Don't Cry Now Page 4

  There was a long pause during which nobody spoke. From outside the small room, Marla Brenzelle’s high-pitched laugh reverberated. She’s working the room, Bonnie thought, watching as the woman pranced around the station in her bright yellow Valentino suit, dragging an imaginary microphone around with her, thrusting it into the faces of her adoring fans.

  “I think that’s all for now,” Captain Mahoney was saying. “Of course, we’ll probably want to speak to you again.”

  “Anything we can do to help,” Rod offered, although he no longer sounded as sincere as he had earlier.

  “We’ll have to interview Sam and Lauren,” Detective Kritzic said.

  Rod looked startled. “Sam and Lauren? Why?”

  “They lived with their mother,” Detective Kritzic reminded him. “They might be able to shed some light on who killed her.”

  Rod nodded. “Can I speak to them first? I mean, I just think it would be better if I were to break the news to them.”

  “Of course,” Captain Mahoney stated. “We’d like your permission to search the house later. There may be some clues….”

  Rod nodded. “Any time.”

  “We’ll come by in a few hours. In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t move anything in the house. If the kids should say something, or you think of anything that might be helpful, I hope you’ll call us immediately.”

  “Will do.”

  Rod squeezed Bonnie’s shoulder, led her to the door.

  “Oh, by the way,” Captain Mahoney said as they were about to exit, “do either you or your wife own a gun?”

  “A gun?” Rod shook his head. “No,” he said, the single syllable managing to convey enough outraged indignation for several complete sentences.

  “Thank you,” Captain Mahoney said as Marla Brenzelle extricated herself from her fans and walked toward them, arms outstretched in a theatrical display of sympathy. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  Something to look forward to, Bonnie thought, as the former Marlene Brenzel locked her in a suffocating embrace.

  4

  The suburb of Newton is only minutes from downtown Boston, its eighteen square miles housing almost eighty-three thousand inhabitants. It is composed of fourteen diverse villages, including Oak Hill to the southeast and Auburndale to the northwest. Joan Wheeler and her children resided in West Newton Hill, the site of the most exclusive homes in Newton.

  The house at 13 Exeter Street was large and mock Tudor in style. Several years ago, Joan had painted the entire exterior of the house a kind of greenish-beige, including the wood trim, and replaced all the front windows on the main floor with panels of stained glass. The result was a structure that looked like it couldn’t quite make up its mind what it wanted to be—house or cathedral. The stained-glass panels themselves were primitive and puzzling: a man in long flowing robes, a dog playing at his feet; a woman in modern dress balancing a pitcher of water on her head; a man tilling the land; two pudgy children playing by a waterfall.

  Rod lowered his head into his hands as Bonnie pulled her car into the driveway.

  “Are you all right?” Bonnie asked.

  Rod leaned his head back against the leather headrest. “I just can’t believe she’s dead. She always seemed so much larger than life.” He looked toward the front door. “I dread like hell going in there. I don’t know how I’m going to break the news, what I can say to make things easier….”

  “You’ll find the right words,” Bonnie told him. “And you know I’ll do everything I can to help them.”

  Rod nodded silently, opening the car door and stepping outside. A few clouds hovered, threatening rain.

  April is the cruellest month, Bonnie recited silently, recalling the line from the poem by T. S. Eliot, and thrusting her hand inside her husband’s as they marched solemnly up the front walk.

  At the large wooden double door, Rod stopped, fumbling in his pocket for the keys.

  “You have keys?” Bonnie asked, surprised.

  Rod pushed open the door. “Hello,” he called as they stepped into the marble foyer. “Anybody home?”

  Bonnie checked her watch. It was almost four-thirty.

  “Hello,” Rod called again as Bonnie took several tentative steps toward the living room on the right.

  The room was lushly papered in a textured pale blue satin. An antique-looking sofa in pale pink silk and two blue-and-gold armchairs were grouped around a large brick fireplace, several obviously expensive Indian rugs scattered in seemingly random fashion across the dark hardwood floor. Several charcoal drawings hung in simple frames: a woman hugging a young girl to her side; two middle-aged women lying with loose-legged abandon in the afternoon sun; and two old women sewing. “These are very nice,” Bonnie said, eyes lingering on the sketches.

  She walked through the dining room, running her hand along the top of the long, skinny oak table that occupied the center of the room, surrounded on either side and at each end by high-backed oak chairs with burnt-orange leather upholstery.

  The kitchen was at the back, a huge room which ran the entire width of the house. The floors were bleached oak, the cabinets dark burgundy against winter-white walls, the entire back wall a window that overlooked a tastefully landscaped backyard. Like the living and dining rooms, this room was immaculate. A far cry from her own kitchen, Bonnie thought, conscious that there was nothing sticky on the floor, no wayward patterns of dried-up sauces on the walls, no fingerprints on the large glass kitchen table. Did anybody actually live in this house, let alone a woman with two teenagers? she wondered, pushing through a second door on the other side of the kitchen and returning to the front hall. “Rod?” she called, wondering where her husband had disappeared.

  “In here.”

  Bonnie followed his voice into the small room to the left of the front door. Rod stood behind a gilded antique desk, his right hand caressing a large crystal paperweight. Built-in bookcases lined three walls; a burgundy leather sofa stood against the fourth, an oval-shaped dhurrie rug in front of it.

  “This used to be my favorite room,” Rod said, his eyes a decade away.

  “Everything’s so neat,” Bonnie marveled. “It’s kind of spooky.”

  “Since when did neat equal spooky?”

  “Since we had Amanda.” Bonnie was suddenly aware of someone moving about overhead. She walked quickly back into the front hall, Rod right behind her.

  “Who’s there?” The voice was small, tentative. “Mom? Is that you? Do you have somebody with you?”

  “Lauren?” Rod answered, approaching the staircase. “Lauren, it’s your father.”

  There was silence. Bonnie waited beside Rod at the bottom of the steps. What was he going to say to the girl? How was he going to tell his fourteen-year-old daughter that her mother was dead, that she’d been murdered?

  “Lauren, can you come down here a minute?” he said. “I need to talk to you.”

  A face appeared over the top railing, pale and wary, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted, her hands tightly gripping the banister. She hung back at the top of the stairs for several seconds before allowing herself to be coaxed down, moving ever so slowly, ever so carefully, down the stairs, looking only at her feet, refusing to glance up at either her father or her father’s wife, like a wild animal being tempted by food in a human palm.

  She was wearing the green-and-ivory uniform that distinguished the students of Bishop’s Private School for Girls: green kilt and matching knee socks, ivory long-sleeved blouse, green-and-gold striped tie, and black oxfords. Her long auburn hair was pulled into a ponytail at the back and secured by a dark green scrunchie. The ugliest school uniform money could buy, Bonnie thought, mindful of the huge tuition fees Rod had to pay each year. Another condition of his divorce settlement.

  “Hello, Lauren,” she said, noticing for the first time how much Lauren resembled Amanda, how much their father was present in both faces.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” Rod echoed.

>   “Hi, Daddy,” Lauren said, as if Bonnie hadn’t spoken, as if she weren’t there. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you,” Rod answered.

  “How come?”

  “Where’s your brother?” he asked.

  Lauren shrugged. “Out. He had a P.D. day today.” She looked toward the front door. “Mom’s late,” she said. “She’s usually here by the time I get home from school.”

  “Do you have any idea when Sam might be getting back?” Rod asked.

  “Is something the matter?”

  “Maybe we could sit down,” Bonnie began, stopped when she realized that no one was listening to her.

  “What’s wrong?” Lauren demanded, a curtain of fear descending across her huge hazel eyes.

  “There’s been an accident,” Rod began.

  “What kind of accident?” Lauren was already shaking her head back and forth, as if denying the reality of what she was about to hear.

  “Your mother’s been hurt,” Rod said gently.

  “Was she in a car accident? Is she in the hospital? What hospital did they take her to?” The questions ran together as one.

  “Lauren, honey,” Rod began, then faltered, looking to Bonnie for help.

  Bonnie took a deep breath. “Sweetheart,” she said, “We’re so sorry to have to tell you this—”

  “I’m talking to my father,” the girl said sharply, the force of her rebuke throwing Bonnie off-balance, as if she had been physically pushed out of the way. Bonnie grabbed for the railing, lowering herself down until she was sitting on the stairs. “What happened to my mother?” Lauren demanded of her father.

  “She’s dead,” he said simply.

  For several seconds, Lauren said nothing. Bonnie wanted desperately to go to her, to take the child in her arms, tell her not to worry, that they would look after her, that she would love her as if she were her own, that everything would be all right, but Lauren’s invisible hands were on her shoulders, holding her down, refusing her comfort.

  “She was a lousy driver,” Lauren was whispering. “I was always telling her to slow down, but she never would, and she was constantly yelling at everyone else on the road, calling them all sorts of names, you should have heard her. I kept telling her to calm down, that there was nothing anyone could do about the traffic, but—”

  “It wasn’t a car accident,” Rod interrupted.

  “What?” The word froze on Lauren’s lips. Obviously, she couldn’t imagine any other possibility. “How then?” she asked finally.

  “She was shot,” Rod answered.

  “Shot?” Lauren’s eyes frantically searched the room, inadvertently connecting with Bonnie’s before turning abruptly away. “You mean she was murdered?”

  “The police aren’t sure exactly what happened,” Rod hedged.

  “The police?”

  “They’ll be here soon.”

  “My mother was murdered?” Lauren asked again.

  “It looks that way.”

  Lauren walked to the front door with purposeful strides as Bonnie rose to her feet. Where was the girl going? But Lauren reversed herself when she got to the door, striding with equal purpose back into the front hall, although there was no purpose that Bonnie could determine, other than to keep moving. Maybe that was purpose enough.

  “Who?” Lauren asked. “Do they know who?”

  Rod shook his head.

  “Where? Where did this happen?”

  “An open house your mother was having on Lombard Street.”

  Tears filled Lauren’s eyes. She walked briskly back to the front door, pivoted sharply on the thick heels of her black oxfords, and returned to the middle of the hall. “How did you find out about this?” she asked suddenly. “I mean, why did the police contact you, and not me and Sam?”

  “I’m the one who found her,” Bonnie replied after a pause.

  It was as if time suddenly stopped, Bonnie thought later, as if none of what was happening was actually taking place in the moment, as if it had already occurred long ago and somewhere far away, and they were merely watching a replay of the whole horrible scene through one of Rod’s television monitors, everything happening in slow motion and just so subtly out of sync: Lauren’s head spinning toward Bonnie a frame at a time, her ponytail lifting lazily into the air, then slapping against her right shoulder in a series of exaggerated jerks, tears hovering under widely expanded pupils, hands shooting into the air, scratching at it like fingernails across a chalkboard, her mouth opening in a silent scream.

  And then there was chaos as the scene snapped back into the present, unwinding with ferocious and unforgiving speed. Bonnie watched in horror as Lauren flew across the room toward her, her fists connecting with Bonnie’s chest and face, her feet targeting her legs. The onslaught was so sudden, so terrifying, so unexpected, that Bonnie had little time to defend herself against the blows. Suddenly, everyone was screaming.

  “Lauren, for God’s sake,” Rod was yelling, trying to disengage his daughter, to tear her away from Bonnie.

  “What do you mean, you found her?” Lauren cried. “What do you mean, you found her?”

  “Lauren, please,” Bonnie began, just as Lauren’s left fist connected with her mouth. Bonnie fell back against the stairs, tasting blood for the second time that day, although this time the blood was her own.

  “For God’s sake, Lauren, stop it!” Rod finally managed to secure his daughter around the waist, and drag her, still kicking and screaming, away from Bonnie. “What’s gotten into you?” he shouted, his breath coming in short, angry bursts. “What are you doing?”

  “She killed her!” Lauren was screaming, her hair breaking loose of its green scrunchie and whipping across her face, several strands clinging to her tear-streaked cheeks, as if secured by glue. “She killed my mother!” Lauren made another lunge in Bonnie’s direction.

  “She didn’t kill her, for Christ’s sake!” Rod cried, restraining her.

  “She just happened to find her?” Lauren demanded. “You’re trying to tell me that she just happened to find her?”

  Bonnie’s head was spinning, her eyes closing against the possibility of further attack, afraid to open, her ears buzzing around the awful things Lauren was saying. Her jaw ached. Her lower lip stung where it had been cut. Her arms and legs were no doubt covered with bruises, or would be by the time the police arrived. And wouldn’t that make for an interesting addendum to their notes?

  “Lauren,” Bonnie said softly, each word an ordeal, “you have to know I had nothing to do with your mother’s death.”

  “What were you doing at her open house? Are you trying to tell me it was just a coincidence that you happened to be there, a coincidence that you were the one who found her?”

  “Your mother called me,” Bonnie began, then burst into tears, burying her head in her hands. She couldn’t tell it again. She couldn’t go through the awful events of the morning one more time.

  “Let’s go into the living room,” Rod said softly. “Maybe if we all sit down and discuss this thing rationally, we can figure something out.”

  “I’m going up to my room,” Lauren said instead, breaking away from her father’s arms.

  Instinctively, Bonnie recoiled as Lauren approached, her hands moving to protect her face from further blows. In the next minute, she felt the painful vibrations of Lauren’s heavy black oxfords as they pounded up the gray-carpeted stairs. A second later, a door slammed overhead.

  Rod was instantly at Bonnie’s side, his hands gingerly pushing the hair from her eyes, his lips kissing away the blood at the side of her mouth. “Oh, my poor baby, I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

  “My God,” Bonnie muttered. “She really hates me.”

  There was a noise at the front door, scuffling, laughter, the sound of a key turning in the lock. Sam, Bonnie realized, her body tensing automatically.

  Brace yourself for the second round, it said.

  5

  The door open
ed and Sam Wheeler spilled inside, like a tall glass of water. He was wrapped in a multitude of layers, an open khaki jacket over an army-style camouflage shirt, itself worn over an olive-green T-shirt, all of which hung over the top of a pair of faded and baggy brown pants. On his feet were expensive brand-name high-topped sneakers, their laces undone and twisting around his feet, like snakes. His hair was uncombed and so black it radiated blue, blotting out the natural color of his eyes, so that they looked like two empty sockets, incongruously nestled beneath extraordinarily long lashes. A small gold loop curved around the outside of his left nostril.

  Right behind Sam was another boy, not as tall, a little more muscular, a series of tattoos running up and down his bare arms. Long brown hair framed a decidedly handsome face, but there was something almost rude about the boy’s good looks, a sneer in his gray eyes as well as his posture. He wore a black T-shirt over black jeans and black pointed-toed leather boots. The pungently sweet odor of marijuana surrounded him like an overpowering cologne, his trademark, Bonnie knew. Wasn’t that why everybody called him Haze—because he was always in one? Her eyes moved rapidly back and forth between the two teenage boys.

  “What’s going on?” Sam said instead of hello, al though neither his face nor his voice registered any surprise at seeing them there.

  “Hey, Mrs. Wheeler,” Haze said, his eyes focusing in on her torn lip, like a camera lens. “What happened to your face?”

  “My wife had a little accident,” Rod explained quickly.

  Hadn’t he used the same word when describing Joan’s death to his daughter? Bonnie found it an interesting choice, in that it absolved anyone of blame.

  “That your car in the driveway?” Sam asked Bonnie, barely acknowledging that his father had spoken.

  Bonnie nodded. “We need to talk to you, Sam,” she said.

  Sam shrugged. So talk, the shrug said.

  “Maybe it would be better if we could talk alone.” Rod glanced toward Haze.