A friend indeed, p.17
A Friend Indeed, page 17
“Hello, Angie,” I say in my best teacher voice. “This is Jo Dykstra. It’s about Gemma. A small issue at school. Can we meet up briefly?”
Sure enough, Angie’s tone changes to annoyance: “Jo? What’s happened?”
“Gemma’s fine. Don’t worry. But there’s something . . .” I lick my lips. “Look, Angie, it’d be easier to discuss it in person.”
A sigh, like she’s doing me a favor. “Okay. Fine. How about Felicity’s, after school?”
Felicity’s is a café popular with Stanton House mothers. It serves gluten-free macaroons and low-fat gelato in pastel colors.
I hesitate. I’ll need to fetch Ruby first. Luckily, my last block is free today. I can sneak out a few minutes early. I have pens and a coloring book in my bag. While Angie and I chat, Ruby can color. “Okay,” I say. “Three forty-five?”
After hanging up, I get a new message from Dana: Why do you need Angie’s number?
I text back: To discuss Gemma.
Her response is quick: I need to see you.
Rather than keep texting, I just call. “Hey, it’s me. I’m meeting Angie at Felicity’s after school. Want to meet me after?”
“I . . . um . . .” Dana’s voice sounds off, like she’s been crying. “What’s the earliest you can meet me?”
“Four thirty?” I’m scared the police are listening in. The technology exists. I don’t dare ask what’s wrong. “But I’ll have Ruby.”
“I’ll get Gloria to pick her up and bring her home with Zoe. We really need to talk. As soon as possible.” She hangs up.
I stow my phone, feeling shaky.
I cut out at three twenty.
I’ve ditched the wig and fangs and scrubbed off the makeup but still feel stupid. The dress is ankle-length and uncomfortably snug in the middle. It’s too shiny. I’ll stick out like a gangrened thumb amid Felicity’s bleached boho-chic decor.
Stepping in, I’m surprised to see Dana. She’s almost an hour early. She’s at a table at the back, wearing boots, a calf-length houndstooth dress, and big black sunglasses. Despite her pallor and obvious distress, she still belongs in Felicity’s: a movie star mid-divorce, beautiful but fragile. I hope to God she hasn’t done anything stupid.
I look around. No sign of Angie. Figures she’d keep me waiting. After getting my coffee, I walk over to Dana.
“Hey.” I set down my decaf and plop into the chair beside hers. All the chairs in here are mismatched yet complementary. Dana’s is gold and white striped. Mine’s upholstered in faux sheepskin.
I don’t take off my jacket. I’ll need to move when Angie arrives. “What’s happened?”
A quick shake of her head, like it’s too hard to talk. I wait. Dana takes a sip of tea. It smells perfumy. She sets her cup carefully back in its saucer. Is she drunk and trying to hide it? She’s moving stiffly.
“They found his body,” she whispers. “Minus his head. In Garibaldi Cove. It was”—her voice shakes—“the worst thing I’ve ever seen.” She presses a hand to her lips. “I had to go to the morgue to ID him.”
I blink. I can’t believe it. We went so far out. All that way, past the damn islands. “Are you sure it was him?”
She nods. Her mouth twists as if she’s in pain.
She describes his melting tattoo. Despite sips of hot coffee, my insides ice over. The cops have Stan’s body.
Our plan hinged on his fate being a mystery. He wanted a new life far away. He was the victim of a botched kidnapping or a drunk who met with an accident . . . Maybe Stan snapped and ended it all.
Dana’s cup rattles into its saucer. The last fact dribbles out: the cops are waiting on the autopsy to confirm cause of death.
Hope flickers. “Could it look accidental?” I whisper. “Like he slipped on the rocks and drowned? They can’t know he was bashed, right? Not if his head’s missing.”
Dana won’t meet my eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
I rub my hands to get warm. It’s a cold day, and this place is freezing.
It’s hard to think, especially in here, everything swirly and soft, from the jazz to the gauzy white curtains and the tufted throw pillows. The place is decorated like Dana’s guest cottage, all cream and oatmeal, like Instagram’s vision of heaven. The pallor makes it seem even colder. Everything about this place feels as fake as the rubber cacti in miniature pots on each table. Still, it’s better than that wretched café in the Oaks Club.
High heels click behind me. The change on Dana’s face alerts me: Angie’s coming.
I turn to look. Sure enough, she’s sauntering our way, a tall glass in one hand, topped with a tower of whipped cream. I bet she asked for skim milk with whip. That would be just like Angie.
Seeing Dana, she grins. “Oh my God, Dana! How are you, honey?”
Air kisses for Dana. A tight-lipped smile for me.
I grab my bag and stand up. Dana’s in shock and in no state to be talking to Angie. “Angie,” I say quickly, “thanks for coming to meet me. Shall we sit over there?” I point to a window table.
Angie ignores this and sets her drink on Dana’s table. She deposits her purse beside it, where everyone can admire its label. “Oh, honey, I just heard.” She makes cow eyes at Dana. “How are you?” She shrugs off her jacket and twists into a chair.
I hold my breath. What has Angie heard? The cops only just told Dana about finding Stan’s body. It can’t have been on the news yet, surely.
Teeth clenched, I reclaim my chair.
“It was on KRAX,” continues Angie. That’s the local radio station. Pronounced kay-rax, not cracks—which is how I say it. Angie’s breathless. Beneath all that blush and foundation, her cheeks are actually flushed. The color runs into her hairline, where her dark roots are showing. “Oh my God! I can’t believe it! Is it really him?”
Like we’re discussing hot gossip, not Dana’s poor dead husband.
Dana freezes, the proverbial deer in the headlights. Her lips move soundlessly.
Angie rushes ahead. “Foul play!” She shudders happily. “Honey. I’m so sorry!”
Dana blinks at me. “The cops told me they didn’t know how he died!” She sounds stunned, although I’ve warned her that cops aren’t obliged to be honest.
Angie frowns as best she can with all the Botox. “Oh, reporters—they get stuff wrong.” She toys with the long spoon in her flavored coffee and takes a sip. In their mascaraed nests, her eyes are glued on Dana. “I guess it sounds more sensational, saying he’d been stabbed.”
Dana flinches. I hold my breath. Thank God Dana’s eyes are hidden behind those massive glasses. Still, the way she flinched. I know Dana’s tells when I see them.
Fear and rage hit me. Stabbed? With a knife? Dana said it was self-defense, that he hit her, and she pushed him. She said she lost it and bashed him with a vase. The one we dumped. I feel hot all over.
Dana hangs her head. She looks sick. We’re all quiet.
“It might not be true,” I manage. “Like Angie said, the news gets stuff wrong.” I want to shake Dana the way I did in the boat when she sat there trying to remove her ring after dumping Stan.
A single tear meanders down her white cheek. She doesn’t stop it.
Angie’s still watching her so intently I want to slap her. I’d like to smack both of them. What the fuck’s going on here?
“I should take Dana home,” I tell Angie.
Dana looks up, like a spell broke. She shakes her head. “No. I’m fine. Really.” She doesn’t look it. She blinks slowly. Is she drunk? Or on medication?
I wait, not wanting to upset her further. I’m scared of what she could say with Angie here, listening.
“Dane, I’m so sorry. I thought you knew,” coos Angie.
Fury curls my lip. I’m not sure what makes me angrier: Angie’s lie or her shortening of Dana’s name, like they’re besties. Even I don’t do that. Her name’s Dana.
Dana doesn’t react. Angie turns to me. A penciled eyebrow climbs skyward. “Why did you want to see me?”
I frown. Given Angie’s news, it takes me a moment to remember: Gemma and her bullying. The persecuted new girl.
I was outraged and eager to save poor, cowed Ming. Now it barely matters. I’m too scared to be righteous.
Throat dry, I reach for my coffee. It went cold ages ago and tastes bitter. Despite a big sip, my voice is hoarse. “Gemma’s been bullying a new kid.”
Angie snorts. “What? Can you prove that?”
She didn’t even try to deny it. “Yes.” It’s a lie, but Angie won’t know. “I just figured I’d come to you first, let you know. In case you can . . . influence her. So there’s no need to inform Principal Bill . . .”
Angie frowns, clearly suspicious that I’d try to help. She tugs at her necklace with its big diamond letter A pendant.
“Gemma’s smart,” I continue, in my best earnest-teacher voice. “She has so much potential. I think she could do really well this year, be a top scorer. I just hope she can learn to be a bit kinder. Girls that age, they can be quite—” I shrug. “Well, you remember. We could all be catty back in high school.”
Angie releases her pendant to toy with her hair, unsure whether to be mollified or outraged. Am I calling her daughter a bitch or finally acknowledging her obvious brilliance?
“Gemma shows strong leadership abilities,” I continue, in top bullshit-parent-teacher-interview gear. “I hope she’ll get involved in student government. Try out for student council.”
Angie eyes me warily. “This kid you say she’s got a problem with. What’s her story?”
“Immigrant family,” I say. “Newly arrived from China.”
Angie’s nostrils twitch like she’s smelled something off. Her glossy mouth tightens.
In recent years, a few wealthy Chinese families have bought properties in the Oaks. It’s pissed off some locals and inspired muttering about being priced out of the market. This is a joke. No one in the Oaks is in danger of being made homeless.
“The poor girl’s lost,” I say, looking sad. “In a new culture.”
Angie’s frown deepens. “Did she do something to Gemma?”
“No. That’s the point. She’s done nothing to deserve being picked on.” Inspiration strikes. “Look, Angie, I don’t want Gemma to get in trouble or, God forbid, be expelled—not now, not when Chad’s grieving.” I throw a sad look at Dana. “The boy really needs her.”
Angie looks at Dana too.
Dana bows her head. “Oh my God,” she moans. “How will I tell the children?”
That stops all conversation, Gemma and her victim forgotten.
For a moment we’re three moms contemplating the enormity of Dana’s grim task. She must tell her kids their dad’s dead. And that the police think he was murdered.
“Want me to come?” I ask after a moment. I need to go to Winderlea anyway, to collect Ruby. And we need to talk about Angie’s claim that Stan was stabbed. If it’s true, that’s another lie of Dana’s. My pity gels back into outrage.
Dana pushes her dark glasses up onto her head. Without them, she looks exposed, eyes wide and glazed with tears. Minus mascara, her lashes are pale. I’m transfixed. I haven’t seen her with bare eyelashes since she was a girl.
“What can I tell them?” asks Dana.
I start to get money from my purse, but Angie waves it away. “Go. I’ve got this.”
For an instant, I almost like her. But then I see the way she’s studying Dana, eyes intent and gleeful above a mouth mimicking pity. “Go!” she says again.
Dana staggers to her feet. I rise too. Before turning to go, I take one last look at Angie, sitting alert and bright-eyed. She brings to mind a scientist peering into a maze, waiting to see which way the rats will run.
CHAPTER 29
JO
As we cross the café’s parking lot, Dana stumbles. She fumbles through her bag for her keys. Is she drunk, on pills, or just in shock? A DUI would be the last straw.
“You’re in no state to drive,” I say. “Leave your car. You can pick it up tomorrow.”
She shakes her head. “No. I’m fine. Really.” Moments later, she drops her keys, then her sunglasses. I pick them up and hand them over. She’s visibly trembling.
“Come on,” I say. I’m in no mood for resistance. “I’m driving.”
Her shoulders sink. “Fine.”
We retrace our steps back to my sorry Toyota.
I fish my keys from my tote bag. As usual, it’s heavy with books and papers. The handles dig deep into my shoulder.
Some cretin has drawn a dick and an arc of spunk on my car’s dirty back window. I consider rubbing it out but don’t bother. There are more pressing matters.
Beside my car sits Angie’s white BMW. Its front window is open, and the keys are in the ignition. Even in this neighborhood, that seems careless. I guess you don’t worry about your car getting stolen when your husband’s a luxury-car dealer.
I unlock my car, which no one in their right mind would steal, and toss in my heavy bag. I reach across the seats to open the door for Dana.
She crumples in like an old grannie. I turn on the radio as she buckles up, then reverse slowly.
I’m straightening the car when Angie Costin exits the café. Her cell phone’s pressed to her ear. No doubt she’s busy telling everyone she knows about her coffee with Dana.
I push up my glasses and steer us out of the lot.
We pass the Village Market, where all the Stanton House moms shop for pine nuts, organic arugula, and wild-caught salmon. We pass the Groom Room, where their pedigreed dogs get ninety-five-dollar haircuts. Next comes Core Values, the Pilates studio, where sleek women in yoga gear stand outside guzzling green smoothies.
As I drive, I debate whether to quiz Dana or wait for later. She’s facing one of the worst things a parent could deal with. I should let her tell her kids first, then confront her.
Might Stan have been stabbed? For all I know, Angie made it up just to cause trouble. I’d put nothing past her.
The radio’s been playing soft rock, the official soundtrack of Glebes Bay. This gives way to a local news bulletin. “This is KRAX breaking news,” says the cheesy-voiced deejay. He was a year below us in high school and madly in love with Dana. He gave her a long-stemmed rose one Valentine’s Day. She fed it to her pet rabbit.
I hold my breath, listening.
The deejay lowers his voice to sound solemn: “Early this morning, police recovered the remains of missing hedge fund manager Stanley McFarlane in Garibaldi Cove, approximately two kilometers from his home in the Oaks. Police spokesperson Glenda Heath confirmed foul play and stated that Mr. McFarlane suffered multiple stab wounds.”
The music resumes: Air Supply’s “All Out of Love.” Heat blasts through my head. Multiple? Angie wasn’t lying.
I veer to the curb without indicating. A horn shrills behind me, and a shiny Town Car honks past. Its driver shakes his fist as he snarls through the window. I know what he’s saying: Fucking women drivers.
I give him the finger. Sexist moron. There’s zero reaction from Dana.
I slam the car into park and cut the engine.
We’ve stopped outside a beautiful two-story Victorian, painted robin’s-egg blue. I admire it briefly. Ruby would love a house like that. Maybe someday. My attention snaps back to Dana.
Beside me, she sits rigid. My neck feels hot. I want to scream. I stare at the dashboard. That vase we dumped. Was it all a charade? I’m gripping the wheel so hard my fingers ache. I don’t trust myself to let go.
Dana turns my way. “Jo?”
I can’t look at her. Have I ever been this angry? Maybe at Trevor, the first time I caught him cheating. I’d only just had Ruby. I should have bundled her up and left.
Against the vinyl seat, Dana’s Burberry coat rustles. Her voice is soft but clear. “Jo? That night . . . It didn’t happen like I said. That wasn’t true. I’m sorry.”
I clench the wheel and stay quiet. She’s sorry? Sorry doesn’t cut it. I’m facing jail here. My child sent to live with her deadbeat dad. Or put in foster care. What the fuck happened?
“Stan didn’t hit me. He never hit me.” Her voice breaks.
I can’t help but look at her. What does that mean? Did I help her hide his murder? I let go of the wheel.
She raises a hand to her eye, as if it still hurts, then drops it in her lap. Her voice sounds raw. “He hit Owen.”
That shocks me. “What?”
She nods.
I study her face, so familiar, that perfect porcelain oval. Unlike me, she hasn’t changed much over the years. She’s stayed smooth and glossy. If she’s had work done, it doesn’t show. She’s not like Angie with her overstuffed lips and stretched-leather forehead. Dana’s ageless and as poreless as an oil painting. She’s lovely. Her eyes meet mine, wide and transparent. Has she finally told the truth about Stan’s death? Or is this another story?
“I didn’t know Stan was hitting Owen.” Her voice thins. “If I’d known, I’d have left! I swear!” Of everything she’s said, this is the most emphatic. She repeats it: “I’d have left!”
Her head bows. I don’t believe her.
When she next speaks, her voice is softer: “He’d get so frustrated with Owen. And mad.”
I can’t breathe. Jesus. Owen. Stan’s murder was all about Owen. Did the boy see everything that night, his mother covering up her crimes? If so, it couldn’t be much worse. My life is in the hands of an unstable teenager.
I try to keep my voice steady: “Was Owen there when it happened?”
Her eyes pop open. She looks through me, glaring at the memory. “No. I saw Stan hit him and ran over. I slapped Stan. Owen ran away, and Stan started yelling at me. He said I was spoiling Owen, that he needed discipline. He started threatening me, saying we’d get a divorce and he’d get full custody of the kids. Stan said he was going to send Owen to one of those teen boot camps—you know the kind? Out in the wilds? I—” Her voice splinters.
“What happened, Dana?”
“I . . . I saw red. I grabbed a knife off my workbench and stabbed him in the chest.” She twists her cream silk scarf. “He tried to grab me. I stabbed him again, in the side of the neck.” She clears her throat, like something’s stuck in it. “He just collapsed. It happened so fast!”
