Charley's Web (37 page)

“And you picked me to write it because…”

“Because you were just so perfect. It was like you were made to order.”

“Were my children always part of your plan?”

“Are you kidding? They were the driving force.” Jill took a deep breath, allowed herself a small smile. “I mean, we had a good thing going. Why should we let a little thing like prison stop us from having fun? We wanted to do a book; we wanted to find some kids. Alex said we’d be killing two birds with one stone.” She laughed. “Aw, come on, Charley. You have to admit that’s kind of clever.”

“You expect me to find something clever about killing my children?”

Jill shrugged. “Guess not.”

“What about my brother?”

“The cherry on the whipped cream. I mean, well, he’s not exactly Mr. Reliable, you have to admit. We knew we couldn’t depend on him. But he sure came through in the end, didn’t he? I mean, we always planned to implicate him in some way, if we could. But who could have ever predicted he’d show up that morning and make blueberry pancakes? We couldn’t have written a better script. I mean, we were kind of flying by the seat of our pants, just waiting for the right opportunity. And then, bingo, Bram comes knocking. So Alex decided right there at your breakfast table to put those drugs in your juice. But if he hadn’t done it then, he’d have done it later. You gotta know when to pick your moments. Like Alex telling me when to call his apartment and drop that bombshell about your brother. You were puking your guts out, so you weren’t exactly thinking clearly. And it wasn’t all that far-fetched. Bram had a history of substance abuse, he was irresponsible,
and
he knew my sister. All that was left was to give him another name.”

“Jack,” Charley acknowledged softly.

“Jack,” Jill repeated with a smile. “But we had other options, too. Believe me, there were lots of potential suspects. That friend of yours, the one who gave you the dog? Glen? Alex made up that story about him maybe knowing my brother. And then, of course, all those threatening e-mails you kept getting, the ones targeting your children.”

“You’re saying Alex sent them?”

“He’s so smart.”

“Pretty stupid not to destroy the videotape,” Charley reminded her.

“Yeah, that was unfortunate. Just when we thought everything was going so well. Guess we got cocky.”

“Guess you did.” Charley reached across the table and turned off the tape. She stood up, dropped the recorder in her purse.

“Wait. What are you doing? You’re not going, are you?”

“I think I have everything I need.”

“But you don’t,” Jill protested. “There’s lots more stuff I haven’t told you yet. We’ve hardly touched on what goes on in here, the guards, the sex….”

Charley pushed her shoulders back, took a deep breath, and smiled from ear to ear. “Tell it to the judge.”

THE PALM BEACH POST
SUNDAY, OCTOBER
7, 2007

WEBB SITE

Approximately nine months ago, something very interesting happened to me. No, I didn’t get pregnant. What I got was a letter from a killer. The killer’s name was Jill Rohmer, whom I’d christened the Beastly Baby-Sitter in this very space several years earlier, and she had a proposition for me: agree to tell her story, and she would agree to tell me everything, including the identity of her lover and accomplice, the devil who made her do it. As we all know by now, the devil’s name is Alex Prescott, and he turned out to be a triple threat, being not only her lover and accomplice but her lawyer as well. He is currently recovering in a prison hospital from the near-fatal stab wounds he received at Raiford while awaiting trial. It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving guy.

And I ought to know. You see, Alex Prescott was my lover, too.

“I think we have a lot in common,” Jill wrote to me nine months ago. At the time, I thought this was a crock of you-know-what. Beyond certain superficial similarities, I couldn’t see that we had anything in common. Yet as I got to know Jill, I came to believe we were more alike than I had initially realized. We were both the product of unhappy childhoods, our mothers having been either physically or emotionally absent, and our fathers physically or emotionally abusive. Our relationships with our siblings were strained and unsatisfying, while our relationships with men were mostly fleeting and ill-conceived. We both used sex as a means to getting what we wanted, which rarely worked because we rarely knew what that was.

Which brings me back to Alex Prescott.

Please bear in mind that when we met, I thought he was an upstanding member of the community, a dedicated attorney, and a sensitive and caring individual who drove an old convertible and played a mean guitar. Turns out he played me even better. Turns out he was the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing. Turns out I can be fooled.

You see, in all the time I spent with Jill Rohmer, those hours spent talking to her, sizing her up, watching for the slightest narrowing of those big, chocolate-brown eyes, and listening for the slightest change of inflection in the misleading softness of her voice, I never really got to know Jill at all. What happened was that she got to know
me
.

Sociopaths are good at that. You give; they take. And they’re experts at providing people with what they need to see. A good friend of mine once told me that. He also told me that being fooled doesn’t make you a fool.

Liars and con artists prey on the good natures of others. And while no one has ever accused me of being especially good-natured, I’ve discovered some interesting truths about myself during these last nine months: I’m not nearly as cynical and hard-edged as I thought I was. Turns out that despite everything that’s happened, or maybe because of it, I find I actually believe in the essential goodness of others. Turns out I believe people are capable of change. Turns out I’m even a bit of a romantic. I was, after all, named after Charlotte Brontë. (I was also named after a spider, which might account for my sometimes nasty bite.)

I’ve spent much of the months of my extended hiatus from the pages of this paper soul-searching, recovering my spark and equilibrium, and enjoying the two most fabulous children in the world. (Yes, I know. Your children are fabulous, too. Just not quite as fabulous. And must I remind you?—it’s
my
column.) In the meantime, much has changed. My mother, for example, has straightened up, so to speak, recently marrying a man she met last year on a weekend cruise to the Bahamas. He’s a lovely man, and they have a beautiful condominium on the ocean, where my children, my brother, my dog, and I are frequent guests. My two sisters, Emily and Anne, have recently contacted me about possibly coming to Florida in the not-too-distant future, maybe even bringing their children, for a long overdue family reunion. I even have two new stepsisters—Grace and Audrey, after Kelly and Hepburn—whom I’m having great fun getting to know. My brother just enrolled full-time at the College of Art and Design in Miami, and has been sober and drug-free for almost ten months. I’m very proud of him. There’s also a new man in my life, the aforementioned good friend who is the very opposite of Alex Prescott—he is the
sheep
in
wolf ’s
clothing. I even have a new bathroom!

So maybe a seed was planted in my belly nine months ago after all. Only the baby I produced is thirty-one years old, stands five feet eight inches tall, and weighs one hundred and twenty-four pounds. I’m happy to report she has a full head of blond hair, an inquisitive mind, and an alarmingly big mouth.

I’m using it now to thank all the people who have supported me with their e-mails during my absence. Between bouts of navel-gazing, I was busy completing my book,
Down the Hill: The True Story of Jack and Jill
—which hits bookstores this week. To those of you who aren’t so happy about my return to the
Palm Beach Post,
too bad. Remember, it’s a free country, and nobody is forcing you to read my columns. But if you don’t like them, please keep those nasty e-mails to yourself. As my mother used to say—well, maybe not
my
mother, but somebody’s mother surely—if you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything. As for me, I’ll continue to say whatever I please, as plainly and as clearly as I can. Because unlike Jill Rohmer and Alex Prescott, with me, there are no hidden agendas. And must I remind you again?—it’s
my
column.

FROM:
Happy Reader

TO:
Charley@Charley’sWeb.com

SUBJECT:
You

DATE:
Mon. 8 Oct. 2007, 08:33:21–0400

Dear Charley, Welcome back!

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37