Poisonous: A Novel (8 page)

Tommy had no idea what she meant. “He didn’t want to?” He realized he was about to cry. The best thing his dad ever gave him was this tree house. “You’re still mad at Daddy for leaving. He left a long time ago.”

“Seven and a half years ago.”

“Well, I guess—you think—I mean, Mom said once that the tree house was a guilt house. What does that mean?”

Amanda didn’t want to tell him, he knew it. Sometimes Amanda treated him like a little kid, like his mom, but more and more she was treating him like Austin did, like a big kid. Now she said, “You always wanted a tree house, right? Ever since you saw it in
Little Rascals.
”

He nodded. He loved that movie.

“Dad built it right before he left. Mom says he did it because he felt guilty. She says he already knew he was leaving, and that he built it so you wouldn’t hate him.”

“But I don’t hate Daddy. I don’t hate anyone.”

She hugged him tightly. “That’s why I love you so much, Tommy. Now, let’s go in the house. It’s getting late, and we both have school tomorrow.”

He glanced at his laptop and Austin still hadn’t responded. He closed it and put it in the box that protected it from wind and wet. His tree house had one electrical socket that his dad had hired a man to put in, so Tommy sometimes left his laptop up here. He made sure it was plugged in so that it wouldn’t die.

“Can we have a bowl of ice cream first?” he asked as they climbed out of the tree house.

“Sure,” Amanda said. “You get the bowls, I’ll dish up.”

Chapter Five

TUESDAY

Max had been up since well before dawn, unable to sleep. Insomnia was a familiar part of her life. David thought her lack of sleep was a direct result of being drugged and tortured by a psycho nutcase last June, but sleep had never been easy for her, so she didn’t know why he kept hounding her about it—like he had last night. She’d even seen a doctor about her insomnia—which was a waste of time.

“I can prescribe you sleeping pills,” he’d said.

“No,” she’d replied. Maybe three months ago she’d have gone the pill route if she was desperate for slumber, but after being drugged by the psychopathic whack-job, she refused even the mildest pain meds, so she wasn’t going to take pills to sleep.

The doctor wouldn’t let it go. Feeling quite sure that Max needed more sleep, he suggested another approach. “Doctor Olsen is the best psychiatrist I’ve worked with. She doesn’t take many new patients, but I can convince her to add you.”

Hell no, Max wanted to say. Instead, she’d politely declined.

A shrink. Absolutely not. Max understood her own problems, idiosyncrasies, and baggage. She didn’t need anyone else telling her she was a judgmental bitch who let the past control her present. She was far more self-aware than most people. She didn’t know who her dad was. She didn’t have a birth certificate—she didn’t even know where she’d been born. Hell, she didn’t even know if her birthday was really December 31 or if her mother just made it up so Max’s birthday was always a party. Her mother’s disappearance when she was ten, and her college roommate’s murder more than a decade later, had very clearly fueled her obsession with investigating cold cases. What happened in high school was simply more fodder for her neuroses. She didn’t need to spend two hundred dollars an hour on a doctor to tell her she’d had an unusual and difficult childhood. She didn’t need someone to explain why she didn’t trust people or why she was unforgiving to liars. She knew why, and talking it out with some arrogant know-it-all head wasn’t going to change her worldview. Max knew who she was and she was okay with it.

She just wanted an extra hour of sleep each night.

A benefit of insomnia, however, was early morning productivity. She drank coffee and updated her boards. The timeline was solid, as she’d told David the night before. She filled in additional details about the people involved in Ivy’s life that she’d learned from Grace or through her staff notes. But it was that two-hour window that intrigued Max.

Max didn’t have a copy of Ivy’s phone records—she didn’t have the authority to get them on her own, and Grace wouldn’t give her a copy—but Grace had told her that Ivy’s phone hadn’t been used to make a call after she left her house just before ten thirty the night she was killed. She’d sent a dozen text messages to different people up until ten thirty, but Grace had spoken with each person and there was nothing incriminating. Nothing about meeting up, no arguments, nothing suspicious. Max wanted to see those messages nonetheless, and she hoped that when Graham and his team arrived tomorrow he could sweet-talk Grace into sharing.

Another fact: Ivy, who practically lived her life on social media, hadn’t posted anything from ten the evening she died, until a single tweet at one ten in the morning. Her 10
P.M.
update was a selfie taken in her bedroom, a close-up with her eyebrow arched in a mightier-than-thou pose. Below the pic were her last known words:
If you think I don’t know what you did, think again, dipshit.

According to Grace, no one claimed to know who the dipshit was or what Ivy was talking about in that post.

Max’s producer and general pain-in-her-ass friend Ben Lawson called at eight in the morning. “I expected to hear from you earlier,” she said.

“Three-hour time difference. Thought you’d need your beauty sleep. Or maybe your current bedmate was entertaining you.”

“Don’t be crude, Benji.”

“Even you calling me that horrific name isn’t going to ruin my spirits. I have good news. Paula Wallace has agreed to be interviewed. She’s expecting your call this morning to set up a time. I’m sending Charlie Morelli out late tonight so he’ll be ready for you first thing in the morning.”

“Good—I need him at the crime scene when Graham and his people arrive. It’ll make good B-roll. And I have a list of places he can film in the meantime.”

“What about the cop?”

“I didn’t ask her yet if she’d go on camera. I wanted to go slow. After she agreed to Graham—pending approval—she started to put the walls up. I didn’t push. So what should I know about Paula Wallace?”

“You won’t like her.”

“That was quick.”

“I call them like I see them, Maxie.”

“Don’t. Call. Me. That.”

“Quid pro quo, babe,” he said. “Remember Betsy Abbott?”

Her hand tightened around her cell phone. Betsy had been her friend Karen’s roommate the year before Max arrived at Columbia. She came from the same wealthy, old-money family as Ben and Max, but class wasn’t something that came with privilege. Betsy was selfish, demanding, and made everything about her.

When Karen disappeared on spring break and Max stayed in Miami to hound the police and FBI into doing their jobs, Betsy had contacted the media and made an embarrassing public plea. She set up candlelight vigils and created a scholarship in Karen’s name, and each and every time she did
anything
, she sought out the press and made damn sure she got her face on camera. Nothing she’d done had helped, nothing she’d done had impacted the case in a positive way; she’d only served to humiliate her family and promote one person: Betsy Abbott.

“You’re quiet,” said Ben.

“You’re saying Paula wants the attention. Then why didn’t she do anything to get it last year?”

“She did—Jess is e-mailing you clips from a televised appeal she gave a few days after Ivy was killed. It was all over the news for a weekend, then gone.”

“Sometimes that’s the only way to get someone to step forward,” Max said with sympathy. “Many parents go on-camera to spark interest in their child’s murder. What makes Paula Wallace a self-promoter like dear old Betsy?”

“Her tone. Her questions. My instincts.”

Max appreciated Ben’s insight, but he hadn’t had as much experience with grieving families as she had. After a year, Paula Wallace may have given up hope that anyone would be interested in her daughter’s murder. Hearing from Ben could have excited her—at last, someone, finally, would listen. Maybe Ben was right … but Max decided to reserve judgment.

Paula Wallace already has an opinion—she thinks her stepson killed Ivy. Or is that just an easy way to cast blame?

“You’re only going to have forty-eight hours to put this together, Max. I’ve restructured the show for this, and Charlie is going to bust his hump to edit and give us seven good minutes in time.”

“Have I ever let you down,
sweetheart?
”

“You always cut it too close. Keep me in the loop, I don’t want any surprises.”

“I’ll try my best,” she said drolly and hung up.

Max took another look at the timeline. She needed to get ready to meet with Lance Lorenzo. She was taking him to breakfast—one thing she’d learned early on when dealing with local reporters was that they were far more forthcoming when well fed. Maybe that was true about everyone, she thought, feeling hungry right then.

She was about to step away when she saw an e-mail pop up from her staff with the clip from Paula Wallace’s plea last year. Another glance at her watch—Max had a little time. She clicked on the link. It was only a forty-five-second clip.

Paula Wallace was impeccable—from her shoulder-length highlighted blond bob to her light application of makeup to her simple but expensive jewelry. She’d dressed for the camera. One week after the murder of her daughter, she was more than presentable. She could have walked into a boardroom and taken charge.

But Paula may have felt she would be taken more seriously if she was dressed well, or she could simply be vain and concerned about what she looked like on television. Or she could be fastidious, always leaving the house put together—no running shorts or tennis shoes or hair stuck up in a ratty tail.

The news conference had been held just before noon outside the police station. The chief of police finished speaking and handed the podium over to Paula. A man Max recognized as Bill Wallace stood in the background as Paula stepped forward.

“Thank you, Chief Reinecke.” She took a breath, paused before looking directly into the camera lens. “I’m Paula Lake Wallace and Ivy was my daughter. As Chief Reinecke said, the police are doing everything they can to find out what happened to Ivy. But I want to ask the people of Corte Madera, as a mother who has just lost her daughter”—she paused, took a breath—“to think back to the night of July third. We are a small town. Ivy drove a white Volkswagen. Any tiny detail, even if you don’t think it’s important, may give the police the information they need to bring the person who killed my daughter to justice. You can remain anonymous. You can call the hotline at the number on the screen and the police will take every call seriously. Please.” Paula paused, looking out at the group assembled. Max couldn’t tell how many were in the audience, but Paula clearly had no fear of speaking to the press. “Bill and I need to know what happened. If Ivy was your daughter or your sister, you would want to know what happened. Just like we need to know. Thank you.” She turned, chin up, and walked back to Bill Wallace. He put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head. The clip ended.

Max understood grief better than most people—not because she had suffered any more than anyone else, but because she often surrounded herself with people who grieved. She’d seen tears, anger, resolve. So she might not be inclined to trust Ben’s impression that Paula was like Betsy Abbott … but Max sensed Paula Wallace was primarily concerned with appearances. And that was something she could work with during their interview.

Or maybe Ben’s gut was right. He usually was.

*   *   *

Because he was late to school, Travis Whitman had to park his small pickup on the far edge of student parking. He didn’t like being late, not that it mattered—he was a senior; he already had three top schools looking at him to play football in college; UCLA had offered him a scholarship; and his grades didn’t suck. Still, he ran into the building and straight to the office to get a tardy slip.

“Mr. Whitman,” the secretary said, her hand already filling out the green paper. She shook her head disapprovingly, but he saw her smile.

“Sorry, Ms. Brewster,” he said, flashing his dimples. His dimples had gotten him out of more trouble than he could remember. He remembered Ivy telling him they were one of his prime assets, one of those compliments of hers that almost sounded like a dig. That was when they were still going out, way before they broke up, way before—he put it out of his mind and smiled Ms. Brewster’s way. “I don’t have a good excuse, I just hit the snooze button too many times.”

“This is your second tardy in the first three weeks of school.” She handed him the slip. “Let’s try to do better.”

“Scout’s honor. Are you coming to the game Friday? We’re playing West Valley.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

“You never do. The team appreciates it, Ms. Brewster.”

“Get along now, no more tardies this week.”

He waved and strode down the hall to his locker. Most of the schools in San Francisco no longer had lockers, but there’d never been any problems with weapons in Corte Madera, and they didn’t even have metal detectors at the entrances like nearly every other big high school. Even drug use was low-key—though once a month the cops walked a drug dog through the school.

Travis steered clear of drugs because of football. His coach tested everyone at the beginning of the year and once randomly in the middle of the season. Their best kicker had been cut from the team last year because he’d become a dope fiend over the summer. Travis wasn’t going to lose a scholarship just to get high. His parents couldn’t afford to send him to college, he had to do it on his own. There was no way he was going to let them down.

He quickly spun his combination and pulled out his science notebook and a pencil. He was about to stuff his whole backpack in the locker when a phone rang.

He frowned, looked around, then shrugged and figured it was someone’s phone in one of the lockers next to him.

It rang again and he realized it was coming from the top shelf of his locker. He reached up and found an unfamiliar phone. The screen showed an unknown caller. As soon as he opened it to answer the call, it stopped ringing. Then a text message popped up.