by Merry Jones
Vivian opened her mouth, tried to look horrified and appalled. She failed.
‘Oh, please stop pretending, Ma.’
Vivian reached for her gin and lime. Lifted the glass, gulped.
Hank looked at Harper. ‘What?’
‘She’ll tell you. Come on, Ma—’
‘All right!’ Vivian sighed. ‘You want to hear it? Fine. It doesn’t matter. He’s dead. So there’s no point keeping it secret any more.’ She took another drink. ‘The deal was that Lou wasn’t supposed to be in the car. The crash was supposed to be staged. And the car supposed to be so mangled that Cobretti would figure Lou couldn’t have survived the crash and that the money burned in the fire.’ She went on, describing how Lou had a new identity – Oliver Hayes. No – Hines. And, how he’d promised to send for her as soon as he could, so she could join him. And she didn’t understand what had happened. How it could have gone so wrong.
Harper listened. Remembering Lou leaving in a hurry, not even saying goodbye, rushing out to the Camry.
Which had been parked in the driveway. Alongside the pickup truck holding Sty.
Harper didn’t say anything, but Sty and Lou were about the same height. Lou had a belly and was older, but the body was badly burned – had been identified by the necklace and the car. But all that was circumstantial. So, Lou’s body might not be Lou.
She thought it through. Pictured Sty waking up in the back of the truck. Seeing the Camry nearby, thinking he might use it to get away, climbing inside to steal it. Or to just get out of the wind and hide there for a while – He knew they’d look for him at the fraternity, so he couldn’t go there. And he couldn’t go into Harper’s house because he’d be caught. So, yes, he’d hidden in the car – might have been trying to hot-wire it. But then Lou had surprised him, discovered Sty in the Camry, and . . .
And what?
Had Sty killed Lou and crashed the car, setting it on fire?
No. Sty wouldn’t have crashed the car. He’d have used it to escape. And he’d have found Lou’s money and kept it. Besides, he wouldn’t have followed Lou’s plan so closely. It was too big a coincidence that the car would crash and burn.
So Lou had must have killed Sty.
And Lou was still alive somewhere.
Harper thought of sharing her thoughts with Hank and Vivian, but didn’t. After all, Lou hadn’t contacted Vivian, hadn’t called to tell her he was alive and where to join him. Probably he’d dumped her, so it was just as well that Vivian thought he was dead.
Her mother was still talking, telling Hank about how Lou had changed. How he’d made mistakes but had been completely honest with her.
Harper said nothing. She was absorbing the fact that, if Sty was the body they’d found in the car, he couldn’t come after her any more. Which meant she would be safe. It would be over. Finally, she could relax.
The ashes sat on an urn on the mantelpiece. Vivian had had the cremation done that morning, three days after Christmas. The weather was bleak and the party of mourners small, just Rivers, Leslie, Hank, Harper and Vivian. Hank had ordered luncheon from a deli and set it out in the dining room. Cold cuts, fresh bread, fruit, pastries.
‘I have to decide where to scatter the ashes.’ Vivian poured gin into her orange juice.
Hank offered their back yard. Rivers suggested Lake Cayuga. Leslie advised that Vivian hold onto them for a while, that she not rush to a decision.
From her seat on the easy chair, Harper eyed her corned beef sandwich, then looked out the window at the melting snow, the perpetually gray sky. Wondering whose ashes were really in the urn. Sty’s? Or Lou’s? Surprisingly, she missed Lou; even if he’d been a thief and a gangster, she’d become used to having him around. He’d made great coffee. And he’d taken good care of her mother, acted as a buffer between them. Now, without him, what would Vivian do? Probably Vivian would have to move in with her and Hank, stay at least until the baby was born. And Harper would be back in the life she thought she’d escaped: looking after her mother.
But maybe not. For the last few hours, since the cremation, Vivian had seemed stronger. She’d dealt with the mortician, arranged for transportation of the body from the morgue. She’d seemed, for Vivian, solidly in control. Harper hadn’t seen her ducking outside to smoke, or downing as much gin or Scotch. In fact, Vivian seemed uncharacteristically stable. Harper bit into her sandwich, watchful, trying to hear what Vivian was saying to Leslie.
‘You’re really all right?’ Leslie bit into a chunk of honeydew.
‘I am.’ Vivian’s eyes gleamed. ‘Lou’s death was awful. But I swear, it woke me up. It showed me how short life can be. How important it is to make every minute count.’
Harper shook her head, doubting her ears. Was her mother on some medication? Suffering some delayed form of shock?
‘Lou was good to me. I won’t find another man like him. Being with him made me – I don’t know – stronger. So, even without Lou, I’m going to go ahead and live my life to the fullest.’
‘What will you do?’
Vivian grinned. ‘I want to see the world. Now that Harper doesn’t need me any more, I’m taking a trip.’
‘You going?’ Hank looked up from his lunch.
‘You can’t expect me to stay forever.’ She winked.
Harper glanced at Leslie, then at Hank. Met their eyes. Shared their confusion.
Rivers asked where she planned to go. Vivian took a drink, listed possibilities. Switzerland. England. France. Ireland. But probably, she’d start someplace warm. Like Mexico.
‘Lots of drug cartels down there. Be careful,’ Rivers warned, scooping potato salad onto her plate.
‘Do you speak Spanish?’ Leslie asked.
Harper kept watching her mother. Something was definitely off. How had she recovered so quickly from Lou’s death? How come she’d had him cremated so quickly? Unless . . . Had she heard from him? Did she know the body was Sty’s? She replayed Lou’s last minutes with them, her mother hanging his Christmas gift around his neck. Pictured Lou putting it on Sty’s body.
But maybe he hadn’t. Maybe Lou was really dead.
Either way, something was up with Vivian. Her whole demeanor was wrong.
‘How are you feeling?’ Rivers pulled over a dining-room chair. Took a seat beside her.
Harper’s cuts and bruises were almost healed, her contractions holding steady. ‘Okay.’
Rivers looked across the room at the others. ‘Your mom’s doing well.’
Harper nodded, didn’t share her thoughts. What would be the point? She chewed corned beef, took a sip of iced tea.
‘So many funerals coming up. Evan’s is Tuesday. Sebastian’s and Steven’s families will arrange theirs soon, now that the coroner’s released them.’ She paused.
Harper took another bite, made no comment. The war had given her lots of experience with funerals, with young people dying.
‘But I’m disturbed that we still haven’t found Sty.’ Rivers met Harper’s eyes. ‘Where could he be?’
Harper chewed, said nothing.
‘When you left him in the back of the pickup, how badly hurt was he?’
‘He fell and banged his head.’ She didn’t mention punching him. ‘I think he was unconscious the whole ride home. But, truthfully, I was in no condition to—’
‘Of course not, Mrs Jennings. But he must have hit his head pretty hard.’ She paused. ‘Here’s what’s bothering me: Sty had a bad head injury. He had no car in the area. Temperatures were below freezing, and it was the middle of the night. So let me ask you: In those conditions, how far could he have gotten?’
Harper swallowed. ‘You think he went to the fraternity house?’
‘We looked that night. He wasn’t there. And he wasn’t here.’
Harper looked at the urn. Pictured Sty crouching in the Camry. His body burning there.
‘When we searched the fraternity, though, we found some other items you’d be interested in. Sty took notes. Meticulous no
tes.’
Notes? Harper put her plate on the end table, no longer hungry.
‘He was trying to be scientific. He wrote out a formal hypothesis – honestly, I couldn’t make sense of it. It was long and rambling, and pretty incoherent. But in it, he detailed emotional, psychological and physical changes that he predicted would occur among healthy young men in the face of mounting pain and certain death.’ She paused, crossed her ankles. ‘He also described the sample group. The victims had to be young white men of height and weight similar to Sty’s. He made up standardized forms to be filled out for each victim, but the only ones filled out were for Victim Number One, whom we assume was Sebastian Levering.’
Rivers stopped, took a forkful of potato salad. Chewed. Harper looked away.
‘Anyway, Sty noted exactly what was done to Sebastian – step by step, from the abduction on. He detailed Sebastian’s reactions, even made audio tapes of his screams.’
Harper smelled burning rubber, felt sand on her skin. She bit her lip. ‘Please, don’t tell me—’
‘Sorry. The facts are disturbing. I’ll spare you. But you should know that, by stopping this duo, you’ve done a great service. They were just beginning. Sty saw their atrocities as research and himself as a genius, conducting innovative studies on pain and death.’ She looked around, lowered her voice. ‘Mrs Jennings, Sty wrote that killing was a “scintillating intellectual experience” – I believe those were his exact words – and that his work separated him from the “banality of societal norms”.’
Harper felt cold, folded her arms. Shook her head.
Rivers went on. ‘But even more interesting was what Sty wrote about his partner. He was concerned that Evan was impulsive, that he got a sexual thrill out of inflicting pain. Sty doubted Evan’s commitment to science and worried that his sadistic urges could lead to careless – and potentially disastrous – behavior. He was planning to kill him.’
Harper’s mouth was dry. She lifted her glass, sipped tea. ‘A couple of sick puppies.’
‘Indeed. And you’ll be interested in this: Sty wrote about a close call with Victim One. He tried to escape; Evan had to chase him and someone – probably the next-door neighbor – saw them and called the police.’
Harper saw him again, naked and terrified, running into the night. ‘So the guy I saw—’
‘Was Sebastian.’
They sat for a moment.
‘This is a bad case, Mrs Jennings. Sty’s still loose, and we still have a guy missing – Sebastian’s boyfriend. But thanks to you, Evan won’t be hurting anybody else. We owe you.’ Rivers stood. ‘By the way,’ she added. ‘That key you found? It didn’t fit Sebastian’s door. If you want, you can have it back.’
Oh Lord. Harper remembered searching for Sebastian in the woods behind the house. Finding a spatter of blood and, beside it on a string, a key. ‘No.’ She smiled. ‘No thanks.’
Harper watched Rivers walk away. There was still time to stop her and tell her that Sty might be dead. But what was the point? Rivers was already talking to Leslie. Besides, telling the police that the body in the car might be Sty’s would let everyone – including Cobretti – know that it might not be Lou’s.
Vivian banged a spoon against a glass to make an announcement. ‘Everybody, listen up.’ She projected her voice as if to a large crowd. ‘Because of Lou’s demise, we never had Christmas. Lou would be upset if he knew our gifts were just lying there. So, as part of his celebration, we’re going to open presents!’
Really? Harper looked at the urn, the pile of packages. The faces of the two dismayed guests. Leslie glanced at her watch, said she’d love to stay but had to see a patient in a few minutes. Grabbing her coat, she hugged Harper and Vivian, waved goodbye to Rivers, called bye-bye to Hank and dashed.
Rivers made her apologies; said she’d already stayed too long.
‘No. You can’t all leave. This is Lou’s party!’ Vivian had moved into the living room, was dividing gifts, piling a bunch in front of Harper, as if converting the memorial into a baby shower.
‘Not my call, Ma’am. I’m on the clock.’ Rivers stepped to the door. ‘Goodbye, everyone. Again, sorry for your loss—’
Before Rivers was out the door, Vivian shoved a carton the size of a dishwasher at Harper. ‘I picked this out myself. Open it first.’ She picked up a bottle and refilled her drink.
Harper stared at the box. ‘You really want me to open this?’ It didn’t seem right, after Lou’s death.
Vivian answered by ripping paper off boxes, revealing a multicolored plastic toy chest, a potty seat, a huge stuffed gorilla. And more. A car seat, not the make Harper had chosen. A stroller, not the model Harper wanted. A high chair, not the kind Harper would have bought. Baby clothes – onesies, T-shirts, sweaters, tiny shoes and socks – all yellow. ‘That way, it won’t matter if it’s a boy or a girl,’ Vivian grinned.
There were teething rings. Bibs. A little bathtub with washcloths, towels and a cushion. A portable changing mat. Things Harper hadn’t even thought of yet.
Harper presented her mother with the cozy slippers; Hank got busy assembling the high chair.
‘Ma.’ Harper felt suffocated. ‘This is way too much.’
‘I’m just making sure my grand-baby gets taken care of.’
Harper bristled. Why should Vivian assume only she could take care of the baby? And that she should decide what to buy? What had she left for them to pick out? She’d even selected diapers.
‘You shouldn’t have bought all this.’ Harper’s tone was chilly.
‘No worries.’ Vivian folded onesies. ‘Lou picked up the bill . . .’ She stopped, met Harper’s eyes, as if realizing Lou might have paid with mob money.
‘There.’ Hank presented the assembled high chair, a depressingly dark, ornately carved thing with a tan plastic tray.
Harper frowned at it.
‘You don’t like it.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘I knew you wouldn’t.’
Really? ‘Then why did you get it?’
‘Hoppa—’ Hank tried.
‘I bet you don’t like anything I got, do you?’
‘I didn’t say that—’
‘Well, do you?’ She held up a pair of shoes.
‘Infants don’t need to wear shoes.’
‘Okay. And what about the car seat? Or the stroller?’
‘Ma, you don’t want my opinion. If you did, you’d have asked before you bought everything.’ Stop, she told herself. What was the point of arguing?
‘Sorry, Harper. I only wanted to be helpful.’
‘Ma, did you ever think that maybe Hank and I wanted to pick out some things ourselves . . .?’
‘Oh, forgive me. Forgive me for giving you so many presents.’ Vivian reached for a tissue.
‘Ma, please.’
‘After all I’ve been through, Harper. You have no idea – you just don’t understand me. You never did. No matter how hard my life has been, I’ve always done my best for you—’
‘Really?’ Harper couldn’t stop herself. ‘For me? Are you kidding? Don’t even start—’
‘Enough,’ Hank ordered. ‘Both of you!’
‘That’s what you think?’ Vivian huffed. ‘That I’m all about myself? Well, then it’s a good thing I’m leaving.’
Harper didn’t disagree.
‘I’ll go tomorrow.’
‘If that’s what you want.’
‘Now. Stop.’ Hank faced Harper, his hands firmly on her shoulders. ‘Calm down.’ He turned to Vivian. ‘Not going.’
‘I am—’
‘Not yet. Not like that.’ He glared at one, then the other of them. ‘Wait.’ He reached behind the tree and took out two small boxes. A silver and turquoise bracelet for Vivian. A turquoise pendant for Harper. ‘From. Texas.’
The gifts brought thanks and kisses, apologies for lost tempers. Harper asked her mother to stay; Vivian insisted that she would leave. With Hank home, there was no need for her to remain. And she was eager to move on,
had already made plans to go to Mexico. While she talked, Hank cleaned up wrapping paper, ribbons.
It wasn’t until he’d tossed out most of the paper that he noticed the last gift, lost in the mass of gifts surrounding the tree. It was a small box, for Vivian, from Lou. Containing a diamond ring.
Vivian sat, gawking at it. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ she said.
Hank wiped away a tear, grabbed Harper’s hand.
Vivian took it out, slipped it onto the third finger of her left hand. Held it up, showing it off. ‘It looks good, doesn’t it?’ Vivian’s eyes sparkled, delighted with the diamond, as if she hadn’t just cremated the man who’d wanted to marry her.
Hank couldn’t watch, got up and walked away. But Harper stayed, transfixed. More certain than ever that her theory was right, that the ashes on the mantel did not belong to Lou.
Suddenly, Vivian was gone. She left the very next morning. Hank went with her, driving her to the airport in Syracuse. By lunchtime four days after Christmas, ten days after she’d seen Sebastian Levering outside her window, Harper was alone, staring at her computer screen, trying not to be distracted by recent events, by the lingering floral scent of her mother’s embrace or by the cloud of disappointed loneliness that Vivian always left behind.
Not that there had been any drama. Vivian seemed to have forgotten their spat. She’d thanked Harper profusely for her support after Lou’s death, promised to visit after the baby was born, said she’d keep them updated on her itinerary. She’d seemed optimistic, cheery. So cheery, in fact, that Harper had been tempted to ask Vivian if she’d heard from Lou. But she’d held herself back. Vivian might not have heard from him. Even though Lou was probably alive, he might not have been in touch. Might have simply walked away.
Harper stared at the screen and it stared back at her. The Pre-Columbian symbols she was discussing in her dissertation paraded through her head: Jaguars, owls, deer and snakes. Harper yawned, felt the baby swimming around. Thought about the leftover cold cuts. The pastries. Decided to take a break.
Halfway down the stairs, she heard a smashing sound in the kitchen. Probably a melting icicle, crashing onto the deck. She continued down the steps, through the hall. Maybe there was more corned beef. It was salty, but she almost never ate it. Maybe she’d make a special, with cole slaw. On rye.
