Public Secrets (23 page)

“Yes. I was hoping to speak to your father.”

He felt his hopes deflate like a used party balloon. Where had he gotten the idea that she had come to see him? “Dad’s inside.” He managed to smile. “Gloating.”

Emma followed him to the door Marge had left open. She
had a death grip on her purse now, and no amount of mental effort could relax her fingers.

They had their tree up. Emma glimpsed it, standing full of tinsel and shiny balls near the front window. There were presents under it, neatly wrapped and bowed, and sprigs of pine here and there that scented the house.

The furniture was old, not shabby but established. A family had shared these pieces, she thought. Had shared them so long, they hardly saw them now, but settled into the couch or a chair comfortably day after day, evening after evening. Curtains were pulled back to let in the light. A trio of African violets bloomed lavishly on a stand by the east window.

She had taken off her sunglasses and was folding and unfolding the earpieces as she studied the room.

“Want to sit down?”

“Yes, thank you. I won’t stay long. I know I’m disrupting your weekend.”

“Yeah, I’ve been looking forward to cutting the grass all week.” He grinned, relaxed again, and gestured to a chair. “I’ll get my father.”

Before he could, Marge walked in carrying a tray crowded with a pitcher of fresh iced tea and glasses and a plate of her homemade sugar cookies. “Here we are. Michael, button your shirt,” she said casually, then set the tray on the coffee table. “It’s nice to have one of Michael’s friends drop by.”

“Emma, this is my mother. Mom, Emma McAvoy.”

Recognition came swiftly. Marge worked hard to keep both sympathy and fascination out of her eyes. “Oh yes, of course.” She poured the tea. “I still have the clipping from the paper—where you and Michael met on the beach.”

“Mom—”

“A mother’s allowed,” she said mildly. “It’s nice to meet you at last, Emma.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry to just drop in this way.”

“Nonsense. Michael’s friends are always welcome here.”

“Emma came to see Dad.”

“Oh.” The frown in her eyes came and went quickly. “Well, he’s out in the back making sure Michael didn’t run down any of his rosebushes. I’ll get him.”

“One rosebush—when I was twelve,” Michael said as he
snatched up a cookie. “And I’ll never be trusted again. Try a cookie, Mom makes the best on the block.”

She took one out of politeness, terrified to put anything in her stomach. “You have a lovely home.”

He remembered his brief tour through the Beverly Hills mansion where she’d spent that summer. “I’ve always liked it.” He leaned over, laid a hand on hers. “What’s wrong, Emma?”

She couldn’t have said why that quiet question, that gentle hand almost snapped the last of her control. It would be so easy to lean on him, to pour out her heart and be comforted. But that would just be running again. “I’m not really sure.”

She rose when Lou came in. Her smile was hesitant, vulnerable, and for Michael, devastatingly appealing. “Captain.”

“Emma.” Obviously pleased, he crossed to her to take both of her hands. “All grown-up.”

She nearly broke down then, almost laid her head on his chest and wept as she once had so long ago. Instead she gripped his hands tightly, searching his face. “You’ve hardly changed at all.”

“That’s exactly the kind of flattery a man needs from a beautiful woman.”

She smiled, easily this time. “No, really. I’m studying to be a photographer so I try to observe and remember faces. It’s kind of you to see me again.”

“Don’t be silly. Sit, sit.” He spied the iced tea and chose a glass, wanting to give her time to be comfortable. “Is your father in town?”

“No.” She ran her fingers up and down her own glass, but didn’t drink. “He’s in London—or on his way. I’m living in New York now, going to college there.”

“I haven’t been to New York for years.” He settled back in a striped wing chair that suited him so perfectly Emma imagined he rarely sat elsewhere in that room. “Photography, you say. I remember, last time I saw you, you had a camera.”

“I still have it. Da often says he created a monster when he gave me that Nikon.”

“How is Brian?”

“He’s fine.” Though she was far from sure of that. “Busy.” Of that she was sure. Then she took a deep breath and plunged into the truth. “He doesn’t know I’m here. I don’t want him to.”

“Why?”

She lifted her hand, then helplessly let it fall again. “He’d only be upset, and miserably unhappy if he knew I’d come to see you, to talk about Darren.”

“Michael, will you give me a hand with something?” Marge started to rise, but Emma shook her head.

“No, please. There’s no need for you to go. It’s certainly not private. I suppose it never has been.” Agitated, she set down her glass. “It’s only that I wondered if there was something, something you might know, something the press didn’t get their hands on, and that I was considered too young to be told at the time. I’ve been able to put it aside, for long stretches of time anyway. But it never really goes away. And last night I remembered …”

“What?” Lou leaned forward.

“Just a song,” she murmured. “A song that was playing that night. I remembered hearing it coming from downstairs as I walked toward Darren’s room. It was all so clear, for a moment, so clear. The song, the lyrics, Darren crying. But I can’t get to the door, you see. In my head, when I try to remember, I can only see myself standing in the hall.”

“Maybe that’s all you did.” Lou frowned into his glass. Like Emma, he’d been able to put the case aside for long stretches. But it always came back. He knew the face of that little boy would always haunt him. “Emma, we were never sure you went into the room, or saw anything. At the time, you thought you did, but you were very confused. It was just as likely that you heard something that frightened you, ran to the stairs to call your father, and fell. You were only six, and afraid of the dark.”

Was, and am, she thought. “I’ve never been able to sort it out, you see. And I hate not knowing, not being sure I couldn’t have stopped it. Saved him.”

“I can put your mind at rest there.” He put the glass aside. He wanted her to see him as a cop now, an official. “There were two men in your brother’s room that night. The nanny claimed that she heard two people whispering as she was being bound. The forensic evidence corroborated it. The syringe found on the floor of your brother’s room contained a sedative, a child’s dose. From what we were able to piece together, the time that elapsed between the nanny being bound and your fall was less than twenty minutes. It was a bungled attempt, Emma, with tragic
results, but it was well thought out. Something happened to confuse their plans, to confuse them. We may never know what it was. But if you had gone into that room, had tried to fight them off yourself, you wouldn’t have been able to save Darren, and in all likelihood would have been killed as well.”

She hoped he was right. She prayed he was right. But it did little to soothe her. When she left an hour later she promised herself she would try to believe it.

“You have wonderful parents,” she told Michael as he walked her to her car.

“Yeah. I’ve almost broken them in.” He put his hand on the door handle. There was no way he was going to let her walk out of his life so quickly again. He remembered how she had looked on the beach that day—had it been five years before? She’d looked sad—sad and beautiful. Something about her had struck a chord in him then. She struck the same one now.

“Are you staying in town long?”

She gazed down the street. Such a pretty neighborhood. She could hear children playing a few doors down, and the low hum of another mower trimming green suburban grass. She wondered, wistfully, what it might be like to live in such a place. “I leave tomorrow.”

He wanted to swear. “Quick trip.”

“I have classes Monday.” She looked up, feeling as awkward as he. He was more attractive than she remembered—the chipped tooth, the slightly crooked nose. “I wish I had more time.”

“What are you doing now?”

“I—I was going to go for a drive. Up in the hills.”

He understood, and wasn’t sure he cared for the idea. “Want some company?”

She started to refuse, politely, as she’d been taught. “Yes, very much,” she heard herself say.

“Give me a minute.” He was off, before she could change her mind. The screen slammed behind him as he went into the house, then slammed again when he came out. He grinned at her as he settled in the passenger seat. “You saved me from another hour’s mowing. Dad’ll never be able to let it sit like that until I get back. Too organized.”

“Glad I could help.”

She drove aimlessly for a while, content to let the wind move
through her hair, listen to the music on the radio, pass idle conversation. When she heard her father’s voice come clear and strong through the speakers, her lips curved.

“Does it ever feel weird?”

“Hearing him?” Her smile widened. “No, not really. I knew his voice before I knew him. It’s hard to think of Da without thinking of his music. It must be the same for you. I mean he’s your father, but he’s a cop. I’m sure it’s natural for you to think of him wearing a gun or a badge or whatever.”

“Whatever. Still, it was pretty strange when I first started working for him.”

“Working for him?”

“Yeah. I caved in.” He sent her a breezy grin. “As Johnno once said, I’m following in the old man’s flat feet.”

Y
OU’RE A COP
?” Emma braked at a stop sign and took the opportunity to turn and study him.

“What my father’s fond of calling a rookie.” He grinned again. “What? Have I grown a snout?”

“No.” She sat a moment, then drove on. It was silly, she supposed, to have her idea of police focused by her impression of Lou, and at the other end of the spectrum, shows like
Starsky and Hutch
. “It’s just odd thinking of you that way.”

“Well, that’s something. I never figured you thought of me at all.”

She laughed. “Of course I did. When our picture hit the paper, I was the most popular girl at school for weeks. Of course, I exaggerated the whole business for my own benefit.”

“So did I.” He tossed his arm over the seat to play with the ends of her hair. “I got a date with Sue Ellen Cody on the strength of that clipping alone.”

“Really?” She shot him a quick, slanted look.

“It was my fifteen minutes of fame. I kept hoping you’d come back.”

“Sweeney spilled it to Da.” She shrugged. “And that was the end of that. Do you like being a cop?”

“Yeah. Right up to the time I walked into the academy I was sure I’d hate it. But there you go. Some things are just meant, and no matter how many times you walk away, you end up where you belonged all along. You take this road here if you want to go up to the house.”

She stopped again, staring straight ahead. “How do you know?”

“My father used to drive up there. I’d go with him sometimes. He’d just sit and look. I thought you might like to know that he’s never forgotten what happened, and he’s never really accepted that he couldn’t find them.”

“I think I knew,” she said slowly. “That’s why I wanted to see him, talk with him again.” She let out a sigh. “You knew what I intended when I said I was going for a drive.”

“I had a pretty good idea.”

“Why did you come?”

“I didn’t want you to go alone.”

She stiffened. It was only a barely perceptible movement, but he sensed her shoulders straightening, her chin firming. “I’m not fragile, Michael.”

“Okay. I wanted to be with you.” ’

She turned. His eyes were kind, like his father’s, but in them she could still see the boy who had driven her home from the beach. Degree by degree her body relaxed. “Thanks.”

She turned the car and followed his directions. The roads didn’t seem familiar. She’d thought they would. It occurred to her, and made her feel foolish, that she would never have found the house on her own. They didn’t talk now, except for Michael’s occasional “turn right,” “bear left,” but listened to the soft, soothing sounds of Crosby, Stills, and Nash through the car speakers.

He didn’t have to tell her to stop. She recognized the house. It was like a picture, developed and stored in her mind. It was very much the same as it had been, secluded by trees, hedges, the winter bloomers of the hills. It was rustic, as only the wealthy could afford. Redwood and sheets of glass, terraced lawn falling into woods and stream.

She saw, as Michael did, the sign speared into the ground that proclaimed the house up for sale.

“We could call it fate,” he said, and touched her arm. “Do you want to go in?”

Her hands were linked hard in her lap. She could see her window, her bedroom window where she had once stood with Darren and gleefully watched a fox dart through the trees.

“I can’t.”

“Okay. We can sit as long as you like.”

She could see herself, wading in the stream, Bev laughing as Darren splashed madly in his bare feet and rolled-up overalls. She remembered a picnic the four of them had shared, a blanket spread under a tree, her father quietly strumming his guitar, Bev reading a book while Darren dozed in her lap.

She’d forgotten that day. How could she have forgotten it? It had been such a beautiful day, such a perfect day. The grass had been cool, the sun warm and lazily yellow where it pushed through the leaves, the shade soft and gray where it hadn’t. She could hear her father’s voice, and the words he’d been singing.

Never too late to look for love / Never too soon to find it
.

They had been happy, Emma thought. They had been a family. Then, the next day they had given a party and everything had changed.

“Yes,” she said abruptly. “I want to go in.”

“Okay. Look, it might be better if they didn’t know who you are, about the connection, I mean.”

She nodded, and drove through the open gates.

Michael closed a hand over hers as they stood in front of the door. Hers was like ice, but steady. He put on his best smile as the door opened. “Hi. We were driving by and saw your sign. We’ve been house hunting for weeks. We’ve got an appointment to see another place in about an hour, but we just couldn’t resist this. It isn’t sold yet, is it?”

The woman, fortyish, dressed in countrywear of Bass loafers and Calvin Kleins, took a long, cautious look. She took in Michael’s work shirt, worn Levi’s, and scuffed high tops. But she was also sharp enough to note Emma’s discreetly expensive pumps and the casual Ralph Lauren skirt and blouse. As well as the Mercedes convertible parked in the drive. She smiled. The house had been on the market for five months without a firm offer.

“Well, actually we do have a prospective buyer, but the contract won’t be signed until Monday.” Her gaze swooped down to the small but elegant diamond and sapphire ring on Emma’s hand. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to show you through.”

She opened the door further, lifting a brow as Emma hesitated before stepping inside. “I’m Gloria Steinbrenner.”

“Nice to meet you.” Michael extended a hand and took hers. “Michael Kesselring. This is Emma.”

Ms. Steinbrenner gave them both a dazzling smile. The hell
with the real estate broker, she thought. She’d opened the door to her own hot prospect, and intended to make the most of it.

“The place is in beautiful condition. I adore it.” She detested every board and brick. “It’s breaking my heart to sell, but—to be frank—my husband and I are divorcing, so we’re liquidating.”

“Oh.” Michael put what he hoped was an appropriately sympathetic, but interested, look on his face. “I’m sorry.”

“No need.” She waved a hand. “Are you from the area?”

“No, actually, we’re … from the Valley,” he said, inspired. “We’re just dying to get out, crowds, smog. Isn’t that right, Emma?”

“Yes.” She forced a smile. “It’s a beautiful house.”

“Thank you. The living area, as you can see, is magnificent. High ceilings, genuine oak beams, lots of glass and open space. It’s a working fireplace, of course.”

Of course, Emma thought. Hadn’t she sat in front of it? The furniture was new, and she hated it on sight. Pretentious modern sculptures and glossy enameled tables. Where were all the cushions, the funny baskets filled with balls of yarn and ribbon that Bev had arranged?

“The dining area’s through here, but this spot in front of the terrace windows is just perfect for cozy little suppers.”

No, that wasn’t right, she thought as she mechanically followed. Bev had put plants in front of those windows. A jungle of plants in old pottery bowls and urns. Stevie and Johnno had brought her a tree once, grunting and panting as they’d hauled it in. They’d done it as a joke, but Bev had left it there, and bought a silly plaster robin to sit on one of the branches.

“Emma?”

“What?” She jolted, dragging herself back. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, that’s quite all right.” The woman was delighted that Emma seemed to be mesmerized. “I was just asking if you cooked?”

“No, not very well.”

“The kitchen is up-to-the-minute. I had it remodeled just two years ago.” She pushed open the swinging doors and gestured. “All built-ins. Microwave, Jenn-Air range, a convection oven, naturally. Acres of counter space. A pantry, of course.”

Emma stared at the streamlined, soulless kitchen. It was all white and stainless steel. Gone were the copper pots Bev had kept shiny and hung from hooks. There were no more little pots
of herbs on the windowsill. No high chair for Darren, no clutter of cookbooks or colorful apothecary jars.

The woman droned on, obviously considering the kitchen her
pièce de résistance
, while Emma stood, grieving.

When the phone rang, she closed a slick white cabinet door. “Excuse me, just a moment.”

“Are you all right?” Michael murmured.

“Yes.” She wanted to be. “I’d like to go upstairs.”

“Listen, Jack.” Ms. Steinbrenner’s voice had lost its cooing flow. “I’m not interested in your complaints or your lawyer’s threats. Got it?”

Michael cleared his throat. “Excuse me.” He offered the woman an easy smile. “Would it be all right if we wandered through?”

She waved them away and snarled into the phone. “Listen, asshole.”

“Sounds like she’ll be tied up awhile,” he said lightly. “You sure you want to go up?”

No, she wasn’t sure. She was anything but sure. “I can’t come this far and not finish.”

“Right.” Whatever her claims against fragility, he put an arm around her shoulders as they started up.

The doors were open—the bedroom door where her father and Bev had once slept. Where Emma had sometimes heard them laughing late at night. Alice’s room, which had always been so bland and neat, had become a sitting room with walls of books and a console television. Her room. She stopped, gazing in.

The dolls were gone, the Mickey Mouse night-light, the frilly pinks and whites that Bev had indulged her in. No little girl had slept there, dreamt there, in a very long time. It was obviously a guest room now. Silk flowers, a Hollywood bed plumped with vivid cushions, reading material carefully arranged. Roman shades had replaced the priscillas she remembered, and wall-to-wall carpeting the pretty, frivolous shag rug.

“This was my room,” she said dully. “There was wallpaper with little roses and violets, frilly pink curtains at the windows and a big white quilt for the bed. I had dolls on the shelves, and music boxes. I guess it was the kind of room all little girls want, at least for a while. Bev understood that. I don’t know why I thought it would be the same.”

He remembered a quote he’d read in college, one that had stuck. “‘All things change; nothing perishes.’” He shrugged self-consciously. He wasn’t the type of man who quoted. “It is the same, in your head. That’s what counts.”

She said nothing, but turned and looked down the hall to Darren’s room. The door was open too, as it should have been that night.

“I was in bed,” she said flatly. “Something woke me up. The music. I thought it was the music. I couldn’t really hear it, but I could feel it. The bass vibrating. I tried to guess what the song was, and what people were doing. I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to stay up for the parties. I heard something. Something,” she murmured, rubbing an annoyed hand on the headache that was building behind her temple. “I don’t know what. But I—footsteps,” she remembered abruptly, and her heart began to thud against her ribs. “I heard someone coming down the hall. I wanted it to be Da or Bev. I wanted them to talk to me for a while. Maybe I could con them into letting me go downstairs. But it wasn’t Da or Bev.”

“Easy.” He could see the sweat beading on her brow, and rubbed her hand between both of his. “Just take it slow.”

“Darren was crying. I heard him crying. I know it. It wasn’t a dream. I heard him crying. I got up. Alice had told me not to take Charlie in, but Darren liked to sleep with Charlie, and he was crying. I was going to take Charlie into Darren and talk to him for a while until he slept again. But the hall was dark.”

She looked around now, with the sunlight creeping into it from the bedroom windows. “It was dark, but it wasn’t supposed to be. They always left a light on for me. I’m so afraid of the dark. There are things in the dark.”

“Things?” he repeated, his brows drawing together.

“I didn’t want to go out in the hall, in the dark. But he kept crying. I could hear the music now, as I stepped into the hall, into the dark. It was loud, and I was frightened.”

She started to walk then, dreamlike, toward the door. “I could hear them, hissing in the corners, scraping along the walls, swishing on the rugs.”

“Hear what?” he said quietly. “What did you hear?”

“The monsters.” She turned and looked at him. “I heard the monsters. And … I don’t remember. I don’t remember if I
went to the door. It was closed, I know it was closed, but I don’t know if I opened it.”

She stood on the threshold. For an instant she saw the room as she remembered it—cluttered with Darren’s toys, painted in bright, primary colors. His crib, his rocker, his shiny new tricycle. Then the picture dissolved into what was there.

An oak desk and leather chair. Framed pictures, glass shelves crowded with bric-a-brac.

An office. They had turned her brother’s room into an office.

“I ran,” she said at length. “I don’t remember anything except running, and falling.”

“You said you’d gone to the door. You told my father, when he saw you in the hospital right after it happened, that you’d opened the door.”