The Third Sin (8 page)

Sonya froze. The fact that the actress had lied about the abortion probably meant that she was torn about making the decision. It was a frightful one for any woman to make. And the photographer who had taken the picture of her coming out of the clinic was despicable.

“I wouldn't call it bad luck. I'd call it an unforgivable invasion of privacy,” she said firmly.

“Did you know that Donna had an abortion?”

Keeping her face expressionless to hide her surprise, Sonya looked at the intern. Her face was flushed and her eyes were sparkling with excitement.

“No, I didn't know,” she said, “but I think that's Donna's business, not mine.”

“Oh, don't be such a prude. Everyone knows about it. She got pregnant a year or so after she joined the network and my mom looked after her when she had the abortion. That's why they became friends.”

Sonya had heard rumors about Donna but had no intention of discussing them with Kirsten. She looked again at the program.

Short shows were the trend. It took more time to get in and out of the crowded tents than it did to see a thirty-piece collection of mostly outlandish clothing that few people would actually ever wear. The corporations which owned most designers' names wanted as much publicity as they could get. The extravagant outfits made for great video that was flashed around the world. The publicity they got increased the sales of the designers' accessories and perfume. That's what the CEOs wanted. Did the publicity help women to spend money wisely? No, Sonya told herself, it just confused them.

Kirsten was young enough to be a perfect victim. She swallowed every new sales pitch without question, struggling to stay on the cutting edge. Sonya thought of her compulsive shopping and the bags of newly acquired clothes hidden in the office. Kirsten seemed to be ashamed to take them home where her mother would see them and question her. Sonya wondered how many hours a day she spent putting together her outfits.

Kirsten gave her a sideways glance and said, “How do you like my new hairstyle?” She had recently dyed her chestnut hair a light auburn so it was almost as red as Sonya's. She'd also curled it into the loose bob that Sonya wore.

“I certainly recognize the color,” Sonya said.

Kirsten had the grace to look abashed. “You know I envy your hair, Sonya. Mine's so dull and mousy. I hope you don't mind, I just wanted to experiment with a look that is more exciting.”

“It's okay, I'm not annoyed,” Sonya replied, though secretly she was irritated. Kirsten's new hairstyle suited her and the red color made her pale skin look translucent. But it wasn't only her hair and makeup she copied. Kirsten came into her office and looked around. Sonya had caught her going through production notes on her office desk.

“Is your mother as fascinated with fashion as you are?” she asked.

“No, Mom is an old stick in the mud. All she cares about is cooking.” Sonya looked at Kirsten more closely, appraising her total appearance. Over her coral T-shirt she wore a micro minidress with a stripe of black, blue, coral, and turquoise running around her hips. On most women that stripe would add ten pounds; on Kirsten it only emphasized her slender, model-like figure. She'd paired the dress with a pair of obviously new sandals with a two-inch wedge and silver straps. Sonya had watched her struggling along the corridor in them and had almost laughed out loud.

Kirsten followed her glance, arched her foot, and said, “My wedgies were a present from my father. He bought them for me in Milan. He likes to see me dressed up.”

Sonya was surprised. Kirsten had rarely mentioned her father before. She had once thought he was out of the picture, assuming Harold had taken over as her father figure.

“That's a nice trait for a father to have.”

“Yes. He can be generous when he wants. But he's pretty mixed up. You should hear Wade talk about some of the crazy stunts they've pulled.”

Sonya's interest started to grow. “They're friends?”

“Mom says more than friends.”

“You mean they were lovers? Surely not. They've both married.”

Sonya knew she was naïve; growing up in Minnesota she never got used to complicated relationships that were so common in Manhattan.

“What does that matter?” Kirsten made a grimace. “And remember, Wade wasn't always obese with apnea.”

Sonya wasn't surprised to hear that Wade had sleep apnea, given his weight and age. She'd seen enough articles to know that it was a potentially serious medical condition that could cause a person's breathing to be irregular while they were sleeping. Some people even stopped breathing entirely.

“Does he need oxygen when he sleeps?”

“Yes. He sleeps with a mask and a machine. Otherwise he snores all the time and could even die. But he wasn't always like this. When Mom married Harold, Wade was best man and the best-looking guy there. You should see the photos. I bet my dad fell for him then.”

This was the first confirmation Sonya had that Wade was bisexual. She said casually, “It must have made for an interesting mix in the family.”

Kirsten laughed. “It still does. Of course, we weren't all living together then. Mom, Harold, and I had an apartment on the West Side. It was easy for Dad to stay with Wade when he came to town. He did for years, until Bella moved in.”

“Do Wade and Bella have separate rooms?”

“Sure, Bella says she can't sleep with the constant buzz of Wade's apnea machine. Wade says he can't sleep without it. Even with it he only gets three or four hours a night.”

“So you and Wade are friends?”

“He's always been like an uncle to me. Dad and Uncle Wade used to take me shopping when I was kid. I had a lot of fun with them. Mom said they spoiled me, but Wade used to reply that was what uncles were for.”

Sonya thought of her own childhood, growing up without a father. Her mother had had to count every cent. Shopping had never been a pleasure. It was always about finding the cheapest thing.

The music swelled as two muscular men came out and started ripping off the tape that sealed the plastic sheeting that protected the runway. The fashionistas hurried to their seats, the lights dimmed, and with a burst of music the first model appeared.

 

Chapter
10

F
RIDAY, 2:00 A.M.

Wade's apartment

Cacao was dead.

The macaw's body lay in the bottom of the cage, a rigid mass of feathers.

Bella felt herself swaying as if she were going to fall. She had come into the bedroom and seen that the cover on the cage had slipped. When she'd reached the cage, she'd seen the body, with its bright feathers and black beak, frozen in place. She stared and swallowed hard, fighting the nausea that swept over her. She should not have drunk so much whiskey.

From the first day she'd seen it, everything about Cacao had repulsed her. She had wished it dead a thousand times.

Its high-pitched squawking could be heard in every room. The phrases that Wade taught it were rude and embarrassing. Then there was the sour smell that reached into each corner of the dark apartment, permeating the freshly laundered sheets and towels. Even after a shower she felt unclean, as unclean as she did each time Wade touched her. At the thought of his clammy hands reaching out for her, acid rose and burned her throat.

She stared through her tears at its vivid plumage. She should have loved the bird; after all, Cacao had apparently loved her. He had often tried to climb onto her shoulder or to elicit affection from her. Why did she hate it? In a surge of drunken guilt and self-pity, she told herself the bird had been her only friend in this ugly family.

She couldn't bear to look at it any longer. With a shaking hand she pulled the cover over the cage. Stumbling to the bed, Bella sat on the edge of it, as far away from Wade as possible.

An hour ago she'd been at a party, drinking, dancing, and having fun in the few hours she could steal away from Wade. She rested her head against the cool rail of the brass bed and tried to think. How had Cacao been when she'd left home earlier that evening? Had she missed any signs that her husband's companion was about to die?

She remembered going into the library to say good-bye to Wade. Cacao, on her husband's shoulder, squawked a nasty, “No, no, no,” at her. Wade saw that she was irritated and tried to make up for it by saying how pretty she looked. Still, the bird had unsettled Bella and she'd fled the apartment for her party, where she had succeeded in making herself feel better.

Until she'd gotten home and discovered Cacao's corpse. Now she would have to wake Wade and tell him that his beloved bird was gone.

Bella kicked off her satin sandals and undid the buttons that fastened the black dress over her breasts. The garment was too tight to be truly comfortable but revealed enough of her cleavage to make her the sexiest woman at the party.

She stood up again and padded barefoot to the nightstand, which held a few bottles and glasses. She poured herself a couple of fingers of scotch and gulped it down, hoping it would give her courage.

Wade lay turned away from her. His face was hidden by the mask of his apnea machine, which Bella could hear clicking and whirring as usual. Somehow, Wade had learned to sleep despite the noise and the constant current of air. He was finally getting restful sleep after years of suffering. Bella wasn't so lucky.

Delaying the inevitable, Bella went back to her side of the bed, sat down facing away from her husband, and softly muttered, “Wade, I'm only twenty-seven and I have no life with you. You are a liar and a cheap bastard. You better fucking well sell that diamond. Wade, you fat hideous slob, I hate you and I'm glad your loud-mouthed, stinking bird is dead.”

The quiet tirade made her feel better. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure he hadn't heard and was relieved to see him lying still.

Suddenly she was struck by how still he was.

She leaned over and put her hand on his chest. She could feel no movement. But the machine should have kept him breathing.

Adrenaline surged through her, making her dizzy as she got to her feet. Steadying herself, Bella moved to Wade's side of the bed and shook him roughly.

“Wade, wake up. Cacao is sick and needs you.”

He didn't stir.

She bent forward and shouted, “Wade!”

He didn't move.

She squatted beside him. Was he unconscious, or could he really be dead? His arm lay over the side of the bed. It felt cool as she put her fingers on his wrist to search for a pulse.

Nothing.

Were the rolls of fat at his wrist getting in the way, or was there nothing to feel? Bella covered her mouth, struggling against the renewed urge to vomit.

He was dead. She was sure of it.

What should she do first? Call the doctor? The police? Rouse the family? Or go into the spare room and try to go to sleep? There was nothing to be done for him now. Let someone else discover the body—Bella would just pretend that she'd never been in the bedroom.

No. She could see the lead story in the tabloids. “Beautiful Bella from Brazil came home from a party and got a good night's sleep in the next room while her husband lay dead in the marital bed.” Absolutely not.

It would play better if she discovered him dead and phoned for help. That would be what the police would expect a loving wife to do.

As she struggled to her feet, she touched the sticky ice cream carton he'd left on the floor after his usual nightly binge. As she usually did, she grabbed the carton, then groped around for the spoon he'd used and the top of the container, but she didn't find them before nausea overcame her. Holding the carton she staggered into the kitchen and vomited into the sink.

Relief flooded over her. She turned on the tap and watched the vomit wash away. The horror of living with Wade in the dark apartment vanished with it.

Lifting the handset for the kitchen phone, she dialed her brother Rico in São Paulo. It rang eight times before he answered, in a voice brusque with sleep.

“Bella, can't this wait until the morning?”

Her eyes filled with tears at the sound of her beloved brother's voice.

“Rico, Rico,” she said, “I came home and found Cacao dead.”

“Who on earth is Cacao?”

“The macaw, Wade's macaw. You remember.”

“You're calling me in the middle of the night because a bird is dead? You're drunk.” He sounded angry now.

“No, no. I've only had a little champagne,” she said. She mustn't throw up again. She took a glass from the drying rack, filled it with water, and took a sip. “Don't be silly. This isn't about the bird. It's about Wade. He's dead too.”

“What do you mean? Wade is dead?” Rico was wide awake now. “Start from the beginning. Where are you?”

She reached for a chair and steadied herself. “I came home from a charity party about ten minutes ago and found Cacao lying on the bottom of the cage. Then I tried to wake Wade to tell him. I shook him and shouted in his ear. He just lies there. He's not breathing. I don't know what to do. Help me.”

“Bella, calm down and get help there. Didn't you say he has diabetes? He could be in a coma. Maybe he's taken one too many of those sleeping pills he likes. He was an unhappy man, so maybe it is suicide. But whatever it is, you need a doctor. Get off this phone and dial emergency. Do it now, then go upstairs and get Harold to take over.”

He gave an exasperated sigh. “It's bad enough that you went to a party without your husband.”

“Wade didn't want to go. He never wants to go. He's fat and lazy and boring. I hate him.”

“Don't talk that way. Who brought you home?”

“A good friend.”

“What sort of friend? Tell me the truth.”

She ignored his question. “Rico, I'm sure Wade is dead. All I want to do is leave this place and never come back.”