Fool Me Once (11 page)

Maya was driving the car. “I know, Eddie.”

“Do me a favor, Maya.”

“What?”

“Whatever you find on that phone, no matter how bad, I need you to tell me. I need to know the truth.”

In the rear window Maya spotted the red Buick again.

“Promise me, Maya.”

“I promise.”

She hung up and took another look in the rearview mirror, but the red Buick was gone. Twenty minutes later, when she got to the Growin’ Up Day Care Center, Miss Kitty had her fill out the rest of the paperwork and arrange payment. Lily didn’t want to leave, which Maya took as a good sign.

Back at the house, Maya got Lily settled and opened what she referred to as the Drawer of Many Cords. Like most people she knew, Maya never threw out a power cord. The drawer was stuffed past capacity, like a snake-in-a-can, with dozens, maybe hundreds—heck, there was probably a cord that could work a Betamax—for her to go through.

She found an adaptor that fit into the bottom of Claire’s phone, plugged it in, and waited for it to have enough juice to work. It took about ten minutes. The phone was rudimentary—just the facts, ma’am—but it did indeed have a call history. She pressed the icon and started to scroll through the calls.

They were all to the same number.

Maya scrolled down and counted sixteen calls. The number was unfamiliar. The area code was 201. That meant northern New Jersey.

Who the hell was Claire calling?

She checked the dates. The calls started three months before her death. The last call came in four days before the murder. So what did that mean? The calling pattern was fairly uneven. There were a lot in the beginning, a lot toward the end, a scattering in the middle.

Was Claire setting up rendezvous?

For a moment Maya flashed back to Jean-Pierre. Her imagination started toying with her then. Suppose Jean-Pierre had gotten in touch with Claire after all these years. You hear about that all the time, especially in the Internet Age. No lover ever completely vanishes when you have Facebook.

But no, it wasn’t Jean-Pierre. Claire would have told her.

Really? Was she so sure about that? Claire had been up to something, no question about it, and she hadn’t seen fit to tell Maya what it was about. Maya had always thought that she and Claire shared everything, that they had no secrets from each other, but then again, let’s be fair here. Maya was on the other side of the world when all this happened, fighting for her country in a forsaken desert instead of being here, home, protecting her sister.

You were keeping secrets, Claire.

So now what?

Do the easiest thing first. Google the phone number. See if she got lucky and something came up. Maya typed the numbers into the search engine and hit the return button.

Bingo. Sort of . . .

The number came up right away, which surprised her. Most times, when you google a number, you get some offer to buy information or background checks on its owner from a third party. The phone number Claire had been calling was a business of sorts, but like everything else surrounding the swirling insanity of the past few weeks, it led to more questions than answers. The place was indeed in northern New Jersey, near, if the Google map was to be believed, the George Washington Bridge. It was called Leather and Lace—A Gentlemen’s Club.

Gentlemen’s Club. Euphemism for a strip club.

Maya clicked on the link, just to be sure, and was greeted with a screen full of scantily clad women. Yep. Strip club. Her sister had secured a secret phone and hidden it in their grandmother’s old trunk so she could call a strip club.

Did that make sense?

Nope.

Maya tried to throw this new information into the mix. When she added it all up—Claire, Joe, the nanny cam, the phone, the strip club, the rest—Maya considered all the possibilities and came up with bubkes. Nothing made sense. She started grasping at straws. Maybe Claire was having an affair and, what, her boyfriend worked there. Maybe Jean-Pierre was the club manager. The website did offer its “upscale clientele” something called a “French Lapper,” though Maya had no idea and did not want to know what that could possibly be. Maybe Claire was leading a secret life and worked there. You read about that sometimes or see it in a bad cable movie. Housewife by day, stripper by night.

Stop.

She picked up the phone and called Eddie.

“You found something?” he said.

“Look, Eddie, if I have to dance around”—she realized the irony the moment the word spilled from her lips—“or worry about filling you in, I’m not going to learn anything, okay?”

“Yeah, sorry, what’s up?”

“Do you ever go to strip clubs?”

Silence. Then: “Ever?”

“Yeah.”

“Last year, some guys at work had a bachelor party at one.”

“And since then?”

“That’s it.”

“Where was the club?”

“Wait, what does this—”

“Just answer, Eddie.”

“Outside of Philadelphia. Cherry Hill area.”

“No others?”

“That’s it.”

“Does a club called Leather and Lace mean anything to you?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Eddie?”

“No. It means nothing to me.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“You’re not going to tell me what this is about?”

“Not yet. Bye.”

Maya sat there and stared at the website. Why would Claire be calling Leather and Lace?

No reason to keep coming up with unfounded theories. She wanted to drive right now and go the club, but she had no sitter for Lily. Growin’ Up closed at 8:00
P.M.

Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow, she would get to the bottom of Leather and Lace, so to speak.

M
aya had the strangest dream
about the reading of Joe’s will. The dream was surreal, one of those through-the-shower-stall nocturnal visions where you really can’t remember what was said or where exactly you were or any of that. She only remembered one thing.

Joe was there.

He sat in an opulent burgundy leather chair, wearing the same tuxedo he’d worn the night they met. He looked handsome as hell, his eyes fixated on a fuzzy figure reading a document. Maya couldn’t hear a word the figure was saying—it was like listening to Charlie Brown’s teacher—but she knew somehow that the figure was reading the will. Maya didn’t care. Her entire focus was
on Joe. She called out to him, tried to get his attention, but Joe would not turn her way.

Maya woke up to the sounds again—the screams, the rotors, the gunfire. She grabbed the pillow and wrapped it around her head, covering her ears, trying to muffle the terrible noise. She knew, of course, that it would do no good, that the sounds were coming from inside her head and, if anything, her efforts would keep them locked there. But she did it anyway. The sounds rarely lasted long. She just had to close her eyes—another bizarre move: closing your eyes when you are trying to drown out sounds—and ride them out.

When the episode subsided, Maya got out of bed and made her way to the bathroom. She looked in the mirror and then wisely decided to open the medicine chest so at the very least she didn’t have to look at her gaunt expression. The small brown pill containers were there. She debated taking one or two, but she would need to be sharp today, what with the reading of Joe’s will and facing his entire family.

She took a shower and chose a black Chanel pantsuit Joe had picked out for her. Joe had liked to shop for her. She’d tried it on for him, loving the feel and cut, but she’d pretended not to like it because the price was obscene. But she hadn’t fooled Joe. The next day, he went back to the store and bought it. It had been lying on the bed, just as it was now, when she came home.

She slipped on the suit and woke up Lily.

Half an hour later, Maya dropped Lily off at Growin’ Up. Miss Kitty wore a Disney princess costume Maya didn’t recognize. “Do you want to dress as a princess too, Lily?” Lily nodded and went with Princess Miss Kitty, barely bothering to wave good-bye to
her mother. Maya got back in her car and booted up the Growin’ Up app. She checked the in-room camera. Lily was slipping into an Elsa-from-
Frozen
costume.

“‘Let it go,’” Maya sang to herself as she started driving to her in-laws’.

She flipped on the radio to get her own voice out of her head and replace it with whatever inanity was on the morning drive. People who host morning radio programs cannot believe how funny they are. She moved it to AM—did anyone listen to AM anymore?—and put on the all-news channel. There was comfort to the almost military precision and predictability. Sports on the quarter hour. Traffic every ten minutes. She was distracted, half listening at best, when a story caught her attention:

“Notorious hacker Corey the Whistle has promised a treasure chest of new leaks this week that he claims will not only embarrass a leading official in the current administration but also will definitely lead to resignation and, most likely, prosecution . . .”

Despite it all, despite what she said about being out of Corey the Whistle’s awful reach, Maya still felt a fresh shiver surge through her. Shane had wondered why Corey hadn’t released it all, if he was just biding his time to drop the bigger bomb—and yes, the word choice was worthy of a sad ha-ha—on her. She had, of course, wondered that too. Maya Stern was old news now, but the potential was there. Big secrets don’t stay secret. They have a way of coming back when you least expect them, rippling and reverberating and causing—again she recognized how often military lingo slips into our regular vocabulary—massive collateral damage.

Farnwood was an old-school rich-people estate. Before Maya met Joe, she had assumed such places were the stuff of history
books or fiction. They are not. She drove up to a gate manned by Morris. Morris had been working the gate since the early eighties. He lived in the same workers’ compound as Isabella’s family.

“Hey, Morris.”

He scowled at her, as he always did, reminding her in his own way that she had just married into this family and really wasn’t blood. There might have been more to Morris’s scowl today, something that could be explained by either lingering sadness at the death of Joe or, more likely, the gossip surrounding Isabella and the pepper spray attack. Morris grudgingly pressed the button, and the gate opened so slowly it was hard to see with the naked eye.

Maya drove up the rolling hill, past a grass tennis court and a full-size soccer field (“It’s called a pitch,” Joe had told her), neither of which Maya had ever seen used, and arrived at a Tudor mansion that reminded her of Bruce Wayne’s on the old Batman TV show. She half expected a bunch of men dressed for a fox hunt to greet her, but instead, her mother-in-law, Judith, stood alone by the door. Maya parked by the stone path.

Judith was a beautiful woman. She was petite with big round eyes and dainty, doll-like features. She looked younger than her years. There had been some work done—Botox, maybe a little something around the eyes—but it was tasteful, and most of her youthful appearance was due either to genetics or her daily yoga routine. Her figure still drew second glances. Men were drawn to her big-time—looks, brains, money—but if she dated, Maya didn’t know about it.

“I think she has secret lovers,” Joe had told her once.

“Why secret?”

But Joe had just shrugged it off.

She was rumored to have been a West Coast hippie back in the day. Maya believed it. If you looked closely, you could still see a hint of something untamed in the eyes and the smile.

Judith came down the stairs but stopped on the second to last one, making her and Maya about the same height. They exchanged a cheek kiss, Judith looking past her the whole time.

“Where is Lily?”

“In day care.”

Maya waited for some surprise to register on her mother-in-law’s face. None did. “You need to work it out with Isabella.”

“She told you?”

Judith did not bother replying.

“So help me work it out,” Maya said. “Where is she?”

“My understanding is Isabella is traveling.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know. In the meantime I suggest you use Rosa.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You know that she used to be Joe’s nanny.”

“I do.”

“And?”

“I don’t think so.”

“So you’ll keep her in day care?” Judith shook her head in disapproval. “Years ago, I was involved in day care facilities, professionally speaking.” She was a board-certified psychiatrist and still saw clients twice a week at an office on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. “Do you remember all those child-abuse cases in the eighties and nineties?”

“Sure. What, you were called in as an expert?”

“Something like that.”

“I thought they were all found to be bogus. Child hysteria or something.”

“Yes,” Judith said. “The caregivers were exonerated.”

“So?”

“The caregivers were exonerated,” she repeated, “but maybe the system wasn’t.”

“I’m not following.”

“The children in the day care were so easy to manipulate. Why?”

Maya shrugged.

“Think about it. These kids came up with all these horror stories. I ask myself why. Why were these children so eager to say what they thought their parents wanted to hear? Maybe, just maybe, if their parents had given them more attention . . .”

That, Maya thought, was quite a stretch.

“The point is, I know Isabella. I’ve known her since she was a little girl. I trust her. I don’t know or trust the people at day care—and neither do you.”

“I have something better than trust,” Maya said.

“Pardon?”

“I can watch them.”

“What?”

“Safety in numbers. There are plenty of witnesses, including me.” She held up the app, pressed the button, and there was Lily in her Elsa costume. Judith took hold of the phone and smiled at the image. “What is she doing?”

Maya took a look. “Based on the way she’s spinning, I’d say she’s dancing to
Frozen
.”

“Cameras everywhere,” Judith said with a shake of her head. “It’s a new world.” She handed the phone back to Maya. “So what happened with you and Isabella?”

It would not be smart to get into it now, especially when they were gathering to hear Joe’s will. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“May I be blunt?”

“Are you ever not?”

Judith smiled. “In that way, we are the same, you and I. Well, in many ways, we are. We both married into this family. We are both widows. And we both speak our minds.”

“I’m listening.”

“Are you still seeing your doctor?”

Maya said nothing.

“Your circumstances have changed, Maya. Your husband was murdered. You witnessed it. You could have been killed. You are now raising a child on your own. When you stack all these current stresses on top of your previous diagnosis—”

“What did Isabella tell you?”

“Nothing,” Judith said. She put her hand on Maya’s shoulder. “I could treat you myself, but—”

“That wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“Exactly. It would be wrong. I should stick to my roles as doting grandmother and supportive mother-in-law. My point is, I have a colleague. A friend really. She trained with me at Stanford. I’m sure the VA psychiatrists are competent, but this woman is the best in her field.”

“Judith?”

“Yes?”

“I’m fine.”

A voice said, “Mom?”

Judith turned around. Caroline, her daughter and Joe’s sister, was there. The two women looked alike, you could see that they were mother and daughter, and yet where Judith always looked strong and confident, Caroline always seemed to be midcower.

“Hello, Maya.”

“Caroline.”

More exchanged cheek kisses.

“Heather is waiting for us in the library,” Caroline said. “Neil is already there.”

Judith’s expression turned grim. “Come, let’s go then.”

Judith stood between Caroline and Maya, letting them both take her by the arms. They walked in silence through the grand foyer and past the ballroom. There was a portrait of Joseph T. Burkett Sr. above the fireplace. Judith stopped and stared at him for a moment.

“Joe looked so much like his father,” Judith said.

“He did,” Maya agreed.

“Another thing we have in common,” Judith said with a hint of a smile. “Same taste in men, I suppose.”

“Yep, tall, dark, and handsome,” Maya said. “I’m not sure that makes us stand out.”

Judith liked that. “So true.”

Caroline opened the double doors, and they all entered the library. Maybe it was because Maya had just seen little girls dressing up, or maybe it was because she had recently watched
Beauty and the Beast
with Lily, but the library reminded Maya of the Beast’s. The room was two stories high with built-in bookshelves of dark oak from floor to ceiling. The carpets were Oriental and
ornate. A chandelier hung from the ceiling. There were two rolling ladders set on cast-iron rails. A large antique globe opened to reveal a crystal decanter of cognac. Neil, Joe’s surviving brother, was already having at it.

“Hey, Maya.”

More cheek kissing, though sloppier. Everything with Neil was sloppy. He was one of those pear-shaped guys who looked sloppy no matter how meticulously tailored a suit he wore.

“Want one?”

He gestured to the decanter.

“No, thanks,” Maya said.

“You sure?”

Judith’s lips were pursed. “It’s nine in the morning, Neil.”

“But five
P.M.
someplace. Isn’t that what they always say?” He laughed. No one joined him. “Besides it’s not every day you get to hear the reading of your brother’s will.”

Judith looked away. Neil was the baby, the youngest of the four Burkett children. Joe was firstborn, followed a year later by Andrew, who had “died at sea”—that was how the family always put it—and then came Caroline and finally Neil. Oddly enough, it was Neil who ran the family empire now. Joseph Sr., never one for sentimentality when it came to money, had placed him in charge over his older siblings.

Joe had shrugged it off. “Neil is ruthless,” he’d told her once. “Dad always liked ruthless.”

“Maybe we should all sit,” Caroline suggested.

Maya looked at the chairs—the opulent burgundy chairs—and flashed back to her dream. For a moment, she could see Joe in that tuxedo, legs crossed, cuffs creased, looking off, unreachable.

“Where’s Heather?” Judith asked.

“I’m right here.”

They all turned to the voice in the doorway. Heather Howell had been the family attorney for the past decade. Before that, Heather’s father, Charles Howell III, worked for the Burketts. Before that, her grandfather Charles Howell II held the post.

No word on the first Charles Howell.

“Fine,” Judith said. “Let’s get this started.”

It was an odd thing with Judith, how easily she slipped from warm maternal figure to professional shrink to, as she was right now, starchy old-world matriarch complete with a British-tinged accent.

They began to take their seats, but Heather Howell stayed standing. Judith looked back at her. “Is there a problem?”

“I’m afraid there is.”

Heather was one of those attorneys who exude confidence and competence. You wanted her on your side. The first time Maya had met Heather Howell had been immediately after Joe’s marriage proposal. Heather had called her into this very room and slapped down a prenup agreement. In a no-nonsense yet not unfriendly tone, she had told Maya, “Signing this document is nonnegotiable.”

Now, for the first time, Heather Howell looked a little lost or at least out of her comfort zone.

“Heather?” Judith said.

Heather Howell turned to her.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m afraid we will have to postpone the reading of the Last Will and Testament.”

Judith looked at Caroline. Nothing. She looked at Maya. Maya just stood there. Judith turned back to Heather. “Do you care to explain why?”