Authors: S.W. Hubbard
Am I shocked? I poke and prod and decide this new wound looks a lot worse than it feels. The letter confirms what I’ve suspected, deep in my heart, since childhood: my mother chose to leave me.
Then my heart rate kicks up as the hologram dissolves to yet another image of my father’s suicide. Guilt. If my mother left this letter for my dad, then I was never in the car with her that night. I didn’t run her over.
I push myself to my feet, pace to the window and back. He killed her. He must have. And when I got close to the truth, he told me this terrible, terrible lie. And felt so guilty he killed himself. I snatch up the phone and dial the hospital. The doctor is gone, but the nurse tells me there’s no change. My father is still unconscious, but stable.
I sit on the floor stroking Ethel’s head as the daylight slowly slips away. Who knows how much time passes as I twist and turn the pieces of the puzzle, looking for the pattern to emerge?
I’ve been assuming Mrs. Szabo acquired my mother’s ring the same way she got all the other deposits in her larcenous 401k. But the presence of the ring
and
the letter in this trunk changes that key variable in the equation. She didn’t steal my mother’s ring by chance, when an opportunity presented itself. She had both items for a reason, and cleverly hid like items with like items: the ring among her stolen jewels and the letter among her own valuable papers. Someone gave them to her. Maybe that’s why she was so anxious to get to the trunk in her attic. She wasn’t worried about the stolen jewelry being found; she was worried about this.
Why?
Whoever broke into my apartment to search this trunk was looking for the letter, because he knew the ring had been found.
Who?
I can’t get all the pieces to fit together; some are missing, for sure. But of one thing I’m sure: Agnes Szabo knew someone in my mother’s love triangle.
I have to find out the identity of this other man. Jude, my father said his name was. Is it too late to call the Van Houten Group and demand a search of their personnel files? Or at least talk to Reid himself and twist his arm? I dial 411, but as the computerized voice demands, “City and state” my gaze rests on the Princeton yearbook on the table. Spencer, Roger and Charlotte were friends in 1968.
The phone slips from my fingers.
Jude…Judas.
A rare burst of metaphor from the mathematician. Dad was betrayed by his friend.
Spencer
was
my mother’s lover, yet my father lied about this too.
Why?
I can’t talk to my father, but I sure as hell can talk to Spencer. I reach for the phone again. Then drop it again. What the hell am I thinking? Spencer’s not an ordinary citizen. He’s walled off behind a cordon of reporters, security guards and lawyers. And Coughlin has specifically forbidden me to talk to any Finnerans.
Not that I ever listen to Coughlin.
I have to talk to Cal about this. There’s no other way. He’ll help me get in touch with Spencer. He has to—he knows how much this means to me. I have to know, once and for all, what really happened that night. Once I know, I can let it go. I can.
I think.
I leave an incoherent message on Cal’s voicemail, talking so fast I know I must sound like Jill on meth. I babble on about the letter and the trunk and Agnes and Spencer and my dad, and when the phone beeps and cuts me off, I call back and babble some more, ending with, “Call me as soon as you get this.”
Then I begin to pace, Ethel right at my heels. A peek out the front window reveals the vultures still on their roost. “C’mon, baby—we’ll sneak out the back again. I know it’s not much of a walk, but it’s the best I can offer right now.”
I triple check to make sure I have my phone, then Ethel and I head out.
I’m in no mood to deal with reporters right now, so I keep a sharp eye peeled as Ethel and I step off the condo pathway onto the sidewalk. The street is empty except for one parked car. Ethel and I set off in the opposite direction. As soon as she does her business, I turn and head back. A head of me, a man steps out of the parked car and stands waiting by the pathway into my development.
I sigh. Damn reporter. At least he doesn’t look too imposing, and I do have Ethel. My hand tightens on her leash as I prepare to push past him.
“I’m Brian Bascomb.”
I stop and stare.
Megan the speech therapist told me Brian Bascomb was “cute.” I have to question her judgment. Cute is not the adjective that leaps to mind here; awkward is more like it. A little taller than me and probably not a pound heavier, Brian wears faded jeans that cling to his skinny butt through sheer willpower. He’s got a mop of unruly, dirty blond curls, deep-set brown eyes and a slightly beaky nose. Definitely not the hunky Brian Bascomb I found on Facebook. I laugh slightly.
“What’s funny?’
I shake my head, thinking of my preposterous belief that Brian was my long-lost half-sibling. He’s just a standard-issue math whiz, the kind of geeky boy who sat next to me in Calc III or Tensor Analysis all through college.
He shoves his hands deep in his jeans pockets and looks down at his battered running shoes. “I need to talk to you.”
I can see that talking to strangers, particularly strangers who are women, is torture for the poor kid, and I take pity. “Walk along with Ethel and me.”
His head jerks up. “That’s Ethel? I thought she was lost. Your dad was really upset.”
“She was, for five days. But my…my boyfriend found her. Out by Manor View—isn’t that amazing?”
Brian shoots a quick glance at me before dropping his gaze back to the ground. He speaks in a rapid monotone. “That guy you’ve been dating, the one who works for Spencer Finneran, your dad doesn’t like him. He’s worried about you. He told me—”
I come to a quick halt, jerking poor Ethel who’s trotting ahead. “Who
are
you? How is it that he tells you so much when I can’t get him to tell me a freakin’ thing?”
“I was his student at Rutgers and now I’m getting my PhD at Princeton. I used to come to see your dad at his office to toss ideas around for my dissertation. After he had the stroke, I came to see him at Manor View. That’s when he first asked me to help him.” Brian shifts from foot to foot in the freezing evening air. “It’s up to me to look out for you. It’s what he’d want me to do.”
I look at this strange, scrawny person bobbing in front of me. What in God’s name is he talking about? “My father would want
you
to look after
me
?”
Brian nods vigorously. “Ever since you found that ring he’s been worried. He asked me to keep an eye on you, and to find out some things for him.”
“Keep an eye on me?” I glance over his shoulder to the street and notice that his car is small and gray with a dented front bumper. “You’re the person who’s been following me? You’re the one who stole the yearbook I found! He sent you to spy on me because he was afraid I was going to find out the truth about my mother!”
“He wanted to protect you from knowing the truth about her accident. He only told me after you already knew.”
I reel Ethel in closer to me for comfort. Grabbing Brian’s arm with my other hand, I give him a little push. “Everything he told you is bullshit. I didn’t kill my mother, he murdered her. And now he’s tried to commit suicide because he can’t face the truth coming out.”
Brian shakes his head furiously, making his curls fly like a feather duster.
“I was with him when he found out about the fire. He was scared, really scared and really worried about you. He told me you were in danger. He didn’t try to kill himself. I know he didn’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
He holds his head up straight, his awkwardness slipping away. “Because I
know
him. He just isn’t capable of that. And he sure isn’t capable of murder.”
I look at Brian’s intense eyes. It must be nice to enjoy such certainty. Too bad I don’t share his conviction. “Frankly, I have no idea what my father is or isn’t capable of.”
“Trust your father, Audrey. He cares about you.”
I snort and pivot away from him, dragging Ethel after me. “Get away from me, Brian. Go sit by my father’s bedside. And if he happens to wake up, tell him I found the letter. Tell him I know the truth.”
Striding away from Brian Bascomb, my heart pounds and my lungs burn as if I’d just run a four minute mile. I feel muddled and unsteady. My poor brain, simultaneously deprived of oxygen and overloaded with information, is barely able to command my legs to walk. As Ethel pulls me across the courtyard toward home, my cellphone rings. Cal, at last!
“I need to talk to Spencer,” I say as soon as I answer. “You need to set it up.”
“I’ve talked to Spencer, Audrey. He can’t see you, not with Dylan under arrest and the media watching us all like hawks. But he and I talked. I told him your happiness depends on getting all this resolved. So I want you to come here to my place and I’ll explain everything.”
I hesitate. This is what I wanted, and yet-- I wish I hadn’t blabbed everything about finding the letter. If Spencer knows—
“Audrey? What’s wrong? If you’re worried about Ethel, bring her along. I don’t mind.”
I smile. “No. she’ll be okay by herself for a while. I’ll be right over.”
“Pull directly into the parking garage of my building. I’ll give you the code. That way you won’t have to deal with the reporters.”
I’ve never been to Cal’s place. He moved into the penthouse apartment just a month before we met. The building is brand-new and largely unoccupied, the developer having over-estimated Palmyrton’s desire for downtown luxury dwellings. But Cal seems confident he made a good deal and that the market will catch up to him.
I press a few buttons and glide into the garage, leaving the rabble of reporters outside gnashing their teeth. I’m on P1, which is entirely empty. Cal’s car must be on the next level. I park near the elevator and take a deep breath to steady my nerves.
As I glide up ten floors to Cal’s place, I compose my questions. After thirty years, I’m within striking distance of the truth.
I ring the bell. Seconds later I’m enveloped in Cal’s arms. I bury my head in his shoulder and inhale his subtle scent. Jesus, everything they say about pheromones is true. My attraction to him is primal. Even with everything I’m desperate to know, there’s a part of me that wants nothing more than to lie wordlessly in his arms. Finally I pull away and look around.
What a man cave! Across a polished expanse of hardwood, two buttery chocolate brown sofas flank a gleaming glass and metal coffee table. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominate one wall, framing the bright bustle of downtown. The lighting is low; soft jazz purrs in the background.
I slip my fleece jacket off. “Very nice, Cal.”
“It’s a little impersonal. The decorator chose that painting to color-coordinate with the sofa. You could help me pick something better.”
I smile, but I didn’t come here to talk art. I march to the sofa and sit down. Cal drops beside me. I keep a little distance between us so I can focus on the matter at hand.
“Spencer was my mother’s lover.” I say it without the rising lilt of a question.
“Yes.”
Even though I came here knowing this fact, Cal’s unvarnished confirmation sends a shiver across the back of my neck. This is it. I’ve been climbing, climbing, climbing to the crest of the roller coaster. Now the car is about to drop.
“How long have you known?”
“Just since you left me that message, baby. Honestly.” Cal’s eyes--anxious, pleading—seek mine “I finally got Spencer alone this afternoon. I made him tell me everything. He agreed to let me tell you—he knows he owes you the truth.”
I nod, and Cal begins to talk. “When your parents moved to Palmyrton, they renewed their friendship with Spencer and they met Anne. Spencer recommended Charlotte for the job at the PR agency. As it turns out, that was a big mistake.”
A mistake that cost my mother her life. The story of Anne and Spencer and Charlotte and Roger seems at once very distant and terribly close. I’m watching a movie, only this movie is the prequel to my own life.
“Spencer and your mother worked together long hours on his campaign,” Cal continues, sliding his arm around me. I hold myself stiffly, but I don’t push him away. “He’s not proud of what he did, Audrey, but they were both young and a little reckless. The whole thing might have blown over if it hadn’t been for your father.” Cal pauses and squeezes my shoulder. “He told you that you killed your mother, that you accidentally ran her over with the car—right?”
I nod.
“That’s what he told Spencer too, when he showed up that night. But Audrey, Spencer saw her body. The car ran over her torso, but her neck was bruised. Your father strangled her, Audrey. Strangled her in a rage of jealousy, then ran her over with the car to cover up his crime. Spencer accused him of that, but he insisted you’d done it.”
My fingers dig into Cal’s hand. What kind of father comes up with an alibi like that? How could my father have told anyone, let alone me, such an awful thing? But my father has always applied the absolute certainty of a mathematician to every aspect of his life. Whenever he made a decision—yes to math camp, no to after-prom party--his decree was absolutely non-negotiable. I can imagine him analyzing the results of the one time in his life that he acted with irrational passion. His wife was dead, his child motherless—nothing could change that. So he came up with the one alibi that could keep him out of prison and me from becoming an orphan. He moved forward and never wavered. I’m sure it must’ve seemed perfectly logical to him. We sit quietly for a moment, Cal stroking my hand, as I absorb the enormity of it. But when the wave of emotion passes, my rational mind clicks back into gear.
“But if Spencer thought my father killed Charlotte, then why did he help him get rid of the body?”
“He could see his crazy story about you running her over would never hold up. Once the police realized he’d killed her, they’d want to know why. Spencer’s affair with Charlotte would have certainly come out. He couldn’t let that happen. He had to think of his family. He did it for Anne.”
I snort. “Oh, come on, Cal—even you must see he did it for his career.”
Cal holds out his hands. “Of course, that was a consideration. But Audrey, you must believe me. Spencer loved Anne. And he cared about your mother, too. That’s why he kept her ring and entrusted it to Agnes. That night… that night was the worst night of his life.”
“Yeah, tell me about Agnes, why don’t you? How does she fit into all this? You’ve always known that Spencer knew your aunt, right?”
Cal bites his lip. “It’s complicated. Agnes worked for Anne and Spencer for nearly ten years when their kids were young. When they didn’t need a nanny anymore, they found her a new position. They always provided her with glowing references. She was devoted to them.”
“And that’s how you met Spencer—through Agnes, not through an ex-girlfriend?”
Cal nods. “Agnes loved knowing a famous politician. Spencer helped my Uncle Jack get a liquor license for his restaurant and recommended my cousin for the Naval Academy. I’ve known him since I was a kid. After my parents divorced, he reached out to me…got me summer jobs, made sure I stayed on track for college. Once I came back to Palmyrton after law school, I started working on his campaigns.”
Cal gazes out the window to the lights of Palmyrton below. “At first it was just a game to me. I did it for the adrenaline rush of the competition.” He shakes his head. “But this campaign. This is different. This one matters.”
I pull myself into the corner of the sofa. I remember that night on our second date when he told me so smoothly, so effortlessly, how he met Spencer. And it was all untrue. “So why did you lie about that to me?”
“Why did you lie to me at first about taking your mother’s ring out of the trunk?”
I finger the ring protectively. “It was mine. I didn’t know how it got in your aunt’s trunk, but I knew that ring belonged to me.”
Cal sighs and continues. “When you discovered the trunk of jewelry, I knew immediately that Agnes must’ve stolen it. I told Spencer right away—I wanted his advice on how to handle it. That’s when he asked me not to mention his connection to Agnes—he didn’t want any hint of scandal during the campaign. It seemed like a harmless white lie.”
“But it wasn’t!” I hear an unfamiliar edge of hysteria in my own voice. “You kept lying to me, even after—”
Even after you said you loved me.
Cal looks a little queasy. He knows better than to try to touch me right now. “Spencer told me today that he was stunned when you showed up wearing your mother’s ring. He had told Agnes years ago to get rid of it, but for some reason, she never did. But I didn’t know that, Audrey, you have to believe me. I thought Agnes stole your mother’s ring just as she stole the other jewelry.
“As I got to know you better, and saw how important it was to you to figure out what happened to your mother, I brought it up to Spencer again. Since he’d given Agnes references, I figured he must know whom she’d worked for. By that time, he’d met you and liked you. Spencer promised me that after the election, he’d dig through his files and help you find the other families Agnes worked for.” Cal extends his hands, palms up. “I believed him.”
Cal’s explanation is making me more agitated, not less. I lean forward, searching his face for signs of distress and coming up empty. “But he lied to you too. He saw me wearing the ring, but didn’t explain to you what that meant. Doesn’t that bother you?”
Cal rolls his eyes. “C’mon, Audrey. This was intensely personal. He didn’t want to admit to me that he’d had an affair. He knew I looked up to him. He knew I loved Anne. He wanted the past to stay buried. Surely you can understand that?”
“What did he think was going to happen after the election? Sooner or later I would have figured it out.”
“Politics is a game that’s played minute-by-minute, baby. As soon as you map out a strategy, you can be sure it’ll be upended by events you can’t control.”
Cal stands before me in his gray flannel slacks and crisp oxford shirt, but I see Cal the runner, winning the race by putting his head down and focusing on the stretch of road directly beneath his feet. He honestly doesn’t see a problem with this approach. “I’m sorry—I just can’t believe that Spencer thought this deception was a viable option.”
“I’m sure he figured he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.”
I jump up. “Welcome to the middle of the freakin’ bridge, Cal!”
Cal steps towards me, takes my shoulders in his hands. His eyes are shining, locked on mine with such intensity that I feel I couldn’t look away if I tried. “Spencer has spent every day since the night your mother died trying to atone for what he did. Everything he’s fought for as a state representative, as a senator…everything he hopes to do as governor has been because of that terrible night. He can’t bring Charlotte back, but if he can do some good in this world—enact education reforms so that poor kids in Newark have the same opportunities as rich kids in Mountain Lakes, restructure our tax system so that everyone pays a fair share—”
“Oh, please Cal! Spare me the damn stump speech. You’re not the guest speaker at some rubber chicken dinner. This is my life we’re talking about here.”
Cal pulls me down next to him on the sofa. “That’s just it, Audrey. It’s not only
your
life. This is bigger than one person’s needs and desires. This is about the future of our state. Of this country.”
I narrow my eyes. “Spencer wants to run for president?”
“In four years he’ll be sixty-nine. It’s then or never.” Cal grabs my hands. “Spencer would make the ideal Democratic candidate. Socially liberal, fiscally moderate. Smarter and more experienced than anyone else on the horizon. Why should some indiscretion that happened thirty years ago derail that?”
I yank my hands away. “Indiscretion?” Cal’s capacity for understatement blows me away.
“Franklin Roosevelt, John Kennedy, even Martin Luther King—they all had affairs, but they led their country, they changed the world for the better.” Cal’s face is lit up like a Times Square billboard. “Yes, they were flawed, but they were still great men.”
“Flawed?
Flawed?
My mother was murdered and Spencer helped dispose of the body. And let’s not forget that his wife tried to kill me. We’re not talking personality quirks here.”
Cal takes a deep breath. “Spencer wants you to know how truly sorry he is for all that’s happened. Anne….well, Anne wasn’t in her right mind, you’ve got to see that. The cancer, the pain, the drugs she was on—she just wasn’t herself.”
“I was there with her, Cal. She was very much herself. Her smart, commanding, determined Anne Finneran self. She wanted to kill me. And I’m beginning to think it wasn’t just to protect Dylan. How much did Anne know about the ring and the trunk?”
A furrow of confusion appears on Cal’s forehead. “Anne? Anne never knew about the ring. I told you, Spencer was trying to shield her from the affair.”
“Are you positive, Cal? Spencer relied on Anne’s advice for everything. Why not this?”
Cal shakes himself the way Ethel does when a pesky fly lands on her head. “Anne knew nothing about the ring. What happened during the fire….she didn’t mean to do it.”
Didn’t mean to do it?
That’s what you say when your baseball breaks a neighbor’s window, not when you try to pin someone down in a burning building. I’m stunned into silence.