Mother's Day (15 page)

“Are we going back out there?” Larry asked, ready and willing.

Walter shook his head. “Not tonight,” he said. “It’s late. We need to talk to some other people. Tomorrow will be soon enough. Why don’t you go home and get some sleep? I’m sure it’s going to be another long day tomorrow.”

“I doubt I’ll be able to sleep,” Larry admitted.

“Why not?” Walter asked. “Aren’t you tired?”

A crimson blush, the curse of the redheaded, seeped up Larry’s face. He sounded like some schoolboy playing cops and robbers, not a professional law officer. “It’s just a more interesting kind of case than the usual, you know, stolen bicycles or drunk and disorderlies. Have you done many murders, sir?”

Walter smiled at the question. “Not many, no. Enough to suit me, though. I guess you just have that youthful enthusiasm,” he said. “Well, you’ll get over it.”

Larry nodded. Yeah, he thought. Probably around the same time I get over blushing. “I’m sure you’re right, sir. G’nite,” he said, backing away from Walter’s desk. “See you early.”

“How could you do this?”
Greg thundered. “What is wrong with you?” He brandished the morning newspaper in Jenny’s face.

Jenny sat on a dining room chair, her arms crossed over her chest, her small chin stuck out, trembling slightly.

Karen stood at the French doors, looking out at her blossoming garden, blinking back tears. Her stomach was in a hard little knot.

“I told you, I didn’t know she was a reporter,” Jenny cried.

“We’ve heard your explanation,” Greg said disgustedly, banging the newspaper down on the glossy cherrywood surface of the empty table. He had literally been stalking Jenny through the house, waving the paper at her. They had ended up in the dining room.

Devoid of candles, silver, china, and food, the room had a chilliness that seemed appropriate to the mood among them.

“It’s true,” Jenny cried. “I didn’t know.”

“Are we supposed to be reassured by the idea that you would say all these things about your mother to a stranger, as long as it wasn’t a reporter?” Greg demanded.

“I have to go,” said Karen stiffly. “I have to teach a class. Will you drive Jenny to school?” she said to Greg. “She’s missed the bus.”

Jenny looked up at her mother. “I’m sorry, Mom,” she said. “I didn’t mean it the way that woman made it sound.”

“Are you saying that she made it all up?” Karen asked coldly.

Jenny hung her head. “Not exactly,” she whispered.

“Well then,” she said. “You should be quite pleased with yourself. Everyone who reads the paper today will think that I killed Linda Emery. Or at least that my daughter thinks I am capable of it.”

Tears trickled down Jenny’s face, and for a second Karen regretted her harsh words, but the sight of the headline in the paper stared up at her, the shock and the shame of it still fresh as a bleeding wound. She turned her back on them, picked up her gym bag, and left the house. She went out to her car, got in, and slammed the door. She did not look back to see if they were watching her.

All the way to the dance studio, Karen felt as if she were going to be sick. Once she even pulled over to the side of the road, but the wave of nausea subsided and she drove on. She kept checking her rearview mirror, half expecting a police car with a siren going and lights flashing to flag her down.

That’s ridiculous, she reminded herself. You didn’t do anything. They have nothing against you. Just the cruel assessment of your own daughter. “I wish she had gone off with Linda Emery,” she said aloud as she drove along. “Who needs this?”

Oh, stop it, she chided herself. You’re just hurt. And, of course, that was it. She was so hurt by it. How could Jenny speak about her that way—her own child? It was beyond comprehension. Didn’t she deserve some loyalty, some amount of faith, something for all they had shared?

Work it off, she advised herself, pulling into the parking space behind the studio and opening the back door of the building. Concentrate on the students, do a strenuous warm-up, and try not to dwell on it. A physical workout always helped her to feel better mentally as well. That was one reason she’d recovered so slowly from her miscarriage—the forced inactivity.

Karen had one hand on the door to the teacher’s changing room when she saw Tamara Becker, who owned the studio, come out of one of the practice rooms and approach her. Tamara’s parents were dancers in Eastern Europe, and Tamara had emigrated when she married an American. Her blond hair was skinned back off her face, emphasizing her strong Slavic features, and a black leotard encased her short, sturdy body. Karen towered over Tamara, who exuded a lot of compressed power. She made Karen feel a little bit like a giraffe or a gawky crane.

“Good morning, Karen,” Tamara said. She still had a strong, guttural accent.

Karen smiled. “Good morning.”

“So, Karen, come in here for a moment,” said Tamara in a confidential tone. “We need to talk.”

Karen was alert to danger, noting the unfamiliar tone in the dance teacher’s voice. She looked at her watch. “I’ve got a class in ten minutes,” she said. “I really need to warm up today. I’m full of kinks.”

Tamara appeared not to have heard her. She gestured to the door of a practice room, and Karen followed her inside. Along one wall were mirrors and a barre. The outside wall was lined with north-facing windows that filled the empty room with a cool, white light.

“Karen,” said Tamara bluntly, “I think it would be good idea if you took a little while off.”

“Why?” said Karen. “I don’t need time off. I’ve just come back, and I need to work.”

“I’m just thinking,” said Tamara, “maybe you come back too quickly after losing the baby.”

“I know my own body,” said Karen defensively. “I’m not pushing it.”

“Even so,” said Tamara stubbornly, avoiding Karen’s eyes. Tamara was unconsciously flexing one knee, pointing her toe and then extending her leg as she spoke.

Karen’s face flamed. “Is this about that article in the paper, Tamara?” she asked. “You and I have known each other for a long time. I can’t believe you would take that seriously.”

“No,” said Tamara quickly. “I don’t.”

“Well, good,” said Karen. “Because it’s just nonsense. That reporter basically tricked my daughter into saying a lot of things…”

Tamara looked at herself in the mirror. Karen watched her intently. Tamara stroked her throat thoughtfully, lifting her chin. Then she turned and faced Karen, her broad, angular features set in a grim expression. “Some of the parents, though…I’ve had phone calls this morning. Several of them.”

Karen’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Calling to complain. They think you did something, to that woman. They don’t want you around the kids.”

“Didn’t you tell them it was nonsense?” Karen exclaimed.

Tamara spread her square hands in a wide, helpless gesture. “People believe what they read in the paper. I can’t afford to lose my students. You can understand. I’m not saying quit. I’m just saying take a little time off.”

“Well, I might as well quit,” Karen cried. “It’s as good as admitting I have some reason to hide. Surely you can see that?”

Tamara folded her arms over her chest and looked down at her extended foot. “Don’t make me insist,” she said.

“Tamara,” Karen protested, “I thought we were friends. I thought I could count on you.”

“We are friends, personally,” Tamara insisted. “But this is my business.”

“Business,” Karen said bitterly.

“I’m sorry, Karen. Truly. When this whole mess is cleared up…”

“Never mind,” said Karen. “I get the picture.”

Karen opened the door and left the practice room. One of her students, a five-year-old named Marilyn, was seated on a bench outside, suited up in a tie-dyed leotard. “Hi, Mrs. Newhall,” she caroled. “I’m ready.”

Karen felt the sorrow bubbling up beneath her anger. “I’m not teaching today,” she said gently, and her voice cracked. Before the child could ask why, Karen slung her gym bag over her shoulder and fled to the parking lot.

Once inside the car, Karen wanted nothing more than to lower her head to the steering wheel and cry. But there was a chance that Tamara might see her. She would not give her the satisfaction. With trembling fingers, Karen managed to insert the key into the ignition. She had to concentrate on getting home.

Jenny stood at the open door of her locker and pitched books into the narrow cabinet. Peggy stood by her side, eyeing the river of leather-, spandex-, and denim-outfitted students that flowed sluggishly past them in the hall.

“I can’t believe it,” said Peggy. “That woman at the library was a reporter?”

Jenny nodded.

“How did she know where to find you?”

“I don’t know. She said my mom told her, but she didn’t. I guess she followed me from my house.”

“I’m sorry,” said Peggy.

Jenny sighed. “It’s not your fault. My mom is really mad at me, though.”

Peggy nodded. Her father had read the article aloud to her stepmother at breakfast. And they both quizzed Peggy about the Newhall family. “Did you tell your mom what happened?” Peggy asked. “How that woman pretended to be a friend of your real mother’s?”

“I told her, but it didn’t help.”

“Hey, Newhall,” called a loud voice. Jenny and Peggy turned and saw a wiry, acne-ridden kid with greasy brown hair grinning at them slyly. Two guys stood behind him, watching curiously. Mark Potter was well known around the school as a bully.

“What do you want?” said Jenny belligerently.

“Is it true your old lady is a murderer?” he taunted.

“Shut up,” said Jenny, feigning a weary tone.

“Hey, you said it. I didn’t,” he persisted. “Read the paper.”

“I did not say that,” Jenny cried. “Some man did it. Some maniac.”

“Some maniac,” he mimicked. “Sounds like your mother’s the maniac,” he said.

Jenny panicked as she felt tears forming in her eyes. It was her own fault for saying those things about her mother. She wished she could fall through the floor and just disappear.

A few kids had begun to gather around them at a distance. Jenny felt trapped, as if they were all just waiting for her to break down in front of them. All morning she felt as if people were staring at her curiously. It was as if she knew this awful moment was coming. “My mom wouldn’t hurt anybody,” she said. To her complete humiliation, she heard her voice crack as she spoke.

“Oh, poor little girl,” Mark crooned, reaching out as if to pat her hair. “Did her mommy do a berry bad thing?”

Jenny smacked his hand away furiously, which caused a burst of laughter from the other boys and murmured comments designed to goad them on.

Peggy, who had remained steadfastly by Jenny’s side, spoke up in a high-pitched voice. “Leave her alone,” she insisted. “Why don’t you pick on somebody your own size?”

Mark turned his attention to Peggy, his eyes filled with malicious glee at the prospect of another victim. Before he could launch his attack, a girl’s voice spoke up from the sidelines.

“He is her size.”

The group surrounding them broke out into laughter. His eyes narrowed, Mark whirled around to confront the kibitzer. Angela Beeton, a pretty, languid, blond goddess snapped her gum and stared impassively at Mark Potter.

Jenny felt with relief that the attention of the group had turned to the two of them.

Mark, thin-skinned about his height, glared at the coolly self-confident Angela, scanning her for the physical flaw he could use for ammunition. Instantly it was obvious to all that he was outmatched. Any further remarks on his part might cause Beeton to draw more attention to his short stature, and effective retaliation was out of the question. “Get bent,” he said wearily, throwing a rude gesture at Angela. Then he signaled to his henchmen and did his best to swagger away.

Jenny gave Angela a quavery smile. “Thanks,” she said.

Angela shrugged off the gratitude. “I loathe that little twerp,” she said. Surrounded by her own friends, Angela glided off in the opposite direction.

Once the crowd had dispersed, Peggy gazed at Jenny solicitously. “You don’t look good,” she said.

“I don’t feel good,” said Jenny. “I think I’m going to go to the nurse. I want to go home. Even that’s got to be better than this.”

“I’ll walk you over there,” said Peggy.

“You’ll be late for class,” said Jenny.

“I don’t care,” said Peggy loyally.

“I hope I don’t throw up on both of us,” Jenny said.

“You better not,” said Peggy.

Sam Duncan nudged his wife, who stood in the archway between the dining rooms, a sheaf of menus clutched tightly to her chest, a vacant look in her eye.

“Hey,” he said. “Look alive. We’ve got customers.”

Mary looked at her husband as if awakened from a trance. “What?”

“Earth to Mary,” he said, waving a hand in front of her face. “Did you hit your head somewhere?”

“Sam,” she said, “I can’t stop thinking about what I said to the police.” Walter Ference and Officer Tillman had come by earlier in the day to ask about Linda’s meeting with Jenny at the restaurant.

Sam sighed and then smiled placatingly at a pair of elderly ladies who were hobbling into the dining room and talking in the loud tones of the hard-of-hearing. “I hate this early bird special,” he grumbled. “We don’t make enough off of it to make it worth all the trouble.”

“Miller’s has always had the early bird,” said Mary defensively. “It’s a goodwill thing.”

“We don’t need goodwill. We need profit,” said Sam. “Besides, what is this sudden concern for the tradition of Miller’s? You’re the one who’s always complaining about too many hours “

“Sam, did you hear what I said about the police?”

“You answered all their questions,” said Sam. “What’s the problem?”

“You know perfectly well what the problem is,” said Mary. “I didn’t tell them everything I knew.”

“They’re not interested in idle speculation, Mary. Or thirteen-year-old, warmed-over gossip.”

“It’s not gossip,” Mary insisted. “It was a confidence. And it might be very important. I think I should go down to the police station and tell them.”