I coughed loudly. “I’m sick.” Cough. “Contagious. And, um . . . I don’t want the Dobermans to get out.” In addition to my father’s security precautions, I was going to go online tonight and order a bunch of those BEWARE OF GUARD DOG stickers to slap on every window.
I thought I heard the man sigh. He bent down, and then my peephole view was blocked by the shimmery blob. What was that? From the curb came the sound of a car engine starting and pulling away. I waited several seconds, then sneaked into the living room and peeked out the window. No one was on the front step, or anywhere in sight. I yanked the door open to find a huge bouquet of silver balloons, weighted down by a basket stuffed with chocolate. Inside the basket was a note: For Sweet Caroline Get well soon and then come see us.
Your Devoted Admirer, Leland Brett
? ? ?
I WAS SMILING and carrying the balloons into the living room when I noticed a bag tucked in the corner of the hall. A paper shopping bag, the kind with handles, half-filled with mail. Laura must have tidied up -everything the postman had pushed through the letter slot this past week.
I dumped the contents on the coffee table. Four catalogs from Pottery Barn, a store where I had never shopped. A coupon for a free entrée on my birthday from Mai Thai, the neighborhood Thai restaurant. Bills from Washington Gas and AT&T. And a thick manila envelope, postmarked Atlanta and mailed five days ago.
I ripped it open. Inside was a handwritten note from Cheral Rooney.
Dear Caroline,
I am writing and hoping this finds you well. I expect you saw my quote in the newspaper, about how much you and S.R. look alike. I enclose the article in case you missed it. I was embarrassed to be interviewed, to tell the truth. My mother always said a lady should only appear in the newspaper three times: when she’s born, when she marries, and when she dies. Times change though.
You asked to see a photo. You said you deserved to know the truth, even the bad parts. I went back and forth on whether to send these to you. Then I decided you are right.
Sincerely,
Cheral
P.S. Your mother loved you very much. Don’t you ever forget it.
From the envelope I shook a crumpled newspaper clipping and several faded photos. These, small and square, had a wide, white border, the way photographs were printed when I was a child. I picked up the first one and studied it. Blinked.
Standing there, with his arm around Sadie Rawson Smith, was a man I recognized.
Thirty-eight
* * *
I had to squint. I’d only met him the one time.
Ethan Sinclare looked young in the photo, but his features were unmistakable.
The second picture showed Sadie Rawson and a young Cheral, posing in profile with matching pregnancy bumps. The third was the original of Boone and Sadie Rawson flipping burgers at a backyard barbecue, the one that ran in the Journal-Constitution in 1979, the one that had brought tears to my eyes two weeks ago, when Jessica Yeo had unearthed it from the archives. It must have been Cheral who provided it to the newspaper in the first place. The last image was blurry and shot from a strange angle, as though the photographer had not wanted to be detected. It showed Sadie Rawson lounging on the sand in a bikini, reading a magazine, her eyes hidden behind huge sunglasses. A few feet away, a deeply tanned man sat watching her. I couldn’t swear to it, but it looked like Sinclare.
I fanned out the four photos, the clipping, and Cheral’s note on the table.
It didn’t make sense.
I fetched a glass of water from the kitchen, then sank back onto the sofa. It took a minute to locate Cheral’s phone number.
“Hey, honey, I’m glad to hear from you. Did you get my—”
“You said Sadie Rawson’s lover was named Tank.”
“He was.”
“But this photo you mailed me . . . I know this man. His name is Ethan Sinclare.”
“I know that, honey. I told you, Tank was his high school nickname. From the football team. It’s what we all called him. I don’t know whether he still goes by it. I’m happy to say I haven’t seen that psychopath in thirty years. But . . .” She stopped. She seemed to have just processed what I had said. “But, Caroline, did you say you know him?”
“He came to my hotel. In Atlanta. The same week I met you.”
She gasped in horror. “Did he try to hurt you?”
“No! He was nice. He bought me breakfast. He actually—I wouldn’t have let him if I’d known—but he picked up the entire bill for my hotel room. Three nights at the St. Regis.”
She grunted. “I didn’t say he was poor. I said he was a damn psychopath.”
“Cheral, you must know that the police checked out Sinclare. It wasn’t him. Couldn’t have been.”
“Sure, sure. Why, because there’s no proof that he and Sades were having an affair? And because he had an ironclad alibi?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Those aren’t trivial points, Cheral.”
“I gave the police that photo of him ogling her on the beach. He was in love with her, it’s totally obvious.”
If she was talking about the picture I now held in my hand, I was not convinced. All it seemed to prove was that he appreciated a woman who could fill out a DD-cup bikini. If every man who fit that description was a killer, I was in trouble.
“The whole alibi thing . . . I don’t know how he pulled that off,” she admitted.
“What was his alibi, anyway?”
“He said he was with a client all day. You know he’s a prominent lawyer here? At one of the big Atlanta firms?”
“Yes. He told me that.”
“God, I can’t believe you spoke to Tank. That arrogant, lying pig,” spat Cheral. She took a moment to collect herself. “Anyway, his story was that he was in his office downtown, with a client, at the time the murders were committed. The client backed him up. It was . . . What was his name? A banker or something. Some sort of businessman.”
“So, your theory . . . your theory is that they were both lying? Sinclare, and his banker client, too?”