Mother of All Secrets(14)

Vanessa looked as polished as she usually did, in black high-waisted jeans (had she really given birth just three months ago?), a long-sleeved white T-shirt, and white sneakers. Even her stroller was sleeker and more stylish than mine, beige instead of black, narrow and light for the New York City sidewalks it was navigating. Mine felt like I was pushing a minivan.

She pulled me in for a quick hug. “Ready?” she asked. I saw that she had two massive quiches from Kirsch in her stroller storage. The perfect choice. Classy as always. I was suddenly self-conscious of my scones. Did anyone even like scones, really? I suddenly remembered a Curb Your Enthusiasm episode about this very conundrum. I wished I had recalled it before choosing this as my offering.

I shook off my scone anxiety. “So, what did Connor say when you reached out to him yesterday?” I asked.

“I think he was surprised. I messaged his work email, since I didn’t have his number or anything. He definitely didn’t know who I was. I guess she didn’t talk about our group much at home. Which is totally fine, I don’t care or anything—our exchange was just a bit awkward. Isabel mentioned before that he travels for work a lot, so maybe he’s just out of the loop.”

“That’s kind of weird, though.” I took a breath, unsure how candidly I could talk to Vanessa about my theories. “Listen. I have to ask—usually they always look at the husband first, right? Is he . . . being investigated, do you think? Do you think there’s any way he could have . . . ?”

“I mean, I don’t know. I’m sure the detectives are looking into him—like you said, they always look to the husband first. But the fact that he’s home means he probably isn’t really a suspect, or he’d be at the station, I assume. In any case, we’ll be safe going there, if that’s what you’re worried about. There will be people around, I’m sure.”

It struck me then that, even though Selena, Kira, and I had joked about how perfect Vanessa’s husband probably was, I had never actually heard Vanessa mention a partner before. She usually didn’t come to the husband-talk second act of our mom meetings, over wine. Now seemed the wrong time to ask, but I made a vague mental note to casually revisit this sometime soon.

We walked up the stairs of the town house and knocked quietly on the door, as if we secretly hoped there would be no answer. As interested as I was in getting some firsthand knowledge of who Isabel’s people were, seeing her house, and diving into this crime as if it were a novel I was cracking open, I also felt like I was invading Isabel’s privacy by doing so. How would I have felt if these women, whom I’d only known a few months, showed up at my cluttered apartment? Then again, if Isabel were dead—and I prayed she wasn’t, but it seemed possible—perhaps the issue of her privacy was no longer relevant. I didn’t have too long to mull it over, though, because suddenly the long silver door handle I’d admired from afar turned, and the door slid open.





Chapter Seven



Saturday, October 3

The same older woman we’d seen yesterday answered the door, Naomi cradled in her arms. “Hi!” Her cheeriness didn’t quite match the situation. It was as if she realized the same thing I was thinking, because she said, again, “Hi,” this time in a much more muted, somber manner. She was more beautiful than I had realized yesterday—her white hair had made her look old from a distance, but up close, it gave her kind of a Meryl Streep vibe. She was elegantly dressed, too, in black pants and flats and a white wrap sweater, and tortoiseshell glasses. She also had, rather adorably, a leopard fanny pack at her hip, an extra paci dangling from it. A very prepared grandma.

Vanessa spoke first, which was what I had hoped would happen. “Hi—we’re in a new moms’ group with Isabel. I’m Vanessa, and this is Jenn. We are so sorry to hear about what happened. We’re all praying she’s okay. You must be so worried.”

“We are, of course. It’s very distressing. I’m Isabel’s mother. Naomi’s grandma. Though I’m trying to get her to call me Lollie instead of Grandma—short for Louise, which is my name. I think it sounds a bit younger than Grandma. And having a young nickname is certainly cheaper than a face-lift. Ha. Anyway. I’m sorry. I babble when I’m stressed. And make jokes. And of course, I’m stressed beyond belief. But trying to keep my cool for Naomi. She’s a much-needed distraction for me. Would you like to come in?” Louise was immediately endeared to me; I appreciated her utter lack of filter.

“Just for a minute, if you’re sure it’s okay. We don’t want to intrude.” Vanessa started unclipping Phoebe from her stroller. “We brought some food—it can be hard to remember to eat at times like these, plus you’re so busy with the baby. We all know it isn’t easy caring for a newborn.” Though Vanessa made it look so, I thought with a mental eye roll.

“That was very sweet of you to bring food. Naomi’s been an angel, but she definitely misses Mama. Can I get you two a cup of coffee?” She placed Naomi in her bouncer, so we followed her lead and put Clara and Phoebe on the play mat next to her. They seemed calm enough, apparently pleased with the new gear selection and the flashing lights from Naomi’s bouncer. Louise whizzed around the kitchen, taking out oversize white mugs from the crisp white cupboards and organic oat milk from the massive fridge. The fridge door was glass. I couldn’t imagine having a glass fridge. My disorganization would be on display for anyone to see. But this fridge was meticulously organized, with lush fruits in one section, several blocks of cheese in another, rows of neatly labeled bottled breast milk on the top. Everything was in clear glass bins. There was nothing shameful about its contents or the way it was set up.