Scared to Death (19 page)

“What?
”

“I know it sounds kind of…out there. But then I got this text message last night, and it made me think…” She pulls her cell phone from her pocket, presses a few buttons, and hands it to Lauren. “What does this look like to you?”

She examines the screen, frowns.

“It's an emoticon. A rat.” Marin takes the phone from her, presses a couple more buttons on the keypad, then hands it back. “Read this.”

Lauren does. “Who sent it?”

“I have no idea, but…it's scaring me.”

“I don't know…it looks like something my kids do.”

“Mine, too. But it's really bothering me.”

“Maybe you should go to the police.”

“And tell them…?”

“And tell them you're getting menacing text messages, and someone put a rat in your daughter's purse.”

“And they'll tell me it goes with the territory. This isn't the first time since last fall that some jerk has tried to get us worked up.”

“I know…we've had to deal with gossip and the press, too—and we've had some crank calls, that sort of thing.”

Marin sighs. “You're right. If I call the police, they'll just chalk it up to one more loser with nothing better to do trying to make our lives miserable.”

“I didn't say that. And if you don't call the police, then what other option do you have? Ignoring it?”

“I guess so.” Marin tilts her head thoughtfully. “Do you think she's dealing with this kind of thing, too?”

“Who?”

“Elsa Cavalon.”

It's Lauren's turn to raise her eyebrows. “I don't know…why? Do you?”

“I wonder. I feel like maybe we should ask her.”

“Are you serious?”

Marin nods.

“But—look, Marin, it's all I can do to handle my ex-mother-in-law showing up here this weekend. I don't think I could deal with—”

“No, I know. It's just me. It's just—she was raising my son.”

But he wasn't your son anymore, Marin. He was hers.

Does Lauren dare say it? Does she really even have to? Surely Marin doesn't think of Jeremy Cavalon as her son.

“It sounds crazy, but sometimes I feel like she's the only one who can relate to my loss.”

It
does
sound crazy.

“That was different, though,” Lauren tells her gently. “You lost him so long ago, and it was your choice to give him up…”

She trails off, seeing the flash of anger in Marin's blue eyes.

“You're wrong about that. It wasn't my choice. It was Garvey's.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean you
wanted
—”

“No. I didn't. I never wanted to give him up, but I was too weak, and Garvey was too strong.”

“I'm sorry,” Lauren says again.

“It killed me. Handing over that baby to a stranger…I wish I could tell Jeremy that, but now it's too late, and…”

“And you need to tell someone.”

“Maybe I do. You said it yourself, Lauren. When you were talking about Nick's mother. It doesn't matter that she hasn't seen him in years—she's still his mother.”

Lauren swallows hard and leans over to put an arm around Marin, half expecting her friend to crumple at the contact. But Marin stoically keeps her composure: the epitome of grace under pressure, courtesy of all those years in the spotlight.

“So what do you think?” she asks Lauren after a moment.

I think it's a huge mistake. I think you're setting yourself up for more heartache. I think you're on the verge of a nervous breakdown as it is, and…

And I don't think it matters what I think.

“Just be careful, Marin. If you decide to reach out to her, it won't be easy—for either of you.”

“Yeah, well, you know what they say. Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger.”

For some reason, those last words linger ominously in Lauren's mind long after Marin has driven off into the pouring rain.

 

It all came back to Jeremy as he drove out of Nottingshire that day last fall, past the familiar sign: “Harbor Hills Golf.”

That was where he'd bashed in a little girl's head with a seven-iron.

He didn't remember her last name, or even her first—not her real one, anyway. He remembered only that she had some silly nickname everyone called her—Cha Cha or Lulu or something—and he remembered her blond braids.

He remembered other things, too: how angry he felt about having to take golf lessons. How impossible it was to get the ball into that tiny, faraway hole—only for him, though, not for the others. How mercilessly the little girl with the blond braids had taunted him about it…

He remembered her mean-spirited laughter every time he'd cry out in frustration after his turn; remembered how he'd sort of waved the seven-iron at her as a threat; remembered her scoffing at that, saying his swing was so bad there was no way he could hit her with the golf club.

He remembered proving her wrong. Over and over again.

He remembered her screams, then her moans; remembered the blood in her hair and on the club and spattered all over him, blood everywhere; remembered the voices as people came rushing.

“What happened to her?”

“Is she breathing?”

“Does anyone know CPR?”

He remembered Brett Cavalon grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him, shouting, “What did you do?”

And he remembered the look on Elsa's face.

The memories were relentless. They haunted him. Finally, he had to do something about them.

It was November when he returned to Nottingshire and snuck onto the grounds of Harbor Hills. Dressed in a golf shirt and khakis, Jeremy meandered his way to the clubhouse, where he hit pay dirt: a series of framed photographs of junior golfers over the years. He didn't recognize any of the faces, but one name jumped out at him from a photo caption: La La. That was it. Not Cha Cha or Lulu. It was La La. La La Montgomery.

The picture must have been taken maybe a year or two after he'd known her. He never would have recognized her, and not just because her blond braids had been exchanged for a pixie cut. Her whole face looked different—and he wondered if that was because of what he'd done to her.

Probably.

Well, she wasn't the only one who'd been beaten beyond recognition. She wasn't the only one who'd had plastic surgery.

Suddenly, Jeremy wanted to see her…even if she didn't want to see him. No, he didn't just want to see her…he
had
to see her.

Luckily for him, she wasn't hard to find.

T
he sky opens up in earnest as Elsa and Renny stand waiting for the light to change on Broadway. Carrying take-out Chinese food in a soggy plastic bag, Elsa wishes she'd thought to ask the restaurant for a few extra bags, since she has no umbrella and no raincoat.

Oh well. At least you're finally getting that shower you missed earlier.

When she'd suggested to Renny that they go browse around some stores and have dinner at a neighborhood restaurant, she was hoping to kill a solid hour or two. She figured she might even have a glass of wine—take the edge off and relax a little, since her stress isn't doing Renny any favors.

But Renny wasn't interested in browsing or dining out—particularly once they had ventured out into the downpour.

“When can we go back?” she kept asking, and Elsa didn't have the heart to keep dragging her around in the deluge.

She's hardly thrilled about returning to her mother's apartment, though. Intellectually, she knows there's no real reason to feel threatened there, yet she can't seem to help it.

The light changes at last, and they join the mass of pedestrians swarming the wide thoroughfare as lightning flashes overhead. Honking yellow cabs clog the street on either side of the landscaped median, headlights glaring in the gloom. A lucky few commuters huddle beneath the shelter at the bus stop; the rest crowd along the curb between the rushing gutter and the parade of black pedestrian umbrellas heading toward the express subway station two blocks down.

High above the chaos, the Ansonia's mansard roofline is shrouded in a misty curtain of rain, towering like a haunted mansion in some vintage, monochromatic film.

The light changes again before Renny's short legs can make it all the way across, and they're forced to wait it out on the median with a few other stragglers.

“You okay?” Elsa looks down at Renny, who nods unconvincingly.

“Can we go to Tiffany's for breakfast tomorrow?”

Oh, right. Breakfast at Tiffany's. “We'll see.”

Elsa figures the necessary disillusionment can at least wait until they're inside, out of the miserable weather.

Anyway, tomorrow morning the nightmare will be over and they'll be on their way home to Connecticut.

Please, please, please let it be over.

Before they left the apartment, she'd called Brett again to tell him about the rubber monster mask. She could tell that Lew was still hovering, because while Brett listened to what she had to say, he didn't comment, other than telling her he'll call her as soon as he gets home.

“Still no Mike?” she asked hopefully before hanging up.

Still no Mike.

Something is wrong. She knows it, and so does Brett. Either something terrible happened to him, or…

Something terrible must have happened to him
.

Why else would he not have checked his messages? If he had, and if he'd heard theirs, he'd have been in touch by now.

You're jumping to conclusions. Stop being such a pessimist. There must be other logical reasons why he hasn't called back.

Right. She just can't think of a single one.

Unless he has called back, and Brett doesn't want to tell her what Mike has to say, because he's trying to shield her…

I need to call Brett and tell him that if he's hiding something from me, he'd better stop right now, because I can handle it.

Finally the light changes again. Reaching the other side of the street, they skirt around a large puddle and step onto the sidewalk. The building's main entrance is around the corner on Seventy-third Street, beneath a stone portico framed by globed sconces and the tall, gargoyle-embellished façade.

A uniformed doorman standing outside holds open the door as they approach—not the same one from this afternoon. This guard, who told them his name is Tom, was just starting his shift when they were on their way out. Elsa reluctantly introduced herself and Renny as Sylvie Durand's daughter and granddaughter.

“But don't hold it against us,” she wanted to add, well aware that Maman always sweeps grandly from her cab or Town Car to the elevator without giving “the help” a second glance. The building staff has never been very fond of her—or of Elsa, purely by association.

Maybe Tom doesn't know her snobbish mother very
well, though, because he just held the door, tipped his hat, and wished her and Renny a pleasant evening.

“Back so soon?” he asks now. “Guess I don't blame you. It's a real gullywasher out here, isn't it?”

“Definitely,” Elsa agrees, thinking that it's an odd comment. Gullywasher—it sounds like something you'd hear out in the Southwest, not in the heart of Manhattan.

“That smells great.” Tom gestures at the bag of take-out. “Moo shoo pork, right?”

“Wow, you're good.”

“Oh, I don't fool around when it comes to Chinese. Hope you got extra.”

She grins. “Do you want some?”

“No, but your mother might.”

“Chinese food? My mother?” She laughs, shaking her head. “Anyway…I don't think Rainbow Panda delivers to Paris, so…”

“Paris?”

So he
is
pretty new here. “That's where she lives now,” Elsa explains.

“I know that—but I thought you were here to see her.”

“Oh—no. We're just spending a night or two at her place. She's in Paris.”

Tom shakes his head. “She's here. She showed up a little while ago, while you were out.”

“What?
”

“Mémé's here?” Renny lights up immediately. “Why didn't she tell us she was coming?”

“I'm not sure, little lady. See, your grandma's not the type to stop and chat on her way in. Or out, come to think of it.”

Elsa is incredulous. “Are you sure it was her?”

“You know anyone else who goes around in a fancy hat and veil like an old-fashioned movie star?”

“Did you mention that we were here?”

“I figured she knew, but if it's a surprise, don't worry because—”

“Did she say anything at all?”

“To me? Nah. She was all wrapped up in a shawl and under a big black umbrella when she came in. I don't even think she needed the umbrella, with that gigantic hat she had on, but to each his own. I did mention to her that it's bad luck to keep an umbrella open inside, but she just kept on walking. I guess she's not the superstitious type.”

No, she isn't.

Nor is she the type to show up in New York without warning.

What in the world is going on?

 

Staring at the pouring rain beyond the plate-glass window, Caroline wonders if she should have given up hours ago. Technically, it's no longer even afternoon. Yet here she is, parked at the same table in Starbucks, waiting for some guy to show up. And why
would
he? It's not like people can read minds. It's not like she's sent him some telepathic message to meet her and, voilà—here he'll be.

That is
so
not going to happen.

So what are you doing here, then? How did you, of all people, turn into this pathetic loser?

Dejectedly, she sips her third—or is it fourth?—cup of tea. Herbal this time. She'd discovered earlier that coffee made her sick to her stomach, and regular tea made her antsy. But she couldn't just sit here for hours without buying something every once in a while—even if all this hot liquid makes her have to pee constantly.

Maybe she missed Surfer Boy during one of her countless visits to the bathroom.

Yeah, or maybe you're never going to see him again.

This is crazy. A year ago, she was on top of the world. Now she's, like, some peerless—

“Hi, Caroline! What are you doing here?”

She looks up, startled…then breaks into a slow smile.

It's him
.

 

Rounding the corner into the hallway that bisects Maman's wing of the building, Elsa can see that the main apartment door is ajar.

That's strange.

Unless Maman arrived, saw their luggage by the door, realized that they're in town, and didn't want to lock them out…

But she knows I have the keys. How else would I have gotten into the apartment in the first place? And why wouldn't she just call me on my cell phone to see where I was?

She sticks her head in and calls, “Maman?”

No reply.

“Is she here?” Renny asks.

“She must be. Come on.” Opening the door wider, she sees that the lights are off, just as she left them. No bags have joined their own in the foyer—because, of course, Maman doesn't travel with luggage—but no dripping black umbrella, either.

Elsa sniffs the air for a waft of Parisian perfume, but smells only the Chinese food in the bag she's carrying.

“Maman!”

Silence.

She closes the door, again wondering uneasily why her mother left it open. After a moment's hesitation, she slides the dead bolt.

Immediately, she wonders if that was a mistake.

What if her mother isn't the only one who's wait
ing for them here? What if Renny's stalker somehow found his way to the apartment, and broke in, and…Oh God, what if Maman showed up and surprised him?

“Where is she, Mommy?”

“I'm not sure. Come on, let's go see.” She gingerly moves toward the hall, her hand firm on Renny's shoulder. Again, she calls to her mother, wondering if the doorman might have been mistaken.

Renny chimes in with a singsong “Mémé! Mémé!”

In the kitchen, Elsa flips on a light. Again, everything is just as she left it: the untouched cookies on a plate, the juice in a glass.

Remembering every horror movie she's ever seen, she glances at the knife block. All the handles are accounted for. Good. That's good.

See? Everything is fine.

She sets the bag of Chinese food on the counter beside the knives. “Maman! Are you here?”

“That man said she is, Mommy. I bet the walls are so thick she can't hear us.”

“I guess so,” Elsa agrees, not bothering to point out that it's the walls between the apartments that are soundproof. Most of the interior ones are just regular drywall partitions installed over the years as the rooms were reconfigured.

They resume the search in the dining room, the living room, the library. Back in the entry hall, she looks again at the locked door. If Maman isn't here, who left it open while they were out? Elsa distinctly remembers closing it earlier, before they left.

“Do you think she's sleeping, Mommy?”

At this hour? Even with jet lag, Maman stays up late.

Then again, she's getting older, and anyway, where the hell else could she be?

“Probably. Let's go look.”

But when they reach the master bedroom, it's not only dark; it's deserted.

“Maybe she's in the shower,” Renny suggests.

“I don't hear the water running.” Elsa can't hear anything at all, in fact, but the distant hum of the refrigerator. “Anyway, Maman takes baths.”

Chanel-scented bubble baths—but never in the middle of the day.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” For Renny's sake, Elsa tries to sound playful as they cross the master suite toward the adjoining bath.

“Do you think she's playing hide-and-seek?”

Maman is hardly the playful type, but…“You never know,” Elsa tells Renny as she knocks on the door. No reply.

“Ready or not, here we come!” She opens the door.

The bathroom, too, is empty. Renny jerks back the shower curtain to make sure.

Visibly disappointed, she says, “I thought she was going to jump out and yell surprise.”

“I know, sweetie, but I just don't—”

Suddenly, Renny clutches her arm. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“Shh, I just heard something in the other room.”

They stand absolutely still.

After a moment, Elsa whispers, “I don't hear any—”

And then she does. She hears…something. A faint thumping sound.

“See? She's here!” Renny takes off running through the bedroom to the hallway, calling, “Mémé!”

Elsa follows, relieved.

But not for long.

There's no sign of her mother. Elsa trails Renny from room to room until they end up in the empty foyer again.

“I really thought I heard something.”

“I heard it too,” Elsa assures Renny, “but this is an old building. It makes noises. Or maybe it was someone walking around in the apartment upstairs.”

“I thought it was soundproof.”

Yeah. So did I.

Elsa glances again at the door. If no one was here, then why was it ajar when they got back?

And why, she wonders in alarm as she takes a closer look, is it no longer dead-bolted from the inside now?

 

Jake is just as good-looking as Caroline remembered. Maybe better-looking, with his hair all damp and kind of spiky from the rain, as if he ran his fingers through it. Caroline wouldn't mind doing just that, she decides, watching him walk toward her again, this time carrying the cup of coffee he just bought.

His rain jacket is already draped over the chair opposite her, and his backpack is resting on the floor at her feet where he left it, after saying, “Be right back.”

Now he sits down, shaking his head. “I still can't believe you're here.”

“Why can't you believe it? I told you I come here sometimes,” she reminds him, hoping she doesn't look as stale and wilted as she feels. Too bad she didn't think to put on some lip gloss when she last visited the ladies' room, about twenty minutes ago. By then, she'd all but given up hope that he'd show up.

But he's here! He's here!

He shrugs. “After what happened to you yesterday, I can't believe you'd ever come back.”