Don't Cry Now (11 page)

“He has an alibi for the time of her death, if that's what you're getting at.”

“You?” Bonnie scoffed.

“It was his day off work,” Adeline interrupted, “and he was helping us around the house.”

“You're his alibi?” Bonnie repeated incredulously.

“Why would we lie?” Adeline asked.

“And what about today?” Bonnie demanded, ignoring the question. “Another day off?”

“I believe it was, yes. It varies from week to week, from what I understand. But I don't know where Nick went today. He'd already left by the time we woke up.”

“That's all right,” Bonnie told them, using her hands to push her body away from the sofa, rising unsteadily to her feet. “I know where he was today.” She walked to the front door, refusing to glance up the stairs, to acknowledge the ghosts waiting just behind the bedroom door. “Just tell him to stay away from my daughter,” Bonnie said, throwing open the front door and racing up the pathway to her car before anyone could say another word.

 

What was the matter with her? Bonnie glared at her reflection in the car's rearview mirror. Her eyes stared back reproachfully, tears still hovering, lids already showing signs of swelling. “Don't you cry,” she told herself. “Don't you dare cry.” What had possessed her to go back to that house? What had she hoped to accomplish by confronting her father and his wife? Had she expected her father to throw himself at her feet and beg her forgiveness? I'm sorry I was such a lousy father; I'm sorry for the pain I caused your mother; I can't live any longer with the guilt of her death. Is that what she'd been hoping to hear?

What was her father doing living in that house? Hadn't he been all too eager to leave? Wasn't he the one who'd walked out, the one who left her mother alone with two children? What right did he have to be back there? To be happy there? How would her mother feel if she knew?

“I should never have gone there. I'm stupid. Stupid.” Bonnie hit the side of her head with her hand. “I need my head examined, is what I need. How could I have gone back there?”

What was it her father had said? That he assumed she'd come to talk about her mother? Why had he assumed that? What could he possibly think she'd have to say to him? What could he possibly think she'd want to hear from him?

“Just as long as you give Nick my message,” she said
out loud, sighing with relief when she saw the sign announcing she was back in Weston.

Of course, it was possible Nick hadn't had anything to do with what had happened to Amanda. What possible motive could he have for wanting to hurt her child after all? What could he possibly hope to gain?

The only person who had anything to gain from something happening to either Amanda or herself was Rod, Bonnie realized with a gasp, her foot inadvertently pressing down on the brake, jolting the car to a sudden stop. The car stalled. “Now, you're really being stupid,” she said, restarting the engine, grateful there'd been no one behind her. “I won't have to wait for someone to shoot me,” she said. “I'll get myself killed.”

What was she thinking about? Rod was the kindest, sweetest man in the world, despite what a few of Joan's friends and neighbors might think. What exactly had Caroline Gossett meant at Joan's funeral anyway? “I keep hoping for justice,” she'd said. What did that mean?

So what if Rod had insurance policies on her and his children? Lots of men carried life insurance policies on their families.

On their children? a little voice asked. Double indemnity?

Rod didn't have an alibi for the time of Joan's death, the unwanted voice continued. He'd met with her brother without telling her.

He'd been sleeping in his office at the time of his ex-wife's death, Bonnie silently countered. Her brother had come to see him about some wild idea for a series. Rod hadn't told her because he hadn't wanted to upset her.

Or maybe there was another reason for Nick's visit to the studio. Maybe the two men had other things to discuss.

Like what?

Like murder, the little voice said.

Again Bonnie's foot slammed on the brake. This time, loud honking erupted around her. Bonnie glanced in her
rearview mirror to see the man in the car directly behind her giving her the finger, his angry lips contorting around the words “women drivers!” “Great,” Bonnie said. “Thank you very much.”

Don't forget about Haze, the little voice continued as soon as Bonnie's foot reached for the gas.

“Haze had no motive for killing Joan,” Bonnie said. “She may have been a tight-ass, but I hardly think that's motive enough for murder. He may not think much of me as a teacher, but killing me isn't going to get him a passing grade.”

Unless he, too, stood to gain financially from Joan's death. Unless someone had offered him a share of future spoils. Possibly a friend who cared more about his mother's Mercedes than he did about the bullet through her heart.
Ding dong, the witch is dead!

“Jesus Christ,” Bonnie said. Could she really be thinking these things? Could she really suspect her husband and her stepson of murder?

Bonnie turned the car onto Winter Street, her house appearing, like a mirage, at the second twist of the road. Rod's car was in the driveway, and Bonnie pulled hers in beside it and shut off the engine.

Home sweet home, she thought.

T
he next day she went to see Caroline Gossett.

The modern bungalow was painted yellow, with gray shingles and black awnings. It stretched across the land like a lazy yawn, open and twisting in odd and unexpected directions. Rather like my life, Bonnie thought, as she proceeded slowly up the winding stone walkway to the black front door, careful to avoid looking over her shoulder at Joan's house across the street. “What am I doing here?” she asked out loud, a question she seemed to be asking with alarming frequency of late. “I must be nuts.”

Bonnie pressed the doorbell twice in rapid succession, heard it respond with the first bar of “London Bridge Is Falling Down.” There was a long narrow panel of glass on either side of the front door, and Bonnie tried to peek inside, but her view was hampered by the gathered sheer curtains that fell across the windows like a heavy film. What she could see of the interior of the house looked elegant and upscale—dark wood floors, a baby grand piano in what was likely the living room at the back, a tall brass sculpture of what appeared to be a nude woman.

She should have phoned first, she decided now. She should have phoned and asked whether she would be welcome, what would be the most convenient time to drop by. That would have been the reasonable thing to do, the polite thing. As it was, she'd simply obeyed a sudden,
unfortunate impulse and driven here directly after school was finished. She didn't even know if Caroline Gossett would be home. It was barely past three in the afternoon. The woman was probably still at work. If she worked. Bonnie had no idea what Caroline Gossett did with her time, whether she was a busy executive or a stay-at-home mom, if she did volunteer work or if she worked out eight hours a day at the local gym. She knew nothing about Caroline Gossett at all, other than that the woman lived across the street from her husband's ex-wife, and that she'd obviously thought the world of Joan.

Every time that Bonnie had tried to broach the subject of Caroline Gossett with Rod, he'd waved her questions aside with an impatient hand and a frown. He had no interest in discussing the past, he'd told her. Caroline Gossett was a frivolous and superficial woman with misplaced loyalties. He'd had no use for her when he was married to Joan; he certainly had no use for her now.

So, what am I doing here? Bonnie wondered again, bypassing the bell to knock loudly on the door.
Joan spoke very highly of you
, she remembered Caroline saying at the funeral. Why had Joan spoken of her at all?

“Hold your horses,” a voice called from inside, footsteps approaching. A woman's face appeared behind the soft fabric of the side panel curtains, pulling them sharply aside, her blue eyes obviously taken aback by what they saw. “You're Rod's wife,” Caroline Gossett said, opening the door and staring at Bonnie with undisguised curiosity.

Caroline Gossett was as tall as Bonnie remembered, but thinner, less imposing now that she was out of her navy silk dress and into a pair of jeans. Her blond hair was pulled into a short ponytail, and her pink cotton shirt hung loose over her hips. She wore no makeup. Even still, she retained a certain elegance.

“I was wondering if we could talk,” Bonnie heard herself say.

“Sure,” the woman said easily, backing into the front foyer. “Come on in.”

Bonnie stepped inside. “Thank you. I know I should have called….”

“No, it was probably better you didn't. The element of surprise and everything.” Caroline Gossett closed the front door and motioned toward the kitchen. “Would you like some lemonade? I just made a fresh pitcher.”

No, I shouldn't, Bonnie thought. “Actually, yes,” she said. “I'd love some.”

“This way.”

Bonnie followed Caroline Gossett into her large square kitchen. The room was white and yellow, with earth-toned Mexican tiles on the floor, and a series of framed charcoal drawings of women and children on the walls, obviously by the same artist of the pictures in Joan's living room. Either the women had very similar tastes or there'd been a sale at a local gallery. “These are lovely,” Bonnie remarked, her eyes moving from a picture of a mother holding her newborn baby in her arms to one of a middle-aged woman cradling an old woman, probably her mother.

“Thank you.”

“I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you,” Bonnie ventured, thinking she should probably say this, even if she didn't mean it.

“Actually, I'm glad for the break. I was getting a little cross-eyed.” Caroline Gossett opened the refrigerator, took out a large pitcher of pink lemonade and poured them each a glass.

“Cross-eyed?”

“I'm working on a sketch for a new painting.”

“A sketch? Then, you did these?” Bonnie's eyes swept across the walls with fresh appreciation. The woman who had done these remarkable drawings was obviously a skilled artist and a very sensitive woman. She could hardly be described as frivolous and superficial.

“Rod didn't tell you I'm an artist,” Caroline said.

“No, actually. He didn't tell me anything.”

“So, he doesn't know you're here,” Caroline said, in that disconcerting way she had of stating all her questions.

“I didn't know myself that I was coming.”

“That's interesting.” Caroline handed Bonnie a tall glass of lemonade.

Bonnie took a long sip of her drink, felt her lips contort into an involuntary pout.

“Too sour?”

“It's fine.” Bonnie returned the glass to her lips, didn't drink.

Caroline smiled. “Anybody ever tell you you're a lousy liar?”

“Everybody.”

Caroline's smile widened. She was very pretty when she smiled, Bonnie thought. Almost girlish.

“Joan always used to complain that my lemonade needed more sugar. She had a real sweet tooth. Just like you.”

“I don't have a sweet tooth,” Bonnie said, uncomfortable at being in any way compared to Rod's ex-wife.

“That's what she used to say.” She smiled. “How are the kids?”

Bonnie took a deep breath. “I'm not sure. They haven't exactly confided their feelings in me.”

“Give it time. It's a hell of an adjustment to have to make.”

“Were they very close to their mother?”

Caroline gave the question a moment's thought. “Not as close as Joan would have liked,” she said finally. “Sam was something of an odd duck, he kept to himself most of the time, and Lauren was always more of a daddy's girl. Joan tried, but…what can you do?”

Bonnie followed Caroline Gossett out of the kitchen and into the art-filled living room. Aside from the large bronze nude, there were several other pieces of sculpture—a woman's torso, a child's head, a small figurine of a ballerina. Paintings—some oil, some pastel, some pen and ink—were everywhere.

“Did you do these?”

“Most of them.”

“They're beautiful,” Bonnie said. “I especially like this one.” Bonnie pointed to an oil painting of a woman staring into a mirror, her older reflection leaping out at her in shades of blue and violet.

“Yes, I knew you would. It was Joan's favorite as well.”

Bonnie instantly backed away from the painting, felt the grand piano at her back. “Do you play?”

“Not very well.” Caroline plopped down in the middle of the white sofa. “Why don't you sit down and tell me what I can do for you.”

Bonnie perched on the end of a white tub chair. “I was curious about a few things you said at the funeral.”

“You'll have to refresh my memory.”

“You were talking to Rod, and you commented that he looked well. He said you sounded disappointed.”

“Oh yes. I remember thinking that there must be a very ugly painting of your husband hidden at the back of somebody's closet,” Caroline said, the index finger of her right hand tapping her bottom lip.

“My husband is hardly Dorian Gray,” Bonnie said. Was the woman implying that her husband had made some sort of pact with the devil? “You said, ‘I guess I keep expecting justice.' What did you mean by that?”

Caroline raised her glass to her lips, drank half the lemonade in one long sip. “What is it you don't understand?”

“Why you don't like my husband,” Bonnie replied truthfully.

Caroline shook her head, her hair coming loose of its ribbon and scattering around her face. “Why does it matter what I think of Rod?”

“It doesn't,” Bonnie said quickly, lowering her gaze to the floor to hide her lie, instantly raising it again. “I'm not sure why it matters,” she corrected. “But it's been bothering me ever since the funeral. I couldn't help but
wonder what had happened between the two of you for you to dislike him so intensely.”

“You didn't ask him,” Caroline stated.

Bonnie said nothing.

“Let me guess.” Caroline pushed the stray hairs behind her ears, looked toward the ceiling. “He said that I was a silly busybody who was part of an unfortunate past he no longer wanted to think about.” She looked directly at Bonnie. “Close?”

“Close enough.”

Caroline laughed. “I like you. But then, that's not too surprising. Rod always had great taste in women.”

“What happened between you and Rod?” Bonnie repeated.

“Between the two of us? Nothing.”

“Then why the ill will?”

Caroline finished the rest of her lemonade, put the glass down on the red-and-black hand-painted coffee table beside the sofa. “You're sure you want to hear this?”

“No,” Bonnie conceded. “But tell me anyway.”

Caroline took a deep breath. “How can I phrase this gently?” She paused, obviously searching for just the right words. “Your husband is a philandering, insensitive prick. How's that?”

Bonnie winced, thought of leaving, didn't move. “Can you be more specific?” She almost laughed. The woman sitting across from her had just called her husband a philandering, insensitive prick, and Bonnie's response was to ask her to be more specific. Good one, as Diana would say.

“You want examples,” Caroline said.

“I'd appreciate it.”

“I'm not sure you will.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“No, you tell me. What's the story he's given you all these years? That he was the long-suffering husband of an irrational drunk?”

Bonnie tried to keep her face blank, failed.

“I thought so. It's the story he tells most people. Maybe he even believes it. Who knows? Who cares?” She stood up, walked to the piano, stopped. “Did he happen to mention that one of the reasons Joan drank was because he was never home? That he was an irresponsible husband and a disinterested father? That he was too busy playing around with other women to be much of either? No, I can see by your face that he neglected to mention that.”

“Joan told you these things,” Bonnie stated, adopting the other woman's habit of asking questions in statement form.

“If you're suggesting that I simply believed everything Joan told me, you're wrong. I saw Superman myself one night when he was supposed to be working. Lyle and I were having dinner at the Copley Square Hotel, and there he was just two tables away nibbling on the ear of a stunning brunette.”

“It was probably business, for God's sake. My husband is a television director. It's not like he doesn't come into contact with gorgeous women every day.”

“And night,” Caroline added, with infuriating calm. “Trust me, this wasn't business.”

“Be that as it may,” Bonnie said, “my husband didn't leave Joan for another woman.”

“And why did he tell you he left?”

Bonnie took another sip of lemonade, felt it bitter on her tongue. “He said that after the baby died…”

“Go on.”

“He just couldn't bear to be around her anymore.”

“Yes, he was a big help after Kelly died,” Caroline said.

“You're being very judgmental.”

“I thought that's what you wanted.”

“How can you know what my husband was feeling, what he was going through?”

“I know what I saw.”

“And what was that?”

“A man who cheated on his wife at every opportunity,
a man who was never there when she needed him, a man who walked out on her when she needed him the most.”

“He couldn't stay,” Bonnie tried to explain. “Every time he looked at Joan, he saw his dead little girl.”

“Then that was more than he saw of her when she was alive,” Caroline snapped, leaving both women temporarily speechless. “I'm sorry,” Caroline said quietly, after a long pause. “That was pretty crass, even for me. Your husband obviously brings out the best in me.”

Bonnie felt herself dangerously close to tears, held them tightly in check. “You don't know my husband very well.”

“Maybe you're the one who doesn't know him,” Caroline responded.

“My husband is not the one who let a fourteen-month-old baby drown in a bathtub,” Bonnie reminded her.

“Now who's being judgmental,” Caroline observed.

“Facts are facts.”

“And accidents happen. And people make mistakes. And if they're lucky, they get a little help and understanding from those around them. Two people died the afternoon Kelly drowned,” Caroline said quietly. “Joan's funeral was just a little late.” Tears threatened the corners of her eyes.

“You said something else at the funeral,” Bonnie ventured.

Caroline shrugged, waited for Bonnie to continue.

“You said that you wouldn't be here today, if it weren't for Joan. What did you mean?”

“I went through a rather difficult time myself a few years ago,” Caroline began, speaking in a lower register than before. “Sparing you the gory details, I learned I could never have children.”

“I'm sorry,” Bonnie said, genuinely.

“Joan was there for me every day. She made sure I ate, that I got out, that I had someone to talk to. She didn't tell me everything was going to work out just fine. She didn't tell me that I'd get over it, that I could adopt, that
it was God's will, that it was for the best. She knew how unhelpful, and downright hurtful, those handy little clichés really are. She'd heard them all herself. She knew that what I needed was someone to talk to, someone who would hold me and listen while I cried and moaned and bitched and railed against my fate. And it didn't matter that I said the same things day after day. She was there to listen, to agree that it was unfair and a goddamn shame. She didn't try to minimize my feelings or ignore my anger. Even after months, when my sisters and everyone else were telling me it was time to get on with my life, Joan didn't abandon me. She told me I'd get on with my life when I was good and ready.”