If nothing happened in a day or two, he decided, he would pay her a visit, but for the moment he preferred to wait and see what, if anything, she would do. Now that Jeff’s funeral was over, she might make a move.
He would be waiting if she did.
Softly, softly, catchee monkey.
— CHAPTER —
THREE
“Will this awful day never end?” Margaret murmured as Riley stopped beside her.
Under the cover of the rattling of the air conditioner and the murmur of dozens of voices, it was possible to steal a few moments of private conversation even though the house was packed. The older woman was pale and exhausted-looking, with dark circles under her eyes. Riley’s concern for her, already high, ratcheted up another notch.
“The answer was a big ‘no,’ hmm?” Riley’s voice was equally low. She could tell that just from looking at Margaret’s face. Margaret had been meaning to ask Bill Stengel, their longtime lawyer, if there was any way around the clause in Jeff’s small life insurance policy that precluded a payout for suicide, especially in the face of the family’s contention that he was murdered. When Riley had seen them talking a few minutes before, she’d been pretty sure of the topic.
“Bill says the company has to go by the official cause of death.” Margaret sounded defeated.
“Figures.” Riley wasn’t surprised. The way things had been going lately, the surprise would have been any scrap of good news.
They were in the small dining room of the modest brick house that Margaret and Emma had shared with Jeff after George had gone to prison. With a living room, dining room, kitchen, three bedrooms, and a single bath all on one level, the rental was a little run-down but had the immense advantage of being cheap, which was what mattered most to them nowadays.
The walls were painted in muddy earth tones, the floors were scuffed hardwood, and the furniture—because the family hadn’t been allowed to keep much more of their previous belongings than a few select personal items and their clothes—had been bought at a secondhand store.
Margaret looked as out of place in it as a peacock in a chicken coop, but she was adapting with a dignity that, to Riley, was the embodiment of what she’d grown up referring to as class in North Philly. (One thing Riley had learned since marrying Jeff was that people with class never talked about anyone having class. It was the poor shmucks without it, of which she had to admit she was still one, who used class as a descriptive.)
Case in point: without any outward sign of embarrassment, Margaret was hosting the traditional postfuneral reception in a house that most of her acquaintances clearly, if silently, despised.
In theory, only close friends of the family should have been present, but in actuality the guests were a hodgepodge assortment ranging from a few of Riley’s coworkers to Jeff and Riley’s onetime couple friends to high school students to members of some of Houston’s wealthiest clans. A pair of security guards at the door—they worked weekends at the Palm Room just like she did and Riley was paying them out of her own pocket for tonight—were charged with keeping out undesirables, such as media and law enforcement types. Catty, gossipy socialites were harder to defend against, and Riley had little doubt that the Cowans’ reduced circumstances would, like Jeff’s death and George’s arrest, be an endless topic of conversation among the country club set for the foreseeable future.
“Did you eat?” Riley asked.
“Yes,” Margaret replied. Riley knew Margaret was lying but she also knew that there was no point in calling her on it. None of them had been able to eat more than a few bites at a time since it had happened. “I don’t think Emma has.”
Emma had a troubling tendency not to eat when she was under stress. She’d always been slender, but since George’s arrest she’d lost weight until now she was almost too thin. Riley hated to think what kind of long-term impact Jeff’s death might have on her.
“She’ll be okay,” Riley said, both because she wanted to comfort Margaret and because she wanted to believe it was true.
“I hope so.” Margaret glanced toward the dining room table, where several guests were at that moment loading their plates.
Earlier she’d overheard one of Margaret’s couture-clad friends whisper to another, as she’d picked up one of the coated paper plates and looked down at it with distaste, “Honestly. This is just embarrassing. Even if you didn’t have a dime, don’t you think you could do better than this?”
While it was certainly true that the spread was a far cry from the lavish opulence customary at Oakwood—where the table had been polished mahogany that seated twenty, the plates were fine china, the silverware was real silver, and at least two uniformed maids would have been hovering over a repast prepared by Houston’s finest caterers—Riley’s blood had boiled, but for the sake of Margaret and Emma, she hadn’t said a word.
Grimly she’d reminded herself, Class, baby. Class.
“Did you eat?” Margaret countered, looking at Riley again.
“Yes,” Riley lied in turn.
The savory aromas that hung in the air should have made her hungry, should have been appetizing, especially considering how little she’d eaten over the past few days, but under the circumstances, to Riley, they were the opposite of appetizing. She’d had a knot of dread in her stomach since finding Jeff’s body, and just the thought of food, much less the smell of it, made her feel queasy. Which was why, having refilled the potato salad, she had been hurrying out of the room with an empty bowl in her hand when Margaret had entered, catching her just short of the doorway.
“Riley. You need to.” Margaret clearly didn’t believe Riley any more than Riley had believed her.
Riley sighed. What was the point of pretending?
“We all do,” she said, including Emma in that. “We will, once . . .”
Her voice trailed off.
We’ve gotten used to Jeff being gone, was how that sentence was meant to end. But she couldn’t say it aloud, and Margaret didn’t need to hear it.
But Margaret apparently understood, because she nodded, then glanced away. “It’s getting dark out.”
The beige, discount-department-store curtains were drawn to keep out curious eyes, but in this room they didn’t quite meet in the middle. Through the gap it was possible to see that outside, twilight was falling. Soon it would be full night.
Riley asked, “Do you want me to start hinting that it’s time for everybody to go?”
Margaret shook her head. Her blue eyes were red-rimmed and blurry-looking, but the tears had stopped after the funeral and she looked composed. “It’s been good to see people again. And they’ll probably start to leave soon anyway.”
The thought that it would probably be a long time if ever before Margaret saw most of these particular people—these fair-weather friends, in Riley’s humble opinion—again popped into Riley’s mind, but she didn’t say it.
“You’d think,” Riley replied, then hesitated. She hated to leave Margaret to deal with a houseful of guests on her own, but on the other hand she hated the thought of leaving Margaret and Emma alone after everyone had gone even more. “I’m going to run home and grab some clean clothes, and then I’ll be back.”
She’d been staying with them since Sunday night. With every fiber of her being she wanted to get back to her own apartment, to her routine, her life, but Jeff’s death had shattered any possibility of that: the hard truth was that normal had flown out the window, and whatever eventually took its place would necessarily be different from what had been before.
In any case, she couldn’t walk away from Margaret and Emma now: they needed her. Without Jeff in it, with the newness and horror of his death still so raw that it was like an open wound, the house was a sad and lonely place. She couldn’t just abandon Margaret and Emma to it.
“You don’t have to keep sleeping over here with us.” Margaret patted Riley’s arm affectionately. Her fingers felt as cold as ice. Riley knew Jeff’s mother hadn’t been sleeping, and
was running on pure adrenaline. She knew, because she was in the same situation. “Aren’t you supposed go back to work tomorrow?”
Riley nodded. Her new day job was as a loan officer for a car dealership. She’d taken it, and her night job, as well, in the wake of George’s arrest. She’d needed a steady paycheck to help support the family, who’d been rendered penniless practically overnight as accounts were frozen and assets seized. There was no possible way she could stand by and not help. Margaret and Emma had become as dear to her as if they were her own mother and sister, and they, and Jeff, were useless as moneymakers. Family took care of family was how she’d always lived. They were hers now, and she was theirs. Before that she’d been in the process of building her own investment advisory business, using her finance degree from Drexel and the connections she’d made as a member of the Cowan family to establish a small but growing client base. Of course, after George’s arrest, her connection to the Cowan family had turned from an asset into an instant poison pill. Her clients had quit her en masse, and her income—she’d been working strictly on commission—had dried up to nearly nothing.
So now she took car loan applications for Simpson Motors by day (Patti Simpson was one of the few friends she’d retained after the Cowan name became mud) and oversaw what was basically a high-end bar by night.
At some later date, she would probably have her maiden name restored, the better to distance herself from what George had done. But even then she would have to move far, far away from Houston, because in the wake of the scandal everybody for a couple of hundred miles in all directions pretty much recognized her on sight.
“I don’t want to be on my own yet,” Riley lied again. “Are you working next week?”
“Tina told me to take as long as I need.” Margaret grimaced. She had taken the only job she’d been offered—as a salesclerk in the high-end resale shop where she’d once sold her own cast-off designer clothes. Riley knew there was no way Margaret didn’t hate it, didn’t feel the sting of waiting on women who had once been her friends, but she had never uttered a word of complaint. And there it was again, Riley thought: class. Something that at this point she was pretty sure she herself was never going to acquire. “I’ll probably go back on Monday.”
Unspoken between them was the fact that they needed the money. It was near the end of the month, and rent—for the house and Riley’s apartment—was due shortly. Margaret still struggled with the concept of “broke”—to a woman who’d always had unlimited available funds, who’d been able to write a check or swipe a charge card for anything she wanted, having to watch every penny was as alien as trying to live on the moon—but to her credit she was learning.
“What about Emma?” Riley asked. Emma, a talented artist, was attending the Houston Museum of Fine Arts Painters’ Studio, a prestigious (free) summer program that she had worked hard to be accepted into. At one point her college plans had focused on the Rhode Island School of Design, but without a scholarship that probably wasn’t going to happen. She and Margaret were hoping that this summer program might open up some scholarship doors.
Margaret sighed. “Monday? We’ll see.”
“Okay.” Riley nodded again. “Listen, I’m going to head out now. I won’t be gone long. I’ll bring back ice cream. Strawberry.” It was Margaret’s favorite flavor. “And Chocolate Peanut Butter Crunch for Emma. Let’s see her resist that.”
Margaret smiled. It was a thin, tentative thing, with lips that were a little tremulous, but it was a smile, the first one Riley had seen out of her since she had learned of Jeff’s death.
We’re going to survive this, Riley promised herself silently.
“Remember how she used to love to stop at Baskin-Robbins?” The smile still hovered on Margaret’s lips. Riley did remember: when she’d first come to live at Oakwood, Emma had been a sturdy ten-year-old who would beg to stop for ice cream any time they went anywhere.
And Jeff had still been her Prince Charming, and Margaret had been the kindly fairy godmother who’d taken a wary, jeans and T-shirt clad Riley under her wing and introduced her to the world of fine fashions, society functions, and the life of the uberrich in general, and George had been the arrogant bully, and had remained so right up until the moment of his arrest.
That had been the thing that she’d brought to the table for Jeff—and Margaret and Emma, too. They were all three gentle souls, easily crushed, easily dominated. She was not. One thing she’d learned to do over the course of her life was stand up to bullies. She’d stood up to George for them.
“Margaret!” Lynn Sullivan, a thin, expensively dressed brunette who was one of Margaret’s longtime social set, came up to them and, with a nod for Riley, put a toned and tanned arm around Margaret’s shoulders. “Darling, we missed you at the Founders’ Ball! You know we would love to have you back at Book Club! Why don’t you—”
The Founders’ Ball was a charity gala that was the highlight of Houston high-society’s summer season. Two years before, Margaret had been its chair. This year she hadn’t even received an invitation, not that she would have attended if she had been invited. Her world had changed too radically.
As Margaret listened to her friend extend an invitation to return to the monthly book club that she had once loved but whose members had made it wordlessly clear that they were now made uncomfortable by her presence, Riley moved away, slipping into the kitchen. Like the rest of the house, it was small and crowded, with tired yellow walls and outdated appliances.
She smiled at Bill Stengel, who was just inside the door and glanced over his shoulder as she entered. Stocky and balding, around Margaret’s age of fifty-seven, he had a florid complexion and unremarkable features, and in his expensive gray suit looked exactly like the successful lawyer that he was. He was chatting with a couple that she didn’t immediately recognize. She would have moved past with only a nod, but he caught her arm.
“Riley. How you holding up?” A Texan born and bred, his accent was strong.
Heartsick. Scared. Broke. “Fine.”
Bill nodded like he thought she meant it, and gestured at the couple standing with him. “You know Ted and Sharon Enman?”
If she did, she couldn’t place them, but she smiled like the answer was of course. As she engaged in the exchange of meaningless pleasantries that passed for conversation at death-related functions, her gaze slid past them and found Emma leaning against the counter next to the sink, surrounded by some of the girls from her (tony private) high school. They were slim and pretty and fashionable, and Emma was looking at them like they were attack dogs and she was a small creature at bay.
“Excuse me,” she said, moving away from the small group and heading in Emma’s direction, grimacing as she got close enough to overhear the conversation.
“. . . so awful for you,” Monica Grayson concluded in a sweetly sympathetic tone. With her waist-length black hair and big dark eyes, Monica had a slightly exotic appearance that made her look older than her seventeen years. From Emma’s confidences, Riley knew that Monica was the head mean girl. She also knew that Monica was way into boys, who were usually way into her back. “I don’t know how you can even hold up your head.”
“Brent said to say hi. He said to tell you he totally would have come, but he had football practice, or something,” Tori Meddors told Emma. She had glossy brown hair that curled up on her shoulders, and a carefully cultivated tan. Like Monica and the other girl who was with them, Natalie Frazier, she was part of the popular clique at Emma’s high school. She had been frenemies with Emma since kindergarten. Riley saw Emma visibly wince at that reference to Brent, whom she had just started dating before George’s arrest and who Riley knew she still really, really liked, even though Brent had stopped calling after George’s arrest. When Brent had invited another girl to the junior/senior prom, Emma had stopped eating for days. She had ended up not going, and Margaret had worried herself sick over it.
“Oh, uh, tell him that’s okay,” Emma managed.
She was gripping the plastic pitcher of iced tea she was holding like it was a life preserver and she was in stormy seas.
“Are you really going to be going to public school now?” Natalie asked in the kind of hushed tone someone might use to inquire about the onset of a fatal disease. Emma looked even more hunted. Riley winced inwardly. George had paid Emma’s tuition for the previous year before his arrest, but now there was simply no money. Not for tuition or anything except the necessities.
“She only hopes she is. Haven’t you ladies heard? All the hottest guys go to public school,” Riley said as she reached them. “Have you checked out Pearland’s football team? Monica, you’d die.”
“Oh, hi, Riley,” the girls chorused, while Emma shot her a grateful look. Meeting that look with a bracing one of her own, Riley added, “Em, your mother was wondering where you were with that tea.”
“Oh, gosh, I forgot she wanted it,” Emma said, then added to the girls, “I’d better get in there. Thanks for coming.”
She slid away from her friends, and with a smile for the girls Riley moved on toward the back door. One more reason she was sure Jeff hadn’t committed suicide: he knew how fragile Emma was right now, had worried about her state of mind right along with Margaret and Riley, and wouldn’t purposefully have shattered his little sister’s life yet again for anything. Not when it had already been turned upside down by her good-for-nothing bastard of a father.
Damn you, George.
If she had a penny for every time those words had popped into her mind over the last few months, Riley thought, she would never have to work again for the rest of her life.
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