by Jane Heller
“Fine. So then you met ambitious, man-on-the-way-up Sy Waxman, a nice Jewish guy perfectly suited to the life your parents wanted you to lead. He treated you like a queen. He bought you everything your heart desired. He loved you. He didn’t mind that you didn’t love him. You figured, why not marry this man? If I can’t have Al, I might as well have money. Am I getting warm, Mother?”
“I loved Sy. Not the way I loved Al, I admit, but I cared for him. He did treat me like a queen. He was very good to me, to you too, Alison.”
“Yes, he was. He was so good to me that I hate to think of how you cheated on him, how you talked your nice, sweet husband into buying you a house in Layton, how you resumed your relationship with Alistair and continue to see him to this day.”
“That’s not true. Al and I broke it off just after Sy’s heart attack.”
“So you admit you resumed your affair. Behind your husband’s back.”
“Yes, I admit it.” She took a long drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke up toward the ceiling. “But the fact that Al lived in Layton wasn’t the only reason I wanted us to move here. I had read about the town in several magazines. It seemed to me that the people here had quality. Their houses were architecturally significant. Their schools had an excellent reputation. I wanted the best for my family.”
“Sure, plus a little nookie for Doris.”
“Alison, don’t be cruel.”
“Sorry, Mother. Cruelty comes easily when you’ve had a good teacher.”
“Perhaps I deserve that. I don’t know.”
“Tell us what happened when you and Daddy bought a house here. How soon was it before you took up with Alistair again?”
“I don’t remember exactly. I went to see him at Evermore. He was surprised and delighted to see me. We felt that old excitement, that old electricity between us. We fell into each other’s arms. We couldn’t help ourselves. There was no denying the power of our love.”
Oh, brother. Years of listening to dialogue from “As the World Turns” had addled my mother’s brain. “If your love was so powerful, why didn’t you and Alistair divorce your spouses and get married?”
“Al had political aspirations, let’s not forget. A divorce would have been out of the question. And I had no desire to hurt Sy. He was such a kind man.”
“So you and Alistair thought it would be better all around if you committed adultery over a thirty-year period.”
“It didn’t last that long, Alison. I told you. We broke it off after Sy’s heart attack.”
“Why? Because you felt too guilty to keep it going?”
“No, guilt had nothing to do with it. I was devastated when Sy passed away. I cared deeply for him. I was grief-stricken.”
“So it was grief, not guilt, that made you break it off with Alistair?”
“No, not exactly. Shortly after Sy died, I discovered that Al was seeing other women. I was furious.”
“Let me get this straight. You were cheating on Daddy, but you were furious because Alistair was cheating on you?”
“Yes. I thought what Al and I had was sacred. Apparently, he didn’t share my view.”
“What did you expect? He dumped you once. Why wouldn’t he dump you again? The man is scum.”
“Stop that, Alison. I won’t have you talking about Al that way. Not in my house.”
“Okay. I’ll confine myself to talking about him that way in my house. Please continue.”
“I told him to make a choice. It was they or I.”
“Don’t tell me: he chose they.”
“Them, yes.”
“How did you learn of his dalliances in the first place?”
“It was Bethany who told me about them.”
“Bethany?” Now that was a surprise. “She couldn’t have been more than a teenager then. How did she know about you and her father?”
“I don’t know. I just know that my doorbell rang one afternoon and there was Bethany Downs, standing on my front steps. She introduced herself and asked if she could come inside. She said she had an important matter to discuss with me. I remember being quite taken aback by her precociousness. She seemed much older, much more in command than most children her age.”
“Oh, she’s in command, all right. Especially when she’s running an errand for her dear old daddy. What did she say?”
“She looked straight at me with those ice blue eyes of hers and said, ‘Mrs. Waxman. I’ve come to give you some advice.’ The girl had come to give me some advice. ‘My father will never marry you. You might as well give up and find some other man.’ I was so shocked I nearly fainted. Imagine the nerve of the girl. ‘What makes you so sure of that, young lady?’ I asked her. ‘Because you’re only one of six women he goes out with,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe you,’ I said. ‘Then take a look at this,’ she said and handed me a half-dozen pages from Al’s appointment book. There were women’s names penciled in throughout each day, often for times Al had promised to see me but later said he couldn’t because a more pressing engagement had come up. I was desolate.”
“What made you think Bethany was telling you the truth?” I asked. “How do you know she didn’t pencil in those women’s names herself? She’s so possessive of her father’s love, she’d probably do anything to keep him all to herself. Did you confront Alistair? Did you ask him if he was cheating on you?”
“No. I just stopped seeing him.”
“What happened to that powerful love you both couldn’t deny?”
“If you must know, I didn’t go to Alistair with the information because Bethany threatened me not to.”
“She threatened you?”
“She said if I didn’t stop seeing her father, she’d tell you about our affair. I couldn’t risk that.”
“Bethany was going to tell me about you and Alistair?”
“That’s what she said. I believe the girl has mental problems, dear.”
“Don’t we all.” I couldn’t get over all this. “You’re not going to insult me by telling me you gave Alistair up because of me.”
“I gave him up partly because of you and partly because he was unfaithful to me. His faithlessness wounded me more than you’ll ever know.”
“So you and Alistair haven’t been carrying on with each other these past twenty years? What were you doing at his house the other day?”
“I told you. I went there to convince him to take you back at the newspaper. Al and I are finished. I still love him, of course, but we weren’t meant to be.”
“Cullie, get a violin,” I said mockingly. He shook his head. He was probably trying to figure out how he got lucky enough to have a front-row seat for this mother-daughter psychodrama. “What I don’t understand, Mother,” I continued, “is your utter hypocrisy. Why, for example, have you been so opposed to my dating gentile men all these years, when you’re in love with one yourself?”
“Because Al hurt me deeply. I didn’t want you to be hurt by one of them.”
“One of them? You think Alistair hurt you because he’s not Jewish? Get a grip, Mother. He hurt you because he’s pond scum.”
“I warned you, Alison. Don’t talk about him that way.”
“Why shouldn’t I talk about him that way? He is pond scum, and if you weren’t so dazzled by his fancy dance steps, you’d see it.”
“Stop it right now!” my mother shouted, getting up from her chair. “It’s downright disrespectful the way you talk about him. You’re his namesake, for God’s sake. His namesake!”
“I’m what?”
“After whom do you think you were named, Alison?”
I was speechless. My mother named me after Alistair Downs? I was that bastard’s namesake? What else was I? Was I his daughter too? Was it possible that I was actually the man’s daughter? Oh, God, please no. Life wasn’t that unfair, was it? A wave of nausea washed over me. Quick! A joke! A joke! Don’t let yourself feel, Alison. Crack yourself up so you won’t have to endure this pain. Quick! A joke!
; “Sonny, are you all right?” Cullie asked, finally getting in on the action.
“No, I’m not all right. I can’t think of a joke.”
“Maybe that’s good. Nobody here is in much of a joking mood,” he said.
I looked over at my mother, who had returned to her wing chair. “Mom, please tell me the truth,” I implored her. “For once. Just this once. Is Alistair Downs my real father?”
She drew on her Winston, then exhaled slowly. “No, Alison. He’s not your real father. Sy Waxman was your real father.”
I sighed with relief. There was a God.
“I wanted to name you after Al because I loved him. That’s all there was to it. Your father thought Alison was a lovely name for a girl, so we went ahead with it.”
Hell, I didn’t look a thing like Alistair Downs anyway. I had Sy Waxman’s hair and eye color, not to mention his tendency to gain weight in the old gut. “What would you have named me if I’d been a boy, Mother? Alistair? Al Junior? Or maybe just Junior?”
“That’s enough, Alison. I’ve told you everything you wanted to know. I don’t have to put up with any more of this.” She got up from her chair again and started to move toward the foyer.
“Oh, yes you do,” I said, following her. “Just one more question. Where were you the night Melanie Moloney was murdered?”
“What?”
“You didn’t hear me or you didn’t understand the question?”
“I can’t believe you would ask your mother such a thing.”
“Believe it. You had a very good reason not to want Melanie’s book published. Where were you the night she was killed?”
“I was right here. Sleeping.”
“Was Nora here too?”
“No, I don’t believe she was. She stayed with her sister in Brooklyn that night.”
“Did you hear that, Cullie? My mother’s alibi isn’t any better than the rest of ours. She was home alone. I was home alone. You were home alone. Todd Bennett was home alone. Only Senator Downs, that devil, has an airtight alibi. He told the police he was with a lady friend that night. But then that little story could be as phony as Alistair’s whole life.” I paused to recall what else I knew about Detective Corsini’s investigation—the fact that Melanie was killed by a blow to the head, a fractured skull, and a subsequent aneurysm, and the fact that the police found white powder on her desk. “I’ve got one more question for you,” I said to my mother.
“You already asked me your ‘one more question.’”
“I know. But just one more. I promise.”
“One more. Then I’d like you and your friend to go. This interrogation of yours has left me very weak.”
“Okay. We’ll go. But first, I was wondering about something you said earlier. Remember when you explained that Alistair didn’t send for you when he got to California because he didn’t want to expose you to the decadent Hollywood lifestyle?”
“Yes.”
“Did he ever get specific about that decadence?”
“No. Not really.”
“Did he ever mention any involvement with drugs? Cocaine, in particular?”
“Of course not. Al isn’t that kind of person.”
I regarded my mother with pity. She didn’t have a clue what kind of person Alistair Downs was, and what’s more she didn’t want to. “Good night, Mother,” I said, opening her front door.
“No kiss?” she said, as she always did when I tried to leave without giving her a peck on the cheek. Talk about denial. The woman had just confessed to lying to me all her life, yet she acted as if things were hunky-dory between us.
“No, Mom,” I said. “No kiss.” I took Cullie’s hand. We walked out of my mother’s house and headed for home.
Chapter 19
Cullie and I went straight back to Maplebark Manor. He had suggested we stop for a bite to eat, but I had no appetite. I was dying to crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head, and escape into sleep with my man’s arms tight around me.
As we drove up to the house, we were met by the usual horde of media vultures. But it was the police car—a white Chevy Caprice with the words LAYTON POLICE emblazoned on the sides in large purple letters—that sent my heart palpitating.
“What are they doing here?” I said to Cullie when I saw that the car’s occupants were Detectives Corsini and Michaels. “The last person I want to deal with tonight is that media hound and his partner in crime prevention.”
“Maybe they’re here to arrest the media,” Cullie offered.
“For what?”
“I don’t know. Trespassing. Disorderly conduct. Something like that. Maybe one of your neighbors complained.”
“I doubt it. Here comes one of the good detectives now.”
Joseph Corsini approached Cullie’s Jeep on the passenger’s side of the car. My side of the car.
“’Evening, Miss Koff. Quite a crowd you got here,” he said, looking out over my front lawn and running his fingers through his hair. “There are crews from all the top tabloid shows.”
The top tabloid shows. What an oxymoron. “What can I do for you, Detective?” I asked politely.
“We got a tip earlier this evening,” Corsini said. “How about letting us come in for a few minutes so we can talk about it?”
“Now?” I said. “This couldn’t wait until tomorrow? My boyfriend and I are eager to get to bed.”
“I’ll bet,” he smirked.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Cullie.
“Not a thing, Mr. Harrington. Not a thing,” Corsini said.
“How do you know my name?” Cullie asked.
“It’s my job to know your name. Now, Miss Koff. How about letting me and Detective Michaels come inside for a while? We’ve got something we want to talk to you about. No need to do it in front of these TV cameras, right?”
“Sure,” I said resignedly, wondering about the tip Corsini mentioned. Maybe it had to do with the missing manuscript, which I had stashed in my sauna before going over to my mother’s house. Maybe the police got a tip that I was the one who’d stolen it. But how? Nobody knew I had it except my mother and Cullie, and they both wanted the book buried as badly as I did.
I opened the front door of the house, stepped inside the foyer, and was about to punch in the security code on the burglar alarm panel on the guest closet wall when I realized the system was already disarmed. Figures, I said to myself. I must have been so upset about the revelation of my mother’s affair with Alistair that I ran out of the house without setting the alarm. Oh, well. No harm done. The place hadn’t been robbed, as far as I could tell.
“Come on in,” I said to the detectives, waving them inside my house. “We can talk in the living room.”
“Pardon me, Miss Koff,” said Detective Corsini. “Would you mind if we stopped in the kitchen first? I’ve got a thirst that won’t quit, and a cold glass of milk would really do the trick.”
“Oh, sure. No problem.” Somehow, I hadn’t figured Corsini for a milk drinker, but I led everybody into the kitchen.
“Skim all right?” I asked.
He nodded. “You women. Always dieting.”
I opened the door of the refrigerator and was about to reach for the carton of skim milk when I felt Corsini’s hand on mine, removing it from the milk carton.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “I thought you said you wanted some—”
“What I wanted was this.” He pushed the milk carton aside, reached behind it on the shelf of the refrigerator, and pulled out what appeared to be a plastic Ziploc sandwich bag filled, not with a sandwich, but with fine, white powder. “Well, well. What have we got here, little lady?” he said as he held the bag in front of my face and shook it. “A sweet stash of coke—about an ounce, I’d say. And it was right there behind the skim milk, exactly where our informant said it would be.” He winked at Detective Michaels, who winked back.
“Coke?” Cullie and I said simultaneously.
“Pure, premium cocaine,
” Detective Michaels said as he fingered the bag Corsini had handed to him.
“Cocaine? How on earth did cocaine get into my refrigerator?” I asked, horrified.
“I guess you put it there,” Detective Corsini smirked. “Remember the tip I told you we got?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Our informant told us to look inside your refrigerator, behind the skim milk, if we wanted to know who killed Melanie Moloney.”
“What informant?” I couldn’t believe what was happening.
“We can’t tell you that,” Detective Michaels said, removing the pair of handcuffs that hung from his belt.
“I’ll tell you what else you can’t do,” Cullie said angrily. “You can’t come barging into a private citizen’s home looking for drugs or anything else. Not without a search warrant.”
“You’re right,” said Detective Corsini. “But we didn’t barge in. We were invited in. And we didn’t search the premises for drugs. We didn’t have to. Miss Koff opened the refrigerator door of her own volition. The coke was sittin’ right there in front of our eyes. You don’t need a search warrant for somethin’ that’s in plain view.”
Detectives Corsini and Michaels exchanged smug and self-congratulatory looks. Then Detective Michaels moved toward me with the handcuffs.
“You want to read her rights while I cuff her?” he asked Corsini.
“Cuff me?” I screamed. “Is everybody crazy? I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t know where that cocaine came from. I’ve been set up! I’ve been set up, I tell you!” Yeah, I know. I sounded like every crook you’ve ever seen on a TV cop show. But I figured I was better off going with hackneyed, warmed-over TV dialogue than with original and potentially incriminating material.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Cullie snapped as Detective Michaels pulled my arms behind my back and placed the handcuffs on my wrists. “This woman is innocent. You’re making a big mistake. Take those handcuffs off her now!”