by Joy Fielding
“Used my key.”
“Where’d you get a key?”
“You gave me one.”
“The hell I did,” Charley protested.
“You did,” Bram insisted. “That time I baby-sat…”
“(A) You’ve never baby-sat,” Charley interrupted, “and (B) I never gave you a key.”
“Okay, so maybe I found a spare one lying around last time I was here for dinner,” he acknowledged with a sheepish grin.
“You took my spare key? I spent days looking for that.”
“Should have asked me.”
“Why would I ask you?”
“’Cause I had it.” He smiled.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
His smile widened. “I am, yeah.”
Charley fought the urge to throw the nearby vase of silk tulips at his head. “Give me back my key.”
“Aw, come on, sis.”
“Sis? Since when have you ever called me sis? Don’t give me this ‘sis’ shit.”
“You know you have a bit of a lisp?” Bram asked provocatively. “I think it comes from yelling. Do you yell at your kids as much as you yell at me?”
“I never yell at my kids.”
“No? You were sure yelling when you walked through that door. What was that about anyway?”
“What?” Charley shook her head, trying to clear it. Her brother had always been a master of keeping her off-balance.
“As I recall, the word asshole might have passed your lips.”
“Oh, that. My stupid neighbor.” Charley flopped into one of the rattan chairs and lifted her feet to the coffee table, so that her bare toes were almost touching the tip of her brother’s black boots. “He’s renovating, in case you didn’t notice the mess next door. And his nose got all out of joint when the neighbors objected to some of the changes he wanted to make…”
“His neighbors being you?”
“I was one of them. He wanted to build this giant two-storey addition that would have totally blocked out all the sun from my backyard…”
“I seem to remember reading something in the paper about insensitive residents flouting long-standing bylaws and ruining lovely old neighborhoods.” Bram folded his hands behind his head, pretended to be thinking. “Where could I have read that, I wonder?”
“Okay, so maybe I mentioned something about it in my column, but the whole street was upset. It wasn’t just me. Besides, what’s done is done. Get over it already. You want something cold to drink?” Charley jumped to her feet, headed for the white-and-brown kitchen at the back of the house.
“A gin and tonic?” Bram suggested hopefully.
“Fat chance of that. How about some orange juice?”
“How ’bout a beer?”
“How ’bout some orange juice?” Charley repeated.
“I think I’ll have some orange juice,” Bram said.
“Good choice.” Charley poured them each a drink and returned to the living room.
“Why would he blame you for his wife leaving him?” Bram asked.
It took Charley a second to realize they were still talking about Gabe Lopez. “Trust me. I had nothing to do with that.”
“Nothing?”
“I don’t think I ever said more than two words to the woman in my entire life.”
“By any chance, were those two words ‘dump him’?”
“Very funny. You missed your calling. You know that?”
Bram took a long sip of his juice, made a face. “Something’s missing, that’s for sure. This could use a little vodka.”
Charley sighed. “What are you doing, Bram? What’s the matter with you?”
“Aw, come on, Charley. Don’t start.”
“You’re way too smart to waste your life this way.”
“I’m only twenty-four,” he reminded her. “And I’m not that smart.”
“You told me you were going into rehab. You said you were joining AA. You promised.”
“And I will.”
“When?”
“Whenever.”
“Bram….”
“Come on, Charley. You think I like waking up on some strange guy’s sofa? Which, come to think of it, must be how you feel a lot of the time.”
Charley rolled her eyes. “That was so not funny.”
“I’m gonna clean up my act.”
“Try starting with your mouth.”
“Ouch. I think I touched a nerve.”
“I’m not a slut, Bram.” Charley walked to the front window, watching the young man in the yellow hard hat climb up a ladder to the roof of her neighbor’s house. “Just because I had two children by two different men doesn’t mean I’m easy.”
Although what can one expect from a woman who prides herself on never having married either of her children’s fathers?
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply…”
“Of course you did.”
Of course you did, her mother’s voice echoed.
“Hey, I’m just yanking your chain,” her brother said, taking another sip of his juice. “Just trying to get the focus off me.”
Charley watched a small yellow school bus pull around the corner and come to a stop in front of her house. “Kids are here.” She took a deep breath and walked to the front door, pulling it open. “Try not to say anything too stupid in their presence.”
“Yes, Dad,” she heard Bram mutter.
She felt a sharp stab of guilt, remembering the way her father had always spoken to his son. Bram was right, she’d realized. She sounded exactly like their father. “I’m so sorry, Bram. I didn’t mean…”
“Mommy!” James shouted, jumping off the bus, all dimples and hair and moving parts. Even while standing at the curb waiting for his sister, he was in constant motion, right hand lifting in the air to wave hello, left hand tugging at the top of his khaki pants, his weight shifting from his left foot to his right in order to kick at a small piece of rubble, as his eyes darted from one end of the street to the other.
“Hi, sweetie pie,” Charley called back, waiting as Franny made her way from the back of the bus to the front. Franny always liked to make sure the bus had come to a complete stop before getting up from her seat. Only then would she begin the trek from her seat near the back, latching onto the tops of the other seats on her way to the front.
She’d always been a cautious child, Charley realized, choosing careful deliberation over snap decisions, even as a toddler. Charley recalled the many times she’d stood beside her daughter at the playground while Franny tried to decide which swing to select. Her brother would have already taken a dozen plunges, face-first, down the giant slide, and still Franny would be standing beside the sandbox. It was the same at mealtime. James would be finished and squirming in his chair, having virtually inhaled his dinner in two quick breaths, while Franny would be taking her first tentative bites. Quiet, contemplative—the complete opposite of Charley—she never spoke unless she had something to say.
“She’s a very thoughtful child,” her grade-two teacher had pronounced at the start of the school year. “You can actually see the wheels turning.”
She must get it from her father’s side of the family, Charley thought now, picturing the broodingly handsome man who was Franny’s father, as Franny grabbed her brother’s hand, looked both ways, then led him across the street. As soon as they reached the curb, James broke free of his sister’s grasp and raced up the front walk to Charley.
“We painted a picture today in school. I painted an alligator and a snake.”
“You did?”
“Where’s my picture?” James asked, as if she should know. He spun around. “Oh, no. I lost it.”
“I have it,” his sister said calmly, coming up behind him. “You dropped it on the bus floor.” She offered it to Charley.
“Look,” James exclaimed triumphantly, pointing to a shapeless blob of fluorescent green and a narrow streak of purple. “There’s the alligator, and there’s the
snake. Can we tape it to the fridge?” Already he was racing through the front door.
“And how was your day, sweetheart?” Charley asked her daughter, who stood before her patiently, waiting her turn.
“It was good. How about you?”
“It was good,” Charley echoed, deciding she wanted to be just like her daughter when she grew up.
“Hey, Franny,” James called excitedly from inside. “Guess who’s here.”
“It’s your uncle Bram,” Bram announced, approaching the front door, James tucked under one arm.
Franny’s face lit up, as it always did when Bram was there. “Hi, Uncle Bram. I like your shirt.”
“You do?”
“Blue’s my favorite color.”
“Really? Mine, too.”
“Mine, too,” James squealed.
“You like purple,” Franny reminded him.
“I like purple,” James quickly concurred. “But blue’s my favorite.”
Franny smiled and said nothing. She knows when to keep quiet, Charley thought with growing admiration. She’s made her point. There’s no need to say more. “Anybody feel like some milk and cookies?” she asked.
“Me!” shouted James, now hanging upside down from Bram’s arms.
“What kind of cookies?” asked Franny.
“I have an idea,” Bram said. “Why don’t we order Chinese food for supper? My treat.”
“Yay!” James exclaimed.
“Can we, Mommy?” Franny asked.
“Absolutely,” Charley said. “Maybe we could see if…”
“Don’t even think about it,” Bram interrupted…. Grandma would like to join us, Charley finished silently.
“Don’t think about what?” Franny asked.
“Absolutely nothing.” Bram scooped Franny into his other arm and took off with both kids for the kitchen.
When did I end up with three children? Charley wondered, picking up the picture of the alligator and the snake that fell from James’s hand, and following after them.
Later, after Bram had gone home and the children were in bed, Charley sat on top of the white comforter on her bed, rereading the letter from Jill Rohmer.
Dear Charley, Hi. I hope you don’t mind my writing to you…
“Well, now that you mention it, I can’t say I’m exactly thrilled.”
This might sound strange, and I hope you won’t take it the wrong way, but you’ve always been a kind of role model for me….
“And look how wonderfully that turned out.”
I’m really a very good person at heart…. I even hope one day we might be friends….
“God forbid.”
Mine is a story that needs to be told. I think you have the courage to tell it.
Did she? Charley wondered. Did she have the courage, the desire, the stomach to revisit the horrifying events that had held all of Florida in its terrible clutches for months? Even now, a year after the trial, and almost two years since the murders themselves, the details were never far from her mind.
Little Tammy Barnet was five years old when she disappeared one sunny afternoon from her fenced-in backyard. Four days later, her body was discovered in a shallow grave beside the intracoastal waterway. She’d been tortured and sexually abused before being asphyxiated with a plastic bag.
Five months later, Noah and Sara Starkey, six-year-old fraternal twins, vanished while playing catch on their front lawn. Their mother had left them for two minutes to answer the phone. When she returned, the children were gone. They were discovered the following week, the plastic bags still wrapped around their heads, their naked little bodies bearing the grisly scars of dozens of cigarette burns and bite marks. Both had been violated sexually with sharp objects.
The killings sent shock waves throughout all of Florida. Not only were the police most certainly dealing with a serial killer but someone so deranged as to torture and kill innocent children. Not to mention, someone cunning enough to snatch those children right from under their parents’ watchful eyes. Someone the children obviously trusted, since no screams were heard. Someone who was probably known to both families.
On the surface, the Barnets and the Starkeys seemed to have little in common. The Barnets were young and fairly well-to-do; the Starkeys were older and just getting by. Ellis Barnet was an investment banker; Clive Starkey was a welder. Joan Barnet was a schoolteacher; Rita Starkey was a stay-at-home mom. They moved in completely different circles. Within weeks, however, the police had discovered the common link. Her name was Jill Rohmer.
The Barnets had hired Jill to baby-sit Tammy every Saturday night when they had their “date night.” Jill was always punctual, and happy to stay as late as needed. She’d play dolls with Tammy and read to her for hours before putting her to bed. According to interviews with her parents, Tammy adored her.
As did Noah and Sara Starkey, for whom she baby-sat every Friday, and then Saturdays as well, when those Saturdays suddenly freed up. Knowing the Starkeys were going through some tough times financially, Jill often refused to take their money. “The kids are fabulous,” she’d say. “I should be paying you.”
The police obtained a warrant to search the house Jill shared with her parents and older siblings. Under her bed, they found Tammy Barnet’s bloody underwear, along with the tape recordings of all the children’s dying screams. Jill’s voice could be heard plainly. And her DNA was a match to the saliva found on the bodies. An open-and-shut case.
Rumors abounded about an accomplice, and both her brother and boyfriend were early suspects, but there was never enough evidence to make an arrest. Jill refused to implicate them, and declined to take the stand in her own defense. Her lawyer, Alex Prescott, tried hard to make a case for reasonable doubt, but ultimately there was none. Jill Rohmer was convicted and sentenced to die.
And now, it seems, she wanted to talk after all.
If you decide to accept my offer, or if you have any questions at all, please feel free to contact my lawyer, Alex Prescott. He has an office in Palm Beach Gardens, and I’ve already alerted him to the possibility you might call.
Charley pushed herself off her bed and padded down the hall to the larger bedroom at the far end of the hall where her children slept. She peeked inside, saw Franny asleep in her bed on one side of the room, James half in, half out of his bed on the other. Watching her children sleep, she wondered how a seemingly normal young woman could have committed such heinous acts. And what could she possibly have to say that could mitigate her behavior? Was it possible someone else was responsible? Someone who was still out there?
Charley walked to the kitchen, made herself a cup of herbal tea, then reached for the phone and called information. “Palm Beach Gardens, Florida,” she instructed the recording. “Alex Prescott, attorney-at-law.”
CHAPTER 6
She called the lawyer’s office first thing the following morning, seeking an immediate appointment.
“Mr. Prescott is in court until eleven o’clock,” his secretary informed her in crisp tones that declared I am an immaculately coiffed icy blonde, whose well-manicured nails match my perfectly glossed lips.
Charley stared down at her brown blouse, its front stained by a wayward line of white toothpaste that must have dripped from her electric toothbrush while she was brushing her teeth. (“And you give me a hard time for not being able to manage a cell phone,” she could almost hear her mother tease.) “I don’t believe this,” Charley muttered, balancing the phone between her shoulder and her ear as she began unbuttoning her blouse.
“Perhaps something later in the week, say Thursday…”
“No. It has to be sooner.” Charley pulled her blouse off her shoulders and threw it on the floor. “He doesn’t have anything available today at all?”
“I’m afraid not. He’s in court till eleven, then he has a lunch meeting at twelve, another meeting at two…”
“Okay, fine. Never mind then.” Charley clicked off her cell phone, then tossed it on her unmade
bed. Obviously this was a sign her collaboration with Jill Rohmer wasn’t meant to be. She walked to her closet and stared at her impressive collection of designer jeans and her less-than-impressive collection of everything else. “Who needs anything else?” she asked the empty house, the school bus having picked up Franny and James half an hour ago. Ultimately she settled on a rhinestone-studded, beige T-shirt, the bottom half of which was emblazoned with a skull and crossbones. Since she wouldn’t be visiting Alex Prescott this morning, there was no need for more formal attire. “It just wasn’t meant to be,” she said again, this time out loud.
She was surprised, and somewhat dismayed, to realize how disappointed she was, especially since she’d more or less decided that she wanted nothing to do with Jill Rohmer or her sordid story. This, after a sleepless night spent tossing around in bed, weighing her options, figuring out how best to organize her schedule, and even drafting an outline in her head. I can’t do it, she’d told herself repeatedly throughout the night, all the while composing a list of questions to ask Alex Prescott, and a further list of conditions that had to be met with regard to any possible collaboration. You’d just be asking for trouble, she’d cautioned herself minutes before dawn, trying to imagine her first meeting with Jill Rohmer, how she’d react when she saw her, what she’d say. By the time her alarm clock went off at 7 A.M., she’d gone so far as to visualize the book itself, her name in embossed silver letters below the title, or better still, above it. (A photograph of Jill Rohmer would undoubtedly fill the front cover, but her own far more glamorous picture would occupy the back. Maybe she’d even borrow her sister’s white lace pillows.) “No, I can’t do it,” she’d said aloud, as she stepped into the shower and began washing her hair. Still, by the time her hair was dry, she’d settled on the simple opening line for the preface: Yesterday I got a letter from a killer.