by Joy Fielding
At nine-thirty, Cindy called the police. A few minutes after ten o’clock, Detectives Bartolli and Gill were at her door.
Cindy ushered them into the living room, introducing the policemen to her mother and her younger daughter, as Elvis ran around in excited circles, convinced they were all there to see him. Cindy remained in the entranceway, as everyone arranged themselves around the room, the two policemen pulling out their notepads and perching on the ends of their chairs.
“What was your daughter wearing when you saw her last?” Detective Gill asked, his voice carrying traces of a soft Jamaican lilt.
A towel, Cindy realized, looking to Heather for help.
Heather was sitting on the sofa between her father and her grandmother. Norma Appleton had insisted she wasn’t going anywhere until Julia was found. (“What? I’m going to leave with you fainting all over the place?” she’d asked.) Thank God Leigh had gone home, although she was threatening to come back later.
“She was wearing her red leather pants and that white top she has with the V-neck and short sleeves,” Heather said.
Detective Bartolli jotted that down, then held up the photograph Cindy had given him Friday. “And this is the most recent picture you have of her?”
Cindy looked from her husband to the Cookie, who was standing in front of the fireplace, as if afraid she might crease her pants were she to sit down. “Yes.” Cindy tried not to picture the other photographs of her daughter in varying stages of undress.
“Can you describe Julia’s mood on Thursday morning?” Detective Bartolli asked, as he had asked last Friday.
She was screaming at everyone, banging on doors, being totally unreasonable, Cindy thought. What she said was, “She was excited, a little nervous. She had a big audition coming up.” She was being Julia, Cindy thought, listening as Tom explained the nature of Julia’s audition.
“I’ll need an address for this Michael Kinsolver,” Detective Gill said.
“Kinsolving,” Tom corrected, spelling the name slowly. “Three-two-zero Yorkville. Suite two-zero-four. I can get you his phone number.…”
“That won’t be necessary, thank you.”
“So, you last saw Julia at what time, Mrs. Carver?”
“I haven’t seen her since last Tuesday,” the Cookie replied.
“He was talking to me,” Cindy said icily.
The Cookie raised her eyebrows, arranged her lips in a stubborn pout.
“It was a little after ten,” Cindy said. “I was going out, so I went to her room to say good-bye and wish her good luck on her audition.” And she yelled at me not to come in because she was naked, said I was slowing her down. “I just peeked my head in the door. Wished her good luck,” she repeated.
“And then you went out?” the Cookie asked accusingly.
“Yes, I’m allowed out every now and then.”
“I was here,” Heather volunteered.
“You were here when Julia left?”
“Yes. It was around eleven o’clock.”
“Apparently Julia had a fight with Heather’s boyfriend just before she went out,” Cindy interjected.
“It was nothing.” Heather glared at her mother. “She was yelling at me too.”
Detective Gill looked up from his notepad, exchanged looks with his partner. “Your boyfriend’s name is …?”
“Duncan. Duncan Rossi.”
“Address?”
“He lives here.”
Again the partners exchanged glances, while Cindy’s mother shifted uncomfortably in her seat and the Cookie rolled her eyes.
Tom gave a look that said, It wasn’t my idea.
“Where is Duncan now?”
“Out,” Heather said. “I don’t know where,” she added when the look on everyone’s faces made it clear more information was expected.
“We’ll have to talk to him,” Detective Bartolli said.
Heather nodded, turned away.
“We’ll need a list of all Julia’s friends,” Detective Gill said.
Cindy felt a wave of guilt so strong it nearly knocked her off her feet. What kind of mother was she that she didn’t know her daughter’s friends?
“I can probably be of help to you in that regard,” Tom said, as if reading Cindy’s mind. “Until quite recently, Julia lived with me.”
The officers nodded, as if this was something they heard every day. But Cindy knew what they were thinking. They were questioning what kind of mother she was that her daughter had chosen to live with her father. She couldn’t blame them. How many times had she asked herself that same question?
“But she was living with you now?”
“Yes,” Cindy said. “For almost a year.”
“Do you mind my asking why she was no longer living with you, Mr. Carver?” Detective Bartolli asked.
Tom smiled, although Cindy could tell from the tight set of his jaw that he most certainly did mind. He was uncomfortable with being questioned, unused to being put on the spot. That was his job, after all.
“Tom and I moved into a new condo after we got married,” the Cookie answered for him. “There’s only so much room.”
“Five thousand square feet,” Cindy said, just loud enough to be heard.
“How did Julia feel about your remarriage?” Detective Gill asked Tom. “Was she upset about it?”
“The marriage was almost two years ago, and no, Julia wasn’t the least bit upset. She loves Fiona.”
The Cookie smiled and tossed her hair proudly from one shoulder to the other.
“And where were you on Thursday, Mr. Carver?”
“I beg your pardon!”
“We have to ask,” Detective Gill apologized.
“Are you insinuating I had anything to do with my daughter’s disappearance?”
“My husband is a very important attorney,” the Cookie said.
Cindy rolled her eyes, amazed that people actually said things like, “My husband is a very important attorney,” except on television.
“I was at my office,” Tom replied testily. “You can check with my colleagues, if you honestly think that’s necessary.”
Detective Bartolli nodded, jotted this information in his notepad, and turned toward Cindy, who’d been discreetly enjoying her ex-husband’s discomfort. How often, after all, did she get to see Tom squirm? “Was your daughter on any kind of medication?” he asked.
“Medication?”
“Painkillers, antidepressants …”
“Julia wasn’t depressed,” Cindy told the two officers, as she had told them at least half a dozen times already. “Why do you keep insisting she was depressed?”
“Mrs. Carver,” Detective Bartolli explained patiently, “you have to understand that we get missing persons reports like this every day, and half the time, the person in question turns out to be someone who was feeling a little down and just decided to take off for a few days.”
“And the other half?”
Detective Bartolli looked toward his partner. Detective Gill closed his notepad, leaned forward sympathetically. “To be frank, with people your daughter’s age, suicide is our biggest worry.”
“Suicide,” Cindy repeated numbly.
“Julia would never commit suicide,” Heather protested.
“Suicide is not an option,” Cindy said, recalling her conversation with Faith Sellick. “What else do you worry about?”
“Well, of course, there exists the possibility of foul play.…”
Cindy put her hand across her mouth, stifled the cry pushing against her lips.
“But we’re getting way ahead of ourselves here, Mrs. Carver. There’s nothing to suggest any harm has come to your daughter.”
“Except that nobody’s heard from her for five days,” Cindy reminded him.
“And that’s unusual?”
“Of course it’s unusual.”
“Cindy,” Tom said, in the voice he used whenever he sensed she was about to lose control. She’d heard that voice often du
ring their marriage. There was something perversely comforting in hearing it now.
“Does she have any friends who live out-of-town?”
“She has several acquaintances in New York,” Tom said.
Cindy stared blankly out the back window. This whole conversation was ridiculous. “Don’t you think she would have told me if she were planning a trip to New York?”
“Maybe she told you and you forgot,” the Cookie said.
“Is it possible she told you and you forgot?” Tom repeated, as if the Cookie had never spoken.
(Flashback: Julia, at thirteen, gets up from the kitchen table after dinner and walks out of the room. Her mother calls her back, reminds her to put her dishes in the dishwasher. Her father immediately echoes that request. “Julia, put your dishes in the dishwasher,” he repeats. Julia reluctantly saunters back to the table, does as her father says.
“Why do you always do that?” Cindy demands after Julia has retreated to her room.
“Do what?”
“I tell her to do something, then you repeat it, as if my word doesn’t carry enough weight.”
“I’m supporting you, damn it.”
“No. You’re undermining me.”)
Nice to see some things never change, even if wives do, Cindy thought now, smiling in spite of herself. “She didn’t tell me,” she told her ex-husband. “I didn’t forget.”
“You’re sure?”
“She didn’t,” Cindy repeated, biting off each word. “I didn’t.”
“Fine. No need to get upset.”
“No need to get upset?” Cindy countered. “Nobody has seen or heard from Julia since Thursday morning. I’d say there’s plenty of reason to get upset.”
Tom glanced at the detectives, as if to say, You see what I have to deal with? You understand now why I left?
“So you were of the understanding that Julia was coming home directly after her audition?” Detective Bartolli asked.
“I wasn’t sure what her plans were, but she was supposed to be at a dress fitting at four o’clock.”
“My granddaughter, Bianca, is getting married,” Norma Appleton interjected. “Julia and Heather are bridesmaids.”
“So, she didn’t show up for her fitting.” Detective Gill scribbled this fact in his notepad. “Was it common for Julia not to show up for appointments?”
“No,” Cindy said.
“Yes,” Tom corrected. “Julia can be very willful.”
“In what way?”
“In the way of most twenty-one-year-old women.” Tom smiled knowingly at the two detectives.
“But you can’t think of any reason your daughter might take off for a few days without telling anyone?”
“No,” Cindy said.
“Yes,” the Cookie disagreed.
“Excuse me?”
“Why is that, Mrs. Carver?”
“Because she’s a moron,” Cindy answered.
“I believe Detective Gill was talking to me,” the Cookie said pointedly.
“You think Julia might have taken off without telling anyone?”
“I think it’s possible.”
“Why is that?”
“Because she was always complaining that she didn’t have any privacy, that her mother was always on her case.…”
“You are so full of shit,” Cindy said.
“Cindy, please,” Tom warned.
“What exactly is this birdbrain trying to do here, Tom?”
“What did you call me?”
“Is she trying to sabotage this investigation? Is she trying to make it seem less urgent than it is?”
“Excuse me, but I’m right here,” the Cookie said, waving her hand in the air, the huge diamond sparkler on her ring finger flashing like a strobe light in Cindy’s eyes.
“Maybe it is less urgent than it seems,” Tom said.
“Very clever,” Cindy admitted, despising his easy glibness. “Our daughter has been missing for five days.”
“I know that.”
“Then what’s the matter with you? Why aren’t you more concerned? Why aren’t you tearing your hair out?”
“Because you won’t let me.” Tom jumped to his feet, began pacing back and forth, Elvis barking beside him. “Because you’re frantic enough for everybody. Somebody has to stay calm. Somebody has to behave like a rational human being. Shut up, Elvis.”
“Oh God.”
“Are you going to faint again?” Cindy’s mother demanded, rushing to her daughter’s side.
“You fainted?” Heather asked. “When?”
“The other day,” her grandmother said. “Good thing her sister was here to catch her.”
“I’m fine,” Cindy assured everyone. “I’m not going to faint.”
“I’ll make some coffee,” Norma Appleton offered, heading for the kitchen. “You sit down.”
“I don’t want to sit down.”
“Don’t be so stubborn,” Tom said.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
Again Tom looked at the detectives, as if to say, You see what I have put up with? You see why I had to leave?
“Mrs. Carver,” Detective Bartolli said.
“Yes?” said Cindy.
“Yes?” said the Cookie.
Cindy gritted her teeth, took a deep breath, grabbed one hand with the other to keep from wrapping them around the Cookie’s neck.
“Can we go over the events of last Thursday morning one more time?” Detective Bartolli asked.
“There’s nothing to go over,” Cindy insisted. “Julia was getting ready for her audition. She was excited, nervous. I went out about ten-fifteen to buy some wine. Apparently she was running late, so she asked Duncan to give her a lift. They had a fight,” Cindy said. A fight so intense it spilled out into the street, so loud it attracted the attention of the neighbors.
“What was the fight about?”
“Julia got angry when Duncan said he didn’t have time to take her to her audition,” Heather explained patiently, “and she threw her usual tantrum. She was fighting with everyone that morning.” She looked guiltily toward her mother.
“You had a fight with your daughter, Mrs. Carver?” Detective Gill asked.
“It was hardly a fight.”
“What were you fighting about?” Tom asked.
“It was nothing.” Cindy motioned toward the dog. “I wanted her to take Elvis for a walk. She said she had to take a shower. She was banging on the bathroom door, trying to get Duncan to hurry up. I told her to stop. Stuff like that. Nothing important.”
“Nothing else?”
“She didn’t want to go to the fitting,” Heather said.
“She would have gone,” Cindy insisted. “She wouldn’t just not show up. She wouldn’t not come home for five days. She wouldn’t not call.”
“Take it easy,” Tom cautioned.
“I don’t want to take it easy. I want these policemen to stop asking questions and go out and find my daughter. Have you talked to Sean Banack?”
“What’s Sean got to do with this?” Norma Appleton asked, coming back into the living room. “Coffee’ll be ready in just a minute.”
“We talked to him briefly on Friday. And we’ll be talking to him again this morning.”
“What about?” Cindy’s mother asked.
“Mom, please. I’ll tell you later.”
“I understand this is a very difficult time for you, Mrs. Carver,” Detective Gill said, staring directly at Cindy, leaving no doubt whom he was talking to, “but the more we know about Julia, the better our chances are of finding her. Can you tell me anything else about her? Her hobbies, what she likes to do, places she frequents.…”
“She likes the Rivoli,” the Cookie answered before Cindy had a chance to formulate a response.
“The Rivoli?”
“Comedy club on Queen Street,” Heather said.
I didn’t know that, Cindy thought. Why didn’t I know that?
“What about the dance clubs?
”
Tom smiled. “She gave that scene up years ago.”
“Does your daughter drink?”
“No,” Cindy said.
“Occasionally,” Tom corrected.
“What about drugs?”
“What about them?” Cindy asked.
“She went through the usual phase all young people do,” Tom said.
She did? Cindy wondered. Why wasn’t I told? Why didn’t I know?
“But I sat her down,” Tom continued, “had a long talk with her, told her that if she wanted to be a successful actress, she had to get serious, that I’d help her as much as I could, but only if she stopped goofing around and started focusing. Luckily, she listened.”
You sat her down, Cindy thought. You talked to her. You told her she had to get serious, that you’d help her as much as you could. You pompous ass. Cindy rubbed her forehead. “What happens now?” she asked.
“We go back to the station, file a missing person’s report.”
“The reporters’ll be all over this one.” Detective Gill held up Julia’s picture. “A pretty girl like this. Actress. Daughter of a prominent attorney. It’ll be front page news.”
“Is that good or bad?” Cindy asked.
“A bit of both. The public can be very helpful, but don’t be surprised if once this news gets out, you start getting a lot of crank calls. If necessary, we’ll put a tap on your phone, try weeding out the crazies.”
“Try not to worry, Mrs. Carver,” Detective Bartolli said. “She’ll turn up.”
Cindy stared at the detectives through eyes rapidly filling with tears. “Thank you,” she said.
“In the meantime, if you think of anything else …”
“There is something,” Cindy said, seeing Ryan’s face in the blur of her tears, wondering again if he was really as innocent as he claimed.
“What’s that?”
“My neighbor, Ryan Sellick. You might want to have a talk with him.”
SIXTEEN
“OKAY, Cindy, what’s going on? Why haven’t you returned any of our messages?” Meg was asking. “Cindy? Cindy, are you there?”
Cindy brushed her lips against the receiver, pictured Meg and Trish huddled together on the other end of the line. “Julia’s missing,” she whispered.
