Play Dead

“Let’s get to it.”

“Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“Positive.”

Laura took hold of the letter opener and slit the envelope at the belly. The contents fell to the cushions of the couch. She put down the opener and started to shuffle through the items.

“What are all these things?” Gloria asked.

“Savings bonds. Mom has some, too. Grandma left them to her.”

“Laura, you don’t really think that Mom could have killed anybody, do you?”

“I don’t know. I hope not. But then again, I never thought she would have an affair and deceive all of us.”

“It’s all so crazy. What is going on? Why is everybody being killed?”

The diary was facedown, but Laura knew what it was even before she turned it over. “That’s it.”

“What?”

Laura picked it up.

Diary 1960

Gloria inhaled sharply. “Nineteen sixty. Isn’t that the year they had the affair?”

Laura nodded. “This is what the murderer was trying to destroy in the fire. Judy kept all her diaries behind her desk in the study. The blaze destroyed them all.”

“Except this one.”

“Right.”

Laura held the old volume in her hands. She opened it up and recognized Judy’s handwriting. It had not changed much in thirty years. Some of the letters looped a little higher back then. The pen had a lighter touch against the paper. But there was no mistaking the penmanship.

Gloria moved closer. “Start reading, Laura.”

JAMES grabbed an apple from the refrigerator. His wife was upstairs in bed, the lights out, her eyes open. None of them were going to get any sleep tonight, he thought. Words had been uttered that were best left unsaid. Secrets had been stirred that were best left to sleep.

He took a bite out of the apple. James was compulsive when it came to health. He allowed no cookies in his house, no cakes, no ice cream. Sherbet was okay because he felt it improved digestion. Snacks consisted of raisins, nuts, rice cakes, and a variety of fresh fruits. Apples were his favorite. McIntosh.

He sat alone in the kitchen with the light off. The lamp from the hallway provided enough illumination, casting giants shadows across the spacious white kitchen. James felt cold in his pajamas and robe, cold and alone. He had worked so hard to keep his family together, to provide for them and care for them. When had it all gone wrong? When had everything that mattered to him been leveled by deceit and lies?

He took another bite. He almost felt tears but quickly pushed them away. James Ayars did not cry. He was strong. He would remain strong and somehow save his family from the past. Thirty years ago, his wife had tried to deceive him. She had packed her lies into a snowball and let it roll down the slope, growing bigger and bigger with the years. Nothing had changed. Lies still ruled their lives. Tonight was a perfect example.

Mary. His achingly beautiful wife could charm him, seduce him, convince him to ignore or forget things that she had done. But when she lied to him, James always knew. He could always tell when she was trying to deceive him. Deep in his heart, he had known about Mary’s affair thirty years ago—even before he received oral confirmation. He had not known with whom or when or even how. But he knew.

He stood, tossed the apple core into the garbage, and headed down the corridor to his study. Tonight, Mary had lied again. So had Laura. He had not interrupted a casual mother-and-daughter chat. No, their conversation went well beyond that. Laura had learned something during her excursion to Chicago. When she had arrived back in Boston, she immediately came here. She pressured her mother until Mary cracked.

How much had Mary told Laura?

James did not know. As little as possible, he was sure. But Mary had undoubtedly opened her mouth and let the past rush out. She had told Laura enough to threaten the very fabric of the family he so cherished.

Everything was going wrong now. The deceptions that held their lives together were coming unglued in front of his eyes. He had to do something to hold the pieces together before they blew away like tiny grains of sand.

But what? What could he do to save his family?

Whatever it takes, he thought. He reached his study and flicked on the light. His long overcoat hung on the tall brass rack Mary had given him on their anniversary last year. He loved that rack. It fit in perfectly with the polished oak bookshelves of medical textbooks, the antique globe, the Persian carpet. The study had always been the most important room in the house for James. This was where he did all his serious thinking, where he planned for life’s blows and the strategies he would use to fend them off.

He reached into the pocket of the overcoat. His hand withdrew a gun. He stared at the weapon for a moment, almost hypnotized by its power. He crossed the study, flicked off the light, and moved out the front door without looking behind him.

If he had, he might have noticed his wife standing in the shadows.

HOURS passed. How many? Laura and Gloria could not say. The clock seemed to speed around like some cartoon prop. The sun started to rise. Laura kept on reading. Her eyes filled with tears. These words had been written by a Judy Simmons that Laura had never known. The author of this diary had been filled with such hope, such dreams, such youthful optimism. In many sections, Judy rambled randomly about a budding flower or a blue sky or her burning desire to be a novelist. She dreamed of living in Paris, of having a family, of spending summers in Cannes, of writing bestsellers.

Regret echoed through Laura’s heart. Judy had ended up doing none of those things. Somewhere along the way, her dreams had been derailed and lost forever. When Laura reached February 16, she learned how the derailment had begun:February 16, 1960

I met the most handsome and charming man in the world today. He is a professor at Brinlen College and his name is Sinclair Baskin. Now I understand what books mean when they speak of unbridled passion, of heroines who would do anything to stay with their man. . . .

Laura read parts out loud, skimmed through others. The relationship between Judy Simmons and Sinclair Baskin progressed rapidly. Judy soon learned that Sinclair Baskin was married with two children, but by then it was too late. As Judy herself admitted, love can make you more than blind; it can make you cruel and selfish. It could make you do things you never imagined:February 24, 1960

I love him. I cannot help my feelings. Emotions are not water faucets that can be turned on and off or made warm and cold, as I please. I know about his past. I know that I am not his first. But still I know that I am special to him. Most would dismiss me as terribly naive but I know the truth. I can see it in the way he looks at me. . . .