by Abby Drake
Toni roused and peered at Carleen with one eye. Carleen lit up and blew out a long stream of smoke.
“Have a good time last night?” Carleen asked.
Pulling the jacket over her boobs, Toni laughed. “You tell me.” She brushed a few wavy curls off her forehead. “God, my head is splitting. I don’t suppose you have an extra one of those?”
Carleen lit another cigarette and handed it over. It was her last one, but it would be worth it to watch the diva in distress.
The woman took a drag, coughed, then spotted a champagne bottle on its side on the floor. “That thing open?”
Carleen picked it up. “Nope.”
“Well, then. Looks like this is our lucky day.” She grabbed the bottle from Carleen, rocked it back and forth, then gently forced the cork. Pop. A thin, wispy cloud snaked out. Toni raised the bottle to her lips and took a giant swig. “Ah,” she said. “Hair of the dog.”
Carleen studied her. “Don’t mind if I do, too,” she said, and Toni laughed and passed the bottle back. Carleen took a swig the way Toni had done, and they both laughed and took another drag off their cigarettes.
It had been fun to feel like such a big shot.
Carleen closed her eyes now and wondered what had ever happened to Toni Parker. Today the woman would have been arrested. The last time Carleen had seen Toni’s name in the rags, the story said she’d gone to Europe and disappeared into the streets of Paris, an act that had seemed romantic. Today it seemed insane. Still, Carleen couldn’t blame Toni Parker for her own behavior. Carleen had seem destined for it, somehow, for lying, cheating, stealing, smoking, drinking, drugging—the blue ribbon winner of the black sheep competition.
What if the fire had never happened? she wondered for the millionth time in twenty years. Would she, too, have disappeared into the Parisian streets?
“Make something of yourself,” Uncle Edward had said, and so she had. She had made herself respectable. She had made herself into a teacher, a wife, a mother. She had thanked her husband for offering to come with her, but this was her past, her responsibility to finally make right.
But now, back here, shivering in the bed, she did not feel like any of those things. She felt like Carleen Dalton, black sheep, bad seed, whatever.
Closing her eyes, she tried to think about the relief she would feel once she told the truth about what really had happened, why she’d lit the fire, why their parents had died, and why they’d still have been one big, happy family if it hadn’t been for Uncle Edward—the man they all seemed to adore.
Ellie was in the kitchen, where she’d been since dawn. She’d given the grounds a final once-over. She’d rearranged the order of the buffet table. She’d reviewed the guest list, then snapped it onto a clipboard and parked it at the front door so she quickly could check off who showed up and notice who (how dare they!) did not.
Now, she was at the sink again, pouring coffee into a thermos for Babe’s husband. She’d already packed a bag of cheese and fruit and sports drinks for Chandler and Chase, who’d bounded down the stairs earlier and told Ellie that Wes was taking them out again to search for Uncle Edward. She’d wanted to add some of her famous rum cake, but was surprised that most of it was gone. She hadn’t thought Edward was capable of consuming that much between when she’d made it Thursday night and when he’d disappeared.
She screwed the top onto the thermos and didn’t mention the cake to Wes, who leaned against the counter, arms folded, studying Ellie as if he were Secret Service and she was going to serve the president. He’d been acting like a doting uncle, though Ellie sensed it was only because he was savoring Chase’s hero worship. She didn’t suppose he had many young fans left.
Still, it was the most animation Ellie had seen out of Amanda’s boys since they’d been in preschool. Amanda had such a way of burdening them with daily expectations.
“Coffee will wake me up,” Wes said. He didn’t say he’d argued with his wife on and off during the night. Though the walls of this old house were pretty solid, Ellie’s bedroom was right next to Babe’s. Last night, the words “Carleen” and “No” had been quite audible.
Ellie wondered if the marriage was in trouble.
“Edward’s been gone a whole day now,” Wes continued, as if Ellie didn’t know. “Maybe it’s time for the police.”
“I think he’s fine,” she said—again—trying to act as if she was convinced. But the truth was, in addition to Babe’s rants, Ellie’s mounting worries about Edward had kept her awake most of the night. She was worried, and yet . . .
“We don’t need the police here,” she added matter-of-factly. The reasons, of course, were wide and varied, starting with two hundred guests and ending with Carleen.
“But they have techniques,” Wes continued. “And dogs.”
“No,” she insisted. She handed the thermos to Wes and looked him square in the eye so he’d know she was serious.
“Okay,” he said. “Then the boys and I will scout around the lake again. Any advice?”
“The reeds get pretty tall and thick in some spots along the shoreline. If he’s not on the island, he might have found a protected inlet, left the boat, then made his way to the road and hitchhiked into town.”
Wes’s eyebrows went up. “Hitchhiked?”
“It used to be one of Uncle Edward’s pastimes. He said it was a good way to meet interesting people outside your own circle of friends.” She waited for Wes to make a derogatory remark, but all he said was, “Okay. We’ll check the shoreline for abandoned rowboats.”
“And you won’t phone the police.”
“No, ma’am.”
Ellie nodded. “Thank you.” She wondered if not phoning the police would be considered negligent. Elder abuse. Something like that. Still, didn’t an adult need to be missing for a couple of days before law enforcement would get involved? Oh, God, she thought for the millionth time, what’s the right thing to do?
Wes hoisted the thermos. “I don’t know what time my wife will come downstairs,” he said. “She didn’t sleep very well.”
Ellie suspected none of them had.
“Thanks for the coffee,” he added. “I’ll see you later.”
“Before noon, please,” Ellie called after him as, sunglasses intact, he trotted from the kitchen and dashed out the back door as if this were a movie. Through the window she saw him dart past the bustling caterers, then head down the hill, just as Amanda’s daughter emerged from the boathouse, her clothes a mess, her hair askance, as if she hadn’t slept very much, either.
***
Martina arrived and said she would take over in the kitchen, that she’d prepare breakfast for anyone who wanted it, that Ellie should go outside and supervise the carnival people who had arrived. So Ellie went out onto the steps, surveyed the backyard stage, and tried to determine if all was as Edward had dictated: tent, tables, chairs, food stations, dance floor, band shell. Off to the left, several carnival booths—trademarks of Edward’s parties—were being assembled: a popular favorite had once been called Dunk the Director, though Ellie had no idea what was in store for today.
If Edward had anything in store.
Beyond his disappearance.
And the arrival of Carleen.
As if those weren’t enough.
“He didn’t come home last night.” Henry had crept up beside her.
“No,” Ellie said. “I didn’t think so.”
“And now it’s too late to postpone the party.”
“I’m not giving up on him yet. Amanda’s boys went scouting again with Babe’s husband. They’re going to search the shoreline.” She realized her voice sounded thin and weak. She hoped Henry hadn’t noticed.
He didn’t answer, so the two of them stood in silence, watching the entertainment come to life.
“Do you have any ideas?” Ellie finally asked. “Did Edward say anything that might have foreshadowed this?”
Henry turned his gaze toward three young men who were affixing
broad, hanging ribbons from two poles that looked thirty feet high. “No,” he said. “I’ve asked myself that over and over.”
“Me, too,” she said. “Me, too.”
A birdlike girl appeared next to the young men. She climbed up one ribbon, then wrapped it around and around her lithe, young body in a singular, fluid motion—a trapeze act updated in the style of Cirque du Soleil.
“Sometimes he forgets things,” Henry said. “The other day we went into town and for a minute he forgot why we were there. I told him he was meeting his banker, and he laughed and said he was teasing me.” The girl swung back and forth. “I didn’t believe him, though. I should have told you, Ellie.” Then Henry started to cry. “Do you think he has dementia? Do you think he wandered off by mistake? That he doesn’t know his party is today?”
Ellie put her arm on Henry’s shoulder. “No,” she said firmly. “Uncle Edward is fine. And this certainly isn’t your fault. He’s seventy-five. It’s natural for him to forget things now and then. Good Lord, I forget things. Don’t you?”
Henry quieted down, and Ellie was grateful. A weeping man in madras shorts didn’t do much for a party mood.
“Look at these games!” Ellie continued, sweeping her arm across the air. “How Edward loves games! He’s playing another one with us right now.”
“Maybe,” Henry sniffed. “Maybe he is. But do you think his iPod is involved?”
Ellie didn’t understand. “His iPod? The one you gave him for Christmas?”
“It’s missing. Didn’t I tell you? He keeps it on the nightstand in case he can’t sleep. He likes to listen without disturbing me.”
“Henry!” Ellie cried, grasping his shoulder again. “His iPod is missing?”
“Yes.” Then a smile crept over his lips as if a revelation had just occurred. “His iPod is gone. Just like the rowboat. Just like him.”
Ellie would have hugged him, but she didn’t want to waste the time. “Come on,” she said, “let’s see what else is missing—starting in the library. Edward wouldn’t plan to go anywhere without a good book.” She turned and fled back toward the house, Henry’s moccasins pat-pattering behind her.
Chapter Fifteen
“What in God’s name are you doing?” Amanda asked.
“Looking for Dickens,” Ellie explained and went back to her task. She was at one end of the library, Henry was at the other. They were alternately reciting titles of volumes, trying to determine if any were missing like Edward and the rowboat and the iPod.
“And Trollope,” Henry chimed in. “Lately he loved Anthony Trollope. He Knew He Was Right. Orley Farm.”
“I don’t know enough Trollope,” Ellie replied, “to know which ones might be missing.”
“I’ll get a list,” Henry, newly enthused, exclaimed. He darted from the library toward the office, where the computer was docked.
Ellie riffled past Great Expectations, Dombey and Son, Martin Chuzzlewit.
“What are you doing?” Amanda demanded again. “It’s nearly ten o’clock. Two hundred guests will be here soon.”
“We have time, Amanda. Right now, we’re looking for clues about Edward’s disappearance.”
“On the bookshelves?”
The Old Curiosity Shop. Nicholas Nickleby.
Bleak House.
Hard Times.
Little Dorrit.
If only she could remember all of Dickens’s works!
“Stop this right now!” Amanda shouted.
Ellie closed her eyes. “Have you had coffee?” she asked. “Martina made breakfast.”
“What I want is a reasonable answer. Why are you digging through these tedious volumes?” Amanda had always thought reading was tedious. Ellie suspected that was because reading required sitting still.
“If you must know, we’re trying to reassure ourselves that Edward planned his disappearance, the way he did when we were kids. To get away from the commotion.”
Amanda huffed and puffed.
Ellie scanned and scanned again. A Tale of Two Cities! Our Mutual Friend! And then it hit her. Oliver Twist was gone. It was one of Edward’s favorite editions, nestled comfortably inside a leather spine and boasting quirky illustrations of Oliver, Mr. Bumble, and poor Nancy, the caring whore.
“I’ve decided he must be sick,” Amanda announced.
“Oh?” Ellie half-listened to her sister while continuing the hunt for Oliver.
“Yes. I think he’s ill and knows it. He planned this party as a ‘going away’ party, a kind of Irish wake. At the last minute, he decided not to attend. For all we know, he’s too sick to be here.”
“Are you sure you don’t want him to die so you will come into money?” Ellie was surprised she’d said that out loud.
Before Amanda could respond, Henry thankfully reappeared.
“The binoculars are gone,” he said in a rush. “That old fart really did take off. But where is he? We already checked around the island. And the boys went ashore and got the pine boughs when they lost their paddles. Wouldn’t they have seen him?”
“If he hasn’t hidden the boat on the shore, I suppose he could have rowed his way off the lake. No, wait. That wouldn’t be possible. There’s only one way out by water, and that’s down by the castle, over the falls.” At first, she started to laugh, then realized what she had said. “Oh, dear,” she said. “The falls.”
And then the doorbell rang and footsteps pounded down the stairs and Amanda’s daughter, Heather, shrieked, “Daddy’s here,” and Amanda said, “Oh. Great.”
“Let’s get another boat,” Jonathan said.
Ellie was glad to have another body on board, so to speak, which was why, when Jonathan entered the library, she immediately pounced, sidestepping Amanda’s agita and rattling off the story of Uncle Edward and his mysterious vanishing act, explaining that it might have included a nosedive over the waterfall on the south end by the castle.
“We don’t have another boat,” Ellie said now. “Edward has the rowboat, and Wes took the canoe.”
“What about the neighbors? Surely you have neighbors.”
“It’s the end of June. Most don’t arrive until July.” She didn’t understand why she was bickering with Amanda’s husband. Perhaps it had to do with the back-waxer, whoever she was.
“So our only options are to go to Sears and buy another boat or call the Coast Guard, which I, for one, have never seen patrolling Lake Kasteel.”
“Stop trying to be comical,” Amanda snipped. “This is important.”
“I agree. Which is why I am going to get back in my rented SUV and check out the neighborhood. Someone else must be around.” He jangled the keys and headed for the door.
“Wait!” Amanda shouted.
Jonathan stopped, his back to his wife. Ellie wondered if he had any hair under his Callaway golf shirt, or if the lady in question had removed it—the Trollope in question, Ellie mused, not to be confused with Anthony of London letters. She laughed.
“This isn’t funny!” Amanda ranted as she stomped one foot.
Ellie tightened her lips and regained her composure. She wondered if Amanda ever knew how ridiculous she sometimes looked.
“I’m going with you,” Amanda said to her not-yet-erstwhile husband, who apparently didn’t know that his cover, so to speak, had been blown.
“Why?” he asked.
Amanda frowned a second, then pressed the lines from her forehead as if she feared they would stick. “Because I said so. Because I’ve been coming here a lot longer than you have, and I might know some of the neighbors. If you’re going to ask to use their boat, it might be nice if you had someone credible with you.”
Yikes, Ellie thought, though it was hard to determine by Jonathan’s unchanged expression if he’d caught the barb about credibility and if he wondered why his wife had slung it at him.
“Actually,” Jonathan said, “I’ll help myself to a boat. There might not be time to ask.” He moved toward the door without waiting for her response.
Amanda pushed out a wallop of angry air and shook her finger at her daughter. “As for you, young lady, we are not finished.” Then Amanda clicked her heels and traipsed after her husband as if she really intended to help.
“I hate her,” Heather said to Ellie and Ellie shook her head, and Heather went out the back way, no doubt to her tattooed love interest, as if hatred validated her behavior.
Babe was determined to spend all weekend in her bedroom. Surely she could find something to occupy her time for these mere hours—thirty-two—before she and Wes left for JFK. She didn’t care if the others thought she was sulking. She hadn’t needed them all these years; she didn’t need them now. After the party she’d sneak downstairs and fix a plate of leftovers. Maybe there would be a bottle of champagne. It would be better than socializing with them.
In the meantime, she could review the business plan she’d written for the fragrance line. It was a dull task, compared to thinking about Ray, but she could always pretend it was a script. She did so much better with scripts.
She did, however, have to pee. Hopefully she could hold it until she was certain everyone had abandoned the second floor.
Carleen sat at the old vanity table and stared into the mirror. It had taken all her strength to haul herself from beneath the covers, all the self-talk she had mastered over the years to convince herself that she belonged here as much as the others. It had been her summer home, too, the place where excitement had happened, not like dreary Poughkeepsie, where she barely remembered one year to the next.
But Lake Kasteel! This was where the fun was. This was where the magic happened, where Carleen had sat in front of this very mirror and watched her transformation from a gangly preteen to a hot potato sexpot, as her favorite boyfriend, Earl, had often called her.