The Kindness of Strangers (8 page)

Sarah remembered her own reaction when Roy had told her he had cancer. Anything outside the family in those few short months between his diagnosis and his death had shimmered surreal and absurd. Janet Porter’s pressuring her to join the PTA had felt obscene. Receiving wedding and party invitations had enraged her, and she certainly couldn’t imagine wanting to
host
a party. Sarah knew that Mark and Courtney would probably be in a similar raw state. But the way Courtney had said “don’t tell anyone” made Sarah wonder if they’d go ahead with the dinner party. Mark had always struck her as being overly concerned with appearances, much too obsessed with showing off his latest purchases to her in tiresome detail—his new digital camera, the new DVD player, the new camera phone. Sarah always smiled and nodded and mentally willed him to shut up. He was shallow and a bit of a jerk. Dazzlingly good-looking and charming, but a jerk. Sarah and Gwinn jokingly called him Ken because of his beautiful jawline, high cheekbones, and blond hair. He really might decide to entertain clients even if his only child had just gotten out of the hospital.

So yes, Sarah needed to find out about this dinner. She wouldn’t risk not showing up and complicating Mark and Courtney’s lives even further. She didn’t want to inflict that on her friend.

Her friend. Courtney was her friend, damn it. Had Courtney had “reasons” to come over and check on her back in that awful period? Had Courtney waited for Sarah to return
her
phone calls?

Sarah snatched up her purse and left.

Halfway to the Kendricks’, she realized she’d forgotten the damn backpack, left it sitting by the kitchen door. Oh, well. It didn’t matter. She could run home and get it for them, but first she wanted to see Courtney face-to-face.

She pulled into the Kendricks’ driveway, drove past the front of the house onto the side drive that led to the kitchen door—and braked hard.

Three police cars sat by the side door. Two regular cars she didn’t recognize blocked the open garage, where Courtney’s SUV was visible. Mark’s Mercedes was not in sight.

Sarah turned off the van right where she sat, in the middle of the driveway. She walked to the door on leaden legs. Oh, God, what had happened?

She reached the door and opened it to an empty kitchen. Where was everyone? What was going on? “Courtney?” she called. The house was so huge they had to communicate with an intercom; if they weren’t nearby, they’d never hear her call. She rang the bell and stepped inside. “Courtney? It’s me. Sarah.”

Before the chime of the bell had stopped resonating, Sarah was surrounded. Several men and one woman—some in suits, some in police uniforms, most of them wearing latex gloves—came from every direction. Sarah recognized one of the officers—he’d given her a speeding ticket once. She looked for Rodney Whitacre, her friend Gwinn’s husband, but didn’t see him. Her scalp and rib cage contracted. She couldn’t catch her breath.

The tallest man stepped forward. “I’m Detective Robert Kramble.” His voice was surprisingly gentle, in contrast to his broad-shouldered, imposing presence. He wore a dark blue suit that would’ve looked classy if it weren’t so rumpled. “How can we help you?”

“I . . . I . . . Is Courtney here?” Sarah felt like a seven-year-old asking for her friend to come out to play. Oh, God. Please let everything be all right.

“She is, but she’s on her way out. I’m sorry.” Kramble looked at her and waited.

“I just wanted to see her, to see how Jordan was doing. I . . . What’s going on?”

“What’s your name, please, ma’am?”

“I . . . I’m Sarah Laden. What’s wrong? Is everything okay?” What a stupid question. Clearly things were not.

Kramble frowned and cocked his head, as if thinking. With black hair and long-lashed dark eyes, he was good-looking enough to be a detective from a TV show, except for his one slightly crooked front tooth. Kramble snapped his fingers once and said, “Sarah Laden,” as if he’d belatedly understood a punch line. “You brought Jordan to the emergency room yesterday morning.”

Sarah nodded. So this had something to do with yesterday? “Is Mark here? Can I talk to him?” She just wanted to
see
one of them, to know they were okay.

“No,” Kramble said. Sarah wondered which of her questions he was answering. Kramble peeled the latex gloves from his hands, folded them neatly, and tucked them inside his suit jacket the way someone might pocket a handkerchief. “You may be able to help us, Mrs. Laden. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Why?” She heard voices in the living room and looked, hoping to see Courtney.

A woman officer with short black hair and a serious, almost pouting face, held a stack of papers in her latex-gloved hands and announced, “There are a number of checks written to a Sarah Laden by Courtney Kendrick.” Sarah didn’t like the way the woman looked at her, with hard, accusing eyes. She certainly didn’t like the fact that the woman appeared to be rifling through Courtney and Mark’s financial records. What was happening?

Kramble asked, “And why would Dr. Kendrick write you a series of checks?”

“Some for five hundred dollars,” the pouting woman said, as if this were a felony.

Sarah scowled at the woman. How dare she act as if Sarah were guilty of something for making a living? “I cater for the Kendricks. I’m supposed to prepare dinner for their party tonight. Only I don’t think they’re having it. I just came by to check on Jordan and to see how they were all holding up after yesterday.”

A male officer, thick and stocky like a wrestler, said, “There’s a party on for tonight? That’s great!” as if he’d been invited. Sarah stared at him.

“Why don’t you have a seat in here?” Kramble gestured for her to come into the living room.

She followed, eager to see if Courtney were in the living room, but she wasn’t. Rodney Whitacre was, though. He lifted his head from where he knelt on the white carpet, and said, “Hey, Sarah.” His expression was so bleak it chilled Sarah with the certainty that something tragic had happened. Sarah opened her mouth to say hello but then shut it, feeling as stupid as one of the tropical fish in the aquariums lining the walls. God help her. Panic kept its grip on her rib cage. All the furniture in this normally immaculate room was moved from its usual position. The glass coffee table and the replica of Donatello’s
David
that stood on it were shoved into a corner. A cupboard she’d never noticed, behind a wall panel, stood open. The shelves of the cupboard were empty—their contents apparently boxed into three white plastic storage bins Rodney was labeling. She couldn’t read the labels from where she stood.

Courtney’s video camera—the one she brought to all the soccer games—lay on the floor in a plastic bag. A fancier camera, on a tripod, was draped in plastic, too.

“You can sit down if you like,” Kramble said. Sarah hesitated before the giant white couch, covered now in plastic sheeting. “It’s okay,” Kramble assured her. She sat, too stunned to remain standing.

“Oh, my God. Is . . . are . . .” She had no clue where to begin. “Look, I’m not comfortable answering questions until I talk to Courtney. Does she know you’re—”

“Yes. Dr. Kendrick gave us permission to search,” Kramble said. “How long have you been catering for the Kendricks?”

“Um . . . for nearly three years now.”

“And how did you first begin to work for them?” The stocky wrestler scribbled notes. The pouting woman leaned against the wall. Rodney kept stacking what looked like videotapes and DVDs into a fourth storage bin. Sarah heard the sounds of rummaging and drawer opening from rooms down the hall.

“We’re friends. Our kids go to school together. She worked with my husband. She knew I catered, and she called me for a party. She liked my work. I’ve been working for them ever since.”

“About how often would she use you?”

“It varies. Two, sometimes three times a month.”

The woman officer made a small sound, like disgust. Rodney shook his head as if Sarah’s answer were a shame. “Look,” Sarah said, her patience wearing thin now that her pulse had returned to normal, “you need to tell me what’s going on.”

“Yes, I will. But first, Mrs. Laden, can you tell us what your husband does?”

She felt as if this man had just walked in on her naked. She looked at Rodney for support, but he kept stacking and labeling videotapes. “My husband is dead.” She enjoyed the wince that wrinkled Kramble’s face. “Why am
I
being questioned this way?”

“I’m very sorry for your loss. Could you tell me when your husband died?”

She glared at him and considered storming out of the room and up the stairs in search of Courtney. They couldn’t force her to sit here and answer these questions.

“Mrs. Laden?” Kramble’s face looked gentle, but Sarah didn’t buy it for a minute.

“Two years ago, in February. Two years and two months.” Her eyes burned. Damn it, she would
not
cry in front of these people. She pointed at Rodney. “He was at the funeral.” Rodney nodded. Then he stood and carried a box out of the room.

“I’m sorry,” Kramble said again, and paused, looking up at the ceiling, as if offering a moment of silence. Sarah listened to the bubbling of the aquariums. Finally he cleared his throat and resumed. “You sound as though you were friendly with Dr. Kendrick.”

Sarah noticed and was troubled by his persistent use of the past tense. Was this investigation related to what happened yesterday, or was Courtney having to deal with an additional crisis on top of her son’s overdose? “Yes, we’re friends. She’s probably my best friend.”

Kramble looked genuinely sad for a moment, sadder even than when she’d told him Roy was dead. “What sort of parties did you believe you were catering?”

Believe?
“What are you suggesting? Mark entertained clients. For his PR firm.”

“And what was your impression of his clients?”

“They were nice people.”

He frowned. “So you were here, at the parties?”

“Yes. Look, what are you getting at?”

“For the duration of the parties? Did you see the guests leave?”

“Yes. I’d serve and clean up. I have two part-time staffers who help me with bigger events like that, and the occasional wedding and bar mitzvah. They were here, too.”
What the hell did that have to do with anything?

He chewed his lower lip.

The pouting woman said, “Some of the checks were for much smaller amounts. What would be the difference in your work for a hundred-fifty-dollar check and one for five hundred dollars?”

“Sometimes they’d just have small dinner parties. Not clients. Associates. Still business, just smaller, more informal. Like the party scheduled for tonight.” Was this about money? Some kind of corporate scandal involving Mark? Sarah couldn’t get a grasp on the questions.

Kramble leaned forward. “Did you stay for those parties?”

“No, I’d just drop off the food, or cook it here, and then leave. That’s what most of my jobs are.”

Kramble looked at the other cops, and Sarah sensed an excitement. “We’re very interested in these smaller parties. You said these parties were for Mark’s associates?”

Sarah shrugged. What did this matter? “Sometimes. Once Courtney was sort of ‘wooing’ another physician they were trying to get to come to the hospital. They both have to schmooze a lot.” Courtney had complained about it. She got tired of being “on,” but it was the reality of their livelihoods.

“Did you know any of the guests at the smaller parties?”

“I never really met any of them. Usually I was gone before the guests arrived. Once or twice I crossed paths with people arriving, but I didn’t know them.”

“Were there ever any children with those guests you saw?”

Sarah blinked. What the hell was going on? She couldn’t follow where this questioning was going, didn’t like the expression that had been on Rodney’s face, didn’t like the red blush she felt crawling up her neck. “I . . .” She saw a skinny little blond girl on the periphery of her memory. Mark had been standing outside the kitchen door smoking a cigar with another guy when Sarah pulled up. The other guy went inside, but Mark smiled his Ken-doll smile and helped Sarah unload. When they went inside the kitchen, hadn’t there been a girl? A girl talking to the man? The girl had left the room when Sarah entered. But other than how embarrassingly schoolgirl-giddy Sarah became in Mark’s presence, she mostly remembered the cigars—how the man had taken his cigar inside and had stunk up the kitchen.

“I do remember a little girl.” She saw the officers exchange a glance. “I saw her in the kitchen, and later she was upstairs with Jordan in Jordan’s room.”

“Why were you in Jordan’s room, Mrs. Laden?”

The tone of the question caused goose bumps to tiptoe up her spine, followed by prickling heat. “Courtney took me upstairs to see this new Jacuzzi; they’d had Jordan’s bathroom remodeled. But . . . mostly she took me upstairs, I think, to complain about this guy, this guest, who was smoking a cigar.”

“What did the little girl look like?”

“She had blond hair—almost white-blond—in two pigtails with ribbons. She was skinny, leggy. I’d guess she was nine or ten, maybe.”

“Could you identify her in a photo if asked?”