The Last to Know (27 page)

Then her jaw drops in dismay as she realizes what he’s saying.

Jane.

They’ve found Jane.

Chapter 12

C
lutching a cigarette in one hand and the steering wheel in the other, Paula guides her Honda expertly along Townsend Avenue toward the town hall at twice the speed limit.

The business district is normally quiet at this hour on a Saturday night. The few eating establishments are cafés that cater to a lunch and breakfast crowd. The only bar is the Station House Inn, and it doesn’t attract large crowds even on weekends. Besides that, all that’s typically open on Townsend Avenue on weekend evenings are the deli and the newsstand, both directly across from the Metro North station.

But tonight, as she noticed earlier when she drove through town on her way to Fletch Gallagher’s house, nearly every storefront along the entire three-block stretch is brightly lit. Every parking spot is filled within blocks of the downtown radius, mostly by news vans and cars emblazoned with press logos. The cafés have stayed open; the small gourmet groceries, too. Even the pricey shops and boutiques have
OPEN
signs in their windows, the owners clearly hoping to capitalize on the flood of media people who have invaded the town.

But they’re currently deserted, Paula notes as, in passing, she glances into one brightly lit business after another. The doors are temporarily closed and locked, the proprietors having hurried over to the big, windowless meeting room in the basement of the town hall.

Well, of course. A press conference is about to begin, if it hasn’t already. It’s sure to be jammed.

Paula was sitting on a couch with Fletch Gallagher’s sobbing wife when the call came over her cell phone. Her first thought, upon hearing the news about Jane Kendall, had been
They’ve found her now, of all times?

Hanging up, she told Sharon Gallagher that she had to leave. And she apologized for the bombshell she had dropped in the course of what she had promised the poor woman would be a simple interview. As it turned out, she wasn’t the only one with an eye-opener up her sleeve. The conversation yielded a revelation that was utterly unexpected. Paula still doesn’t know quite what to do with it. She needs time alone to process it.

But not now.

Not when the Townsend Heights police are about to expand on this bombshell of their own.

She looks desperately for a parking spot, knowing it’s futile even as she zooms around the block. Returning to the town hall, her foot on the brake, she looks around, certain that no vacant spot will have materialized in the past thirty seconds. Why would it? Nobody is leaving until the event is over. Even the blue-designated spots reserved for the disabled are occupied by brazen drivers, most with out-of-state plates, who are clearly willing to pay tickets in exchange for attending this historic press conference.

Paula can’t afford a parking ticket.

No, but she happens to live here in town—and she’s on a first-name basis with the Townsend Heights cops. They like her. They help her out when they can, just as she helps them.

After a moment’s deliberation, she steps on the gas and pulls the Honda into place in the diagonally striped Fire Lane zone in front of the town hall.

She steps out beneath a sign that reads

NO PARKING ANY TIME. TOW AWAY ZONE

You do what you have to do
, she tells herself grimly, looking around. Good. There’s not a soul in sight. Nobody’s watching.

Her heart pounding, she hurries away from the car, the tapping of her heels along the pavement echoing through what suddenly appears to have become a ghost town.

“I
can’t believe it, Joel,” Tasha sniffles, wiping her eyes with a Kleenex from the box he’s brought her after going to answer the ringing phone in the other room. “I can’t believe she’s dead, too. And what a horrible way to die.”

“I know.” He sits heavily beside her on the couch.

“Who was on the phone?”

“Some reporter,” he tells her. “He wanted to reach Ben for a comment on Jane Kendall.”

“Why did he call here?” Tasha asks in disbelief.

“Because the press doesn’t know where Ben is staying, and they figure we probably do. We never should have listed our number. Anyway, I left the phone off the hook so we don’t have to listen to it ring all night.”

Tasha nods absently, her gaze fixed on the television screen again. The special bulletin has given way to live coverage of a press conference that’s just beginning down at the town hall to officially announce what has just been reported: that Jane Kendall’s body has been dredged from the bottom of the Hudson River.

“I knew they were diving and dragging the river,” she tells Joel. “And after what happened with Rachel, I thought they’d probably—but it’s still a shock.”

“I know.” Joel pats her arm. “It’ll be all right, Tash.”

“Not for Jane Kendall’s baby. Not for her husband. And not for Ben and the kids, either.”

“No.” He exhales heavily. “But it’ll be all right for us.”

“How can you possibly say that so confidently? What if I’m next?”

“You won’t be.”

She shifts her gaze from the television back to his face. He looks
old
, she realizes with a start. Not senior-citizen old, but the lines around his dark eyes have deepened and his thick dark hair has a few strands of gray at the temples. And he’s lost weight, too, she notes with a twinge of guilt. Well, she hasn’t exactly been cooking for him the way she used to when they first married.

But it isn’t all my fault
, she reminds herself, a defensive streak replacing the guilt.
He’s rarely home for dinner. He’s rarely home at all. I can’t help it if he doesn’t feed himself when he’s not here.

Still, Joel is her husband. She loves him. She doesn’t want to see the job stress taking such a heavy physical toll on him.

And if it’s not job stress . . . well, something is doing it.

“Are you hungry?” she asks him suddenly.

He blinks.
“Am I hungry?”

She nods.

“Are you?”

“Yes,” she says automatically. Even though it takes her a moment to realize it’s true.

When was the last time she ate? She didn’t touch the takeout pizza she served when Joel’s parents were here. Nor did she take so much as a bite of the fried bread dough and candy apples they bought the kids from the concession stands at the harvest festival—consolation for losing the pumpkin contest to a couple of high school boys.

And back home, after making the three of them Kraft macaroni and cheese from a box for their dinner, Tasha didn’t polish off their leftovers while clearing the dishes, the way she usually does.

Yes, she’s hungry. Despite Jane Kendall. Despite Rachel. Despite her nagging, growing fear.

“We never ate dinner,” Joel points out, as though he’s just realized it.

“I’ll be right back,” she says, rising from the couch. Suddenly she doesn’t care about watching the press conference. In fact she’d rather not.

“Where are you going, Tash?”

“Into the kitchen to see what I can find for us to eat.”

“Is there sandwich stuff?”

“No. I haven’t been to the deli in days. The supermarket, either. But maybe I can defrost some hamburger or something.”

“No, Tash.” He stands, too. “Don’t cook.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . you’ve been through hell.” His tone catches her by surprise.

She turns to look at him. There’s clearly concern in his eyes. Along with something else.

“We’ll just order some takeout Chinese, and I’ll go pick it up.”

“But you don’t like takeout Chinese,” she tells him. Actually, he used to love it. But that was when they lived in the city. Up here in Westchester, he avoids it. He says the suburban takeout places aren’t any good, which has always infuriated Tasha, because whenever he says it, she hears his mother’s voice. Ruth thinks everything is better in the city. The Chinese food. The pizza. The delis. In her opinion, absolutely anything to be had north of the Bronx is inferior.

“But
you
like it,” he says. “And you’re always saying you miss it.”

That’s true. She doesn’t order it without him. There’s not even a menu in the house. She points that out to him.

“But they all serve the same stuff up here,” Joel says, somehow without a trace of disdain. He’s treading so carefully, so obviously trying to avoid the argument that has become so inevitible. “You don’t even need a menu to order.”

Well, he’s right about that. “Okay, we can get the number for Panda Palace from the phone book,” she tells him. “And we’ll have them deliver so you don’t have to go out. It’s supposed to storm.”

“No, I’ll just go in, get a menu, and order it.” He goes to the hall closet and takes out his brown leather jacket.

“But you just said we don’t need a menu,” she says, following him.

“I just said
you
don’t need a menu. But maybe I can find something I might like if I look at one. Besides, then we don’t have to wait for it to be delivered. They always take forever . . . even in the city,” he adds.

Guilt, she realizes as he looks at her. That’s what she sees mingling with the concern in his eyes. He’s being so nice to her. Maybe he’s finally realizing that he hasn’t been here for her in so long.

“While I’m gone, Tash, why don’t you go up and take a bubble bath or something?” he suggests.

When she gapes at him, he says, “You look so tired. Like you need to relax and forget about everything for a while. I’ll tell you what. I’ll swing by Blockbuster while I’m out and pick up a video, too.”

“Which one?”

“Something light and funny that’ll take your mind off of everything.”

“It’s a Saturday night,” she reminds him, then hates herself for having to find the downside to his sweet efforts. He’s being so nice. Still, she can’t help pointing out, “Nothing good is ever left in Blockbuster on a Saturday night. The new releases are always gone.”

“Well, since we haven’t seen anything that’s come out in months—”

“Years,” she injects wryly.

“You’re right. Years. I don’t think it needs to be a new release. Right?”

Takeout Chinese and a video on a Saturday night. Just like old times. Before the kids. Before the job promotion. Before the murders.

“Let me see if I remember,” Joel says, keys in hand, poised by the door. “Hot-and-sour soup, chicken with broccoli, and an egg roll.”

“Spring roll,” she amends, surprised that he remembers. “But otherwise, you’ve got my favorite order down pat.”

He smiles at her, then walks out into the night.

Maybe he finally gets what I’ve been trying to tell him
, Tasha thinks as she walks wearily up the stairs to draw a bath.
Maybe things really will change from now on
.

“T
hat was your father on the phone,” Shawna tells Mitch, returning to the kitchen and replacing the cordless phone in its cradle.

Mitch is sitting at the table, reading a comic book and eating the enormous ice-cream sundae she made for him right before the phone rang. She answered it and took it into the next room. Mitch figured it was so he wouldn’t hear whatever she was saying.

“When is he coming home?”

“He’s still busy,” Shawna tells him, screwing the top back onto the jar of hot fudge sauce and putting it into the fridge.

“With what?”

“I don’t know, Mitch. You want any more ice cream before I put it away?” She holds up the carton.

He shakes his head.

She spoons some into her mouth with the scoop, then tosses the scoop into the sink and closes the carton. “Mmm. That’s so good,” she says, smacking her lips.

“Then why don’t you just have some?”

“Too fattening.”

Mitch rolls his eyes, disgusted. He’s never seen her take more than a little nibble of anything that tastes good. All she ever eats is salad.

“Want to play a game or something?” Shawna asks.

“Like what?” He’s so bored—lonely, too—that even some dumb board game with her sounds tempting.

“Cards,” she says, and adds, when he looks interested, “for money. Come on, I’ll teach you how to gamble.”

“Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow at her. Maybe she’s not so bad after all.

Yes, she is
, he reminds himself as loyalty toward his mother sweeps through him. But that doesn’t mean he can’t play cards with her. Anything to kill some time until Dad comes home from wherever he is.

K
aren hangs up the cordless phone again, frustrated. Tasha’s line has been busy for almost an hour. Does she know what’s happened—that they’ve found Jane Kendall’s body?

Karen wouldn’t know herself if she hadn’t finally thrown aside the romance novel and turned on the television just in time to see the special bulletin.

The news shouldn’t have startled her the way it did. Hasn’t she known all along that Jane was most likely dead?

The police haven’t ruled out a connection to the Leiberman murder.

Nor have they ruled out suicide.

But you never thought from the beginning that Jane killed herself
, Karen remembers. It just wouldn’t make sense, despite her family history.

Karen had seen Jane with her daughter, week after week, at Gymboree and Starbucks. No mother who so clearly loved her child would ever willingly leave her.

Somebody pushed Jane off that cliff.

Just as somebody slaughtered Rachel in her bed.

Again, she punches out Tasha’s number on the phone.

Still busy.

Damn.

She needs to tell Tasha about Jeremiah. Tasha can help her decide whether his actions warrant Karen’s calling the police. Her instincts are screaming at her to do it—especially now.

The only thing stopping her is that Tom doesn’t want her to get involved.

But Tom isn’t here.

Tasha will know what I should do, Karen thinks, punching out her friend’s number once again.

F
letch Gallagher comes home to find his wife’s Lexus SUV gone and the house deserted. The outside lights are on. And more inside lights than usual, too. Why is the lamp on in the seldom-used living room?

He turns it off, then retreats back to the hallway, stopping to turn up the heat. The house is chilly, and it’s freezing outside.