Prospect Street (25 page)

“Dominik Dubrov…”

“Still?” Dottie Lee shook her head. “You're not ready to move on to other possibilities?”

“He committed suicide six months later. Wasn't that practically an admission of guilt?”

“People kill themselves all the time, Faith. It's an epidemic. Did every one of them kidnap a child?”

“Of course not, but—”

“The scandal destroyed Dominik. He was a good, decent man, with old-fashioned values. Even though the police never arrested him, the newspapers and local television stations tried and convicted him. They had very little else to discuss, of course, and they needed stories. Dominik probably had what in those days we called a nervous breakdown. He hung himself.”

“You don't think he did it. That's clear.”

“Have I said as much?”

“Not exactly.”

“If you're really interested in what happened, settling for the most likely scenario is counterproductive. The police tried that, and they were unsuccessful.”

Faith leaned forward. “Dottie Lee, do you know who took my sister?”

Dottie Lee met her gaze. “I haven't been asked that question since a rude young police lieutenant came into this house, sat on that very love seat and shook his finger at me.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him what I'll tell you. I wasn't there. I saw nothing and heard nothing, and nothing I believe could ever be used as evidence, so why go on record?”

“Then you have some ideas?”

Dottie Lee picked up her teacup. “Everyone has ideas, dear, unless their brains have shriveled beyond repair. I predict you'll have a few yourself before this search is over.”

E
xcept for paint and put-away, the kitchen was finished. While Alex worried the new Formica countertop with his fingernail, Faith admired everything from floor to ceiling.

“Alex, this means we can cook.” Faith kissed the top of his curly head on her way to the sink. She couldn't resist turning on the water again. Running water, in her kitchen. It seemed like years. She'd grown so accustomed to doing their few dishes in the powder room that the tiny sink felt natural now.

“Tonight?”

“Nothing fancy. We still have to put things away.” She saw his mouth droop. “Omelets? With bacon and English muffins?”

“How? We don't have any food.”

“You know, there's such a thing as a grocery store.” She tried the faucet again. She felt like Granny of the Beverly Hillbillies.

“It's kinda late.” These days Alex always seemed to be on the verge of starvation; it was only five o'clock.

“Look, I'll run to the Safeway. You see which of these boxes is hiding our frying pans. And see if you can find the toaster and plug it in…” She looked around the room. “There.” She
pointed to the counter to the right of the refrigerator. “I'll be home in a jiffy. Find some plates. Get Remy to help.” She grabbed her purse and a light jacket, and headed for the car.

At the grocery store she wound her way between cars and shopping carts, enthusiastically grabbing one as she passed. The new kitchen and all its gleaming potential beckoned.

“Faith?”

She had been concentrating so hard on not running over the rush hour crowd that she hadn't really seen the man she'd been trying to pass. She came to a stop beside him. “Pete?”

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Pete Conley was a representative from the Tidewater area of Virginia. He had everything a politician needed, intelligence, charisma and a profile that suggested the younger Ronald Reagan. Several years earlier, his wife of twenty years had died in an accident on the Potomac, and after a year of mourning, Pete had emerged as Washington's most prestigious catch.

“I live in Georgetown now,” she told him. She remembered vaguely that he did, as well.

“Faith, I'm sorry about…” He shrugged, the intelligent ending to his condolences.

“Me, too. How are you?” She forced herself not to peek at her watch or picture her pathetic, ravenous son.

“I get by. You know how it is.”

If the gossip mill had any validity at all, he more than got by. She had always liked Pete. He was witty and compassionate, although a trace too political for her taste. She was sure that other women—most women, in fact—liked him, too.

“Losing someone you love is hard under any circumstances.” She smiled to let him know she wasn't going to break down right next to the display of glistening McIntosh apples.

“Are you dating yet? That helps a little.”

Her smile warmed a degree. “I guess I've made a stab at it.”

They chatted about their families; then he moved a little closer. “May I call you?”

For a moment she simply stood there. Pete Conley wanted
to call her? She was in jeans, and she hadn't touched up her makeup all day, because there was nothing to touch up. She hadn't even combed her hair before she took off for the store. She knew they called this the “Social” Safeway because of the abundance of young singles who shopped here, but until now, she hadn't thought that had relevance for her.

She recovered quickly. “Of course you can, Pete.” She wondered if he wanted to talk about his wife. If he thought she, of all people, would understand his loss?

He had already pulled out his Palm Pilot. “What's your new phone number?”

She gave him the relevant details. “I'd better go. Alex is waiting for me. He's always hungry these days.”

Pete had two grown daughters, and he nodded sagely. “Look, there's a cocktail party this Friday night at the French embassy. I know it's short notice, but I was going to take my sister, only she was called out of town. Would you come in her place? We don't have to stay long. Then we can go out to dinner.”

When she hesitated, he moved closer. “Please say yes.”

“Well, yes, then.”

His smile widened. “Good. I'll call to let you know the time.”

A little dazed, she made the appropriate response and continued on her way. Half an aisle later she analyzed what had happened. Pete Conley had asked her on a date and she had accepted. Pete was a friend, of course, and had been for years. She was replacing his sister, for heaven's sake. But still, there had been more to it than that. Her self-esteem might be hanging by threads, but she had all her faculties. He seemed interested in
her,
not just any warm female body on his arm. Her, despite lank hair and a bare face and jeans that were just a tiny bit tight these days.

More interesting was why she'd said yes. The reasons presented themselves. One, she wasn't dead yet. This was promising. Two, maybe it was time to find out if her reaction to Pavel Quinn was generic. Three, the chance to hold up her head in a gathering of her peers was too good to pass up.

Four, she might well need some of those very people in her corner if she started her own business. It was time everyone in D.C. knew she was more than David Bronson's ex-wife and Joe Huston's daughter. It was time they thought of her as someone they could willingly hire, someone who had survived betrayal and come out on the other side.

And she had.

Faith stood in the dairy aisle and realized she was smiling.

 

Over omelets, English muffins and ceremonial grape juice, Faith broached the idea of a shopping trip to her daughter. “I've been invited to a party at the French embassy. I need a dress. What would you say to helping me find one on Friday?” Both Alex and Remy had the day off.

There was a stunned silence, as if neither child could imagine their mother being invited to a party. Then Remy looked pained. “Like you don't have a closet full of dresses? Wear one of them. They all look pretty much like anything new you'd pick out, anyway.”

“What a charming vindication of my taste.”

“Taste? You dress like somebody's mom. Megan's mom wears tighter shorts than
I
do.”

“I don't think tight shorts would be quite the thing at the embassy.”

“You can be so lame.”

Faith tried again. “Remy, you need some new clothes, too. We could have fun.”

Alex spoke through a mouthful of omelet. “How come you didn't ask me?”

“Because you're a boy,” Remy told him. “He's not invited, is he, Mom?”

Things were looking up. Faith could count on sibling rivalry as one of the few constants in her life. “Not because you're a boy, Alex. Because you hate shopping. Besides, you're going off with your dad for the day.”

“Oh, yeah.” He was mollified.

“So, what do you say?” Faith asked Remy. “The party's Friday night. A Friday afternoon shopping trip?”

“I don't have anywhere else to go.”

 

By Friday Faith had asked herself a dozen times why she was going to the embassy with Pete. She had never liked formal gatherings. Yes, some of the country's finest citizens happened to be politicians. But at parties she could never shake the feeling she was surrounded by schools of tuxedoed sharks and the nasty little fish who fed off their leftovers. She knew what went on behind the cocktail chatter. The deals that were made, the reputations that were altered.

By the time Remy finally got ready for their shopping trip, Faith was on pins and needles. She wanted to have fun, perhaps put aside their animosities for the afternoon and resume—if only temporarily—what had been a good relationship. She'd never had to think about what to say to her daughter. Now every word needed a rehearsal.

Remy finally showed up wearing a pleated skirt that was too short and a shirt that was even shorter. Faith chose not to comment. “I thought we'd start on Wisconsin.”

“You won't find anything you like there.”

“Am I as stodgy as all that? I want something fun.”

“Who are you going with, anyway? Grandmother? She won't let you in the car in something fun.”

She told Remy about meeting Pete at the Safeway. Remy frowned, clearly not happy that her mother was going out with a man again. In a way Faith was relieved it wasn't just Pavel she objected to.

“His wife died, remember?” Faith said. “We've always been friends. Don't make more out of this than there is.”

“You're going to face all those people? Every one of them knows.”

Faith knew they were getting off on the wrong foot, but she couldn't let that go. “Nobody needs to be ashamed except the people who refuse to understand.”

“Are you done?”

“For all the good it did, yes.”

The two stared at each other, then Faith put her hand on Remy's shoulder. “Let's start again. Want to go to Wisconsin first and look around? If we don't find anything wonderful we'll drive over to Tyson's.”

“I don't have anything else to do.”

They walked up to Wisconsin in silence. Faith wondered where Billie was that day, since the two girls seemed inseparable, but asking produced a shrug. Last week Faith had insisted Remy bring the other girl home so she could form an impression. Billie, who seemed older than Remy but even less mature, had stayed the requisite hour, then taken off for her own house with Remy in tow. Faith didn't know what the two girls did at Billie's that was so much fun, but she was beginning to worry.

An hour and one new sweater for Remy later, they had shopped their way to a boutique with brightly colored dresses in the window. Faith took one look and started to move on, but Remy grasped the hem of her mother's sweater. “The orange dress. Take a look at it.”

Faith backed up and squinted. She had never worn orange in her life. Peach, yes. Coral when she felt daring. But this orange was the original, the mother of all oranges, clear and fresh, a Popsicle on a hot summer afternoon. The dress itself was simply cut from a fine, silky cotton, but on the right body, it would be stunning.

“Have you ever worn that color?” she asked Remy. “Your hair's lighter than mine, but our skin tones are the same.”

Remy's voice lost its edge; for the moment, anyway, she had forgotten they were at war. “I think you should try it on. You said you wanted something different.”

The dress was certainly different. Not understated, which was Faith's usual preference. Not really classic, and certainly not dowdy. It exuded confidence and a quirky wit. It was everything she'd told Remy she wanted, and she was petrified.

“Mom…”

Faith knew that taunting tone. “Just the thing,” she said, flinging open the door. “I'll give it a try.”

“What
did
the wind blow in now?” The man who greeted them was well over six feet, with narrow shoulders and a body that looked like it would just stuff a tube sock. He had spiky bleached hair and black-rimmed glasses. He also looked ridiculously thrilled to see them.

“We, umm, saw the dress in the window. I thought I'd like to try it on.”

The man appraised her, one finger resting against full lips. “Oh, honey, it's you, yes it is. The ‘you' you were meant to be. What is that rag you're wearing?” He shook his head. “Does your mother dress you, poor thing?”

Faith burst into laughter. She should have been insulted, but every word he said dripped flamboyant sincerity. “Maybe I'll turn the job over to you.”

“Oh God, make my day!” He began to bustle around the store, grabbing items off strategically placed racks. Faith was glad no one else was in the shop, since clearly she was going to be the sole focus of attention.

Remy watched the whole proceeding with her chin drooping to the hollow of her throat. Obviously the clerk, who must have swaggered proudly out of the closet many years before, was an entirely new phenomenon in her sheltered life. He caught sight of her and piled clothes in her arms. “Here, sweet thing, make yourself useful.”

Faith watched the pile in Remy's arms growing. A rainbow-colored silk shawl, another dress of brilliant turquoise. Still another that was flesh-toned but a mixture of sheer stripes and opaque. That one wasn't even going to get an audition.

“Okay, scat now,” he said, pointing toward a dressing room curtained in hand painted fabric. “Sweet thing, you go with her and make sure she tries them all on. Every single one, and my name is Ralph. Ask for me.”

Remy found her voice. “You're the only person in the store.”
She took off for the dressing room as if propelled by hurricane force winds.

“Boo,” Ralph said to Faith.

“Please. You don't scare
me.
The prices scare me.”

“We sell second mortgages. Just try on the clothes for Uncle Ralphie.”

An hour later Faith was still modeling dresses for Ralph, who tugged at hems and straightened zippers and unbuttoned the top two buttons of every garment that had them.

“What do you think, Remy?” he asked at last. By now the two were old friends, united in a desire to change Faith's image.

“The orange. Definitely the orange.”

“Faithful?”

“The orange it is, then.”

He rested his finger against his lips, where it most liked to reside. “Now the hair. You can't have the dress, darling, if you don't do something with the hair. It's the flaw in the ointment.”

“Fly.”

He looked down at his pants and pretended to zip them up. Then he looked up and winked. “Gotcha!”

Faith couldn't help smiling. “Well, I made an appointment to get it trimmed at five. I know it's a little long. I—”

“Where?”

“A place over near the Capitol where my mother goes. I—”

He wrapped his hands around his throat and began to choke.