Do I Know You?, page 15
“I see your underwear.” Mabel giggles, pointing to a hint of beige lace under my Red Sox T-shirt.
“You see London, you see France,” I joke, flipping the toast. “You see Aunt Jane’s underpants.”
This causes Mabel to erupt in a fit of laughter and repeat the rhyme over and over until her brother has it memorized, too. I picture them singing it repeatedly in the backseat of the Volvo on the three-hour trip back to Cambridge and smile in sweet revenge.
Miraculously, the children do not protest the substitution of French toast for pancakes, perhaps because I have dusted the slices with plenty of the confectioners’ sugar Sheila attempted to hide in the freezer. I’ve even managed to figure out the old-fashioned Mr. Coffee maker and have brewed a small pot.
“I see you have everything under control.” Erik comes into the kitchen, hair standing on end, his eyes huge behind the thick glasses he wears when he’s not in contacts. And for a brief moment, I get the appeal of the whole young mom thing—the scene of two young children happily smacking their lips over plates of carbs, a husband kissing you on the cheek appreciatively, the comforting aroma of freshly brewed French roast.
And then it’s gone and all I see are two sugar-fueled rascals who are about to tear apart the minuscule cottage and a boyfriend taking his coffee into the bathroom with his iPad for a nice long catch-up with last night’s baseball scores.
“Clouds. Is it going to rain?” Mabel, traumatized from the inclement weather a few days earlier, points to the damp porch and I fight a knot of dread. There is not enough Candy Land in the universe.
Though when I’m not with kids, I love the Cape when it rains. The air turns into a cocoon of seawater, fog, and dripping atmosphere, perfect for making a fire and curling up with an engrossing mystery novel or jigsaw puzzle. My favorite childhood memories are of reading in the bedroom of our historic wooden home, listening to the rhythmic pelting of rain on the standing-seam roof. There was nothing cozier than being cuddled up in a blanket with a bag of black licorice, working through the entire Baby-Sitters Club series while my mother worked in Town Hall down the street, safely near yet far enough away to protect me from her nagging to go outside and play or to work through her endless list of yard chores.
“That’s not rain; it’s dew. That sky is bright blue!” Sheila dances into the living room, where the kids have their faces pressed against the glass and hugs them both. She looks surprisingly together, her short wavy hair neatly styled, her legs slim and firm in yoga pants sticking out from under an oversized off-the-shoulder gray sweater. There are even diamond studs in her ears.
It’s not fair for her to be so rested and cheerful while I am creaky and musty, though I suspect her resilience is rooted in her normal lifestyle of exercise, vegetables, and frequent massages.
“I think we should go fishing,” she declares. “And it just so happens I saw an eel trap in the garage. I bet we can catch some crabs off the bridge at Heron’s Neck.”
I practically spill my coffee. The bridge at Heron’s Neck is the gateway to Pease territory and is waaaay off-limits to me. “Camp Pekky is okay, but no closer,” I say.
Sheila gives me one of her conspiratorial winks and instructs the children to go upstairs and wake Papa. They do as they’re told, running and screaming unnecessarily, while their mother pours herself the last of the coffee, finishing it off with a dollop of cream and—oh, god, I might be sick—a heaping chunk of her fancy butter.
“Bulletproof,” she says, taking a sip and closing her eyes in ecstasy. “The secret to success.” She plugs in her phone for a recharge. “Can you do me a huuuuge favor?”
This is never a good question.
“Since I’ll have to take the kids to the beach so we can reenact the night you last saw your sister, would you mind making them a snack? Only—” She holds up a finger. “No plastic, please. You should use the reusable cloth bags I rinsed out last night. And let’s ixnay on the ugar-shay. I didn’t want to say anything in front of the children, but that breakfast was way over the top.”
Twenty
The unmarked, extended black Lincoln Navigator turns left off Route 6 onto Heron’s Neck Road and slowly, somberly rolls toward the gated island. The mammoth vehicle stops at the gatehouse and crosses the bridge with permission.
The bay to the left is sparkling. White sails dot the horizon. The beloved herons are true to their reputation, swooping into the marsh with big flapping blue-gray wings to feast on the tide pool offerings. Even the air feels purged of its usual sulfurous odor. It is cooler, cleaner, clearer here on the island. Better.
As the driver, Mr. Johnson, continues on his way toward the cluster of shingled buildings atop the small hill, he must pull off to the side of the one-lane road to allow the ambulance to pass. The ambulance, too, is in no hurry. The medic pulls up to the hearse and lowers the window.
“She’s all yours,” he says. “There was nothing we could do. DOA.”
Mr. Johnson nods and gestures to the flock of gulls bombing the water. “Looks like the blues are running.”
“That’s what I hear. Can’t wait to get out there. This is the end of my shift.”
“Lucky stiff,” says the mortician. And they both laugh. An oldie but a goodie.
At the service entrance, he is greeted by another member of the family’s security staff in the trademark Pease-green windbreaker, wearing a frown under his dark sunglasses and baseball cap, silent as he leads him to where Will Pease and his famous jawline are waiting.
The local celebrity’s hair, usually tamed in magazine photos, is curly and unruly. His shirt is damp with a V of sweat, and perspiration darkens his pits. His eyes could be puffy from tears, though, from lacrimal experience, the mortician suspects not. Will’s pallor is unhealthy for a man of his youth and he reeks of something chemical, of what the mortician’s not sure. He makes a point to register every flaw so he can relay them to his wife later. Because, as he’s often explained to her, no one’s as naturally beautiful as they appear in Love & Pease ads—or in the coffin.
“That’s all, Rick,” Will says to his bodyguard. “We’re fine.”
After the unsmiling man leaves, Will drops the stoic veneer and thrusts out a shaking hand, visibly upset. “Thank you so much for coming. My apologies about requesting the expedited service. I’m getting married in a few days and as you can imagine, this is . . . this is . . .” He seems to be searching for the right words. “Quite an unexpected blow.”
The mortician spouts the scripted line, “Please accept my deepest condolences for your loss.” The words roll off his tongue like melted butter on a hot corn cob. “I thought it best if I came alone. Didn’t want to make a scene.”
“Thank you, Mr. Johnson. Yes. That was very considerate.” Like all Peases, Will is an expert at ferreting out names and committing them to memory. The mortician is impressed, since this is a trick of his trade, too. He steps to the back of the hearse and opens the doors.
Will follows, talking as they do. “We’re all a bit stunned. She’d promised to meet my stepmother for Surya Namaskara on the eastern deck this morning and when she didn’t show, Eve checked in on her and . . .”
The gurney clatters to the ground. The mortician has no clue what Surya Namaskara is, but guesses it might be a green tea. “How tragic.”
“This way.” Will opens the door to the concrete utility area. “The EMTs had the idea to bring her body here. We’re trying to be discreet for as long as possible. Once word gets out, we’ll be inundated.” He gestures to the blue sky in front of them, where a helicopter skims the horizon.
Mr. Johnson nods. “Certainly.”
The body of the deceased lies on what appears to be a folding table in the immaculate laundry room. The sheet covering it creates a familiar pattern of hills and valleys. Will hooks his hands behind his back and lowers his head, closing his eyes as if in prayer. The mortician keeps his peace. He’s an expert at making himself invisible.
After Will is done with his moment of silence, he lifts his chin and says brightly, “Thank you again, Mr. Johnson. I need to check on Eve and inform my fiancée. I’ll be in touch to make arrangements.”
* * *
Will lingers outside Bella’s door, waiting for a sound of movement within. When he hears her rustle, he knocks lightly and enters. She is sitting up in bed as still as marble under the Irish quilt, her long, dark hair accentuating her bare porcelain shoulders, her heart-shaped face free of makeup. In this fresh morning light, she could be in a Love & Pease ad for home decor, she’s so flawless.
There she is, his salvation. To think how not that long ago he’d paid no more attention to her than he did to their maid. Well, in all fairness, that was before he had The Talk with Jake. Jake who is always two steps ahead, who executes his moves like a knight zigzagging across the chessboard.
“What’s going on?” she whispers, motioning for him to close the door. “Did I see an ambulance just cross the bridge?”
He tiptoes to the bed and kisses her on the forehead. “We’ve had an event.” He sits and runs his hand over her smooth leg. “Queenie didn’t show up for morning yoga and when Eve went to check on her, she found her . . . unresponsive.”
Despite having practiced these lines over and over, he can sense a crack forming. He’s not sure how much longer he can go on without breaking down and blabbing everything.
Bella blinks, confused. “What do you mean, unresponsive? Is she going to be okay? That ambulance was taking its own sweet time. Don’t tell me she was in it.”
“She wasn’t.”
“Phew!” Bella slides under the covers. “That’s a relief.”
“Actually, Queenie is . . . gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
“As in . . .” He struggles to swallow, his throat tight. “She passed.”
Bella’s jaw drops. “Queenie’s dead? How? What happened?”
Here is the part where he’s supposed to say he doesn’t know. That most likely his beloved Dutch aunt succumbed to her deadly vices, that one can’t expect to reach old age on a diet of cigarettes, booze, and cocaine. But he can’t because he knows—or at least strongly suspects—that Queenie’s demise was premature and, most horrifying, his doing.
He opens his mouth to speak and finds he can’t spout the lie he’s rehearsed, not to Bella, who is melting him with her wide-eyed innocence. She who holds the hands of the girls from the foundation when they come to her with their troubles, listening without ever judging. She who delicately transfers even the most frightening jungle spider outside rather than squish it with a broom. Bella Valencia has never once wished another human harm, could never even imagine violating her code of ethics. He is confident that her fidelity to him is iron tight, that she loves him with every fiber in her being.
She would never get drunk, much less blackout drunk, at a bachelor party and commit the unthinkable.
“Will?” Reaching out and stroking his stubbled cheek, she regards him with sincere concern. “Tell me.”
He can’t. She’s too good.
“Please,” she purrs.
He traces the stitching on the white coverlet, an antique blanket Madeleine bought in Ireland, he recalls. There’s something about the memory of his long-gone mother that unleashes his thoughts, along with his tongue, and he knows, with trepidation, that once he starts this confession, he won’t be able to stop.
“Since we decided not to sleep on the boat, we changed our plans and docked last night. I saw the light was off in our room and decided not to disturb you,” he begins. “If only I’d come up.”
But he didn’t. Jake and Will’s old college friends, Dingo and Boomer, demanded he join them for billiards in the basement of the main house, basement being an understated term for bar, wine cellar, and wood-paneled games room. He was already on the verge of passing out, but they insisted a shot of top-shelf whisky would get him back on his feet. Besides, a guy didn’t get married every week, right?
As he sets the scene, he can sense Bella’s growing disappointment. Surely, she knows what’s coming. Or, rather, who. The woman doesn’t live in a bubble.
“I was gonna crash in one of the empty guest rooms when Megan showed up. She wanted to talk privately.”
Bella’s long, thin fingers slowly curl around the sheets. “And?” she says, warily.
“That was my big mistake.”
There is a sharp intake of breath from Bella, but he goes on. He must. “In fairness, Meg was pretty wasted, too. Said she’d just come from putting Queenie to bed and had found out something important that had to do with us.”
“You and me?” Bella asks flatly. “Or you and her.”
All three of us, he thinks. “You and me. She had some fucked-up story that Queenie had a plan to get rid of you.”
Bella snorts. “How?”
“I don’t know. Something about paying you off and sending you to Montenegro, of all places. Megan said you’d be gone by today. I know, I know.” He can’t even look at her, he’s so humiliated that he took this idea seriously for even a moment. “It sounds crazy and if I hadn’t had been so fucked up, I would have just written it off as more Megan bullshit, but that’s not what I did, unfortunately.”
There is an ominous pause and then Bella says, “Uh-oh. What did you do?”
This is not so easy a question to answer. “The thing is, I’m not sure. What I remember is being really, really angry. I was just so pissed at Queenie for sticking her big nose in our business. It’s obvious she never liked you and had some sick idea that Megan and I belonged together. Megan, who’s not even . . .”
No. He’s not going to go down that road.
“Anyway, I left and went to Queenie’s to have it out with her.”
“What time was this?” Bella interrupts.
Beats him. “I don’t know. After midnight. Megan tried to stop me, but I told her to fuck off. She started crying and, actually, that’s the last I remember, her standing there, bawling her head off.”
“Then what happened?”
When he looks up, he sees, to his deep regret, Bella staring at him in shock, her disgust evident in the way her lips are drawn back in horror.
“I woke up on Dani’s couch. Apparently, she heard me stumbling outside her window, ‘ranting and raving,’ as she put it. She and Cecily got me inside and put me to bed.”
Bella finally closes her mouth and nods. “Okay, so what does Dani have to say about all this?”
“We haven’t had a chance to talk. We were both woken up when Eve banged on the door, wailing about Queenie. Eve said that when Megan put her to bed, Queenie was fine. A little tipsy, but Queenie’s always a little tipsy. I’m just worried that in my anger and drunkenness I went in and did something stupid, strangled her or suffocated or—”
“Will!” Bella grabs his wrist, tight. “Stop. You did no such thing. You are not a murderer.”
“I could be. You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
“I have some idea what you’re capable of and you killing Queenie is not even a remote possibility. Might you have wanted to? Sure. Queenie is—was—totally aggravating. But consider the facts.” Bella inches closer, forcing him to face her. “The woman was addicted to everything. She was a ticking time bomb. It was only inevitable that her heart would give out, that she’d smoke or drink herself to death. Frankly, she’s lucky it happened fast. She could have had a stroke and lingered incapacitated. She would have been miserable.”
As rational as this explanation is, he’s still not convinced. “What if I sped that along, though?”
“You didn’t. I’m sure that Dani got to you first, thank god, before you could make a fool out of yourself storming into Queenie’s room throwing around some wild, ridiculous allegation.” Bella cocks her head, smiling. “I mean, honestly. Where did Megan come up with that fantasy?”
For the first time since waking, he gains perspective on the ridiculousness of this story. “Yeah, you’re right,” he says, running a hand through his greasy hair, feeling relieved. “I must still be drunk to think I could have done something that awful.”
“Well, you don’t smell that great and you look like death yourself. Go take a shower and get some clean clothes. Eve is expecting us to surround her and comfort her, I’m sure. The sooner we drop the bomb, the better.”
Will drops his hand, puzzled. “What bomb?”
Sliding out of bed, Bella begins to undress, pulling her lace camisole over her head. “That we’re cancelling the wedding, of course.”
No. That can’t happen. That would ruin everything. He stands so they’re eye to eye, for once ignoring her naked body, her perfect breasts. “We can’t do that!”
“We have to. Your mother’s best friend just died, a woman who—”
“Who had a lot of health issues. You just said so yourself.” He picks up the pink silk robe draped across the foot of the bed and hands it to her. “You’re right. I’m sure the coroner will conclude she died of natural causes when he does his autopsy.”
Bella slowly pulls on the robe. “There’ll be an autopsy?”
“I think there has to be, don’t you?”
Suddenly, she’s strangely silent, her gaze vacant as if lost in thought. The morning has been too much for her, Will thinks.
“Everything’s going to be fine.” He brings her to him, pressing her head to his chest. “You said Queenie was excited for us to get married. Ask yourself, what would Queenie want?”
“What we all want,” Bella says, muffled, into his shoulder. “To live.”
Twenty-One
EVE
Eve sits in the middle of her gigantic four-poster bed, which is so large that both the mattress and the sheets had to be custom-made. When she designed this bedroom suite as an addition to the house, she and Chet dreamed of creating a retreat that would serve dual purposes: a private sexual oasis in this sprawling compound and, later, a gathering spot for the fruit of their union.
