She was actually a little nervous about finding things to talk about with her mother, but it would turn out to be far easier than she anticipated. On the train into Mexico City the next day, they would begin by discussing Penelope Jackson, whereabouts still unknown, although she had stopped using Sunny’s credit cards after the first forty-eight hours in Seattle, thank God. By the time they changed to the bus to Cuernavaca, Miriam would summon up the nerve to ask Sunny if she thought Penelope had actually killed Tony, and Sunny would say yes, but not for the money, that Penelope had thought about claiming the annuity only after Tony was dead and been surprised to discover it ended with Tony’s death. “But she was definitely capable of killing a man. She had the meanest eyes…Mom. I was scared of her. From the moment I saw her, I knew I had to do whatever she wanted me to do.”
They would discuss Detective Willoughby, who kept dropping elaborate e-mail hints about coming to Mexico to play golf, and wondering if there were any good courses near San Miguel de Allende. Miriam said she didn’t want to encourage him, but Sunny thought she should, maybe just a little. What was the harm?
Eventually—not the next day, or even the day after, but several days later, sitting with drinks as the sun went down and the white peacocks strutted in the twilight at Las Mañanitas—Sunny would ask Miriam if she thought it was true, what Kay had said all those months ago, about how a tragedy only revealed the strengths or weaknesses in a person, in a family. Fissures, Kay had called them.
“You’re asking,” Miriam said, “if it’s your fault that your father and I broke up. Sunny, it’s never a child’s fault. If anything, your disappearance might have delayed my leaving. I’d been miserable for years.”
“But that’s the thing,” Sunny said. “When I looked back—during the years I was gone—I told myself we had a happy family, that I’d been silly to long for something different. Remember how we found all those doll dishes in the roots of the trees and under the bushes? Remember how Daddy bought two copies of Where the Wild Things Are, then broke the bindings and used them to create a border in Heather’s room, so it told the full story of Max and his journey? I thought the house on Algonquin Lane was magical, but it was a prison to you. One of us has to be wrong.”
“Not necessarily,” Miriam would reply. “By the way, I created the border in Heather’s room. But if I didn’t tell you that, would the memory be wrong, would your father have loved you any less? I think not.”
Finally, when it was dark, really and truly, when they could not quite see each other’s faces and they were alone in the garden, or felt as if they were, they would get around to the subject of Stan Dunham. “Your father would have been tempted to do the same thing,” Miriam said, “if you or Heather had done something wrong.”
“I did—” Sunny began, but her mother wasn’t having it.
“That’s what parents do, Sunny, try to rectify their children’s mistakes, protect them. Children can be happy when their parents are miserable. But a parent is never happier than her unhappiest child.”
Sunny turned that phrase over in her mind. She would have to take her mother’s word for it. If she knew anything about herself, it was that she wasn’t equipped to be a mother. She didn’t care much for children. In fact, she resented most of them, as if they had stolen her life from her, illogical as she knew that to be. She was the one who had been stealing lives, appropriating names and histories from girls who had never made it as far as first grade.
“Still, I like to think your father would never have caused anyone as much pain as Stan Dunham caused us,” Miriam said. “You say he was kind to you, and I’m grateful for that. But I can’t forgive what he did to us, even now that he’s dead.”
“Yet you forgive me.” It was the bruise she couldn’t stop fingering, the same way she’d been unable to stop picking the scab of her vaccination, which was what had made it so tender and vulnerable to helpful Heather and her flyswatter.
“Sunny, you were fifteen. There’s nothing to forgive. Of course I don’t hold you responsible. Neither would your father, if he were still alive. And no, that’s not your fault either.”
“Heather would. Hold me responsible.”
Here her mother surprised her by laughing. “She just might. Heather could hold a grudge as tightly as she held a nickel. But I think even Heather has to acknowledge that you never wished her harm.”
One of the peacocks shrieked, its voice chillingly human. Heather having her say? Sunny could never be as sure of her sister’s benediction as her mother wanted her to be.
But all these conversations would come later, as time and travel and darkness made intimacy possible. Right now they were in the gallery, still a little strange and unfamiliar to each other, and Miriam suddenly made a rude face above the oblivious head of her cranky customer, rolling her eyes and sticking out her tongue. The kind of face I make, Sunny realized, when someone screws up the system by downloading something and I have to fix it as they dither.
“Yes, she does take after her father,” her mother said. “This is her first trip to Mexico, and we’re going to Cuernavaca for Christmas, to stay at Las Mañanitas.”
“You couldn’t pay me to go to Cuernavaca,” the woman said. “And Las Mañanitas is overpriced.” She shoved away from the counter as if pushing back from a table after a heavy meal that had failed to please, and lumbered out of the store without so much as a good-bye or a thank-you.
“And to think,” Miriam said, coming around the counter to embrace Sunny, “that was on the tip of my tongue. An invitation for that absolute charmer of a woman to join us on our trip. How was your trip, Sunny? Are you tired? Do you want to go to my casita and nap, or would you like to have a meal first? What time did you get up this morning? Did it take terribly long to get here?”
Just thirty years, Sunny wanted to say. Thirty years and an oil slick on a highway.
Instead she chose something simpler, something she knew her mother could understand, a need that her mother, any mother, could meet. Like Max in Where the Wild Things Are, she had tired of the wild rumpus, sailed home, and taken off her wolf suit. She wanted to be where someone loved her best, even if she believed she had long ago forfeited her right to that unconditional devotion.
“I am hungry,” she said. “Planes don’t serve real meals anymore, not in coach, but then, I haven’t been on a plane since I went to Ottawa with you, when I was a little girl.” A flash of Heather and her in their matching dresses, Sunny smeared from their shared package of M & M’s, Heather impeccable and fastidious, the two of them forever the female versions of Goofus and Gallant. Hell, Heather had even known Tony was a creep, the first time she ever saw him. At eleven going on twelve, she was far wiser than her fifteen-year-old sister. “Can we go somewhere to eat?”
The two women linked arms and walked out into the bright, chaotic street, where Javier had to shout to be heard above a passing bus. Sunny couldn’t begin to make sense of the words, but based on his elaborate gestures, Javier seemed to be insisting that they looked so much alike, that they were so beautiful, the mother and daughter, together at last. He locked his own fingers, pantomiming their connectedness, and Sunny was reminded of those straw tubes one found at carnivals, the way your fingers got caught if you fought the tube too hard.
She met his gaze, no longer scared of his face now that she knew where the hole was, what was missing there. If only she could so readily show the world what was missing in her. Who would avert their eyes from her face, who would be unable to look at her straight on?
“Gracias,” she said, then remembered the most important word that anyone can hear, what had meant so much to her, even when it was false and unearned, wholly wrong. In pretending to be Heather, Sunny had managed to bring Heather back to life, complete with all her maddening confidence, and that was one thing she could never regret. Of all the people she had ever been, or ever would be, Heather Bethany was her favorite. “Gracias, Javier.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
> On Opening Day 2005, I was with a group of friends headed to the Washington Nationals game, forty-somethings who had all grown up in the Baltimore and Washington area. As we passed Wheaton Plaza, the boisterous conversation stopped abruptly and we turned to look at one another.
“Do you remember—” someone began. We all did. We had been teenagers when two sisters, Shelia and Katherine Lyon, disappeared from the area around Wheaton Plaza on March 25, 1975. The mystery of their disappearance has never been solved. They left behind their parents and two brothers, a family that bears no resemblance to the Bethany family. So why did I choose a date four days later for this wholly fictional story about two missing sisters?
It wasn’t my initial intent. Although I needed to set the action of this story on an Easter weekend, I thought I could use any year in the mid-1970s as the backdrop. But after reading newspapers from that era, it turned out that 1975 best suited the story I wanted to tell. I would be remiss if I did not make it clear that this novel has nothing to do with the Lyon family’s tragedy. But I would be disingenuous if I didn’t acknowledge the similarity in the dates.
It should be implicit that a writer’s publishing house is always key to these enterprises, but my editor, Carrie Feron, and her assistant, Tessa Woodward, really went above and beyond on this book, with the full support of everyone at Morrow and Avon—including Lisa Gallagher, Lynn Grady, Liate Stehlik, and Sharyn Rosenblum. A special shout-out to the men and women at the HarperCollins distribution center in Scranton, Pennsylvania, for the cake and the company, both exquisite.
Technical advice/hand-holding was provided by Vicky Bijur, David Simon, Jan Burke, Theo Lippman Jr., Madeline Lippman, Susan Seegar, Alison Gaylin, Donald Worden, Joan Jacobson, Linda Perlstein, Marcie Lovell, Bill Toohey, Duane Swierczynski, Sarah Weinman, Joe Wallace, James R. Winter, and many of the contributors to the Memory Project, who were generous with their recollections of 1975. I’m also grateful to the Enoch Pratt Free Library for its very accessible microfiche files of local newspapers—and to Kristine Zornig of the Maryland Room. A word to the nitpickers out there: Please remember that movies were often rereleased into theaters, especially after winning Academy Awards, so, yes, Chinatown was at Security Square Cinema in 1975 and the The Sound of Music was playing at a downtown theater when the blizzard of 1966 hit. As for Southern readers, another plea: I have nothing but affection for Brunswick, Georgia. It is, after all, my father’s birthplace. The less-than-complimentary descriptions of Brunswick come from Kevin Infante, a Yankee detective having a very bad day. Myself, I’m quite partial to the area, which I visit every spring.
The book is dedicated to two women who have provided support and friendship from my earliest days as a novelist. Fittingly, Fellows is a teacher and Norris is a librarian. But they are, first and foremost, passionate readers. In singling them out, I am really dedicating this book to all readers.
About the Author
LAURA LIPPMAN was a Baltimore Sun reporter for twelve years. Her novels have been awarded every major prize in crime fiction. A first-ever recipient of the Mayor’s Prize for Literary Excellence, she lives in Baltimore, Maryland.
www.lauralippman.com
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ALSO BY LAURA LIPPMAN
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Credits
Jacket design by Yoori Kim
Jacket photograph © by Jason Hetherington/Getty Images
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
WHAT THE DEAD KNOW. Copyright © 2007 by Laura Lippman. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © FEBRUARY 2007 ISBN: 9780061796784
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