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Authors: Wendy Corsi Staub

Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #Suspense, #General

The Last to Know (2 page)

BOOK: The Last to Know
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No, it’s nothing like the home where Tasha grew up. It doesn’t have inherent character. But she has done her best to give it a personality, to claim it as her own. She wallpapered and painted most of the rooms herself and sewed the cheerful curtains in the kids’ bedrooms.

How she loved those days. How grateful she was to be bustling around her cozy little place in the suburbs, taking care of her children and feathering the nest instead of commuting to the city, dealing with office politics, a corporate wardrobe, business travel . . .

She willingly gave all of that up.

But now . . .

Well, now she can’t help wondering if that was a mistake. If it would really be so bad to get dressed in real clothes in the morning, to put on makeup and fix her hair, to dash out the door and hop a train to the city. On the train, she could read the paper and sip a cup of coffee without constantly being interrupted to change the station on the television, refill a cereal bowl with more Cheerios, change a smelly diaper . . .

The grass is always greener, Tash.

That’s what Joel told her not so long ago, when she made the mistake of wondering aloud what it would be like to go back to work.

“You don’t want to go back to work, Tasha. Trust me. You’re lucky you don’t have to deal with a career anymore.”

“I know, Joel, but—”

“Look, I’d love to be you. I’d give anything to spend my days here at home instead of chasing down to Manhattan and dealing with constant stress every day.”

Stress.

Seems like it’s all he ever talks about—the stress of working in the same high-powered advertising agency where he started his career. He was an account coordinator then and climbed steadily to account executive, then account supervisor. Then he was promoted to vice president last spring and took over a new snack-foods client in addition to the big cosmetics client he already handled. Ever since, he’s been completely distracted by his work. He keeps saying he has to earn the big raise they’ve given him. Apparently that means working late almost every night, bringing home paperwork, even going in to the office some weekends.

And he’s been traveling more on business, too. Next weekend he’s flying to Chicago on Sunday for a Monday-morning meeting. Tasha is dreading that, as she always dreads his trips. She just doesn’t like being in the house at night without Joel. He says it’s because she’s never lived alone. She went from her parents’ house to a college dorm with a roommate to a Manhattan apartment with too many roommates—four women crammed into a small one-bedroom place. They were all in lowly entry-level publishing jobs, so it was either share a tight space in a terrific Village neighborhood or move to one of the boroughs—or worse, to Jersey. It wasn’t so bad, really; there was always somebody home if you felt like hanging out or talking. And even if you didn’t, well, there was always somebody home. So you were never alone at night.

Tasha met Joel at a pub, dispelling the platitude about nice girls not meeting worthwhile guys in bars. He was with a crowd of his friends—cute, available advertising men in suits—and she was with a crowd of hers: pretty, preppy publishing women, some in pearls, others with triple piercings. Publishing, after all, attracted an eclectic bunch.

It wasn’t love at first sight—not even lust. She hadn’t been looking for a corporate type back then. She’d been more drawn to unconventional men with shaggy hair and commitment issues: musicians, sculptors. But then there was Joel, appealing, with a great sense of humor. It was what she first noticed about him that first night as her friends and his mingled and went from the pub to a club. It was why she said yes in surprise when he asked her out. She hadn’t even known he was interested, but that’s the thing about Joel. He’s subtle.

Lately she’s concluded that it’s one of his more serious faults. Half the time she can’t tell if he’s detached because of work, or if their marriage has hit a rough spot.

And maybe she’s afraid to come right out and ask.

In any case, there has been little hilarity in the Banks household these days. Joel’s wit seems to have gone the way of her corporate wardrobe.

Tasha pulls a gray sweatshirt over her head, then shakes her still-damp shoulder-length dark hair and glances into the mirror above her wide oak bureau.

Her hair would look so much better if she could just blow it dry in the morning, but there’s no way. Most days it’s a miracle she manages to take a shower at all. That means getting up before Joel leaves so that he can keep an eye on the kids before he dashes off to the Metro North station. He’s always pacing around, checking his watch, banging on the bathroom door to tell her to hurry up, he’s going to miss his train.

As if she were in there taking a long, leisurely soak in the tub.

Ha.

She hasn’t shaved her legs since last weekend. Hell, using conditioner in addition to regular shampoo is a luxury these days.

Take the time to dry her hair into an actual style? Not a chance.

At the sudden ringing of the telephone, she glances at the clock on the bedside table. It’s too early for Joel to be calling from the office—he’s still on the train. And though he has his cell phone with him, she can’t imagine why he would use it to call home when he just left.

Who is it, then? Nobody ever calls until after nine, when she’s back from dropping off Hunter at school.

Frowning, she grabs the receiver, poking her foot into a sneaker and bending to tie it as she says, “Hello?”

“Tasha?”

“Rach?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“What’s the matter?” she asks, hearing the edge in her friend’s voice. She straightens and glances out the window again at Rachel Leiberman’s house across the street, half expecting some visual sign of whatever it is that’s amiss.

“Did you see this morning’s
Journal News
yet?”

“Are you kidding? It’s probably still out on the driveway. I never have a chance to read the paper in the morning. I’m lucky if I get to—”

“So you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“It was on
The Today Show
, too—”

“I’m watching
The Today Show
.” She glances at the television screen, where Al Roker is interviewing some exuberant ruddy-cheeked woman who’s waving a hand-lettered sign that reads

“HAPPY ANNIVERSARY BIG DADDY AND MAMA LULU IN SLIDELL, LOUISIANA”

“It was just on the newscast.”

“I didn’t see that part. What was on? What happened?”

“You know Jane Kendall?”

“Jane Kendall . . .” The name is familiar but it takes her a moment to place it. Then she remembers. “Jane from Gymboree?”

“Right”

“What about her?”

“She’s missing.”

“What do you mean, missing?”

“She never came back from jogging over at High Ridge Park last night. See, I told you she must work out to have that body, didn’t I? Nobody who’s got an eight-month-old just looks like that by accident.”

“But what
happened?
” Tasha asks impatiently, putting on her other sneaker.

“Nobody knows. She went out for a jog with her daughter in one of those jogging stroller thingies and she never came home. Somebody found—hang on a second.
Noah! Get your fingers out of there before you get electrocuted!
Sorry. Somebody found the baby abandoned in a stroller in the park after dark.”

“God.”

“I know.”

“What about the husband?”

“Owen? He’s the one who reported her missing.”

“You know his name?”

“Who doesn’t? I’ve told you she was married to him, remember? He’s one of the Kendall family that has the vacuum cleaners—you know. . . .”

No, Tasha doesn’t know. She’s new to the world of suburban blue bloods, unlike Rachel, who grew up in Westchester.

“Well anyway, the Kendalls have big, big bucks. I went to school with one of Owen’s cousins. Dillard Kendall. He was a jackass. She’s an Armstrong.”

“Jane is?” Tasha is used to the dizzying pace of Rachel’s aside-filled conversations.

“Yup. The Armstrongs practically founded Scarsdale. Blue blood, old money. Real Westchester money. Not like you or me.”

“Speak for yourself, Rach,” Tasha says wryly. “We pretty much have
no
money these days, real or not.”

“I thought Joel got a big raise.”

“Yeah, but we also have a new car payment remember? The Honda died the month after his promotion. Plus, we needed to put a new roof on the house and replace the hot-water heater—”

“Okay, okay, so you guys are broke. The point is, we all are, compared to the Armstrongs and the Kendalls. Jane’s family was wealthy. And her in-laws are loaded. That’s why her disappearance is such huge news.”

“Was she kidnapped, then, for a ransom or something?”

The idea seems bizarre. Does that type of thing really happen?

“Nobody knows. It’s so ‘Movie-of-the-Week,’ isn’t it? They’re offering a million-dollar reward for—hang on a second.
Mara! Let go of his nose right now! Can’t you see he doesn’t like that?”

“Listen, Rachel, let me call you back later,” Tasha says hurriedly, remembering that her own brood is still unattended in the family room. “I’m not on the cordless, and the kids are suspiciously quiet downstairs.”

“Go,” Rachel says with the instant understanding of a fellow mommy. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Tasha hangs up, turns off the television set, and heads for the stairs.

Tasha has known Jane Kendall since the week after Labor Day, which is when Tasha and Rachel started going to a Gymboree play group two mornings a week in nearby Mount Kisco. The purpose is supposedly for the kids to socialize with each other and to bond with their mothers, but it seems to Tasha that the mothers—most of them stay-at-home moms—are the ones who are desperate to socialize and bond with other adults. She and Rachel have met several women through the group, and a bunch of them have taken to having coffee together at Starbucks afterward.

Jane Kendall comes sometimes. She never says much, just kind of sits on the outskirts and smiles, cuddling her daughter on her lap as she sips her skim cappuccino.

So . . . God. What’s happened to her?

Maybe she fell and hit her head or something while she was running, Tasha thinks hopefully. Maybe she came to this morning, and has already been found.

No, she realizes, a chill creeping down her spine, it can’t be that simple. She’s seen enough movies and read enough newspapers to know that women like Jane Kendall—beautiful, privileged, seemingly content women with husbands and children—don’t just vanish temporarily. When they vanish, it’s forever.

Something must have happened to Jane Kendall.

Something horrible.

But . . .

In Townsend Heights?

Nothing horrible ever happens here.

This small, old-fashioned, upscale town is insulated, somehow, from the harsh realities of the city where so many of its residents work.

Up here, as the real estate agent told Joel and Tasha, you can leave your doors unlocked—not that anyone ever
does
, but the point is that you
can
. This is the kind of place where shop owners know you by name, where high school kids hold doors open for you, where children play flashlight tag after dark in tree-lined neighborhoods filled with two-parent families living in one-family houses.

Tasha and Joel fell in love with this charming village the first time they laid eyes on it. Who could resist the quiet, shady streets in the heart of town, dotted with painted Victorians, picket fences, and well-tended gardens? She had her heart set on buying one of those picturesque homes, so similar to the one where she grew up—until she discovered that they were priced in the million-dollar range, thanks to Westchester’s booming real estate market.

She and Joel concentrated their house hunting on a newer neighborhood that’s still close enough to the broad main street lined with shops. Townsend Avenue has its share of pricey boutiques and cafés, all of them locally owned. In fact the nice thing about Townsend Heights is that it really is an old-fashioned small town filled with family-run businesses, very much like the small Ohio town where Tasha grew up.

Only these days, Centerbrook’s main drag is run-down and virtually deserted, with most of the mom-and-pop stores gone and the business district relocated to a series of chain-store-based strip malls out on the highway.

That’s unlikely to happen here in Townsend Heights, where the wealthy residents cherish the local flavor and make sure that the small businesses thrive. Tasha figures she’ll never be able to forget that this isn’t quite Ohio. The little corner groceries offer exotic produce; the lunch counter and diner offer gourmet menus, but that’s part of the charm. And she’s found a place where her kids can grow up much as she did back in the seventies, which was her goal when she and Joel set out to find a place to settle down.

She’ll never forget how they stumbled across Townsend Heights and immediately felt at home. They rented a car and drove the hour north from Manhattan for a day of house hunting, leaving Hunter with Joel’s parents in Brooklyn. Tasha’s in-laws, who never protested babysitting their beloved first grandchild, gave Tasha and Joel a terrible time on that particular occasion, wanting to know when they’d be back and why they were going in the first place.

“House hunting? In Westchester? Why would you move all the way up there? Why would you leave the city? How are you going to afford Westchester?”

Even after she and Joel found this house—this shuttered colonial on Orchard Way, a leafy, winding deadend lane not far from the center of the village—the Bankses were pessimistic.

“They just don’t want to see us move so far away,” Joel told Tasha.

“They don’t want to see you and Hunter move so far away,” she corrected. “Me, they’d be happy to see move across the country. They’d probably help me load the van.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” he said in that irritated tone he always uses when she claims his parents didn’t like her.

But they
don’t
like her.

BOOK: The Last to Know
2.74Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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