After a moment’s deliberation, she steps on the gas and pulls the Honda into place in the diagonally striped Fire Lane zone in front of the town hall.
She steps out beneath a sign that reads
NO PARKING ANY TIME. TOW AWAY ZONE
You do what you have to do, she tells herself grimly, looking around. Good. There’s not a soul in sight. Nobody’s watching.
Her heart pounding, she hurries away from the car, the tapping of her heels along the pavement echoing through what suddenly appears to have become a ghost town.
“I can’t believe it, Joel,” Tasha sniffles, wiping her eyes with a Kleenex from the box he’s brought her after going to answer the ringing phone in the other room. “I can’t believe she’s dead, too. And what a horrible way to die.”
“I know.” He sits heavily beside her on the couch.
“Who was on the phone?”
“Some reporter,” he tells her. “He wanted to reach Ben for a comment on Jane Kendall.”
“Why did he call here?” Tasha asks in disbelief.
“Because the press doesn’t know where Ben is staying, and they figure we probably do. We never should have listed our number. Anyway, I left the phone off the hook so we don’t have to listen to it ring all night.”
Tasha nods absently, her gaze fixed on the television screen again. The special bulletin has given way to live coverage of a press conference that’s just beginning down at the town hall to officially announce what has just been reported: that Jane Kendall’s body has been dredged from the bottom of the Hudson River.
“I knew they were diving and dragging the river,” she tells Joel. “And after what happened with Rachel, I thought they’d probably—but it’s still a shock.”
“I know.” Joel pats her arm. “It’ll be all right, Tash.”
“Not for Jane Kendall’s baby. Not for her husband. And not for Ben and the kids, either.”
“No.” He exhales heavily. “But it’ll be all right for us.”
“How can you possibly say that so confidently? What if I’m next?”
“You won’t be.”
She shifts her gaze from the television back to his face. He looks old, she realizes with a start. Not senior-citizen old, but the lines around his dark eyes have deepened and his thick dark hair has a few strands of gray at the temples. And he’s lost weight, too, she notes with a twinge of guilt. Well, she hasn’t exactly been cooking for him the way she used to when they first married.
But it isn’t all my fault, she reminds herself, a defensive streak replacing the guilt. He’s rarely home for dinner. He’s rarely home at all. I can’t help it if he doesn’t feed himself when he’s not here.
Still, Joel is her husband. She loves him. She doesn’t want to see the job stress taking such a heavy physical toll on him.
And if it’s not job stress . . . well, something is doing it.
“Are you hungry?” she asks him suddenly.
He blinks. “Am I hungry?”
She nods.
“Are you?”
“Yes,” she says automatically. Even though it takes her a moment to realize it’s true.
When was the last time she ate? She didn’t touch the takeout pizza she served when Joel’s parents were here. Nor did she take so much as a bite of the fried bread dough and candy apples they bought the kids from the concession stands at the harvest festival—consolation for losing the pumpkin contest to a couple of high school boys.
And back home, after making the three of them Kraft macaroni and cheese from a box for their dinner, Tasha didn’t polish off their leftovers while clearing the dishes, the way she usually does.
Yes, she’s hungry. Despite Jane Kendall. Despite Rachel. Despite her nagging, growing fear.
“We never ate dinner,” Joel points out, as though he’s just realized it.
“I’ll be right back,” she says, rising from the couch. Suddenly she doesn’t care about watching the press conference. In fact she’d rather not.
“Where are you going, Tash?”
“Into the kitchen to see what I can find for us to eat.”
“Is there sandwich stuff?”
“No. I haven’t been to the deli in days. The supermarket, either. But maybe I can defrost some hamburger or something.”
“No, Tash.” He stands, too. “Don’t cook.”
“Why not?”
“Because . . . you’ve been through hell.” His tone catches her by surprise.
She turns to look at him. There’s clearly concern in his eyes. Along with something else.
“We’ll just order some takeout Chinese, and I’ll go pick it up.”
“But you don’t like takeout Chinese,” she tells him. Actually, he used to love it. But that was when they lived in the city. Up here in Westchester, he avoids it. He says the suburban takeout places aren’t any good, which has always infuriated Tasha, because whenever he says it, she hears his mother’s voice. Ruth thinks everything is better in the city. The Chinese food. The pizza. The delis. In her opinion, absolutely anything to be had north of the Bronx is inferior.
“But you like it,” he says. “And you’re always saying you miss it.”
That’s true. She doesn’t order it without him. There’s not even a menu in the house. She points that out to him.
“But they all serve the same stuff up here,” Joel says, somehow without a trace of disdain. He’s treading so carefully, so obviously trying to avoid the argument that has become so inevitible. “You don’t even need a menu to order.”
Well, he’s right about that. “Okay, we can get the number for Panda Palace from the phone book,” she tells him. “And we’ll have them deliver so you don’t have to go out. It’s supposed to storm.”
“No, I’ll just go in, get a menu, and order it.” He goes to the hall closet and takes out his brown leather jacket.
“But you just said we don’t need a menu,” she says, following him.
“I just said you don’t need a menu. But maybe I can find something I might like if I look at one. Besides, then we don’t have to wait for it to be delivered. They always take forever . . . even in the city,” he adds.
Guilt, she realizes as he looks at her. That’s what she sees mingling with the concern in his eyes. He’s being so nice to her. Maybe he’s finally realizing that he hasn’t been here for her in so long.
“While I’m gone, Tash, why don’t you go up and take a bubble bath or something?” he suggests.
When she gapes at him, he says, “You look so tired. Like you need to relax and forget about everything for a while. I’ll tell you what. I’ll swing by Blockbuster while I’m out and pick up a video, too.”
“Which one?”
“Something light and funny that’ll take your mind off of everything.”
“It’s a Saturday night,” she reminds him, then hates herself for having to find the downside to his sweet efforts. He’s being so nice. Still, she can’t help pointing out, “Nothing good is ever left in Blockbuster on a Saturday night. The new releases are always gone.”
“Well, since we haven’t seen anything that’s come out in months—”
“Years,” she injects wryly.
“You’re right. Years. I don’t think it needs to be a new release. Right?”
Takeout Chinese and a video on a Saturday night. Just like old times. Before the kids. Before the job promotion. Before the murders.
“Let me see if I remember,” Joel says, keys in hand, poised by the door. “Hot-and-sour soup, chicken with broccoli, and an egg roll.”
“Spring roll,” she amends, surprised that he remembers. “But otherwise, you’ve got my favorite order down pat.”
He smiles at her, then walks out into the night.
Maybe he finally gets what I’ve been trying to tell him, Tasha
thinks as she walks wearily up the stairs to draw a bath. Maybe things really will change from now on.
“That was your father on the phone,” Shawna tells Mitch, returning to the kitchen and replacing the cordless phone in its cradle.
Mitch is sitting at the table, reading a comic book and eating the enormous ice-cream sundae she made for him right before the phone rang. She answered it and took it into the next room. Mitch figured it was so he wouldn’t hear whatever she was saying.
“When is he coming home?”
“He’s still busy,” Shawna tells him, screwing the top back onto the jar of hot fudge sauce and putting it into the fridge.
“With what?”
“I don’t know, Mitch. You want any more ice cream before I put it away?” She holds up the carton.
He shakes his head.
She spoons some into her mouth with the scoop, then tosses the scoop into the sink and closes the carton. “Mmm. That’s so good,” she says, smacking her lips.
“Then why don’t you just have some?”
“Too fattening.”
Mitch rolls his eyes, disgusted. He’s never seen her take more than a little nibble of anything that tastes good. All she ever eats is salad.
“Want to play a game or something?” Shawna asks.
“Like what?” He’s so bored—lonely, too—that even some dumb board game with her sounds tempting.
“Cards,” she says, and adds, when he looks interested, “for money. Come on, I’ll teach you how to gamble.”
“Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow at her. Maybe she’s not so bad after all.
Yes, she is, he reminds himself as loyalty toward his mother sweeps through him. But that doesn’t mean he can’t play cards with her. Anything to kill some time until Dad comes home from wherever he is.
Karen hangs up the cordless phone again, frustrated. Tasha’s line has been busy for almost an hour. Does she know what’s happened—that they’ve found Jane Kendall’s body?
Karen wouldn’t know herself if she hadn’t finally thrown aside the romance novel and turned on the television just in time to see the special bulletin.
The news shouldn’t have startled her the way it did. Hasn’t she known all along that Jane was most likely dead?
The police haven’t ruled out a connection to the Leiberman murder.
Nor have they ruled out suicide.
But you never thought from the beginning that Jane killed herself, Karen remembers. It just wouldn’t make sense, despite her family history.
Karen had seen Jane with her daughter, week after week, at Gymboree and Starbucks. No mother who so clearly loved her child would ever willingly leave her.
Somebody pushed Jane off that cliff.
Just as somebody slaughtered Rachel in her bed.
Again, she punches out Tasha’s number on the phone.
Still busy.
Damn.
She needs to tell Tasha about Jeremiah. Tasha can help her decide whether his actions warrant Karen’s calling the police. Her instincts are screaming at her to do it—especially now.
The only thing stopping her is that Tom doesn’t want her to get involved.
But Tom isn’t here.
Tasha will know what I should do, Karen thinks, punching out her friend’s number once again.
Fletch Gallagher comes home to find his wife’s Lexus SUV gone and the house deserted. The outside lights are on. And more inside lights than usual, too. Why is the lamp on in the seldom-used living room?
He turns it off, then retreats back to the hallway, stopping to turn up the heat. The house is chilly, and it’s freezing outside.
There’s music blasting upstairs. Loud, teenage music with a throbbing beat. One of the kids must have left the stereo on again. Or else . . .
“Jeremiah?” Fletch calls, taking the steps two at a time.
The music is definitely coming from his nephew’s room.
Fletch strides down the hall and knocks on the door.
The music turns off abruptly on the other side.
“Who is it?” a voice calls.
A female voice.
Fletch opens the door to find Lily and Daisy sprawled on their brother’s bed. Lily has the stereo remote control in her hand, and Daisy is clutching a bunch of CDs.
“Hi, Uncle Fletch.” Lily gives a little wave.
“We just wanted to see how our CDs sounded on Jeremiah’s stereo,” Daisy tells him.
“We only want to hear one more,” Lily says. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Where’s your aunt?”
“She went someplace.”
“And left you here alone?” Fletch frowns. That’s not like Sharon. “Where did she go?”
“I don’t know,” Lily tells him. “She just stuck her head in and told us she had to go out for a little while and she’d be back later.”
Out.
Resentment swoops through Fletch as he stands there, still gripping the doorknob. He called Sharon less than an hour ago to see if there had been any word of his nephew or a call from his brother. Nothing yet. She told him she would be waiting by the phone, just as she had been all day, and then, sounding irritated, she asked him where he was.
“At the gym.”
“Well, when will you be home?”
“Soon,” he promised, before hanging up.
Well, she didn’t wait for him. Apparently, his wife had suddenly found something more interesting to do on a Saturday night Something more important—to her—than waiting for information about her missing nephew, or a call from his father overseas.
And Fletch has a good idea what that something is.
“Has anybody called?” he asks his nieces.
They shake their heads.
“How long have you had the stereo on full volume?”
They look at each other.
“A while,” Lily says, indicating the stack of CDs in her sister’s hand. “We’ve played all of those.”
They wouldn’t have heard the phone if it rang. Nor would they have overheard any call Sharon might have placed before leaving.
Well, it doesn’t matter.
Fletch doesn’t need evidence to have his suspicions confirmed. He can do that himself.
“I’m going out for a little while, too,” he tells his nieces abruptly. “Do me a favor. Keep the stereo volume down so that you can hear the phone if it rings.”
“In case it’s Jeremiah?” Daisy asks.
He nods. “Or your stepfather. Aidan’s got to get the message and get back to me sooner or later. If he does, don’t tell him Jeremiah’s missing. I’ll do that. Just tell him to stay where he is so I can call him when I get back.”
“Where are you going, Uncle Fletch?”
“To find your aunt,” he says grimly.
Back upstairs in her room, Margaret breathlessly strips off Jane’s clothing, blindly tossing the gown, the robe, the shoes into a heap on the floor beside the bed.
She eyes the long, high-collared plain blue flannel nightgown hanging on the hook beside the door. She’s worn nightgowns like that all her life. Now it looks like she always will.
Standing naked but for the string of pearls still clasped around her neck, she closes her eyes, shutting out the nightgown, attempting to shut out what just happened with Owen in his study.
But she can’t.
The horrible scene replays against the screen of her eyelids.
Owen staring at her in shocked silence as she blurted the truth—the whole truth. About Jane. About herself. About her feelings for him.
Her eyes still squeezed closed so tightly they ache, Margaret half-turns, grasps for something—the bedpost—needing support as the cruel irony rams into her all over again.
Despite Jane’s death—even more p
ainful, despite Jane’s bitter betrayal—Margaret will never have the man she loves.
He made it clear that even in death, Jane lays claim to what will be denied Margaret for the rest of her life.
At which point did Owen start to sob? At which point did he vomit into the wastebasket beside his desk? At which point did his grief and disbelief turn to wrath? At which point did he order her to get out?
Mercifully, it’s a blur now.
Dazed, Margaret opens her eyes.
She finds herself facing the window across from the bed. The window that looks down on the front yard and Harding Place beyond, where the press and curious onlookers are still encamped. The numbers have dwindled a bit these past few days as the Leiberman murder took center stage, only to explode with tonight’s development. Cameras trained on the house, floodlights, police officers, the private security firm Owen hired to keep everyone back, beyond the barricades . . .
Margaret stares down upon the garish circus from her window, feeling momentarily like a doomed tower prisoner.
But it dawns on her, as it has before, that she isn’t imprisoned in this house. Not really.
She swiftly begins to dress again, pulling on the stiff denim jeans again, and heavy socks, and a dark turtleneck over the strand of pearls. She needs the pearls. Daddy’s pearls. They’ll give her the strength to do what has to come next.
Fully clothed, wearing shoes and a warm coat, she kneels beside the bed and slides out the suitcase she has stowed beneath it. She unpacked the contents into the bureau and closet when she arrived earlier in the week—all but two items.
She unlocks the suitcase and removes those items now, carefully stashing them in the deep pockets of her hooded down parka.
Then she takes a flashlight from the drawer of the night table.
She’s ready.
Taking one last look around the room, Margaret tells herself that she has no choice. It has to be this way. She failed miserably in her final effort to avoid the inevitable, forever sealing her fate in those moments in Owen’s study.
As she descends through the silent house, she becomes acutely aware of certain sounds. The massive grandfather clock ticking in the foyer. The hum of the oversize refrigerator in the kitchen. The distant hubbub of the crowd at the gate. And her own accelerated respiration that seems to grow more audible with every intake of breath.
The Last to Know Page 28