***
A Sunday night in February. Lauren was twelve, and her parents were in Acapulco—they went to Mexico every winter for ten days. The Walchers’ live-in housekeeper took care of Lauren while they were gone: cooking, cleaning, making sure she got to school. It was usually a quiet week, boring even, except when Uncle Fred took her to dinner.
That evening the doorbell rang promptly at six. Lauren skipped down the stairs and opened the door. Uncle Fred, a burly, bearish man with gray hair curling at the temples, gave her a cheerful hug. Tonight they were going to a Chinese restaurant in Wilmette, and Sara was coming with them. Lauren directed him to Sara’s house, feeling very adult when Uncle Fred complimented her for knowing the way.
Sara was waiting in front of her house. She climbed into the back seat of the Pontiac and leaned her arms on the back of the front seat. They chattered about last week’s episode of “Friends,” the new movie with Brad Pitt, the basketball game their middle school team won against their archenemy. Then Sara handed Lauren a sweater she’d borrowed.
“Oh, just keep it,” Lauren said. “I have plenty of others.”
Sara shook her head. “My mom says I have to give it back.”
Lauren shrugged and took the sweater.
At the restaurant, they sat at a table with a white tablecloth. Uncle Fred let them order whatever they wanted, and they splurged on egg roll, sweet and sour pork, chicken chow mein, and ice cream for dessert. They tried to put on their best manners and act mature, but when the main course came, Sara started giggling at something Lauren said and couldn’t stop. That made Lauren giggle, too, and for the rest of the meal both girls erupted into periodic gales of laughter.
Uncle Fred, who was unmarried and had no children of his own, smiled but looked slightly puzzled, as if he wasn’t sure what sort of species twelve-year-old girls were. Still, he gave them both his arm on the way out, and told them he’d never dined with such pleasant company. That prompted more peals of laughter.
Sara told her afterwards Lauren was lucky. She wished she had an Uncle Fred.
***
Lauren roused herself with a start. She must have dozed off. She pushed away the wispy memories and checked the time. Shit. She needed to catch up with Derek. They had to talk.
She got up and shuffled into the bathroom. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she dug some dark lip gloss out of her cosmetics drawer and applied it carefully, resisting the urge to smack her lips. Next she pulled on her black Armani sweatshirt she’d worn last night. It still smelled of Black Cashmere. She loved the musky, cinnamon tang. Then she wriggled into a new pair of Joe’s Jeans, the ones with the embroidery up and down the legs. Her long, dark hair lay straight today. Her zits were under control, too. All in all, not bad.
She checked the time again. Thursday night at the mall was tricky. You couldn’t be sure about the crowds. People were gearing up for the weekend, buying a last minute pair of shoes or pants or just hanging out at the Food Court. Derek would be there; it was one of their regular haunts. Plus, she was hungry. She couldn’t have cared less about the lobster bisque and chicken salad her mother brought home. She needed real food. Corner Bakery, maybe. Or Johnny Rocket’s.
Before leaving, she checked her e-mail. She’d checked an hour ago, but you had to keep on top of things. It had been easy to set up. Everyone, especially girls, thought you had to be a geek to do it. Not true. She clicked on her email program. Nothing new.
She was just shutting down when she heard the crunch of tires on the gravel. She went to her window and looked out onto the driveway. A car was rolling up to the house. In the fading light, she didn’t recognize it. For a split second, she panicked. Derek wouldn’t come here. She’d forbidden it. Then she remembered he didn’t drive a Toyota, and now that the car had stopped, she could see that’s what it was.
It seemed to take forever, but finally the driver climbed out. A woman. Blond hair pulled back. Wearing jeans and a blazer. The woman came around to the front of her car and looked uncertainly in both directions. The kitchen door was only a few feet away, but she trudged to the front door.
THE WALCHER
home—or was it a mansion— stood at the top of a rise that overlooked Lake Michigan. At the moment the water was calm, Georgia noted, almost glassy, but the lake was as fickle as a teenager and could change quickly.
The house had three stories, but the front, a sandy shade of granite, was a monolithic façade like one of those modern museums. A thick grove of trees just now starting to turn provided a natural barrier between the home and the street. She pulled into a driveway shaped like a lower case “h” and parked at the top. The front door occupied the rounded part of the “h.” She walked around.
Three circular concrete slabs, each one higher than the other, bridged a small fishpond at the front entrance. Glimpses of orange and silver flashed in the water. She moved to the side of an enormous wooden door and rang the bell.
A series of musical notes echoed in ever quieter pools of sound. Georgia shuffled her feet. In the past her badge, her weapon, and her uniform had given her instant credibility. Now she had nothing, except her wits.
The tall, thin woman who opened the door was dressed in black crepe pants and a beige shirt. Her dark hair was cut short above her ears, which sported gold hoops. Her angular face and pronounced cheekbones were softened by age and a flawless makeup job. She wasn’t a beauty, but with her dark gypsy looks she was exotic, and she carried herself like she knew it.
Georgia fastened one of the buttons on her blazer. “Good evening, Mrs. Walcher. My name is Georgia Davis.” She peered into a pair of dark, suspicious eyes.
“I thought they said seven-thirty.”
“Pardon me?”
“Seven thirty. You’re from the school, aren’t you?” The eyebrows above the dark eyes rose into perfectly formed arches.
Someone from the school was coming here? Georgia flashed back to her conversation with Rachel. Counselors and social workers were making home visits to help students cope with Sara’s death. She took in Mrs. Walcher’s hauteur, the icy expression. This might be her only chance to interview the girl about Sara Long. She sucked in a breath and made a split decision.
“Um, is this a bad time? I was only a few blocks away...”
The woman’s arched eyebrows were replaced by an irritated look down her nose. “I suppose we might as well get it over with.” She turned around and called down a long hall with a cold-looking marble floor. “Tom, Lauren’s social worker is here. I know it’s early, but we’re both here, and so is Lauren.”
Georgia felt her stomach knot. What was she doing? She’d never get away with it.
“Certainly,” a voice boomed. “Andrea, let the poor woman in.”
As Andrea Walcher opened the door, a man with a broad but curiously flat face that looked too large for his body joined her. His blond hair was parted on the side. Ruddy cheeks framed small eyes and a weak chin. But he was tall and well built, and he wore jeans and a soft-looking green shirt which made him appear younger and less formal than his wife. “I’m Tom Walcher.” He smiled. “You’re from Newfield?”
Georgia remembered Cam Jordan’s social worker. The weary self-importance. The officious manner. She drew herself up. “Georgia Davis.” She sighed and faked another smile.
Walcher smiled back, but it failed to reach his eyes. “Come in.”
Andrea Walcher gazed coolly at her husband.
Georgia stepped inside. Walcher led her into the living room, a huge space with a sunken floor, a thick white carpet over which lay oriental rugs, and a giant picture window. Through the window Georgia saw woods that ended precipitously at a rocky bluff. Rachel had told her there was a pool and a guest house, but they must have been on the other side of the property, because the only thing in front of the window was a bricked patio with a built-in barbecue pit and grill. A pair of tongs and oven mitts lay next to the grill.
A sudden memory of ribs, smoking in an open pit on a hot summer day came over Georgia. Picnic tables loaded with bowls of slaw and corn-bread. Peaches too. Bushels of fresh peaches. “We named you for them, darling,” a musical voice was saying. “But you’re sweeter and pinker and softer.”
“Can I get you something to drink?” Tom Walcher walked around the room, turning on lamps. As the reflection of the lights popped up in the picture window, the view outside dimmed. Georgia forced herself back. The contrast between the Walcher home and Sara Long’s was dramatic. None of the trinkets, sentimental objects, and framed photos she’d seen at the Longs’. The Walcher home felt sterile.
She cleared her throat. “Please, don’t go to any trouble. I—I just wanted to check up on Lauren.”
Andrea Walcher stayed at the entrance to the sunken living room, her arms crossed. Yet her husband seemed to be extending himself to be gracious. Were they playing her? Or just astonishingly dysfunctional?
“Andrea?” Walcher held out his hand to his wife. She took two steps down, but remained at the edge of the oriental rug, her foot poised on the fringe.
“Please, sit down,” Walcher motioned. “You must be as tired as we are. You’re sure you don’t want something?”
“No thank you.” Georgia sat stiffly on a nubby beige sofa with thick cushions. “How has Lauren been? Since the—Sara died?”
Walcher’s face turned solemn, and he clasped his hands together, almost prayer-like. “Well, it’s been—”
“Actually, she’s been fine,” Andrea cut in.
Walcher gave a little sigh and continued. “We all like to put a good face on things, especially Andrea.” He glanced over. “But that’s not altogether true. Sara and Lauren were close friends. This has been a very difficult time for her. Especially on top of her uncle’s death.”
“I’m sorry,” Georgia said. “I didn’t know...”
Walcher nodded. “We’re all—well, we’re all under a good deal of stress.” He looked over at Andrea. Was he apologizing for his wife’s behavior? She glared at him. “But Lauren’s strong. She’ll make it. We’re planning to take her to a therapist.”
Georgia heard an intake of breath from Andrea.
“And, thankfully, the legal wrangling seems to be moving along.” Walcher went on. “I’m a lawyer myself, and I know what legal sparring in the midst of grief is like.”
“Are you involved in the case?”
“No.” He unclasped his hands and leaned his elbows on the back of one of the wingback chairs. “I’m—well, let’s just say I know the players involved.” A trace of self-importance curled his lip.
Did that mean Jeff Ramsey? Were they “buddies?” Georgia wanted to follow up, but she was supposed to be a social worker from the school. Social workers didn’t ask about murder investigations. She leaned back against the couch. Tom Walcher was continuing to play the genial host, but there was something disingenuous about him. And his wife was an arctic wind. What would they do if they realized she wasn’t the person they thought? She should never have come. Too late now. She dug her thumb nail into her index finger and squeezed. “May I talk to Lauren?”
Walcher gestured. “Of course.” He turned to Andrea. “Would you get her, dear?”
Andrea didn’t move. Walcher shot her a questioning look. When Andrea still didn’t move, he moved past her toward the stairs and called out. “Lauren, sweetie. Could you come down for a minute?”
There was no response.
Walcher flashed Georgia an embarrassed smile. “Her door must be closed. I’ll get her.” He started up the stairs.
The few moments she was alone with Andrea Walcher seemed interminable. The woman leveled her with a suspicious look and made no attempt at chitchat. The message was clear: “You don’t belong here, I don’t like you, and I won’t do anything to make it easier.” Georgia’s pulse throbbed against her temple.
At length a noise at the top of the steps distracted her, and a girl’s voice shouted defiantly, “No. I don’t have time.”
A two-way mumble followed, and while Georgia couldn’t catch the words, the girl’s defiance became a whine, and eventually an exasperated, “Oh, all right.” Feet shuffled down the stairs, and Lauren Walcher spilled into the room.
The girl was a younger version of her mother, but with sharper features. Tall for her age, and slim, she had hair the same dark shade as Andrea’s, but longer and thicker. Like her mother, she dressed in clothes that flattered her body. And looked expensive. Lauren’s expression was just as suspicious as her mother’s, and when she saw Georgia, her eyes narrowed.
“Who are you? Where’s Beaumont?”
“What are you talking about, Lauren?” Andrea said. “She’s your counselor from school.”
“I’ve never seen her before. She doesn’t work at Newfield.”
Before Andrea could react, Georgia jumped in. “That’s true. I’ve been brought in as a private counselor. I work in Evanston.” It wasn’t a complete lie.
“Why would they do that?” Lauren’s tone was belligerent. “You didn’t know Sara.”
“Right again,” Georgia said. “But sometimes that can work to your advantage. I’m not bringing any baggage. And I do know how to work with people in crisis.” She gave Lauren the hint of a smile. “It’s my job.” That wasn’t so far from the truth either.
Lauren looked at her watch. “I only have a few minutes. I’m going out.”
“Where?” Her mother asked.
“Just out.” She turned a chilly voice to her mother. “You said to be home by seven thirty. It’s not even five.”
Andrea shrugged in Georgia’s direction. “That was before
she
showed up.”
If only she could get the girl alone. Georgia turned to Walcher, who had followed his daughter back downstairs. “Would it be okay if Lauren and I talked privately?”
A glance passed between the adults, then Walcher answered. “Normally, I wouldn’t hesitate. But in this case...” he threw his hand over his daughter’s shoulder. “... there’s been so much pressure. I don’t want Lauren to be burdened any more than she already is. I’m sure you understand.”
Georgia struggled to maintain a calm facade. “I do.” She prayed the words that came out of her mouth next sounded convincing. “But it’s hard for me to do my job if Lauren doesn’t feel comfortable and safe. She needs to know she’s not being measured or judged. Which is my goal. As a lawyer, sir, I’m sure you understand.”