"Tell me."
He chuckled. "I have to tell you, Kate, I'm feeling a little used here."
"Tell me!"
"Well, thing is, it's not as much of a 'tell' as it is a 'show.' Meet me at the end of your street at midnight tonight."
My mind whirled. "I can't...Ben's been coming home late...all the kids are sick..."
"Fine, then. Midnight tomorrow."
"Evan. Evan!" I was talking to a dial tone. "Shit." I turned to go back in the house. And there was Sophie, with Uglydoll, a plastic stethoscope looped around his neck, in her arms and strands of sweaty hair clinging to her cheeks.
"You said the S word," she said.
"I did," I said, feeling queasy with guilt. "That wasn't so good."
"Why are you in here?"
"I had to make a phone call, and I didn't want to wake you guys up." I took her hand. "Are the boys downstairs?"
She nodded gravely. "I said to color."
Sam and Jack were sitting at the kitchen table, coloring in unnatural silence. "Hi, guys!" My voice sounded too loud and too bright to my ears. "Is everyone feeling better?"
Wan nods from around the table.
"Is anyone ready for a snack?"
Sam shrugged. Jack nodded. "Rice Krispies treats?" asked Sophie.
Thank God she was still at an age where affection--or at least silence--could be bought for puffed rice and marshmallow goo. "You're not going to throw up anymore?"
Sophie answered for all of them, looking up at me soberly. "No, we won't."
I let Jack pour the Rice Krispies. Sam measured the Fluff. Sophie stirred, counting out loud with each turn of the spoon. "One, two, three, four, five, six, Evan." Oh, God. Had I heard her wrong? Had she overheard me? What if she said it in front of Ben? Had I ever even told my husband I'd once hoped Evan would be more than friend? Or maybe I'd heard wrong because I was guilty and paranoid, and Sophie had said "seven" after all. But maybe--
"Mommy?"
Sophie stared up at me with the mixing bowl in her hand. "Sorry, honey," I said, and started spreading Rice Krispies treats into the pan.
Thirty-Six
"Hello?"
"Hello, is this Bonnie Verree?"
"Yes," said the voice on the other end of the line.
"I'm not sure you remember me. My name is Kate Klein."
"If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands," she said instantly. Okay. So she remembered.
"I'm sorry to bother you, ma'am." I was actually more sorry about a host of other transgressions, from my makeout session with Evan McKenna to turning her daughter's memorial service into a singalong, but no time for that now. It was Sunday morning. Ben and I had taken the kids to make-up music class, and Ben had actually offered to go in with them while I stayed back in the minivan with my cell phone. (I'd told him I wanted to make a few calls to the neighborhood ladies to see if there was any word on Lexi.) "I was wondering if I could talk to you about Kitty."
"Why?" she asked. "What else is there to say?" Her voice sharpened. "Is this about the ghostwriting?"
"No. It's about her."
I drew a question mark in my notebook. "I guess I feel responsible, in a way. I found her. And nobody's been arrested yet. And I..." This was the hard part. "I think that maybe we could have been friends. We had so much in common. We both used to live in New York."
"Kitty loved it there," Bonnie said. Her voice was wistful.
"Did you know she called Upchurch the Land of the Lost?"
"It doesn't surprise me," her mother said. Then she sighed. "We still live in Eastham. Same house Kitty grew up in. Call before you come, and we'll talk."
I thanked her profusely, hung up the phone, and was making notes of our conversation when there was a tap-tap-tap at the window. I jumped in my seat and bumped my head on the moon roof.
"Ow!"
I turned and found myself looking at the composed visage of Sukie Sutherland. She was tapping her manicure on my car window. I rolled it down halfway.
"Everything okay?" she asked.
I smiled weakly. My hands were shaking.
"Want some tea?" she asked, pushing her cup of herbal brew through the window. It smelled like boiled cat piss.
"No, I'm good." Sukie wore a cream wool hat and a matching muffler, an unpuked-upon shearling coat and high-heeled leather boots completely unsuitable for the snow.
Her smile widened. "Well, then. See you for the goodbye song."
"See you," I said. She waved her fingers and walked away. I sat in the driver's seat for another minute, wondering what excuse, gynecological or otherwise, I could conjure up to get a day's worth of time in Cape Cod.
That night I lay in bed, my insides knotted, a Ruth Rendell paperback in my hands, watching my husband, who'd made his triumphant return to the marital bed (or at least the marital bedroom), hang up his pants. He turned them upside down by the cuffs, shook them, studied them, then shook them again, making sure the creases were just so.
"How's your book?" he asked. His shoulder blades drew together underneath the white cotton of his undershirt.
"Fine. Thank you for taking the kids to class."
"You're welcome," he said stiffly. He gave the pants a final shake and clipped the cuffs to the hanger. "Do you think you'll be able to take in the dry cleaning this week?"
"Sure."
"I would appreciate that."
"Ben, come on!" I tossed my book to the foot of the bed. He picked it up, closed it, and set it neatly on the nightstand. I gathered my hair at the nape of my neck and said the four words that could stop strong men in their tracks: "We need to talk."
Ben's face was set as he hung his pants in the closet.
I breathed deeply and began the delicate process of tricking him into taking me where I needed to go. "I know things have been a little tense between us lately."
My husband snorted, perhaps in appreciation of my understatement. His expression was distant, his dark eyes looked sad. I blurted out the apology I'd rehearsed over Rice Krispies treats the day before. "I'm sorry that I got so caught up in the Kitty Cavanaugh thing." And I'm sorry I lied to you about backing off, and I'm sorry I've been sneaking into New York behind your back, and oh yeah, I'm sorry I kissed Evan McKenna.
The straight line of his back seemed to soften incrementally. "Well, I'm sorry too."
Sorry for what? For moving us out here, for being condescending about how I spent my time, for calling me a housewife in need of a hobby, for not looking at me or listening to me in weeks?
But if there was an elaboration, Ben wasn't sharing. He began the careful process of putting his shirt back on a hanger. Fine. Onward. I gathered the covers up around my chin, obscuring the lowcut nightgown I'd worn for the occasion, which didn't seem to be having its desired effect.
"I was thinking that it would be nice if we could go away somewhere for Thanksgiving."
His back stiffened again. "You just decided this now?"
"We could go somewhere close. Just a little trip. Maybe Vermont? We could see if any of those little bed-and-breakfasts have room. Or," I said casually, "have you ever been to Cape Cod?"
"Once," said Ben. "A long time ago. My father took me when I was a kid. We rented a canoe, I think." His expression softened, and I felt, if possible, even worse than I had when I didn't know I'd be trading on one of my husband's approximately three memories of his father, who'd died when he was just eight, to get a chance to talk to Kitty's parents on their home turf.
"I bet it's really quiet this time of year. We could walk on the beach. Build fires. The kids would like it. It's even educational!" I said, slipping in a little fact I'd picked up on the Internet that morning. "Did you know the pilgrims landed in Provincetown before Plymouth Rock?"
Ben seemed impressed. "Really?"
"Yeah. But then they decided it was too gay."
I thought I saw the hint of a smile before he shook his head. "It's really not a good time for me to go away." He walked into the ba
throom and closed the door. "I've got too much ground to make up with Ted Fitch."
I winced. "But it's Thanksgiving!" I called. No answer. "Even politicians get to spend the day with their family!" Still nothing. "Or their mistresses!" Ben made no reply. I rolled over, balling my pillow underneath me. "Look, you always said, 'Just be patient, Kate, it won't be like this forever.' And I have been patient. But Sophie's going to start full-day kindergarten next year, and the boys are getting bigger, and we've never taken a vacation as a family." I lay there, listening to the plick...plick...plick sound of his flossing his teeth through the door, feeling lousy for invoking my children for my own nefarious purposes. Ben turned off the bathroom light, pulled on his pajama pants, and got into bed beside me.
"You know, Brian Davies has a house there, and he owes me one. I'll ask him about it in the morning."
"Great!" I said, and kissed one prickly cheek.
He rolled toward me, smiling. "Want to show me how grateful you are?" he asked, grabbing my left breast through my nightgown. As his fingers brushed my nipple, I felt Evan's lips against mine, his warm hand on my back. I pushed my husband away.
"I can't," I said.
Ben's expression of desire quickly became a frown.
"Because of the Pap smear," I explained. "I'm still bleeding a little bit...It's not a big deal, but you know. I'm still kind of crampy."
"Oh, oh, all right," he said hastily. I lay back, relieved and guilty, thinking that there was nothing like the the phrase still kind of crampy for stopping the male libido in its tracks.
"I'm sorry," I said. Ben didn't answer. A minute later, he was flat on his back, full lips parted, snoring.
I flipped my pillow over, then kicked at the comforter, searching for a comfortable spot and failing to find it. I looked at the clock. Eleven thirty-eight. No, I thought. Absolutely not. But it was as if my brain had left my body and was hovering somewhere overhead, near the imported Italian chandelier the decorator had chosen, watching as my body flung back the covers, tiptoed across the room, pulled on the cargo pants I'd left conveniently hanging over the back of the armchair beside our bed. This isn't happening, I thought, even as my body pulled on a long-sleeved pink T-shirt with a deep V neck and no bra underneath, and I tiptoed down the stairs.
I'll just talk to him, I told myself as I slid my sockless feet into my boots, shrugged on my shearling coat, disarmed the alarm at the front door, locked the door behind me, stepped into the frosty night air, and padded across the lawn. I'll just hear what he has to tell me, and then I'll tell him not to come again. That is, if he's even here.
But I couldn't stop my heart from beating faster when I saw the car with its lights off parked at the end of our cul-de-sac, couldn't stop myself from walking faster, then jogging, then running with my hair streaming behind me, breasts bouncing underneath my haphazardly cleaned shearling coat. I heard every little sound--my boots crunching through the crust of ice that had formed over the snow, my breath puffing out into the cold night air. I felt my blood singing as I got closer to the car. I saw Evan's face through the windshield, smiling in the faint light of the dashboard, and above him, I could see every star in the sky.
I had honestly intended to keep things businesslike. I'd imagined starting off with an absolutely unflirtatious "So, what've you got for me?" I'd certainly thought I'd at least keep my coat on. But when Evan opened the door, the look on his face was so tender, so full of desire, that I found myself with my coat unzipped and my tough-cookie question unasked, as he pulled me into in his arms.
"No," I said, after the first kiss. "Don't," I told him sternly as he slid his hands up my shirt and groaned to find my bare breasts. "Cut it out!" I managed, and wriggled back to the safety of the passenger's seat.
"Kate."
Both of us were breathing hard. The windows were silvery with condensation. I looked down to keep from looking at him--the flush of his cheeks, his black hair, his eyes, the blue-green almost swallowed by his pupils. That was when I saw the manila envelope with my name on it.
I swallowed hard once, then again, and finally managed to croak out the words in a low, rough voice, "What've you got for me?" They sounded a lot less businesslike than they had in my head.
"Lexi," he said. "Lexi Hagen-Holdt. I made some inquiries and hit pay dirt with the groundskeeper at Upchurch Country Day. Lexi went running every morning, when her son..." He pulled his notebook out of the glove compartment.
"Hadley," I supplied.
"Right. Hadley was in nursery school. Lexi would put the baby in a jogging stroller and she'd do six, seven miles. Except the two months before Kitty died, she started taking a little detour over to the school's equipment shed. There'd be a car in the parking lot. Blue Mercedes sedan, registered to--"
"Philip Cavanaugh," I said. I was imagining Lexi and Philip grappling with each other on top of folding gymnastic mats, surrounded by half-deflated basketballs and ripped volleyball nets while little Brierly slumbered in her stroller. Lexi would probably find all that sporting equipment a turn-on. "So where's Lexi now? Down in Miami Beach with Phil?"
He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "No action on her credit cards since she disappeared. No calls from her phone. But that's not all..."
"What?"
"Delphine Dolan, nee Debbie Farber. She's got a record."
"For what?"
"Solicitation." As soon as he said the word, I felt the hair at the back of my neck stand up. This was it. The missing link. "She was arrested three times in New York. Loitering, creating a public nuisance, and solicitation for the purposes of prostitution. And she did some editorial work under her former name." He flipped open the clasp of the envelope and slid a magazine into my hands. I peered down at the title. Eager Beaver. The spring '89 issue.
"Oh, my."
"Page thirty-seven," he said.
I flipped to the pertinent page and found an extremely naked Delphine Dolan, sporting a huge late '80s perm and a tiny stripe of pubic hair, posing with a pair of well-endowed, muscular fellows. The gentleman underneath her had a tattoo of a scorpion on his forearm, and the man to her right had a reddish brown mullet. When I flipped the page, Delphine had two of her fingers jammed in a place where ladies of refined breeding don't typically stick their digits--at least not when photographers are nearby.
"Keep going," said Evan. "She's got a tattoo of a heart on her tuchus."
"Oh, lordie me," I said. Then, "So what now?"
"Get her alone. Ask her some questions," said Evan.
"She teaches Pilates," I said. "I bet I could sign up for a private lesson, have a little heart-to-heart with her."
"Just not when she's got you hooked up to one of those machines. You have to be careful."
I closed the magazine. "Can I keep this?"
He lifted an eyebrow. "Is married life that boring?"
"I..." I ran my fingers over the glossy words Eager Beaver. "I don't want to talk about married life," I finally said.
"Fine," he said. "Let's not talk." His fingers were warm against my cheek as he turned my face back toward him. I wanted to touch every inch of him--his ears, his chin, the silky skin of his neck. Evan McKenna. I could hear myself speaking his name in a voice I didn't recognize as my hands roamed across the span of his back and his hands tangled in my hair.
Suddenly, the world turned blood red and violet blue. There was a single angry blip-blip from behind us. I squinted through the fogged-up rearview window, but Evan figured it out faster. "Cops," he said, tugging my shirt down. "Let me handle this."
"No, Evan, let me..."
We opened our doors at the same time and went tumbling out into the cold darkness, me with my thin T-shirt barely pulled down, Evan with his plaid shirt unbuttoned three buttons too far.
Stan Bergeron regarded us in the glow of his flashlight. "Evening, Mrs. Borowitz."
I waved weakly.
"Mr. McKenna."
"Evening, Officer," he said.
"Stan, I
can explain this," I said. At that moment, my copy of Eager Beaver slithered off the passenger's seat and fell out onto the road with a sad little flapping sound. Stan trained his flashlight on it. "I can explain that too!" I said frantically. "Delphine Dolan's in there!"
Stan considered the magazine. "I doubt she'd fit," he said.
I tried again. "Lexi Hagen-Holdt was having an affair with Philip Cavanaugh!"
Stan merely nodded. From the look on his face I could tell that this wasn't a revelation.
I tried again. "Do you know that Delphine Dolan changed her name and has a record of prostitution?"
Stan turned off his flashlight. "Do you know there's a curfew?"
"Huh?"
"A curfew. Nobody's supposed to be out after midnight, hanging around in parked cars." He shone his flashlight on Evan's license plate. "It's mostly for the teenagers." He wrote something in his notebook and shone the light on us again, taking in our dishabille.
"Mrs. Borowitz was just going home," said Evan.
"We were just talking," I said helplessly. I looked down and was horrified to see that I was wringing my hands. "And listen, Stan, if you run into Ben at the gas station, there's no real reason he has to know about this. Not that anything was going on. I mean, I know how this looks, but--"
"I'll walk you to your door, Kate," Evan said.
Stan shook his head. "No, sir. You're coming with me."
Evan stared at him, looking puzzled. "I just want to tell her goodnight."
Stan turned his flashlight on again. I heard a click, then a jingle, and I realized that he'd pulled out his handcuffs. "Either you come quietly," he said, "or I'll call for backup and we'll arrest you."
Evan's voice was incredulous. "What for?"
"There's the curfew, for starters," said Stan.
"You're going to arrest me for being out after midnight?"
"And your alibi," Stan continued.
"What about his alibi?" I asked.
"What about my alibi?" Evan echoed. "I told you where I was, I gave you my plane tickets, the receipts from the hotel--"
Goodnight Nobody Page 28