Read Kiss Her Goodbye Online

Authors: Wendy Corsi Staub

Kiss Her Goodbye (36 page)

BOOK: Kiss Her Goodbye
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But he was there,
she reminds herself.
He must care about me if he was there.
Unless the big vigil was just for show.
But what about last night?
He was there, watching her, when nobody else was around to see him. Not even Jen herself. If she hadn't happened to wake up, she never would have known.
She wonders how many times in the past he stood over her bed watching her sleep . . . and why she finds the thought more eerily unsettling than reassuring.
It would be different if he were still her father.
But now that she knows he's not even a blood relation . . .
Well, he really has no business being in her room at all, when you come right down to it.
No business being in her room, and no business being in her life.
 
 
The phone rings just as Kathleen is throwing her barely touched ham sandwich into the garbage can.
“Mrs. Carmody?”
“Yes?” The voice sounds familiar, but she can't place it or the heavy southern accent.
“My name is Helen and I'm one of the nurses over at Erasmus.”
No wonder the voice was familiar. She sighs.
Dad.
He's run away again.
“Yes?” she says, pacing to the window with the phone.
At least it isn't snowing again . . . yet. This morning's blue skies have long since given way to dark clouds looming in the west. With any luck, her father will turn up before the next squall.
“Mrs. Carmody, we need you to come right down here.”
Come right down there?
That's a new one.
She sighs. “I'm sorry, but my daughter is home sick today, and I can't—”
“Mrs. Carmody, I'm afraid it's urgent.”
“Did my father run away again?”
“I can't discuss this over the phone. We need you here in person.”
Her heart stops; her thoughts race.
He's dead.
Her father is dead.
What else can it be?
“Okay,” she tells the caller, “I'll be right there.”
 
 
The only time Stella has ever set foot in the Woodsbridge Police Station was to drop off a donation for a Christmas toy drive a few years ago.
It's that time of year again, but this time, she bypasses the large cardboard box marked
Holiday Toy Donations
just inside the entrance.
She isn't sure why she's going to do what she's about to do.
Maybe she's a spurned wife seeking vengeance.
Maybe she's bound by conscience to come clean on the information she withheld and the lies she told Detective Brodowiaz.
Or maybe, deep down inside, she really believes Kurt had something to do with a double homicide.
All she knows is that the morning she spent in the classroom was unfair to the students. She couldn't focus on teaching a simple lesson she's taught dozens of times before, couldn't give the kids the attention they deserve.
She can't afford to jeopardize her students—nor can she afford, quite literally, to risk her job. She's going to need it more than ever.
Especially if her nagging doubts about her husband's innocence prove to be grounded in reality.
What if Kurt is a murderer?
What if he goes to prison?
Their lives will be ruined. Not just his, but hers, and her daughters'.
If Kurt is guilty, this is only the beginning of the nightmare Stella believed was drawing to a close.
The string of grim possibilities wound through her mind all morning, until her thoughts were hopelessly snarled and teaching was utterly impossible. Finally, she went to the principal's office and asked if she could take the rest of the day off to attend to personal business.
“You've already used your personal days, Stella,” was the stern reply.
“I know, and I'm sorry . . . but this is urgent. I wouldn't be asking if it weren't.”
So here she is, coming to the police with so-called urgent information now, almost month after the case has been closed.
What the hell are you doing?
she asks herself, even as her feet propel her directly to the desk sergeant.
He looks up promptly.
Too late to back out now.
He even recognizes her—thanks, no doubt, to all the media coverage last month. “Mrs. Gattinski? Can I help you?”
“Yes. Is Detective Brodowiaz here?”
The sargent looks at his watch. “He stepped out for lunch, but he should be back in about twenty minutes. Why don't you sit down and wait for him?”
Stella hesitates.
Okay, so it isn't too late to leave after all.
She can turn around and walk out the door—go back to school, back to her life, back to telling herself that her husband is nothing more than a selfish, cheating SOB.
Or she can have a seat and confide her suspicions in Detective Brodowiaz when he returns.
“Mrs. Gattinski?”
She looks up to see the desk sergeant gesturing at the row of chairs beneath a plate glass window.
She hesitates only another moment.
Then, slowly, she walks toward the window and sinks into the nearest seat.
 
 
“Don't worry about me, Mom,” Jen says for the third time, forgetting to be sullen. “I'll be fine. Really.”
“Are you sure?” Her mother, wearing her coat and boots, hovers nervously beside her bed. “Because I hate to leave you.”
“Mom, the nurse said it was urgent. You have to go. What if Grandpa is . . .”
She trails off, not wanting to say it. But she knows what her mother is thinking. Why else would the nursing home ask her to come right over?
Either Grandpa is dead, or he's about to die.
Whatever the case, Mom needs to be there with him.
And Jen needs to be here for Mom. For the first time in weeks, touched by her mother's vulnerability, Jen has allowed the wall of ice she erected between them to thaw.
“Let me try to call Daddy one more time.” Mom flips her cell phone open in shaking hands. “I keep getting his voice mail.”
“Did you leave him a message?”
“I left two. It's been less than five minutes, but . . .”
Jen watches her mother dial, sees the veins in her neck tensing as she waits for the line to ring a few times.
“Matt, it's me again. Listen, when you get this message, just come right home. I've got to leave Jen and I don't know how long I'm going to be gone. Somebody has to keep an eye on her and meet the boys at the bus stop. I'll call as soon as I can.”
“Nobody has to keep an eye on me, Mom.” Jen scowls as her mother tucks the phone into the pocket of her coat. “I'm old enough to take care of myself for a few hours.”
“Not when you can't even get out of bed.”
“Why would I have to get out of bed? I'll be fine.”
Her mother just looks at her, shaking her head.
Jen knows what she's thinking.
About that night.
If only she could remember what happened that night.
Apples.
Something about apples.
She shakes her head, unable to grasp the thought that flits teasingly at the edge of her consciousness.
“You'd better go, Mom.”
“I know. I'd better.” There are tears in her mother's eyes.
“I'm sorry about Grandpa.”
“Maybe it's not that. Maybe he just . . . I don't know . . . maybe he ran away again. Or maybe he's all out of underwear.” Her mother's laugh is choked.
Jen smiles sadly. “I hope that's what it is.”
“So do I. Do you need anything before I go? Do you want me to help you to the bathroom?”
She shakes her head. “I don't have to go.”
Outside, there's a sudden rumbling, crashing sound.
Both Jen and her mother jump.
“It's just snow,” her mother tells her. “Falling off the roof.”
“I know.”
“You looked worried for a second.”
“So did you.”
Mom shakes her head. “What if you have to go to the bathroom while I'm gone? You can't get there by yourself.”
“I can if I crawl.”
“Jen—”
“Don't worry about me, Mom. I don't have to go. I'll be fine.”
“Well, Daddy will get my message and be here soon, anyway.”
“Yeah. Just . . . will you turn on my radio before you go?”
“Sure.”
Mom walks over to her desk, flips the switch on Jen's portable stereo. “Do you want a CD or the radio?”
“Radio,” Jen says, knowing a CD would end and she'd be left in silence, knowing that a silent house would be scary.
Mom finds the FM station Jen likes. The familiar strains of her favorite Dave Matthews song fill the air reassuringly as her mother heads for the door. “If I don't get home for dinner, tell Daddy there's stew in the Crock-Pot. It'll be done by around six.”
“I will.”
Jen sighs, leaning back against the pillows again.
Stew in the Crock-Pot.
Daddy.
Her mother makes it sound as if everything is the way it used to be.
A lump rises in Jen's throat at the thought of the cozy family dinners they used to share, back when she thought they really were her family.
Maybe they can be again, she thinks, remembering that today was supposed to be her fresh start. Now that she's allowed the ice to melt a little, she can't help thinking that maybe what her parents did wasn't so awful. Maybe she can forgive them after all. Maybe they were just trying to protect her.
She jumps, seeing a shadow looming in her doorway, then breathes a sigh of relief when she realizes who it is.
“Mom. I thought you left.”
“I started to, but I forgot something.”
“What?”
Her mother leans over the bed, brushing her lips across Jen's cheek. “To kiss you goodbye.”
Jen forces a confident smile. “Bye, Mom. And don't worry. Everything is going to be fine.”
Her mother looks doubtful, but she says, “You're right. It is, isn't it?”
Jen nods, but inside, she isn't so sure.
 
 
“All right, Mrs. Gattinski. Why don't you tell me why you're really here?” Detective Brodowiaz says, steepling his fingers on the table that sits between them.
“I told you . . . I just wanted to thank you for all you did.”
“People send notes when they want to say thank you. They send fruit baskets. And before you get any ideas, I hate fruit.”
Stella laughs. It's a hollow sound. She tries, and fails, to break eye contact with the detective.
“You came down here to talk to me about what happened that night, didn't you.” It's a statement, not a question.
Reluctantly, Stella nods.
“Did you remember something you forgot to tell me?” he asks, his tone surprisingly gentle.
She nods again.
“Why don't you tell me now, then? Since you're here, and I'm here, and all,” he says, his head tilted in wry invitation.
“All right.”
Stella takes a deep breath, wonders how to begin.
The detective leans back and folds his arms as though he has all the time in the world. As though this conversation is utterly casual, as though whatever she's about to say is almost incidental.
But his posture belies the shrewd intensity of his gaze.
He knows,
she realizes.
He knows I lied that night. He knows my conscience is eating away at me. He knows that whatever I say is going to be a bombshell, and he's just waiting to pounce on it.
Realizing she's still holding her breath, Stella exhales shakily, clenches her hands together to to steady them. She gazes down at the fourth finger of her left hand at the faint red mark where her wedding right used to be.
She had to soap it to get it off last night. Her ring finger, like the rest of her, is a few sizes bigger than it was when she got married.
She looks up at the detective and sees that he, too, was gazing down at her fingers.
He must have noticed her ring is gone.
Maybe not.
Oh, come on, Stella. He's a detective. Detectives notice everything.
So he knows her ring is gone, has obviously deduced that her marriage is in trouble. He's probably already put two and two together.
She might as well tell him what she came here to tell him. Right?
Still, she hesitates. She closes her eyes.
Once again, she's standing at the top of that treacherous trail at Holiday Valley, with Kurt at her side.
What's the matter? Are you scared?
Yes. She's no longer young, or naive, or stupid. But she is scared.
Scared of what will happen if she takes the plunge—but perhaps even more scared of what will happen if she doesn't.
Her mind made up, Stella opens her eyes.
She clears her throat nervously, takes a deep breath, and tells Detective Brodowiaz, “It's about my husband . . .”
 
 
Kathleen talks aloud to her mother as she drives to Erasmus, just as she did in the cemetery that night fourteen years ago.
“Just let him live until I get there, Mommy,” she begs, tears streaming down her face as she clutches the wheel, easing her way toward the bottle-necked toll booths. The traffic ahead seems to move with painstaking sluggishness.
BOOK: Kiss Her Goodbye
7.09Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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