Don't Cry Now (12 page)

“She was a real friend,” Bonnie agreed.

“Yes, she was. I couldn't have gotten through those months without her.” Caroline took a deep breath, forced a smile. “There's more,” she said.

“More?”

“Just when I was starting to get back on my feet, my mother fell and broke her hip, had to be hospitalized. My father is dead; my sisters both live out of town. It was up to me to make all the arrangements. My mother had to go into a convalescent hospital, and then a nursing home, because she couldn't really take care of herself anymore. Joan just took charge. She talked to the doctors, made all the arrangements, made sure my mother got the best care. She was amazing. I guess, again, because of what she'd been through with her own mother after Kelly died.”

Bonnie felt a sudden chill. “What do you mean?”

“You don't know about Joan's mother.” Another question disguised as a statement of fact.

“Just that she's dead.”

“Dead?” Caroline looked astonished. “Who said Joan's mother is dead?”

“She isn't?”

“Not as far as I know.”

Bonnie realized she was holding her breath. She tried to release it, but nothing came. It was as if she wasn't
breathing at all. “What happened after Kelly died?”

“Her mother began behaving very irrationally. She'd forget things and go outside in her underwear, stuff like that, and she was talking pretty crazy. She'd had a problem with alcohol for years. It just got worse. Joan finally had to have her committed. More guilt for her to deal with. Naturally, her handsome hubby was nowhere to be seen.”

“Do you know where she is now?”

“Melrose Mental Health Center in Sudbury. It's a private facility, relatively nice as far as mental hospitals go.”

“Who paid for it?”

“Joan's inheritance,” Caroline replied, sardonically. “At least that's what Rod used to say.”

“Do you think her mother knows that Joan is dead?”

“I don't think she knows much of anything anymore. From everything Joan told me, she'd pretty much retreated into her own little world.”

“Do you know her name?” Bonnie surprised herself by asking.

“Elsa,” Caroline said. “Elsa Langer. Why?”

“I'm not sure,” Bonnie said honestly. The truth was that she wasn't sure of anything. “Can I ask you one more thing?”

“Shoot.” Both women looked aghast. “Sorry. Unfortunate choice of words.”

“You said at the funeral that Joan spoke highly of me.”

“That's right.”

“What sort of things did she say?”

Caroline raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Let me see…that you were a nice person, that you were a good mother, that she admired you.”

“Did she seem obsessed?”

“Obsessed?”

Bonnie told Caroline about the scrapbook the police found in Joan's bedroom.

“Really? I've never known her to be that organized.”

“Anything else you remember she might have said?”

“I do remember one thing,” Caroline told her after a pause.

“Yes?” Bonnie asked, waiting, curiosity building.

“She said she felt sorry for you.”

Tears sprang immediately to Bonnie's eyes. Don't cry, she admonished herself silently. Not here. Not now. “I really should get going.”

“It's been an interesting afternoon for you,” Caroline observed, leading the way to the foyer.

“Thank you for your time,” Bonnie said, opening the front door, grateful for a strong gust of wind that blew some much-needed air into her face. She opened her mouth, gulped at it, like water.

“Who's that?” Caroline asked, stepping outside, directing Bonnie's attention across the street.

Reluctantly, Bonnie's eyes traveled toward Joan's house, watching as a dark green car pulled into the driveway and stopped. The door opened and a pair of well-shaped legs swung slowly out of the car, hands adjusting the hem of the narrow beige linen skirt before stepping onto the pavement. The woman had beige hair to match her beige skirt, jacket, and shoes. She looked around, aware she was being watched, and smiled pleasantly in Bonnie's direction, before starting up the driveway to the house.

“Nobody's there,” Caroline called after her.

“That's all right,” the woman called back, not bothering to turn around. “I have a key.” She waved it into the air.

Immediately, Bonnie was across the road, Caroline at her side. “Excuse me,” Bonnie persisted, “but you can't go in there.”

The woman turned around. Her makeup was the same color as the rest of her. Put her up against a beige background, Bonnie thought, and she would likely disappear. “I'm sorry. Is there a problem?” the beige woman asked.

“The woman who lived here died,” Bonnie told her, not sure what else to say. There was something vaguely
familiar about the woman. Bonnie had seen her somewhere before.

“Yes, I know. I'll be very careful not to disturb anything.”

“Who are you?” Bonnie asked. Instinctively, she knew she wasn't with the police.

“Gail Ruddick.” The woman extended her hand, displaying a small white card.

Bonnie extricated the calling card from the woman's manicured beige nails, aware that Caroline was reading it over her shoulder. “Ellen Marx Realty,” Bonnie read. From behind her, Caroline made a slight whistling sound. “I saw you at Joan's funeral,” Bonnie remarked, suddenly aware why the woman looked familiar. The back row with the hair, she thought.

“That's right.” Gail Ruddick looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Awful thing that happened. Just awful.” She swiveled toward the house, then back, as if she were on a rotating stand. “We've been asked to have a look around, determine what the house is worth.”

“The police asked you to do that?”

“No,” Gail Ruddick answered. “Not the police.” Clearly she was reluctant to volunteer any further information.

“Who then?” Bonnie demanded.

“I'm sorry,” the woman said. “I really don't think I should be discussing this with strangers.”

“I'm hardly a stranger,” Bonnie qualified. “This house belongs to my stepchildren. And my husband,” she added, unease tickling at her throat, causing her words to tremble upon contact with the air.

Gail Ruddick broke into a large expansive smile, the white of her teeth something of a shock next to all that beige. “Well, then there's no problem. Your husband's the one who asked me to have a look-see. In fact, he's the one who gave me the key. If you'll wait just a second, I'll open the door and give it right back to you. It'll save me having to return it later.” She proceeded to the front
door, opened it, then returned with the key. Bonnie added it to her key chain, trying to keep her hands from shaking. “Tell your husband I'll get back to him with an estimate as soon as I can.”

Bonnie nodded as the woman continued up the walk to the front door. “Tell me,” Bonnie said over her shoulder to Caroline, her eyes never leaving the woman from Ellen Marx Realty, “did Joan ever tell you she thought my daughter and I were in any danger?”

“No,” Caroline answered. “Do you think you are?”

Bonnie said nothing.

“Take care,” Caroline said. “Remember I'm here if you ever need to talk.”

Bonnie watched as Gail Ruddick disappeared inside Joan's house. Behind her, she heard Caroline's footsteps retreating, turned to see her closing her front door after her. Bonnie stood alone on the sidewalk, a little girl lost, waiting for someone to take her hand and show her the way safely home.

T
he Melrose Mental Health Center was located on over one hundred acres of land in the adjoining suburb of Sudbury, close to the Sudbury River and only a short drive along Route 20 from Weston Heights Secondary School. Bonnie drove there directly from work the next afternoon.

“What are you doing?” she asked herself out loud, a slight variation on her more usual “What am I doing here?”

“I'm trying to find out what's going on. I'm trying to get some answers,” she told the frightened-looking woman in her rearview mirror. Why hadn't anybody told her that Elsa Langer was still alive?

Bonnie turned her car up the long driveway toward the magnificent white building that looked like something out of the Old South, with its large pillars and air of slightly decayed gentility. It was a beautiful day, a slight wind tickling the leaves on the trees, the temperature warm. People strolled the grounds of the facility in groups of twos and threes. Patients, probably, Bonnie realized, acknowledging a friendly wave with a nod of her head. Someone she knew? she wondered, dismissing the possibility. More likely, one poor lost soul recognizing a kindred spirit.

She pulled her car into the large visitors parking lot.
When had she started thinking of herself as a poor lost soul?

She pushed open her car door and swung her legs around, instantly recalling Gail Ruddick's similar gesture of the previous afternoon.

“
Well, then, there's no problem. Your husband's the one who asked me to have a look-see. In fact, he's the one who gave me the key
.”

Bonnie thought back to yesterday. After returning from her visit with Caroline, she'd waited to talk to Rod, but he'd called at dinnertime to say he'd be late, that they were laboring mightily to get everything ready for the convention in Miami, and that he'd grab a sandwich at the studio, she shouldn't wait up.

She'd waited up anyway, but she could see from his expression the minute he walked through the front door that this wasn't the best time to confront him. Not that she wanted to confront him exactly. Just ask him a few questions. Why had he sent a real estate agent to Joan's house that afternoon? Why hadn't he told her Joan's mother was still alive? Was it true what Caroline said about his many extramarital affairs?

She'd been rehearsing the questions all afternoon, trying to make them sound as innocent, as nonthreatening, as possible. She didn't want Rod to think she was accusing him of anything. She wasn't, after all, accusing him of anything. She was just curious. Her life had been turned upside down and, far from starting to right itself with time, it seemed perilously close to securing itself in this position forever, leaving her balancing on her head and spinning, like a top, and if this was the way it was going to be, well then, she had a few questions. Was that too much to ask?

“Can I talk to you?” she'd ventured as Rod was climbing into bed, pulling the blankets around him.

“Can it wait till tomorrow? I've had a really rotten day.”

“I guess so.”

He'd promptly turned around, planted a delicate kiss on her right shoulder. “Sorry, sweetie. That's not fair. My kids giving you a hard time?”

“It's not the kids.”

“What then? Tough day at school?”

Bonnie shook her head. “I went to see Caroline Gossett today.”

Rod propped himself up on his elbows, the blankets falling from his bare chest. “Why, for God's sake?”

“I'm not sure. I guess I was confused about the things she said to you at the funeral.”

Rod took a deep breath, closed his eyes. “And now, let me guess—you're more confused than ever.”

Bonnie smiled. “How'd you know?”

“Caroline has that effect on people.”

“She seems like a very nice woman.”

“Things aren't always what they seem.” Rod lay his head back against his pillow, brought his left arm across his forehead, his hand falling across his handsome face. “So, what did she tell you? That I drove my ex-wife to drink because I was never there, that I was too busy running around with other women to pay her the kind of attention she needed, that I deserted her in her hour of need?”

“Sounds like you've heard it before.”

“She's been singing that song for years.”

“
Were
you playing around?” Bonnie asked, tentatively.

Rod lifted his hand from his face, looked Bonnie straight in the eye. “No,” he said. “Although God knows I had ample opportunity. God knows I thought about it often enough. Does that make me guilty?”

Bonnie leaned over and kissed Rod gently on the lips in response.

“Can I go to sleep now?” he asked, about to turn over.

“Did you know that Joan's mother is still alive?”

“Elsa's still alive? No, I didn't realize that.”

“She's in a mental health facility in Sudbury.”

Rod said nothing, drawing Bonnie's arm around his waist as he flipped back onto his side. “Wherever she is is no longer any concern of mine,” he mumbled.

“Have the kids ever said anything about her?”

“Not to me. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

Bonnie lapsed into silence. “I love you,” she whispered, after a slight pause.

“I love you too, sweetheart. I'm sorry. I'll have more energy in the morning.”

“Can I ask you one more thing?”

“Sure.” His voice was muffled, balancing on the brink of sleep.

“You didn't tell me you were having a real estate agent look at Joan's house.”

Rod said nothing. Beneath her arm, Bonnie felt his body stiffen.

“The real estate agent came by as I was leaving Caroline's house,” she explained.

“What's your question?” Rod's voice was as taut as the muscles beneath Bonnie's fingers.

“I was just wondering why you were having someone look at the house….”

“Why shouldn't I have someone look at it?”

“It just seems a little…premature,” Bonnie ventured.

Rod sat up, impatiently pushed the covers off him, got out of bed. “Premature? The house is mine, for God's sake. I've been paying the mortgage on it for over ten years. It belongs to me and my children. It's their future we're talking about, and I want what's best for them. Is there something wrong with that? Don't you think I should have some idea what the house is worth and what my options are?”

“I was just worried what the police might think….”

“I don't give a damn what the police think. It's what
you're
thinking that's concerning me.”

“I just wondered why you hadn't said anything to me about it, that's all.”

“Probably because I've been working my tail off trying
to get ready for this damn conference in Miami, and I haven't had two minutes to think, let alone fill you in on every little insignificant detail that's been going on in my life.” He threw his hands up in the air, paced back and forth in front of the bed, naked except for a pair of light blue boxer shorts. “You want details? Okay, here's details. I'm up to my eyeballs at work, Marla's got her back up about something, and I get a phone call from some real estate agent who says I should be thinking about selling the house now while the market is back on its feet, because who knows how long that's going to last. Is this detailed enough for you?”

“Rod—”

“So, I said that I thought it was probably too early to be thinking about selling at this point, and she said, what harm would it do to go in and have a look around, give me some idea of what we could get for the place? I said that sounded reasonable, but then, what do I know? I'm just some philandering SOB who deserted his ex-wife and kids.” He stopped pacing, faced Bonnie directly. “Maybe I even arranged to have the woman killed.” He paused. “Is that what you're thinking, Bonnie? Is that what these questions are really all about?”

Bonnie said nothing. Was he right? Could that really have been what she'd been thinking?

Rod's features suddenly softened, saddened. His voice trailed after him, like a small child searching for an adult's hand. “Bonnie, answer me. Do you honestly think that I could have had anything to do with Joan's death? Because if you do…I mean, what are we doing here? How can you bear to be in the same room with me, let alone the same bed?”

He was right, Bonnie thought, her head spinning. What was the matter with her? Had she not realized the way her questions would be interpreted? What other way
could
they be interpreted, for God's sake? “Rod, I'm so sorry,” Bonnie said, wanting to touch him, but afraid she'd be rebuffed. “I don't know what to say. I know you had
nothing to do with Joan's death. I never meant to imply…”

Rod shook his head slowly from side to side. “Okay, okay. It's okay. It'll be okay,” he repeated, as if it were a mantra, as if the very repetition of the word would make it so. “Let's just get some sleep.” He climbed back into bed. “I'm tired. I'm not thinking straight. I'm probably overreacting. I'm sorry if I jumped down your throat. It'll be okay. I'll be all right in the morning. All I need is a good night's sleep. We'll talk in the morning.”

But by the time Bonnie got out of the shower, he'd already left for work. The note on the kitchen table said he'd be late again, she shouldn't wait up.

“So, what is it I hope to accomplish?” Bonnie asked, walking toward the sprawling premises of the Melrose Mental Health Center. “Am I trying to clear my name, to put this family together? Just what do I hope to find out from some poor old drunk who lives in her own little world?” So now she was talking to herself, she thought, cutting across the front lawn. “I'll fit right in.”

An elderly woman sitting on a nearby bench waved her over. “I know you,” the woman declared, as Bonnie approached, trying to place the woman's wrinkled-lined face. “You're that famous actress. The one who died.”

Wonderful, Bonnie thought, quickly spinning around on her heels, feeling them sink into the grass, as she made her way to the front entrance.

Inside, the place assumed the air of forced joviality common to most such institutions. Wide hallways, peach-colored walls, Picasso lithographs of flowers and harlequins, an attractive middle-aged woman behind a large ivory-colored desk in the spacious, well-lit reception area. Bonnie approached the desk cautiously.

“Yes,” the woman said, her wide smile revealing her entire upper gum. “Can I help you?”

You can tell me to turn around and go home, Bonnie thought, fixing on the woman's violet eyes, wondering if they were real or contacts. You never knew these days.
Things weren't always what they seemed. Wasn't that what Rod had said? “Where would I find Elsa Langer?” she heard herself ask.

The receptionist referred to her computer. “Langer, you said?”

“Yes. Elsa Langer.”

“Elsa Langer. Yes, here she is. Room three twelve in the south wing. The elevators are over there.” She pointed to her right.

“Thank you.” Bonnie didn't move.

“You can go right up.”

Bonnie nodded, willing her legs to move. They didn't.

“Is something wrong?”

“It's just that I haven't seen Mrs. Langer in a long time,” she lied, wondering if the receptionist could read her as easily as Caroline Gossett had, “and I'm not sure what to expect.” That part, at least, was the truth.

 

Bonnie stepped off the elevator at the third floor and took a slow look around. The walls were blue; Matisse had replaced Picasso as the artist of choice. A visitors lounge was located several steps to the right, situated across from a nurses station. Several large arrangements of flowers sat on the counter waiting to be delivered. Maybe she should have brought Elsa Langer some flowers, Bonnie thought, tucking two newly purchased magazines under her arm.
Vogue
and
Bazaar
. The latest in spring fashions. Just what the woman needed.

Several nurses were busy chatting as Bonnie approached the station. They looked up, noted her presence, returned to their conversation. Clearly, customer service wasn't a high priority. Bonnie waited, glancing toward the visitors lounge, noting a young woman seated silently between a middle-aged man and woman, probably her parents, the mother in tears, the father staring absently into space, as if he couldn't quite believe this was happening to him. Another woman sat with her arm around a young man who was ferociously picking invisible lint off his
clothing. “There, there,” the woman kept muttering. “There, there.”

Bonnie turned back to the nurses. “Excuse me, but could you direct me to room three twelve?”

“That way,” one of the nurses pointed, without bothering to look up.

“Thank you.”

In the next instant, Bonnie was standing in front of the closed door to room 312. What was she supposed to do now? Knock? Barge right in? How about turning around and going home?

“Come in,” a voice called out before Bonnie could choose.

Bonnie took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

A woman sat in a wheelchair by the window. Her hair was dyed dark brown, although at least an inch of gray roots was showing, and her skin was dotted with the assorted moles and liver spots of the elderly. Shapeless legs, like two large blocks of wood, protruded from underneath a quilted pink housecoat. Even sitting down, she was an imposing figure. Like mother, like daughter, Bonnie thought uncomfortably, although there was little other resemblance to Joan that Bonnie could see.

“How did you know I was there?” Bonnie stepped into the room, feeling the whoosh of the door as it closed behind her. Had the woman been able to sense her presence? Had she somehow known she was coming?

“I heard footsteps,” the woman said. “They stopped in front of the door.”