Heartstopper

by Joy Fielding

  Her mother’s wary eyes moved from Megan to Greg then back again. “Probably a good idea,” she said.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  They must think I’m a complete idiot, Sandy thought as she watched Megan and Greg disappear inside the school’s heavy side door.

  We’re just running some lines.

  From the play.

  Lines, maybe, Sandy thought. But from the play, my … behind. Greg Watt! Good God, what was her daughter thinking? Assuming she was thinking at all. Which she probably wasn’t.

  Not that Sandy had any right to question her daughter’s common sense or her dubious taste in men, not when her own recent behavior was decidedly suspect. She thought of that fiasco with Will Baker, cringing at the memory of that awful night. She’d climbed into a car with a total stranger, for God’s sake! She’d gone up to his apartment! At least Megan had an excuse for her recklessness of late: she was seventeen years old. Teenagers were expected to do stupid things. When else in their increasingly complicated lives would they ever have that luxury? Not to mention, a classmate had been brutally murdered, shaking Megan’s subconscious belief in her own immortality. It was only natural she’d do a little acting out.

  But Sandy was closing in on forty, which qualified her as middle-aged—dear God, she was middle-aged!—which meant she no longer had the inexperience and ingenuousness of youth on her side. Naïveté no longer flattered her. And in light of her own track record where men were concerned, who was she to tell anybody anything? So, it probably wasn’t the best time for another mother-daughter talk. Megan had already assured her she wasn’t having sex. She had to bite her tongue, say nothing to Megan unless asked for her opinion, and even then, to keep her opinion of Greg Watt to herself. She knew that nothing whetted the appetite of a rebellious teenager more than a disapproving mother.

  Not that she entirely disapproved of Greg. True, he was no intellectual, but neither was he stupid. Behind the brutish bravado lay a lively, active imagination, and a genuine, creative talent. Besides, intelligence didn’t necessarily translate into decency, and it was a mistake to confuse the two. Ian Crosbie was an undeniably intelligent man. Look where that had gotten her.

  Sandy waited another minute before entering the main building. She passed the closed doors to the auditorium, wondering how long her daughter’s flirtation with Greg Watt had been going on, and whether he’d had anything to do with Megan’s early exit from the park the night of Liana’s vigil.

  Thoughts of Liana led to thoughts of her death and led back to thoughts of Greg Watt. Greg and Liana had been part of the same circle. No one would have thought twice about seeing them together. Plus he’d been part of the search team that had uncovered her body. Not to mention he’d been over at Cal Hamilton’s house last night, after Fiona had supposedly disappeared. And he was certainly strong enough to have overpowered two unsuspecting women, even if they’d put up a fight. Speaking of which, where had he gotten those cuts and bruises on his face? Sandy stopped dead in her tracks. What was she thinking? Did she really believe Greg Watt was capable of murder? “That’s insane,” she muttered. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “My mother always used to say that when she wanted to talk to an intelligent person, she talked to herself,” a voice said, approaching from behind.

  Sandy did a slow turn around. “Mr. Fromm,” she said, addressing the gangly school principal. He was approximately fifty years old, stood well over six feet tall, and carried all his weight on the front of his feet when he walked, so that he always looked as if he were about to fall over. Sandy thought this was probably the result of a youth spent surfing the oceans of the world in search of the perfect wave. The wild comb-over of sun-bleached hair only served to enhance the image of the stoned surfer dude, as did his preference for oversize Hawaiian shirts, such as the wild red-and-orange floral print he wore today. Sandy was hard-pressed to recall ever seeing him in a jacket and tie. “How are you today?”

  “I’m wonderful. And you?”

  “Just fine, thank you.”

  “Just fine?” he asked, giving those two words a completely different spin. “I understand you’ve been going through a difficult time lately.”

  “Well, it hasn’t been the easiest of times for any of us.”

  “True enough. Awful business,” he added, looking from side to side, as if he were afraid he was about to be decked by an unexpected swell of water. “Well, should you need anything …”

  “Thank you.” Sandy noted the look of fear that flashed briefly through the principal’s sleepy gray eyes, as if he suddenly realized she might take him up on his offer.

  “Right, then, well …,” he said, already drifting from her side.

  Sandy continued on down the hall toward Rita’s office. She wanted to ask Rita about Brian, who’d skipped his morning English class. But when she got there, the door was locked and the office was dark. Obviously Rita had left. Sandy thought it strange they hadn’t talked to each other all day, especially in light of Rita’s desperate phone call of the night before, and she wondered if Rita was embarrassed. Or maybe she’d figured out it was Sandy who’d called the sheriff and she was angry. Or maybe she was still a little peeved about the way Sandy had deserted her on Saturday night. Sandy decided to phone her later, maybe even stop in and see her on her way home.

  She started back down the corridor, her eyes glancing toward the auditorium as she passed by. She was almost at the exit when she heard a door open behind her, then heard footsteps running in her direction. She turned around, saw Delilah Franklin sprinting toward her with surprising speed and grace.

  “Hi, there, Mrs. Crosbie.”

  “Delilah,” Sandy acknowledged as the girl reached her side. “Is something wrong?”

  “No. Mr. Lipsman just realized he left some sheet music at home, and he needs it ASAP. I volunteered to go get it.” She held up the key to his house.

  “Does he live nearby?”

  “He’s over by Admiral Road.”

  “Admiral Road?” Sandy tried—and failed—to picture the street, give it context. “Isn’t that kind of far away?”

  “I guess.”

  “Do you have your car?”

  Delilah shook her head. “It’s my mother’s car, and she’s using it today.”

  Sandy tried not to let her face register discomfort at Delilah’s mention of her mother. I’m getting pretty good at this, she thought, feeling a slight twitch building at the side of her mouth.

  “Besides, my grandmother says I need the exercise.”

  “Why don’t you let me give you a lift?” Sandy offered, wondering, What is the matter with me? It was one thing to be polite. It was another to be stupid. True, she was Delilah’s teacher, and as such, she had some responsibility for her welfare. But did she really have to go out of her way to be nice to the daughter of the woman who’d stolen her husband? Was she hoping word of her generous spirit would filter back to Ian, that he’d look at her in a new, more flattering light, that he’d change his mind and come back to her? Or was she simply hesitant about returning to an empty house?

  Technically, of course, the house wasn’t empty. Tim would be there, although probably locked in his room with his computer and his video games, so not a whole lot of company there. And Megan would probably avoid her when she got home from rehearsal, reluctant to talk about anything, lest the conversation veer toward Greg Watt. Sandy sensed that even Rita wouldn’t be overjoyed to see her, should she drop in unexpectedly. So, a few minutes spent chauffeuring Delilah back and forth would serve to keep the solitude at bay at least a few minutes longer.

  “That’d be great,” Delilah enthused. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

  Sandy shrugged, leading Delilah to her white Camry in the teachers’ parking lot.

  “This is a nice car,” Delilah said as she dragged the seat belt across her chest.

  “It’s getting old,” Sandy said. Ian had taken the silver Jaguar when he’d left. She hadn’t prot
ested. Damn thing spent more time in the shop than it did on the road anyway. “But it still runs great. It’s a good car,” she said, thinking she could be describing herself.

  “It’s very comfortable.”

  “That’s me,” Sandy said, pulling out of the lot and onto the street.

  “What?”

  “Dear me,” Sandy amended quickly. “I’m not sure how to get there.”

  “Turn right at the corner,” Delilah directed. “Then just go straight till you hit Citrus Grove. Then make another right.”

  Sandy did as she was told, extricating a pair of oversize sunglasses from her purse as they headed due west along New School Road. Even though it was technically rush hour, only a few other cars were on the road. “It was pretty hot today,” she remarked, thinking that the weather was a safe bet for conversation.

  “Getting warmer,” Delilah agreed. “I kind of like it when it’s cold though.”

  “Yeah? Me too.” Even without turning her head, Sandy could see the big grin that overtook Delilah’s round face, as if she’d just paid her the highest of compliments. “You look very nice today,” she offered, watching the grin spread wider, disappearing into Delilah’s ears. Not the truth exactly, but not quite a lie. The truth was that Delilah looked presentable. No more, no less. She was wearing a white shirt and a pair of loose-fitting jeans, and her hair was neatly combed and pinned at the sides. She wore no makeup, and her skin was clear, her eyes bright.

  “Can I tell you something?” Delilah asked, continuing before Sandy had a chance to respond. “I’m on a diet.” She rolled her eyes, as if embarrassed by her confession. “My mom bought me this really pretty new sweater, but it’s a little small, and I’m determined to lose some weight so I can wear it.”

  “That’s very commendable. But go slowly. They say you should only lose one or two pounds a week.”

  “Really? That’s not very much.”

  “No, but it adds up. Lose two pounds a week and you’ve lost a hundred pounds in less than a year. Not that you have to lose anything like a hundred pounds,” she added quickly.

  “I was thinking of twenty-five. Keep going straight,” Delilah said when Sandy hesitated at the light.

  “That’s more than enough.”

  “At two pounds a week, that should only take me about three months.”

  “That’s right. And you have a much better chance of keeping the weight off if you do it slowly.”

  “You’ve never had a weight problem, have you?”

  “No,” Sandy admitted. “Although I was never happy with how I looked either. I was so skinny growing up, and I always wanted bigger breasts.”

  “Oh, you can buy those,” Delilah said so casually that Sandy laughed out loud. “I think Citrus Grove is the next intersection.”

  “What happens after I make the turn at Citrus?” Sandy checked to make sure she wasn’t speeding.

  “You go about half a mile, then turn left.”

  “This would have been a very long walk.”

  “My grandmother says exercise is good for me.”

  “You obviously know the area well.”

  “I’ve lived here all my life,” Delilah reminded her.

  “You like it?”

  “It’s okay. I’d kind of like to go to California one day.”

  “Yeah? What’s in California?”

  “Movie stars,” Delilah said with a girlish giggle.

  “You like movies?”

  “Yeah. My mother and I used to go all the time. Not so much anymore. Turn left here.”

  Sandy gripped the wheel tighter as she left the main road. Guess Kerri doesn’t have a whole lot of time to take her daughter to the movies these days, she was thinking as she drove past the rows of orange trees that lined both sides of the gravel road. It was interesting how quickly the town became a series of rural side roads.

  “Now turn left, then right again. I think that’s Mr. Lipsman’s house over there.” Delilah pointed to a neat little house in the middle of a manicured patch of grass at least two hundred yards from its nearest neighbor.

  “No way you could have walked here,” Sandy said as she pulled the car into the narrow driveway.

  “It’s farther than I thought,” Delilah agreed. “I probably would have had to hitchhike back.”

  “Which wouldn’t have been a very good idea. You just can’t go climbing into cars with strangers.” Sandy bit her tongue. Who was she to talk about getting into cars with strangers?

  “Oh, I pretty much know everybody in this town. Besides”—Delilah looked down at herself—“I don’t think I have anything to worry about. Well, I’ll just run and get the stuff.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “Mr. Lipsman said he’s pretty sure he left it in the front hall.” Delilah hesitated.

  “You want me to come with you?”

  “Would you mind?” Delilah asked without a second’s pause.

  Sandy opened her car door and climbed out. The two women approached the two-story, white clapboard house with the fading black shutters. A large, gray cat sat in front of closed lace curtains in one of the downstairs windows.

  “It looks nice,” Delilah said without conviction.

  “It looks like the kind of house Mr. Lipsman would live in with his mother.”

  “I hear she’s buried out back.”

  “What? Who? His mother?”

  Delilah nodded. “Apparently she wanted to be buried under her favorite lemon tree in the backyard.”

  “I don’t think you’re allowed to bury people in your backyard.” Even in Florida, Sandy added under her breath.

  “That’s what everybody says anyway.”

  Sandy’s eyes drifted around to the side of the house as they neared the front door. Was it possible? she wondered. “I don’t believe it,” she said as Delilah pushed the key into the lock and pulled open the front door. Immediately several cats were at their feet, a fat, black-and-white one brushing against Sandy’s bare calves.

  “Oh, careful. Don’t let them out,” Delilah squealed.

  Sandy corralled the wayward cats with her feet, wishing she’d worn pants today and not a skirt, returning the cats to the front foyer as Delilah closed the door. Immediately Sandy was overwhelmed by the smell of dank air and Kitty Litter.

  “Mr. Lipsman doesn’t like air-conditioning,” Delilah said. “He says that next to smoking, it’s the worst thing for your lungs.”

  “As opposed to breathing in cat hair all night.”

  “Mr. Lipsman’s a little odd. But he’s nice,” Delilah added quickly.

  “He’s odd,” Sandy concurred.

  “I don’t see any sheet music. Do you?”

  Sandy glanced around the foyer, a few particles of dust swirling like confetti in the small pool of light coming from a portal-shaped side window. All she saw was an orange cat stretched across an old Queen Anne chair, and another tabby scratching at the legs of the antique end table beside it. On the table was a silver-framed photograph of a stern-looking woman in a stiff-collared black dress, her gray hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head.

  “That must be his mother,” Delilah whispered.

  “She looks like a barrel of laughs.”

  Delilah giggled. “Where do you think Mr. Lipsman left the sheet music?”

  “Why don’t you check the kitchen. I’ll look in the living room,” Sandy suggested, and Delilah left her side.

  The cats followed Sandy into the living room, where there were more cats. Besides the one in the window, Sandy counted two on the dark green velvet sofa, and another on the heavy, gold brocade armchair that stood beside it. A baby grand piano filled whatever space was left, the closed top of the piano covered with photographs, most of them of Gordon and his mother, going all the way back to his childhood. Even in the fading light of the late-afternoon sun that filtered through the musty lace of the curtains, Sandy could see how little the man’s face had changed over the years. Even as a
small child, he’d looked like a middle-aged man.

  His mother was a completely different story. Originally a pretty, if not downright beautiful, young woman, she’d grown coarser with the years, her smile losing its vitality, her eyes losing their spark. In one of the earlier pictures, she posed happily in a chic blue dress, her arm around an equally pretty girl, probably her sister, their teenage smiles barely strong enough to contain their obvious glee, and over here was another picture of the same young women dancing together at a party.

  Sandy’s eyes moved from one picture to the next. There were photographs of Gordon and his mother when Gordon was a baby, pictures of Gordon as a toddler, positioned between his mother and his aunt, pictures of Gordon’s mother and her cats. Somewhere along the way the smiles turned somber, then disappeared altogether.

  There were other pictures as well. Candid photographs of the students at Torrance High: Ginger Perchak and Tanya McGovern sharing a secret; Victor Drummond staring idly off into space; Greg Watt laughing at something Joey Balfour was saying; Liana Martin leaping joyously across the stage. They’d obviously been taken during last year’s rehearsals for Fiddler on the Roof, Sandy realized. Still, they gave her the creeps. “Delilah?” she called out, suddenly eager to get out of there. “Delilah?”

  No answer.

  Sandy walked quickly from the living room and down the narrow hall, toward the kitchen at the back. Delilah was standing by the kitchen window, staring out at the backyard. “Delilah?” Sandy asked. “Is something wrong?”

  Delilah’s voice, when it finally emerged, seemed to be coming from another room. “Which one do you think it is?”

  Sandy sidestepped a box of Kitty Litter to reach Delilah’s side. She stared into Gordon Lipsman’s empty backyard. “What are you talking about?”

  “I count four lemon trees. I think it’s the bushy one on the end. Which one do you think it is?”

  It took Sandy several seconds to understand what Delilah was talking about. “I assure you, Delilah, that Mrs. Lipsman is not buried in the backyard,” she said, although she was sure of no such thing. “Now, let’s just find the sheet music and get out of here.”