The Arrangement

by Suzanne Forster

  Bret wasn’t in his room, but Julia knew something was going on when she saw the open dresser drawers and the clothing laid out on his bed. There were two summer suits hanging on the valet stand, and he’d pulled several pairs of shoes out of his closet.

  He was leaving. “Bret? Bret! Where are you?”

  She found him in the kitchen on his cell phone, madly talking to someone. He gave her a thumbs-up as she entered the room, and mouthed, “I got the job.”

  He was beaming as he talked on the phone. Julia couldn’t remember seeing him so happy, and her heart ached at what she had to do.

  “I need to talk to you,” she whispered, using rudimentary sign language to get her meaning across.

  He nodded and said his goodbyes to whoever was on the other end of the line. Even before he’d hung up the phone, he began to eagerly fill Julia in on the details of his new job on the magazine, which included moving to New York.

  “One of my frat brothers from U.S.C. lives in Manhattan,” he told her. “He’s going to let me stay with him until I find a place of my own. That is so cool of him. It’s almost impossible to find housing in Manhattan. I’ve already started packing, and I have a flight…” His head tilted quizzically. “What’s going on? You don’t look overjoyed about my good news.”

  “Bret, I’m thrilled about your job. Really, I am, but you’ll have to push back the start date. We have a crisis, and I need you here in California.”

  He threw his arms up in exasperation. He opened a cabinet and slammed it shut, nearly breaking the glass panes in the door. “You can’t keep doing this to me. You constantly nag me about not working, but every time I get a job you sabotage it. I want this job. I deserve it, for Christ’s sake.”

  He turned on his mother, seething with anger and hurt. “It’s Alison, right? Rebecca told me the cops came and got her. She’s the fucking crisis, as always.”

  “No, it isn’t Alison. She isn’t Alison. Bret, you were right about her.”

  His glare turned suspicious. “What are you talking about?”

  Julia desperately wanted a drink to stop her voice from shaking, but she’d given up booze an hour ago. She was done with it. No more booze, no more pills. Somehow she had to get through this sober.

  “Sit down,” she told him, no longer pleading. He was the only family she had left that she could—or would—acknowledge, and he was going to stay with her because that’s what family did.

  Bret’s face furrowed with frustration, but he hoisted his butt onto the island countertop and listened, brightening only when she told him about the imposter in their midst. Julia described Andrew and Marnie’s deception in great and gory detail, starting with Butch’s attack on Marnie and ending with the confrontation with Marnie yesterday. The only thing Julia left out was the part about her indiscretion years ago and the tragic result. That she could never admit. That she would take to her grave.

  Bret wasn’t quite as glum by the time she’d finished.

  “I knew it wasn’t Alison,” he said softly.

  “How could you have known? She was so like your sister,” Julia said.

  “You were oblivious to all of it.” Bitterness crept into his tone. “You wanted to believe Alison had returned from her watery grave and that you two could hug and make up and all would be forgiven.”

  “I suppose so,” Julia said, just as glad he thought that was the only reason she’d blinded herself to the obvious. It always surprised her how naive and gullible men could be about women.

  “You haven’t heard the worst, Bret. I’m going to need your help with damage control. This Marnie Hazelton person is crazy. She’s making outrageous claims, and they’re all untrue.”

  “What kind of claims?”

  “She’s trying to extort me into helping her get out of the murder charges. When she told me who she really was, she also threatened to say that she was my illegitimate daughter. Isn’t that absurd?”

  He shook back the blond curls that were forever tumbling onto his forehead. “Why would she do that?”

  “She claims there’s no other way to prove she didn’t commit the crimes that her alter-ego, Alison, has been accused of. Marnie Hazelton could hardly have killed herself, but she swore to me that she has no way to prove her identity. She made up some ridiculous story about having no birth certificate or any other records. She wants my financial support, of course, but I’m not going to be blackmailed.”

  Julia couldn’t tell by his puzzled expression whether she’d convinced him or not. “Bret, please stay. I don’t know whether your sister’s alive or dead, and I can’t lose all my children at one time.”

  Still silent, he gazed at the floor.

  “Bret?” she repeated.

  Julia was startled when he slid off the counter and came over to her. He pulled her into his arms and gave her a hug that was completely unexpected. Tears stung, catching in her lashes and threatening to turn into a flood. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that—just swept her into his arms and hugged her—and she really wanted to remember, for some reason.

  “I’ll talk to the magazine’s editor and see if I can get more time,” he said, his arms locked around her. “I’ll tell him there’s a family crisis. He’ll figure it out for himself when the news hits the papers.”

  Julia shuddered. “I’m trying not to think about the media.” She hugged her son back, thanking him profusely, and hoping this nightmare didn’t put his new job in jeopardy.

  In truth, Julia wasn’t at all certain Bret could help her—or that anyone could. But she was going to fight to the bitter end. Deny deny deny. No matter what they tried to accuse her of, and she was certain the media would accuse her of everything from Butch Bogart’s murder to her own daughter’s disappearance, she would deny it all. She would wear black and comport herself with the dignity of a grieving mother, because that’s what she was. She would behave as only Eleanor could have behaved in a situation like this, because she had no other choice. There was nothing left to hide behind now except the family bond, even if it was an illusion. She was a Fairmont only by marriage. By blood she was a Driscoll, and she would go down a Driscoll.

  She imagined Eleanor was sitting up in her grave and howling by now. Julia didn’t know if it was with approval or rage, and to her surprise, she found that she didn’t really care. It was a good feeling, not caring. It might be the only pure and honest feeling she had.

  32

  Marnie sat across the interview room table from her court-appointed public defender, wondering if the ink was dry on his diploma from law school. Paul Esposito was a twenty-something kid who clearly had no interest in her or her case, and did not want to be there. As far as she could tell, his only goal was to close her file as quickly and as permanently as possible, even if that meant throwing her to the lions.

  “The prosecutor’s talking death penalty,” he said in the tone of someone discussing inclement weather. “I think she’d come down to life without possibility of parole, if we played her game.”

  “Life, that’s a long time.”

  Paul shrugged, and Marnie realized irony was wasted on him. Probably any effort to enlist Paul to her cause would be wasted. Of course, he thought he was dealing with Alison Fairmont, whose case had all but been crushed by incriminating physical evidence and no financial support. But he probably wouldn’t have cared if he’d known who she really was.

  “And what is her game?” Marnie asked him.

  “We plead guilty to the first count, and they reduce the second to manslaughter. I’ll hold out until they drop the second charge. There isn’t enough evidence to make it stick.”

  “And I spend the rest of my life in maximum security?”

  “It’s better than death row.” Paul shrugged again. Someone should tell him that was bad for the posture.

  “You’re sure? You’ve been on death row?” Why did she bother?

  He closed her file and slipped it into his briefcase, all nice and tidy. Out of
sight, out of mind. She’d been relegated to lifelong storage, as far as he was concerned. As far as everyone was concerned.

  “Can I tell the prosecutor it’s a deal?” He actually looked hopeful.

  “Let me think about it.” She wasn’t going to make his day when he’d just tanked hers—and probably all the rest of her days. And she wasn’t letting him out of here that quickly, either.

  “I have a question,” she said. “I saw a report on the news yesterday morning about the remains of a woman’s body that had washed up in Baja.”

  “Yeah, I saw that, too.” Paul closed his briefcase and straightened his tie. “Apparently they weren’t able to identify the remains. Her teeth had been broken out. They couldn’t tell whether by accident or foul play. Lousy way to go.”

  Marnie didn’t respond. It felt as if the ceiling had crashed down on her, and she could hardly hold up her head. Her disappointment was profound, and Paul Esposito had noticed. His hand was frozen on his briefcase, and he was watching her with more interest than he’d shown the entire meeting.

  “Why did you ask about the body in Baja?”

  Marnie shrugged. It was her turn. “Nothing specific. My husband’s down there on a business trip, and I was a little concerned.” She let it go at that, but apparently she’d triggered something she hadn’t intended to. Paul’s attention was now riveted on her.

  “Ms. Fairmont, when is your husband coming back? Was his business trip in any way related to your case?”

  Was Andrew coming back would be the better question. Now that she had Paul’s attention, Marnie realized there might be an opportunity to use the resources of the public defender’s office to find Andrew. If she said the word, would this man send out the dogs? But Marnie wasn’t ready to make that decision. She was still thinking about the consequences to Andrew, and even to Julia.

  It felt as if she held both their fates in her hands, and there were no good choices. It was one thing to try and save her own life, but could she live with herself if she had to destroy others to do it? Did she owe Andrew or Julia anything? No, she didn’t. In theory, the answer was easy. But in reality it was much more complicated.

  Julia’s raw desperation was vivid in Marnie’s mind. She seemed to urgently believe that acknowledging an illegitimate child would destroy her life—and maybe it would, given the rarefied life Julia led. Possibly she would be shunned, a social outcast. Marnie wondered if there was more to it.

  Maybe she should have bargained with Julia. She could have insisted that Julia get Gramma Jo out of that dismal nursing home, return her to her cottage and pay for whatever outside care was necessary. That wouldn’t be too high a price, would it? Marnie would spend her life in jail, but have the comfort of knowing her grandmother was back at the cottage, safe and secure, if she could trust Julia to do that. And then there was Andrew. Maybe Marnie should have found her own private detective to track him down. Or insisted on going to Mexico with him. Better yet, demand he not go at such a difficult time.

  Too many maybes. She couldn’t decide now. She couldn’t even think. “My husband is due back in a couple of days,” she said, keeping it vague.

  “And what about the prosecutor? What do I tell her?”

  “I need time.”

  “Sure, whatever.” He got up to leave, signaling the deputy, who’d been waiting by the door and would take Marnie back to her cell.

  A short time later, locked in for the night and staring at the tray of cold slop that was her dinner, Marnie wondered if there was any way out of this trap that she herself had helped set. She was still reeling from hearing that the remains couldn’t be identified. Even if she told Paul Esposito who she was and confessed to Butch’s murder, there was no way to prove it.

  Alison’s fingerprint records must have been switched. Andrew seemed like the likely culprit there, but he hadn’t bothered to tell her what he’d done, and Marnie had no records. Before he could make the switch, he would have had to obtain Marnie’s fingerprints from Marnie herself, and without her knowledge. Possibly when she was in the hospital, unconscious.

  The thought made her queasy. Would an innocent man have gone to such lengths to insulate himself from murder charges? Worse, not even DNA, the most basic and irrefutable method of identification known, could help Marnie prove her identity now. A DNA test would only confirm that Julia was her mother—and be taken as proof positive that Marnie, who looked like Alison, plus had all of Alison’s identification, including driver’s license, social security number and fingerprints, was Alison.

  No one would believe her. Ever. Nor would they believe Gramma Jo, who had always been seen as eccentric and would now be dismissed as senile, Marnie was sure.

  She crouched down, staring at the unrecognizable food and wondering how hungry she would have to get before she could eat it without gagging. She’d always thought of herself as a fighter. She’d survived an abortion attempt, a near drowning and a lifetime of scorn and hatred. But it felt as if there was no way to survive this. She didn’t know who or what to fight. She couldn’t even prove her own existence.

  As a kid there’d been times when she wondered why she’d been born. It sounded self-pitying, and she wasn’t proud of those black moods, but she had honestly felt like a cosmic joke. The very same question came to her now. Why had she been born? To end up like this? She knew that some lives were visited with more pain than others, but she didn’t understand how that worked, how pain got dealt out. How much was enough? An eternity? Because that’s what it felt like she was facing now.

  She wouldn’t even be allowed to live out as herself the time she had left. And bizarre as it seemed, after years of longing to be someone else, she would rather have been the way she was, deformities and all.

  But for some reason the most confounding question was Andrew. The only man who had ever professed to care about her had vanished. He could be dead, for all she knew. She almost wished he was, because the possibility that he was alive and responsible for this nightmare was unbearable.

  Eventually, she lay down on the cement’s unforgiving surface and prayed for sleep. She didn’t want to think anymore. There were no solutions. Exhaustion took her in and out of the fitful struggle. She couldn’t seem to stop wrestling, but at some point in the night, all that changed. Out of her hopelessness came an answer. And it was Paul Esposito who’d given her the way out.

  As she sat up in the darkness, she heard for the first time the other inmates’ shouts and obscenities. She wasn’t alone in this cell block. She caught the stink of urine and the clanging of objects against the steel bars. She let the chaos into her consciousness for a moment and then tuned it out again. Survival.

  The only one who cared about her was Gramma Jo, an aging woman who now needed to be cared for herself. Marnie really only had one choice. She would make a deal. No, two of them—one with Julia and one with the prosecutor. All she had to do was confess to the crimes she’d been charged with, and it would be over. Why prolong the pain and uncertainty? That way at least she would have some control over her life. It would be settled.

  She had no desire to be a martyr. She didn’t want to sacrifice herself or anyone else. This was the least of all the possible evils, and it was the only way she knew to ensure that the woman who’d raised her, and taught her everything she knew about strength and survival, would survive herself. That much was in Marnie’s power, she hoped.

  She touched her throat, knowing the chain wasn’t there—and that she would find some way to exist without it. She had to. From now on she would make her own luck, her own way. And it was time to start.

  “Guard!” Marnie called out. She went to the bars and shouted until the female guard finally appeared.

  “I want to talk to my attorney again,” Marnie told the woman, “as soon as possible.”

  “Julia?” Rebecca’s voice came over the intercom in Julia’s office. “It’s a Paul Esposito for you. He says he’s Alison’s attorney.”

  Julia looked
up from the letter she was writing. She set down the pen, her eyes riveted on the phone. She’d never heard of Paul Esposito, and she couldn’t imagine why he was calling unless Marnie had decided to accept her offer. There was one other unthinkable possibility. Marnie was going public with her maternity claims.

  “Julia? Are you going to take the call?”

  “I have it,” she said, picking up the phone. “Hello? Mr. Esposito?”

  The attorney got right to the point. “Mrs. Fairmont, Alison has asked me to let you know that she plans to plead guilty to both charges.”

  Julia couldn’t believe it. “Alison knows my conditions. There’s no need for her to plead guilty to anything. I can still provide her with the best legal defense team in the country. Tell her that.”

  Esposito cleared his throat. Had she actually offended him?

  “I’ll pass that on,” he said, “but it’s not why I’m calling. Alison has made up her mind about the plea, but she’s asking something of you.”

  Julia’s palm was sweaty against the receiver. “What?”

  “She’s asking that you move one Josephine Hazelton back to her home in Mirage Bay and provide for all her needs there. I have the terms and conditions in writing and I can fax them to you for your signature, if you agree. They’re quite straightforward, and I’m sure you’ll find them fair.”

  He paused, as if to let her absorb the information. “Can I fax you the agreement?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll have my assistant give you the fax number.”

  As she hung up the phone, Julia realized that she was free and clear. Relief washed over her. It almost made her dizzy, but there was no real joy in the feeling. If anything, she felt oddly bereft.