by AB Plum
The minute I begin reading aloud Anastaysa’s insipid story set in a deep woods, they all gaze at me as if mesmerized. My mind hones in on my wife.
What the hell is wrong with the woman I married? What kind of mother has no clue her pubescent daughter has a crush on the chef? Is she so preoccupied with her friend she risks the well-being of her first-born child? Why is she blind to the needs of her two younger children? How long has she been seeing her friend? Is the chef another friend? Is that why she’s so dense?
These questions and dozens more fall over each other—a backdrop to Anastaysa’s incoherent story of wolves and bears and a young, lost girl. Every single word of text rings hollow. Whatever message she intended tumbles through my brain like debris in a wind tunnel. Despite the pulsating desire to march up the stairs and beat my wife to a pulp, I plod on reading while my mind obsesses about the bitch.
Is she in bed?
Did she undress?
Is she hiding under the covers?
Is her head quietly exploding?
Did she pass out?
Is she awake, waiting—ready to beg? To confess her infidelity? To take whatever justice I mete out—however I want, whenever I want, wherever I want?
Has she ever imagined more than half a dozen of the thousands of ways I can make her pay for humiliating me?
At the end of Anastaysa’s florid story, I pronounce in my proud-Papá tone, “Not a single misspelled word or grammatical error, Anastaysa. Why do you think Mamá said I wouldn’t like your story?”
“I don’t know, Papá. But did you like it? I mean—did you like the story?” She stands on her knees and points to a paragraph on the first page. “Did you think the part about the mother wolf dying was too gruesome?”
The essence of the lines explodes within a millisecond. I substitute AnnaSophia for the she-wolf killed by a bear in the dark forest. My eleven-year-old daughter has probably never heard of Freud, but her description vividly portrays to me the hatred she holds for her negligent mother and the admiration she holds for her strong father.
“Did your mother say I’d think it was too gruesome?” Keeping my voice low and just-between-us, I arch a brow. From the corner of my eye, I observe that Magnus and Alexandra hunch their shoulders forward as if to ward off blows.
Anastaysa shakes her head, and her long, Finnish-blonde hair flies out like sparks from a bonfire. The gesture is such a striking reminder of my mother that I flinch.
“Papá?” The whine in Anastaysa’s voice protracts the memory of my mother—also a liar and a cheat. “Really, Mamá only said she thought you might not like it. She didn’t give a reason.”
“Did you ask her why she said this?” I lay my hand on my daughter’s silken curls. Sometimes a bit of gentle prodding provokes an outburst. An unguarded moment that will blast open new possibilities for discovering a secret I can use.
“Yes, but she said it wasn’t important,” whispered, teary.
A sign of fatigue or disingenuousness? I peer deeply into Anastaysa’s almond-shaped eyes, letting her reply loop in my brain, trying to decode her subtext. When she maintains eye contact, and when her chin no longer quivers, I turn my watch toward her.
“School tomorrow. Bed tonight.” My tone leaves no space for whys.
She grabs the arm of my chair and pushes quickly to her feet. She clutches the story to her chest as if it has won a Pulitzer. Why in such a hurry to escape?
Magnus slides off the chair just as quickly. Only Alexandra moves in a slow, disjointed dance. A flush colors her cheeks. Daydreaming about Monsieur Lefebvre? I bite back a long exhale.
Dammit, after the day I’ve had, I’m tired. I deserve rest. A respite. Dealing with Tracy should’ve been enough. Now I must deal with AnnaSophia. Deal with her harshly.
I will not allow my oldest daughter to waste a minute’s energy on a chef.
In front of me, the children stand in a semi-circle and peer at me with such long, serious faces, I laugh and open my arms. They may carry AnnaSophia’s DNA, but they belong to me.
Kisses all ’round leave no doubt they know this fact. They exit without shuffling. Without laughing. Or talking. Or arguing. They could teach their mother a few lessons.
Their footsteps are light—nearly inaudible. I follow the sweep of the second hand on my watch. Tracy’s face flickers there.
Did she die having any idea how stupidity shortened her life?
Of course, she didn’t.
And . . . neither does Anna Sophia suspect where her stupidity may lead.
Chapter 24
SHE
The bedroom door, on hinges a cat burglar would love, opens a crack. Through slitted eyes, I see a black shadow silhouetted against the glimmer of the night light. He remains as much in the hall as inside the bedroom. Nausea creeps through my intestines, climbs the walls of my stomach, and leaps into my throat. My breath catches.
His breathing—the slow, controlled, nearly silent breathing of a predator—instantly crushes my lungs as I lie flat in our bed. Fear screams in my pounding ears. I squeeze my eyes shut. Backsliding into early childhood, I make a wish.
A wish to ward off the monster.
Under the bed, the monster slithers and snuffles and snarls.
Go away. Leave me alone. Get out of here.
“Pleasant dreams, AnnaSophia.” His voice hums with menace.
Chapter 25
HE
“Good morning, Darling. You face is puffy. Did you have bad dreams? Nightmares?” I am sitting in the breakfast room with the children when she comes down six minutes late, but dressed for yoga. “Surely you aren’t up for yoga today.”
“I slept perfectly.” Flushed cheeks betray her lie. Eyes averted, she kisses each child’s head, then sits at her place across from me, and sips from her glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. “Not only am I up for yoga, I can hardly wait for class today.”
“Why?” Little does she know I can hardly wait for that damn class either.
Her shrug comes with a slight curl of her lip. “I enjoy the people,”
In an aside, her reminder to Anastaysa about her piano class is brazenly honeyed.
Tempted to order her to remain seated until she speaks to me more respectfully, I watch her through narrowed eyes sashay to the breakfast buffet. Her hips undulate provocatively. Dammit, I should have gone to her bed last night. So what if she was drunk? Obviously my more subtle attempt at frightening her failed. Visions of tossing my coffee at the back of her head flash. I soothe myself by speaking to Alexandra.
“Should you decide to make your papá more cookies today, Monsieur Lefebvre will not be there to offer culinary advice.”
Her eyes widen, then she goes pale, and swallows before asking, “Is he ill?”
AnnaSophia glances over her shoulder, turns slowly, returns to the table with her bowl of oatmeal and opens her yap—not to eat, but to comment. “He certainly seemed well yesterday.”
“I believe he is fine. His sister in Canada became ill quite suddenly. He left last night after everyone but me had gone to bed.”
“We’ll miss him,” AnnaSophia says. “He enjoyed letting us cook in his kitchen.”
“Since it’s not his kitchen, his feelings are irrelevant.” Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Alexandra reaching for her sister’s hand. “Finish breakfast, girls. We need to leave early this morning. I have a busy day.”
“I’m sorry Monsieur Lefebvre is gone,” Magnus declares. “He made me and mamá laugh every day at lunch.”
Mamá squeezes Magnus’s arm. “And he helped us with our French, mais non?”
Magnus giggles. “Mais oui.”
“Perhaps I should make French a requirement for his replacement.” I toss my napkin beside my plate. “Do you have a preference for a man or a woman?”
The poison I’ve been holding onto for so long, spills out in my acidic tone. All three children stare at their mother as if I’ve launched an attack. I grit my teeth.
Dammit. Now I’ve made her sympathetic—deserving of their misplaced emotions. Don’t they recognize she’s a liar? Don’t they see her preference for a new chef is for another male she can beguile? Flirt with? Seduce while I make the money that gives her a queen’s life?
She throws the silent children a fake, poor-me-the-victim smile.
“I have no preference—except that the new chef cook as well as Monsieur Lefebvre.”
Her taunt drums in my ears, and the soft-boiled egg I’ve just eaten lies in my stomach like a lead ball. “I hope this morning’s breakfast meets your every desire, Darling.”
My cell phone vibrates. I hold up a finger, cutting off her comeback about the new chef already installed in the kitchen. I check the LED. Surprised by Regan’s name, I remove the phone from my inside pocket. My scalp tingles. Regan would never call me at home this early without an excellent reason. A snafu must have developed with the merger.
Fury flares into me. Is it too damned much to expect people about to become millionaires to use their brains? I slap the phone to my ear.
AnnaSophia, bitch that she is, taps her bottom lip, fails to hide the smile that flashes disrespect like a neon sign. The children gaze at me as if I’ve appeared at the table naked.
Do they think I need them as my conscience?
But since I have repeatedly expressed my disgust with clods who sit at a meal with a phone glued to their ears, I push my chair away and step into the dining room. From there I will still be able to see—and possibly hear—everything in the sun-filled breakfast room.
“Mr. Romanov, good morning.” Something—a flatness or barely audible hum in my AA’s professional tone informs me she is calling with a real emergency. Without waiting for me to speak, she summarizes the situation succinctly. “A Mountain View policeman is in the reception area. He wants to see you immediately.
“Why?” My scalp tingles, but I stifle the excitement vibrating in my throat. No worry now about discovery of the body coming at an inopportune time.
“Tracy Jones’s body was found this morning in Shoreline Park.” Her voice is hushed.
Smiling, I turn and catch my wife gaping. Sunshine sets her hair on fire. I give her a hard look, then smile and wiggle my fingers, exhibiting how stress-free I feel. The bags under AnnaSophia’s eyes confirm my earlier deduction. If she slept at all, she slept badly, dreaming of monsters and bogeymen lying in wait.
Tracy’s corpse showed more life.
AnnaSophia continues to study me—her eyes cold and accusing. Regan clears her throat. I turn my back to my wife, stand taller, and gaze at my flower-filled garden. Thanks to my planning, everything flourishes.
How serendipitous Tracy’s demise occurred a week before my annual gala with a hundred law enforcement officers I’ve invited for luncheon in our backyard.
“Mr. Romanov?”
“What,” I say softly to Regan, “do I have to do with Tracy Jones’s death?”
“Detective Patel insists he prefers to speak with you in person.”
Insists means the inimitable Regan failed to learn the cop’s agenda.
“Detective Patel must be new.” Mentally, I play the pros and cons of calling the chief.
“His card reads, Detective Satish Patel, Homicide Detective. If I were to guess, I’d say he’s in his late thirties. Very polite. Very resolute.”
“You explained I’m in the middle of a complex business deal.” Being interviewed at any other time could prove quite interesting and entertaining.
“Yessir.” Overtones of wounded feelings echo in her reply. “Shall I ask him to come back later?”
“On the contrary. Invite him into my office. Offer him coffee and pastries. Breakfast if he’s hungry.” Nothing like good manners to deflect suspicions and establish rapport. “Make him comfortable. Tell him I should arrive there by seven. Depending on the traffic.”
Chapter 26
SHE
“I’m not an idiot.”
My protest brings a sour smile to the flushed face staring back at me from my SUV’s rearview mirror. Shifting into low, I ease down the treacherous driveway, the last vehicle of three in the caravan transporting Alexandra, Anastaysa, and Magnus to school. The nanny and chauffeur drive Cars One and Two.
Michael decreed long ago I lack driving confidence. Under any circumstances imaginable, he declared, having children in my car would be irresponsible.
Eyes straight ahead, I lower my window. Clean morning air blows away my hangover. Little does the man who would control me know that my confidence soars when I’m behind the wheel of my big, solid Mercedes SUV. I love being in a cocoon without him invading my space. I love sitting up high enough to see a bigger piece of the world. I love having all the windows and metal surround me, letting me judge the traffic coming at me, passing me, staying alongside me. Still . . .
The truth is I am an idiot.
Most of the time.
The Monsieur Lefebvre comedy offers a good example. Our former chef no more has a sick sister in Canada than I do. I know this because he told me and Magnus at lunch—in a French numbers lesson—that he is an only child of parents aged cinquante-trois et soixante-cinque at his birth. Life in Canada has its differences, but biology?
Being born to a fifty-three-year-old mother and a sixty-five-year-old father pretty much guarantees being an only child.
How easily I could have exposed Michael’s lie. I open the window wider and fill my lungs with fresh air. For Alexandra’s sake, I chose—yes, chose, I tell myself—to stay quiet. Over the past few months, her blushes and occasional stutters and dreaminess gave her away. I should have warned her she was igniting the flames of her father’s simmering rage.
Guaranteeing she’d confront him.
An anvil drops on my aching head. God, what a coward.
Cowardice silenced me even after I figured out Michael had deduced his daughter’s school-girl crush. The idiot in me convinced the coward he’d wait.
And. See what happened.
He fired Monsieur Lefebvre without giving a thought to Alexandra’s feelings.
Maybe he lied to ease the pain.
Maybe he’s suddenly a candidate for sainthood. I grind my teeth, remembering his saintly concern.
She is my daughter. I decide on her school. Her friends. Her extracurricular activities.
He issued this decree eight years ago when my idiocy had reached its peak. I capitulated. Without an opinion. Without an argument. The arguments—always quiet and civilized and ugly—disrupted my sleep. My digestion. My thinking. My sanity.
You obviously cannot manage three children, AnnaSophia. I’ve hired a nanny. She will take Alexandra and Anastaysa to school, then pick them up. Every day. Do you understand?
What I understood was the penalty for disagreeing.
The gate remains open as I approach, pressing the remote on my visor. Idiot that I am, I imagine the nanny Elise pressing the CLOSE button. The gate squishes my metal and glass cocoon into an accordion. The two drivers ahead of me pay no attention. When they return from chauffeuring the kids, they’ll find me dead—eyes and mouth open—sprawled over the steering wheel. Michael, pissed at the interruption, will order them to handle details with the police.
At the turnoff to our private road, I finally stop choking the remote. Exhaling, I push the visor back into place. Not a good day for hysteria. Alexandra needs me to act like her mother instead of like her father’s cowed wife.
Today offers plenty of opportunities to prove I’ve learned enough hard lessons to get me through the day—and out of this marriage. A chill tromps across the back of my neck. I take another deep breath, hold it, then blow away the fear riding in my passenger seat. I flip off the CD player. Mozart or not, I’ve learned I think better without the distraction of music or conversation or gold-tinged leaves lofting into another cloudless sky.
Whatever Michael has planned for me, he has already sown the seeds. He left the house in such a hurry, he passed up his ch
ance to play more verbal cat and mouse—a game he was winning. This action alone raises my suspicions and raises the possibilities of pulling off my own plan.
Unless I’m delusional, he intends to show up at Le Boulanger.
What could keep him away?
What could be more fun—except his malicious attempt last night to terrify me in bed?
Will he be surprised when he doesn’t find me with John?
Am I playing into his hands?
Chapter 27
HE
When I step into my office, Detective Satish Patel, dressed in a good, off-the-rack gray sports jacket and navy pants, rises from the Barcelona chair. He’d turned it toward the Monet. He takes one step toward me, hand extended. His caramel-colored skin and black hair I expect. His navy-colored eyes and bone-crushing grip present the unexpected.
“Are you an art lover?” I hitch my chin toward the painting.
“Coming from Southern India, snow is always fascinating.”
“Where in India?” I round my desk, noting the empty water bottle next to his glass.
“Madurai.”
“A nominee for the new list of Seven Wonders of the World, correct?” Feeling a bit smug because I know this factoid, I sit and motion him to sit as well.
“Correct.” None of the sing-song inflection of so many Indians—also no surprise or awe that I know his city. He sits and crosses his ankles. Gucci loafers. Expensive shoes for a cop.
“How long have you lived in Silicon Valley?”
“Mr. Romanov, I assume Miz Donnelly told you why I’m here.”
Okay, no bonding with small talk. I smile coolly. “She told me Tracy Jones’s body was found in Shoreline Park. She didn’t tell me why you’re here and want to see me.”
