Last to Know: A Novel(39)
A few minutes later they were outside her place. Harry jumped hastily out of the car to open the door for her, but she beat him to it.
“Thanks,” she said icily. “I hope I was of help.”
Harry was really looking at her now. “Your eyes are the same color as Squeeze’s,” he said.
Jemima rolled her pale blue eyes back at him. “Thanks.”
“No, thank you. You gave me valuable information. I appreciate it.”
“And you didn’t even have to arrest me,” she said.
“There’s always a next time. I’ll have the cuffs ready.”
Suddenly clutched with guilt, Jemima remembered Divon. “He didn’t do it, you know,” she said. “I’ll swear to it.”
“I know. In court.”
“And I don’t believe that woman is the real Lacey Havnel from Miami, who was dead anyway.”
Harry gave her a long, intense look. “You know what, Jemima. Nor do I.” Then he waved goodbye, climbed back into his car, and was gone. Squeeze hung his head out the window, gazing back at her until the car rounded the corner.
That dog must be in love with her, Jemima decided. Misquoting the Meatloaf song, she thought, oh well, one out of two ain’t bad.
She wondered why Harry was going to the lake house. Curiosity had always been her downfall and in her new role as investigator, she thought she should find out. She thought about the story she would put on her Facebook. The decision took only seconds, then she went to get her car and took off for the lake.
27
There was one immediate way to stab Rose Osborne in the heart, though to prolong the torture I had chosen a circuitous route. Diz of course was the obvious solution. The last born, the “baby” of the family, the child who made Rose feel still young, kept her laughing in the tough times. Rose is the faithful sort, the kind of woman who never so much as looks at another man. At least not wondering how he might be naked. I don’t believe Rose is a prude, it’s simply years of indoctrination by men.
So. How to get to Rose via Diz. A plan must be made. Should he be killed? The body found at the foot of a cliff? Down some gulch? Floating, green and bloated in the lake? Perhaps he should quite simply disappear? Kidnapped, they would think. But who would kidnap him? A predator. A pedophile. A nut. Kids disappear from their bedrooms all the time, through open windows, without a trace. Mostly, they are never seen again. But I need Diz to be seen. Dead or alive? “That,” as it was for Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, “is the question.” I should decide the answer later.
28
Rose thought the dinner party was going as well as could be expected, considering the tension between her and Wally. She didn’t believe in placement, preferring to let her guests choose to sit where they wanted. She did not fail to notice, though, that Wally went and sat at the far end of the table, about as far from her as he could get. And next to him, surprisingly, was Bea, looking like a sad angel, her long straight blond hair falling over her eyes as she picked delicately at the plate of prosciutto and melon, artfully arranged by Madison. Roman was on her other side. They looked, Rose thought, admiringly, like the perfect young couple.
It was a perfect night, the black lake unruffled by so much as a ripple, the tiny white terrace lights giving the soft Christmasy glow that Rose loved year round. There was fresh bread in white-linen-draped baskets, tiny flat pots of golden French butter, each stamped with the imprint of a cow and a tiny leaf of parsley, a small touch but typical of Rose’s attention to detail. They had moved on from champagne to a rosé from Provence, standing the bottles along the length of the table so everybody could help themselves. The only thing that marred the perfection of the night, of the scene Rose had so artfully set so that it looked effortless, was the faint acrid odor of burned house and the lights across the lake where the police forensic detail was still sifting through the wreckage. No one looked over there, no one mentioned it, everyone kept on talking as though it had never happened, and as though the young woman sitting at the table had not just lost her mother in a horrifying fire.
Which was, Rose suddenly decided, looking at Bea, not normal. Conversation and laughter flowed around the girl but she said nothing. She seemed to feel Rose’s eyes on her, looked quickly up and gave her a smile. Heartwarming, Rose thought. She looked at Wally, leaning back in his chair, staring at the activity across the lake, not contributing to the conversation about some proposed local redevelopment with which normally he would have become deeply involved. Now, he simply sat, drinking—vodka, not wine, Rose realized—and saying absolutely nothing.
Rose excused herself to go to her kitchen. “Prepare yourselves for a treat,” she warned her guests. “My beef stroganoff. It’ll only take a few minutes. Wally,” she called. He lifted his head and looked at her. “I could use your help,” she said. She had to ask him what was going on. She had to know now.
But it was Diz who followed her into the kitchen, not her husband. “I can help you, Mom,” he said, sending her heart lurching with love for him. How, she wondered, looking at him, had she and Wally produced a kid that looked like this?
“It’s a nice party, Mom.” Diz came to stand next to her at the stove where she began browning the strips of beef, heating up the onions and mushrooms. The water for the fettucini boiled and she slid the pasta in, glancing at the wall clock to time it.