Close to Home

by Cynthia Baxter

  “How about you two going into couples therapy? Or ... or trying one of those touchy-feelly weekends? Or ... or ...” Jessica was trying desperately to come up with a solution, a Band-Aid that could hold her best friend’s marriage together. Realizing how helpless she was to do anything was making her panicky.

  “Actually,” Nikki said, thrusting her chin up into the air, “Jared claims that he’s found someone new. Somebody at work, no less. Someone, I take it, who has a lot more to talk about than the kids’ homework and what the cesspool cleaner had to say.’’

  “Oh, Nikki. I feel so terrible about all this. You must have been having a hell of a time.’’ Jessica was prepared, even eager, to dole out unlimited sympathy to her friend.

  “Well, maybe at least one good thing will come of all this. Maybe seeing what happened to Jared and me will force you to take a look at yourself.’’

  Jessica had begun to fidget. “I don’t think that David and I are in any real trouble, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Then I suggest that you wake up, Jessica. Not that I’m trying to give you Ten Ways to Hold On To Your Marriage. I’m just telling you that my experience has hit me over the head with what a disservice women like you and me—all women, in fact— are doing themselves by giving up.”

  “I’m not doing that!”

  “Come on, Jessica. You know what I’m talking about. You know as well as I do that you hardly do anything for yourself anymore. Look at you. You’ve let yourself become lost in the wife and mother role, the same way I did. You’re hiding in there. It seems so much easier than having to live your own life. And it’s not as if it’s not acceptable. Especially now. It’s positively patriotic to be barefoot and pregnant.’’

  “Listen, Nikki, I know you’re having a hard time and all, but I really think you’re projecting here just a tiny bit.’’

  “Oh, really? And what have you been doing to take care of yourself lately? I mean, when’s the last time you did anything for yourself... or even went out and had some fun?”

  “Well, aside from tonight,’’ Jessica said, casting her a meaningful look, “I’m, uh, going shopping with my next-door neighbor tomorrow night. Lorraine and I have a couple of sitters lined up, and we’re going over to the Roosevelt Field mall.”

  “I thought you couldn’t stand her, with her Donna Reed attitudes and her prissy little house and her kid all decked out in hair ribbons and patent leather slippers.’’

  “Well, that’s son of true, but... That’s not all. There’s the murder investigation. Don’t forget that,”

  “What are you talking about?” Nikki was looking at her across the table with piercing eyes.

  Jessica immediately launched into a detailed discourse on the Sea Cliff Murders and everything that had happened so far. For the moment, at least, Nikki seemed pleased to have something to talk about other than her own situation. She threw herself into it with the same intense curiosity that Jessica had felt all along. She asked questions, posited her own theories, listened with care to the theories that others had come up with.

  She was particularly interested in what Edgar Keklak had had to say about his “gut feeling” that when the murderer was finally discovered, everyone was going to be surprised.

  “Somebody you’d never suspect, huh?” Nikki repeated pensively. “Hmmm. Now that’s an interesting way of looking at it. Not considering only the obvious, but instead trying to second-guess the murderer, seeing him as someone who had some relatively obscure motive up his sleeve.”

  “See that?” Jessica was more than a little triumphant. “It is interesting. And it’s become practically an obsession with me.’’

  Nikki lapsed into cynicism once again. “All right, all right. So you’ve been stepping out a little. And I have to admit that it’s more than I’d been doing. But that’s still only part of it. Look at yourself, Jessica. How can it not make you angry that you’re doing so much for other people and so little for yourself? Don’t your accomplishments and your abilities matter anymore? Would you ever in a million years expect a man who had your education and experience to do nothing more challenging than drive a kid to nursery school and wash the kitchen floor? Do you really want to look back on your life and say that all you managed to accomplish was cutting your supermarket shopping time down to twenty minutes flat?”

  No, no, it’s Lorraine Denholm who’s like that, not me, Jessica was thinking. Nikki’s got it all wrong.

  But her friend’s confusion was getting her riled.

  “Look, Nikki.” Her patience was quickly ebbing. “You’re really out of line here. You’re saying things that I’m sure you don’t really mean. I really am sorry that you’re having a rough time right now, but that doesn’t give you the right to go around making accusations about me and the way I’m living my life.”

  Nikki pushed her drink away. “I’m sorry, Jessica, but I really don’t feel like chitchatting anymore. I feel as if you’re refusing to understand what I’m talking about because it’s hitting you a little bit too close to home.’’

  She tucked a few dollars underneath the bowl of tortilla chips and stood up to leave. “I’ll call you, Jess,” she said hoarsely. And she was gone.

  Jessica lingered at the table, distractedly playing with her margarita glass, meanwhile doing battle with a formidable onslaught of emotions.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jessica suddenly felt as if she had no one. David was still out of town, getting the inside scoop on dead loads. Terry, of course, had been tossed off her A list days earlier. As for Nikki, she knew it would be some time before that rift would be healed.

  She recognized that this was a dangerous time, that in her quest for companionship she could well end up turning to Car 54, Where Are You? reruns and those nifty little pints of mocha chip Haagen Dazs that fit so easily into one’s hand.

  And so she actually ended up feeling grateful for Lorraine Denholm’s invitation of a couple of nights earlier, her suggestion that the two of them paint the town red—in this instance, the phrase being an allusion to the color of one of the circles on a Mastercard. Jessica went over to the Denholms’ house right after dinner.

  “All set?” she asked Lorraine after greeting the other members of the Denholm family and getting only a minimal response.

  “Yes, I’m ready.” To her husband, Lorraine called, “Are you sure you’ll be able to manage tonight, honey?”

  His response from the couch was a grunt. His eyes never left the TV screen.

  Turning to Jessica, she said, “You know, I used to use Becky Mortimer as a sitter, but ever since her father was . . . you know, I’ve felt funny about calling her.”

  “Oh, it won’t hurt Jim to spend a couple of hours with his kids,” Jessica said with a wave of her hand. She resisted the temptation to remind her that they were, after all, his kids, too.

  Lorraine, meanwhile, had already turned her attention to the children in question.

  “Okay, give Mommy a kiss good-bye,” she instructed them.

  “Aw, Mom, I hate kissin’,” Jim Junior groaned.

  Stacy, however, was a different story.

  “I gonna miss you, Mommy,’’ she sniffled, throwing her arms around Lorraine’s neck and squeezing with python-like strength.

  Tonight, the little girl who was always the fashion plate was a vision in lavenders, pinks, and purples. Her corduroy jumper was purple, her blouse pink and lavender stripes, her socks lavender. She was even wearing a plastic bracelet that picked up the exact shades she was wearing.

  It was a cute getup, Jessica had to admit. She looked different tonight, too; more grown-up or something. Jessica couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She wondered if perhaps Lorraine’s little girl was simply beginning to leave babyhood behind.

  “Would you like me to drive tonight?” Jessica offered. “After all, you drove last time, when you and I went out to dinner.’’

  “Oh, no, let me,” said Lorraine. “I insist. This was my idea, reme
mber? I’ll take the Volvo.

  ‘‘Sorry the car is such a mess,’’ she said with a nervous giggle as the two women arranged themselves in the front seat. “I’ve been meaning to give it a good cleaning. But you know, sometimes I feel that I can’t possibly find the time to do everything.”

  “I know that feeling.”

  Jessica watched as Lorraine replayed the same routine she had witnessed the night of their post-Christmas celebration at Casa Blanca. Mumbling apologies right and left, she picked up toys, crumpled Kleenex, and the intriguing assortment of other items strewn about and tossed everything onto the floor of the backseat. Then she leaned over and pushed under the front seat that same plastic shopping bag filled with junk, so heavy that it took every ounce of her strength to get it to budge.

  “What is that, anyway?” Jessica’s feet were suspended in midair as she attempted to make the ordeal a bit simpler for Lorraine.

  “This? Oh, just a bunch of tools and stuff. I’m afraid that when you’re married to the owner of a hardware business, you have to own at least one of everything in the store. Here we go. They’ll be out of your way in a second. In fact, let me put some of this under my seat.’’

  After the ceremonial car cleanup had been completed, Lorraine pulled her seat belt across her bulky down coat, turned on the ignition, and snapped down the lock on her door, a motion that automatically locked all the other car doors as well.

  “That’s a useful feature,” Jessica observed.

  “What, the power locks?”

  “Yes. We have that in our Volvo, too. It’s useful for keeping Sammy contained.’’ Smirking at her own cleverness, she added, “I guess I’m your prisoner now.’’

  Lorraine cast her an odd look, that puzzled one that Jessica had seen a hundred times before. It was the expression that told her more clearly than words ever could that Lorraine Denholm simply didn’t understand Jessica’s sense of humor, not any more than she understood Jessica herself.

  Shopping with Lorraine was a lot like shopping with her mother. Lorraine tended toward the traditional and the cutesy while Jessica pursued a never-ending search for something new and unusual. Their acceptable price ranges were also in conflict;

  Lorraine pronounced just about every item she admired much too expensive.

  Even their respective paces kept getting in the way. Lorraine was slow, shuffling through every store, stopping to admire 95 percent of the merchandise on display. Jessica, meanwhile, was like the member of a S.W.A.T. team, rushing in, casing the joint, and immediately zeroing in on the two or three things she had identified as worthy of further investigation.

  And as always, shopping was tiring. The constant stimulation of looking, touching, considering, and rejecting was sneakily taking its toll. Still, making the mall scene did force Jessica to put aside all thoughts more serious than whether she was still a medium or could start considering herself a small. And when she found the perfect sweater, the same shade of aqua as the water in Bermuda—at least according to picture postcards—the world seemed like a genial place indeed.

  The parking lot was nearly deserted by the time Jessica and Lorraine came out of Macy’s, triumphantly clutching their packages. It had been crowded when they’d first arrived, seven o’clock being prime time for evening shoppers, and they had been forced to park far away from the mall. Now, with so many people already gone, Lorraine’s car was standing alone in the back corner.

  The two women walked quickly, keeping their conversation to a minimum. The streetlights out here were few and far between, and the one under which Lorraine’s car was parked was burned out. Because it was icy cold, the handful of people who were around walked hunched over, pulling their mufflers and their hats more tightly around them, hurrying off to their own cars in search of warmth. No one noticed these two shoppers who headed off alone toward the desolate area that, at least for tonight, belonged exclusively to them.

  “What time is it, anyway?” asked Jessica. “It’s so dark out here that I can’t read my watch.”

  “I can see mine. It lights up in the dark.” Lorraine held her wrist up to her face. “It’s nine thirty-five.”

  “Wow. The stores just closed at nine-thirty, and it’s already completely dead out here. This place really empties out fast, doesn’t it?”

  “You’re right. There aren’t many people left around here.”

  “I think it’s creepy.’’ Jessica quickened her pace. “You know, I have this thing about parking lots at night, especially when they’re practically deserted. Let’s hurry, okay?”

  Lorraine seemed surprised. “You’re not afraid, Jessie, are you?”

  “Well, not afraid, exactly ...”

  Lorraine’s question sounded like a challenge. Jessica didn’t want to sound like one of those timid women whose fear of the night kept them house bound every evening from six o’clock on. Even so, there was some reality to be dealt with here. It was often dangerous for women to be out alone at night. Even here in the idyllic suburbs. She thought about the Sea Cliff murderer for the first time all evening.

  “Actually, I am kind of nervous,” Jessica admitted. “I always feel that a woman alone is a target.’’

  In the dim light, Jessica saw her smile. “But you’re not alone, are you? You’re with me.”

  Jessica was still debating whether or not to launch into a monologue on the weak points of that argument when she and Lorraine reached the car. The white Volvo looked so lonely, standing all alone in this part of the parking lot.

  Jessica’s anxiety was quickly escalating to something more on the order of fear. As she stood outside the door on her side of the car, the side with the suicide seat, she was bouncing up and down in nervousness, waiting for Lorraine to unlock the car from the driver’s side.

  “It’s open,’’ Lorraine finally called over the top of the car.

  Jessica was annoyed at the way Lorraine was moving in slow motion. Didn’t she realize that it was dangerous out here? She got in, and half a second later, Lorraine climbed into the driver’s seat. First thing, she reached back and with one efficient motion locked all the doors. Central locking, after all, was one of the Volvo’s most sensible features.

  Then she began fussing with her seat, adjusting her rearview mirror, going through all the motions of a fidgety driver. Jessica, meanwhile, was finally able to relax. “There,” she said with a sigh of relief. “We made it.”

  “Goodness, Jessie. You make it sound as if we just walked through a battlefield.”

  “Well, you never know. I just feel a lot safer locked inside this car, that’s all. Especially with everything that’s been going on lately.”

  She did feel secure now, locked up in Lorraine’s car. It was a relief to be able to stop obsessing about the climax of every grade B horror movie she had ever seen. It was much more fun thinking about the killing she had made that evening: the cotton sweater with dolman sleeves in a gorgeous shade of blue. This ecstasy over having found just the right garment was rooted in adolescence, when she really believed that finding the perfect article of clothing could change her life.

  “Well, that was fun. Productive, too. I’m so glad I found that sweater.” Jessica pulled the seat belt across her chest. “It was a great buy, too. I was lucky to get it on sale.

  “I just wonder what I could wear it with,” she went on, frowning. She began picturing the clothes in her wardrobe, at least the bottom halves, taking a mental inventory to see what, if anything, would go with this find others.

  But there was something else occupying her thoughts. Something was nagging at her in a strange, almost irritating way. Its voice grew louder and louder. It started gaining ground so quickly that it was no longer possible to ignore.

  What will match my sweater? What will go with my sweater?

  This thought, this thing, whatever it was, had latched onto that idea. It gnawed away at her.

  Match. Matching. Wearing something that matches something else . . .

 
What did that mean? It was crazy. If she didn’t have anything to go with the new sweater, for heaven’s sake, she could simply go out and buy something. . . .

  But that wasn’t it. It was something else ... it was someone else.

  Stacy.

  It was Stacy. Lorraine’s daughter was suddenly filling her mind. Jessica was feeling an inexplicable sense of anxiety as she pictured the little girl that evening, before the two women had gone out together.

  Stacy was wearing a purple dress, but no purple hair ornament.

  Stacy always, always, wore a hair ornament that matched her outfit.

  But tonight, it had been missing. Tonight, she hadn’t been wearing a purple ribbon.

  A purple ribbon, a purple ribbon . . .

  And then she knew.

  Of course. It was all coming into focus.

  The purple ribbon, the one Terry had been talking about all along in connection with the Sea Cliff murderer, wasn’t the kind of ribbon that was used for wrapping packages; it was a hair ribbon. A fine distinction that a man might not be particularly attuned to, a detail that both Terry and the police had apparently missed, but one that was important.

  A purple hair ribbon. And it had come out of Lorraine Denholm’s house.

  That meant . . . suddenly it all made sense. Perfect sense. The murderer had to be her next-door neighbor.

  “Lorraine,” Jessica said, working hard to overcome the problem of her incredibly dry mouth, “where is Jim tonight?”

  “He’s home with the kids, watching TV. You saw him yourself.”

  “Are you sure? Is there any chance he went out?”

  “How could he have gone out? I just told you, he has to watch the kids.”

  “Maybe he called a baby-sitter.”

  “I thought I’d mentioned that Becky probably wouldn’t be willing to come,” Lorraine replied calmly. “That she’s probably still too upset about her father’s death. You know as well as I do that her father was just murdered a few days ago. Doesn’t that sound funny, Jessie? My baby-sitter couldn’t come over tonight because her father was murdered a few days ago?’