The Girl in the Green Raincoat (7 page)

“Look, we’re not saying he’s in the clear,” Tull said. “Not at all. And we would like Mrs. Epstein to show up, explain a few things. Then again, she has a very plausible reason not to come forward, right? If the guy’s right, she’s on an island somewhere.”

It would be a good revenge plot of sorts, Tess thought, if Carole Epstein believed that Don had killed her sister yet couldn’t prove it. But would she settle for money? Would that begin to approximate justice? No, Tess believed this woman had bigger fish to fry.

“She left her dog behind,” Tess said. “Knowing Don Epstein as she does, she never would have left Dempsey in his care.”

“She let go of her dog’s leash, assuming it would find a good home when she made a run for it,” Tull said. “And it has.”

Dempsey looked up, as if aware that he was the topic of conversation, then went back to gnawing on his own haunch. The dog had an amazing repertoire of neurotic tics. He chewed his own legs, worried his lower lip, scratched himself raw in places.

“The vet says he has emotional issues,” Tess said. “Sort of like those adolescent girls that cut themselves.”

“Yeah,” Tull said, “who wouldn’t take that dog along on her new life?”

He had a point.

“Look,” he added. “I agree this all stinks. And we’ve put out the word that we’d like to hear from her—and not by e-mail or text message. But what else can we do? There’s no evidence of foul play on his part.”

“Does he have an alibi for the day she disappeared?”

“He says he was stuck in traffic on the Beltway. But there was a lot of publicity about an overturned tractor-trailer on the outer loop that afternoon, so he could be making it up. Thing is, hard as it is for him to prove he was there, we can’t disprove it.”

“He never uses the same method twice,” Tess said. “A carjacking, a fall, a mysterious infection that could have been avoided if the hospital knew the patient was taking antibiotics. He’s got a good imagination.”

“Yeah, well,” Tull said. “He’s not the only one.”

* * *

Don Epstein was on television but just a local show. Even the cable networks that seemed devoted to covering missing white women 24/7 didn’t care about Epstein. It was the runaway bride story, played out before it even started: missing/faker/skank. At least this one reporter, one of the few enterprising investigative reporters on local television, was skeptical of him.
So much bad luck, for one man. Did he feel cursed? Had he considered forswearing the company of women, given how badly it seemed to end for him, every time? Was he sure that his wife hadn’t been the victim of foul play, that the computer transfers of money had been done by someone else with access to her laptop?

Yet Don Epstein preened, happy in the spotlight, indifferent to the subtext. Yes, he had been unlucky in love, he told the reporter. He did wonder if he was cursed, if he should take himself out of the dating pool. Even as he was speaking, a woman e-mailed the studio and the reporter read her comment on air: “I’d take a chance on you, Don. Call me!”

Tess could not fathom this. Why would anyone want Don Epstein under any circumstances? What did he have to offer any woman? Money, yes—although he had less than he once had, if one believed that Carole Epstein had absconded with almost half his savings. Still, it was a substantial fortune. He wasn’t bad-looking, if one’s taste ran to the overly virile and hirsute. Still, there was the fact of three wives, one girlfriend, all dead. Well, three dead and one missing. Were women really this desperate?

She had recently read an article that applied gaming theory to the eternal topic of why there were so many great single women. Again, as all such articles did, it concluded that women should just settle. Yet she couldn’t recall anything that advised men to settle. They were the ones encouraged to hold out for everything, and to trade up to a new, flashier model.

“I know our age difference doesn’t matter to you now,” she said to Crow that evening, “but don’t you think you’ll find it a drag to be married to a, say, fifty-year-old when you’re forty-four?”

“I am going to take the television away,” Crow said. “Between
Oprah
and
Judge Judy,
you are just loaded for bear by the time I come home.”

“I wonder if they’re still checking Carole Epstein’s credit cards.”

“I’m sure they are.” It was becoming Crow’s weary refrain.

“And her debit card, too. What other marks do we leave in this world? How else can we be traced?”

“Try to settle down, Tess.”

But “settle down” reminded her of
settling,
period, and she was furious again. Dissatisfied by conversation with Crow, she decided to talk to her daughter, who seemed to be kicking her feet rhythmically, as antsy about confinement as Dempsey.

Don’t ever settle, Fifi. Don’t get married just because it’s still marketed as the ultimate achievement for women.

On the other hand, learn to value men for something other than their paychecks. Your father was a bookstore clerk and an underemployed musician when we started dating. Now he’s a partner in a restaurant/bar with good music every weekend. He still doesn’t make much money, though. I support us. Or did, before you put the kibosh on everything. Do you realize how much your college fund will miss these extra weeks of work I’ve had to sacrifice? Do you know about compound interest yet? Look, in today’s economy, you need to start putting stuff away in the womb.

Yet the economy was good for private detectives. More small businesses suspected theft among their employees. Insurance fraud was rampant. Even with Mrs. Blossom as a partner, she was doing fine.

Don Epstein—Don Epstein, on the other hand, owned check-cashing stores. Check-cashing stores that had belonged to his first wife’s father, but became his exclusively when she died. She wondered if these stores thrived in the current economy, or if they had a lot of defaults. She wondered if Carole Epstein had life insurance. She wondered how long someone had to go missing before you could collect on life insurance. She wondered—

But perhaps she had worn herself out, or her future daughter had decided enough was enough and Mom needed to go down for a nap. She fell asleep at the disgracefully early hour of 9:00 p.m.
Snapshot of your future
, as Whitney might have said. Except for the ten hours of sleep that followed.

T
ess Monaghan did not always appreciate her parents as much as she should. Who ever has? In her childhood, her mother was . . . well, a mother, an obstacle to be surmounted. Judith Monaghan also had an unfortunate predilection for overmatching. Shoes matched purse matched dress matched earrings matched bracelets. A secretary at the National Security Agency, she insisted she could never speak of her job at home, hinting that she was privy to too many secrets.

But as Tess moved into her thirties, she began to discern that her mother’s wardrobe was the result of a fiercely misdirected energy. Born a mere decade later, Judith Weinstein Monaghan might have been given a chance to apply her impeccable sense of organization to . . . well, whatever NSA did. (Despite reading
The Puzzle Palace
, Tess was still fuzzy on the details.) Meanwhile, growing up with a maybe-spy for a mother had the happy bonus of sharpening Tess’s wits, teaching her to be a much more sophisticated sneak.

As for her father, Patrick Monaghan, the world’s most taciturn Irishman, Tess had once yearned for him to be everything he was not—voluble, dashing, a literary bon vivant who held forth on the work of James Joyce. If she wasn’t such a snob then, she might have noticed she’d been graced with Wonder Dad, who could fix or build anything. Instead, she had taken it all as her due—the sturdy, safe tire swing that drew the neighborhood children to her house, the gleaming bicycles on Christmas morning, which her father put together swiftly and quietly, without any profanity-laden outbursts to waken a sleeping girl from dreams of Santa. He had, in fact, contributed much of the work to this sun porch where she now spent her days. Now Tess was thrilled to have a father who could wield a hammer. She didn’t need to talk about Joyce. The fact was, she really didn’t have a lot to say about Joyce, and there were always things that required fixing.

Today, her father was installing a dog door on the lower level, while one of his old cronies finished securing the perimeter with invisible fencing. These additions were for the unwalkable Dempsey, who had taken to relieving himself almost exclusively in the porcelain chamber pot, which meant that Tess was often trapped for hours in a room that smelled of dog urine. The hope was that Dempsey could be trained quickly to understand how far he could roam in the yard without receiving a mild shock, via the radio transmitter.

He did catch on quickly. But to everyone’s dismay, Dempsey seemed to
enjoy
the sensation. He threw himself at the boundary again and again, yelping in outrage and pain, yet never trying to leave.

“Dog’s a little strange,” said Tess’s father, watching the scene through her window. He was not only taciturn, but given to understatement.

“He’s testing himself,” Tess said. “Notice that he doesn’t try to leave. I thought he’d made a run for it, head back to Blythewood. He’s letting us know that he’s here on his own recognizance.”

Dempsey, satisfied that he had shown the fence line who was boss, trotted through his new door and clacked upstairs to the sun porch—where he promptly squatted over the chamber pot and relieved himself.

“I brought you a gift, by the way,” her father said.

“Something for the baby?” Tess asked warily. Her father was having a hard time with her decision not to prepare in advance. He wanted to buy a crib and a stroller, build a toy chest and a changing table, paint the spare bedroom. And, in time, she wanted him to do all those things. But not yet.

“No, this is for you.” He went to the living room and returned with a large flat package, wrapped in newspaper and string.

“The sign from the Stonewall Democratic Club!” Tess’s delight was quite genuine. Stonewall, now shuttered, was a storied place in the history of Baltimore—and the Monaghan family. She remembered riding her tricycle there. More correctly, she remembered being told that she had ridden her tricycle there. In her memory, it was a land of knees and cigarette smoke and impenetrable grown-up talk, which she tolerated because Harry “Soft Shoes” McGuirk himself, the b’hoy of b’hoys—a b’hoy being the man who gave muldoons their marching orders—would take pity on the restless child and buy her a Coke.

“How did you come to own this?” she asked, as amazed as if her father had procured a Picasso. Tess collected Baltimorebilia, although she was in denial about it. Her office held the neon “It’s Time for a Haircut” clock from a Woodlawn barbershop, and she kept her spare change in a miniature model of a Baltimore Gas & Electric truck. She had even begun to acquire old grease tins from the sausage company, Esskay, that had lent its name to her racing greyhound.
The sane one
, as she now thought of Esskay. The greyhound had once been her problem child, but everything was relative.

“We need to adhere to a strict don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy on that issue,” her father said. “That way you’ll have plausible deniability.” Adding, at his only child’s shocked expression: “It was just sitting there, for the longest time. What was I supposed to do?”

“Walk on by?” But Tess knew she wouldn’t have, either. “I’m so glad you . . . availed yourself of it. After all, you and Mother met there.”

“What?” He was genuinely puzzled. “Who told you that?”

“I don’t know. Mom? Aunt Kitty? The campaign of ’sixty-six, right? You both worked for the Democratic candidate.”

“We worked on the primary campaign of Carlton Sickles, yes. But that’s not where we met. We met at the Westview Drive-in the year before. I’m not good on dates, but it was coolish. She wore a lemon-yellow cardigan, only it was pinned to her shoulders with this little chain, with butterflies on either end.”

He fluttered his hands along his collarbone, trying to evoke the singular magic of it all. A sweater, moored by butterflies! He made it sound as if Judith Weinstein, as she would have been known then, had been dressed by a coterie of talking woodland creatures, like some princess in a Disney film.

“Are you saying you fell in love at first sight?” This did not fit with what Tess thought she knew of her pragmatic, down-to-earth parents. Love at first sight was for passionate kids. But then—her parents were kids at the time.

“I bird-dogged her,” her father said proudly. “Snaked her away from her date. Not that night, but later. She was really interested in politics—your uncle Donald had worked on the Kennedy campaign in ’sixty, was recruiting volunteers for the city council races, so, yeah, it must have been spring ’sixty-five—so I pretended to care, too.”

“
Pretended
to care?” Tess was scandalized. Her father’s political life had defined him, as far as she knew.

“Oh, eventually I did get caught up with it, but that was more Donald’s influence. That night I met your mother, I just wanted to find a way to keep her talking to me. So I told her, yeah, I’d love to volunteer, stuff envelopes, knock on doors, do whatever I could. I figured that would get me more time with her.” His fair skin flushed with the memory. “What a way to go.”