Read Somebody Else's Music Online
Authors: Jane Haddam
Somebody Else's Music (15 page)
Peggy Smith Kennedy knew her old friends didn't take her seriously anymore. She was kept as carefully out of things as the unpopular people had been when they were all back in high school, and sometimes, these days, some of the unpopular people were let in. It was worse than it seemed, because Peggy knew she wasn't just shut out. It was more like she had ceased to exist. Belinda and Emma and Nancy and Chris had whole conversations around her that they wouldn't explain. If she tried to ask questions, they acted as if she weren't there. They even talked right over her sentences. She could have been a television set, white noise for the background, or a dog, except that they would have petted a dog. They would have made a positive fuss about a cat. She still went to lunch with them because she couldn't imagine not doing itâshe'd been going to lunch with them at least once a week since she was twelve years oldâbut more and more she felt as if they wouldn't miss her if she were gone.
Now she went into the master bedroom of her small house and looked at Stu asleep on the bed. As always, he slept above the covers and in nothing but his underwear. The underwear was stained yellow in a little line at the back. When they were first married, she had tried to insist that he change every day, for the sake of hygiene, and he had often agreed. That was back when there were still times
when he acted as if it mattered what she thought of him. He would change clothes, or try to go three or four days without a beer, or bring her flowers after one of their fights. She found it hard to credit, after all this time, that one of the reasons she had been so eager to marry him was that she had been so sure he would worship her for the rest of his life. After all, she was the one who had been popular in high school, when he had been negligible, if that. He hadn't even played a sport, and he certainly hadn't had the kind of cachet boys like Lowell Tomlin and Chet Jabonowitz had, when they finished up senior year clutching their early acceptances to Caltech and MIT. Now, he had even less cachet than he had ever had. The drugs had kept him from getting fatâhe was always telling her that if she wanted to keep her weight down, she should get more familiar with cocaineâbut his skin sagged horribly all over his body. His stomach hung down like an apron, the way the stomachs of very thin women do right after they've given birth. His face looked pitted and marred. Once, coming up behind him while he was standing at the counter at English Drugs, she had caught sight of his face in the overhead mirror. He had looked like one of the pictures on the FBI's most wanted poster at the post office. He had looked like Johnny Cash. His face was scarred the way the faces of men in prison were, even though he had never been in prison. He'd never even been arrested except once or twice for drunk driving, and those were the worst times of all. He felt caged up when he couldn't drive. He ended up rampaging through the house, and breaking things. Once, when he'd lost his license for six straight weeks after having been caught doing ninety-five on Clapboard Ridge at two o'clock in the morning, he'd gone at the walls of their little basement recreation room with a ball peen hammer and his fists, smashing away until he'd reduced all the drywall to dust and slivers. Then he'd smashed the picture tube of the little television set they kept on top of a small wheeled table so that Stu could watch wrestling when Peggy was asleep. Neither one of them had ever gone back
into the recreation room again. Peggy had unplugged the television set, because she was worried it might cause a fire. Stu had moved his base of operations to the living room, where he spent most afternoons and evenings sprawled out along their battered couch, dressed or not, as the fancy took him. Even if he hadn't reacted the way he did when Peggy brought people home, she still wouldn't have been able to entertain. She never knew when he'd be there in his underwear and when he'd be there in a pair of jeans. She did know that he'd be hostile. He'd been hostile for years, especially to the girls they had both known when they were growing up. When Nancy Quayde was made principal of the high school, he had cut her picture out of the Hollman
Home News
and urinated on it.
when he acted as if it mattered what she thought of him. He would change clothes, or try to go three or four days without a beer, or bring her flowers after one of their fights. She found it hard to credit, after all this time, that one of the reasons she had been so eager to marry him was that she had been so sure he would worship her for the rest of his life. After all, she was the one who had been popular in high school, when he had been negligible, if that. He hadn't even played a sport, and he certainly hadn't had the kind of cachet boys like Lowell Tomlin and Chet Jabonowitz had, when they finished up senior year clutching their early acceptances to Caltech and MIT. Now, he had even less cachet than he had ever had. The drugs had kept him from getting fatâhe was always telling her that if she wanted to keep her weight down, she should get more familiar with cocaineâbut his skin sagged horribly all over his body. His stomach hung down like an apron, the way the stomachs of very thin women do right after they've given birth. His face looked pitted and marred. Once, coming up behind him while he was standing at the counter at English Drugs, she had caught sight of his face in the overhead mirror. He had looked like one of the pictures on the FBI's most wanted poster at the post office. He had looked like Johnny Cash. His face was scarred the way the faces of men in prison were, even though he had never been in prison. He'd never even been arrested except once or twice for drunk driving, and those were the worst times of all. He felt caged up when he couldn't drive. He ended up rampaging through the house, and breaking things. Once, when he'd lost his license for six straight weeks after having been caught doing ninety-five on Clapboard Ridge at two o'clock in the morning, he'd gone at the walls of their little basement recreation room with a ball peen hammer and his fists, smashing away until he'd reduced all the drywall to dust and slivers. Then he'd smashed the picture tube of the little television set they kept on top of a small wheeled table so that Stu could watch wrestling when Peggy was asleep. Neither one of them had ever gone back
into the recreation room again. Peggy had unplugged the television set, because she was worried it might cause a fire. Stu had moved his base of operations to the living room, where he spent most afternoons and evenings sprawled out along their battered couch, dressed or not, as the fancy took him. Even if he hadn't reacted the way he did when Peggy brought people home, she still wouldn't have been able to entertain. She never knew when he'd be there in his underwear and when he'd be there in a pair of jeans. She did know that he'd be hostile. He'd been hostile for years, especially to the girls they had both known when they were growing up. When Nancy Quayde was made principal of the high school, he had cut her picture out of the Hollman
Home News
and urinated on it.
Peggy made sure, one last time, that Stu was asleep and likely to stay asleep. Then she walked down the short hall to their tiny living room, filthy and dark. There was enough dirt on the carpet to plant in. If she ran her finger across the top of the mantel, she would find not only dust but grime, slick as kitchen grease, half an inch thick.
She went out the other end of the living room, into the dining room, where they never ate. She went into the kitchen and felt a little better. It was much cleaner here, because Stu never came into the kitchen except to get beer from the refrigerator, and he never did even that if she was at home to get it for him. When he was watching wrestling and getting coked up, she could come in here and get rid of her nervousness by scrubbing everything down. She only wished they could do something about the inevitable wear and tear. There were at least two holes in the linoleum floor, both deep enough so that she could see the plywood underneath. Two-thirds of the cabinets had lost their door handles. She went to the refrigerator and got out the little brown bag she'd packed with a Swiss cheese sandwich and a tangerine. She always took a brown bag lunch to school, even when she was eating out, so that Stu would think she wasn't wasting money on what he considered inessentialsâalthough he did less of that
now than he had. He bought his stuff once a week, right after she cashed her paycheck, and from that point on it was just a matter of staying out of his way until he got high enough.
now than he had. He bought his stuff once a week, right after she cashed her paycheck, and from that point on it was just a matter of staying out of his way until he got high enough.
Peggy went to the back door and looked out. Nancy Quayde picked her up every morningâStu absolutely refused to let Peggy have a car, or to drive his unless he was in it, tooâbut she wouldn't come to the door and knock. She wouldn't even beep her horn. If Peggy wanted the ride, she had to be ready and waiting. Peggy let herself out onto the back porch. She was early. She just wished she knew what she should do about her anger, which had been spilling up inside her since she left Emma's place last evening and come to full fruition while she'd been getting dressed for school. It was one thing to treat her like something less than a human being. It was another to treat her as if she were stupid. There were times these days when they all got her so mad, Peggy thought her head was going to split open. Whenever she thought that, she had a vision of it lying on the sidewalk smashed to pieces, like a dropped watermelon.
There was the sound of a car in the street and then Nancy Quayde's four-door Saab came rolling into Peggy's driveway, but not very far in. Nancy liked to make quick getaways, especially from here. Peggy tried the door behind her to make sure it was locked. Then she walked down the drive to where Nancy was waiting. She really hated that damned Saab. It was so stuck-up and pretentious. Nancy no more needed a four-door car than she needed a pogo stick. She'd only bought this one to let everyone know that she made more money than they did. If she ever got the superintendent's job, she'd probably go out and buy a Mercedes.
“I've got to tell you something,” Nancy said, backing out without waiting to make sure Peggy had her seat belt on.
“I've got to tell
you
something,” Peggy said. “Gregor Demarkian was in Emma's store last night. I saw him.”
you
something,” Peggy said. “Gregor Demarkian was in Emma's store last night. I saw him.”
The car slid backward into the street. At this time of the
morning, there was no real worry about traffic. Nancy looked her over. “How did you know that?” she said.
morning, there was no real worry about traffic. Nancy looked her over. “How did you know that?” she said.
“Because I saw him,” Peggy repeated. “I tried to tell Emma who he was, but she wouldn't listen to me. I'm getting damned sick and tired of the bunch of you treating me as if I'd had all my brain cells removed by laser surgery. I knew who he was as soon as I saw him. He's been in
People
. Emma didn't have a clue.”
People
. Emma didn't have a clue.”
“Well,” Nancy said. Then she fluttered her hands in the air. “Why didn't you tell anybody else? Or was Stu refusing to let you make phone calls last night?”
Peggy let that one pass. “It wouldn't have been much use telling anybody else, would it? You'd all have just acted like Emma. What was the point?”
“Do you happen to know what he's doing here?”
“I'd expect he was doing something with Betsy Toliver. About Betsy Toliver. About Michael Houseman. That's the only murder mystery we've got around here, isn't it?”
The car was going forward again. Nancy leaned over the steering wheel and frowned. “He's staying out at Betsy's mother's place. Nobody knows for how long. Apparently, she asked him to stay with her.”
“Are they supposed to be friends?”
“How am I supposed to know?”
“Obviously,” Peggy said judiciously, “you know more than I do. You must have been on the phone all night with one or the other of them. Except not with me. Never with me anymore, right? We use Stu as an excuse to avoid talking about why it is none of you are my friends anymore, even though we've all known each other since kindergarten.”
“You know what it's like with Stu. If he's in the wrong mood, he goes berserk. None of us wanted toâ”
“Talk to me,” Peggy said.
“We don't really know why he's here. We just think he's here because of Michael. And the stories in the supermarket newspapers. What else could it be, right? What other reason would he have to be down here? We don't
think it's a very good situation, under the circumstances.”
think it's a very good situation, under the circumstances.”
“Why don't you ask her about it?” Peggy said. “We're all supposed to be grown-ups these days, right? We're all practically fifty. None of that high school stuff should matter anymore. Why don't you just pick up the phone and call her house and ask herâ”
“Listen,” Nancy said. “There was an incident. Last night. Somebody got into the garage out there and left a dead dog in it.”
“In Betsy Toliver's garage?”
“Right. Exactly. I don't know the details. It was Kyle Borden who took the call, and you know what he's like. Chris couldn't get a thing out of him, even though she tried, except that it was deliberate. I mean, the dog was killed, it didn't just die of something. If you could think of anybody doing anything stupiderâ”
“It doesn't have to be connected to us,” Peggy said. “It could be somebody else, doing it for some other reason.”
“What?”
“Kids. Bugging the famous person.”
“Don't be asinine,” Nancy said. “Why would kids put a dead dog in Betsy Toliver's garage? Even your standard sociopathic adolescent has to have some reason for what he does. No, I'm with Chris. I think somebody meant it as a warning.”
“A warning of what?”
“A warning for her to get out of town,” Nancy said. “For Betsy to get out of town. Chris thinks it came from one of us, and I'm with herâ”
Peggy snorted. “Could you just see Belinda dragging a dead dog out there where the Tolivers live? You must be joking.”
“I'm not joking, and you shouldn't be joking, either. The situation would have been mucky enough if she were just down here on her own, but with Demarkian here with her it could get very nasty. So Chris and I decided. We're going to invite her to things.”
“What?”
“We're going to invite her to things,” Nancy said. “Chris is going to have her to dinner. I'm going to invite her to lunch. We're going to invite her to things. Just like we do when Maris comes down from New York.”
“Are you crazy? Whatever makes you think she would come?”
“Oh, she'll come,” Nancy said confidently. “People like that always do. I've had enough ed psych to know that, and so have you. It doesn't matter if she lives to be a hundred and five, she'll still be trying to make up for what happened to her when she was fourteen. Why do you think she puts up with Maris?”
“I thought she and Maris had become friends in college.”
Nancy smirked. “If Maris is Betsy's friend, I'm Hillary Clinton's hairdresser. Maris can't stand Betsy Toliver now any more than she ever could, and you know how Maris was about Betsy. Worse than Belinda. She'll come, Peggy, trust me.”
They were driving through the gates onto the long drive that led to the new high school. Peggy cleared her throat. “Remember that night when we invited her to the White Horse?”
“Yes. It won't matter. She won't believe we'd do something like that again, not at our ages. And we have to make it clear to that Demarkian person that none of us has anything against Betsy Toliver anymore. You got that?”
They were at the end of the drive and into the faculty parking lot. Peggy picked her purse up from the floor and watched a thin line of students climbing their way up from the lower level lot. They carried book bags instead of just books. Peggy couldn't remember when that had started, but she did remember that none of them would have been caught dead with a book bag when she was in high school. Of course, none of them would have been caught dead in jeans, either, at least not on a school day, and now nobody seemed to wear anything else.
“So,” Nancy said. “What do you think? You going to help us out?”
“How?”
“Chris is going to have a lunch on Saturday, with Betsy as the guest of honor. Do you think you could manage to be there?”
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