The Last to Know

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Oh, yes. Jane’s journal.

  “That’s what she did as a child,” Margaret tells Owen. “Every day, before breakfast. Does she still?”

  “I don’t know,” Owen says. “I leave for the office so early. And there’s Schuyler for her to take care of now. Still, I can’t imagine that she’d ever just give up something that was such a habit all her life. Can you?”

  “No. Jane found comfort in rituals,” Margaret remembers. “She liked to stick to a routine, even when she was a little girl.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Something about that is troubling Owen. Margaret senses it in the faraway expression in his eyes, sees it in the way he bends and straightens his fingers as his arms hang stiffly at his sides. She doesn’t ask, doesn’t want to prod him, hoping that if she’s patient, he’ll tell her whatever it is that’s on his mind.

  She doesn’t have to wait long.

  He pulls out the chair beside hers and sits at the table, clasping his hands in front of him.

  “Her journals are all on the built-in bookshelf in our bedroom, Margaret. They’re in chronological order, and every time she’s finished with one, she takes it to the engraver and has the start and finish dates stamped on the spine. The one she’s writing in now is there. I looked at it. She writes almost every day. Mostly just short entries about what Schuyler’s doing, and where they’ve been, and who they’ve seen. Sometimes there are just abbreviated notes.”

  “Really? She used to write long pages when she was younger,” Margaret tells him, then hastily adds, “I never snooped. She used to show me sometimes.”

  So many of those entries were about Owen. How many times had Margaret cringed inside, reading page after page of Jane’s girlish outpourings of longing for Owen, wondering how her sister would react if she discovered that her words mirrored Margaret’s own secret yearnings. . . .

  “She did write lengthy passages earlier in our marriage,” Owen tells Margaret, admitting uncomfortably, “I checked them out. Not with her permission. But not until yesterday. I never violated her privacy before, and I did it now only because I thought I might find something in the journals that would help the police in their investigation.”

  “And did you?”

  He shakes his head. “No. But I did discover something strange, Margaret.” He leans closer, so close that she can smell his scent. Soap and cologne.

  Her heart quickens its pace. It’s all she can do not to lean toward him, too, when all she wants is to bury her nose in his skin, breathing his essence. Her voice trembles as she asks him, “What is it?”

  He takes a deep breath. “There’s a gap in the dates. Unless she took almost a year off from writing—and you seem to think that that’s as unlikely as I do—one of Jane’s journals is missing, Margaret. And I’ve turned the house upside down trying to find it.”

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER 13

  Chapter 10

  On Saturday morning, Tasha awakens to the sound of the ringing telephone.

  Joel fumbles for it on the bedside table and mutters a groggy “Hello?”

  Her heart racing as she comes awake and remembers everything that happened yesterday, Tasha sits up and wraps her arms around her knees, under the quilt. Last night, utterly fatigued yet suffering from insomnia, she resorted to taking several Tylenol PM tablets after tossing and turning until midnight. That was Joel’s suggestion. He seemed concerned that she get some rest, yet she found herself wondering whether his real motivation was to knock her out because her thrashing about in bed was keeping him awake.

  Now she looks at the clock and sees that it’s past seven already. She’s slept through the night and feels as though she could go on sleeping all day, her head fuzzy from the drug or exhaustion or a combination of the two.

  “Hang on, she’s right here.” Joel turns to her.

  “Who is it?” Tasha asks him.

  “It’s Ben,” he whispers.

  She gives him a questioning look.

  “He wants to talk to you.”

  “I know, but . . .”

  “Here,” Joel said, passing her the phone.

  Reluctantly she takes it. She doesn’t want to talk to Ben right now. Her thoughts are too scattered; she isn’t yet ready to face the stark reality of what has happened.

  “Hi, Ben,” she says, steeling herself against the emotions that, sure enough, are trickling in already.

  “Hi, Tasha.” His voice is raspy. He hasn’t slept, she thinks vaguely. Or he’s been crying. Or both.

  “How are the kids?” she asks helplessly when he doesn’t say anything else right away.

  “As well as you’d expect. I don’t think they really understand.”

  “When did you tell them?”

  “When I got back to Carol’s last night after I finished at the police station—which took hours.”

  “Have they . . .” How can she put it delicately? Realizing she can’t, she asks gingerly, “Have they cleared you?”

  He laughs, a brittle sound. “If you can call it that. They let me go. But I get the feeling they aren’t through with me yet. My lawyer said that in cases like this one, the husband is often guilty.”

  Uncomfortable, Tasha glances at Joel, who is lying back against the pillows again. But he’s watching her, a concerned expression on his face. She shrugs at him, saying into the phone, “But Ben, you and Rachel weren’t—I mean, why would they suspect you of something so horrible? There’s no reason—”

  “They asked me if I knew that Rachel was having an affair,” Ben cuts in.

  Stunned, Tasha just grips the phone.

  “What?” Joel whispers, reaching out and touching her arm.

  Her mind is racing. Rachel was having an affair?

  Of course she was, a voice tells her. You were blind not to notice.

  Rachel was having an affair.

  Why is that so startling?

  Because she has never really considered the possibility before. She was so caught up in her own whirlwind days, and in resenting Rachel’s life of relative leisure, that it never occurred to her to wonder what, specifically, Rachel was doing with her spare time. She just assumed she was playing golf and getting her nails done.

  And she really was. Tasha doesn’t doubt that. But . . .

  “Tasha?” Ben asks. “Do you think it’s true? Did she ever say anything to you?”

  “About having an affair?”

  She feels Joel’s body stiffen beside her. She turns to look at him as she says, “My God, Ben, no. I never knew. She never said anything.”

  Joel is rubbing his cheek, listening. She tries to catch his eye but he’s looking in the opposite direction. Why? Because her mentioning the word “affair” brought on his own guilt?

  In the aftermath of Rachel’s shocking death, she almost lost track of her suspicions about Joel. Almost. Now she finds herself wondering again whether it’s work, or another woman, that’s distracting him lately.

  “You never saw her with another man?” Ben asks in her ear.

  She forces her attention back to him, and Rachel. One thing at a time, she tells herself, saying aloud, “No, Ben, I swear I never did. Do you know who it was?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “How can the police know about this?”

  “They’ve been questioning people. I guess somebody told them. So.” He gives that brittle laugh again. “I guess I’m the last to know.”

  “Maybe it isn’t true,” Tasha says, mostly because she feels like she has to.

  “Maybe it isn’t.” He clears his throat. “Listen, the reason I called you is that we’re going to stay here at my sister’s for a few days. My kids need stuff. . . . Mara wants some toy called a Clemmy—”

  “It’s her doll.”

  “Do you know which one?”

  “Yes
.”

  “Thank God. Tasha, would you mind going over to our house and getting some of their stuff together? And can you or Joel drop it off here later? I know it’s an imposition—”

  “It’s okay, Ben, we want to help you.”

  “It’s just . . . I really can’t go back there right now. I’ve been watching TV, and I know the press is still camped out front. I just can’t face all that on top of . . . everything.”

  “I’ll do it,” Tasha tells him, uncertain whether she can face it, either. But what choice does she have? Ben needs her. He has nowhere else to turn. Poor Ben, alone now, with the kids—having to live the rest of his life with the horror of what happened to Rachel. How will he bear it?

  “I really appreciate it,” he says. “The police are at the house. They’ll let you in. They’ll want to keep an eye on you the whole time you’re there—it’s a crime scene and they don’t want anybody touching anything.”

  “What do you need besides Clemmy?”

  He gives her a short list. She memorizes it: a couple of the kids’ toys and certain items of clothing, along with his address book, which he says is in the drawer of his desk in the den.

  “There are people I have to call, to tell them about Rachel, and the funeral arrangements,” he says, his voice hollow.

  “Do you want me to make any calls for you, Ben?” Tasha offers.

  “No. No, Carol can help. And Rachel’s parents. They flew in from Florida last night.”

  “They must be devastated.” As far as she can tell, Rachel, an only child, was thoroughly spoiled by her doting parents, who had her late in life. Rachel laughingly told Tasha, on more than one occasion, that her parents’ world revolved around her.

  “They are devastated,” Ben says, his voice strained.

  “I’ll let you go, Ben. Joel or I will drop off the stuff at your sister’s later. What’s the address?”

  Ben tells her. She repeats it aloud for Joel’s benefit, knowing he’ll remember. She promises Ben that she’ll get dressed and go over as soon as she can, so that Mara won’t have long to wait for her Clemmy.

  Hanging up, she looks at Joel.

  “Well?” he asks.

  “You pretty much heard the conversation. Ben needs me to go get some things out of the house,” she tells him, getting up. “I’ll go now, while the kids are still sleeping. I have to go take a shower.”

  “I’ll start another load of laundry when you’re out,” Joel says, standing on the opposite side of the bed. He fixed the washing machine yesterday—at least temporarily. He doesn’t think it’ll hold. It’s under warranty to Sears and he wants Tasha to call for a repairman to come next week.

  “What about your parents? And the pumpkin contest?” Tasha asks him.

  He pauses, looking at her. “What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know.” But she does know. What she wants to do, right now, is put her head on Joel’s shoulder and feel his arms around her. But the bed lies between them like a vast divide.

  “I can call my parents back and tell them not to come today.”

  She contemplates that. Her in-laws called yesterday—several times, in fact. They had heard the news about Rachel’s murder on television and suggested that Joel, Tasha, and the kids come stay with them until the killer is caught. Tasha was momentarily tempted, if only out of fear—rational or not. But Joel vetoed the idea, saying they would be safe right here at home.

  Naturally, his parents then insisted on coming up here today as planned. Tasha figures they’ll try again to talk her and Joel into coming back to Brooklyn with them. Still . . .

  “No. Let them come,” she tells Joel. “It’ll be a good distraction for the kids.”

  Joel’s parents might not make a secret of the fact that they dislike her, but they blatantly adore their grandchildren, and the feeling is mutual. The Bankses always show up bearing treats and goodies.

  “Should we still go down to the harvest festival in town?” Joel asks.

  “If it’s still on, with everything that’s happened,” Tasha decides, heading toward the bathroom. As an afterthought, she tosses over her shoulder, “Thanks for doing all the laundry, Joel.”

  “It’s okay.”

  She smiles at him. He smiles back. For a moment, they’re the old Joel and Tasha, minus the kids and the house and the promotion to vice president. He’s no longer the stranger he has been lately, and she’s no longer resentful, suspicious. If only it always could be like it is right this second, she thinks.

  Then she remembers. This moment is hardly idyllic. She’s about to face, head-on, the horror of what happened across the street.

  Her smile dims. She turns away from her husband, goes into the bathroom, and shuts the door.

  As she takes off her clothes, she finds herself wondering why Joel has suddenly decided to help her around the house. She hadn’t asked him to start the laundry yesterday after he finished fixing the washing machine—he just did it, while she was giving the kids their baths. And after their dinner of takeout pizza, he put the dishes into the dishwasher while she read bedtime stories. Usually, courtesy of the mother who spoiled him, he gets up and leaves the table unless she asks him to help clear it

  Is he feeling bad because he knows Tasha’s been devastated by her friend’s death?

  Or just . . . guilty?

  Ben hadn’t suspected Rachel was having an affair. Nor had Tasha.

  But just these past few days, she has almost convinced herself that Joel has been cheating on her. Based on what? The fact that he’s been busier than ever before at work and seems detached from her when he’s at home. There haven’t been classic signs of philandering: no lipstick on his collar or stray earrings in his car, no credit card bills with hotel rooms and jewelry shop purchases, no mysterious-hang-up telephone calls.

  Struck by this last thought, she remembers how she answered the phone that day at Rachel’s to hear nothing but breathing, then a click. Was it her lover, trying to reach her? Had Rachel been with him that last night of her life while Jeremiah Gallagher babysat her children?

  Who was he?

  Tasha runs through the men she’s heard Rachel mention recently. Just the other day she was raving about Claude, her hairdresser—but Tasha assumed he’s gay. Rachel often talks about Michael, her personal trainer from the gym, describing his muscular body and, in awe, how much weight he can bench-press. And there’s Jason, the golf pro who gave her lessons all summer and who, according to Rachel, has eyes bluer than Rockefeller blood.

  But nothing Rachel said about any of them led Tasha to believe she was romantically involved with them. She would have sensed it . . . wouldn’t she?

  Her mind whirling with other possible identities for Rachel’s shadowy lover, Tasha pushes one particularly nagging idea out of her head.

  No, she tells herself firmly as she turns on the water in the tub. It couldn’t be him. That would be too coincidental. It has to be somebody else. But who? And what, if anything, did he have to do with Rachel’s death?

  Paula is awakened by a ringing telephone. Feeling for the receiver on her nightstand, she picks it up, looking at the clock as she does, and groaning. She’s only been in bed three hours. After interviewing every possible source for the Leiberman case, and sitting through an endless press briefing during which nothing more was revealed, she went back to her office at the newspaper to file her story for this week’s edition.

  “Hello?” she mumbles into the phone.

  It has to be Mitch. He never called her cell phone, and there were no messages on her machine from him or from Frank when she got home earlier.

  “Ms. Bailey?”

  “Yes?” She frowns at the sound of an unfamiliar female voice, propping herself on one elbow. “Who is this?”

  “My name is Glenda Kline. I’m a nurse at Haven Meadows.”

&nbs
p; Haven Meadows. Where Pop is.

  “Is something wrong?” Paula asks, her pulse accelerating.

  “Your father has been asking for you. He seems rather . . . desperate. We thought it best that we get in touch and let you know.”

  “He’s been asking for me?” Paula echoes. Her father doesn’t speak. Not since the breakdown that forced her to put him into a home with round-the-clock medical care.

  “Just saying your name,” the nurse tells her. “But he’s agitated. Maybe he’s worried about you, since he hasn’t seen you in some time. . . .”

  Is that an accusing note in Glenda Kline’s voice? Paula rubs her eyes. They’re burning from lack of sleep. If Glenda Kline only knew about the pressure she’s under right now . . .

  “If you came to visit, just to show him that you’re all right, I think it might help, Ms. Bailey.”

  She contemplates that. Thinks about the interviews she has scheduled for today, and the leads she has to follow, and then there’s Mitch . . .

  But she hasn’t been out to Haven Meadows in a few weeks now. On that last visit, Pop’s condition was the same as always. He sat staring at his hands in his lap, not listening to her or looking at the picture Mitch had drawn for him—a seascape drawn in markers. The nurse on duty that day had taped it to the wall by his bed, saying that it would really help to cheer up Mr. Bailey.

  At the time, Paula privately thought that cheering up is hardly what her father needs. No, he isn’t sad or depressed. He’s just . . . gone. And as far as she’s been able to tell, he’s never coming back.

  Or is he?

  Maybe something has changed. If so, she needs to be there.

  “All right,” she tells the nurse, her mind whirling through her obligations for the day ahead. “Tell him I’ll be there this afternoon.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be pleased,” the nurse says.

  Are you? Paula wonders, hanging up. Her father has shown no emotion for several years now. Even seeing Mitch hasn’t brought a flicker of recognition, let alone pleasure, to his aging face. In fact, Mitch can’t stand visiting his grandfather anymore. He says it’s too disturbing, seeing him like that. Paula rarely insists that he go these days, although he does continue to send handmade artwork and little notes addressed to “Grandpop.”