Mother, too, eventually remarried. Her second husband was Teddy Wright-Douglas, a British financier who was distantly related to the royal family.
Only Margaret still bears the Kendall name. Only Margaret has been left to slink in the shadows of her father’s shameful legacy.
Yet perhaps now things will be different. Now that Jane is gone . . .
“Owen,” Margaret says abruptly, to curtail the direction in which her thoughts are drifting, “won’t you let me fix you some toast? Or maybe some soup. You should eat. You haven’t eaten all day.”
“I have absolutely no appetite,” he tells her heavily, bowing his head and rubbing his temples with his fingers.
“But Owen, if you don’t eat—”
“I’m fine,” he cuts in sharply, silencing her.
As her thoughts race for something else to say, for something else to offer, he adds, “All I want right now, Margaret, is to be left alone.”
Stung, yet willing herself not to show it, she nods and retreats from the study.
In the hallway outside she pulls the door quietly closed, then pauses with her hand still on the knob, uncertain where to go next.
Schuyler is asleep in her crib in the yellow-and-white second-floor nursery. Mother’s flight from Heathrow doesn’t get in until this evening, and Margaret has already arranged a car service for her rather than drive to the airport to meet the flight herself. She’s not particularly anxious to see her mother under the best of circumstances. Today, she dreads it.
The house is large enough so that she doesn’t have to share space with Owen’s parents, the housekeeper, or the detectives working on the case. She, too, wants to be alone.
After a moment, she turns and heads to the kitchen and up the back staircase that leads to the second floor. From here she can go through a large walk-in dressing room and into the master bedroom.
She shouldn’t be here. On some level, she knows that as she slips through the door into the sprawling room with its crown molding, fireplace, and cozy, gabled nooks.
She takes in the brocade wallpaper, the rich cranberry-colored draperies that frame floor-to-ceiling windows, the thick carpet with its floral Victorian pattern beneath her feet.
This is the private quarters her sister shares with Owen, a room Margaret has been in only once before, when Jane first gave her a grand tour of the entire house years ago. Back then this section was empty, awaiting not just delivery of the newly ordered furniture, but also the skills of the professional decorator who would transform it into the sumptuous suite it has become.
“Don’t you love it?” Jane had asked. “This room—isn’t it beautiful?”
Margaret nodded. “The whole house is beautiful, Jane.”
“I’m glad you agree with me,” Jane said in a tone that hinted to Margaret that Owen did not.
“What does Owen think?”
“He wanted a new house. He doesn’t like old houses. He grew up in one. He calls it the mausoleum. But he gave in and bought this place for me because I fell in love with it. I adore all the quirks. Old houses are so interesting . . . and they have secrets.”
She proceeded to show Margaret a few of them and described several others.
Now, remembering that day, Margaret stands in the middle of the master bedroom. Her gaze falls on the ornately carved king-size bed, the vast built-in armoire along one wall, and the sitting area with its period fainting couch and cheval mirror. She catches her reflection in it, and as always, it takes her by surprise.
Somehow, in her own mind, in her optimistic heart, she is younger, more attractive than the plain, nearly middle-aged woman in the glass. In her imagination, she belongs in a room like this.
In reality . . .
She takes in her own close-set, sparsely lashed black eyes, her lifeless dark hair parted in the middle and drawn severely back from her pale, angular face.
She has tried on occasion to do something with her appearance. To bring out her eyes with makeup, to give her hair a lift with a different style and some spray.
But the attempts have been futile. Nothing can transform her. . . .
Into Jane.
Isn’t that what you want? she demands of the homely woman in the mirror. You want to be Jane.
You want to claim what belongs to Jane.
All of it.
Slowly she turns away from the mirror to gaze thoughtfully at the bed.
Fletch Gallagher opens the lid of the new red state-of-the-art blender he recently ordered from a Williams-Sonoma catalogue.
He peers inside, then taps on the glass container. Sturdy. Outrageously expensive, too . . . but worth it. He’ll use this thing every day, especially now that baseball season’s over and he’ll be hanging around the house more—Unless the Mets go into post-season play, which means his sportscasting duties can extend well into October. With any luck, he usually heads up to his cabin in the Catskills to unwind with a fishing pole, then south to spend some time golfing and lying in the sun. But this year, when the Mets narrowly missed getting into the playoffs and Fletch found himself free, Aidan begged him to stay put in Townsend Heights for a while. Keep an eye on his nephew and step-nieces. Make sure they’re adjusting okay.
What could he do? The last thing he wants is to stick around here, but he can’t refuse his brother. Not when the guy has just been widowed for the second time in his life.
He has to admit that Sharon’s pitching in more than he expected her to, where the kids are concerned. After all, they’re not her blood relations, and it’s not like she’s prone to bending over backward to do favors for Fletch these days. But she’s spent more time at home lately, helping the twins with their homework and taking them shopping for new school clothes. Maybe it’s because she misses Randi, their own daughter, who is away for her first semester at William and Mary. Sharon seems to enjoy having their two young nieces around the house.
She hasn’t exactly bonded with Jeremiah, though. He’s not the warmest, most lovable kid in town. Even Fletch hasn’t made much progress getting him to come out of his shell on the few occasions he has tried. He has no idea whether it’s because his nephew is still traumatized by the losses of his mother and stepmother, or because he’s just a loner by nature.
Well, things seem to be settling down in the Middle East. With any luck, Aidan will be back before the cold weather gets here. Then he can make other arrangements for the kids, and Fletch will be free to get the hell out of here. Maybe a weekend up at the cabin, just to clear his head before heading down to Boca for some relaxation and then flying back up to spend the holidays with Sharon and the kids. She always insists on that.
At least he got eighteen holes in today down at the country club, followed by a nice long nap on the couch in the family room. The house is silent, but he heard Sharon come in a while ago, slamming the back door and waking him from a sound sleep.
He tosses the banana he just peeled into the blender, then crosses the green ceramic-tile floor and opens the enormous stainless-steel fridge. After moving aside several bottles of fat-free salad dressing and the remains of last night’s take-out Chinese, he pulls out a carton of skim milk. Way down on the bottom shelf behind a clear plastic container of mesclun greens, he finds a lone container of nonfat yogurt. Strawberry.
He makes a face.
He’s told Sharon—how many times?—that he doesn’t like strawberry. Raspberry yogurt is fine. Blueberry, too. Hell, even boysenberry. But not strawberry.
What does she buy?
Strawberry.
Fletch returns it to the fridge. As an afterthought, he puts the milk back in, too, then takes the yogurt out. He tosses the container into the trash compactor under the sink.
Nobody else will eat it. His brother’s kids don’t seem to like anything but junk food, and his son Derek has recently decided he’s a vegan—whatever the
hell that means. Something about not eating any animal products.
If it were up to Fletch, his son would eat thick steaks and ice cream like any other red-blooded American boy, but Sharon coddles him and his neo-hippie ideas. Tells Fletch to leave him alone. That Derek’s twenty now, fully grown, and he can eat whatever he wants, even if he is still living under their roof.
Not that he’s ever home. Where he spends his days—and nights—is a mystery to Fletch, and if Sharon knows, she’s not telling. Leave it to her to keep Derek’s secrets. After all, she’s full of her own—or so she thinks. But Fletch knows more about what his wife’s been up to lately than he does about their son. He knows Sharon’s only biding her time with him, waiting for the right moment to leave him for her lover. Actually, for months he’d been expecting her to do it in August when Randi left for college, which would liberate Sharon from two decades of motherhood obligations. Then Melissa got killed and their nieces and nephew had moved in just as Randi moved out. How could Sharon walk out on Fletch at a time like that?
There’s no doubt in his mind that she will, sooner or later. But far be it from him to force her hand.
Fletch pulls the banana out of the blender and takes a bite. A banana wasn’t what he had in mind. He wanted a health shake, damn it.
He hears footsteps on the stairs.
Moments later, Sharon breezes into the kitchen. She has on one of those skimpy leotard things she wears to her kick-boxing class, and is jangling her car keys in her hand.
He glances over her toned body—small hips and high breasts—and at her thick blond hair pulled into a ponytail. The remnants of her summer tan, helped along, no doubt, by regular visits to the tanning salon, cast a healthy glow over her face.
Two decades of marriage have all but obliterated not just Fletch’s appreciation for his wife’s beauty, but his desire for her.
“Where are you going?” he asks, though it should be obvious. But some part of him wants to hear her say it.
“The gym.” She unwraps a stick of gum and goes over to toss it into the garbage. “What’s this?”
He shrugs.
She’s staring down at the full container of yogurt he just threw in.
“Why’d you throw this away?” She pulls it out and inspects the date stamped on the cover, then turns accusing green eyes on him. “It still has two weeks left before it expires.”
“Yeah, and it’s strawberry. You know I don’t like strawberry yogurt. I told you not to buy it.”
“Well, somebody else will eat it.”
“Who? You?”
“You know I’m lactose-intolerant.”
Or so you say, he thinks but says nothing. As far as he’s concerned, Sharon is a hypochondriac. Always has been. If she wants to believe she’s lactose-intolerant, fine with him, as long as he doesn’t have to listen to her go on and on about it.
“Maybe one of the kids will eat it,” she says, putting it back into the fridge.
“I thought they only eat Little Debbies. And McDonald’s. And Derek’s—”
“I know. A vegan. Well, maybe someone’ll eat it,” she says again.
She takes a can of Diet Pepsi from the shelf in the door, closes the fridge, and pops the top.
He watches her as she takes a sip.
“You’re going to drink that before you work out?” he asks.
For a moment their eyes meet. A look passes between them.
She says simply, “I’m thirsty,” and heads toward the back door. She pauses halfway there to ask, “You didn’t hear, did you?”
“Hear what?”
She seems to be studying his face, probing for something. Then she says, “Jane Kendall.”
He tenses. “What about Jane Kendall?”
“She’s missing.”
“Missing?” he echoes, not meeting Sharon’s eyes. “What do you mean, missing?”
She shrugs. “That’s all I know. She disappeared from High Ridge Park.”
“When?”
“Last night I think.”
“Huh.” His hand trembles as he raises the banana to his mouth again, taking a bite and chewing mechanically. “Do they . . . do they think something happened to her?”
“Obviously.” Sharon grabs her raincoat from a hook just inside the mudroom and pulls it on. “I’ve got to get to the gym. See you later.”
“See you later.”
Lies, he thinks, abruptly tossing the banana into the garbage can and heading upstairs to take a shower.
They both know she’s not going to the gym, just as they both know they won’t see each other later.
Fletch turns on the hot water tap full force. It runs into the tub, sending tendrils of steam skyward. Lost in thought, Fletch stares at his reflection in the wide mirror above the double sink until his features are swallowed up by the rising shroud of mist.
Chapter 3
“Mrs. Bailey?”
About to automatically correct the “Mrs.,” Paula looks up to see Mitch’s teacher standing in the doorway of the office waiting room and promptly changes her mind.
Sixtyish, with Barbara Bush white hair and pearls, an old-fashioned pastel wool dress, and a mouth that could be drawn as a thin, straight line if you tried to capture it on paper, Miss Bright is clearly disapproving as she looks Paula over. What’s her problem?
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Paula offers, aware of her own unapologetic tone, yet unable—unwilling—to change it as she rises from the bench where the school secretary directed her. “I’ve been covering a huge story and—”
“We won’t have much time to talk,” Miss Bright cuts in. “The children come back from gym class in five minutes. I had hoped to get more time than that with you.”
Paula shrugs. “I’m working today. It isn’t easy for me to get away.”
The teacher bobs her head in a gesture that could be perceived as a sort of nod, but not an understanding one. She gestures for Paula to follow her and leads the way down the hall, past rows of lockers decorated with various construction-paper motifs: autumn leaves, pumpkins, ships . . .
“Why are there cutouts of ships on those lockers?” Paula asks Mitch’s teacher because there is only the sound of their footsteps tapping down the hall and the silence is awkward.
“The Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria,” the teacher says simply.
“Oh, for Columbus Day.”
“This is our room,” the teacher announces, stopping at an open classroom door. She stands aside to let Paula through the door, then closes it behind her. She sits behind her desk. “Have a seat, Mrs. Bailey.”
“Actually, it’s Ms.,” Paula says as she perches on the only available chair, a child-size wooden ladder-back that’s beside the desk.
“Excuse me?”
“My name,” Paula clarifies. “I’m a Ms., not a Mrs. Mitch’s father and I are divorced.”
“I realize that.” Miss Bailey—not Ms.—purses small lips that are encrusted with an unfashionably pale mauve lipstick.
Why couldn’t Mitch have a different sort of teacher? Someone younger, more modern, less judgmental. His teacher last year, Ms. Richmond, had been right out of college. It didn’t seem to faze her that Paula was a divorced working mother. In fact Ms. Richmond was impressed by Paula’s journalism career.
Not Miss Bright, though, who’s treating Paula as though she’s been caught turning tricks down in Yonkers. Well, if she thinks Paula’s the least bit bothered by her attitude, she’s wrong.
Paula looks away, glancing around the classroom. Typical—small blond-wood desks with smaller chairs; a green chalkboard running the length of two walls, and windows the length of another; a piano in one back corner and a library table in the other; and plenty of student artwork by way of decor.
“Your son’s behavioral and academic problems seem to stem
from the fact that he’s not getting what he needs at home, Mrs.—Ms.—Bailey.” Miss Bright folds her hands on the desk in front of her. The reporter in Paula notes that they’re as white as her hair, with transparent skin and blue veins. Her unpolished nails are short, filed into perfect, boring ovals.
On her desk is a red wooden apple emblazoned with the phrase “Teachers give the best hugs.” Paula tries, and fails, to imagine this woman hugging someone—anyone.
“What is it that you think he needs that I’m not giving him, Miss Bright?” Paula asks frostily.
“Time, Ms. Bailey,” is the straightforward reply. “He needs more of your time.”
“How do you know how much time I spend with my son?”
“I know that you didn’t help him with his fractions the night before last. I sent home a worksheet that was specifically supposed to be done with the help of a parent, and Mitchell brought his back incomplete. His explanation was that you weren’t home to help him. He tells me you were working.”
It’s Paula’s turn to purse her lips.
“Mitchell was the only student in the class not to bring in a lightbulb for the arts and crafts project we worked on this morning—”
“I didn’t know he needed one.”
“It was in the note I sent home with all the students last week. We’re making maracas as part of our lesson on Mexico.”
“We have a pair of maracas at home. Maybe Mitch can bring—”
“The point is, Ms. Bailey, that you obviously need to be more attentive to Mitchell’s needs.”
“Just because I didn’t know he needed a lightbulb for a project?” she asks in disbelief. This woman is too much.
“And the fractions worksheet. And many other small things this past week or two that add up to one thing, Ms. Bailey. Your son has needs that are being neglected. He’s acting out as a way of getting attention in the classroom, and I suspect that it’s because he isn’t getting it at home. I didn’t call you here to attack you—”
The Last to Know Page 6
