For the next two and a half months, Stuart and I saw Amy and Tony socially. Or professionally. I couldn’t tell which. From my standpoint, it was professional. I needed to keep her excited about the book so that she’d do everything she could to promote it. She was the one who insisted on making every get-together a foursome. My hunch was that, while she’d certainly gotten over Stuart (and who wouldn’t have, given the choice between him and Tony Stiles), it gave her a kick to flaunt her new fiancé in front of her old one. As for Stuart, he’d rarely mentioned Amy until she reappeared in our lives. Now, he was constantly asking about her—when would we see her again, how was I getting along with her, did I really think she and Tony were well matched. It was pretty sickening, actually, because he’d had his chance with her and blown it, so why the sudden interest?
“I like Amy,” he said when I posed the question one day. We were on a flight back to New York from Palm Beach. We’d been looking at houses with a real estate agent. Stuart thought we should have a second home in Florida, and I wasn’t about to object, but we hadn’t found anything we wanted to buy. “As a matter of fact, I’ve always liked Amy.”
“Liked Amy? You were in love with her,” I pointed out.
“Yes, but I married you, hon,” he said.
“You know, I’ve always wondered: If you’d married Amy instead of me, do you think you’d be cheating on her the way you’re cheating on me?”
He patted my hand, then motioned for the flight attendant, asked for a Bloody Mary, and opened the newspaper. Clearly, he was not planning to answer me.
After our trip, I noticed that Stuart seemed sort of distracted, preoccupied, even jumpy. I asked him about it, but he shrugged it off, told me I had too much time on my hands. In a way, I did. My radio show was on hiatus, and there was no real work to be done on the book until closer to publication. Still, Stuart’s twitchy behavior was hard to miss. When he was in his womanizing phase, at least he was sort of happy-go-lucky, but now he was anxious, somber.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who observed the change in him, because Jimmy Lasher took me aside at a family gathering.
“Stuart’s been avoiding me,” he said. “He’s not showing up for meetings, doesn’t take my calls, won’t even give me two seconds tonight. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, but something’s weighing on him. He hasn’t been himself since we got back from Florida.”
“Which reminds me: I know my brother’s never met a dollar he couldn’t spend, but how does he get off affording a house in Florida? Tell me to butt out if you want, but did you make a killing on that book of yours?”
I smiled. “Not a killing, just a really nice advance for a first-time author. Why do you ask? Obviously, Stuart can afford the house without help from me. Business at Lasher’s is booming.”
Jimmy’s jaw dropped. “Is that what he’s been telling you?”
“Well, not in so many words. It’s just that he’s always got plenty of money, so I assumed—”
“See, here’s what’s bothering me, Tara. Business at Lasher’s isn’t booming. The economy’s in a slump, in case you haven’t been reading the papers. Sure, the high-end customers are still buying, and they’re our core customers, but we’ve had a drop-off in terms of the rest. We’re a gourmet foods retailer at a time when most of the country is shopping at Costco and the other discounters.”
“I had no idea. I guess I should have been paying more attention. It’s just that Stuart always acts as if everything’s fine with the company. Better than fine. And, as I said, he’s got more money than ever.”
Jimmy’s eyes narrowed and his expression darkened. “Wonder where he’s getting it, then.”
“Okay, this may be totally irrevelant and nothing to worry about, but a man came to our house to see Stuart a few weeks ago and it sounded like they were making a deal.”
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know. It was the day after the big rainstorm. Our driveway was blocked and we had house guests, so I was too frazzled to pin Stuart down. I just remember that he told me he had a meeting with Walter Stein, but the man he met with instead was some character in a baseball jersey, and he barely spoke English.”
“Weird. Anything else?”
“I overheard them talking. The guy was definitely selling Stuart something at a bargain price and promised there was more where that came from. Oh, and he mentioned the word gold.”
“So it was jewelry?”
“I thought it might be drugs.”
Jimmy shook his head. “Stuart’s no angel, but he’s no druggie, either.”
“Could he be selling drugs instead of using them, Jimmy? Is it possible that the money he’s been spending like water is drug money?”
He put his head in his hands. “I hate this. I hate having to police my own brother. But I’ll have to confront him. Actually, I think we both should confront him. If we double-team him, maybe we can get answers.”
“Whatever you want to do.”
Jimmy and I waited until the family party broke up, then cornered Stuart in their parents’ front yard.
“You two are totally out of line,” he said after we brought up the subject of drugs. He was indignant, defensive, told us we were crazy.
“Then who was the man who came to the house, Stuart?” I said. “The one with the foreign accent.”
He laughed. “Is that what all this is about? His name is Sergei and he’s a friend of mine—kind of a hanger-on, but a nice guy. He used to work at the Westport store.”
“I don’t remember anybody named Sergei in the Westport store,” said Jimmy.
“You’re much too important to notice every lowly employee, Jimmy. You’re the boss, running the show. Isn’t that what everybody keeps telling me?”
“Stop it, Stuart. Tara and I are concerned about you.”
“Tara wouldn’t care if I dropped dead this minute, as long as her bills are paid.”
“That’s not true,” I said. Well, not quite. “So let’s quit being melodramatic and get back to Sergei. He’s a friend?”
“He’s a friend, yes. I’m allowed to have my own friends, aren’t I? Or have you both decided to regulate who I see and what I do and when I do it?”
“If he’s a friend, then why did you pretend Walter Stein was coming to see you that day?” I asked. “Why didn’t you introduce me to this Sergei?”
“I didn’t think he was your type, hon. Not dressed in the designer duds you like everybody to be wearing when they walk through our front door. And we had house guests, if you recall. What would Amy think if she found out your husband socializes with a man who used to run our produce department but is now peddling gold chains out of a suitcase?”
“You mean he does sell jewelry?” I said.
“Not your sort of jewelry, but some women wear it,” he replied. “Sergei’s got a wife and kids to support, so I help him out and buy a few things whenever he comes around. What’s the big deal?”
I was dying to ask who the recipients of this magnificent jewelry were, but I didn’t want to inflame the situation by bringing up Mandy and the others.
“By the way, when you mentioned Amy before, did you mean Amy Sherman?” asked Jimmy.
“The very same,” said Stuart. “She’s handling the publicity for Tara’s book and we’ve been seeing a lot of her lately.”
The conversation veered off at that point, so that Jimmy and Stuart could reminisce about how special Amy was. Nauseating.
In the end, Jimmy and I were semi-satisfied that Stuart had really befriended some former Lasher’s employee named Sergei and that he wasn’t involved in anything illegal. As for where he was coming up with the money for a house in Florida, his answer for that was less reassuring.
“That’s what banks are for,” he said. “They keep lending and I keep spending.”
“Not very smart,” said Jimmy. “Eventually, those loans come back to bite you and you end up losing your shirt.”
“Yeah, well, you may be the steady one, baby brother, but I’m the creative one,” said Stuart. “I have no intention of losing anything. Right, hon?”
As he looked at me, I felt my stomach turn. Leave it to my lame husband to gamble with our money and risk not only our security but our image. Oh, go ahead and call me shallow. Maybe I am. But I had worked my ass off building my simply beautiful concept, and even Amy, the world’s greatest promoter, wouldn’t be able to salvage it if my house went into foreclosure.
As Stuart stood there talking to Jimmy, I cursed myself for getting involved with him in the first place. He was such a loser. Why hadn’t I recognized that? What could I have been thinking when I got mixed up with him and stayed mixed up with him? And how was I going to untangle myself?
During a night of tossing and turning, I came up with a plan. At about 4:00 a.m., I decided that as soon as the book was published, which would be another month or so, and I made it through the interviews and the store signings and all the other activities Amy scheduled for me, I would divorce Stuart. Yes, I would wait until Simply Beautiful’s sales were at their peak and then cut the guy loose. I knew I should have done it a long time ago, but it wasn’t too late. I was still young. I could find a new man, the way Amy had found Tony. I could salvage some measure of dignity.
Yes, there were bound to be people who’d label me an impostor after the way I’d gushed over Stuart in the book, but they’d get over it. What’s more, I would help them get over it by launching the second phase of my plan: I would write another book.
It would be a best-selling sequel about what happens when prom queens outgrow their crowns. It would be about ditching the image, about living for yourself instead of having to be other people’s Ideal, about trying to develop honest friendships with other women, as opposed to isolating yourself in a bubble of perfection. It would be about possibilities.
So you see, despite Stuart’s infidelities, his debts, and his failures as both a husband and a man, I was feeling very upbeat the next morning. He had already left the house by the time I got up and dressed, so I didn’t even have to lay eyes on him. To celebrate my forthcoming freedom, I took a drive. I had no destination, no list of errands, no agenda. I just hit the road.
The weather was warm and sunny, so I put the convertible’s top down and made my way up the Boston Post Road, heading into Connecticut. I stopped at the beach and took a long walk in the sand, then went to a hot dog stand and ate the kind of food I usually avoided. I stopped at a funky little store and bought myself a needlepoint pillow adorned with the words Of course you can do it. I felt free. I had a handle on things. I only had to get through the book’s publication; then I would leave Stuart before whatever hole he was digging for himself sucked me in, too.
It was nearly 3:30 by the time I finally headed home. When I pulled into my driveway, I wasn’t expecting to find the police car, naturally, but there it was, parked right in front of my door—a bummer after an otherwise fantastic day.
My first thought was that we’d been robbed, that maybe the burglar alarm had gone off and the police had come to check things out, the way they always did. But as I approached one of the officers and he said, “Mrs. Lasher, we’d like to talk to you,” I knew I was in for more serious business than stolen silverware.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He introduced himself as Detective Burnett. The other one’s name was Detective Vincent. “Why don’t we go inside first,” Detective Burnett suggested.
I unlocked the door. We all went in. I offered them a beverage—ever the hostess.
“It’s about your husband,” said Burnett once we were seated in the living room.
Oh God, I thought. The fool has gotten himself arrested. Was he stickering non-organic melons again? Engaging in lewd acts with minors? Doing drugs, in spite of his denials to Jimmy and me? What?
“Where is he?” I asked, feeling my body tense. I was not going to let him wreck my plan. I needed him to stay out of trouble just until the book was published; then he’d be on his own and could do whatever the hell he wanted.
“We were hoping you could tell us,” he said. “He isn’t home?”
“No. At least I assume he isn’t. I just got home myself.”
“Mind if we look around the house?”
“Go ahead.”
I took both of them on the tour. No Stuart.
“And you haven’t heard from him?” asked Vincent when we were back in the living room.
“No.”
“And you have no idea where he might be?”
“No! Now would you please tell me why you’re asking?”
“Well, his car was in some kind of an accident,” said Burnett. “It was found in an alley in back of Lasher’s headquarters, and it was banged up pretty bad. The windshield was smashed and the seat was cut up.”
I blinked. “Cut up?”
“Like with a knife or some other sharp object. There was blood on the seat, too, Mrs. Lasher. We’d like to do a DNA test to determine if it’s Mr. Lasher’s.”
Okay, I hated Stuart. We know that. But blood? His blood? How unpleasant.
“We checked area hospitals, but your husband hasn’t been admitted anywhere,” said Vincent. “And we interviewed his coworkers at the office, but no one’s seen him since this morning. He seems to have disappeared.”
I relaxed slightly. “He disappears all the time. Nothing earth-shattering about that.”
“Maybe not. And we don’t want to jump to conclusions. Normally when we find an abandoned car, we have it towed and that’s that. But given the condition of your husband’s car and the possibility of foul play—”
“Foul play?”
“The blood on the seat, Mrs. Lasher.”
“The only lead we have is this,” said Vincent, holding up the black leather date book I’d bought Stuart the week before. “It was on the floor of the car, under the driver’s seat.”
Suddenly, the reality of the situation hit me, and I felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach. These cops weren’t kidding around, I realized. They thought something gruesome had happened to Stuart. It was all over their faces.
“You think he’s dead, don’t you?” I said. “You think someone dragged him out of the car, killed him, and left him someplace.”
“It does look suspicious,” said Burnett. “But we have no proof of a homicide. Until we find a body, we’re only speculating about—”
“Right,” I said. “No body. No murder. Just a disappearance. Maybe Stuart had a problem with the car—engine trouble or a flat tire—and while he was off renting another one, some mischievous kids broke the windshield and slashed the seat. That kind of thing happens all the time, doesn’t it? As a matter of fact, I’ll bet he took the rental car. and drove straight to a business meeting and simply forgot to tell his secretary. He’s probably at the meeting as we speak.”
Vincent flipped through the date book. “There’s no business meeting entered for this afternoon. Just his meeting at the Plaza Hotel at noon.”
“There. You see?” I said. “Maybe the noon meeting ran long. Did you check with the hotel to see if he’s still there?”
“Yeah. He’s not,” said Vincent.
“How about the person he was meeting? Did you check with him?”
Vincent cast Burnett a look.
“What?” I said.
“The person he was meeting at noon was a her,” he said. “Mr. Lasher, uh, reserved them a room.”
I knew it. Stuart hadn’t been murdered. He’d been having sex, for God’s sake, and the cops were too polite just to come right out and tell me. I mean, how much humiliation was I supposed to take?
“So which woman was he meeting?” I asked impatiently. “Mandy something or other?”
“No. Amy something or other,” he said. “The date book just mentions an Amy. Does the name ring a bell?”
Amy? Poor sweet “I’m not your best friend anymore” Amy? Well, ding dong, I thought. Ding-fucking-dong.
I sank back into the chair, heavy with this latest revelation. So she was having an affair with Stuart. Imagine that. And after all the years I’d spent feeling guilty over what I’d done to her. After all her declarations about how she’d moved on with her life! The woman was not only sleeping with her old flame but cheating on her new flame. At least when I slept with Stuart, back when he was hers, I was unattached!
“Yes, the name Amy Sherman rings a bell,” I said. “If something happened to my husband, she should be your prime suspect.”
“If you give us her address, we’ll pay her a visit this evening,” said Burnett. “But in the meantime, maybe you could tell us everything you know about her.”
“With pleasure,” I said, practically licking my lips.