Paloma: A Laurent & Dove Mystery (28 page)

He turned up the volume and pressed
play.

She listened politely. Once the tape finished, she said, “I don’t understand.”

“Do you recognize the voice?”

“No, not really.”

“The woman speaking is Natalie.”

“My stepmother?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Maddie, what I’m about to tell you may come as a shock. I think your stepmother is trying to kill your mother.”

Her face turned to stone. “I think you should leave.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

She pulled open the front door. “Get out. What you’re saying is ludicrous. I’ll call the police if you don’t go.”

“Yes, that’s an option, but you don’t understand. There’s not much time.”

“No, you don’t understand,” she said firmly. “My mother’s dead. Now please leave.”

“I’m afraid there’s more. I’m worried about your safety.”

She began to close the door. “Go!”

Max stepped outside but turned quickly. Before the door slammed shut, he stopped it with his foot. He spoke into the two-inch crack. “Your mother, Agnes  López, was born in Puerto Rico, then came to the States after she developed polio. I met her when she was twenty-two. She testified in a police brutality case. After the trial, she was placed into the witness program and given the name Nancy Smith. Five years later she met your father and when you were three, she did not, underscore, did not drown.”

The pressure on the door weakened. She peeked through the slat. “Answer me one thing. Was she in Chicago last week?”

“Yes, she went to your graduation.”

The young woman’s face turned ashen. 

“Maddie, let’s talk. I’ll answer all your questions. But we’ve got to get out of here. You name the place, take your car.”

Twenty minutes later, they were sitting at a corner table in a hotel restaurant with twelve-dollar club sandwiches in front of them. 

Without amenities she said, “Explain the drowning to me.”

Max needed a drink but had a long day planned. He took a sip of water. “Now that was my fault. I didn’t know it at the time but –”

“Let me guess, you put a gun to her head.”

“No, not exactly. But I did put her in a difficult position.”

“I bet,” she said dryly.

Max grimaced not expecting her bluntness. “Okay, here’s the story –”

“Story meaning fiction?”

This kid was a ball breaker. He ignored the question. “One of the brothers who served time in the brutality case was about to be paroled. I went to warn her to give her the heads up. She was worried that you and your father might get hurt and decided it would be better to leave.”

She smirked. “That’s ridiculous.”

“What part?”

“All of it. It’s bullshit.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Why orchestrate a drowning when all she had to do was contact the police?”

“Given her history, she didn’t trust the police.”

“Whatever. Let me tell you my theory. She didn’t want to be tied down and ran off with some loser for a bang fest.”

“Colorful language for a young lady.”

“Stuff it.”

Max didn’t respond. After all he couldn’t blame her. He was dropping bombshells and there were more to come. He changed the subject. “Why did you think she was at your graduation?”

“I recognized her.”

“From when you were little?”

“No, from six months earlier.”

Max reared back. “What?”

“She came to my play at school. I was Portia in the Merchant of Venice. Oh, God. Talk about strange coincidences.” Her intent, beautiful eyes fell on him. She laughed ruefully. “Back track first term of this year, my senior year. I needed one measly credit and took a totally bogus class called Historical Perspectives. It had to do with events in history and how they may have changed our lives. Not a macro view, but micro, you know?”

Max nodded, less from understanding than from wanting her to continue.

“Anyhow, part of the enchilada was doing a genealogical progression chart, aka family tree, aka who-the-effing-cares. The whole thing pissed me off because, well, my tree was more like crabgrass. My father and his parents weren’t remotely affected by history since they lived in northern Pennsylvania and sold scrap metal for fifty years. Anyway, I began to ask questions about
the other side
. At first dad didn’t want any part of it. He didn’t want to upset Cruella, aka fake-bazoomba, aka Natalie. But with a little smooze, I got him to show me a few pictures.”

“He never talked about your mother?”

“Never. He said he didn’t know much about her. More bull. I mean you live with someone every day, you got to learn something.”

“I suppose.”

“You suppose? Man, you guys stick together like mud. Whatever. So the pictures were old Polaroids of when I was a kid. Real dark, not digital. And to complicate matters, since she didn’t like having her picture taken, the few shots of her, were only just pieces, an arm, a corner of a face, that sort of thing. Anyway as kind of a joke I went and had the pictures scanned, cropped, enlarged and did this collage of her dismembered parts. Creepy I admit, but cool. And then the strangest thing happened. She sort of coalesced right before my eyes.”

“Interesting.”

“Oh, yeah.  So fast forward to the play.”

“When was that?”

“End of January.”

Max recalled what Tank had told him. Paloma had gone to Chicago six months earlier. “That would be right.”

She grimaced. “Of course, I’m right. The play was in the school auditorium. Have you been to a school play recently?”

“Not recently.”

“Didn’t think so. You don’t have kids do you?”

“Actually, no.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

“Why? Because I’m not wearing a wedding band?”

“Lots of people don’t wear rings. And I got theories about that too. But with your wrinkled suit, starched collar, and socks that don’t match, you got bachelor written all over you.”  

Max stretched out and checked his feet.

“School plays,” she said. “You know who goes to them? Seniors, and I’m not talking about my friends. I’m talking about senior citizens, grandparents, mostly.”

“What about parents?”

“By the time a kid’s in high school, the sperm and egg combo are pretty much feeling they paid their dues. Anyway, that’s my theory. Getting back to the play and me as Portia. We gave seven performances in a five-day period. It was overkill and the audience was a little thin on Sunday, but not thin enough.”

“That’s when you noticed her?”

“Hell, that’s when everyone noticed her. She’d come to every performance.”

“But what made you think she was your mother?”

She leaned forward. “Okay this is the weird part. She was wearing a really bad blond wig, a long Britney Spears thing. Given her coloring, age, it was a poor choice, nothing matched. While backstage I peeked from behind the curtain and looked at her more closely. After doing the collage I was so in tune with her face that when I mentally stripped away the hair, holy smoke, she was an identical twin to
ma mere
. Of course that didn’t cinch the deal. There was one thing my father’d mentioned.”

“What was that?”

“The limp.”

“Then you knew for sure?”

“Sort of. Anyway, I wanted to believe it. I wanted to think that she didn’t drown and that she was my mother. It was like a fantasy, a dream come true.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“Oh, yeah. Dad and Natalie got a running commentary. I was so excited.”

“And what was their reaction?”

“Poor Dad, he got really upset and told me to get a grip. Natalie on the other hand played along and asked me all kinds of questions.”

“What kinds of questions?”

“Ditsy ones. The ones she’s good at. Like was the woman related to someone else in the play? Was she wearing jewelry?”

“How long has Natalie been with your father?”

“They hooked up about five years ago. For the past two, they’ve been sleeping in different bedrooms.”

“Any talk about divorce?”

“Don’t have a clue.”

“Does she have a boyfriend?”

“Probably. This year she’s been playing a lot of golf at the club.”

“Anyone tall and blond come to the house?”

“That would be Brandon, the golf pro.”

“Would you know if she drove him to the airport this morning?”

Maddie shrugged. “I don’t pay any attention to that woman. So why would she kill my mother when my mother’s supposedly already dead?”

“I’ve been asking myself that question all day. What if your mother decided to make her presence known? What if your mother walked in and staked a claim?”

“Would she do that?”

“Personally I don’t think so. But Natalie doesn’t know that. Maybe she sees your mother as a floating time bomb and wants her to stay dead.”

“On that tape Natalie says ‘not to screw it up again.’ My mother’s still alive right?”

Max rubbed his face. “I honestly don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

Max sighed. “I just don’t. But there’s something else I’m worried about.”

“What’s that?”

“Your safety.”

“Me?”

“Listen, Maddie. Sounds like something’s being planned for tomorrow. What do you normally do during the day?”

She shrugged. “Stay home. Look for work. Hang out with friends in the evening.”

“So you’re normally home during the day? And alone?”

“Yeah, since school’s out. Why?”

“I want us to go back to the house so you can write a note to your father. Tell him you’re staying at a friend’s tonight, but that you’ll be back in the morning. Put the note where Natalie can see it. I want her to think that you’ll be in the house tomorrow. We’ll then leave your car in the driveway, and come back to my hotel where you’ll stay until I figure out what’s going on.”

“But why would she want to kill me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why not contact the police?”

“No injury, no foul. I don’t have enough to give them. Natalie’s got to try something first. The next day is critical. You in?”

“What if I say no?”

“Then we’ll hang out for the next thirty-six hours. Your safety’s my first concern.”

“Let’s roll.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

After her narrow escape from Brandon, Paloma drove east on Interstate 80 in a late model Lexus. The luxurious rental was a congratulatory gift to make herself feel better. It wasn’t working. The loss was unfathomable. The one friendship she ever had, had detonated leaving her numb and hollow. Daisy, of all people, had betrayed her. Was it for love, money, or both? 

Paloma looked in the rearview mirror. The lined asphalt wound into a fading horizon. Certainly she’d never know the whole story. And maybe that was better. This way Paloma could blame the boyfriend and Daisy’s insatiable desire to please whatever male was in her life for the moment. It wasn’t the first time Daisy had gone off the deep end for some jerk. But even this theory didn’t explain, one horrifying fact – how Daisy knowingly let her mother die. What kind of daughter would do that? Sure their relationship was rocky. Her mother’s business always came first. But in the later years, Daisy had reaped the benefits of her mother’s hard work – fine clothes, Sotheby connections and 24 Karat trinkets up the wazoo. No, Brandon had to be the Svengali. He saw the opportunity and made his move. Perhaps the two were a deadly combination, one feeding off the other, until such time they fused and became evil incarnate. Who could say?

In any event the motive was apparent – with the silent partner permanently taken care of, the Cordelia letters would increase in value with Paloma’s cut a big fat zero. This would explain Daisy’s sudden change of mind to ask for Kahlo letters. Whatever. Paloma was prepared.

On the passenger seat beside her lay the contents from the emptied Bank of Zurich safe deposit box: a passport, birth certificate, driver’s license, social security card and an American Express card with a fifty thousand dollar credit line. All in the name of Agnes López García.

Driving west, amid mile markers and double trailers and speeding Porsches, she considered the plan. Perhaps she’d relocate to Mexico or Costa Rica. Only one thing stopped her from leaving directly – Maddie. She’d be out of school now, maybe working for the summer. In any event she’d be easy to follow. It would be ideal if Maddie had a job like the girl at the art store in Buffalo. Paloma could then be a needful shopper. Before leaving for good, Paloma only wanted two things – to hear her daughter’s voice and to see if she were happy. Neither an unreasonable request.

As night fell and the driving became hypnotic, Paloma’s mind wandered to yet another person – Max. Okay, so he wasn’t the killer. But what about the stalking? The torn up picture? How could he love her one minute then trash her the next? 

And then she remembered. Breakfast. Yes, of course. She had told him the evening had meant nothing, that it was only to get laid. Paloma shook her head. What a loser she was.   

To drown out her thoughts, she fidgeted with the radio and turned up the volume of the soulful Santana guitar. The last time she’d heard this song was in her apartment two weeks earlier, another time, another life. Suddenly she was struck by the final nail in her emotional coffin – the disintegration of Paloma Dove, a hapless survivor who beat the odds, almost. Her eyes welled up. Being a loser was an understatement. She jammed down on the accelerator to feel something besides pity.

By eight the following morning, Paloma was in Chicago, pulling into the parking lot at the Marriott Hotel. Minutes later she was at the registration desk, talking to a heavy-lidded, slow-moving kid. 

“I’d like a room for a couple of nights.”

He yawned. “Reservation?”

“No.”

“Name?”

As a reflex, she said, “Paloma Dove.”

He punched in some computer keys. “Were you here last week?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I was.”

He rubbed his eyes. “I’m afraid I have to speak to the manager.”

“Manager? Why’s that?”

He shrugged. “It says not to register you.”

“Not register me? But I’ve been coming here for years.”