin shared the common passion of photography. She also suspected that Timmy felt as though Parker had dumped him, too. Shared passion, shared pain. Perhaps some good had come out of the divorce after all.

  “Hurry up with that camera,” Maddie called out. “I don’t want to leave these lights on much longer.”

  There was no answer.

  “Timmy?” she called again. “Did you find it?” When he still didn’t reply, Maddie sighed and headed across the studio toward the door to the office.

  Then Timmy appeared, holding a stack of things—a stack that in no way resembled a camera.

  “Where’s the Polaroid?” she asked. But as the words came out, Maddie knew. Her eyes dropped to Timmy’s hand, then shot up to his face. An odd quiver began somewhere deep in her heart.

  “What are these, Mom?” Timmy asked, holding out his hand.

  She did not have to look. She knew what they were. “What are you doing with those?” she spoke sharply, stepping forward and grabbing the stack.

  “Pictures of Dad, Mom?” His voice was low, hurt.

  As if to hide them, as if to pretend they were not what they were, Maddie quickly clutched the photos to her breast. “Just some old memories,” she said and tried to laugh. “I’d forgotten these things were still hanging around.”

  “They’re not all old, Mom. A few of them have pictures of Dad’s new car.”

  Her heart hammered. She stalked past him into her office. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snarled. “And you have no business going through my personal things.”

  “I wasn’t going through your things. I was looking for film.”

  She stormed toward the file. The drawer was open; piles of photographs had spilled onto the floor. Choking back tears, Maddie bent down and furiously stuffed the contents back into the drawer.

  “Why, Mom?” Timmy asked.

  As she stood up quickly, the room began to spin. She grabbed the cabinet to steady herself. “Don’t ask questions when you won’t understand the answers,” she said, wagging a finger at her son.

  His head dropped. “I saw the magazines, too. They’re all here—every issue since Dad left.”

  She tried to jam the drawer shut with her foot. It did not close. “I keep them for research. Not that it’s any of your business.” She couldn’t believe how defensive she sounded. She couldn’t believe how defensive she felt.

  “No, Mom. Some of those pictures were taken from the knoll behind our house. Some of those pictures were taken when Dad was bringing me and Bobby home.”

  Her head pounded; her vision blurred. “That’s Bobby and me,” she said, then blinked.

  Timmy looked at her blankly, as if there were more at stake here than proper grammar.

  Thoughts spun in her mind. “All right,” she said slowly. “If you must know, the pictures are for legal reasons. I’ve had some custody issues with your father, and I need to keep a record.” She had no idea what she was saying; she only hoped Timmy’s youth would prevent him from questioning her further. Had she ever lied to her sons? She didn’t think so. Then again, she’d never been made to feel like a naughty child—a naughty child who’d been caught in the act.

  “As for the magazines,” she continued, praying that the tremor in her voice did not give her away, “I keep them for you. So that someday, when your father puts you on staff, you can look back and see how the work has been done.”

  Timmy didn’t answer.

  Maddie took a deep breath and stepped toward her desk. “Now,” she said, picking up the Polaroid and a box of film, trying to appear unflustered, trying to appear in control, “let’s get a few test shots before the bulbs pop.”

  She walked past him; he still hadn’t moved.

  “Mom,” he called after her, “how could you expect I’ll work for him after everything he’s done to us?”

  Maddie was silent. Carefully she loaded the camera; carefully, because her hands were shaking so hard she feared she’d drop everything. “I’ve told you before, Timmy. The divorce had nothing to do with you and Bobby. It was between your father and me.”

  “Mom? You still love him, don’t you?”

  The question had come so suddenly that Maddie was not prepared. She peered through the lens, not seeing anything on the other side because her eyes were full of tears.

  “Geez, Mom, it’s been so many years. How can you even stand to look at him? Or at those magazines? That should be your magazine, not his. I may only be fifteen, but I’m not stupid.”

  The silver light that bounced off the microphone stung Maddie’s eyes. She turned from the camera to look at her son.

  “Well, I’ll never work for that bastard,” he shouted, his voice cracking now, his soft, boyish face turning bright pink. “I’ll never work for that bastard, and you can’t make me.” He stomped from the studio.

  Maddie stared after him a moment, her head pounding, her heart aching. Then she mechanically walked around and snapped off the lights on the set, thinking that this wasn’t fair, this wasn’t right. Timmy, after all, was supposed to be like her. Timmy was supposed to be on her side.

  Later that evening Timmy was at a friend’s house when Parker called.

  “We’re flying back the day after New Year’s,” he said. “Would you like to meet us, or should I call my driver?”

  Meet them? Maddie thought. What a happy family picture that would make: Parker, Maddie, Bobby, and Sharlene. She must remember to bring her camera.

  “Maddie?” Parker asked.

  She hesitated, wondering if her head would ever stop pounding. “My car isn’t big enough for the three of you with all your luggage,” she said curtly.

  “It will only be Bobby and me.” He paused, then added, “Sharlene won’t be returning to New York.”

  Maddie stared at the phone. Bobby and I, she wanted to say as his words sunk in slowly and went straight to her heart. It will only be Bobby and I.

  It was not until after they had hung up that Maddie allowed herself to wonder what it all meant, and if her birthday wish really was going to come true after all.

  The flurry of media attention had subsided, and the police seemed to have given up trying to prove murder. It seemed as though everyone was finally content to believe Abigail’s suicide note: she was unhappy, she was sorry, she was gone.

  Kris was in Abigail’s bedroom with Louisa, sorting through racks and racks of boxes and drawers of Abigail’s incredible clothes, trying to decide what to do with them all.

  Sondra had already been to the estate and helped herself to whatever she wanted. Though mother and stepdaughter wore the same size, their tastes were dissimilar—a fact that Kris found surprisingly pleasant. For though Abigail believed Sondra was innocent to Larry’s motives, Kris felt the less connection between them, the better.

  Across the down comforter now lay three neat rows: designer originals, designer copies, and off-the-rack items. The pile of designer originals, of course, was the largest, filled with satin and sequins, silk and fur.

  “Louisa?” she asked as she stared at the piles. “Do you know what Abigail wore the night … the night of the accident?”

  Louisa stopped what she was doing. “The faille suit, I think. The navy one.”

  “Did she … did she wear any jewelry?”

  “Oh, yes. Her locket, of course. She
never took that off. And she always wore diamonds with that suit. Her great-grandmother’s diamonds.”

  A numbness coursed through Kris. The diamonds. As planned. But she was too tired, too worn out, to wonder what it meant. It could, after all, have been one more diversion to throw Kris off track, to continue this torment.

  She poked at a fur jacket. “I’m afraid these things are a bit inappropriate for a women’s shelter.”

  “What will we do?” Louisa asked with a scowl. She did not need to say she wished Edmund would tell them, or that she was disappointed he had shown no interest, had merely told them to get rid of the things however they thought best.

  “It would be a sin to trash them,” Kris said, then had an idea. “Why don’t we sell them to a secondhand shop? Then we could arrange for the cash to go to the women’s shelter.”

  “Ah,” Louisa answered. “Abigail would like that.”

  Kris didn’t know whether Abigail would like it or wouldn’t, but at this point she didn’t much care. She was tired of feeling guilty and of cleaning up the messes Abigail had left behind. If this was her penance, surely she must have paid enough by now.

  “Are you looking forward to Phoenix?” she asked Louisa, removing a Dior suit from a hanger and placing it on the designer original pile.

  “In some ways.” The money left to her by Abigail now enabled her to move to Arizona and be with her sister. And though the estate would not be finalized for some time—not until spring when a body did, or did not, surface—Edmund had advanced Louisa her share of the inheritance. “I’ll be sixty-eight this year. It seems strange to be retired. It seems even stranger not to have Abigail …” Her voice trailed off in a trickle of tears.

  “I know,” Kris said softly. “You were like a mother to her, you know.”

  Louisa nodded. “Are you leaving tomorrow, too?”

  Kris folded a silk shirt. She knew it was time for her to go. She knew Edmund wanted to begin arrangements to have the property turned over to the state, to prepare for unknown visitors to come each year and pay their five dollars or ten to traipse through the halls and gawk at the remains of an era gone by and whisper about the kind of people who must have once lived here and the glorious life they must have had.