Blood Red

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Hmm. Casey circles back around the corner to drive by her again, this time slowing the van to a crawl.

  Plugged into headphones, the girl is oblivious.

  Casey clenches the steering wheel, running through possible scenarios.

  A third golden opportunity in one morning shouldn’t be taken for granted, and yet . . .

  Mundy’s Landing is supposed to be off limits until it’s time. Time for Rowan.

  It would be so easy, though, to pull up at the curb just ahead of the girl and then pull her into the van when she passes. So easy, and so perfect . . .

  “Wow—­I thought I smelled bacon but I figured I must be dreaming!”

  Standing at the stove, Rowan turns to see Jake walking into the kitchen, black suit coat slung over one arm as he expertly knots his red necktie.

  “Meatloaf for dinner last night and bacon for breakfast? Are you trying to kill me?”

  She turns over a sizzling strip in the frying pan. “Eh, a little meat never killed anyone.”

  “Liar. But since you’re dishing up hot breakfasts, I might throw in a ­couple of eggs to go with—­wow,” he says again, spotting the second skillet. “What’s that?”

  “An omelet.” She gestures at the cutting board, still littered with the remnants of all the vegetables she’d chopped. “Scallions, red and green peppers, mushrooms, and cheddar.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “No occasion. I just thought you and Mick deserved a real breakfast for a change.”

  “Mick left.”

  “He left? What do you mean?”

  “While you were in the shower. He said he had to be at school early today. I told him I’d drive him but he had a ride.”

  “From who . . . m?” she amends. Noreen would say whom.

  “One of his friends, I guess.”

  “Which friend?” The good mood that settled over her last night, courtesy of her perfect sister’s perfectly reasonable explanation for the cookie drama, is rapidly evaporating. “You didn’t ask?”

  “You know me when it comes to questions.” Jake shrugs. “I never ask enough, do I?”

  No, and he and the kids are always saying that she asks too many. Which, she suspects, is precisely why Mick waited until she was in the shower to head to school.

  She lifts the bacon from the pan and presses it between layers of paper towels to blot the grease.

  “Did Mick eat before he left?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “His medicine upsets his stomach if he doesn’t eat.”

  “I’m sure he did, then.”

  “I doubt it. Did he say why he had to go early?”

  “I think he had to take a test.”

  “For which class? Never mind. I know you didn’t ask. I just hope it wasn’t math, because if it was, it was probably a makeup test for something he missed or failed and I guarantee he didn’t study last night.”

  She’d kept a plate of gravy-­smothered meatloaf and mashed potatoes warm for Mick, but when he got home after work, he said he was too tired to eat and was going straight to bed. When she looked in on him twenty minutes later, she found him tucked in and sound asleep.

  Remembering that incident, and how preoccupied he’d been yesterday when she dropped him off, she asks Jake, “Have you noticed that something seems to be bothering Mick?”

  Expecting a no, she gets a yes.

  “He was definitely quieter than usual over the weekend,” Jake reports. “Maybe he’s in love.”

  “That’s what I thought. I bet he’s meeting her before school. Did he seem . . . you know, giddy?”

  “He’s not Katie. He’s Mick. He seemed grumpy and gloomy. Definitely not giddy.”

  “Maybe it isn’t a girl, then.”

  “Or it is, and he knows she’s not interested.” Jake pours a cup of coffee and adds a warm-­up splash to the one she was sipping.

  “That doesn’t explain why he left early, unless it really was to take a test.”

  “It might be. Some ­people do tell the truth, you know.”

  Jolted by the words, even if he was just kidding, she busies herself dishing up omelets, bacon, and toast.

  Sitting at the granite counter, mindlessly eating the hearty breakfast she intended for Mick, she makes conversation with her husband, worries about her son, and wonders about Rick.

  He never did return her phone call last night. If he had, she was prepared to let it go directly into voice mail. It was a relief to put aside a week’s worth of toxic stress and get a good night’s sleep for the first time since the box of burnt cookies arrived.

  I don’t want to go back to that, she thinks as Jake puts their breakfast things into the sink and she steps over Doofus to look around for her car keys.

  Not on the counter, not in her bag, not in the door . . .

  “Here they are.” He puts them into her hand.

  “Where did you find them?”

  “Same place they’ve been every time you’ve lost them for the past twenty years. In the pocket of the coat you had on last night. You’re welcome, and I know, you have no idea what you’d do without me, and you love me. I love you, too. Go, you’re late. I’ll walk Doofus. See you tonight.”

  He kisses her on the cheek, and she’s out the door with a grateful grin, calling back, “Oh, and I’m making chicken Marsala for dinner.”

  “You’re on a roll, babe. I’ll be here.”

  Making the short drive through the village to the elementary school, Rowan drinks in the winter sun splashing through a canopy of bare branches against an ice blue sky and revisits her gratitude for the return of precious normalcy—­marital, maternal, domestic.

  Last night Jake opted for a nice cozy dinner in the kitchen with her over Monday Night Football. They made holiday plans, agreeing to stay home and invite Jake’s aunt, uncle, and cousins who still live in the area, to come for Christmas dinner. The only vaguely unpleasant moment—­for her, anyway—­was when Jake suggested that they include Noreen and her family.

  “I doubt they’ll come, but I’ll ask,” she said, though she has no intention of doing that. Her sister’s insight might have saved the day yesterday, but Rowan isn’t eager to face her lone confidante in the near future.

  Anyway, it’s a moot point: Noreen would never spend Christmas in Mundy’s Landing.

  Rowan recalls the day she called her sister to tell her that she and Jake were moving back here.

  “I have big news,” she said.

  Noreen laughed. “Are you serious? We’re doing it again?”

  “We’re doing what again?”

  “Being pregnant together!”

  The sisters had been simultaneously pregnant with Braden and Sean and then again with Mick and Shannon. So when Rowan called with “big news,” Noreen, who had just confirmed her fourth pregnancy the day before, was certain she was also having “an oops baby.”

  “You’re pregnant? Congratulations!” Rowan said.

  “You’re not?”

  “Are you kidding? No way. Three kids is enough for us. My news is that we’re moving back to Mundy’s Landing.”

  Silence, and then: “Why would you want to go back up there?”

  “Because it’s more affordable than Westchester, for one thing.”

  “A lot of places are more affordable. You don’t have to—­”

  “It’s not a terrorist target, either.” The September 11 attacks were recent enough for most ­people to consider that a valid argument. But not Noreen.

  “Come on, Rowan, you know the chances of—­”

  “Jake flies constantly on business. He won’t have to do that if he gets one of the sales jobs he’s interviewed for up there.”

  Noreen said nothing.

  “For me, Mundy’s Landing still feels like
home,” Rowan said simply. “Don’t try to talk me out of it, okay?”

  “I just feel that you, of all ­people, should move on and never look back.”

  “Why me ‘of all ­people’?”

  “Because you had a lot of problems when you were in Mundy’s Landing.”

  “I was a kid. Every kid has problems.”

  “Not like that. I didn’t. My kids won’t.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “I can be pretty sure of it. And at least they’re not living in a tiny, run-­down village in the middle of nowhere.” Talking over Rowan’s immediate protest, she added, “I’m sorry. But you must know that I have your best interests in mind.”

  “Really? Because I—­”

  “Come on, you have to admit that there are better places to choose to live.”

  “I can’t think of any.”

  “Whatever. Go ahead, move back there if you want to.”

  “We do want to, and we will, and gee, thanks for giving us permission.”

  They were snippy little girls again: one bossy, the other defiant.

  It wasn’t until a year later that Rowan confessed—­in a misguided attempt to clear the air—­the real reason she’d pushed for the move.

  She regretted telling her sister the moment it was out there and she saw the condemnation in her sister’s eyes. She should have known better, but . . .

  ­People can change. I changed. She didn’t.

  At school, she stops in the main office to pick up her mail and spends a few minutes chatting with the secretary, who found a large pink poinsettia on her desk this morning, courtesy of her Secret Santa.

  “Your Santa must be the custodian or a cafeteria worker if he managed to get into the building before you,” Rowan says, flipping through her mail.

  “No, there was a choral concert here last night, remember? The music and band teachers were here. One of them must have left it before they went home.”

  Those words echo in Rowan’s head when she arrives at her own classroom to find another gift bag hanging on the doorknob.

  This time, she doesn’t hesitate to look inside.

  Today’s Secret Santa gift is jewelry: a strikingly unusual brooch, shaped like a snowflake and intricately woven in delicate strands of red silken thread.

  What a difference a day makes, Bob Belinke thinks, once again at JFK airport.

  Unlike yesterday morning at this time, the sun is shining beyond the windows of the plane, and air traffic is moving briskly.

  As briskly as it can at one of the world’s busiest airports, anyway. The boarding process for his flight to Tampa was delayed by only ten minutes. They pushed back nearly forty-­five minutes ago and haven’t taken off yet, but the plane is creeping along the runway lineup and should be airborne soon. A ­couple of hours from now, he’ll have traded cold sunshine for warm.

  In his window seat, he holds his cell phone. Ordinarily, he turns it off and stows it when he boards a JetBlue flight, happy to let the seatback television entertain him for the duration. But today, having texted Rick when he was waiting at the gate, he’s keeping an eye out for a reply.

  At least he knows it wasn’t Rick who jumped in front of a subway train last night. Not long after the horrific possibility entered Bob’s mind, he was relieved when Rick texted an apology for missing their dinner and attributed it to “subway problems.”

  Bob was still in Union Square Park when it came through, and texted back that it wasn’t too late—­he could meet him anyway.

  That’s okay, Rick wrote. It’s been a long day. Headed home. See you next trip.

  That should have been the end of it, but the situation just isn’t sitting right with Bob. He slept restlessly and woke to find that his old friend was still on his mind. Their last verbal conversation and Rick’s avoidance of another has left him concerned. No, not concerned enough to put off his flight home—­but when he gets there, he’s going to invite Rick to come to Florida over the holidays. God knows a change of scenery would be good for him.

  If Rick had just responded to that last text, Bob would feel a hell of a lot better about leaving New York.

  Maybe I should call instead.

  About to dial, he’s interrupted by the captain’s announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve been cleared for takeoff.”

  Too late for phone calls.

  Bob turns off the phone, puts it into his pocket, and leans back in his seat, staring out the window as New York City falls away below.

  Operation Secret Santa isn’t going very well.

  Last night at the restaurant, Mick had anticipated that he’d be able to tell whether Brianna had received the gift he’d left at her house. He didn’t expect her to come in wearing the single Trinkettes bead on a chain around her neck or anything, but he thought she might at least give off some kind of . . . vibe. Like maybe she’d be wearing a mysterious smile and daydreaming, something like that.

  Instead, she was her regular old self, polite and attentive to the customers, polite but inattentive to Mick.

  Zach wasn’t his regular old self at all. He cold-­shouldered Mick, who instantly regretted the way he’d treated him. He’d tried to apologize, blaming his moodiness on being tired, and Zach said it was okay, but he didn’t act like it was.

  Meanwhile, Mick really was tired, having lost sleep over Brianna. Just before he drifted off last night he came up with a new twist on Operation Secret Santa. It’s complicated, but more efficient than following her around all day, and definitely preferable to cutting out of basketball practice to lurk around her house.

  So this morning, he waited until his mother was in the shower to tell his father he had to be at school early. Unlike Mom, Dad doesn’t ask questions or check to make sure he really does have a ride.

  Nor does he remind Mick to take his morning medicine—­which he remembered to do—­and to eat breakfast with it. Which he did not.

  Mick feels increasingly queasy as he walks down last stretch of Battlefield Road to school, but at least the sun is shining today. He arrives even before the morning driver’s ed kids, when the school is nearly deserted. The boiler system hasn’t yet kicked into overdrive in the main building, a three-­story brick structure that everyone refers to as the sweatbox.

  He scours the entire school for locales where he can plant clues for his Secret Santa treasure hunt—­not just the main building, which houses the administrative offices, the auditorium, and gym, but also the classrooms and science and computer labs in the one-­story, flat-­roofed modern wings that were built in the sixties when the village was still booming.

  Then, sitting at a table in the library alongside a bunch of kids he barely knows—­the types who get to school early to study—­he writes the notes in block letters.

  The first one, which he pushes through the vents on Brianna’s locker door, reads Look behind the Toys for Tots flyer on the lobby bulletin board.

  Behind the Toys for Tots flyer, he hides a second note instructing her to go to Mrs. Miller’s room and open The Great Gatsby to a certain page.

  Mrs. Miller is the English teacher Brianna has for second period English. Mick never bothered to read Gatsby when it was assigned last year, but he quickly flips through Mrs. Miller’s copy this morning and finds a romantic scene about a kiss. He imagines kissing Brianna the way the guy in the book kisses some girl named Daisy: “At his lips’ touch she blossomed like a flower and the incarnation was complete.”

  And so it goes, until he’s perfectly set the stage for Brianna’s discovery of his day two gift, another bead charm for the Trinkettes bracelet she’s going to get on Friday. He conceals it in the most secure spot he can find in the school on such short notice: behind the snack-­sized bags of prunes in the cafeteria. He does so quickly, his empty upset stomach assaulted by the smell of something saucy simmering in t
he adjacent kitchen, and grabs a banana on the way out.

  Steals a banana, actually. But there’s no one manning the register at this hour and he’s going to barf if he doesn’t eat something, and it’s not going to be prunes. Part of the new Wholesome & Hearty school lunch plan, they aren’t exactly a big hit with the student body. Nor are they the least bit romantic. But at least there’s zero chance that anyone is going to buy a bag with lunch today and stumble across the little gift box.

  It seems like a great plan, and he could probably pull it off, but there’s one major hitch.

  Brianna is absent from school today.

  The young woman who turned up dead—­and bald—­on Sunday morning was a twenty-­eight-year-­old aspiring songwriter named Julia Sexton.

  Sully had been sure of that even before her distraught parents, fresh off a plane from Saint Louis, identified her an hour ago at the morgue. According to her former roommate, who reported her missing last night, she’d had long red hair and a ladybug tattoo just beneath her right collarbone.

  Overnight, Sully and Stockton questioned the roommate, a ­couple of other friends, and an ex-­boyfriend. According to them, Julia didn’t have an enemy in the world, with the possible exception of her landlord, who wasn’t thrilled about her unpaid December rent. But he lives in California and has a pretty airtight alibi.

  “I was at the Lakers game Saturday night,” he told them. “If you don’t believe me, look at the game tape. You can see me right behind Leonardo DiCaprio in the courtside seats.”

  They looked. They saw. They were privately impressed.

  “I’d sell my soul to sit courtside at a Knicks game,” Barnes told Sully. “Think he has any connections at the Garden?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s plenty connected,” she said, and she was right. It didn’t take much detective work to link the landlord to organized crime, but they’d quickly dismissed any suspicion that Julia’s death had anything to do with that.

  They’re focusing their attention on identifying other possible suspects, starting with her inner circle. Her ex-boyfriend and her friends all seemed genuinely distraught and none had any motive that Sully and Stockton could uncover.