But when she looked into the window of the car, Marty wasn’t there. His words kept stinging her ears, but it was just her reflection staring back at her. All alone—the way it was going to be from here on out. She began pounding on her reflection, as hard as she could. And she wouldn’t stop. She just kept pounding … and pounding, until she smashed right through the window. She didn’t even notice that her hand was bleeding, slashed on the broken glass.
“You’re lucky you didn’t cut a tendon,” Will said, as he made two final snips with the scissors, and the stitches were out.
He viewed his work, and appeared impressed. “It healed nicely, but you will have to put your boxing career on hold for the next couple of weeks to let it fully recover.”
She smiled.
A knock on the door was followed by a head popping in. When the man saw Allison he looked apologetic.
“I’m sorry, Will—I didn’t know you had a patient. I was just passing through town, and thought I’d stop in and say hello.”
“No problem at all, Chayton. We were just finishing up here,” Will responded cheerily.
He stepped inside the room, and Allison could easily spot the Manhattan in the man—their suits gave off a certain scent.
“Chayton Dohasan I’d like you to meet Allison Cooper,” Will introduced.
But it wasn’t necessary. “You sure look like a girl I once knew named Allison Stankiewicz. I guess Cooper means you’re off the market … congratulations,” he greeted her, having no idea his words were like a knife to the sternum.
She braved a smile. “Good to see you, Chayton.”
“Same here—it’s been too long. How’s your brother doing?”
Allison’s older brother Greg had been in Chayton’s class in school. Like most of the freshman girls in her class, Chayton was the senior boy she had a crush on, and knowing her through Greg, he would always give her a “hallway hi” in passing between classes that would impress her friends. From what she’d heard through the grapevine, he was now some big-deal Manhattan attorney, along with being the legal counsel for the Samerauk Indian Tribe here in town. Which meant he was part of the battle over the potential casino that had Rockfield all hot and bothered.
“He’s doing well. Still in the Marines, has been based out of San Diego the last few years.”
“Give him my best—and I thought you were living in the city?”
“I’m a recent returnee,” she said, purposely vague, not wanting to go into the whole husband murdered, trying to find solid footing thing, so she changed the subject, “How do you two know each other?”
“We actually went to kindergarten together here in Rockfield, before I moved back to Boston with my mom,” Will said.
Chayton added, “We reconnected when I was in law school at Harvard, and Will was in medical school at BU. My mom ran into Doc Mac one day here in town, and it came up that we were both in Boston looking for roommates.”
“We got in touch, and ended up in a rat-infested apartment in Cambridge,” Will said.
Chayton laughed. “He was the best roommate a man could have—I don’t think I saw him for three years.” He then reached into the pocket of his expensive suit jacket and pulled out a photograph. “Speaking of the old days, I came across this at my mother’s place recently, and thought you’d get a kick out of it.”
He handed Will a photo of their kindergarten class. Allison was able to get a view, and it was the typical class photo with three inclined rows, tallest kids in the back, bad outfits and worse haircuts. She spotted her brother, who stood side-by-side with Will, Chayton, and Lewis Hastings in the back row.
The photo sparked old stories. Allison hung in for a few until it was time to head to her next stop—the Rockfield Gazette—where she would keep busy and avoid thoughts of the sad path that brought her back to town.
Chapter 22
I entered the Hastings Inn to meet my lunch date.
I was met with apprehensive stares from the other patrons. Perhaps they were recalling the fight, albeit a scripted one, I had with Carter in here last year. Or maybe it was the way people stare when a known criminal enters their midst—my arrest had finally reached the pages of the Rockfield Gazette this morning.
Gwen decided on the less interesting headline: First Selectman’s Son Arrested for Trespassing. But it only took up a small portion of the front page. The majority of the space went to a retrospective article about Noah, commemorating the anniversary of his murder. I could only imagine the twitching vein in Maloney’s neck as he fumed, claiming Gwen was running the article on Noah to take the attention away from my arrest, with some added sympathy to boot. But it had been in the works for weeks.
One of the lines in the article said that Noah’s murder had “changed Rockfield forever.” This was probably true, and certainly my family would never be the same, but the reason I was here today was because when Thomas Archibald went missing, it didn’t change the town forever. In fact, it seemed to go on without skipping a beat.
I took a seat across from Vivian Bardella, who had been waiting for me. I’ve always respected those who don’t accept the crap life throws our way, no matter how inevitable it might be. And there is no crueler joke life throws at us than the aging process. But Vivian continued to battle the tide, no matter how futile—her face was pulled back like a snare drum, and she was nipped, tucked, and lifted from the blonde Marilyn Monroe wig on her head, down to the expensive alligator pumps on her feet.
I smiled at her, taking a whiff of hairspray and cigarettes. “What a gorgeous dress,” I said, as if I had any expertise in women’s fashion. It did look like something you might wear to the governor’s ball, more so than a Tuesday lunch date in Rockfield, and made me feel very under-dressed in my button-down and khakis, along with the required jacket.
“It’s one of my favorite designs, but nothing compared to what I plan to create for Gwen when she walks down the aisle. When I’m done with her, she will look like she popped right out of a fairytale.”
I let out a nervous chuckle. “Since we’re not even engaged, you might be putting the cart slightly ahead of the horse.”
“Word is, the wheels are already in motion, and I want to get in early to make my pitch. I know there will be great competition to design her dress.”
“I don’t know what wheels you’re talking about, but I can assure you that train is firmly parked in the station.”
She laughed. “I might be old, JP, but I’m not yet dead. Should I paint a picture for you? And should I paint it in purple diamond?”
My face dropped. “How did you know about that?”
“I might be based in Rockfield, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have eyes and ears in the Diamond District. It’s a beautiful choice you made, and by beautiful, I mean very expensive. Just make sure you steady her when she opens the box, she might just pass out.”
I reached for my water glass, but it was empty. “I hope this will be our little secret, Vivian.”
She waved her hand dismissively. “Of course. And Rockfield has always been full of their little secrets, so what’s one more?”
Which was exactly why we were here today.
“And besides,” she continued. “I’d much rather discuss how JP Warner is going to be the spokesman for my new menswear line.”
“Potential spokesman,” I corrected. “I haven’t decided yet.”
I’d told her I was thinking about it, and wanted to discuss it over lunch. I thought she would be more receptive to that, than say, bringing up curses and her still-missing classmate. But she saw it as an opportunity to play the engagement ring card. You don’t want to do it, JP … I understand, I just hope Gwen doesn’t find out that …
Lesson learned: Vivian was not to be underestimated.
“There’s nothing to decide—you’re born to do it! That ruggedly handsome face, the strong jaw, the piercing eyes … all I’d be doing is adding the wrapping paper and the bow.”
I smiled. �
�Will I be paid in compliments?”
Our waitress arrived and filled our water glasses. She listed off the specials and let us know she’d return when we were ready to order.
Vivian stared at her as she walked to the next table. “Look at that body—I couldn’t make a dress that wouldn’t fit her perfectly. Youth is always so wasted on the young,” she bemoaned.
“Many young girls have the physical beauty, but lack the polish of sophistication. Very few women combine both, like yourself,” I returned serve on the sucking-up.
“Polish and experience are nice, but if a time machine arrived for me, I’d jump in and ride it all the way back to my perfect ass.”
“I must say, I’ve recently seen some photos of you from back in the day, and you more than caught my eye.”
I pulled the photo out of my jacket pocket—the one I’d taken from the scrapbook at the historical society—and slid it across the table.
Vivian studied the random shot that was taken just hours prior to Bette’s accident. A wave of mixed emotions swept across her face as she stared at it.
“I’ve been updating the albums at the historical society—getting everything in order for when my mother leaves in a couple months,” I lied. “They have one for each fair, going back to the 1920s. I found this photo in the 1961 album.”
“That was the day of Bette’s accident,” she said. “Why would you be bringing this up, and darkening this beautiful day?”
“I had never heard of Bette’s accident, or about Thomas Archibald, until after the bridge incident the other night. The story interested me, so I did some research.”
“Are you planning an article for the paper?”
“If there’s a story to tell. But so far I haven’t been able to get much information from the police, so I thought I’d ask people who knew Bette back then,” I said, pointing at the photo.
“As far as I know, the police were never involved,” she replied, which I thought was an odd thing to bring up.
“Why was that?”
“Because it was an accident, and that’s where the story should end. It was a tragedy, not a mystery.”
“But the story didn’t end there. Because the next year, prior to the ceremony to ‘end the curse,’ Poca Dohasan gave a newspaper interview. In it, she described—from her point of view—what happened that night. And since nobody has commented before or since, and there’s no police report, it became the official story. But there’s usually two sides to every story, and I get the idea that’s true in this case.”
Her face soured, Botox be damned. “Poca was using Bette the same way she used Woody. It was always about her, and still is.”
Now we were getting somewhere.
“So you’re saying that Poca didn’t tell the truth in that article?”
“She only tells the truth when it suits her. And since the Samerauks were in a constant battle with the Hastings family, I’d take what she said about Bette … or Thomas Archibald … with a grain of salt. She purposely sought them out, and like most of her prey, they couldn’t resist her charm. But she wasn’t their friend—she was what my granddaughter would call a frenemy.”
“Just to play devil’s advocate, Woodrow Hastings was the one who went after her and Thomas Archibald, the night he disappeared. Poca claims in her statement to the police that he threatened them with a knife.”
It wasn’t hard to figure out that Vivian was on Team Hastings. “Woody was the one who was assaulted that night—two broken ribs thanks to Thomas Archibald. I was the one who cared for him.”
“I don’t doubt that at all. It seems that you two were very close.”
She smirked at me, as if to remind me that I couldn’t pull one over on her. “I see where you’re going with this. Yes, I did have a crush on Woodrow … still do. But that doesn’t change the fact that Poca used him. And I won’t apologize for being loyal to the Hastings family—my father worked for Joe Sr. on their farm, and our families were close. Woody’s mother, Georgette, hired me to design my first dress, even after they’d moved to California. And they often hired me to design for the stars of their movies.”
“What about your relationship with Bette?”
“I considered her to be my little sister. She was going to be a freshman that year, and I was going into my junior year. So I felt it was my job to show her the ropes that summer, but also to protect her. I didn’t do a very good job because Poca got her hooks into her. They became fast friends.”
“But Poca wasn’t really her friend, was she?”
“She would do anything to get at the Hastings family. So with Woody now off at college, and out of her clutches, Bette became the next in line. I saw a change in Bette that summer—the hopelessly naïve and idealistic girl started to resemble her new manipulative friend.”
“What happened that night?”
“We were having a good time at the Rockfield Fair. School began in a couple of days, and it was our last days of summer vacation. I remember that I had to return home, to take care of some chores, with plans to meet back at the fair at dusk. But when I returned, I found out that Poca had dragged Bette up to Farm Ridge Resort.”
“The mental hospital?”
She nodded. “It was pretty much abandoned at that point, which made it a great place to do things you didn’t want anyone to know about, like smoke.”
“I’m assuming you don’t mean cigarettes.”
“Poca’s family claimed that smoking peyote was part of their religion, in line with the beliefs of the Native American Church. I don’t judge people’s religions, but it’s pretty obvious that the drugs were just another way for Poca to control Bette, and drive her away from those of us who cared about her well-being. I was mad, and went directly there to bring Bette home.”
“And what did you find?”
“I’d missed them. I was told by some other girls that they had gone to the bridge to reverse the curse.”
“Why was Poca so interested in reversing this curse?”
“She had basically used Archie to make Woody jealous. It’s not like they had some serious relationship. Yet after Archie went missing, she made it out like she was a widowed newlywed. That was her excuse to try to end the curse—blaming it for taking her beloved Archie. What a crock.”
“So did you go to the bridge to try to stop them?’
“First I went to get Woody. He was home packing, as he was leaving to return to college the next day.”
“And what was his reaction?”
“He was enraged. More so that Poca would involve Bette in drugs, than the curse stuff. We sped to the bridge in his car. He was going so fast, it’s a miracle we didn’t miss one of those hairpin turns on Zycko and end up like James Dean.”
“But you were too late?”
“Both girls were in the water when we arrived. I just remember that it was so dark. Woody jumped in—I didn’t know how to swim, so all I could do was stand at the river’s edge and feel useless. Poca was an exceptional swimmer, and found her way to shore. She was disorientated, and claimed she wasn’t sure what had happened to Bette. Woody kept desperately diving into the darkness, with nothing to go on—no sign of her, no scream, nothing.
“Finally, like some miracle he pulled her out of the water. She was unconscious, and I was convinced that she was dead. Woody had been a lifeguard, and trained in First Aid. He got her breathing again. My ‘little sister’ was alive, and going to be her bubbly self again in no time.”
“But she wasn’t.”
“I can still see Woody cradling her in his arms and carrying her to his car. He took off, leaving Poca and me behind, which was rather awkward, to say the least. When Bette didn’t show up at school on Tuesday, I figured she’d been grounded for smoking grass. When she didn’t show up for the entire first week, I stopped by the Hastings estate, and was told that Bette had been sent off to boarding school. That there were too many bad influences on her in Rockfield, when we all knew there was just one.
“Do you think Poca pushed her over that bridge—that she tried to kill her?”
She thought for a long moment. “I’m no fan of Poca, but to accuse her of … I just don’t like to think such things. She probably convinced Bette to go bridge diving with her. Then when things didn’t work out, she used the curse story to cover her ass. It’s the Samerauk way.”
As if he’d heard us talking about him, Woodrow Hastings entered the restaurant, looking like he’d just finished a round of golf. He was accompanied by his caddie and trophy girlfriend, Jill Leezy. She was dressed in short-shorts, along with a Polo shirt that was about three sizes too small, and ripping at the seams. Everyone was looking at her, which was probably the point. I couldn’t get over how different she looked from high school.
If Vivian was still jealous of Poca after all these years, I figured that she really wasn’t going to be pleased with Jill. But her eyes never left Woodrow Hastings, like he was the only one in the room.
“Speaking of the devil,” she said, smiling wickedly. “Devilishly handsome that is.”
Chapter 23
“I hope you find the food here more to your liking than prison,” Woodrow said with a slick smile. He didn’t have a hair out of place, and there were no visible signs of perspiration on his tanned skin—it was hard to believe he just played eighteen holes of golf.
Vivian had made her exit, although, not before making a crack about whether Woodrow’s “granddaughter” was old enough to be left alone at the nearby table. She smirked at Jill as she said it.
“I’ve found that the vending machine can be an underrated food source,” I replied to the prison food comment.
Psycho Hill (JP Warner Book 3) Page 10
