Chapter 8

As Alene pulled her chair closer to Cal’s bed, he croaked in a hoarse voice, “Hello, Sweetheart.”

“How are you feeling, Dad?” She kept hoping he was going to toss off the sheet and jump out of bed.

He didn’t move, and his smile looked more like a scowl. “That woman. Is too loud.” he said slowly. She hated how much exertion it took for him to speak. She had always thought of her father as robust. Just a few months before, he’d carried eight-year-old Noah, who’d fallen asleep, all the way from the garage up to the apartment. And now look at him. Sixty-five was too young to be so debilitated. “Tell her. To shut up.”

Alene could see pink scalp where his once-thick hair was thin and silvery. “I know, Dad,” she said. She watched as he tried to form the next sentence. Sierra had inherited his straight nose and his pale blue eyes. “Are you feeling any better?”

His reply was a grumpy face. “How many. Next door.”

“Just the one,” she said, hoping that disgruntlement was a sign of improvement. She glanced out the window at a million shades of green. Beyond the park, the lake, dotted with what looked like toy sailboats, glittered in the sun. At least the second bed was empty, and Cal was alone in the room.

“She’s loud,” said Cal. “I’m sick. Not Deaf.” He stopped to hold up a finger the way he often did when he wanted to tell a joke. “Doctor sees a guy. Walking with. Curvy woman. You know?”

“Yeah, Dad.”

Cal closed his eyes but continued with the joke. “Doctor says. Glad to see you. Doing so well.” Alene waited, hoping she’d be able to remember jokes when she got old. “The guy says. ‘You told me. Get a hot momma. Be cheerful’.”

The pause lasted too long. She asked, “And then?”

“Doctor says. ‘No. I said. You’ve got heart murmur. Be careful’.” Cal let his head fall back against the pillows. His eyes closed and his mouth dropped open. So much effort, but he loved telling those old jokes. Twenty minutes later, he woke again and asked, “What? Were we. Talking about?”

“You asked about next door, Dad. It’s Sylvie Huff, from our building,” said Alene. He’d been asleep when she’d told Blanca. “She doesn’t stop making noise.”

“Loudmouths,” he said, coughing. “They don’t care. About anyone else. We taught you girls. To be considerate. Not everyone. Knows how.”

“No, they don’t, Dad,” said Alene, guessing that he was alluding to her marriage. He’d questioned Neal’s character and had continuously reminded her, until the morning of her wedding day, that she could change her mind. During all those months leading up to the wedding, she’d convinced herself that her father just didn’t know Neal like she did. Now, whenever she thought of her marriage as a mistake, she recalled that if she’d heeded her father, she wouldn’t have Sierra, Quinn and Noah. She wondered what they were doing right now.

Cal said, “Too late for some. To learn.” He fell asleep and his breathing evened out. Alene tiptoed out to the hallway and called home to discuss the kids’ dinner with Zuleyka. There was a spaghetti squash sitting on the counter that Zuleyka should bake and slather with homemade sesame sauce from the fridge. Quinn loved cutting the vegetables into tiny pieces and Noah liked slicing her homemade sourdough bread into thick chunks. Sierra was supposed to set the table. Alene told Zuleyka that she’d come home after Cal fell asleep for the night.

She spoke next to Noah, who told her about the frogs and toads they’d seen at camp. He would have continued talking, but Quinn grabbed the phone away. There was some shouting until Zuleyka pulled Noah away to take a bath, and Quinn then told Alene about a girl who’d called her a mean name. Quinn had handled it like a mature person, she said, by telling the counselor instead of getting into a fight. Alene commended her.

Sierra was next and told Alene that she didn’t have anything to wear to the birthday party of a girl who was probably going to be the most popular person in seventh grade. Alene reminded her that Cal was still in the hospital. Sierra asked if Aunt Lydia could take her shopping, and Alene wondered if she was doing enough to teach her kids about compassion.

Alene rose to straighten Cal’s blankets and rub his forehead the way he’d used to rub hers when she had trouble falling asleep as a child. Then she sat back down, opened her laptop, and began to work on the café’s accounts and employee schedules. Ruthie called to ask about Cal and if there was any news about Jocelyn. Alene had hoped to hear that Jocelyn had surprised everyone by showing up and regretted not thinking about her all afternoon. Then Lydia called to say that she wasn’t going to make it to the hospital until the next day.

“I wish you could just come by for a quick visit. I know it upsets you to see Dad like this, but he loves having us both here, Lydia,” said Alene. “And Theo too.”

“Not going to happen,” said Lydia, pursing her mouth firmly.

Alene let her chin fall to her chest. As the older sister, it was her fault that her relationship with Lydia was strained. She should have included Lydia when she and her friends went to the beach, or the park, or the movies, instead of leaving her at home. She should have helped Lydia more when their mother was sick and dying. She could have come home more often and stayed longer when she saw how paralyzed with grief their father was. Lydia had spent her senior year of high school grappling with her mother’s decline, a heavy course load, and college admissions. By the time Alene thought to ask about her plans for the coming year, Lydia had already made all the decisions by herself. It was Alene’s fault that Lydia didn’t share feelings or turn to her when she needed help.

At least, their lack of a relationship hadn’t affected Lydia’s dealings with the kids. She and Theo were incredibly magnanimous. They invited each child for a birthday sleepover that included a fancy restaurant dinner, a show or special event, and a generous gift. Sierra loved the makeup and nail polish collection she’d gotten when she turned twelve. At ten, Quinn was presented with the personalized rolling suitcase she’d coveted. And Noah was still contentedly constructing the huge Lego set they’d given him for his eighth birthday.

Lydia was even generous with Alene. It seemed like it was easier for her to whip out her credit card than to spend an evening together. Alene gave Lydia nice presents too, and the last three had been spectacularly successful because Alene’s former-mother-in-law, who worked at Neiman Marcus, had helped her choose, and given her a discount on: a special face cream, a sophisticated evening bag, and a stunning bracelet. Still, Alene needed to prove to Lydia that she would always be on her side.

“Dad’s asleep most of the time anyway,” Alene said, “so we probably don’t both need to be here. Don’t worry about it Lydia, I’ll just see you tomorrow.”

Lydia gave her a tiny smile, which made Alene feel like she was on the right track towards making things better between them. She straightened her father’s blankets again, kissed his forehead and whispered goodnight. He was asleep and didn’t respond.

The evening air was sticky and still. As she walked home, Alene inhaled a summer blend of barbecue, blossoming flowers, and traffic. The Cubs game must have ended because the streets were packed with cars and people. She passed a couple who were vaping, which reminded her of Jocelyn. She stopped to send Jocelyn a text, just in case.

After vaping in the alley, Jocelyn could have stopped at her father’s office to confront him about his will, and someone could have slipped in after her. Maybe Jocelyn had seen her father’s attacker and feared that she was next, so she’d gone somewhere to hide. Worst case scenario, what if the murderer, who’d already managed to smother Stanley, had found Jocelyn, and already silenced her? Maybe Jocelyn hadn’t only imagined that someone was following her for some reason other than admiration. What if someone, like Miles or Harrison, were trying to unsettle her. It could be something Phyllie might do to throw Jocelyn off her game. Even Lawrence, who seemed so harmless, could be trying to find a way to get rid of her. What if he’d only started dating Lillian to get close to Jocelyn and anyone else who might get in the way of whatever he wanted? Even an old guy like him could have taken Stanley by surprise.

Alene frightened herself into running the rest of the way home. What a relief to lock the door of her apartment and take a few calming breaths. She was glad to be able to kiss her children goodnight and grab a few forkfuls of dinner before going to bed. She kept seeing Jocelyn in dreams filled with sharp turns but was never able to reach her.

Finally, the alarm rang at five and Alene woke up, feeling congested. It was not a good time to get sick, with Jocelyn missing and a murderer out there. Maybe Jocelyn had returned home the night before and was planning to open the café as expected this morning. As she got ready to leave, Alene thought about adding more positive thinking and less negativity to everything she wanted to change about herself. She made sure the kids were taken care of for the day and headed to the café.

What a pleasure to be outside running before the heat of the sun sapped all her energy and the heat index inched up. It was just a warm-up to working out at the gym, but she started feeling stronger as she headed south toward the twinkling lights and hazy buildings of the city. Thanks to the second wealthiest billionaire in Illinois, they’d finally repaved the bike path last summer. If they’d done it eight years before, Brianne’s husband wouldn’t have died of a fatal heart attack triggered by a speeding bicyclist on the path. All that negative thinking made the endorphins rise like mist and scatter in the breeze. Instead of feeling reinvigorated, by the time she got to Michael’s gym, she felt sweaty and enervated.

“Are you always going to come in here looking like someone just drowned?” Michael asked with a penetrating look. She filled him in while lifting, pushing, and punching. He thought Jocelyn had acted guilty. “Why would she have run away if she was innocent?”

Alene said, “Maybe she was frightened.”

Michael shared more negative theories in between reminding her to focus on breathing, keep her shoulders back, and slow down. He apologized for rattling her so much about Jocelyn that she couldn’t lift a five-pound weight, and she spent the last fifteen minutes stretching while she told him what she liked about Frank.

Michael said, “I guess you can’t talk about the guy without a smile on your face,” and made up a long title for a study that indicated smiling at least once a day had been proven to extend the lives of single mothers in their thirties. Alene challenged him about how that study had been scientifically conducted. Michael assured her that everything he said could be scientifically proven, at which point, Alene left to walk home and get everyone ready for the day.

After the kids left for camp, she headed to the café. Ruthie and her baking team were already up to their elbows in flour and Jack was scrubbing pans in the sink. Jocelyn was still missing. Other employees were making sure the trays were full and keeping up with a steady line of customers. Edith seemed unusually cheerful while Olly was unusually morose and still. Not a single melody or whistle. Alene put an arm around him and said, “Frank’s got guys looking for her, Olly. She’ll be back before you know it.”

Olly said, “It’s just not like her. We usually text all day, even when we’re here, and now I haven’t heard from her in two nights.” Alene spent some time reassuring him and trying to call Frank while Olly cracked his knuckles.

Frank didn’t answer, so she texted him. Olly pulled up a picture on his phone of two lanky teenagers, one with red curls and the other with jet black hair. He held it in front of Alene until she smiled. The two boys wore steel-tipped boots and torn jeans. They were leaning against an old car and it looked a little too studied, as if they were in a photo shoot. Olly looked nearly the same, with shorter orange curls, but it took her a minute to recognize Jocelyn when she was still Jonathan. Had Stanley already kicked her out of the house then? Thankfully, she had Olly in her life.

Alene asked Olly to send her a copy of the photo and went to back to the kitchen to help Ruthie. An hour later she was spinning around the café greeting regulars and helping at the counter when the line got too long. She stopped to greet a young moms’ group and a woman named Ella with long eyelashes who always carried her support dog, Bella, in her purse. Then she chatted with Toula, who told her she worked as a speech therapist and that she was obsessed with working out. Alene admired her muscular arms, slightly bruised from all her weight training. She had violet-hued eyes, smooth skin, and a long, golden braid, a style Ruthie often wore. Alene wondered if Toula had ever helped anyone who spoke in short bursts, like Cal, but decided to ask about it some other time.

It was nearly nine by the time she got to the hospital. On Cal’s floor, the nurses and technicians were moving in and out of rooms. She passed Sylvie’s open door and saw Julian sitting in the chair next to her bed curved over his laptop as if he’d never left. He was probably writing another story about post-apocalyptic technology. Sylvie was abnormally tranquil, probably sleeping. Julian looked up with his odd half-closed eyes and waved. Alene gave him a quick nod before hurrying into her father’s room.

Cal grinned as she approached his bed. “You again!” He lifted both arms but dropped them before she could get close enough for a hug.

“So good to see you smiling, Dad.” She leaned over to kiss the top of his head. He still smelled like a combination of cigar and coffee even though he hadn’t smoked in fifteen years. He didn’t look as fatigued. She’d brought a thermos of coffee from the café, a dark roast prepared just how he liked it, with milk and sugar. She poured it into his ceramic cup. “You ready for a sip?” she asked, holding the cup close enough for him to enjoy the smell.

“Please, Sweetheart,” he said. “Noisy here. If I don’t get out soon. I might murder someone.” Alene quickly looked up to see if anyone was in the doorway. Between Stanley’s death and Jocelyn’s disappearance, she wasn’t sure joking about murder was a good way to start the morning.

“I’ll keep the door closed and won’t let anyone bother you, Dad,” said Alene, stroking his hand.

Cal nearly snorted. “Can you shut them up?” He used to yell a lot when Alene was growing up, but it was mostly at the television, or in the car, when the clueless driver who’d upset him couldn’t hear Cal’s foul name-calling. Vivian, Alene’s mother, had only raised her voice when she or Lydia did something dangerous. Otherwise, when one of her daughters disappointed her, she’d sit them down and talk to them about how their choices always had consequences. Alene hoped she was following her mother’s lead and doing enough discussing of choices and consequences with Sierra, Quinn, and Noah. She said, “Remember I told you that it’s Sylvie Huff from the twelfth floor, Dad?”

Cal stared blankly. Alene felt like crying. Where was her usually sharp-witted father? She reminded him about Stanley’s heart attack and how she and Ruthie had taken voice lessons from Sylvie when they were first about to become mothers.

“You didn’t need. Voice lessons,” Cal said, “you always had. A sweet voice.”

“You’re exaggerating, Dad. Sylvie wants to tell me the story of her life because she thinks that her children never listen to her,” said Alene.

“You’ve always been. A good listener,” said Cal, nodding off again.

He’d always been her biggest fan, and it still felt good to get a compliment from her dad. She picked up her cellphone and checked in with Ruthie. Everything was fine at the café. Alene had already finished the clever paranormal mystery written by a retired Birmingham cop, and now started the third in a delightful series about a psychologist who sings in the Lyric Opera chorus, eats enticing pastries with her coffee, and helps the Chicago police, who are unexpectedly cheery and open-minded, in solving crimes. The next time she looked up, Frank Shaw was standing in the doorway, holding a small potted kalanchoe plant with tiny yellow flowers.

“Hi,” she said, her thoughts suddenly scattered and disconnected, although she couldn’t help noticing his thoughtfulness. It was one of the reasons she was drawn to him. Neal had been fun and spontaneous during those early years, but he’d never been all that thoughtful. Then they’d had the girls, and it wasn’t so easy to be spontaneous. Between both their jobs, the children and the house, Alene remembered walking around in a state of exhaustion. It was a surprise when she got pregnant a third time, and their lives got even more complicated. Neal hadn’t wanted another child and accused her of doing it on purpose. It wasn’t true. She realized that they weren’t spending much time together but never thought he’d handle his frustration by having an affair.

The very first time she met Frank was when her water suddenly broke while out walking with the girls. He’d rushed her to the hospital in his squad car. He’d also stayed through Noah’s delivery when Neal failed to show up. A few weeks later, she learned he was having an affair and started divorce proceedings. She didn’t want to be with someone who lied, someone she couldn’t count on.

Would Frank have come up to her father’s room if he didn’t want a relationship? Maybe he’d found Jocelyn. Or maybe Chicago cops were being told to buff up their current image by bringing plants when they visited people in the hospital. Or she was confusing the real CPD with the police department in the book she was reading.

“I hope it isn’t a bad time,” he said, stepping forward and kissing Alene in a friendly way on her cheek. He lingered for just a moment and she breathed in his scent of orange peel, chocolate, and ginger. She hated to ask if he’d really come just to visit her dad. She’d recently read about a detective’s girlfriend who’d asked too many questions and ended up dead.

“Hello there,” said Cal, awake again. Either he remembered meeting Frank, or he was just being friendly, as usual.

Frank asked, “How are you today, sir?”

Cal answered slowly in his raspy voice, “The doctor gave me six months to live. But I couldn’t pay. So, he gave me. Six more months.” Frank laughed and gave him a thumbs-up.

Alene had heard that one a thousand times. As he drifted off again, she led Frank out to the hallway. “His disease makes little naps easier than long periods of deep sleep.”

Closing the door behind him, Frank commiserated, and said, “I thought I could count on seeing you when I picked up my coffee every day.” Her eyes promptly filled with tears, and Frank, misinterpreting, put his arms around her. “How’s your dad doing, really?”

Sylvie’s bed was just steps from the hallway, and she lay there with her door wide open. Before Alene could respond to Frank, Sylvie called her name with the flat nasal sound she’d come to dread. Julian was still immersed in his laptop and didn’t look up. “Alene,” Sylvie called a second time. “Don’t just stand out in the hallway. Introduce me to your handsome friend,” she patted the bed, as if anyone was going to sit on it. “Come in, both of you.”

Alene rubbed her suddenly aching neck and stood in the doorway. Frank had certainly already interviewed Sylvie and Julian as part of his investigation. Alene was glad he didn’t step closer to Sylvie or try to shake hands. She hated touching anyone in the germy air of a hospital room. “Hello again, Mrs. Huff,” said Frank as Sylvie appraised him with interest. She’d found time to put on a salmon-colored lipstick. “I hope you’re feeling better since we met earlier this week. I’m Detective Shaw.”

Sylvie either pretended not to recognize Frank, or she was too vain to wear her glasses, which she usually had on when Alene was there. Sylvie started on her litany of complaints.

“I’m sorry you’re having such a difficult time,” Frank said after Sylvie paused, glancing at him as if he were a gentleman caller from another era.

“Don’t even let me get started about my joint pain,” she continued. “I have fibromyalgia, probably one of the worst, most difficult diseases to treat, and there’s no cure.” Sylvie touched her hand to her hair, as though it was done up. She wore a fluffy pink robe over her hospital gown. “Also, my husband had a heart attack and died last week.”

“Again, my sincere condolences,” said Frank, who’d edged forward. Did Sylvie know the police suspected more than a simple heart attack? Or that she was number four on Alene’s list of suspects, after Miles, Harrison, and Phyllie?

“Yeah, well, he was a jackass,” said Sylvie, now studying her nails. “He had that bad heart and a rotten personality. He hasn’t said anything nice to me for I don’t know how long, and I don’t plan to have a memorial service.”

Alene tapped Frank’s elbow, hoping he’d get the hint and back out of the room. He said, “I heard you’ve been telling your life story to Alene.”

“It’s a favor to Ruthie’s mother,” Alene whispered.

“Lillian has been my best friend for a hundred years,” said Sylvie with the sudden drawl of a Southern belle. She straightened the thin blanket and smoothed her fluffy robe. “Unlike my children,” she stopped to point a finger at Julian, who didn’t react, and then at Alene, “this girl doesn’t try to shut me up. Good to see you again, Officer Shaw, because I neglected to mention something.”

Ah, thought Alene, so she recognizes him.

Julian said, “Enough, Ma.” He might not succeed as a sci-fi author, but he sure was a dedicated son. “You don’t have to say anything else.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Julian,” Sylvie said. “Stanley hasn’t been a real husband for two years,” Sylvie paused. Alene was riveted by Sylvie’s transformation from irrational to coquettish and back again, but hoped Sylvie wasn’t planning to repeat the stories she’d already told.

“He humiliated me and made me do unspeakable things,” Sylvie began.

Frank’s face was blank. Maybe he’d gone into cop mode. Alene studied the floor, hoping Frank would come up with something official that a detective might say.

Sylvie said, “I did what he asked because I was trying to save our marriage.” Julian concentrated on his laptop and pretended not to listen. “Stanley didn’t want to be married to me. He said I disgusted him.” Alene empathized with that.

“Last week his older son came over to the apartment, with his custom-made shirt and pointy designer shoes. Maybe I got heavier, and Stanley and I drifted apart, but we’re still married. I think Harrison could at least be polite. He sells expensive houses and knows how to talk to people, but he barely said hello to me, and he didn’t even bring anything – a bottle of wine, chocolate, flowers. Those boys were young when Stanley and I got married, and we had them every other weekend. We taught them to bring a gift whenever you visit someone.

Then Jonathan came too and brought a box of cookies made with sunflowers seeds and all kinds of crazy combinations like what you sell at your café, Alene. Jonathan is the one who turned into a woman, and I’ve got to tell you, he was a lot more polite than he used to be. At least he got the message about bringing a hostess gift. I was kind of surprised about how good those cookies were.”

“Thanks, Sylvie,” said Alene. “That’s Ruthie’s recipe. And I’m sure you meant to say, ‘She was a lot more polite than she used to be.’”

“Whatever,” said Sylvie. “The point is that Harrison should know better. He’s a thirty-two-year-old, married man. Stanley, by the way, talked to them about his will.”

“You’ve seen Jocelyn dozens of time, Sylvie,” said Alene, starting to lose her patience. “She works for me in the café.”

Sylvie focused only on Frank. “I never noticed,” she said, sounding disingenuous to Alene. “The three of them talked for a long time.” Alene didn’t believe a word of it. Maybe Sylvie was trying to deflect attention because she was the one who murdered her husband. If she’d shoved him, he could have hit the desk hard enough to knock himself out, and Sylvie might have planned it, but it could also have been a crime of opportunity.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?” Frank’s mistake was to expect anything rational from Sylvie. Jocelyn had probably told him about it. “And why are you telling us now?”

Sylvie mumbled with another sweep of her hand. “She’s really not that pretty with that neck and those hands. And it’s obvious that she’s had work done, not to mention the fake eyelashes. Although maybe she uses that whatever-it’s-called product to help thicken your eyelashes. I heard you can get it much cheaper in…”

Frank interrupted her. “I asked you about the meeting.”

“I’m getting there,” Sylvie said, as if Frank was being unreasonable. “Stanley never looked at Jonathan, but he doesn’t look at me either. You have no idea how hard that is for a woman.” She clutched her chest, suddenly lying back weakly against her stack of pillows.

Julian said, “Maybe you should go now.”

“What did you want to tell me about that conversation, Sylvie?” Frank asked in a firm voice. Alene started to slide back out to the hallway, but Frank looked at her and blinked. She took it as a sign that he wanted her to stay put.

“Stanley only cared about money,” said Sylvie, her hand delicately hovering as if she were starring in a Tennessee Williams play. “But I brought all the money and property into the marriage and my children are going to prove it.

“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Huff,” said Frank lightly touching Alene’s elbow and turning to the door.

“You’re a cute couple,” Sylvie said as they walked out, “but make sure to get a prenuptial agreement. And honey, never sign your name to anything without showing it to a lawyer first.”

As soon as they were in the hallway, Frank leaned down and whispered, “I learned something from her rant, so thank you.”

What had he learned? His breath was so sweet, she stopped thinking about it.