If I didn’t know how lucky I was to have Flynn, there were plenty of people to remind me. I attributed my lack of enthusiasm to the pressures building up before the wedding. It was all so tedious, the engagement parties and showers, the requisite thank-you notes that followed. The decisions that my mother treated like life-changing events: invitations, registering for china and silver and crystal, pre-cana with the priest, picking out the three thousand-dollar wedding gown and bridesmaids’ dresses, choosing a band, flowers, menu, cake, weekly measurements for the wedding dress, finding hotels for out-of-town guests, rehearsal dinner arrangements, and more. The list went on and on. I was drowning.
I asked myself what was wrong with me. Here I was nearing my mid-thirties, an age where most single women were already planning cruises together, and I had connected beyond most women’s wildest expectations. Most women would have loved to be in my shoes. I should have been crazed with happiness. Carol Anne had made a good point. Right now, in the fallout of my indiscretion – what else could I call it – Flynn had become the most important thing in my world. I loved him so much at that moment that maybe, in a backhanded sort of way, my cheesy behavior might have a positive result.
I decided then and there I would spend the rest of my life making it up to Flynn by being a perfect wife and companion. Of course, he could never know the hurtful thing I had done. It was my duty to protect him from it forever.
Which brought me back to Angie’s murder. Not to diminish it at all, Angie had been very important to me, but the police would undoubtedly want to see me this afternoon. I was disgusted with myself for being so worried about what they might ask. But I couldn’t block my fear. What if they asked if I left the bar with Angie and Suzanne? What would I say? My intention was to do everything possible to help find who had murdered my good friend, but the police could never find out what I was doing while it happened. Never. Find. Out. Things were on a need-to-know basis, and they had no need to know.
When I let myself into my apartment, the red light on my answering machine was blinking. I played back three messages from Flynn telling me to call him in New York, and a message from a Detective O’Reilly, telling me he needed to meet with me as soon as possible. I called Flynn at his hotel first, taking a deep breath before speaking to him, wondering if he would sense my betrayal over the line.
‘Hi,’ I mumbled.
‘Maggie, where have you been? I was beginning to get worried.’
‘I was at Carol Anne’s.’
‘Weren’t you just there last night?’
‘I had to go back for something.’
‘You sound strange. Is everything all right?’
Before he could ask any more questions, I told him about Angie, hoping that he would assume the odd tone in my voice was due to my friend’s murder. Which in part it was. Of course he had a slew of questions about the murder, but I cut him short before he could ask too much.
‘I’m really too upset to talk about this right now,’ I said.
‘Of course, I understand that you can’t talk, honey. What a shocker,’ he said. ‘I hope they get the bastard.’
‘Me too,’ I said, one of my few honest statements in the conversation.
‘See you tomorrow then. I love you,’ he ended.
‘Me too,’ I echoed.
The phone was barely back on the hook when there was a knock at my door. I opened it to two men, one quite large, the other short, holding out badges. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who they were. Evidently, they had decided to take a detour down Guilt Alley before heading to Carol Anne’s. I cursed myself for opening the door.
Of course, they wanted to know all about last night. Sitting with them at my dining table, fighting off a headache that made me want to peel my skull back, I did my best to reconstruct the previous night’s activities without sharing any incriminating information. While O’Reilly did most of the talking, his partner’s small eyes swept my apartment like he was taking an inventory, the matching ecru sofa and loveseat bought at a discount furniture warehouse, the small nook that housed my office, the bookshelves that bowed under the weight of my favorite hardcovers and Shakespeare’s collected works, the boxes I had been filling piecemeal for the move after my wedding. Kozlowski’s silence made me more nervous than the ruddy-faced Irishman’s questions, especially when his probing eyes travelled to the open kitchen door. The bottle of Jameson had been put away, but two shot glasses remained tipped upside down on the drain board. My blood pressure rose as I wondered if he noticed them.
O’Reilly was asking me something, but I was so distracted it sailed over my head. ‘I’m sorry, could you repeat that?’
‘You have any problems with anyone during the night, like in the bar?’
‘Maybe one slight problem.’ I told them about the West Siders Angie told to eff off. ‘Telling people where to go was nothing out of the ordinary for her.’
‘Any more contact with them after that?’
‘No. They left a while later with some young girl – she was obviously more interesting than we were.’
‘So you girls left the bar at what time?’
‘Suzanne and Angie left around three.’
‘And you?’
‘I left a little later.’
Things became problematic when Kozlowski dropped the shoe I had been dreading.
‘Why didn’t you leave with them?’
My heart was pounding so uncontrollably it was a wonder it wasn’t pulsing through my shirt, like on cartoon characters. The way he asked the question suggested I had something to hide. Which I did. But, though what I’d done with the carpenter was wrong, it wasn’t illegal, and bringing it to their attention served no purpose. ‘Because I was dancing and I didn’t feel like going home yet,’ I said with a paper towel tongue.
‘Were you dancing with someone you knew?’ Kozlowski pressed.
I’m sorry, but what in hell does that have to do with the price of eggs? ‘No, I was just dancing with a bunch of different people.’ Now I’d lied to the police. Which probably was illegal.
‘So what time did you leave The Overhang?’
Was it my imagination or had the big detective’s eyes darted back into my kitchen? Was he noting the two shot glasses? I wanted to run into the bathroom and heave out my insides for the third time that day. The bar lights had come on. Blindingly bright lights. ‘After last call. About three thirty.’
‘And how did you get home?’
‘I took a cab.’ I told myself I better get used to that lie. It slid off my tongue like an oyster. It was mind-boggling what one could do when survival was at stake.
O’Reilly had started speaking again, but my mind was racing so badly I only caught the tail end of his question. ‘He’s what kind of guy?’
‘He? Who?’ The blood was pooling in my ears, my head spinning so hard I feared I might faint. Was he asking me about Steven Kaufman?
‘Her ex. Harvey. He’s what kind of guy?’
‘Harvey?’ Relief. The pounding slowed. This is what guilt does to a person. O’Reilly didn’t want to know about the carpenter. He wanted to know about Harvey. Praise God. ‘He’s a good person overall. He came from nothing and made a lot of money and is real happy about it.’
‘Why the divorce?’
‘He cheated.’
‘It’s a nasty divorce?’
‘There’s some animosity, of course. Especially over their real estate. Angie swore she was going to get their building and everything in it if it killed her.’ I paused upon realizing what I had just said.
‘You think Harvey Wozniak is capable of harming his ex?’
I thought back to how deliriously happy Angie and Harvey had been in their first years together. He was like a puppy with its tongue hanging out around her, all flustered and animated and happy. He had begged for Angie’s forgiveness after he cheated on her, but she would hear none of it. Was it possible his love had spun so far in the other direction that he could take her life
? I couldn’t see it. ‘There’s no way Harvey killed Angie. He really loved her.’
‘Were you aware that Angie was doing coke last night?’ O’Reilly asked.
I shook my head no. Another lie, but once again this was on a need to know basis, and they had no need to know.
‘So you wouldn’t have any idea who her source could be?’
Another shake of the head, and that was the truth.
No one has ever been as relieved as I to see the backs of those two cops’ heads receding down my stairs. I gave myself an A for getting through my interview without them tripping over my secret, but my guilt still hung on me like a sack of gravel. Though I had brought the burden upon myself, it was a burden nonetheless. Guilt mixed with fear made a potent mix. My mind explored different scenarios. What if they questioned the bartender from The Overhang, and he remembered seeing me leave with the carpenter? Would that send O’Reilly and Kozlowski back to me with more questions? I prayed that the cops would find Angie’s killer soon, before there was any more digging into my actions of the night.
Then I told myself to stop being paranoid. The police weren’t interested in my private business. It was Angie’s life they were concerned with. Or her former life.
My headache had evolved into a lead ping-pong ball banging the sides of my skull. Vowing to never drink again, I took two Tylenol and went into the bedroom. The bare mattress served as yet another reminder of my sin. I lay down on the bed and cradled my head in my arms, wondering how was I ever going to be able to face my fiancé tomorrow and thinking about how much I was going to miss Angie.
ELEVEN
Angie
Angie met Harvey on a crazy Saturday during the Christmas season when the store was so understaffed that Angie found herself working the floor in the lingerie department. Elbowing her way down a crowded aisle, she couldn’t help but notice the husky, dark-haired man in a Blackhawks jacket rummaging through a rack of lacy nighties, his eyes turned sheepishly downwards.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked, deciding to have some fun with him. He looked up with droopy eyes reminiscent of a bloodhound, and his face turned crimson. Angie was quite certain that if he could have disappeared at the moment, he would have.
‘Uh, yeah, I’m looking for a gift.’ His nasal accent placed him from the Southside. Working class.
‘For your wife?’
‘Uh, no. A special friend.’ He cleared his throat twice.
‘Lucky girl.’ Angie sorted through the rack until she came to a black wisp of a baby-doll nightie with feather trim. She held it out. ‘Would this be her size?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Harvey, who by now was the color of a boiled beet. Apparently, size was a consideration that hadn’t occurred to him.
‘Well, how does she compare to me?’ Angie teased, meeting his droopy eyes directly with her own. ‘Would you say she’s about my size? Or is she larger? Smaller?’
Harvey took a closer look at Angie. With her full-lipped smile, high chest and wide hips, sensuality oozed from her pores. Suddenly, his flat, thin girlfriend was looking at a rather meager Christmas.
He took the nightie from Angie and held it in front of her. ‘This looks about right. I’ll take it. And can you wrap it?’
She rang up his purchase and wrapped it for him in colored tissue. She placed the box into a Bloomingdale’s bag and handed it over to him. ‘I’m sure she’ll enjoy it.’
‘I don’t think so.’ He handed the bag back to her. ‘It’s for you.’
It was Angie’s turn to flush, standing frozen behind the counter while dozens of Christmas shoppers vied for her attention. Emboldened, Harvey smiled at her and asked, ‘So, where are we having dinner tonight?’
Angie had regained her equilibrium. ‘How about Morton’s? I like red meat.’
Angie didn’t wear that nightgown until her wedding night. To both the delight and frustration of her future husband, she was a virgin and intended to remain in that rarefied state until she was married. Her flirtatious and often lewd behavior was a put-on. Her father was a notorious philanderer, his escapades so blatant that practically everyone knew about them. Raised in the shadow of her father’s behavior, Angie had strong opinions about sex and the hurtful detritus it left behind. She was never going to take sex casually.
When Angie put on that nightie the first night of their honeymoon suite at Las Brisas, it turned out the wait had been worth it – for both of them. Harvey proved to be the kind of considerate lover Angie read about in books, and her timidity melted under his guidance. She found that sex was something she really enjoyed. Which worked out quite well, since her only aspiration in life was to have children and raise a family.
She and Harvey were both thrilled when not long after the honeymoon, they learned she was pregnant. They bought a three-flat in Old Town and rehabbed it into a single-family home with three bedrooms and a nursery. Then came the first miscarriage. Angie’s doctor assured her that it wasn’t unusual for a woman to miscarry her first pregnancy, so she and Harvey enthusiastically tried again. A second pregnancy ended in miscarriage too. Then a third.
After the fourth, Angie was inconsolable. She couldn’t understand why her body, so obviously built for bearing children, was betraying her. When she suffered the fifth miscarriage, instead of turning to Harvey for support, she shut him out. She wouldn’t let him touch her, because she couldn’t bear to fail again. The bedroom that had been such a source of joy for them became an embittered battleground, her husband seeking to fill his needs, Angie refusing him.
This went on for nearly a year until the afternoon Angie came home early from work and found Harvey in their bed with a blonde from the trading desk.
If Angie had been inconsolable over her inability to bear children, Harvey’s infidelity was even worse. He swore it was the first time he had strayed, the only time. That the woman had given him a ride home and he had succumbed in a moment of weakness. He vowed it would never happen again. Angie would hear none of it. After watching her mother silently endure her father’s extra-marital affairs, she had no intention of suffering through what her mother had suffered. Harvey pleaded with her – reminded her they hadn’t had sex for months – asked that they go for counseling. But there was no changing her mind. Infidelity ranked as the highest betrayal in her book. She threw him out of the house and started divorce proceedings. And refused to look back.
TWELVE
Carol Anne
With the kids back home, the noise level in the kitchen had returned to its usual ear-splitting normal. Cara and Eva were fighting over the television remote while Michael, Jr. squealed for attention from his high chair. Barely a sound registered with Carol Anne, who was parked in front of the sink peeling potatoes. There were far too many other unsettling things occupying her mind. The loss of Angie, by murder no less. And what Angie’s parents had to be suffering. She couldn’t even begin to imagine how devastating it must be to lose a child. Next was her best friend’s idiot move, sleeping with a stranger at the risk of losing everything. But trumping all her concerns was her marriage to Michael. Something was terribly wrong between them.
He had been at the hospital dealing with a liposuction complication when the police appeared at the door. With the children still at their grandmother’s, it had been haunted house quiet as she sat with them in the living room answering their questions. They asked her about the night before, about Angie and the other girls, about Angie and Harvey, about the condition Angie had been in when she left. If she had known Angie was doing coke – which of course she hadn’t. Detective O’Reilly did most of the speaking while his silent partner took notes. They had been very businesslike, and it had been easy to be direct and honest with them. Not that Carol Anne had anything to hide. At least she didn’t think so until the very end of the interview.
‘And your guests left about what time, Mrs Niebaum?’ O’Reilly had asked. She appreciated being referred to as Mrs Niebaum. She loved the sound of her married name.
>
‘I’d say they were all gone by ten.’
‘And as I understand it, Mrs Lupino drove downtown with Ms Trueheart.’
‘That’s correct.’
The short detective nodded, his thick-fingered hands folded in his lap. ‘You were here alone after that.’
‘Yes. The children were at my mother-in-law’s, still are actually, and my husband was out playing cards.’
‘I hope he won,’ Kozlowski joked, the first thing he’d said since introducing himself at the front door.
‘Actually, he did. He better have. He played late enough.’ The moment the words escaped her mouth she wanted to rein them back in. Was that a glimmer of enlightenment in O’Reilly’s eye? His right eyebrow twitched, and he touched a hand to it to calm it.
‘And your husband got home at what time, Mrs Niebaum?’ he asked.
It was probably a routine question, she told herself. Nevertheless, she didn’t want them to know that the birds were chirping when Michael climbed into their bed. Not only would that be beyond humiliating, it was none of their business. She hoped neither detective noticed her hesitation before answering. ‘Michael got home just after midnight.’
They had gone after that, leaving her alone in a house that suddenly felt bigger and emptier.
The girls’ shrieks reached an intolerable level, piercing her private thoughts, grinding her sensitized nerves like one of those infernal leaf blowers the gardeners used. Her hand slipped and she sliced her knuckle with the potato peeler. Turning from the sink, she snapped at them in a tone they seldom heard.
‘Cara. Eva. Stop it. Now, dammit!’
Stunned to learn their mother had a breaking point, they ran from the kitchen and disappeared down the hall. The baby’s cries grew louder, so she lifted him from his high chair and held him against her. When he quieted, she returned the pacified infant to his high chair and started feeding him pureed carrots. Her mind circled back to Michael.
He hadn’t touched her in months, the bed they shared used only for sleeping. For the first time in their fifteen years together, Carol Anne suspected another woman. Enough women passed through his office on a daily basis that having an affair would be as easy for him as plucking a petal off a daisy. But the confounding thing was, he didn’t show any of the cheating signs she read about in magazines. He hadn’t bought sexy new underwear or started spending an inordinate amount of time in front of the mirror. There was no scent of another woman’s perfume on his clothes. There were no mysterious calls to the house, followed by a hang-up. So she decided her imagination was working overtime – that he was just tired from working too hard – the excuse he always gave when she questioned the lack of intimacy in their marriage.
The Last Night Out Page 9
