Just Between Us

by Rebecca Drake

  The woman didn’t return my tentative smile, looking me up and down with a grumpy expression. “I’m Anna,” she said in heavily accented English. “Vitya’s mother.”

  “Vitya?” I said, confused, lowering the casserole dish and trying to look over her shoulder to spot Heather.

  Her frown deepened. “Viktor. My son.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I’m Julie, a friend of Viktor and Heather’s. I’m so sorry for your loss. This is for you.” I thrust the dish at her, babbling in my nervousness. “For all of you.”

  The corners of her mouth turned ever so slightly upward in a sour, Grinch-like smile. “How kind of you, Judy.”

  I’d heard about Heather’s mother-in-law, but Heather’s descriptions hadn’t fully done her justice. Anna Lysenko was in her early seventies, a short, squat woman with very bleached-looking blond hair, styled in a strangely coquettish long bob with a Veronica Lake–inspired swoop down one side of her face. She wore a tight, shiny black polyester suit with a ruffled white shirt.

  “It’s Julie,” I said with my own forced smile. “It’s the least I could do. I’m so sorry for your loss.” I leaned toward her to exchange a quick air kiss.

  “He was a wonderful man,” she said, delivering accolades ahead of me. “An amazing son and father. My only child.” Tears spilled over, creating tracks through a heavy layer of rouge and powder and reddening her nose. Sympathetic tears welled in my own eyes and I swallowed hard, reminding myself that her son had been a bully and a brute.

  She was still blocking the doorway, and I realized that Anna thought I was just dropping food off and leaving. “Um, is Heather home?”

  A quick nod. “She’s busy now; I’ll tell her you stopped by.” She shut the door in my face.

  I stood there, too dumbstruck to protest, but just before it slammed, I heard Heather call, “Who’s there, Anna?” and a moment later the door opened again.

  “Julie! I’m so glad you’re here.” She sounded so pleased to see me—too pleased, I thought, catching the narrow-eyed appraisal that Anna gave her. Or was I just being paranoid?

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said quickly, pulling her into an embrace. She clung to me for a moment, sniffling, which surprised me, but perhaps shouldn’t have. This was stressful and he was, after all, her husband, even if he’d been a wife-beating asshole.

  “She brought food; you should put this in the fridge,” Anna interrupted, pushing the dish at her daughter-in-law. Heather pulled back, swiping at her eyes, but I noticed, startled, that there weren’t any tears. So that was all an act—I hoped it fooled her mother-in-law as well as it had fooled me.

  “Come in, Julie, come in,” Heather said as she took the casserole dish with one hand and pulled on my arm with the other. I could feel Anna Lysenko’s disapproving gaze on us as I followed her daughter-in-law into the house.

  The kitchen island was covered with other casserole dishes, plus plates of cookies and at least one cake. My offering—the nanny’s offering—seemed somewhat pitiful. “Strange, isn’t it?” Heather said as she added my dish to the pile. “This custom of giving food when people die—I’ve never felt less like eating.”

  “I’m sorry, I should have realized you wouldn’t want—”

  “No, I didn’t mean that,” she cut me off. “I’ll serve yours tonight. I’m very grateful—truly.”

  “How’s Daniel?” I asked, glancing around, surprised not to at least hear him.

  “As well as can be expected.” Heather shrugged. “He’s visiting Viktor’s cousin right now.” She must have seen the surprise on my face, because she added, “I didn’t want him here with the police and everything.”

  And everything. From where I was standing I could see down the hall into the laundry room and I had a sudden vision of Heather standing, blood-spattered, in the doorway out to the garage. I forced the image away, turning back to see Heather making me coffee, her hair and clothes clean. She was dressed casually, as always, her jeans and T-shirt a stark contrast to her mother-in-law. The only visible signs of stress were the gray smudges from fatigue under her eyes. “I think you could wear a burlap sack and still look pretty,” I said as she handed me the coffee. She smiled, but it vanished as she looked over my shoulder at something. I turned to see Viktor’s mother talking to another short, older woman, this one wearing large round glasses that seemed even larger because her silver hair was pulled back from her round face. They were whispering and shooting hostile looks at us.

  “Who’s that?” I muttered.

  “Viktor’s aunt. Olga. Yes, that’s really her name. She came yesterday—she brought Anna—and she hasn’t left except to drive Daniel to her daughter’s house.” She raised her voice and said, “Do either of you want some coffee?”

  Anna shook her head, but the other woman just stared, giving me a once-over before she turned her back and stalked away down the hall. Her sister hurried after her, the two of them reminding me of bugs scuttling back to a hidey-hole.

  “Charming.” I rolled my eyes and Heather grinned.

  “Aren’t they? His whole family is like that. I don’t know if that’s just an Eastern European thing, not smiling, but they all seem like depressives. The only positive is there aren’t too many of them.”

  “Do you think they suspect something?”

  “I don’t know. I hope not.”

  “Did they know about Viktor?” I asked hesitantly. “About the abuse, I mean.” I was afraid of upsetting Heather, but she just shook her head.

  “No. I never told Anna—she wouldn’t have believed me. As far as she’s concerned the world has just been robbed of the most wonderful, amazing son and father.” Her voice was bitter, and I reached out to pat her arm.

  “You’re free now,” I said in a low voice. “Just remember that.”

  “Not yet. Not until the police stop investigating and release the body.”

  She seemed a bit calmer than she had two nights ago, sitting there sipping coffee. “It’s decaf,” she whispered when she saw me looking. She looked around again before adding, “Don’t say anything about the baby.”

  “You haven’t told Anna?”

  “Absolutely not,” she said before adding, “It would just upset her.”

  I thought it might give Anna something to look forward to, but I didn’t say that. Heather was already dealing with enough; she didn’t need her overbearing mother-in-law trying to micromanage her pregnancy.

  “What are you going to do about the funeral?” I asked.

  “His mother’s taken care of that—she called the funeral home and is arranging a service at a Ukrainian church.”

  “Has she asked for your help planning the service?”

  She gave me a small smile. “Of course not.”

  Her casualness about this concerned me. I didn’t blame her for not caring, but she needed to grieve publicly. We hadn’t factored in problems with Viktor’s family and how it would look if they seemed more upset than she did. “You should pick some special hymns or something like that,” I whispered. “Claim they were particular favorites of Viktor’s or something. Make sure everyone sees the great loss you’ve experienced.”

  “How about ‘These Boots Are Made for Walking’?” she said.

  Surprised, I laughed out loud only to promptly clamp a hand over my mouth, swiveling on the kitchen stool to see if Cruella and her sister were listening. Thankfully, the hall was empty. “Maybe ‘Gone, Baby, Gone,’” I said, and this time Heather snorted.

  “‘Forget You,’” she said.

  “‘Goodbye Earl,’ I mean Viktor.”

  “‘I Will Survive.’”

  We were overcome by fits of giggles and didn’t hear the doorbell. Heather’s aunt-in-law suddenly appeared in the kitchen doorway with Sarah in tow. Quick as you can, Heather and I pretended to be crying, swiping at eyes teary from laughter, as I said loudly, “I’m so, so sorry.” Olga gave us a sour look, her suspicious gaze magnified by the enormous glasses.

/>   “Another friend of yours is here,” she announced, her tone suggesting that we were throwing a party.

  “Thank you, Aunt Olga,” Heather said, and the older woman made a noncommittal sniffing sound and didn’t move from the doorway.

  Sarah placed the wicker basket she was carrying on the marble island and hugged Heather. “This is just so awful,” she said. “I didn’t know what else to do, so I brought you some food.” She unpacked the basket, all of us aware that Viktor’s aunt was still standing in the doorway, watching. “Here’s some chicken soup and a loaf of bread to go with it.” Of course Sarah had made them both; I hoped she wouldn’t ask about the nanny’s casserole.

  “Thank you,” Heather said. “That’s very kind of you.”

  “I’m so sorry about Viktor—so sorry for you and Daniel.”

  Their conversation sounded stilted and I tried not to glance at the doorway to see what the Ukrainian woman was making of it. We chatted like this for several minutes, a conversation so mundane that eventually it must have bored even Olga, who extracted a cell phone from some pocket and began texting as she clomped away.

  “I’m surprised the police aren’t here,” Sarah whispered. “I was afraid of running into them.”

  “They’ve been and gone,” Heather said, turning away to pour a cup of coffee for Sarah.

  “When was that?” I asked as Sarah said, “Do they think it was a carjacking?”

  “A few hours ago, and I don’t know. I think so.” Heather handed a mug to Sarah, who took it without looking and just as automatically set it down. “They didn’t say much about it; they were asking a lot of questions.”

  “What? What did they ask?” Sarah’s voice rose and she sounded incredibly nervous.

  “Calm down,” I hissed, glancing around. “We don’t want to attract attention.”

  Heather didn’t answer and looked down at her watch. “Do you think they’ll have finished the autopsy by now? What if they can tell that the body was moved?”

  “What did they want to know?” Sarah persisted.

  “Don’t ask too many questions in case the in-laws can hear us,” I whispered. “It will look suspicious.”

  This time we all heard the doorbell and Heather moved toward it. She came back in the kitchen a few minutes later with one of the other mothers from school. Terry Holloway was carrying a large aluminum pan. “Oh, hello,” she said when she saw me and Sarah, her small, probably fixed, ferrety nose sniffing the air while she darted beady-eyed looks about the room. I doubted she’d ever been in Heather’s house before—she was an acquaintance rather than a friend, one of those women who believed that personal power came from the collection, and distribution, of gossip.

  “This is for you and Daniel—it’s lasagna,” she said to Heather, holding her pan aloft. “You can freeze it, which you probably should given everything here.” She headed for the large stainless-steel refrigerator without waiting for Heather’s reply, taking it upon herself to shuffle the food in the freezer to make room for her dish.

  After that she circled the island, examining the other food with a proprietary air, shifting dishes and lifting lids to get a better look. “What on earth are you going to do with all these cookies and cakes?” she said to Heather. “You can’t eat all this sugar and stay so skinny.” A short laugh followed that sounded like a squawk. It seemed to echo off the tile.

  A scraping sound punctuated the awkward silence as Terry stepped on something. We all looked toward the floor, but she bent down first. “Where did this come from?” she said, holding up a silver disk. I recognized it immediately—it belonged to Viktor.

  The shocked look that flashed across Sarah’s face told me that she’d recognized it, too, and Heather seemed downright panicky for a moment.

  “Oh, what is it?” I asked, leaning forward to look, hoping Terry would focus on me and not the others, forcing my interest to sound casual.

  “It’s a saint’s medal,” Heather said, and her voice was smooth. She picked it up and slipped it into her pocket. “Viktor gave it to me.”

  We avoided each other’s eyes. Viktor always wore that medal. It must have come off that night when he and Heather struggled. What if it could be seen around his neck in footage from the hospital? Would anyone notice that he’d been wearing the medal earlier that night, but wasn’t wearing it when he was found?

  Was it my imagination, or was Terry giving Heather a knowing look? “Aren’t you missing someone?” she said after a minute, looking from Sarah, to me, then Heather. “Alison Riordan,” she said when none of us said anything. “You four do everything together.” Another squawk of laughter. What was that gleam in her eyes about? Even her smile seemed menacing.

  “I’d better get going,” I said, desperate to get out from under her gaze. I gave Heather another quick hug. “I’m so sorry about Viktor. Call me if you need anything—anything at all.”

  But it was Sarah who called later. “I can’t believe Heather didn’t find that when she cleaned up,” she said. “And of all the people to find it, of course it had to be Terry Holloway.”

  “It could be worse,” I said. “It could have been Viktor’s mom who found it.”

  “Or the police.”

  “What if Terry tells them?”

  “I don’t think she recognized it,” Sarah said. “But that busybody would love to have something to share with the police.”

  Sarah had also encouraged Heather to get involved in the funeral planning. “I know it’s hard to act as if he was this incredible, loving husband, but I hope she can fake it or the in-laws—and all the other people like Terry—are going to start asking questions.”

  chapter eighteen

  HEATHER

  No one must know. This is what I tell myself over and over again, afraid that I’ll blurt it out, that I’ll scream it in the funeral home, that I’ll tell the director or all of his helpers, with their dark suits and bland faces. I feel as if I’ll babble it to anyone who comes to express his or her sympathies. It was me, I’ll say. I did it. I shot him.

  You’re hysterical. Pull yourself together. Stop blubbering. All the things he would say, but of course he isn’t here to say them. Not now. My cheeks throb and I can still feel the last time he slapped me.

  The funeral home collected his body, so I didn’t have to see Viktor postautopsy, which was a relief. It had been hard enough to identify him at the morgue. I’d practiced in the mirror to look appropriately shocked, but as it turned out I hadn’t had to fake it. The dead man on the metal slab didn’t really look like Viktor at all, at least not at first glance. It took me a minute to see beyond the swollen face and redness and other odd marks. He’d been contorted in his precious car for so long that the blood had rushed to certain areas and not to others. No matter how prepared I was, it was still a shock to see him lying there, naked and dead. I half-expected him to sit up on the table and point a finger accusingly at me. I remembered to ask how he’d died, to act as if I didn’t know. I didn’t have to force a reaction. I shook and wept, not from sorrow, but from fear.

  It took them forever to release the body. Apparently that’s pretty standard in cases like this, or so the police told me when I called every day to check. I wanted him to be cremated. Just get it done so I could get on with the business of forgetting. Of course, his mother wouldn’t accept that, she wants a big funeral, and I am afraid to protest. She insisted on being part of the planning, which meant that she picked the most expensive coffin available, but I let her have it. After all, she’ll be the only truly sad person in the room. I made sure to watch clips of sad movies on my phone so I could be red-eyed and puffy when we arrived at the funeral home to make the arrangements, and I kept up the pretense, dabbing at my eyes as we discussed the coffin, the suit Viktor would wear, the schedule for the visitation, while Viktor’s mother sobbed, using up an entire box of the funeral home’s tissues. The director, a dapper little man who smelled of hair gel, kept passing it to her, his face downcast as if he
was moved by our loss, when I suspect the only emotion he truly felt was impatience at how long the process was taking. I was impatient, too, desperate to get out of the place. As we were leaving, Anna bustling ahead of me out of the funeral home, I turned back and quickly handed Viktor’s medal over to the director.

  Worse than that first visit was having to return two days later, ahead of the official visitation, to admire the work they’d done. I wanted a closed casket, but of course Viktor’s mother wouldn’t hear of it. “Don’t worry,” the director said to me, “none of his, um, injuries, will show.” I still hesitated to approach the coffin, feeling almost as fearful as I had that night, standing by the door out to the garage, the gun trembling in my hand.

  All Viktor’s swelling and redness was gone. Now my late husband was a waxy department-store mannequin, his skin so pale that they’d added makeup. I could see a knife-thin streak of foundation near his collar and knew that the faint hint of pink in his cheeks came from rouge. The medal was around his neck, lying on the outside of his expensive shirt and silk tie in a way that my husband never wore it, but his mother seemed pleased. The coffin was a huge, satin-padded mahogany box, Viktor tucked into its folds like a piece of expensive mail-order fruit that got delayed somewhere in transit, polished and presentable, hiding a rotting core.

  There was a cloying, heavily perfumed scent in the room from the dozens of flower arrangements that had already arrived, drooping lilies and overblown roses, spider-like chrysanthemums and fussy white carnations, alongside pots of ferns and other green plants. But it wasn’t the odor from the flowers catching in my throat, making me gag. It was the blood.

  The smell isn’t real. It can’t be. There is no reason to still have that salty, sweet-sour, metallic taste in my mouth, or feel that spray of blood and bone matter coating my body.