The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom (34 page)

The rest of our visit was more upbeat. When we had
adequately recovered from our prayer circle, we dug into the coffee cake and
shifted the conversation to Christmas plans. Trudy regaled us with details of
the upcoming seasonal play and piano concert; Jane talked of her five-star
holiday in Mexico; and Carly filled us in on her plans to spend Christmas Eve
volunteering at a soup kitchen and then spending Christmas morning with her
parents and sister in Highlands Ranch.

“What about you, Paige? Are you ready for Pauline?” Carly
asked, teasingly.

“I’m ready,” I said. “At least I think I’m ready. I’m sure
when she shows up she’ll find a million things that I’ve forgotten to do.”

“Don’t let her stress you out,” Jane said. “Don’t let her
ruin your Christmas.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“You’re a great hostess,” Trudy said, patting my hand.
“She’s lucky Paul married you.”

“I’m going to take the next couple of days to rest and
rejuvenate before she arrives. If I can get myself into a state of complete
relaxation and acceptance, then maybe she won’t bother me so much.”

“Like a trance,” Jane joked.

“Basically,” I agreed.

After another half an hour of lighthearted banter, Jane had
to go home and pack. “I’d better get going, too,” Trudy added. “I’m putting the
finishing touches on Cameron’s singing snowman costume.”

“I should go and meditate,” I joked.

At the front door, we all hugged and wished each other happy
holidays. “I’ll probably see you before the big day,” I said to Carly. Since we
lived so close, we were bound to cross paths.

“If you need a break from Pauline, you can always hide out
here.”

When I got home, I didn’t meditate. I cleaned and puttered
until it was time to pick up the kids. With my children home, I made their
after school snacks, did homework with Chloe, and read stories to Spencer until
it was time to fix dinner. We were having tacos: another family favorite that
would definitely not pass muster with Pauline. When my mother-in-law was
visiting, we had to have a roast of meat and three vegetables for every meal.

My husband got home shortly after the kids were tucked into
bed. While his anger at me had dissipated, there was still an underlying
tension between us. He resolutely refused to discuss Karen’s case with me. For
all I knew, Detective Portman could have called him with Javier’s paternity
test results ages ago. In fact, Javier may have already been charged with my
friend’s murder. Paul was not about to tell me— and I was too afraid to ask.

“How was your day?” He asked, joining me in the kitchen.

“Good.” I kissed him. “Yours?”

“Busy.”

“Do you want tacos? Or I could make you something else?”

“No, tacos are good. I’m going to kiss the kids and change
clothes. I’ll be right back.”

I fixed him a plate and sat at the table across from his
seat. When he joined me, he immediately tucked into his food. “Thanks, hon. I
was starving.”

“You’re welcome. So… the girls and I exchanged Christmas
gifts today.”

“Great,” he mumbled, through a mouthful of taco.

“Check these out.” I lifted the plastic Safeway bag filled
with my afternoon’s haul and extracted the bottle of wine. “This is from Jane.”

“Great.”

“And from Trudy…” I modeled the hat and scarf for him.

“You look cute.”

“This one…” I said, gingerly removing the angel pillow, “is
from Carly.” Paul looked at it silently for a long moment. “It’s for the
Christmas tree,” I elaborated. “So we can remember Karen every Christmas.”

“That’s really nice,” he said, softly.

“So…,” I began, my voice catching in my throat. Paul might
be angry with me for what I was about to ask, but there was no better segue.
“Have you heard anything from the detectives… about Karen’s case?”

He sighed heavily. “Conroy called yesterday.”

“And?”

“They interviewed Rueda, but they got nothing.”

“Got nothing? But what about the paternity test? Did it
prove he was the father?”

“The DNA sample was inadmissible. They couldn’t process it.”

Damn that Troy Portman! I knew he was blowing me off!

Paul continued, “Without proof that he was the father of
Karen’s baby, they don’t have much of a case against him.”

“Oh.” I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how I felt.

“If the police can’t touch him, we might want to consider a
permanent restraining order… just in case.”

After a moment, I replied weakly. “Okay. … I think I’m going
to take a bath now.” Grabbing my detective novel off the coffee table, I headed
upstairs.

When I was immersed to my popped balloons in warm water, I
let myself feel the impact of my husband’s words. The paternity of Karen’s
fetus would never be known. I would never find out if Karen had been telling
the truth about her relationship with Javier. I would never find out if he had
been there when she died. Karen would fade to a distant memory, eventually
thought of only at Christmas time when we hung our slightly tacky, yellowing
angel pillows on the tree, and we would never know what really happened to her.
Javier would go on to live a happy, carefree life. He would move on, get
married, possibly even have children… I thought about Trudy’s prayer for the
soul of whoever was involved in Karen’s demise, and I didn’t know if I could be
so forgiving. But I would have to be, wouldn’t I? If not forgiving, at least
accepting of the fact that I would never know. The case was closed. There was
nothing I could do.

I slid down deeper into the water so only my head bobbed
above the surface. With my right hand, I fumbled for the mystery novel on the
bathmat. Finding it, I flipped it open and began to read. There was no point in
thinking about Karen any further. It was over… really over this time.

I stayed in the tub until the water began to cool and my
fingertips became pruney. The novel held me transfixed, the mystery slowly,
deftly unraveling. I was afraid to stop reading. I knew the minute I put the
book down that my mind would return to the ambiguity of Karen’s demise. It was
too hard, too much to deal with a week before Christmas and mere days until my
mother-in-law arrived. I preferred to throw all of my attention into the story
in my hand, unfolding itself neatly toward a tidy conclusion.

Suddenly, I sat up with a start. A mini-tidal wave of water
sloshed over the edge of the tub, soaking the tan bathmat and turning it a dark
brown. My body was shivering now, but I was barely aware of my physical
response. Standing in the tub, I reached for a fluffy, beige towel and wrapped
it around me. I stepped onto the sodden bathmat then hurried to perch on the
seat of the toilet. With shaking hands, I opened the book again, finding the
page that had caused such a violent reaction in me. I re-read it, my heart
beating loudly in my throat and blood rushing audibly through my veins. “Holy
shit,” I said to the empty room when the passage was complete. “I don’t believe
it.”

“Patty Hanover?” the man at the door
asked. He was new to the case, razor-sharp and rough-hewn. It was the drink
that had given his features that hard-edge… although Patty had no way of
knowing that. To her, he was just another cop, looking to cause her trouble.

“Who wants to know?” she asked, in her
gravelly, scotch-soaked voice. “Detective Meyers,” the man said, flashing his
LAPD badge. “Mind if I come in?”

“Suit yourself.” She let the door fall,
but he caught it with a deft arm. Stepping across the threshold, he followed
her to the kitchen where her tumbler of scotch sat waiting. He tried hard not
to notice she was wearing only a short silk robe. But God, the woman had an
amazing pair of legs. “Drink?” she asked.

Christ, how he wanted one, but it had
been eight years since a drop of liquor had touched his lips. He wasn’t about
to blow his sobriety over some dame with great gams. Besides… she was now the
prime suspect in her ex-husband’s murder. “No thanks,” he replied. “This isn’t
a social call.”

“Why don’t you get to the point then?”
she snapped, taking a seat on a kitchen chair and crossing those magnificent
pins. “I’ve got some drinking to do.”

“We received a letter, ma’am,” he said,
pulling out a chair and sitting down next to her.

“A letter? What does that have to do
with me?”

“This letter states that you killed your
husband.”

“Ex-husband.”

“We’re going to have to take you in for
questioning.”

“Let me read this letter,” Patty said
calmly, holding out a perfectly manicured hand. Myers passed it to her, and
watched as she delicately unfolded it. Then, she began to read aloud, her words
slightly slurred from the drink.

TO THE POLICE,

I WAS A FRIEND OF NIGEL HANOVER’S. I DON’T WANT TO GET
INVOLVED BUT I KNOW WHO KILLED HIM. HIS EX-WIFE, PATTY, WAS CONSUMED WITH
JEALOUSY WHEN HE LEFT HER. HE WAS FINALLY MOVING ON WITH HIS LIFE, AND SHE
COULDN’T BEAR IT. WHEN HE CAME TO COLLECT SOME OF HIS BELONGINGS, SHE LOST HER
TEMPER AND BASHED HIM OVER THE HEAD WITH A LEAD CRYSTAL VASE. UNCONSCIOUS, HE
FELL INTO THE POOL AND DROWNED. THE MURDER WEAPON CAN BE FOUND IN PATTY’S CHINA
CABINET AND WILL HAVE HER PRINTS ON IT. DO NOT WASTE ANY MORE OF THE AMERICAN
PEOPLE’S MONEY INVESTIGATING OTHER SUSPECTS. PATTY HANOVER IS THE KILLER.

“Annabelle…” Patty murmured, almost to
herself. “I know it was her.”

“The letter is anonymous ma’am.”

“I brought that ungrateful tramp over
from Britain to be our nanny. I invited her into our home, to be a part of our
family. And look how she repays me: steals my husband, kills him and then tries
to frame me for it!”

“Why would Annabelle Swinton want Mr. Hanover
dead?” Myers asked. “They were in love.”

“I don’t know, but…” Suddenly, Patty
reached for the detective, clutching his hand desperately. “Analyze the
handwriting! Please! You’ll see for yourself!”

“Unfortunately, Ms. Hanover, the letter
was written in pencil, using block lettering. Those two elements make it
virtually impossible to trace.”

“Damn her!” Patty wailed. “She’s going
to get away with it!”

I closed the book and threw on my husband’s navy blue
bathrobe which was hanging on its hook on the back of the door. Clutching the
detective novel under my arm, I rushed down the stairs. “I’ll be right back!” I
called to Paul, ensconced in his office. Whether he heard me or not was
difficult to say, but it didn’t matter. I had to go, I had to do this. He was
not going to talk me out of it. In the grand entryway, I slipped into a pair of
Paul’s running shoes and burst out into the night. Clutching the baggy robe
around me and hobbling in the too large shoes, I hurried to Carly’s house. I
was aware that I probably looked like Igor lurching up her walk, but luckily,
she answered my insistent knock.

“Paige!” She took in my outfit and alarmed expression.
“What’s wrong?”

“I need to talk to you,” I said urgently.

“Okay…come on in.”

Stepping out of my husband’s shoes I padded in my bare feet
into her living room. A fire crackled in the fireplace, giving the room a homey
glow. Carly followed me in and stood opposite me. I took a deep, calming
breath. At least I had intended it to be calming. “Remember when you were
getting rid of Brian’s things?”

“Yeah…”

“You gave me one of his books.” I held up the novel.

“Uh-huh…?”

“Well, what you don’t know is that the police received a
letter a while ago implicating someone in Karen’s death. His name is Javier
Rueda, and he’s from Spain. He was a
friend
of Karen’s… maybe more.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and in Brian’s book, there’s also an anonymous letter
to the police. Listen to this…” I frantically searched for the incriminating
passage and then read it aloud to her. “Did you notice how it said ‘Do not
waste any more of the American people’s money…’?” She nodded, vaguely. “That’s
the tip-off that the letter was written by the British nanny. An American would
have said something like ‘the taxpayers’ money’.”

“Okay…?”

“The letter the police received incriminating Javier used
the exact same wording! The police even said that the note must have been
written by a foreigner.” She looked at me blankly. “Don’t you see, Carly?
Whoever wrote the letter to the police must have read this book. That’s how
they knew that saying ‘the American people’s money’ would make the cops think
the letter was written by someone other than a citizen.”

“It’s probably just a coincidence.”

“There’s more!” I said, excitedly. “The letter the police
received about Karen was written in pencil and block lettering! It says right
here in the book that that makes handwriting impossible to identify. Whoever
wrote that letter had to have read this book!”

“So… what are you saying?”

I had never considered Carly
thick
before, but come
on! “This is Brian’s book, right? He must have written the note trying to frame
Javier! He must have, somehow, been involved in Karen’s death.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” she said with a dismissive laugh.
“He barely knew her. Why would he want to hurt her?”

“I don’t know,” I said, desperately. “Maybe to hurt you? Or
maybe they were closer than you realized?”

“No. Brian’s a cheating scumbag, but he’s no murderer.”

“But he had to at least have written the note. This is his
book!” I shook it in her direction.

“Paige, I’m sure it’s just a fluke that the letter to the
police used the same line that’s in the book. And plenty of people know that
using pencil and block lettering make a note untraceable. It’s probably been on
lots of detective shows. It’s really not that incriminating.”