And She Was

by Alison Gaylin

  Your missing person single?

  No, but the chats look promising. Carol Wentz was a woman of many hobbies, that was for sure . . . Between the French cooking and the charity work and the book club and that damn closet full of crafts, it was no wonder she never had the time of day to give her husband. Sure enough, there was a chat room on Chrysalis for practically every hobby imaginable—all mixed together with chats for women going through menopause, single-parent families, infertile couples, and even victims of violent crime, all under the insanely inclusive heading of “Living.”

  Jim typed: You’re welcome.

  Sorry—Thanks! Just wading through about a million ChrysChats. Brenna paused a moment, then typed the words and sent them. I’m really glad you’re out there. Was that too much?

  As well you should be.

  Brenna grinned. Jim. So what should I try first? The French cooking chat?

  Two words: Boudin noir.

  In an instant, Brenna was deep inside May 30, 1994, in a Paris bistro called La Muguet, some horrifying French version of the Beatles’ greatest hits playing over the speaker system. Brenna and Jim are four days into their honeymoon, and it’s 9:15 P.M. Some French guy with one of those voices that sounds like he’s crying all the time is belting out “Yellow Submarine” at far too loud a volume, but it doesn’t matter because they’re on their second bottle of chateau neuf du pape, and Brenna is savoring a bite of a crispy-skinned chicken that may be the most perfect thing she’s ever tasted, trying to make it last forever. Meanwhile, Jim—who thinks it’s exciting and spontaneous to order random items he’s never heard of—is biting into a large cylindrical object the color of eggplant. He calls the waiter over. “Qu’est ce que c’est?”

  “Boudin noir, monsieur,” the waiter says. “It is sausage, made from the blood of pigs.” A look crosses Jim’s face—much like Charlton Heston at the end of Soylent Green. Brenna bursts out laughing.

  Jim asked: You remember?

  Brenna was laughing now, much as she’d laughed then, her eyes blurring from tears, her head thrown back. She caught her breath and wrote: What do you think?!

  Jim replied fast: I’d type you one of those smiley face things, but you hate those smiley face things.

  Brenna double-clicked on the French cooking chat, but when it asked her for a screen name and password, she wasn’t sure what she should call herself: BoudinBetty? CrepeSuzette? She typed at Jim: Ever go into a hobby chat room?

  Uh, no. Wait—does bondage count as a hobby?

  Good one. Want to join me?

  In a French cooking chat room? Are you serious?

  Brenna sighed. She supposed she could call herself something simple—NYCFoodie sounded okay. But what was she supposed to do when she was in there? Hey, sorry to bug you guys, but did you happen to see a woman named Carol in here? About fifty, dirty blonde hair, beautiful kitchen?

  Jim typed: So anyway, I’m sorry.

  Sorry about what?

  Why would these people talk to me about Carol, if they don’t even know me? Brenna started looking at the chat room titles on either side of French cooking, as Jim put together his response.

  Maya.

  Brenna exhaled. The sleepover.

  Jim typed, She didn’t ask me. She asked Faith. By the time I knew about it, she was all packed and Larissa’s mother was at the door.

  Brenna started to type a response, but she stopped when she noticed a series of chats titled “Families of the Missing.” They were arranged regionally, and the sixth down was titled “Families of the Missing, New York State.” Brenna stared at the name, her mind hurtling her back six hours and into Annette Shelby’s hotel room.

  “Oh, did you ever hear from Lydia?”

  “Who?”

  “Friend I made on this New York State Families of the Missing chat room . . .”

  “Lydia,” Brenna whispered.

  Jim typed, You still there?

  One sec.

  Okay.

  She grabbed her cell phone and texted Annette: Not urgent, nothing to do with Larry. But if you are awake, please call.

  Brenna’s landline rang seconds later. “ ’Sup?” said Annette, somehow managing to slur a three-letter contraction. Brenna wondered how many times the St. Regis staff had refilled the minibar tonight.

  “Your friend from the Families of the Missing chat—Lydia, right?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did she ever mention where she lives?”

  “Hmmm . . . Westchester County, somewhere. Either Bronxville or . . . Oh, wait. It was Tarry Ridge.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Her screen name is LydiaTR, and that’s what it stands for. Lydia Tarry Ridge.”

  Brenna swallowed hard, thinking of Carol’s wallet in the Neff living room, Brenna’s phone number inside. “Did she finally call you?” Annette was saying. “I’m telling you she really sounded . . . I don’t know . . . I was surprised she didn’t call.”

  “Did she say anything else?”

  “Like . . .”

  “Did she mention feeling guilty or unfulfilled?”

  “Uh . . . no.”

  “How about another man?”

  “Nope. But more power to her if she’s got one,” Annette said. “Tell you the truth, I can’t remember a fucking thing LydiaTR said, other than asking me if you were any good.”

  “When was the last time you were on?”

  “Over a week ago. Ever since I found out that Larry’s got a revolving door on his pants . . . Let’s say I haven’t been in a very chatty mood.”

  “Understandable.”

  “It’s too bad, though,” Annette said. “I really liked those people, and it was nice, being part of a group I could trust.”

  “A group you could trust . . .”

  “I was totally honest with them—other than my name. And they were honest with me.”

  “Of course they were.”

  “Listen, Brenna. I hate to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I’m kinda changing my mind on that whole ‘It’s better to know’ thing. I mean . . . why the hell did you have to be so good at finding Larry?”

  Brenna could see Jim starting to type again. She fired off, Still here—on phone, an idea working its way through her mind.

  “Brenna? Are you like, texting, while you’re on the phone with me?”

  “I’m sorry, Annette. I was just . . . taking care of some paperwork.”

  You’re on the phone? At 2 A.M.?

  Client.

  “You’re divorced, right, Brenna?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jim typed: Maya loves you, by the way.

  Brenna closed her eyes for a moment. Took a breath. She started to type, then stopped. Her throat was tight.

  I know what you’re going to type, B, and you’re wrong. You do deserve that love. You deserve it more than you know.

  “Are you still in touch with your ex?” Annette asked.

  “Yes,” Brenna said softly. “I’m in touch with him.”

  Thank you, J. Her eyes were welling up.

  Stop crying, Jim typed.

  Stop knowing me so well.

  “I’ll bet your ex has just one identity, too, right?” Annette sighed heavily. “Some girls have all the luck.”

  Brenna ran the back of her hand across her face, swiped the tears away. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m pretty lucky.” We don’t confide in strangers. We confide in the people who know us best. We tell them the truth. “Listen, Annette. Can I ask you a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “Just for tonight, could I borrow AlbanyMarie?”

  Chapter 9

  Oh Carol, Carol, Carol . . . Brenna woke up at 8 A.M., after five fitful hours of sleep, the name running through her head like a cheesy pop song. With the help of Annette’s password (Larry4Ever, the poor thing . . .), Brenna had logged on as AlbanyMarie, and spent more than an hour in the Families of the Missing chat room, learning everything there was to know about LydiaTR—who was Carol
Wentz, no question. Carol, Carol . . . what you’ve been up to.

  As with nearly every other missing person Brenna had ever found, it was Carol’s interests that had given her away. LIMatt61 had asked AlbanyMarie if she’d ever used the cassoulet recipe that LydiaTR had given her, while, on LydiaTR’s recommendation, BuffaloSue had begun Safekeeping—the same book Brenna remembered seeing on the Wentzes’ coffee table. WhitePlainsGreta22 had even mentioned Lydia’s “marital problems” with her “noncommunicative” husband—and how DH had no idea Lydia knew how to use a computer. (That’s what chat room and message board people always called their spouses—DH or DW for darling husband or wife, no matter how un-darling they actually were. In fact, Brenna had first come across the abbreviation while working a case four years ago, skimming a message board for battered women.)

  Though they all seemed thrilled—if a little surprised—to see AlbanyMarie in the room after her missing DH had been found, the chat room members were also worried over LydiaTR—and eager to talk about her, even though talking seemed to stoke that worry. Lydia had been offline for a week, after all, which wasn’t like her, not even a little . . .

  Until finally, just as the digital clock over Brenna’s computer had shifted to 2:49, Brenna thinking, LydiaTR is Carol. I get that—but where did they both go? someone with the screen name ClaudetteBrooklyn20 had logged on, lurked in the margins for ten minutes before dropping this shocker:

  ClaudetteBrooklyn20: LydiaTR found her daughter.

  AlbanyMarie: What, Claudette???

  ClaudetteBrooklyn20: You weren’t around, Marie. About a week ago. Late night. Lydia said her daughter called.

  LIMatt61: I was there. Seemed like a prank to me.

  ClaudetteBrooklyn20: She said she knew in her heart. And the girl sounded like a teenager.

  SyracuseSue: She would be a teenager now, right? Wasn’t she six when she went missing?

  AlbanyMarie: You think that’s where L is? With her daughter?

  ClaudetteBrooklyn20: We can hope.

  SyracuseSue: That would be so wonderful if true. I pray for Lydia’s daughter every night. My mom’s name was Iris, too.

  The conversation had gone on like this, with LIMatt61 and WappFallsGordon joining, typing that they too hoped that the call Lydia had received really was from her long-lost child—but admitting to some cynicism about it. (Teenagers make prank calls, LIMatt61 had pointed out again. Could have been an extortionist, Gordon had chimed in.) All the while, Brenna was staring at her screen with her teeth clenched, thinking, You people don’t know the half of it. Why would Carol say that Iris had called Lydia? Why would she claim to be Lydia in the first place?

  At three-ten, Brenna had tried, You guys remember Lydia’s daughter’s case, right? Iris Neff? It was in the news. In return, she’d gotten the chat room equivalent of blank stares: Silence for a solid three minutes, followed by SyracuseSue’s Marie, how is everything with your DH? Has he settled in okay? Not a surprise. Of course they didn’t remember the disappearance of Lydia’s daughter—the disappearance of the real Lydia’s daughter. Iris Neff had gone missing back when 24-hour news was just starting out, when Nancy Grace was still best known for her O.J. Simpson coverage, and missing kids were the domain of milk cartons—when there was a natural news cycle, headlines waxing and waning and retreating for good in two weeks, a month tops . . . especially when there was never a body, never a resolution. Eleven years on, no one remembered Iris Neff. No one except the girl’s loved ones. And Brenna. And, apparently, Carol . . . Why Carol?

  Brenna threw on a pair of jeans and a black long-sleeved T-shirt. She usually blew out her hair for work, but she was running so late today, she just combed in some conditioner and let it fall into curls. On cue, Brenna heard footsteps moving up the stairs to her front door. She knew it was Trent. After six years of his climbing those stairs five days a week, she recognized his footfalls—a fact that disturbed her, but a fact nonetheless. As Trent put his key in the door, calling “Yo!” into the crack once he opened it, just as he always did, it occurred to Brenna that his tenure as her assistant had lasted twice as long as her marriage. Speaking of disturbing facts . . .

  Brenna picked up her desk phone and started to call Nelson. But then she thought better of it, recalled the morning of October 16, 1998, again and tapped in the number for the Tarry Ridge Police Department. One of the upsides to Brenna’s condition was that she had no use for address books or speed dial. All she had to do was use someone’s number once, and the memory of it was hers forever.

  “Yo, yo, yo,” Trent said, once he was in the room.

  “A three-yo day, huh?” Brenna said.

  “Triple your pleasure.” Trent was wearing skinny jeans with an airy mesh tank top the color of peach yogurt, the nipple rings glittering through the holes. According to the thermometer on the kitchen windowsill, it was sixty-two degrees outside—far too cold for a getup like that—but then again it had to drop to at least forty before Trent would even touch a shirt that had sleeves on it. As the police department phone started to ring in her ear, Brenna asked her assistant, “So how was Bedd?”

  Trent cocked an eyebrow.

  “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

  “Way too easy, even for me.”

  Brenna heard the desk sergeant’s voice on the other end of the line and held up a finger. “Detective Morasco, please. This is Brenna Spector.”

  Trent’s eyes went big. “You’re calling the military?”

  Brenna nodded. “You’ll see.”

  “What will I see?” said the voice on the phone, Morasco’s voice.

  She clenched her fists, flattening the bud of a memory. “Hi there.”

  “How’s life in the world of Wentz?”

  “Interesting,” Brenna said.

  “How so?”

  “When you were working on the Iris Neff case, did you ever have reason to question Carol Wentz?”

  “No.” The smile dropped out of his voice. “Why do you ask?”

  Brenna took a breath. “Carol has been impersonating Lydia Neff in a chat room.” Brenna looked directly at Trent as she said it, watched his eyes widen even more. “It’s the Families of the Missing, New York State room at Chrysalis.org.”

  “Do you know how long?”

  Again, she said it to Trent. “I have no idea how long, or what e-mail address she used to register with the site. Up until a couple of days ago, her own husband thought she was computer illiterate.”

  Trent mouthed, I’m on it, and made for his desktop.

  “When was the last time she chatted?” Morasco said.

  “Before she disappeared. The other people in the chat room say she hasn’t been on for a week,” Brenna said. “Oh, and you might find this interesting. Apparently, she was telling them that Iris had called her.”

  Quiet.

  Brenna said, “Are you still there?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I am . . .”

  “Any idea why she might be doing this?”

  Morasco exhaled. “I don’t know if I should tell you this,” he said. “Because to be honest, I don’t know what it has to do with Mrs. Wentz’s disappearance, or why she’d say Iris had called.”

  “Irrelevant doesn’t bother me. In fact, I’m a fan of it.”

  “Okay,” Morasco said. “During the Iris Neff case, we never questioned Carol Wentz.”

  “Yeah. You told me that.”

  “But we did question Nelson Wentz.”

  Brenna stared at the phone. “What?! Why?”

  She heard a click. Morasco said, “I’m getting another call. Hold on a second.” And before Brenna could come up with a question more articulate than Why, before Brenna could even completely exhale, in fact, Morasco was back on the line, his voice pulled tight enough to snap. “Brenna,” he said. “Carol Wentz has been found.”

  Chapter 10

  The clock struck 8 A.M. Nelson knew he wasn’t going anywhere, so he called the voice mail of his superviso
r, Kyle, and faked the stomach flu.

  He thought about making himself breakfast, but he wasn’t hungry. He walked downstairs anyway, though, his feet dragging the rest of his hollow shell body into the living room, to the phone lying on the coffee table—which was where he’d left it after receiving that strange call from the girl. It’s my fault, she had said. Probably a prank. But such an odd and telling prank considering what was going on in Nelson’s life. Such a strange choice of words—the girl might as well have been reading Nelson’s mind. It’s my fault. My fault Carol is gone. My fault she was so unhappy, my fault she’s never coming back, my fault . . .

  The trunk full of quilting supplies lay where he’d left it, too, bracing the open crafts closet door, half emptied, its contents strewn on the floor around it. This wasn’t like Nelson at all. He liked everything in its place—in fact, it disturbed him deeply when it wasn’t. He started to put Carol’s things back in—the scraps of cloth and the thick spools of colorful thread—the squares she’d made (one bore a cheery daisy, another a red and green Christmas present), then the scissors and the pink and purple and yellow and red and pale blue bolts of ribbon.

  As he replaced a tomato-shaped pincushion, though, his hand went very deep into the box and he touched cardboard. A layer of it, about six inches up from the bottom of the box. Nelson’s hand flew out. False bottom.

  He stared at the box, breathing in and out, and then his hands were back inside, acting on their own, yanking out all the fabric and thread and those charming little squares and satin ribbons and the strawberry-handled scissors and velvet pincushions, throwing it all to the floor. All of it props, all soft and colorful lies covering a false bottom. He slipped that out of the box, too, this piece of cardboard his wife had cut so carefully. Cut it to fit, didn’t you, Carol? And then he stayed there on his knees, doubled over like an exhausted runner, panting deep into his chest.

  Look inside. Look now. See what she’s been hiding from you.