Did they buy what? I infer the rest:
Did they buy your fake story, Michael? The fabricated past about your parents dead in a car wreck? Did they buy that you were nice, sincere, and not sociopathic? Not planning to get some sort of revenge on the woman who aided your mother’s prosecution fifteen years ago?
Maybe. Maybe that’s what’s unsaid, but I can’t be sure.
You there yet?
How did it go?
These are innocuous. They could easily be about the marriage proposal. Telling your fiancée’s parents.
But:
Did they buy it?
This is so loaded. A phrase with specific connotations. It refers to someone running a con.
I set the phone down but don’t move for a moment, recalling the headlines from back then, the chyrons on the cable news: Bronxville Woman Pleads Guilty to Husband Murder.
Bronxville. One of the richest cities in one of the richest counties in the United States. So why did she do it? Money, of course. That was the principal speculation. Even left-of-center and right-of-center media outlets could agree: this was a murderous, gold-digging woman. When her husband didn’t give her a large enough allowance, buy her enough things, she staged a break-in and killed him for the insurance.
There was little dissent. Just a reporter here or there who pointed out that Laura Bishop actually worked — she was an artist’s manager and had some high-profile clients, whose work was displayed at the MOMA, at the Tate Modern, and so on.
Ah, there’s no money in that, people argued.
But if Laura’s finances were ever parsed — and I’m sure they were — I never saw the data.
Besides, in the end, Laura Bishop took a deal. She pled guilty to a lesser charge — murder in the second degree, meaning it was spur-of-the-moment crime and not premeditated. She was given twenty-five years in prison. When she got out, she’d be in her sixties. Her prime years would be behind her, never to return.
She didn’t fight it. Laura Bishop stood up in court and, claiming she was of sound mind and that she understood what she was doing, she entered her guilty plea. Case closed.
That day, when I sat in the back of the courtroom, returns to me fully now. Tom wasn’t there, thank God. He was off with his aunt somewhere. But his uncle came to court, the name I’ve just remembered: Arnold Bleeker. A tall and narrow man; Laura’s brother-in-law. I recall that we met eyes, Bleeker and I, just once. It was after Laura, standing in her orange DOC jumpsuit, had admitted her guilt. He looked at me through the slow-moving sea of people leaving the courtroom. It seemed like he knew me, like he knew I’d been the one to get the truth from his nephew. But of course he couldn’t; everything that happened with me and Tom was held in confidence.
Unless Tom had said something? How much did an eight-year-old understand? He’d moaned and cried and confessed his secret to me. Shortly after, the police had taken a statement from him. I knew that such a statement would be critical, and it had turned out to be the cornerstone of the prosecutor’s case against Laura Bishop — but such a young boy wouldn’t know that. Plus, many days had passed between his aching confession to me and the hearing in which Laura pled guilty. When he was finally told that his mother was going to prison, even more time had elapsed.
What would a young boy know about the criminal justice system? He might’ve recognized that he’d had a role to play, but no more than that.
Did they buy it?
I’m still standing in Joni’s bedroom, holding Michael’s phone, staring at this text.
Enough, I think. I replace the phone under a ripple of bed covering and turn to leave the room. My heart jumps and my breath catches in my throat.
Paul is standing there. He’s sweaty and smells like cut grass. He frowns at me. “What’re you doing?”
“Nothing.” I push past him and into the hallway, then start down the stairs.
“I was calling for you,” he says.
I stop halfway down the staircase. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. I came in the house, couldn’t find you.”
I wait.
Paul cocks his head. “Find anything?”
“No,” I say quickly. And it’s mostly true. I didn’t find anything concrete, just memories that have got me wanting to locate Arnold Bleeker and his wife. What was her first name?
Alice.
Paul says, “Okay, well, is there a plan? Lunch? Dinner? Should we go out tonight, celebrate?”
In my distractedness, I haven’t given any thought to how we’re going to officially respond to our daughter’s wedding engagement. Even if I’m scrounging around in the background, trying to get some answers, it’s best to keep up appearances. Especially if what I turn up ends up being nothing.
Paul remains at the top of the stairs. He’s removed his shoes, and the white socks are stained green around the ankles. “How about the Interlaken for dinner?” He’s suggesting our favorite restaurant. “Unless you’re thinking of going out for lunch instead. Which is, I guess, the point I’m making . . .”
“Let me think about dinner.” I turn and continue down the stairs. Before I leave Paul’s earshot I say, “But there’s cold cuts in the fridge for lunch, if you’re too hungry to wait: bread, pickles. Make yourself a sandwich. I’ll be right back. I have to run out.”
CHAPTER NINE
Cell service is typically terrible by the lake, so I’ve jumped into the Range Rover and taken off down the bumpy, unimproved road. I’d glanced at the dock, only to see the towels but still no sign of the kids.
The dirt road lets out on a narrow, paved road. I drive slowly. The road bisects a long thicket of bushes — there’s some nice wild raspberries in there. This road meets with a third, which leads into town. I don’t have to go very far before I can pick up a signal, and so I pull over to the shoulder and make my call.
Mena has been my assistant for years. She’s one in a million. Paul once remarked that I’m so fond of Mena because she’s never seemed to have any ambitions beyond helping me. “It’s true,” I admitted, “I’m fascinated with people who seem to have their ego under such control.”
But Mena’s phone goes to voicemail.
“Hi,” I say, “it’s me. I hope you’re doing well, and I wonder if you could grab something for me from the back room. A file on Tom Bishop; I’m not sure if you remember. I just, um . . . Everything’s fine, it’s just a little something that came up and—”
There’s a strange beep in my ear. Now that my phone is back in service, it’s registering a voicemail. And I know the number.
Still talking to Mena’s mailbox, I finish: “Oh, I see I’ve actually got a voicemail from you. Weird. Let me check that and I’ll . . . oh, hell.”
I stop talking and wait for the automated voice to ask me if I’m satisfied with my message. When prompted, I choose to cancel it. Good grief, I sounded tongue-tied.