TMonaghan 12 - Hush Hush Read online

  A heads-up. Tess lifted her gaze from Elyse, surveyed their surroundings. “Why would you do that? He had been pretty cruel to you.”

  “I was—I was thinking about Alanna. I didn’t want him to be blindsided, or to say anything that would hurt her.”

  “So you called Stephen, out of the blue, and said, ‘Hey, your oldest daughter is beginning to ask a lot of questions about what really went down twelve years ago. She knows you’re a piece of shit, but now she thinks her estranged mother, back on the scene, is a piece of shit, too, that she was in on the perjury?’”

  “I didn’t say that exactly.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t say a lot of things exactly.” Tess got up, walked over to a rack of dresses, looked at a price tag. That was a lot of Spanish olive oil. “You probably didn’t say, Give me money or I will talk about the affair. But he gave you money, didn’t he?”

  “He offered me a gift when he heard I was getting married. I thought it was kind, under the circumstances.”

  “Did Alanna believe you? That you didn’t know anything?”

  “Why wouldn’t she?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because, once upon a time, when she was a little girl, her mother was sick and you slept with her father?”

  Elyse was a feisty one. She blushed, but it was more in anger than in shame. “I was in love. And maybe I was silly and stupid—okay, I was—but I thought it was real. I thought I meant something. Stephen used me.”

  “You must have been really angry with him.”

  “For a time. Yes. But clearly I got over it.” She gestured at the dresses.

  “Was fourteen thousand enough?”

  “What?”

  “Fourteen thousand. That’s the federal limit on gifts last I heard. The amount that the donor doesn’t have to declare on his taxes. Will that even pay for the dress you had on?” When Elyse didn’t answer right away, Tess said, “Any money he paid you, it’s going to come out. Even if he handed you a paper bag of cash. One penny over fourteen thousand and there will be a record.”

  “It wasn’t— Look, leave me alone.”

  “Oh, I don’t need to have anything more to do with you. But I’m going to tell the homicide detectives what I know, and they’re going to come talk to you. Does your fiancé know how you’re paying for your wedding?”

  “Not the whole wedding. Just—some extras. Some things I couldn’t have afforded, like a custom-made dress, better food. Steak instead of chicken.”

  “Steak instead of chicken.” Tess’s echo was meant to mock, demean, provoke. It worked.

  “Look, do you know what it’s like to be close, really close, to money, but not have it? The Daweses were good to me, but I was good to them, too, and I stood by Stephen during the worst time of his life. Then, just like that, it was over. Oh, Ruby’s starting prekindergarten, we’d be wasting your time. Here’s a bonus, go back to school, finish your degree. When I saw Alanna the other day, all I could think was how easy she was going to have it. She has a Mercedes. Seventeen years old and she pulls up in a bright red Mercedes. Okay, fine, a tragedy happened, but she was barely five. She has everything—money, family, those looks. I’m sorry, I just couldn’t feel bad for her. And I wasn’t going to give her an opportunity to feel any more sorry for herself. So I told her I didn’t know anything about what her parents might have done, or not done.”

  “I’ll ask you again—did she believe you?”

  “What?”

  “I mean, she knows you. Maybe she saw through your lies. I’ve known you less than fifteen minutes and I can tell you—you’re not a very good liar.”

  “I don’t know where Alanna is.”

  “Yeah, unfortunately, that’s the one thing I do believe.”

  Tess left the shop. Elyse’s friends had become more boisterous; a third bottle was upended now. Maybe a private-eye stripper could be hired on the spot. She helped herself to a puff pastry filled with some creamy mushroom thing. Steak instead of chicken indeed.

  Noon

  The view from Melisandre’s apartment was greedy. That was the only word for it, she decided, as she stood at the glass windows and stared into the all-gray day—gray skies, gray water, gray buildings. Her view—Stephen’s view, the one he had created for this apartment—took in the cityscape along the harbor, but it also had the depth and the breadth of the bay beyond. Her view was Baltimore, past and present and future.

  But even in its sweep, there was something melancholy about the view, a sense of a place past its prime. To think that this had been one of the biggest cities in the United States when Melisandre was born, that this harbor had been a bustling beehive of activity. They had made things in this city once. Not her father’s people. She was never quite sure from where their money derived, simply that they had lots and lots of it. Why had her mother, a London beauty, fallen in love with a Baltimorean, rich as he was? She could have had anyone. And he was older, too, already losing his looks. Yet her mother swore it had been love at first sight. He had arrived in London that very day and was persuaded to go to a party to counter his jet-lagged body’s desire to sleep. On such small decisions, a life was made. Go to the party. Go to the regatta. Flirt with a man. Marry him. Have his children. Outlive him.

  The charges against Melisandre were going to be dropped. She was sure of that. She had never doubted that. The trade-off would be that Alanna would be charged. As an adult, Tyner had explained. Even if the case were moved to juvenile court, which Tyner thought unlikely—this state’s attorney would never miss a chance to prosecute a rich young white girl—Alanna’s name would be out there. Right now, missing, not even officially a person of interest, she had privacy, of a sort. But she was going to be found and then she would know the pain that Melisandre knew. Which meant Melisandre was a failure as a mother. The job of a parent—even a parent who had been denied the right to be a parent—was to forestall, as long as possible, all sadness, general and specific. Boo-boos, disappointments, heartaches.

  Being in the public eye as an accused killer.

  But Alanna would be acquitted. Melisandre also had no doubt of that. The case against her was circumstantial at best. And even if Alanna were convicted, it would be of a lesser charge, with possibly no prison time. It would be understood that things had happened in anger, that there was no plan, no premeditation.

  But she wouldn’t be convicted. She wouldn’t be convicted. She could not possibly be convicted.

  Where are you, Alanna? She should have some insight. She had known her daughter so well once. She had known every inch of her body, every mark, down to the tiny birthmark on the left knee, the one that looked like Australia. But she also had known everything that went on inside her. Alanna had been transparent, as see-through as a jellyfish. Ruby was the complicated one, even at age three. Alanna was the one who wore her heart on her sleeve. Had that changed?

  All Melisandre really wanted was a family, her family. Was that too much to ask? Like someone cheated out of her fortune, she had come back to stake her claim. At least she would have Ruby. She could be Ruby’s mother. And maybe Alanna would come to love her when she saw how Melisandre stood by her during the trial. She was going to pay for the lawyer, too, this Bustamante woman who Tyner had recommended, although Melisandre found her coarse and unattractive. Gloria Bustamante claimed they had known each other, back at Howard, Howard & Barr when they were young associates, but Melisandre had no memory of her.

  She felt bad about the film. She hadn’t meant to disappoint Harmony, and she had been sincere about the project. It wasn’t really her fault that all of this had happened. True, Harmony had seemed to hope that Melisandre would dissuade her from leaving, but if Harmony hadn’t quit, Melisandre would have ended the film on her own. Besides, she didn’t play those games. People should know their minds. Her lips crimped, imagining how others would mock those words in her mouth. But she did know her mind now. She had won her mind, at great cost and effort. Out of one’s mind made no sense as a bit
of imagery. To Melisandre, to be out of her mind was to stand back, have clarity. She was never more sane than when she was out of her mind.

  A thought tantalized her, like a scent or a bar of music. It was urgent, important. What was it? Harmony’s film. She needed to get everything back. She had checked the Dropbox today, and two videos were missing. Strangely, they were the ones she had shot. Where were they? She didn’t mind Harmony having the interview with Stephen, but there was no need for anyone to see the one with Tyner. Had Harmony made copies behind her back? Why would she care about those interviews? Melisandre liked the girl, but these videos were hers, she had paid for them. A little face-to-face intimidation might be required. And it might have to trump the search for Alanna. What were the odds that Tyner’s dim little niece could find her, anyway? Tyner had terrible taste in the women with whom he surrounded himself. That lawyer. His so-called niece. She wasn’t his blood, and they bickered as if they hated each other. His wife, although she was attractive enough. For a bookstore owner.

  Focus on Alanna. Alanna is the top priority. She would be okay in the long run. Tyner said everything would be okay. Tyner always said the right thing, unlike some people. But Alanna needed to surrender. The detectives’ arrogance was in their favor. Reluctant to admit they might be wrong about Melisandre—more reluctant to see their error reported in the press—they would not issue a warrant for Alanna. Felicia, coached by Tyner, had been told to say that Alanna often disappeared. It helped that Alanna had no plausible way of knowing that Ruby was going to talk to the police, that Tyner could make the case she wasn’t on the run out of fear. But they were looking for her. Where was she?

  And just like that, Melisandre knew where her daughter would be found, at least once darkness had settled in. She had all but sent up a flare. Melisandre called Tyner—she made it a point never to speak to his not-really-niece directly—and shared her sad intuition with him.

  7:00 P.M.

  Alanna, the track star, had no talent for running when the destination was not fixed. Irony, much? But where could a homeless seventeen-year-old girl go? She had taken three hundred dollars out of an ATM, using an emergency card her father had given her. Her father— No, don’t think about it. Don’t think about him. Be strong. Besides, that was before anyone would have started looking for her. When had they figured out she wasn’t coming home? The calls had started Thursday evening to her cell—Felicia, Ruby, some local numbers she hadn’t recognized.

  Fuck you, Ruby.

  Of course Ruby had recognized the source of the notes. Those books were burned into their heads, line by line. Alanna hadn’t even seen those books in years, didn’t realize that Ruby had kept them, but she would never forget them. She had read them to Ruby. Did people remember that Alanna could read at age five, that she had been the smart one once? Not every word, not at age five, but those books had formed the core of their bedtime ritual. She hadn’t known, at the time, that those were going to be the good old days. Did anyone recognize good times while they were happening?

  Why had she written those notes? She couldn’t have seen where things were leading, how awful everything was going to get. She had expected her mother to get it, to recognize the source, to see that Alanna was onto her. And then what? She no longer remembered what the point was. She no longer was sure of anything. All she knew was that she couldn’t keep driving. The motels that took cash weren’t places she wanted to stay. She had slept in the car last night, but it was terrifying. And she had parked somewhere so obvious that she couldn’t believe she wasn’t found. Was anyone even looking for her?

  She got drive-through Wendy’s for dinner. Fast food used to be a glorious indulgence. Felicia had kept a healthy kitchen, and her father— Alanna choked back another sob. If she had never confronted him, would this be happening? Had she once again set everything in motion? What was wrong with her? She was like some bizarre angel of death.

  She was the Lonely Doll.

  She pulled into the parking lot, the only car here at this hour. Could she really manage another night in this place? It had gotten so cold, about three this morning, that she had run the heater off and on, worrying it might kill her with fumes. Hoping it would kill her. Why not? This was her alpha and omega, the place where everything began and ended. She had finally found the courage to face it. X marks the spot. Here is where the world ended on August 8, 2002.

  Her mother and father, beneath the tree. Her mother beneath the tree, her sister in the car. The air shimmering, as it does on a hot August day in Baltimore. Like the witch in Hansel and Gretel, her mother had cooked Isadora. But had she known what she was doing? And if she was crazy, did that mean Alanna would be crazy, too, someday? Should she claim she was crazy now? Would that make everything better? Would anything ever be better?

  A rap on her window. She screamed and jumped so hard she almost hit the car’s roof. Then she looked up into a vaguely familiar face. Oh, that woman, the woman who had come to the house to speak to Felicia.

  “Alanna,” the woman said through the glass. “I’m here to get you to your lawyer, okay? I’m on your side.”

  “You work for my mom,” she said, edging away from the window. She had longed to be found, but now she felt even less safe.

  “I work for your mom’s lawyer. But there’s a criminal defense attorney, a good one, ready to meet with you. We’ll come up with a good cover story for why you’ve been missing for twenty-four hours. But I’m afraid you will have to talk to the police. Not tonight, but by Monday. Sooner, if you want to go to the funeral, but we’re going to try to work out a deal. They know, Alanna. About the notes, about the sugar bowl, about Tony, about Friday night.”

  “The Sugar Bowl? I don’t even know who’s playing.”

  The woman smiled as if Alanna were trying to be funny.

  8:35 P.M.

  It had taken a few minutes, but Alanna finally agreed to leave her car in the boathouse parking lot and get into Tess’s minivan. She glanced in the backseat, taking in the mess.

  “I have a kid,” Tess said.

  “A daughter?”

  “Well, yes.”

  Gone was the poised, sarcastic girl that Tess had met—was it really only four days ago? She seemed almost catatonic, standing in the parking lot, indifferent to the chill in the air, staring into Tess’s backseat.

  “Is that In the Night Kitchen?” she asked, reaching between the front seats and picking up a book that Carla Scout had managed to wedge there. She settled in the passenger seat and flipped the pages slowly as Tess started to drive.

  “Nothing is the matter,” she said to herself.

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  She had stopped at the page that showed the boy, Mickey, falling naked through the sky. It had been covered with angry blue whorls of crayon.

  “Oh, shit,” Tess said. “I’m afraid my daughter did that. She’s a little klepto and she grabbed that book from your mother’s apartment the other day. She knows better than to draw in books—but, well, she’s three.”

  “I’m afraid my daughter did that. Is that what my mom is telling everyone right now? Maybe it’s not your daughter’s fault. Did you ever think of that?”

  “Um, sure. But who else would have done it?”

  “I don’t know. She’s your daughter. You should defend her.”

  “Your mother has been defending you all along, Alanna. She was told Tuesday about your boyfriend, the fact that you came into town the night your father died. But your mother wouldn’t let me go to the police. And when the information about the notes ended up in the paper, she fired me, thinking I was the source.”

  “Tuesday,” Alanna said. “Tuesday.”

  She continued to turn the pages, reaching the end of the book, starting over, lingering on the defaced page, moving her fingers over the crayon marks. That was one part of toddler acting-out that Tess could never understand. Why was it so hard to learn not to write on books and walls and furniture and be
d linens? Why did small children assume that the world was literally their canvas? Although Carla Scout was generally pretty good about it. Budding thief, yes, but not a vandal by nature.

  They were two blocks from Tyner’s office, where Gloria Bustamante waited—along with Melisandre, but Tess had thought it better not to mention that part—when Alanna said: “If I confess, I have leverage, right?”

  “That’s for Gloria to discuss with you, but—yes, the truth is best. If you want to have any hope of control over what happens, you’ll have to tell the truth.”

  “That would be a first,” Alanna said. In the streaking, in-and-out light of the streetlamps, she was the oldest seventeen-year-old girl that Tess had ever seen.

  Saturday

  10:00 A.M.

  The 9:34 Acela had been sold out, except for first class. No problem, Melisandre had said. The Acela would save time and she paid for Tess’s time. So Tess sat in first class, trying to pretend it was something she did all the time, an impression somewhat undercut by her refusing the breakfast—until it was explained that it was free. So that was the sixty-dollar difference between this and a regular business-class seat, which wasn’t exactly cheap. She hadn’t been to New York since Carla Scout was born, and she usually rode one of the discounted private buses.

  But she wouldn’t even see New York’s skyline today. Once at Penn Station, she walked underground to the subway and got on the 1 train, trying to convey on some deep molecular level that she was not at all intimidated by the frenetic Brueghel painting around her. She bought a MetroCard and, after only a small bit of confusion, found the platform for the uptown train, then took a seat where she could unobtrusively keep an eye on the map, anxious not to miss her stop. Sure, she had her phone and could probably find her way to Harmony’s apartment if she overshot the Inwood stop, but it had been a long time since she had to move through a city she didn’t know intimately. Then again—she was alone! On a Saturday. She had read a novel on the train. And stared out the window, eaten her free, not-bad breakfast without interruption. The two hours and twelve minutes of solitude almost made up for being on a make-work errand that she was convinced was Melisandre’s way of keeping Tess away from the main business at hand. Melisandre still seemed to blame Tess for the fact that her daughter had emerged as the primary suspect in Stephen Dawes’s death.