Dead Lies (21 page)

“Yeah, but I don’t,” said Melinda, rising reluctantly from her chair.

The officer reached into her shirt pocket. “Please don’t worry. Here’s my card. Call me if you need anything. Or if you think of anything else that might be important for us to know.”

Melinda took the card, slipped it into her coat pocket, and followed the officer back the way they came. They said goodbye at the door and Melinda exited the building.

Outside, the wind had picked up, but there were stars in the sky. It was a beautiful night.

Melinda headed for her car, but when she spotted the public library across the parking lot, she made a split-second decision and headed over. Clutching her purse, she strode up the path to the glass doors, noting by the fluorescent lights inside that the library was still open. That was good. She entered the large marble lobby and looked around. The place was practically empty. Also good. She didn’t want anyone to see what she was doing, even though there wasn’t anything wrong with what she was doing. At the entrance to the reading room she spotted what she was looking for under a large sign reading, “Dollars for Knowledge,” which announced that for every $100 raised, a local store would donate one laptop to the library’s new computer center. She opened her purse, stealing a glance at the two gray-haired librarians sitting over at the circulation desk on the other side of the room. They were chatting together intently and weren’t even looking in her direction. She thought only briefly about how they were going to get the shock of their lives when they discovered $5,000 in the wooden donation box.

Back outside, Melinda got in her car and just sat. She took a few deep breaths and finally let the tears come, marveling at how a person could feel clean and dirty at the same time.

CHAPTER 22

W
EB EASED HIS FATHER’S MERCEDES INTO THE GARAGE AND TURNED OFF
the engine. Nobody moved.

His family’s exhaustion was palpable. It filled the car. Mourners had begun arriving for the wake at 3:00 on the dot, and by 3:15 the line was out the door. There were so many people to greet they’d decided not to take the scheduled 5:00 p.m. break. When the last stragglers finally left at 9:30, his family had collapsed into the funeral parlor’s tasteful couches and not moved for twenty minutes.

Web had attended plenty of wakes, but now he knew what it felt to be on the receiving end of the line. He’d given far more comfort to others than he himself had received, and he couldn’t count the number of times someone had taken his hand and said, “Take care of your mother and father, now, you hear?” He’d had to be composed when he’d rather have wept. He felt like he had to be “on” the whole time. It was a relief to be home now with his family where there were no expectations about how he should act or feel.

With the wake over, Web was surprised to feel a sense of lightness, which was surely the point of these rituals. It was a psychological signal to the brain that it was okay to start the process of healing and move on. But tonight he was also melancholy for another reason. Justine had shown up at the funeral parlor, and it had actually gone well. He felt foolish for even considering the idea that she’d had any involvement with the murders.

Justine had stayed no more than five minutes. He’d spotted her across the room, and she’d come over to him and wrapped herself in his arms, saying simply, “I’m so sorry, Web.” They’d broken apart, and after he’d stiffly thanked her for coming and commented on how well she looked—dreading all the while that she was going make a scene—she’d pointed to a bespectacled man standing just outside the door in the hall. She told Web his name was Steve, that he was a banker, and that she’d been seeing him for a few weeks. Things were going well, she said, although she hadn’t needed to. Happiness was written all over her face. Lastly she told him how sorry he was for all the pain she’d caused him after the break-up.

Web had hugged Justine, thanked her again for coming, and wished her well. Then she was gone. And after he’d recovered from the shock, he’d silently thanked her for releasing him. He’d felt that in some strange way he was putting two relationships—and two losses—to rest.

Pulling the key out of the ignition, Web turned to face the back seat. Beth was squeezed between his mother and Gary; his dad was next to him in the passenger seat. “I’m glad that’s over,” Web said.

“I am too,” his mom said sadly. “But it means tomorrow will come that much sooner.” She was referring to the 11:00 a.m. burial at High Grove Cemetery. Two days earlier his family had purchased a double plot under a dogwood that would bloom in spring.

His mother reached for the door handle, and the click it made was the cue for everyone to get out. Web climbed from the car, but he wasn’t ready to go inside yet. His stump was throbbing from all the standing around, and he was restless. “I’m going to take a walk,” he announced when they were all on the driveway.

His father said, “I’ll join you.”

No one else offered to come. When Beth, Gary, and his mom disappeared into the house, his father touched his arm and said, “Let’s go around the block.”

Web smiled. When he was a kid, this was a ritual the two of them shared on summer nights. Dad had called their evening walks “constitutionals,” which Web always found hilarious.

When they reached the bottom of the driveway, there was no discussion about which direction they’d go. They turned left. Counterclockwise was the way they’d always gone. They walked in a companionable silence until they hit the corner and turned onto Hamilton Road.

“It was nice that Justine came to pay her respects,” his father said finally.

“Yes, it was.”

“Everything okay with that?” his father probed gently.

Web waited a beat before answering. “Now it is.” His father nodded, and Web was grateful he didn’t push for more.

After a moment, his father said, “It was also nice that that female police officer came.”

Web smiled. “It was.” He paused, adding, “I like her.”

“I know you do,” said his father. “I was watching the two of you talk.”

Web hesitated before continuing. “She has a four-year-old son whose twin was killed in a car accident. I guess you could say we have a pretty macabre bond.”

His father was silent, and Web wondered if his dad was thinking of his own bond with the police officer. He and Anna both knew what it was like to lose a child.

“I asked her out,” Web admitted when his father didn’t respond. “Is that awful of me?”

His father chuckled lightly. “No. I can see how you’d need to act quickly with a girl like her.”

“She turned me down. But I think she’s just being careful about crossing professional lines. I’m not giving up.”

His father hesitated. “If you don’t mind a little advice from your dear old dad, take it slow.”

“You mean, like you did with Mom?” Web teased. His parents had met at a Harvard-Radcliffe party during their senior year of college and were married three months later. “Or the way Serena did with Bill?” Their courtship could be counted in months, as well.

His dad chuckled again. “You’re right. We Marinos have a pattern of rushing into relationships.”

“When it’s right it’s right.”

“That’s true,” said his father. With a twinkle he added, “And maybe Bethie will be next.”

Web nodded thoughtfully. “She seems happy with Gary.”

“Yes, she does. He’s a good man.”

“I like him, too.”

“But, listen Web, I don’t think now’s the best time for you to decide if something’s right. Your head’s not in the right place.” His father looked at him and grinned. “No pun intended.”

Web smiled and touched his tender jaw. Some of the other cuts were beginning to itch, indicating they were starting to heal. “I know, Dad. I’m not in a rush. And I appreciate the advice.”

They were silent for a few minutes. “Have you ever thought about getting married?” said his father.

Actually, Web had been thinking about it a lot in the last few days. Since he’d stopped playing the “what if” game—What if I called to check on Serena rather than wrote her off for always being late? What if I’d driven faster over to her house?—he’d begun to self-reflect. And he’d had a revelation: Serena had always been the most important woman in his life. He’d been a committed serial dater, his longest relationship lasting only six months, but he’d never had the urge to marry any of them. Justine had only been the most recent casualty of his bachelor mindset.

He told his father as much, adding, “I
wanted
those women, but I never
needed
anyone else besides Serena.”

“Your mother and I understood that, Web. You two were inseparable as kids, to the point that you alienated others.”

Web frowned, recalling the times growing up when Serena had pulled away from him, trying to make her own friends. “It wasn’t always that way.”

He didn’t have to explain what he meant. Serena’s quest for independence had begun in first grade when she’d referred to him and Tim as “icky” and gone looking for other girls to hang out with. Around puberty, the break became even more pronounced, especially when Serena started dating. Web hadn’t understood her desire for space. He didn’t see why she couldn’t have her own social life
and
still remain close to him. And this lack of understanding had been a source of major discord throughout their high school years.

“As hard as those times were,” said his father, “they were good for you in the end.” His father was silent for a moment. “Think about the year Serena spent in London,” he said, referring to the time his sister’s company sent her abroad to learn how the edgy Brits did “adverts.” “
You
pulled away that time,” his father continued. “You flourished that year.”

Web thought about it for a moment. His father was right. He opened his mouth to say that then paused. It was hard to admit, but he’d been happier than he’d ever been the year Serena was living in London. A few days after her departure, when he was missing Serena, Tim had taken him to a new club to shake him out of the funk, and it was that night he’d met Celeste. She was a Belgian model on temporary assignment in New York, and he’d fallen madly in love with her in an instant. For the next six months they’d spent every waking moment together. She was his complete and utter focus until she dumped him for another guy. The drummer in one of the bands he’d just signed, in fact.

During those heady months with Celeste Web had kept in touch with Serena with daily e-mails and weekly phone calls, but, in spite of his grand plans to use his vacation time for trips to England, he never once visited his sister.

Now it was clear what had been going on. Serena’s absence had freed him emotionally and allowed him to fall in love for the first time.

He was overcome by the realization.

Now he was free again.

Because his twin was dead.

He turned the idea over in his mind a few times. It hung out there in space for a while, and then he pulled it back. He wanted to give the matter more thought, but it was too painful, too fresh. Too big. Right now he had other things to think about. He filed it away for another day.

He changed the subject.

“Dad, Detective Kreeger called me this afternoon and told me Serena took two personal days off from work earlier in the month. She never told me about them. Did she tell you?”

His father frowned. “What days were they?”

“December first and ninth.”

His father thought about it. “I do remember something. Serena came over to the house the morning of December 1 and stayed for lunch.”

Excitement sparked within Web. “How can you be so sure of the date?” he asked, cautiously.

“The Christmas tree was delivered that day.”

Web felt his heart quicken. “Was she acting strange in any way?”

“No.”

“She didn’t seem anxious?”

“No. But I do recall she had an upset stomach after lunch. She was nauseous. So, she went up to her bedroom to lie down.”

“She didn’t go home?”

“No. She said she just wanted to close her eyes and rest for while.”

Web pictured Serena lying down in her childhood bedroom, which, like his, still looked exactly the same as it had on the day he left for college.

“Your mother and I speculated Serena might be pregnant,” his father admitted, his voice breaking. “I guess it was wishful thinking.”

The first grandchild.

Web put a hand on his father’s shoulder, his mind still on Serena. Maybe his parents’ thinking wasn’t wishful. Maybe she
had
been pregnant. That would certainly explain her secrecy.

He would call the detective tomorrow—or maybe Anna—and mention it. He guessed if she was it would have shown up in the autopsy.

“You know,” said his father, “in light of what you’re saying, Serena’s behavior did seem a little off recently. She was moodier than usual.” His father continued haltingly. “But I figured she was just busy with work and her travel plans. Maybe that’s why Serena came over to the house more often than she usually did these last few weeks. Your mom has such a calming way about her.” His voice broke. “I should have paid more attention.”

“Don’t beat yourself up, Dad. We don’t know that whatever was bothering Serena is connected to her death. Besides, I noticed Serena was preoccupied, too, and I didn’t say anything. Even if we had, it’s not like any of us could have anticipated this outcome.”

Web didn’t quite believe this as he said it, but it seemed to have the intended soothing effect on his father.

“Maybe you’re right, son,” said his father quietly.

As they rounded the last corner, Web glanced up and saw a sliver of light pierce the sky between the craggy branches of the trees. It was the moon. It looked torn, bleak. But it was hanging in there. Just like the two of them.

He and his father completed their circuit of the block and stopped at the foot of the driveway. They looked up at the house, still not quite ready to go in. He could see that someone, probably his mother, had switched on the light in his bedroom. Next door, Serena’s room was dark.

Something began gnawing at the back of Web’s brain. He tried to grab it but couldn’t. It slipped away.

“Do you remember the Santa display?” he asked his father, trying to replace the feelings of regret with thoughts of happier times. He was referring to the life-sized plastic Santa-and-reindeer statues his father had inherited from his parents and proudly put on the garage roof each year. It was tacky as hell and his mother hated it, but it had meant a lot to his old man. It was a reminder to Web’s Main Line, Philadelphia-born mother that the man she’d married had come from much humbler beginnings.

His father rallied. “I sure do. And I’m sure the neighbors will never forget it either.”

Web grinned. He remembered his parents telling him how, when they’d moved in during the summer of 1970, the ultra WASPy next-door neighbors had literally turned up their noses at their Italian last name.