by Kate White
It’s the first time she’s opened her mouth other than to introduce herself, and though I’m pretty sure what she’s trying to get at, I refuse to bite.
“You mean, like sharing a bathroom, stuff like that?” I say, offering the perplexed expression I’ve perfected in the mirror over time. “There are several buildings, so people have plenty of privacy.”
“I meant being with so many different relatives for an extended period of time.”
“We actually enjoy it. That’s why we do it every year.”
And then without warning, Russo thanks me for my time and warns me not to disclose details about the crime scene to anyone else. She shakes my hand briskly, and Callahan sees me out to the lobby, where two people are slouched on a bench, though neither is Bonnie or Blake. There’s also no sign of anyone else from the family.
I park myself on an empty bench, and within a couple of minutes, Bonnie is escorted to the lobby and takes a seat next to me. Her face is drained of color, and her hair’s practically matted to her head. Though we exchange weak smiles, we agree silently that it’s best to keep our mouths shut for now. About ten minutes later, Blake appears. We greet him with wan smiles, but it isn’t until the three of us are halfway across the parking lot that he asks, “Everybody okay?”
Bonnie tells him, “Yeah, as well as can be expected.”
I don’t respond, because frankly, I’m not sure what to say. The interview unnerved me. I’m worried that with the state police on a mission, someone in the family could become caught in the cross fire. Worried, too, that my father-in-law might be a murderer. And regretful that I couldn’t find a way to subtly direct their attention to Claire’s death.
On the drive home, there’s next to no conversation. Blake, I’m sure, would like to debrief me, but knows it’s best to stay mum in front of Bonnie. Though she’s a loyal employee, the Keaton family needs to circle the wagons in a crisis of this magnitude.
Finally, we’re rolling up the gravel driveway. The front door of the house turns out to be locked and we wait a minute until Gabe swings it open, looking weary. He’s been waiting with Henry for our return, he tells us, and now he’s going to follow his father, Nick, Hannah, and Jake to the station. Bonnie takes off for the kitchen, and Blake and I linger with Gabe in the foyer off the main hall.
“So?” Gabe says, flicking his gaze back and forth between us. His face is ashen. Or does it simply look that way in the dim light of the foyer?
“I wouldn’t call them hostile or aggressive,” Blake tells him, “but it’s clear they won’t be treating us with kid gloves because Dad’s got a big house on Durham Road. And it’s obvious they have him in their sights.”
“As a suspect?” Gabe says.
“Of course. She was his younger, attractive female employee. They asked me if it was typical for her to come to the house, that sort of thing. What’s the latest with the lawyer, anyway?”
“He’s based in Princeton and is driving over to meet Dad at the station.”
“Good. I did my best to stress that someone must have gotten onto our land and crossed paths with Jillian in some horrible twist of fate. Or that it’s possible some pervert had been keeping an eye on the house for days and followed her down there.”
“And I told them to talk to Ash about something both your mom and Bonnie told me,” I interject. “That hunters have been coming onto the property lately.”
“Okay, that’s very important,” Blake says. “We need to highlight it for the lawyer.” He looks back at Gabe. “My best advice would be to keep your answers brief, and don’t volunteer information unless they ask . . . . Look, if you’ll excuse me, I want to check on Wendy.”
Gabe tells him that she’s in the den with her feet up. As Blake departs, Gabe puts a hand on my shoulder. It’s the first time he’s touched me in a couple of days, and it feels the slightest bit strange, like a small bird has lighted there.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, but it was pretty unsettling. They asked me if Jillian had expressed any concerns to me this week.”
Even in the dull light, I see his brow furrow. “Had she?”
I shake my head.
“Did you get the same feeling Blake did, that they have their eye on Dad?”
“If you ask me, the police seem to have their eye on everybody. The main detective asked how well all of us in the family knew Jillian. Just so you’re aware, I told them that you knew her about as well as I did, which was hardly at all.”
“And that’s a hundred percent accurate. You didn’t say anything about the hug in the . . .”
“Of course not.”
“Good. Look, I know this has been a brutal day for you, Summer—especially finding Jillian that way. I feel awful you had to go through all that.”
“I can’t get the image out of my mind,” I say, choking up for the first time today. “No matter how hard I try.”
“I’m so sorry, I want to talk more, but I have to go. Amanda should be here in ten or fifteen minutes. You going to be fine dealing with her on your own?”
“Yup.” By now I have an advanced degree in Amanda-handling. “Is Henry in the kitchen?”
“No, playing chess against himself in the dining room. I already told him good-bye, that I’ll see him soon and we’ll make up the lost time later this summer.”
“Where does he think you’re going?”
“I explained we all have to talk to the police about Grandpa’s assistant being injured, that I’m going to the station now but you’re on your way back . . . . I better split. Lock the door behind me, okay?” He turns to go.
“Wait,” I say. My heart’s pounding as I reach out and touch the sleeve of his cotton sweater. When he turns back around, his expression has shifted from worried to alert, wary almost. “What were you and Marcus talking to Jillian about this morning?”
“Who told you that?” he asks quietly.
“Keira.”
He shakes his head. “It was nothing. Marcus saw me headed for a run and he followed me to the driveway to finish a conversation we started last night. Jillian was out there, putting on a pair of walking shoes from her car. She must have just finished with Dad and was planning to go down to the stream . . . . If I’d had any idea—”
“Was she wearing one of the tan slickers?”
“From the house? Why do you ask?”
“Because she had it on when I found her.”
“No, she must have grabbed it afterward.”
“And what did you talk to her about?”
“About work, about Dad.”
“Did you ask if she was sleeping with your father?”
“No, that’s not what I meant. We want to get Dad engaged in our business again, and based on things he said at the meeting on Sunday, Jillian was erecting her own share of roadblocks—which she had no right to do. For god’s sake, she was his assistant, not his business strategist. Sorry to speak ill of the dead.”
“Keira said you were having words.”
He shakes his head dismissively. “No, but it did get a little heated. I asked her to butt out of stuff that was above her pay grade. That’s why we decided it would be stupid to mention it to the police. Why distract them with something like that?”
From somewhere deep inside of me, I pick up the faintest siren sound, like a tornado warning that’s miles and miles away but still close enough to scare you.
“What?” Gabe asks.
“It’s just . . . I don’t know.”
“What?” he asks again, this time with the hint of a scowl.
“The timing seems weird, that’s all.”
“You mean us having a contentious talk with Jillian this morning? Well, needless to say, we had no idea she’d end up murdered later.”
“I meant why be talking to her at all this week, with so much happening? Was Jillian such a big threat to everything that the conversation couldn’t wait?”
For a moment there is silence so pronounced it a
lmost has a sound of its own.
“What exactly are you suggesting, Summer?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, Gabe. I’m only asking what the rush was.”
But am I implying something?
“You used the word threat. It almost sounds like you think Marcus and I wanted Jillian out of the way.”
“Of course not, Gabe.”
“First it was Hannah you thought was a murderer. Now it’s me. Next you’ll be accusing me of poisoning my own mother.”
“Gabe, that’s ridiculous.” My heart is drumming so hard now I can hear it in my ears.
I reach for his arm again, but he yanks it away. He turns on his heels and leaves the house, slamming the door hard behind him.
23
Desperately catching my breath, I peek into the hall to make sure no one’s there and could have overheard us. To my relief, it’s empty.
I’m in shock from the conversation I’ve just had with my husband. How did it go so awry? I hardly think Gabe is a murderer. Not for a second. But it troubles me that at a time like this he seems more worried about his business than anything else. Plus, he’s held back a couple of things from me lately—how upset he was with his mother the day she died, the discussion with Jillian. Which makes me wonder if there’s other stuff he hasn’t told me.
My priority right now, though, is Henry. After locking the front door, I hurry to the dining room, where he’s sitting at the table, his eyes trained on the chessboard. The dogs are lying sad-eyed on either side of his chair.
“There you are,” Henry says, glancing up. “Where did you go for so long?”
“I was doing my interview with the police and then talking to Dad. Did you grab something to eat?” There are a few types of cheese and cold cuts and several loaves of bread on the sideboard, which Jake must have set out before he left for the station.
“Yeah, Dad made me a sandwich. But did you hear? It’s only Wednesday and I have to go home already.”
“I know, and I’m sorry, too, but we’ll make up for it later. We still have weeks more of summer to enjoy.”
“I just want everything to be the same,” he says, leaning into me. “The way it was.”
I wrap an arm around his shoulder. “I know, honey. It’s so hard to have Gee gone. But what she’d want more than anything right now is for you not to feel down. And you and your mom will probably do something fun this weekend.”
I’ve barely uttered the words your mom when I hear a rapid knock at the front door. Of course, it could be the police instead of Amanda. I ask Henry to wait and I hurry back to the foyer.
“Who is it?” I call through the thick wooden door.
“Me, Amanda,” she says, a note of exasperation in her tone.
I open the door and beckon her inside. Though Gabe does most of the interacting with her, our paths cross every couple of weeks in the city, so I’m pretty comfortable in her presence. Needless to say, though, we’ve never been in this house at the same time.
Her expression is harried, but overall she looks as pulled together as usual, her strawberry-blond hair arranged in an attractive sloppy bun. She’s dressed in jeans so white they could trigger snow blindness, hip white sneakers, and a long-sleeved turquoise shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. Gabe once told me that after reading in a magazine that some celebrity considered jeans and button-down shirts her uniform, Amanda adopted it for herself, both for weekends and in her job as an event planner.
“Wow,” she says after stepping over the threshold. “This is weird. It’s been, what, at least seven years since I was here last?”
Leave it to Amanda to make this about her.
“Yeah, I guess it would be pretty weird.”
“So what happened?” she asks, dropping her voice. “I read online that this woman worked for the family business?”
My heart sinks. If there are already posts about the murder on news sites, who knows what kind of speculation is happening.
“You know, you should probably talk to Gabe. I can have him call you tomorrow.”
“You can’t tell me anything?”
“The police advised me not to talk to anyone about it, sorry.”
She gives me a “suit yourself” shrug. “Poor Henry,” she says, her expression concerned. “I can’t believe he’s in the middle of this.”
“According to Gabe, Henry only knows someone was injured. Let me get him. Do you want to use the bathroom before you go? Or have something to eat?”
“You know, I could really use a cup of coffee before the ride back.”
“I’d be glad to make you an espresso?”
“Sounds great.”
Before I can decide whether to leave her cooling her heels in the living room or bring her with me, Henry comes barreling down the hall and flings his arms around her waist. The thing about Amanda is that though she may be prickly with Gabe, difficult to coordinate plans with, and slightly officious, she’s a good mom and Henry is crazy about her.
“Aren’t I lucky,” she says, “seeing you five whole days sooner than I thought I would. Where’s all your stuff?”
“Dad put it upstairs so it wouldn’t be in the way.”
“Okay, run up and get it.”
As he rushes toward the stairs, I tell Amanda that if she waits in the living room, I’ll be back in a few with her espresso. When I open the kitchen door, I find Bonnie wiping a counter.
“Oh, Bonnie,” I say, “you must be bushed.”
“I’m okay, really,” she insists.
“I have to deliver an espresso to Amanda and see Henry off, and then I’ll be back, okay?”
When I return to the living room, white porcelain cup and saucer in hand, Amanda’s perched on one of the mint-colored armchairs, scanning the room with her eyes.
“Thanks,” she says when I hand her the cup. “I was sorry to hear about Claire, by the way. I expressed my sympathy to Gabe, of course, but I’ve picked up from Henry that you were close to her.”
“Yes. I was very fond of her.”
“You’re lucky,” she says, after taking a sip and licking a tiny bit of espresso foam from her pink-glossed upper lip. “His mother never took to me. Which meant it was no fun having to spend so much time with his parents.”
I knew Claire resented Amanda for the way she blew up the marriage, but I had no idea that there was any issue prior to that.
“What makes you think she didn’t like you?” I ask, keeping my tone even.
“She never came right out and said it, of course. But she’d leave me out of conversations. Rarely made eye contact unless she had to. When it came to making plans with us, she’d only talk to Gabe about them. And the slights were so subtle, it was hard to convince Gabe it was going on.”
This is all news to me. “Do you have any idea why she acted that way?”
“I was never sure, no. I think she felt I wasn’t supportive enough of Gabe when he was launching the business—and that I didn’t leave enough time for him because of my own work. And then . . . there was that little indiscretion of mine, and that was the nail in the coffin, of course.”
I bite my tongue. Who could blame Claire for being upset about her son being cheated on? Any mother would have been.
Amanda sets her cup on a side table with a clunk. “You may not be aware of this,” she adds, straightening her back, “but it was Claire who told Gabe I was having a fling.”
The revelation stuns me. Gabe never breathed a word of it to me.
“How—”
“How did she find out? Believe it or not, I’m pretty sure she had me tailed by a private investigator.”
This is getting more nuts by the minute. “She had you followed? That sounds like a fairly drastic step.”
“Not for a puppet master like Claire. She liked being in control, making sure everything ran the way she wanted it to. You know, it was only a fling, and if she hadn’t busted me and told Gabe, maybe we could have gotten through that rough patch.”
Her expression turns wistful. “Don’t get me wrong, I know you’re much better for Gabe than I was, and I’m glad he found someone like you. But for Henry’s sake, I wish we’d never split.”
I need to end this conversation now. She’s not only bashing Claire but she’s also clearly rewriting history: Gabe told me he was willing to try to work things out, but that Amanda considered the so-called fling a symptom of a marriage that they’d both outgrown.
I rise, signaling I’m done, and right then Henry comes charging into the room, hoisting his duffel bag onto his shoulder. He and I hug good-bye as Amanda heads out to start the car, and I almost can’t bear it when his arms finally drop. He’s been such a trouper throughout this whole nightmare.
“You didn’t sneak Bella into your duffel bag, did you?” I tease.
He shakes his head and laughs briefly before his face darkens. “Summer, are you and Dad going to be okay?”
“Of course, honey,” I say, feeling another pang. “What makes you say that?”
“I don’t want you to get sick or anything.”
“We won’t, I promise.”
As they drive off a minute later, I watch from the stoop, then wander back to the living room and start pacing. I’m still feeling sick about my exchange with Gabe, but now I’m also troubled by Amanda’s comment that Claire was a puppet master. Was she? Was I so caught up in the thrill of being accepted into this dazzling family that I never saw it? Is it possible that she hired an investigator to look into Hannah, too? Which reminds me: somehow in the middle of this nightmare, I’m going to have to figure out how to address my concerns about Claire’s death.
“There you are.”
I turn to see Blake in the entrance of the room, blazer-free now and cradling a snifter filled with an amber-colored liquid, brandy probably.
“Is Wendy doing okay?” I ask.
“She’s stressed, needless to say, but since the sonogram was fine, I’m not overly worried on that front. By the way, I heard from Marcus a minute ago. He and Keira decided to stop off someplace for a drink. I’m sure they’re desperate for a change of scenery.”
“How were their interviews?”