Dead by Any Other Name (15 page)

thirty-seven

It was Saturday morning.
Abba's party was that night but I had miles to go before I boogied. I drove up into the Catskills, to Kelly's Farm, and parked right out front. There weren't many cars around, but in a far pasture I did see a naked man with a bit and bridle on, the reins held by a young woman standing behind him, brandishing a whip—she flicked it on his butt and he broke into a smart trot. Tally-ho.

I knocked on the front door. Kelly answered.

“Didn't appreciate the goons,” I said.

“They didn't appreciate you.”

“I want some answers.”

She looked at me for a long moment, then said, “I guess you've earned them.”

I followed her into the living room. Some cooking show was on the TV. She switched it off.

“You want a cup of coffee?”

I shook my head. She sat on a couch, I sat on another one.

“Is Clark Van Wyck a regular?”

“Not anymore.”

“What happened?”

“He got carried away one night—it was the night of your uninvited visit, actually—and went home with some marks. Attila the Honey saw them. The jig was up.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“
She
did. She showed up here last week.”

“And she told you it was over.”

“She basically freaked out on me—tears, anger, threats. She wanted his whole history. I didn't give it to her.”

“She seems like such a natural dominatrix, why doesn't he just get it at home?”

“That same thought occurred to me.”

“So did she threaten to shut you down?”

Kelly took a sip of her coffee and smiled slightly. “She may have said something like that. I gave her a little reality check. Clark Van Wyck is a pretty small fish in my pond.” She gave me a knowing look. “She got the message.”

“Was he a regular with Natasha?”

She nodded. “He sort of fell in love with Natasha. Several of her clients did.”

“How long did she work for you?”

“About six months. I liked her from the git-go. The work didn't seem to bother her. I know it wasn't her dream job but the money is damn good and we're all adults. Nobody was forcing her to show up. But she got more unhappy all the time, like something bad was happening in her life, something that had nothing to do with her work here.”

“How could you tell?”

“She was showing up high. Sometimes up, sometimes down. Believe me, I can spot it a mile away.”

“Did you ever talk to her about it?”

“I may have asked if there was something she wanted to tell me.
But basically that's not my style—I'm the boss, not the mommy.
I knew she was saving her money for a move out to LA.”

“So you had no idea what was going on in her life?”

“I heard a little talk, from some of my other employees. Her
boyfriend came up. She had it for him bad—but he was bad news.
Which is the oldest story. When the hell are we women going to learn?”

“Probably sometime around the twelfth of never. Do you think
one or both of the Van Wycks killed Natasha?”

She thought for a minute. “I think he's an overgrown kid, basically pretty immature. She has her eyes on the big leagues. And she'll do
anything
to get there. The other side of that coin is, she's got a lot to lose.”

“That's pretty much my thinking.” In spite of her siccing Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber on me, I was starting to like this chick. I stood up. “If you hear anything, will you let me know?”

“Maybe.”

“Later.”

“Drive safe.”

thirty-eight

I drove back down
from the mountains and headed right for the Van Wycks' estate on the Hudson south of Kingston. This stretch of 9W is one big parcel of land after another, a lot of them home to rambling old monasteries and religious retreats. They may not pay taxes, but they preserve the land and that's probably a fair tradeoff. I came to a fancy carved sign reading “River Hill” and turned down the winding drive, the river came into view and on a rise above it sat the house.

Boy, nothing was left to chance at River Hill, no evocative decrepitude here, no neglected tennis court, defunct fountain or spooky leprechauns. Instead it looked like minions popped out and picked up every stray leaf—the lawns were perfect, pond and pool glittered, the flower beds were manicured and regimented, every outbuilding sparkled with a matching coat of white-with-green-trim paint, and there were two red barns. The main house was a huge stately old wooden affair with a portico, a sunroom, and lots of balconies. The Van Wycks were obviously trying to convey old-money assurance, but when I see a place as impeccable as River Hill I read insecurity.

I parked in the circular gravel drive—there were quite a few cars around—got out and knocked on the front door. I heard the sounds of running, screaming children from inside and the door was opened by a fresh-faced young woman in her early twenties, with a young boy hanging off one leg.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi, I was wondering if Alice or Clark were around?”

“Oh gosh, they're somewhere.”

The kid started pulling at her leg, “Wanna play, wanna play!”

“Just a second, Dean.”

A woman in her thirties wearing an apron and holding a wooden spoon appeared at the far end of the hallway.

“Megan, do you know where the Van Wycks are?”

“I think they're out in the playroom.”

The au pair pointed to one of the barns, “Over there.”

I headed down the perfectly groomed paths lined with solar lights and came to the perfect barn with its cow weathervane on top. I knocked on the door. A middle-aged woman appeared.

“Hi, I'm looking for Alice and Clark.”

“We're in the middle of a test shot, but come on in.”

No cows for this barn, it's original function a distant memory. It had a shiny wood floor, athletic equipment stacked on the shelves that ran along one side, a basketball hoop, and a climbing wall. The place was set up for some kind of filming—in the middle of the floor a gray backdrop hung from a tall metal frame, Clark Van Wyck stood in front of it, a man in a denim workshirt and glasses pushed up on top of his head stood behind a camera aimed at Clark, Alice stood nearby watching with her arms crossed. There were several other people around, including a woman at a make-up table and another manning a small refreshment table. I hung back in the corner by the door. Alice Van Wyck shot me a mildly interested glance, did a double take, and went right back to scrutinizing her husband's efforts in front of the camera.

“That was good, Clark, but try to relax a little more, act like you're talking to an old friend,” the director said from behind the camera.

Clark seemed a little uncomfortable—he looked over at his wife and she gave him a tense, encouraging smile. Then he noticed me. He looked taken aback, ran his fingers through his hair, shot his wife a beseeching look.

“Can we take a short break?” she asked rhetorically—when you're cutting the checks you call the breaks.

Clark let out a sigh of relief as the crew headed over to the food table and Alice headed over to me.

“Hi, there,” she said with a cold smile. “What can we do for you?”

“I wanted to talk to you and your husband about Natasha Wolfson's death.”

“I have no idea who Natasha Wolfson is.”

“Let me refresh your memory. She was the dominatrix your husband used to visit, the one he developed an emotional attachment to, who worked up at Kelly's Farm, the farm you visited just last week.”

Alice went still, then shot a glance over her shoulder, turned back to me, smiled, and said, “Why don't we take a little walk?”

I shrugged.

“I'll be back shortly, you can proceed without me,” she said to the film crew.

I followed her outside and we headed along a path that wound down toward the river. We walked in silence for a moment. The ball was in her court and I waited to see how she was going to play it.

She seemed to will herself to relax, she inhaled deeply through her nose, her shoulders went down, and she turned to me with a warm smile, “We haven't actually been formally introduced. In fact, I don't know your name.”

“It's Janet, Janet Petrocelli.”

“What a pleasure.” She stopped, leaned down and straightened a slightly crooked solar light. Then she touched me lightly on the arm and we continued strolling. “What do you love most about the Hudson Valley, Janet?” she asked, like I was a new friend and we were on our way to tea.

“The people. The land. And the animals, of course.”

“You and I have a lot in common. Are you familiar with the work that Rupco does? They build and manage housing for the valley's most vulnerable population—the elderly, the working poor. And of course there's the Clearwater, and Scenic Hudson, which is doing
amazing
things to preserve our landscape. And then there are our two animal sanctuaries. Clark and I are already generous supporters of all of these organizations, but I'd be delighted to make donations in your honor to all five.”

“Sorry, I'm not for sale.”

She gave me a slight nod and then asked quietly, “What
do
you want?”

“I want the truth.”

“You know the truth.”

We reached a graceful old boathouse that jutted out into the river. She led us up a flight of steps and along a deck that encircled the second level. We reached the front of the deck—directly across from us, high above the east bank of the river, sat a dignified gray-stone mansion, a living reminder of a lost age, the river rippled in a cool breeze, a sailboat glided past.

“Isn't this glorious?” she said. A few strands of hair blew into her face and she pushed them back. That's when I noticed her hands were trembling.

“I want the
whole
truth.”

The muscles around her mouth tensed, I could feel her anxiety rising like a thermometer. “I had nothing to do with that girl's death.”

“When did you find out about your husband's visits to Kelly's Farm?”

She closed her eyes tight for a moment. “About a month ago.”

“If his relationship with Natasha became public, it would have torn your world apart.”

She looked at me and something clicked in her eyes, she had gone from warm to worried and now she turned hard, her jaw clenched. “You think I don't know that?”

“So it was important to you to end it and destroy the evidence.”

“
Everything
is important to me. That's just who I am, who I was raised to be. But if you think I'd kill to get my way, you're wrong.”

“But you threatened to shut down Kelly's Farm.”

“You're goddamn right I did. Do you think it's easy to find out your husband would rather be beaten by a prostitute than make love to you? Especially when he's developing feelings for her. And, yes, I was relieved when I read that she had died. But I didn't kill her.”

She looked me right in the eye—and I was pretty damn sure she was telling the truth.

thirty-nine

I was upstairs getting
ready to head over to Abba's for her celebratory party. Since there was a chance Chevrona might show up, I was taking a little longer than my usual throw-on-whatever party prep. Zack was definitely going to be there—he and his pal Moose were out on the river and hoped to bring in some fish to get cooked up—so I figured my efforts wouldn't go to waste in any case.

Earlier in the week I'd called Josie and invited her to the party; she'd said the Maldens wouldn't let her out. I decided to make one last try with a text, since that way there was no chance that her foster parents would hear a ring and step into sentry mode. I sat on the edge of my bed and pecked out “Any chance u can make it tonight? I'll drive up and get u.”

She got back to me within a minute.

“Nope. In lockdown mode.”

I was disappointed and pissed. It felt like Josie was a part of my Sawyerville family and without her the party just wouldn't be the same, I wanted her to share in Abba's success. And I was angry that she was living with a family that was so rigid and unimaginative. The more I thought about it, the more wrong they felt for Josie. That kid deserved better.

A fierce wave of longing passed over me, so strong I lay down. There was something beside Josie going on here, something that had to do with my own mother and me, with my sadness about her abandoning me.

The thing is, I'd loved her, a lot. She had a kind of magic—she could take a rainy day and turn it into a great adventure. “Oh, who needs silly old school today?” And we would sing and dance around the kitchen, down the long hallway of the East Village railroad apartment, into the bedrooms of her half-asleep drugged-over roommates, and then the crayons would come out and we'd draw elephants and space aliens, bake a cake for breakfast and eat half the batter, she was so pretty and had this goofy laugh and she made me feel so special, and so what if she didn't really care if I went to school or had a decent dinner or clean clothes, so what if she always had a new boy around her, a new man … who can blame them, the men, she was so fun, so pretty, so warm and lovable, my mom.

Who left.

Who never got in touch again, who didn't care what happened to her little girl.

My bedroom was lonely and quiet, and lying there I wondered what happened to her. Is she dead? If she's alive, where is she? I hope she's still laughing that goofy laugh, still dancing around the kitchen. Does she ever think of me?

Now my thoughts were spinning, spinning forward to that night when I was fifteen and I didn't give a fuck, I wanted to
live
, and I was drunk and the party was wild and we were out on the lawn and I can't even remember the boy's name if I ever even knew it or what he looked like, I remember he smelled like beer and pushed my skirt up and yanked my panties down and that it was fast and it hurt and then he got up and walked away and I lay there on the scruffy lawn with a plastic tricycle beside me and I felt … nothing. Then shame and loathing and anger.

Then my period stopped and I knew and my sad aunt didn't give a shit, nobody gave a shit. And I wanted to abort the baby and I wanted to keep the baby and raise the baby and love the baby. But how could I? I didn't know what a mother was, what a mother did. Except make magic and then leave.

I went to a clinic and scheduled an abortion and then I didn't show up, I just couldn't, and I had a baby girl and I named her Anna and I held her and wanted to keep her. But how could I? I had no money, no job, no place to take her. I was alone. And Anna scared me, her naked vulnerability,
it
scared me—motherhood. So I gave her up when she was two days old, I was too scared.

And now, lying on my bed twenty-seven years later, I'm wondering about her, what her name is, where she lives, who she's grown up to be and if she ever wonders about
her
mother. About me.

And what's left? A crazy quilt of sadness, longing, guilt, anger, regret, curiosity, all of it roiling around just out of sight/mind/heart, pushed down by me for twenty-seven years. Demanding now to be heard, dealt with, called up by my feelings for Josie, by my new life in Sawyerville, by middle age, by time.

But not right now, not tonight. I sat up. The process had begun, but tonight was for celebration, for fun, for putting—as best I could—both Natasha's murder and my emotional reckoning on the shelf.

Just for a little while.