Don't Cry Now (15 page)

Bonnie felt as if she were on a merry-go-round, traveling in ever-increasing circles, growing dizzy with delight, every fiber of her body stirring, reaching for the brass ring, as the music of the carousel built to an impossible crescendo. Hold on tight, she thought, arching her back, wrapping her legs around the back of her husband's neck. In just a few more seconds, the ride would be over.

“Daddy?” a thin voice called from somewhere far away. “Daddy?” The voice slithered onto the carousel,
wrapped itself around the neck of one of the wooden ponies, stretched toward Bonnie's throat.

Bonnie opened her eyes as Rod pulled abruptly out of her, throwing the bed sheet across their naked torsos, although nothing could hide the fact that Bonnie's hands were tied.

“I don't feel well, Daddy,” Lauren cried, her voice a moan. “I feel really sick.”

“Okay, sweetheart,” Rod said. “Go to your bathroom. I'll be right there.”

Lauren quickly fled the room. Rod jumped out of bed, grabbing for his bathrobe.

“Rod, for God's sake, untie me,” Bonnie urged.

He was immediately at her side, fumbling with the chiffon scarves. But her squirming had rendered the scarves too tight around her wrists, and he was only able to untie them from around the bedposts.

“My God, what she must think,” Bonnie said, trying to work the stubborn scarves off her wrists, but unable to do so. “Seeing me tied to the bed like that.”

“She couldn't see anything. It's pitch-black in here. Her eyes didn't have time to adjust to the dark.”

“We don't know how long she was standing there.”

“Daddy!” Lauren cried from down the hall. “Help me.”

Rod ran from the room as Bonnie struggled to her feet, her body cramping in protest at having been so rudely disturbed. Just a few more seconds and it would have been all over, she thought, going to her closet, pulling on her bathrobe, tucking the chiffon scarves inside its sleeves as she headed for the bathroom at the end of the hall. A few more seconds, and they would have been finished, her body would have been satisfied, her wrists would have been freed.

Was Rod right? Had it been too dark for Lauren to make out what was going on? Or had she seen everything? My stepmother, the pervert, Bonnie thought, approaching the bathroom, the unmistakable sound of
someone retching coming through the door. Bonnie took a deep breath, then entered the small room.

Lauren was hunched over the toilet, her auburn hair clammy against her forehead, her face ashen, her body racked by a succession of violent heaves. Rod stood by the window, looking as if he were about to be sick himself.

“Why don't you go back to bed,” Bonnie told him, moving to the sink. “I'll take care of things in here.”

Rod needed no further prodding. His lips twitched into something approaching a grateful smile, and then he was gone. Bonnie soaked a washcloth in cool water and pressed it against Lauren's forehead. “Take deep breaths,” she urged as Lauren shoved her hand aside. “Come on, honey. Take deep breaths. It'll help.”

Lauren struggled to comply. For a few seconds, it looked like she might be all right, then the heaving started up again. Bonnie tried again to apply the cool compress to Lauren's forehead. Again, she was rebuffed.

Obviously the dinner she'd made tonight hadn't agreed with Lauren's delicate stomach. Bonnie sat down on the edge of the bathtub, feeling guilty, wondering why she'd sent Rod away. Lauren didn't want her here. It was her father she'd called for. Certainly Bonnie could think of more pleasant ways to spend the balance of the night than watching someone throw up. Yet, she didn't leave. She waited, feeling the enamel of the tub cold through the warmth of her velour bathrobe. “You're a good girl,” she heard her mother say.

“I feel so sick,” Lauren moaned, tears flowing from her eyes.

“I'm sorry, sweetheart. I wish there was something I could do to make you feel better.” Bonnie wondered again whether Lauren had seen her tied to the bedposts, whether that might be adding to her misery. “This might help,” she said, again holding out the damp washcloth. This time, Lauren offered no resistance, allowing Bonnie
to press the soothing compress against her forehead. “Is that better?”

“A little.”

“Keep taking deep breaths,” Bonnie advised.

“My stomach hurts so much. I feel like I'm going to die.”

“You're not going to die, I promise you. You're going to be fine. Just fine.”

Lauren fell back against the wall, Bennie immediately surrounding her with her arms. She wiped the girl's forehead, then moved the cloth to the back of her neck. “How's that?”

“A little better.”

“Good.” They sat this way for the better part of an hour. “Do you thing you're ready to go back to bed now?” Bonnie asked, no longer able to block out the unpleasant smell of the small room, beginning to feel queasy herself.

Lauren nodded, allowed Bonnie to lift her to her feet. One arm wrapped itself around Lauren's waist, the other held her trembling hands.

“Slowly,” Bonnie cautioned. “We're not in any hurry.”

“What's that?” Lauren asked suddenly, nodding toward Bonnie's wrist. A lavender chiffon scarf peeked out from underneath the velour bathrobe.

Bonnie dropped her hand to her said, her fingers pushing the scarf back inside the sleeve. “It's nothing,” she said. “The lining of my bathrobe is ripped….” Her voice broke off. She led Lauren to her bedroom.

“I'm sorry if I disturbed you and Daddy,” Lauren said.

“You didn't disturb us,” Bonnie said quickly, wondering again how much Lauren had seen earlier, praying that Rod was right, that it had been too dark for her to make out anything. She helped Lauren into a fresh nightgown, then tucked the girl into her bed. Then she leaned over and kissed her on the forehead before heading for the door.

“Bonnie,” Lauren called after her weakly.

Bonnie stopped. “Yes?”

“Could you sit with me until I fall asleep?”

Tears filled Bonnie's eyes. This has been quite a night, she thought, returning to Lauren's bed and sitting down, making sure the chiffon scarves were tucked safely out of sight. Then she took one of Lauren's hands inside her own, and waited until the child fell asleep.

O
n Friday afternoon, Bonnie went to see Dr. Walter Greenspoon.

It hadn't been a good day. Rain clouds had been hovering since early morning, and the cool temperatures were more suited to late October than early May. Lauren still wasn't feeling well, leading Bonnie to suspect it wasn't her cooking that had done the child in, but a case of the flu. Whatever it was, Lauren was still in bed when Bonnie left for school that morning. She hadn't bothered waking her up, deciding the girl needed her sleep more than she needed whatever was on the curriculum of Bishop's Private School for Girls.

Rod had disappeared early again. Another breakfast meeting at the studio in preparation for the upcoming Miami conference. Nothing further had been said about the possibility of her accompanying him to Florida. That option seemed to have disappeared with Joan's murder. Besides, how could she even think of going anywhere and leaving the children? Despite the fact that the police had called yesterday with the news that test results revealed the blood thrown on Amanda to be animal, and not human, the fact remained that someone had hurled a pail of blood at her innocent baby. The child was in danger, just as Joan had warned.

I'm
in danger, Bonnie thought, her car climbing Mount Vernon Street in Beacon Hill, watching as a white Cor
vette pulled away from the curb just ahead. My child and I are in danger, and nobody seems overly concerned. The police are indifferent; my husband is in denial; nobody has a clue what to do next.

Except maybe Joan's killer, Bonnie thought, a shiver vibrating through her upper torso. Somebody walking over her grave, her mother would say.

It's up to me, Bonnie thought, pulling her car into the spot just vacated. She stared up at the elegant redbrick house that was the office of Dr. Walter Greenspoon, then checked her watch. It was ten minutes to two. Just what was she planning on saying to the good doctor? What did she think she could get him to say about Joan?

Bonnie leaned back against the tan leather seat, closing her eyes and shaking her head. She certainly hadn't had much success so far. Josh Freeman was still studiously avoiding her. He hadn't set foot in the staff room since their last meeting, and every time she passed him in the halls, he lowered his head and quickened his pace, refusing to meet her gaze. Then there was Haze—he'd missed her last two classes, and the phone calls she'd placed to his grandparents had gone unanswered. She'd left a message asking them to attend next week's open house, but she didn't hold out much hope of seeing them there. Her talk with Caroline Gossett had raised more questions than it answered, and her visit to Elsa Langer had been an exercise in futility. So, what exactly did she think she'd accomplish by coming here and lying to Boston's premiere pop psychologist?

“Oh well,” Bonnie said, pushing open her car door and stepping onto the sidewalk, “it keeps me off the streets.”

The redbrick town house was typical of the homes in this most exclusive section of Boston.
Stately
was the adjective most often applied, and it was the right one. The eighteenth-century dwellings were cared for by prim and prosperous hands, the top windows arched, the small front gardens neatly contained inside low wrought-iron railings,
the brass knockers on the latticed doors shining, as if never touched. Bonnie walked slowly up the eight front steps, eyes scanning the discreet side panel of doctors' names, pressing the button for Dr. Greenspoon's office.

“Name, please,” the voice said clearly through the intercom.

Bonnie jumped back, looked around, as if to make sure she was the party being addressed. “Bonnie,” she answered, hesitating. “Bonnie Lonergan.”

The buzzer sounded—short, low-key, to the point. Bonnie pushed open the heavy front door and stepped into the black-and-white-tiled foyer. A gold arrow on the wood-paneled wall indicated that Dr. Greenspoon's office was on the second floor. Bonnie proceeded up the dark blue carpeted stairs.

Dr. Greenspoon's office was located to the right of the staircase, behind double mahogany doors. Bonnie knocked gently, as if not sure she wanted to be heard. Another buzzer clicked open the door, and Bonnie stepped inside the office.

Two secretaries, one black, one white, both young and impeccably groomed, sat behind a large curved desk. They looked up in unison and smiled solicitously as she approached. Brass name plates identified them as Erica McBain and Hyacinth Johnson. “Ms. Lonergan?” Erica McBain asked, her husky voice a well-practiced whisper.

“Yes,” Bonnie answered, noting that the secretaries' clothes seemed to have been selected to coordinate with the decor. Soft shades of gray and rose were everywhere, from the deep rose of the matching love seats by the window to the pale rose of Hyacinth Johnson's blouse, from the muted gray of the carpet to the charcoal gray of Erica McBain's skirt. Bonnie felt out of place in her green-and-white-checkered pantsuit, like a weed in an otherwise well-tended garden. Surely, her outfit alone would reveal her as the imposter she was, and she would be unceremoniously yanked from the premises.

“The doctor will be with you shortly.” A well-
manicured hand with raspberry-colored nails pushed a clipboard across the desk. “If you wouldn't mind filling this out. The doctor's fee is two hundred dollars an hour, payable after each session.”

Bonnie glanced at the clipboard. Name, address, phone number, social security number, age, occupation, marital status, referral, childhood illnesses, recent illnesses, medications, reason for visit. “Oh God,” Bonnie muttered. So many lies to be written.

“Sorry?” the secretary asked. “Were you not aware of the doctor's rates?”

“It's not that,” Bonnie said, scarcely aware of the amount. “I don't have a pen,” she said, knowing she had at least half a dozen in her purse.

“Here you go.” Hyacinth Johnson rolled a black ballpoint pen across the top of the desk. “Why don't you have a seat?” Dark eyes blinked toward the matching love seats.

“Thank you.” Bonnie carried the clipboard to the sofas, lowered herself into one, surprised to find it firmer than she expected. What am I supposed to do now? she wondered, her hand gripping the pen, her fingers refusing to write. Come on, she urged. You've come this far. Just fill in the blanks. A half-truth here, a half-truth there. You're the teacher—do two half-truths equal one whole truth? Enough of this nonsense. Name: Bonnie Lonergan. Address: 250 Winter Street. They aren't going to check, discover that the name doesn't match with the address. Give them your phone number, for heaven's sake. They just need it for their files, in case they need to get in touch with you. They aren't going to go to the phone company, looking for discrepancies. Excuse me, but our investigation shows no one by the name of Bonnie Lonergan living at this address and registered to this phone number….

Bonnie couldn't remember her social security number, although she'd always known it by heart, and had to fumble in her purse for her wallet. She found it, dropped it, watched her driver's license tumble onto the carpet, reveal
her true identity for all to see. Except that nobody was looking. Erica McBain and Hyacinth Johnson were too busy answering the phones and working at their computers to worry about her misplaced identity.

“This is ridiculous,” Bonnie muttered under her breath, copying down her social security number. She had to calm down. Otherwise, she'd have a nervous breakdown right in the doctor's office, and he'd have her committed. Which might not be such a bad idea, she thought.

“Ms. Lonergan?” a male voice asked, and Bonnie jumped. Once again, her wallet slipped off her lap to the floor. The man knelt down to retrieve it, Bonnie recognizing his bald head from his newspaper photograph. She held her breath as Dr. Walter Greenspoon picked up her wallet, his thumb across her driver's license, blotting out her name. “Why don't you come inside?” he asked, returning the wallet to her clammy hand.

Bonnie nodded at the secretaries, although neither was looking her way, and followed Dr. Greenspoon into his office, a wonderful room that was all windows and built-in bookshelves. Two burgundy leather sofas sat across from one another, a long oval glass coffee table between them. A large mahogany desk sat off to one corner, as well as another small glass table and two pink-and-gray-pinstriped chairs. Several large plants stretched toward the high ceiling from corners of the room.

Walter Greenspoon himself was about fifty years of age and larger than Bonnie had expected. Maybe it was because his picture in the paper revealed him only as a tidy grouping of head and shoulders that she was so surprised by his almost unruly size. He was well over six feet tall, with the massive chest and muscular arms of a running back. As if to balance this exaggerated masculine image, he wore a pale pink shirt and red paisley tie. His eyes were blue, his chin soft, his voice an interesting blend of gentle authority. “I'll take that,” he said, indicating the clipboard.

“I haven't finished….”

“That's all right. We can finish it together. Have a seat.”

Bonnie sat down on one of the burgundy leather sofas, Dr. Greenspoon sitting directly across from her on the other. She watched while he perused the information she'd already jotted down.

“Bonnie Lonergan?”

Bonnie cleared her throat. “Yes.” She cleared it again.

“How old are you, Bonnie? Do you mind my asking?”

“I'll be thirty-five in June,” she told him.

“And you live in Weston, I see. Nice area.”

“Yes.”

“And you're married?”

“Yes. Five years.”

“Children?”

“A daughter. She's three. And two stepchildren,” she added, then bit down hard on her tongue. Why had she told him that?

“What's your occupation?”

“I'm a high school teacher. English,” Bonnie answered, wondering at what point she could comfortably interrupt this needless exchange of information and get to the point of her visit. Still, it was probably a good idea to ease into things, to get the doctor to relax, as he was undoubtedly trying to do with her, before she began prodding him for information.

“Do you like teaching?”

“I love it,” Bonnie answered, truthfully.

“That's good. I don't talk to a lot of people who are satisfied with their work, and that's a shame. Are you having any medical problems?”

“No.”

“No migraines, stomach cramps, dizziness?”

“No, I'm disgustingly healthy. I never get sick.”

He smiled. “Are you taking any medication?”

“Birth control pills.” Was that the kind of medication he meant?

“Any childhood diseases?”

“Chicken pox.” Guiltily, she touched a small scar above her right eyebrow. “My mother warned me not to scratch.”

“That's what mothers are for. Why don't you tell me a bit about her.”

“What?”

“I just like to get a little background on my patients before we begin,” he said casually.

“I don't really think that's necessary,” Bonnie told him. “I mean, I'm not here to talk about my mother.”

“You don't want to talk about her?”

“There's nothing to say. Besides, you know about her,” Bonnie stumbled, suddenly remembering she was supposed to be Joan's sister. Had Doctor Greenspoon forgotten who she was supposed to be as well?

“I know about her?” he repeated.

“Doctor Greenspoon,” Bonnie began, “I'm Joan Wheeler's sister.”

Walter Greenspoon lay the clipboard on the seat beside him. “I'm sorry. I must have mixed things up. Forgive me. Were you and Joan close?”

“Not really.” Bonnie breathed a sigh of relief. At last, the truth.

“Still, you must have been stunned by her murder.”

“Yes, I was.”

“Do you want to talk to me about it?”

“Actually, I was hoping you'd talk to me,” Bonnie told him.

“I'm not sure I follow.”

Bonnie looked into her lap, then up at the doctor, then back at her lap. “I know that Joan had been seeing you.”

“She told you that?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Greenspoon said nothing.

“My sister had a lot of problems, doctor, as you know. She'd lost a child; she was divorced; she was an alcoholic.”

Still the doctor said nothing.

“And I know that she was trying to get her life back together. She told me that she was determined to stop drinking, and that she was seeing you.”

“What else did she tell you?”

“That she was worried about something. Someone, actually,” Bonnie corrected, wishing she knew what the doctor was thinking. “Her ex-husband's wife and daughter,” Bonnie said, holding her breath until it hurt and she was forced to release it.

“She was worried about her ex-husband's wife and daughter?” Dr. Greenspoon said, in that infuriating way he had of repeating everything she said.

“Yes.”

“Why would she be worried about her ex-husband's wife and daughter?”

“I don't know. I was hoping you could tell me.”

There was a moment of silence. “Perhaps you could tell me a little more.”

“I don't know any more.” Bonnie heard her voice rise. She fidgeted in her seat, brought her hands into her lap, cleared her throat, started again. “I don't know any more,” she repeated, her voice imitating the measured calm of the secretaries outside the door. “I just know that she was very worried about them. She told me that she felt they were in some kind of danger.”

“She thought they were in danger?”

“Yes. She made quite a point of telling me that she was afraid for them, and she asked me whether I thought she should contact her husband's ex-wife and warn her?”

“Warn her of what?”

“That she was in danger,” Bonnie repeated in frustration. Was Dr. Greenspoon stupid or was he being deliberately obtuse? Maybe his two young secretaries actually wrote his advice column and the good doctor merely lent his head, shoulders, and stamp of male authority to the project.