The Mirror and the Mask (12 page)

 

 

 

S
usan held up a real estate flyer, examining both the front and the back. “This is good. Makes the house look walk-in ready.” Her attention shifted to one of the agents walking past her office door. “Hey, Jerry,” she called, smiling.

Kristjan sat on the other side of the desk. They'd already established the ground rules. The door to her office would remain open. They would talk quietly, and when anyone came past or needed to speak with Susan, they'd be all business.

“Barbara's in a bad way,” Kristjan continued, looking wrung out, dark circles under his eyes. “When her boss called her into his office late yesterday afternoon, she had no idea she was about to get the boot. She cried on and off most of the night.”

“You haven't had much sleep.”

He shook his head.

Susan hadn't slept much either. She'd tossed and turned all night, alternately excited and appalled by what, it seemed, she was about
to do. As the morning light dawned, she was in possession of a rock-solid plan, but she needed Kristjan's help to make it work.

When the phone rang, it startled them both.

Susan looked over at the caller ID and saw that it was Jack. Pulling off her earring, she picked up the receiver. “Hi, honey.”

“Listen, Suze,” came his rumbling voice. “I've been thinking about last night. I know you don't want to hear this, but we have to face facts. It's not working for us anymore.”

She got up, turned her back on Kristjan, and looked out through the window blinds at the parking lot. “Honey, I thought we settled all that. Just give it some time.”

“I was thinking about talking to a lawyer.”

“No.
Please
. Let's talk first. You owe me that much.”

He didn't reply.

“Jack, you've got to promise me. You won't speak to anyone until we've had a chance to talk this out. If I can't change your mind, then fine. I won't stop you.”

He said nothing for several more seconds. “I'll be at a work site all day, home around seven. We can talk then. Just don't expect a miracle.”

“I'll see you tonight.” She hung up, then turned around and sat back down.

“What was all that about?” Kristjan asked, eyeing her warily.

Keeping her voice low, she said, “Jack wants a divorce.”

“Jesus, when did that happen?”

“Last night. But it's okay. I've got everything all figured out.”

His gaze turned skittish, evasive. “Susan, I don't know. I can't leave Barbara when she doesn't have a penny to support herself, when she's so down.”

“I'll help you with money; that's not a problem.”

“You don't get it. It
is
for me.”

“Keep your voice down.”

He looked over his shoulder. “I've had some time to think. This just . . . it's not right.”

“Every minute that goes by I'm even more certain that it is the right thing to do.”

“People around here are putting two and two together. Randi Malone told me this morning that the other agents are starting to talk. She asked me if there was any truth in it—that we were having an affair. What's it going to look like if Jack dies suddenly? The police will be all over us.”

“Not if we do it fast, before Jack talks to a lawyer, and not if we do it right, make sure it looks like an accident.”

“But . . . what about Barbara? She's so fragile. I can't leave her. It isn't just the money.”

Now she was getting angry. “Come on. You don't love her. You haven't loved her for years. You stay with her because it's easier than getting a divorce.”

“Honestly, I'm not sure how I feel.”

Another agent walked by the office, glanced inside.

“Hey, Dan.” She plastered on a quick smile.

Dan stopped, stood just outside in the hallway. “You two look cozy.”

Susan held up the flyer. “Kristjan's got a buyer that's on the fence. We're trying to come up with some strategies to make it work.”

“Sure,” said Dan, giving her a wink. “Good luck, Kristjan.”

Kristjan didn't turn around, just held up his hand. “Thanks.”

Dan moved on.

“See,” hissed Kristjan. “He knows. They all do.”

“You're just being paranoid.”

Through gritted teeth, he said, “I think I have a right to my paranoia. My future's at stake. I don't want to spend it in prison.”

She pushed back from her desk, crossed her legs in an effort to look less shaken. “So you're backing out?”

“I'm sorry.”

“You're weak.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I'm just not as ruthless as you are. You want too much, Susan. You always have.”

Her world was swollen like a boil about to burst and here he was, sitting across from her, completely useless. “Are you telling me you don't love me anymore?”

“Not enough to help you commit murder.”

She felt suddenly cold all over.

“Let him divorce you. You'll get something out of it. And then you can move on. You're still young, still attractive.”

“Are you saying we're finished?”

“It's for the best.”

Morning sunlight stretched in through the blinds and sliced a pattern of lines across her desk. If she was the kind of person who believed in prophetic signs, she might have seen them as prison bars. But Susan was a realist. The lines were nothing but shadows.

Standing up, she handed the flyer back to him. She spoke more loudly now. “Good luck with the house.”

He rose uncertainly. “You're not going to follow through on this, are you? Susan? Are you?”

She was dying inside but refused to let him see it. She should have known that a man with such mild manners would, in the end, prove to be mild clear through. “Close the door on your way out,” she said, sitting back down and turning her attention to her computer screen.

 

 

 

L
ate that afternoon, Annie was in her car traveling west along I-94, with Dooley snoring softly in the passenger's seat, when her cell phone rang. She dug it out of her coat pocket and clicked it on.

Even before she said hello, she heard: “Annie? Are you there? Jesus, answer your goddamn phone.”

“Curt?”

“There's no pulse. I felt . . . but . . . so I—” His voice moved in and out.

“You're breaking up. Who doesn't have a pulse? Where are you?”

“In Still . . . at my . . . ents' place.”

“
Who's
not breathing?”

“Mom. She's . . . and blood all over her. It's freakin' unbe . . . all over the stairs. All over me.”

Annie roared off at the next exit and pulled to a stop along the edge of a service road. “Have you called the police?”

“No. I should. I will. She's got all . . . cuts from the glass . . . her eyes—”

“You're saying she's dead?”

“Yes!”

“Call 911. I'm only a few minutes away. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

“Hurry. I am
freaking out
.”

 

Annie parked in the driveway between Curt's red BMW and a white Jaguar sedan that she assumed must belong to his mom. Before leaving her car, she folded the sleeping bag over Dooley and gave him one of his favorite toys.

The front door was unlocked. Curt sat slumped on a wood bench in the foyer, his head in his hands, the front of his yellow oxford shirt covered with large red blotches. As soon as he saw her, he jumped up and threw his arms around her, gripping her hard. She could feel his heart beat like an out-of-control metronome.

“You okay?” she asked, backing up, still holding on to his arms.

“Not even in the same world as okay.”

“Have you called 911?”

“What? No, not yet.”

“Why not? You've got to call them. Now.”

She waited, watching his hands shake, hearing the fear in his voice.

When he was done, he led her through the living room to a hallway in the center of the house. He was unsteady on his feet, moving in a jerky way, nearly knocking over a lamp. He stopped in front of a stairway.

Halfway down, the blood appeared on the steps. Just a small spatter at first. Annie stepped in front of him to get a better look. “Are those your footprints?” she asked, glancing down at his running shoes.

“I guess,” he said, sounding dazed.

At the base of the steps lay the redheaded woman she'd seen last
night through the window. She wore gray sweatpants and an orange flowered tank top. She was lying on her back, one leg bent at an odd angle underneath her, one arm flung out to the side, her body a mass of jagged cuts. Glass shards and cut flowers littered the steps and the floor around the body.

“Listen to me carefully,” said Annie, turning around. “This is important. How did you get blood on you?”

He looked down at himself, pinched his shirt away from his stomach. “I . . . I turned her over when I checked her pulse. That must have been it. There's no way I
couldn't
have gotten blood on me.” He was close to hyperventilating.

“Right. That makes sense. She must have been headed downstairs holding a vase of flowers when . . . she tripped. See, she's wearing flip-flops.” There was no sign of a weapon, or of any foul play. “Were you in the house when she fell?”

“No. I just got here. I was on my way to the family room downstairs when I found her.”

“I thought you had some sort of meeting this afternoon.”

“I met with my adviser, but it didn't last long. I like to play pool when I need to think. That's why I drove out here.”

Annie wasn't sure what to believe. She didn't understand why she had to push him to call 911. For a fraction of a second, she wondered if he was trying out a story on her to see if it would wash. But she decided instead that he had to be in shock. People in shock didn't think clearly or react normally.

She pulled him away from the stairs and into the living room. “Have you checked the house? Are we the only people here?”

He nodded.

“You should call John. I mean, Jack. And your sister. They need to know what's happened.”

He sank down on the couch. He'd been so hyper up until now. As he removed the phone from his back pocket one more time, it was as
if a heavy weight was pressing down on him, causing every motion—even the blink of his eyes—to slow.

 

While Curt led the paramedics downstairs, Annie roamed the first floor. She'd never seen a dead person before and couldn't sit still. She'd heard people say that the dead simply looked peaceful, as if they were sleeping. Another piece of bullshit to add to her growing list. Susan's eyes were open and staring, but empty. And far from looking peaceful, the expression on her face could only be described as frozen terror. Annie was afraid she'd be haunted by that expression for the rest of her life.

To get her mind off what was happening on the floor below, she turned her thoughts to Johnny. Meeting him like this would be problematic. She considered taking off, telling Curt she had something she needed to do back in Minneapolis. She fought with herself for several minutes about it but concluded that she couldn't leave him alone. For some reason, he seemed to need her.

Annie jumped when the doorbell rang. Jack would have his own key, so it had to be someone else. Heading back through the living room, she heard voices in the front hallway. A uniformed cop with dark hair and a buzz cut rushed past her and charged down the steps. Another one, taller with curly hair, stood with his back to her, talking to Curt. The two of them spoke for a few seconds and then started for the stairway. When the cop saw her, he stopped.

“Who's she?”

“My girlfriend,” said Curt, eyeing her cautiously.

“It was . . . a horrible accident,” said Annie, moving over to Curt, taking hold of his hand.

“Don't either of you leave,” said the cop. “My partner and I will need to ask you both some questions. The ME will be here shortly.”

Annie didn't like the sound of that. She waited in the hallway with
Curt until the cop disappeared down the steps. “Did the EMTs call them?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“It was an unattended death, which means it has to be treated as suspicious.” He motioned for her to follow him into the kitchen.

“What did the paramedics say?” she asked, easing down on a stool next to the island. The kitchen was bigger than her entire apartment.

“Not much. They mostly talked to each other.”

“Did you reach your sister? Or Jack?”

He spoke more calmly now. “Jack didn't answer, so I left a message. But I couldn't tell my sister what happened over the phone. She has to hear it in person. I asked her to come home ASAP. I'll stay here as long as I need to so I can tell her myself.”