"Oh, please, "I said. "How about you just buy me lunch?"
He sat back in his seat, looking pleased. "Works for me," he said.
Twenty-Five
I took Evan to the least sexual, least suggestive place I could think of, which was the Chuck E. Cheese's two towns away from Upchurch. We weren't likely to see anyone I knew, and if we did, well, who'd conduct a tryst in broad daylight at a theme restaurant that catered to six-year-olds?
"Nice," Evan said, holding the door, then touching my elbow lightly as we walked up to the hostess's stand. "Very atmospheric. Can we play whack-a-mole?"
"I'm married," I said crisply, in a tone that belied the way my knees were trembling. "The only one whacking my mole these days is my husband."
"Maybe skee-ball, then," he said, with an agreeable shrug. I risked a quick sideways glance. He'd gotten a few wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, a few silver hairs lacing the black curls near his temples, all of which only served to make him even more appealing, which was unfair on a celestial level. Lord knows my wrinkles and gray hairs had done little to improve my looks.
"Welcome to Chuck E. Cheese!" said a beaming, ponytailed girl behind a yellow and orange plastic podium. She held paper party hats in one hand and plastic leis in the other. "Are you here for Trevor's birthday party?"
Evan shook his head. "Yes, we are," I said, and helped myself. I put the party hat defiantly on my head and stared at Evan until he shrugged and put on his hat too. Now I'd be able to look at him without wanting to undo the last seven years of my life and/or haul him into the bathroom for a quickie.
We sat down on two plastic stumps in front of a kid-sized plastic table and ordered a cheese pizza and a pitcher of soda.
"So," said Evan, looking me over. The party hat wasn't working, so I tossed a plastic lei across the table and wondered if I could ask the waitress for a clown nose. Maybe that would do the trick. "How'd you wind up in Connecticut, anyhow?"
"My husband," I said simply. "He thought it was safe here."
His eyebrows lifted. His curls hung over his forehead, almost to his eyebrows and, as always, I wanted nothing more than to reach out and brush them away. "And you just went along with him? Left your job? Left Janie?" He shook his head. "I'm surprised she didn't just buy Connecticut to make you move back."
"I had children. Have. Have children. Here." I pulled out my little monogrammed leather folder where I kept two-year-out-of-date pictures of Sam, Jack, and Sophie. "See, these are my twins, Sam and Jack. Of course, they were newborns in this picture, they're three now, and this is Sophie..." I flipped through the pictures, then placed the folder under my left hand, like a Bible, for strength.
"They're adorable," he said. "Do you like it here?" I couldn't think of what to say, as our waitress bounced over with the soda and two cups. He poured for both of us.
"I..." I picked up my plastic cup and drank. "I miss..."
He refilled my cup. "The city?"
"The pace of it. The energy. Being able to just walk out my door in the morning and be somewhere, you know? Without having to get in a car, or set up a play date. I miss first-run movies--I mean, not like I've got time to even go to the movies anymore. I miss my job. I miss watching Mark try to throw his chair every Thursday. I miss takeout, and taxis, and sample sales, and the Cowgirl Cafe, and Magnolia Bakery, and window shopping on Fifth Avenue, and tennis in Riverside Park, and...." You. I shut my mouth. Then I shut my eyes. "It's a big change, living here," I said. When I opened my eyes he was staring at me, studying my face carefully.
"You know, nothing was the same after you left."
The waitress slid a steaming pizza onto the table. I pulled off a gooey slice and took a big bite, wincing as the molten cheese scalded the roof of my mouth. "You were the one who left," I pointed out, as soon as I could speak again.
"I know. What I meant was..." He shifted on his seat and handed me napkins. "When you were living down the hall, when I was hanging out with you and Janie. I think, sometimes, that was the happiest I've been."
"Why not?" I tossed my hair, puckered my lips, and blew on my pizza. "You had everything. You had the two of us to keep you fed and amused, and you had Michelle to go home to every night. What man wouldn't have loved that?"
He picked up his own slice. "You're not being fair."
I twirled mozzarella around my finger. "What, to Michelle?"
"No, to yourself. How do you know you weren't the one I would have rather gone home to every night?"
"Because I threw myself at you! I had such a crush...I did everything but staple a Welcome mat to my private area..."
Evan started laughing. "Your private area?"
I felt my face flush. "That's what Sophie calls it," I mumbled. "Her private area."
"She's a cutie," Evan said. "She looks like you."
I felt my eyes well with tears for the umpteenth time that day. I saw Madeline and Emerson Cavanaugh standing on the stage of the Upchurch Town Hall. She was the best mother in the world. "Yes," I said, and nodded helplessly. "My little girl." I wiped my hands, then my eyes. No more, I decided. No more of this. It's the road less traveled, and there's no point in even thinking about it again.
I sipped from my cup and got myself together. "You knew Kitty."
Evan nodded, crumpling his napkin. "From New York. She was a client. Every once in a while she'd give me a name of a man and ask me to do a background check. Basic biographical stuff--where they lived, when they'd gotten married, if they'd had kids."
"What kind of names? How many? Was this for Content? What was she looking for?"
"Hey, hey, easy, easy," he said. He gave me a smile, then pulled a notebook out of his back pocket. "I think I checked out maybe half a dozen men for her, starting in 1998."
"All men?"
"All men. Most of them lived in New York, one was an ophthalmologist in Maine, one was down in D.C."
"Why was she investigating them? What did she want to know?"
"Like I said, all she asked for was basic biography--stuff you can probably find out on the Internet these days. In terms of why..." He exhaled in frustration and spread his hands on the table. "I know she was doing some writing, and some of them were pretty big deals--politicians, college professors--but not all. But the thing is, with clients, with this kind of work, you don't always ask, and they don't always volunteer. Kitty didn't."
"And then she called you again?"
"Two weeks ago," he said. "We caught up for a few minutes, and then she said she was getting to the end of her investigation."
"What investigation?"
Evan gave another maddening shrug. "Like I said, don't ask, don't tell. She said she was pretty sure she'd found what she was looking for, but there were a few loose ends she needed to tie up, and was I still doing investigative work. I told her I was; she said she'd be in touch. She had another name, but not one she felt comfortable emailing or saying over the phone. So I waited." He shook his head and crumpled another napkin. "The next call I got was from the police, saying she'd been murdered." He leaned forward. "I asked her if she knew you."
The restaurant was spinning. "You knew I moved to Upchurch?"
He shrugged. "I keep up."
"How? I know Janie doesn't talk to you."
"Give me a little credit, Kate. It is my job. And your wedding announcement was in the Times, so I knew your new last name."
"What did..." I took a deep breath, trying to shove away the thoughts of Evan caring enough to find out my new last name and my new hometown. "What did Kitty say about me?"
"That she only knew you from the playground, but that you seemed smart. Funny. Good with your kids."
I swallowed hard. "She said that?" Of all the things I'd expected Kitty to say about me, smart, funny, and good with her kids would not have topped the list the way incompetent, clueless, and in desperate need of a personal trainer might have.
"So she never gave you the name?"
He shook his head.
He tore a page from the notebook and handed over a sheet of paper with four names. One of them I actually recognized--Emmett James, a literary critic and poet who taught at Yale.
"I couldn't find all of the records. Here's what I've got. This guy's the doctor in Maine," Evan said, tapping the page. "He makes instruments," he said, pointing to the name David Linde. "And this one..."
I leaned over to see the last two words on the page and felt things start to go gray again. "Bo Baird?"
"She had me check him out ten years ago," Evan said. "Before she started working for Laura Lynn. Before Laura Lynn was Laura Lynn, come to think of it."
I stared at the page. "So what's the connection?"
"I don't know. All I know for sure is that Bo Baird didn't do it--"
"But maybe Laura Lynn did," I said, wiping my sweaty palms against my skirt. "Or it had something to do with money, because Laura Lynn got a major book advance."
We paused for breath and looked at each other. I pulled my notebook out of my purse.
"Who have you talked to?" he asked.
"How do you know I've talked to anyone?"
He smiled. "Because, Katie, I know you. I know how you operate. No way could you resist this."
"Sure," I grumbled, trying hard to ignore the warm glow that hearing him say my name had ignited in the pit of my belly. "I'm the same as I ever was. Just with less sleep."
He tapped the blank page with his pen, smiling his merry smile as he looked at me. "Give it up."
I flipped to the first page of my notebook and told him everything: how I suspected that Philip Cavanaugh might have been sleeping with the sitter and God only knew how many other neighborhood ladies; how Delphine Dolan had been a friend of Kitty's prior to her move to Upchurch and how Kevin Dolan seemed to be carrying a torch for the deceased. I told him how Laura Lynn had told me that Joel Asch had gotten Kitty her job because they might have been sleeping together, and how my interview with Joel made me think that was a definite possibility. I told him all about my meeting with Tara Singh and Philip Cavanaugh's question, Was she happy? Then, after a minute of hesitation, I told Evan about the note on my car. His eyes got gratifyingly wide.
"Whoa." He scribbled something down, then looked at me. "So what's the plan?"
I toyed with a lock of my hair and tapped my pen against a blank page. "Nail down the infidelities. Who was Philip sleeping with? Who was Kitty sleeping with?"
"Good," he said. "Very good. We should also take another look at the gentlemen on my list."
We. He'd said We. My heart soared, then sank just as quickly. There was no we. I was married. Married with three kids, and a house in the 'burbs. No we. I shouldn't even think of the letters W and E in combination.
"Let me take the men," I said. "I'll get Janie to help. You take the neighbors. The Dolans, specifically, and Philip Cavanaugh, and Joel Asch. See what you can dig up on him."
He nodded and wrote it down. "What's your plan?" he asked.
I doodled hearts along the border of the page as I thought. It took me a minute to realize I already had the perfect opportunity to ply my neighbors with drink and ask them pointed questions about Kitty Cavanaugh's life and times. "Ben and I are having a holiday open house for the people he works with on Saturday. I can invite the neighbors too."
"That'll work," said Evan. I could see--or imagined I could see--admiration in his eyes. I lifted my hair from the nape of my neck, shook out the curls, and let them tumble down my back, noting the way his eyes followed my movements.
"What should I wear?" he asked.
I pulled off my party hat and gave him my very best go-to-hell look. "You, my old friend, are not invited."
Twenty-Six
Before the boys' birthday party disaster, I'd considered myself a pretty fair hostess. I'd thrown parties when I lived with Janie, simple affairs involving the purchase of ten-pound bags of ice, cases of beer, and whatever wine we could find on sale that didn't come in a box.
Things slowed down once I was married. There was our wedding, of course, but that had been much more of Ben's mother's show than mine. Lorna Borowitz had been happy to let my father book a string quartet for the ceremony and we'd spent six chatty weekends in a row schlepping from one bridal salon to another, but she'd been reduced to horrified silence when Reina offered to sing "Ave Maria" as I came down the aisle. "I can do something Jewish!" Reina had offered, a little belatedly, long-distance from Sydney. " 'Hava Nagila'? 'Kol Nidre'? Something from Fiddler on the Roof ?" "Thanks but no thanks," Lorna had finally managed. Reina had contented herself with humming along in loud harmony to the string quartet's rendition of "The Wedding March" until I'd glared at her from underneath the chuppah, and she'd shut up.
After that, parties in our apartment had been extremely low-key, especially once the kids arrived. We'd invite Ben's partners and their girlfriends of the month over for takeout Thai on Sunday night, or we'd buy lox and bagels and invite Lorna, Ben's brother Mark, and his girlfriend for brunch. The one time I'd invited my New York Night friends over after the babies had come hadn't gone well. Half a dozen reporters and fact-checkers had shown up after midnight, expecting to find the fete in full swing. Instead, they'd arrived to Dan Zanes on the stereo, me with an armload of wide-awake two-year-old, and Janie rummaging past the wine and champagne in frantic search of a sippy cup. The guests hadn't enjoyed themselves; the kids hadn't slept; and I woke up to shrieks of horror the next morning when Sophie discovered that someone had taken an adult-sized poop in her potty.
This time, I was going to get it right. No Cheetos, no board games, only the finest in food and flowers. My only concern was that, as the week went on, the guest list seemed to have snowballed slightly out of control. Ben had invited two dozen of his work colleagues for postelection armchair quarterbacking. I'd added the Dolans and the Sutherlands, the Coes and the Gwinnells, and then once word got around every other mother on the playground, plus her husband, plus the houseguests some of them had asked to bring along. Then I'd casually mentioned the affair to my father and he'd been eager to attend, along with Reina, who, as luck would have it, was in town. I'd invited Janie, her father, and his new wife, and I'd even extended the olive branch and asked Mrs. Dietl at the nursery school to attend.
The dozens of details--renting linens and extra chairs, ordering flowers, emptying the living room of three contractor's trash bags full of toys, had left me little time to obsess over Kitty Cavanaugh's murder, or Evan McKenna's reappearance. Our only post-pizza contact had come via email, where he'd written to say he was looking into the Dolans, Joel Asch, and Philip Cavanaugh. I polished the good china, rented a fifty-cup coffee urn, and bought five hundred dollars' worth of wine and liquor from the package store on Old Post Road.
By Saturday night, the house was gleaming (thanks to the cleaners I'd hired), the kitchen was redolent with the smells of a dozen delicacies, from single spoonfuls of sherry-laced cream of mushroom soup to miniature duck-confit puffs (all provided by Glorious Foods and trucked in from Manhattan), my kids were arrayed in their freshly pressed finery (pressing courtesy of Gracie the sitter, finery thanks to Janie's personal shopper at Barneys).
My best friend had arrived at six p.m. sharp, looking stunning in a full-length fur coat over a slit-to-there black skirt and steel-blue satin top, both undoubtedly made by some designer I'd never heard of, whose wares I could neither afford nor pull up past my knees.
"BFF," she said, embracing me, then pulling a wheeled calfskin-covered suitcase into the foyer. She was sporting a pair of extremely high black heels that twined around her calves with black satin ribbons, and large quantities of both eyeliner and perfume. Her hair looked freshly colored, her teeth were a glaring white, and there was a pair of Chiclet-sized platinum-set diamonds flashing from her earlobes, in case the cumulative effect of all that high-maintenance gloss wasn't blinding enough.
"What's with the luggage?"
>
"Oh, just a few things for the kiddos. And I might be staying awhile," she said. I picked up the suitcase and led her up the stairs. The kids thundered down the hall to meet her and ran into her arms.
"Who loves you more than anyone else in the whole world?"
"Aunt Janie!"
"Who brought you fabulous presents?"
"Aunt Janie!"
"Who dumped the guy with the toupee because she found crab medication in his bathroom?"
"Aunt Janie!" screamed Sam and Jack. Sophie, who wore a red velvet party dress with a matching bow slipping out of her fine brown hair, wrinkled her nose.
"Were his crabs sick?" she asked.
"Yes!" I said brightly, shooting Janie a murderous look. "But I'm sure they're feeling better now!" I handed the kids off to Gracie, led Janie into my bedroom, and shut the door behind us.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry," she said, and flopped onto my bed, lying spread-eagled on my beige down comforter. I was dying to ask whether she'd actually bought our entire apartment building with the sole aim of tossing Evan and Michelle out on the street, but if I brought it up, she'd know that Evan and I had been in touch, and God only knew what she'd do to him then. Or to me. Or both of us.
"So it's okay if I stay awhile?" Janie asked.
"Like I could stop you if I tried."
"Good. Because I'm actually on assignment."
I wriggled my black skirt over my hips and started pawing through the mismatched shoes on the shelf of my closet in search of the velvet ballet slippers I'd remembered seeing up there. "Huh?"
She grinned, sat up, and started reeling off headlines. " 'Fear and Loathing in the Suburbs'! 'Murder and Mayhem in the Promised Land'!" She paused for the piece de resistance, her eyes wide and sparkling. " 'Momicide'!"
"That's the worst title I've ever heard. Are you doing this for New York Night?" I asked, knowing that the magazine's coverage rarely strayed beyond celebrities and what they were snorting.
"They're branching out into hard news," Janie said smugly. "They're very interested in a piece about people who left the city in order to be safe and ended up not so safe." She crossed her legs, admiring her shoes, before scowling at mine. "Is that what you're wearing?"
Goodnight Nobody Page 20