The Jennifer McMahon E-Book Bundle

by Jennifer McMahon

  Until death do us part.

  “Shit,” she said, sitting up in her childhood bed, under the same quilt she’d slept under growing up—a Drunkard’s Path pattern her grandmother had made. The grandmother she’d never met, who’d died giving birth to Vera. When Reggie was a little girl, she’d heard the story and pictured her mother exploding out of her grandmother’s belly, like it was the force of Vera’s very being that killed Monique somehow.

  Reggie looked down at the pattern, remembered her mother staggering through the front door, straight for Reggie, curling up beside her, breathing gin-soaked secrets under the quilt. Drunkard’s Path.

  The quilt, once a vibrant red and white, had faded to blotchy pink and dingy yellow. Reggie could see the tiny stitches done by hand connecting the blocks together, making the shapes into a path that seemed to stagger and sway.

  Reggie stared up at the ceiling, the plaster crumbling and water stained. The roof must have been leaking for some time. Some of the stains were built of many rings, reminding Reggie of a topographical map. She studied the imaginary landscape on the ceiling, picturing mountains and valleys, wondering what it would be like to live there.

  The door to her room creaked—she looked over and saw it closing slowly. Someone was behind it, out in the hall.

  “Hello? Lorraine? Mom?” There was a shuffling sound, footsteps going back down the hall.

  Her cell phone began to buzz. She rolled over, reaching it off the bedside table, and saw the glowing numbers on the digital clock: 7:32. Shit. She rarely slept past six. The phone vibrated in her hand and she checked the display: Len.

  “Hey, you,” she said sleepily into the phone, one eye still on the door.

  “Didn’t get you up, did I?”

  “Nah. You know me, the queen of the early birds.”

  “How’re things in Worcester?” he asked in almost a mocking tone, like he somehow suspected she wasn’t there at all.

  “Not what I expected,” Reggie answered, telling herself she was being paranoid. Len was just being goofy. There was no way he could know she was lying to him. Still, guilt gnawed at her belly, and as good as it was to talk to him, she was eager to get off the phone before he picked up on it.

  “And is that a good thing or a bad thing?” he asked.

  “Hard to say.”

  “Mmm,” Len said. He was silent a minute, waiting. She heard one of his cats meow, listened as he picked up his coffee and took a sip.

  Reggie squirmed, switched the phone to her other ear.

  “I’ll call you when I get back to town,” she said. “We can have that picnic.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” he agreed.

  “Talk soon, then.”

  “Reg?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Nothing.” He sighed. “I’ll see you when you get back.”

  She got out of bed and stretched. The room was the same way she’d left it, which was damn creepy. There was a framed M. C. Escher print above her bed—Drawing Hands: a lithograph of three-dimensional hands drawing themselves into existence. Some of her sketches were still on the bulletin board, including a self-portrait she’d done in charcoal—the lines blurred, her eyes two dark hollows: a ghostly raccoon girl looking up from the paper, asking her future self why she’d come back.

  Reggie turned from the drawing, opened the closet door, and found the few pieces of clothing she’d left behind when she went off to college. There, on the top shelf, right where she’d left it, was the memory box.

  A month after her mother’s hand was found, Reggie was sent to a counselor who specialized in grieving. He was a doughy-faced young man with sad eyes who was fond of argyle sweaters. One of the exercises he had her do was to make a memory box: a special treasure box full of Vera memorabilia. Reggie had used one of her grandfather’s old wooden cigar boxes, and, following the dough-boy’s instructions, had stuffed it full of things that would always remind her of her mother. Then she’d buried it on a shelf at the top of her closet and left it behind when she ran off to start a new life. Not exactly what the grief counselor had had in mind, but it worked for Reggie.

  Reggie reached up and lifted the box down, blowing a layer of dust off the top. There was a full-busted, scantily clad woman on the label, leaning against a large globe. With trembling fingers, Reggie opened the hinged lid, peered in, and saw a jumble of notes, matchbooks, a folded page torn from an old magazine—her mother, the Aphrodite Cold Cream girl. Treat Yourself Like a Goddess.

  Reggie snapped the lid closed and tucked the box back up on the shelf.

  The room felt stuffy and airless. Reggie went to the window and tried to lift it, but it was stuck shut. She was about to pound on the bottom of the frame, then glanced down at the bandages from yesterday’s window glass mishap and thought better of it.

  She pulled on a pair of jeans, grabbed her messenger bag, and went into the hallway, stopping to peer in at her mother, who was fast asleep. Vera’s mouth hung open, lips and chin crusted with sticky, white drool. The door to Tara’s room was closed, and she walked up to it, listening, but no sound came from the other side.

  Reggie slipped down the stairs, carefully avoiding the ones that creaked—her body on autopilot, remembering little details she hadn’t thought of in years.

  The kitchen was tidy but still smelled like smoke. She set her bag down by the table and inspected the damaged drywall—it would be an easy repair. She’d also need to take measurements and buy glass to fix the dining room window. She’d pick up materials when she went into town.

  After searching through Lorraine’s carefully arranged cupboards, she finally came upon an old Mr. Coffee machine, a box of filters, and half a can of Chock full o’Nuts. God only knew how long it had been sitting in the cupboard, but it was better than nothing. While the coffee sputtered and perked, Reggie pulled out her sketch pad and made some notes. She made a grocery list, a reminder to go to a building supply place for window glass, drywall, tape, and Spackle, and to call the social worker to get the name and number of the shelter where Vera had been staying. She wrote down the name Sister Dolores and circled it. Then added, Learn and clean and serve.

  There was a low knocking sound and Reggie froze, looking up at the ceiling, wondering who’d gotten up. Then she heard it again, louder this time. It was coming from the front door. Smoothing her hair, she went to the door, glanced through the window, and saw a young man in a cheap suit with overly large ears. A salesman? Or Jehovah’s Witness, maybe? Curiosity got the better of her and she cracked the door.

  “Can I help you?”

  He showed her a badge, and she had to work to hide her surprise. “Detective Edward Levi, Brighton Falls Police. I was hoping I could speak with Ms. Dufrane.” His large ears were redder than his face.

  “Which one?” Reggie asked.

  He looked taken aback.

  “There are three Ms. Dufranes here at the moment, Detective.” She smiled when she said it, wanting to show him she wasn’t being a smart-ass.

  “Yes, of course,” he said, rocking forward slightly to make himself look taller. “Vera. I’d like to speak with Vera Dufrane.”

  “I’m afraid she’s asleep.”

  “And you are?” He took out a notebook.

  “Her daughter. Reggie Dufrane.” She watched him write down her name, misspelling it—Redgie. He held the pen so tight his fingers went pale. He fumbled in his blazer pocket and took out a business card, passing it to Reggie.

  “Maybe you could call me later? When she wakes up?”

  “Detective Levi,” Reggie said, looking down at the card with the embossed Brighton Falls Police Department seal. “I’m not sure you’re aware of my mother’s condition? She’s very sick, both physically and . . . otherwise. And the Worcester police and FBI already questioned her in the hospital.”

  He nodded. “I understand. But no one from our department has met with her, and the crimes took place here in Brighton Falls. It’s procedure.”

  Reggie
smiled again, wondering why on earth they’d sent this young, bumbling detective. Then a sinking thought occurred to her—maybe this was the best Brighton Falls had to offer.

  “Of course. You can see for yourself. I’ll call you later to set up a time to meet with her.”

  “I appreciate it,” he said, backing up and nearly losing his balance on the steps.

  “DID I HEAR SOMEONE at the door?” Lorraine asked, coming into the kitchen once Reggie had settled back down at the table.

  “Brighton Falls’ finest, looking to talk to Mom,” Reggie said, holding the business card out to Lorraine, who glanced down at it, scowling.

  Lorraine made a little clucking noise. “He was here yesterday, before you arrived. It seems he’s been assigned the Neptune case.”

  Reggie laughed. “Well, it’s comforting to know they’ve put their very best cop on the case. The kid looks like he’s in high school, for God’s sake.”

  Lorraine shook her head. “I know his parents. He graduated at the top of his class from Yale. He could have gone anywhere to work, but he chose to come back home and join the Brighton Falls Police Department. He’s their brightest star these days, rising right through the ranks. His mother’s very proud.”

  “I’m sure she is,” Reggie said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

  Lorraine shuffled to the stove and put on the kettle.

  Reggie looked back down at her list. “I don’t suppose you have wireless here?”

  “Wireless what?”

  “Um, Internet access? Wait—do you even have a computer?”

  Lorraine shook her head. Reggie wasn’t sure if she imagined a certain smugness in Lorraine’s expression.

  “I’ve been looking around—the place could stand some repairs, Lorraine,” Reggie said as she stood up, went to the counter, and poured herself a cup of coffee. It tasted like sludge, but she forced it down. “You need someone to come out and do some work on the roof. The slate shingles are in rough shape. It’s leaking in places. The boards underneath are probably rotted out, maybe even the rafters, too. Get one heavy load of snow and you’re in trouble.”

  Monique’s Wish wasn’t in great shape, but at this point, it was still fixable. God knew Reggie had seen worse. Last year, she had done a passive solar retrofit she’d designed for a Quonset hut an old hippie couple had turned into their full-time home outside of Bennington—the Boston Globe did an article on it. It was an original hut that had been on the property since it was purchased as a surplus military building in 1948. When Reggie first saw it, she didn’t have much hope. But then she’d drawn up plans, gutted the building, reangled it, added insulation, put in masonry walls and floor for thermal mass, and covered the south side with windows. It ended up a light, cheerful place that the couple heated with only one cord of wood all winter. The Globe had quoted the owners as saying, “Dufrane is a magician. She makes the impossible possible.”

  Lorraine pursed her lips as she fished a tea bag out of the box.

  “Look,” Reggie said, “if it’s a question of money—”

  Lorraine scowled. “It’s a good strong house. Father built it to last.”

  “All houses need upkeep, Lorraine.”

  The phone rang and Lorraine practically leapt for the old black rotary dial on the kitchen wall. Reggie couldn’t believe the phone still worked—it was probably old enough to be considered an antique.

  “Hello? Yes, this is she.” Lorraine listened for a minute, then scrunched her face up as though she had smelled something hideous. “No! No comment. No. Absolutely not.” Lorraine slammed the phone down.

  “Everything okay?” Reggie asked.

  “It was a reporter from the Hartford Examiner.” Lorraine’s voice was shaky. “It seems they know your mother is alive.”

  “Shit.” Reggie breathed. She’d expected it, but not this fast. But then again, she hadn’t expected the welcoming committee of firemen.

  “No need for profanity,” Lorraine said.

  “Okay,” Reggie said after taking another gulp of horrid coffee. “I’m going to run out and get some food and supplies. Stay here and lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone. Not even Detective Boy Wonder.”

  The phone rang again.

  “And don’t answer the phone,” Reggie advised, grabbing her bag and keys, hurrying from the kitchen.

  REGGIE RETURNED TO MONIQUE’S Wish nearly three hours later, after a high-stress trip to the Super Stop & Shop (why, Reggie wondered, did everything have to be Super?), Starbucks, and Home Depot. She opened the back of the truck, and as she was grabbing several bags of groceries she heard tires crunching on the gravel behind her. She turned and saw a blond woman behind the wheel of white sedan. Reggie froze, bags in hands, as the woman jumped out of the car, a friendly grin on her face.

  “Regina Dufrane? My God, is that really you?”

  Reggie squinted at the woman with frosted blond hair. She was wearing a smart little business suit and pumps. Her face was heavily lined with wrinkles covered in pale foundation. There was something very familiar about her. A friend of Lorraine’s, maybe? Or a distant relative?

  Reggie set the bags back down in her truck and walked around the car to study the woman face-to-face. “I’m sorry. You are—”

  “Martha Paquette,” the frosted-haired woman answered with a smile that locked her face in a frightening grimace. She held out her hand to Reggie. “It’s so good to see you again, Regina.”

  Reggie stepped back.

  “How is she? Your mother? Has she said anything about her captivity?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Reggie said, hating how her voice shook. “This is private property. I’d like you to leave.”

  Neptune’s Hands was Martha Paquette’s only big success. She’d written other books, but none of them worked. Reggie had seen the horrible reviews and couldn’t help but feel strangely satisfied.

  Continuing to smile, Martha reached into her leather handbag and pulled out a photo. “I know she’s alive. And she’s here.” It was a picture of Reggie pulling her mother away from the group of firemen in the yard yesterday. Shit. The young firefighter with the cell phone must have snapped it. It was probably all over the Internet by now.

  “You can’t just keep her hidden away,” Martha said. “There are questions that need answering. Now I know your mother turned up in a homeless shelter up in Worcester two years ago. And I also know that with her diagnosis, we don’t have much time. So what I think we need to focus on is—”

  “Where did you hear that?” Reggie hissed, taking a menacing step toward Martha.

  “If I could just talk to Vera, ask her a couple of questions, then I’m sure—”

  “You’re not going anywhere near my mother! Now get the hell off our property before I call the police.”

  Martha nodded, turned to open the door of her car. Then she looked back at Reggie. “He’s still out there, you know. I think we owe it to his victims, to Vera, to do all we can to bring him to justice.”

  “And selling a few more books in the process wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

  Martha ducked down and sat herself in the driver’s seat, shutting the door. She rolled down the window. “I’d invest in a security system. Some decent dead bolts at least.”

  Reggie sighed deeply. “Why are you still here?” She pulled out her cell phone.

  “You think that Neptune just let her go, Regina? You think that whoever he is, he’s going to just sit back and let her tell the world everything she knows?”

  Chapter 16

  June 18 and 19, 1985

  Brighton Falls, Connecticut

  “I’VE GOT SOMETHING FOR you, Reg,” George announced when she came into the kitchen. “It’s there on the table.”

  George was sprinkling cheese on the top of the lasagna he’d just made. Lorraine was in front of the sink, washing lettuce for a salad. Vera sat at the table, legs crossed, sipping a gin and tonic. George came over and ate with the
m once a week or so, and sometimes he’d cook. Lorraine’s meals were a consistent rotation of fish, cube steak, and scalloped potatoes from a box. Vera didn’t make anything at all beyond coffee and cocktails. Reggie wasn’t even sure Vera knew how to turn on the oven. When George cooked, it was usually something Italian: meatballs, manicotti, stuffed shells—he made sauce from scratch and claimed it was his Sicilian grandmother’s secret recipe.

  The kitchen smelled amazing—garlic and tomatoes and fresh basil all mingling together and making Reggie’s mouth water. She went to the table and saw a paper bag with her name on it. She opened it up and found a headlight and taillight for her bike, along with a pack of batteries.

  “Thanks, Uncle George,” she said, and he gave her a you’re-welcome nod. She held the lights out for Vera to inspect. Vera gave an approving smile and lit a cigarette.

  “We’re all a lot safer with George in the world, aren’t we?” Vera asked, hissing out a curl of smoke in his direction. He had his back to them, but Reggie could see his body stiffen.

  “I brought some tools over, Reg. You and I can put the lights on after dinner,” George said, opening the oven and easing the heavy Pyrex dish of lasagna in. “I’ve got something for you too, Vera,” he said, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel.

  “I’ve heard of Christmas in July, Georgie, but isn’t this still June?” she asked, smiling slyly. She held up her glass, rattled her ice cubes in his direction. “Be a love and fix me another drink, will you? Or is that against the AA code of conduct or something?”

  George gave her a look Reggie couldn’t read—worry? Maybe even pity?

  Lorraine was slicing tomatoes now but stopped and gave Vera an icy glare. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

  “Never mind, I’ll get it myself,” she said, pushing herself up, doing a swaying stagger-walk to the counter, where she mixed herself another drink that was heavy on the gin, light on the tonic.

  “The lights really are great, Uncle George,” Reggie said again, voice as chipper and bright as she could make it. She loaded the batteries in and turned on the red flashing taillight. It blinked like an ambulance.