Snatched

by Pamela Burford

  “I’m Anne Marie.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Anne Marie.” Ethel tried in vain to edge around her. “I have to go now.”

  “He told me about you. He didn’t mean to, he thought I already knew. He thought you knew about me, too.”

  Ethel didn’t like the way Anne Marie was looking at her. “Listen, I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but this conversation is over.”

  “It hasn’t even begun.” Anne Marie took hold of Ethel’s arm; she was surprisingly strong. “Into the house, Lucy. We have some things to discuss.”

  “Ohhh!” Ethel brightened. “You think I’m Lucy. I’m Lucy’s sister. I don’t think she’s home right now, but I’ll tell her you stopped by.”

  “Cut the crap.” Anne Marie drew a wallet-size photo from her purse and showed it to Ethel, who recognized a shot of her sister taken during the Narbys’ last New Year’s Day open house. “I know it’s you.”

  “We’re twins,” Ethel insisted. “Identical. My name is Ethel.”

  “Now I know you’re lying.” Anne Marie half-dragged her to the side door. “Like anyone would name their kids Lucy and Ethel.” She produced a small black pistol from her coat pocket.

  “Oh my God. Is that thing real?”

  “I am not going to tell you again to unlock that door.”

  “I don’t have the key.”

  “To your own house?” She aimed the gun at Ethel’s heart.

  “Listen. Just tell me what you want to talk to my sis—what you want to talk about. Maybe I can, you know, clear up some misunderstanding.”

  Very slowly and clearly Anne Marie said, “Your husband, Frank Narby, is a bigamist. He’s married to both of us.”

  Okay, the woman was certifiable. She must be one of those delusional stalkers, only instead of latching on to a movie star, she fantasized about being married to the national sales manager of a major snack-foods company.

  Anne Marie’s lips thinned. “You don’t believe me.”

  “I didn’t say that.” Ethel kept a wary eye on the gun.

  “I don’t know much,” Anne Marie said, “except you decided to divorce him after twenty years, and he’s determined to stay legally married to you. Well, to both of us, but to you in name only. That’s why I’m here, to make sure you go through with the divorce, no matter what he thinks he wants.”

  “Let me see if I have this straight,” Ethel said. “You want to make sure I . . .”

  “Divorce my husband. Plus, you keep your mouth shut about all this. Not one peep. Not to the cops, not to the media, not to KrunchWorks. No one. Frank may have made a mistake, but there’s no better dad. We have five kids.” She patted her belly. “Six in July. He loves them and they love him, and I’m not about to let anything or anyone mess with my family. You listening, Lucy?” She poked Ethel with the barrel of the gun.

  “I’m listening, I’m listening. No better dad. No messing with your family.”

  “You know, I wasn’t so sure you’d be here. Because of something else Frank told me.” Anne Marie cocked her head. “He said you were kidnapped?”

  Ethel’s heart kicked so hard, she nearly toppled.

  “By someone named Will?” Anne Marie continued. “Frank seems to think I had something to do with it.”

  Ethel’s mind reeled. How could this random stranger, this nut job, know about Will Kitchen and the fake kidnapping Ethel had arranged for her sister? That stupid practical joke.

  Practical joke. Ethel looked at Anne Marie with a fresh eye. Wait just a goldarned minute.

  “I get it.” Ethel raised her palms, chuckling. “I get it, Anne Marie. Is that your real name? This was good. You were good.” She pointed an admiring finger at the other woman. “Really. I want you to know that. It would’ve worked. That last bit, though, about the kidnapping, that was the giveaway. You can put away the gun now.”

  Anne Marie gave her a flat stare. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  A giddy laugh erupted from Ethel. She clapped her hands together. “You really are very good. Are you a professional actress? Are you really preggers?” She patted the hard belly under the wool coat. “Nice touch. Six kids! Like anyone’s careless enough to squirt out six kids in this day and age.”

  Anne Marie gawked as if the tables had turned and she were doubting Ethel’s sanity. This woman really was totally believable. No wonder Ethel fell for it.

  She was on a roll. “Like that limp dick Frank could even father six kids. Have you met the guy? I sometimes wonder where John came from, and that’s the truth.”

  They heard it at the same time, the sound of car tires on cobblestones, a whisper that turned to a silken moan as Lucy’s silver Volvo came into view.

  Yes! Now Ethel could rub it in while it was still fresh. I win! You tried to get your revenge and you failed. Miserably. I win! I win! I win! The self-flagellation to which she’d subjected herself just minutes ago might never have happened, so swelled with glee was Ethel at the prospect of lording it over her sister.

  “Whoever that is—” Anne Marie slipped her gun hand into her coat pocket “—get rid of them.”

  ______

  LUCY PULLED IN next to Ethel’s car. She wasn’t surprised to see her sister, whose increasingly frantic calls she’d been dodging since yesterday morning. Let her sweat. But who was her friend? The woman stared in slack-jawed astonishment as Lucy stepped onto the cobblestones and greeted them.

  Far from frantic now, Ethel appeared elated; she was practically dancing a jig. “I keep telling her she can drop the act, sis. I caught on right away.” She draped her arm around the other woman’s shoulders. “No fault of Anne Marie’s, though. I want you to know that. She was awesome.”

  Ethel only called her “sis” when she was feeling particularly pleased with herself, usually when she’d bested Lucy in the practical-joke department. Which, of course, she’d just done with that custom kidnapping, but what was this about an act?

  Lucy rested her shoulder bag and the grocery sack from King Kullen on the hood of her car. “Anne Marie, is it?” She stuck out her hand and introduced herself.

  “You’re . . .” Anne Marie didn’t shake her hand; she was pale as wax. “You’re Lucy.”

  Ethel’s grin faded as she looked from Anne Marie to Lucy and back again. “This is part of the act, right, Anne Marie?” The other woman didn’t respond. “Right?”

  Lucy asked, “What’s going on?”

  “Oh my God,” Ethel said. “Oh my God, Lucy, I think she’s for real.”

  Anne Marie pressed a hand to her stomach; she took shallow breaths. To Ethel she said, “I guess you were telling the truth about the twin thing.”

  Ethel nodded robotically. “And you . . .? The . . . and the . . . all of it?”

  “Of course.” Anne Marie was turning an unbecoming shade of green. “Who’d make up a thing like that?”

  Ethel covered her mouth and stared dumbfounded at Lucy.

  Anne Marie covered her mouth, too, but only to hold back the tide as she lurched across the cobblestones and vomited into a bed of tulips just pushing their tender shoots toward the sun. She groped in her coat pocket, pulled out a shiny black gun, and stuck the barrel in her mouth.

  “No!” Ethel launched herself at the woman. “No man is worth it. Think of your baby.”

  She failed to reach her in time. The sisters braced themselves as Anne Marie pulled the trigger, swished, spat, and took a second hit off the water pistol.

  When Lucy could speak again, she said, “Morning sickness?”

  “If it was just the morning, I’d be thrilled.” Anne Marie wiped her mouth with a tissue and pocketed the toy. Her color began to return.

  “Come on inside.” Lucy grabbed her things and started for the door. “I think I can scrounge up some saltines and a cup of tea.”

  “Uh, you might want to hold off on the hospitality.” Ethel gave Lucy a significant look. “Until you find out what brought Anne Marie here.”

&nbs
p; “Oh, please, Ethel. Don’t you think we’ve had enough drama for one day?” Lucy slid her key in the lock and ushered her visitors into the kitchen, where Anne Marie gaped at the room’s luxurious size and appointments. “Tea and crackers for Anne Marie, and something stronger for moi to restart my heart. Pomegranate martini for you, Ethel?” Lucy’s sister was fond of girlie drinks. “No?”

  Anne Marie proceeded to make herself at home, shucking off her coat and easing her gravid self onto a barstool at the cook island. “Do you have any decaf tea?”

  “You know, I think I do.” Lucy handed her the box of saltines. She filled the electric kettle and riffled through her canister of tea bags while Ethel paced the granite floor tiles and gnawed her nails. Something had her rattled. Good. After what Lucy had recently endured in the name of practical jokesterism, the perpetrator could just stew awhile.

  “Okay, okay,” Ethel groaned. “A pomtini. A small one.” She shot a glance at Anne Marie, now peering at Frank’s under-counter wine cellar as if it were the space shuttle. “Make it a double.”

  Lucy arranged everything on a lacquer tray and ushered the small group into the greatroom. The way Anne Marie craned her neck to take in the expanse of vaulted ceiling put Lucy in mind of tourists from the heartland ogling Manhattan skyscrapers.

  By the time they’d gotten themselves settled around the Noguchi coffee table, Ethel had decimated a brand-new set of acrylic tips. She gulped down half her pomtini before Lucy had taken one sip of her bourbon.

  Anne Marie held her teacup with pinky extended. She wore a faded denim jumper over a ruffled cotton blouse: a Wal-Mart version of the sort of maternity outfits Lucy had worn back when tentlike smocks ruled.

  Lucy looked from one woman to the other. “Someone gonna tell me who died?”

  Anne Marie sipped her tea. Ethel jumped up and resumed her pacing.

  “I was kidding.” Lucy sat forward. “Did someone die?”

  “Not yet.” Ethel had her back to her, staring at the original framed Miró over the mantel. “When you find out what Frank’s been up to, that may change.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I’m divorcing the man. His escapades are no longer my concern. Do you know what that idiot did, Ethel? Excuse me.” She smiled at Anne Marie. “You don’t know my husband—soon-to-be ex-husband. I don’t use the term ‘idiot’ lightly.”

  Anne Marie pursed her lips and reached for another cracker.

  “He showed up at Will’s place. In, like, SWAT gear. He tried to rescue me. Do you believe that?”

  Ethel turned to face her. “How did he even know you’d been snatched? I never told him a thing. I didn’t even know where you were.”

  “The fake kidnappers Frank hired followed us to Will’s place and reported back to him.” Lucy enjoyed watching her sister’s jaw sag in astonishment.

  “This fake-kidnapping thing,” Anne Marie said. “Is it the latest craze or what?”

  “I didn’t think so.” Ethel folded her arms across her chest. “I thought it was real cutting edge or I wouldn’t have done it.”

  “Well, thanks so much for making me a trendsetter,” Lucy said.

  “So you—” Anne Marie pointed at Ethel “—hired someone to kidnap you.” The finger shifted to Lucy.

  “And paid a pretty penny for the service,” Lucy snickered. “Too bad you didn’t get your money’s worth—I was there for less than twenty-four hours when I smarged my way out of it.”

  “Frank thought I was the one that did it.” Anne Marie set her cup and saucer on the coffee table.

  Lucy blinked in surprise. “You know my husband?”

  “Okay, I’m going for a little walk.” Ethel hightailed it across the room.

  “Oh no you don’t,” Anne Marie called to her retreating back. “I went through this once when I thought you were her. It’s your turn to explain, Ethel.”

  Ethel stood framed in the arched doorway, hands raised as if to ward off whatever was coming next. “This is none of my concern. It’s between you two. And Frank.”

  “Get back in here,” Anne Marie intoned, with all the authority of a seasoned mom. Ethel slunk back into the greatroom. “Sit.” Ethel sat, avoiding Lucy’s gaze.

  “This is going to be horrible, isn’t it?” Lucy’s hands had gone clammy.

  Anne Marie grabbed a cracker. “Your sister’s waiting, Ethel.”

  Ethel sighed. She took a deep breath. “Okay.” Another deep breath. “Okay, it’s about Frank.”

  The suspense was feasting on Lucy’s stomach lining. “Get to the horrible part.”

  “He got married,” Ethel choked out.

  “That is pretty horrible, but I’m trying to remedy the situation.”

  Ethel dropped her head in her hands. “You’re making this so hard.”

  Anne Marie gave Ethel a disappointed look. She turned to Lucy. “Our husband is a bigamist.” She waited for that to settle in.

  Our. She said our. A word that definitely did not belong before husband. Which was why Lucy was having a little trouble processing the information.

  On another level, it made all the sense in the world.

  “Here.” Anne Marie hauled her purse into her lap. She dug around in it and produced a compact photo album with the words “Mommy’s Brag Book” embossed on the front. She offered it to Lucy, who watched her own hand reach out and take the thing.

  Numbly she opened the little book. The first plastic sleeve held a picture of a little girl, surrounded by other kids, blowing out candles on a birthday cake. It was a home party with balloons and paper hats. Anne Marie stood bending over the girl, but her beaming face was lifted to the person behind the camera.

  Anne Marie craned her neck to see. “That was Christina’s fifth birthday, in January.” She made a gesture like flipping pages, and Lucy obeyed. The next shot was Pin the Tail on the Donkey. This one showed a man’s back as he spun a blindfolded boy holding a paper donkey tail. The man wore the shirt John had given Frank last Father’s Day. The back of his head looked all too familiar. On the facing page was a photo of the kids chowing down on pizza. The same man stood at the table, holding a squirming toddler in one arm and sliding slices out of the box with the other. His head was cut off.

  Lucy looked up. Anne Marie made that flipping gesture again while Ethel sat hugging herself and staring into middle distance. Do not go catatonic on me now, Lucy silently commanded.

  She flipped to the next picture. There he was, her husband, Frank Narby, holding the birthday girl on his lap and laughing as she tried to feed him cake and only succeeded in smearing icing on his face. The rest of the shots were similar. Frank collecting crumpled wrapping paper and ribbon as Christina tore open her presents. Frank attaching training wheels to his daughter’s new bike, with the help of two young boys. A sledgehammer walloped Lucy’s ribs. It seemed like yesterday he was doing the same thing for John. She turned the page. Frank and Anne Marie holding slices of birthday cake on paper plates, sharing a mom-and-dad kiss under birthday balloons. Lucy closed the book.

  She swallowed hard, but the knot in her throat refused to budge. Anne Marie stared at her, awaiting a reaction. Lucy opened her mouth to refute the evidence. No words would come. She tried to laugh off the absurd, impossible notion that her husband of twenty years, her dependable, honest husband, had another family. Another life. All that came out was a strangled whimper.

  Her eyes dropped to the crystal glass on the table in front of her. Ice cubes melting in a splash of amber liquid. She watched her hand carefully reach for the glass, lift it, bring it to her mouth and upend it. The bourbon settled in her stomach like jet fuel. She watched the glass touch down on the coaster, a hard landing.

  With immense effort she raised her eyes to Anne Marie. “You live out there. In Chicago.”

  Anne Marie nodded. “A suburb called Egerton.”

  Lucy’s gaze dropped to Anne Marie’s belly. “Frank’s baby.”

  Ethel managed to croak, “Number six.”

&nbs
p; Lucy couldn’t have heard right. She looked to Anne Marie for confirmation.

  “That’s right.” Anne Marie patted the mound under her jumper, causing the diamond solitaire on her left ring finger to spark with light. “We have three girls and two boys at home. This little man will make it a fair fight. Andrew James.”

  The jet fuel smoldered in Lucy’s stomach. She refused to lose her lunch. Not here, in her own greatroom, in front of this . . . this wife of Frank’s.

  “I never suspected.” Anne Marie cocked her head at Lucy. “Did you?”

  Lucy shook her head. She should have, though. The signs were there. The increasingly lengthy stays in Chicago, the difficulty getting in touch with him there, the lame excuses. The emotional distance for which she’d accepted blame for so many years. And the money. Lucy felt sick recalling how readily she’d stepped back and allowed her husband free reign over their finances. Less work for her, she’d reasoned. And it wasn’t as if she’d wanted for anything.

  “You’ve been married for twelve years,” she informed her husband’s other wife.

  Anne Marie’s eyebrows rose. “You did suspect.”

  “Not then.” She took a shaky breath. “You know what they say about hindsight. John was born nine months after the wedding, and Frank had been after me ever since to have more children. For years. Then one day he drops the subject. Just like that. I was relieved. I thought, he accepts the size of our family, at last. I should’ve known better.” She tried to smile. “Frank has never been very good at depriving himself.”

  Anne Marie said nothing. Perhaps she noticed Lucy’s chin quiver.

  “I don’t know why I should care.” Lucy’s voice wobbled as her eyes welled over. “I don’t want him, I’m divorcing him. I haven’t loved him for . . .” She shrugged helplessly. Her tears galvanized Ethel out of her stupor; she rushed to her side and wrapped her arms around her. Lucy’s conflicted grief wracked her, threatened to devour her. “What kind of wife was I?” she choked out between sobs. “What kind of wife was I to make him go and do something like this?”

  “Oh honey.” Ethel squeezed her tighter. “You’re asking the wrong question.”