Good Intentions (19 page)

Renee stared at her disheveled image in the bathroom mirror. She looked awful. There was no other word. Her eyes were puffy and red from crying, and her mascara was caked and smeared, although it was supposed to be waterproof and smudgeproof. Her lipstick, a bright cherry red when first applied, had been rubbed into invisibility, and her mouth appeared wayward, as if it had been slapped on the bottom of her face without much thought or care.

Renee patted the gold necklace at her throat and began the business of carefully reapplying her makeup, touching up the dark circles under her eyes—the one area of her body that the extra pounds seemed to have avoided—brushing on an extra layer of blush, starting high on her cheeks in the space between her eyes and ears, drawing a diagonal line halfway down the center of her cheeks, hoping to give her face more definition, the way she had read in
Vogue
that models often do. She chose a different shade of lipstick from the one she originally had on, this one a burnt shade of orange, and she carefully applied a fresh
layer of navy mascara to her lashes, wishing they were longer and naturally curly, like Debbie’s.

Renee came out of the bathroom to find Philip sprawled on top of their king-size bed, his eyes closed in sleep. “Philip?” she whispered.

He opened one eye. “I’m so tired,” he said. “Do we have to go tonight?”

“They’re expecting us.”

“We’re already late. Do you really think they’d miss us?”

“Philip, I …”

“I’m sorry, honey. It’s just that arguing with you takes a lot out of me. I know it works for you in court, but it’s hell on husbands.” He smiled. “And then you made things worse. You went and got me all excited. And now all I want to do is lie down, maybe watch a little television, have my wife whip up some scrambled eggs. God, Renee, that would mean so much to me. A nice quiet evening at home. In bed early for a change. Is this dinner really so important?” he asked.

Renee sat down on the bed. “No,” she said, “it’s not so important.”

“M
r. Foster, I’m Lynn Schuster from the Delray Department of Social Services, and I’m afraid you’re going to have to talk to me whether it’s convenient or not.”

Lynn stood outside the by now familiar town house at the Harborside Villas and hoped that the tall, impeccably dressed gentleman who had answered her knock would let her in. Keith Foster was in his late fifties or early sixties, approximately six feet tall, with very black hair (which she suspected he dyed), dark eyes, and a nose that dominated his face. The nose, straight, long, and somehow too narrow for the rest of his wide face, kept him from being described as handsome. It was simultaneously too much and not enough. Like a lot of things, Lynn thought as he ushered her inside.

The layout of the Foster town house was identical to that of Davia Messenger’s, except that where Davia Messenger’s home had been a cool and careful mix of yellows and grays, the Foster house was like stepping into the warm underbelly of a soft pink cloud. The pale pink tile of the foyer gave way to the thick rose-colored broadloom of the living room, where a deeper-hued rose
sofa sat comfortably across from two pink-and-plum-flowered wing chairs. The pink lacquered coffee table in front of the sofa boasted a beautiful mauve china vase filled with pink roses, and everywhere Lynn turned, there were more pink flowers. The walls were the same delicate shade, trimmed with white. Another large vase of pink flowers sat in the middle of the long, glass-top dining-room table, lined on either side by a row of pink-cushioned, straight-backed chairs.

“You have a beautiful home,” Lynn said, and meant it, sitting on the sofa, feeling herself sink down into the soft cushions, feeling warm and comfortable. Keith Foster positioned himself across from her on the edge of one of the wing chairs, looking oddly out of place in his own living room. He was the weed in the delicate garden, Lynn thought, the dark streak of oil on a pastel canvas. He didn’t belong. This was a woman’s home, she decided, not surprised that a man of Keith Foster’s physical stature would look ill at ease here, only surprised that he would allow it to be so. Even Gary—who had granted her pretty much free rein when it came to decorating their home—had balked at her suggestion of a pale pink bedroom.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, his voice congenial, as Lynn unzipped the black leather folder in her lap and brought out her notebook and pen, mindful of Davia Messenger’s warning to keep it away from the sofa.

“Is Mrs. Foster at home?” Lynn asked, looking around the quiet room.

“She took Ashleigh out for a walk,” Keith Foster told her pleasantly, as if eight o’clock in the morning was a usual time for a mother-and-daughter stroll. Lynn had deliberately selected the early hour in hopes of catching
everybody at home. She’d hurried her own children through breakfast and enlisted the help of her neighbor so that she could get to the Fosters’ town house by eight o’clock.

“Will they be back soon?” Lynn asked, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice.

“I couldn’t say. That’s something beyond my control.”

Control, Lynn thought, recalling her conversation with Marc. Is being in control so important? he had asked. “I’m sure your lawyer has advised you it would be in your best interests to cooperate with me, Mr. Foster.”

“It’s been my experience that government agencies rarely have my best interests at heart.”

“Will you settle for the best interests of your child?”

“I have no wish to antagonize you, Mrs. Schuster,” Keith Foster said carefully, smiling. “Or your department. Believe me, my wish is to be as cooperative as I can in every way in order to settle this nasty little matter as quickly as possible. Do you sail?” he asked unexpectedly, walking to the large window overlooking the Inland Waterway. Lynn found herself drawn to the sight of sailboats sparkling white against the blue sky just beyond where she was sitting. She shook her head. “Someday you must be our guest,” he said, one of those things that people say.

“Mr. Foster, we have been given to understand that your daughter is often seen covered with bruises …”

“Ashleigh is accident-prone,” he answered quickly, cutting her off. “She has been ever since she was a baby. She’s always falling off something, running into something else. When she was eight months old, she fell out of her crib and broke her collarbone. A month or so ago, she fell off a swing at school and broke her arm.”

“She broke her arm at school?”

“Yes.”

“What school does Ashleigh attend, Mr. Foster?”

“Gulfstream Private School.”

“What grade is she in?”

“Uh, do you know, I’m not altogether sure.” He laughed. “Just a minute. The first grade, is it? Or second? Sorry, it’s been a long time since I had to deal with things like this. Grade two,” he said finally. “Yes, she just finished grade two. She’ll start third grade in the fall.”

“May I have the name of her teacher, please?”

“Her teacher? Why?”

“I’ll have to check out the accident, Mr. Foster. Find out the exact circumstances with regard to Ashleigh’s broken arm.”

“I just told you the circumstances. She fell off a swing in the playground.”

“I’ll need confirmation of that.”

“I resent that.”

“I’m sure you do, and I can appreciate that …”

“Can you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have children, Mrs. Schuster?”

“Yes.”

“How would you feel if some stranger barged into your house and accused you of abusing them, especially on the word of a crazed neighbor?”

“Which neighbor would that be?” Lynn asked cautiously, ignoring his question.

“Please don’t play games with me, Mrs. Schuster.
You
know, and
I
know, who I’m talking about. Davia Messenger, patron saint of dust balls and little children.”
Lynn had to hold her breath to keep from smiling. “She’s a fruitcake, you know that. You talked to the woman. She spends her days and nights cleaning her house and spying on her neighbors. She’s the scourge of these villas. Ask anyone. Ask her husband, if you can find him. He ran out on her about three months ago. She’s been nuttier than ever since he left. If that’s possible.”

“Why would your neighbor report you to our department, Mr. Foster?”

“Because she’s crazy! She has nothing better to do with her time. How many times can you clean the floors in one day? Plus, she’s very jealous of Patty.”

Lynn said nothing, waiting for Keith Foster to continue.

“My wife is very young and very pretty. Mrs. Messenger appreciates neither.”

Mrs. Messenger has an eye for beauty, Lynn thought. “I’ll still need the name of Ashleigh’s teacher,” she said.

Keith Foster stopped his pacing and stared at Lynn with suddenly cold eyes. “I believe it’s a Miss Templeton,” he said finally. “I
also
believe she’s away traveling for the summer. I also believe,” he continued, underlining the word as if it were of special significance, “that the school is closed for the summer months.”

Lynn thought he was probably right but was reluctant to say so. “It has been reported that Ashleigh cries at all hours of the day and night.”

“It’s simply not true.”

Lynn jotted down his denial, noting that he made no attempt to explain why it should have been reported otherwise. This was something in his favor, she recognized. Guilty people often felt compelled to search
for outside explanations, to provide answers, anything to throw others off their track. Keith Foster offered no such explanations. “It’s simply not true” was all he said. “Do you mind my asking how old you are, Mr. Foster?” Lynn asked, hoping that Mrs. Foster would appear soon with Ashleigh, and that everything would be as Keith Foster said it was, as lovely and picture-perfect as their home.

“Fifty-nine,” he answered easily, obviously quite comfortable with his age. He moved swiftly back to the wing chair and sat down, although he kept the bottoms of both feet on the floor, ready to leap into immediate action. “I’ll be sixty in August.”

“I’ll be forty in August,” Lynn admitted, testing the sound. “How old is your wife?”

“Thirty-one.”

“I take it this is your second marriage?” Lynn indicated the many photographs on the coffee table, several of which showed Keith Foster flanked by two young men who were his duplicate in every respect save age.

“Actually, it’s my third. Those are my sons from my second marriage.” He reached across the table and picked up one of the expensively framed photographs. “Jonathan and David. Handsome boys.” He lowered the picture and picked up another, this one of himself and another young man, who looked nothing like him at all. “This is my son from my first marriage. Actually”—he laughed— “Keith Jr. is the same age now as Patty.”

“So Ashleigh is your only daughter?”

“The light of my life.” He smiled and his smile was warm and genuine. He reached across the table and picked up a pink enamel framed photograph of a young girl with light brown hair, braided and festooned with
bright red ribbons, her smile shy, her eyes large and teasing, looking just past the photographer, refusing to acknowledge the lens.

“Does Mrs. Foster have other children?”

“No. She was only twenty years old when we married. I am her first and only husband. Eleven years. An enviable record in today’s world, wouldn’t you say?”

Lynn smiled self-consciously, and wrote the information down, aware that her hand was shaking slightly and hoping he didn’t notice. “Who does the disciplining in this house, Mr. Foster?”

Keith Foster brought his eyebrows together, his eyes all but disappearing. “I’m afraid that neither one of us is very big on discipline,” he said finally, as if it were something of which to be ashamed. “I know we’ve probably spoiled Ashleigh, but I just can’t bring myself to deny her anything she really wants. Patty’s the same way. That’s why this whole thing is so outrageous. And so upsetting. The last thing in the world either of us would ever do is hurt Ashleigh. Can I get you a cup of coffee? Patty left some brewing in the kitchen before she went out.”

“That would be terrific,” Lynn told him gratefully, having left her house without any breakfast, and hoping to stick around as long as she could.

“How do you take it?”

“Black, thank you.”

Keith Foster excused himself and went into the kitchen. Lynn read over the few remarks she had scribbled down, then let her eyes travel the width of the beautiful living room, trying to reconcile Davia Messenger’s accusations with the reality of what she saw, which was a home decorated with warmth and love, and
an obviously doting, if understandably defensive, father, who was not altogether at ease here. Maybe it was just her presence. How
would
she feel if a stranger barged into her house and accused her of abusing her children? How would she react to a stranger assuming control of her life?

Davia Messenger had lied to her about her husband. She’d made no mention of the fact that he had left her. Lynn tapped her pen nervously against her notepad, seeing Gary’s face in the reflection of the large back window overlooking the water. Perhaps that omission was understandable as well, she thought. Just as it was understandable that Keith Foster could not immediately recall what grade his daughter was in at school. Would Gary have been able to answer that question immediately? Gary had enough trouble remembering his children’s birthdays. He never got Megan’s right, and remembered Nicky’s only because it was so close to his own. Lynn reached for the enamel framed photograph of Ashleigh Foster. She certainly looked happy in this picture.

From the kitchen she heard something fall and shatter, a low curse, and some quick shuffling. Lynn walked swiftly toward the kitchen, finding Mr. Foster on his hands and knees in the middle of the room, retrieving bits of fine pink-and-white china from the ceramic tile floor.

“It slipped out of my hand,” he said sheepishly.

“Here’s a piece.” Lynn picked up a small crescent of china peeking out from under the large, gleaming white refrigerator.

“Patty won’t be happy about that. It was her grandmother’s. Been in her family for generations.”