Good Riddance(84)

“I know what you mean, but isn’t that a little melodramatic?” he asked.

I said yes, he was right: an overstatement, me being hyperbolic.

When Jeremy characterizes our show as dead on arrival, I correct that, too. I tell him, only half teasing, that if we ever make it to another stage, I’ll end by asking the audience to hold their applause; no curtain calls and no bouquets, either. It will look like I’m making one of those cast appeals for a favorite charity, but it’ll be me assuring the audience that despite its uphill battle, its rough patches, its flubbed lines, the so-called journey of Daphne has delivered its own form of success. So thank you for coming. Drive safely. Oh, and I probably should add: When your friends ask what you did this evening, it’s okay to tell them you were misled; that you thought you’d bought tickets for a one-woman show but what you heard, in lines spoken and unspoken, was a love story.





Acknowledgments


There would be no Good Riddance if Jonathan Greenberg hadn’t found an orphaned high school yearbook at the Stormville, New York, Airport Antique Show and Flea Market. Once home, he discovered that his new piece of Americana (“Ha,” said I) had belonged to the yearbook advisor to whom it had been dedicated. As the otherwise entirely fictional June Winter Maritch did, its owner faithfully attended reunions and made notes.

For every one of my books and beyond, I’ve had the wise and doting early editing of Mameve Medwed and Stacy Schiff.

I am beyond grateful to have Lauren Wein once again as my editor. Her sense and sensibility make every page more of what I want in the first place. Extremely helpful as the extra set of eyes is Houghton’s Pilar Garcia-Brown, who spotted and fixed what I had not.

I love being asked “Who’s your agent?” so I can say, “Suzanne Gluck,” my steadfast and quick-witted ally.

In the advice and verisimilitude department, I thank Sharissa Jones for her insider Montessori tips; Jake Lipman, actor, producer, and founder of Tongue in Cheek Theatre, for guiding Daphne’s stumble into acting; Frances Broudie of Chocarella for chocolatiering lessons; Rebecca Bogart for insights about teaching piano to adult students; and once again, Chief (ret.) James E. Mulligan of the Georgetown, Massachusetts, Police Department for advice on all matters police-related.

I do know that the TV series Riverdale is not filmed in New York. I took liberties with the cast, plot, and location for narrative convenience.

I thank my readers, new and old, met and unmet. Truly, I write these novels for you.





1





What Possessed Me?


IF I HADN’T BEEN NA?VE and recklessly trusting, would I ever have purchased number 10 Turpentine Lane, a chronic headache masquerading as a charming bungalow? “Best value in town,” said the ad, which was true, if judging by the price tag alone. I paid almost nothing by today’s standards, attributing the bargain to my mother’s hunch that the previous owner had succumbed while in residence. Not so off-putting, I rationalized; don’t most people die at home? On moving day my next-door neighbor brought me a welcome loaf of banana bread along with the truth about my seller. A suicide attempt . . . sleeping pills . . . she’d saved them up till she had enough, poor thing. And who could blame her? “Strong as an ox,” she added. “But a whole bottle?” She tapped the side of her head.

“Brain damage?” I asked. “Brain dead?”

“Her daughter had to make that awful decision long distance.”

I’d negotiated and settled with that very daughter. Sadder and spookier than I bargained for? A little. But now I know it was an act more logical than tragic—what a sensible ninety-year-old felon might consider the simplest way out.



I first viewed the property through rose-colored glasses on a sunny October day. There was a brick path leading to the front door, a trellis supporting what might have been August’s wisteria, and a gnarled tree that hinted at future fruit. Inside I saw gumwood that hadn’t been ruined by paint and a soapstone sink that a decorator might install in a Soho loft. The linoleum beneath my feet made me want to look up the year linoleum was invented.

The real estate agent, who said she’d gone to high school with my brother, had been Tammy Flannagan then, was now divorced. How was Joel? Divorced, too, she’d heard.

“He’s fine,” I said, somewhat distracted by the carved pineapple on top of the newel post, yet another harbinger of domestic tranquility.

There was hardly anything to see on the second floor, just a bathroom from another century, and two square, darkly wallpapered bedrooms facing each other, one with a view of the street, the other overlooking the miniature backyard. The bathroom had a claw-foot tub, its porcelain yellowed and its plug desiccated. The small sink had separate hot and cold faucets, which, Tammy insisted, were back in style.

I asked which one had been the master bedroom.

“Does it matter? They’re equal in square footage,” said Tammy.

“It might matter to someone who’d rather sleep in a room where nobody died.”

She pointed silently to the back room, then directed my gaze to a hatch in the hall ceiling. “When you open that, there’s a ladder you can pull down.”

“Then what?”

“The attic.”

“Have you seen it?”