Buried Secrets (21 page)

“I don’t even think she’s southern.”

“Then why’s she faking it?”

“That’s what I want to find out. Can you do a little digging—?”

“Already started,” Dorothy said. “As soon as she said ‘Pepsi.’”

53.

Unlike Belinda Marcus, Francine Heller never wanted to be a rich man’s wife.

My mother had gone to the same small-town high school in upstate New York as my father. She was the class beauty. In her old photos she looked like Grace Kelly. Whereas my father, to put it delicately, was no Gregory Peck.

From the moment Victor Heller saw her, he launched an all-out campaign to win her over. My father was a live wire, a charmer, a wheedler. He was a force of nature. And when he wanted something he invariably got it.

Eventually he got Francine, of course, then kept her in a gilded cage for decades.

It was pretty clear what he saw in her—that sylphlike grace and almost regal presence, accompanied by an appealing frankness—but it was less clear what she saw in him besides the fact that he wanted her with a relentless, outsize ambition. Maybe that was all it took to win over an insecure girl. She needed to be needed. Her parents were divorced—her mother had moved to the Boston area, and the girls stayed behind with Dad, not wanting to change schools. They shuttled between parents. Maybe she craved stability.

Money certainly wasn’t part of the bargain, and I don’t think she ever fully understood Victor’s hunger for it. Her father, a lawyer for the State of New York, would reuse teabags to save a dime.

It was hardly a match made in heaven. Being married to the Dark Prince of Wall Street turned out to be a full-time job. She had to attend endless galas and cocktail parties. At every charity event the names of Mr. and Mrs. Heller invariably appeared in the printed program, in the shortest list of the biggest donors. Not merely the Patrons or Sponsors or, God forbid, the coupon-clipping Friends. Always the Benefactors, the President’s Circle, the Chairman’s Council, the Century Society.

When all she really wanted to do was stay home with her two little boys, me and Roger.

My father vanished when I was thirteen, a fugitive from justice with thirty-seven charges of financial misconduct trailing him like a pack of hounds. He traveled around Europe, eventually landing in Switzerland. All of his assets were frozen, and our family went from high-living to hardscrabble. The loss of security, combined with the humiliation, was traumatic for her, as it was for the rest of us. But I always wondered whether, on some level, she wasn’t relieved.

Relieved to be out of the golden bubble. Relieved to be free of command-performance hostess duties. Relieved to be away from his soul-destroying, oxygen-depleting narcissism.

When she’d found work as a personal assistant to Marshall Marcus, it was a lifesaver for her and for all of us. I guess it could have been demeaning—one day the guy’s a guest at your dinner table, the next you’re keeping his call list—but Marshall somehow made sure the situation didn’t
feel
that way. He didn’t make it feel like charity, either, though I suppose that’s what it was. Instead, she once explained to me, he made it seem like he was running a family business, and she was family.

Eventually she moved on, got a job teaching in a local elementary school. Now she was ostensibly retired, but she kept busy as a volunteer school librarian. She also took care of the old ladies in her condo complex. Need a ride to your eye doctor’s appointment? Call Frankie.

Confused by the fine print of your prescription-drug benefit? Ask Frankie. She knew everything or knew how to find it out. I don’t know why she pretended to be retired, when she was busier than any medical resident.

And ever since she’d been liberated from the gilded cage, she spoke her mind. She took no crap from anybody. My sweet, soft-spoken mom had evolved into a plainspoken, peppery older woman.

It was delightful.

She lived on the bottom half of a “townhome” in a retirement community in Newton overlooking the reservoir. All the townhomes, set among winding paths and landscaped gardens, were identical. I could never tell them apart; I always got lost. It was like the Village in that old TV show
The Prisoner,
only with bingo.

The door flew open almost as soon as I pushed the buzzer. My mother was wearing turquoise pants and a white top under a flowing knitted caftan of rainbow hues and a necklace of big jade-colored glass beads. A few minimum touches of makeup, but she’d never needed much.

In her sixties she was a gorgeous woman, with sapphire blue eyes and dark eyelashes and a milky complexion, which she really shouldn’t have had, given how much she smoked. When my father first met her she must have been a knockout.

She was holding a cigarette, as always. A nimbus of smoke swirled around her. Even before she had a chance to say hello, a large dark projectile launched itself at me from behind her like a cruise missile.

I tried to sidestep, but her dog was on me, baring its glistening fangs, snarling and barking in a rabid frenzy, its sharp toenails raking my chest and arms through my pullover. I tried to knee it down, but the hound from hell was far too wiry and nimble and that only made it come at me more furiously.

“Down, Lilly,” my mother said in a matter-of-fact tone. Her voice had gotten lower and huskier from decades of smoking. The beast promptly dropped to the tiled entry hall, head resting on its paws. But it continued staring at me menacingly, growling softly.

“I’m glad she obeys you,” I said. “I think I was about to lose an eye.”

“Nah, she’s a love pooch, aren’t you, Lilly-willie? Come here.” She reached out one arm to hug me. The other one she kept splayed backward, daintily holding her cigarette away from me in two long curved fingers as if she were channeling Bette Davis.

As I entered, the beast got up to follow us, nails clacking on the wooden floor. It stayed so close it kept bumping against my legs. This seemed deliberate, a warning: It could rip out my throat at any time. It was just waiting for its Master to leave the room for a few seconds.

“Gabe here?” I said.

“In his room playing some computer game where you’re a soldier and you kill a lot of people. There’s a lot of bombs and explosions. I told him to put on his headphones. The noise was starting to bug me.”

That was just as well. I didn’t want him overhearing what I had to say. “Do you really want Gabe breathing all this secondhand smoke?” I said.

She squinted at me through slitted eyes as a plume of smoke snaked around between us.

“Have you ever
seen
Call of Duty: Modern Warfare? I think cigarette smoke is the least of his problems.”

“Fair enough.” I tried never to argue with my mother.

“Listen, honey, I know you’re awfully busy, but do you think you could make some time to teach him to drive?”

“He wants to drive?”

“He just got his learner’s permit.”

“What about driving school?”

She scowled at me. “Oh, for God’s sake, Nick, you’re the only father figure in the kid’s life. You’re his godfather. Don’t you remember how disappointed you were when you had to learn from me because your father was gone?”

“I wasn’t disappointed.”

“Lord knows he doesn’t want me to teach him.”

“You’re absolutely right. I’ll do it. Though the thought of Gabe on the Beltway…”

“And what kind of foolishness are you putting in his head about how he shouldn’t look in Lilly’s eyes or he’ll drop dead?”

I shrugged. “Busted. You can also blame me for that vegetarian kick he’s on now. He picked that up from my new office manager.” I smiled, shook my head. “I think he’s trying to impress her.”

“Honey, as long as he’s eating, what do I care. You want me to remind you of some of the things you did to impress girls? How about when you tried to grow a goatee when you were fourteen so Jennie Watson would think you were manly?”

I groaned.

“Are you getting any sleep?”

“I had to work late last night.”

Her condo was very IKEA: comfortable but unstylish. Plexiglas stools around the apartment’s “kitchen nook.” An armchair in some sort of maroon chintz floral pattern next to a matching couch. On the counter was a
Boston Globe
folded to the crossword puzzle, and a copy of
Modern Maturity
that looked like she’d actually read it.

I sat in the chintz armchair and she sat at the end of the couch, put out her cigarette in an immaculate stone ashtray.

“Nicky, my book group is meeting in a few minutes, so can we make this quick?”

“Just a couple of questions. When was the last time you talked to Alexa?” She lighted another cigarette with a cheap Bic lighter and inhaled deeply. “Couple, three days ago. Yesterday Marshall called me to ask if she was here. She’s acting up again, isn’t she?” I shook my head.

“Gabe tells me she spent the night at her friend Taylor’s house on Beacon Hill—you know her father’s Dick Armstrong, the senator?—but I think we know what that really means.

She’s a beautiful girl, and—”

“It’s nothing like that.”

She looked up. “Did she run away?”

“No.”

She studied my face. “Something happened to her,” she said.

I hesitated.

“Tell me what happened to her, Nick.”

I did.

54.

I expected her to be upset.

But I wasn’t prepared for the magnitude of her reaction.

She seemed to crumple, to collapse in on herself in a way I’d never seen before. She gave a terrible anguished cry, and tears spilled from her eyes. I hugged her, and it was several minutes before she was able to talk.

“I know you care for her—”

“
Care
for her? Oh, honey, I love that girl.” Her voice trembled.

“I know.”

She couldn’t talk for a while. Then she said, “How much are they demanding?”

“They must have given her a script. She said they want something called Mercury.

Marshall says he has no idea what that referred to.”

“Mercury?”

“You worked for him for years. You must have come across that name in a file or a letter or something.”

“My memory’s still sharp, thank God. That doesn’t ring any bells. But if Marshall has the slightest idea what Mercury is, he’ll give it to them in a heartbeat. He’d give up his fortune to get his daughter back.”

“If he had a fortune left.”

“I never heard anything about this. He didn’t mention his troubles at all. But he and I don’t talk much anymore. How widely known is it that he’s … what?”

“Ruined. So far he’s somehow managed to contain it. But I’m sure the word will get out any day now. He doesn’t confide in you?”

“Not since Belinda moved in.”

“That’s quite a change.”

“Honey, Marshall used to check in with me before he used the john. That’s the difference between him and your father. One of the many differences. Marshall actually respected my judgment.” This was painful to hear, but my mother was always allergic to self-pity, and she said it lightly.

“You think she’s deliberately cutting you off from him?”

She inhaled deeply. The red ember at the tip of the cigarette flared and crackled and hissed. “They’ve had me over to dinner twice, and she’s always hugging me and telling me in that Georgia peach accent that ‘We just
have
to go shopping on Newbury Street, me and you,’

and ‘Why don’t we see more of you?’ But whenever I call Marshall at home, she answers the phone and says she’ll pass along a message, and I doubt he ever gets it.”

“What about e-mail?”

“She changed his e-mail address, and I never got the new one. She says he has to be much more careful, much less accessible. So I have to e-mail Belinda, and she actually answers for him.”

“Well, Alexa doesn’t get along with her either.”

She shook her head, blew out a lungful of smoke. “Oh, that woman is toxic. Alexa was always complaining about her, and I kept urging her to give Belinda a chance, it’s not easy being a stepmother. Until I met the woman and understood. I think Belinda actually hates her stepdaughter. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“She talks about how much she adores Alexa.”

“In front of others. With Alexa, she doesn’t bother concealing it.”

“Maybe that’s not the only thing she’s concealing. You haven’t complained to Marshall about being cut off?”

“Sure I did. At the beginning. He’d just shrug and say, ‘I’ve learned not to argue.’”

“Strange.”

“I see this sort of thing happen to a lot of married men as they get older. Their wives start taking charge of their social lives, then their friendships. The husbands abdicate all responsibility because they’re too busy or they’d just as soon not take the initiative, and before you know it they’re wholly owned subsidiaries of their ladies. Even rich and powerful men like Marshall …

used to be. I think the only person he sees outside the office besides Belinda is David Schechter.”

“How long has Schechter been his lawyer?”

“Schecky? He’s not Marshall’s lawyer.”

“Then what is he?”

“You know how Mafia dons always have an adviser?”

“A consigliere?”

“That’s it. Schecky is Marshall’s consigliere.”

“Advising him on what?”

“I just think he’s someone whose judgment Marshall trusts.”

“Do you?”

“I don’t know him. But Marshall once told me he has the most extensive files he’s ever seen. Reminded him of J. Edgar Hoover.”

I nodded, thought for a moment. “Why did Marshall hire you in the first place?” She smiled. “You mean, why would he hire a woman with no particular skills to run his office?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Yes, it is,” she said kindly. “You don’t want to hurt my feelings. That’s all right.” She smiled. “Marshall is a good man. A good person. He saw what had happened to us after your father left. How the government took everything. Was there a part of him that thought,
There but
for the grace of God go I
? Sure, probably.”

“You always said that he was a friend of Dad’s, and that’s why he wanted to help.”

“That’s right.”