Chapter 9

 

She was nowhere in sight. The laptop sat open on the coffee table. Her leather case sat on the floor, tucked halfway under an oversized pillow that had fallen to the ground. The bedroom door was nearly shut.

“You married?” Archer asked, surprise in his voice.

“No, why do you ask?”

“Well, that ‘Honey, I’m home’ thing sounded pretty domestic.”

“No. Just a private joke. It goes with the territory, you know? Talking to yourself? Writing at all hours of the day?” He closed the laptop on his way to the kitchen. “High test or decaf?”

“Nothing but the real stuff for me.”

Owen, dropping the bag on the counter, was relieved to find no sign of Sarah in the kitchen, either. The coffee was already started.

“Very trusting, leaving your doors and windows open like this.”

“They tell me it’s a safe neighborhood.” He watched as the detective walked toward the terrace door. He slid open the screen door and stepped outside. Following him, Owen picked up some old newspapers from a side table and dropped them on the floor, effectively hiding Sarah’s leather case.

“Nice view.” Archer came back inside. His trained eyes surveyed the spacious living room. “It must cost a few bucks to live in a place like this.”

“Not too bad.” Owen returned to the kitchen and put the groceries away.

“How about a twenty-five cent tour?”

“What you see is what you get.” Owen thought his tone was a little short, but he suddenly didn’t give a damn. “All that you haven’t seen is the bedroom, and if you don’t mind...”

“Hell, no!”

“It might be the end of the shift for you, Captain, but I’m just starting my work day. Sugar or cream?”

“Black for me.”

Two mugs were sitting next to the already percolating pot. Owen filled the cups and plunked them down on the counter separating the kitchen from the living room. After studying the pictures on the walls, Archer finally came by the counter and sat on the high chair facing the kitchen. “You live alone?”

Owen bristled at the question. But he took a sip of his coffee and nodded curtly. “Most of the time. Now about my message last night—”

“I guess, being as popular as you people are—”

“Did I mention that I’m waiting for an important phone call?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, you did.”

“Good.” Owen frowned as Archer openly eyed a stack of unopened mail sitting near his elbow.

“So, they’ve found you already. Prison letters.”

“Just part of the job.”

“Do you ever use them?” Archer picked some up, checking the return addresses on each of them. “I mean, in your shows and everything. Do you use them for material?”

“No. That’s what I have script writers for. I don’t do it all, Captain.” Owen took the envelopes out of the detective’s hand, tossing them onto the kitchen table. He glanced down at his watch. “My free time is running out, Captain.”

Red patches appeared in the detective’s pale face. “Okay. Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

“Sometime before midnight last night, I was coming home from a dinner party out past Wickford. I gave a ride to a woman who was stranded on the side of Route 1A. She said her car had run out of gas. I brought her back to Newport and dropped her off at the Visitor’s Center.”

Archer’s face had regained its customary ashen hue. He took a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, but seeing Owen’s frown, he put it away. “Sorry. Go on.”

“When I got back to my apartment, I was just glancing at yesterday’s newspaper, and I just thought the woman I picked up and dropped off looked a little like this Sarah Rand. So that’s when I called and left a message.”

“What was her name?”

Owen took a long sip of the coffee. “Mary or Marie or Marla...I don’t really remember. She didn’t give me a last name.”

“What did she look like?”

“Light brown hair. Little bit rounded, especially around the hips. And she was soaking wet.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I thought she kind of looked plain.”

“Mr. Dean, you ever met Sarah Rand?”

“No. Just pictures in the newspapers.”

Archer looked around him and spotted the newspapers on the floor. He got off the stool and crossed the room. Leaning over, he picked up yesterday’s paper. Owen looked at the leather case, now exposed to view. The detective folded the paper and put it on the counter in front of Owen.

“Did she look anything like this?”

Owen glanced down at Sarah’s classic face. “Is this a new picture? You never know with photographs. I mean, this could have been taken during her college years.”

Archer frowned at him and then studied the picture. “No. This was taken less than a year ago. She was making a presentation at some Bar Association thing. Now, the woman you picked up last night—did she look anything like this one?”

Owen looked at her again. “The nose. Or the mouth. Something struck me. She was pretty well dressed, despite being completely soaked by the rain.”

Archer reached into his back pocket and took out a small note pad. “So you believe this woman, this Mary or Maria or Marla, was Sarah Rand.”

“I can’t say that. What I said was that she looked a little like the dead woman.”

Archer scratched his balding head. “So you called to tell us that?”

“I didn’t remember reading in the papers anything about close kin. Family, that sort of thing. So I thought, maybe she could be a sister or something. I don’t know...just trying to be of some help. Hey, it was late.”

Archer took a pen out of his pocket and leafed through the small notebook until he got to a blank page. “Did you get a license plate number on her car?”

“Nope. I didn’t see the car.”

“But you said she ran out of gas.”

“That’s what she said, but she’d been walking in the rain looking for a gas station. She wasn’t next to her car.”

Archer tapped the pen on the counter and looked up at Owen. “Did you pass a car on the side of the road before you saw her?”

“Don’t remember any. I was talking on my cell phone, so I wasn’t paying any attention.”

“Who were you talking to?”

“It was business.” Owen looked down at his watch again.

“Did she tell you where she lives?”

“No.”

“Did you wait at the Visitors Center until she got into a cab?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“No reason to. The place was well lit, and she said she was all set.”

“Did she ask to use your cell phone when she was in your car?”

“No.”

“If her car was out of gas, wouldn’t you think she’d want to call AAA or the police or...”

Owen straightened from where he was leaning against the counter. “Captain, I’m a busy man and now you know what I know.”

“To be honest, Mr. Dean, that’s not much.”

Owen picked up the detective’s coffee and put it in the sink with his own cup. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Archer climbed down from the stool and put the notebook and pen back in his pocket. “Mr. Dean, have you ever been acquainted with the Van Horn family?”

“No, I’ve never had the pleasure.”

“How about Judge Arnold?”

He shook his head. “I can’t help you there either, Captain. This is my first visit to Newport.”

The detective cast a cursory glance around the room. “Last night, after you left a message at the station, what did you do next?”

“I went to bed, of course.” His answer was immediate, but the quick recollection of the cop following Sarah and him to the convenience store parking lot flashed into his mind.

“Did you receive any calls after calling the station?”

“I am working both the East Coast and West Coast hours, Captain. Of course there were more calls,” Owen responded, defensiveness evident in his voice. He stalked around the counter, ready to usher the man out. “I know my call to you might have been a nuisance, and I apologize for the unnecessary trip you had to take this morning.”

“No, not at all.” Archer responded breezily. “I don’t get a chance to chit-chat with the rich and famous too often.” The hawk eyes scanned the apartment again, this time focusing on the half-closed bedroom door. “You mind if I use your bathroom before I go?”

Owen hesitated for a moment remembering Sarah’s wet clothes in there. “Sure. Just give me a second.” He marched straight to the bathroom door and walked inside. To his annoyance, Archer was right behind him.

Glancing inside, Owen could see that Sarah’s things were gone. On the far side of the bathroom, a second door that connected to his bedroom was wide open. Owen closed it firmly.

“All yours.”

He walked out. As soon as Archer had closed the door, Owen took a quick look inside the bedroom. No sign of Sarah or her suitcases. He glanced in the direction of the walk-in closet before going back to the sofa and picking up her leather case. A makeup case and lipstick were visible in the open bag. He tucked it next to his desk on the far side of the room.

The toilet flushed in the bathroom, but when Archer didn’t immediately appear, Owen realized with dismay that the detective had used the door into his bedroom.

Sarah’s words flashed back to him. Two cops had made an attempt on her life. After seeing the condition of her car, he believed her. But the true identity of those ‘cops’ was still a puzzle. Fake IDs, stolen police cars—Owen made movies, so he knew how easy it was to make things look believable and official. But that was television. Now, realizing the son of a bitch was in his bedroom, Owen bristled with alarm.

His action was instinctive. He picked up a couple of sealed letters and the letter opener off his desk and moved quietly toward the bedroom door. He could hear Archer moving around the room.

Glancing in, he watched Archer paw through the junk Owen dumped on one of the dressers every night. Pocket change. Credit card receipts. Business cards. Then Owen saw Archer’s gaze shift. The bedside table. The fancy appointment book open beside the phone.

It wasn’t his. It had to be Sarah’s. Archer took a step toward it.

“So you decided to give yourself the twenty-five cent tour anyway?” Owen slid the scale model of the Wallace’s sword under the flap of the envelope and ripped it open with a snap.

Archer stiffened and turned to him slowly. He eyed the gleaming blade briefly, but then put on an embarrassed look.

“Couldn’t help myself. Hope you don’t mind.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Without taking the letter out of the first opened envelope, Owen used the model sword to rip open the second one.

Archer’s eyes lit again on the ornate weapon in Owen’s hand. “Impressive dagger you got there.”

“Just a letter opener. A gift from Mel Gibson.”

“No kidding?” The detective’s eyebrows shot up, and Owen backed away, giving Archer room to pass in front of him and out of the bedroom.

“Oh, one more question,” Archer said. “What time was it exactly that you picked up this woman?”

Owen drew a blank, trying to sort out the significance of the question. “I really don’t remember the exact time.”

“You called the station at 1:07.”

Owen shrugged. “As I said before I didn’t really pay much attention to the time.”

“I can see how that could happen. But I might have to call on you again, Mr. Dean. In case it turns out that this Mary Maria Marla is important, after all.”

Owen ushered him straight to the door. “You have my phone number, Captain. I’d much prefer a call over a visit.”

Archer’s eyes narrowed before stepping into the hall. “They all do, Mr. Dean. They all do.”

 

~~~~

 

She was already up, installed in a Mackintosh chair at the table by the bay window, a cup of tea in front of her, when Andrew came into the kitchen.

The dogs, happy to be free of their leads, ignored her completely and disappeared through the doorway into the house. Andrew stood by the mud room door and considered doing the same himself.

“Have a nice walk?”

He ignored the question and took his jacket off, hanging it on one of the hooks that lined the wainscoted mud room wall. He kicked off his heavy boots.

“You didn’t come to bed at all last night.”

Sparing her not even a single glance, he took off the pouch of medicine at his waist and threw it on the counter. Getting a glass out of a cabinet, he filled it with water and headed for the door. She left her empty tea cup on the table, following him as Andrew picked up the newspaper and left the kitchen.

“Don’t you want some breakfast?”

“Not hungry.”

Tracy followed Andrew into his study.

This was his domain. All dark wood and leather. All bookcases and clutter. She hated the room and that made Andrew all the more eager to love it and spend his time there.

“Did you take your pills this morning?”

“Of course.” He sat in his favorite chair and buried his nose in the morning paper.

“The Johnsons invited us to go sailing with them out to Block Island next weekend. I told them I’d need to check with you first.” She started tidying up the newspapers on the coffee table. “And Mildred called again. She is still being quite nosy about seeing us coming out of that...damn, what was his name, anyway? that oncologist’s office last month. She’s got great intuition, never mind all the people she knows at the hospital. She’ll guess at it sooner or later.”

Andrew said nothing. No grunt of acknowledgment. Nothing. He tried to focus on the box scores. Red Sox were still making it interesting, and here it was almost September.

“Andrew, I still can’t understand why you’re making all this fuss about keeping everything private. I’ve been doing quite a bit of reading on the subject. To battle cancer, doctors and medicines are not enough. They all say it. You need the support of friends. People who care for you and will help you get through the difficult times.”

Andrew lowered the newspaper onto his lap. “I need Owen.”

A frown creased Tracy’s face as she straightened up beside the table. “I wasn’t talking about him.”

The old man folded the paper methodically and dropped it next to his chair. His blue eyes were tired when they met his wife’s. “I’m dying, Tracy.”

“You’re not dying, Andrew.”

“Did you see anything about ‘denial’ in all that reading you’re doing?”

“I’m saying this is not the time for exaggeration.”

“You’re right. Nor is it the time for guilt or lies or vindictiveness.”

Thin arms folded across her chest. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Fine. It’s your call, Tracy. Admit it, live through it, or let me be.”

She avoided his stare and walked toward the window. “You are talking in riddles. And that’s all his influence. He wants to ruin you, ruin our marriage. Right now, with the stress of your illness, I just can’t deal with it. He has to leave. You have to send him away.”

“No.” The quiet severity of his tone snapped her head around. “I’ll never make that mistake again. I want Owen in my life. That’s my choice. And for the first time in my life, I’m going to have my way in this.”

Tears pooled in her eyes. “So you’re forcing me to leave. After all of our years together, you are choosing him over me.”

“Only if you make it that kind of choice.” He shook his head. “This is not some stranger. This is Owen. Tracy, I have to make up for the past somehow. There’s no time left. I have only two months to live to do the—”

“That’s a lie,” she cried. “Those doctors. They said six months. The ones in Boston said maybe two years. Mildred’s husband...”

“Look.” Andrew’s words were spoken slowly, matter-of-factly. “I’m not about to let anyone hook me up to a bunch of tubes. I’m not going to live like that, lose what dignity I have, just so I can keep breathing for a few extra weeks. What’s the point of that?”

“But you can’t just...”

He waved her off. “Two months. That’s all I have left, and I can accept that. But this time that I have left, these last few weeks of my life, I’m not going to waste any of it. I’m going to mend the past.”

“But with him. It always has to do with him. What about me? What about the wrong he’s done to me? To us? To our marriage?”

A moment of silence fell between them. He could feel the cough coming on, but willed it back. Picking up the glass of water, he drank half of it down. Andrew leaned forward heavily on his elbows, his eyes tracing the patterns on the large Persian rug on the floor.

“Tracy, I know I don’t deserve the loyalty you’ve given me, the love you’ve managed to sustain for me. God knows, I’ve been unworthy of the years you’ve put in with me.”

A small sound escaped her throat as the woman glided to her husband’s chair. Crouching on the floor, she reached for his hand. “I love you, Andrew. I’ve always loved you.”

His face lifted, his blue eyes misty. “I know. And I think that’s been the worst part. The guilt of having you stick by me no matter how much I tried to screw up our marriage.”

“Andrew.”

“No, Tracy.” He clasped one of her hands tightly in his own and looked fiercely into her eyes. “Listen. Because, by God, if you don’t listen now, I’ll go right out that door. I’ll walk away from our marriage and from our life.”

“You can’t do that to me. Not in these last days.”

“I can and I will. It’s up to you. Don’t force me to choose.”

The older woman’s back straightened. Her lips formed a tight, thin line. But she remained silent. Her gaze did not waver as she looked into her husband’s eyes.

“Owen’s mother wasn’t the first woman I had an affair with. There were many before her. Coworkers, students, friends. Remember the day you had that last miscarriage? I left the hospital that night with Angie, your cousin. We got drunk together and...”

She made a choking sound and wrenched her hand out of his grasp. She stood up and moved to the bookcase on the far side of the room.

“I know how horrible that sounds. So self-centered. Heartless, even. I was a man who was so confident of your love, and yet I still took such pleasure in screwing every woman who even looked twice at me.” He paused until she turned around. “I wanted a son. I was the last of my line. I wanted a child then so badly I considered divorcing you a thousand times. Instead, I just went out and had sex with every woman I could find.”

A sob escaped the older woman’s throat as she stared down at the floor. Andrew watched tears roll down the drawn face, dropping onto the expensive silk house dress.

“As much as you loved me, Tracy, I was ready to leave you. An excuse. I know now that’s what I was after. A woman...another woman carrying my child. The illicitness of it? An ugly divorce? None of that mattered to me. I didn’t care about the consequences.”

Andrew gazed steadily at his wife. Finally, she lifted her chin and looked across the room at him.

“And don’t tell me you didn’t know any of this,” he continued. “I was not discreet. But you were the very picture of devotion, understanding. You never threatened to leave me. You never even confronted me about the rumors that I know went around every place we ever lived.”

“I knew we’ve had problems, Andrew. But I loved you then as I love you now. I knew with time you’d change. You’d settle down.”

“And I did change. I changed the day I found out about Owen. My son.”

Anger flashed into Tracy’s eyes. “She lied. The woman was a whore. That boy could have been the offspring of anyone.”

Andrew slammed a fist into his other hand, temper quickly erupting in his blue eyes. “Becky was no whore. When I started that affair with her, she was my student. A simple, eighteen-year old girl. I was the first man she ever slept with.”

“But you didn’t see her for years after that first year. She left school. He could have been anyone’s!”

“But he wasn’t. I checked all of that. Hospital records. Talking to people she stayed with after she dropped out of school. For God’s sake, she was already several months pregnant when she left school.”

“If the baby was yours, she would have told you.”

“No.” Andrew shook his head. “Not Becky. She was too proud, and too guilt-ridden about having an affair with a married man. No, she took it all on herself.”

“She wasn’t too proud when she contacted you later, wanting money to take care of her brat.”

“My son,” he snapped. “She needed money to take care of my son. By the time she contacted me, she was desperate. And I had done all of this to her. I was the one who had ruined her life.”

“You didn’t pour liquor down her throat. You didn’t put needles in her arm or make her pose for disgusting pictures. You didn’t turn her into a whore.”

“But I did, Tracy.” Andrew ran his fingers through his hair. “Don’t you see? You’re doing it again. Blaming Becky, blaming everyone, refusing to admit that the true fault lay with your husband. If I hadn’t seduced that young woman, she would have finished her education and gone back home. She would have had a chance for a decent life—a husband, children, a future. But I destroyed that chance. I destroyed her.”

His voice was shaking, and he sat back in the chair.

“Even with the mess her life turned into, even with her addiction, the pornography, the prostitution, everything...I still would have divorced you and married her when I found out about Owen. But she wouldn’t have any part of that. Any part of me. Even as screwed up as she was, she still wouldn’t break up a home.”

Tracy’s voice was as still as a mountain pool. “After all these years, you still love her more than you ever loved me.”

“I was infatuated with her when I first laid eyes on her. Her beauty, her innocence, her youth. But like it or not, in my own twisted way, I still loved you. I continued to love you until the day you turned Owen away.” Her gaze avoided his as he looked across the room at her. “He had never done anything to you. He was only a child when I brought him home with me after Becky died. Do you remember that day?”

She was silent, but he knew she remembered.

“I told you everything that day. The truth about Becky, about Owen. I promised you I’d change. And you acted as if nothing had ever happened. As if I were some saint, and all my confessions were just made-up tales. Stories invented for effect.”

“You wanted forgiveness, and I gave it to you.”

“You didn’t give me forgiveness. You gave me denial. But what I really wanted was acceptance. Acceptance of my son. A home for him. But you refused. You treated him with less compassion than you’d have given a stray dog.” He rested his head on the back of the chair and stared blankly ahead. “Do you remember your threats? That if I were to claim him openly as my son, you would ruin him. You said you would tell everyone what a whore his mother was. That it was a lie that I was his father. Everyone would know, you said. You would torment him until he ran away.”

“It was just money what he was after. And you gave him plenty of it over the years.”

“For God’s sake, Tracy, he was only ten when I brought him home. He needed a family. A home. A real home. And you refused to let him stay. Money!” Andrew snorted. “God, it’s amazing that your bile hasn’t choked you over the years. Do you know why Owen dropped out of college the first year? Do you know why he moved across the country and tried to put as much distance as he could between us?”

Her chin lifted and she stood rigidly.

“He went away because he didn’t want my money. Because, like his mother, he was too proud to accept charity from a stranger.” He ran a thin hand over his face. “A stranger. I was just somebody who’d paid for him to grow up in good boarding schools. That’s what he thought of me all those years growing up. Not a father. Just an old man who’d been kind to his mother in her last days. Tracy, you kept my son from knowing his father. You kept us from being a family. And I let you. I let you.”

He turned in his chair and looked away from her. A knot rose in his throat that he thought would choke him. One small arm encircled his shoulders. She was sitting on the arm of the chair.

“He is a grown man, Andrew. He has everything he needs. There was nothing you could have done for him that could have been better than what he’s done for himself.”

He turned to her, shaking off her arm. Blue eyes, red-rimmed with anger, met hers.

“You still don’t understand. This is not about him anymore. This is about me. About me dying without ever having had the chance to tell Owen that I’m his real father. This is about me begging forgiveness of my son.”