Puppet (37 page)

Minutes later, they step out of the elevator onto the twenty-fourth floor. “This way,” Amanda says, already halfway down the hall.

“Amanda, wait,” Ben calls after her. “Promise me you won’t go flying off the handle.”

She glances back over her shoulder without stopping. “I won’t be confrontational. I promise.”

“Just take things slow and easy.”

Amanda approaches the door to the Mallinses’ suite. “Don’t I always?”

“Shit,” she hears Ben mutter as she raises her hand to knock on the door.

“Mom,” a boy’s voice calls out from inside seconds later. “Someone’s here.”

Footsteps—halting, tentative. A woman’s voice—guarded, fearful. “Who is it?”

“It’s Amanda Travis, Mrs. Mallins. We talked the other day.…”

The door, secured by a brass chain, cracks open. A dark eye peers into the hallway, widens when it discovers Amanda isn’t alone. “Who’s this?”

“This is Ben Myers. He’s—”

“—representing the woman who shot my husband,” Hayley Mallins acknowledges.

“Could we come inside for a few minutes, Mrs. Mallins?” Amanda asks. “There are some things we need to discuss with you.”

“Such as?” The chain remains stubbornly in place.

“Such as this.” Amanda reaches into the pocket of her red parka, pulls out the picture of father and daughter, and holds it up to the crack in the door. The exposed eye widens further, fills with alarm. The door shuts in Amanda’s face.

“So much for taking things slow and easy,” Ben says.

“Sorry. I couldn’t help myself.” Amanda raises her hand, knocks determinedly on the door.

“Go away,” comes the immediate response.

“Mrs. Mallins … Hayley. Please …”

“Go away or I’ll call the police.”

“That’s fine,” Ben says loudly. “I think the police might be very interested in seeing this picture.”

A pause in which no one seems to breathe. Then the sound of a chain sliding out of its lock, a knob turning, a door opening. Hayley Mallins stands back to permit them entry.

“Way to go,” Amanda whispers admiringly to Ben as she steps over the threshold and takes a furtive glance around the room. The first thing she notices is that Hayley’s normally pale skin is now a ghostly white, as if she’s just emerged from a vat of bleach, and that the sleeves of her oversize, moss-green sweater cover all but the tips of her trembling fingers, the sweater hanging loose over a pair of baggy, brown corduroy pants, her hair falling like anemic dark threads around her chin. Everything about her looks tenuous. Even her features appear fluid, ready to slide from her face, as if she is melting. Amanda watches the woman as her eyes dart nervously toward the closed bedroom door to her left.
Don’t you think Victor deserves to know the truth?
a woman is demanding on the other side of the door.
Please
, another woman begs in return.
You don’t know what you’re doing.

Amanda recognizes the familiar voices from her once-favorite soap and finds fleeting reassurance that some things, at least, never change. Women have been keeping secrets from Victor from the beginning of time.
In the end, he always discovers the truth, and everybody pays dearly for their deceit. You’d think they’d learn. “How are the kids holding up?” she asks.

“They’re very anxious to get back to England.” Hayley’s fists clench and unclench inside the cuffs of her sweater. “What is it you want with me?”

“We found this picture in my client’s house. Do you have any idea what she might have been doing with it?” Ben asks, taking the photograph from Amanda and offering it to the other woman.

For a second, Hayley Mallins looks as if she might faint. She grabs on to the side of the nearest gold-and-red-striped chair and sinks into it slowly.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Mallins? Would you like some water?”

Hayley shakes her head, a hint of color slowly returning to her cheeks as she glances toward the picture, although her eyes refuse to linger. “What does it mean?”

“We were hoping you could tell us.”

Hayley stares into her lap, says nothing.

“We found something else,” Amanda says. “A number of bogus business cards.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Does the name Rodney Tureck mean anything to you?”

An audible intake of breath. The slight blush that had returned to Hayley’s cheeks quickly vanishes. “No. Nothing.”

“Let us tell you what we know,” Amanda says.

“I’m really not interested in what you
think
you know,” Hayley protests.

“We know that your husband’s name wasn’t John Mallins.”

“You’re wrong.”

“We know it was Rodney Tureck.”

“This is absurd.”

“You were right about your husband coming back to settle his mother’s estate,” Amanda continues, “but his mother’s name was Tureck, not Mallins.”

“Maybe she remarried. Did you think of that?”

“Did you know that your husband’s autopsy revealed he was ten to fifteen years older than he claimed, and that he’d had some cosmetic surgery on his face?”

“You’re lying.”

“Call the police. Ask them yourself.”

“I think you should leave now.”

“There’s something else we know,” Amanda says quickly.

“Something else you’re wrong about,” Hayley insists.

“We know your husband was no stranger to Gwen Price. In fact, we know they were once married.”

Hayley scrambles to her feet, her head shaking violently from side to side. “You’re out of your minds.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Is that what that woman told you? Because she’s either lying or she’s crazy. How could you possibly believe anything she says?”

“It’ll be easy enough to prove,” Ben tells her.

“I want you out of here. I want you out of here right now.”

The door to the bedroom opens. A young boy steps into the room, followed by his older sister, her hands resting nervously on his shoulders. They’re similarly
dressed in gray sweatshirts and jeans, and their eyes flit fearfully between their mother and her visitors. In the background, angry voices continue.
I can’t believe you let that woman into our home after everything she’s done.

“Hello, Hope, Spenser,” Amanda says.

“You remember Amanda Travis,” Hayley says politely, as if she’s reintroducing an old friend.

“This is Ben Myers, my—”

“—associate,” Ben says quickly, offering his hand. “How are you holding up?”

“Is something wrong?” Hope asks her mother, ignoring both Ben and Amanda. “We could hear you arguing above the telly.”

“Everything’s fine, darling. These people were just leaving.”

“We just need a few more minutes of your mother’s time,” Ben says.

“It doesn’t look like she wants to give you any more minutes,” Spenser tells him, breaking away from his sister to stand between his mother and her unwelcome guests.

“Spenser …,” Amanda begins.

“Go away or we shall be forced to contact the authorities.”

Amanda almost smiles, wondering if it’s the young boy’s clipped British accent or the formality of his phrasing that makes him sound so mature.

“It’s all right, Spenser.” Hayley’s smile is filled with motherly pride. “I can handle this. You and Hope go back to your program.”

Hope’s body sways toward the bedroom.
Victor’s responsible for this, and you know it.
“You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

“Positive. I’ll be in straightaway.”

Hope nods, signaling for her brother to follow her with a cock of her head. Spenser crosses one arm over the other, widens his stance, refuses to budge.

“I’m fine,” Hayley Mallins assures her son again. “I can manage here. Go on now, Puppet.”

And then the blood rushes into Amanda’s ears, and the room explodes into silence.

“W
HAT
did you say?” Amanda says when she can find her voice.

Spenser takes a step back, clearly frightened by Amanda’s tone.

“What’s the matter?” Hayley asks, sensing a shift in the air, looking warily toward Ben.

“Spenser,” Ben says. “Why don’t you go with your sister.” This is an obvious directive and not a request.

“Go on, love,” his mother urges.

“I don’t want to go.”

“Please, darling. It’s all right. I promise.”

Still the boy hesitates. “You’ll scream if you need help?”

“I assure you that won’t be necessary,” Ben says as Amanda fights the urge to start screaming herself.

Reluctantly the boy sways from his mother’s side and creeps toward the bedroom door.

“What did you call him?” Amanda asks, walking briskly after him and closing the door behind him.

“I don’t understand,” Hayley stammers, her eyes appealing to Ben for help.

“You called him Puppet.”

“Yes. I suppose. Why?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t understand. It’s just a nickname.”

“Not just a nickname.”

“I’m afraid I’m not following.”

Amanda takes a few seconds to regain her composure. Is it possible that Puppet is a more common nickname than she thought? That it is on a par with Pumpkin and Sweetie? That it transcends countries and cultures? That Hayley’s easy use of it is merely a remarkable coincidence? Is that possible? “My mother used to call me that,” Amanda says, “when I was a toddler.”

“Really?” Hayley’s voice is so low in her throat it’s barely audible. “Well, I suppose it’s not that uncommon.”

“I think it is,” Amanda says, answering her own earlier questions.

“Well …,”Hayley says, then offers nothing further.

“When I was little, I used to love puppets … marionettes … whatever you want to call them. And my mother used to hold my hands and dangle me from her fingertips, and she’d say, ‘Puppet, Puppet …’ ”

Hayley’s skin goes from pale to cadaverous. “ ‘Who’s my little puppet?’ ” she whispers, as the two women lock eyes, the shallowness of their breathing echoing one another’s. It fills the room like the shuffling noises of a drum. “Who
are
you?”

“My name is Amanda Travis,” Amanda says slowly, carefully measuring out each word. She pauses, not for dramatic effect, but because she finds herself dangerously short of breath. “Gwen Price is my mother.”

Hayley stumbles back against the nearest chair, her
hand reaching for her chest. “Mandy?” The word emerges as a gasp for air.

Amanda feels every hair lift from her body, as if she just stepped on a live wire.

“My God.” Hayley’s eyes widen to take in every detail of Amanda’s face. “I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection.”

Amanda inches forward. “What connection?”

Hayley takes a few seconds to respond, her glance darting between Amanda and the door to the hallway, as if she is considering trying to escape. “I only knew you as Mandy. My God. You don’t remember me?”

“Should I?”

Hayley shakes her head, her eyes refusing to settle. “No, of course you wouldn’t. You were just a baby the last time I saw you.”

“Who the hell are
you?”
Amanda asks, throwing the other woman’s question back at her.

“Your mother didn’t tell you?”

Amanda shakes her head. “Who
are
you?” she asks again.

Hayley hesitates, looks toward the window, as if searching for answers in the bright lights of the surrounding city. Then, quietly, haltingly: “My name was Hayley Walsh.”

“Walsh?”

“I lived next door to you on Palmerston.”

Amanda sees a giant walrus of a man smirking at her from the middle of the shared driveway between the two homes. “Old Mr. Walsh’s daughter?”

“I used to babysit you when you were little. I called you my little puppet because you were so crazy about those damn dolls.”

“That was you who carried me around the house?”

“ ‘Puppet, puppet. Who’s my little puppet?’ ” Hayley
repeats, tears suddenly spilling from her eyes to stain her ashen cheeks. She stares at Amanda as if she is preparing to swallow her whole.

Amanda walks over to the sofa, sinks into its soft pillows, fighting the desire to lie down, fall into a deep sleep. It occurs to her that everything that is happening is a dream, and that if she simply brings her feet up and closes her eyes, this whole surreal episode will vanish as soon as she reopens them. Slowly, she allows her eyes to close. When she reopens them seconds later, Hayley Mallins is still there, lowering herself into the nearest chair, her knuckles growing white as she grips the armrest. “I don’t remember Mr. Walsh having a daughter,” Amanda says finally, reluctantly accepting the reality of her situation, and trying to make sense of these latest revelations.

“No, of course you wouldn’t. You were so young when I left.”

“Left?”

“Ran off,” Hayley corrects.

“You ran off? Why? Where did you go?”

Hayley lowers her head, stares into her lap. “To England.” Her breath quivers into the stillness of the room. “With Rodney Tureck.”

It takes Amanda several seconds to absorb what she has just heard. “I don’t understand,” she says finally, looking toward Ben. “How would you have met Rodney Tureck? My mother wasn’t married to him when she lived on Palmerston. She was married to my father.”