The Final Act Read online

  “I’m very sorry he bothered you.” Cindy quickly attached Elvis’s leash to his collar and pulled at the stubborn dog. “Come on, you.”

  “Elvis has left the building,” she heard one of the young men say as they stepped outside.

  The sun smacked Cindy full in the face, so she didn’t see the two young sisters in her path until she was almost on top of them. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized. How many times had she said that in the last several days?

  “Does Julia have a baby?” the younger of the two girls asked.

  “What?”

  “Come on,” the older girl urged, pulling on her sister’s arm.

  “Wait,” Cindy said. “Please. What makes you think Julia has a baby?”

  “ ’Cause I saw her with one.”

  “Come on, Anne-Marie. We have to go home.”

  “You saw Julia with a baby?” Cindy pressed.

  “She was pushing it in a carriage. I asked her if it was her baby, and she laughed.”

  Cindy took a long, deep breath, tried to digest this latest piece of information. What did it mean? Did it mean anything at all? “Damn it,” she muttered, as once again Ryan’s face imposed itself on her consciousness. “That miserable son of a bitch.”

  Anne-Marie gasped. “You said a bad word.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .” Cindy began, but the two girls were already fleeing the park.

  “What is it?” Neil asked.

  Cindy stared blankly at the horizon. Somewhere above her head, the old children’s rhyme kept circling: First comes love, then comes marriage. Then comes Julia with a baby carriage.

  *

  “CINDY, HI,” Faith Sellick said, pulling open her front door, seemingly oblivious to the streak of green bile staining the front of her white shirt.

  “Can I speak to Ryan for a minute?”

  “He’s not home.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Golfing. Somewhere up north.”

  “Could you have him call me as soon as he gets back?”

  “Sure. Is something wrong?”

  “I just need to talk to him.”

  “He might be pretty late.”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  From upstairs, a baby’s cry pierced the air. Faith’s eyes closed as her shoulders slumped. “We had such a nice day yesterday,” she said wistfully.

  “Do you need some help?” Cindy asked, glancing down the front steps to where Neil stood waiting.

  “No. You go. I’ll be fine.”

  But when Cindy reached her own front door, she saw that Faith was still standing in her doorway, not moving, eyes tightly closed.

  *

  “MAYBE IT’S BETTER to wait until Tuesday, let the police talk to Ryan,” Neil advised later that night.

  They were sitting at Cindy’s kitchen table, finishing off the last of a bottle of red Zinfandel. It was almost midnight. Heather and Duncan were out; her mother was upstairs asleep; her sister had gone home.

  Ryan still hadn’t phoned.

  “Bastard,” Cindy said. “Where is he?” She checked her watch. “Do you think I’m overreacting?” Tom would have said she was overreacting.

  “No.”

  “I mean, the kid could be mistaken. It might not have been Julia she saw with the baby. And the baby doesn’t have to be Ryan’s. Even if it was, that doesn’t necessarily mean that Ryan is Julia’s mystery boyfriend. Do you think I’m jumping to conclusions?” Tom would have said she was jumping to conclusions.

  “I think you have good instincts. You should trust them.”

  Cindy smiled across the table at a tired-looking Neil Macfarlane. I think I could love this man, she thought. Out loud she said, “It’s late. You should probably go.”

  *

  AT EIGHT O’CLOCK the next morning, Cindy was knocking on Ryan Sellick’s front door.

  “Hold your horses,” Ryan called groggily from inside.

  Cindy heard him shuffling toward the door, braced herself for the encounter to follow. “Easy does it. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,” she could almost hear her mother advise.

  She’d been up most of the night preparing what she was going to say, rehearsing exactly how she was going to say it. She’d even spent twenty minutes doing deep-breathing exercises to help her relax, and she was determined to stay calm. But the minute she saw Ryan standing in the doorway, black shirt unbuttoned, light khaki pants hanging low on his hips, a line of short, black hairs twisting down from his belly button and disappearing under his waistband, feet bare, long hair falling into sleepy eyes, the scratch beneath his right eye still prominent; it took all her resolve to keep from hurling herself at his throat. You lying, motherfucking, son of a bitch, she wanted to shout. “I need to talk to you,” she said instead.

  Ryan wiped some sleep from the corner of his right eye. “Is something wrong?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Is this about Faith?” He glanced warily over his shoulder toward the stairs.

  “No.”

  He looked confused.

  “It’s about Julia.”

  “Julia?”

  “She’s been missing since Thursday.”

  “Missing?”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “Not since I saw her arguing with Duncan in the driveway. Was that Thursday?”

  “You haven’t seen her since then?”

  Ryan shook his head. He was wide awake now.

  “She didn’t say anything to you about maybe going away for the long weekend?”

  The same stubborn shake of his head. “Nothing.”

  “Has she confided in you lately about being depressed or upset?”

  “Why would she confide in me?”

  “I don’t know,” Cindy answered simply. “Maybe because the two of you were sleeping together?” The words tumbled from her mouth before she could stop them. Trust your instincts, she heard Neil say, remembering he had also suggested waiting until Tuesday, letting the police question Ryan. Why hadn’t she listened? she thought now, watching the summer tan drain from Ryan’s complexion. Why was she always barrelling off half-cocked?

  Ryan raised the fingers of his left hand to his lips, his eyes shooting toward his upstairs bedroom. “Look, maybe we should take this outside. I don’t want to wake Faith. She was up half the night with the baby.” They stepped onto the front landing. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Where were you yesterday?”

  “Where was I?” he repeated, as if trying to make sense of the question.

  “Where were you?” Cindy repeated.

  “I was golfing up at Rocky Crest. Why? What . . .?”

  “Was Julia with you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Where did you get that scratch under your eye?”

  “What?”

  “Did Julia do that to you?”

  “No. Of course not. I walked into a branch in the backyard.” Ryan pressed down on the scratch, as if trying to make it disappear. “Look, I think you better tell me what’s going on.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Why would you think I’m involved with Julia?”

  “Julia recently broke up with her boyfriend. He says she was seeing someone else.”

  “What would make you think that someone is me?”

  “You were seen together. In the park. With the baby.”

  Ryan’s face was a road map of confusing wrinkles. “I don’t know . . . wait . . . okay. Yes, I did run into Julia in the park. A few weeks ago, I think it was. I was there with Kyle. Julia was walking the dog. We talked for a few minutes. Is that what this is about?”

  Cindy quickly digested this new information. Could she be mistaken? Had Ryan and Julia simply bumped into each other in the park? Was that all there was to it? “I found the phone number for Granger, McAllister among Julia’s things,” she said with renewed determination.

  “So?”

  “So .�
�. . what would Julia be doing with the number for Granger, McAllister?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Hadn’t Tom once told her that innocent people rarely embellish, that only the guilty feel compelled to provide answers or excuses? Was she wrong about Ryan being the new mystery man in Julia’s life? Was he as innocent as he appeared to be?

  The door swung open, as if by itself, and a ghostly apparition suddenly materialized in the front hall. “That’s probably my fault,” Faith said, her voice seeming to emanate from somewhere outside her body. “I’m so sorry, Cindy. I forgot to tell Ryan you wanted him to call.”

  Ryan rushed toward his wife, who was looking pale and glassy-eyed in her long white cotton nightgown. He snaked his arm protectively around her waist. “What do you mean? What’s your fault?”

  “About a month ago,” Faith recited without emotion, “I locked myself out of the house. I didn’t know what to do—the baby was inside—and then I saw Julia coming down the street, so I asked her to please call Ryan at work. But then I remembered we keep a spare set of keys under the mat, so there was no need to call him after all. I’m so sorry.”

  Cindy shook her head, feeling both foolish and dejected. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. If anything, I’m the one who should be apologizing to both of you.”

  “Is something wrong?” Faith asked.

  “Julia’s missing,” her husband told her.

  “Missing?”

  “Since Thursday morning,” Cindy said. “I was hoping Ryan might know something. Anything.”

  “I wish I could help you,” Ryan said.

  “We haven’t seen her,” Faith added.

  “Okay, well, if you think of anything, anything at all. . .”

  “We’ll call you,” the Sellicks said together.

  Cindy walked down the outside steps, hearing their front door close behind her.

  FIFTEEN

  THE police arrived at just after ten o’clock Tuesday morning.

  Cindy had been up since three, when she’d jumped out of bed in a sweat, certain she’d forgotten to take the pills that were keeping her alive. She’d let out a long chain of expletives and climbed back under the covers. But, of course, sleep was now impossible. Too many thoughts, too much fear. Too many possibilities, too much anger.

  How could she have confronted Ryan that way? What was the matter with her?

  At five, she’d given up on sleep and turned on the TV, hoping for something suitably mind-numbing to lull her back into unconsciousness. Something like Blind Date, she’d hoped, thoughts drifting to Neil.

  She doubted she’d hear from him again. Despite his promises to call later, she recognized there was only so much unsolicited drama a man could take. There was a point when intrigue degenerated into irritant. Cindy suspected she’d already passed that point.

  At seven she was walking Elvis around the block. At seven-thirty, Tom called to say he’d just driven back from Muskoka, had she heard from their daughter?

  She told him Julia was still missing and he should get his ass over to her house as soon as possible. He told her he didn’t appreciate the profanity. She told him to fuck off.

  An hour and a half later, resplendent in a dark blue suit, a lighter blue shirt, and a blue-and-gold-striped tie, Tom arrived with the Cookie, who was wearing black pants and a pink silk shirt. She took one look at Cindy in her baggy jeans and old mauve T-shirt and shook her head, as if she couldn’t quite believe her husband had once actually shared a bed with this woman, let alone produced a child as beautiful and fashion-savvy as Julia.

  At nine-thirty, Cindy called the police. A few minutes after ten o’clock, Detectives Bartolli and Gill were at her door.

  Cindy ushered them into the living room, introducing the policemen to her mother and her younger daughter, as Elvis ran around in excited circles, convinced they were all there to see him. Cindy remained in the entranceway, as everyone arranged themselves around the room, the two policemen pulling out their notepads and perching on the ends of their chairs.

  “What was your daughter wearing when you saw her last?” Detective Gill asked, his voice carrying traces of a soft Jamaican lilt.

  A towel, Cindy realized, looking to Heather for help.

  Heather was sitting on the sofa between her father and her grandmother. Norma Appleton had insisted she wasn’t going anywhere until Julia was found. (“What? I’m going to leave with you fainting all over the place?” she’d asked.) Thank God Leigh had gone home, although she was threatening to come back later.

  “She was wearing her red leather pants and that white top she has with the V-neck and short sleeves,” Heather said.

  Detective Bartolli jotted that down, then held up the photograph Cindy had given him Friday. “And this is the most recent picture you have of her?”

  Cindy looked from her husband to the Cookie, who was standing in front of the fireplace, as if afraid she might crease her pants were she to sit down. “Yes.” Cindy tried not to picture the other photographs of her daughter in varying stages of undress.

  “Can you describe Julia’s mood on Thursday morning?” Detective Bartolli asked, as he had asked last Friday.

  She was screaming at everyone, banging on doors, being totally unreasonable, Cindy thought. What she said was, “She was excited, a little nervous. She had a big audition coming up.” She was being Julia, Cindy thought, listening as Tom explained the nature of Julia’s audition.

  “I’ll need an address for this Michael Kinsolver,” Detective Gill said.

  “Kinsolving,” Tom corrected, spelling the name slowly. “Three-two-zero Yorkville. Suite two-zero-four. I can get you his phone number. . .”

  “That won’t be necessary, thank you.”

  “So, you last saw Julia at what time, Mrs. Carver?”

  “I haven’t seen her since last Tuesday,” the Cookie replied.

  “He was talking to me,” Cindy said icily.

  The Cookie raised her eyebrows, arranged her lips in a stubborn pout.

  “It was a little after ten,” Cindy said. “I was going out, so I went to her room to say good-bye and wish her good luck on her audition.” And she yelled at me not to come in because she was naked, said I was slowing her down. “I just peeked my head in the door. Wished her good luck,” she repeated.

  “And then you went out?” the Cookie asked accusingly.

  “Yes, I’m allowed out every now and then.”

  “I was here,” Heather volunteered.

  “You were here when Julia left?”

  “Yes. It was around eleven o’clock.”

  “Apparently Julia had a fight with Heather’s boyfriend just before she went out,” Cindy interjected.

  “It was nothing.” Heather glared at her mother. “She was yelling at me too.”

  Detective Gill looked up from his notepad, exchanged looks with his partner. “Your boyfriend’s name is . . .?”

  “Duncan. Duncan Rossi.”

  “Address?”

  “He lives here.”

  Again the partners exchanged glances, while Cindy’s mother shifted uncomfortably in her seat and the Cookie rolled her eyes.

  Tom gave a look that said, it wasn’t my idea.

  “Where is Duncan now?”

  “Out,” Heather said. “I don’t know where,” she added when the look on everyone’s faces made it clear more information was expected.

  “We’ll have to talk to him,” Detective Bartolli said.

  Heather nodded, turned away.

  “We’ll need a list of all Julia’s friends,” Detective Gill said.

  Cindy felt a wave of guilt so strong it nearly knocked her off her feet. What kind of mother was she that she didn’t know her daughter’s friends?

  “I can probably be of help to you in that regard,” Tom said, as if reading Cindy’s mind. “Until quite recently, Julia lived with me.”

  The officers nodded, as if this was something they heard every day. But Ci
ndy knew what they were thinking. They were questioning what kind of mother she was that her daughter had chosen to live with her father. She couldn’t blame them. How many times had she asked herself that same question?

  “But she was living with you now?”

  “Yes,” Cindy said. “For almost a year.”

  “Do you mind my asking why she was no longer living with you, Mr. Carver?” Detective Bartolli asked.

  Tom smiled, although Cindy could tell from the tight set of his jaw that he most certainly did mind. He was uncomfortable with being questioned, unused to being put on the spot. That was his job, after all.

  “Tom and I moved into a new condo after we got married,” the Cookie answered for him. “There’s only so much room.”

  “Five thousand square feet,” Cindy said, just loud enough to be heard.

  “How did Julia feel about your remarriage?” Detective Gill asked Tom. “Was she upset about it?”

  “The marriage was almost two years ago, and no, Julia wasn’t the least bit upset. She loves Fiona.”

  The Cookie smiled and tossed her hair proudly from one shoulder to the other.

  “And where were you on Thursday, Mr. Carver?”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “We have to ask,” Detective Gill apologized.

  “Are you insinuating I had anything to do with my daughter’s disappearance?”

  “My husband is a very important attorney,” the Cookie said.

  Cindy rolled her eyes, amazed that people actually said things like, “My husband is a very important attorney,” except on television.

  “I was at my office,” Tom replied testily. “You can check with my colleagues, if you honestly think that’s necessary.”

  Detective Bartolli nodded, jotted this information in his notepad, and turned toward Cindy, who’d been discreetly enjoying her ex-husband’s discomfort. How often, after all, did she get to see Tom squirm? “Was your daughter on any kind of medication?” he asked.

  “Medication?”

  “Painkillers, antidepressants . . .”

  “Julia wasn’t depressed,” Cindy told the two officers, as she had told them at least half a dozen times already. “Why do you keep insisting she was depressed?”