“Um, yes. But I’d like to know who bought him for me. You know, so I can thank them.”
“Hmmm.” She sounded concerned, like she thought my request would prove problematic. “Actually, the nice young man who made all the arrangements asked that the gift giver remain anonymous.”
“What nice young man? What’d he look like?”
“Big, strapping—.” She pointed a short stub of a finger at me. “Oh, you almost tricked me. I’m sorry. We promised to honor the request.”
I felt like jumping over the counter to shake the shit out of this annoying hippie of a clerk.
“No such thing as dog trainer/client confidentiality, you know,” I said.
“Oh, silly. I know that.” She didn’t seem ruffled in the least at my obvious irritation. “Is it against the law to give a gift? Would you like to return him? We could do that if you insisted.”
“No. Never mind.”
I stomped out. What the fuck? Whoever gave me Walter knew about Jesse Pinkman so they had to have read my blog and watched Breaking Bad. A lot of people probably did the latter, not so many did the former. Sure, I had a hundred thousand or so blog subscribers, ditto Twitter followers, but I’m hardly a Kardashian. They also assumed I’d come looking for them. What had she said about the guy who picked him up? Maybe Smiley. Had to be, didn’t it?
Whoa.
If the gift horse were Smiley, he’d read my blog. He couldn’t know about it, could he? Shit. I flung open my car door. What about my father? I’d made excuse after excuse to avoid him. Maybe Walter was his attempt to break the ice. Dad’s frozen face and too-cool-for-school hair flashed through my mind. No. He wasn’t the giver. But who just decides, out of the blue, to get someone else a dog? Still. It all came back to my blog. Whoever sent him read Musings from the Dented Throne, kept up with cool TV shows, and knew my address.
A snippet of something jabbed me. I sat behind the wheel, closed my eyes. My brain searched its files for I didn’t know what. I smacked the steering wheel with my fist. Nothing made sense. My delightful Walter White. Cooper’s blanket, new? Cooper alive in that photo? The top of my head might come off if I thought harder.
Time to move on to something else.
I’d already planned to drop in at Beverley. The trainer visit had been a last-minute add-on. Curious about Smiley’s situation, I could sneak over to his house too. First, I’d need to find his address (Google, don’t fail me now), check in on Walter, who I’d let roam free in my yard. I’d need to stop at some pet place to buy supplies. The big galoot had probably already dug a hole to China.
****
Didn’t expect to find Smiley’s address so easily, but when I did I took that as a message from my higher power—my creepy, stalking, inappropriate higher power—to go ahead.
He lived in a so-so area of town, not far from the Finneys, in a cop’s neighborhood. I planned to do a quick drive-by, no harm, no foul. Perhaps get a glimpse of the life of Smiley, see if he’d acquired a new wife then sleuth the shit outta my parents’ house. I intended to find out why Marcella set up shop at Beverley. Plus, I needed to see my mother. Even from the yard like a pervy peeping tom, I wanted to see her.
So focused on the dreamy detective’s situation and Walter White’s unknown buyer, I forgot where I left my car keys. Scoped out the library where I thought I’d last seen them. Jerked the top drawer of Aunt James’s desk open too hard, the rickety thing fell to the floor, spilling all the doodads, pens, papers, my car keys, out across the Persian rug. I grabbed the keys then noticed the monogrammed blanket I’d stuffed in so Smiley couldn’t take it. Dropped to my knees to scoop up the spillage but changed my mind. I needed to get going. The mess could wait. I crammed Cooper’s blanket into my purse—a macabre, good luck charm.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Preston
I parked across the street. Hoped hiding in plain sight worked. I could tell at first glance by the frazzled yard and peeling paint of the façade that no woman lived in that house. Maybe a slovenly, muumuu-wearing, sponge-roller sporting frump but no woman I could imagine catching Smiley’s eye.
Nothing covered the picture window at the front of the house. In the near darkness with lights blaring from inside, I could see whatever went on in what was probably the living room. Not content to snoop from afar I got out of the Rover, then slinked closer. From a convenient spot alongside Smiley’s car, parked on the weed-infested driveway, I could observe from a safe place, get my bearings.
Smiley, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, lingered behind a TV tray with frozen dinner rubble and a half-full bottle of tequila. The sight of the handsomest detective unguarded, and alone, filled me with longing. I wondered what he’d do if he saw me. Probably wouldn’t care much about me kicking around his yard, but he sure as hell wouldn’t want me anywhere near his soul. Nevertheless, I fought the urge to race in, to do . . . what?
Could I put my mouth to his, ease his burdens? Could I lay my head against his heartbeat to ease mine? Smiley’s loneliness reached out to me across the dead, dried grass. I felt it, a palpable living thing, as heavy as my own. He turned toward the window, as if he could sense me there, wondering what his naked skin felt like. If I closed my eyes, I could smell him—a clean, crisp, starched linen freshness—undercut with a musky desperation. Before I could make up my mind to go to the door Smiley dropped his head into both hands. I could see his shoulders rise and fall. Even though we didn’t occupy the same space, his grief enveloped me like an executioner’s hood.
I’ve heard the real measure of a man is what he does when he thinks no one is looking. How could I help but fall for one who cried for his lost wife and daughter?
****
Driving away from Smiley’s House of Heartbreak, not paying attention to the road, I made a wrong turn. Drove several minutes lost in thought before noticing I’d accidentally made my way onto the Finneys’ street. Why not drop in?
When in Rome.
Street stood empty. Caution to the wind I parked curbside. Even in the dark I could see the house looked abandoned. Like before, no curtains opened, newspapers piled up on the porch. No car in the driveway this time. Halfway up the pathway the front door opened. Colleen Finney stood two yards away from me. We stared, both stunned to see the other. I realized the only reason I’d attempted a visit was because I felt sure no one would be home.
“Go home, Preston.” Colleen planted herself on the porch.
“Colleen . . .” I didn’t know what to say, hadn’t planned any speech, heartfelt or otherwise. “I saw you. At Brendan’s funeral,” I said for lack of something better.
I adjusted to the twilight enough to see Colleen’s face. The ashen pallor of her skin, deep lines around her mouth, eyes lifeless—she looked like a woman who’d seen her son buried. We’d never been what I’d call friends, but I felt pained my husband’s mother saw me now as an enemy. The air between us popped with accusation.
“Colleen, I’m so sorry—”
“I knew Brendan wouldn’t live through marrying you.”
I couldn’t respond. Guilt and shame sat on my tongue like rocks.
“What do you want, Preston? You took my son. I’ve nothing left to give you.”
“I don’t want anything, Colleen. Not sure why I showed up here. Maybe because I felt sure you’d be gone. Guess I wanted to feel a connection to Brendan.”
“You don’t expect me to believe that.”
“No, I don’t, but I believe it. That’s enough for me right now.”
A taxi pulled into the empty driveway. Driver tapped the horn.
“Where are you going?” I said, not expecting an answer.
“Far from this place.”
“What about Marv?” The house definitely looked unoccupied. “Is he going with you?”
“I’ve got to go.” She stepped around me, then stopped. “Marriages often don’t survive the death of a child. Or one with murderous intentions toward their own mother.”
It took a few seconds for me to catch on she was referring to my parents’ marriage as well as her own. “What are you talking about? You’re leaving Marv? My parents are together and—” I started to say fine but I knew that was a lie. Fine hadn’t described them in a long time.
Colleen opened the taxi door with me right behind her.
I don’t know why I thought to do it right then but I pulled Cooper’s monogrammed blanket out. “I found this in Brendan’s apartment.”
Colleen stopped, back straight, stiff.
“Do you know anything about this?”
Even in the dim glow from the taxi’s headlights I saw Colleen’s face go gray. “Yes.”
She talked. I listened.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Isabel
“You’re there. Thank God,” Sherman said.
“It’s you? Why are you calling me from a blocked number? I don’t normally answer those.” The hairs I had left on the back of my neck stood at attention. “Where’d you think I’d go? What do you mean, thank God?”
“Take it easy. I couldn’t reach you, so I worried,” Sherman said.
“Why a blocked number all of a sudden? Better give the number to me too.”
“Why don’t I give it to you in person?”
Sherman’s tone turned flirtatious yet was salted with something else. Desperation?
“Someone tried to break into my apartment last night. I don’t think it was the first time either. I got really scared. I needed you last night.”
“Who’d want to hurt my tootsie-wootsie?” he said.
Normally, Sherman’s baby talk made me want to kick him in the nuts, which he enjoyed, but not today.
“Time to get married.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Finally.
“When?”
“Right away,” he said. “Then we’ll get a place in the safest neighborhood. Best money can buy. We can go today. Shop around for one big enough for a family.”
I guess I assumed we’d move into his new townhouse, place was huge and luxurious, but I’d go with getting something grander. Emboldened by Sherman’s kindness, I said, “My mother died.”
“You’re kidding?” he said. “Your mother? Wait. Did I know you had a mother? Well, of course you did. Everyone does, or did, obviously. You know what I mean. Was she ill?”
“Not that I know of. No cause of death yet.”
I wasn’t sure which way this conversation might go. Of course, Sherman would feel annoyed I’d been less than forthcoming about my mother’s existence—particularly the lottery-winning part. Why bother after she’d gone to great lengths to rub my face in my disinheritance. As we spoke, Mom’s hillbilly husband, Dwayne, probably ran wild, snapping up satellite dishes, Corvettes, and KFC franchises as fast as he could yell, “Bingo.” I’d bet on that.
“Her death made this morning’s paper. Second page. The Tribune.” I put a toe in.
“Must’ve missed that,” he said.
“Mom and I weren’t close.”
Damn it. Should I have said that? Did not being close to my mother say something unsavory about me?
“I’ll handle everything,” he said.
Whew. Guess I said the right thing or the okay thing. I couldn’t believe Sherman’s capacity for sympathy. Sounded like he might cry.
“Investor calling. Sit tight. I’ll pick you up in the morning. Rest up. You’ll need it. If you know what I mean.” Sherman’s girlie giggle accompanied his hang up.
I talked to my unborn baby, “See? Daddy loves us. We’re going to get married, just like I said.”
Who’d want to hurt my tootsie-wootsie?
Weird Sherman would think someone wanted to hurt me. But maybe someone did. Jonathan? Much as he’d love to get rid of me, hard to see no-guts-no-glory Jonathan as the perp. But no one else would want me gone, would they?
I put that thought, along with my mother’s death, somewhere in the far reaches of my mind. Busy assuring myself of Sherman’s unbridled devotion, no telling how many times the phone rang before I noticed. Blocked number. Sherman.
“You’re not canceling, are you?” I said.
“Hello? Is this Isabel Warner?” said someone who wasn’t Sherman.
“Who is this?”
“Is this Ms. Warner?”
“If I say yes?”
“This is Ernest Shaw from Shaw, Smithson, and Price. I left my card in your door a couple of days ago. Thought that’s why you called.”
“Called? Not me.”
“Someone called, a woman. Said she was you. Not even an hour ago.”
“Never got a card. Never called. What the hell’s going on?”
“I need to tell you—”
“Listen, you’re not getting any more money out of me. I don’t have it. Just write off whichever debt this is about. Trust me, it’ll be much less trouble for you.”
“Ma’am you misunderstand, I—”
“No, you misunderstand.”
“Understand this.” I hung up. I’d need to change my number again. After Sherman married me I could pay everything I owed. Could. But won’t.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Preston
Head hammering with Colleen’s reveal about the blanket, I’d raced through the front doors, catapulted up the stairs I’d successfully avoided, determined to see for myself what secrets the scene of the crime held in check. What Colleen told me couldn’t possibly be true. Could it? How could she relay something so shocking while standing in the middle of a driveway next to an idling taxi? I felt electrified, nerve endings at the top of my skin, sharp as glass shards. Fear’s force surrounded me. Fate pulled me onward.
I prodded the door open.
The cold, near-empty room embraced its prodigal daughter. I resisted. My race to its threshold caused a sweat. I stopped, clawed my wet neck. An invisible force impelled me. I put one foot in front of the other like a death-row inmate led to the gas chamber.
The floor underneath my shoes, in this room, felt different than anywhere else—soft, pliable, too much so, like it might give way and suck me under. Quicker than the flip of a switch, I saw the whole night. Details marched across my brain like a disciplined, determined army. Every accusation I’d slung at my mother dissolved. My perceptions of the past fizzled.
Colleen’s words crackled inside my brain.
“That’s not your brother’s blanket. It’s your baby’s blanket, Preston. Yours and Brendan’s Baby.”
I kept going even though I felt like running out. The enormity of what I’d done, what happened, hit me hard, over and over like bullets. This kept me at Haven House. I’d been scared shitless of this place, this moment. I covered my ears to dull the crackling rumble.
When your world collapses it sounds like thunder.
****
I grabbed the crib to keep from reeling. I leaned over, smoothed the sheet still clinging to the small mattress with gentle fingers so as not to mar the invisible imprint of my son’s tiny body, gone forever.
“What happened to your baby, Preston?” Smiley said from behind me. I didn’t startle, ask how he got there, or why. I didn’t care or feel surprised. I knew I needed to say my son’s name out loud, tell his story. I’d been his mother, the only one who could. I slid to the floor, lied curled up on my side. Smiley followed me down and lay prone next to me. We stayed quiet for I don’t know how long.
Every memory I’d kept at bay roared back to me.
“When Brendan left, he didn’t know I was pregnant. I didn’t want to have a baby alone. Or, at all,” I finally said.
“But you did have a baby?”
“I didn’t get an abortion—totally different thing. I only worried about how to keep the drugs coming, since my supplier husband bailed. I stayed pregnant because I didn’t get off my ass to do anything about it. Didn’t leave this house. When I thought about food instead of drugs, I had it delivered. Maid got groceries for a while, but I think I fired her. Don’t know. All I know is sh
e was gone.”
“You didn’t leave this house the whole time you were pregnant? No doctor?”
“Nope. A doctor would’ve turned me in, or at least bitched about my drug taking. Didn’t want to deal with either.”
I’d kept these demons contained so long, cemented inside. Now they’d gotten free. I could stay trampled down on the floor until the end of time.
“No one knew?”
“My mother showed up, let herself in. I didn’t know she kept a key. We’d stopped talking by then. Mom knew, asked me how far along I was. I had no idea. Thought I looked same as always. She kept turning up. Finally, it occurred to me to get the locks changed.”
“Then what?”
“I felt so sick that day. I’d ordered monogrammed blankets, of all the dumbass stoner things. CFB—embroidered in beautiful script—Cooper Finney Blair. Exactly what my mother had done for my brother—Cooper Fitzgerald Blair. Don’t know why I assumed a boy or why I’d name him after my brother, who I barely remember, except the jealousy I felt. I remember I opened the door for the FedEx guy because I wanted those damn blankets.”
“Did you give birth here, alone?”
“Eventually, yes. I couldn’t get the fucking blanket box open after FedEx delivered. Too high, drunk. Between that and feeling like shit, couldn’t tackle cardboard. Labor never occurred to me. Like a good junkie I concentrated on the box. I cut at it and cut at it, bit by little bit.”
“You must’ve been terrified.”
“Are you kidding? If only I’d had sense enough to feel even a little nervous. I might not, maybe I wouldn’t have, oh, I don’t know, I might’ve done everything differently. Maybe my son would’ve lived.”
“How’d he die?”
I couldn’t control my fact telling. After I’d squashed reality so long, the truth wouldn’t be denied. Would it set me free? No, it’d run me over like a freight train, leave me for dead.
The Invisible Heiress Page 18
