A Picture of Guilt (10 page)

“Her name is Carla.”

“And how old is Carla?” I went into the kitchen.

Rachel followed me. “Sixteen.”

I took out a knife and started chopping lettuce.

“She’s got this really cool boyfriend. His name is Derek.”

“And how old is Derek?”

“I don’t know. But he drives.”

I started chopping more briskly. I wasn’t thrilled she was driving around with older teenagers. But Barry’s a fairly responsible parent. They probably went out for ice cream. “Where’d you go?”

“Well, we heard there was this rave nearby, and—”

I spun around. “You went to a rave?”

Rachel immediately backpedaled. “We didn’t go in. We just drove around the parking lot. And don’t worry. I didn’t do anything.”

I clenched my fists so tight my nails bit into my palm. For a moment I thought I’d cut myself with the knife. “Rachel. You’re only thirteen. You can’t go to raves.”

“I told you. We didn’t go in. Everyone says I look older anyway.”

I gazed at my daughter. Three inches taller than last year, she’d already lost that preteen, coltish look. Her body was starting to curve in all the right places. She could pass for sixteen. I forced myself to open my fists.
Stay calm, Ellie
.

“You’re a beautiful girl, there’s no question about that. But I don’t care how old you look. You can’t run around with sixteen-year-olds and go to raves.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re thirteen. It’s not appropriate. Or legal. Carla shouldn’t be anywhere near them, either. I wonder if her mother knows? Maybe I should call—”

“Mom,” she shrieked. “You can’t!”

“If I hear anything more about raves, I will.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have told you.” She fell into a sullen silence.

I turned back to the salad, but I’d lost my appetite.

***

Barry wasn’t home when I called that night. Out with the aerobics queen, no doubt. I hoped they got drenched in the storm. An hour later, he still hadn’t called back. I turned on the late news to make sure he hadn’t been mugged, killed, or otherwise maimed and was using that as an excuse not to call.

The ten o’clock news is filled with let-it-bleed stories. Especially on weekends or slow news days, it’s pretty much a litany of every accident, murder, and fire they can find within a fifty-mile radius.

I changed into a T-shirt and went into the bathroom to moisturize my face. Someone once told me I looked like Grace Slick, and I still consider it high praise, though both of us are now grayer, and, presumably, mellower. I was just finishing when the anchorman pulled on his serious face.

“A fatal accident on the Dan Ryan Expressway took the life of a twenty-four-year-old woman this evening. According to witnesses, the car veered out of control, skidded across the median, and hit an oncoming truck.”

I jerked my head up and looked at the TV. Rain lashed the camera lens, blurring everything except for a swirl of blue and red lights. The picture cleared, and I saw a cop standing on the shoulder of the highway. Behind him was a car, the front end crushed and mangled. The camera panned over to two paramedics loading a gurney into the back of an ambulance. The body was covered by a plastic sheet but a corner flapped in the wind, revealing a piece of blue and white polka dot material.

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

It’s usually around three in the morning that rational thought disappears, leaving dark conspiracies to hatch in its wake. The storm fell off to a soft rain, the sound of each drop distinct and perceptible, almost like the crackle of burning paper. I tossed and turned, my mind doubling back on itself.

A young woman covers up important information about the night of a murder, and a man who is probably innocent is convicted. Soon afterward the woman bares her soul to a video producer, telling her stories about boats and gunshots and fears that she’s being followed. That night she dies in an automobile accident.

True, it happened at night, when drivers can be tired and less than careful. True, a storm made the roads slick. True, Rhonda Disapio might have been a rotten driver.

Still.

At six in the morning I ran across the grass for the paper. As if to apologize for last night, the sun was bright, and droplets of water sparkled like jewels on the grass. Mist rose from the ground, winding around the evergreens. The yard looked like an ancient fairyland. I took the newspaper in and brewed a pot of coffee, waiting for an elf or wood nymph to hop past the window.

I spread out the paper, dumped in a packet of sweetener, and sipped coffee from my “When the Going Gets Tough, the Tough Go Shopping” mug. Maybe it should say
shoplifting
. The steam from the coffee tickled my nose. Did cracking jokes about it mean I was cured?

The accident happened too late to make the morning edition, and TV didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. I thought about calling the state police, our version of the highway patrol. But they probably wouldn’t disclose anything unless I had a compelling reason, and with my luck, I’d end up with a grumpy Broderick Crawford on the other end.

After dropping Rachel at school, I went upstairs, sniffing my coffee. Why is it the smell is always better than the taste? Don’t get me wrong—if it tasted any better, I might have to get a new husband, clean the house in a shirtwaist dress, and greet him after work like a good little Maxwell Housewife.

In my office, I dug out my client list. The only other slow work period I recall was during the early Eighties, and I made an effort to hustle business. I culled through every corporate index at the library, wrote letters, sent demo reels. I even went on informational interviews—the kind where you know and they know there’s no possibility of getting any work, but you go through the motions anyway.

I still think the only thing all that effort produced was the illusion that I was in charge. I had a plan. Kind of like the duck and cover drills the government made kids practice during the Cold War. About as effective, too. When the economy picked up, my work would, too, and it would come in the way it always has: word of mouth.

I started making calls anyway. I didn’t expect anyone to call me back; mornings are a hassle for most people. I left messages, figuring I’d start to get callbacks that afternoon. I was rinsing my coffee cup in the sink when a thump sounded at the kitchen window.

Susan waved at me through the glass. “How about a walk?”

I grabbed my shoes and threw on a sweater.

Susan Siler and I are yin and yang. A tall, willowy redhead who always manages to look as if she’s stepped out of
Vogue
, she’s a gourmet cook, has impeccable taste, and seems to glide through life without the bruises, blows, and jagged edges that perforate mine.

The cool, rain-washed air was overlaid with the tang of pine and woodsmoke. We skirted a couple of puddles left behind by the storm.

“Did you hear about Phyllis Hartford?” Susan asked.

“What?”

“George moved out last week. After twenty-seven years.”

I didn’t know Phyllis well, except for her baked goods. No holiday, school function, or community event ever took place without a plate of her pastries on hand. It was her knee-jerk response to life cycle events.

“She has no idea what she’s going to do.”

“She can make lemon squares.”

Susan shot me a fierce look. “Watch it. I have the recipe.”

We made our way to the bike path that cuts a swath through the forest preserve. The leaves were just starting to turn, and the trees were shot through with glints of red and yellow. A carpet of newly fallen leaves, still holding their colors, muffled our steps. I found myself treading more respectfully, trying not to disturb the balance of nature.

“Speaking of baking, Rachel had a meltdown last night.” I told her about the clothes on the floor, the shoes in the trash, the demands for new ones.

Susan giggled.

“You think it’s funny? I just bought her some fall things. Including a really nice suit.”

“Hormones, Ellie. Get used to it. It only lasts another forty years.”

“Yeah? Well, get this.” I told Susan about her budding friendship with Carla and Derek. “She just turned thirteen, started eighth grade, and she’s already talking about driving in cars with boys.”

“So find something for her to do.”

“She already takes piano lessons and plays field hockey. But hockey ends in October.”

“What about one of those after-school programs? Justin took a great photography class last year.”

“Do you know what it’s like to sustain the interest of a thirteen-year-old girl whose brain has been corrupted by MTV?”

She flashed me her Mona Lisa smile. “I’m sure you’ll find something.”

I dodged a couple of bumblebees hovering on some goldenrod. Happily, they’d be gone soon. I don’t like flying objects with stingers. As we rounded a corner, I told her how Rhonda Disapio had accosted me in the mall.

“Do you believe her?” Susan pushed her sleeves up to her elbows. “I mean, if she committed perjury on the stand...”

“I don’t think she would have tracked me down and come all this way just to make it up.” I hesitated. “But there’s something else that kind of makes me believe her.”

“What?”

“She died in a car accident last night.”

Susan’s eyes widened and then narrowed.

I explained what happened.

“It was a pretty bad storm,” she said carefully. “The power’s still out in some places.”

“She kept saying she thought she was being followed.”

It had to be at least sixty degrees outside, but Susan shivered. “So what are you going to do?”

“I thought of calling the state police to see if they consider it an accident—”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“I—I’m not sure. But even if they didn’t, they wouldn’t tell me. I’m not a relative or a friend— I hardly know the woman. And since the trial, I doubt many people would believe much of what I said.” I shrugged. “But I did talk to Brashares. You know, Santoro’s lawyer.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much. In fact, I don’t think he’s pursuing the appeal all that aggressively. For example—” I stopped short.

“What?”

I didn’t answer.

“Ellie, what just happened?”

“I—I’m not sure. It’s probably nothing.”

“What is it?”

“I was just thinking that I told Brashares about my conversation with Rhonda as soon as I got home from the mall, and a few hours later, she was dead.”

Susan slowed and arched her eyebrows. “Ellie…”

“You don’t have to say it.” I held up my palm. “I’m not jumping to any conclusions. In fact, I’m not even getting involved.” I skipped a few steps ahead of her. “See? I’m fine. In fact, when I get home, I’m going to try to land some work.”

We reached the end of the bike path and turned down Sunset Ridge. Ahead of us, a dark-colored SUV slowly turned the corner. I stopped and stared after it, shading my eyes with my hand.

“Now what?” Susan asked.

As it disappeared around the bend in the road, I felt my heart pumping. “Nothing.” I couldn’t say anything. Susan doesn’t buy into conspiracies; she was just a baby when JFK died.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

My mother always claimed I was a resilient child. I always bounced back, like one of those inflatable dummies. Though I prefer to model myself after the Black Knight in Monty Python, who kept challenging the king to battle even when his arms and legs were chopped off, by afternoon I convinced myself to move on with life. Put Santoro, Mary Jo Bosanick, and Rhonda Disapio behind me. Under the circumstances, I didn’t see what I could do. Maybe Rhonda’s death was just an accident. Maybe Santoro really did kill Mary Jo.

I called around to park districts and schools. Most of the popular after-school classes—acting, soccer, photography, computers—had been filled since July, but I did find two with space: Let’s Learn Latin and Science Club. Neither would be high on Rachel’s top ten, but I jotted them down.

I checked my machine. No callbacks yet. I eyed my Rolodex, wondering whether I’d have to cast a wider net. I wasn’t looking forward to it; the leap from friendly voices to cold calls is a big one. I picked up the clothes from Rachel’s floor and did a few loads of laundry.

The phone finally chirped around four. It was Karen Bishop, my longtime client from Midwest Mutual.

“Karen, how are you?”

“Good. Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner, Ellie. What’s up?”

“Just checking in to see if there’s anything I can help you out with. We haven’t spoken in—”

I heard an exhalation of breath. “I had a feeling that’s why you called.”

“Excuse me?”

Karen and I have worked together for five years. A working mother herself, she’s a no-bullshit person who’s managed to survive, even flourish, in a corporate environment. Still, I wasn’t prepared for what came next.

She hesitated. “Ellie, I can’t use you. In fact, I don’t think anyone will touch you with a ten-foot pole.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It was your testimony at that trial. You attracted a lot of attention. People are a little leery of you right now.” She paused. “You know how it is.”

I gripped the phone and stared at a crack in the wall I hadn’t noticed before. “No. Karen. How is it?”

“You know the mentality around here. People don’t like anything that disrupts the status quo. That actually requires them to form an independent opinion. And you were kind of out there. Visible. Everyone saw you on the news—”

“Hold on. Am I being punished because I testified?”

“No, of course not. Even though Ryan did poke holes in your story.”

“Does that mean I’m no longer capable of producing videos?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“What are you saying, Karen?”

She cleared her throat. “Frankly, Ellie, it’s the issue of consent. You released video that technically didn’t belong to you. At least that’s what I’m hearing from our attorneys.”