Scared to Death

by Wendy Corsi Staub

“Okay,” Renny whispers, then, with a faint smile, “I mean, okay. Why can’t I see out that window?” She points to a large opaque pane in the wall of the hallway just beyond the foyer.

  “Oh, that’s actually an airshaft.” Remembering how her mother explained it to her when she was little, Elsa tells Renny, “It’s like a vertical alley that comes all the way up through the middle of the building from the ground to the sky. On hot days, back before there was air conditioning, people would open these panels and let the fresh air in.”

  “Can I see?”

  “Sure…if it still works.” It’s been years since Elsa opened the airshaft. Maman hasn’t used it in decades, squeamishly convinced roaches would crawl in from other apartments.

  Surprisingly, it takes little more than a tug to raise the window.

  “It’s like a tunnel,” Renny comments, standing on her tiptoes to peer into the shadowy column.

  “Exactly. When I was your age, there weren’t many kids in the building. I always wished I had a friend living in one of the other apartments on the airshaft, so we could sneak back and forth along the ledges.”

  “That would be dangerous! What if you fell all the way down?”

  “Ouch!” Elsa says lightly, and closes the airshaft.

  As they move on down the hall, Renny asks, “What’s behind all those doors?”

  “A bathroom and a bunch of closets.” This place has more storage than the Cavalons have had in any house they’ve ever lived in. Maman needs it, too, for storing half a century’s couture and modeling portfolios.

  Leading Renny to the kitchen, Elsa can’t help but note the utter absence of oohs and aahs and ooh-la-las Maman would have expected if she herself were escorting a first-time guest into her home. Lacking any frame of reference, Renny can’t possibly grasp the fabulousness of Maman’s quarters in comparison to the traditional cookie-cutter Manhattan apartment.

  At two thousand square feet, it feels more like a house, really, with its unique oval living room, ornate moldings, antique hardware, and turn-of-the-century cabinetry. Twelve-foot ceilings and tall French windows make it feel extra-spacious—very important for a small, claustrophobic houseguest. Beyond many of the windows are narrow Juliet balconies with lacy ironwork railings.

  The kitchen is outfitted with professional-quality appliances, including a custom-designed Gaggenau fridge and a built-to-order La Cornue range. A collection of shiny Mauviel copper cookware hangs from an overhead rack, and the granite countertop holds a block of Michel Bras chef’s knives—none of which, Elsa suspects, has ever been used.

  What a waste of a great kitchen.

  She opens a cabinet and finds a juice glass. Baccarat, of course.

  Behind her, Renny announces, “I don’t like it here.”

  “Why not?”

  “I like regular square rooms.”

  Elsa can’t help but smile.

  “I like home.”

  Elsa’s smile promptly fades. “I know you do. But…”

  But home is supposed to be a haven, and ours has been violated.

  “This place is too fancy, right?” she asks Renny, who shrugs.

  Elsa herself isn’t particularly fond of the elegant Louis XIV decor: velvet and damask upholstery and draperies, fringe and tassels galore, marble and gilded wood, scrollwork and marquetry…

  Growing up in a showplace that rivaled the Palace of Versailles, Elsa used to dream of the kind of home that was comfortable and lived-in.

  Now she has it, and she’ll take it any day over this—aging Sears appliances and all.

  I like home, too, Renny. I know you wish we were there right now, and so do I.

  “…and the girls really want to stay on the Upper West Side”—Marin toys with the braided piping on a throw pillow—“but I’d almost prefer to start over in a new neighborhood.”

  Lauren frowns. “You mean the Upper East Side, don’t you?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You live on the Upper East Side, right?”

  “Right.” Marin lets go of the pillow and picks up the mug of coffee she’s been nursing. It’s good coffee—Lauren ground fresh beans to make it—yet she’s found herself forcing it down like bitter medicine.

  “You said Upper West.”

  She blinks and looks up to see Lauren watching her, looking concerned.

  “Did I? I meant to say Upper East. I guess I’m distracted.”

  She guesses? The truth is, all afternoon, she’s been spacey, her mind a million miles away.

  She shouldn’t have come here.

  She keeps thinking about what happened yesterday, with the rat, and the text message…

  Maybe she should just come right out and tell Lauren about it. Maybe Lauren will convince her that it was just a prank, or a fluke, or a mistake.

  That was nothing, Mrs. Quinn. Stay tuned.

  It doesn’t sound like a mistake.

  But kids can be cruel, and she knows Caroline’s classmates have been giving her a hard time all year. There’s no reason to think there’s anything more to what happened than some stupid kids with too much time on their hands now that summer vacation is here.

  She should go. She needs to get home, make sure the girls are okay.

  Earlier, she called to check in on them, and of course, no one answered the home phone. Annie must have been on her cell, because it went straight to voice mail, and Caroline didn’t pick up hers. No surprise there.

  Groggy as she was when Marin left this morning, Caroline still managed to express resentment at having to spend the day at home with Annie.

  They’ve probably been making each other miserable.

  Yes, Marin definitely has to get back there.

  Before she can make a move, there’s a jangling of dog tags from Chauncey, curled at Lauren’s feet. Head cocked, he looks expectantly toward the foyer.

  A split second later, the front door opens.

  Lauren glances at her watch. “That must be Lucy.”

  “Oh…I should get going. I don’t want to get stuck in rush hour traffic.”

  Marin carefully sets her mug on a coaster and prepares to make a speedy exit, hoping Lauren doesn’t point out that the bulk of the traffic will be coming out of the city, not headed into it.

  “Mom? Whose car is that out front?” a female voice calls from the foyer.

  Lauren’s daughter arrives in the doorway a moment later, and it’s clear from the look on her face that she immediately recognizes Marin.

  “Lucy…” Lauren seems apprehensive. “This is Mrs. Quinn. She’s…”

  She’s the woman whose husband had you kidnapped and nearly killed, and—

  And why, oh why, did Marin come here today? This was such a stupid idea. Poor Lucy. Poor Lauren.

  Poor me.

  “She’s a friend of mine,” Lauren concludes innocuously.

  “Hi, Lucy.” Marin does her best to offer a friendly smile and holds her breath, unsure she can hold up if Lucy says something hurtful. Caroline certainly would, under the circumstances.

  But Lucy smiles and holds out her hand to Marin. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, too,” Marin manages to say around the sudden lump in her throat, gratefully shaking Lucy’s hand.

  “How’d your math final go?” Lauren asks.

  “Oh, you know…”

  “Mmm, actually, I don’t know, or I wouldn’t have asked.”

  “I would say that it went as well as could be expected,” Lucy replies, with all the confidence of a surgeon delivering dubious news.

  Lauren points to the stairway. “Then get moving. Go on up and study for the physics final.”

  “It’s not until Monday. I have all weekend to study.”

  “Dad’s mother is coming, remember?”

  “Oh. Right.” Clearly, Lucy isn’t thrilled by the prospect of meeting her grandmother for the first time. “Well, can’t I have, like, two seconds to decompress, Mom?”

  “Sure. One, two…g
o.”

  Lucy goes, with a groan.

  Lauren looks at Marin. “It’s never easy.”

  “No,” Marin agrees with a faint smile, “it never is. Listen, I really need to get going, so…”

  “Wait, Marin, before you do…is everything okay?”

  Marin shifts her weight on the sofa. “Everything is…” Not okay. That would be a ridiculous claim, and Lauren knows it.

  She settles on, “Everything is as well as can be expected.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Should I tell her about the e-mail, and the rat?

  Will she think I’m crazy and paranoid if I do?

  Or, even worse, will she think that Caroline is crazy and paranoid?

  “I’m positive, Lauren. I’m hanging in there. We all are. But thanks for asking.” She stands up, her car keys already in hand.

  “Wait, I know you didn’t just come here to drink coffee and check out my new kitchen. I know something’s bugging you…and I think I know what it is.”

  Marin raises an eyebrow. “I doubt it…but try me.”

  Meg Warren’s car is sorely in need of some routine maintenance—not that she’ll be needing it anymore, but still…

  It’s a wonder the thing even made it to New York City, what with the horrible creaking beneath the pedals every time the steering wheel makes the slightest turn.

  Oh well. This Bronx neighborhood is the end of the road. Other than being a great place to abandon a stolen car, the area has very little going for it. But at least it’s right off the highway, and there’s a subway station with a southbound express train.

  Oh, and one more perk: On this rainy day, the streets are teeming with furtive-looking, backpack-carrying young people wearing baggy jeans and hoodies. It’s easy to blend into the crowd here and on the downtown Number Five train.

  It won’t be the same in Manhattan, though. Rush hour will be under way on this summer Friday; well-dressed office workers will have begun their mad dash toward home. That means it’ll be a good idea to slip into the bathroom at Grand Central Terminal and swap out the black hoodie and baggy jeans for something more suitable for midtown.

  And after that…East Side, to Marin, or West Side, to Elsa?

  Guess I’ll just have to start walking uptown and see which way the wind blows.

  Elsa looks at her watch.

  Does she dare call Brett at the office again? She’d spoken to him when they first arrived at Penn Station, just before hailing a cab to take them uptown. The conversation was harried, and she could tell he wasn’t alone in the room on his end. Maybe he is now.

  She settles Renny at the table with the fresh orange juice and organic granola cookies they picked up at the Fairway.

  “Wait, Mommy, where are you going?” Renny protests as Elsa starts for the hallway, fishing her cell phone from her bag.

  “Just into the bedroom to…to make sure there are clean sheets on the beds. I’ll be right back.”

  “Can I watch TV?” Renny gestures at the flat screen mounted in the custom cabinetry.

  There are probably a dozen good reasons not to park her daughter in front of the television again, but Elsa decides they’re far outweighed by the need for some semblance of familiarity to put her at ease.

  As the silence gives way to the reassuring cartoon commotion, even she finds herself breathing a little easier.

  “Okay, holler if you need me.”

  Fixated on the screen, Renny barely nods.

  In her childhood bedroom, Elsa sits on the white Matelasse coverlet—something she’d never been allowed to do as a girl—and takes out her phone.

  Uh-oh—she’s down to one battery bar. Did she even remember to pack her charger? She thought of it, amid the scramble to get out of the house—but did she actually do it?

  She dials Brett’s cell phone, promising herself she’ll make it a quick call, then check her bag for her charger. If it’s not here, she’s going to have to go buy one.

  He picks up on the first ring. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. No.” The sound of his voice makes her homesick. “I mean, nothing happened to us…I just want this to be over. It’s crazy.”

  There’s a pause before he says, “I know,” and she wonders if he’s not alone.

  “Did you hear from Mike yet?”

  “No. I’ve left him a couple of messages now, but he hasn’t called back.”

  “That isn’t like him, Brett.”

  “I know.”

  “When you left those messages for him, did you say where Renny and I were going?”

  “No!”

  “I was just worried you might have left it on his voice mail, or…”

  “All I told him was to call me, and that it was important.” Brett clears his throat. “Listen, I’m in the middle of something, so…”

  Oh. Okay, she gets it. “Is someone right there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Call me when you get home.”

  “I will.”

  As she hangs up, frustrated, her gaze falls on an antique Mardi Gras eye mask sitting on top of a gilded bombé chest across the room. She remembers being severely reprimanded at Renny’s age for parading around wearing it. Like so many of Maman’s objets d’art, the mask was meant to be admired, not touched.

  Back in the kitchen, she finds Renny staring bleakly off into space, cartoon gone to commercials, cookies and juice untouched.

  Time for a new distraction. “Hey, Renny, want to see my old bedroom? I had a collection of dolls when I was your age, and they’re still here.”

  “Can I play with them?”

  “Definitely,” Elsa tells her with a touch of smug satisfaction. When she herself was young, Maman insisted on keeping the antique Jumeau porcelain dolls displayed well out of her reach, behind protective glass.

  She leads Renny back down the hall to her room and shows her the dolls. “What do you think? Should we take them out and play with them?”

  “I don’t know…maybe later.”

  “I guess Barbies would probably be more fun, huh?”

  “Pro’ly.”

  Renny is equally unenthusiastic when Elsa points out the row of first edition leather-bound storybooks in her bookcase, offering to read to her.

  “Maybe later.” She wanders across the room.

  Watching her stop abruptly at the bombé chest, Elsa sees that she’s staring at the Mardi Gras mask. She can’t recall ever having mentioned that she herself got into trouble once for touching the mask, but she must have, because her daughter takes a wary step back, dark eyes troubled.

  “Don’t worry, Renny. You can touch it if you want to.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The monster.”

  “What?” Startled, Elsa looks around. The room is empty, and Renny is fixated on the mask.

  “Renny? What monster?”

  “The one in my room, back at home.” She shudders, and Elsa feels sick inside. “He had on a mask.”

  “Are you sure? You mean it covered his eyes?”

  “No, it covered his whole face. Like a scary monster on Halloween.”

  “You mean he was wearing a rubber mask?”

  Renny nods vehemently.

  Dear God. It never occurred to Elsa that the intruder really was masquerading as a monster.

  “I’m afraid, Mommy.”

  “Don’t be afraid.” The words are automatic, but it’s such a stupid thing to say. Don’t be afraid?

  “You are, and so is Daddy.” As if sensing that Elsa is about to deny it, Renny adds, “I heard you talking.”

  Oh no. How much did she hear? There’s no use denying anything now. Renny’s a smart kid. Smarter, perhaps, than Elsa even suspected.

  “Tell me about the monster, Renny. What was he wearing?”

  “A mask.”

  “What else?”

  “A jacket.” Renny responds so readily that Elsa realizes the vivid image is fresh in her mind, po
or little thing.

  She wants more than anything to drop the subject, but now that it’s out in the open, she has to get as much information as possible. She has to let Brett know, and Mike, too, as soon as they reach him.

  “What kind of jacket was he wearing?”

  “The kind with a zipper and a hood. It was black.”

  “Did you see his hair?”

  “No. The hood was up.”

  “Was he tall or short?”

  “Tall.”

  That doesn’t help. Anyone would seem tall, looming over a child in the dead of night.

  And anyone who would do such a thing really is a sick, twisted monster.

  Last October, around Halloween, Jeremy found his way from Groton back to Nottingshire, in the Boston suburbs.

  Thanks to all the news accounts that recapped his kidnapping, he knew where he’d lived—not just the town, but the street as well. He was pretty sure that if he drove along Twin Ponds Lane, he’d recognize the two-story house where he’d lived with the Cavalons.

  He didn’t know why it seemed so important to return to the scene of the crime, but it was all he could think about.

  He drove around and around Nottingshire that day, checking street signs, looking for landmarks. He found a few that seemed familiar: a big blue water tower, a redbrick library, a Shell gas station.

  The gas station had—and still has—an attached mini-mart where Elsa once bought Jeremy an ice cream Drumstick on a hot summer day. She told him it wouldn’t drip out the bottom of the cone because the point was plugged with a chunk of fudge.

  “I always loved to eat my way down to it,” she told him. “It was like a bonus treat at the end.”

  Intrigued, Jeremy couldn’t wait; he bit off the bottom of the cone first. Somehow, it didn’t taste as good as he’d expected. He spit it out on the ground, dismayed.

  When they went to get back into the car, Elsa saw the melted ice cream dripping all over his hands and realized what he’d done.

  He’d expected her to get angry. But she didn’t. She just seemed disappointed that he hadn’t saved the fudge for last the way she used to, and that he hadn’t even liked it. Her disappointment made him feel worse, probably, than he would have if she’d yelled at him for making a mess.

  It was so long ago, it’s pretty amazing that he even remembers the incident—especially since he didn’t even remember her until recently.