The Bachelorette Party, page 12
I pause. “Her name was Ryan?”
“Yeah.” He laughs. “Weird, right? Ryan and Ryan. But she was free, so I sort of …”
I’m writing Ryan with a female sign next to it. “Went for a booty call?”
This is answered with relieved laughter. “I guess you could say that.” He turns pensive then. “Though that relationship didn’t last long either.”
The dog farts audibly this time, the result even more noxious.
“Could she confirm that, do you think?” I ask, wondering how quickly I can get out of this room.
“Yeah, I think so.” He pulls on the bottom of his polo. “I can look up her info, but I’ll probably have to email it to you. Fair warning though, she’s not my biggest fan.”
“Oh yeah? And why’s that?” I stand up.
“Um,” he hems, standing up as well. “You might want to just ask her. Oh, and talk with Clare too. She knew Nicole from church. She was like a year above her. But she’s also not my biggest fan.” His face takes on a guilty cast. “She went a little psycho on me when she found out I cheated with Nicole.”
I pause. “Are you saying you met Nicole through Clare?”
He looks even guiltier. “Yeah, I was picking Clare up from her Bible class. Me and Nicole started talking.”
“Bible class?” I pause. This can’t be a coincidence. “Does Revelation 13:18 mean anything to you?” I ask. “Or … the name Adam?”
He stares off for a second. “Well, Revelation’s in the Bible. And … Adam’s in the Bible too, right.” He grins, tickled to have made the connection. “Along with Eve?”
“Right,” I say, leaving my mug of liberal tears behind. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Johnson.”
“Yeah, sure, okay.” He follows me out the door. “Just let me know when they’re coming with the cameras, okay?” he asks, with stars in his eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
NOW
Ten minutes later, Noah comes back into the house, slamming the door. He grunts, taking off his boots and coat. Cold air trails him into the kitchen. By his gloomy expression, I’m guessing he didn’t find the phone. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “No phone.”
A half cup of my coffee remains in my mug. Cold.
I check Esther’s face, but it reveals nothing, no hint of triumph or gloating. I am not sure she even remembers causing the ruckus.
“So,” I say, changing tacks. “Maybe we could just run into town so I can make a call. Or we can get to a police station.”
“No one’s driving in this weather at this time of night,” Esther returns, her tone allowing no discussion on the matter.
“Or I could just drive,” I offer. “I grew up in Vermont, so I know how to drive in the snow.”
Esther lets out a derisive laugh. “Not this kind of snow.”
“Yes, this kind of—” I say, then stop. Stooping to her level is not going to help.
Maybe I can convince Noah to drive me once she falls asleep. On the way in, I saw his SUV parked outside, which should be able to handle the snow. But then again, it looked snowed in. It would take some effort. And we could shovel the snow off, but we still might get stuck.
“You’ll sleep in the guest room,” she says, the statement sounding more like a demand.
I’m surprised at the offer; maybe manners would be the last to go in dementia. Still, I’m wary of this plan. I’d rather just take the SUV. I’ve been here almost an hour now, and the minutes keep ticking off, subtracting from my remaining forty-eight hours. I gaze out the kitchen window at the snow blowing haphazardly.
“I should just—”
“No, she’s right. You should stay here,” Noah says, in an overly solicitous voice. As his mom stands up to clear her coffee cup, he mimes a phone with his hand, tilting his head upstairs.
“Oh,” I say, heartened by the thought. Perhaps he has another cell phone up there? “Thanks. I would appreciate that. Absolutely.”
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll get you some towels and stuff.”
Esther’s suspicious gaze, which we blithely ignore, follows us up the stairs. Once upstairs, he makes a demonstrative racket picking up towels and sheets in the linen closet.
“Okay,” he announces, performatively. “And there should be soap in the bathroom.”
“Do you have another cell phone?” I whisper.
“Not exactly,” he whispers back, leading me into the guest room, small, with lemon-yellow walls. A yellow square quilt hangs over a rocking chair in the corner, with baby feet prints in some of the squares. Above the rocking chair hangs a picture of a baby swaddled in a pink blanket
“You have a sister?” I ask, before even thinking to ask more about the phone. She wasn’t mentioned in any of the research.
He follows my gaze. “Had,” he says, laying towels on the bed. “She died.”
“Oh,” I say, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, that’s okay.” He moves a pillow. “It was crib death. I was only six so … I can barely even remember it. Now, to the phone.” He walks to the nightstand and yanks open a drawer. But then his eyebrows pull downward. “Shit. There used to be a phone in here.”
I peer into the empty drawer, as if he needed confirmation. “I don’t get it. You had a cell phone in here?”
He shakes his head. “No. We do have a landline. I just told her we didn’t. I had to hide the phones because she kept calling 911.” He leans on the bed to check the other nightstand, his T-shirt riding up, revealing a slice of skin. “I keep meaning to cancel it but …” He pulls open the other drawer. “Damn it.”
“So … no phone.” I stagger back a step, the blow of this news almost physical.
“Noah,” Esther calls up. “You know the rule. No boys and girls in the same room.”
He shuts his eyes in frustration. “Okay, Mom,” he says. “Maybe I hid it somewhere else. I don’t know.” He glances around the dimly lit room. “The closet, maybe. I don’t know.”
“Noah,” she shouts up again.
“Coming,” he says, and starts to leave, but I grab his shirt. I touch muscle and warm skin, and he turns to me with surprise.
Embarrassed, I release his shirt, not even sure why I touched him. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m just … I’m afraid.”
A bellowing emerges from downstairs. “Noah!”
He grits his teeth, his jaw muscle flaring. “I’m sorry,” he says, in a low voice. “I’ll try to help you once she falls asleep.”
Dust bunnies flitter up as I search under the bed, coughing from the musty air. I try the nightstand drawer again, in case it has magically materialized, but find only a worn Bible.
Footsteps creak by the room, slow and hobbling. “You doing okay in there?” Esther asks.
“Oh yes,” I call back. “Fine, thanks. This is perfect.”
I jog over to the bathroom and turn the tap on for a few seconds, then off, to feign washing up before bed. Rust rings the drain.
As soon as her footsteps fade, I look under the sink to find old cleaning supplies and a stack of toilet paper. I rummage around in the dark, touching grime and plumbing, but no phone.
I check the closet again, though I’ve already looked in there. A few wire hangers clink around among the scent of moth balls. No phone.
Dejected, I sit back on the bed.
Esther probably threw the phone away, which means I shouldn’t waste any more time here. It would be easy enough to sneak out again. They wouldn’t force me to stay. Esther would be thrilled to see the back of me. And Noah wants to help but can’t with his mother around. I could slip a note under his door telling him I’ve gone. Hopefully he’ll find the phone soon and call the police himself.
I gaze outside into the snow, where his phone remains buried. The wind whips against the windowsill, creaking the casing. I can already feel the bitter cold wind stinging my face, my fingers numb and stinging. I really, really do not want to go back out there.
Maybe I could just stay here for an hour. Getting some “kip,” as Jay would say, wouldn’t be the worst thing. I could get my energy back, then face the elements again.
But even as the temptation tugs at me, my inner voice rails against it. Much as I would love to close my eyes for an hour, it would be another hour lost.
So … here we go again. Time to pack up my backpack and head out. At least I dried my clothes and got some caffeine. I stand up and stare out the window, dreading the cold.
As a last-ditch effort, I decide to try the closet one more time. The top shelf is empty, but maybe she’s pushed the phone back too far back to see. She’s certainly tall enough to do it. I back up to get a glimpse of it, but still can’t. So I move forward again and jump, managing to just hit the shelf with my hands but not get anywhere near the back. This is where Lainey would come in handy. She was always the go-to tall person to reach anything in our college dorm (Melody was hopeless in this department). But I don’t have Lainey or Melody to help me.
My throat tightens.
No, I scold myself. That will not help right now.
Looking around, I see the rocking chair. That might work. Hobbling footsteps sound in the hallway again, and I pause. Then I make plenty of noise moving the blanket and fluffing the pillow, and the footsteps retreat again.
After waiting a beat, I grab the heavy chair and, lifting to avoid the racket of dragging it, maneuver the chair in front of the closet. I pause again, listening for footsteps, but silence remains. Stepping up on the creaky chair, I wobble on my tube-socked feet. I lean forward, balancing with my arms like a surfer, when I catch a glimpse of something. I grab a precarious hold of the shelf with both hands, going on my tiptoes and lifting my gaze up a couple more inches.
Then I see it, the most beautiful sight ever.
A phone.
A crotchety voice calls out from the hallway, nearly toppling me off the chair.
“You need anything, Alex? Or are you gonna turn the lights off?” Esther complains. “Some of us are trying to sleep here.”
“Oh,” I say, righting myself and simultaneously grabbing the phone. “Yes, I’m all set, thank you.” I tiptoe off the chair, settling its rocking, and flick the lights off.
The footsteps return back to her bedroom.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
AUGUST
Sitting in the deli with my mom, I run over remaining items from the profile. The stepfather still hasn’t called me back, nor did I reach the female Ryan, who the male Ryan claims as an alibi during the time of the murder. Although, the female Ryan could just be covering for the male Ryan, since a sleeping Clare couldn’t provide one. So, we got the stepfather and two Ryans as possible suspects (none of whom have a 666 tattooed on their wrists, incidentally.) A motley crew, as far as suspects go. I doubt Toby would find any of them terribly convincing as alternative killers. At least not enough to put the profile on the air.
“Whatcha thinking about?” my mom asks, taking a sip from her near empty coffee cup.
“Oh, nothing,” I say, doubting she wants to hear complaints about my serial killer project.
When she turns to the window, I see myself in her profile. She is a palimpsest of me (or me of her), a thinner, frailer version, while I got the thick genes from my father. Juicy, you mean, Jay would say.
My mom steals a glance at her huge purse on the chair next to us. She keeps it within eye view at all times. In the “city,” someone might dash off the street and into the restaurant to grab it.
“So, Melody and Lainey will be there?” The names blend into one word, Melody-and-Lainey, complementary goods like peanut butter and jelly.
“Yup,” I say, swallowing the last of my turkey sandwich. “Hopefully. Sometimes auditions go late or practice goes late or whatever.”
“Sure,” she says, then glances at her purse, which, despite all odds, remains on the chair. “Jay?” she asks.
“Nope,” I say. “Bad luck.”
She spoons her soup with a smile. “I wasn’t sure if you millennials still hold with that.”
“I’m Gen Z.”
“Ah, of course,” she says. Then she assesses me, and takes a breath, and I know what’s coming. “You’re sure about this, right?” she asks, her face scrunched with worry. “Because this is a big step, you know. A huge step. And you’re still so young. You don’t have to marry the first guy who you—”
“Mom,” I snap. “I’m not marrying the first guy that I’ve met. I’ve dated plenty of guys.”
“But this one is not even six months,” she argues, pulling closer to the table. “How well do you even know him?”
Did you take care of her?
This is your mess. Clean it up.
“I know him,” I say, ignoring the voices.
She fiddles with her napkin. “You’re young is all I’m saying.”
“Mom,” I say, the word rounded with frustration. “How old were you when you married Dad?” I ask, already knowing the answer. “Twenty-three, right? I’m twenty-six.”
“And we know how well that went,” she says, with a sardonic smile, which looks out of place on her face.
I take a sip of coffee. “Okay, well, maybe that’s a bad example but … I’m sure, okay? I love him.”
“Okay, okay.” She puts her hands up in surrender. “I just want you to be sure.” The waiter fills my mom’s cup for the hundredth time, and she nods a thank you. “I just … worry, you know?” She reaches over and rubs my knuckle. “That’s our job. You’ll find that out. Moms worry.”
I guess I’ll find that out pretty soon. Though I don’t think I’ll ever really feel like a mom to Greg. The thought spikes my blood pressure.
“Hey,” I say, to change the subject. “You’re good at puzzles, right?”
She allows a smile. “I suppose so.”
She and my father used to race at crossword puzzles, which she always won. I half wonder if he still does them.
“What do you think Revelation 13:18, followed by the name Adam, means?”
My mom crinkles her eyes. “Revelation is the quote about the beast, of course.”
“Yes,” I say, though I wouldn’t have known that without researching it.
She frowns, sipping her coffee. “Sounds like a band name or something …” Her expression perks up. “A code word maybe?” She pauses. “Though I don’t know what it would be a code word for.” She titters, raising her eyebrows. “I’m a big help, huh?”
“No, it’s okay,” I say.
“What’s it for, anyway?” she asks, putting her empty cup down again.
“Oh,” I say, lifting my hand for the check as the waiter approaches. She could afford lunch, having just retired with a nice pension from her school library job. But she’s frugal and would be aghast at the final tally. “Just for the case.”
“Ah,” she says, her expression icing over. She knows which case and doesn’t want to go there. Nor do I. I don’t want to describe a blood-stained piece of paper extracted from a pocket of a dead girl.
A girl like Lissa, who never got to live her life.
“What do you think?” I ask, twirling. I feel silly, like I’m auditioning for the part of Cinderella. Though with my broken toe, my foot would be too swollen to fit into the glass slipper.
“It’s nice,” my mom says, which means she doesn’t like it. She seems intimidated by the store, as am I, to be honest. This is the third dress. The first two barely fit, and the saleswoman, Chandra, barely hid her disdain at that fact. I head back into the small fitting room, which smells of peach potpourri, and start putting on the next one, but then peek out as I hear bells jangle.
Melody races in, with Lainey loping beside her. Melody wears a babydoll dress with an oversized jean jacket and black combat boots, Lainey her usual New York Liberty sweats.
“I’m so sorry,” Melody says, breathless. “It’s all my fault. Rehearsal went long.” Lainey widens her eyes in agreement.
My mom gives a quick hug hello to them both. She might not love Jay unconditionally, but my roommates, she definitely does.
“Where were we?” Melody asks, swooping in on the empty sofa, the scent of her rose perfume swooping in with her. Lainey sits next to her, leaning back and stretching out her long legs.
“Three dresses in,” I say, frowning at the sleeve cut on the current dress that accentuates my arm fat. “What do you think of this one?”
Lainey tilts her head side to side, which, like my mom’s “nice,” means Take it off as soon as humanly possible, and Melody gives a more straightforward throat-cutting motion. I go back into the fitting room and get into another dress while my mom and roommates chat. I exit the fitting room to the full-length three-part mirror.
“I think he might ask me, you know,” Melody muses. “He slowed down by the Tiffany’s window the other day.”
“Who?” Lainey asks, still looking at her phone. “Mason the Med Student?”
“Would you stop calling him that?” she complains. Then she puts her chin in her hand. “Although, I did give him my blood.”
Lainey’s face pinches in disgust. “What does that mean?”
Melody demurs. “Just a few vials. He was practicing phlebotomy.”
“Ahem,” I interrupt. “Anyone have an opinion? Or should I just stand here like an idiot all day?”
“Mmm,” Melody says, focusing on me. “I like the jewel neck on that one … Lainey?” she asks, pointing to the dress.
“Um. Sure, sure, looks great,” Lainey says, but barely looks up from her phone.
My mom hems. “I’m not sure about the cream color. Sort of washes you out.”
She’s right, as usual. I’m ushered into the changing room yet again, the door kept slightly ajar. After carefully twisting and unbuttoning, the new dress comes on.
“This one is a Carolina Herrera,” Chandra announces, in a possibly fabricated European-type accent. “Gorgeous.”
I nod, pretending I’ve heard of Dongre as I exit the room to the mirror. I move around, pretending I’m dancing, gingerly with my toe.
