Lie Still (28 page)

I remember saying, “And nobody knew.
Nobody knew
.”

Lucy and I were sitting companionably on the patio of a small SoHo café, finishing a bottle of wine. She tapped out her cigarette and threw me an intense look I won’t ever forget.

“Emily, honey,” she said quietly, “of course somebody
knew
.”

That’s one reason I picked Lucy as my best friend. She was at home with me in the scarier places.

I punched speed-dial No. 3.

“Hello. Lucy Blaize.”

“Lucy, it’s Emily.”

“Emily!” No one had sounded that happy to hear my voice in a while. “I miss you. Nobody else understands that when I whine about my problems, I’m not looking for advice on how to solve them.”

I got right to the point. “I need a favor. Do you know a Bradley Hellenberger? He’s an editor in New York.”

“Brad? Sure. I see him here and there. We got hot and heavy at a Condé Nasty party last month arguing about whether newspapers should disappear from the planet. Brad’s turned into a complete Internet whore. Ezra and I can’t live without
The New York Times
lying in little piles all over our bed every Sunday morning, can we, Ezra?” I pictured Lucy scratching Ezra’s chin.
Ezra was her ten-year-old cat, snow-white except for one black paw, and her most consistent male partner in life.

“So you know him well? What’s he like?”

“Smart. A pretty decent guy. Has a reputation for taking risks, sometimes running with things without enough sourcing. His reporters adore him. He’s married and never hits on me at these silly parties, which always makes me respect a boy. Why do you want to know?”

That did say something about Brad, because Lucy was beautiful, even from behind. I’d seen dozens of strange men stare at her, waiting for her to turn around, because they already knew. She moved at parties like royalty or a ballet dancer. What they didn’t know is that her Polish grandmother forced her to walk around with an encyclopedia on her head every day after elementary school and for an hour on Saturday. Lucy found it ironic that one of the things people found most beautiful about her rose out of childhood torture sessions with a sadistic granny.

That’s not to say she can’t disguise herself. When I first met her in line at the bagel shop underneath our building, she looked about fourteen, with a smattering of freckles, no makeup, and glasses. Cute. The kind of cheeks you wanted to pinch. The second time, I didn’t recognize her until an hour into a museum gala. She had snaked on a little black dress, her shiny auburn hair swinging like silk when she moved. Lithe body. No jewelry. Tall black pumps. The only adornments were clear green eyes and a slash of red lipstick against pale skin. A painter’s dream.

The good thing and the bad thing about Lucy is that she only sees herself as the freckle-faced girl.

I’d never told Lucy about the rape. How great it would be to spill everything now, to pile it all on her. But I couldn’t. Not on the phone.

So, another lie.

“A gallery friend of mine is desperate to get a little feature in
his magazine about one of his collectors. Could I give him a call and drop your name? Help her out?”

“I guess.” Lucy sounded dubious. “He might be interested if the collector is someone powerful who’s shunned an interview in the past. He’ll need a hook.”

“Do you have his number? I’m afraid of getting put off by a secretary.”

“Not his cell, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got a card with his direct line at work. Never know when
Vanity Fair
will tire of me. Hold on.”

About thirty seconds elapsed before Lucy came back on the phone.

“Ready?”

“Yep.” I typed Bradley’s number onto my computer screen.

“How’s the baby?”

“Great, great. Fingers crossed.” Lucy had wiped enough tears away after my miscarriages to fill the Trevi Fountain.

“Hey, I might be down to see you in a couple of months. I’ve been assigned a ‘think piece’ about signs of the apocalypse. Jerry Jones and that spaceship of a Cowboys stadium made the list. Do you know it costs a family of four a thousand dollars to go to a game?”

“Who’s Jerry Jones?”

“You artists are hopeless. Let me know how it goes with Mr. Hellenberger. And, Em—call me anytime.
Anytime
.”

I hung up, knowing how much she meant it. And thinking how odd life was. Lucy knew Bradley.

I punched in Bradley’s number while I still had the guts. Right as it started to ring in New York, someone began banging a fist on the side kitchen door like the world was ending.

O
ver the pounding, I could hear the sounds of a shrill argument outside on the stoop. I clicked off the phone call on the second ring, crept over to the kitchen door, and lifted the corner of Mrs. Drury’s blue-checked curtain. The Puppy Killer’s red, sweaty face was pressed up to the glass, trying to see through the fabric. We both jumped back, startled, and I dropped the curtain.

What exactly was the point of having police protection?

I opened the door.

“I’m not going to argue about it anymore, Tiff. That was your shot to take, not mine. I can’t believe we lost a match to two Jenny Craigers.”

Holly, dripping, her face the shade of watermelon, was addressing her friend furiously from the bottom of the stoop. Tiffany was inches from me, holding a plate of deteriorating lemon squares that appeared to have been abandoned in the backseat of
a very hot car at some point. She shoved them at my belly and eased past me, with Holly not far behind.

Both were dressed in black sports bras and tiny white tennis skirts. Their hair was pulled up in painfully tight ponytails that popped jauntily out the back hole of their Nike baseball caps. The hairstyle had the added effect of stretching their wrinkles flat and slanting their eyes, exacerbating the sharpness of their features. They wore the exact same kind of Asics, glowing like little neon-green alien feet.

I stared at the plate of lemon mush in my hand. The plastic wrap appeared to have melted into them. One square, I noticed, was missing.

“Welcome to town and all that,” Holly said. “Tiff gave a piece to the cop out front. And then she offered to lick the powdered sugar off his lips.”

“It was a
joke
. Wow, this place is a dollhouse.” Tiffany yanked a chair out and plopped into it, her skirt flying up to reveal a hot pink underlining. Belmont yowled from under the table and careened to the windowsill. Apparently he recognized the neon-green feet of a possible cat killer.

“Thank you,” I said. What the hell was I supposed to say?

Holly pulled out another chair and kicked over a third one for me, as if this were her house.

“Sit. We can make this quick. Is your husband going to make Caroline’s files public in any way? If so, we need to take some pre-emptive action.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Hmmm, not buying that. We know you got an up close and personal look at them.”

My mouth dropped slightly open.

“The maids, they talk,” Holly said. “Like, I know that Tiff here is probably in foreclosure. She bought a ten-thousand-dollar oak dining room table for her New Year’s Eve party and then returned it January 3, claiming it was scratched. Half of her
six bedrooms have only mattresses on the floor. She’s like a homeless person with a Lexus.”

“Jesus, Holly, you’re so pissed off about that shot. I’m soooorrry. Shut up, already. This is about
her
.” Tiffany flipped her face to me. “We’re figuring you’ve got something to hide just like the rest of us. That we can join forces.”

Like hell
.

I remained standing, thinking they might take a hint. “I didn’t know Caroline well at all, and she certainly didn’t know me. But I’m sorry she’s missing.”

“Uh-uh. No one’s all that sorry about that. And Caroline wouldn’t invite you over unless there was material to work with, honey.” Holly examined a small bruise on a very taut, very tan thigh. “There’d be no point.”

“I was about to take a nap.” I looked pointedly at the door.

“Kind of rude, girl.” Tiffany hadn’t budged. She was focused on the black wart on the ceiling. I wondered if she ate more than 300 calories a day. I could see the white bone of her knee through her tan. She pulled her left leg up into a half-lotus position and tugged restlessly at Belmont’s tail. He growled. Finally, someone he liked less than me.

“What do you think happened to Caroline?” It burst out. What I meant to say was,
Get out
.

“Hol and I have our little list of suspects. Whoever or whatever happened to Caroline, it’s not good, honey. She was a pain in the ass but you could always count on her to live by Caroline Warwick’s Golden Rules.”

“She stood us up,” Holly explained. “As prospective members, we got our invites a month ago to her annual candlelight séance. It was supposed to be last night. It’s like her best party of the year. Scares the pee-Jezus-crap out of people. Half of us showed up on her lawn to see if she’d conjure herself out of thin air.”

Tiffany pushed herself from the chair. “Think about those
files, Emily. Women need to stick together. It’s why the club is so successful.”

Before I could answer, Tiffany was out the door, yelling something sugary at the cop car. Holly followed more slowly, before languidly turning back. The muscles in her bare arms and legs were sleek and buttery smooth. Every molded piece of her was high and tight. Chop off her forty-year-old Botoxed head, and she was sixteen. I felt fat and clumsy and about seventy, with or without my head.

I met her eyes, bracing myself for a final threat. But her eyes were a surprise. Little blue pools of fear. Hurting. Then they blinked, a magician whipping away his cape, and the real Holly was gone. Whatever had been reflected there was about way more than the sex toys under her mattress.

Holly was like me. Acting. All of these women were actors. Stars of a TV drama that had gone on a few too many years. Speaking in the same sarcastic cadence, weighted by their mistakes, a parody of themselves. How I felt more days than I wanted to admit.

What Holly said next was perfectly scripted.

“You scratch our backs, Emily, we scratch yours. Ask our husbands. Our nails are long, and they hurt.”

E
ight very unsettling minutes with those two women and the possibility of plastic wrap cancer did not stop me from prying loose a drippy lemon square and taking a bite as soon as the door shut. It was like the sun bursting in my mouth, if the sun was tart and yummy and a few degrees cooler. I licked my fingers and decided the best thing was to stick to my plan. My past. Something I could try to follow in a logical line. However illogical Mike thought that was.

He picked up on the third ring.

“Brad Hellenberger.” A pause. “Anybody there?” Busy. Already irritated.

“Um, yes. This is Emily. Emily Page. You knew me as Emily Waters. At Windsor. But you probably don’t remember. We never actually met. Although I thought we did. Lucy Blaize gave me your number.”

What a ramble.

He fed silence back to me. This call was a mistake of monumental proportions. The unpregnant me always thought ahead in practical steps, but that me was long gone, taking a break somewhere on a sunny shore, decked out in a bikini and downing a rum drink.

“I remember,” he said.

Two words, so heavily weighted on the line that I knew without a doubt that I held significance for this Bradley Hellenberger.

“What do you remember?” I asked quickly.

“I remember a story that shouldn’t have seen the light of day.”

“But you wrote it.” Bitterness clipped my voice.

“I wrote it, without names. As per the rules of the Windsor journalism program and any credible newspaper, I was required to give the list of those names to my editor. I did.”

“And the pictures? What about the pictures?”

“The student editor-in-chief hacked them. The department investigation after the story ran uncovered that’s how he got a lot of his tips. In your case, he took the list of names I gave him and downloaded ID outtakes from a trashed campus directory file. Today, those photographs wouldn’t even exist, erased in a digital second as soon as they were deemed imperfect. I didn’t know he had those pictures or was planning to run them until I saw the paper the next morning.”

I wasn’t sure whether to believe him. He was certainly at the ready with a defense after all these years. I heard the rustle of papers and another line ringing.

“I’m not sure exactly why you’re calling, Ms. Page, but this seems like it’s going to be a longer conversation than I can do right now. In five minutes, three enormous egos will be descending on me to pick next month’s cover piece. Are you in the city?”

“No. I live … near Dallas. We moved from New York a month ago.”

“Well, here’s a coincidence. I’ve got a meeting in Atlanta tomorrow and I have a layover at DFW … wait a minute. Let me call up the ticket. I should have about forty-five minutes around noon tomorrow. Can you swing by the terminal?”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. It seemed beyond coincidental. And why would a professional editor book any domestic flight with a layover?