For Better or Worse

by Donna Huston Murray

  Chelsea and I waited our turn with the immediate family behind two elderly women in flowered hats and low-heeled shoes. They agreed that their Uber driver was “very nice” but he needed a haircut.

  While the old sweethearts jabbered, I observed Eric in between greetings. Hands comfortably linked together below relaxed arms, he rocked gently forward and back on shiny, perhaps new, brown dress shoes. His pale gray summer suit was appropriately somber, and his downcast eyes suggested peace or contentment. What jarred me was his smile. Eric Zumstein was very pleased about something.

  He could be thinking anything, of course, but the hint of self-satisfaction in his grin turned my imagination down a dark path. Was he secretly thrilled to have his grandmother gone? Was it possible Maisie’s doctor was right, that Eric had calculated this outcome and set it in motion?

  The grieving grandson returned before the next person leaned forward to speak, but my discomfort remained. To dispel it I shifted my attention to Eric’s brother, Wynn, and their parents, Ida and Abe.

  Abe caused one of the flowered-hats to stare and pout in response to her condolence, which piqued my curiosity about him.

  "How do you know my mother?" he challenged when we faced each other and forward progress stalled. A flabbier version of his sons with a smoker's gray complexion, he seemed oddly inhospitable for the circumstances, so I was slow to reply.

  Eric freed himself from a teary kisser just in time. "Ms. Barnes helped get Gram to the hospital when she fell, Dad. Her daughter, Chelsea, lives next door."

  Abe's scrutiny seemed to intensify.

  "You should thank her, Dad," Eric suggested, but that got a nod so curt I stepped aside to let the next person in.

  Chelsea finished grasping Ida's small hands with both of hers. "Sorry about your mother-in-law," she murmured. Casting her own critical glance toward Abe, she pecked Eric on the cheek, shook Eric’s brother’s hand, then joined me in my search for a seat.

  There were still plenty to be had; the gathering numbered a paltry fifteen including the undertaker. We chose the third row on the left, and behind us two septuagenarians gossiped about Maisie loudly enough for us to hear.

  "That's the grandson been living with her," said Number One.

  "Not married, then?" observed Number Two.

  "Out of work."

  "So that's how she got him to take care of her."

  "Nah, remember that rabbit-fur jacket Lonny bought her? Made him sneeze something awful, but she wore that thing till it was almost bald as me."

  "I'm not following you."

  "I'm just sayin' Maisie had a way, that's all. Whatever she wanted always came out sounding like somebody else's idea."

  The discussion ended with the appearance of a pseudo-clergyman in a black blazer who launched into a lengthy, and surprisingly cheery, homily that could have been about anyone. Then at last the mourners were permitted to stand and talk among themselves.

  My daughter and I bolted for our car.

  "Why did we do that?" Chelsea asked as she belted herself in.

  "Good question." I refrained from speeding out of the parking lot sheerly by willpower. "Lunch?"

  "You bet."

  We chose an upscale eatery with leather booths and an inventive menu. I ordered iced tea and an Asian salad festooned with green shrimp. Chopped cashews and wasabi peas added texture. In my opinion it needed a side of sandwich to qualify as lunch.

  "What was it with Abe?" Chelsea wondered aloud. "Did he think we were crashers or something?"

  Since I was busy with a cashew, I shrugged.

  "As if anybody would crash a funeral. What for? They didn't even offer water, and hey—it's eighty-eight degrees out there."

  Watching Chelsea wrestle some Romaine into her mouth, it occurred to me that my daughter hadn't attended many funerals. Perhaps only her father's, and I wished to high heaven she hadn’t had to attend that.

  I said, "Maybe Abe picked up my vibes."

  Chelsea stopped what she was doing. “What were you thinking?"

  "Tough man to have for a father."

  Chelsea nodded hard, poked her salad, then kept poking until something stuck on her fork. "So do you feel even sorrier for Eric now, or is it just me?"

  While I weighted my words, I waved our waiter over and begged for rolls.

  I concluded that I should not share my misgivings about Eric with Chelsea. Not yet anyhow. She liked the man, and suggesting he might be less than admirable before I had proof would not be well received. With luck, I might never have to say anything.

  However, I did agree that I felt sorry for him. "I can’t imagine an old grouch like Abe being thrilled with a son who sings.”

  Chelsea slapped the table so hard I jumped. "I have a plan. You want to hear it?"

  "Sure.”

  “Eric can sing in a chorus, but solo—forgetaboutit."

  “Okay...?”

  Eyes glittering, my daughter pushed her salad aside and leaned in. "Stage fright is a phobia, right? And since psychologists help people get over phobias, I thought maybe you could ask Uncle Will to help. What do you think?"

  What I thought was that most professionals hate being hit up for "freebies" from their friends, and why not? It’s presumptuous and rude. On the other hand, Will had willingly offered his expertise regarding Ronald Voight, so I only waffled a little.

  "Maybe he could steer Eric toward the right kind of therapy."

  "Yes!” Chelsea exclaimed. “So you'll ask him?"

  Aloud, I answered, "Of course."

  Chapter 32

  MIKE SWENSON checked his watch for the twentieth time.

  Eleven forty-three; worth the risk. He glanced briefly around the newsroom before making his way downstairs like a man on a mission.

  “Picking up a prescription for the kid,” he lied to the receptionist, tapping her desktop on his way past.

  “Yeah, sure,” Cathy muttered without glancing up.

  So focused on what had happened this morning, he was through the door and outside before her indifference registered. Was it only yesterday, she’d freaked out his wife with innuendoes about another woman? Thank goodness Susan had still seemed contrite this morning.

  If only Ginger Barnes could be handled so easily.

  “Mister Swenson,” she had greeted him first thing this morning; and, like the ring of a hammer, the name had reverberated in his head ever since. Mis-ter Swenson. Mister Swen-son. Mister Swenson, until he was positive the use of his new surname meant far more than hello.

  Anxious to do something about the babysitter’s mounting threat, he shoved his car into gear and joined the town’s weekday traffic. Chewing his lip and squinting into the sun, he drove without aim.

  Ginger Barnes must be neutralized. He knew that. But how and when? Confronting her before he was 100% certain she knew something risked arming her with information she could take straight to the police.

  Which meant all she had so far was unfounded suspicion, otherwise the police would have shown up already. He braked hard for a stop sign.

  Swenson, Swenson, Swenson! It had to mean something. His stomach churned with indecision. Perhaps if he monitored the woman’s behavior every chance he got, an answer would somehow become obvious.

  He eased forward with care. Realized he was almost at his own street. Idling at its mouth, he saw no sign of the babysitter’s red Acura. She must have taken Jack somewhere for lunch.

  Three possibilities came to mind, all within a block of each other.

  He turned his Chevy around and drove.

  ***

  "WHAT'S DIDI UP to today?" I asked Will after we settled Jack into his high chair at Kentucky Fried Chicken. Hello kisses had been exchanged and food collected.

  "I got chickin," Jack loudly announced to the nearest newcomers.

  "She’s teaching dance to inner-city kids this afternoon," Will answered. This was obviously a day he worked at home, because he wore a green golf shirt and a fancy sports watch coveted
by runners. "Before that, I don't know."

  Jack twisted in his high chair to address two teenagers. “I GOT CHICKIN!”

  Will’s lips twitched. "While it is always lovely to see you, Ginger dear,” he tilted his head toward the boy, “perhaps you should tell me why we’re here while you can.”

  "Thank you,” I replied as a blush infused my cheeks. Toddlers’ meltdowns did occur without warning; and Will and I had never met for lunch before. Me wanting to pick his brain was a given.

  Yet how was I to start?

  Behind his designer glasses Will’s hazel eyes patiently waited.

  I occupied Jack with his water cup before getting straight to the point. "Eric, Chelsea's neighbor from the birthday party, happens to be a phenomenal singer. I've heard him, and he really is amazing. Frank Sinatra, Josh Groban caliber."

  "Can't get any better."

  "Right. So Chelsea, The Music Teacher, wants to help him become rich and famous. Live the dream, and all that."

  "Does she?"

  "Does she what?"

  "Want to live the dream?"

  "No,” I answered, although the question gave me pause. "At least I don't think so. She likes teaching little kids and conducting." Plus she was married now and, I hoped, wanted kids of her own—eventually. Not that being rich and famous would prevent that...

  I waved my hand to erase the line of thought. "Mainly, I think she's excited about discovering an exceptional talent."

  Will tried to hide his bemused smile by saying, “But...?"

  “Fries!” Jack hollered, so I gave him a handful of mine.

  "Yes, but,” I continued, “Eric gets stage fright. Paralyzing stage fright. In a chorus where he can’t be singled out he's fine. Alone with his vocal coach, fine. On a stage by himself—can't do it."

  "I noticed he opted out of 'Happy Birthday' the other night, but I figured he was one of the many of us who can't sing."

  "Well, he can—and he can't. What can be done about it, Will? Anything?"

  "Oh, yes. Cognitive behavioral therapy, exposure therapy, virtual therapy, hypnosis."

  "All that?"

  "Hi! I got chickin!"

  "Yes, Jack. You got chicken all over you. Ketchup, too." I dipped a napkin in my water and began to clean the boy’s face and hands. Over my shoulder, I asked, "Which one do you think would work for Eric?"

  Will said he would have to interview Eric to figure that out. "Can you set it up?"

  I dropped the napkin along with my jaw. "I wasn't expecting you to personally..."

  Will pushed his paper plates aside. "Sounds like a worthy cause, and an interesting one."

  "Do you have time?"

  "For a friend of yours, of course."

  Was Eric a friend of mine? Until proven otherwise, yes. "Thanks," I told my best friend's husband, wondering yet again whether I should have come clean with my worries regarding Eric’s innocence.

  Sobered by the thought, I fell silent as Will and I made our way to the parking lot. I was carrying Jack and my shoulder bag, so Will walked me to my Acura and helped me settle the toddler in.

  As I turned back to say good-bye, I saw a man in a parked car overlooking the restaurant duck down out of sight.

  My immediate impression was of Mike Swenson, possibly because the car looked very much like the one Mike drove. Considering this wasn’t the first time I had gotten this impression, the coincidence gave me chills.

  “What’s wrong?” Will asked.

  I watched as the car pulled back, revealing only the passenger’s side. As it shot forward and disappeared, I remembered that Jack would hear my answer. “Nothing,” I told Will. “Just looked like someone I know.”

  “Someone you don’t like,” Will observed.

  I chuckled. “Very astute, Doctor. The guy I thought it was does give me the creeps, but he would be at work now, so no worries.”

  “We’re not all monsters, you know.”

  “Of course not,” I concurred. Then I thanked him for being such a good guy and gave him a proper hug.

  Chapter 33

  NO NERVOUS GIGGLES today. Susan tossed her shoulder bag onto a chair then slumped down after it. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought her eyes gleamed with tears.

  “Tough day?” I guessed.

  "Tough week.”

  I shut off the rerun of Law and Order I’d been watching. "Jack ought to sleep another hour. How about some coffee?" universal code for "Would you like to talk?" If I was getting too personal, Susan could decline or steer the conversation elsewhere.

  She agreed with a weak flip of her hand.

  From the kitchen I watched my employer's shoulders shake with silent sobs.

  "Cream and sugar?" I called to her, as if nothing was the matter.

  "No, thanks."

  When the coffee was done, I set a mug in front of her. Eyes still red from weeping, Susan took a sip then set it aside.

  "What's wrong?" I prompted gently.

  "Mike, of course."

  "Trouble at work?" If so, it had nothing to do with me. At least I hoped not.

  "Sort of. He's been missing a lot of time."

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah. I called the paper three times when he wasn't there. Somebody told me his boss has been complaining."

  "About him missing work?"

  An unhappy nod. "At first I thought it was another woman. It still might be. But maybe not. I just don't know."

  "It certainly isn't me," I asserted, at least not in that way.

  Susan managed a brief laugh. "I guess I knew that," she admitted. "I was just so upset. So confused."

  "No worries. It was sort of a flattering mistake. Crazy, but flattering."

  Susan smiled to herself then met my gaze. "You're okay, aren't you? I mean, you're really a good person."

  "I try."

  Her sigh was almost a yawn. "I sensed that right away. It was just that Mike..."

  "I thought that about you, too." I had, but there were other issues I questioned now, like why she agreed to adopt a child if she didn't especially like kids.

  I suggested that we start at the beginning. “Maybe we can figure this thing out.”

  "Oh, I don't know..."

  "Humor me." I set my own coffee next to Jack's puzzle of the United States, the one I'd bought to trace the family's moves. "Mike didn't want you to take the job, right?"

  "Right."

  "Help me understand why."

  Susan shrugged as she glanced around the sparse living room. "He just likes me home with Jack."

  "Is he really that old-fashioned?"

  "Yes," she finally answered, drawing out the word as if there were more.

  "But...?"

  Her eyelids lowered. “Mike’s ex-wife, ‘The Bitch.'” She enclosed the latter in finger quotes. “Mike doesn’t want her to find us, so he doesn't trust anybody he doesn't know."

  "Like me."

  When Susan began to protest, I lifted my hand to interrupt. “I get that he's trying to protect his family. But would you say he does it to a normal degree?”

  Susan had rubbed her eyes and smeared her mascara. Now she took a moment to clean up with a tissue before staring at me hard. "Abnormal?" she guessed, as if that was the expected answer.

  I assured her it wasn’t for me to judge, “...But you did say he gets a little paranoid now and then.”

  "Oh, yeah. Because of that bitch, Claire. He said she tried to stab him with a steak knife. Another time she poured hot soup on his lap—on purpose."

  "And now he owes her money."

  "Yes! And she doesn’t even need it! We’re just scraping by, but she'll have him arrested for back payments if she finds us. She hates him that much."

  "So that’s why you move around so much."

  "You know about that?"

  "Your dad told me."

  "Oh? Did he also tell you Mike changed our name?"

  I said, “No,” casually enough, but my imagination was showing me a police line-up with M
ike Swenson front and center.

  "Oh, yeah. After Jacksonville."

  Jacksonville had preceded Norristown, I recalled. And since missing people often rely on the help of relatives, the name change would make connecting them to Susan's father much more difficult.

  "Oh?" I remarked, but now my voice sounded tight. "What was your name before?"

  Susan made a sour face. "Cotaldi. Sue, Mike and Johnny Cotaldi."

  I opened my mouth to ask the damning question, “Do you think...?” but controlled the impulse before I spoke.

  Susan noticed. "What?" she pressed.

  "Nothing,” I fibbed through suddenly parched lips. "I should be getting home to my dog." That convenient excuse.

  Susan didn’t look any different; but even if she happened to be as clueless as she seemed, she might have heard my unspoken words in her head.

  Which meant that one evening, maybe in a week or a month, some night when the Swenson dinner-conversation stalls, the words might come out. "Guess what, honey. Our babysitter thinks you’re a crook.”

  That evening might also be tonight.

  Chapter 34

  KNOWING THAT the Swensons had formerly been the Cotaldis gave my suspicions their first foothold, and now I was jumpy-nervous about what else I would learn.

  Too impatient to cook, I ate cheese and fresh bread for dinner washed down with herbal tea. While the summer sky faded to its evening pastels, I supervised Fideaux’s last outing, then stalled a little longer getting ready for bed before finally settling down at Rip's old PC. Very soon the house would be black as a tunnel, but no matter. Spies and ghosts did their best work under cover of night.

  Did I really want to do this? I wondered one last time.

  Well, yes. Anybody can research anything these days, and unless they’re a suspect, a movie star, or a politician, chances are good their search will remain anonymous. In other words, if nothing scarier than a vindictive ex-wife showed up, I could forget about the Swensons’ personal business and continue to babysit Jack with a clear conscience. On the other hand, if Mike turned out to be a fugitive, for Jack’s sake, my own, and—as I optimistically believed—Susan’s too, I needed to know.