by Brenda Novak
“See that?” Gabrielle asked. “Allie likes pizza, too. What kind do you think we should order?”
“Cheese is always good,” Landon said.
“Everyone likes cheese,” Gabrielle agreed.
“But maybe we’d better add some of the big-people stuff for my dad.”
“You mean like onions and olives?”
He nodded solemnly.
“Sounds like a good idea.” Gabrielle pulled Landon’s discarded shoe away from Allie, who’d latched onto it as though she was about to eat it for lunch. “Now that we know what we’re going to have for dinner, maybe we should go make something for dessert, hmm?”
Landon’s face brightened. “Isn’t it too early for dessert?”
“It’s too early to eat dessert. But it’ll take a while to make something really good, and a little sample here and there won’t hurt anything. I’m thinking we should mix up a batch of my super-duper, double-delicious, chocolate-fudge brownies with lots of thick frosting. Or maybe some soft and gooey chocolate-chip cookies.” She tried to think of something else that might interest an eight-year-old. “We could shape them into giant hearts,” she suggested. “Your dad would probably like a cookie as big as his plate, don’t you think?”
“Yeah!” Landon sat up. “I saw one of those once. It had writing on it with blue and white frosting.”
“We could whip up some frosting and write on ours, too. I have some of those fancy decorator tips. I used them when I made Allie’s birthday cake.”
He glanced at Allie, a hint of his old animosity returning. “How old is she?”
“Just one.”
“She’s kinda chubby.”
“Yeah. Lots of babies are.”
He seemed to consider this. “And she doesn’t have very many teeth.”
“Not yet.”
“How does she eat?”
“She sort of gums her food until it falls apart.”
He wrinkled his nose. “That’s pretty gross. Can she talk?”
“She says a few words. Mama, dada, kitty.”
“I bet she can’t say my name.”
“We could try and teach her while we bake.”
“Okay!”
The eagerness in his voice gave Gabrielle hope. “So what should we write on your dad’s giant cookie?”
Landon screwed up his mouth as he thought. “Welcome home,” he volunteered, and any reserve Gabrielle had felt toward this little boy melted instantly. He missed his father so terribly. No wonder he’d been angry about being left behind.
“Perfect,” she said. “But we’d better get going because we don’t want to be baking cookies this afternoon.”
“Why not?” he asked, scooting to the edge of the bed.
“I thought we could go swimming when it gets really hot.” She hesitated as though she felt some doubt. “That is, if you know how to swim.”
“I know how to swim,” he quickly assured her. “I love to swim.”
He was close enough that Allie could reach him now, and she happily patted his leg. Gabrielle thought he might lapse into a scowl or push her little hand away, but he didn’t. “Does Allie know how to swim?” he asked, watching her.
“Not yet,” Gabrielle said. “But she has a life jacket and we can keep an eye on her, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yeah. That’s easy.”
“Great. So what are we waiting for?” Gabrielle headed toward the kitchen, hoping Landon would follow, and she wasn’t disappointed.
“Come on, Baby,” she heard him say to Allie. “Hey, can you say my name? Lan—don. L..a..n..d..o..n,” he repeated stretching it out.
“Na, na,” Allie responded.
“No, Landon,” he corrected, and Gabrielle chuckled under her breath. She’d made progress with Tucker’s son, made him happy for the moment. But all the cookies and pizza in the world weren’t going to compensate him if his father didn’t return tonight.
There wasn’t anything that could compensate her, either.
TUCKER SAT on a green wooden picnic table in the corner of the park, shielded from the hot glare of the afternoon sun by the dappled shade of a paloverde. He was alone. It was midafternoon on a Saturday, but no one else was fool-hardy enough to abandon air conditioning for one-hundred-and-thirteen-degree weather. Located on a small corner lot tucked into a lower-middle-class neighborhood on the outskirts of Chandler, this park had only three swings, a slide that looked hot enough to scorch and nothing else except some bermuda grass, the only grass hearty enough to withstand the Arizona heat.
He’d expected a manila envelope to be waiting for him at Nordstrom and had found a small box instead. His father had enclosed a couple of thousand dollars in cash, which would definitely help, and his mother had made him a lunch that included several of her homemade chocolate-chip cookies. He ate one now as he considered opening the third item in the box—an envelope that would no doubt contain the photographs his father had mentioned on the phone.
Tucker had no idea who or what they were all about, and was curious to find out. Yet he felt a strange reluctance. What other surprises awaited him? What other setbacks? Never in a million years would he have guessed the twists and turns his life would take in recent years. He’d been raised by good parents, known love. He’d done well in school, excelled in sports and done exceptionally well in his short professional career. Being convicted of a crime was something that happened to other men, guilty men.
Yet, here he was, hiding from the law. And he’d have to keep hiding unless he found something that would give the police reason to reexamine the circumstances surrounding his wife’s murder.
His father’s note said Tom had found the pictures shoved beneath a mattress at the cabin he and Robert used to own. They’d lent it to him one weekend before Andrea disappeared. “He hid them in the attic because he didn’t want you hurt,” his father wrote, which didn’t bode well.
Taking a deep breath, he tore the seal and withdrew a stack of Polaroid snapshots. It was Christmas, just three months before Andrea died. Tucker recognized the dress his wife was wearing, the new coat he’d bought Landon. They’d decided to spend the holidays at their cabin with friends who lived next door to them in the valley—Sean and Sydney Marshall, and their two young daughters. Tucker had hoped that inviting the Marshalls might help keep the peace in his own family long enough that he could reestablish some common ground with Andrea.
But the whole vacation had been a disaster. Andrea had remained aloof and uncommunicative for the better part of the first day and then provoked an argument that night about selling their house and building something larger. Tucker saw no point in a bigger home when they practically lived in a mausoleum already. He wanted to stay in a neighborhood that was family-friendly, where Landon could pal around with the kids on his block, not reside behind a ten-foot gate with guard dogs and security. Tucker wanted to add to their family, too, which entered the argument several times.
As usual Andrea refused. She claimed she wouldn’t have another child until he gave up his “little girlfriends.” Only he’d never had any girlfriends. Andrea was the one who’d been unfaithful to him. And these pictures were proof.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and shuffled quickly through the stack. The first few were shots of both families at dinner, opening presents, playing in the snow. Those toward the bottom showed Sean Marshall in various stages of undress and obvious sexual arousal. One depicted Andrea, completely nude, wantonly posing for the camera. Although Sean wasn’t in this particular picture, Tucker knew he was behind the lens. Andrea was lying on his discarded pants.
The Marshalls had split up the following summer. Tucker hadn’t given their divorce much thought because he’d been behind bars by then, neck-deep in his own trouble. But now he knew why two people who’d once seemed happy together, much happier than he and Andrea, had ended up with a broken marriage. The sad thing was, he knew Andrea had never really cared for Sean.
&n
bsp; The private investigator he’d hired prior to Andrea’s death had provided proof of affairs with at least two other men during that same period, both of whom worked out at the gym where she did aerobics. Sean looked like George from “Seinfeld” and simply wasn’t her type. Andrea had often told Tucker she couldn’t imagine what Sydney ever saw in her couch potato of a husband. Knowing Andrea, she’d come on to Sean just to see if she could tempt him away from his marriage vows, to prove that she was just as irresistible as she’d always been.
But having sex with Sean at the cabin…That was pretty daring, even for Andrea. Tucker knew he and Sydney must have been somewhere nearby. Had this happened when they were outside building a snowman with the kids, or running to the grocery store? Sydney had needed syrup for the waffles she wanted to make for breakfast, and Tucker had offered to drive her, since he had a four-wheel drive and was more familiar with the area. They’d taken the children to let them choose treats and to give them a break from the confined space, but Andrea and Sean had stayed behind. Andrea had said she needed to shower; Sean had been reading the paper. Tucker had never considered they might have an affair. He’d never sensed any threat coming from that direction. But by then he’d been so disappointed in Andrea, he hadn’t really cared.
He didn’t care now. He felt sort of sorry for Sean, which was probably a pretty strange reaction under the circumstances. But his neighbor had lost a good wife for a quick, meaningless fling with Andrea.
“Dumb bastard,” Tucker muttered. He shoved the pictures back into the envelope and stood as the wave of sadness quickly disappeared in favor of new hope. It had been so long since he’d had good news, so long since he’d had any reason to believe he’d ever find Andrea’s murderer. The two men she’d been seeing from the gym had had sound alibis; Tucker’s investigator had confirmed them. But no one had paid much attention to where Sean Marshall was that night. The police had checked with all the neighbors, of course, to record what they’d seen or heard while the crime was taking place.
If Tucker remembered right, Sean said he’d gotten home late and heard nothing. But he typically left work at five o’clock and his whereabouts hadn’t been verified by anyone. Maybe he was home the whole time and had cornered Andrea in the garage after she and Tucker had had their argument and Tucker stormed off. Who could say? Sean certainly didn’t strike Tucker as the kind of man who would harm a woman, let alone beat Andrea to death. He couldn’t see his neighbor losing his temper to such a degree. Neither could he picture Sean dragging off her body and hiding it so well no one would ever find it. Sean Marshall had always been soft, easygoing and only moderately driven, even in his work as an accountant.
But Lord knew, Andrea had a way of bringing out the worst in a man.
THE HUSHED QUIET felt odd as Tucker let himself into Sean Marshall’s backyard from the alley behind and stood gazing over the fence at the house he used to own. A little more than two years ago, the Marshall girls would’ve been splashing in his and Andrea’s pool along with Landon, while Sydney and Andrea watched from chaises along the side. Tucker had often arrived home from work to find both women slathered in suntan lotion and nursing glasses of iced tea, laughing as they swapped stories about anything from an unfriendly grocery checker to a new stair-stepper at the gym. He would tease them about working too hard; they’d beg him to stay home for a few days and see what being a mother was really like. Then he’d go inside and change clothes while they got up and dried off the kids. Sometimes Sydney and the girls would stay for dinner and Sean would join them. Tucker would throw steaks or burgers on the barbecue, the women would make salads, Jell-O, maybe corn on the cob, the kids would break out the cookies and soda. Those were good times…really good.
Awash with bittersweet memories, Tucker closed his eyes. He could almost hear Andrea’s laugh. Full-bodied and warm, it was infectious. She’d thrived on company, on attention; had always welcomed a party. But toward the end, she hadn’t been interested in their usual friends and hadn’t laughed much at all.
What they’d once shared as husband and wife no longer seemed relevant to this strange, quiet place that looked so much the same yet felt so different.
Tucker sighed and scanned the yard he used to mow once a week. He’d sold that yard, and the house that went with it, while he was awaiting trial eighteen months ago. He hadn’t wanted to bring Landon back to the place where Andrea had died, hadn’t wanted to see it again himself. Yet he felt a sort of morbid fascination with it now, probably because of the way life had gone on without him. On the heels of their tragedy, new people had moved into their home and, to these newcomers, his loss meant nothing. They were busy living, working and raising children of their own. Someone still trimmed the bushes; someone still mowed the lawn. The house and yard looked just as good now as when he’d lived there.
He couldn’t say the same about Sean’s place. Turning, Tucker surveyed the mess. Instead of the cut green grass and flowers that had once flourished, weeds choked most of the landscape. Trash littered the patio, mostly Coke cans and cigarette butts, though to Tucker’s knowledge Sean had never smoked. The Marshalls had owned a dog when Tucker lived next door, but there wasn’t any sign of Jasper now. Only a small inflatable wading pool, punctured and filthy, reminded him of the children who’d once played with his son. If not for the fact that the new phone book still listed Sean at this address, Tucker might have thought he’d moved.
After crossing through the weeds of Sean’s backyard, Tucker pressed his nose to the glass of the kitchen window. Inside looked no better than out. Dishes were piled high on the counters, encrusted with food, and the furniture Sydney had so lovingly purchased was mostly gone. The house appeared empty, hollow, much older than Tucker remembered. Gone was the expensive leather couch he’d helped the Marshalls unload that last Christmas. In its place sat a beige cloth sofa that had probably been bought secondhand, and a cheap side chair. Of the original furniture, only Sean’s recliner remained, and the television.
Evidently, Tucker’s old neighbor had lost more than his wife and children in the divorce. He’d lost his whole way of life.
Tucker waited and watched for a few minutes, but there was no movement in the house and no sound. Sean was obviously gone. Now was the perfect time to go inside and take a look around, but the back door was locked. If Sean’s behavior had stayed true to form, Tucker knew there’d be a spare key in the planter off the front porch, but he wasn’t very keen on going where the neighbors might see him. He considered breaking a window instead, then changed his mind and slipped through the side yard. Quiet as it was this afternoon, he doubted he’d run into anybody.
The front yard was some improvement over the back. An attempt had been made to mow the grass, but big brown spots testified to a serious sprinkler problem, and the flowers that had once graced the redwood planters were all dead. Only their stiff, dried carcasses remained—another relic of better days.
Tucker ignored the dead flowers and the steady hum of electricity shooting through the wires along the street and began searching the planter for a key, which he found almost immediately.
“Maybe some things haven’t changed,” he muttered, remembering the many times he’d used the Marshall’s spare key to water plants or take mail inside when they were out of town.
As he unlocked the door and let himself in, it occurred to him that what he was doing was illegal. He was breaking the law again—but he didn’t care. He wasn’t returning to custody, not if he could help it. Still, the irony of going to prison an innocent man and coming out a criminal didn’t escape him.
The house smelled of eggs and old tennis shoes, but the air-conditioning provided a welcome respite from the heat and Tucker breathed a sigh of relief to think he was now inside, where there was much less chance of being seen. He locked the front door and, on a whim, pocketed the key. Then he ignored the kitchen and living room and went straight to the bedrooms. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. The police had never located An
drea’s body. Tucker was sure her remains could have exonerated him at one time, but after two years, he knew chances were slim they’d ever be found—or that there’d be anything left in the way of evidence even if they were.
In any case, he wasn’t going to find Andrea’s body in Sean’s house. He was more hopeful he’d find a letter, additional photos or an article of clothing that might link Sean to the night of the murder. He was searching for a needle in the proverbial haystack, but he had to start somewhere.
Two of the four bedrooms were empty. The bedroom closest to the master looked as though it had been converted into an office. An old wooden desk sat in the middle of the floor, buried beneath loose papers and surrounded by boxes of files. The closet stocked reams of paper, printer cartridges, phone books, mailing labels and containers of storage disks—nothing exciting, nothing that linked Sean to the murder.
He moved to the master bedroom and began to sort through Sean’s bureau. The top drawer was filled with junk: keys, new shoelaces, a sewing kit, random buttons, a small screwdriver, some old bills, receipts and wadded-up letters. Tucker flattened out the letters, but none of them were written in Andrea’s hand. Only one of them was signed but, judging by the content, they were all from Sydney.
Dear Sean,
Why won’t you return my calls? I’m still the mother of your children, you know. What about them? They ask about you all the time, cry for their daddy. I’ve told them you’re busy, that you need to figure out a few things. But you really need to start coming around more. I know you blame me for everything, but you’re the one who’s to blame, Sean. You know that, don’t you? Anyway, it’s okay. I’m ready to forgive you. We can still work things out. We just need to forget the past and move on. We were both acting crazy, but that’s all over now, right?
Call me.
