Goodnight Nobody

by Jennifer Weiner

  "Well, I've been trying mental telepathy, but it doesn't seem to be working. How's the party?" Evan McKenna asked.

  I fumbled for the light switch, and heard two of the three bulbs pop when I flicked it on. "Fine."

  His voice was low and intimate. "Wish I was there?"

  "Oh, you'd love it. It's the bash of the century. And I really should get back." I pulled my wrap tightly around my shoulders.

  "Fine," he said. "Your present should be there tomorrow."

  I drew in my breath, imagining what Evan McKenna could be sending me.

  "Hanfield yearbooks," he said. "Two for you, two for me. I thought we could see if anyone looked familiar."

  "That's. Well." That was smart was what I wanted to say, but I didn't want to encourage him. "Can you do me a favor?"

  "Name your pleasure," he said. I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my thighs together.

  "Delphine Dolan," I managed to say.

  "The lawyer's wife," said Evan. "The one whose picture was in Kitty's bedroom."

  "Well, she's here, and she's being"--I paused, savoring the word I was about to use, one of my favorites from my days as Evan's assistant investigator, his partner in crime--"hinky."

  "Hinky," he said. He sounded amused. "I'm on your case. You go have fun," he said. I hung up the phone and paused, trying to compose myself. The basement was full of the kids' cast-offs, the car seats and snowsuits they'd outgrown, trash bags full of baby blankets and clothes that I'd been meaning to take to Goodwill. In the weak glow of the single working bulb, the high chairs and bouncy seats cast misshapen shadows on the walls.

  I fluffed my hair and made my way up the stairs. My heart was beating too fast, and the doorknob felt cold in my hand. When I turned it, it stuck.

  I tried again. Nothing doing. Had someone locked the door behind me? I knocked, softly at first, then louder. "Hello?" I twisted the doorknob back and forth and thumped my first against the door. "Janie? Ben? Hello?" Something scurried across the basement floor on little scratching feet and vanished under the wall. I swallowed a scream and pounded on the door again. "Ben?"

  Finally, the doorknob turned, and I half fell into the hallway. "What happened?" asked the redheaded caterer.

  "I don't know." My heart was thudding in my chest, and I felt faint. "Someone must have locked it accidentally." I assured her I was fine, replaced the telephone in its cradle, gulped down half a glass of wine, and returned to the living room, meaning to grab my husband and tell him that we needed to find an exterminator, preferably one who worked weekends.

  Janie pulled me into a corner and whispered in my ear, "Don't freak out, but we may have a small situation."

  "What? Is it the toilet?" She shook her head gravely. "Are the kids okay?"

  "The kids are fine," she said, taking me by the hand and dragging me into the kitchen, where the caterers were pulling plastic wrap off trays of miniature eclairs and petit fours and slices of candied fruit. The tip of her pink tongue flicked out and wetted her lips, and she fiddled with her earrings.

  "Okay," she said. "I know you told me not to use the Ecstasy, but Philip asked for my number, then he wanted me to show him around the rest of your house, so I just figured--"

  "You gave Philip Ecstasy."

  Janie started wringing her hands. "I crumbled up one of the pills and dropped it in his glass, which was right on the mantel, and the next thing I knew--"

  "You gave Philip Ecstasy." I thought that repeating it would make it seem more real, and give me some notion of what to do about it. So far, no luck.

  Janie's shoulders were shaking, and it took me a minute to realize that she was laughing, not crying. "Janie, what?"

  "Your...your mother..." she gasped.

  I felt a chill wash over me. "Oh. Oh, no. No, no, no, no."

  "She grabbed the glass before I could stop her, and I said, 'I think that's Philip's,' and she gave me this look like I was trying to steal it and said something in Italian, which you know I don't speak..." She raised her hands and mimed surrender.

  "Oh, God." I swallowed hard and took off back down the hallway. Through my panic, I noticed things in flashes--a silver platter full of crumpled napkins and half-empty wineglasses, a black streak on the wall where Sophie had rammed her Tiny Tykes scooter, Sukie Sutherland and Marybeth Coe huddled outside the powder room, looking amused as they whispered.

  Back in the living room, Denny Holdt was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, studying the knot of Ben's guests--politicians and consultants--that had formed in front of the TV. The Gwinnells were on the couch in front of the fireplace with my father and Sophie. Lexi, with both hands wrapped around the goblet of her wineglass, looked desperate to be in motion again. And in the center of the room...

  "What is this fabric?" Reina asked, red lips pursed as if for a kiss, one crimson nail tracing her plunging neckline. She had Philip's jacket pinched between the fingers of her other hand and, as I watched in horror, she pressed her palm against his chest and stroked as if she were petting a large and docile dog.

  "Er, I think it's just wool," Philip said. "Maybe a wool blend..."

  "Marvelous," Reina said dreamily.

  Okay, Kate. Be calm. "Mom, can you come help me in the kitchen for a minute?"

  "Per che?" she asked, quite reasonably.

  "We have to get her out of here," Janie whispered in my ear.

  "Let's go upstairs and get the kids in bed." I grabbed my mother's elbow and tried to get her moving. Nothing doing. It was like trying to relocate a five-foot-nine-inch chunk of granite. As if in slow motion, I watched Reina's free hand float through the air and come to rest on Philip's cheek.

  "You're a handsome man," she announced.

  "That's very kind of you to say," said Philip, edging backwards. No dice: Reina still had his lapel pinned between her fingers, so when he backed up, she came forward, giving him a moony grin.

  "Mother..." I said.

  "Mrs. Klein," Janie attempted.

  "You remind me of a tenor I once knew in Barcelona."

  My father got to his feet, frowning. "Reina?"

  "He was a beautiful young man. Sang like an angel. After the performances he'd walk me back to the hotel..." She skimmed her fingers over the creamy skin of her bosom. Oh, Lord, I thought, as my father's face went pale.

  "Mom," I hissed. She ignored me, staring up at Philip.

  "Would you like to hear me sing?" she asked, batting her eyelashes.

  "I...um..."

  That was all the encouragement Reina needed to launch into one of her favorite arias. She breathed deeply, causing her bosom to swell dangerously against her neckline, then parted her painted lips. "Sempre libera degg'io/Folleggiare di gioia in gioia..."

  "Oh, Lord," I breathed, and cringed against the wall. Delphine's bottom had been thoroughly upstaged. Every single party guest was staring at my mother. Reina's voice was lovely as ever, crystalline perfection, and so loud that I feared for my chandeliers.

  "Vo'che scorra il viver mio/Pei sentieri del piacer...."

  I caught my father's attention and made frantic upward gestures with my hands. He nodded, lifted the twins into his arms, and headed for the stairs. Meanwhile, Reina continued to sing and clutch Philip's jacket. As I watched in horror, her hand wandered down his lapel and came to rest on his chest. I marched across the living room and grabbed her other hand, cutting her off mid-syllable, and eased her out of the living room to a smattering of applause and Sophie's request for an encore of "O Mio Babbino Caro."

  "Here," I said, filling a glass at the kitchen sink. "Drink this."

  Reina stared at me in confusion.

  "Go," I whispered to Janie. "Go get something."

  "What?" she asked, wiping tears from her eyes. "Techno music and a Cat in the Hat hat?"

  "Ka-ate?" Reina trilled. "Why did you bring me in here?"

  "Drink your water, Mother," I said again and then, as casually as I could, "Hey, are you taking any prescription medicati
on?"

  She blinked. "Why?"

  "Oh, just curious!" I said.

  "Reina?" I turned and saw Ben and my father entering the kitchen. Roger looked worried. Ben just looked furious. "Is everything all right?" Ben asked.

  In an ideal world, there would be some easy way to tell your husband and your father that your best friend has accidentally given your mother an illegal designer drug. In real life, I couldn't even figure out how to start, so I decided to go with an all-purpose "Reina wasn't feeling well."

  "I'm fine!" my mother protested. "I was just talking to that handsome man. Philllip," she slurred. My father's eyes met mine above Reina's head. Is she drunk? he mouthed.

  Reina tossed her water glass into my sink, where I heard it shatter. She didn't seem to notice but rewrapped her fringed gold velvet scarf around her bare shoulders, and adjusted her black satin corset-style top. "I'm not thirsty!" she said.

  "Reina...," said Ben.

  "I'm all tingly!" she announced. I handed her over to my confused-looking father and pulled Ben into the pantry.

  "Listen," I whispered, "don't panic, but there's a small chance that Reina might have taken some Ecstasy."

  "Ecstasy?" my husband thundered. "Where would she get Ecstasy?"

  "It's kind of a long story, but..." I could feel Ben's glare like acid on my skin, and I felt sick with shame, knowing that, along with everything else, I'd made a botch of another party. Illegal drugs were even worse than sugary punch and pin the tail on the donkey.

  Meanwhile, Reina pulled the pantry door open, her lipsticked mouth drawn into an O of dismay. "I took Ecstasy?" she squealed.

  "You should call it E," Janie said. "It makes you sound hipper."

  Ben's lips were pressed into a tight slit of disapproval. "We should probably take her to the hospital." He grabbed my mother's arm, nodded at my father, and marched the pair of them down the hall.

  The rest of the guests gathered to watch them pass, poking their heads out of the living room with glasses in their hands and stricken looks on their faces.

  "Is everything all right?" Carol Gwinnell asked.

  "Fine," Ben said shortly, shoving his arms into his overcoat and checking his pocket for his keys. "Kate, I'll call when I can. Enjoy the rest of the night, everyone," he called, and then the room was quiet again as the tires of Ben's car squealed down the luminaria-lit driveway and onto the street.

  In case you were wondering, having your husband and your parents leave in the middle of a holiday bash to drive to the nearest emergency room tends to put a damper on the festivities, and curtail any investigative activity you might have planned. People hurriedly set down their glasses and began retrieving their coats and hats and scarves, shaking hands and kissing cheeks and rushing out of my house to the safety of their cars, where, presumably, they'd fire up their cell phones and begin the postmortem.

  I slumped on the sofa, kicked off my shoes, and wished I were dead as the caterers gathered half-empty wineglasses and crumpled napkins from the tables. When I looked up, Janie had pulled Sukie Sutherland and Marybeth Coe over to my couch. "Girl talk!" she said. "Stop sulking, Kate." Then she turned to Sukie and Marybeth. "I need you guys to tell Kate what you told me," she said.

  The two of them exchanged a guilty glance. Marybeth rocked back and forth in her heels. Sukie fiddled with a button on her coat.

  "It's just gossip," she finally said. "I'm not sure I feel right--"

  "I promise that we'll take whatever you say in the utmost confidence," Janie said solemnly, which only made Marybeth and Sukie even more fidgety.

  "I don't want this printed," Sukie said, looking at Janie, who nodded.

  Sukie sighed. "That man," she finally said. "The one your husband works for."

  It took me a minute to figure out who she was talking about. "Ted Fitch?"

  Sukie nodded. "I knew he looked familiar, but I couldn't place him for a while."

  I leaned forward, hanging on every word.

  "I saw him in the city," Sukie said. "With Kitty Cavanaugh. They were at Aquavit together, having lunch..." Sukie rubbed her hands along her coat, looking unhappy. "And Kitty was crying."

  Twenty-Eight

  Ben was gone before I woke up on Monday morning. A note stuck to the coffeepot said that my father had called, my mother was fine, that they were both resting comfortably at home, and that I shouldn't expect him for dinner.

  "Really, it wasn't a total loss," Janie said, pouring the kids their cereal and me my second cup of coffee, then raising her eyebrows and waving the bottle of Bailey's over my mug. I groaned and shook my head, knowing that not even infinite rivers of alcohol would ease the shame of Saturday night. And how was I going to face the other mommies at the Red Wheel Barrow drop-off? I groaned again, wondering if I just left my kids on the corner they'd be able to find their way to school by themselves.

  The good news was that Janie had solved the mystery of Phil and the sitter. The other mothers had filled in the blanks. Phil and Lisa had indeed been having a thing, but it had ended the year before after Lisa had gotten herself saved at some sort of campus rally and turned her life over to Jesus, who, presumably, frowned upon both extramarital liaisons and murder.

  "Now," Janie asked, "what are we going to do about Ted Fitch?"

  "I have a plan." I was starting to tell her about it when the doorbell rang. I opened the door to find the delivery guy glaring at me.

  "Package," he grunted, with an expression suggesting I'd personally ruined his morning. He shoved the electronic clipboard at me and tugged at the hair growing out of the mole on his nose while I signed. I took the box inside, thinking that it was typical of Upchurch not even to have the obligatory hot deliveryman for the housewives' delectation, and ripped it open. Inside were the yearbooks Evan had promised. I flipped through the pages while Janie noted the name in the return address window.

  "Oh, dear," she said. "Him again."

  "I've been meaning to ask you. Did you really try to have Evan deported?"

  Janie fussed with her hair and rearranged the collar of her men's striped pajamas. "I made a few calls."

  "And you bought the whole building just so you could kick him out?"

  She set a bowl of cut-up berries on the table. "Real estate always holds its value."

  "Good to know." I poured myself a bowl of bran flakes and started flipping more carefully through one of the yearbooks.

  On page 139 I found a teenage Kitty with her arm looped around another girl's shoulders. Both of them were grinning around bright orange mouthguards, and they had field hockey sticks over their shoulders. "Kitty Verree and Dorie Stevenson celebrate another victory," the caption read.

  Janie peered over my shoulder. "Who's that?"

  I swallowed a mouthful of bran paste, thinking that Dorie looked an awful lot like a big blond in a pink suit at Kitty's memorial service. "I should probably go see Reina today."

  "Oh, please. A little Ecstasy never killed anyone." Janie paused, considering. "Crystal meth, maybe. But Ecstasy..."

  "What's crystal meth?" Sam inquired.

  "Come on," Janie said to the kids. "Let's go upstairs and get dressed for school. Aunt Janie has to work today. Can you guys say Pulitzer?"

  I cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher, poured myself more coffee, and fired up the computer. I was lucky. The Hanfield alumni website revealed that Dorie Stevenson '91 was working as a financial analyst for Dow Jones in Princeton. She was a high-powered analyst too, judging from the number of people I had to speak with before Dorie herself got on the line.

  "Kitty and I hadn't really been in touch in years," said Dorie, who had the kind of high, breathy, boop-boop-be-doop voice you wouldn't necessarily associate with finances or analysis. "I was so shocked to hear what had happened to her."

  "Would you have time to talk with me?"

  She paused, and I could hear her wondering why. "This probably sounds weird," I said. "I'm just one of the other mothers in the neighborhood. But the
police haven't arrested anyone, and I guess I'm trying to find out about her just so I feel like I'm doing something, you know?"

  "I guess," Dorie answered. "But I'm not sure I'll be too much help."

  "I'd still love to talk to you." We made a date for eleven o'clock the next morning. There was no nursery school, and I was pretty sure I could shanghai Janie into taking the kids to their skating lesson in the morning and get a sitter for the afternoon. I hung up the phone, sponged off the table, and headed up the stairs to figure out what I could wear that would get a Dow Jones analyst to take me seriously.

  "First thing about Kitty is that she was gorgeous," Dorie Stevenson said on Tuesday. "Second thing--she had no idea how pretty she was." She licked her bee-stung lips, shook her platinum blond curls, and took an enthusiastic bite of the chocolate croissant she'd plucked from the silver platter the secretary had brought us. Her eyes rolled ecstatically. "That," she pronounced, "is the shit."

  I nodded and wrote down gorgeous. I'd left home at six in the morning, telling Ben I had a check-up with Dr. Morrison. "Fine," he'd said, without lifting his eyes from the op-ed page. "Happy Pap smear!" Janie caroled as I scurried out the door.

  I nodded and smiled, thinking that for once I'd gotten the clothes right. My blue suit and brown crocodile loafers made me look as if I could have worked there, and the styling product guaranteed to eliminate the frizzies had actually worked.

  Dorie Stevenson worked in an office that had been done in shades of peach and cream. Her desk, our chairs, and the platter with the pastries all looked like genuine antiques. She was from Memphis, she'd told me, and I could detect a hint of a southern accent still softening her breathy speech.

  I helped myself to an almond horn, poured cream into my coffee, and said, "You should have seen her in Upchurch. She was the perfect mother with the perfect home, and she always looked..."

  Dorie smiled, then swallowed another mouthful of croissant. "Let me guess. Perfect?"

  I nodded. "Was she that way in college?"