Nowhere to Hide (30 page)

“Do you have another question?” Susan asked, and Marissa came back to the present with a jolt.

“I’m so sorry. My mind wandered.” Marissa flushed. “That is just inexcusable—”

“No, it isn’t,” Susan said gently. “You look exhausted, and well…Eric told me what happened at the cemetery last night. I know he’s not supposed to discuss those things and he’s strict about maintaining rules, but he knew you had an interview with me today and he wanted me to understand if you seemed tired or distracted.”

“Oh! Well, that was thoughtful of him. Actually, this has been quite a week for me. Probably the worst I’ve ever had except for when—”

Dillon Archer murdered Gretchen. Horrified, Marissa realized she’d almost said the worst thing possible. Susan, however, looked at her knowingly and, to Marissa’s surprise, reached over and patted her arm.

“I understand, Marissa. I know how it is to feel shocked and literally beaten by the world.” Susan paused. “I believe you felt that way before, when Gretchen died. You thought we all blamed you, and to be honest, we did. Partly. Eric, of course, was crushed. Looking back, I’m appalled at how my husband and I treated both of you. I think we drove him into breaking off your engagement.”

“It was probably for the best,” Marissa said, her voice shaky.

Susan closed her eyes and shook her head. “He doesn’t blame himself so much anymore, thank God. He’s probably told you so, but in case he hasn’t, I will interfere and say it for him. As for his father and me—well, you have no reason to feel guilty or uncomfortable with us. We know Gretchen’s…death wasn’t your fault. You loved Gretchen like a sister and we thought of you as a daughter. We’ve missed you terribly, Marissa.”

Marissa looked at Susan, astounded, and burst into heaving sobs. Her own parents were gone and she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed the Montgomerys. She grabbed for her tote bag, fished through it wildly, and discovered the only thing it
didn’t
contain was a tissue.

Marissa knew her supposedly waterproof eye shadow and mascara were running down her face. Susan leaned back and from an end table lifted a small box of soft tissues, which she handed to Marissa. “Good heavens, dear, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to throw you into such a fit!”

Susan sounded so sweetly concerned and old-fashioned that Marissa began to laugh through her tears. Susan’s brown eyes widened as she no doubt wondered what Marissa proposed to do next. Marissa buried her face in a tissue. “I’m sorry. Mom dying just a few months ago, seeing Eric and you, talking about Gretchen, enduring all the things that have happened to
me
this week—well, I guess it’s just been too much,” she cried before emitting a resounding hiccup.

“Goodness gracious, you aren’t in good shape, Marissa. I knew it as soon as you walked in the door. You looked almost afraid of me. You’re alarmingly pale. You shouldn’t have worked this week.”

“Appearances to the contrary, I’m okay,” Marissa blubbered.

“No, you aren’t. You need food—you are
so
slim—and you need something hot to drink.” She drew a deep breath as if shoring up for duty. “I baked gingerbread this morning with that sweet sauce you and Gretchen used to like. Why don’t I warm the sauce, pour it over a big piece of gingerbread, and fix a cup of coffee for you? Do you think that might make you feel better?”

“I think it would make me feel wonderful.”

Susan beamed. “Then you pull yourself together and we’ll eat and drink and have girl talk before we go back to my scintillating interview. I’m certain you remember where the downstairs bathroom is. You’ll probably want to touch up your face.”

“‘Touch up’ might be putting it mildly.” Although Marissa was terribly upset, she reminded herself she was here partly on a mission. She girded herself for a question: “Susan, would you mind terribly if I used the upstairs bathroom and looked at Gretchen’s room? Eric said you haven’t changed her bedroom and we spent so many happy hours there—I’d love to see it again.”

Susan looked down. Here it comes, Marissa thought. The refusal. She might have forgiven me, but letting me go into Gretchen’s room is just too much.

Susan raised her gaze. “I think Gretchen would like the idea of you being in her room again. I used to sit down here and listen to the two of you laugh and occasionally squeal the way adolescent girls do. She loved you, Marissa. You and Eric were the lights of her life. Go right on up and take your time.”

Susan rose from the couch and disappeared into the dining room leading to the kitchen. Meanwhile, Marissa sat for a moment, trying to decide if she should actually search Gretchen’s room. Susan had seemed so trusting, so certain that Marissa wanted to see the room only for sentimental reasons. What if she knew Marissa actually had another agenda?

Susan wouldn’t understand, but Gretchen would, Marissa thought. Besides, Eric knew the plan and approved of it. They only wanted to discover what had been bothering Gretchen that summer, what had gone wrong in her world. Gretchen hadn’t wanted them to know then or she would have told them. What about now, though? Marissa was absolutely certain Gretchen did not want to die when she did. No matter what was wrong back then, Gretchen would have wanted to live, to find love, to have a child, but she hadn’t gotten the chance. Yes, Marissa thought, Gretchen would want those people closest to her to know what unhappiness had driven her to take the course leading to her death.

Marissa clutched her tote bag and ran lightly up the stairs to the second floor. Gretchen’s room had been the third on the right overlooking a beautiful summer backyard. As soon as she stepped in, Marissa smiled. Gretchen had always called this the Pepto-Bismol room, and with good reason—almost everything was pink. White furniture sat on pink carpet leading up to pale pink walls. A deep pink coverlet decorated with white and pink stuffed animals lay on the double bed. It’s good Lindsay isn’t with me now, Marissa thought, or none of the stuffed animals would be safe. A picture of white, pale pink, and cerise flowers hung above the bed. The room would have been a little girl’s dream. Gretchen had still been sleeping in it when she was twenty-one.

Last night having sharpened her searching skills, Marissa quickly laid down her tote bag and began opening dresser drawers. Underwear, nightwear, and scarves lay neatly folded and still smelling faintly of the vanilla sachet Gretchen always used. She’d even put each pair of panty hose into a ziplock plastic bag and lined up the bags according to color. Marissa noticed Gretchen had owned no fanciful patterned hose like Marissa wore right now—everything was either “buff” or “beige” or “suntan.”

Marissa glanced at her watch and saw that six minutes had passed. She’d set ten as her limit. She rushed to the walk-in closet and opened the door. Once again, clothes had been organized—plastic-covered gowns Gretchen wore when she gave concerts, dresses, blouses, slacks, shorts, and T-shirts. Marissa shook her head when she saw two pairs of jeans bearing dry-cleaning tags. The insistence on dry cleaning must have been Susan’s, Marissa mused.

One end of the closet bore shelves for shoes and a few drawers. Vaguely Marissa remembered a ten-year-old Gretchen telling her mother she wanted a cabinet at the back of the closet where she could store her shoes and jewelry. She’d seen such a unit on television when someone was making a tour of a movie star’s home.

Susan had wavered, and Gretchen’s father had almost refused because of the expense. Marissa had instructed Gretchen to make the request when Mitch and Jean Farrell had come to dinner at the Montgomery home. Gretchen followed Marissa’s instructions, and as Marissa expected, Mitch had quickly volunteered for the job, saying it would be fun to make something like a movie star had in her closet and he could broaden his woodworking skills and lower the cost at the same time. The Montgomerys could hardly say no to such a generous offer.

What they hadn’t known was that Mitch had installed a “secret cabinet” in the unit. Gretchen had told Marissa that Mitch said every girl needed a place to keep absolutely private items from parents, a statement Marissa later knew Mitch would not have made to anyone except a sweet, gentle girl like Gretchen who would never hide anything dangerous in the cabinet.

Marissa recalled that several weeks after Mitch had completed the unit she and Gretchen had been “hanging out” in Gretchen’s bedroom, listening to music, talking about hair-styles and when they would
ever
be old enough for their mothers to let them wear makeup. Suddenly, after Gretchen had made certain her mother was out of the house, she’d pulled Marissa to the back of the closet and kneeled down in front of the storage unit. She’d hit a spot of what looked like solid wood and a door popped open. “Isn’t it neat?” She’d beamed at Marissa. “It feels so Nancy Drew.” Gretchen had withdrawn a few magazines like
Tiger Beat,
a much-treasured copy of Eric’s
Rolling Stone,
a cigarette she planned to try someday, a few notebooks in which she’d written poetry and songs, ballads accompanied by lyrics, and an eight-by-ten picture of Leonardo DiCaprio. In later years, she’d added a metal storage box complete with padlock to her hoard. “You know how Mom snoops,” she’d said darkly.

Drained of ideas of where to search for she-didn’t-know-what in Gretchen’s room, Marissa hit the corner of the secret wooden door with the heel of her hand. Nothing. Again slightly to the right. Nothing. Susan is going to hear me, she thought almost frantically. One more time she hit a spot on the left, and the door popped open.

Marissa gasped in relief, especially when she saw the metal storage box. She pulled it out and felt as if someone had stuck a pin in her balloon of joy. The thing still bore the padlock.

Gretchen had told her the combination to the padlock. She’d told her, made her repeat it three times, and tested her every couple of months until they were about fifteen. Marissa sighed in exasperation. She tried Gretchen’s birth date, although she knew that was too simple. She tried her own birth date. Nothing. Eric’s birth date. The lock held firm. Marissa closed her eyes, feeling as if she was going to cry again. Then she mistily recalled Gretchen announcing, “Nobody will ever think of this number! You know how Mom hates…” Hates what? What did Susan Montgomery hate that her daughter had loved?

Horror movies! The answer popped into Marissa’s mind so quickly she almost shouted it. Susan hated horror movies. She wouldn’t allow Gretchen to see horror movies at the theater or on television, certain they’d give her nightmares. Gretchen had pretended to obey her mother’s ban on horror movies and watched the movies on videos at Marissa’s house. But what horror movie with
numbers
had Gretchen particularly liked? What had they watched over and over…

The Omen.
666.

Marissa’s hands trembled as she turned the padlock, going to 6 one time, two times, three times until the padlock popped open. Marissa lifted the lid and looked at the single sealed manila envelope inside labeled in Gretchen’s hand:
Gretchen Alice Montgomery—The End.

Chapter 16

1

Marissa stuffed the envelope into her tote bag, shut the padlock on the metal storage box and shoved it back in the cabinet, and then dashed into the upstairs bathroom. When she glanced in the mirror, a combination of tears, nerves, and triumph almost made her laugh. Black mascara streaks ran down her face, her bright lip gloss had smeared around her mouth, and her nose was pink. Now it matches Gretchen’s room, she thought, and almost burst into flustered giggles.

She splashed her face with warm water, guiltily wiped away the remains of mascara with one of Susan’s snowy white washcloths, brightened her face with lip gloss she applied with jerky fingers, and combed her hair back from her face. She decided the result was rather pathetic, but Susan Montgomery wasn’t expecting a beauty queen. Just as Marissa dropped her comb back in her tote bag and zipped it so Susan would be certain not to see the manila envelope, the woman called from downstairs.

“Are you all right, Marissa?”

Marissa jerked open the bathroom door and nearly ran down the stairs. “I’m sorry I took so long. I just got lost in my memories.”

Susan smiled. “Sometimes I sit in her bedroom and I do the same thing. My husband wants to remodel the room, but I won’t allow it.” She paused. “I hope your gingerbread and coffee haven’t gotten cold, but if they have, we’ll stick them in the microwave.”

Ten minutes later Marissa and Susan sat at the kitchen table, eating gingerbread and talking comfortably as if the last four and a half years hadn’t existed. As Marissa picked up the last bite of her second piece of gingerbread and sauce, Susan reached out and took her hand. She looked intensely at the moonstone ring.

“You still have it!” she exclaimed.

“I wear it every day.” Marissa said, recalling that part of her mission at the Montgomery home was to look at photographs taken shortly before Gretchen died. In spite of her newfound ease with Susan, though, Marissa couldn’t think of a graceful way of asking to see pictures of that time. Her link with Susan was too new, too tenuous.

“I had two made in Mexico and gave one to Gretchen when she finally passed her driver’s test,” Marissa said quickly. Susan nodded, indicating she clearly remembered, but Marissa needed more information. She smiled and tried to sound light, offhand. “I know she wore hers for years. I can’t remember if she still wore it after her concert years started.”

Susan looked at her in surprise. “You can’t? Why, Marissa, I saw her cleaning it just a couple of days before…she died. It meant so much to her, she wore it even when she was performing. She told me she’d wear it all of her life.”

2

After Marissa finished her interview with Susan, she went home instead of back to the
Gazette.
She would write the story the next day and Pete planned to run it in the Sunday edition. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was five thirty. Jean had asked them to visit Mitch at six thirty, which meant Eric would be picking up Catherine and her around six ten. Just like his mother, Eric was a stickler for punctuality.