Good Little Wives (7 page)

Brunch.

For the eighteen years Lauren had been married to Bob, Sunday meant a gathering of the Halliday clan: seven children plus a few spouses now, and six grandchildren at last count with another due any day, Dory's first. It hurt now to remember that when Dory got married Lauren had been sleeping with Vincent, well not at the exact same time or even on the same day, but Lauren clearly recalled when she'd watched Dory inch down the aisle, her thoughts had been completely on him.

What would it be like to be married to Vincent, to have sex every night, every day, all the time?

The thought still sparked a warm rush all these months later, even now though he was dead. She wondered how long Vincent's memory would linger in her mind and in her vagina, and if even the clamor of Bob's children would ever be loud enough to quell the loss.

“Should Florence prepare more eggs Benedict?” The question came from Dory, who poked her head into the garden room where Lauren stood, daydreaming in silence away from the brood who apparently remained in the dining room awaiting more food.

“No,” Lauren said. “There's been enough for one day, don't you think?” She meant, of course, that there had been enough visiting as well as eggs Benedict.

Dory stepped into the room. She sat down on a white wicker chair and rubbed her quite bulbous belly. “Agreed,” she said. “At least it's quiet out here.” Of all of Bob's kids, Lauren felt closest to Dory. They both were size fours and were blue-eyed blonds and were only eight years apart. Like Lauren, Dory wore her hair tied back in a demure ponytail. On occasion they'd been mistaken for sisters.

“I've never grown used to all the commotion,” Lauren said. “It's not that I don't love everyone…it's just that, well, you know.”

Dory nodded. “There are too damn many of us, that's the problem.”

Lauren rebuffed the truth. Like memories of Vincent, some thoughts were best kept to herself. “But tell me, dear. How are you feeling?”

“Like I'm too old to be having a baby.”

“Nonsense.” Not that Lauren would know. “Besides,” she said with her best effort to be cheerful, “it's a little late for that, isn't it?”

Dory looked at her, paused a short moment, then burst into hormonal tears. “I hate my life,” she sobbed. “I hate everything about it, especially Jeffrey.” That would be Jeffrey, as in her husband.

“Oh,” Lauren said, going to her stepdaughter, crouching in front of her, taking her small hands in hers. “Oh dear.”

“Yeah, ‘oh dear' is right. What am I going to do, Lauren? I don't want this baby…I want a divorce!” That's when Dory's water broke, straining through the wicker, dribbling onto the floor.

Lauren screeched and promised Dory that later they'd talk about Jeffrey and what she should do, but that right now Dory needed to breathe in and out.

She wondered if there was a Lamaze technique for ridding her own mind of Vincent.

Dory whimpered.

Lauren stood up, shook off her despair, stepped over the puddle, and raced from the garden room, deciding that Sunday brunches had, indeed, become too traumatic, and she must tell Bob that, from now on, she'd be sleeping in.

 

Bridget had lost faith in God years ago, the day they'd buried her tiny Alain. But she supposed she should try and find it again, now that she had cancer and all. Besides, it wouldn't hurt to say a prayer or two that she would see Luc before he went back to Provence.

If only she knew where he was staying.

She'd wanted to quiz Aimée last night, but Randall had monopolized the girl, asking about her friends and her studies, then showing off the media room he'd had renovated since she'd gone back to school after Christmas. He'd popped in a movie—Ben Affleck's latest—and they settled in front of the giant new screen until Aimée fell asleep with jet lag.

Bridget had downed a Lunesta and gone straight to bed.

Over breakfast, Randall announced he wanted to go to the twelve-fifteen Mass, which was the most crowded. As the three of them strolled up the long sidewalk to the big stone church now, the bright sunlight bounced off Randall's broad smile and spun a proud glow around his cherished Aimée.

Then one of Randall's cronies pulled him aside and Bridget seized the opportune moment.

“Aimée,” she whispered while grinning at the passersby who were accustomed to seeing Randall at church but not her. “I thought about what your father said regarding Monsieur et Madame LaBrecque, that it would be nice to invite them for dinner. Did they give you a number where they could be reached?”

“Oh,” Aimée said, “It's not them, Maman, it's only Monsieur. His wife went on to Houston where she has family.”

Only Monsieur? Only Luc? Bridget wanted to shout,
Thank you, Jesus,
but held herself back out of respect for the time and the place. Instead she said, “Well. Did you get a number?”

“Aimée, dear,” Randall suddenly said as he turned back toward them and scooped an arm around the girl's waist. “You must say hello to Mr. McNaughton. He hasn't seen you since your first Communion.”

Mr. McNaughton was older than dirt and probably didn't
remember who Randall was, let alone Aimée. Bridget set her jaw into a clench.

“And my dear wife,” Randall said, and Bridget stepped forward and murmured
bonjour
. Then she took Aimée's elbow and guided her away.

“You were saying,” she said, “about Monsieur LaBrecque.”

“Oh. Well, no, I didn't get a phone number.”

Bridget longed for the old days when one wore a hat and a short veil to church, when one could conceal unfettered emotion.

“Who didn't get what?” Randall asked, having jogged to catch up with them now as they ascended the steps of St. Bernadette's.

“Monsieur LaBrecque,” Aimée said. “He didn't leave me a number so Maman could call him.”

Bridget wanted to gulp the sunshiny air. She didn't dare look at her husband, for fear he would see the hope of infidelity dance in her eyes. “I liked your idea. To invite them for dinner.” No sense in Randall knowing that the
madame
had gone on to Houston.

“Well,” Randall said. “Yes.”

They went into the narthex, which was dark and quiet and emoted more guilt than Bridget thought she deserved. At least the priest she'd paid off long ago was now in another diocese.

“But it doesn't matter,” Aimée quickly whispered. “I gave him the house number and he said he will call.”

Organ music and incense rose up to greet them. Bridget clutched her purse.

He said he will call
.

She wanted to ask
when
Luc would call, but decided to
temper her interest for the sake of both her husband and her guilt.

Checking her watch before she genuflected, Bridget and said a short prayer that Luc wouldn't phone before they were back home at one-thirty, two o'clock at the latest.

 

Caroline leaned against the antique writing desk in her morning room even though it was past noon. She stared at the large banquet table in the center of the room and the four-by-eight-foot sheet of plywood that rested on top. It was a model floor plan of the Hudson Valley Centre where the gala would be held, and had been crafted by the hospital maintenance department exactly as Caroline had instructed, with a matching sheet covered with velveteen and fashioned to scale, and miniature tables strategically set. Around each table were ten die-cut slots where Caroline could insert tiny name cards. It was an idea she'd picked up from Windsor Castle, which had made entertaining a proper science.

She looked at Chloe and Lee's name cards. The thought of seating them at the coveted table of Meachams and Hallidays and Fultons and Hayneses had waned this morning: They'd not showed up today, Sunday, the day the Meachams typically, historically, without fail, went to the club, had been going to the club on Sundays since before Chloe was born. When Chloe had been at school, Caroline and Jack had gone alone. Mount Holyoke (and Northfield Mount Hermon before that) was an acceptable excuse. A finicky fiancé was not.

“We can't make it today,” Chloe said. “Lee isn't feeling well.”

Not well, indeed. He didn't like Caroline, it was now ap
parent. Didn't he know how hard she was working to sculpt Chloe into a perfect wife for him?

It was bad enough Chloe had left the rite-of-spring luncheon early because “Lee had made other plans,” and that she hadn't been there for the post-party “review” as Caroline liked to call it. It was tradition, wasn't it? For Caroline and Chloe to curl up on the sofas and talk about everyone who'd come and what they'd worn and what they'd said or done to whom? Why else had she bothered having a daughter?

But tradition had been broken this year, because Lee had “made other plans.” Would he make last-minute plans the night of the gala? She wondered how bad it would get once he and Chloe were married, once they lived together full-time, not just when he was in town and wanted Chloe in his bedroom at his beck and call.

“How about if we drive up to the Adirondacks?” Jack, her husband, asked now as he came into the morning room wearing a frown.

Caroline looked up from her work. “What on earth for?”

He shrugged. “Something to do.” He, like her, did not want to go to the club, just the two of them, with no acceptable excuse for Chloe's absence. It was best if people thought they were all out of town, that no one suspected their absence was a hint that the Meachams and their future son-in-law did not get along.

“I don't think so,” Caroline replied. She'd rather stay there than pretend to enjoy a road trip with Jack. “Why don't you watch a movie? Or practice on your putting green?” He'd had the green installed last summer so he could finesse his game without leaving home.

Without offering an answer, Jack left the room. Caroline sighed. She was no longer a good wife, so what? It wasn't as if Jack would divorce her. It was far too late for that.

She looked back at the seating chart, thought about Vincent, and wondered if she should have done away with her husband when she'd had the chance.

Dory wouldn't let Jeffrey into the birthing room, citing that he'd done too much damage already.

“But he's your husband,” Lauren argued on his behalf. “He's the father of your baby!”

 

Dory threw her a look of disgust, and Lauren convinced Jeffrey and the rest of the entourage to wait in the hall until she could convince Dory otherwise. Though Lauren had never given birth, she knew what it was like to feel smothered.
There are too damn many of us,
Dory had said quite succinctly.

So now Dory lay in the bed, hooked up to various monitors and beepers and other sterile-looking things. She breathed in, breathed out, every few minutes when the pains came. “They feel like cramps,” she told Lauren. “Really bad cramps.” She took Lauren's hand and squeezed it again—really hard—and Lauren said everything would be all right.

“No,” Dory said. “It won't.”

Lauren stroked the younger woman's hair, knowing that whatever she said, it would not be as meaningful as if she'd been Dory's real mother, as if Dory's real mother had never been hit by a bus and this inadequate substitute had stepped in. It occurred to her that was where the term “stepmother” came from, that it referenced the person who “stepped in” and took over when the real one was dead or otherwise disen
gaged,
unable to fulfill her term
, as they used to say in the Miss America pageants.

“Your baby will be fine,” Lauren said. “Jeffrey will be, too. He is a good man.” She didn't say he was a “great man” because he wasn't. He was only a landscape engineer (they used to be called gardeners), but he seemed to like Dory and he at least married her, unlike Nelson, the jerk Dory had lived with for twelve years. Once Dory passed forty, it had looked as if her “chance” had passed, too, until Jeffrey came along and planted new hope where the old bushes had been.

“I can't stand him,” Dory replied, then squeezed Lauren's hand again and uttered a groan bigger than the last. When the cramp subsided she added, “He's so much like Dad.”

With all the time Lauren had spent with Dory, or with any of Bob's children, Lauren never would have suspected that even one of them did not worship the ground Bob Halliday strolled around on. She stroked the younger woman's forehead again. “You don't mean that, honey.”

“Yes, I do.”

The room was silent; the monitor beeped.

“Your father is a fine man,” Lauren said, because he was her husband.

“He's a control freak, Lauren. Everything has to be his way or no way. I don't know how you've stood him for so long.”

Lauren didn't answer, because what could she say?

“Didn't you ever just want to leave him?” Dory asked.

It would not be appropriate to mention Bob's limp noodle or her foray with Vincent, so Lauren just said, “Honey, life is give and take. Surely you know that by now.”

“But didn't you ever just want to follow your passion, strike
out on your own? Didn't you ever just want a man who's exciting? Someone like Vincent DeLano? Word is all over town that he screwed around.”

This time a cramp gripped Lauren, not Dory. Her knees buckled, her face grew warm, her vision blurred. She grabbed the edge of the bed just as Dory cried out again.

Dana backed out of her driveway at ten-fifteen
the next morning, plugged in her headset, and speed-dialed Bridget, who answered on the first half ring

“I'm on my way over,” Dana said.

“Over here?”

“Ah, yes.” Silence followed. “The meeting with Kitty's attorney is this morning.” Pause. “I thought you wanted to go.”

“Oh. Right. Actually, I forgot.”

She sounded agitated, as if Dana had interrupted. “You forgot?”

“Well, first I was going to France and then I was not and then I was and now Aimée is here. And I really must get off the phone, I have so much to do.”

“Bridget, I have no idea what you're saying.”

Bridget quick-breathed again. “I know. Forget it. Tell Kitty I'm sorry.”

“Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. But Aimée is home. I really must get off the line.”

Dana turned right at the end of her street toward Tarrytown instead of left toward Bridget's. “Before you hang up, I wanted to tell you that Lauren and Bob have a new grandson. His name is Liam.” She didn't suppose Bridget was much interested in that, either, that Caroline had called last night to relay Lauren's family news. Lauren to Caroline to Dana to Bridget. The chain that no longer had Kitty as a link.

“Just what Lauren needs,” Bridget said. “One more person to take care of instead of herself. I really must go now.”

Bridget hung up so quickly that Dana might have called her back, but a big truck was bearing down on her bumper. She pulled off her headset and slowed to let the truck pass. Riding on his tailwind, a dark green Jaguar blew by her, too, then cut in front. Dana leaned on her horn.

The Jag stopped at the light; Dana did, too. That's when she noticed the spray paint on the rear window:
R.I.P. Vincent DeLano
.

The car, she realized, had been Vincent's.
R.I.P. Vincent DeLano
? Good grief, what was Yolanda doing? Didn't she know such a public
display
was inappropriate in New Falls? Didn't she know that, without Vincent, it was going to be hard enough to blend her culture with theirs?

Then again, how would Yolanda know if no one told her?

Without another thought, Dana secured the gearshift in
park and got out of the Volvo. She walked up to the driver's window of the Jag and briskly knocked on it.

“Yolanda,” she called. “Yolanda, is that you?”

The window slowly opened. Yolanda turned her face to Dana without removing her large sunglasses.

“Mrs. Fulton,” Yolanda said coolly. “How nice to see you.”

“Yes. Well.” Dana hadn't expected such a greeting. She reminded herself the girl was twenty years younger than the rest of them. “Yolanda, dear,” she said, “it's about the paint on your back window.”

“It's a nice memorial, don't you think?”

“Well, actually, I don't know how to say this, but…” But what could Dana say? That Yolanda wasn't entitled to mourn the way she wanted?

Before Dana could continue, Yolanda smiled, without removing her sunglasses. Then the light turned green and Yolanda stepped on the accelerator, leaving Dana—Mrs. Fulton—standing in the street, with several cars honking in concert.

 

They sat in Paul Tobin's office, Kitty's hands folded in her lap, ankles lightly crossed, eyes staring straight ahead. The man sat across from them, his gray-haired head bent to the papers on his desk, seemingly unaware that his secretary had escorted Kitty and Dana into his office and that they sat there now, waiting. Dana had an urge to lean across his desk and shout,
HEY, YOU!
into his ear. For Kitty's sake, however, she folded her hands, too, and looked around.

The room was tired, with paneled walls and a single, grimy window that wore yellowed Venetian blinds. A trio of framed
diplomas hung on the wall behind Paul Tobin's desk; Dana could not discern their heritage from her chair. On the adjacent wall, facing the window, hung a print of Edvard Munch's
The Scream
, which Dana thought in poor legal taste for a criminal attorney.

She shifted on the wooden chair that might have been posh leather if Caroline had retained a lawyer in Manhattan. She wondered how many accused murderers—guilty or innocent—had sat in the chair where she sat now.

“Mrs. DeLano,” the man suddenly said with a quick, upward jerk of his head that revealed an unfortunate mole next to his nose that really ought to be removed. His eyes were dark and small and landed squarely on Dana.

“No,” she said, gesturing to Kitty. “This is Mrs. DeLano. Kitty.”

His head swiveled toward Kitty. He did not ask who Dana was or what she was doing there.

Kitty said hello.

“I understand you were arrested for killing your ex-husband.” Well, Dana thought, at least he got that right.

“I'm innocent,” she said.

He grinned a slow, unhappy grin. “Yes. Of course.” Then he launched into a well-seasoned monotone that addressed procedures and legalities in accordance with “the great State of New York.”

“Are you going to find out who really killed Vincent?” Kitty asked when it seemed he was finished.

“Probably not. All we need to do is prove reasonable doubt. Surely you know that.”

Dana shifted again. “We were hoping for something more
concrete,” she said. “‘Reasonable doubt' might work for a jury, but unless the real killer is found, Kitty will remain under suspicion.” She didn't add, “Of all her friends in New Falls.”

“I've been retained as Mrs. DeLano's attorney. If you want me to work as an investigator, there will be an additional fee.”

“I don't have any money,” Kitty said.

Paul Tobin made no comment.

“What if I know who might have killed him?” Kitty suddenly said. “Would you care about it then?”

Startled, Dana sat up straight.

Kitty turned to her. “About six months ago, when Vincent said he was leaving me, I was given the name of a man who might ‘help me out.'”

“Help you out?” Dana asked. “What on earth are you saying?”

“You know,” Kitty said. “I was given the name of a man who would shoot him. I'd have to pay, of course. But I still had money back then…” Her thoughts appeared to drift, the way they'd been drifting since Dana first saw her in jail.

“Do you know the man's name?” Paul Tobin asked.

Kitty shook her head.

“Think, Kitty,” Dana prodded. “Was his name ever mentioned? Or some clue about who he was? Maybe someone we know? A pool man or a handyman or someone's house painter?”

Kitty started to cry. “At first I thought it was a joke. But then I wasn't sure.”

“Who gave you his name?” the attorney asked.

“One of my friends,” she said.

“One of
our
friends?” Dana asked with horrified surprise.

Kitty lowered her head.

“This might be important,” Dana said. “Kitty, who was it?”

She paused a moment, then said, “It was Caroline.”

The Scream
seemed to open its mouth even wider. “
Caroline?
” Dana asked.

“Yes.”

“Surely you can't mean
our
Caroline.” A thought flashed through Dana's mind: Caroline had known Kitty would be cold in the jail. She also knew the name of a killer? Was there a connection?

“Caroline knows everyone,” Kitty continued. “Like Mr. Tobin here.”

The lawyer fixed his eyes on Kitty, but did not reveal his thoughts.

“But why?” Dana pressed. “Why would Caroline kill Vincent?”

“I can't imagine. Maybe she didn't like it when he married Yolanda. Maybe she saw it as a threat to our perfect social world.”

“Did you tell the police?” the attorney asked.

“No. I was afraid they'd find a way to use it against me. That knowing the name of a hit man would give me more of the means to kill Vincent.”

“Well,” Tobin said, closing the file on his desk. “Six months was a long time ago. I doubt there's any relevance. If you think of anything else, be sure to call. Otherwise, we'll review your testimony right before trial.” He plucked another file and bent his head in silent, curt dismissal.

 

“I always get you boys mixed up. Are you one of Dana's twins?” Jennie had interrupted Caroline from her breakfast of a solitary scrambled egg and dry rye toast—the same breakfast she had every day after her morning run and workout with light weights and her rubdown from Thomas, the best masseur from here to Canyon Ranch.

“I'm Sam,” the young man in the entry said. He took off his Mets baseball cap as if he might bow next. “And, yes, I'm one of the twins. Ben is the other one. He calls us wombmates.”

Caroline was reminded she should be grateful that Chloe had found a man like Lee who was a global player, not a New Falls townie. “All right then, Sam. May I help you with something?”

“Do you have a minute to talk to me? About the day Mr. DeLano was murdered?”

Dana always said what was on her mind. Apparently he'd inherited his mother's aplomb. “Well,” she said, “I don't know how I can help. I was busy hosting a party.”

“Which is why I thought you might unknowingly know something. Because someone who was here might have been involved.”

She studied him. “Are you with the police?”

He shook his head. “I'm home on spring break. I'm trying to help my mom. She's trying to help Mrs. DeLano.”

“Kitty.”

“Yes. Kitty.”

She'd rather send the boy away but something told her he'd be back, maybe with Dana, maybe, good Lord, with Kitty, which wouldn't please Jack. Jack had, however, just left to play
golf, so she might as well get it over with. “Of course, Sam,” Caroline said, “please, have a seat.” She sat on one of the silk Queen Anne chairs that flanked the Louis XV table. She motioned Sam to the matching one. No sense bringing him into the music room or sitting room and have him misunderstand that it was okay to stay more than a courteous minute. “Now,” she said, smoothing her ocher crepe skirt. “How do you think I might help?”

“First of all, I wondered if you heard the rumors that Mr. DeLano was broke.” He folded the brim of his cap. He had clear skin for a boy his age, with rosy cheeks that might indicate he was nervous. At least he wasn't taking notes.

She set her mouth into a smile. “I've always made it a point never to meddle in anyone's business, especially their finances.”

“Well,” Sam said, his cheeks growing pinker. “I didn't mean…”

“Vincent was not a bad man, Samuel. It's been a while since he and Kitty were divorced. If she'd planned to kill him, I'd guess she'd have done it a long time ago.”

Before he could comment the back door banged, and what followed was a bone-rattling scream.