Goodnight Nobody

by Jennifer Weiner

  I looked at myself: calf-length gored black skirt, gray cashmere sweater, black ballet slippers. "This isn't good?"

  She studied me. "Um. Do you have a scarf? Or a necklace? Or an entirely different outfit?"

  I shrugged. Janie started flipping through the hangers. "I miss you," she grumbled. "You know I can't stand this time of year. Too many tourists."

  I pulled on the black silk camisole she'd handed me--I hoped she'd find something for me to wear on top of it--and went into the bathroom to start drying my hair. "Is your father coming?"

  Janie said nothing.

  "You invited him, right?"

  She bent over to retie her shoes. "Little problem there."

  I blew dust off my curling iron, then plugged it in. "What now?"

  "You know he got married again?"

  I nodded. Janie sighed. "Well, he and the new missus kind of aren't speaking to me."

  I shook my head wearily. "What did you do?"

  She shuffled her feet. "They were flying back from their honeymoon on Sunday, and I called customs and told them that she had pot in her suitcase."

  "Jane Elizabeth Segal!"

  "Well, it was my birthday, and my father always takes me out to dinner on my birthday, just the two of us, and I figured if she was being questioned by the police, he'd be free!"

  "Did they arrest her?" I twirled my bangs with the curling iron, wincing at the sizzling sound of not-quite-dry hair hitting the hot tongs.

  "Nah, they just held her," Janie said sulkily. "For eight hours. Sy canceled dinner anyhow." She rolled her eyes. "He said he wouldn't feel right eating when his bride was in the pen."

  "So chivalry isn't dead!" I uncurled my hair and studied the effect. Hmm. Not bad.

  "No, but they're both pissed. She didn't actually have any drugs in her suitcase, but she did have a bunch of stuff she'd bought and didn't declare."

  "Oops."

  "I think she's a shopaholic. It's a real addiction, you know," she said, and tossed me a black beaded wrap that I didn't remember buying and figured had to be hers.

  "Tell you what," I said, my tone casual as I picked up the curling iron again. "I'll apologize to Sy on your behalf if you run a few names through LexisNexis for me."

  "Sure." she said, sounding relieved. "Just don't tell Sy I was drinking or anything."

  "Were you?"

  "No, but if he thinks I was, he'll try to pack me off to that boot camp in Jamaica that was just on 60 Minutes."

  "I don't think you can send adults there against their wishes."

  Janie frowned darkly. "Sy has his ways. Now, who are these people I'm investigating?"

  I avoided her eyes in the mirror as I handed her the piece of paper Evan had given me. "Just some people that Kitty Cavanaugh might have been asking questions about."

  "And you got these names where, exactly?"

  I turned my gaze back to the curling iron and the mirror. "I have my ways too."

  Janie shook her head. "Fine. Although let me just say that Evan McKenna was bad news then, and he's bad news now." She blinked, looking at my reflection in the mirror. "Don't panic, but I believe your bangs may be on fire."

  I combed water through my smoking hair and handed over my brush and the curling iron to Janie as the kids raced into the room and jumped up and down on the bed. I slipped on the wrap and considered my reflection in the mirror, thinking that there was a point where baby weight became just plain weight, and that I'd probably passed it sometime after the twins had turned three. "Sophie, what are we going to do with your mother?" Janie asked.

  "I don't know," Sophie trilled, bouncing up and down. Her red velvet bow fell out of her hair and landed on Ben's pillow. "She's hopeless!"

  "Okay," said Janie, pointing at Sophie with the hairbrush. "You, stop bouncing. You two," she said, pointing at Sam and Jack, "stand right here. You're my assistants. You," she said to me. "Sit down."

  Sophie stopped bouncing and tried to clip her bow onto Uglydoll's ear. The boys lined up at the end of the bed. I sat in front of the bathroom mirror.

  "You should really use your powers for good instead of trivial," I told Janie as she started in on my hair. "Imagine what you could do in the Middle East."

  "Have you ever been to the Middle East?" Janie asked, grabbing my chin in her fingers and turning my face left, then right. "It's a very inhospitable climate. Not good for my complexion. Tissues," she said, pointing her hairbrush at the boys, who hurried to comply. I closed my eyes and let her work. When I finally snuck a quick look in the mirror to make sure I didn't look ridiculous, I saw my hair curling in soft ringlets around my cheek. It was so pretty that I wondered if I could reproduce the look myself. Then I realized that the chances of my having twenty free minutes every morning were about as likely as space aliens landing on my lawn.

  The doorbell rang. "Ooh, why don't you guys go see who it is?" Janie suggested, handing each of them a gift-wrapped package on their way out the door. The kids thundered down the stairs. Janie set down the hairbrush and reached for her handbag.

  "So what's the game plan for tonight?" she asked.

  "I'm going to talk to Delphine Dolan, who knew Kitty in ninety-two. You've got three assignments," I said, sliding my cosmetics back into the vanity drawer. "First, find out whether Philip Cavanaugh was running around with the sitter, and whether he's the kind of guy who could kill his wife, or hire someone else to do it."

  "Gotcha," said Janie.

  "Secondly, see if you can pick up any gossip about whether Kitty was sleeping with someone named Joel Asch. He was Kitty's editor at Content."

  "Joel Asch," Janie repeated. "What's thing three?"

  I brushed gloss onto my lips, smacked them together, considered the effect, then rubbed most of it off with a hand towel. "Keep an eye on the downstairs toilet. It gets clogged sometimes," I said.

  "Sitter, shitter, editor." Janie said merrily. "Got it. Oh, and look. I brought us a present."

  "What?"

  Smiling conspiratorially, she slipped her hand into her beaded bag. "Guess!"

  "I have no idea. After-dinner mints?"

  Janie rolled her eyes and grinned at me, opening her fist. Two little white pills lay in the center of her palm.

  "What is that?"

  "Ecstasy!" she said. Her hazel eyes were shining. She looked as proud as a kid who's brought home her first A paper.

  "Janie," I said slowly. "Why did you bring Ecstasy to my party?"

  She made a face. "In case things get boring."

  I held out my hand. "Give 'em here."

  Janie put her hands behind her back. "It's like truth serum. I'll slip one in Philip Cavanaugh's drink, and--"

  "He'll kill you?" I said.

  Janie bit her lip. "I was thinking more that he'd make a pass at me."

  "Janie, that's what he does when his inhibitions haven't been lowered. I don't think we want to know what he'd do under the influence."

  "Fine." Janie pouted, putting the pills back in her bag, taking my arm, and pulling me down the stairs toward my party.

  Twenty-Seven

  Marybeth Coe and her husband brought champagne. Carol and Rob Gwinnell came with a bottle of wine and a Dora the Explorer video for the kids. Jeremy and Al, Ben's partners, brought their wives, a big box of Belgian chocolate, and lots of gossip about the Democrats' dismal performance on election day. Ted Fitch, New York State's attorney general and my husband's number-one client for the next election cycle, arrived with his nose reddened either from the cold or, from the smell of it, Irish coffee at a previous party.

  "Hello, Kate!" he said, throwing his arms around Janie, who gently detached herself and pointed him in my direction.

  "Oh, Kate, of course!" he said, giving me a professional smack on the cheek before striding off to press the flesh and find the bar.

  Kevin Dolan introduced me to his wife, Delphine, who murmured, "Bonsoir," in a throaty voice and wriggled out of her coat to reveal a skimpy black dress displaying cleav
age both fore and aft. I watched in wonder as the gaze of every man at the party swung toward her as if their eyes were ball bearings and her ass crack had been magnetized. Hoo boy, I thought, as my mother burst through the door.

  "Kate, darling," said Reina, automatically readjusting my wrap. "You look lovely!"

  "Thanks, Mom," I said, knowing that I should feel grateful. At least she hadn't hugged Janie. "Hi, Dad."

  "Hello, Birdie," he said. He kissed my cheek and handed me a bouquet of red carnations.

  Reina walked from the foyer into the living room, where two dozen lit candles twinkled from the mantel. She flung her cape over a chair. "Where are the children?" she demanded, as if I were keeping them locked away from her on purpose. "I brought them presents!"

  "Great! I'll just..." My mother and I wrestled briefly over the wrapped package in her hands. Reina meant well--at least, that's what I told myself--but her grasp of age-appropriate playthings was shaky at best. She usually bought my children expensive gifts that they could either choke on or kill each other with. This time it wasn't so bad. She'd purchased porcelain French poupees, with rouged cheeks and painted hair. Sam got a circus master, Jack got a lion tamer, and Sophie's doll wore a pink silk leotard and balanced on a wire.

  "They're beautiful!" I said, relinquishing them to Reina, who raised her eyebrows indignantly, took a minute to nod at a few of the other mothers, and located the stairs. Then she yodeled for her grandchildren in a manner guaranteed to stop all conversation and cause any dog within a mile radius to howl.

  By the time I'd hung up her cape and another armload of coats, put my father's flowers in a vase, and handled a refrigerator space crisis, the foyer had filled up again. Lexi Hagen-Holdt's cheeks looked flushed above her loose black velvet sack of a dress, and her husband, Denny, kept a proprietary grip on her elbow. Denny was a beefy guy with reddish blond hair and a crushing handshake. He owned car dealerships in Darien and Danbury, selling Range Rovers to men whose only actual off-road experience would come after they'd had a few too many drinks with dinner and overshot the driveways of their four-million-dollar homes.

  "You want to be careful with those luminarias," Sukie Sutherland whispered, grabbing my arm as I was on my way back to the closet. "I heard they can start housefires." Outside the frosted windows, the paper bag luminarias the kids and I had set out that afternoon were glowing a warm orange gold, tracing our driveway in a curving line of light. The forecasters had called for unseasonable cold and flurries. As I watched through the window, I saw a few big, fat flakes drifting lazily onto the ground.

  "Everything looks great," Ben said, squeezing my shoulders as he passed me. He'd been thrilled when I'd agreed to host the party. Besides the tax write-off, I think he saw it as a shot at social redemption in the wake of the boys' birthday party.

  The doorbell rang, the door opened and closed and opened and closed, and there, at last, with his hat in his hand and snow dripping from his scarf, was the not-so-merry widower.

  "Philip!" Even with the bustle of a dozen other guests, I sounded like I was shouting. "I'm so glad you came!"

  "Thank you for having me," he said. His voice was subdued. His blond hair was combed back crisply from his temples, and he smelled like sandalwood and lime. I held out my hands for his dark blue wool overcoat as his gaze descended from my face to my breasts--in the camisole that, I realized, was dismayingly lowcut--and stayed there.

  "How have you been?" I asked.

  He gave me the universal shrug of as well as can be expected. "I'm taking the girls to Florida for a while," he said. "My parents have a place down there, and I think a change of scenery..."

  I nodded, took his coat, told him where to find the bar. "I'd like you to meet my mother," I concluded, as Reina reappeared by my left elbow. "Philip Cavanaugh, Reina Danhauser."

  Philip turned so that he was staring at her breasts instead of mine and inclined his head slightly. "La Reina?" he asked.

  My mother batted her false eyelashes. "Hel-lo," she said.

  "I'm honored," said Philip, bending slightly from the waist, hovering over her hand as if he might kiss it. "Honored to meet you."

  My mother simpered and seemed not to notice that Philip's bow gave him a perfect view of her cleavage and that he was taking full advantage of that view. I had to give Reina credit: even at fifty-seven, her brow was unfurrowed (probably thanks to the regular ingestion of sheep's embryos and the occasional Botox or collagen touch-up), her lips were full, her ivory skin was flawless over her wide cheekbones and broad forehead, and her hair had been dyed a glassy, lacquered-looking black. She didn't look a day over forty-five. And she'd probably look pretty much the same until she died--probably on stage.

  "Now, what can I bring you to drink?" Philip smiled at her, then turned toward the bar. As soon as he was out of earshot, Reina grabbed my shoulders.

  "Did you see that man?" she demanded. "Did you see him?"

  I detached myself. "He's Kitty Cavanaugh's husband."

  "The dead woman?" Reina breathed, one crimson-nailed hand fluttering over the creamy expanse of her bosom. I wasn't sure whether being a murder victim's widower increased Philip's appeal or detracted from it.

  "The dead woman," I confirmed. "And don't be too impressed. He oozes charm like a slug oozes"--Hmm. What did slugs ooze?--"slime."

  My mother pursed her lips. "I thought he was delightful."

  I nodded, smiled, and excused myself, thinking that my mother would have found Jeffrey Dahmer charming if she'd learned he'd bought her latest CD.

  In the living room, Janie was leaning beside the fireplace, one arm resting casually on the mantelpiece, chatting with Philip. As I watched, he lifted a lock of her hair between his fingers, and both of them laughed. Across the room, I saw the muscles in Lexi Hagen-Holdt's calves flutter and clench. Leave it to Lexi to find a way to exercise while sitting still.

  At eight thirty I was on the verge of congratulating myself for a job well done. The house was full, both bartenders were busy, the caterers were circulating with their platters full of treats, and the neighbors and the politicians appeared to be getting along swimmingly, even though all of the politicians were Democrats and I had to believe that most of my neighbors were not. At eight fifteen the kids had made their entrance, to a chorus of oohs and aahs. Ben lifted Sam in his left arm and Jack in his right and made the rounds, giving the boys more attention than they'd had from him in the entire month. Sophie requested her seltzer in a champagne glass and refused to go back upstairs. "We're having fun!" she said, from her perch on her grandfather's knee. Then she tossed her head back and giggled, an obvious homage to Aunt Janie. She'd even tied hair ribbons around her legs.

  "I know, honey, and everyone liked seeing you, but now it's getting late--"

  Sophie waved me away with one imperious hand. "Reina says nothing good ever happens until after ten o'clock."

  "Well, that's an interesting point of view, but your mommy thinks that eight thirty is a good time for brushing your teeth and pajamas."

  "Oh, Kate, let them stay a little longer," my father interjected. There was a lamp next to his chair, and I noticed in the light how sparse his hair had gotten. "I've got her," he said, resettling Sophie on his lap. "You just enjoy yourself !"

  I sighed, filled Gracie in on the situation, and mingled, sipping a glass of red wine, sampling from the platters that came past me, watching Delphine Dolan from the corner of my eye, waiting until she was alone (although, given her attire and the male attention it was attracting, I wasn't sure she would ever be alone). The food was delicious, and way too rich. After a bite of smoked salmon, a sliver of pate, a few miniature dumplings, and three spoonfuls of sherry-laced mushroom soup, I was starting to feel sick.

  But I had a mission. When Kevin kissed his wife's cheek and headed toward the crowded bar, I made my move.

  Delphine was sitting by the fire in a wingback chair with her showy legs crossed. Her dark hair was in an upsweep, her eyes had been shadowed dr
amatically, and she looked much too sophisticated for our preppy, well-scrubbed suburb. I watched as she toyed with the wedge of lime in her drink, then rested her pointed chin in her hand.

  "Hello," I said.

  "Bonjour," she replied.

  "Can I get you anything?"

  "Non, non," she said, shaking her head and smiling politely. "Everything is magnifique."

  I licked my lips, hoping there was at least the residue of the lip gloss I'd mostly wiped off, and bent down beside her. "I know that you and your husband were close with Kitty."

  She nodded. Her heart-shaped face looked pretty even as she frowned, but her eyes were troubled.

  "Did you and Kitty spend a lot of time together?"

  She looked up at me curiously.

  "I mean, my best friend Janie and I, every summer we try to take a trip together." Lie. Every summer we meant to try to take a trip together, but then something would come up--one of my kids would get sick, or Ben would get busy--and I'd wind up bailing. "Even though I've got kids now and she doesn't, we try to get together. We go to the mountains...or the beach...But I know Kitty didn't like to leave her girls."

  Delphine seemed to freeze. Then she tapped her wineglass against her perfectly white, tiny front teeth. The noise, a tiny chiming, was clear as a bell in the suddenly silent living room. Her eyes filled with tears. "Everyone talks about how Kitty was such a good mother. She was better than that," she said. Somehow, her voice sounded less French...and very sad. "She was--"

  But I never got to find out what Delphine thought Kitty was, because one of the waitresses, a pretty girl with red hair in a ponytail, tapped my shoulder. "Mrs. Borowitz? Your phone was ringing."

  I excused myself and tucked my cell phone under my ear. "Hello?"

  "I sent you a present," said the voice on the other end.

  I hurried down the hall past the bathroom to the basement door, which I closed firmly behind me, and hurtled down the stairs in the dark. "You can't call me here!" I whispered.