Tell Me You're Sorry (7 page)

“That doesn't matter,” Marlene murmured. “It's the least of my worries right now.”

“Well, I'm sorry, but it matters to me,” Stephanie heard herself say. “Who was this woman? None of us met her or knew her. My sister's body was barely cold, and this stranger came in, swept Scott off his feet, married him, and spent all his money. Where did it go? Was she giving it to someone? Scott was never foolish with money. Not until this woman came along.” She turned to Bradley. “Do you know anything about her or her financial situation before she met Scott?”

“Not really,” he replied. “But obviously, she wasn't doing too well.”

“Do you think it's possible she spent everything on drugs or gambling?”

“Could be,” he said, frowning. “Some people can keep their addictions secret while going through money like grease through a tin horn.”

“Well, then that's it,” Stephanie said. “It might also explain the murders—if Halle owed someone money and couldn't pay. Maybe that's why she was the only one who . . .” Stephanie hesitated. Halle was the only one who wasn't shot in the back of the head. Stephanie kept thinking that perhaps a drug dealer or a mobster Halle owed money to had extracted revenge by executing every member of her new family right in front of her.

Bradley patted her arm. “I'm sure the police are looking into every possible explanation.”

Marlene cleared her throat. “This jewelry my son was supposed to have given her, do you know if it was stolen? Or did she have the good sense to store the more expensive pieces in the safe deposit box?”

“Scott didn't give her access to that, too, did he?” Stephanie asked him, a hand over her heart. “My mother's jewelry is in there . . .”

Bradley drained the rest of his coffee cup, and then sat back. “I went to the bank this morning. Halle's listed as an alternate key-holder . . .” He looked across the table at Scott's mother, “So are you, Marlene—in the event of his death. I have Scott's key with me now.”

 

 

Stephanie and Bradley sat in gray-upholstered chairs kitty-corner to each other in the little waiting area of the Chase Bank branch. Neither of them said a word. In the chair across from them, a thin thirtysomething blonde was talking on her cell phone—a bit loudly. Stephanie did her best to ignore her.

She stared past the chatty woman's shoulder at the teller stations behind the tall Plexiglas wall. At the far corner was the gate that led to the stairs and the safe-deposit boxes on the lower level. Mrs. Hamner had been down there for five minutes now—but it seemed longer.

Stephanie felt silly, caring so much about some old jewelry. Maybe it was because those pieces were the only things left of her mother and her sister that hadn't been stolen, police-tagged, or dusted for prints.

But if Halle had had access to the safe-deposit box, then inevitably, those untainted treasures were long gone.
Damn her
, she thought.

Stephanie found herself absolutely loathing this Halle person. She couldn't help wondering if Halle had been manipulating Scott back when Rebecca had still been alive. Was she the reason for Rebecca's suicide?

She remembered what Scott had said about Rebecca having written “Hate You” on the bathroom mirror. Did Halle have anything to do with that?

Shifting restlessly in her chair, Stephanie glanced again toward the gate that led to the bank's basement and the safe-deposit boxes. Still no sign of Scott's mother.

Marlene had given Rebecca a beautiful pearl necklace and a diamond spray pin that had been in her family for generations. They were supposed to be in the safe-deposit box, too—along with some bonds.

Stephanie drummed her fingers on the armrest. She was getting really tired of listening to the woman across from her yapping into her cell phone. Stephanie wanted so much to tell her to shut the hell up.

“What's taking so long?” Bradley sighed. “Is she tunneling her way to the safe-deposit box?”

Stephanie turned toward him and shrugged. He glanced past her—toward the gate area. Then he frowned. “Oh, shit . . .”

She saw he was looking at Scott's mother, who had paused at the gate. With her shoulders slumped, she held her coat and purse. She looked utterly defeated.

Marlene looked back at them and shook her head.

 

 

“Thank you so much for coming,” Stephanie said, shaking the hand of a middle-aged woman, whose name she'd already forgotten. She was Ernie's history teacher.

Dressed in a black suit she'd never wear again, Stephanie was dutifully meeting and greeting at the wake. She stood alongside Marlene near the entrance to the main viewing room at Sachs-Asher Funeral Home. Mr. Sachs and Mr. Asher had had to clear out a sofa and two potted palms to make room for all four closed caskets at the front of the beautifully appointed room. The funeral home was a big, elegant old white mansion, and all the furnishings inside had the look of sturdy, well-preserved antiques.

Stephanie was exhausted. Her face hurt from maintaining her polite smile. So many of the mourners were people she'd met five months ago at Rebecca's service—and she didn't remember them. She kept blanking out on their names. It was embarrassing. Of course, all of them knew who she was—Rebecca's sister, the airline pilot.

She asked nearly everyone the same question: “Did you get a chance to meet Halle?”

Stephanie heard stories about Halle not returning phone calls or canceling plans to get together at the last minute. What it all added up to was that not one person here had laid eyes on her.

Halle's father, Jay Driscoll, had proved as elusive as his daughter these last three days. He'd flown in alone, because his bereaved wife was in no condition to travel. He was supposed to have met with Stephanie, Marlene, and the funeral parlor people on Saturday, but he hadn't been feeling well. He'd told the funeral directors that after the wake, he wanted his daughter's remains flown to Washington, D.C., where there would be a second memorial service with her family and old friends in attendance. She would be buried there.

Mr. Asher, an impeccably dressed, soft-spoken, fiftyish man who was built like a football player, seemed embarrassed when he explained: “Mr. Driscoll indicated that if either one of you or Scott's estate would care to contribute to the cost of the other service, they would be much obliged.”

Stephanie couldn't believe the gall of this guy, who apparently had no intention of chipping in for
this
service, in which his dead, money-sucking daughter was included. She and Marlene agreed that paying for one memorial service was enough. “Maybe Halle's family and old friends can pass the hat around,” she'd muttered to Scott's mother.

She heard from Marlene that a cousin of Halle's had come in on Sunday afternoon. As far as Stephanie knew, none of Halle's other family members or friends were showing up for this service—or for the after-brunch she'd spent the last two days planning with Marlene. Two days to throw together a buffet brunch for a hundred people—it had totally drained her. At least, tending to all the stupid details had been a welcome temporary distraction. There was only time for stolen, little moments of grief—and crying jags as she went to bed at night. She'd ended up securing a small ballroom where she was staying at the DoubleTree. The hotel was catering it, too, at a price neither she nor Marlene could really afford. She barely knew any of the people who would be attending this brunch. It made no sense.

She wondered if Halle's father and her cousin would have the nerve to show up there. So far, they hadn't made their presence known at the wake.

Bradley had let the police know that Scott's funds had evaporated once Halle had come into the picture. So on Monday morning, police detectives had spoken to both Jay Driscoll and his niece about Halle.

“According to the cops,” Bradley had told Stephanie on the phone last night, “the dad and the cousin are making out like Halle could do no wrong. To hear them tell it, she was always responsible with money, held a steady job, was good to her folks—a regular Girl Scout.

“But then last July,” Bradley went on, “she suddenly quit her job and started pushing her friends and family away. She didn't return calls. In late August, she e-mailed and texted friends that she'd moved to New York and preferred to be left alone ‘to start a new life' or some such bullshit. She'd left behind a half-empty apartment with rent that was two months late. She'd maxed out on cash advances from her credit cards—and she had a stack of overdue, unpaid bills.”

“So where do you think the money went?” Stephanie had asked, sitting on the hotel bed with her cell phone clutched tightly in her fist.

“It's anyone's guess. Clearly, she must have owed money to somebody, and she was on the run.”

“So—are the police following it up?”

“Yes, but they're focusing more on another lead. There's been a rash of robberies in the area. It's the same MO: late at night, families tied up by a couple of guys in ski masks with guns—only none of the victims got shot before.”

“I still say it's all connected to this Halle woman—or someone who knew her,” Stephanie had insisted.

She wanted to meet Halle's father and her cousin, and talk with them herself. Maybe they were holding something back to protect Halle's memory. Or maybe the police just weren't asking the right questions.

From where she stood by the viewing room entry, Stephanie could peek over toward the main doors to the funeral home. She kept a lookout for an older man and a woman in her thirties, but still no sign of anyone like that.

However, the tall, full-figured redhead stepping into the lobby looked familiar. She had two girls with her—both gangly young teens. One of them had a bandage on her hand. It took Stephanie a minute to recognize Rebecca's neighbor, Kit Boling. She'd just phoned Kit on Saturday—to ask about Laurie.

Marlene already knew them, because the Bolings had put her up for a night during Rebecca's wake and funeral. “Well, here's the brave young lady,” Marlene said, giving Laurie a kiss on the cheek. “How are you, dear?”

Skinny and shapeless, with long brown hair and big, sad eyes, Laurie murmured a reply.

Stephanie didn't hear it. She was shaking Kit's hand. “I'm so sorry I put her through all that,” she whispered. “I never should have—”

“You and I already went over this on Saturday,” Kit said under her breath. “CC was Laurie's friend. She wanted to go see if she was okay. She made it very clear to me that you kept telling her to turn back.”

“I know, but if I hadn't called your house, she never would have—”

“It's not your fault,” Kit said, squeezing her hand. “Laurie will be okay. Just in case, I'm taking her to see a counselor tomorrow. The police social worker recommended her. Between you and me, I hope this woman offers a family plan. We're all pretty—unnerved. The girls are bunking together and sleeping with the light on. Meanwhile, I'm keeping a rolling pin at my bedside—as if that'll do any good. We'd have been like this anyway—even if Laurie hadn't made the trip over to the Hamners'. Having that happen right next door is just . . .” She trailed off and shook her head.

Tara Boling was showing Marlene her bandaged hand and talking about her stitches. Laurie darted over to Stephanie, and for a second, it seemed as if the young girl was going to hug her. But then Laurie hesitated and stared at her nervously. “Hi—ah, Ms. Coburn . . .”

Stephanie worked up a smile. “After what you went through for me, I think you can call me Steffi.” She took Laurie by the hand and pulled her in for a hug. The girl's forehead rested against her shoulder. “How are you doing, honey?” Stephanie whispered, patting her back.

Laurie gently pulled away and looked over at her mother. “Can I talk with Steffi alone?”

Kit nodded. “Go ahead.”

Stephanie let Laurie pull her toward the funeral home's lobby. It had a fireplace and two sofas facing each other. Each sofa end table had a box of Kleenex on it.

“It's weird,” Laurie said to her. “I keep seeing all of them dead in that basement room—and I remember the way Ernie's bird kept squawking. Whenever I hear a bird let out a shriek now, it really makes me sick—like in my stomach . . .”

Stephanie stroked her arm. “Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry.”

“I didn't even know Ernie had a bird. He must have gotten it after CC stopped being my friend. I always—well, I always wanted to be friends with her again.” She let out a sad, little laugh. “It's kind of funny. All these kids at school, they've been tweeting and texting me, kids who didn't know I was even alive before. There have been a few really creepy people, but most of them have been nice.”

“I'm sorry about the creepy ones,” Stephanie said.

“I guess this has made me kind of popular,” Laurie shrugged. “But the only thing I care about is that—well, on TV and online, as far as everyone's concerned, in the end, CC and I were still really good friends, best friends even.” Her big, sad eyes searched Stephanie's. “Do you suppose it's okay I feel like that?”

“I think it's fine,” Stephanie whispered. “You were a wonderful friend to her. How many of CC's other friends would have walked into danger for her the way you did?”

Laurie hugged her again.

“C'mon, honey,” Kit said, coming up beside them with her other daughter in tow. “Stephanie's on the welcoming committee. There are other people waiting to talk with her. We can chat with her later at the brunch . . .”

Stephanie gave Laurie a kiss on the cheek. Then she watched her, Kit, and Tara head back into the viewing room. Two teenage girls, whose names Stephanie had already forgotten, ran up to Laurie and excitedly whispered to her. One of them was holding a cell phone.