Domestic Secrets

by Rosalind Noonan

  “I’ll plan on that.”

  “Then you can be here for the funeral. Or life celebration. However you want to look at it.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive up? I’m looking at my car keys now. I have gas in my tank.”

  “No.” She did want him to come, but it would be wrong to wreck his summer term. Andrew’s classes were intense and demanding, and she wasn’t going to suck up his time and energy by making him drive four hours round trip. “Anyway. Back to Stosh. Remy was sure he was the one that broke the vase. What if Mom is covering for him?”

  “Covering for him, as in, he killed Remy?”

  “Yes! No. I don’t know. There’s just something stinking false about that broken vase. It did not happen by accident during a lesson, I can promise you that. I can tell when Mom is lying, and she was telling the cops a whopper.”

  “Is there a way that Stosh could have killed Remy and made it look like Jared was guilty?” asked Andrew.

  For a moment Cassie let herself pursue the fantasy. It would be wonderful to see Jared vindicated, released from jail, saved from the hell of life in prison. It would be a huge relief to know that brother hadn’t turned against sister. But the reality painted a different picture. “The evidence against Jared is so strong,” she said.

  “He was there in the stairwell, but what if someone else killed her and he stumbled upon the scene?” Andrew suggested.

  “He was covered with blood.”

  “As he would be if he tried to stop the bleeding.”

  “And his knife was used to cut her.”

  “Someone could have stolen it from him.”

  “You are so brilliant,” she breathed. “I’ll bet the police are thinking the same thing. That’s why they wanted to talk to Mom.”

  “Did you find anything pertinent on Remy’s cell phone?”

  “Not really, but I downloaded all of her recent photos to her laptop. I spent part of the afternoon going through a file called secrets. Some of the shots are goofy mistakes. A few of them show the ceiling, cut-off hands, photo bombs. Ariel is in a lot of them. Sometimes she’s posing with Gleetime kids, and a few of them show boys grabbing her ass.”

  “Really? That’s kind of sick.”

  “I told you. No boundaries. An even bigger eeew factor because Mom seems to like it. A lot of the photos are just silly. They show Remy having a bad-hair day, and there are a few where she and her friends have blacked-out teeth.”

  “Weird. I wonder why Remy bothered to keep all those pictures,” he said.

  “I know. You’d think she would delete them right away. Instead, she kept them all. Hundreds. It’s going to take me awhile to go through all of them.”

  “Well,” he said in that low, logical voice. “There’s a reason for everything. We just need to discover it.”

  Chapter 32

  Rock music poured out of Holy Snips when Rachel opened the door Monday morning and stepped into cool air. It was Sondra’s morning to open, and her usual ritual was to put on a pot of coffee and crank up the music.

  “Good morning,” Rachel called, and heard a blurred response from the break room.

  At the reception desk, Rachel hit the message button on the answering machine while she opened her appointment book. She had a fairly full schedule today. Good. That made it worth dragging herself in. But as the messages played, she saw a pattern.

  Her customers were canceling.

  “This is China Kenyon. Just calling to say that something’s come up, so I won’t be able to make my two o’clock with Rachel.”

  “I’m calling to cancel my appointment with Rachel. I’ll call back to reschedule. . . .”

  By the end of the messages, more than half of today’s appointments had canceled.

  “Dammit.” No big surprise, but somehow she had expected more from her clients. She found Sondra in the break room, rummaging through the fridge. Today Sondra’s hair was the color of a copper penny, tied off into low pigtails like a junior high cheerleader. “How’s that coffee coming along? I desperately need it.”

  “It’s brewing, but there’s no milk or creamer.” Sondra looked up from the fridge. “Oh, Rachel. I didn’t think it was you. How’s it going?” She shook her head and slammed the refrigerator door. “Bad question. But what should I say? How ya holding up?”

  “I’m trying to keep my head up. I just keep telling myself that I can do it. Whatever ‘it’ might be.” Rachel shook her head, feeling the sting of tears. “My kid . . . he’s got a long road ahead of him.”

  “I know, honey.” Sondra opened her arms and enveloped Rachel in a hug. “Come hell or high water, he’s still your son.”

  A sob escaped Rachel’s throat at the truth in Sondra’s words. Why didn’t the rest of the world get that? Grateful, she patted Sondra’s shoulder. “I’ll probably be working the rest of my life to pay for his defense. Guess that’s just how it goes.”

  “You do what you gotta do.”

  “True. The problem is, I don’t know what that is.” Besides coaxing Ariel to see Jared. She had tried to put that heinous task out of her head, probably because she saw no way to make it happen.

  “Well, you’re a trouper,” Sondra said. “I sure didn’t expect to see you here today.”

  “I didn’t want to let my customers down again,” Rachel said, swiping tears from her eyes. “Although half of them wouldn’t have cared. I’ve got a ton of cancellations.”

  “Yeah, people are hinky. They think it might be awkward with you.”

  “Or they blame me for what my son might have done.”

  “Yeah, that, too.” Sondra let out a sigh. “Not to kick you when you’re down, but I’m afraid I’ve got more bad news. Tiffani cleared out her stuff on Saturday.”

  “What?” Rachel ducked out of the break room to examine Tiffani’s corner. Sure enough, the counter was empty, the cupboards bare. “Wow.” She sat down in the client chair and patted the armrests. “This may be the first time Tiffani has ever cleaned up after herself.”

  Sondra snickered. “Funny and true.”

  Rachel squinted. “Is she planning to rent that place across the square?”

  “That’s her story. Said she’s going have all new stuff. She’s sick of working around old things.”

  “And was she referring to the furniture or the people?” Rachel asked wryly.

  “You haven’t lost your sense of humor. I’d be so pissed off. Some people don’t have a loyal bone in their body.”

  “Honestly, I’m relieved to have Tiff out of here. Let her stir up trouble across the square or in someone else’s shop. And I’m grateful to have the support of people like you.”

  Sondra looked up at the clock. “I’ve got a client in five minutes. Do you mind watching the shop while I grab some creamer?”

  “I’ll go. I wanted to get a latte, anyway.”

  Grabbing her purse, Rachel stepped back into the sunshine, heading to the coffee shop as if the day were like any other. It was going to be a hot one. Except that she was sick to her stomach, sleep deprived, and trembling. Beads of sweat formed on her upper lip, more from her own nervousness than the heat. As she walked she considered going to Ariel’s house. Cassie had to be there. Cassie would let her in, wouldn’t she?

  Inside the coffee shop, the familiar rich coffee smells and the buzz of conversation restored her sense of hope. But as she stepped into line, the barista stiffened. Conversation became strained before it dropped off as people in line glanced back and recognized Rachel.

  The killer’s mother has arrived, Rachel wanted to say.

  Perspiration misted up Rachel’s glasses, temporarily clouding her vision. When they cleared, she recognized familiar faces. Two of the women in line were Gleetime moms—Nan Lee and Patti Cronin—but they whispered to each other, refusing to acknowledge her.

  A handful of teenage girls at a nearby table stared and whispered. Of course. The high school was closed today. Rachel recognized one of the girls from
doing her hair for prom. Aubrey something.

  In another life, that girl might have dated Jared. In this world, she would be reading about his sentence on social media.

  Rachel’s hand shook as she tried to swipe her credit card. Desperate to get out of there, she held the half-and-half and to-go cup to her chest and strode out the door. Back at the shop she bypassed Sondra and her client, shoved the creamer in the fridge, and escaped. Her hands were still trembling as she drove home, as she drove through a stop sign, as she parked in the driveway and put her head down on the steering wheel.

  She couldn’t bear to go into the empty house. She had to see Ariel. Now. Right now; everything was riding on that.

  Ariel, Ariel. I never could rely on you, but you’ve got to come through for me now.

  Fumbling with her keys, she left the coffee and got out of the car. She would walk to Ariel’s house, braving the stares of neighbors and people passing by.

  Her walk of shame.

  Rachel forced herself to move forward through the oven air of an eighty-degree day, taking the familiar route to Ariel’s house. One step at a time. The day felt ripe and rotten, far too hot for May. Sunlight warmed her shoulders, but not enough to melt the disgrace locked in her muscles. The air was thick with pollen kicked up by the breeze, a mixture of sweet honeysuckle and sour criticism from the eyes of the watchers.

  Although the street seemed quiet, Rachel knew they were there.

  Ginny Newkirk, strapping the kids into their car seats. Probably dumping them at day care so she could have a spa day in Portland.

  Mrs. Abduljuwad, staring from her garden of spring tulips. She had a green thumb, and a husband who’d been hauled off for sexual abuse of their granddaughters.

  Mother-of-the-year Angela Harrell peered between slats of the plantation shutters. Probably looking for someone new to castrate when her youngest headed off to college in the fall.

  And there was Walt Finley, owner of the hardware store, sitting on his porch rocker, his bum leg stretched out as he hid behind the headlines of today’s paper. Everyone knew that was not coffee in his travel mug.

  They watched. They sniffed for news. They knew Rachel’s shame, her horror, her secrets unmasked. She knew these neighbors had secrets of their own, but none could come close to the horror that had emerged from the once-pretty closet of her life three days ago.

  The walk was laborious, a lead-footed exercise, an unwanted public spectacle, but she didn’t trust herself to drive. Too much stress, too little sleep, her mind pinned down under the weight of an elephant. All these evils combined to form a surreal frame of mind, a stiff zombie walk. She plodded past a median strip chockful of color: pink impatiens punctuated by heavy-headed red tulips. A basket brimming over with purple pansies and yellow petunias hung from the old-fashioned lamppost. From her vantage point on the corner, she could see similar bursts of colored baskets hanging from every light post in sight, neat and orderly and utterly charming. The town of Timbergrove knew how to get it right. A suburban haven.

  Too bad it was populated by snakes.

  “We find that many family members want an open casket. Oftentimes it helps advance the grieving process.” The funeral director spoke in a hushed voice that spooked Cassie, making her want to dance through this sleepy office and shout, “Some of us are still alive!”

  “We are definitely having a closed casket,” Eli said with surprising authority. “Honestly, Chuck, if it were my choice I would have her cremated and simply hold a celebration of her life. But her mother won’t allow that.”

  Cassie had overheard that discussion between Eli and Ariel. Eli had advocated cremation, but Mom had freaked out at the thought of it. Something about the fires of hell. In her weakened state, Ariel got freaked out by a lot of stuff.

  “So we’re going with a closed casket,” Chuck confirmed. Eli had befriended the guy, chatting him up about the sixties and draft dodging. Apparently, Chuck was a lot cooler back then. “We’ll go with the simple gray box you picked out. We’ll do the ceremony at the Unitarian Church. It seats eight hundred people. That ought to give all the high school kids and whatnot a chance to say good-bye.”

  Since they had entered the funeral parlor, a floral-scented house that looked like it was stuck in an old television show, Eli had totally stepped up to handle the details. But even before today he had been on the phone many times with the medical examiner, trying to get them to release Remy’s body. Eli kept saying that a funeral was a part of the healing. Cassie didn’t really see that, but she would be glad to have it behind her.

  “All right, then.” The funeral director looked up with his stoic expression. “There’s just the matter of clothing for the deceased. Did you bring a dress?”

  Cassie handed over a paper bag, watching as the man lifted out a pair of fleece pjs.

  “Pajamas.” There was a tired patience in his voice. “Most people want their loved ones buried in nice clothes. A pretty blouse. Maybe a formal gown or prom dress. Something nice.”

  “I want my sister to go out in comfort.” Remy had loved those pjs. It had been the first item of clothing to come to mind when Eli had asked her to find something.

  “I understand, but maybe she’d be better off in a—”

  “Use the pajamas already,” Eli barked, and the man nodded solemnly.

  As the two men discussed the contract, Cassie felt a new glow of protection over her shoulders. For the first time since Remy was killed, Cassie felt like someone had her back.

  On the way home, Cassie kept her eyes on the road as Eli sighed into the seat. “We’re doing our best for her, Cassie. That’s all we can do.”

  She stole a look at him: the owlish glasses, the long gray hair, the love beads. This man who wasn’t even her grandfather, no relation to Remy, either, had proven to be their hero.

  “Do you remember after Oliver died?” she asked. “We wanted you to stay but you left soon after the funeral.”

  He nodded. “Those were sad days, too, but a different shade of sorrow. You kids were sweet, but your mom wanted me out of her hair. I think I was cramping her style.”

  “This time, don’t listen to her,” she said. “This time, I hope you stay.”

  Rachel sat on the stoop in front of Ariel’s house, mulling over a plan as she willed her friend to open the door and let her in. Didn’t fifteen years of friendship account for anything?

  Apparently not in Ariel’s book.

  However, there had been times over the years when she’d had to help Ariel adjust her moral compass. When she’d had to insist that her friend repay a loan. When Rachel had argued that it was wrong to take money for sex, even if the millionaire on the other end was perfectly fine with forking over for the “widows and orphans” fund. And there had been that time, after Oliver had died, when Ariel had returned from working in Los Angeles and wanted Rachel to keep her kids indefinitely. That was not going to happen.

  So maybe this was one of those times; it was up to Rachel to show Ariel how to do the right thing. She brushed the dust from her dress and headed over to the studio door. Rachel knew where the spare key was.

  She was going in.

  The air in the studio was stuffy and it smelled of dust and sorrow. Rachel put the key back in the vestibule and pushed through into the house.

  “Ariel? Where the hell are you?” There was no sign of Cassie and the kids, which was perhaps all for the best. Getting Ariel to the county jail was her focus right now.

  Swallowing back any reservation, Rachel climbed the stairs and began to detect the smoky smell of burning weed. She followed the scent to the master bathroom, where Ariel sat on the edge of the large Jacuzzi tub, blowing smoke out the open window.

  For all that Ariel had endured, she still looked pretty darned good. Her hair fell around her face, straight and unkempt, but giving her that disheveled chic seen in fashion magazines. Even in gray sweatpants and a T-shirt her bombshell of a body was apparent. She simply looked rattled, a litt
le teary, like someone who had witnessed an accident.

  “I am so sorry.” Rachel realized that was an admission of guilt, but she didn’t know where else to begin.

  “You didn’t do anything to be sorry for.” Ariel turned the joint in her hand but didn’t offer it to Rachel. That was all for the best, as the last thing Rachel needed right now was to further splinter her disjointed sense of reality.

  “Well, I’m sorry about Remy. Devastated.” She stepped closer, but Ariel still did not look her in the eye. “She was such a good kid. So loving and . . . and loved by everyone.”

  Ariel took another drag, breathing in deeply as the house stirred to life downstairs.

  Someone else was here.

  “Who’s that?” Rachel asked.

  “My boyfriend.”

  Moving tentatively down the stairs, Rachel saw Cassie and Ariel’s father-in-law, Eli, in the kitchen.

  “Hey, there. You startled me.” She embraced Cassie in a tentative hug and nodded to Eli. Cassie, who hugged her back, did not seem surprised to see her.

  “I’m sorry about Remy,” Rachel said, fighting the knot of emotion in her throat. “So sorry.”

  Eyes averted, Cassie nodded. “Is the queen holding court?” she asked. “Or is she still talking gibberish?”

  “I’m trying to talk with her,” Rachel said.

  “Yeah. Good luck with that.”

  “I have something really important to ask her.” Rachel took Cassie’s hand. “Come with?”

  Cassie rolled her eyes but followed Rachel up the stairs.

  Back in the master bathroom, Ariel sat in the same spot, hunched over like a wounded bird.

  “Smoking weed now, Mom? Really?” Cassie picked up the burning stub of the joint from the edge of the tub and ran water over it to dowse the smoke. “Well, I guess it’s better than whiskey and Oxy.”

  A toxic combination. It was a wonder Ariel was conscious at all. “At least weed won’t kill you,” Rachel said, trying to sound sympathetic. Her pulse thrummed with anxiety at being here, and she kept reminding herself that she had come for Jared. Circling Ariel as if the woman might flee like a wild animal, Rachel moved to the opposite end of the empty tub and perched there. “This has been a nightmare for all of us. I never expected this . . . any of this, especially since Remy and Jared were a couple.”