The Last to Know (6 page)

She hasn’t exactly bonded with Jeremiah, though. He’s not the warmest, most lovable kid in town. Even Fletch hasn’t made much progress getting him to come out of his shell on the few occasions he has tried. He has no idea whether it’s because his nephew is still traumatized by the losses of his mother and stepmother, or because he’s just a loner by nature.

Well, things seem to be settling down in the Middle East. With any luck, Aidan will be back before the cold weather gets here. Then he can make other arrangements for the kids, and Fletch will be free to get the hell out of here. Maybe a weekend up at the cabin, just to clear his head before heading down to Boca for some relaxation and then flying back up to spend the holidays with Sharon and the kids. She always insists on that.

At least he got eighteen holes in today down at the country club, followed by a nice long nap on the couch in the family room. The house is silent, but he heard Sharon come in a while ago, slamming the back door and waking him from a sound sleep.

He tosses the banana he just peeled into the blender, then crosses the green ceramic-tile floor and opens the enormous stainless-steel fridge. After moving aside several bottles of fat-free salad dressing and the remains of last night’s take-out Chinese, he pulls out a carton of skim milk. Way down on the bottom shelf behind a clear plastic container of mesclun greens, he finds a lone container of nonfat yogurt. Strawberry.

He makes a face.

He’s told Sharon—how many times?—that he doesn’t like strawberry. Raspberry yogurt is fine. Blueberry, too. Hell, even boysenberry. But not strawberry.

What does she buy?

Strawberry.

Fletch returns it to the fridge. As an afterthought, he puts the milk back in, too, then takes the yogurt out. He tosses the container into the trash compactor under the sink.

Nobody else will eat it. His brother’s kids don’t seem to like anything but junk food, and his son Derek has recently decided he’s a vegan—whatever the hell that means. Something about not eating any animal products.

If it were up to Fletch, his son would eat thick steaks and ice cream like any other red-blooded American boy, but Sharon coddles him and his neo-hippie ideas. Tells Fletch to leave him alone. That Derek’s twenty now, fully grown, and he can eat whatever he wants, even if he is still living under their roof.

Not that he’s ever home. Where he spends his days—and nights—is a mystery to Fletch, and if Sharon knows, she’s not telling. Leave it to her to keep Derek’s secrets. After all, she’s full of her own—or so she thinks. But Fletch knows more about what his wife’s been up to lately than he does about their son. He knows Sharon’s only biding her time with him, waiting for the right moment to leave him for her lover. Actually, for months he’d been expecting her to do it in August when Randi left for college, which would liberate Sharon from two decades of motherhood obligations. Then Melissa got killed and their nieces and nephew had moved in just as Randi moved out. How could Sharon walk out on Fletch at a time like that?

There’s no doubt in his mind that she will, sooner or later. But far be it from him to force her hand.

Fletch pulls the banana out of the blender and takes a bite. A banana wasn’t what he had in mind. He wanted a health shake, damn it.

He hears footsteps on the stairs.

Moments later, Sharon breezes into the kitchen. She has on one of those skimpy leotard things she wears to her kick-boxing class, and is jangling her car keys in her hand.

He glances over her toned body—small hips and high breasts—and at her thick blond hair pulled into a ponytail. The remnants of her summer tan, helped along, no doubt, by regular visits to the tanning salon, cast a healthy glow over her face.

Two decades of marriage have all but obliterated not just Fletch’s appreciation for his wife’s beauty, but his desire for her.

“Where are you going?” he asks, though it should be obvious. But some part of him wants to hear her say it.

“The gym.” She unwraps a stick of gum and goes over to toss it into the garbage. “What’s this?”

He shrugs.

She’s staring down at the full container of yogurt he just threw in.

“Why’d you throw this away?” She pulls it out and inspects the date stamped on the cover, then turns accusing green eyes on him. “It still has two weeks left before it expires.”

“Yeah, and it’s strawberry. You know I don’t like strawberry yogurt. I told you not to buy it.”

“Well, somebody else will eat it.”

“Who? You?”

“You know I’m lactose-intolerant.”

Or so you say
, he thinks but says nothing. As far as he’s concerned, Sharon is a hypochondriac. Always has been. If she wants to believe she’s lactose-intolerant, fine with him, as long as he doesn’t have to listen to her go on and on about it.

“Maybe one of the kids will eat it,” she says, putting it back into the fridge.

“I thought they only eat Little Debbies. And McDonald’s. And Derek’s—”

“I know. A vegan. Well, maybe someone’ll eat it,” she says again.

She takes a can of Diet Pepsi from the shelf in the door, closes the fridge, and pops the top.

He watches her as she takes a sip.

“You’re going to drink that before you work out?” he asks.

For a moment their eyes meet. A look passes between them.

She says simply, “I’m thirsty,” and heads toward the back door. She pauses halfway there to ask, “You didn’t hear, did you?”

“Hear what?”

She seems to be studying his face, probing for something. Then she says, “Jane Kendall.”

He tenses. “What about Jane Kendall?”

“She’s missing.”

“Missing?” he echoes, not meeting Sharon’s eyes. “What do you mean, missing?”

She shrugs. “That’s all I know. She disappeared from High Ridge Park.”

“When?”

“Last night I think.”

“Huh.” His hand trembles as he raises the banana to his mouth again, taking a bite and chewing mechanically. “Do they . . . do they think something happened to her?”

“Obviously.” Sharon grabs her raincoat from a hook just inside the mudroom and pulls it on. “I’ve got to get to the gym. See you later.”

“See you later.”

Lies
, he thinks, abruptly tossing the banana into the garbage can and heading upstairs to take a shower.

They both know she’s not going to the gym, just as they both know they won’t see each other later.

Fletch turns on the hot water tap full force. It runs into the tub, sending tendrils of steam skyward. Lost in thought, Fletch stares at his reflection in the wide mirror above the double sink until his features are swallowed up by the rising shroud of mist.

Chapter 3

“M
rs. Bailey?”

About to automatically correct the “Mrs.,” Paula looks up to see Mitch’s teacher standing in the doorway of the office waiting room and promptly changes her mind.

Sixtyish, with Barbara Bush white hair and pearls, an old-fashioned pastel wool dress, and a mouth that could be drawn as a thin, straight line if you tried to capture it on paper, Miss Bright is clearly disapproving as she looks Paula over. What’s her problem?

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Paula offers, aware of her own unapologetic tone, yet unable—unwilling—to change it as she rises from the bench where the school secretary directed her. “I’ve been covering a huge story and—”

“We won’t have much time to talk,” Miss Bright cuts in. “The children come back from gym class in five minutes. I had hoped to get more time than that with you.”

Paula shrugs. “I’m working today. It isn’t easy for me to get away.”

The teacher bobs her head in a gesture that could be perceived as a sort of nod, but not an understanding one. She gestures for Paula to follow her and leads the way down the hall, past rows of lockers decorated with various construction-paper motifs: autumn leaves, pumpkins, ships . . .

“Why are there cutouts of ships on those lockers?” Paula asks Mitch’s teacher because there is only the sound of their footsteps tapping down the hall and the silence is awkward.

“The Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria,” the teacher says simply.

“Oh, for Columbus Day.”

“This is our room,” the teacher announces, stopping at an open classroom door. She stands aside to let Paula through the door, then closes it behind her. She sits behind her desk. “Have a seat, Mrs. Bailey.”

“Actually, it’s Ms.,” Paula says as she perches on the only available chair, a child-size wooden ladder-back that’s beside the desk.

“Excuse me?”

“My name,” Paula clarifies. “I’m a
Ms
., not a
Mrs
. Mitch’s father and I are divorced.”

“I realize that.” Miss Bailey—not
Ms
.—purses small lips that are encrusted with an unfashionably pale mauve lipstick.

Why couldn’t Mitch have a different sort of teacher? Someone younger, more modern, less judgmental. His teacher last year, Ms. Richmond, had been right out of college. It didn’t seem to faze her that Paula was a divorced working mother. In fact Ms. Richmond was impressed by Paula’s journalism career.

Not Miss Bright, though, who’s treating Paula as though she’s been caught turning tricks down in Yonkers. Well, if she thinks Paula’s the least bit bothered by her attitude, she’s wrong.

Paula looks away, glancing around the classroom. Typical—small blond-wood desks with smaller chairs; a green chalkboard running the length of two walls, and windows the length of another; a piano in one back corner and a library table in the other; and plenty of student artwork by way of decor.

“Your son’s behavioral and academic problems seem to stem from the fact that he’s not getting what he needs at home, Mrs.—
Ms
.—Bailey.” Miss Bright folds her hands on the desk in front of her. The reporter in Paula notes that they’re as white as her hair, with transparent skin and blue veins. Her unpolished nails are short, filed into perfect, boring ovals.

On her desk is a red wooden apple emblazoned with the phrase “Teachers give the best hugs.” Paula tries, and fails, to imagine this woman hugging someone—anyone.

“What is it that you think he needs that I’m not giving him, Miss Bright?” Paula asks frostily.

“Time, Ms. Bailey,” is the straightforward reply. “He needs more of your time.”

“How do you know how much time I spend with my son?”

“I know that you didn’t help him with his fractions the night before last. I sent home a worksheet that was specifically supposed to be done with the help of a parent, and Mitchell brought his back incomplete. His explanation was that you weren’t home to help him. He tells me you were working.”

It’s Paula’s turn to purse her lips.

“Mitchell was the only student in the class not to bring in a lightbulb for the arts and crafts project we worked on this morning—”

“I didn’t know he needed one.”

“It was in the note I sent home with all the students last week. We’re making maracas as part of our lesson on Mexico.”

“We have a pair of maracas at home. Maybe Mitch can bring—”

“The point is, Ms. Bailey, that you obviously need to be more attentive to Mitchell’s needs.”

“Just because I didn’t know he needed a lightbulb for a project?” she asks in disbelief. This woman is too much.

“And the fractions worksheet. And many other small things this past week or two that add up to one thing, Ms. Bailey. Your son has needs that are being neglected. He’s acting out as a way of getting attention in the classroom, and I suspect that it’s because he isn’t getting it at home. I didn’t call you here to attack you—”

“You could’ve fooled me,” Paula mutters. She grips the edges of the seat with her hands, seething.

“Please calm down, Ms. Bailey.”

“I am calm,” she snaps.

“I think that if we work together, we can come up with some solutions so that you can help to steer Mitchell back on track. Believe me, we want the same thing, you and I. We want Mitchell to thrive and to succeed. I’m sending home another worksheet that you can work on with him tonight. And perhaps we could meet again, with his father next time, so that—”

“His father is out of the picture,” Paula interrupts.

The teacher raises her white eyebrows. “He is? But I thought—”

“He’s out of the picture,” she repeats.

“Mitchell talks about him as if—”

“As if what?” she cuts in, trying to quell the fury that rises in her gut.

“As if he sees his father often.”

“Well, he doesn’t. His father can’t be bothered with him.”

“In that case, Ms. Bailey, you have your work cut out for you.”

“Believe me, Miss Bright I’ve always had my work cut out for me. It isn’t easy raising a child single-handedly and moving forward in a competitive career like mine.”

“I’m sure it isn’t.”

“I’ve worked my butt off to get where I am.”

There’s a commotion in the hall—chattering voices, footsteps, locker doors slamming.

“The children are back from gym,” Miss Bright says. “We haven’t even begun to discuss the various ways in which Mitchell needs help. Perhaps you can come—”

“I’ve got it covered, Miss Bright,” Paula says grimly, rising and walking to the door.

“But we need to talk about—”

“I’ll take care of it Miss Bright.”

Knowing, and not caring, that it’s rude not to say goodbye and thank the teacher for her concern, she steps out into the hall and glances at the throng of third-graders waiting to come back into their classroom.

Mitch isn’t among them. Why not?

She grabs the arm of a freckle-faced blond kid who looks vaguely familiar. “Hey, you’re a friend of Mitch’s, aren’t you?”

“Mitch S. or Mitch B.?”

“Mitch B.”

“I used to be,” the kid replies, “until he stole my Pokemon card.”

“Until he stole . . .” Paula echoes, and shakes her head. What the hell is going on with Mitch? “Look, do you know where he is? Why isn’t he here with everyone else?”

“He had to stay after in gym.”

“Why?”

“ ’Cause he tripped some kid during the relay.”

Paula turns away, her heart pounding as she walks slowly down the hall, clutching her car keys in hands that are shaking in fury.

At Mitch . . .

At Miss Bright . . .

At Frank Ferrante . . .

Oh hell, at the entire world.

T
asha gingerly descends the steep basement stairs with a heaping laundry basket, thankful that Max is finally asleep.
He must be cutting a tooth
, she thinks, stepping around the double baby stroller with the broken wheel Joel has been planning to fix for months now.

Poor little Max. If it isn’t a tooth, something’s been making him cranky. Maybe he’s picking up on Tasha’s anxiety over Jane Kendall’s disappearance.

He wept so pitifully when she put him into his crib that she couldn’t bear to leave him there to fall asleep on his own. Joel would probably say she was spoiling him, but she had taken him out and sat in the rocker by the window, rocking him for almost an hour. Even then, he seemed a little fussy.

Finally, she gave him some Tylenol and put him back into the crib. He whimpered, but moments later he was silent, meaning either he finally wore himself out, or he really has been in pain from teething.

Now she has only Victoria to contend with for the next hour or so.

Victoria, and enough laundry to clothe an island nation.

She sorts it by color on the concrete basement floor, then stuffs all the towels she can fit into the washer. There are still half a dozen left over. When was the last time she did laundry? How does she manage to let household tasks like this get away from her these days?

There was a time when her every waking moment felt productive—when she sewed, wallpapered, and cooked dinners made from recipes in
The Joy of Cooking
. Now, she’s lucky if she has a minute to run into the bathroom and pee.

She dumps a capful of detergent into the washing machine, closes the lid, and pulls the knob.

Nothing happens.

Frowning, she pushes in the knob, then pulls it out again.

No accompanying sound of water pouring into the machine.

She opens the lid. Peers inside. Closes it. Pushes and pulls the knob again.

Nothing.

She hears pattering footsteps overhead, and then a voice calls down from the kitchen.

“Mommy?”

“What’s the matter, Victoria?”

“You said you would do my puzzle with me.”

“I will. In a minute.”

“What are you doing?” Victoria wants to know. Now she’s on the basement steps.

“Get back up there, Victoria. You only have socks on, and it’s dirty down here.”

“Well, when are you coming up to do my puzzle with me?”

“As soon as I figure out why the washing machine won’t start.” Tasha jiggles the plug, making sure it’s firmly inserted into the wall socket. It is.

Now what?

Why can’t this have happened when Joel is home?

Well, she can’t wait until he gets back tonight. Who knows when that will be?

She considers calling him at the office to ask, then quickly dismisses the idea. He still hasn’t returned the message she left this morning. He doesn’t even know that Jane Kendall is missing.

Well, when he calls back, she can tell him about that and about the broken washing machine.

But in the meantime, she’ll have to check the booklet that came with the machine when they bought it. She keeps all that stuff in a drawer upstairs. With a sigh she goes up the steps, hoping the booklet will have one of those troubleshooting charts and an easily remedied explanation for why the washing machine refuses to work.

Victoria is standing on the second step from the top. Her face is smeared with something brown.

“What is that?” Tasha scoops her up and sets her on her feet in the kitchen. “What did you get into?”

“Nothing,” Victoria says, swiping at her mouth with the sleeve of the white shirt she’s wearing under the pink overalls that are still spattered with dried juice stains from this morning.

Great. More stuff to wash in the machine that doesn’t work.

Tasha glances around, searching for the source of the mud-colored ooze her daughter is sporting. Her gaze falls on the fridge. The door is open. On the floor in front of it, a plastic bottle of Hershey’s chocolate syrup lies on its side, the contents pooled across the pale yellow linoleum.

“Victoria! What did you do?”

“You weren’t here, Mommy, and I was starving.”

“I
was
here, Victoria. I was downstairs for all of two minutes. If you were hungry you should have waited until I got back up here. Look at that mess.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Uh-huh.”

Victoria looks anything but sorry. Her lower lip is curled under in a “that’ll teach you to leave me alone” expression.

Tasha grabs the sponge from the sink and bends to wipe up the mess. She puts the bottle of chocolate syrup back into the fridge and closes the door.

Victoria promptly whines, “I wanted that.”

“Well, you can’t have it,” Tasha snaps.

Then, instantly feeling guilty, she softens her tone. “It’s just that you can’t eat that all by itself, Victoria.”

After all, it’s not her daughter’s fault that the washing machine won’t work or that Jane Kendall is missing or that somebody brought up Fletch Gallagher today.

“I’ll tell you what,” Tasha says, wetting a paper towel and gently wiping the chocolate smudges from her daughter’s face, “after I figure out what’s wrong with the washing machine, we’ll have some ice cream with chocolate syrup on top. Okay?”

Victoria seems to mull that over. “With whipped cream?”

“I don’t think we have whipped cream.”

“I want whipped cream.”

Tasha takes a deep breath. “Well, we don’t have any whipped cream. But,” she adds quickly when Victoria opens her mouth to protest, “we do have maraschino cherries.”

“I don’t like those.”

Don’t push me, kid
, Tasha thinks grimly.
Not today
.

Through clenched teeth she says, “Then you can just have sprinkles. Okay? You like sprinkles. Everybody likes sprinkles.”

“Okay,” Victoria says, unexpectedly breaking into a smile. “I love you, Mommy.”

“I love you, too, sweetie.” Tasha breathes a sigh of relief and pushes a black curl away from her daughter’s face.

Victoria looks so like her daddy, with the dark hair, intense features, and pale skin. But she doesn’t have his chestnut eyes or his mellow nature.

Her blue eyes are courtesy of Tasha. As for her intense personality—well, Tasha might not be as laid-back as Joel, but she certainly isn’t responsible for Victoria’s high-maintenance character. She probably has her mother-in-law to thank for supplying that particular trait to the family gene pool.