When Chauncey finally finished and put down his pen, he walked us out to the lobby, saying he’d call later. He left and I tossed Dan my car keys.
“Let’s go home,” I said.
“Home?” Dan looked as surprised as if I’d just nominated Clarence Thomas for an honorary membership in the ACLU.
“Home. You remember the place. Spanish roof that pings when it rains. Pool in the backyard. Two flat-screen TVs with Dolby digital stereophonic surround sound, so you can watch Star Wars day or night.”
Dan smiled. “I definitely like the place, but I thought I’d head to my office.”
“Your office?”
“Come on, Lacy, I had to cancel my surgeries this morning, but I have to catch up on a lot of paperwork. And I need to check my files for any mention of Tasha Barlow. No reason for me to miss a whole day of work.” He fingered the keys. “I guess I’ll drop you off and then pick up my own car.”
Here’s what I’ve learned from almost two decades of marriage: Telling your husband he’s being ridiculous (even when he’s being ridiculous) doesn’t do any good. Dan had gone to work in the midst of Malibu mud slides and a Richter-rocking earthquake, so a minor murder charge wasn’t going to stop him — no matter what I said.
On the car ride home, we made slightly stilted conversation, sticking to safe topics that didn’t involve prison, perps, or dead actresses. When we got to the house, I noticed black scuff marks on the otherwise smooth, highly polished front foyer floor and I felt a little chill. The heavy-footed cops had left their mark. What would it take to get rid of the gashes and restore the flawless finish — to our lives, never mind the floor? No amount of scraping and waxing would undo the collateral damage.
Seemingly oblivious to the metaphoric mess, Dan came over to kiss me.
“I’m off, sweetheart,” he said blithely. “Thanks for being such a champ.”
A champ? Right now I felt more like a chump. “I wish you’d stay home this afternoon,” I said, trying not to whine.
“It’s a workday,” he said. “I can’t think of a single reason why I shouldn’t work.”
“Should I give you a whole list?”
“Nope,” he said and ducked for the door.
Four years dissecting corpses in medical school, five years treating the mauled and maimed during round-the-clock residency, and nearly two decades in private practice had given Dan a certain detachment. Clinical distance was necessary in an operating room, I suppose. But right now the ice water in his veins made my blood boil.
I changed into blue jeans and a T-shirt and puttered around the house for the rest of the afternoon, trying to distract myself by paying bills and making out invoices to clients. Grant got home from school and tennis practice a little before five, called out, “Hi, Mom, I’m home!” and disappeared into the kitchen. I joined him a moment later as he wolfed down a leftover piece of cheesecake then dug into a two-pound package of cherries.
“I did okay on the physics test, but I made a couple of stupid mistakes,” he said, spitting a pit into his hand. “One question on quarks got me crazy because I couldn’t remember if a proton has two up quarks and one down or if that’s a neutron. Isn’t that stupid? Who forgets something like that?”
“Who doesn’t? When I was in high school, a quark was still the sound a duck made.”
Grant laughed and started talking about electromagnetic forces. When he switched to gravitational pulls, I realized that sooner or later, I had to sink his high spirits.
“Sorry if I’m boring you, Mom,” Grant said, sensing my distraction. “I guess force fields aren’t your favorite topic.”
“It’s fascinating,” I countered quickly. “All that physics about positive and negative pulls makes sense. Unfortunately, I’m feeling a pretty negative drag right now.”
“Bad day?” Grant asked.
“Very,” I admitted.
“Stuck with a client who wanted Louis XIV when you thought Danish modern?” asked Grant, teasing.
“Danish modern didn’t deserve a comeback, and I never recommend it,” I said reflexively.
Grant grinned, went to the refrigerator, and poured himself a glass of Gatorade. “I was just joking, Mom.”
“Right.” I took a deep breath. “I did, however, have a bad day. As did your father. Who spent part of the morning in jail.”
Grant put down the glass and stared at me.
Don’t flinch, I told myself. Make it sound normal.
“What happened?” Grant asked, getting his composure before I did.
“A mistake or something. Some kind of confusion. We don’t know what’s behind this yet. The police came in last night and arrested him.”
“Last night? How could that be? You didn’t say a word this morning.”
“You had school to think about. And that midterm. So I really am glad if you did well, despite the quirky quark.”
“Dad gets arrested and you’re thinking about my physics exam?” Grant looked at me in complete amazement, stunned to discover that his mother was behaving like a very unstable molecule.
“Now I’m thinking about Dad,” I confessed.
Grant suddenly paled. “Where is he?”
“At his office. You know your father never stops working.”
“What’s the charge against him?”
Suddenly, a loud scream echoed from upstairs, followed by another and another. Grant charged for the door and I followed close behind, bounding up the back staircase as the bloodcurdling yells continued. We were storming down the hall when Ashley flung open her bedroom door and barreled out.
“Daddy murdered a girl! Daddy killed someone!” she hollered hysterically. “Oh my God! Daddy killed a girl!”
Grant grabbed her by the shoulders. “Shut up,” he said loudly.
“Daddy killed her! My daddy!”
Grant shook her, not loosening his grip. “Shut up,” he said, more forcefully this time.
Ashley burst into sobs, not dissolving onto Grant’s handy shoulder, just standing straight and hollering and crying.
I went into Ashley’s bedroom, where breaking TV news had interrupted a Friends rerun. Onscreen, a reporter stood in front of an office building that looked a lot like Dan’s.
“I’ll have more on this exclusive story of the Deadly Doctor as the information develops,” she said. “I’m reporting live from Beverly Hills. Now we go to Amy Chin outside the murder victim’s apartment.”
Ashley had taken a breath from her screaming, but now she started again, and I couldn’t hear a word that Amy Chin reported, but I was riveted to the video images that flashed on the screen — several pictures of Tasha Barlow, some shots of a slightly shabby apartment, and then the crime scene footage.
I understood why Ashley had become hysterical. Instead of Friends, she’d tuned into enemies.
Back in the hall, Grant had wrestled Ashley to the floor, and she was whimpering now, not fighting off Grant, who had one arm firmly around her shoulders. I remembered using the same tactic to stop her tantrums as a toddler.
They both looked up at me, but I sank down next to them on the floor so I could look Ashley in the eye. “What did you see on TV?” I asked, my tone harsher than I’d intended.
Ashley started sobbing again.
“Did you see Daddy?”
“Yeees,” she wailed.
Shit, I thought.
The phone rang. I grabbed it from Ashley’s desk and heard Chauncey Howell.
“My secretary just saw Dan on TV.”
“So did my daughter.”
“What the heck is he doing?”
“He went to his office. I assume they ambushed him outside.”
“He talked to the reporter,” said Chauncey, as if announcing that Dan had personally placed one of his polished loafers in a steaming pile of horse manure. “Has he gone mad? Your husband apparently claimed he was completely innocent and the police had made a mistake.”
“That sounds right.”
&
nbsp; “Mrs. Fields, he’s not to say anything. Anything. Do you understand me? Get him back home. I’ll send a limousine if you want. Tell him to leave through a back door of his office, or a service entrance, or whatever it takes so he’s not seen. Same when he arrives back at your house. No reporters. No pictures. No comments. Is this clear?”
“Clear,” I said. “I’ll page him. Or call his office.”
“After this, rely on your answering machine. Don’t pick up any calls. If I need to reach you, I’ll use the unlisted number. Assume people are listening in on your cell phone and that your listed number is bugged,” Chauncey said.
“Jimmy’s playing with a friend’s child down the block,” I said, trying to account for everyone.
“Tell him to come home,” Chauncey replied, slamming down the phone.
I called our neighbor Jane Snowdon and, giving only the scantest details, asked her to walk Jimmy to our backyard. Pushing aside the plantation shutters, I peeked out the window and saw a lone unmarked van across the street. While I watched, another van, this one bright with the logo NEWS CHANNEL 4, pulled up. I closed the wooden slats and called Dan.
“What are you doing?” I asked when he picked up the phone.
“Paperwork,” he said coolly. “I have a lot to catch up on.”
“Dan, the kids are hysterical. They need you. And I just spoke to Chauncey Howell. He wants you home. You ended up all over the five o’clock news.”
“Did I? Well, good. I told the reporter I was innocent.”
“You’re apparently not supposed to say anything. Chauncey wants to send a limo to get you home.”
“My car’s parked outside.”
“Can you get to it without being ambushed again by a reporter?”
Dan paused briefly. “You know what the parking lot’s like in this building. Open. Outside. I suppose someone could come up to me when I go to my car.”
“Then take Chauncey’s limo,” I said. “I’ll have him send an extra driver. He’ll come up to your office and get the keys, then drive your car home. Maybe some of the reporters will follow him instead of you.”
Dan snorted. “You and Chauncey are blowing this way out of proportion. You’re picturing a horde of reporters, and there was exactly one. She got her story. I’m sure she’s gone.”
“Dan, for once don’t be stubborn,” I pleaded.
I cracked open the plantation shutters again and saw two more vans pulling up, one with satellite antennae on top for live broadcasts. My husband might be in denial about the situation, but the assignment editors knew a good story.
“One reporter a couple of hours ago, maybe, but they all know about you now,” I said. “Ms. Channel Five had a very brief exclusive. We’ve got TV crews piling up in front of the house.”
I heard Dan walking across his office, probably to look out his own window, and I thought I caught a little gasp. But he composed himself well before he spoke.
“Fine. Tell Chauncey to send his driver and the backup. But give me an hour. I have work to do.” Like Chauncey, he slammed down the phone.
I quickly called Chauncey back and got a “Nice work. Good idea” for my efforts, which was better than I’d got from Dan. But that didn’t matter right now.
After Ashley’s outburst, the hallway outside the children’s bedrooms seemed empty and eerily quiet. Thank God for Grant, who could bring some sanity even to his sister. I went downstairs and found Ashley huddled on a sofa in the family room, just snapping shut her Motorola T721 cell phone. Full color, two-way radio, and custom cover, but she sulkily insisted everyone else at school had the newer model, with quad-band wireless technology that played video clips. No doubt in the middle of math class.
“I’m going to the Devil Diner for dinner,” she said, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Everyone will be there. Mandy’s picking me up.”
“Mandy doesn’t drive,” I said, not bothering to ask if this was the same “everyone” that had the fancier phone.
“Mandy’s boyfriend will pick me up,” Ashley amended. “And you’re not funny.”
“I’m not trying to be. In fact, I’m quite serious, so pay attention. You’re not going to the diner. You’re not going out tonight.”
“What is this, house arrest? I thought Daddy was the criminal, not me.”
“Neither of you are criminals,” I said quietly.
“Oh, Daddy is. Even though I had to learn about it on television. He killed someone, so I can see why he shouldn’t go out. But what did I do wrong?”
The extent of adolescent self-involvement never failed to amaze me, but Ashley seemed to be bringing it to new heights. “Today, nothing. Or nothing that I know about. You’ll stay home on Daddy’s behalf.”
“So we can have one of our fabulous family dinners?”
“I usually like our family dinners, but we’ll skip it tonight. You can eat before Daddy comes home. Eloise cooked chicken with mangoes and rice.”
“That sounds nauseating.”
“I’ll make you some pasta. Or there’s pizza from last weekend in the freezer.”
Ashley snorted, and as usual, I didn’t quite know what I’d done wrong. I tried to live by the mandates of suburban motherhood:
1. Don’t embarrass your kid.
2. Don’t ever embarrass your kid.
3. Like, oh my God, why are you making rules? Don’t you realize that’s embarrassing?
For my daughter, I tried to be cool (I downloaded Coldplay even before Gwyneth Paltrow married the lead singer) — but not too cool (my low-rider jeans never rode too low). I maintained the unreasonable hope that by being thoughtful, sincere, and understanding, I would eventually win over my daughter.
“Here’s an idea,” I said now. “Why don’t you order in from Devil Diner? Tell the delivery guy to come to the side door and I’ll answer.”
“You don’t get it. I want to go out. I don’t care what I eat. I just want to get out of here.”
“That’s not going to happen tonight.”
“When’s Daddy getting home?”
“An hour or so.”
“Can I sleep at Mandy’s tonight?”
“Only if you can manage that without leaving the house.”
“You’re not funny.”
“I think you mentioned that.”
“I hate this family!”
“I sympathize. I’m not so thrilled with it either today. But it’s all we’ve got.”
Ashley stormed out. I thought of rushing after her, but how many more futile gestures could I make today? I was pondering that when I heard a double knock and opened the back door for Jimmy.
“I think something’s up in the neighborhood,” said Jane, who’d walked Jimmy home. “There are news trucks outside. Any idea why they’re here?”
I closed my eyes briefly, composing myself. “Listen, Jane, will you forgive me? I can’t talk now.”
She nodded, looking slightly baffled. “Sure, Lacy. I don’t want to intrude. Call me if you need me.”
Jimmy scampered off, and when I went upstairs a few minutes later, he was lying in front of the TV. Normally, I’d tell him to turn it off, but I was grateful to have him distracted. Besides, it was the Discovery Channel. Seeing crocodiles snap at each other was better than watching grown-ups with teeth bared.
I found Grant sitting at his desk. Like Dan, the boy could work through any storm. But for all his emotional strength, he was still a kid who’d just been told that his dad was suspected of murder.
“Want me to tell you what I know about Dad?”
“Uh, yeah.” He sat back, not looking at me, just twisting the lead in his automatic pencil in and out. “I’m not going to get my information from television news.”
“Then here goes. The whole thing. I apologize for not filling you in before.” I ran through the story, just as I’d told it to Chauncey outside the courthouse, and then added some editorial comments about how Daddy certainly didn’t know Tasha Barlow and the only ques
tion was how the mix-up had occurred.
Grant nodded and kept his head down, and I was mesmerized watching him grinding the tip of his sneaker deep into the rug.
Finally, he looked up. “I think you’re being brave, Mom.”
“Thanks, honey. But I don’t know what else we can do. Ashley’s upset, but she’ll pull herself together.”
“Yeah. Ashley. But Mom, you’re not questioning Dad at all, and I’m going to do the same thing. No waffling. No wondering what happened.”
I looked at him straight on. “Are you wondering if Daddy’s innocent?”
“Nope, Mom. I’m with you. Dad’s innocent.” He blinked his wide, intelligent eyes, and I swallowed hard.
Of course Dan was innocent. Inn-o-cent. I knew it deep in my bones. No questions, no qualms, no pangs of doubt. Inn-o-cent. That gnawing, hollow feeling in my stomach didn’t mean a thing. Though it might take all the Rocky Road ice cream in the world to make the emptiness go away.
“I wish I could do something for Dad,” Grant said “Help him. I just don’t know how.”
“Honestly, you help just by being yourself,” I said. Predictably, Grant rolled his eyes, but I went over and gave him a hug, anyway. “We’re all feeling pretty helpless,” I admitted.
The phone rang, and I grabbed it from Grant’s desk, heard Dan’s voice, and asked anxiously, “Where are you?”
“In the limousine, on my way home,” he said tersely. “Chauncey is with me.”
“That’s great. I’m glad,” I said. Chauncey had made it to Dan’s office in record time, completely ignoring his request for an extra hour.
“Chauncey wants to talk to you.”
I heard the phone being passed, and then Chauncey said, “I think your ploy worked, Lacy. I only see one news truck following us. Now what’s the best way to get into the house without being seen?”
Marveling that Chauncey had asked me for a plan rather than his client sitting right next to him, I quickly considered some scenarios. “Come to the garage, on the side of the house,” I advised. “I’ll put my car on the street so you can pull the limo all the way in. Once you’re in the garage, I’ll close the door with the remote, and there’s an entrance to the family room.”
“Okay,” Chauncey said. “But if you take your car out to the street now, you’ll be swarmed by photographers.”
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