Grand Avenue (41 page)

“What do you mean, there were no signs of a break-in?” Jeremy asked, as if hearing her for the first time.

“I checked.” Vicki fished in her purse for her sunglasses, pushed them across the bridge of her nose. “There were no broken windows. The front door hadn’t been jimmied. The back door was locked.”

“Maybe Barbara let Tony in.”

“No way she’d let him in.”

“Maybe he tricked her.”

“No way Barbara let him in,” Vicki repeated adamantly.

“So what are you saying?”

“I don’t know.”

“You think it was Howard or Ron? I guess either one of them could have a key.”

“There was no blood on the stairs.”

“What?”

“Whoever killed Barbara had to be covered in blood. There were no bloody footprints, no blood on the stairs, no blood anywhere except in the bedroom. And on Tracey,” she added, feeling a chill run up and down her spine.

“Tracey? Well, of course, she was covered with blood. You heard Susan. Tracey was sitting beside her mother, holding her hand. Of course she’d be covered with blood. What are you getting at?”

“I don’t know.”

“You think Tracey’s protecting someone?”

“I don’t know.”

“You think Tracey knows more than she’s letting on?”

“I don’t know.” How many times could she say the same thing? “I don’t know,” she said again, and then again when she could think of nothing else. “I don’t know.”

“Did you mention any of this to the police?”

“Why would I do their job for them?”

Jeremy pulled the car into their driveway, turned off the engine, and faced his wife. “You’re a strange and wondrous woman, Mrs. Latimer. Tell me, what happens next?”

“We go inside, shower, go to work, and wait for the phone to ring.”

“And then what?”

“We hold our breath,” Vicki said. “Pray I’m wrong.”

H
ow long are the police going to be here?” Ariel asked as she came into the kitchen and plopped herself down at the round, white table. She was wearing a relatively clean blue T-shirt that was tied in a knot beneath her breasts, and loose-fitting hip-hugger jeans. Susan tried not to notice the small gold ring piercing her daughter’s navel.

“I guess until they find Tony,” Susan said.

“I don’t like them sitting out there all day. It gives me the creeps.”

“It’s for our own protection.”

“I guess.” Ariel looked around the room. “Is Tracey still sleeping?”

Susan looked up at the ceiling. “I thought I heard her moving around upstairs a little while ago.”

“Did she sleep all day?”

“Pretty much.”

“When did Diane leave?”

“Around noon.” Susan collapsed against the
kitchen counter. Her sister’s suitcase had already been packed and was sitting by the front door when she and Owen had arrived home from Barbara’s house with Tracey. Diane had mumbled a few hollow phrases about knowing what Tracey must be going through, having just lost her mother herself, then made herself as scarce as possible for the rest of the morning. She’d actually managed to look put out when Susan had declined to drive her to the station and she’d had to take a taxi.

Whitney, of course, had immediately offered to stay home from day camp and help out with Tracey, but Susan had insisted she follow her regular routine. Who knew how long Tracey would be staying with them? Who knew how long Whitney would be able to enjoy the luxury of a regular routine?

Ariel had emerged from her room long enough to take one look at her mother’s face and decide she had to leave the house. Clearly, her mother’s eyes contained more pain than she could bear. She was out the door before Susan had a chance to ask where she was going.

“Where’ve you been all day?” Susan asked now.

“Out.” Ariel shrugged, ran tobacco-stained fingers through the pink and purple spikes of her hair.

Susan nodded, too exhausted to question her further. Ariel had gone out, and now she was home. She was safe. That’s all Susan needed to know.

“I was over at Molly’s,” Ariel said.

Susan tried putting a face to the name, but failed, and quickly gave up. Friends moved in and out of Ariel’s life regularly. No one seemed to stick around very long. It didn’t really matter who Molly was.

“Molly’s the girl I met at the tattoo parlor,” Ariel elaborated, unasked.

“Hmm.”

“She’s a very nice girl,” Ariel said defensively.

“I’m sure she is.”

“She has this neat tattoo on her lower back. It’s like this abstract flower kind of thing.”

“I’m sure it’s very nice.”

Ariel looked puzzled, even alarmed. “Are you all right?”

Susan almost laughed. “Not really.” Tears filled her eyes. God, did they never stop?

The look on Ariel’s face said she wasn’t sure whether to comfort her mother or bolt from the room. “I’m sorry,” she said, reaching some sort of compromise. “I’m really sorry.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t mean to be gone all day. But everything just seemed so overwhelming. First Grandma, and now Barbara. And poor Tracey. That horrible blank look in her eyes.”

“I understand.”

“Am I like Diane?” Ariel asked plaintively.

“What?” Again Susan almost laughed. “Dear God, no. You’re nothing like Diane.”

“You don’t hate me?” Tears filled Ariel’s eyes, and she looked away.

“Hate you? How could I ever hate you? You’re my baby and I love you. I will always love you. Please know that.”

Ariel nodded without speaking.

“Please,” Susan asked, her heart filled with a tenderness
for her daughter she hadn’t felt in a long time. “Can I hold you?”

Ariel quickly collapsed inside her mother’s arms. They remained this way for several minutes, swaying together, holding one another up. Ariel cried quietly on her mother’s shoulders, wetting Susan’s neck with her tears. “The radio said Barbara was bludgeoned to death.”

Susan nodded, trying to block out the memory of her close friend lying on her bedroom floor, blood covering what was left of her once-beautiful face, knowing she would carry that image with her for the rest of her life. Whoever did that to Barbara had to have hated her very much.

“What’s taking the police so long to find Tony?” Ariel asked, as if reading her mother’s mind.

“I don’t know.”

“Have you heard from Chris?”

“No.” Dear God, if Tony had done that to Barbara, what might he do to Chris? A fresh flood of tears burst from Susan’s eyes.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry. I can’t say anything right. I should have stayed at Molly’s.”

“No, sweetheart …” Susan patted her daughter’s head, was amazed to find the spikes of her hair so soft.

“Who’s Molly?” a voice interrupted.

Ariel immediately pulled out of her mother’s arms. Susan turned to see Tracey standing in the kitchen doorway. She was neatly dressed in a white blouse and navy pleated skirt, and her dark hair was freshly washed and pulled into a ponytail. Susan tucked her own uncombed hair behind her ears and smoothed out
the creases of the T-shirt and shorts she’d been wearing since early morning.

“Who’s Molly?” Tracey asked again, sitting down at the kitchen table.

Ariel shrugged, joined Tracey at the table. “A girl I met at a tattoo parlor.”

“I think tattoos are gross.” Tracey glanced at Susan, as if waiting for her nod of approval. “Could I trouble you for a glass of milk?”

Susan pushed the tears away from her eyes, rubbing them into her cheeks as if she were applying blush. “What? Oh, sure.” She poured Tracey a glass of milk and placed it on the table in front of her. “You must be hungry. Can I get you something to eat?” The very thought of food made Susan ill, and she imagined Tracey must feel the same way. But it was important that Tracey keep up her strength.

“I’d love some of those little sandwiches,” Tracey said. “The kind you served after your mother’s funeral. Do you have any more of those?”

Susan struggled to keep the surprise out of her face. Tracey was a teenager after all. She had a normal teenage appetite that obviously transcended tragedy. Besides, food might be Tracey’s way of coping with the horror of what had happened. She had to be careful not to be judgmental. You could never know another person’s pain. Susan returned to the fridge, withdrew the large platter of party sandwiches, and put them on the table in front of Tracey, beside her glass of milk.

“I like these the best.” Tracey lifted one of the delicate sandwiches into her hands, studied the thick lines of tuna and egg layered between small slices of white
and brown bread. She took one bite, then another. Only two bites and the sandwich was gone. Tracey licked her fingers, the same fingers that only this morning had been covered in her mother’s blood. “These are so good,” she said, taking another sandwich from the platter, raising it to her mouth.

Susan looked away, not sure she could effectively disguise her growing revulsion. You mustn’t judge her, Susan reminded herself.

“How can you eat at a time like this?” Ariel asked, not bound by any such thoughts or constraints.

“What?” Tracey looked confused, stricken.

Ariel shook her head in disbelief. “I don’t understand how you can be talking about sandwiches when your mother’s been murdered.”

“Ariel,” Susan warned, not sure what else to say. She’d been thinking the same thing herself.

“Oh, God, my mother,” Tracey wailed. She dropped the sandwich to the plate, grabbed her stomach, began rocking furiously back and forth. “My mother. My poor mother.”

Ariel was on her feet. “Oh, God, I’m sorry, Tracey. Please forgive me. I’m sorry. Mom? I’m really so sorry.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Why don’t you go outside and wait for Whitney’s bus.”

“Where’s Whitney?” Tracey asked as Ariel bolted from the kitchen and raced to the front door.

When was the last time Ariel had been so anxious to see her sister? Susan wondered. “Day camp,” she said, answering Tracey’s question, finding it difficult to keep up with all the sudden transitions. “She’s a C.I.T.”

“What’s that?”

“Counselor-in-training.” Were they really having this conversation?

“I never went to camp.”

“No?”

“I always wanted to, but my mom …”

“She liked having you around.”

“She said I could go this summer, I guess because of Howard.” Tracey made a face. “I haven’t called him back yet. I guess that’s awful of me, but I don’t really want to talk to him. He’ll just ask me about what happened, and I’m tired of talking about it. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

One sentence ran into the next. Susan was having trouble keeping up.

“My mom was all excited about the wedding, you should have seen her, she was even thinking of buying a white dress, did she tell you that?”

“She mentioned she thought ivory might be nice.”

“Isn’t that white?”

“More like off-white.”

Tracey nodded, reached for another sandwich. “She wanted me to wear either mint green or lilac. I was going to be her maid of honor, you know.”

“We were going to be her bridesmaids,” Susan said, picturing herself walking down the aisle between Vicki and Chris.

Dear God, where was Chris?

“I remember my dad’s wedding,” Tracey was saying. “It was neat. Pam wore this beautiful white gown from Vera Wang. All the movie stars wear Vera Wang. Dad said it cost a fortune.”

“I’m sure it was lovely,” Susan said when she could think of nothing else to say.

“Yeah, well …” Tracey looked around absently. “Who’s going to give me my allowance?”

“What?”

“My allowance. I get ten dollars every Friday.”

“I’m sure your Dad …,” Susan started, then stopped.

“Have you spoken to him?”

“No. The police have been trying to locate him. Apparently he’s out of town.”

Tracey looked perplexed, her large brown eyes coming together at the bridge of her nose. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. He and Pam were going to Atlantic City for a couple of days.”

“Atlantic City?” Susan reached for the phone. “I should tell the police.”

“I don’t want to stay there.”

The bed creaks and the kids get up too early, Susan repeated silently.

“Don’t get me wrong. The kids are great. But they’re babies. They make a lot of noise. Besides—” Tracey, lowered her voice, tears suddenly appearing in the corners of her eyes—“I don’t think my mother would have wanted me to stay there, do you?”

“He’s your father, Tracey.”

“I guess.” Tracey reached for another sandwich.

Ariel’s right, Susan thought, watching the threat of tears evaporate with each bite. She’s weird.

The phone rang. Susan reached for it, grateful for the interruption. “Hello?”

There was a moment’s hesitation, then, “Mrs.
Norman?” The voice was young, female, probably one of Ariel’s friends. Maybe the mysterious Molly.

“Yes?”

“This is Montana Malarek, Chris’s daughter.”

“My God, Montana, how are you? Where are you? Is everything all right?” The words spilled from Susan’s mouth like sand from a pail.

“The police just arrested my father.” Montana’s voice resonated with disbelief. “They say he murdered Mrs. Azinger.”

“Are the police there now?”

“They’re searching the house. They have a warrant. But he didn’t do it, Mrs. Norman. I know he didn’t do it. He was home all last night. He left early this morning because he had an appointment in Lexington. But the police don’t believe that. They think he murdered Mrs. Azinger.”

“Would you like me to come over?”

“No,” Montana said quickly. “Dad said he’ll be back as soon as he straightens this mess out. Mrs. Norman …?”

“Yes, dear?”

Another moment of hesitation. “Have you heard from my mother?” A long pause. “Because the police said she’s missing. And I was just wondering whether she’d contacted you …”

Susan heard the worry in Montana’s voice, understood the love behind it, even if Montana didn’t. “I don’t know where she is,” Susan admitted sadly. “Nobody’s heard from her.”

“You don’t think anything’s happened to her, do
you? I mean, you don’t think that whoever killed Mrs. Azinger would have—” Montana broke off.