Missing Marlene (12 page)

Now the rain was a torrent that beat down on the sidewalk and splashed cold against Jane’s legs. Beneath her now barely adequate umbrella she scurried to a few shops farther along and pushed her way into Whipped Cream. The small café was full almost to capacity, with only a few tables free.

“Hi, Jane!” Ginny called from behind the counter.

Jane waved, struggling out of her raincoat and hanging it on a hook near the door. She propped her umbrella against the wall underneath. Two young women Jane recognized as Nell and Ann, the owners of the gift shop next to Jane’s office, sat at Jane’s usual table. She took a free one near the register, where Ginny was handing a young man his change. Then she came over to Jane.

“What’s wrong?”

Jane blinked. “Who said anything was wrong?”

“Your face.” Ginny glanced behind the counter to make sure Charlie wasn’t looking, then sat down at Jane’s table. “Come on ... Is it Roger?”

Jane nodded. “Over.”

Ginny gave Jane a pained smile and patted her arm. “I’m sorry, hon. I know how much he meant to you. Jeez, you and he were here less than a week ago—though that didn’t seem to end too well. . . . Why’d you two end it?”

“Let’s just say his attentions were not sincere.”

Ginny frowned. “Wha—? Very literary. Now what does it mean?”

“It means,” Jane said, lowering her voice, “that he was leading me on so I’d work harder for him.”

Ginny looked horrified. “I never liked the guy, but that’s the lowest.”

Jane nodded.

“You need a good lunch.” Ginny rose and took her order pad from her pocket. “We’ve got great soups today. How about chicken soup with matzo balls?”

“Mm, love it.” Jane smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Ginny.”

“You got it, babe. You coming tonight?”

“Tonight?” Then she remembered that this was Tuesday and that their knitting club met tonight. “I forgot all about it. I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m in the mood.”

“Oh, come on, Jane. It’s exactly what you need. Besides, I need your help with my sweater. It’s a mess.”

“Okay,” Jane gave in. “I guess I can ask Florence to watch Nick. But, Ginny, do me a favor and don’t mention Roger at the meeting.”

“I promise,” Ginny said, patting Jane’s shoulder. “We’ll have fun. We always do. I’ll get your soup.” She hurried off to the kitchen.

Jane folded her arms against a slight chill in the air. She wished her table near the fire were free. If Nell and Ann finished soon, she’d move. Behind them the flames roared and crackled invitingly.

She let her gaze travel around the room. Someone had taped a flyer to the front of the counter below the cash register. It was for the Halloween party Shady Hills sponsored every year at the high-school gymnasium, an event at which children could have safe fun instead of risking being the victims of pranks—or, especially in the case of the older kids, perpetrating them. Jane and Kenneth had always taken Nick to this party, having fun dressing him up as a daisy or a dragon or a frog.

Jane couldn’t believe Halloween was so soon, only two weeks away. It had crept up on Jane, the season rushing by. Nick had said nothing about a costume this year. She would ask him tonight what he wanted to be and whether he might like to go trick-or-treating this year instead of going to the town party.

She let her gaze continue to wander. Two tables away from Jane sat a man and a woman. The man was a handsome fiftysomething, old enough to be the father of the woman, a stunning redhead who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Jane was reminded of the redhead on Audrey’s terrace—and quickly put the image out of her mind. Jane wondered how she herself would look with hair that red, instead of the auburn she had lately begun to assist chemically against an alarming number of gray hairs. No, a red like that would be too harsh for her; she’d look like Woody Woodpecker. She’d leave well enough alone.

The man, definitely not the young woman’s father, had his arm on the back of her chair and occasionally stroked her cashmere shoulder. The woman turned away from him for a moment, looking for something in her purse. As she did, the man reached into his pocket, withdrew a small square box wrapped in shiny red paper, and quickly placed it in front of her. When she turned back and saw the box she squealed in surprise. The man, all smiles, watched her unwrap the gift. It was a black velvet ring box. She opened it and squealed again, then threw her arms around the man’s neck and kissed him hard on the mouth. Definitely not her father.

“Some nice fresh rolls,” Ginny said, arriving with a tray. “And your matzo-ball soup, super yummy with carrots and chicken in it, just the way we like it.”

“You sound like my mother. She used to talk about food that way.”

Ginny chuckled. “Guess I’m a natural for motherhood.” She looked a little sad. She had been seeing Rob for six years, with no engagement in sight. Yet Ginny loved him dearly, and he her. From things Ginny had said, the reluctance was on Rob’s side.

“Did you get a load of what’s going on over there?” Ginny asked softly.

“A special occasion?” Jane said.

“You might say that.” Ginny gave the man a look of pure loathing. “That’s David Kagan.”

“Rhoda’s husband?”
Rhoda Kagan was a member of their knitting club, a lovely woman who had been trying valiantly to save her ailing marriage. Obviously she had failed.

“Rhoda called me last night,” Ginny said. “He asked her for a divorce. He’s marrying Bimbo. She’s his hygienist. Lola,” she said, dwelling on the
l’s. “Whatever Lola wants . . . Lola gets. . . .”
she sang softly.

They both looked over with distaste.

“He sure picked a romantic place to pop the question,” Ginny said. “Cheap son of a bitch. He coulda sprung for Giorgio’s.”

Jane burst out laughing. Bimbo was slipping the ring onto her finger. The diamond was immense; Jane could see that even from here. She snarled.

“Rhoda will appreciate your loyalty,” Ginny said. “She’s taking it well, but these things are always hard.”

“There’s one person who won’t be at the club tonight.”

“Oh yes, she will. I made her promise. Told her it’s the best therapy she could get. Same goes for you.”

“True, true,” Jane said, and tasted a spoonful of her soup. The broth was rich and piping hot, perfect for this grim gray day.

“I better get back to work,” Ginny said, “before David whips out the Frederick’s of Hollywood. I don’t think I could survive that.”

She went behind the counter to help the customers lined up at the register waiting to pay. Jane sipped her soup and laughed to herself. If Kenneth had asked her to marry him in a storefront coffee shop, she would have refused him. No, she corrected herself, she wouldn’t have done that; but then, Kenneth wouldn’t done
that,
either.

Looking at David Kagan, who was rising to help Bimbo with her coat, Jane now understood perfectly everything Rhoda had told the club. To give a woman a ring at Whipped Cream! How embarrassing. Not that Bimbo had looked embarrassed.

Marlene, according to Helen, had been embarrassed by Vernon’s gift. What could he have given Marlene in his pathetic attempt to make her like him? Embarrassment was not a feeling Jane would have thought Marlene capable of. The gift must have been something especially embarrassing—so much so that Marlene hadn’t wanted anyone to see it or know what it was. Not even Helen, her close friend.

Would Marlene have thrown it away? Maybe—if it had been worthless. But what if it had had some value? What if it had been, say, a piece of jewelry? Did young men give young women jewelry anymore? Even though Marlene had disliked Vernon, she would have kept the gift if it had been worth something. But she still wouldn’t have wanted anyone to see it. What would she have done with it? Where would she have put it? In her room, of course. But not in plain sight. . . .

She would have hidden it. Would it still be there? No.

Unless ...

Jane quickly finished her soup. She left the rolls and didn’t ask for coffee. She left a nice tip for Ginny and took her check to the register.

“What’d you do, inhale it?” Ginny said, taking Jane’s check and twenty-dollar bill.

“It was as good as you said,” Jane said cheerfully.

Ginny gave her a funny look as she handed Jane her change. “See you tonight.”

“Right,” Jane said, hurrying toward her coat and umbrella.

It was one-thirty when Jane entered the house, Winky instantly mewing at her feet. Florence was out, as Jane had known she would be. They had agreed that Tuesday would be Florence’s grocery-shopping day, and that Florence would go to the supermarket between lunch and picking up Nick at school.

Without stopping to take off her raincoat, Jane went directly upstairs, Winky close behind, and down the hall to Florence’s room. She pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Jane realized she hadn’t been in this room since Florence had arrived. Florence was as tidy as Marlene had been sloppy. On the dresser near the door, in front of the H
mmel figurines, stood three framed photographs. The beaming man and woman sitting arm in arm on a sofa must be Florence’s parents. The sweet little boy in a Yankees cap must be the nephew she had mentioned, Rodney. In between was another little boy who Jane guessed was Kerry, whom Florence had taken care of in Randolph. Near the photos sat a large seashell, tan mottled with brown, presumably a souvenir of Trinidad.

Carefully, feeling guilty, Jane opened the dresser drawers. Florence’s clothes were neatly folded and stacked.
This is silly,
Jane told herself;
Marlene would never have hidden Vernon’s gift here, and if she had, Florence would have found it.

As she turned from the dresser, her gaze lighted on the closet. A long shot, but still a possibility. She crossed to it and opened the door. Winky ran inside and began pacing between the walls of the small space. The closet wasn’t nearly as full as it had been when Marlene had lived here. Just a few cotton-print dresses and blouses. Jane pushed the hangers to each side, revealing only the white wall behind them. Then she searched the floor of the closet, finding it bare except for two pairs of shoes and a pair of worn slippers. She looked up. Above the rod was a deep shelf. Jane ran her hand over it but found only a thin layer of dust. The shelf was too deep for Jane to see all the way back, so she stood on her tiptoes but still found nothing.

She closed the closet door, thoughtfully chewing the inside of her lip.

“What do you think, Wink?”

“Mew,” Winky replied.

Jane went to the night table, on whose surface sat a reading lamp and a Bible. The table contained two drawers. Jane opened the top one and found writing paper, an assortment of pens and pencils, and a roll of postage stamps. The bottom drawer was empty.

Jane sat on the bed and tried to put herself in Marlene’s place. If she were living in someone else’s house, in a room anyone might enter at any time, where would she hide something she wanted no one to see? The dresser, the closet, the night table—these were the only possibilities, for otherwise the bedroom was bare, a simple square space with one window and nothing on the walls. The only other object in the room was the bed.

The bed. Jane got up and considered the bed, which Florence had meticulously made, the rose-covered bedspread tucked neatly around the pillow. When Jane was twelve, her friend Gretchen had lent her a copy of
The Pirate
by Harold Robbins. At night, when her parents thought she was asleep, Jane had read it under her covers by flashlight. At all other times she had hidden it between her mattress and box spring.

She eyed the mattress. A silly idea . . . Feeling foolish, she knelt and inserted her hand up under the bedspread and between the mattress and box spring, past her elbow. She felt around. Nothing. She got up and tried the other side of the bed, sweeping her arm as deeply as she could.

Her wrist hit something. She touched it with her hand. It felt like hard plastic. She grasped it and drew it out.

It was a black videocassette, unlabeled.

Quickly Jane neatened Florence’s bed and hurried downstairs with the tape, Winky in close pursuit. She practically ran to the family room, closing the double doors in case Florence came home unexpectedly. She turned on the TV, then the VCR, popped in the video, and pressed PLAY. What could it be? Had Vernon given Marlene a tape of her own birthday party? Surely she would have just thrown it away.

Jane watched the TV screen. First there was sky blue, but only for a moment. Then there was soft rock music, and she was looking at something she couldn’t identify. Flesh—close up. Moving, shifting. And there was sound. Moaning. A woman moaning.

Porno?
Had Vernon given Marlene a
porn video?
Jane supposed she wouldn’t be surprised.

Porn star
...

“Winky—don’t look at this,” Jane murmured, but the cat practically had her nose on the screen.

The camera pulled back. Jane could tell what she was looking at now. There were two women, naked on a bed, making love. Jane watched, transfixed. Was this what Vernon had given Marlene—a lesbian porn video?

One of the women, who had a smoothly voluptuous yet athletic body and long silky blond hair, had her face between the legs of the other woman, obviously the moaner. The camera moved up the moaner’s body—not a bad body, firm and smooth, but not as beautiful as the other woman’s. Jane guessed this woman was older.

The camera reached her face.

Jane gasped. She reached for a chair, missed, and fell on the floor.

It was Audrey.