Sheer Gall
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The only flaw in her plan was its complexity. There were too many variables, one of which was the identity of the criminal defense attorney Neville would hire. She hadn’t counted on Jonathan Wolf, who sensed from the start that his client had been framed. It was Jonathan who set in motion the chain of events—beginning with his utterly obnoxious phone call to me—that eventually destroyed her.
Although it was still too early to tell for sure, the homicide investigators didn’t believe that Brady Kane was involved in any of the murders, although there was most likely a long prison term in his future for embezzlement and fraud.
Bruce Napoli, however, had more serious problems. Amy had described him as a reluctant partner, and from what the investigators had put together so far it seemed to be a particularly apt description. His initial involvement with Sally’s scheme might have been slight—a small piece of the gallstone profits in consideration for his access and influence. By the time of Sally’s death, however, he was stuck in the embezzlement equivalent of the La Brea tar pits—not merely unable to extricate himself but sinking deeper with each attempt to get out. By the time I left the police station at five-thirty, Napoli was already in police custody.
After dinner, the girls and I helped clear the table, and then Jonathan told them to go upstairs and get ready for bed. I was going to help clean up, but Sarah came back in the kitchen with her thumb in her mouth. She took it out long enough to ask if I could help her get ready for bed.
I kneeled down in front of her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’d love to, Sarah. Maybe I could read you a bedtime story, too.”
She smiled around her thumb and nodded.
I followed her up the stairs. Sarah shared a bedroom with her big sister. Leah was lying on top of the comforter on her bed, her head propped up by a pillow. She was reading a Goosebumps book. She grunted a hello when I came in and went back to her book.
Sarah didn’t really need help getting ready for bed, but it was nice for both of us to pretend that she did. I helped her hang up her dress and put away her shoes and pick out her outfit for tomorrow, which she carefully arranged on the floor at the foot of her bed. After she brushed her teeth, we sat on the bedroom carpet and she showed me her proudest possessions: her Mighty Morphin Power Rangers figures, her special crystal rocks she’d found at Babler State Park, her first-place trophy from her T-ball team, and, saving the best for last, her Barbie doll and accessories, which, she told me in a solemn tone, “were my mommy’s when my mommy was little.”
I smiled. “I still have my Barbie doll, too.”
Leah joined us on the floor, and we tried on Barbie’s different outfits. Our favorite was definitely the Rollerblade Barbie outfit (complete with pads and helmet), although I ranked Junior Prom Barbie a close second. I told the girls what a junior prom was. Leah asked if I had ever gone to one. I told her about mine and described the prom dress I’d worn, which my mother had made for me. In addition to Barbie, they also had a Ken, but we all agreed that he was kind of dull and dorky.
After the day I’d had—indeed, after the month I’d had—it was pure bliss to sit on the carpet with these precious little girls.
When they were ready for bed, I asked them to pick out a bedtime story for me to read. They rummaged through the bookshelf and returned with a tattered old picture book that was missing its cover. Both girls got into Leah’s bed as I turned out the overhead light and Leah flipped on the reading light attached to her headboard. I smiled down at the girls. Each of them was holding a threadbare baby blanket against her cheek. I sat down on the edge of the bed and started reading.
The book opens late at night. A young mother is standing over a crib and gazing down at her baby daughter. The mother is beautiful, with long dark hair. Behind her is a window. Outside, a million glittering stars illuminate the heavens. The baby stares up at her mother with big round eyes as her mother tenderly strokes her soft blond hair and sings a special song:
I love you more than all the stars,
That sparkle in the sky.
My love will be your cradle,
For as long as I’m alive.
And as she sings the baby closes her eyes. When the song ends, the mother leans over and gently kisses her along the curve of the bridge of her nose. The baby smiles in her sleep.
I paused after the first page, sensing already that I was in trouble. I looked down at the girls. They were both staring intently at the picture on the page. Sarah was sucking her thumb with the blanket pressed against her hand, her brow furrowed.
The story continued. The little girl grew older. Sometimes she misbehaved, and sometimes her mother punished her, but most nights after the daughter was asleep, even when she had grown to be a headstrong teenager, her mother would sneak into her room late at night and tenderly stroke her hair as she sang their special song, and when she finished the song she would lean over and gently kiss her daughter along the curve of the bridge of her nose. Her daughter would smile in her sleep.
Even when her daughter had grown up and moved to another town, whenever she came home to visit, her mother would come into her bedroom late at night, careful not to wake her, and she would tenderly stroke her daughter’s hair as she sang their special song:
I love you more than all the stars,
That sparkle in the sky.
My love will be your cradle,
For as long as I’m alive.
And when she finished the song she would lean over and gently kiss her daughter along the curve of the bridge of her nose. Her daughter would smile in her sleep.
By now my eyes were watering and I was fighting to keep my voice from cracking. I glanced down. My two little listeners were rapt, their eyes focused on the illustration. I could hear the wet noises of Sarah sucking her thumb.
So I took a deep breath and pressed on.
One day, many years later, a doctor called the daughter to tell her that her mother was in the hospital. The daughter traveled home all that day and arrived late at night. When she got to the hospital room, her mother was sound asleep. The daughter stood quietly by the bed. She was a beautiful young woman now, with long dark hair. Behind her was a window. Outside, a million glittering stars illuminated the heavens. The daughter sat down at the edge of the bed and tenderly stroked her mother’s soft white hair as she sang a special song:
I love you more than all the stars.
That sparkle in the sky.
My love will be your cradle,
For as long as you’re alive.
And when she finished the song she leaned over and gently kissed her mother along the curve of the bridge of her nose. Her mother smiled in her sleep.
I think there were a few more pages after that, but I never reached them. Tears were streaming down my face as thoughts of their mother and my father and Danny and others overwhelmed me. I put the book down and covered my eyes, struggling to regain control.
After a moment I felt a little warm hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, Rachel.”
I wiped my eyes with my hands and turned, sniffling. Sarah was kneeling next to me, her face earnest. “It makes my daddy cry, too.”
I gave her a blurry smile and a kiss on her nose. “Thank you, sweetie.”
Leah reached over and pulled a Kleenex tissue out of the dispenser on her nightstand. “Here, Rachel. There’s gook coming out of your nose.”
I laughed and took the tissue and blew my nose.
Back under control, I tucked Leah in and kissed her good night. Then I walked Sarah over to her bed and did the same for her.
“Send my daddy up,” Sarah told me.
When Jonathan came back downstairs after kissing his daughters good night, I was waiting in the front hall.
“You have two special little girls,” I said.
“I know.” He smiled. “Sarah told me you’re going to bring over your Barbie doll one day.”
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I nodded. “I promised her.” I tried to stifle a yawn. “But first I’m going home and sleeping for twenty-four hours.” I reached out and took his hand. “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”
“It was my pleasure.”
“And thank you”—I paused, trying without success to find the right words—“for everything else.”
“Oh, but there wasn’t—”
“Enough.” I covered his mouth with my hand as I smiled at him. “You can either say you’re welcome or you can say nothing.” I took my hand away.
He gently pulled me toward him. I closed my eyes and let him hold me against his chest.
“You’re welcome,” he said softly.
We were swaying ever so slightly, a tranquil rocking motion. I tried to think of something to say but nothing came to me.
I was completely out of words.
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