The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom

by Robyn Harding

  My husband got home shortly after the kids were tucked into bed. While his anger at me had dissipated, there was still an underlying tension between us. He resolutely refused to discuss Karen’s case with me. For all I knew, Detective Portman could have called him with Javier’s paternity test results ages ago. In fact, Javier may have already been charged with my friend’s murder. Paul was not about to tell me— and I was too afraid to ask.

  “How was your day?” He asked, joining me in the kitchen.

  “Good.” I kissed him. “Yours?”

  “Busy.”

  “Do you want tacos? Or I could make you something else?”

  “No, tacos are good. I’m going to kiss the kids and change clothes. I’ll be right back.”

  I fixed him a plate and sat at the table across from his seat. When he joined me, he immediately tucked into his food. “Thanks, hon. I was starving.”

  “You’re welcome. So… the girls and I exchanged Christmas gifts today.”

  “Great,” he mumbled, through a mouthful of taco.

  “Check these out.” I lifted the plastic Safeway bag filled with my afternoon’s haul and extracted the bottle of wine. “This is from Jane.”

  “Great.”

  “And from Trudy…” I modeled the hat and scarf for him.

  “You look cute.”

  “This one…” I said, gingerly removing the angel pillow, “is from Carly.” Paul looked at it silently for a long moment. “It’s for the Christmas tree,” I elaborated. “So we can remember Karen every Christmas.”

  “That’s really nice,” he said, softly.

  “So…,” I began, my voice catching in my throat. Paul might be angry with me for what I was about to ask, but there was no better segue. “Have you heard anything from the detectives… about Karen’s case?”

  He sighed heavily. “Conroy called yesterday.”

  “And?”

  “They interviewed Rueda, but they got nothing.”

  “Got nothing? But what about the paternity test? Did it prove he was the father?”

  “The DNA sample was inadmissible. They couldn’t process it.”

  Damn that Troy Portman! I knew he was blowing me off!

  Paul continued, “Without proof that he was the father of Karen’s baby, they don’t have much of a case against him.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how I felt.

  “If the police can’t touch him, we might want to consider a permanent restraining order… just in case.”

  After a moment, I replied weakly. “Okay. … I think I’m going to take a bath now.” Grabbing my detective novel off the coffee table, I headed upstairs.

  When I was immersed to my popped balloons in warm water, I let myself feel the impact of my husband’s words. The paternity of Karen’s fetus would never be known. I would never find out if Karen had been telling the truth about her relationship with Javier. I would never find out if he had been there when she died. Karen would fade to a distant memory, eventually thought of only at Christmas time when we hung our slightly tacky, yellowing angel pillows on the tree, and we would never know what really happened to her. Javier would go on to live a happy, carefree life. He would move on, get married, possibly even have children… I thought about Trudy’s prayer for the soul of whoever was involved in Karen’s demise, and I didn’t know if I could be so forgiving. But I would have to be, wouldn’t I? If not forgiving, at least accepting of the fact that I would never know. The case was closed. There was nothing I could do.

  I slid down deeper into the water so only my head bobbed above the surface. With my right hand, I fumbled for the mystery novel on the bathmat. Finding it, I flipped it open and began to read. There was no point in thinking about Karen any further. It was over… really over this time.

  I stayed in the tub until the water began to cool and my fingertips became pruney. The novel held me transfixed, the mystery slowly, deftly unraveling. I was afraid to stop reading. I knew the minute I put the book down that my mind would return to the ambiguity of Karen’s demise. It was too hard, too much to deal with a week before Christmas and mere days until my mother-in-law arrived. I preferred to throw all of my attention into the story in my hand, unfolding itself neatly toward a tidy conclusion.

  Suddenly, I sat up with a start. A mini-tidal wave of water sloshed over the edge of the tub, soaking the tan bathmat and turning it a dark brown. My body was shivering now, but I was barely aware of my physical response. Standing in the tub, I reached for a fluffy, beige towel and wrapped it around me. I stepped onto the sodden bathmat then hurried to perch on the seat of the toilet. With shaking hands, I opened the book again, finding the page that had caused such a violent reaction in me. I re-read it, my heart beating loudly in my throat and blood rushing audibly through my veins. “Holy shit,” I said to the empty room when the passage was complete. “I don’t believe it.”

  Chapter 29

  “Patty Hanover?” the man at the door asked. He was new to the case, razor-sharp and rough-hewn. It was the drink that had given his features that hard-edge… although Patty had no way of knowing that. To her, he was just another cop, looking to cause her trouble.

  “Who wants to know?” she asked, in her gravelly, scotch-soaked voice. “Detective Meyers,” the man said, flashing his LAPD badge. “Mind if I come in?”

  “Suit yourself.” She let the door fall, but he caught it with a deft arm. Stepping across the threshold, he followed her to the kitchen where her tumbler of scotch sat waiting. He tried hard not to notice she was wearing only a short silk robe. But God, the woman had an amazing pair of legs. “Drink?” she asked.

  Christ, how he wanted one, but it had been eight years since a drop of liquor had touched his lips. He wasn’t about to blow his sobriety over some dame with great gams. Besides… she was now the prime suspect in her ex-husband’s murder. “No thanks,” he replied. “This isn’t a social call.”

  “Why don’t you get to the point then?” she snapped, taking a seat on a kitchen chair and crossing those magnificent pins. “I’ve got some drinking to do.”

  “We received a letter, ma’am,” he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down next to her.

  “A letter? What does that have to do with me?”

  “This letter states that you killed your husband.”

  “Ex-husband.”

  “We’re going to have to take you in for questioning.”

  “Let me read this letter,” Patty said calmly, holding out a perfectly manicured hand. Myers passed it to her, and watched as she delicately unfolded it. Then, she began to read aloud, her words slightly slurred from the drink.

  TO THE POLICE,

  I WAS A FRIEND OF NIGEL HANOVER’S. I DON’T WANT TO GET INVOLVED BUT I KNOW WHO KILLED HIM. HIS EX-WIFE, PATTY, WAS CONSUMED WITH JEALOUSY WHEN HE LEFT HER. HE WAS FINALLY MOVING ON WITH HIS LIFE, AND SHE COULDN’T BEAR IT. WHEN HE CAME TO COLLECT SOME OF HIS BELONGINGS, SHE LOST HER TEMPER AND BASHED HIM OVER THE HEAD WITH A LEAD CRYSTAL VASE. UNCONSCIOUS, HE FELL INTO THE POOL AND DROWNED. THE MURDER WEAPON CAN BE FOUND IN PATTY’S CHINA CABINET AND WILL HAVE HER PRINTS ON IT. DO NOT WASTE ANY MORE OF THE AMERICAN PEOPLE’S MONEY INVESTIGATING OTHER SUSPECTS. PATTY HANOVER IS THE KILLER.

  “Annabelle…” Patty murmured, almost to herself. “I know it was her.”

  “The letter is anonymous ma’am.”

  “I brought that ungrateful tramp over from Britain to be our nanny. I invited her into our home, to be a part of our family. And look how she repays me: steals my husband, kills him and then tries to frame me for it!”

  “Why would Annabelle Swinton want Mr. Hanover dead?” Myers asked. “They were in love.”

  “I don’t know, but…” Suddenly, Patty reached for the detective, clutching his hand desperately. “Analyze the handwriting! Please! You’ll see for yourself!”

  “Unfortunately, Ms. Hanover, the letter was written in pencil, using block lettering. Those two elements make it virtually im
possible to trace.”

  “Damn her!” Patty wailed. “She’s going to get away with it!”

  I closed the book and threw on my husband’s navy blue bathrobe which was hanging on its hook on the back of the door. Clutching the detective novel under my arm, I rushed down the stairs. “I’ll be right back!” I called to Paul, ensconced in his office. Whether he heard me or not was difficult to say, but it didn’t matter. I had to go, I had to do this. He was not going to talk me out of it. In the grand entryway, I slipped into a pair of Paul’s running shoes and burst out into the night. Clutching the baggy robe around me and hobbling in the too large shoes, I hurried to Carly’s house. I was aware that I probably looked like Igor lurching up her walk, but luckily, she answered my insistent knock.

  “Paige!” She took in my outfit and alarmed expression. “What’s wrong?”

  “I need to talk to you,” I said urgently.

  “Okay…come on in.”

  Stepping out of my husband’s shoes I padded in my bare feet into her living room. A fire crackled in the fireplace, giving the room a homey glow. Carly followed me in and stood opposite me. I took a deep, calming breath. At least I had intended it to be calming. “Remember when you were getting rid of Brian’s things?”

  “Yeah…”

  “You gave me one of his books.” I held up the novel.

  “Uh-huh…?”

  “Well, what you don’t know is that the police received a letter a while ago implicating someone in Karen’s death. His name is Javier Rueda, and he’s from Spain. He was a friend of Karen’s… maybe more.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, and in Brian’s book, there’s also an anonymous letter to the police. Listen to this…” I frantically searched for the incriminating passage and then read it aloud to her. “Did you notice how it said ‘Do not waste any more of the American people’s money…’?” She nodded, vaguely. “That’s the tip-off that the letter was written by the British nanny. An American would have said something like ‘the taxpayers’ money’.”

  “Okay…?”

  “The letter the police received incriminating Javier used the exact same wording! The police even said that the note must have been written by a foreigner.” She looked at me blankly. “Don’t you see, Carly? Whoever wrote the letter to the police must have read this book. That’s how they knew that saying ‘the American people’s money’ would make the cops think the letter was written by someone other than a citizen.”

  “It’s probably just a coincidence.”

  “There’s more!” I said, excitedly. “The letter the police received about Karen was written in pencil and block lettering! It says right here in the book that that makes handwriting impossible to identify. Whoever wrote that letter had to have read this book!”

  “So… what are you saying?”

  I had never considered Carly thick before, but come on! “This is Brian’s book, right? He must have written the note trying to frame Javier! He must have, somehow, been involved in Karen’s death.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” she said with a dismissive laugh. “He barely knew her. Why would he want to hurt her?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, desperately. “Maybe to hurt you? Or maybe they were closer than you realized?”

  “No. Brian’s a cheating scumbag, but he’s no murderer.”

  “But he had to at least have written the note. This is his book!” I shook it in her direction.

  “Paige, I’m sure it’s just a fluke that the letter to the police used the same line that’s in the book. And plenty of people know that using pencil and block lettering make a note untraceable. It’s probably been on lots of detective shows. It’s really not that incriminating.”

  “It is!” I cried. “No one watches more detective shows than I do, and I didn’t know it!”

  “Listen hon…” she said soothingly, coming toward me, “didn’t you promise Paul that you’d let the police handle the investigation from now on?”

  “Yeah, but they’re not doing anything. They’ve closed the case.”

  “Then obviously they believe her death was an accident. Just let it go…” Reaching out, she gently removed the book from my grip. “Maybe you shouldn’t be reading detective novels in your current… state? I’ll go put this back on my bookshelf.”

  Oh God. Carly was right. I had done it again—flown off the handle, jumped to conclusions, stuck my nose in where it didn’t belong… Maybe I did need some professional help to get over this? But I had been so sure! No… it was stupid of me. Brian had only known Karen a matter of months before he ran off with the busty insurance adjuster. What possible reason could he have to kill Karen? Or frame Javier for that matter? I was just relieved I hadn’t expressed my suspicions to Paul. I wasn’t sure our marriage could survive another of my insane theories. Slipping into my enormous shoes I waited at the door for my friend to return. I owed her an apology, and I wanted to ask her not to tell Paul the reason for my late-night visit.

  “Oh, you’re still here?” Carly said, returning to the living room.

  “I wanted to apologize,” I said, sheepishly. “You’re right. I’ve got to let it go.”

  “You do, Paige.”

  “I will.” I noticed that Carly still had the novel clutched behind her back. “Why do you still have the book?” I asked.

  “Oh,” she shrugged and laughed a little nervously. “I was going to put it back on my bookshelf, but I decided to get rid of it.” Her eyes moved involuntarily to the blazing fireplace. “I’m not in the mood to read this kind of stuff anymore… too morbid.”

  “It was your book…” I said softly, suddenly remembering that day in my driveway. Carly had been clearing out her own belongings as well.

  “No. It was Brian’s,” she replied, flippantly.

  “Carly…” I looked at her and I could feel my heart breaking. “It was your book. You wrote that note to the police.”

  “What are you talking about?” She asked, defensively. “You’re going off the deep end again. Just stop, okay? Seriously, that’s enough.”

  But it had all come into focus: Carly’s insistence that Karen’s death was just an accident and that I needed to let it go; the way she had insinuated herself into Doug’s life, revelling in the feeling of being needed by someone again. Karen’s demise had given Carly purpose—preparing for the funeral, setting up the charitable trust, taking care of the grieving widower, making memorial Christmas ornaments . . . “Oh God,” I said, as the horror of realization dawned on me. “It was you!”

  In movies, when the main character discovers that her best friend or boyfriend or whoever is the killer, I had always felt incredibly frustrated. “Don’t just stand there waiting for her to kill you, too!” I would scream at the screen. “Get out of there! Call 9-1-1!” But either I was as dumb as those characters, or I was numb, too stunned to feel any fear. This was Carly after all. Until about three seconds ago, I would have trusted her with my life.

  “Paige,” she said, her voice tinged with desperation. “This fixation of yours… It’s not healthy.”

  “You knew about Karen and Javier, didn’t you?” I continued, standing stalk still in my clown shoes.

  “No…” But her voice was weak. “I-I didn’t know.”

  “Tell me, Carly. Tell me what happened.”

  Her cool façade crumbled and tears instantaneously began to pour from her eyes. “It was an accident, okay? I didn’t mean for her to die.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” I said, gently. “What went wrong?”

  She began to pace, stalking around her living room like a caged animal. “I caught her with that Javier guy,” she said, not looking at me. “It made me sick, Paige. It really did. I saw them making out in her car outside the Dairy Queen. It was disgusting. They were like a couple of horny teenagers. They were like Brian and that slut of his.”

  I felt a slight twinge at the mental image of Karen and Javier getting jiggy with it behind the DQ. So, ther
e was no need for the paternity test results. This confirmed that Javier and Karen were lovers. If I was surprised, it was only at my own gullibility.

  “They were making a fool of Doug,” Carly continued, wiping at her eyes. “He didn’t deserve that. He deserved someone who appreciated him, who treasured him…”

  “He’s a good man,” I said, encouraging her to continue.

  “And then she told me she was pregnant.”

  “She told you?” I thought I had been Karen’s confidante?

  “We were like sisters. I loved her… I really did.” Carly moved to perch on the leather arm of her ivory couch. Her eyes stared blindly into the fire. “She was so happy,” she continued, in a soft voice. “She had everything she ever wanted… everything any woman could want… a good, faithful husband… a baby on the way…”

  “So… what happened?” I gently prodded.

  She looked at me briefly before returning her eyes to the fire. “I asked her who the baby’s father was and she said she wasn’t sure. To Karen, it didn’t really matter. She was going to decide which man she wanted and raise the baby with him. ‘You can’t’, I told her. ‘That’s deceitful… and wrong’.” Carly stood and began pacing again. “I wouldn’t let her do it. I couldn’t let her do it to Doug.”

  I waited on tenterhooks for her to continue, but it appeared she’d said enough. There was so much more I needed to know. My voice was quiet, but commanding. “What happened next?”

  “Karen… Karen got so angry at me. I’d never seen her like that before. She said it was none of my business how she lived her life. She accused me of being jealous and… and pathetic. She said I could never be happy for her because I wanted everything she had. I wanted to be her.” She turned to me. “I was happy for her, Paige. But it wasn’t fair. She was lying and cheating and yet… all her dreams were coming true.”