Four Wives (29 page)

M
ARIE WAS IN HER
pajamas when the doorbell rang. She was exhausted and determined to be in bed before eleven. Anthony was MIA again. This time, he hadn’t even bothered with a phone call. But it was Thursday’ poker night at the club’which left no room for speculation as to where he might be. At the kitchen table was the master list of things to do for the fundraiser. For nearly an hour Marie had compiled the list from a handful of smaller lists, though having it all on one piece of paper did little to ease her mind. By this time tomorrow night the event would either be in full swing or in a state of chaos. And she was beginning to feel it could go either way.

The bell rang again. Leaving her stack of papers, she walked to the door, praying it would be Gayle. She needed the help to be sure, but after another day without as much as a call from her friend, just knowing Gayle was still alive would be a relief. There was no such luck.

“Christ!” Marie said out loud after looking through the peephole. It was Randy.

When she opened the door, the look of astonishment was still on her face.

“I saw the light on,” he said, peeking into the house to assess the situation.

“What are you doing here? “ Her voice was soft, a guilty whisper. And it occurred to her in that moment that that was precisely how she saw them both. Guilty.

“I tried to call …”

“The TiVo was online.”

“You should have it programmed to call in the middle of the night.”

“Yeah, yeah … I can’t figure out how to change it. Technology,” Marie said, waving her hand over her head.

“Anyway, I needed to see you. …”

Marie stepped outside and closed the door behind her. “I can’t do this right now. Not
here.”

Randy kept a safe distance, holding his hands in front of himself. “No, you don’t understand. It’s the Farrell case.”

Suddenly self-conscious in her old cotton pj’s, pinned-up hair, and a face shiny from night lotion, Marie felt her cheeks blush.

“I’m sorry. Come in.”

As they stepped inside, Randy’s eyes scanned each room. He was looking for Anthony.

“He’s not here. What else is new?”

They walked to the kitchen. Marie offered coffee.

“No thanks. I’ll be up all night.”

Marie checked her watch. It was after nine, of course he didn’t want coffee. Where was her head? Then she remembered. It was on the adorable young man standing in her kitchen. On his dark, wavy hair, which had twice been wrapped in her fingers. On his strong shoulders, his soft lips. On the hands that had held her face, unable to let her go.

“Beer,” she said, reaching into the fridge. As awkward as it was to have him in her kitchen, her personal world, she thanked God they were in a place where her children were upstairs sleeping, where her husband might come through the door at any moment.

“So, what was today’s word?” Randy was staring at a picture of Olivia taken at the beach last summer.

Marie cleared her throat, then sat down with Randy at the table. “Still
butt crack.”

Randy laughed, turning from the photo. “Wow. That one seems to be sticking.”

“Lovely, isn’t it? My sweet little angel walks around all day’
butt crack
this,
butt crack
that. Everything’s a
butt crack.”

This was one of those moments in their many conversations about her kids that usually made Marie feel warm, connected. But she couldn’t afford those feelings anymore.

“I thought you were working Nancy’s trial tonight,” she said, changing the subject.

“I am. I went back to the office to get some research and there was a message on the machine. It was from the secretary, Mrs. Anderson.”

Randy took a long drink of the beer, conscious of his every move, his every look.

“Did you call her back?”

Randy shook his head, then placed the beer on the table. “I thought you would want to do it. That’s why I’m here.”

Marie looked at him for a long moment, her head now wrapped around the Farrell case.

“OK. Let’s call Mrs. Anderson.”

Randy followed Marie into the study. They sat down at her desk, and she dialed the number.

The woman answered in a sleepy voice.

“Mrs. Anderson? Leigh Anderson?” Marie asked.

“Yes. Who’s this?”

Marie sighed and looked at Randy.
Here we go.

“My name is Marie Passeti. I’m a lawyer in Connecticut’representing Carson Farrell.”

There was a long silence. Marie and Randy locked eyes as they waited for the response.

“Yes?” she said, cautiously, confirming they had found the right Leigh Anderson.

“Mr. Farrell is in a custody dispute with his wife and we’re trying to pin down the events of the morning when his daughter passed. It might be important in helping Carson.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, though she wasn’t at all certain if this was the right tack. How well did Mrs. Anderson know the Farrell children? Or Mrs. Farrell? Was she partial to one of them? Did she, like everyone else, blame Farrell for his daughter’s death? Or did she pity him? Marie didn’t have the patience tonight to feel her out.

The woman let out a soft moan. “Such a shame,” she said in a solemn voice. “Such a tragic shame.”

“Yes. Tragic.”

“What is it you need from me?” Her intonation reflected a growing skepticism.

“Just a technicality, really. I’m trying to make sure Carson has all his facts straight for his deposition.” Marie’s face squinted as she lied. “I wanted to confirm the time of the phone call he made to the office that morning. That’s all.”

It was a good place to start’something benign that the woman could answer in good conscience. Then they would move on to more important matters.

But Mrs. Anderson was silent. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“Oh,” Marie said. “Well, I have in my notes that Carson called the office that morning around nine forty. But they’re from a while back when I first interviewed him. Do I have it wrong?”

Randy sat back, his eyes wide with concern.

“Yes, you must have misunderstood him. Mr. Farrell was in the office that morning. He
received
a call sometime before ten. Then he left in a hurry.”

Marie held back a gasp. Randy was motioning for her to keep going, to draw the woman out slowly. Carefully.

“Right, right. I did have it wrong. Carson was in the office’the usual time’then he got the call and rushed home.”

“Yes. That’s right. I’ll never forget that call.”

Of course,
Marie thought. It was the call that changed a man’s life forever.

“We all pray not to get one of those.”

Leigh Anderson agreed. “Amen to that.”

Marie looked at her notes, the list of questions she had for Farrell’s secretary. But everything had just been turned on its head.

“And you remember the call coming in between nine thirty and ten?”

“Closer to ten. Is that all you needed?”

Randy nodded at Marie. “Yes. Thank you for your time. I’m sorry to have disturbed you so late.”

“Not at all. And please give my best to Mr. Farrell. He’s been through hell, that man.”

“Good night,” Marie said. Then she disconnected the call.

Randy leaned back in his chair and ran his hands across his face. “Shit.”

“Farrell wasn’t home that morning,” Marie said, echoing his thoughts.

“We have the phone records in the police file. Someone from Farrell’s house called his office at nine forty-five. Then they called 911 at ten twenty-one.” Randy recapped what they knew.

“No’not
they.
We know it was Carson Farrell who called 911 from the house at ten twenty-one. And now we know someone else called
him
at his office
from
his house at nine forty-five.”

Marie’s eyes were glued to Randy’s as her words sank in.
Farrell was in the office.
He was not home that morning as he claimed, at least not
when
he claimed.

“There’s only one explanation,” Randy said, taking another sip of the beer.

It was not a surprise that Farrell had lied. For some reason, a reason that had just become momentous, he didn’t want anyone to know what really went on in that house. From his wife’s postpartum depression, to the fighting, to the domestic disturbance call, and now this. Farrell had been doing a complicated tap dance to keep his children without revealing the truth, and Marie had reached her limit. She was his lawyer, but first and foremost, an officer of the court.

“I need to make some calls,” she said, reaching for her BlackBerry.

“To Farrell?”

“Farrell, his wife, Tim Connely, and the guardian
ad litem.”

Randy looked at her, puzzled, as she started dialing the first number. She told each one to be at her office in the morning. She said nothing about the nature of the meeting but accepted no excuses. And as she worked, Randy continued to watch her, reading her face, trying to follow her thoughts. Step after step, he recalled the phone records, the conversation with the neighbor. And now the conflict surrounding Farrell’s whereabouts.

When the last call was concluded, Randy had finished his beer.

“Ten thirty,” she said, her attention still focused on the electronic organizer.

When she was done, she looked up at Randy. A moment passed when nothing was said, and it was then that he was able to see inside her. It was then that he knew exactly how Simone Farrell died.

Marie grabbed the beer from his hand. “Can you work MapQuest?”

Randy looked at her sideways.

“Of course’stupid question. Can you do some research tonight?”

Randy nodded. Then he grew concerned.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, knowing the answer, but needing to acknowledge the risk she was about to take.

Marie shook her head. She should have given more thought to the consequences of what she was setting in motion, but she was tired of thinking. And she was thankful to have one thing she actually was sure about.

“This is about the children now.”

“M
OMMY.”

Oliver Beck stood over his mother, who was curled up at the foot of his bed. This was the third morning in a row he’d awakened to find her there.

“Mommy,” he said again, this time giving her a gentle nudge. “The phone is ringing and ringing.”

Opening her eyes to the morning light, Gayle reached out to touch her son’s face. She knew she shouldn’t be there. But waking up to the sweet sound of his little-boy voice was close to what she was able to bear.

“Just give me a minute, Oliver. One more minute.”

Gayle closed her eyes again, savoring the last traces of sleep. Soon the calm pulse of her body would begin to rev, the nerves would once again show their frayed edges and send her reeling in a sea of anxiety. It would begin the moment she lifted her head, the moment her body was no longer fooled by the serenity of her dreams, the presence of her child. It would feel the call for movement as she sat up, sending blood to her muscles, then back to her head, where it would pick up the information. The tenuous order she had created so meticulously was gone. The marriage that had become a lie over the years had been confined to a little box and kept on a shelf with the other little boxes’her mother, the social climbers who wanted a piece of her, the women from the clinic. There were so many now. Still, she had learned to live around them, somehow immune. Until Paul reached out to her, reminding her how to feel. And now that had been a lie as well.

Oliver left the room, returning quickly with the phone. Still lying on the floor, Gayle pressed it to her ear, hoping to find a dead line. Instead, she heard Marie.

“Thank God! I was beginning to think you’d skipped town.”

Gayle cleared her throat. “No. I’m here.”

It was a straight answer, though Marie had teed her up for a clever, sarcastic one-liner. Their relationship had been strained since Marie confronted her about the board, but there had been some signs of normalcy. Gayle had not missed a chance to keep Marie’s feet to the fire, though she’d done it with her trademark dry wit. All of that had stopped in the past several days. Now, there was no doubt in Marie’s mind that something was very wrong at the Beck house.

“I can’t get there until the afternoon. Something’s come up at work. Can you run the circus for a while?”

Again, Gayle’s voice was flat. “OK.”

Gayle hung up the call, then propped herself up. Oliver sat next to her and waited as she rolled her head from side to side, then, finally, opened her eyes.

“I’m hungry,” he said.

Gayle managed a smile as her heart began to pound. It was coming now, and there was a long day ahead. She rose to her feet and took her son’s hand. Together they walked to the foot of the stairs.

“Go on down, Oliver. I just need to get something from my room.”

She waited for her son to reach the bottom step. Then she turned and headed back down the hall to the prescriptions that were waiting.