"Was she obsessed, Doctor?"

"Why don't you tell me more about what was in the sc.r.a.pbook," Doctor Greenspoon said.

Bonnie took a deep breath, sensing for the first time that he might be willing to help her. "Mostly, it was about the woman Rod married. Rod is Joan's ex-husband," Bonnie clarified.

He nodded. "And the woman's name?"

"Barbara," Bonnie said quickly, wondering why she'd selected that name for herself. She'd never liked the name Barbara. "There were announcements about Barbara's mother's death and her father's remarriage, about some trouble Barbara's brother had gotten himself into a few years back, stuff like that, as well as articles about Rod's progress at the network."

"And you think this sc.r.a.pbook holds the key to Joan's murder?"

"I don't know what to think. I don't know what to think about anything," Bonnie wailed. "That's why I'm so frustrated. n.o.body will tell me anything. And I was hoping if I came to you, that you might be able to help me. You don't have to divulge any confidences. You don't have to tell me anything that Joan said to you. Just tell me whether or not you think Barbara and her daughter might be in any danger, and, if you have any suspicions, whom they might be in danger from."

"What kind of trouble had Barbara's brother gotten himself into?" Dr. Greenspoon asked.

"What?"

"You mentioned that there was an article in the sc.r.a.pbook about some trouble Barbara's brother had gotten himself into."

Bonnie fought to keep her breathing under control. "Conspiracy to commit murder," she whispered finally.

"Conspiracy to commit murder?" the doctor repeated.

"Barbara's brother was a small-time hood with big ambitions," Bonnie said, finding it strangely comfortable to talk about herself in the third person. "It was funny, actually, because when he was little, he always said he was going to be a cop, that was all he ever wanted to be. At least that's what it said in the newspapers," Bonnie lied, wondering in what recess of her memory she'd held that little gem from the past. "What is it they say? Cops and criminals are two sides of the same coin?" she asked, trying to recover her composure.

"Seems to me I've heard something like that," the doctor agreed.

"Anyway," Bonnie continued, "he and his so-called partner got into trouble over some land development scheme, but the charges were dropped. A few years later, they were convicted of conspiracy to commit murder."

"Tell me about it."

"Well, I only know what I read in the papers," Bonnie said, fingering the small scar above her right eyebrow, "but apparently, it was some phony investment scheme gone sour. One of the parties, who'd already given Barbara's brother a lot of money, got suspicious of how the money was really being spent, and threatened to go to the police. My...Barbara's brother and his partner hired a hit man to kill this guy, only the hit man turned out to be an undercover cop. Isn't that always the way?" Bonnie laughed nervously, wondering if Dr. Greenspoon had caught her near slip. "I mean, you keep reading about these people hiring hit men to kill somebody, and the hit man always turns out to be an undercover cop. I don't think there are any real hit men in America. I think they're all undercover cops." Bonnie laughed again, a touch hysterically. "Anyway, they went to jail. Nick got three years; his partner, ten, because he already had a record, and because it was rumored that he had mob connections. Nick was just small potatoes." Bonnie's voice drifted to a halt.

"Is this the same Nick you mentioned earlier?"

"Yes. His name and phone number were in Joan's address book. So, there does seem to be a connection, don't you think?"

"What do you think?" Dr. Greenspoon asked. "Do you think your brother might be involved in Joan's murder?"

Bonnie stopped breathing, the full impact of the doctor's words slowly seeping into her brain, like thick syrup through a sieve. She opened her mouth to protest, thought better of it. What was the point? "How long have you known I'm not Joan's sister?" she asked quietly.

"Since I was told of your appointment," he told her. "Did you think I wouldn't know that Joan Wheeler was an only child?"

Bonnie closed her eyes, felt the leather cushion beneath her sinking toward the floor. How stupid could she be? she wondered.

"Do you want to tell me who you really are and what you're doing here?" the doctor asked.

"I'm Bonnie Wheeler," Bonnie told him. "Joan was my husband's ex-wife. I'm the woman Joan thought was in danger."

"I thought so," Dr. Greenspoon said, "especially once you said her name was Barbara. Bonnie...Barbara. Two Bs."

"To be or not to be," Bonnie mused out loud, and the doctor chuckled. "If you knew I wasn't Joan's sister, why didn't you just cancel the appointment?"

Walter Greenspoon shrugged. "I figured that whoever you were, you obviously knew Joan, and, just as obviously, you needed help."

"I'm sorry," Bonnie told him, her eyes still closed. "I should have known I wouldn't get away with it."

"I think you did know," he told her simply.

Bonnie ignored the implications of his remark. "You won't tell me anything?"

"For what it's worth, I can a.s.sure you that if Joan had said anything during our sessions that might point the finger at her killer, I would have shared that information with the police."

"Did she ever say anything about me?" Bonnie pressed.

"More than that, I can't tell you."

"So, you won't help me," Bonnie said dejectedly, rising to her feet.

"On the contrary," Dr. Greenspoon said, "I think I can help you a great deal, if you'll let me."

"You're saying I need therapy?"

"I think you're a woman in torment," he said gently, "and that therapy could be very beneficial to you. I hope you'll give it some serious thought."

Bonnie walked to the door of his office and pulled it open. "I'm afraid one visit is all I can afford," she said.

17.

There was an unfamiliar black car in her driveway when Bonnie arrived home. "Now what?" she asked, peeking in the car's front window, wondering whether Lauren had company. Except that Lauren didn't seem to have any friends, and she'd been feeling so sick the last few days, it was doubtful she'd have picked now to invite anyone over. Maybe she'd called the doctor, Bonnie thought, quickening her pace, key reaching for the lock.

The smell hit her as soon as she opened the door. Thick, pungent, full of exotic spices. "h.e.l.lo?" she called. Was somebody cooking something?

"We're in the kitchen," Lauren called back.

She sounds healthy and cheerful enough, Bonnie thought, wondering what was going on. "Lauren? Whose car is in the driveway?"

He was standing in front of the stove top, hunched over a large pot, his back to her, his slim hips inside a pair of tight jeans, his blond hair falling forward, a large wooden spoon in his right hand. Even before he turned around, Bonnie could see his face, sense his impish grin.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice so low she wasn't sure she'd spoken out loud.

He pivoted on the heels of his brown leather boots, spun slowly toward her. "I thought you wanted to see me," he said, "and I decided it was high time I paid my big sister a visit."

For an instant, Bonnie was too stunned to speak. Nicholas Lonergan, looking tanned and fit and tough as ever, brought the wooden spoon to his lips and licked at the bright red sauce clinging to it, as if it were an ice-cream cone. Bonnie's glance shifted to Lauren, sitting at the kitchen table in her baby blue housecoat, her skin color back to normal, her eyes traveling warily between Bonnie and her brother, as if she were courtside at Wimbledon. "I don't understand," Bonnie said to Lauren, trying to keep her voice steady. "He came over and you just let him in?"

"He's your brother. I didn't think you'd mind."

"How did you know he's my brother?" Bonnie demanded, her voice raised. "He could have been anyone."

"I recognized him from his pictures in my mother's sc.r.a.pbook," Lauren shot back defensively.

"Ladies, ladies," Nick interjected, with infuriating calm. "No fighting over me, please. Play nice."

Bonnie closed her eyes, felt her body sway. Let this be a bad dream, she prayed. Let me open my eyes and see no one.

"I'm sorry if I've done something wrong," Lauren was saying, her words cutting into the edges of Bonnie's fantasy. "He's your brother. Maybe he made a mistake, but he's paid his debt to society."

"That I have," Nick concurred, his voice crawling inside Bonnie's head, forcing her eyes open. "And one of the things I learned in the slammer is how to cook. And n.o.body, and I mean n.o.body, makes a meaner spaghetti sauce than yours truly."

"Meaner being the operative word," Bonnie said.

Nick smiled, revealing the chipped front tooth he'd received in a fistfight when he was barely into his teens. A tough guy even then, Bonnie remembered. "Come on, Bonnie, loosen up. Sit down, put your feet up, enjoy a little fine cuisine...."

"It smells wonderful," Lauren said.

"You're feeling better, I take it," Bonnie remarked.

Lauren nodded. "I woke up around ten, and I felt fine. All better."

"Well, that's good anyway," Bonnie said, avoiding further eye contact with her brother, trying to decide how to handle his presence in her home.

"Nick got here about an hour ago. He made me a cup of tea." Lauren held up her empty mug as proof.

"A regular Julia Child."

"Would you like a cup?" Nick asked.

"Just what do you think you're doing, Nick?" Bonnie asked, ignoring his offer, unable to contain herself any longer. "What are you doing in my kitchen?"

"Making you dinner," Nick said simply.

"I don't need you to make me dinner."

"I wanted to do something for you."

"I think you've done enough already."

"What's done is done," Nick said, after a pause. "I can't change the past."

"Nick was telling me about what it's like to be in jail," Lauren said.

Bonnie said nothing, focusing on her brother's face, still able to make out the young boy hiding behind the man's features. He'd always had an interesting face, even as a child. The kind of face that was constantly changing, buffeted by moods and circ.u.mstance, one minute sweet and kind, the next minute hard and cynical. Lover's eyes and a killer's smile. Full of the devil, as their mother used to say. "You look good," Bonnie conceded finally.

"Thank you. So do you."

Bonnie leaned back against the kitchen counter, grateful for the support. "I understand you have a job."

"Yep. I'm in the travel business now. Anywhere you want to go, just give me a call. I'll get you the best deal in town."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"My dad's going to Florida the end of next week," Lauren volunteered. "With Marla Brenzelle."

"Really." It was more commentary than question.

"There's some sort of conference in Miami," Lauren continued. "He'll be gone almost a week."

Bonnie glared at Lauren to be quiet. What was the matter with the girl? She'd barely said two words since her mother's death, and now there was no shutting her up.

"Think it's wise to let your husband trot off to Miami with the likes of Marla Brenzelle?" Nick asked, obviously enjoying Bonnie's discomfort. "That's one hot-looking woman."

If you like quilts, Bonnie was about to respond, thought better of it. Now was hardly the time or place to get into an argument with her brother over some minor irrelevancy. There were too many important issues that needed to be discussed, pivotal questions that needed to be answered. Exactly what was your relationship to Joan Wheeler? What was your name doing in her address book? Where were you on the day she was murdered? Did you kill her? What were you doing lurking in the school yard hours before someone emptied a pail of blood over the head of my innocent child? Could you be that someone? What are you doing back in my life?

Yet how could she ask any questions about Joan with Lauren sitting right there? How could she demand answers about her daughter when Pam Goldenberg would be bringing Amanda home any minute? How could she get into any of this now when Diana was coming for dinner? "Jesus Christ," she muttered. She'd forgotten all about Diana. She hadn't gone grocery shopping; she didn't have anything prepared; she hadn't warned Rod about Diana's visit.

"Something wrong?" Nick asked.

"Just how much spaghetti sauce have you made?" Bonnie asked.

"Enough for the neighborhood," came Nick's immediate response.

"Good," Bonnie said, eyes drawn to the front window as Joan's red Mercedes pulled into the driveway and Sam and Haze bounded up the walk. "Looks like we'll be needing it."

"Do you want to tell me what's going on here?" Rod asked under his breath, pressing against his wife's side, indicating the living room filled with people. Diana, looking beautiful in a white sweater and black pants, was holding Amanda on her lap and reading her a story, Sam hovering nearby on the avocado green sofa, watching, and maybe even listening. Lauren sat in one of two coral-and-white-striped wing chairs, Haze balancing precariously on its arm, occasionally leaning over to whisper something in her ear. Nick was temporarily back in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on his self-proclaimed infamous spaghetti.

"Nick was already here when I got home," Bonnie explained, pretending to be scratching her nose, talking behind her hand. "He'd already started dinner. And then Sam brought Haze home and asked whether he could stay, and I'd forgotten I'd invited Diana...."

"How are you holding up?"

"Surprisingly," Bonnie confessed, "I'm actually enjoying myself. It's nice to have a house full of people, and they all seem pretty relaxed, like they're having a good time. How are you?"

Rod leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose. "Well, it's not quite the quiet evening alone with my wife I'd been counting on, but I guess I can cope."

Bonnie nodded. She was learning not to count on anything these days. Nothing, it appeared, ever proceeded the way it was supposed to. No one could be counted on to behave predictably. Her brother, for example, the golden boy of whom great things were expected, but who instead dropped out of college to wander aimlessly around the country, disappearing into a life of crime, surfacing only when he ran out of money, ending up in prison. What was he doing standing over the hot stove in her kitchen, happily preparing dinner for eight? And Haze, a boy whose disruptive behavior regularly interfered with her teaching, a boy whose tattooed arms angrily advertised his antisocial att.i.tude, who'd threatened her, and skipped her last several cla.s.ses, obviously saw nothing odd about inviting himself over for dinner.

And she was enjoying herself, Bonnie marveled, patting Rod's elbow as she headed for the kitchen, thinking that maybe now might be a good time to catch a few minutes alone with Nick.

He was chopping an onion as she approached, the knife in his hand moving with careless precision. "Don't come too close," he cautioned, not even bothering to turn around, as if he'd been expecting her. "It'll make you cry."

Probably true, Bonnie decided, thinking the onion an apt metaphor for the last few weeks of her life. She kept peeling back layers, only to discover more layers hidden inside. The more secrets she peeled away, the more secrets remained, guarding the skeleton buried at its core. The closer she got to the center, the sharper the onion's sting, the greater the likelihood of her tears.

"How well did you know Joan?" Bonnie asked, without further preamble.