Picture Perfect (25 page)

“I remember his nickname,” she says as if suddenly uncovering a long lost memory. “It’s what everyone called him. Even the teachers.”

“What was it?” I say, almost desperate to know.

“De Niro. You know. Like Robert De Niro. He idolized that guy. Totally wanted to be him.”

My stomach does a tumble and a shock of anxiety zings through my chest. I look at Justine who shrugs in return. Obviously, she doesn’t know that Alan’s poker buddies called him De Niro, too.

***

“I’m pretty sure this is illegal,” Justine scolds me as I shimmy through the never-used dog door at my Malibu home. The previous owners had a Rottweiler. Thank God it wasn’t a Chihuahua.

After chatting with Barbie, I was convinced that Alan had to be her prom date. And after much begging and pleading, I finally convinced Justine that we had to get down to the bottom of this mystery before the LA County District Attorney’s Office decides to hang me for Alan’s murder. She suggested I leave this to Tanya’s investigator, but I don’t like the idea of putting my fate in someone else’s hands. Especially since Tanya seems bent on pinning this whole affair on Jack. Besides, she has her hands full working on restoring my public image.

The press release she put out on my behalf was short and to the point.

Lauren Tate, widow of recently deceased television magnate, Alan Tate, requests privacy in this time of sorrow. She urges anyone with any information connected to the death of her beloved husband to please contact the LA Sherriff’s Homicide Bureau. An investigation is currently underway, and Ms. Tate is hopeful that the person or persons responsible for this heinous crime will be apprehended as soon as possible.

When I first read the statement she’d prepared, I was rather shocked at seeing the word
widow
right after my name. I had trouble thinking of myself as a divorcee, let alone a widow. To me, that word describes a woman in her eighties, brokenhearted and forlorn after the quiet passing of her longtime companion and best friend. Not a vibrant and successful woman in her mid-thirties carrying on with a younger man (one whose mother probably went to the prom with her dead husband). It’s not a title I ever imagined for myself. But here I am. A widow at the age of thirty-six. And let’s not forget, a murder suspect, too. That’s one title I will be happy to shed as soon as possible. And all the more reason to do more than just hole up in my condo, whining about my predicament. If I want to take charge of my life, I have to take risks.    
  

“Come on,” I say, urging Justine to follow through the doggie door after me. Reluctantly, she gets down on her hands and knees and crawls through the tiny opening in the sliding glass door and joins me in the kitchen.

“You’re already suspected of murder. Do you want to add breaking and entering to your list of felonies?” she complains, dusting off the knees of her jeans.

“It can’t be illegal if I’m breaking and entering my own home.”

“It’s a crime scene, Lauren. We shouldn’t be here.”

“I have to find Alan’s yearbook. I know he kept it. He never threw away anything that included his picture. He kept freaking Timeless’ newsletters if he was mentioned in them. The guy was a total narcissist.”

“Fine, but let’s not disturb anything. Where would he have kept the yearbook?”

“In the den,” I say.

“The den?” Justine shrieks, grabbing my arm. “But that’s where he was—”

“Murdered. I know.”

Justine looks horrified, rightly so. “You can stay here if you want,” I offer.

“No,” she says, steeling herself. “I’m your best friend. And what good is a BFF if she won’t contaminate a crime scene with you?”

Justine and I have been through a lot over the years, and more often than not, she’s the one dragging me on crazy adventures. But even she knows that this is not just some kooky jaunt over the Brooklyn Bridge to stake out cute boys at dive bars. This is serious business and we could both end up in serious trouble.

I smile at Justine. “You’re the best.”

“I’m glad you think so, because I’m sure we’ll be sharing a jail cell together very soon.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. We’ll be in and out in five minutes. No one will ever know we were here,” I say, hoping to God it’s the truth.

I head for the den with Justine at my side and armed with a flashlight. It’s growing dark outside and I don’t want to turn on the lights. The front door was sealed with crime scene tape, hence the doggie door entry, and the house should be empty. Any neighbors are too far away to possibly see any activity, but still. I’m taking a risk being here. I don’t need to add “stupid” and “crazy” to my title. Yet.

We come upon the door to Alan’s den and I shine the light into the dark office. It’s eerily quiet. I can hear Justine breathing beside me, and as the beam of light crawls across the floor and lands on a darkened spot on the carpet, I hear her breath catch. Her hand wraps around mine and we both stand stock-still.

“Come on,” I say, as much to myself as to Justine. “We can do this.”

“Okay,” she says, squeezing my hand. “Let’s do this.”

We both inhale sharply, as if we’re about to jump off the side of a boat into a deep, black lake, wary of the creatures contained within it. We step forward in unison, and I move to the desk to turn on the task lamp. Its light is so small and focused it cuts through the shadows like a blade. I quickly open drawers as Justine examines the bookshelves with the flashlight.

We work in silence, the only sound the ruffling of papers under my fingers. Justine thumbs through some leather-bound books and I turn my attention to the credenza behind the desk. I tilt the head of the lamp in that direction, spotlighting a lock on one of the doors. I reach for a letter opener I’d seen inside one of the drawers and bend down to survey the tiny keyhole.

“What is it?” Justine asks.

“He always kept this locked,” I say, unable to keep the trepidation out of my voice. Opening it feels wrong. As if I’m betraying some trust of his. Peeking in on his private life. Seconds ago it seemed vital to know what was behind that door, but now it feels…
sinful
. “I don’t know. Maybe this is a mistake,” I say, gripping the letter opener.

“Don’t you want to know?”

“Yes, of course.”

“But what?”

“It doesn’t feel right, invading his privacy like this.”

“Alan lost his right to privacy when he cheated on you and then set out to ruin your career,” Justine says, reminding me of how worthy Alan’s word was.

“You’re right,” I say, gathering up my courage. I fiddle with the lock, attempting to free its pins with the letter opener, but to no avail.

“Here, let me.”

Justine sticks out her hand for the opener, and I place it in her palm. She slides it between the cabinet and the surround and pries open the door with a hefty tug, flinging it wide and revealing the credenza’s contents. Inside, a neatly organized row of spiral-bound folders awaits us. Slowly, we pull them out one by one and study their pages. Most of them appear to be financial statements and bank records. But to the side and the back of the credenza sit four glossy blue books, their spines titled,
Pasadena High School.
Justine and I look at each other for a moment, and then we tear into them.

“Which one is his senior year?” Justine asks.

“This one,” I say, flipping open the book marked 1984-1985.

I thumb through the pages, looking for the senior class portraits. I quickly find Alan’s photo, feeling a tickle in my belly upon seeing his smiling face and bright blue eyes. But I don’t linger, and swipe a few pages back to see if Barbie’s photo is included. When I land on the “F” section, I scan through the pictures of girls with big eighties hair, headbands and fuchsia lipstick until my finger lands on the image of a beautiful girl with long, wavy blond hair, big brown eyes and full pink lips. Barbie.

“Okay, so we have proof that they went to the same high school. That doesn’t mean he was her prom date,” Justine states.

“Right,” I say, and turn to the index in the back. I look up Barbie’s name and see that she is listed on several pages. With bated breath, I seek out each one to look at her photos. She was an active participant in many clubs and even a cheerleader, so she’s all over the book. Barbie posing with girlfriends from the French troupe all wearing berets, cheering at the homecoming game, dancing at pep rallies, manning a kissing booth at a fundraiser, and finally, Prom.

In large, glossy, four color glory, Barbie’s smiling face stares back at me as she is crowned Prom Queen. And it isn’t seeing Alan’s young, strikingly handsome visage next to her that causes the lump to form in my throat. No. It’s the beach ball-sized belly she’s sporting under her sparkly pink prom dress.

I look at Justine, horrified. “She didn’t just go to the prom with Alan,” I say, my voice shaking with sick anxiety. “She was full on pregnant with Jack.” 

“Holy shit!” Justine’s mouth drops. “You don’t think—”

“No,” I say. “It can’t be. Can it?”

Justine’s eyes widen in wonder.

“Is Jack…is he…Alan’s
son
?”

Chapter 20

“Pass the spring rolls,” I say to Justine who is presently devouring a plate of mee krob with the kind of fervor not usually displayed in public. Seriously, it’s almost pornographic. Luckily, we ordered Thai to go and are safely ensconced in the privacy of my dining room. Oh, it wasn’t easy getting in undetected by the still lingering paparazzi and journalists that have claimed temporary residency on the sidewalk outside my building. The moment I pulled my BMW up to the driveway, the pack of photogs and journos descended upon us like lions on an injured gazelle. Fortunately, Chuck, good old reliable Chuck, came charging through the crowd flashing his security badge and his massive biceps and cleared the way for us to get into the garage.

After all the crazy and unsettling revelations this day has brought—Alan murdered with the very object that mangled my hand, Rebecca hiring back Jennifer, Sally’s somewhat creepy devotion, and the possibility that Alan was Jack’s father—we needed a huge dose of comfort food, and I couldn’t imagine anything better than piles of noodles in peanut sauce.

“Here,” Justine mumbles between bites of tofu and shrimp, sliding the carton of appetizers across the dining table.

“Thanks,” I say retrieving a crispy roll and dunking it into a small plastic cup of thick, red sweet and sour sauce.

We gobble our dinner like starved street urchins, slurping noodles and munching crispy tofu. All the while, Alan’s yearbook stares at us from the other end of the table, begging to be explored. As the last scrumptious morsel is consumed, both Justine and I look at each other expectantly.

Justine wipes her hands on a napkin and retrieves the book eagerly, as if she’d just been waiting to finish her meal before diving into the scandalous history of my husband’s high school days. “Come on,” she says. “I know you want to know.”

I shrug, feigning indifference. But truthfully, I’m dying to know more. To know how long Alan and Barbie dated, if he is in fact the cause of her giant belly in that prom pic, and if so, why didn’t he stay in her life, in Jack’s life? So many questions swirl in my mind, but the truth horrifies me. If Alan
is
Jack’s father…I’ve been having an affair with my
stepson
. 

A shiver shakes my shoulders, and I banish the ghastly thought from my mind. There has to be some other explanation. Alan and Jack look nothing alike. Well, except for their equally long, lean builds. Their dark hair. Their full lips. Their strong jaws…

“Christ!” I shout, overcome with the realization that Alan must be Jack’s father. “It’s true, isn’t it? I’ve been having an affair with Alan’s son!”

Justine places her hand on my arm. “We don’t know that. All we know for sure is that Alan went to the prom with Jack’s mom.”

“Jack’s fully pregnant mom.”

She cracks open the book. “Let’s look at the signatures in here. Maybe they’ll reveal something.”

I nod in agreement, and we pore over the first few pages of the yearbook, covered in swirly handwriting from girls all wishing “De Niro” the best of luck in showbiz. Sprinkled here and there are messages from guys ribbing Alan for breaking hearts, for being a pretty boy, for being in the school play. A few stern notes from teachers warning Alan off acting and urging him to go to college. But nothing, not a single mention from Barbie.

“What does it mean?” I beg Justine. “Why wouldn’t Barbie sign Alan’s yearbook?”

She doesn’t answer, and instead flips to the back of the book. “Let’s see if there are any other pictures of them together.” She scans the index with her finger and finds Alan’s name, then looks for Barbie’s.

“Well?”

“Six,” she says. “They’re both on six of the same pages.”

I yank the book out of her hands and tear through it, searching for some hint as to the depth of their relationship. The first picture is of Alan and Barbie, along with several other students at a talent show. The second is a group photo of the cast of a school production of
Grease
. Alan plays Danny to Barbie’s Sandy. The third is a picture from a track meet. Alan is crossing the finish line in a pair of blue shorts and a white tank top as Barbie and three other cheerleaders explode into the air, their pompoms held high. The fourth is the prom photo. The fifth is another group photo, this time of the high school choir.

The sixth photo, however, is just the two of them. Sitting at a lunch table in the cafeteria, they gaze into each other’s eyes, unaware of the camera. Barbie’s belly is flat and Alan’s hair is shorter than in the prom photo. The caption reads, “Young love. Barbie Ford and Alan ‘De Niro’ Tate. A match made in heaven.” But what’s really troubling is that scrawled underneath, in angry letters, is the word,
Bitch.

Justine and I exchange worried glances. “I have to know what happened,” I say to her.

“Let’s go,” she replies, reading my mind.