“I’m not sure who you mean. She was probably somebody’s wife or girlfriend,” Sculley said.
“Come on. I saw you talking to her. You know who she is.”
Sculley poured hot sauce on his omelet, eyes on the plate.
“What’s her name?”
“Vicki Ross.” He cut a piece of omelet with his fork.
She felt her heart race. “How long had Jack been seeing her?”
“Couple of months, maybe a little longer.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you asked.” He took a bite of the omelet, chewing slowly, looking at her.
“He’d been seeing her for a couple of months? How did I miss that?”
“It’s not your fault.”
“No? Whose fault is it? I obviously wasn’t doing something Jack wanted or needed, or he wouldn’t have been out looking.”
“He wasn’t looking. If you want to know: women hit on Jack all the time, and the first thing he’d say was, I’m married.”
“God, I hope so.”
“Jack said he met her at Ulysses, you know, that Wall Street bar. He told her he was married—”
“That did a lot of good, huh?”
“He talked to her for a while at the bar, and that was it. Jack saw her again at the restaurant where Vicki worked. He knew her for quite a while, and innocently one night, they ended up in the same bar.”
“Oh, come on, Sculley, ‘innocently’?” In this context, the word sounded absurd. “One of the nights he said he was working late or going out with clients, huh?” Diane paused. Jack, who she thought was perfect, was a cheater. What a thing to find out after he was gone. “What’d he do, buy her a place to live?”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“He took her on trips, didn’t he? Business class to London and Rome. And another trip to L.A. She went on those too, didn’t she?”
“Don’t think about it.”
“It’s hard not to. I’ve been living a lie. I’m the naive, trusting wife. I went along and thought everything was okay. More than okay, it was good.”
“Jack loved you. He told me you were the one.”
“I might’ve been the one when we got married, but I wasn’t, as of a couple months ago. Jesus.” Diane unfolded her napkin and covered the untouched breakfast. “There was a man in the house when I got home from the funeral.”
“What?”
“A scary-looking guy who said Jack borrowed a lot of money from a company called San Marino Equity. What do you know about that?”
“Nothing. How much did he borrow?”
“The guy said seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Was he gambling?”
“Not Jack.”
“Was he into drugs?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“I can’t imagine Jack having an affair.”
“There has to be a reasonable explanation.”
“Yeah? Tell me what it is.”
“You were married for twelve years. Jack loved you. Don’t let this ruin everything.”
“Where does the girlfriend work?”
“What’re you gonna do?”
“Now you’re worried about her, huh?” She almost said Vicki.
“A bistro on Spring Street.”
“What’s the name of it?”
“I don’t remember. I don’t even know if she still works there.”
“With all our money, she doesn’t have to.” Diane took a breath. “I can kind of understand her coming to the funeral, but not the club. She’s got a lot of nerve.”
“She was offering her condolences.”
“Why, for stealing my husband? Why are you sticking up for her?” She had heard enough, stood up, and put a twenty-dollar bill on the table.
“What’re you doing? Diane, come on.”
She walked to the door and didn’t look back. Sculley made no attempt to go after her. Probably because he didn’t want to be interrogated anymore. Why was she mad at him? What did he do? Sure, Sculley knew more than he was saying. But he was probably trying to spare her feelings. That’s what good guys like Sculley did, right?
Diane went home and changed into jeans and a blazer. Checked her messages. There was one from Duane Cobb. “I want to see how you’re doing. I’m ready to begin regular sessions when you are.” Sessions? She still wasn’t interested.
She sat at the island counter in the kitchen and called Sterns & Morrison’s corporate office in San Francisco. Diane identified herself and asked to speak with Susan Howe in Human Relations. They had met at a company picnic at the chairman’s home in the Hamptons years earlier.
Diane was on hold for almost five minutes and was about to hang up when Susan came on the line.
“Mrs. McCann, Diane, so sorry to keep you waiting. My sincere condolences for your loss. How may I help you?”
“I haven’t received Jack’s midmonth paycheck. Is there a problem?”
“Let me look into it, and I’ll get back to you ASAP, if that’s okay.”
“That’s fine. Thank you.” She realized she had come on a little strong and backed off, taking the edge out of her voice.
She drove to the Darien train station, bought a round-trip ticket, picked up a New York Times, and walked out to the platform, thinking about Jack. They’d been married twelve years, had just celebrated their anniversary on August 26. Their relationship had changed, no doubt about it. The first five years, they couldn’t get enough of each other. Did everything together: played tennis, went to movies, cooked, drank martinis, read in bed with matching gooseneck lamps, sat around on Sunday morning going through the newspaper, made love a few times a week and, in the past couple years, hardly at all. They were both busy and not as energetic at night as they were in the early days. Now she realized Jack hadn’t been getting what he wanted at home, so he had gotten it somewhere else.
At Grand Central Station, Diane got off the train, walked outside, and hailed a cab to SoHo. She started walking at one end of Spring Street, passing storefronts, restaurants, and shops, looking for a bistro and saw Les Amis. Diane went in and sat at the crowded bar, ordered a café au lait, and studied the dining room, white tablecloths and simple French decor. A sign said, “Cassoulet served every day during winter and spring” and, under that, “Fois gras served every day for dinner.”
From her vantage point at the end of the bar, she could see the entire dining room. She paid particular attention to the waitresses, didn’t see Jack’s girlfriend, which didn’t mean anything. Maybe she worked at night. When the bartender approached, she said, “Does Vicki still work here?”
“Vicki who?”
“Vicki Ross.”
The bartender frowned and said, “Never heard of her.”
A well-dressed guy sitting next to her flipped his cell phone closed and got her attention. “This is your lucky day. My lunch date just canceled. I’m Bob. Why don’t you join me.”
“It isn’t yours.” Diane got up, left a ten-dollar bill on the bar, and walked out. She continued along Spring Street till she saw Balthazar, went in, approached the hostess, and said, “Is Vicki working today?”
“Vicki Ross?”
“We’re old friends. I want to book a table in her section and surprise her.”
The hostess paged through the reservation book. “All we have available today is five-thirty.”
Diane cut over to Mulberry Street, and now she was in Little Italy. It reminded her of scenes from The Godfather. She found number 121, an office building over some food shops. She opened the door. She walked in and found the directory on the wall. San Marino Equity was in Suite 210.
Diane had butterflies in her stomach as she walked up the old wooden stairs to the second floor and moved along the hall that was dark and stuffy and smelled like her grandfather: mothballs and cigars.
She stood in front of a door with a beveled glass window in the top half. It reminded her of doors she’d seen in old movies. SAN MARINO EQUITY was stenciled
on the glass.
She slid her hand in the shoulder bag and felt the grip of the .380 Beretta, a gift from her dad, the ex-cop. What was she doing here, trying to make things worse? Or was she trying to appeal to their sense of fairness, going for sympathy? No, it wasn’t that; Diane was angry. She knocked on the door, wondering who was going to answer and what was going to happen. She’d hold up the contract and say, “This isn’t my signature. I never signed this. I’ve hired a lawyer. I’m going to sue you.” When no one came, she knocked again.
Diane heard a door close down the hall. A short, wide man walked toward her, cigar clamped in his jaw, the smell of smoke filling the hall.
“They no here,” he said in heavy Italian-accented English.
“Do you know when they’ll be back?”
He shook his head. “Non lo so.”
She followed the man to the stairs, stood at the top, and watched him taking little steps, balancing considerable weight on his small feet, cigar smoke trailing after him.
Diane walked to West Broadway and checked in to the SoHo Grand. She had three hours till her reservation at Balthazar. She wasn’t hungry, wasn’t in the mood for shopping or sightseeing. So she went to the room and lay on the bed, thinking about what she was going to say to the girlfriend. “Hi, remember me? Oh, you don’t? I’m Jack’s wife.” She’d throw that out and see how the girl reacted.
Diane wasn’t sure why she was doing it or what it would accomplish. Would it make her feel better to get in the last word? Maybe it was more primitive than that. This girl, Vicki Ross, stole her husband, and Diane wanted to see her. Was she prettier? Was she sexier? Was she smarter? Was she more fun to be with?
At five thirty, Diane gave her name to the hostess and was escorted to a table. She wore sunglasses and had her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She opened the menu, using it as a prop, looking over the top at the bustling dining room, saw Jack’s girlfriend taking an order a couple tables away, and studied her.
Vicki Ross was about five six and thin, but she had shape, a good butt and breasts. Her hair was dark and hung to her shoulders. Vicki was having an animated conversation with four stylish forty-something women.
A few minutes later, she walked by Diane’s table and said in a sweet girlish voice, “Sorry, I’ll be right with you,” flashing a smile.
Diane studied the menu, thought she might order something small, an appetizer and a glass of wine, decided on Mussels Provincial, a baguette, and a glass of Puligny-Montrachet. When she looked up, Vicki Ross was standing at the table smiling. “Can I bring you something from the bar, a glass of champagne?”
“I don’t have anything to celebrate.”
“With champagne you don’t need a reason. It is the reason.”
Vicki Ross had perfect skin, plump lips, and white teeth. She was even better looking up close. Diane ordered the Puligny. Vicki moved toward the bar. As much as Diane didn’t want to admit it, she could understand why Jack had fallen for this good-looking young girl. She was aware of the way women looked at Jack—like they wanted to eat him up. But she trusted him. He was married. He had given that up.
Guys hit on Diane occasionally, like earlier, the man in the French restaurant. She never took any of these advances seriously. She was committed.
Diane took off the sunglasses and put them in her bag when Vicki returned with the glass of wine, setting it on the table.
“Would you like to hear about our specials?”
“You don’t recognize me, do you?”
Vicki looked at her and blinked. “Have I been your server?”
“I’m Jack’s wife.”
They stared at each other. Vicki looked horrified, opened her mouth, but didn’t say anything.
“Why’d you come to the funeral reception? If you hadn’t come, I wouldn’t have found out. What were you thinking?”
“I’m sorry.” Vicki was flustered. She backed away from the table and started moving toward the bar. The group of women two tables away tried to signal her.
“Miss,” one of them said. “We’re ready to order.”
Vicki appeared a few minutes later, a jacket over her uniform and a bag over her shoulder, stopped at the hostess stand, said something to the girl, and walked out the door.
Diane got up and went after her, following her to an apartment building on Sullivan Street in the Village. Washington Square was at the end of the block. There was a sushi restaurant on the ground level. She stood on the sidewalk, looking in the windows at people having dinner, moved down the street, opened the door to the apartment building, stood in the vestibule, scanning the directory, saw V. Ross in 2B and pressed the button.
SEVEN
Jack was dead. What did his crazy wife want? Seeing the woman had freaked her out. Vicki thought she might even get fired, but she didn’t have a choice. She had to get out of there. Vicki wondered who had told Diane about her, and why. Jack’s wife had been so calm, sitting there saying, “You don’t recognize me, do you?”
No, she didn’t recognize her. Vicki had seen her once from across the room at the funeral reception, and the woman in the restaurant, with her hair pulled back, looked completely different. But when Diane said, “I’m Jack’s wife,” giving her that hard look, Vicki did recognize her, and Vicki’s first impulse was to run, and she did, got her things, told Holly she was really sick, had to be the flu, she should have called in, and walked out. Now she was kicking herself. Why’d she go to the country club after the funeral? How dumb was that? Vicki had seen Diane on the street following her from the restaurant and was sure she’d lost her.
Jack had brought Vicki to the house in Connecticut one weekend when Diane was out of town, visiting her old college roommate in Chicago. Vicki had agreed to spend the night, but said, “Jack, I’m not sleeping in the bed you share with your wife. It doesn’t feel right.”
“We’re having an affair. What difference does it make?”
“I don’t know, but it does. And what if someone sees me?”
“Who’s gonna see you?”
“A neighbor, someone coming over to borrow a cup of sugar.”
“People in this neighborhood don’t borrow. If they need something, they buy it.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“I’ll keep you hidden upstairs. Come up when I feel like it and have my way with you.” Jack had grinned and put his arms around her. He thought they were invisible; they could do anything they wanted and not get caught.
Vicki remembered walking around the house, which was enormous, old and comfortable, beautifully furnished. She remembered looking at photos of Diane, thinking how attractive she was, wondering why Jack was having an affair. It didn’t make sense.
Looking at Diane’s clothes and jewelry, Vicki could see they had similar taste. Looking at Diane’s life, she felt like a voyeur. Looking at Jack, seeing his marriage from a different point of view, Vicki felt guilty, that what she was doing was wrong. But she didn’t have a choice.
Jack, trying to be funny, had said, “You see the movie Misery? It’s loosely based on my marriage.”
Seeing where and how they lived, and how pretty Diane was, Vicki wasn’t buying it. Jack wasn’t miserably married. He might’ve been a little bored, but didn’t that happen to everyone at times?
“Diane’s a drink counter,” Jack had said. “We were at a party last weekend, she came up, said, ‘You know how many drinks you’ve had?’ I looked at her and said, ‘Yeah, twelve.’”
Maybe Diane had been onto something. Vicki thought he drank too much, too. After a night out with clients, he’d stop by her apartment at three in the morning all slurry, and pass out. He was fun, though. No one liked to have a good time more than Jack.
He had taken her to Europe, and they had done it on the plane in the tiny bathroom when it was dark and everyone looked like they were asleep. Vicki’s opinion, it wasn’t worth it.
In L.A., they stayed in a bungalow at the Chateau Marmont. While Jack was at a
business meeting, Vicki hung out by the pool and, in one day, saw J. Lo, Justin Timberlake, and Ashton Kutcher.
One night they went to a party at the Playboy Mansion and met Hef, who was wearing his customary robe and pajamas. They went into the famous grotto where Hef had seduced countless women. All Vicki thought was how dark and slimy it was.
“You take off your clothes in there,” Jack had said, “you better get a tetanus shot.”
Vicki heard the buzzer and froze. It was loud in the quiet apartment. She heard the buzzer ring a couple more times, walked over, and pressed the intercom button. “Who is it?”
“Diane McCann. I want to talk.”
“I’ve got nothing to say.”
Jack’s wife didn’t answer. Vicki went to the living room window, looking down at the street, no sign of her, and then there was a knock on the door.
Vicki looked through the peephole and saw her. This was insane. Jack was dead. What did she want?
“I’m gonna stand here till you come out. I don’t care how long it takes.”
Vicki unlocked the deadbolts, top and bottom, and opened the door. Jack’s wife staring at her, as her neighbor Rachel walked by and flashed a concerned look. “Everything okay, Vic?”
“Yeah, we’re fine.” And then to Jack’s wife, “Wanna come in?”
They sat in the living room, a coffee table separating them, the woman giving her a cold stare. It was awkward, uncomfortable, Vicki wondering if she should offer her something, but this wasn’t a social call. She said, “What do you want to know?” breaking the silence.
“What was he like?”
“Excuse me. You were married to him.”
“Evidently, I didn’t know him as well as I thought.”
No reason to pretend now, tell her the way it was. “No one had more fun than Jack. He was a blast to be around.”
“How long had you been seeing him?”
“We met about three months ago. At first, I didn’t know he was married. He didn’t wear a ring.”
“And when you found out?”
“I liked him and rationalized it somehow.” There was more to it than that, but she couldn’t go into it.
Unknown Remains Page 4
