Shadow of Doubt (2 page)

“Maybe you should call the police,” I said.

“The police?” The disdain in her voice made it clear what she thought of that idea. “They'd say that someone is playing a prank on me and that pranks aren't against the law. Or they'd ask me if any of my students has something against me. Did I grade someone too hard?” Bitterness robbed her voice of its normal musical quality. She drew in a deep breath and straightened up. She tried to smile.

“That's probably all it is,” she said. “Someone's idea of a joke. A bad joke, but it's probably harmless.” She didn't look convinced. “Let's just forget it happened, okay, Robyn?”

Reluctantly, I agreed. But I had the feeling that this wasn't the first time that something like this had happened to Ms. Denholm.

. . .

There are two kinds of kids who take art class at my school: those who think that art is an easy credit and those who are genuinely talented. Both groups make the art room one of the most interesting places in the school. There are always new creations on the walls and works-in-progress scattered throughout the room. Some of them are howlingly awful (and therefore worth checking out). Others are astonishingly accomplished and also worth a look. Whenever I pass by, I usually glance inside.

That afternoon when I looked in, Ms. Denholm was there with Ms. Rachlis, the substitute art teacher—apparently the regular teacher had taken a nasty fall down her apartment stairs. Ms. Denholm and Ms. Rachlis were both looking at the long white flower box that I'd delivered to Ms. Denholm earlier that afternoon. Ms. Rachlis reached in and pulled out the headless doll. She examined it and said something to Ms. Denholm. Then she opened her desk drawer and pulled out some tissues. She handed them to Ms. Denholm, who wiped her eyes and shook her head. Ms. Denholm had said she was sure the flowers were a joke, but she obviously didn't believe it. I hoped Ms. Rachlis would convince her to do what I had already suggested: call the police.

Ms. Rachlis turned toward the door. I scurried away. I don't think either of them saw me.

. . .

“It doesn't surprise me,” Morgan said when I told her about the flowers and the headless doll at our favorite coffee shop after school. “It's probably a ‘drop-dead' from some woman whose boyfriend she stole.” She was still annoyed at the way Billy had looked at Ms. Denholm.

“Morgan, you should have seen how upset she was. In
tears
.
And
she looked scared,” I said.

“But she didn't want to call the cops?”

I shook my head. “That seemed like the last thing she wanted to do.”

“See?” Morgan said. “What'd I tell you? People always have a reason when they don't want to get the cops involved. Bet you anything that I'm right.” Her eyes skipped from me to someplace over my shoulder. “Speaking of boyfriends,” she said, grinning at someone behind me, “here one comes now.”

“Billy?”

“Not my boyfriend. Yours.”

My heart raced. My body tingled. I knew that I was being stupid. That I was setting myself up for disappointment. But in the split second before I whirled around, I imagined that the person behind me would be Nick.

It wasn't.

It was Ben.

Sweet Ben Logan, according to Morgan. Considerate Ben Logan. Model-handsome Ben Logan.

And, according to Morgan, my boyfriend.

I plastered a smile onto my face and said hi in the perkiest tone I could muster. It shouldn't have been difficult. After all, Ben really was sweet. He really was considerate. And he really was cute. When he slipped an arm around me and bent in to kiss my cheek, the rush of excitement almost made me forget Nick. But not quite. Not yet. I told myself it was just a matter of time before I got over Nick. That I couldn't spend the rest of my life waiting for him to pop back into my life after suddenly popping out of it. That I was lucky to have Ben, who would never do what Nick had done.

“What's up, Ben?” I said. “How'd you know where to find me?”

“Hmmm,” he said, frowning slightly. “It's after school, you're best friends with a caffeine addict—”

“
Addict
is a values-laden word...” Morgan protested.

“And,” Ben said, “this is the closest place to your school to get a decent latte.”

“You've got that right,” Morgan said.

Ben slid into the booth beside me. “I missed you,” he said.

Across the table, Morgan made goo-goo eyes at me. She adored Ben. She especially adored the fact that his family was extremely well off, and that he went to the most exclusive private school in the city, and—most importantly—that he wasn't Nick, whom she claimed to like. But the last time she'd compared the two she'd said, “You have to be realistic, Robyn. Ben is looking at a future with serious money. Nick is probably looking at serious jail time.” I'd given her a sharp look. It was true that Nick had been in trouble with the law, but that was all in the past—I hoped. “No offense to Nick,” Morgan had said, “but, come on, Ben has it all.”

She was right. And I liked him! But every time my phone rang, I always hoped that the voice on the other end would be Nick's.

He had vanished at the beginning of December. He'd been gone for six weeks so far. I had no idea where he was or why he'd left. He'd sent me a Christmas present—without a return address. I was supposed to have put him behind me—according to Morgan and my mother. On good days I agreed with them. I even told myself that I was better off without him. On so-so days I could half-convince myself that I didn't care about him anymore—why should I? He obviously didn't care about me. But on most days I still missed him.

You're doing it again
, I told myself sternly.
Nick took off. Nick didn't even leave a note. Nick hasn't called. Nick isn't here. But Ben is.

Ben, who had an arm around me, smiling at me, telling me that he had missed me.

“I missed you too,” I said.

He beamed as if I had just handed him a winning lottery ticket. Ben always made me feel like there was no one he'd rather be with.

“You want to do something this weekend?” he said.

“Like?”

“I was thinking hiking.”

Morgan stared at him. “It's
January
,” she said.

Ben looked across the table at her, waiting for her to make her point.

“In January, people ski,” Morgan said. “Or skate. Or snowshoe. They do not hike.”

“What's this about hiking?” said someone else. Billy. “Someone going hiking?”

Morgan started out by giving him her sternest look—punishment for the puppy-dog expression he'd had on his face during Ms. Denholm's class—but she yielded fast when he squeezed into the booth beside her. She sighed and nestled close. Anyone who first met Morgan when she was next to Billy would totally get the wrong idea of what she was really like.

“I'm taking Robyn hiking up in Limestone Valley,” Ben said. “You know it?” Billy nodded. “You ever hiked it in winter?” Billy shook his head, but he looked interested. Morgan must have noticed.

“Don't get any ideas,” she said. “We already have plans for the weekend.” They were volunteering together for Morgan's favorite cause—the local fashion scene's gala to raise money for breast cancer research. Morgan loved it because it let her get up close and personal with some high-profile people in the fashion industry and—I suspect—because as assistant head of the table-decorating committee, she got to boss people around. Billy was tagging along because he adored Morgan and because, as Morgan never tired of pointing out, fair was fair. She'd spent last Saturday with Billy at an animal shelter where Billy helped out a couple of times a month.

“Besides, I'm sure Robyn and Ben want to be alone,” Morgan said.

Ben grinned and held me tight. I snuggled close to him and pushed away my memories of how it felt when Nick used to hold me.

“A

re you sure this is a good idea?” I said. To my mother, of all people. Anyone who knows my mom knows that she is immensely practical. She's the kind of person who not only plans but
over
-plans every detail of her life. Who leaves nothing to chance. Who was going out with a financial analyst—another type of person who doesn't like surprises.

“Of course it's a good idea,” my mother said. “Ted's been under a lot of pressure.” Ted Gold was the financial analyst my mom was seeing. He had recently asked her to marry him. She hadn't said yes, but she hadn't said no, either. We were on our way to his condo. “I think he's been working too hard,” my mother said. “He needs something to brighten his week.”

“Mom, if you want to surprise Ted with a gourmet indoor picnic in January, that's fine with me. But why do I have to be there?”

“Ted
adores
you, Robyn. You always make him laugh. I thought if we could have a sort of
family
evening—”

I stared at her. “A family evening?” That didn't sound remotely like my mother. Unless: “Are you finally going to give Ted an answer?”

Uh-oh
, I thought.
Wait a minute
.

“Are you afraid that he's going to
insist
on an answer?” I said, suspicious. “Is that why you made me come—because you think he won't say anything if I'm there?”

My mother flushed as she flicked the turn signal and made a left into the underground parking garage at Ted's building.

“Which is it?”

She glanced at me and sighed. “I know Ted wants an answer,” she said. “I know he's not going to wait forever. But we've been seeing each other for less than a year. That's not very long.”

“You told me you only went out with Dad for three months before he proposed.”

“Exactly,” my mom said. “I need time, Robyn. This is a big decision. But if I say that to Ted...” Her voice trailed off, but I knew what she meant. She had already told him once that she needed more time. If she told him again, he might not understand. I guess it meant something that she wanted to avoid that.

We were silent as she eased the car into the visitor parking area and started hunting for a space. I glanced out the passenger-side window and stared in surprise.

Is that...?
I wondered.
Nah, it can't be
.

I twisted in my seat to take another look, but it was too late. My mother had maneuvered the car into a parking space near the elevator. She pulled her keys from the ignition and circled around to the trunk. I jumped out and headed back in the direction we had come from to see if my eyes had been playing tricks on me.

“Oh no you don't,” my mother said. “You're not bailing on me. Come on. Help me with this.”

This
was a store-packed wicker picnic basket that contained smoked salmon, sliced meats, two kinds of salad, two kinds of bread, and an assortment of raw veggies. (I'd peeked.) Also in the trunk was a bottle of wine with a bow tied around its neck, a bouquet of flowers, and a bakery box. I took the wine, the flowers, and the bakery box and left the basket for my mom. We took the garage elevator from the visitor parking area up to the lobby. Ted lives in a secure building—all visitors have to sign in at the front desk. The security guard's stern face softened when he recognized my mother.

“Ms. Stone,” he said. “Good to see you again. Do you want me to ring him?”

My mother shook her head.

“It's a surprise, Darren,” she said.

He grinned as he noted the hamper, the flowers, the wine, and the bakery box.

We crossed the lobby to the main elevators and rode up to Ted's super-luxurious condo. When we got out of the elevator, my mom insisted we approach Ted's door stealthily, like a couple of burglars. Before she rang the doorbell, she whispered to me to stand out of view of the peephole.

“If he can't see who's out here, he won't open the door,” I whispered back.

“He shouldn't,” my mother said. “But he will. He insists that because this is a secure building, anyone who rings his bell must be a neighbor.”

My mom was right. Within seconds, Ted swung the door open, and my mother did something that I'd never seen her do before. She leaped in front of the open door like a schoolgirl and yelled, “Surprise!”

Ted froze. He stared at my mother in stunned silence. From somewhere behind Ted I heard an all-too-familiar voice say, “Well, Patti. This
is
a surprise.”

Well, that answered
that
question. I'd caught a glimpse of a black Porsche in the visitors' parking area—my father's car.

Ted turned slowly and looked at my father, who had appeared in the doorway behind him. My father gave a what-can-you-do shrug. My mom's smile evaporated.

“What are you doing here, Mac?” she said before turning to Ted. “What is he doing here?”

“Uh...”

My father looked at the basket that my mom was carrying.