Play Dead

“You heard me.” She flipped the passport toward her mother. Mary jumped back as if it were a chunk of hot coal. “You were in Australia during our honeymoon. Don’t deny it, Mother. Passports don’t lie.”

Mary said nothing. She moved farther and farther back until she nearly crouched in a corner.

“How did you find out we were there, Mother? Did Dad tell you? Or Gloria?”

Mary closed her eyes and shook her head hard.

“Did they tell you or—?” Laura stopped speaking. Her mind jerked back to the break-in at their new house, the open calendar on the desk, the shredded photograph. . . . “It was you.”

“What?”

“You were the one who broke into our house while we were away, weren’t you, Mother? That explains why there was no forced entry. You got the key to the house from my apartment, and I told you the alarm code when we first had it installed. You were the one who went through our calendar. That’s how you knew where we were. And it was you who tore up the picture of David’s father, wasn’t it, Mother?”

Mary still said nothing, her body quaking in the corner.

Laura’s shout vibrated through the room. “Wasn’t it, Mother?”

Mary’s shoulder sagged. Finally, she nodded.

“But why?”

Mary began to speak in a voice that quavered on every word. “Because I could tell something important was going on between you two,” she said. “Your office had no idea where you were. Your father and sister said that you were probably on a business trip, but whenever you had traveled in the past, you let me know. You never just took off without calling me. So I became scared. I went to your apartment to look for some clue, but there was nothing there. Then I saw the key to the new house you bought with David. I drove there and rummaged through the desk until I found David’s calendar. It told me all about your secret elopement to Australia.”

“And what about the photograph? Why did you rip it up?”

Mary turned away, nervously repositioning the rings on her fingers. “I didn’t plan on ripping up any photographs,” she said. “The photo album was just sitting on the desk, so I started to look through it. I was so upset. . . . I guess I just lashed out a photograph.”

“Not just any photograph,” Laura replied carefully, “but a photograph of Sinclair Baskin. Do you remember him?”

“No. Of course not—”

“Let me refresh your memory then,” Laura interrupted, fighting desperately to keep her temper in check. “You stole Sinclair Baskin away from Aunt Judy thirty years ago.”

Mary’s face went white. “How . . . ?”

“You had an affair with him,” Laura continued, “or have you had so many affairs over the years that a few have slipped your mind?”

Mary clasped her hands over her ears. Her eyes squeezed shut. “No, no . . .”

“And now that I think of it, wasn’t Aunt Judy dating Dad before you met him? Didn’t you steal Dad away from her, too?”

“No, no . . .”

“And Sinclair Baskin broke it off with you, didn’t he? When he was finished having his fun and using you, he tossed you away.”

“That’s not it at all. . . .”

“How could you do that to Dad? How could you sneak behind his back like that?”

Mary’s head fell into her hands. For the first time, her voice was above a whisper. “Don’t you think I ask myself that every day? I love your father very much. I never, never had another affair after that.”

“How big of you,” Laura shot back sarcastically.

“Back then,” Mary continued, “your father was working at the hospital day and night. I never saw him. I took care of Gloria and sat at home all day watching soap operas. Sinclair came along. He was a handsome, charismatic, worldly man, and I was young and naive. I fell for him. You of all people should understand the attraction. Your David probably possessed similar charms.”

“Don’t compare what I had with David to your sleazy affair.”

“I’m not,” Mary replied. “I’m just saying that I was lonely and young. I made a mistake. I don’t expect you to understand, and I don’t want your sympathy.”

“Good, because you’re not going to get it. But I have another question. Why did you kill Sinclair Baskin?”

Her mother stopped. “Kill Sinclair? He committed suicide like . . .”

“Like who, Mother?”

“No-nobody. Sinclair Baskin committed suicide. He shot himself in the head.”

“Another lie, Mother.”

“No, it’s the truth—”

“It’s a lie!” Laura shouted. “Sinclair Baskin broke it off with you. You were crushed, destroyed. After all, nobody breaks up with the gorgeous Mary Ayars, right? And according to his secretary, you were the last person to see him alive.”

“He committed suicide, Laura. Everybody knows that.”

“Wrong, Mother. Stan Baskin was there. He was hiding behind a couch. He saw his father being murdered.”

Mary’s body swayed. Her head kept shaking, deny- ing her daughter’s words. “I never harmed Sinclair. I swear it. Yes, we had an affair thirty years ago, but I had nothing to do with his death. You have to believe me. For thirty years, I’ve had to pay for what I did back then. We have all had to pay in ways I could have never imagined.”

“Including David?”

“It was never supposed to happen that way.”

“What way?”

“David was never supposed to die.”

Laura stopped in midbreath. “You killed him,” she said in a hushed voice.

“I didn’t mean to,” Mary cried. “I thought it would all end differently. I thought I was doing what was best for everyone.”

“You killed David!”

Mary shook her head. “You don’t understand. It was unplanned, an accident. I thought he’d react differently.”

“React differently? Did you really think that you could just talk him into leaving me?”

“Something like that . . .”

“You thought he would dump me just like Sinclair Baskin dumped you thirty years ago?”

“It was a chance I had to take.”

“And when he refused, you had him killed.”

Mary’s head snapped up. “No! That’s not it at all.”

“You hated him because of what his father did to you thirty years ago.”