Domestic Secrets

by Rosalind Noonan

  “These were on her nightstand. She may have more hidden up there.”

  “Thanks, doll.” Extracting one sudsy hand from the sink, Eli picked up the pill bottle and frowned. “These things are toxic. She’ll do better once the system clears out.”

  Cassie had her doubts; she’d been through this with Ariel before. But this time, she realized she could lean on Eli. Kooky, psychedelic Eli. Underneath his eccentric veneer, he was solid as a rock.

  After her outburst with the police Friday night, Rachel felt a little sheepish calling them to her rescue Sunday morning. But beneath the simple malice of the vandalism she perceived an underlying threat, and she was concerned that the culprit was angry enough to encroach on her property and paint a vile message nearly under her bedroom window.

  Fortunately, Mike was one of the occupants of the two police cars that arrived, splitting the crowd of reporters and neighbors nearly simultaneously in a dramatic display that could have been featured on reality TV.

  The other officer, an African-American woman with a soft voice but a stern demeanor, let Mike take the lead.

  “Are you okay?” Mike asked first. When she nodded he asked if there’d been any other damage, any sign of a break-in. “Any idea who might have done it?”

  Rachel glanced toward the street, where one reporter was talking in front of the camera and the other was calling her over while neighbors and steely-eyed strangers pointed and gawked. “It could be anyone in Timbergrove.”

  As they spoke the side door of the house next door opened and her neighbor Valeria crossed the driveway.

  “This is terrible,” she said as she joined the group. With thick, dark hair down to her waist and a petite body, Valeria Calo always seemed more like a child than a suburban mother of two. “I’m so sorry,” she said, shaking her head at the sign. “Anything I can do to help you out, let me know.”

  Rachel was overcome for a moment by the kind gesture, the first from her community. Swallowing over the knot in her throat, she thanked Valeria, who was watching her own side door like a hawk. When it popped open and a little head peered out, she ordered, “Stay inside. I’ll be right there.” Turning back to Rachel, she added, “I’m serious. Just give a holler.”

  While Officer Willis took information for the police report, Mike circled the house, checking the windows. “No signs of forced entry,” he said when he returned. “Looks like the goal was to tag your garage.”

  “The way they painted it in red, with dripping paint.” Rachel turned away from the graffiti. “It looks like blood.”

  “That was probably the effect they were going for,” Mike agreed.

  “I have everything I need,” the officer said. She told Rachel to call if she had any other concerns. Rachel took her card, thinking that she had a thousand concerns, but none that could be solved by the police.

  As Willis headed back to her patrol car, Mike nodded at the garage. “I’ve got a buddy who paints houses. Maybe you want to call him, see if he can come out.”

  They went inside to get “offstage” as Mike put it, and Mike put her through to his friend Marcos, who promised to be there in a flash. “I’ll have the door at least covered with primer by this afternoon,” he promised.

  After she ended the call, Mike took her hand in his big mitts, his eyes searching hers. “How are you holding up?”

  “I’ve been keeping a low profile, but I was trying to get to Mass. I can’t let those people out there keep me from church. I don’t know what it is, but the sameness of the prayers, the tranquility there, it’s reassuring.”

  “Then you’d better go. Or is it too late?”

  Drawing in a breath, she checked the kitchen clock. “I can make the twelve fifteen.”

  He opened his arms and she fell against his chest, grateful for the security of his embrace, never wanting to leave his arms. “I’m going to talk to some of the reporters out there about backing off. Jazz Milkin is a good guy; he’ll understand. You shouldn’t be victimized.”

  With a promise to check on her later, he left, and Rachel followed him out the door. He corralled the crowd at the foot of the driveway, clearing a space for her to ease her car out and head off to church.

  She parked on the street, avoiding the congestion of the parking lot for a quick escape. In the church vestibule she paused, dipped her fingertips in the holy water, and made the sign of the cross.

  “That’s her.” A raspy voice echoed through the entryway. “Her son . . .” came the whisper. “He was the prom killer.”

  The prom killer. What a dynamite headline. Now Jared would be notorious for killing a girl and ruining the entire school’s prom night. He hath murdered prom, she thought, hearing the rasping voice of an Elizabethan player. Even if the tides turned and it was discovered that Jared was innocent, he would loom large as a scourge upon this town.

  Trying to put distance between herself and the gossip, she moved quickly down the aisle, genuflected, and took a seat at the end of the pew. But it wasn’t long before other voices cut through the low organ music.

  “What kind of kid carries a carving knife around?”

  A kid who sells them to make money for college.

  “He’s just damaged. A bloodthirsty animal.”

  He’s a teenage boy who wants to apologize to Remy’s mother.

  She wanted to turn around and snap at them that her son did have a conscience. He did not plan to ruin the entire school’s prom. And he did not mean to hurt anyone.

  Dear God, she prayed, let that be true.

  Showered and bolstered with makeup, Ariel found that she could strike the right balance with the cops: cordial and polite, but not afraid to reveal her wounds, her fragile state of grief. It was simply another role to play.

  “Did you bring Remy’s cell phone?” Cassie asked, breaking Ariel’s concentration.

  Ariel did not like having Cassie in the scene. Too unreliable, always forgetting her lines.

  “My sister had a lot of photos on her phone,” Cassie said. “Pictures we’d like to have.”

  The uniformed officer, a youngish African-American man, held up a paper bag. “We’ve got it here. We’ll leave these things here with you.”

  “But first, we just have a few questions,” Detective Shives said, his authoritative tone preventing Cassie from rifling through the bag.

  Ariel liked a strong-willed man. He wouldn’t be her first bald man, either. What was that saying? God made only a few perfect heads. The others He covered with hair.

  “Was your daughter Remy dating Jared Whalen?” asked the detective.

  “No, she was not.” Ariel firmed her lips in a stoic look.

  “So they were friends?” Shives persisted. “The reason I ask is, Jared was seen leaving this house at night.”

  “Oh. That.” Ariel swatted away the concern. “Jared was here for voice lessons. I’m the voice coach for all the high school singers in Gleetime.”

  “Is that so?” Shives’s brows rose.

  Ariel knew he was impressed.

  “And what about Cooper Dover? Did Remy date him?”

  “They dated off and on,” Ariel said, feeling foggy again.

  “It’s more complicated than that,” Cassie said. “They were supposed to go to prom together, but Remy changed her mind. She wanted to go with her girlfriends. So she broke up with Cooper, and he couldn’t get over it. He was pretty mad at her.” Then Cassie went babbling on about some prank Cooper had done to get Remy back. Yadda, yadda, yah.

  “Mrs. Alexander—”

  “You can call me Ariel.”

  “Ariel. We have a few photos here that we captured from your daughter’s cell phone.” He handed her some large photos, magnified, like inflated beach toys.

  Something pinched deep in her belly at the sight of the glimmering shards of glass, remnants of the crystal vase that had once sat on her piano. Rose petals were scattered amid the debris, along with the stems of the torn flowers. “Oh, that.” She tried to downpl
ay it. “That was a vase in my studio that broke one afternoon. I left the glass on the floor because I was in a rush to get back to the Gleetime rehearsal.”

  “But Remy was really scared by it,” Cassie piped up. “I know. She texted me.”

  Little Miss Know-it-all.

  “Who broke the vase?” asked Shives.

  “A student.” Ariel’s heart was drumming in her chest, but she tried to cover up. Acting.

  “Remy seemed to think the vase was broken by Nick Anastasio.”

  “How could . . .” Ariel struggled to keep her cool as a bead of sweat trickled between her breasts. “How do you know that?”

  “It’s in her text messages to Cassie, here.” Shives drummed his fingers on the kitchen island, and suddenly Ariel saw him for who he was: a fidgety tight-ass. He would never be her boyfriend.

  “There’s a police report of a domestic dispute at this address a few weeks ago. You were the complainant, Ms.—sorry. Ariel. Based on that incident, we know Anastasio has displayed violent behavior. And Remy’s text message states that Anastasio was back in town. It seems that Remy felt threatened by him.”

  “I’m telling you, the vase was an accident,” Ariel insisted.

  “Did Anastasio break that vase and threaten your daughter?”

  “No!” Ariel clapped her hands over her ears. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I lost my daughter. Jared Whalen killed my little girl, and you come in here and accuse me of, what? Dating a man with a temper, weeks ago?”

  “We’re not trying to upset you, Ariel, but we need to know your most recent association with Anastasio.”

  “He’s long gone,” she insisted. A lie, but they wouldn’t know that he’d called her a few times since it happened “The vase was an accident; I’m sorry Remy misconstrued it. What has that got to do with my daughter’s murder?”

  “We want to be sure Jared Whalen acted alone.”

  Ariel began crying, real tears. It wasn’t difficult with pain so close to the surface.

  That did it. The police thanked her and left. And scene.

  Chapter 31

  When Rachel returned home from Mass, the sick feeling lifted slightly as she turned on her street and found that the news trucks were gone, the crowd dissipated. Mike had truly taken care of it, or else the reporters had realized there would be nothing else to see, no one to talk to. She imagined that they would run footage of her garage with the gory graffiti. That should tide viewers over for a while. It was exactly the reason she had avoided news broadcasts and social media in the past two days.

  Marcos’s van was parked in front of the house, and the painter was just finishing up a primer coat, rendering the graffiti invisible under a large white square of paint. Rachel thanked him, and he told her he would send his crew back the following day to finish the job.

  With a clean house and the afternoon looming ahead, Rachel couldn’t help but think about Jared. Somehow, if he would let her in, confide in her, she would be able to help him. She knew she could do it. But he had to let her in.

  And he was asking for Ariel.

  Such an impossible task. But Rachel had to make it happen. If she could bring Ariel to Jared, it would be the first step toward getting him to let Rachel help him.

  Sitting in front of the television while actors went through the paces in an old romantic comedy, she noodled around composing a letter to Ariel. It would have to appeal more to Ariel’s sense of friendship than her weak maternal instincts. At first Rachel struck out everything she came up with. Too trite. Too bold. Too whiny. But what was the correct tone for apologizing to your best friend for something like this?

  When she finally came up with two paragraphs, she printed the page but left it on the coffee table to mull over. Knowing Ariel, she would probably just rip the letter into little pieces and blow it into the air like confetti.

  As darkness came over the house, she changed into her tights and a T-shirt. She would go for a run. Under the cover of darkness she would be able to move through town with relative anonymity. She laced up her sneakers and headed out the side door. This time, she would stay off the isolated path and keep to the streets.

  The cooler evening air eased the tight bands of repression—all the hours of holding in her feelings. Pumping her legs, she flew down the street and mounted the hill, moving into the street to cut around an elderly couple—not the kind of people who were usually out after dark.

  As she jogged up the hill she passed other people carrying flashlights or lanterns. It wasn’t until she crested the hill that overlooked the school that she saw the conflagration of lights—dots of white floating around the school like fireflies in a jar. Her footsteps slowly dissolved until she stood there, staring down into the bowl of the little valley drawing shape from the light of the half moon. The lights and electric candles were held by people of all ages. Little children raced through the gathering crowd, making some of the lights zigzag in the darkness below.

  It was some kind of vigil, no doubt a service for Remy, and there seemed to be hundreds of people gathering. For a moment she stared, mesmerized, longing to join her community in grieving for the loss of a generous, talented young woman. She should be down there, telling stories about Remy and crying, arm in arm with her neighbors.

  That was not going to happen.

  Deciding to cut away from school and run toward town, she turned back and started down the hill. She passed people headed to the memorial, disks of light bobbing over the ground as they swung their arms. She stepped off the sidewalk to avoid running into two women pushing a stroller. That sent her stomping over the lawn of the park just as a couple hurried around the fountain, stepping into her path.

  Letting out a yelp, she scrambled to a stop, the sleeve of her jacket grazing the woman, who was older than she’d seemed at first. Was it . . . ? She glanced back.

  Yup. Tootsie Dover, with her son, Cooper. Headed toward the vigil, of course. She turned away, hoping to go unrecognized. No such luck.

  “You!” Tootsie looked ghoulish in the glow of the lantern held under her chin as she marched over to Rachel. “You desperate bitch. You told the police terrible things about my Cooper.”

  Rachel reared back as if she’d been physically assaulted. “I—I only told the truth.”

  “According to you! And we know that you’ll do anything to get your son out of jail. But to stoop so low as to make up lies about my Cooper! That’s unforgivable.”

  “That’s me,” Rachel said under her breath. “The unforgivable.”

  “What? What are you muttering?” Tootsie demanded.

  “I told the truth. Cooper, here, was organizing kids against Remy. He was targeting her, weren’t you, Cooper?” She looked to him for confirmation, but he remained pale and silent.

  “That’s total nonsense. My boy loved Remy. He adored her.”

  “Your boy was pressuring her into getting back with him.”

  “You’re talking about adolescent angst.” Tootsie let out a huff of breath. “It’s no reason to send the cops to our place. Unlike you, I don’t enjoy having the police in my living room, and I don’t like them grilling my son.”

  Welcome to my world, Rachel thought.

  “I won’t have it. You put them onto us; you call them off.”

  “The cat’s out of the bag,” Rachel said. “But don’t worry. Cooper has nothing to fear if he did nothing wrong.”

  That made Cooper squirm.

  “That’s it!” Tootsie hissed between her teeth. “I am through with you. Finito! You’ve just lost one of your best clients.”

  “Pity to lose such a sour lush. How will I fill my days?” Rachel mused quietly.

  “What did you say?” Tootsie lunged toward her.

  “Mom.” A subdued Cooper pulled his mother back. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  As the Dovers walked away, Rachel felt a burden lift. She should have dropped Tootsie long ago. “And by the way,” she shouted after them, “you’re a rotten tipper
.”

  Tootsie turned back in a fit, but Cooper kept tugging her forward. Hands on her hips, Rachel watched them go, grateful to be done with Tootsie Dover. Who needed that negative karma?

  Rachel crossed the little park on the ridge in search of a vantage point and decided on the purple-and-red slide. She climbed to the top and wedged herself in between the guardrails. Below, hundreds of voices joined in singing “Amazing Grace.” The song made her heart ache, though it seemed fitting for Remy, a girl with that rare balance in a world of extremes.

  Hunkered down at the top of the slide, Rachel watched through a blur of tears. As the lights swirled and twinkled, assembling into a beautiful glow down by the school, she said a prayer for Remy’s sparkling spirit. Long live that joy.

  “Why do you think the police asked about Stosh?” Cassie was talking on the landline with Andrew late that night as, cell phone in hand, she scrolled back through messages she had gotten from Remy.

  “Well . . .” Andrew drew the word out. She imagined those crinkly lines forming between his brows as he gave it some thought. God, she missed him. “They found reference to him in Remy’s cell phone, right? They picked up on Remy’s perception of Stosh as a threat. They’re just following through on that possibility.”

  “You’re so logical. That’s what we need around here. Everyone else is blinded by emotion.”

  “I suspect this is a very emotional time.”

  “Yeah, I keep losing it. Every time I cry, the raw edges feel so close to the surface. It feels real now.” She hated losing control, especially in front of the kids, but there was no denying that each little breakdown brought some relief. “There was a lot of crying going on at the vigil. It’s kind of contagious.”

  “Aw. Babe, I wish I could be there for you. Are you sure you don’t want me to come up?”

  “Not now. You can’t miss your summer classes. Maybe Thursday night, for the weekend.”