Good Little Wives

by Abby Drake

  So now Dory lay in the bed, hooked up to various monitors and beepers and other sterile-looking things. She breathed in, breathed out, every few minutes when the pains came. “They feel like cramps,” she told Lauren. “Really bad cramps.” She took Lauren’s hand and squeezed it again—really hard—and Lauren said everything would be all right.

  “No,” Dory said. “It won’t.”

  Lauren stroked the younger woman’s hair, knowing that whatever she said, it would not be as meaningful as if she’d been Dory’s real mother, as if Dory’s real mother had never been hit by a bus and this inadequate substitute had stepped in. It occurred to her that was where the term “stepmother” came from, that it referenced the person who “stepped in” and took over when the real one was dead or otherwise disengaged, unable to fulfill her term, as they used to say in the Miss America pageants.

  “Your baby will be fine,” Lauren said. “Jeffrey will be, too. He is a good man.” She didn’t say he was a “great man” because he wasn’t. He was only a landscape engineer (they used to be called gardeners), but he seemed to like Dory and he at least married her, unlike Nelson, the jerk Dory had lived with for twelve years. Once Dory passed forty, it had looked as if her “chance” had passed, too, until Jeffrey came along and planted new hope where the old bushes had been.

  “I can’t stand him,” Dory replied, then squeezed Lauren’s hand again and uttered a groan bigger than the last. When the cramp subsided she added, “He’s so much like Dad.”

  With all the time Lauren had spent with Dory, or with any of Bob’s children, Lauren never would have suspected that even one of them did not worship the ground Bob Halliday strolled around on. She stroked the younger woman’s forehead again. “You don’t mean that, honey.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  The room was silent; the monitor beeped.

  “Your father is a fine man,” Lauren said, because he was her husband.

  “He’s a control freak, Lauren. Everything has to be his way or no way. I don’t know how you’ve stood him for so long.”

  Lauren didn’t answer, because what could she say?

  “Didn’t you ever just want to leave him?” Dory asked.

  It would not be appropriate to mention Bob’s limp noodle or her foray with Vincent, so Lauren just said, “Honey, life is give and take. Surely you know that by now.”

  “But didn’t you ever just want to follow your passion, strike out on your own? Didn’t you ever just want a man who’s exciting? Someone like Vincent DeLano? Word is all over town that he screwed around.”

  This time a cramp gripped Lauren, not Dory. Her knees buckled, her face grew warm, her vision blurred. She grabbed the edge of the bed just as Dory cried out again.

  Fifteen

  Dana backed out of her driveway at ten-fifteen the next morning, plugged in her headset, and speed-dialed Bridget, who answered on the first half ring

  “I’m on my way over,” Dana said.

  “Over here?”

  “Ah, yes.” Silence followed. “The meeting with Kitty’s attorney is this morning.” Pause. “I thought you wanted to go.”

  “Oh. Right. Actually, I forgot.”

  She sounded agitated, as if Dana had interrupted. “You forgot?”

  “Well, first I was going to France and then I was not and then I was and now Aimée is here. And I really must get off the phone, I have so much to do.”

  “Bridget, I have no idea what you’re saying.”

  Bridget quick-breathed again. “I know. Forget it. Tell Kitty I’m sorry.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. But Aimée is home. I really must get off the line.”

  Dana turned right at the end of her street toward Tarrytown instead of left toward Bridget’s. “Before you hang up, I wanted to tell you that Lauren and Bob have a new grandson. His name is Liam.” She didn’t suppose Bridget was much interested in that, either, that Caroline had called last night to relay Lauren’s family news. Lauren to Caroline to Dana to Bridget. The chain that no longer had Kitty as a link.

  “Just what Lauren needs,” Bridget said. “One more person to take care of instead of herself. I really must go now.”

  Bridget hung up so quickly that Dana might have called her back, but a big truck was bearing down on her bumper. She pulled off her headset and slowed to let the truck pass. Riding on his tailwind, a dark green Jaguar blew by her, too, then cut in front. Dana leaned on her horn.

  The Jag stopped at the light; Dana did, too. That’s when she noticed the spray paint on the rear window: R.I.P. Vincent DeLano.

  The car, she realized, had been Vincent’s. R.I.P. Vincent DeLano? Good grief, what was Yolanda doing? Didn’t she know such a public display was inappropriate in New Falls? Didn’t she know that, without Vincent, it was going to be hard enough to blend her culture with theirs?

  Then again, how would Yolanda know if no one told her?

  Without another thought, Dana secured the gearshift in park and got out of the Volvo. She walked up to the driver’s window of the Jag and briskly knocked on it.

  “Yolanda,” she called. “Yolanda, is that you?”

  The window slowly opened. Yolanda turned her face to Dana without removing her large sunglasses.

  “Mrs. Fulton,” Yolanda said coolly. “How nice to see you.”

  “Yes. Well.” Dana hadn’t expected such a greeting. She reminded herself the girl was twenty years younger than the rest of them. “Yolanda, dear,” she said, “it’s about the paint on your back window.”

  “It’s a nice memorial, don’t you think?”

  “Well, actually, I don’t know how to say this, but…” But what could Dana say? That Yolanda wasn’t entitled to mourn the way she wanted?

  Before Dana could continue, Yolanda smiled, without removing her sunglasses. Then the light turned green and Yolanda stepped on the accelerator, leaving Dana—Mrs. Fulton—standing in the street, with several cars honking in concert.

  They sat in Paul Tobin’s office, Kitty’s hands folded in her lap, ankles lightly crossed, eyes staring straight ahead. The man sat across from them, his gray-haired head bent to the papers on his desk, seemingly unaware that his secretary had escorted Kitty and Dana into his office and that they sat there now, waiting. Dana had an urge to lean across his desk and shout, HEY, YOU! into his ear. For Kitty’s sake, however, she folded her hands, too, and looked around.

  The room was tired, with paneled walls and a single, grimy window that wore yellowed Venetian blinds. A trio of framed diplomas hung on the wall behind Paul Tobin’s desk; Dana could not discern their heritage from her chair. On the adjacent wall, facing the window, hung a print of Edvard Munch’s The Scream, which Dana thought in poor legal taste for a criminal attorney.

  She shifted on the wooden chair that might have been posh leather if Caroline had retained a lawyer in Manhattan. She wondered how many accused murderers—guilty or innocent—had sat in the chair where she sat now.

  “Mrs. DeLano,” the man suddenly said with a quick, upward jerk of his head that revealed an unfortunate mole next to his nose that really ought to be removed. His eyes were dark and small and landed squarely on Dana.

  “No,” she said, gesturing to Kitty. “This is Mrs. DeLano. Kitty.”

  His head swiveled toward Kitty. He did not ask who Dana was or what she was doing there.

  Kitty said hello.

  “I understand you were arrested for killing your ex-husband.” Well, Dana thought, at least he got that right.

  “I’m innocent,” she said.

  He grinned a slow, unhappy grin. “Yes. Of course.” Then he launched into a well-seasoned monotone that addressed procedures and legalities in accordance with “the great State of New York.”

  “Are you going to find out who really killed Vincent?” Kitty asked when it seemed he was finished.

  “Probably not. All we need to do is prove reasonable doubt. Surely you know that.”

  Dana shifted again. “W
e were hoping for something more concrete,” she said. “‘Reasonable doubt’ might work for a jury, but unless the real killer is found, Kitty will remain under suspicion.” She didn’t add, “Of all her friends in New Falls.”

  “I’ve been retained as Mrs. DeLano’s attorney. If you want me to work as an investigator, there will be an additional fee.”

  “I don’t have any money,” Kitty said.

  Paul Tobin made no comment.

  “What if I know who might have killed him?” Kitty suddenly said. “Would you care about it then?”

  Startled, Dana sat up straight.

  Kitty turned to her. “About six months ago, when Vincent said he was leaving me, I was given the name of a man who might ‘help me out.’”

  “Help you out?” Dana asked. “What on earth are you saying?”

  “You know,” Kitty said. “I was given the name of a man who would shoot him. I’d have to pay, of course. But I still had money back then…” Her thoughts appeared to drift, the way they’d been drifting since Dana first saw her in jail.

  “Do you know the man’s name?” Paul Tobin asked.

  Kitty shook her head.

  “Think, Kitty,” Dana prodded. “Was his name ever mentioned? Or some clue about who he was? Maybe someone we know? A pool man or a handyman or someone’s house painter?”

  Kitty started to cry. “At first I thought it was a joke. But then I wasn’t sure.”

  “Who gave you his name?” the attorney asked.

  “One of my friends,” she said.

  “One of our friends?” Dana asked with horrified surprise.

  Kitty lowered her head.

  “This might be important,” Dana said. “Kitty, who was it?”

  She paused a moment, then said, “It was Caroline.”

  The Scream seemed to open its mouth even wider. “Caroline?” Dana asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Surely you can’t mean our Caroline.” A thought flashed through Dana’s mind: Caroline had known Kitty would be cold in the jail. She also knew the name of a killer? Was there a connection?

  “Caroline knows everyone,” Kitty continued. “Like Mr. Tobin here.”

  The lawyer fixed his eyes on Kitty, but did not reveal his thoughts.

  “But why?” Dana pressed. “Why would Caroline kill Vincent?”

  “I can’t imagine. Maybe she didn’t like it when he married Yolanda. Maybe she saw it as a threat to our perfect social world.”

  “Did you tell the police?” the attorney asked.

  “No. I was afraid they’d find a way to use it against me. That knowing the name of a hit man would give me more of the means to kill Vincent.”

  “Well,” Tobin said, closing the file on his desk. “Six months was a long time ago. I doubt there’s any relevance. If you think of anything else, be sure to call. Otherwise, we’ll review your testimony right before trial.” He plucked another file and bent his head in silent, curt dismissal.

  “I always get you boys mixed up. Are you one of Dana’s twins?” Jennie had interrupted Caroline from her breakfast of a solitary scrambled egg and dry rye toast—the same breakfast she had every day after her morning run and workout with light weights and her rubdown from Thomas, the best masseur from here to Canyon Ranch.

  “I’m Sam,” the young man in the entry said. He took off his Mets baseball cap as if he might bow next. “And, yes, I’m one of the twins. Ben is the other one. He calls us wombmates.”

  Caroline was reminded she should be grateful that Chloe had found a man like Lee who was a global player, not a New Falls townie. “All right then, Sam. May I help you with something?”

  “Do you have a minute to talk to me? About the day Mr. DeLano was murdered?”

  Dana always said what was on her mind. Apparently he’d inherited his mother’s aplomb. “Well,” she said, “I don’t know how I can help. I was busy hosting a party.”

  “Which is why I thought you might unknowingly know something. Because someone who was here might have been involved.”

  She studied him. “Are you with the police?”

  He shook his head. “I’m home on spring break. I’m trying to help my mom. She’s trying to help Mrs. DeLano.”

  “Kitty.”

  “Yes. Kitty.”

  She’d rather send the boy away but something told her he’d be back, maybe with Dana, maybe, good Lord, with Kitty, which wouldn’t please Jack. Jack had, however, just left to play golf, so she might as well get it over with. “Of course, Sam,” Caroline said, “please, have a seat.” She sat on one of the silk Queen Anne chairs that flanked the Louis XV table. She motioned Sam to the matching one. No sense bringing him into the music room or sitting room and have him misunderstand that it was okay to stay more than a courteous minute. “Now,” she said, smoothing her ocher crepe skirt. “How do you think I might help?”

  “First of all, I wondered if you heard the rumors that Mr. DeLano was broke.” He folded the brim of his cap. He had clear skin for a boy his age, with rosy cheeks that might indicate he was nervous. At least he wasn’t taking notes.

  She set her mouth into a smile. “I’ve always made it a point never to meddle in anyone’s business, especially their finances.”

  “Well,” Sam said, his cheeks growing pinker. “I didn’t mean…”

  “Vincent was not a bad man, Samuel. It’s been a while since he and Kitty were divorced. If she’d planned to kill him, I’d guess she’d have done it a long time ago.”

  Before he could comment the back door banged, and what followed was a bone-rattling scream.

  Sixteen

  Sam leaped from the Queen Anne and bolted through the foyer toward the commotion that had come from the kitchen, toward the scream that sounded as if it had come from Chloe.

  Caroline chased after Sam, but by the time she caught up, Chloe was crumpled on the floor and Sam was cradling her head.

  “Can I help?” he asked. “Can I do anything?”

  Chloe sobbed.

  Caroline loved her daughter but despised theatrics, which Chloe tended to employ, a vice from Jack’s side of the family. She resisted telling her to stand up and stop acting like a baby. But Sam was there: She couldn’t let him run home and tell Dana that Caroline might be a great fund-raiser but she was an uncaring mother. So she stooped in an unladylike manner, jeopardizing the lifespan of her hundred-dollar French hosiery.

  “Chloe, darling,” she said, nudging Sam out of the way. “What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, Mommy, it’s awful.”

  Caroline also hated that Chloe sometimes still called her Mommy. It sounded so juvenile.

  She turned to Sam. “I need you to leave now.”

  “But can’t I…can’t I do something?” he asked again, rising to his feet.

  “Kill him,” Chloe sputtered, her green eyes—Jack’s eyes—turning dark, her thin lips—Caroline’s lips before plumping—growing narrower, tighter.

  “Now, now,” Caroline said, “no one is going to kill anyone.”

  “You might change your mind when you know what’s going on.”

  “Sssh, sssh,” Caroline said, then looked at Dana’s son again. “Sam,” she said, “thank you, but please leave.”

  Chloe wriggled from her mother and stood up next to Sam. “You can only leave if you promise to kill the bastard,” she said.

  “There are a lot of bastards in the world,” Sam replied while Caroline tried righting herself without a zip or pull.

  “This one is named Lee,” Chloe spit out the word. “Lee Sato. My formerly intended. He just broke our engagement.”

  Caroline sucked in a loud breath that probably could be heard in the next room and down the street and into the next county.

  “He’s been cheating on me. He says he’s in love with another girl. A Russian girl, of all things. She doesn’t even speak English.”

  Caroline didn’t mention that Lee barely did. “Is this girl…wealthy?”

  “Her father is a
n international businessman. He has piles of money, Mommy. Much more than we do.”

  And that, Caroline knew, said it all.

  “I don’t care what that lawyer says,” Dana seethed once she and Kitty escaped Paul Tobin’s office and were safely ensconced back in the car. “The fact that Caroline asked if you wanted a hit man is relevant, Kitty.”

  Kitty shrugged. “He’s right about one thing. It was a long time ago.”

  “Kitty! Think about it! How many of our friends do you know who would even think such a thing?”

  “True. But Jack is still alive. She obviously didn’t have him bumped off.”

  Hit man. Bumped off. Lawyers. Dana turned onto the main road back toward Tarrytown, wondering how their quiet lives had come to this, and hating that the disruption was so reminiscent of Indiana. “But how the heck does Caroline know a hit man?” she asked. “He probably isn’t in one of Jack’s foursomes.”

  “She didn’t say. She just gave me his name.”

  Dana debated whether she should tell Kitty that Caroline had known it was cold in the jail.

  A Jaguar passed. Dana cringed. Thankfully the car was navy, not dark green, and no memorial to Vincent graced the back windshield. Oh God, she thought, what should I tell Kitty? Would she meet up with Yolanda at a traffic light one day? And what if she learned about Vincent and Lauren? How much should you tell a friend when you know it will only cause pain?

  On the other hand, Dana thought, she’d learned from her father that, sooner or later, secrets make their way to the surface.

  She took a deep yoga breath. “Kitty,” she said, “this attorney isn’t going to help you. He has no intention of conducting an investigation. He probably doesn’t think what you said is relevant because it’s about Caroline. She paid him, don’t forget.”

  “Do you think they’re in this together? Do you think Caroline killed Vincent and this lawyer knows it and that they’re in cahoots to frame me?”

  Dana recoiled at Kitty’s cahoots. “I don’t know, Kitty. I can’t imagine why Caroline would want to kill Vincent. But I do know two things. First, we are going to the police. Detective Johnson has to know about this.”