The Last to Know (7 page)

Which reminds her: there was a message from Ruth on the answering machine when she got back from Starbucks earlier. She and Joel’s father, Irv, want to come over on Saturday—
“if it’s all right with you, Tasha.”
She always makes a big point of asking permission, as though she assumes her son and grandchildren will welcome a visit anytime, and it’s only her daughter-in-law potentially standing in the way of a happy get-together.

Yeah, right. As though Tasha has ever told them not to come.

In fact, in the early days of her marriage, she was the one who insisted to Joel that they see his parents every week. With her own family so far away, she had done her best to nurture the relationship with her husband’s family. She used to go all out, cooking and cleaning for their visits, making sure that they had the Cel-ray tonic Irv drinks, and Sweet ’N Low for Ruth’s tea. But after a while, when it became clear that her in-laws weren’t going to like her no matter what she did, she stopped knocking herself out.

Now, when Ruth and Irv come over, they go out to eat, or get take-out.

Of course, that doesn’t thrill the in-laws any more than Tasha’s homemade latkes and rugelach ever did. Last time they came, Tasha went to the kosher deli over in Mount Kisco to get a cold-cut platter and some rice pudding.

“Oh, you have seeded rye,” Joel’s mother said when she picked up a piece of bread to make a sandwich.

“Don’t you like seeded rye, Ruth?” Far be it from Tasha to call her “Mom.” Ruth had never asked her to, and she had never dared offer.

“No, I buy the seedless. I always have. Joel only likes seedless,” she said resolutely.

Naturally, Joel, who had one eye on the Yankees game, hadn’t heard her. Or maybe he pretended not to so that he wouldn’t have to tell his mother that he does, indeed, like seeded rye—and that he was, in fact, the one who bought it that day at the bakery. . . .

“Mommy?”

“Yes?” Tasha asks absently, looking down at her daughter.

“Why do you look so mad?”

“Do I look mad?” She tries to smile. “I’m not mad, Victoria. I’m just thinking about something.”

“About what?”

“Never mind. You know what? Let’s have that ice cream now. We can deal with everything later.”

“What do we have to deal with?”

Tasha hesitates. “Just . . . oh, a bunch of yucky stuff, Victoria. Be glad you’re only three.”

“Why?”

“Because when you’re three, you don’t have to deal with yucky stuff.”

“I do so. There’s a lot of yucky stuff. Like when Max poops and—”

“That’s not what I meant,” Tasha says, grinning. “Come on, let’s make a couple of big sundaes.”

S
atisfied that the kids are absorbed by the Winnie the Pooh video she just started for them, Rachel goes into the kitchen and picks up the phone.

She dials a familiar number, then, as it rings, pulls a pack of Salems from her purse. She puts it back just as quickly, realizing that if she lights one here in the house, Ben will sniff it out and realize she’s smoking again. He’ll eventually figure it out, of course, but she doesn’t want him to realize it before the end of next week, when they leave for their long weekend in the Abaco Islands, just the two of them—her reward for kicking the habit.

Again the phone rings on the other end of the line. Rachel walks over to the counter and squirts some rose-scented lotion from a white porcelain dispenser into the palm of her hand.

There’s a third ring as she starts rubbing it in, the receiver cradled between her ear and her shoulder. Her hands are starting to look chapped after a day of diaper changing and raw, rainy weather.

“Hello?” a masculine voice says, picking up on the other end.

“Hi.” Rachel pauses. “Is this Jeremiah?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Jeremiah, my name is Rachel Leiberman. I live down the street, in the white house with black shutters.”

“Which one?”

Is the kid being a smart-ass, or is the question sincere? It’s hard to tell.

Giving him the benefit of the doubt, she chuckles and says, “I know, they all kind of look alike, don’t they?”

“Kind of. I mean, I know there are a couple of white houses with black shutters up that way—”

“We’re number forty-eight. End of the block. The one with the basketball hoop and the three-car garage.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, and it isn’t clear if he knows which house she means—not that it matters. He’ll figure it out.

“I was wondering if you’d be interested in doing a little babysitting for me,” Rachel says. “Our nanny just quit”—
well, actually, firing her will be the next phone call I make
—“and I’m kind of stuck for someone to watch my kids until I find a replacement.”

“Well, uh, I have school—”

“I can work around your school schedule. I can pay you whatever the going rate is.”

“I have no idea. I don’t really babysit much. I mean, ever. But—”

“How about if I give you twelve bucks an hour, then.”

“Twelve bucks an hour?” he echoes, stunned. “That would be
great
.”

“Good. Can you come tomorrow?”

“After school?”

“At around dinner time. If you’re available.”

“I’m available,” he says quickly.

“And I would need you to stay until later in the evening. My husband is working.”

“That’s okay.”

“Wonderful. Is there anything you want to know before I hang up?”

“I guess. I mean, uh, are your kids . . .”

He trails off, clearly not sure what to ask. Rachel helps him out. “Noah is thirteen months, and Mara is four. My husband is a pediatrician and he has office hours several evenings a week, to accommodate working parents.”

“And you work evenings, too?”

“Me? No. I don’t work. But I have an . . . appointment.”

In the background, on Jeremiah’s end, she hears another voice asking him who’s on the phone.

“Just a second,” Jeremiah says to her, and then there’s a muffled sound as he apparently covers the receiver with his hand. His words are still clearly audible. “It’s some lady from down the street Uncle Fletch. She says she wants me to babysit tomorrow.”

“
Babysit?
” Rachel hears Fletch Gallagher repeat.

“Uh, y-yeah,” Jeremiah tells him. Rachel notes the stutter. She can practically see him squirming. She can just imagine the look on his uncle’s face.

“What lady from down the street?” Rachel hears him ask.

“W-what did you s-say your n-name was?” Jeremiah asks, taking his hand off the receiver.

“Leiberman,” Rachel says, squirting more lotion into her palm and swirling it in a circular motion into her skin. “Rachel Leiberman.”

Jeremiah repeats her name for his uncle.

“No problem,” Fletch Gallagher says.

“M-my uncle s-says it’s fine with h-him,” Jeremiah reports to Rachel.

“Good,” she says, her mouth curving into a small smile. “Then we have a date.”

“I
’ll make this as easy on you as possible, Ms. Armstrong,” the burly detective says gruffly. He’s a short, round man whose face is damp with perspiration even though it’s drafty in the room. “Are you ready?”

Margaret nods, seated across from him in the small back parlor of her sister’s house. They’ve all taken a turn in this chair: Owen, his parents, the housekeeper, and now her. The police want to question absolutely everyone who might be able to shed light on Jane’s disappearance.

“First off, did your sister have any enemies that you are aware of?”

Margaret shakes her head. She gazes at the white-painted molding surrounding the brick fireplace, her eyes tracing the ornately carved swirling pattern.

“So you can’t think of anyone who might want to hurt her?”

“No.”

“How did she spend her time?”

“Taking care of Schuyler,” she answers readily. “I mean, that’s what I assume.”

“Were you close to her?”

She considers the question. “I live about a half hour away from here.”

“That isn’t what I mean, Ms. Armstrong. I mean your relationship—were you close?”

“We saw each other every couple of weeks or so.” She shifts her weight in the chair and it creaks beneath her.

It’s old—a Chippendale.

She remembers when Jane bought it—bought all the furniture for this room, in fact, on an antiquing trip to Vermont with Owen. She was so excited to show Margaret everything they purchased, spilling over with details about their trip. She went on and on about the shops, the inn where they stayed, and the restaurants where they ate. Then she confided that while they were away, they decided it was time to try and conceive a baby. “Maybe I’m pregnant now and don’t even know it!” Jane exclaimed.

Even now, two years later, Margaret still can’t shake the vivid images those words brought to her mind. Jane and Owen, snuggled in a four-poster bed in some quaint New England Inn, making love. . . .

“Ms. Armstrong?”

“Yes?” She drags her attention back to the present.

“Do you feel all right? You look pale. Upset.”

“I’m fine.” She sips from the glass of water the detective insisted be placed on the table near her before they started talking. As though he expected her to have a difficult time with the interview.

Determined to prove him wrong, she sets the glass back on the table and lifts her chin. “You can go on, Detective.”

And he does. Asking question after question about Jane.

Then, unexpectedly, when she decides he must be finished, he says, “How would you describe your sister’s relationship with her husband?”

Startled, Margaret is silent for a moment. Then, searching for the right words, she tells the detective, “Their marriage was successful.”

“Happy?”

“Yes.” Yes, damn it. Yes, Owen was happy with Jane. He was in love with Jane.

And Jane . . .

You never gave yourself completely to him, did you?
Margaret silently asks her sister, bitterness seeping in.
You never loved him completely, the way he deserved to be loved. You always held some part of yourself back from him. I could see it. He had to see it, too.

What had Jane done to deserve Owen? What had she done to deserve any of the blessings fate—and their parents—had bestowed upon her?

As for Margaret . . .

Where are her blessings?

When will her turn come?

Maybe sooner than she thinks.

And maybe never.

“Is there anything else you want to add, Ms. Armstrong?” the detective asks, zapping her back to the present again.

“Just that this is very difficult for our family. I hope you’ll do all you can to find my sister,” Margaret says stiffly before fleeing from the room.

A
pproaching the red-brick mansion for the second time that day, Paula sees that the crowd has swelled. There are news vans from all the networks, curious locals, police officers. It’s a circus, and she’s lost her prime spot at the fence, thanks to the infuriating Miss Bright and a quick detour to the local diner to gobble a bagel and see if the lunch crowd might yield anything or anyone interesting. Nothing but a bunch of regulars, mostly retirees and construction worker types speculating on what could have possibly happened to Jane Kendall.

Paula pushes past a reporter doing a live update on camera and a group of teenagers who have been confronted for truancy by a police officer. She peers around several heads and sees that there’s no sign of life in the house beyond the iron fence.

“Has the family made any kind of statement yet?” she asks a nearby reporter who’s scribbling furiously in a notebook.

The woman shakes her head, not lifting her eyes from the page of notes. “There are rumors about a police press conference tonight. Not confirmed, though.”

Tonight. According to Miss Bright, Mitchell will be bringing home another fractions worksheet to be done with Paula’s help.
Tonight
.

Well, if there’s a press conference, she’ll have to drop him off at Blake’s house again. Blake’s mother can help him with the fractions.

That isn’t exactly what Miss Bright had in mind.

But what can I do? This is my job
, she tells herself, staring at the opulent home across the sweeping expanse of pure green lawn. When she called the managing editor at the office earlier to check in, he offered to send another reporter to take over if she couldn’t handle it.

“Why wouldn’t I be able to handle it?” she asked him shrilly.

“I know you have your son to worry about, Paula, and your other stories. This is huge, and time-consuming, and—”

“It’s mine, Tim,” she said firmly. “I was the first one to scoop it.” Just as she was the first to scoop the Gallagher fire last summer on North Street. Her article landed on the front page with a byline, at last giving her a taste of something beyond the social and civic beat they’d had her covering for far too long.

“I’ve busted my butt here all day,” she told Tim. “Don’t worry. I’ll make my other deadlines. But I’m not giving up on this. You’re right. This is huge. And I’m on top of it.”

He agreed, but she could hear the reluctance in his voice.

Covering this disappearance might be the most important thing I will ever do in my life
, she thinks, clenching her hands into fists at the memory of that conversation.
It’s my chance to make a name for myself, maybe break out of this small-time reporting and get the recognition I deserve, maybe make enough money to hire a lawyer who can get Frank the hell off my back. . . .

She stares at the house, again thinking of the woman she glimpsed getting out of a cab earlier this afternoon. Where has she seen her before? The answer flutters at the edge of her consciousness, just out of reach.

“Paula!”

She turns to see an elderly man in a cream-colored windbreaker, a matching fishing hat planted squarely on his gray head. It takes her a moment to recognize him as one of her father’s former local cronies, from the days when he was still going for coffee every morning down at the diner.

“Hello, Mr. Mieske.” It’s all she can do to sound friendly. The old man is a busybody.

“How’s your dad?”