The One Who Got Away

by Caroline Overington

  ‘She married David Wynne-Estes. You know, from Book-IT. The guy you warned her about.’

  The crowd laughed and Nadine laughed, too.

  ‘And you said she’s missing?’ she said, head tilted as if to hear us better.

  ‘She disappeared from a ship,’ said Dad. ‘This was off the coast of Mexico, so the police are saying it’s outside their jurisdiction. We think her husband did it and he killed his mistress, too. It’s a big story in our town, but the police won’t lay any charges. We need your help to put some pressure on.’

  The crowd was hushed, expectant.

  ‘Well,’ said Nadine carefully, ‘I don’t know all the details, so I probably shouldn’t comment, but if Loren is missing, and you think something terrible has happened to her, of course you have my support for a full and complete investigation.’ The crowd started clapping. ‘And I’ll probably get in trouble for this, but for what it’s worth, I don’t mind telling you, I never liked that man. David, I mean. I always thought Loren deserved better … and now everyone, I’ve got to go! Thank you all so much for coming! Bye! Byeeeee! Bye-bye!’

  And with a wave of her pale hand, she was gone.

  * * *

  Who are you?

  What’s your name?

  Who is the missing lady?

  Nadine had left the stage and the media transferred its white-hot focus to poor old Dad. He was still standing in the bleachers, with his hands over his ears. Aaron, determined to be first, had run off to file his story: Nadine Perez wants an investigation into the deaths of a Bienveneda businessman’s wife and mistress!

  I was doing my best to sort one question from the next, when one of Nadine’s people – her name was Myah, although I wouldn’t learn that until later – pushed through the crowd.

  ‘Come with me,’ she said, gripping my arm with a firmness I didn’t expect from such a tiny girl. ‘You need to do this properly.’

  I put my head down and allowed Myah to drag us towards the Chinese theatre, squinting at the camera bulbs flashing in my face.

  ‘Look at the storm you’ve created,’ she said approvingly, once we got inside and had a chance to sit down. ‘But listen, there’s a way to go about getting publicity for your cause, and this is so not it. Why didn’t you just write to us?’

  ‘I did,’ I complained, ‘but nobody answered. And Loren’s husband, David, he’s got all the power where we come from. It’s like everyone just believes his side of the story because he’s rich, he belongs to the right clubs, he knows all the right people.’

  ‘He can’t be that powerful,’ said Myah, ‘because I’ve never heard of him. Vaguely, vaguely I remember this story. A woman missing off a cruise ship, but there’s more to it, am I right? There’s a mistress? The wife killed the mistress?’

  ‘She didn’t kill the mistress! See, that’s what I mean. That’s what David is saying. And at the rate we’re going, that’s what Loren’s daughters are going to grow up believing.’

  ‘Alright, alright,’ said Myah. ‘Well, this is well outside my remit, but Nadine wants to help you, so …’

  She took a tiny notepad out of her purse and began scribbling down a name and number. ‘This here is the name of a friend of mine who is an agent. Do you know what an agent is? She can arrange a deal for you with one of the big networks. You call this number and you tell them Myah sent you. Tell them you want to do a deal to tell the whole story properly. A calm, professional interview. Because an hour from now? This is going to be a massive story, and you want to be prepared. You want to be able to say no, we’ve signed an exclusive deal with whomever. And then they’ll report that. Believe me when I tell you there is a science to turning a small-town story into national news.’

  She wasn’t wrong.

  Already, the headlines were starting to appear online.

  MY SECRET SORROW! SEXY NADINE SPEAKS OF HEARTACHE OVER FRIEND’S MYSTERY DEATH!

  WHERE IS LOREN? NADINE PEREZ CRIES OUT FOR HELP FOR HER MISSING FRIEND!

  The story was on Facebook, in People, on Huffpo. My phone went into meltdown as I tried to deal with all the calls.

  ‘How do you know Nadine Perez?’

  ‘What do you believe happened to your sister?’

  ‘Where is the investigation at?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘We have no comment. We have signed an exclusive agreement with RealNews.’

  And so we had. Myah’s friend, the agent, did that deal for us in less than an hour. Then Dad, Aaron and I headed back to Bienveneda. A paparazzo photographer followed us for a while, on a motorbike, snapping away with one hand, clinging onto his driver with the other.

  ‘Imagine living like this,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t ever want the spotlight of fame to fall on you,’ said Aaron, shaking his head. ‘People like Michael Jackson – he couldn’t leave the house without being photographed. It’s torture.’

  ‘People like the Kardashians – they seem to love it,’ I said, as the bike finally fell away.

  We arrived at Mom’s to find another photographer camped on the lawn. The producer from RealNews, Sunday Dow, was also already there, and she tried to get the photographer to go away when we arrived, but he remained defiant, saying, ‘This is America. I can stand on whatever sidewalk I want.’

  ‘Well, make sure you stay on the sidewalk, then,’ she said, shooing him off Mom’s lawn.

  ‘Don’t let anyone photograph you,’ Sunday said.

  ‘Why would anyone want to photograph me?’ Dad asked, lumbering towards the door.

  ‘Because they know we’ve paid for your story,’ said Sunday, ‘meaning your story has value. Meaning, they’ll want to get it free. So let’s get down to it. Where shall we go to discuss?’

  We took her into the kitchen, where Sunday moved her chair so close to mine that our knees were almost touching.

  ‘As I understand it, the police can’t investigate your sister’s disappearance,’ she said to me, reading from notes she had brought to the house, ‘because of problems with the jurisdiction?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Dad and I said in unison.

  ‘Okay. And you’d like us to help you get around that by forcing an investigation into the death of Lyric Morales? Because you think David killed her and has blamed the death on Loren?’

  I nodded.

  ‘And so, if he can’t be charged with the death of his wife, you’re hoping to get him for the death of his mistress? That’s great. I really like this,’ Sunday said, ‘and tell me, when David goes to prison for Lyric’s murder, who’s going to look after the girls? Your family, surely? Not his family. So this is about getting those girls away from a monster, too.’

  I would be lying if I said I didn’t want the girls. David had stopped all contact when I told him that I wanted to see him charged, and I guess I can’t blame him for that, but it made me sick when I thought about what he might be telling them.

  That we didn’t love them.

  That we didn’t care.

  That their mom was a crazy lady who disappeared from their lives.

  ‘Well, you know, this is a little off-topic, but what we heard was that David encourages the girls to think that their mom is still alive,’ Sunday said, leafing slowly through the notes on her lap. ‘Not more than half an hour ago, we were offered a picture, like a crayon drawing, by a teacher at the Grammar school they attend. Teachers don’t earn much so I suppose you can’t blame her for trying to sell it. Apparently it was something that Peyton drew. That’s her name, isn’t it? Peyton? And we were intrigued, because it was a picture of her mom, Loren, resting under a palm tree on a desert island. The way it was described to us, Peyton thinks her mom got shipwrecked and is maybe coming back to her one day.’

  ‘Please say you didn’t buy it.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Sunday gently. ‘We definitely said no.’

  ‘I should hope so,’ I said. ‘I can’t believe a Grammar teacher would do that.’

  Putting the girls in Gramm
ar was a big part of what Loren loved about having moved to the High Side. She was always going on about it. ‘Such a beautiful school,’ she used to say. ‘The grounds! The teachers! They have music. They have drama. They have debating. They organise field trips to places like Peru.’

  Now they’re selling pictures by her children?

  ‘Well,’ said Sunday. ‘Let’s help you get those children away from there, shall we?’

  The interview started with Dad and me sitting opposite the reporter, Christina Alley, who arrived an hour after Sunday, looking like a skeleton. I know what the gossip magazines are saying: anorexia. I’m not sure, but she was certainly all knuckles and cheekbones.

  ‘Tell me about that suit, Mr Franklin,’ she said, as Dad sat waiting for the cameras to roll. He had been tugging on the sleeves of his jacket since Christina sat down. ‘Did wardrobe supply that? Do we need to get you a larger size?’

  ‘I got this suit for Loren’s wedding,’ said Dad. ‘It’s only the second time I’ve worn it, and I put it on for today. I want to feel close to her.’

  Christina looked up from her notes. ‘Now, make sure you say that on air.’

  We didn’t get a room at the Bonsall for our interview. The producers wanted what they called ‘a feel for what’s real’ and Mom’s house was apparently ‘just perfect’.

  Mom was aghast. ‘You don’t want people to see all this,’ she said, waving her hand around the sitting room with its worn armchairs and the window-mounted air-conditioner and the no-brand TV screen.

  ‘We definitely do,’ murmured Sunday. ‘And we are going to compare it to some footage from David’s house. In fact, I just did a little helicopter ride over that property with a cameraman in tow. Do you know they have a leaping dolphin statue in their pool?’

  It was a surreal experience, walking through Mom’s home to my old bedroom, being followed by a man with a furry microphone and another with a camera, talking to Christina Alley in a way that was supposed to sound spontaneous although it was all rehearsed.

  ‘So this is where Loren slept when she was a little girl?’ asked Christina.

  ‘It is,’ I said, moving towards the small white bookshelf to extract an old photo album, ‘and I have some photographs here of when she was a kid.’

  The photographs showed Loren as she was at age nine: pretty and blonde with a blue ribbon in her hair. The RealNews team also took photographs from Loren’s Facebook – how they did that after David took it down, I do not know – showing Peyton wearing a pair of dotty plastic sunglasses; and of Hannah learning to ride a red trike; and of Hannah racing ahead of Peyton in an egg-and-spoon race; and of Loren holding both girls as babies in her arms.

  They took the footage of Dad and me standing in the bleachers at the Walk of Fame ceremony, pleading with Nadine; and the footage of Nadine in all her diamond splendour, agreeing to help.

  ‘Do you think she’ll agree to an on-camera interview?’ I asked.

  ‘We asked, and her people said no,’ said Sunday, clearly despondent. ‘Apparently, her people decided it’s too risky, especially if there’s going to be a trial … but she has given us a statement, and a photograph of herself at age nineteen,’ she added, brightening. ‘You should see it, she’s sitting on the fire escape in the apartment she shared with Loren, in underwear and black toenail paint. It’s amazing. We’re going to show the picture, and have the statement rolling down the screen.’

  The statement wasn’t very long. Basically, it said: ‘Loren Franklin paid my rent for six months when I first moved to New York … I would be nowhere without her.’

  ‘And maybe you can use bits and pieces from Loren’s journal?’

  ‘Her journal?’ said Sunday.

  ‘Well, it’s not strictly a journal,’ I said, ‘but her marriage counsellor, Bette Busonne, had her writing down all her thoughts and feelings after she found out that David was having an affair.’

  ‘And can I see this journal?’

  I fetched a printout of a scan I’d made, and handed it to Sunday, who did not even bother to sit before opening the cover and beginning to read.

  ‘Oh my,’ she said. ‘Juicy!’

  ‘Pardon?’ said Dad.

  ‘Heartbreaking,’ said Sunday, recovering herself, ‘but very, very difficult to get across on screen. I mean, so many words.’ She fanned the pages, thinking. ‘But do you know what might work,’ she said. ‘How would you feel, Molly, if we had somebody transcribe this journal completely and we published it online? Unedited. Untouched! So everyone can get to know Loren, in her own words.’

  It seemed to make sense. The footage would show me handing the diary over to Christina, saying: ‘I’m giving this to you because I want the world to know my sister. She was a lovely person. She loved her husband. She loved her children and I will fight until my last day to find out what happened to her.’

  * * *

  You have made a BIG mistake.

  Those were the first words I heard from David after the RealNews interview went to air. Not face to face, or on the phone. He sent a text.

  It went on:

  Molly, you have made a SERIOUS mistake. Loren would be so ANGRY with you. All this attention is NOT what Loren would have wanted. Our girls have already lost their mother. Do you want them to lose their father, too?

  I didn’t respond. Honestly, by then, I had nothing left to say to David. Except maybe: ‘See you in court.’

  Three days after the RealNews program went to air, reporters were called to a press conference at the office of Bienveneda’s Chief of Police, Captain Sullivan.

  I wasn’t allowed to go. Media only. But Aaron went.

  You won’t believe it, he texted me from the venue. Fifty people have turned up. There’s enough pancake makeup in here to cover a chorus line.

  I texted back: What are people saying?

  Everyone’s impressed with you, Aaron responded, getting your Hollywood movie-star friend to intervene.

  I was pretty pleased with myself as well. The full glare of attention was finally upon David.

  I have to go, wrote Aaron.

  I’m watching from home, I replied.

  ‘Which network will have it?’ asked Dad, pointing his remote control at the TV.

  ‘Looks like all of them,’ I said.

  We settled on Fox9. For a long time, there was nothing to see. The cameras were aimed at a rostrum, behind which stood the flags of California and the United States.

  By my count, Captain Sullivan kept viewers and reporters in the room waiting about twenty minutes before marching up to the rostrum in his dress uniform, complete with braiding and medals.

  A team of detectives followed him.

  ‘Gee, none of them look happy,’ I said.

  Captain Sullivan, in particular, looked grim.

  ‘It’s because they don’t want all the tapes to come out,’ said Dad, pointing his remote to turn up the volume.

  I felt some sympathy, not necessarily for the people who had been coaxed into having sex with Lyric, but for the people who were likely to become collateral damage.

  How many marriages were about to end?

  How many children were about to find themselves the butt of jokes at school?

  ‘Thank you all for coming,’ said Captain Sullivan, rustling the papers on the rostrum. ‘As you probably know, we’re here to announce the fact that we have today issued a warrant for the arrest of local businessman David Wynne-Estes.’

  Camera shutters went wild.

  ‘And, contrary to some of the reports that have gone to air, this development hasn’t just come out of the blue,’ Captain Sullivan added, ‘and it most certainly hasn’t come as a result of intervention by some Hollywood movie star.’

  Some of the reporters tittered.

  ‘We’ve actually been working on this case for a while,’ the captain continued. ‘Obviously, I can’t say much more than that, other than to say that David Wynne-Estes has been informed that he will be arrested; his lawye
rs have been informed; we’re expecting him at the station this afternoon so we can lay the charges formally. He’s not resisting that. He’s coming in. And beyond that, I’m not sure what else we can say, although our advice to you media is as always, to let the law take its course. So, without further ado, does anyone have any questions?’

  A reporter in the front row raised her hand to half-height. ‘Carrie Freeman from CBN,’ she said. ‘You said that this arrest has nothing to do with the intervention of the Hollywood movie star Nadine Perez, but surely …’

  Captain Sullivan looked annoyed. ‘That’s right. This isn’t a soap opera. Police work is a serious business. We don’t go around arresting people because stars tell us to,’ he said.

  A second reporter raised her hand. ‘But, in fairness, Chief, it does seem like a coincidence that it wasn’t until …’ she began, but Captain Sullivan wasn’t having it.

  ‘I’ve just said, I don’t need movie stars to tell me how to do my job,’ he said grumpily. ‘So unless anyone else has a different question …’

  An older reporter – he was still using a paper notebook – raised his hand. ‘Hello there, Chief,’ he said in a velvety voice. ‘If I could just put the Hollywood nonsense aside for a moment …’

  Captain Sullivan picked up his water glass, and took a satisfied sip. ‘Yes?’

  ‘What I’d like to know is, at what point did you decide that David needed to face a murder charge, and have you informed the family of Lyric Morales?’

  The camera shifted back towards the captain, who seemed positively flustered.

  ‘Oh, you misunderstand,’ he said. ‘No. This is my mistake. I’m sorry for the confusion. David Wynne-Estes isn’t being charged with the murder of Lyric Morales. No. No. No. We are doing what Loren’s family wanted. The warrant we are issuing today, it’s for the murder of his wife.’

  Judge L. Samuel Pettit

  ‘They say the truth will set you free –

  but I have faith in juries, too!’

  Tweet posted by David Wynne-Estes