The Last to Know

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Paula leaves the engine running and the windows open to let the smoke out, then gets out of her car, dropping the remains of her lit cigarette beside the curb and grinding it out with her shoe. She hurries toward the foot of the steps leading down from the pedestrian overpass. She scans the crowd of passengers, looking for a familiar face, praying she hasn’t missed her.

  “Minerva!” she calls, spotting her target at last. “Minerva Fuentes?”

  Startled, the woman darts a glance in her direction. Paula smiles encouragingly and beckons to her.

  The Kendalls’ housekeeper pauses on the steps, her hand grasping the railing, looking like she doesn’t know whether or not she should acknowledge Paula.

  “Can I please talk to you for a moment?” Paula calls out, still smiling.

  Minerva continues down the stairway, her eyes averted. She arrives at Paula’s side and seems inclined to keep walking past her. Paula reaches out and touches her arm.

  The woman looks up at her, startled.

  “I’m Paula Bailey. We met last year.”

  “We . . . we did?” Minerva asks uncertainly.

  “At the Kendalls’ house,” Paula says, glad Minerva doesn’t remember the occasion. No need to tell her she’s a reporter . . . yet. “I was there talking to Jane. You brought us tea and cookies—delicious lemon cookies that Jane said you had made yourself.”

  Minerva lights up at that, but her smile is quickly shadowed with sorrow. “Mrs. Jane loves my lemon cookies.”

  “They were wonderful,” Paula tells her. “Where did you get the recipe?”

  Minerva taps her forehead proudly. “I like to bake. I made it up.”

  “You’re kidding!” Paula shakes her head. “I’m impressed. I can’t even make up a recipe for a peanut butter sandwich.”

  Minerva laughs.

  Paula does, too. Then she says gently, “I know you must be upset about what’s happened to Jane.”

  Tears spring to the woman’s big dark eyes, and she nods. “God bring her home safely,” she says, crossing herself.

  “I’ve been praying for the same thing,” Paula tells her. “Listen, are you headed over to the Kendalls’ now?”

  Minerva nods again.

  “Why don’t I give you a ride? I know it isn’t far to walk, but I’m headed in that direction anyway.”

  “All right,” Minerva says after only a moment’s pause.

  “I’m parked right over there,” Paula tells her, leading the way.

  Once they’re settled inside the car, she takes her time pulling away from the curb. Even if she takes a roundabout route and drives as slowly as she possibly can, she’ll have only three or four minutes, tops, before she reaches their destination.

  “How are things at the Kendalls’ house, Minerva?” she asks as she heads away from the main street. “I know Owen must be taking this very badly.”

  “He is. Everybody is upset. Even little Schuyler, she cries for her Mama.”

  “Are you the one who’s taking care of her?”

  “Not just me. Her grandparents are there—Mr. Owen’s mother and father.” It’s clear from her tone that Minerva doesn’t think much of the Kendalls. “And her aunt is there, too. Jane’s sister.”

  Jane’s sister.

  The words immediately trigger a memory, an image, in Paula’s mind. She remembers the gilt picture frame she saw in the living room of the Kendalls’ home last year when she interviewed Jane. It was a photo that had been taken on Jane and Owen’s wedding day, showing a beaming bride with a painfully plain woman at her side.

  “Who’s that?” she asked Jane.

  “My maid of honor—my older sister, Margaret,” Jane replied.

  And Paula, staring at the picture, was struck by the stark physical contrast between the two women. She almost forgot the incident until now . . .

  Now, as last year’s recollection rushes back at her, another, far more recent memory comes with it.

  Yesterday—the woman she saw hurrying toward the Kendall home—the one who looked so familiar . . .

  She was Jane’s sister.

  Filing away that information, Paula asks Minerva, “So Schuyler is cared for by her aunt right now?”

  The housekeeper shrugs, distaste apparent on her face. “She doesn’t know much about taking care of babies.”

  “What do you think happened to Jane, Minerva?” Paula asks softly, turning onto the street leading to Harding Place, knowing there isn’t time to beat around the bush.

  “I don’t know!” Minerva exclaims. Rather than hedging, which Paula expected, it’s as though she’s eager to talk. Her voice spills over, trembling with emotion. “I keep trying to imagine what could have happened. I heard them saying on the news that she could have killed herself, but I know Mrs. Jane. She loved that baby. She would never kill herself.”

  “That’s what I thought. But who would have wanted to hurt her, Minerva? Did she have any enemies that you knew of?”

  For a split second, Minerva is silent. Then she says, “No.”

  But the fractional pause is telling. Paula pulls up to a stop sign, and turns to look at the housekeeper as she brakes the car. “What is it, Minerva? What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing . . .”

  “You can tell me, Minerva. Whatever it is. I don’t believe that Jane jumped from the cliff, either. I want to know what happened. Maybe she’s still alive. Maybe we can save her if she is.”

  “I don’t want to talk to the police again,” Minerva says nervously. “I’m not supposed to be working here. If they—”

  “If you know something, then maybe I can go to them with it. I don’t have to tell them where I found out.”

  “I told them I don’t know what happened,” Minerva’s hands are clenched in her lap as she looks out the window. “And that was the truth. I don’t know what happened.”

  “But you have an idea,” Paula tells her. A block from the Kendalls’ house, she pulls up along the curb, hoping the housekeeper won’t notice. “You know something that you didn’t mention to the police.”

  “I just wanted to get away from them.” Minerva turns back to Paula. “I was afraid that if they kept talking to me, they would start asking me about my visa. I don’t want to go back.”

  “Back where?”

  “To the Dominican Republic, where I’m from. I need to work here.”

  “I understand. I would never do anything to jeopardize your job or get you deported, Minerva. I never reveal a source.” Paula leans closer to her. “What is it that you know about Jane, Minerva? Did she have an enemy? Who was it?”

  “I don’t know if she had an enemy, but . . .”

  “But?” Paula prods, gently touching her arm.

  “Mrs. Jane had a secret. A bad secret,” Minerva tells Paula fearfully. “And I’m afraid it got her into trouble.”

  Tasha lugs Victoria and Max across the street at ten till one. Rachel is waiting, waving from the front door with her coat on. She rushes past them as they come up the front steps, calling over her shoulder, “Mara’s in the kitchen with a peanut butter sandwich. Ramira’s upstairs cleaning the bathroom. She said she was going to vacuum, but I told her not to because it’ll wake Noah. If she makes noise, you have my permission to fire her.”

  Tasha smiles. Ramira is the Leibermans’ latest housekeeper, poor thing. She wonders how long this one will last.

  “What’s ‘fire,’ Mommy?” Victoria asks as Tasha closes the door after Rachel.

  “It’s when someone takes your job away.”

  “Oh.” Clearly, she was expecting something more exciting.

  “Run into the kitchen and see Mara, Victoria. I’m just going to find some things for Max to play with.”

  For a change, her daughter obeys her. That’s just because she idolizes Mara. She’s been obstin
ate all morning, trying Tasha’s patience and frazzling her nerves, keeping her from everything else she has to do, including troubleshooting the broken washer. Poor Max has been all but abandoned in his Exersaucer until now, thanks to his sister’s antics.

  “Come on, Maxie, you want some of Noah’s blocks or something?” Tasha goes into the small playroom next to the dining room. It’s crammed full of toys, all of them organized neatly in bins and on shelves. Ramira’s job, Tasha knows, but Rachel does her share of straightening. She’s one of those compulsively neat people who likes everything in its place.

  She and Max browse for a few minutes. Upstairs, she can hear Ramira’s footsteps as she goes about her work. She knows the woman refuses to let Rachel give her childcare responsibilities in addition to her household chores, probably because she figures—correctly, in all likelihood—that Rachel would take advantage.

  Max picks up a tub of Duplo building blocks.

  “You like those, Max? Okay. Let’s bring them into the kitchen and go check on the girls.”

  Tasha brings him and the Duplo into the spotless kitchen, with its state-of-the-art stainless-steel appliances, sleek black-and-white countertops, and vase of budded stargazer lilies in the center of the table. What a contrast to her own crumb-strewn, sticky-floored kitchen.

  Tasha plops Max down on the sparkling white tile floor.

  “How’s your sandwich, Mara?” she asks Rachel’s daughter, who’s doing her best to eat with Victoria wedged onto her chair beside her.

  Mara shrugs.

  “Victoria, why don’t you sit over here and give Mara some room?”

  “I want to sit with Mara,” is the stubborn reply.

  Tasha sighs. “Victoria, Mara can’t eat when you’re on top of her like that. Give her some space. Sit over here.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  Tasha glances from the dangerous gleam in Victoria’s eyes to Mara’s faintly amused expression. Since she doesn’t seem particularly bothered, Tasha decides to let Victoria win this battle. It’s so much easier than dealing with another tantrum.

  She goes over to the fridge and looks inside for something to eat. She never had a chance to grab lunch amid the hassle of feeding the kids before they left home. Looks like she’s out of luck here, though. There are plenty of condiments and beverages, but no real food. She knows the Leibermans eat a lot of takeout, since Rachel doesn’t cook.

  Tasha grabs a can of Diet Pepsi and considers making herself a sandwich. Mara’s looks good. But peanut butter is so fattening. . . .

  She remembers running into Fletch this morning. He was clearly on his way to the gym. She wonders if he noticed that she’s not as fit as she used to be before Max came along. Knowing Fletch, he probably did.

  Okay, so skipping lunch won’t kill her. She closes the fridge just as the phone rings.

  “Telephone, Mommy!” Victoria shrieks.

  “I know, I know.” She hurries toward it, wondering if it’s Joel in the split second before she remembers that she’s not at home; she’s at Rachel’s. She waited for her own phone to ring all morning at home, and it didn’t. And for a change, she didn’t call his office, either.

  “Hello?”

  Silence.

  “Hello?”

  There’s a pause, then a click.

  Tasha frowns, holding the receiver for a moment.

  “Who is it, Mommy?” Victoria wants to know.

  “Nobody.” She hangs up slowly. Probably somebody who was confused by hearing a strange voice at the Leibermans’, she tells herself.

  But her heart is pounding. A vague sense of uneasiness creeps over her once again.

  Now she’s imagining all sorts of things—but it’s just that, she reminds herself. Just her imagination. She’s always had an active one. Making up preposterous stories as a child, fearing bogeymen and monsters, scaring herself to death. Her mother always told her that her worst enemy was her own mind, that she needed to be careful not to let it carry her too far from reality. That she could think herself out of being afraid the same way she had thought herself in.

  “How can it be nobody if the phone rang?” Mara is asking.

  Tasha shrugs, suddenly wondering whether she locked the door when she came in. So much for talking herself out of fear.

  “Where are you going, Mommy?” Victoria asks.

  “I just need to check something. Be right back,” she says, scurrying into the hall. She goes to the door and locks it, then slides the bolt firmly into place.

  There.

  Safe and sound.

  Make sure you’re careful, Tasha.

  She turns back toward the kitchen, Fletch Gallagher’s words echoing through her mind.

  Margaret lifts the lace panel on the foyer window and peers at the throng that has engulfed the once-quiet street. Reporters and dozens of onlookers line the blue wooden barricades the police have set up. Even from here, the hubbub is audible. The neighbors must be furious.

  Dropping the curtain, Margaret realizes that this is what it must feel like to be in prison. Helpless. Trapped. Desperate to escape.

  Except that she isn’t really—

  “Margaret?”

  She jumps at the sound of her name.

  Mother.

  She sighs, turning to see Bess standing behind her, Schuyler in her arms.

  “Have you seen Owen?”

  Margaret shakes her head. She hasn’t seen him since she left him in the study this morning, sobbing in Mother’s arms.

  “He must have left with the detectives again,” Bess says, a catch in her voice. “This is too much to bear, Margaret. If it weren’t for this precious child . . .”

  Margaret looks at Schuyler. Her niece’s eyes meet hers. The little girl whimpers and buries her face in Bess’s neck.

  “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” Bess asks, patting her back. “Don’t cry now. Mere is here. Mere will take good care of you. Margaret, I’m going to put her down for a nap and take one myself. Please listen for the phone and doorbell. Call me if you hear anything at all.”

  Margaret watches her mother climb the stairs with Schuyler.

  After a few moments, the nursery door closes quietly above. Footsteps move down the hall, and then a second door closes.

  Margaret can’t stand this gilded cage another moment. Minerva is here somewhere. She can answer the phone and the door.

  Thanks to the press, Owen’s parents are not here and have said they have no intention of coming back. Not until this is over.

  And good riddance to you, Margaret thought at the time, marveling at their cold-hearted selfishness. So they would rather avoid the media circus than be here for their son. She isn’t surprised.

  Having made her decision, Margaret goes up to her room to change her clothes, neatly replacing the blouse, slacks, and blazer on hangers in the small gabled closet

  Then, clad in a black cotton pullover and a pair of rarely worn jeans that are still indigo-colored and stiff, Margaret descends once again from the third floor, dark glasses in her hand.

  This time she goes straight to the kitchen. There’s no sign of Minerva. She must be dusting somewhere.

  Good.

  Opening the door that leads to the basement, Margaret slowly descends a steep flight of stairs, glad that old houses—like people—have their secrets.

  Chapter 7

  The doorbell rings downstairs just as Rachel is standing before her bureau, fastening her gold necklace around her neck. She takes one last look at her reflection, admiring the way her black V-necked sweater and short skirt hug her curves. She turns away from the mirror and catches sight of her discarded black-lace bra and panties on the bed. She changed her mind about wearing them after all; a thong is all she has on under this outfit. She smiles, thinking of his reaction when he sees it.

 
After spritzing Chanel No. 5 behind her ears, she swiftly descends the staircase to the front hall and opens the door just as the bell rings again.

  “Jeremiah, right?” she tosses over her shoulder, briefly glancing at the teenager on the step before she hurries away, toward the back of the house. “Come with me. I need to check the kids. I hope they didn’t get into anything.”

  They haven’t. They’re right where she left them ten minutes ago when she dashed upstairs to get dressed. The kitchen is spotless, just as Ramira left it earlier.

  Mara sits at the table, intently turning the knobs on her Etch-A-Sketch. Noah is on the floor, happily stacking Tupperware containers.

  “This is Jeremiah, guys,” Rachel announces. “That’s Mara, and that’s Noah.”

  She turns to Fletch Gallagher’s nephew, noticing that he has a prominent case of acne. Poor kid. Everything about him is awkward, including the way he meets her gaze, then, blushing bright red, looks down at his scuffed white sneakers.

  “The kids are fed and bathed,” she tells him. She slipped her housekeeper an extra twenty bucks to accomplish those chores for her while she was soaking in a bubble bath. Ramira, who is always reminding Rachel that she isn’t a nanny, accepted it willingly enough, but cautioned Rachel not to make it a habit.

  She definitely has to find a new nanny. But for tonight, she has Jeremiah.

  She bends over to hug Mara and plants a kiss on Noah’s head. He babbles contentedly.

  “D-do . . . do they cry when you leave?” Jeremiah asks, speaking for the first time. His voice cracks in that awkward teenage-boy way. Again, she feels sorry for him.

  “Cry? Nope, they don’t ever cry when I leave. They’re probably glad to see me go.” Rachel grins, tousling Mara’s hair. Her daughter glances blankly up at her, then back down at her geometric Etch-A-Sketch masterpiece, absorbed in that.