Don't Go Home

by Janelle Taylor

  And when the police were through with the questions for him, he’d had his share for them. The detectives weren’t very forthcoming with him, but they had told Laurie that were no clues, no fingerprints. Nothing to go on. No similar homicides. Because Robert’s wallet containing over a hundred dollars in cash, car, car keys, expensive watch, and gold wedding ring had not been taken, the police were operating under the assumption that he’d gotten into a drunken brawl in the parking lot and that the perpetrator, freaked by what he’d done, had fled the scene.

  But what about the blonde? Matthew had asked over and over. She’s your link. Either she killed him, or a jealous boyfriend or husband saw her and Robert together and ambushed him in the parking lot. You have to find the blonde, he’d pleaded.

  But they’d been unable to trace her. A cocktail napkin with a telephone number and the name Candy written inside a heart had been found folded in Robert’s wallet; but the number belonged to a nearby pizza joint, and no one named Candy or any blondes worked there. A couple of witnesses and the bartender had been sure they’d seen the blonde before, in Chumley’s or around Center City; but Center City was a city of over a million people, and there were a lot of good-looking plastic blondes out there. The only reason anyone had remembered her from last Saturday night was because of the little scene Matthew had caused.

  Are you sure you’re not the blonde’s jealous lover? the police had asked Matthew with narrowed eyes.

  Matthew’s stomach had turned at the absurdity of it. He’d pleaded with them to keep the information about the blonde a secret from Laurie; there was no need for her to know that her husband had been kissing another woman in a bar a half hour before his death. On the night before their baby’s birthday. There was no need, Matthew had pleaded.

  The detectives had agreed that there was no need because there was no link between the blonde and Robert’s death. According to the bartender, Robert had been talking to a couple of other women that night; the blonde had simply been the last.

  Matthew knew in his heart that the woman he’d seen Robert with was involved. He felt it in his bones like he’d felt every other terrible truth in his life. According to the detectives, the blonde had left the bar twenty minutes or so before Robert did. Had she killed Robert? Had a jealous boyfriend of hers? Had Robert gotten into a random drunken brawl, a brawl that had gotten terribly out of hand?

  They didn’t know.

  And all Matthew knew was that Candy, if that was her name, had been draped over Robert a half hour before he was murdered. She was the last person to be with him. And she hadn’t reacted normally when Matthew had barged in on them and dragged Robert away from her. She’d barely paid them any attention, in fact. She’d simply stirred her fancy drink and glanced around the nightclub as though the men she was with got yanked out of their chairs and dragged across the bar every night.

  That was probably the case.

  Either she killed his brother, or a jealous husband or boyfriend had seen them together and killed Robert. Matthew knew it.

  The police weren’t going to do anything. But Matthew was. He’d vowed in the early morning hours of last Sunday to find out what happened to Robert. He was going to do that much for the brother he’d never gotten along with. That much for the brother with whom his last communication had been a terrible, terrible argument.

  But Matthew had turned up nothing. It was now Friday, almost a week since Robert had been murdered. His own private investigation had resulted in nothing but what the police had already shared with him. No one at Chumley’s knew who the blonde was. No one saw or heard anything in the parking lot.

  A week of nothing but wasted time. He’d walked miles around Center City searching for Candy, looking for her in every store window, every coffee shop, every bar, every restaurant. Nothing. He himself had lived in Center City for the past twelve years, and he knew every nook and cranny. He was positive he’d find her. He’d known from the start that he’d have better luck searching for her once Friday night rolled around and along with it the “Happy Hour” that attracted throngs of men and women to Center City’s many bars and nightclubs. If he didn’t find her this weekend, he’d just keep searching. Matthew knew a thing or two about being relentless.

  As president of his own small, successful marketing company, Matthew had left the daily running of the business to his second in command. There was no way he could concentrate long enough on work to even check in with his executive, let alone spend a single second thinking about campaigns. Over the past eight years, he’d put together an excellent team of people who he trusted, and he was never so grateful for that fact.

  Robbie stirred in Matthew’s arms, and he took the tiny Yankees cap off the toddler’s head and caressed the wispy blond hair. I’m going to find her, Robbie. I’m going to find out who took your daddy away from you if it’s the last thing I do.

  Chapter Two

  With a deep yawn, Mia washed and dried her dinner dishes and glanced at the clock on her kitchen wall. Eight-thirty P.M. The last day of the school year should have been a light, stress-free day, but instead, today had felt like one of the longest of her life. There had been the extra hour for detention, that uncomfortable scene with Norman Newman, and then she’d been deluged with comments and questions by Amy Farley as she drove the twins home at four.

  I can’t believe that Mr. Newman thinks he’s your type, Ms. Anderson, the girl had said in one breath. I mean, come on, he’s such a dork, and you’re so beautiful and well put together. Who is he kidding! Hel-lo! Haven’t you noticed that the biggest losers and geeks have no problem asking out the prettiest and most popular girls? It’s like they’re too dorky to even know there’s a hierarchy. Like ...

  Mia hadn’t had to reprimand Amy for her way of thinking; her twin sister had taken care of that, and the girls got into one of their famous arguments on the subject of looks and popularity and integrity. By the time Mia had dropped off the twins and said her hellos to Mrs. Farley, she’d had an enormous headache. And so she hadn’t gone out of her way and driven to the shopping center in Bridgeville, the next town over from Baywater; she’d gone to the strip center smack in the middle of town. And of course, the moment she’d entered the drugstore to pick up a hair-color kit and some toothpaste, she’d been engaged in three conversations by parents of students. In the supermarket, she’d encountered four students, six sets of parents, and her avoid-at-all-costs neighbor, Mrs. Wriggles, who complained for fifteen minutes about how their neighbor’s poodle was destroying all the flowers in their gardens and what did Mia propose they should do about it?

  By the time Mia got home, put away the groceries, went for her forty-minute power walk, made herself a light dinner of a tuna sandwich, returned a phone call from her elderly aunt, slipped into an old paint-splattered T-shirt and sweatpants, cleaned the kitchen and repotted an outdoor plant that the neighbor’s poodle had toppled over, it was eight-thirty.

  She picked up the hair-color kit and headed into the bathroom. In just a half hour, I’ll be me again, she thought, a smile forming on her lips. I’ll be me again and truly free of David, truly free of being someone that I’m not.

  Humming a song that Amy and Anne had blasted on her car radio earlier, Mia unpeeled the plastic gloves from the instructions of Medium Brown #7 hair color.

  Twist off cap of color developer. Open bottle of color crème. Puncture cap—

  The phone rang.

  Let the machine get it, she told herself. This is your time, Mia.

  But it might be important, she argued with herself. What if it’s Aunt Bessie and she’s fallen or is locked out of her house, or what if it’s Margot with an emergency?

  Aunt Bessie might have been seventy-two, but she was strong as an ox and had never once lost her car keys, let alone her house keys. And when had Margot ever called Mia with an emergency?

  Just once, Mia thought, her gaze falling on the photograph of herself, Margot, and their parents that Mia had blown up and frame
d and hung on the bathroom wall. A strange place for a family photograph, yes, but Mia liked to look at the photo, her favorite, while she was enjoying her nightly ritual, a lavender-scented bubble bath.

  “Just once,” she repeated aloud in a voice so low she wasn’t sure she’d spoken at all.

  Eleven years ago. Eighteen-year-old Mia had moments ago arrived at the sleep-away camp where she’d been hired as a counselor when she’d been summoned to the camp office for an emergency telephone call. Her sister had been on the other end of the line. Margot had been crying so hysterically that Mia could barely understand her. But she’d heard the words Mommy and Daddy and car accident and gone. And she’d heard Margot cry like she’d never heard Margot cry before.

  Tears streamed down Mia’s face as the memories flooded her. The hair-color instructions and gloves fell from her hands onto the floor, and she dropped down on the toilet seat lid and covered her face with her hands. Oh, Mama and Daddy. I miss you so much. So, so much.

  The phone continued to ring, snapping Mia out of her memories. The word emergency echoed in her mind, and she raced into the living room and grabbed the cordless.

  “Hello?” she practically yelled. “Hello?”

  When she heard whose voice it was on the other end, a wave of anger overtook her. If only she’d let the machine handle the call.

  Norman Newman.

  I don’t believe this! Won’t he ever learn? she asked herself in exasperation. Enough is enough!

  “Mia, uh, I really did want to talk to you today, get to the bottom of this little mystery, but with those students in your classroom, I was unable to—”

  “Norman, I’m right in the middle of something

  . . .” The only little mystery they had in common was why he kept pursuing her, despite her repeated nos.

  “I’d just like to know why you’ve been lying to me, Mia,” Norman said, his voice cold.

  “Excuse me?” she asked, surprised by the tone of his voice.

  “Why pretend that you aren’t interested in dating when dating is all you do?” Norman said. “Why couldn’t you just say, ‘I’m sorry, Norman, but I’m already seeing someone else.’ A few someone elses, for that matter.”

  What the heck was he going on about? “Norman, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Not that it’s any of your business, but I haven’t gone on a date since before I was married five years ago.” Mia glanced impatiently at her watch. She wanted to do her hair and be in bed by ten o’clock to get an early start on her garden tomorrow morning.

  “I saw you out on the town in Center City Tuesday night and again last night, Mia,” Norman all but growled. “You were all over some guy. A different guy both nights. I was surprised enough to even see you in a place like Joe’s Pub, but there you were. And when I saw you in LuLu’s Lounge last night, I figured, yeah, this is more Mia’s speed, but I was shocked at your behavior. I wonder what Principal Ashton would have to say if he saw you dressed that way, acting that way.”

  What the—

  And then Mia realized what Norman was talking about.

  Margot.

  “I tried to get your attention, Mia. Last night, I saw you notice me staring at you in absolute shock. But you acted like I wasn’t even there, like you didn’t even know me. Nice, Mia. Very nice.”

  How dare he! He didn’t deserve the truth; he deserved the phone slammed down in his ear. But Mia had never hung up on anyone, and she wasn’t about to lose her temper because of Norman Newman. “Listen to me, Norman, and listen clearly. I happen to have an identical twin sister who lives in Center City. I have no doubt that it was Margot you saw last night, and—”

  He snorted. “You’re really appalling, Mia. A twin sister? Please. Middle school is really the place for you if you have to resort to that kind of preteen lie. What kind of fool do you take me for? I happen to have a master’s degree in physics.”

  Mia gripped the phone, her anger getting the better of her. “Norman, I am hanging up right—”

  “I was hoping we could discuss the matter and move on,” Norman interrupted, “but your attitude on the phone right now—You can just forget it. You can consider my invitation to date me withdrawn, Ms. Anderson. I no longer have any interest in someone like you.”

  Thank God.

  The dial tone buzzed in her ear. Mia was so relieved that he’d both lost interest and had hung up that her anger started to ebb.

  “You know what, Norman Newman?” Mia said aloud. “Amy Farley was right about you. You are a total dork!”

  Shaking her head, Mia started back to the bathroom. Speaking her mind, even if no one heard but her, made her feel like the Mia she’d been with her family as a child and teenager. She’d never been afraid to say how she really felt with her parents or her sister.

  And in moments, she’d soon look like the Mia she used to be when her parents were alive. Before Margot, in her private grief, had shut her out and gone off to live in Center City, doing who knew what, and before Mia had let herself be molded into something she wasn’t by someone who didn’t even care about her.

  The sisters had never quite gotten back to the closeness they’d once shared before the death of their parents. But spending more time with Margot was at the top of her list for what she wanted to do with her summer vacation.

  Mia took a deep breath and picked up the hair-color instructions. Yes, this promised to be a very good summer. Especially because it looked as though Norman Newman was finally out of her life!

  Matthew drove the half hour home from Laurie’s house, the twinkling lights of Center City reminding him suddenly of last Christmas. There had been no such thing as overboard for Robbie Gray’s second Christmas. Matthew and Robert had strung thousands of white and colored lights inside and outside the Gray house, had brought home the tallest, most robust evergreen they could fit through the front door, and had bought more toys for Robbie than he could ever hope to play with.

  It was the best Christmas Matthew had ever had. The first Christmas that had felt like Christmas. Matthew and Robert’s parents had always celebrated the holiday season with a tree, a turkey dinner, a few gifts, and a lot of screaming, tears, and fighting. Matthew had stopped celebrating Christmas the moment he’d left his parents’ house at age eighteen and joined the army. There had never been any reason to start celebrating thereafter, until an eight-pound reason came into his life. And so last Christmas, for Robbie, the Grays had given him a holiday befitting a prince.

  Last Christmas, Matthew had truly loved his brother. Yeah, he knew he wasn’t supposed to pick and choose, wasn’t supposed to love his own brother conditionally, but Robert’s disregard for people, for his own family, had made it impossible to love him any differently.

  That was exactly the way Robert and Matthew had felt about their own father.

  But the brothers were supposed to grow up to be different than their dad, better. Instead, Robert had become him.

  Matthew didn’t have any experience at parenthood, nor did he ever want any; but he’d vowed to do what he could to set a good example for Robbie, so that Robbie would grow up with at least one positive male role model in his daily life.

  It had been so hard to say goodbye to his nephew an hour ago, so hard to place his warm, sleeping body back in his crib and walk out the door. He wouldn’t be able to see Robbie for two weeks. Two weeks. Since Robbie’s birth, two days hadn’t gone by without Matthew visiting his nephew.

  Matthew had wanted to stay for a while longer, to at least baby-sit his nephew for a few hours after the party so that Laurie could have private time to grieve, private time to cry. But she had a house full of family and friends and seemed to be holding up remarkably well. And so Matthew had felt all right in leaving.

  He’d had strong motivation to leave. He wanted to get on the road, be back in the city by five-thirty at the latest.

  Happy Hour.

  Prime time for a woman like Candy to be out on the town on a Friday night after work
, if she worked at all.

  If she was out tonight in Center City, Matthew would find her. He’d recognize her in a heartbeat because he’d never, ever forget that face.

  And not because she was unforgettable. Had Matthew been in Chumley’s with a couple of buddies last Saturday night, having a beer, playing a round of darts, appreciating pretty women—not that he hung out in nightclubs—he never would have looked twice at Candy. Plastic Barbie types with caked-on makeup and revealing outfits weren’t his type. Never had been and never would be.

  No, he’d never forget her face because he had to remember it. That face was his link to his brother’s murder. To his brother’s murderer. That face might even be the face of his brother’s murderer.

  While his brother was dead, while his nephew was denied a father, she walked around. She was probably on her way to Happy Hour right now. Matthew had no doubt that he’d find her perched on a bar stool in some skimpy outfit, her tongue down some married man’s throat.

  The thought of her made him sick.

  He turned off the highway, anger burning in his gut. But by the time he drove the half mile to his high-rise apartment building in Center City, pulled into his parking spot, and turned the key in his apartment door, he felt only the weight of sadness.

  He stood in front of the wall of windows that looked down twenty-five flights onto the city. You’re out there, Candy, or whatever your name really is. And I’m going to find you.

  Matthew let out a deep breath and turned from the window, his gaze falling on a mantel photo of his brother’s family—Robert, Laurie, and little Robbie. Matthew had taken the photo just two months ago at his brother’s birthday party at a steak house.

  Matthew headed into the bathroom, stripped out of his Robbie-sticky clothes, and stepped under the spray of the shower. He mentally ran down Center City’s most popular bars and nightclubs and came up with a list of five to start with. A few he’d been to before, with clients or for a staff member’s birthday celebration. But never just to hang out, to pick up women. That had always been Robert’s thing, and anything Robert had done, Matthew had always veered to the opposite.