Caught
Applause.
Sherry Turnball said, “You think this is all pretty pathetic, don’t you?”
“Not my place to judge.”
Ten-A-Fly began to perform what some might consider a “dance,” though medical experts would probably classify it as a “seizure” or “devastating stroke.”
Yo, girl, swing dem puppies,
Swing em like you’re my favorite ho,
Swing dem puppies,
Swing dem like you’re Best in Show,
Swing dem puppies,
Yo, got here a bone to feed ya,
Swing dem puppies,
Take it, girl, be no protest from PETA . . .
Wendy rubbed her eyes, blinked, opened them again.
By now, the other members of the Fathers Club were standing and joining in for the “Swing Dem Puppies” chorus, letting Ten-A-Fly solo on the lines between:Swing dem puppies,
Ten-A-Fly: “No need to scream and holler.”
Swing dem puppies.
Ten-A-Fly: “Swing dem right, I gives you a pearl doggie collar. . . .”
Wendy made a face. The men were up now. The guy who’d been wearing the tennis whites was all prepped out in a bright green polo. Phil had khakis and a blue button-down. He was standing and clapping and seemingly lost in the rap. Sherry Turnball stared off.
“You okay?” Wendy asked.
“It’s nice to see Phil smile.”
The rap went on for a few more verses. Wendy spotted Pops talking up two ladies in the corner. The biker look was rare in suburbia—and some tony club hopper always wanted to take home the bad boy.
Sherry said, “See the woman sitting up front?”
“The one who threw her panties onstage?”
She nodded. “That’s Norm’s—uh, Ten-A-Fly’s—wife. They’ve got three kids, and they’re going to have to sell their house and move in with her parents. But she’s supportive.”
“Nice,” Wendy said, but looking again, the cheering looked a little too forced, closer perhaps to classic overcompensation than true enthusiasm.
“Why are you here?” Sherry Turnball asked.
“I’m trying to find out the truth about Dan Mercer.”
“A little late, don’t you think?”
“Probably. Phil said something strange to me today. He said he understood what it was like to be wrongly accused.”
Sherry Turnball played with her drink.
“Sherry?”
Her eyes rose and met Wendy’s. “I don’t want him hurt anymore.”
“That’s not my intent here.”
“Phil wakes up every morning at six and puts on a suit and tie. Like he’s going to work. Then he buys the local papers and drives down to the Suburban Diner on Route Seventeen. He sits there alone with his coffee and goes through the classifieds. By himself, wearing a suit and tie. Every morning, alone. The exact same thing.”
Wendy flashed again on her father sitting at the table stuffing résumés into envelopes.
“I try to tell him it’s okay,” Sherry said. “But if I suggest moving down to a smaller house, Phil takes it as a personal failure. Men, right?”
“What happened to him, Sherry?”
“Phil loved his job. He was a financial adviser. A money manager. Nowadays those are negative terms. But Phil used to say, ‘People trust me with their life savings.’ Think about that. He cares for people’s money. They entrust him with their toil, their kids’ college education, their retirement. He used to say, ‘Imagine the responsibility of that—and the honor.’ It was all about trust with him. About honesty and honor.”
She stopped. Wendy waited for her to continue. When she didn’t, Wendy said, “I did some research.”
“I’m going back to work. Phil doesn’t want that. But I’m going back.”
“Sherry, listen to me. I know about the embezzlement charge.”
She stopped as though she’d been slapped. “How?”
“That’s not important. Is that what Phil meant by wrongly accused?”
“The allegations are trumped-up nonsense. An excuse to fire one of their most highly paid. If he was guilty, why hasn’t he been charged?”
“I’d like to talk to Phil about it.”
“Why?”
Wendy opened her mouth, stopped, closed it again.
Sherry said, “It doesn’t have anything to do with Dan.”
“Maybe it does.”
“How?”
Good question.
“Will you talk to him for me?” Wendy asked.
“And say what?”
“That I want to help him.”
But a thought hit Wendy, something Jenna had said, something Phil and Sherry had said too, stuff about the past, about Princeton, the name Farley. She needed to get home, get to a computer, do some research. “Just talk to him, okay?”
Ten-A-Fly started up another song, an ode to some MILF named Charisma, plagiarizing himself with some joke about having no charisma in him but wanting to be in Charisma. Wendy rushed over to Pops.
“Come on,” she said.
Pops gestured toward the tipsy woman with the beckoning smile and plunging neckline. “Working here.”
“Get a phone number and tell her to swing dem puppies at you later. We’ve got to get out of here.”
CHAPTER 15
GOAL ONE FOR INVESTIGATOR Frank Tremont and Sheriff Mickey Walker: Find a connection between molester Dan Mercer and missing girl Haley McWaid.
Haley’s phone had so far provided few clues—no new texts, e-mails, or calls—though Tom Stanton, a young Sussex County cop with some techno background, was still going through it. Still, with the help of a teary Ted and steely Marcia, it didn’t take long to come up with a link between Haley and Dan Mercer. Haley McWaid had been a senior at Kasselton High School. One of her classmates was a girl named Amanda Wheeler, stepdaughter of Jenna Wheeler, Dan’s ex. Dan Mercer was friendly with his ex-wife and purportedly spent a great deal of time at their house.
Connection.
Jenna and Noel Wheeler sat on a couch across from him in their classic split-level home. Jenna’s eyes were puffy from recent tears. She was a small woman, tight body like she worked out, probably striking when her face wasn’t bloated from crying. The husband, Noel, was, Tremont had learned, head of cardiac surgery at Valley Medical Center. His hair was dark, unruly, a little too long—almost like what you’d expect in a concert pianist.
Another plush couch, Frank thought, in another lovely suburban home. Like with the McWaids. Both couches were nice, probably pretty expensive. This one was bright yellow with blue flowers. Springlike. Frank pictured it, the two of them, Noel and Jenna Wheeler (or Ted and Marcia McWaid), going to some highway furniture store, probably on Route 4, testing out a bunch of couches, trying to figure out which one would go in their lovely suburban home, match both the décor and lifestyle, combine comfort and durability, how it would blend in with the designer wallpaper and Oriental carpet and the knickknacks from that trip to Europe. They had it delivered and moved it from spot to spot until it was just right, collapsed into it, called the kids to try it out, maybe even sneaked down late one night to break it in.