Only—when she tried to go back to the new footage, still in the cloud, it turned out the password to the Dropbox account had already been changed. Wow, Melisandre, that’s a little cold. But Harmony had told her to do this when they met over lunch today. At least Melisandre had sent her out in style, over a bottle of champagne at the Wit & Wisdom.
She went into Netflix and watched her second documentary, but not before reading the comments. “Condescending.” “Patronizing, racist, classist.” “Lorita’s quinceañero deserved to be captured by someone who wasn’t sniggering at this dim-but-sweet Hispanic family as if she had discovered the Telemundo version of Here Comes Honey Boo Boo.”
“It’s in the editing” is, of course, the first line of defense for the wronged reality television star—but it was also true in this case. Harmony had been given a big budget to make her second doc. But the studio had essentially taken it away from her in editing, making this mishmash. She had no recourse. She could have taken her name off it, gone the Alan Smithee route, but her agent persuaded her that would be career suicide. She still ended up dead, career-wise.
She pulled up the e-mail Melisandre had sent Friday night, which had included the clip with Stephen. Melisandre also couldn’t figure out how to upload a video on her own, so she had sent them as attachments. Two minutes. Two dull, unnecessary minutes. Why had she even wanted to film Stephen? Melisandre had been back and forth on the issue of the affair. She wanted it in, she wanted it out. She wanted it in but didn’t want to involve Alanna. Harmony understood it was a spiky topic, but they could have gotten more out of Stephen than this say-nothing two-minute statement.
Two minutes—she glanced at the clock. She had lost too much time to her little mournful memory walk. She would have to rush to make the 5:30 train.
11:15 P.M.
Tess was still amazed by how motherhood had changed her hearing. She could hear Carla Scout sigh in her sleep yet was capable of sleeping through a car accident in front of her house. Literally. A car had driven into a tree directly across the street and she had not heard a thing.
The ringing telephone fell somewhere in between, rousing her by the third or fourth ring. She had fallen asleep in a chair, reading. Tess glanced at the clock—11: 15 P.M. Not necessarily a scary, world-ending phone call, but an urgent one.
“You didn’t answer your cell,” Tyner said.
“Hello to you, too.” The iPhone was on the table next to her, its face blank. “It’s out of juice. I forgot to charge it. What’s up?”
“There’s no easy way to say this, so—you’re fired.”
“What the—?”
“I’m sorry, but Melisandre is adamant. She believes you went behind her back and—well, no one can convince her otherwise. Knowing you, I doubt you did it, but it doesn’t matter. She wants you off her case and I can’t overrule her.”
“Tyner, I still don’t know what I allegedly did.”
“Leaked to the Beacon-Light. Melisandre has a Google alert, and the story went live about a half hour ago.”
“I didn’t tell them about Alanna.”
“No, and Alanna’s not mentioned in the story, which is the only reason I’m not fired. But everything else is there—the anonymous notes, including the content, the incident with the trainer. Maybe she’ll cool down, Tess, but—I doubt it.”
“I didn’t do it. I didn’t do anything.” Tess remembered Sandy mentioning his friendship with a reporter at the Blight. No, he would never take such action without consulting her.
“I believe you, Tess. But Melisandre doesn’t, and that’s all that matters for now.”
She heard a woman’s voice in the background.
“Wait, are you there right now? Is that Melisandre or Kitty? Put Melisandre on the phone and let me talk to her.”
“I don’t think that’s the best idea right now. She’s terribly upset.”
That makes two of us, Tess thought, hanging up. She should be glad to be off the job. Melisandre was self-destructive, determined to ignore the growing evidence against her own daughter. And she was quick to fire people—look at Brian, the bodyguard, who had been fired after the incident with the trainer.
Look at Brian—yes, look at him. He knew about the notes. He knew about Silas. He could be the source. What had been his full name? Hell, Silas could be the source. Or Harmony.
They had all signed that nondisclosure pact, Tess remembered. The one Melisandre had wanted her to sign, and Tess had refused. And Tess was the one who kept finding links to Alanna. That had to be her real crime. Not talking to the press, but getting too close to the truth.
11:30 P.M.
Ruby was not supposed to be on her computer after ten. But that had been her father’s rule. Felicia didn’t care. Felicia didn’t care about her at all. Felicia wanted to be her guardian just because of the money. Alanna said it didn’t matter who their guardian was. She was out of here in a year. Well, it mattered to Ruby. She had three more years until she was eighteen.
She read the story again. How could her mother not have recognized the source of those notes? True, taken out of context, read one at a time, they might not jar one’s memories. But Ruby recognized them instantly. The familiar sentences washed over her as a series of colors—green, blue, yellow. The light slanting through the window, a soft rug underfoot. She always thought she had no memories of those times, yet here one was, at last. For so long, she had yearned to remember something, anything, from the before time.
Now she had, and it was the worst thing that had ever happened to her.
What should she do? What was right? What was best for everyone? Who deserved her loyalty? She wished she could unknow things. People joked about bleaching their brains all the time now. If only that were possible. She had been warned, eavesdroppers hear no good of themselves. But it wasn’t what she knew about herself that was the problem.
Ruby wished she were a baby again. She would be the sweetest baby in the world, a child so sweet and lovable that her parents wouldn’t dare to have another one because the new baby could never be as wonderful as she was. They would still live in the yellow-brick house, just the four of them. No Isadora, no Felicia. No Joey, either, but so it goes. She would trade her little brother to have her family back, intact. But all she kept doing was splintering it. She had lost a sister, a father. Now she was going to lose someone else, but who would it be? There was no end to it, no end.
Part III
Thursday
10:30 A.M.
Tess sat at Golden West, looking at the Beacon-Light, rereading the story she had read online the night before. On this, her seventh or eighth read, it was, to her eyes, relatively innocuous. Yes, it included the incident with Silas, which wasn’t good for Melisandre’s defense. Not calling 911, seeking private treatment for him. That did look weird. What if the same thing had happened with Stephen? Say he slipped and went through the doors and Melisandre had this bizarre PTSD reaction, then panicked because she realized no one would believe her, so she slipped away. Given the nature of his injury, he would have died very quickly.
But the article also mentioned the notes, and that seemed like a plus to Tess. The notes established that someone had been harassing Melisandre. That would be another foothold in Tyner’s defense. Someone was stalking her. And it was fair to think the sugar was meant for her. Was it not reasonable to assume that person had gone to her old house and found Stephen there? Okay, it was a coincidence that almost groaned under its own weight, but defense attorneys were allowed coincidences, given that life was full of them.
Besides, Tess felt a reluctant sisterhood with anyone on the receiving end of cryptic, vaguely sinister notes.
Tyner knew there was no way Tess was the “source close to Melisandre Harris Dawes,” as the article had it. But the lady was on a tear. And Tyner had to placate Melisandre—Missy—for now. And while Tess should have been relieved to be relieved of the job, instead she was incensed. She had already raged to Tyner, then Crow. Now
it was her best friend’s turn to hear her lament.
“No spawn?” Whitney asked when she arrived.
“Daddy took over at ten,” Tess said. Then, in that kind of confessional gush that one’s best friends can inspire: “He’s better with her than I am. He never loses his patience.”
“You’re too hard on yourself,” Whitney said. Surprising. Whitney Talbot, who had probably been voted least likely to spawn by her graduating class at Roland Park Country School, was not celebrated for her empathy. But in the past few years she had been softening. No, not softening, but smoothing out a little. Supervising her family’s foundation had introduced a vein of kindness into this superhuman creature, who found failure incomprehensible. Certainly, being rich and intelligent was no guarantee of success, but Whitney honestly did not understand how anyone who tried could end up failing. It had been bizarrely comforting, when Tess Monaghan was waist-deep in failure, that Whitney refused to believe Tess couldn’t turn things around. Comforting and frustrating. The concept of “too hard” on oneself was not something Whitney would have expressed even two or three years ago. She was the friend who told you to stop whining, slap on a helmet, and get into the game. And yes, she said “helmet,” not big-girl panties.
Still, Tess felt tentative talking about her struggles with motherhood to her happily childless friend. “No one tells you that it’s, well, kind of boring. Being a mom.”
“Did you expect to be in thrall all the time?”
“I didn’t know what to expect. Maybe I should have read What to Expect When You’re Expecting.” Tess, ordered on bed rest, had read novels while pregnant. She had tried to read a couple of baby manuals but decided she would rather read classic horror novels or watch horror films in which aliens burst out of orifices that bore an uncanny resemblance to Georgia O’Keeffe paintings. At least Shirley Jackson was honest about her desire to scare the piss out of people. The baby books claimed to be about joy and anticipation but specialized in fear and anxiety.
“My parents are going to his funeral,” Whitney said. “Dawes, I mean.” Now that was the old Whitney, changing the subject when she became bored.
“When is it?” Tess asked.
“Not until Sunday.”
“WASPs,” Tess said.
“I know.”
Their food came, and Whitney picked at her Elvis, pancakes served with peanut butter and bananas. Food did not really interest her. Tess, who had chosen an abstemious egg-white omelet, eyed Whitney’s plate with undisguised yearning, then summoned the waitress and asked for a side of sopapillas.
“Back to Melisandre. We know you’re not the source,” Whitney said. “It’s got to be the bodyguard, don’t you think? She fired him. She’s quick to do that, isn’t she? She likes to fire people. Why not make an anonymous call to the newspaper if you’re that guy?”
“Or Harmony. Yet Harmony is the one who’s given us the best leg up in defending Melisandre, by providing that videotape that shows her having a perfectly civilized exchange with Stephen. Well, not us, not anymore. But as long as Melisandre refuses to use the information about Alanna—no, I can’t see Harmony doing it. The classy thumb sucker of a film she envisioned is now just one big Nancy Grace three-ring circus. That’s why she quit. Doesn’t matter if the charges against Melisandre are dropped and Alanna is charged. It won’t save the film. Besides, the source didn’t mention Alanna, or her boyfriend. The source had the contents of the notes and the incident with Silas. Who else knows about that?”
“The person who wrote the notes, and the person who put the date rape drug in the sugar bowl. That person knows. Will the reporter at least confirm that you didn’t tip him off? He could do that, ethically. Tell Melisandre you’re not the source, but not reveal who the source is.”
“Sandy called him for me,” Tess said. “He said he couldn’t help me even if he wanted to, because he doesn’t know his source. He received a letter at the paper, then played that game where you call someone and say, ‘So, will I be wrong if …’ Melisandre, for all her sophistication, got took. She thought she bluffed him, but she was wrong. She ended up confirming everything in the letter. On the record, yet. Oh, well, there wasn’t that much for me to do, anyway. I’m not allowed to talk to Alanna or Ruby.”
“Allowed? If you’re fired, I guess you can do whatever you like, right? Meanwhile, if the source was anonymous, that makes it more likely it’s someone who signed a nondisclosure statement, no?”
Tess smiled. “I knew there was a reason I have you in my life, Talbot.”
“Yeah, now remind me why I have you in mine.”
“To eat your leftovers,” Tess said, spearing a triangle of Whitney’s barely touched pancakes.
Noon
When Tess suggested that Sandy chat up the fired security guard, she said it would go better “mano a mano.” She probably meant one to one, or man to man, not hand to hand, but Sandy would never point that out. Besides, in his mind, the real significance was that it was cop to cop. Even if Brian had been a crappy cop—and that was Sandy’s hunch—the two spoke yet another language. Tess got that. So he would do the cop, she would do the trainer.
Brian was also someone who had witnessed Melisandre in a moment of crisis, when her trainer was doped. The obvious answer is the obvious answer. If Romeo and Juliet hadn’t decided to take the dad out, still Sandy’s preferred scenario, then Melisandre was the only possibility. He understood that Tyner didn’t want to build a defense on post-traumatic stress or anything psychological. But it might be all they had.
Brian Griffin was easy enough to find. He lived in the kind of suburban apartment complex that screamed Divorced Dad. White brick, a series of three-story buildings, divided into two stairwells with six units per stairwell. Brian lived in a “garden” unit, which meant going down a half flight.
“What do you want?” he asked at the door. Not surprised, but not expecting Sandy, either. Kind of beyond caring who came to his door. No dark suit today, but jeans with a crease and a Ban-Lon knit top, well-shined loafers. A cop at heart, Sandy thought, looking at the glow on those slip-ons. Cared about appearances.
“Wanted to ask you a few questions about our gal.”
“Not my gal. Not even my boss now. As you probably know, she fired my ass.”
“Unfairly, seems to me,” Sandy said. He had followed Brian into the living room. It should have been a good thing, having one wall of sliding glass doors overlooking the pool, but it limited where the furniture could go, so the room was kind of awkward. Still, Brian had a view of the pool. He probably told himself that a lot. “I have a view of the pool.” Brian took the Papa Bear seat, the wide, comfortable-looking easy chair, let Sandy perch on the small sofa.
“She blamed me. For the breach. The thing with the sugar bowl. I just think she figured she didn’t need me anymore, once she moved into the apartment.”
“So why not give you your notice, let it be all peaceful?”
He shrugged. “Nobody knows what goes on in that head of hers. But if I had to guess? She’s one of those people who likes there to be someone to blame. She can’t stand for stuff to just happen. I tell you, sometimes I felt sorry for those kids of hers. Had to be hell to have her as a mom.”
“Yeah?” Very casual. But if Sandy were a superhero—which he was very clear he was not—he would have said his Spidey senses were tingling.
“I broke a cup. A cup. And she was, like, gray. She really had to fight that temper of hers.”
Okay, the defense probably would not be calling Brian Griffin to the stand.
“So was she angry at the kid who broke her sugar bowl?”
“I wasn’t there. But I guess if you have a seizure, you’re exempt from the wrath of Queen Melisandre. Maybe I should have tried that. Hey, maybe he faked it, knowing what a nut job she was. High maintenance doesn’t begin to describe it.”
There was a familiar tone to the guy’s talk, but it took Sandy a moment to process it. He knew this. He had heard thi
s kind of talk before. Where? A Spanish word popped into his head, as it did from time to time, leapfrogging over that divide in his mind, the separation between his time in Cuba and his time here. The Cuba portion of his life was all but forgotten, in part because it had been painful, those memories of his parents, whom he left behind, thinking he would see them soon. They died in a car accident a few months after he arrived in the United States. But every now and then, a memory broke through. It was like a slant of light, bright and golden. Escuela, his mind whispered to him. Escuela. This guy was like a boy in school, saying a girl was too thin or too fat, when all he wanted was to walk home with her, hold her hand.
“You liked her,” Sandy said.
Brian looked out the sliding glass doors. “I didn’t mind her. Too much. Until she fired me for something that wasn’t even my fault. She just wanted to exercise the clause in which she didn’t have to pay me two weeks’ wages. She was cheap in some ways.”
“You liked her liked her.”
“I did not.” But the tone was still there.
“You the one who went to the newspaper?”
Brian waved an arm at his surroundings. “Do I look like someone who can afford to get pissy and risk a hundred-K fine? Because that was the penalty for violating her confidentiality agreement. Maybe if I hit Coinstar.” He patted a large jar of change at his side, which doubled as his end table. More copper than silver in it.
“You were a cop. Vice, right? You know how to play the game. All you had to do was feed Herman Peters the info that he printed, tell him not to disclose your identity.”
“I wouldn’t pick up a phone to yell at a reporter about my newspaper delivery, much less help one out. You’re way off base.”
“Has anyone been to see you to talk to you about the murder, your boss’s temperament?”
Hush Hush Page 21