It was cold outside, although Sammy was too enthralled with the backyard jungle gym to notice. Jessica stood near the house, arms folded across her chest, shivering. Prissy the Pussy couldn’t go on forever, though she had seemed pretty determined. It might be quite some time before Jessica could lure Sammy back inside with the promise of a piece of Minnie Mouse’s chocolate ear.
She was about to start negotiating with Sammy, setting a time limit on this bit of arctic exploration that they had undertaken together, when she decided that a stroll around the grounds of the Applebaum estate might be a more rewarding way of passing the time than arguing with a three-year-old. She wandered around, looking over the shrubs that framed the property, checking out the built-in pool a few hundred yards away, finally moving to the side of the house. From there she could see her Volvo, looking a little cold, she thought, even though it had begun its life in Sweden, the place where they invented cold. There was the usual selection of BMW’s and Mercedeses’, too.
And then she did a double take. She had spotted a car that looked oddly familiar, if a bit out of place here in luxury land. Before she had a chance to investigate further, the door opened and its driver stepped out. Her face was twisted in incredulity as she watched.
“Terry? What are you doing here?’ she called, abandoning Sammy entirely and heading for the driveway that, at the moment at least, had graduated to parking lot.
“Jessica, there you are.” He strode toward her, looking as if crashing the birthday parties of four-year-olds was something he did all the time.
“How on earth did you find me?’’
“I called your house and your husband told me where you were. He just checked the party invitation you’d left stuck on the refrigerator.’’
“My husband?” Jessica blinked. “David?”
“Well, sure. I mean, I assume that your husband is the only man who answers the phone at your house, right?”
“H-how did he react?”
Terry considered her question for a few seconds, meanwhile surveying the Applebaums’ estate. “Well, he told me that Brookville was fancy, but I had no idea ...”
“No, no. I mean how did he react to the fact that you were, you know, trying to find me?”
“Oh. He sounded . . . concerned, I suppose. I guess he was a bit formal, at first. After all, he and I met only briefly at the progressive dinner. But as soon as I told him why I was looking for you—”
Suddenly David’s reaction to her active social life ceased to matter. She realized that Terry had probably not gone to all the trouble of tracking her down simply to tell her that Noona already owned a dog puppet.
“Why were you looking for me, Terry? What happened?”
Even before he told her, the expression on her face gave away the punch line.
“Jess, there’s been a third murder.”
A loud scream interrupted her train of thought. Sammy. She had forgotten all about him. Instantly she was running, acting entirely on instinct, heading back toward the Disneyland-for-One that was Noona Applebaum’s backyard.
“Sammy? What is it, Sammy? Are you okay?”
“Mom, my mitten fell down,” her little boy pouted, gazing at the ground from high atop the climbing complex. “My hand is cold.”
“I think it’s time to go inside, anyway.’’
Jessica went over to him, intending to try pulling him off the six-foot-high log on which he was perched. She expected the usual resistance to any kind of outside intervention. Instead, he willingly fell into her arms.
“I want birthday cake,” he cooed into her jacket. “I want Minnie Mouse’s shoe.”
“Okay, sweetie. We’ll go back inside in a second.”
She turned back to Terry. “Let me get him set up inside, okay? I’ll be back in three minutes.”
Once her offspring had joined the other party animals, she returned to the yard.
“Okay. Now, tell me all the details. Who was the victim?”
Terry sat down on one of the cross bars of the jungle gym. “A man named Arthur Mortimer. Ever hear of him?’’
Jessica’s mouth dropped open. “Rent till you’re spent.”
“Excuse me?”
Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “Arthur Mortimer, the video king.”
“So you do know of him.”
“Not only do I know of him; I also know him. Oh, Terry, he was the host at my first stop at the progressive dinner. Arthur Mortimer was my cocktails and hors d’oeuvres.”
The meaningfulness of their connection slowly dawned on him. “No kidding.”
“And I’m not the only person who knows him. He’s been a pretty visible guy around Sea Cliff lately. He just opened a new store in town, right on Sea Cliff Avenue. I went to the grand opening a few weeks ago.”
“Another big name in Sea Cliff society,” Terry said to himself. “That’s the common thread here, isn’t it?”
Jessica nodded. “One of them, anyway. How about the rest of the details? Does everything fit the same pattern?”
Terry nodded. “Same type of weapon, same purple ribbon.”
“So it is linked to the other murders. Was it in the Sea Cliff store that he was killed?”
“No. That’s where there’s a difference. This time, the victim got it at his house.”
“His house!” This was a new twist. Jessica could feel her excitement growing. “Was he alone?”
“Yes. It happened last night, some time in the middle of the evening. Mortimer was at home all by himself, since his wife plays bridge on Friday evenings and his daughter—she’s a teen-ager—had tickets to a rock concert at the Nassau Coliseum.”
“Yes, I know his daughter and his wife. I met them both that same night.” She thought for a few seconds. “A third murder. One that takes us even further away from the possibility that the incinerator project is the common link between the victims.’’
“That’s right. As far as anyone knows, Arthur Mortimer had nothing to do with either side of that controversy. The guy seems to have been entirely apolitical. All he cared about was making money.”
“And making a splash on the Sea Cliff scene,’’ Jessica mused. “Wow, the count is up to three, and no one seems to have any leads. This is really getting out of hand, Terry.”
“I know. Believe me, I know. The police feel the same way, too. In fact, I was kind of hoping that you would have heard about it already. That maybe some of the local scuttlebutt would help steer us in the right direction.”
“I’m afraid not. This is the first I’ve heard of it. Gosh, I feel so ... so inadequate, Terry.” Jessica shrugged helplessly. “I wish there were more I could do. . . .”
“Actually,” Terry said, clearing his throat, “I did have one thought.”
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Jessica could feel a smile creeping across her face. “Oh, you did, did you?”
Terry laughed. “And naturally your name came up in conjunction with this brainstorm of mine.”
“Okay, shoot. So far I’ve agreed to get all my hair cut off and to risk getting coffee stains on my clothes, all for the cause. What’s next?”
“All you have to do is be your usual charming self.’’
Jessica cast Terry a suspicious glance. “Uh-oh. I don’t like the sound of this one.’’
“No, really. It’s completely innocent. All you have to do is act neighborly.”
“Yes ... go on.”
Terry took a deep breath. “Jess, I was thinking about how all three of the murder victims were prominent Sea Cliff residents. Highly visible, known by all, fairly good citizens, that kind of thing. So it occurred to me that instead of looking at this from the outside in, maybe we should try approaching it from the inside out.”
With a frown, Jessica commanded, “Translate.”
“Look, instead of wasting our time poking around town, trying to pick up clues and not getting anywhere, let’s just go and ask somebody who already knows everyone and everything about
Sea Cliff. The kind of person whose familiarity with this place could lead to all kinds of interesting speculations.”
Jessica was nodding. “Edgar Keldak.”
“Exactly.”
“Terry, you’re a genius. I don’t know why we didn’t think of him sooner.”
“ ‘We’?”
“Well. . . you.”
“Aw, that’s okay. We can share the credit on this one. After all, we are a team, aren’t we?”
She was instantly flustered. “Just call us Starsky and Hutch,’’ she quipped. “So when do we pounce on poor old Mr. Keklak?”
“It occurred to me that he might enjoy being taken out to breakfast at the Sea Glen by some fans. I mean, who could resist an enthralled audience of two, especially if they’re willing to pick up the tab?”
Jessica groaned. “Oh, no. Terry Nolan, how am I ever going to lose my last three pounds if you keep plying me with waffles?”
* * * *
It was late afternoon by the time Jessica stumbled into the house with the sleeping Sammy tossed over one shoulder, living proof that it was indeed possible to have too much fun. As she snapped on the kitchen light, wanting to keep from slipping on any stray Micro Machines, she was startled to find David sitting at the kitchen table. The way he was staring off into space made him look uncharacteristically morose.
“You’re home,” he said soberly, glancing up from an untouched mug of soup. “Good. I’m glad Sammy’s out. Jess, I think it’s time you and I had a talk.’’
Jessica’s stomach lurched in that old we’re-going-to-have-a-pop-quiz manner, a reaction she had always believed she would one day outgrow, but which turned out to be as permanent a part of life as menstrual cramps, mood swings, and the occasional zit smack in the middle of one’s forehead.
“I take it you want to talk about something more serious than the lack of oyster crackers in the house.” Jessica was trying to keep her voice light; instead, she just sounded scared.
“Yes, this is a bit more serious than not having any oyster crackers.” He never cracked a smile.
“Let me just put Sammy into his bed. I’ll be right back.”
As she joined her husband at the round wooden kitchen table, she was aware of how her fear was distorting her perceptions. She was also noticing how the most peculiar things kept catching her attention, things like the fact that the napkin holder needed refilling, for example, and that in her usual scrub-down of all the kitchen’s surfaces right after lunch she had missed a few spots. Or were those left over from breakfast?
Here it comes, she was thinking, knowing full well that she couldn’t distract herself forever. This is it, the moment I’ve been dreading. David’s going to bawl me out for being a lousy wife, an incompetent mother, a disappointing friend. He’s going to tell me again how ridiculous he thinks it is that I’ve gotten involved in the investigation of serial killing. And—this will be the part that’s the most difficult to hear—that he thinks I’m making a total fool of myself by chasing after another man.
And so she was even more astonished than relieved when David, after sitting down opposite her and picking up the salt shaker to toy with, said, “Oh, by the way, did your friend Terry manage to catch up with you?”
She simply nodded. Whatever was on her husband’s mind had to be pretty serious if it even made him put their ongoing cold war on a back burner.
“Good.” He let out a tired sigh. “Jess, I feel really bad that I’ve put off telling you this for so long, but, well, I guess I’ve been afraid you’d think less of me.”
He took a deep breath. Jessica noted that he was more agitated than she had ever seen him, even on the day of their wedding when his mother was late for the ceremony and the impatient judge kept threatening to leave. All kinds of fantasies flitted through her mind. He was having an affair, he was secretly a drug addict, he had just gambled away his last five paychecks at the Meadowlands. . . .
“It’s my job, Jess.”
“Your job?” She blinked. Somehow, that possibility had never even crossed her mind. It was, in fact, almost anticlimactic.
“I know, I know,” he went on. “You must have seen it coming. I’ve been acting miserable for quite a while now.”
“I thought it was just that the commute was wearing you down. ...” Jessica let her voice trail off uncertainly, knowing full well that what she would have said, if she dared to be perfectly honest, was, “I thought it was me.”
“The commute has been a convenient thing to complain about, but it’s not the real issue at all.” David sighed. It was as if just talking about it made him weary. “It’s this business of working for a big firm.”
“But I thought you liked being associated with a big organization, one whose name people would recognize right away.’’ Well, maybe not normal people, she was thinking, but at least the kind of people who were into I-beams in a really big way. “I thought you found it exciting, working in a dynamic place with lots of other professionals. ...”
“I did, for a while. And it was important to me-to work at a place that people knew about. At least in the beginning. But now ...”
Uh-oh, Jessica was thinking. Here comes the hard part. The part that makes it impossible for him to look me in the eye. She reached for the pepper shaker, having decided that she, too, needed an outlet for her anxiety, something smooth, ceramic, and not too breakable.
“I’m tired of working for somebody else, Jess. I’m fed up with being just one more cog in the wheel. I’ve had enough of troubleshooting, spending my days breaking bad news to people about holes in their pipes and weak spots in their structures.”
Good thing he didn’t become a doctor, Jessica thought. But then her more practical side took over.
“I can see how that would get to somebody after a while. But, uh, what exactly are you saying, David?”
He took a deep breath. “Jess, I want to go off on my own. I’m ready to leave Stanton and start up my own business.”
Jessica just looked at him. The words, Just like your father? were on the tip of her tongue, yet she knew that to utter them would cause the instantaneous regression of this calm, adult discussion into a full-scale argument, complete with accusations, hurt feelings, and voices so loud that Sammy would inevitably wake up and start putting his two cents in.
But she realized quickly that that issue, the one of like father, like son, was merely an interesting tangent. What this was really about was change.
“Sure, it would be tough for a while,” he went on, still directing his remarks at the salt shaker. “Until I really got things going, I mean. But I’m pretty confident that I could make a go of it, Jess.”
It was only as she attempted to nod her head that she realized how this sudden announcement, of David’s had catapulted her into a trancelike state. It was the standard, run of the mill, garden-variety version of shock, the kind that most people had to deal with on the average of two to three times a week.
“Wouldn’t it be kind of difficult, uh, financially? At least for awhile?”
“We have a little bit of savings,” David replied. “Not much, of course, because just about everything’s gone into this house. But I think we could manage until things really got going, if we were careful about spending. It would be ... an adjustment.” He took a deep breath. “So what do you think, Jess?”
This was proving to be one of those times when Jessica didn’t really know what she thought. She was caught completely off guard, which resulted in a distinct separation of intellect and emotions. Here she had been expecting to spend the evening entertaining her husband with tales of the Applebaums’ conspicuous consumption, next moving along to Prissy the Pussy, Rocco the Raccoon, and Arthur Mortimer the Deceased. Just another quiet evening at home.
And now this.
“I, uh, I guess if it’s what you want,” she finally said hesitantly, knowing she was expected to say something, “it’s what you should try to do.”
The look of relief on Dav
id’s face told her she had given the right answer.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” he said. “I had a feeling that you’d come through for me, Jess. You know, that you’d be your usual understanding self.”
Jessica forced a smile, pleased that she was playing out this scene the way her husband had been hoping she would. Once again, she had managed to figure out how she was expected to feel. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the slightest idea how she really did feel.
Chapter Seventeen
“What shape pancake would you like?”
Jessica was standing over the stove, Aunt Jemima-style, ready to administer to the needs of her young one with a bowl of freshly made pancake batter and a well-worn wooden spoon. She felt like the central character in a Norman Rockwell print.
“Mommy, pancakes are round,” her son informed her, baffled by this embarrassing display of ignorance.
“Sometimes they are,” she countered. “When you get them at the International House of Pancakes, they’re round. But when your mom makes them, they can be any shape your little heart desires.”
“Like what?”
“Like ... oh, I don’t know. Like an animal, for instance. I could make you a tiger or a whale or a teddy bear—”
“Can you make a Superman pancake?’’ Sammy asked, wide-eyed.
“Now you’re getting into the swing of things. Sure I can make Superman. Or Batman or Spiderman . . . Hey, I know. How about a Wonder Woman pancake?’’
“No!” he protested, his face twisting into an angry scowl.
“Why not?” she challenged. “What’s wrong with Wonder Woman?”
“Mom,” Sammy explained calmly, “you like Wonder Woman because she’s a girl and you’re a girl. I like Superman because he’s a boy and I’m a boy.”
“Well, I like Superman, too.” But her spunkiness was fading fast. She dropped a few spoonfuls of batter into the frying pan, creating the silhouette of a blob-like being with a cape.
“Superman is the fastest,” he went on with great confidence. “He’s the strongest, too.”
“Woman Woman is fast and strong,” Jessica said petulantly.
“Not as fast as Superman. Not as strong, either.”
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