I shudder. “For seven long minutes.”
“How’d she dump the body?” Sean challenges me.
“Jane has a small sailboat that she keeps docked at Elmo’s. One of the guys at the bar told me she just hired him to refinish the deck. She could’ve brought it around to where she left the body, then headed out into the surf.”
“But she didn’t go out far enough. So the body washed up on Brielle’s beach. Karma’s a bitch.”
My body feels limp, like my bones have dissolved. “Jane is a mother herself. How could she have killed a child? A kid who was her own daughter’s good friend.”
“She was desperate to keep Brielle’s friendship. Maybe just as desperate to keep her daughter all to herself.”
I scan my list of notes. The facts seem solid, and yet there are alternate explanations for some of them. “What if I share this with Detective Croft, and I’m wrong? This is all circumstantial.”
“What if you are?” Sean says. “You’ve caused some inconvenience for a woman you don’t like much anyway.”
“Defending yourself from a murder accusation is more than an inconvenience.”
Sean pushes my phone toward me. “Here’s a concept Audrey: Let Croft do his job, and you go back to doing yours.”
I dial.
THE NEXT TWO DAYS MOVE as slowly as beach traffic on Memorial Day Weekend.
Detective Croft listened to my theories with only a grunt or two as a response. When I asked if he’d keep me informed on new developments in Trevor’s murder investigation, he told me I could watch the news like everyone else.
But although the news is chock-a-block with violence and tragedy and outrage, there’s nothing about an arrest in Trevor Finlayson’s murder.
I don’t even know if Jane’s been questioned, and the only two people who would know—Sophia and Brielle—are off limits to me.
Then one night just as we’re getting ready for bed, Sean’s phone rings. He looks at the screen, his brow furrows, and he accepts the call.
“Uh-huh.” Long silence. “Is that so?” Long silence. “Yeah, right. Well, thanks for calling. Glad we could help.”
“What?” I demand.
“Jane Peterman is dead. She killed herself after Croft interrogated her for five hours and had to let her go.”
My hand rises to my mouth. “Dear Lord, please don’t tell me poor Sophia found the body.”
“No, an early morning jogger on the beach saw her. She hung herself from her deck railing.” Sean’s eyes harden. “She used a long, chiffon scarf.”
Chapter 41
Jane’s suicide is as close to a confession as Detective Croft will get, and it concludes the investigation into Trevor Finlayson’s murder.
The last few days, the local news has been full of pictures of Trevor, Jane, and the fabulous houses on Dune Vista Drive. Murder and suicide among the rich and stylish is infinitely more newsworthy than the same crimes committed in a squalid tenement or a downtrodden trailer park.
I can’t stop watching the coverage even though I know more about the case than the talking-head reporters ever will.
I watch for a glimpse of Sophia, but I never see her mentioned. How is she holding up? Who is helping her cope? The social workers and school counselors who would be available for a younger, poorer student aren’t there for an 18-year-old prep school drop-out. Has her distant grandmother stepped up to the plate? Has Brielle found some reserve of compassion for the daughter of a friend who killed for her?
In the eyes of the law, Sophia is an adult, but in my mind’s eye, she’s a devastated, grief-stricken kid who suddenly has to manage her own life. Has having a crazy mother prepared her adequately for that?
I’m not sure if Sophia realizes the role I played in her mother’s final days. But I’m positive Jane knew who gave Detective Croft the information he confronted her with.
And that knowledge weighs on me.
I don’t regret helping the police find justice for Trevor and his family. But I do feel terrible that my actions triggered a chain reaction that ended in Sophia losing her mother in such a terrible way.
The fall estate sale season is in full swing, and days go by when my frantic pace drives all thoughts of Sophia from my mind. Then I’ll see a kid with dyed hair or a vintage rock band T-shirt, and Sophia will pop into the part of my brain reserved for worry.
She crowds right up to my anxiety over Sean’s and my upcoming appointment with Dr. Stein, the fertility specialist. Two problems that no amount of worrying will resolve.
Then one day when I’m placing signs downtown advertising my upcoming local sale, killing the hours before our doctor’s appointment, I look up and see Austin Gardner walking down the sidewalk toward me. He’s reading something he holds in his hand.
Maybe he won’t see me. Panicked, I look for something to hide behind. A rock, a car, a garbage can—I’m not picky.
But the sidewalk is wide open. Austin glances up and nods at me.
I offer a half-hearted salute in return and await my doom. Maybe he’ll simply mutter a greeting and keep walking like a normal teenager. I busy myself jamming a second sign into the hard ground beneath a sidewalk tree.
“Hey, how’s it going?” Austin stops to talk. Of course, he has better social skills than Fly.
“Fine.” I straighten up. “And you?”
Austin’s eyes scan my face. “I’m good. Really good.” He hands me the thing in his hand that he’d been reading—a postcard. On one side, a picture of huge mountains. On the other, a message: Nepal is fabulous. I hope you make it here someday. Congratulations on getting into Princeton, Gregory.
Austin takes the card back from me and tosses it into a nearby trash can. “Nice of him to write, but I don’t save mail. My father always says to handle everything only once. Make a decision about it and move on.”
“Good words to live by.”
“They are. My dad is a smart guy.”
I watch him stride down the sidewalk, confident as ever.
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Sean and I sit across the desk from Dr. Stein.
He peers at us through his owlish glasses, upbeat as ever. “So, the tests results are back. You have oligospermia—fewer than 15 million sperm per milliliter of semen.”
Sean stares at him in confusion, but I’ve been doing internet research. I know what the doctor is telling us.
Dr. Stein pats his hands together. “Of course, that decreases the odds that one of your sperm will fertilize your partner's egg, resulting in pregnancy.”
Understanding creeps across Sean’s face like the shadow of the moon during an eclipse. “Wait. You mean it’s me? I’m shootin’ blanks?”
“Oh, not blanks—a total absence of sperm in the semen is known as azoospermia. You just have a sperm count that’s on the low end of normal. You’ll need to see a urologist to perform additional tests. Blood work to check your hormone levels, physical exam to look for abnormalities.” He pushes a paper toward Sean. “Fill out this questionnaire and—"
“What if you can’t fix it?” Sean demands.
“Far too early to jump to that conclusion. The urologist will determine the underlying cause so we can establish a course of treatment. Although it’s not always clear...”
Sean leans toward the doctor. “But what if the treatments don’t work?”
The doctor taps his pen on the desk. “There are alternatives. You can choose donor insemination.” He pulls a brochure out of a bin on his desk and slides it across the desk to Sean. “Select an Irish donor with red hair and blue eyes. No one needs to know.”
Sean’s gaze drops to the brochure, which pictures a happy couple with a cute infant. It’s the same brochure I picked up from the waiting room weeks ago. I shove it back at the doctor and stand up. “What about my test results?” I whisper.
Dr. Stein beams. “No problems whatsoever. You’re in perfect reproductive health.”
WE DRIVE HOME IN STUNNED silence. Somehow, I had never allow
ed for this possibility, so sure was I that my initial fears and doubts about having a child had somehow caused my ovaries to malfunction.
Gingerly, I reach across the car and stroke Sean’s hand on the steering wheel. “We’ll get through this. Dr. Stein will fix the problem.”
Sean jerks his hand away. “This is why I couldn’t get Patty pregnant. And then she got pregnant right away with her new husband. I should have known when you weren’t getting pregnant either that it was me. My Dad...Brendan...Terry—they produced kids, no problem.” He pounds the wheel. “Terry can’t even support his son, yet—”
“Sean, stop torturing yourself. And don’t compare yourself to your brothers. Now we know what the problem is, so we can work on it. That’s the first step.”
“If the doctor can’t fix me, then we have to get donor sperm,” Sean says.
“No!” The word flies out of me with surprising force. “I don’t want some other man’s baby. If we can’t get pregnant together, then we’ll adopt.”
I notice Sean’s shoulders relax. He takes his eyes off the road to shoot me a glance. “Really? Don’t you, ya know, want to experience pregnancy and all that?”
“I want to build a family with you. I don’t want to have a baby who’s biologically mine, but not biologically yours. If we adopt, we’ll be on equal footing. Sperm donation might be right for other couples, but it’s not what I want for us.”
Sean leans back in the driver’s seat and takes the next turn without causing me to grab the armrest. “Don’t tell my family, okay?”
I kiss his cheek. “I won’t tell a soul.”
Chapter 42
Thanksgiving ambushed us this year.
One minute I was supplying Deirdre’s kids with unsold vintage clothing for their Halloween costumes, and the next I was helping Sean bake pumpkin pies to take to the annual Coughlin turkey day hoedown, this year hosted by Colleen and her husband.
Sean has had his first appointment with the urologist, but the test results haven’t come back yet. We made a plan to deflect any and all questions on when we’ll be starting a family.
Somehow, we got through the feast maintaining an attitude of gratitude.
After the main event on Thursday, the Coughlin men have settled into a protracted football trance, while the women have started Christmas shopping with a vengeance. Since neither of these pastimes appeals to me, I spend Black Friday at an obscure museum with Dad and Natalie.
Now I’m looking at two more days of enforced relaxation before I can return to the office. So when my phone chirps with a text message—Wanna come to my house today? There’s someone I want you to meet.—I’m ready to say yes before even registering who sent the message.
Sophia.
I tried calling her after Jane’s suicide, but of course, she didn’t answer. I finally resorted to sending a condolence text, to which she simply replied, thanks.
What could she say to the woman whose evidence revealed her mother killed her best friend?
Now, weeks later, Sophia sends me this message. Whom could she want me to meet?
My phone chirps again.
Please. I know it’s short notice, but I really want you to come.
Her out-of-the-blue message is odd, but then, Sophia is an odd kid.
And I’m a congenitally curious adult.
So I accept the invitation.
WHEN I ARRIVE ON DUNE Vista Drive, I see a Realtor’s sign in front of Number 43. I’m not surprised that Brielle and her husband want to sell a house that holds so many bad memories. Maybe the next owners will manage to find more happiness there.
Sophia has even greater reasons to flee from Sea Chapel, but the Peterman house looks the same as it always has. Maybe Sophia is too overwhelmed by grief and horror to contemplate a move. It can’t be healthy for her to be holed up here all alone in the winter. My finger hesitates over the doorbell. What drama am I walking into?
Before I can ring, Sophia flings open the door.
Her face lights up with a big smile, and she spreads her arms wide. “Hi, Audrey!”
The hot pink dye has faded from her hair. Gone are the shapeless clothes—she looks quite nice in skinny jeans and a soft sweater. Without a mother to rebel against, what’s the point of dressing ugly?
Sophia and I do a little dance, uncertain if we should hug or not. We settle on an awkward cheek bump and I follow her through the front hall.
“We’re in the kitchen. Come on.”
I realize I’ve never been in the front of this house. From what I can see as I walk behind Sophia, the living and dining rooms are very nice although not spectacular like Brielle’s. The rugs bear the parallel stripes of a recent vacuuming, and there’s no clutter anywhere. Whoever Sophia wants me to meet, she seems to have cleaned up for them.
When I reach the kitchen, I’m so surprised by how clean it is that I don’t pay attention to who’s in the room. The perpetual mountain of dishes in the sink has disappeared, and the sun shines through pristine windows.
Finally, I focus on the other guests. Two forty-ish men in jeans and sports shirts sit at the island nibbling on snacks and drinking wine. Paco and a big, goofy Labrador-mix lounge at their feet.
“Audrey, this is Dan Knowlton and his husband, Corey.”
We shake hands, Corey pours me a glass of wine, and then there’s an awkward silence. Why has Sophia brought me down here to meet two unremarkable gay men?
She stands between them, beaming.
And then I see it. Something in the curve of the upper lips, the straight line of the brows.
“Dan is my father.” Sophia rests her hand on Dan’s shoulder.
Whoa.
Dan reaches up and squeezes her hand. “Reconnected after eighteen long years apart.”
“Congratulations,” I say. “How did all this come about?”
“You tell her the story, Dan,” Sophia says. She hops onto a stool and leans her elbows on the granite island, looking for all the world like a toddler asking for her favorite bedtime story to be retold for the umpteenth time.
Dan is happy to comply. “I met Jane in Manhattan when we were both in our twenties. I was an out-of-work actor—”
“That means waiter,” Corey interrupts.
“—and I spent a lot of time at the dance clubs in those days.” He gives Corey an apologetic look. “Jane had a responsible job, but she was a girl who liked to have a good time. Every single woman in New York needs at least one gay guy friend, and I was Jane’s.”
Dan refreshes his wine and delves into his story. “Jane’s love life was a disaster and so was mine, so we spent a lot of time commiserating. One night when we were out celebrating her thirtieth birthday, she declared that all straight men were jerks, and she was never getting married. She raised her glass of champagne and asked me to be her baby daddy. I laughed it off because we’d both been drinking, but over the next few months, Jane kept bugging me about it. I had a million reasons not to agree, but Jane kept overcoming my objections. I refused to have sex with her, so she found a doctor willing to do the insemination. I was flat broke and couldn’t support a child, so Jane produced a contract drawn up by a lawyer absolving me of all financial responsibility and giving Jane sole custody of the baby. Finally, I gave in and said yes.” Dan pauses to make a neat pile of cracker crumbs on the counter. “I relied on Jane a lot in those days, both emotionally and financially, and I couldn’t afford to make her angry at me.
“So Jane got pregnant, which put an end to our drinking and dancing. As her pregnancy continued, she got more and more caught up in the baby, and I was so immature that it made me jealous. By the time Sophia was born, Jane and I weren’t on such good terms. I came to see her at the hospital, and I held my daughter, but—” Dan shakes his head. “The whole magical connection, love at first sight thing? I wasn’t feelin’ it.”
Sophia pulls a long face, like this is the scary part of a story she knows will eventually have a happy ending. She can’t know that’s
the part of parenthood that terrifies me, too.
“Was I an ugly baby?”
“You were a red, smushy lump like all babies.” Dan pats her hand and continues. “Then Jane got a promotion at work and moved to New Jersey. And I met Corey and got my first break as a voice actor. Jane and I had an argument about something stupid that Christmas, and we stopped speaking to each other. Before you know it, ten years went by.”
He smiles at his partner. “Over those ten years, I gradually—finally—grew up. I worked steadily. We bought an apartment, we adopted a dog, we built a life. And I kept thinking about Sophia. She was the only child I was ever going to have. Maybe someday, she’d give me grandchildren. I started stalking Jane on social media. I sent a friend request, but she ignored it. I sent an email, and she threatened to sue me. So I backed off. But I never stopped wanting to meet my daughter.” He blinks his eyes to hold back the tears.
Sophia takes over the story. “All that time, Mom told me that my father was a broke loser who wanted nothing to do with me. She showed me the document that proved he’d given up his parental rights. She said we had each other and that’s all we needed. I thought it was bad enough that my grandparents had rejected me. I didn’t need my father to blow me off, too.”
So Sophia really never had been looking for her father. She didn’t want to risk rejection. It was Trevor’s fixation that led him to pressure Austin to do the research.
This part of the story is obviously painful for Dan. “Corey told me to wait until Sophia was twenty-one and try to contact her directly then. So I kept watching from afar. And then last month, the news broke about Jane. I realized Sophia was an orphan, all alone.” He takes a deep breath. “I screwed up my courage and wrote her a letter.”
“It came on October 22—a personal letter from an address in New York City.” Sophia’s face lights up. “I remember every second of that day. I tore open that letter. My hands were shaking so bad when I realized my father wanted to meet me.”
Treasure Built of Sand (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 6) Page 22
