To Love and to Perish (4 page)

“Nothing good.” I sidled to the edge of the crowd and covered my other ear so I could hear her better. “What have you seen on TV?”

She recounted the contents of both broadcasts I had viewed. “They're saying a third person was injured in the accident that killed Monica Gleason.”

“Really? Who?”

“Some woman who didn't want to be identified at the time.”

“Interesting. I wonder if the press will out her now.”

“No doubt if they can, they will. How's Cory holding up?”

“Not well. Brennan didn't want to see him or have him involved in any way. He wouldn't even let Cory get an attorney for him.”

“Oh, he's got an attorney. I thought you guys called her.”

“Who?”

“Catherine Thomas.”

A sick feeling welled in my stomach. The beautiful Catherine Thomas was a highly respected defense attorney in New York State. She was also the woman Ray took up with during the last year of our three-year separation, attracted to her as he was to me because of our resemblance to his favorite actress, Valerie Bertinelli. She even had Valerie's same long hairstyle, while I had bobbed mine years ago. Although Catherine had been extremely helpful and supportive to us in the past, the thought of having her around again made me queasy. No one likes to be confronted with a woman her husband once slept with, especially a woman like Catherine, who I had to admit had it all goin' on, unlike me, who more often had it all goin' south.

“Wonderful.”

“Sorry, thought you knew.”

“I didn't.” But now that I did, it was one more thing to worry about that was completely out of my control.

“Well, join the club. You're not the only one in the dark.”

Martin Feeder chose that moment to slam his auction mallet down on the block. I jumped three inches in the air then frantically listened for the MG's final sale price. Naturally, he didn't repeat it. I'd have to wait until I hung up to find out. Besides, Isabelle's words had sounded bitter, quite unlike her usual personality. My antennae went up.

“What do you mean? Who else is in the dark?”

Silence.

I pulled the phone from my ear and checked the screen to make sure we were still connected.

“Isabelle? Is everything all right? How are Jack and Cassidy?”

At the other end of the line, I heard Isabelle burst into tears.

Five

I had to ask
Isabelle to repeat herself three times before I clearly heard the words in between her sobs, “Jack is … having … an affair.”

Was it something in the water? An epidemic?

My response was automatic and emphatic. “He is not.”

Jack worshiped Isabelle. He bought her the finest jewels and the fanciest trips … and oh my god, had he just been making amends with gifts all these years? I reassured myself and her. “He loves you.”

“Ray loves you, too, but he spent a whole year with Catherine.”

Ouch. “We were separated for two years before he met her. The divorce papers were signed.” Signed but never filed. Still, technically Ray was not a cheater. “Have you and Jack separated?”

“Not yet, but I'm thinking about it.”

I moved farther away from the auctioneer as he geared up to sell the next car, not wanting to miss a word of what Isabelle had to say. “Why? What happened?”

“You remember my cousin, the one who thought her husband was having an affair. Remember, she figured out the password to his business AOL account and found out his only business was monkey business?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Jack has a new AOL business account, and he didn't share the password with me. And he's acting all secretive, hanging the phone up when I come in the room. Plus we haven't had sex in two months.”

“Is that all?”

“Isn't that enough?” She sounded outraged.

Not really. The whole world had gone nuts. At least, all the people significant to my universe were losing it. Me, well, I'd never been sure I had it in the first place.

“Two months is not that long, Isabelle. It's not unheard of, you know.” I didn't care to elaborate, but I knew this for a fact.

“We used to do it every night.”

“EVERY night?” I tried to imagine that level of … well … enthusiasm. Jack and Isabelle had been married almost ten years. They each owned a thriving business. They had an active five-year-old. Good grief, they had that kind of energy? I felt like a slacker.

“Yes.”

“Well, even an Energizer battery needs recharging eventually.”

Silence.

“I'm sorry, Isabelle. I simply can't picture Jack with anyone but you. Have you asked him about all this?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he wasn't having an affair. That he would never love anyone but me. That he was too tired, too busy at work. That things will get back to normal soon. You know, all the lies a cheater would say.”

I rolled my eyes, thankful she couldn't see me. “Isabelle, I know your cousin believed her husband's lies for a long time and felt like a fool afterwards, but I think Jack's telling the truth. I don't know anyone more in love with his wife than him.”

“Then you ask him.”

“What?”

“You ask him why he's hiding things from me. You ask him why he doesn't want me anymore.”

“I can't do that.”

“Why not? You're my best friend. You're his friend, too. You could ask him.”

“I don't think so.” I could, but I really didn't want to get involved. It was between the two of them. Isabelle and Jack were reasonable adults. They would sort it out on their own in no time, without any interference from anyone else.

“Then I guess I'll hire a private investigator.”

Or not.

_____

Cory and Danny reappeared outside the auction tent seconds after I hung up with Isabelle. Cory's fists were clenched, his lips flat lined. “Why didn't you tell me, Jo?”

“About what?” Danny averted his eyes as I spoke.

“About the news report. About the woman Brennan killed.”

I caught Danny peeking at me out of the corner of his eye. Apparently, he'd been paying attention to the news report on television last night in the restaurant, too. Why he'd chosen to repeat the story now at the track, I'd never know.

“Cory, I was waiting until we were alone to discuss the whole situation.” I raised my eyebrows and tipped my head toward Danny, who had turned away.

“Danny knows everything. He saw everything.”

“What do you mean, everything?”

Danny glanced at me over his shoulder. “I saw the guy lying in the street.”

“You were supposed to stay put.”

“I did. He was right in front of me.”

So much for protecting our boy from ugliness and evil. I wondered what else Danny had seen but didn't think now was the time to ask. Instead, I tried to calm Cory.

“The news said Brennan wasn't charged with killing anyone. It was ruled an accident.”

“But a woman died in the car crash. And he was driving the car.”

“The report did say that. But that's all.”

“They said he was drunk.”

“Two guys probably looking for their fifteen minutes of fame said ‘everyone' at the reunion was drinking. No one said they specifically saw Brennan drinking or drunk.”

“So why was it on the news?”

Good question. Why was half the stuff on the news? Or on magazine covers? Worse, why did anyone believe any of it anymore? Had we all forgotten poor Richard Jewell, wrongly accused of the Olympic Park bombing and the poster child for law enforcement and media excess? Funny how we can remember a rumor forever while the facts fade fast.

“I don't know. But I don't think Brennan intentionally killed anyone, yesterday or thirteen years ago. Do you?”

Now Cory wouldn't meet my gaze. “Let's go home.”

I let it go for now, wondering if Cory didn't share my conviction of Brennan's innocence. Did he know something more he wasn't sharing?

We stopped for a second at the auctioneer's table and learned the MG had gone for $17,500. I'd take it. They assured me the check would be in the mail as soon as the buyer's payment cleared.

The first hour of the ride home dragged. Cory didn't respond to my weak attempts at conversation, nor would he allow me to turn on the radio or even play a CD. Danny sat in the back seat of the truck with his iPod blasting. I watched the scenery go by, wondering what, if anything, I should have or could have done differently. Then all the silence made me feel drowsy. I closed my eyes against the sun.

An hour later, I snapped awake. Cory had pulled up alongside the patch of lawn fronting our yellow-sided, two-bedroom bungalow in Wachobe village. I let Danny run ahead with the key to the front door, not that he needed one. Lock picking was a skill his father had passed onto him, along with driving, hotwiring cars, and jimmying locks. A man had to have some skills, according to Danny's father. Seeing a dead man lying in the street and being able to sleep soundly the night afterward could now be added to Danny's skills. Maybe he had more in common with Ray than dark hair. I wondered what else Danny might be capable of.

I, on the other hand, couldn't even let Cory drive away mad. “Can we talk about Brennan now?”

He nodded, his gaze focused on the windshield.

“What do you want to do? How can I help you … and Brennan?”

“He doesn't want our help. He wouldn't even see me.” A tear sparkled in the corner of Cory's eye. He swiped at it angrily. “Why doesn't he want to see me? Why doesn't he want my help?”

“Maybe he's trying to protect you. And Ray said the department wouldn't let anyone see him until they finished questioning him anyway.”

“I could have gotten him a lawyer.”

“He's got a lawyer. Catherine Thomas.”

His shoulders relaxed, showing his relief. “That's good. She's the best, right?”

“Right.” The best lawyer, anyway. I didn't want to know if she was the best at anything else.

“What about the woman with James Gleason? Do they know who she was? Did she see anything?”

“The department is working to identify her. I'm sure she'll come forward soon.”

Cory twisted to face me. “I have to know what's going on, Jo. I can't just sit here and wait. I can't let Brennan go through this alone. You're right. He needs help. He needs me.”

I realized the error in my words too late. “He asked you to stay out of it.”

“I don't care. I can't stay out of it. I love him.”

“I know.” I'd seen them together often enough to know this was true, but I didn't know what the right thing was for Cory to do. He seemed pretty convinced Brennan needed his help. I could certainly give him the time off in the event Brennan asked for him. I really didn't know what more I could do.

Cory did. “Jo, are you going to help me find out what's going on or not?”

Six

Around seven o'clock that
night, I sat out on our front porch, rocking in my white wicker rocker and enjoying the cooler evening air. Shouts and laughter from the neighbor's heated pool drifted over. Occasionally I could make out Danny's voice in the mix. Soon enough the temperatures would plummet, the leaves fall, and snow arrive. I wanted to breathe in as much fresh outdoor air as I could before that.

But mostly I was lying in wait for Ray.

He hadn't answered his phone all day, and I felt near frantic with the need to talk to him. I was in over my head with both Cory and Isabelle and not afraid to admit it. Hopefully Ray would be able to help. He tended to be the voice of reason, and, much as I hated to admit it, most often right.

I recognized the sound of his car engine before his vehicle even came into sight. Ray parked and strolled up our flagstone sidewalk. “Hey, darlin.'”

He brushed his lips over mine and dropped onto his matching rocker, which creaked in protest. “I'm sorry I couldn't talk today.”

“Something big happen?” I noticed smears of mud on his gray uniform and caught a whiff of … evergreen?

“Major world crisis. A nine-year-old got his knee wedged in the crotch of an oak tree. He couldn't pull it out. I couldn't pull him out. His mom was hysterical, carrying on to the point where I actually considered slapping her. I had to call the fire department. Meantime, every yahoo in the county with a scanner showed up to watch. I needed Gumby and Max just for traffic and crowd control. It was a circus, and I was the ringmaster.”

“Did you get him out?”

“We took down almost the whole tree after first cutting down the evergreen next to it, to get at the oak from the right angle. The kid's knee was swollen and twisted, but he'll be okay.” Ray settled more comfortably in his chair and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. “So what's going on?”

Where to start? Murder accusations take precedence over adultery any day of the week.

I filled Ray in on the day's events and my last conversation with Cory. “He's really worked up about Brennan. He's got all kinds of wild ideas about investigating on his own.” I left out the fact Cory had asked me to help, which was superfluous.

Ray snorted. “What's he think he's going to learn that the department doesn't know?”

“He's curious about the woman with James Gleason. He wants to talk to her, find out what James and Brennan were arguing about.”

“She's Gleason's estranged wife. Ken spoke with her.”

“And what was the argument about?”

“His sister's death. Both Brennan and the wife confirmed that.”

“How did you know?”

“I talked to Catherine.”

That sick feeling washed through my stomach again. “She called you?”

“I called her to see what we could do to help Brennan.”

A nice gesture on his part. We were all friends, after all. “Did Gleason's wife say anything else helpful?”

“Not really. Apparently her son suggested the family attend the race. She and Gleason ran into Brennan by chance. Gleason accused Brennan of not caring about his sister and causing her death, and the two got into an argument. When they wouldn't stop arguing, his wife took off in the opposite direction, missed the whole crash, and didn't even hear about it until the sheriff's department showed up on her doorstep for next of kin notification. She and Gleason didn't come to the festival together, and they don't live together anymore either. Hard to say how broken up she is over his death.”

Or if she told the truth regarding her whereabouts during the accident. “Did Catherine know anything else new?”

“Just that she thinks Brennan's going to have trouble with his bail.”

“Why? He has ties to the area, no prior record. Surely no one believes he's going to go around pushing other people in front of cars.”

“True. But right or wrong, the cloud of Gleason's sister's death is hanging over him now. The judge may not set bail at a figure Brennan can afford.”

I wondered what amount would be unattainable for Brennan, who owned a million dollar, two-story contemporary house with a panoramic view of the lake and an in-ground swimming pool, plus a huge garage to house his car collection, a brand-new office building in the village, and a much-in-demand construction company. Very little got built on our lake or in the town without his involvement. “What can Brennan do?”

“I don't know. Catherine says it's unreasonable, but the bail amount may be enough to keep him locked up. She said to tell Cory to sit tight for now. That she's got it all under control.”

I doubted Cory would be able to “sit tight,” especially if Brennan remained in jail indefinitely. In fact, I wondered what Cory was doing right this minute. When I hadn't jumped on the idea of looking into things on our own, he'd gotten a wild look in his eye, a new and worrisome look for him. He wouldn't plan a jailbreak in this day and age, but he might do something equally crazy in the name of love. Though for the life of me, I couldn't imagine what that might be. The last thing Cory had said to me was he would see me at work on Tuesday, two whole days from today. At lot can happen in two days.

“I also got a disturbing call from Isabelle.”

Ray's eyebrows shot up in surprise. He loves Isabelle. Everyone loves Isabelle, including her husband, Jack, no doubt. “How so?”

He listened patiently as I told him Isabelle's tale of woe, including a reminder about her cousin who believed in her husband for months until she walked in on him and his paramour in flagrante delicto. Ray's lips twitched a little bit when I got to that, but he agreed with me.

“Isabelle needs to give him some space. No way should she hire a private investigator.”

“That's what I said.”

“In a couple days, they'll have been back in the sack and it will all be over.”

I could only hope. Still, Ray and I agreed. And maybe Isabelle had listened to reason.

This left me with only one other potential adulterer to worry about—my sister, Erica.

_____

Our hometown of Wachobe sat at the head of a seven-mile, crystal-
clear lake, the Mecca for boaters, bathers, and water sport enthusiasts. We were known as the western portal to the Finger Lakes region, and our town's population more than doubled in the summertime. Although the official tourist season had ended on Labor Day, the town still seemed bustling this bright and cheery Sunday morning.

At the edge of our village, a few yards beyond the quarter mile of original and picturesque brick and clapboard buildings lining the shopping district, a small but charming park offered visitors an area to swim under the careful watch of a lifeguard. The lush grass surrounding the area cried out for picnics. Yesterday I'd called and left a message for Erica to meet me there.

The park also showcased the loading dock for a paddleboat that offered luncheon and dinner cruises on the lake. With the sun shining at full blast and temperatures in the seventies, a line to board today's luncheon cruise wound across the park and around the white band gazebo. Through the crowd, I spotted Erica sitting on one of the gazebo benches, dressed in jeans, a V-neck T-shirt, and flip-flops, just like me, and holding a paper bag. If her V-neck hadn't revealed cleavage and her jeans had been a little less tight, holey or frayed, our clothing would have matched. As it was, even with only five years difference in age between us, I looked like the conservative mom and Erica, a teen on the prowl.

As soon as she spied me, Erica rose and pointed to the sidewalk. I nodded in agreement, welcoming the exercise. My blue-eyed sister with her long, blond ringlets, who used to be a size four, was not so happy at her current size eight, a result in equal parts from her medications and the richer cuisine of married life. Still, she could give Kate Hudson a run for her money any day, in my humble opinion. The two looked quite a bit alike.

We fell into step and left the park, strolling down the sidewalk past the stately village homes dating as far back as the 1790s. Their magnificent porches decorated with overflowing hanging baskets of purple petunias, red geraniums, yellow marigolds, and fuchsia verbena made the view all the more spectacular. Blessed with a black thumb, I always admired other people's flowers.

Erica handed me the bag. “I made you something.”

This was a first. Surprised, inordinately pleased, and curious, I reached inside the bag and pulled out a pillow. In uneven cross-stitch, it read, “I smile because you're my sister. I laugh because there is nothing you can do about it.”

Never were words so true. We looked at each other and burst out giggling.

I shook the pillow at her. “If you only knew how many Finger Lakes gift shops have items with this saying on it. I think of you every time I see it.”

She seemed pleased, always happy to be the center of the universe. “What do you think of my pillow?”

“I'm impressed. When did you take up cross-stitching?”

“Last week. I'm unemployed, you know.”

A sobering fact. Erica spent most of her adulthood unemployed, able to get a job but always losing it when either the depression or the mania along with the phone calls to her coworkers at all hours of the night arrived. All the restaurants and shops in town flipped the “Closed” signs in her face now whenever she tried to apply, having learned either firsthand or through the grapevine just how unreliable or disruptive she could be.

“I'm glad you're putting your time to good use. I love the pillow. Thanks.”

I broke our companionable silence after a few yards, beginning my ritual questioning. “So how are you?”

“Good.”

“How are things going with Maury?”

“Okay.”

“Are you happy with him?”

“Sure. He loves me.”

I waited for Erica to say that she loved him, too. And waited. At least it didn't sound like she had another man. She would have told me. Discretion was not one of her virtues. And what a relief! Erica had taken up cross-stitching instead of with another man. It felt like real progress. If only it would last.

I moved on. “Are you taking your medication?”

Erica whipped her face away from me as though something interesting had caught her attention on the far side of the road. “Which one?”

She only takes two: one for her bipolar disorder and one to prevent … I'd never had to ask her about that one before. “What do you mean, ‘Which one?'?”

A bottle cap lay in the road ahead of us. I watched as Erica stooped to pick it up and place it in her pocket. She'd been collecting them for years, some from beers she'd consumed, others from bars she'd frequented, and the rest from other people's discarded trash. The caps blended nicely with her enormous wine cork collection, and I didn't think she was even aware she was doing it anymore. She didn't seem about to answer my question, so I prompted her along.

“Let me be specific. Are you taking the medication Dr. Albert prescribes for you?” Dr. Albert was Erica's stud-muffin psychiatrist she saw once a month for her bipolar disorder. I'd considered developing a mental health issue just to spend some time with him alone myself.

“Yeah.”

“And is it working?”

“It quiets the buzzing.”

That was the best we could hope for because the buzzing would never completely disappear. “And are you taking your birth control pills?”

Erica started walking faster. She mumbled an answer.

I hustled to catch up to her. “I didn't hear you.”

She stopped dead. “I'm taking them, but don't tell Maury.”

I got that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach again, a feeling I could really live without. “Why not?”

“Because …” she heaved a huge sigh, “he thinks we're trying to get pregnant.”

My blood turned to ice. “And are you … trying?”

“God, no. Never. Never ever.”

I should have felt relieved. After all, Ray and I had split for three years after I refused to have a baby with him, fearing the family mental illness gene would be passed on to our child. It seemed far more likely that Erica could pass it on to a child. But instead of relief, I felt concern. A marriage built on lies wasn't going to last long.

“Why are you pretending otherwise?”

Erica kicked a pebble off the sidewalk. It zinged a nearby mailbox.

“Maury was all over me yesterday that we needed to do something together. He thinks we're growing apart. I never want to watch his stupid Japanese animated cartoons and I didn't go to the Glen with him. He says we need to find a hobby where we can”—she flicked quotation marks as she rolled her eyes—“bond. He wanted to take up canoeing. He's always wanted to take up canoeing, or so he says. Our landlord broke up with his girlfriend, and he offered Maury the use of his canoe, since he's not going to be taking her out of the lake anymore. Maury thinks it's the perfect time to”—her fingers flicked again— “get out on the lake. He's obsessed with the idea.”

I loved how she referred to “our landlord.” Erica and Maury lived in my old apartment, and I was pretty sure I was the only one regularly writing checks to the man who owned the 1870s Victorian and lived in the apartment above their first floor love nest.

“It's not such a bad idea. What's wrong with canoeing?”

“What do you think of when you hear the word ‘canoe'?”

“Ah, Indians, birch bark, um … paddles? I don't know. Why?”

“I think ‘tippy,' ‘tippy canoe.' I can't even swim. I don't want to canoe.”

Our mother had stayed on this earth long enough to enroll me in swim lessons. She committed suicide when I was twelve and Erica seven, leaving me to assume the role of surrogate mother to Erica. As a pre-teen and teenager, I could feed Erica, get her to and from school on time, make sure she had on clean clothes, and help her with her homework. My father, an automobile mechanic, was busy running his garage and holding our family together. Erica never got all the little extras like swim lessons.