The Next Accident (10 page)

She wanted him to arrive. She wanted to go on a drive, far away from this house that was too big and this city that held too many memories. She wanted one afternoon when she stepped out of a middle-aged, divorced woman's skin and lived with the sun on her face.

Last night, coming home from her first date in years, she had realized that it was time to move forward again. Not easy, but time.

A short beep-beep broke into her thoughts. Bethie looked down the. narrow street to see a little red convertible with New York plates dart around the corner and come flying down the lane.

"My goodness, what is this?" she asked as Tristan came to a screeching halt, ran a hand through his hair, and beamed.

"Your carriage, my lady."

"Yes, but what is it?"

"The Audi TT Roadster two twenty-five Quattro," he announced with pride, "based loosely on the 1950s Porsche Boxter. Cute, isn't she?"

He swung open the driver-side door and came bounding around the front, looking somehow flushed, windblown, and dashing all at once.

Bethie held out her basket, thinking now would be a good time to say something clever, but distracted by the bright, burning light in his eyes, the impact of his smile. "I fixed a picnic lunch," she stated and instantly felt foolish for the obvious comment.

"Wonderful."

She nodded, still feeling self-conscious. She returned her attention to the picnic basket. " Champagne, caviar, Brie. I didn't know what you liked."

"I like champagne, caviar, and Brie." He reached for the basket, and his hands lingered on hers. He stood very close, handsome this morning in tan slacks and a deep blue cable-knit sweater. Sandalwood and lemon, she thought and wondered if she'd given herself away by inhaling too deeply.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked, his fingers lightly brushing hers.

"Yes. And you?"

"I didn't sleep a wink. I was too busy looking forward to seeing you."

She flushed, but couldn't repress her smile. "Very smooth," she conceded.

"Is it? I practiced all the way over." He grinned. Then, without warning, he leaned over and kissed her full on the mouth. She was still reeling when he straightened again and took the picnic basket from her arm.

"In all seriousness," he said as he popped the trunk, "I have not looked forward to a day as much as I've been looking forward to this one in a very long time. We are going to go someplace marvelous, Bethie. We are going to have an ungodly amount of fun. Are you with me?"

"I could do ungodly amounts of fun."

"Perfect!"

He closed the trunk, then returned to get her door. The little red roadster really was commanding. Beautiful rounded lines on the outside. A striking black-and-chrome color scheme on the inside. It looked like something a movie star should drive, say Marilyn Monroe or James Dean. Bethie was almost afraid to touch it. Tristan, however, took her hand and without hesitation, helped lower her into the low-slung black leather seat.

"You know what?" he said suddenly. "You should drive."

"Oh, no. I couldn't – "

"Yes, yes, absolutely. Everyone needs to drive a sports car once in her life and today, it's your turn."

He helped her back out of the car. She was still protesting when she found herself in the driver's seat, holding a small, rectangular key fob and wearing a very silly grin. The sleek chrome gauges winked at her. The rounded chrome gear stick felt warm and smooth beneath her palm. Tristan climbed into the passenger's seat. She barely looked at him. She hadn't even pulled away from the curb, and she was already in love with this car.

"See the little silver button?" He pointed to a small button on the corner of the key fob in her hand. "Push it."

She did and the tiny silver key shot out of the side of the box like a switchblade. She startled, almost dropped the key, then laughed. "Oh my goodness, who thought of that?"

"Probably somebody in marketing. Pure gimmick, but highly effective. Now love, put it in the old ignition. Here's the lights, here's the windshield wipers, and here's the hand brake. Give it a whirl."

She stalled the car in first. Jerked them into second as she tried to get a feel for the clutch, then finally spluttered down the road. It had been years since she'd driven a standard, not since her college days. But she quickly discovered that some part of her had missed the feel of a gear stick in her hand, the sense of controlling the vehicle as if it were a high-spirited horse, the surge of power as she felt the zippy car respond. She went around the block, grinding the gears painfully, but Tristan didn't seem to care and she found herself laughing breathlessly. She liked this car. She liked this man. She could do this.

"Listen to this, Bethie," Tristan said. "I got it just for you."

He pushed a silver panel on the dash. It rose to reveal a myriad of stereo buttons. Two more jabs with his finger, and Miles Daviss " 'Round Midnight" poured out of discreet Bose speakers and flowed all around her.

"You remembered."

"Bethie, of course."

Miles Davis's trumpet began to wail. She found the proper rhythm for the gears, and the roadster began to purr. Tristan was right, she thought. Everyone should drive a little red sports car once in her life, and this car drove like a dream.

She took the on-ramp to 1-76, feeling the roadster gather beneath her feet. First, second, third, pushing the tachometer all the way up into the red zone. The second turbo kicking in and pressing her back against her seat. Twenty, forty, eighty miles per hour, and still as smooth as silk.

"There you go," Tristan said approvingly. "That's how you drive, Bethie. Go after the road like a speed racer, don't let anything hold you back."

She smiled. She pressed on the gas. She hit one hundred miles per hour and let the wind gather up her dark blond hair and the sun beat down on her upturned face.

"We're off like a herd of turtles!" Tristan roared over the rushing air.

She laughed, she drove faster, and she never bothered to mention that that was one of Mandy's favorite expressions.
I
love you,
she thought.
God, I am so
happy!

Tristan was still watching her with that intent look in his eyes. He had pulled on a pair of black leather driving gloves. He ran one gloved finger down her cheek.

"Bethie," he said after a moment. "Tell me about your second daughter. Tell me about Kimberly."

The Olsen Residence,
Virginia

It took Rainie
four tries to find Mary Olsen's house. The first time, she didn't even notice the narrow driveway off the heavily wooded road. The second time, she spotted the driveway, but couldn't see any sign of a house through the trees. The third time, knowing she had to be close, she drove halfway up the driveway, saw a freaking mansion perched on top of a circular drive, and hurriedly backed down before some butler loosed the Dobermans on her. The fourth time, she parked alongside the road, got out of her car, and went over to the discreet black mailbox on its ornate wrought-iron post to read the house number.

"You're kidding me," she said to no one in particular, then flipped open the file of background information she had gathered on Mary Olsen, and scanned the material one last time. "Huh. Who the hell is a twenty-five-year-old unemployed waitress sleeping with to get a house like that? And does he want a mistress?"

Who,
turned out to be a neurosurgeon, which Rainie learned when she drove back up the driveway and made it to the front door. Dr. Olsen had already left for the day, but an oil portrait of his grandfather was the first thing she was shown when the butler – yes, the butler – led her into the cavernous marble foyer. He left her to stare while he went to fetch Mrs. Olsen.

Rainie amused herself by price-checking the interior. One gigantic round crystal table, centered in the middle of the foyer, bearing a Lalique stamp. She figured twenty grand. One highly polished side table constructed from bird's-eye maple with black walnut trim and legs straight out of a Louis XIV wet dream – probably fifteen grand. Sixteen-foot draperies of peach velvet with gold satin lining and miles of gold cord. Twenty thousand, maybe even thirty; custom window dressings weren't her strong suit.

At any rate, the room seemed to have a fifteen-grand minimum, which put Rainie way out of her league, as the last she knew her entire body was worth a whopping buck eighty-two, or something like that.

"Would you like some coffee?"

Mary Olsen stood at the top of the circular staircase, looking down into the foyer. As she was half-expecting Scarlett O'Hara at this point, Rainie found her first impression of Mary disappointing. No hoop skirt. No big hair. Just a frightfully young-looking girl in a blue-and-yellow flowered Laura Ashley dress, leaning over the gilded railing and looking at Rainie expectantly.

"I could handle coffee," Rainie said at last, her voice booming off the marble.

"Decaf or regular?"

"Never saw the point to decaf."

Mary Olsen smiled. Rainie thought the expression appeared tight on her face. She was nervous, Rainie realized. Little Mrs. Doctor Olsen was frightened of her.

Wow, she felt good for the first time in days.

Mary descended the stairs. She held on to the railing with both hands, which Rainie found interesting. So the former waitress was now living in a mansion, but obviously still not comfortable about it. When Mary hit floor level, Rainie got her second surprise. The woman was three inches taller than Rainie and had the dark eyes and sultry features of a Supermodel. That explained Dr. Olsen's interest, but he was dressing her all wrong. Screw Laura Ashley. Mary should be running around in V-neck dresses colored deep, sinner's red. Then again, the Olsens would probably go through a lot more butlers that way.

"We'll go into the front parlor," Mary said, her features carefully blank. "Follow me."

Rainie dutifully followed. The front parlor turned out to be bigger than her whole loft, crowded with white-painted French antiques, and decorated with more pale colors, this time blue and cream. When Mary sat on the delicate loveseat, her dress blended right into the silk-covered cushions. One minute Rainie was with a person, next minute it looked like she was interviewing a sofa with a head.

"As I mentioned on the phone," Rainie said, "I have a few simple questions about Amanda Quincy."

Mary held up a hand. "The coffee, please."

Rainie blinked, feeling gauche. Then she realized that good old Jeeves was hovering with a silver tray bearing an antique coffee urn and two tiny china cups. He set the serving tray down on a side table and did the honors of pouring the first dose. Rainie accepted hers with genuine trepidation. The paper-thin china looked old, rare, and highly fragile. She was guessing that it held approximately three sips of coffee, at which time she'd be forced to refill the cup herself from the heavy silver pot. Maybe she'd just nurse this batch.

"Nice place," Rainie tried, attempting to balance the teacup on her knee while still trying to figure out why Mandy's best friend appeared so nervous.

"It's been in my husband's family for generations."

"He's a doctor?"

"Yes."

"Works lots of hours?"

"Of course. He's one of the best neurosurgeons in the country and his patients need him."

Rainie was getting a few things now. "Older?"

"In his forties."

"Met him where you used to work, huh? Went from best tipper to permanent meal ticket. Not bad."

Mary flushed. "I suppose you could look at it that way."

"Oh no, trust me, I admire you. Wouldn't mind meeting a neurosurgeon, myself."

"Mark's a wonderful husband." Mary was still in defensive mode.

"Mark and Mary. Oh yeah, those Christmas cards have got to be killers."

"I thought you said you were working on Mandy's accident."

"You're right; I'm getting off track. So about the night in question – "

"What about that night?" Mary interrupted. "I'm afraid I don't understand the reason for this interview. The accident happened over a year ago. Mandy got drunk, she drove. She did that sometimes, you know. I don't see any point in you being here."

"Well, I heard about the coffee, thought I'd stop by." Rainie sighed at the confused look on Mary's face. Sarcasm was definitely lost on the woman. "So, about that night. You told Mandy's father that she had come over to play cards."

"That's right. We always played cards on Wednesday night. At least we did."

"Who's we?"

"Mandy, myself, Tommy, and Sue."

"You knew each other from…"

"We used to work together, at the restaurant, before I met Mark. Why is this relevant?" Mary had that tight look on her face again.

"Just asking," Rainie replied lightly. "So the four of you are playing cards."

"Hi-low-jack," Mary supplied.

"Great. Hi-low-jack. Party starts at…."

"I wouldn't call it a party," Mary said immediately. "We were drinking soda, you know. I told Mr. Quincy that we were drinking Coke."

"I got that. Playing cards, drinking Coke. You started at?"

"Nine, maybe ten. Sue's still a waitress and she had the dinner shift."

"You guys started that late on a weeknight?"

"Sue and Mandy waitressed, Tommys a bartender. So they don't have to be at work until noon at the earliest. And I… well, hours don't really matter much for me anymore."

Rainie thought she detected a trace of bitterness there. All was not well with Cinderella and Prince Charming. "You played cards until?"

"Two-thirty."

"Drinking soda the whole time."

"Yes," Mary said quickly. Too quickly. She looked down at her lap, where her fingers were now intertwined. Here we go, Rainie thought.

"You told Mandy's father that she didn't have anything to drink other than Diet Coke."

"I said I didn't
see
her drink anything other than Diet Coke."

"You didn't see?"

"I didn't see."

Rainie stood up. She put her cup back on the silver tray, happy to be rid of breakable objects. Then she turned back on Mary, and this time her gaze was hard.

"Didn't see, Mary?
Didn't see?
Now why does that seem to imply that Mandy might have been drinking after all, but
you don't want to admit it?"

Mary's gaze had become fixated on her lap. She untangled her fingers, twisted the three-carat rock on her left hand, then tangled her fingers back up again.

"I swear I didn't know," she whispered.

"Do us both a favor, Mary. Spit it out."

Mary's head jerked up. Her eyes were growing darker; maybe Mrs. Doctor Olsen had some fire in her after all. "She carried the Diet Coke can with her everywhere, okay? I didn't think much of it at the time, but Mandy kept the can with her everywhere. You know, even when she went into the bathroom."

"You think she might have been mixing her own drink on the side. Looks like Diet Coke, smells like Diet Coke, oops so I added a little rum."

"It wouldn't have been the first time."

"Alcoholics do learn some good tricks," Rainie agreed, though personally she'd never been one for mixed drinks. For her, it would always be beer. "Well, let's think about this, Mary. Amanda is doing a little bartending of her own. You say she got here ten at the latest, and didn't leave until two-thirty. That's at least four and a half hours of spiked Diet Coke. Couldn't you tell?"

"No," Mary said immediately. There was a clarity to her voice now, certainty that had been previously lacking. Interesting. "That was the thing with Mandy," Mary continued earnestly. "No matter how much she had to drink, she always seemed fine. Functional. Back when we were working, she used to brag about her tolerance. We all believed her. We never thought… never would've thought, that she had a problem."

"So her joining AA was news to you?"

"Yes. Though later, when we all looked back on things, it made sense. There were some nights after closing that she'd sit in the bar and down eight drinks before heading home. Even if she seemed all right, how right could she be? She wasn't much bigger than me and alcohol doesn't exactly evaporate from your bloodstream."

"So she could've been sneaking drinks that night and you wouldn't have known?"

"Yes." Mary nodded her head emphatically. "That's true."

"What about this mystery man?"

"Mystery man?" Mary blinked.

"At the funeral, you implied to Quincy that Mandy had met someone. The new love of her life."

"No, I didn't."

"You didn't?"

"No. I'm not sure where Mr.Quincy got that idea. I don't remember saying any such thing. Why would I say such a thing?" Mary spoke in a rush.

Rainie cocked her head to the side. She regarded Mary intently. "Maybe Quincy misunderstood you."

"Maybe." Mary nodded vigorously. "It was a funeral. He wasn't in the best shape. None of us…" Her voice choked for the first time, her head bobbed back down. "None of us were."

"Mary, are you sure you want to stick with this story? That your best friend got loaded on her own. Drove home on her own. Mowed down an old pedestrian on her own."

"I'm telling you what I know to the best of my knowledge – "

"It's not what you said four weeks ago at the funeral."

"It is, too! Mr.Quincy got it all wrong! I don't know, maybe he's even more grief stricken than we thought so now he's grasping at straws and twisting what I said. Who knows what grief-crazed fathers do!"

"Grief-crazed?" Rainie echoed skeptically.

Mary finally flushed. She looked away. On her lap, however, her fingers were tangling and untangling furiously. Rainie figured it would be a miracle if they didn't end up with whiplash. Rainie took a deep breath. She nodded at Mary thoughtfully. She took her time and paced the room.

"Beautiful furniture," she commented.

Mary didn't say anything. She looked now as if she would cry.

"Must have cost your husband a lot of money."

"Mark inherited most of it," she murmured.

"Still makes quite an impression. Must have blown you away the first time you saw all this. Cinderella, entering the castle."

"Please, I'm telling you the truth about Mandy."

"Fine. All right, you're telling the truth. I haven't denied it. I mean, I wasn't around a year ago. How do I know what your best friend drank on your last night together? How do I know if she laughed honestly while playing cards with you, or if it was some kind of drunken stupor? Hey, I don't even know if she hugged you before she left, thanked you for a great evening and for keeping her busy on the long nights when she was doing her best not to drink. Quitting cold turkey is tough. I've been there. It's tough and good friends make all the difference."

Mary bowed her head again. Her shoulders had started to shake.

"You're pretty lonely, aren't you, Mary?" Rainie said bluntly. "You're sitting in the house you always thought you wanted, and it's a prison cell. The proverbial gilded cage."

"I don't think I want to talk to you anymore."

"Your best friend's dead, your husband works all the time. Yeah, if I were you and I met the right man, someone who told me I looked pretty, someone who complimented my smile, I'd pretty much do whatever he wanted."

"This is crazy! I don't know what it is you think you're doing, but we're through. I mean that." Her head came up. She said sternly, "Get out."

And Rainie replied with the same artlessness Mary had employed before: "You mean you're not looking for a new best friend, Mary? You're not looking for anyone new to betray?"

"Damn you!" Mary sprang to her feet. "Harold!" she yelled. "Harold!"

The butler came scurrying into the room, his eyes wide at the hysteria percolating through his mistress's call. Rainie feigned a yawn, while Mary stabbed a shaking finger in her direction and screeched, "Get her out. Out, out,
out!"

The butler looked at Rainie. He was middle aged, and his bald head and gaunt features really didn't make him the intimidating type. Rainie, on the other hand, lounged against yet another side table with her right hand positioned strategically on a heavy gold candelabrum. Poor Harold didn't know what to do.

"Do you miss her?" Rainie asked Mary. "When Wednesday night rolls around, do you miss Mandy at all?"

"
Get out!
"

"The irony is," Rainie persisted softly, "that Mandy was the drunk, but I'm willing to bet she would've missed you. If your positions had been reversed, she would've missed you badly."