“Randall Crane told you, didn’t he? Aside from looking for a way a burglar could have gotten in, we were also looking for our baby things—Catherine’s christening dress, special little Easter and Christmas dresses, our baby books. We found Catherine’s dress in the big cedar closet. Mom had wrapped it in tissue paper. I suppose she’d done the same with mine.”
Eric frowned. “The dress doesn’t smell of cedar.”
“Then it’s been out of the cabinet for quite a while or someone took it to the dry cleaner’s before putting it in the grave.”
“I don’t understand why our guy would do that, but we’ll check local dry cleaners and see if they remember a christening gown.” Eric sighed. “What about that photograph, Marissa? Was it yours?”
“No,” she said definitely. “I mean, it might have been in the house, but I don’t remember even seeing it before last night.”
“How old were you in that picture?”
“Sixteen.”
“I thought you didn’t know anything about the photograph.”
“I remember my bikini. I loved it. Dad thought it was too revealing and didn’t want me to wear it. He gave in rather than get in an argument with me. At the end of the summer, I spilled chocolate sauce from a sundae on it and the stains wouldn’t come out. I thought losing that bikini was a tragedy.”
“I’m sure Dillon did, too. In the picture he was looking at you like he loved you and your bikini.”
“I don’t know what that look was about, Eric,” Marissa said honestly. “Maybe he was just attracted by the bikini, because he never touched me inappropriately, kissed me, or even asked me on a date. He was always nice to me. Very nice but nothing else.”
“Nice.” Eric sounded unconvinced. “Well, we have to keep the photo as evidence.”
“Fine. I don’t care if I ever see it again.”
“Don’t sound so put out. At least you found Catherine’s dress. You don’t have to spend this evening searching.”
“I have to search for an answer about why my dress was taken but not Catherine’s. I have to spend this afternoon searching for answers about Gretchen. I’m going to your parents’ house at two, remember? If I make it to Gretchen’s room, I’ll be looking for anything that might tell me what was bothering her that summer, and it’s not going to be as easy as looking for my baby clothes.”
2
Susan Montgomery was a stickler about punctuality, so Marissa made certain she pulled her car into Susan’s double driveway at one fifty-nine. Susan opened the front door almost immediately, hesitated for a moment, then gave Marissa a cool smile. “Hello, Marissa. It’s been a long time. Please come in.”
Marissa stepped into the foyer with its shining hardwood floor, curving stairs, beige brocade settee sitting beneath a large oil painting of an autumn landscape, and a bronze ten-light chandelier. Sun shone brightly through the sidelights and Marissa saw that half of Susan’s curly blond hair, so much like Eric’s, had turned silver. Horizontal lines creased her forehead and she’d developed nasal-labial folds. Even her brown eyes seemed to have lightened a couple of shades. Her short hair had been perfectly styled, though, and she wore a touch of tan eye shadow, mascara, blush, and a muted pink lipstick.
Susan said with her cool smile, “You look nice on this cold day.”
“Thanks.” Marissa used to call the woman Susan. After all that had happened, though, she feared Eric’s mother would take offense at informality. “And thank you for agreeing to the interview, Mrs. Montgomery.”
“My pleasure. I’m devoted to this project and appreciate the publicity.”
Susan Montgomery’s remarkable composure rattled an already-jittery Marissa. The woman had rarely shown Annemarie’s joie de vivre, but she’d never seemed carved from ice.
“We haven’t seen each other for a while….” Marissa stepped into the foyer, dropped her tote bag, which she’d forgotten to fasten, and sent items skittering all over the gleaming wood floor. “Oh…dear. I’m sorry,” she muttered as she began chasing pens, a steno pad, tubes of lip gloss, car keys, a portable tape recorder, a cell phone, and her wallet.
“It’s all right.” Susan picked up a large Snickers candy bar. “Still an addiction?”
Marissa blushed. Her love of Snickers bars used to be a joke with the family. “Yes. I wish they had support groups for Snickers addicts, but I’ve never found one.” Marissa grabbed a wide-toothed comb lying by a wall. “I’m hopeless anyway.”
“I believe there are worse addictions. I doubt if they’re doing your health any harm, and from what I can see under that gorgeous faux fur coat they aren’t hurting your figure, either.”
Marissa realized her laugh sounded stiff. “I’m glad you like the coat. I’m also addicted to faux fur.” Certain she’d gathered everything she’d spilled, Marissa stood up and swept back her hair from her face. “Coats, vests. Faux fur, I mean.”
“I knew what you meant. I’ll hang up your coat and we’ll sit in the living room. Would you like something to drink?”
Yes, a boilermaker, Marissa thought. Maybe two. She’d seen Eric’s parents at Gretchen’s funeral and not again until her parents’ funerals, where they’d each murmured, “Sorry for your loss,” but they hadn’t come to the house afterward. Marissa had known she would be nervous actually talking to Susan for the first time in over four years, but she hadn’t guessed exactly how nervous she would be. The woman—dressed in beige slacks and a powder blue sweater set—seemed like an eerily composed, washed-out version of the slightly shy but warm Susan Montgomery Marissa had once known. She wanted to turn and run out the door. “No thank you. I’m not thirsty now, but I might be later,” Marissa finally managed. “Or you might be. You’ll be the one doing most of the talking.”
“Well, I can’t guarantee I’ll do much talking.” Susan hung up the coat. “I’ve never been interviewed before today. I hope I don’t let down the other members of the auction committee.”
“I’m sure you’ll do just fine,” Marissa said as they walked into a living room filled with winter light shining through sheer draperies. A beautiful subdued blue and gold patterned rug dominated the center of the room, and Marissa guessed that an interior designer had strategically placed new burnished gold and rose-colored furniture. Marissa retrieved her notebook and pen and set her tape recorder on the coffee table. “First I should get the names of the other people on the committee,” Marissa said.
Susan rattled off eight names, only that of Irene Hagarty, Pete’s wife, familiar to Marissa. “They made me president of the committee,” Susan said. “I think that’s because no one else would do it.”
Marissa smiled. “I understand the auction is to help get funds for a new library.”
For the first time, Susan laughed. “Heavens, no! We’d never get a new library if we depended on little events like this. We’d like to build an additional room to the library, one devoted to children. The shelves would all be low; we’d have colorful tables and chairs; every Saturday we’d invite a guest reader; later we might even hold a creative-writing class for the second-through-sixth-graders, although we’d be careful not to call it a class. That would sound like work. For now, we’ve been fortunate enough to have many authors donate their signed, first-edition books to be auctioned….”
Marissa devoted full attention to every word Susan said. Although shorthand was out of style, Marissa had learned it as a teenager, and what she missed she knew the tape recorder would catch. She conscientiously made eye contact with Eric’s mother, but all Marissa could think about was Gretchen. Marissa knew across the hall from them a grand piano sat in a special music room—a space always called “Gretchen’s Room.” She remembered sprawling on the couch in the room, listening to Gretchen practice intricate and what had seemed to Marissa at the time endless classical pieces. Then Gretchen would burst into something by Jerry Lee Lewis and from somewhere in the house Susan would call out a reprimand edged with laughter. What good times those had been, Mari
ssa thought.
“Do you have another question?” Susan asked, and Marissa came back to the present with a jolt.
“I’m so sorry. My mind wandered.” Marissa flushed. “That is just inexcusable—”
“No, it isn’t,” Susan said gently. “You look exhausted, and well…Eric told me what happened at the cemetery last night. I know he’s not supposed to discuss those things and he’s strict about maintaining rules, but he knew you had an interview with me today and he wanted me to understand if you seemed tired or distracted.”
“Oh! Well, that was thoughtful of him. Actually, this has been quite a week for me. Probably the worst I’ve ever had except for when—”
Dillon Archer murdered Gretchen. Horrified, Marissa realized she’d almost said the worst thing possible. Susan, however, looked at her knowingly and, to Marissa’s surprise, reached over and patted her arm.
“I understand, Marissa. I know how it is to feel shocked and literally beaten by the world.” Susan paused. “I believe you felt that way before, when Gretchen died. You thought we all blamed you, and to be honest, we did. Partly. Eric, of course, was crushed. Looking back, I’m appalled at how my husband and I treated both of you. I think we drove him into breaking off your engagement.”
“It was probably for the best,” Marissa said, her voice shaky.
Susan closed her eyes and shook her head. “He doesn’t blame himself so much anymore, thank God. He’s probably told you so, but in case he hasn’t, I will interfere and say it for him. As for his father and me—well, you have no reason to feel guilty or uncomfortable with us. We know Gretchen’s…death wasn’t your fault. You loved Gretchen like a sister and we thought of you as a daughter. We’ve missed you terribly, Marissa.”
Marissa looked at Susan, astounded, and burst into heaving sobs. Her own parents were gone and she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed the Montgomerys. She grabbed for her tote bag, fished through it wildly, and discovered the only thing it didn’t contain was a tissue.
Marissa knew her supposedly waterproof eye shadow and mascara were running down her face. Susan leaned back and from an end table lifted a small box of soft tissues, which she handed to Marissa. “Good heavens, dear, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to throw you into such a fit!”
Susan sounded so sweetly concerned and old-fashioned that Marissa began to laugh through her tears. Susan’s brown eyes widened as she no doubt wondered what Marissa proposed to do next. Marissa buried her face in a tissue. “I’m sorry. Mom dying just a few months ago, seeing Eric and you, talking about Gretchen, enduring all the things that have happened to me this week—well, I guess it’s just been too much,” she cried before emitting a resounding hiccup.
“Goodness gracious, you aren’t in good shape, Marissa. I knew it as soon as you walked in the door. You looked almost afraid of me. You’re alarmingly pale. You shouldn’t have worked this week.”
“Appearances to the contrary, I’m okay,” Marissa blubbered.
“No, you aren’t. You need food—you are so slim—and you need something hot to drink.” She drew a deep breath as if shoring up for duty. “I baked gingerbread this morning with that sweet sauce you and Gretchen used to like. Why don’t I warm the sauce, pour it over a big piece of gingerbread, and fix a cup of coffee for you? Do you think that might make you feel better?”
“I think it would make me feel wonderful.”
Susan beamed. “Then you pull yourself together and we’ll eat and drink and have girl talk before we go back to my scintillating interview. I’m certain you remember where the downstairs bathroom is. You’ll probably want to touch up your face.”
“‘Touch up’ might be putting it mildly.” Although Marissa was terribly upset, she reminded herself she was here partly on a mission. She girded herself for a question: “Susan, would you mind terribly if I used the upstairs bathroom and looked at Gretchen’s room? Eric said you haven’t changed her bedroom and we spent so many happy hours there—I’d love to see it again.”
Susan looked down. Here it comes, Marissa thought. The refusal. She might have forgiven me, but letting me go into Gretchen’s room is just too much.
Susan raised her gaze. “I think Gretchen would like the idea of you being in her room again. I used to sit down here and listen to the two of you laugh and occasionally squeal the way adolescent girls do. She loved you, Marissa. You and Eric were the lights of her life. Go right on up and take your time.”
Susan rose from the couch and disappeared into the dining room leading to the kitchen. Meanwhile, Marissa sat for a moment, trying to decide if she should actually search Gretchen’s room. Susan had seemed so trusting, so certain that Marissa wanted to see the room only for sentimental reasons. What if she knew Marissa actually had another agenda?
Susan wouldn’t understand, but Gretchen would, Marissa thought. Besides, Eric knew the plan and approved of it. They only wanted to discover what had been bothering Gretchen that summer, what had gone wrong in her world. Gretchen hadn’t wanted them to know then or she would have told them. What about now, though? Marissa was absolutely certain Gretchen did not want to die when she did. No matter what was wrong back then, Gretchen would have wanted to live, to find love, to have a child, but she hadn’t gotten the chance. Yes, Marissa thought, Gretchen would want those people closest to her to know what unhappiness had driven her to take the course leading to her death.
Marissa clutched her tote bag and ran lightly up the stairs to the second floor. Gretchen’s room had been the third on the right overlooking a beautiful summer backyard. As soon as she stepped in, Marissa smiled. Gretchen had always called this the Pepto-Bismol room, and with good reason—almost everything was pink. White furniture sat on pink carpet leading up to pale pink walls. A deep pink coverlet decorated with white and pink stuffed animals lay on the double bed. It’s good Lindsay isn’t with me now, Marissa thought, or none of the stuffed animals would be safe. A picture of white, pale pink, and cerise flowers hung above the bed. The room would have been a little girl’s dream. Gretchen had still been sleeping in it when she was twenty-one.
Last night having sharpened her searching skills, Marissa quickly laid down her tote bag and began opening dresser drawers. Underwear, nightwear, and scarves lay neatly folded and still smelling faintly of the vanilla sachet Gretchen always used. She’d even put each pair of panty hose into a ziplock plastic bag and lined up the bags according to color. Marissa noticed Gretchen had owned no fanciful patterned hose like Marissa wore right now—everything was either “buff” or “beige” or “suntan.”
Marissa glanced at her watch and saw that six minutes had passed. She’d set ten as her limit. She rushed to the walk-in closet and opened the door. Once again, clothes had been organized—plastic-covered gowns Gretchen wore when she gave concerts, dresses, blouses, slacks, shorts, and T-shirts. Marissa shook her head when she saw two pairs of jeans bearing dry-cleaning tags. The insistence on dry cleaning must have been Susan’s, Marissa mused.
One end of the closet bore shelves for shoes and a few drawers. Vaguely Marissa remembered a ten-year-old Gretchen telling her mother she wanted a cabinet at the back of the closet where she could store her shoes and jewelry. She’d seen such a unit on television when someone was making a tour of a movie star’s home.
Susan had wavered, and Gretchen’s father had almost refused because of the expense. Marissa had instructed Gretchen to make the request when Mitch and Jean Farrell had come to dinner at the Montgomery home. Gretchen followed Marissa’s instructions, and as Marissa expected, Mitch had quickly volunteered for the job, saying it would be fun to make something like a movie star had in her closet and he could broaden his woodworking skills and lower the cost at the same time. The Montgomerys could hardly say no to such a generous offer.
What they hadn’t known was that Mitch had installed a “secret cabinet” in the unit. Gretchen had told Marissa that Mitch said every girl needed a place to keep absolutely private items from parents, a sta
tement Marissa later knew Mitch would not have made to anyone except a sweet, gentle girl like Gretchen who would never hide anything dangerous in the cabinet.
Marissa recalled that several weeks after Mitch had completed the unit she and Gretchen had been “hanging out” in Gretchen’s bedroom, listening to music, talking about hair-styles and when they would ever be old enough for their mothers to let them wear makeup. Suddenly, after Gretchen had made certain her mother was out of the house, she’d pulled Marissa to the back of the closet and kneeled down in front of the storage unit. She’d hit a spot of what looked like solid wood and a door popped open. “Isn’t it neat?” She’d beamed at Marissa. “It feels so Nancy Drew.” Gretchen had withdrawn a few magazines like Tiger Beat, a much-treasured copy of Eric’s Rolling Stone, a cigarette she planned to try someday, a few notebooks in which she’d written poetry and songs, ballads accompanied by lyrics, and an eight-by-ten picture of Leonardo DiCaprio. In later years, she’d added a metal storage box complete with padlock to her hoard. “You know how Mom snoops,” she’d said darkly.
Drained of ideas of where to search for she-didn’t-know-what in Gretchen’s room, Marissa hit the corner of the secret wooden door with the heel of her hand. Nothing. Again slightly to the right. Nothing. Susan is going to hear me, she thought almost frantically. One more time she hit a spot on the left, and the door popped open.
Marissa gasped in relief, especially when she saw the metal storage box. She pulled it out and felt as if someone had stuck a pin in her balloon of joy. The thing still bore the padlock.
Gretchen had told her the combination to the padlock. She’d told her, made her repeat it three times, and tested her every couple of months until they were about fifteen. Marissa sighed in exasperation. She tried Gretchen’s birth date, although she knew that was too simple. She tried her own birth date. Nothing. Eric’s birth date. The lock held firm. Marissa closed her eyes, feeling as if she was going to cry again. Then she mistily recalled Gretchen announcing, “Nobody will ever think of this number! You know how Mom hates…” Hates what? What did Susan Montgomery hate that her daughter had loved?
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