The Last to Know (16 page)

“Are you the one who’s taking care of her?”

“Not just me. Her grandparents are there—Mr. Owen’s mother and father.” It’s clear from her tone that Minerva doesn’t think much of the Kendalls. “And her aunt is there, too. Jane’s sister.”

Jane’s sister.

The words immediately trigger a memory, an image, in Paula’s mind. She remembers the gilt picture frame she saw in the living room of the Kendalls’ home last year when she interviewed Jane. It was a photo that had been taken on Jane and Owen’s wedding day, showing a beaming bride with a painfully plain woman at her side.

“Who’s that?” she asked Jane.

“My maid of honor—my older sister, Margaret,” Jane replied.

And Paula, staring at the picture, was struck by the stark physical contrast between the two women. She almost forgot the incident until now . . .

Now, as last year’s recollection rushes back at her, another, far more recent memory comes with it.

Yesterday—the woman she saw hurrying toward the Kendall home—the one who looked so familiar . . .

She was Jane’s sister.

Filing away that information, Paula asks Minerva, “So Schuyler is cared for by her aunt right now?”

The housekeeper shrugs, distaste apparent on her face. “She doesn’t know much about taking care of babies.”

“What do you think happened to Jane, Minerva?” Paula asks softly, turning onto the street leading to Harding Place, knowing there isn’t time to beat around the bush.

“I don’t know!” Minerva exclaims. Rather than hedging, which Paula expected, it’s as though she’s eager to talk. Her voice spills over, trembling with emotion. “I keep trying to imagine what could have happened. I heard them saying on the news that she could have killed herself, but I know Mrs. Jane. She loved that baby. She would never kill herself.”

“That’s what I thought. But who would have wanted to hurt her, Minerva? Did she have any enemies that you knew of?”

For a split second, Minerva is silent. Then she says, “No.”

But the fractional pause is telling. Paula pulls up to a stop sign, and turns to look at the housekeeper as she brakes the car. “What is it, Minerva? What are you thinking?”

“Nothing . . .”

“You can tell me, Minerva. Whatever it is. I don’t believe that Jane jumped from the cliff, either. I want to know what happened. Maybe she’s still alive. Maybe we can save her if she is.”

“I don’t want to talk to the police again,” Minerva says nervously. “I’m not supposed to be working here. If they—”

“If you know something, then maybe I can go to them with it. I don’t have to tell them where I found out.”

“I told them I don’t know what happened,” Minerva’s hands are clenched in her lap as she looks out the window. “And that was the truth. I don’t know what happened.”

“But you have an idea,” Paula tells her. A block from the Kendalls’ house, she pulls up along the curb, hoping the housekeeper won’t notice. “You know something that you didn’t mention to the police.”

“I just wanted to get away from them.” Minerva turns back to Paula. “I was afraid that if they kept talking to me, they would start asking me about my visa. I don’t want to go back.”

“Back where?”

“To the Dominican Republic, where I’m from. I need to work here.”

“I understand. I would never do anything to jeopardize your job or get you deported, Minerva. I never reveal a source.” Paula leans closer to her. “What is it that you know about Jane, Minerva? Did she have an enemy? Who was it?”

“I don’t know if she had an enemy, but . . .”

“But?” Paula prods, gently touching her arm.

“Mrs. Jane had a secret. A bad secret,” Minerva tells Paula fearfully. “And I’m afraid it got her into trouble.”

T
asha lugs Victoria and Max across the street at ten till one. Rachel is waiting, waving from the front door with her coat on. She rushes past them as they come up the front steps, calling over her shoulder, “Mara’s in the kitchen with a peanut butter sandwich. Ramira’s upstairs cleaning the bathroom. She said she was going to vacuum, but I told her not to because it’ll wake Noah. If she makes noise, you have my permission to fire her.”

Tasha smiles. Ramira is the Leibermans’ latest housekeeper, poor thing. She wonders how long this one will last.

“What’s ‘fire,’ Mommy?” Victoria asks as Tasha closes the door after Rachel.

“It’s when someone takes your job away.”

“Oh.” Clearly, she was expecting something more exciting.

“Run into the kitchen and see Mara, Victoria. I’m just going to find some things for Max to play with.”

For a change, her daughter obeys her. That’s just because she idolizes Mara. She’s been obstinate all morning, trying Tasha’s patience and frazzling her nerves, keeping her from everything else she has to do, including troubleshooting the broken washer. Poor Max has been all but abandoned in his Exersaucer until now, thanks to his sister’s antics.

“Come on, Maxie, you want some of Noah’s blocks or something?” Tasha goes into the small playroom next to the dining room. It’s crammed full of toys, all of them organized neatly in bins and on shelves. Ramira’s job, Tasha knows, but Rachel does her share of straightening. She’s one of those compulsively neat people who likes everything in its place.

She and Max browse for a few minutes. Upstairs, she can hear Ramira’s footsteps as she goes about her work. She knows the woman refuses to let Rachel give her childcare responsibilities in addition to her household chores, probably because she figures—correctly, in all likelihood—that Rachel would take advantage.

Max picks up a tub of Duplo building blocks.

“You like those, Max? Okay. Let’s bring them into the kitchen and go check on the girls.”

Tasha brings him and the Duplo into the spotless kitchen, with its state-of-the-art stainless-steel appliances, sleek black-and-white countertops, and vase of budded stargazer lilies in the center of the table. What a contrast to her own crumb-strewn, sticky-floored kitchen.

Tasha plops Max down on the sparkling white tile floor.

“How’s your sandwich, Mara?” she asks Rachel’s daughter, who’s doing her best to eat with Victoria wedged onto her chair beside her.

Mara shrugs.

“Victoria, why don’t you sit over here and give Mara some room?”

“I want to sit with Mara,” is the stubborn reply.

Tasha sighs. “Victoria, Mara can’t eat when you’re on top of her like that. Give her some space. Sit over here.”

“I don’t want to.”

Tasha glances from the dangerous gleam in Victoria’s eyes to Mara’s faintly amused expression. Since she doesn’t seem particularly bothered, Tasha decides to let Victoria win this battle. It’s so much easier than dealing with another tantrum.

She goes over to the fridge and looks inside for something to eat. She never had a chance to grab lunch amid the hassle of feeding the kids before they left home. Looks like she’s out of luck here, though. There are plenty of condiments and beverages, but no real food. She knows the Leibermans eat a lot of takeout, since Rachel doesn’t cook.

Tasha grabs a can of Diet Pepsi and considers making herself a sandwich. Mara’s looks good. But peanut butter is so fattening. . . .

She remembers running into Fletch this morning. He was clearly on his way to the gym. She wonders if he noticed that she’s not as fit as she used to be before Max came along. Knowing Fletch, he probably did.

Okay, so skipping lunch won’t kill her. She closes the fridge just as the phone rings.

“Telephone, Mommy!” Victoria shrieks.

“I know, I know.” She hurries toward it, wondering if it’s Joel in the split second before she remembers that she’s not at home; she’s at Rachel’s. She waited for her own phone to ring all morning at home, and it didn’t. And for a change, she didn’t call his office, either.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello?”

There’s a pause, then a click.

Tasha frowns, holding the receiver for a moment.

“Who is it, Mommy?” Victoria wants to know.

“Nobody.” She hangs up slowly. Probably somebody who was confused by hearing a strange voice at the Leibermans’, she tells herself.

But her heart is pounding. A vague sense of uneasiness creeps over her once again.

Now she’s imagining all sorts of things—but it’s just that, she reminds herself. Just her imagination. She’s always had an active one. Making up preposterous stories as a child, fearing bogeymen and monsters, scaring herself to death. Her mother always told her that her worst enemy was her own mind, that she needed to be careful not to let it carry her too far from reality. That she could think herself
out
of being afraid the same way she had thought herself
in
.

“How can it be nobody if the phone rang?” Mara is asking.

Tasha shrugs, suddenly wondering whether she locked the door when she came in. So much for talking herself out of fear.

“Where are you going, Mommy?” Victoria asks.

“I just need to check something. Be right back,” she says, scurrying into the hall. She goes to the door and locks it, then slides the bolt firmly into place.

There.

Safe and sound.

Make sure you’re careful, Tasha.

She turns back toward the kitchen, Fletch Gallagher’s words echoing through her mind.

M
argaret lifts the lace panel on the foyer window and peers at the throng that has engulfed the once-quiet street. Reporters and dozens of onlookers line the blue wooden barricades the police have set up. Even from here, the hubbub is audible. The neighbors must be furious.

Dropping the curtain, Margaret realizes that this is what it must feel like to be in prison. Helpless. Trapped. Desperate to escape.

Except that she isn’t really—

“Margaret?”

She jumps at the sound of her name.

Mother.

She sighs, turning to see Bess standing behind her, Schuyler in her arms.

“Have you seen Owen?”

Margaret shakes her head. She hasn’t seen him since she left him in the study this morning, sobbing in Mother’s arms.

“He must have left with the detectives again,” Bess says, a catch in her voice. “This is too much to bear, Margaret. If it weren’t for this precious child . . .”

Margaret looks at Schuyler. Her niece’s eyes meet hers. The little girl whimpers and buries her face in Bess’s neck.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” Bess asks, patting her back. “Don’t cry now.
Mere
is here.
Mere
will take good care of you. Margaret, I’m going to put her down for a nap and take one myself. Please listen for the phone and doorbell. Call me if you hear anything at all.”

Margaret watches her mother climb the stairs with Schuyler.

After a few moments, the nursery door closes quietly above. Footsteps move down the hall, and then a second door closes.

Margaret can’t stand this gilded cage another moment. Minerva is here somewhere. She can answer the phone and the door.

Thanks to the press, Owen’s parents are not here and have said they have no intention of coming back. Not until this is over.

And good riddance to you,
Margaret thought at the time, marveling at their cold-hearted selfishness. So they would rather avoid the media circus than be here for their son. She isn’t surprised.

Having made her decision, Margaret goes up to her room to change her clothes, neatly replacing the blouse, slacks, and blazer on hangers in the small gabled closet

Then, clad in a black cotton pullover and a pair of rarely worn jeans that are still indigo-colored and stiff, Margaret descends once again from the third floor, dark glasses in her hand.

This time she goes straight to the kitchen. There’s no sign of Minerva. She must be dusting somewhere.

Good.

Opening the door that leads to the basement, Margaret slowly descends a steep flight of stairs, glad that old houses—like people—have their secrets.

Chapter 7

T
he doorbell rings downstairs just as Rachel is standing before her bureau, fastening her gold necklace around her neck. She takes one last look at her reflection, admiring the way her black V-necked sweater and short skirt hug her curves. She turns away from the mirror and catches sight of her discarded black-lace bra and panties on the bed. She changed her mind about wearing them after all; a thong is all she has on under this outfit. She smiles, thinking of his reaction when he sees it.

After spritzing Chanel No. 5 behind her ears, she swiftly descends the staircase to the front hall and opens the door just as the bell rings again.

“Jeremiah, right?” she tosses over her shoulder, briefly glancing at the teenager on the step before she hurries away, toward the back of the house. “Come with me. I need to check the kids. I hope they didn’t get into anything.”

They haven’t. They’re right where she left them ten minutes ago when she dashed upstairs to get dressed. The kitchen is spotless, just as Ramira left it earlier.

Mara sits at the table, intently turning the knobs on her Etch-A-Sketch. Noah is on the floor, happily stacking Tupperware containers.

“This is Jeremiah, guys,” Rachel announces. “That’s Mara, and that’s Noah.”

She turns to Fletch Gallagher’s nephew, noticing that he has a prominent case of acne. Poor kid. Everything about him is awkward, including the way he meets her gaze, then, blushing bright red, looks down at his scuffed white sneakers.

“The kids are fed and bathed,” she tells him. She slipped her housekeeper an extra twenty bucks to accomplish those chores for her while she was soaking in a bubble bath. Ramira, who is always reminding Rachel that she isn’t a nanny, accepted it willingly enough, but cautioned Rachel not to make it a habit.

She definitely has to find a new nanny. But for tonight, she has Jeremiah.

She bends over to hug Mara and plants a kiss on Noah’s head. He babbles contentedly.

“D-do . . . do they cry when you leave?” Jeremiah asks, speaking for the first time. His voice cracks in that awkward teenage-boy way. Again, she feels sorry for him.

“Cry? Nope, they don’t ever cry when I leave. They’re probably glad to see me go.” Rachel grins, tousling Mara’s hair. Her daughter glances blankly up at her, then back down at her geometric Etch-A-Sketch masterpiece, absorbed in that.

“I’ll see you when I get home, guys,” Rachel tells her children, picking up her black pocketbook from the uncluttered counter. “I’ll come in and give you kisses in your beds.”

“Where are y-you going?” Jeremiah asks as she heads for the door, pulling on her black coat as she goes.

Startled by the question, she wonders for a moment if he’s suspicious. Then she reminds herself that he’s just a kid—and new at babysitting, at that. He’s being cautious. Probably wants to know where he can reach her in case of an emergency.

She side-steps his question. “My cell phone number is on the pad by the phone,” she tells him. “So is the number for my husband’s office, and his beeper. So you’re all set. And so am I. Bye—”

“W-wait,” he calls.

Frustrated, she looks back.

“I mean, I d-don’t know what time you’ll b-be home or when they g-go to b-bed or anything,” he stutters.

He’s so nervous. Why? For a split second, she reconsiders leaving him here with the kids. After all, what does he know about babysitting? And what does she really know about him? He’s a stranger, really.

No. He’s a neighbor. And she knows his family.

Besides, what could possibly happen?

She recalls the strange feeling she had as she was picking up the paper this morning. She was certain she was being watched. But she quickly got over it.

Still . . .

Jane Kendall.

“Make sure you lock the door behind me, Jeremiah,” she tells him, looking back at her children.

He nods, following her into the hall. “When will you be home?”

“Geez, I don’t know. Most likely not until around eleven or midnight. My husband will probably beat me here. He should be back by eleven.”

“Okay.” Jeremiah seems edgy.

Suddenly, she realizes why.

Opening her bag, she grabs some bills and shoves them into his hand. “There you go, Jeremiah. In case my husband gets here first. He won’t know how much we agreed on.”

“Th-thanks. And . . . b-bedtime? For the k-kids?”

“Whenever they’re tired,” she says. “I need to go now. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”

With that, she breezes out into the chilly October night, determined to ignore a sudden, inexplicable sense of foreboding.

“W
ant to watch the millionaire show later?” Mitch asks Lianne, who is sitting beside him on the couch.

“Sure,” she says, turning a page of her magazine. She doesn’t talk much. At least, not to him. But he’s noticed that when she gets on the phone with one of her friends or her boyfriend, she goes on and on, like she’s forgotten all about him.

When that happens, he sometimes wonders if it wouldn’t be better if his mother just left him alone. Not that he likes that, either.

He guesses it’s good to have someone to talk to. Even if it’s just Lianne.

“Hey, did you hear about that lady who disappeared from the park?” he asks, wanting to get her to do something other than stare at that dumb article she’s reading. It’s about losing weight.

If you ask him, Lianne doesn’t need to lose any weight. She’s super-skinny. Pretty, too, with really white skin and long black hair that almost reaches her butt.

She looks up at him. “You mean Jane Kendall?”

“Yeah.” Pleased that he got her attention, Mitch says, “My mom is doing a story about that case.”

“She is? Cool. I know the kid who found the baby carriage in the park. Peter Frost.”

“Yeah? What’d he say about it?”

“I guess the baby was screaming and he had to rescue her from some kind of wild animal. He was totally brave.”

“Huh.” Mitch thinks about that, wondering what kind of wild animals live in High Ridge Park. He would’ve thought just squirrels and deer and maybe skunks, but none of those animals would attack a baby. There must be bears. Or wildcats, even.

“What do you think happened to her?” Lianne asks him. She looks kind of worried.

“The baby? I thought you said your friend rescued her.” Alarmed, he pictures a baby being eaten by a bear.

“No, he did. I meant the mother,” Lianne says. “Do you think she jumped into the river?”

“Probably.” Mitch thinks about the press conference his mother took him to last night, trying to remember what was said. Most of it was pretty boring. He doesn’t think there was anything about anybody jumping into a river. Then again, he can’t be sure. He hadn’t really been paying much attention. All he really remembers is that guy, the lady’s husband, crying in front of everyone.

Mitch wonders if he was embarrassed later.
He
would never cry in front of anyone. He hardly ever even cries when he’s alone. Crying’s for babies. And girls.

Except Mom. She doesn’t cry, either. She’s always brave.

Shawna isn’t, Mitch thinks in disgust. His stepmother’s always bawling about something. Like, when she watches a movie on TV and she knows it’s going to be sad, she’ll get a box of tissues and put it by the couch. Mitch’s dad teases her about it. Shawna doesn’t seem to mind.

Mitch doesn’t really mind when his dad teases him, either. Even though sometimes it makes him feel kind of bad. Like the time at the beach last summer, when Mitch told his father he was afraid to go into the water and that he wished he was a girl.

“Why?” his father had asked.

“Because man-eating sharks don’t eat girls. They eat men. Probably boys, too.”

His father had thought that was hilarious. Well, how was Mitch supposed to know that “man-eating” didn’t really mean the sharks only ate men?

“Hey, Mitch, does your mom know any inside stuff about the case?” Lianne asks.

“I don’t know. Probably.”

“Like what?”

He shrugs. “You should ask her.”

“You know what I think happened? I think there’s a serial killer on the loose. Like in those
Scream
movies. I think he killed Jane Kendall, and he’s going to strike again.”

Horror bubbles up inside of Mitch. He watched the first
Scream
on cable one night when his mom was working late. It scared him so much that he almost ran downstairs and knocked on Mrs. Ambrosini’s door.

“You mean you think some guy in a creepy mask and robe is going around killing people here in Townsend Heights?” he asks Lianne.

“Maybe.”

How come she doesn’t look freaked out by that?

Mitch looks over his shoulder at the door, making sure it’s locked. Yup. The latch is turned. But suddenly he’s feeling panicky. What if the killer already got into the apartment and is hiding in the bathroom or something?

Suddenly, Mitch wants his mother. Or his father. Shawna, even.

“Who do you think the killer is?” he asks Lianne, trying not to let his voice shake.

“I don’t know. That’s what’s so scary. Maybe your mom has some idea, since she’s the reporter working on the case.”

Mitch thinks about the
Scream
movie. There was a reporter in that, too. And she was one of the few people who didn’t die in the end.

“You don’t think my mom is in danger, do you?” he asks Lianne.

“God, I don’t know,” she says.

It isn’t the answer Mitch expects. If Lianne were an adult, she’d probably say, “Of course not!” Adults never want kids to worry.

Lianne doesn’t seem to care if he worries or not.

What if something happens to his mother?

Mitch remembers how yesterday, when his father showed up at school, he thought for a second that his mother had been hurt or even killed.

If something like that did ever happen, he supposes he would go live with Dad and Shawna. Shawna would probably like it if that happened. She wants a kid really bad. He heard her crying on the phone one day about that. She was talking to one of her friends.

But Mitch figures she probably wasn’t thinking she wanted a ten-year-old kid who already has a mother. She meant a baby of her own.

From what Mitch could figure out from the conversation, Shawna can’t have babies of her own.

So maybe she’d be really happy if something happened to his mother—like if she died of lung cancer from smoking so much, and Mitch had to come and live with her and Dad. Then Shawna could be his new mother. . . .

And Dad could be his dad all the time, not just on weekends.

For a second, Mitch is so psyched about the latter thought that he forgets what made him think of it.

Something happening to Mom.

Afraid again, he says to Lianne, “Can we talk about something else? Something that’s not scary?”

“Sure,” she says, standing up. “Right after I call my friend. I’ll only be on for a second.”

Yeah, right, Mitch thinks gloomily, slumping on the couch and hugging a pillow against his suddenly churning stomach.

M
argaret’s gaze darts nervously from side to side as she picks her way along the paved, sloping path bordered by woods on both sides. She rounds a bend and sees that there’s a small clearing ahead.

One might expect this particular section of the sprawling park to have drawn its share of onlookers tonight, assuming that the curiosity seekers who are so compelled to stare at the house would want to see this, too: the site where Jane’s daughter was discovered abandoned in her stroller. The actual site was pinpointed on a map in today’s newspaper, with a circled X marking the spot that Margaret is nearing now.

But the path is deserted, with not a jogger or even a stray dog in sight. Maybe it’s because of the hour. Dusk has descended over the woodland park high above the Hudson River.

Or maybe it’s because of what happened to Jane here.

Maybe people are frightened.

Maybe they think that what happened to her could happen to them.

Her jaw set grimly, Margaret quickens her pace until she’s standing at the edge of a waist-high, narrow rock wall. She reaches into her pocket and takes out a neatly folded tissue.

You never know
, she thinks, feeling numb.

Clutching it, she looks straight out. She can see the steep boulders and trees on the Rockland County shore across the river.

Looking down, she notes that there is only dark water, jagged rocks . . . and several boats moored directly below. Their lights cast an eerie glow across the choppy surface. Several figures in wetsuits are clustered on the deck of one boat.

Divers, she realizes, watching the scene for a few moments.

She knows what they’re looking for.

Margaret turns and makes her way back to the path, the fingers on one hand shredding the tissue she holds in the other.

She didn’t need it after all.

T
asha hasn’t heard from Joel all day.

As she puts the kids’ plastic supper plates into the dishwasher, she attempts to convince herself that he might have tried to call earlier when she wasn’t here, and decided not to leave a message.

But she knows that’s not likely. Joel would want credit for a phone call if he made one, since she’s always ragging on him about never calling home.

So. Is he making a deliberate statement, still angry about last night, or is he simply caught up in his work once again? There’s no way to tell. Not until he gets home. Who knows when that will be?

And what if it isn’t his work that’s keeping him so busy?

Tasha closes the dishwasher and stands in the middle of the kitchen floor, listening for movement overhead. She put the kids to bed almost a half hour ago, but she doubts they’re asleep. It was almost an hour before their bedtime, but she couldn’t wait to put them down. She just couldn’t handle them anymore.

Her headstrong daughter had thrown one tantrum after another ever since they came home from Rachel’s this afternoon. Hunter came home from school with a big science project that needed to be done for tomorrow morning. Tasha ended up doing most of it herself, just to get it over with. And little Max was fussy again, either teething or coming down with something.