The Club

by Jane Heller

  She considered the question, then did something truly startling: she smiled at me and said, “Sure.” Then she jumped off her seat and went into her room to put on her bathing suit.

  “See that?” said my mother, who had observed the scene. “All it took was a little food. You feed the girl and she’s happy.”

  That night the five of us enjoyed a relaxing evening. Well, it would have been if I had been able to relax. But I couldn’t. The anxiety hovered, made worse by the revelation of my mother’s heart trouble.

  We cooked swordfish on the grill, took a swim, and watched Goodbye Columbus, my parents’ favorite movie. Everything’s fine, I told myself. Just fine.

  My father’s birthday began on a cheerful note. Hunt and I were just waking up when Kimberley knocked on our door about eight-thirty and said she was taking a walk with my parents, who had recently started walking one or two miles each morning. After I heard the front door slam, I rolled over and tapped Hunt on the shoulder.

  “Booch?” I said. “It’s just the two of us in the house. What do you say we take advantage of our good fortune?”

  “I say, ‘I’d love to. Come closer.’”

  And so I did.

  We made sweet, languorous love in my parents’ sunny guest room overlooking the pool. Afterward, I clung to Hunt and said, “Am I being paranoid or are things going a little too well on this trip so far, aside from the stuff about my mother’s chest pains, I mean?”

  “Why shouldn’t they go well?” he said. “We’re on vacation. Besides, they only kept your mother in the hospital for observation. If she was seriously ill, they would have recommended open heart surgery or some other procedure. She’s going to be fine, if she watches her diet.”

  “That’s a big ‘if,’” I said. “My mother’s never met a piece of cheesecake she didn’t like.”

  The weather on Saturday was as hot and humid as the day before. Hunt and my father intended to play golf. My mother had a bridge game. And Kimberley and I decided to check out the mall.

  “I like malls,” Kimberley said as we strolled past the shops. “I wish they had them in New York. We don’t have anything good in New York. Everybody’s always rushing around and forgetting you exist.”

  “Forgetting you exist?” It was a strange thing to say, and I turned to look at her. She had always tried to seem so tough, so sophisticated, so urbane. It was easy to forget that she was young and vulnerable—a little girl who’d been left by her daddy at a young age and would probably never get over it, no matter how often he visited her.

  “Who forgets you exist, Kim?” I asked. “Are things okay between you and your mom?” I wondered if Bree had found herself a boyfriend. Or maybe Bree had found herself a job. Fat chance.

  “My mother is busy with her acting classes,” she said. “And my dad is busy with his job. And you’re busy with…I don’t know what you’re busy with, but you never have time for me.”

  I felt a wave of tenderness toward her—and of confusion. Kimberley had never given me the impression that she wanted to spend even five minutes with me. I’d always thought she wished I’d drop off the face of the earth.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” I said. We were standing in front of an electronics store, and a half a dozen boom boxes were booming with rap music. “Why don’t we sit down somewhere,” I suggested. “I’ll buy you a soda and we can talk quietly, huh?”

  She agreed and we found an ice cream parlor on the second level of the mall and ordered a couple of Cokes.

  We talked for an hour and a half. About the divorce. About her mother and father. About me. About how I act as if I don’t have time for her and, worse, as if I don’t like her.

  “Is that why you’re so angry whenever you come to Belford?” I asked, grateful that Kimberley was unburdening herself to me this way. It was the first time.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I guess so. I get mad when you act like Daddy is all you care about and that you have to be with me because he says so.”

  I shook my head and put my hand on hers. “I’m so sorry if I’ve made you feel that way,” I said, and began to describe to Kimberley how much I cared for her, how much I wanted us to be close. She listened intently as she sipped her soda, her lower lip quivering occasionally.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said again. “I’ll try to be a better stepmother. But you have to try too, Kim. You have to try to understand that it takes both of us to make our relationship work. We have to treat each other with love and respect.”

  At the mention of the word “respect,” she sat up very straight in her chair, looked me right in the eye, and said in her most grown-up voice, “No problem.”

  I smiled. “Good. Want to get back out there and do some serious shopping?”

  She did, and so we did.

  We pulled into my parents’ driveway just after one o’clock and found Hunt pacing on the front lawn, a worried look on his face.

  “Jude! Where have you been?” was the way he greeted us.

  “At the mall,” I said. “I thought you were playing golf with Dad.”

  “I was, but something’s happened.”

  My hand flew to my mouth. My mother! “Okay,” I said. “You can tell me, Hunt. We promised we’d tell each other everything, no matter how serious.”

  “That’s right, Dad,” said Kimberley as she got out of the car and joined us on the lawn. “You’ve got to tell us.”

  I reached for her hand and squeezed it. She inched closer to me.

  “Go on, Hunt. Tell us,” I said. “How bad is she?”

  “She’s in the hospital,” he frowned.

  “Oh, God,” I said. “Is she…?”

  He shook his head. “But it’s serious,” he admitted.

  I gasped. “We’ve got to go to her,” I managed. “Right away!”

  “Okay,” said Hunt. “I didn’t know what you’d want to do about your father’s birthday party tonight, but there’s a flight out of here at five o’clock this afternoon, and we could—”

  “Flight out of here?” I said. “What are you talking about?”

  “I know it’s Arthur’s birthday,” said Hunt, “but I thought you’d want to get right to the—”

  “Hunt! If my mother is in serious condition, why on earth would I want to leave Boca?”

  “It’s not your mother who’s in serious condition,” he said.

  “Not my mother?” I looked at Hunt, who was obviously in such a state that he wasn’t thinking clearly. “Then who is it?”

  “Arlene,” he said.

  I stared at him. “Arlene Handlebaum?”

  He nodded. “Somebody broke into our house last night and tried to kill her. The police have arrested Brendan Hardy. He denies it, of course, but then he denied killing Claire too.”

  I grabbed Kimberley and clutched her to me.

  “I still don’t understand,” I said as my heart raced and my mouth went dry. “Why would Brendan—”

  “Come inside,” Hunt said, “and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  What Hunt knew was what Tom Cunningham told him when he had called my parents’ house, just as Hunt and my father were about to leave for the golf course. Apparently, at ten o’clock on Friday night, Tom had been summoned to the scene of the crime—our house—after Arlene had been viciously beaten about the head and face and, after she had been left for dead, had managed to drag herself to the phone and call 911. From what the police had been able to piece together, it seemed that Arlene had been upstairs in our guest room, reading a manuscript, when she heard someone enter through the front door. She must have called out and surprised the person, who then panicked and attacked her. When the police found her, she was lying on the floor near the telephone, dazed, in shock, her head a mass of contusions, her memory a combination of incomprehensible images and terrifying nothingness. She was rushed to the hospital and diagnosed as suffering from a subdural hematoma as well as cerebral edema, which had required several hours of delicate brain
surgery to remove. But instead of recovering, she had lapsed into a coma, which the doctors had pronounced rare but not unheard of. They were hopeful that she would emerge very quickly from her sleeplike state. So were the police, who were eager for her to wake up and identify Brendan as her attacker.

  “The doctors really think she’s going to come out of the coma and be all right?” I asked, barely able to process the information I was being given. My friend, Arlene, was in a coma! After spending the night at my house!

  “According to Tom, there’s a good possibility she’ll be fine. In time,” said Hunt. “He’s been right on top of things at the hospital. Hardly left Arlene’s side. And I don’t think it’s just because he’s waiting for her to regain consciousness and identify Brendan. I think he genuinely feels bad about what happened to her.”

  “I’m sure he does,” I said. “He’s a very sensitive man. But what about Brendan? How did they figure out that he was the one who did it?” I suddenly flashed back to my ordeal in the elevator and recalled the way Brendan had disguised his voice, calling me on the elevator phone and threatening me in that bizarre, singsong pitch. “Mrs. Price,” he had teased. “Mrs. Price, I have a message for you.” I shuddered, despite the Florida heat.

  “There was a cigarette butt in the kitchen sink,” said Hunt. “It was too wet for them to get prints on it, but there was one thing they could determine: it was Brendan’s brand—Merit.”

  “But why?” I asked. “Why would Brendan go back to our house? He was out on bail for the kickback scheme at the club. He was about to be arrested for Claire’s murder. Why would he make matters worse for himself?”

  “Tom says it has to do with the criminal mentality,” said Hunt. “That if Brendan knew he could break into our house once, he also knew he could break into our house twice, the theory being that hardcore criminals always need that one last hit, that one last thrill, that one last high before they’re caught.” Hunt paused to consider his words. “And then there was the more practical reason.”

  “Which was?”

  “That there was something in our house he wanted.”

  “Such as?”

  “Evidence against him. His lawyer, the illustrious Patrick Delaney, must have advised him that he was about to be arrested for Claire’s murder. Tom thinks Brendan found out we were in Florida and decided to come looking for evidence, afraid we might have something in the house, something that would put him away for life, something he could steal. Unfortunately for Arlene, he had no idea there was anybody home.”

  “I can’t believe this happened,” I said angrily. “Brendan should have been in jail weeks ago. If only the Tewksburys had gone to the police about him, instead of to their grandniece. If only we hadn’t taken so long to discover his kickback scheme. If we’d been able to put all the pieces together faster, Arlene would be all right and this whole mess would be well behind us.”

  “Does all this mean we have to leave Florida tonight?” asked Kimberley with obvious disappointment.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I said. “I hate to miss my father’s birthday. But I can’t enjoy it either, knowing that Arlene is lying in a hospital bed, half-dead, because she decided to spend a relaxing weekend at our house.”

  “Would you like to stay here, pumpkin?” Hunt asked his daughter. “Even if Judy and I go home, you could probably stay here with Grandma and Grandpa Mills.”

  She shook her head. “I want to be with you and Judy,” she said firmly.

  When my parents came home twenty minutes later, we discussed whether we should return to Connecticut or stay in Florida.

  “You can’t do anything for your friend tonight,” my mother said. “Why not stay for Arthur’s birthday and go back in the morning?”

  Which was what we did.

  I tried my best to enjoy the evening, but thoughts of Arlene, Brendan, and our house of horrors continued to haunt me. The only consolation was that Brendan had finally been arrested and jailed and, according to Tom, would not be roaming the streets anytime soon.

  We left Boca Raton early the next morning and arrived in Belford around noon. I dropped Hunt and Kimberley at the house, then drove to the hospital to see Arlene.

  There was a policeman posted at her door and her parents were sitting at her bedside. I told them how sorry I was about what had happened to their daughter at my house. They told me not to blame myself and left me alone with Arlene.

  It was difficult to be in the same room with her, painful to see how ill she was. She looked so pale, so fragile, as she lay in bed, her right cheek bruised and swollen, her newly shorn head wrapped in bandages that were held in place by something called a “neurocap,” a sort of beanie that, in happier times, would have made her laugh. “How did this all happen?” I whispered to her, tears rolling slowly down my cheeks. It seemed only days ago that we were sitting in my office at Charlton House, gabbing about Loathsome Leeza and wondering when she would reveal herself as the Know-Nothing she was and be tossed out on her butt the way we eventually were. How had we come to this: I becoming a police informant, she slipping into a coma? And when would our lives get back to normal?

  Normal, I thought, as I watched Arlene sleep. My life hadn’t been normal for a very long time, not since Hunt joined that dopey country club and put us all in jeopardy.

  “Judy?”

  I looked up from the bed. It was Tom. I stood up and went to him. He hugged me for several seconds, patting my back and telling me everything was going to be all right. Then, he pulled away.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “Glad you’re safe.”

  I nodded.

  He looked over at Arlene. “How is she?”

  “The same, I guess. Oh, Tom. She’s got to be all right. She’s such a wonderful person. Such a good friend. And such a romantic.”

  “Tell me,” he said. “I want to know all about her.”

  There was something in the way he said it that made me do a double take. He reminded me of Dana Andrews in the movie Laura—the cop who found himself mooning over a woman he’d never met but should have saved. But then Tom had once told me he was a sucker for damsels in distress. And Arlene Handlebaum was definitely in distress.

  “Well,” I began, “Arlene’s the best romance editor in publishing…” and I proceeded to give Detective Tom Cunningham a thumbnail sketch of the woman who had been my closest friend in the book business. He seemed very moved when I explained that, despite her talent, attractiveness, and good nature, Arlene had never been married or even had a long-term relationship with a man. “She always aimed high when it came to men,” I said. “She was looking for Prince Charming and never found him.”

  He smiled. “Then there’s no way she won’t come out of this coma,” he said. “Not when her Prince Charming is still out there waiting for her.”

  Chapter Twenty

  While Arlene languished in the hospital and Brendan languished in jail, The Oaks geared up for Labor Day Weekend, the final hurrah of the season. Despite the torrent of negative publicity about the club in the tabloid media, which covered Claire’s murder and Brendan’s evil deeds with lip-smacking excess, the longtime members carried on as if nothing much had occurred. Larkin Vail was still favored to win the women’s singles tournament, Curtis Lamb was everybody’s pick to be the year’s golf champion, and the Tewksburys, those rascals, were as popular as ever. Instead of being shunned for having given birth to a monster like Brendan and neglecting to tell any of their friends about it, they were sympathized with, fussed over, treated as heroic victims. It was sickening.

  Given that my job as a police informant was over, there didn’t seem to be any reason for me to go to the club again—ever. Addison Bidwell, Perry Vail, and the other traditionalists viewed Hunt and me as traitors; there was nobody there who would help me get a job in publishing; my tennis game was never going to be any better than mediocre; and after Labor Day weekend the place essentially shut down anyway. But Hunt missed the club and yearne
d to play golf with Ducky, who was one of the few members who supported our efforts in crime-busting and was grateful that we’d helped the police nail Claire’s killer.

  “The hell with those people. Why don’t you go ahead and play golf with Ducky this weekend?” I asked Hunt. “He’s invited you several times. And you know you’re dying to play. Don’t stay away from The Oaks because those plaid-panted jerks have turned on you.”

  “You’re right, I do miss the golf,” said Hunt. “And why should I care what people are saying about us? We did the right thing by working with the police. I know we did.”

  “Of course we did,” I said. “So get Ducky on the phone and tell him you’ll play this weekend.”

  “I have a better idea: I’ll tell him we’ll play this weekend.”

  “Not me. Golf is your thing, not mine.”

  “Fine. Don’t play. Just come with us. We can make a foursome of it: you and I and Ducky and Nedra.”

  “Nedra? Come on,” I said. “She’d never tear herself away from the tennis courts and Rob.”

  “I think that’s over with,” Hunt said. “Ducky mentioned something about Nedra wanting to work harder on the marriage.”

  “Really?” I said. “The last time I saw her, she gave me the distinct impression that their marriage was a sham. She had nothing but disdain for Ducky and said they hadn’t had sex in years.”

  “Oh, Nedra’s got a screw loose,” Hunt scoffed. “Ducky Laughton is a good guy. Much too good for Nedra. He doesn’t deserve to be humiliated the way she’s humiliated him at the club.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” I conceded. “Although he sounded like he would have put the moves on Claire if she’d let him. You make Ducky out to be a saint, but I heard him tell Claire she was his grand passion. He wanted to have an affair with her, Hunt. There was no doubt about it.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. But Claire’s gone and Ducky’s still the best friend I’ve got at The Oaks.”

  “Exactly. So play golf with him.”

  “Only if you join us.”