Pieces of Her

  He stroked back her hair. His mouth went to her ear. He always whispered when he told her the important things. “I didn’t ignore you the entire weekend.”

  Jane could not stop her heart from doing the floaty thing again. Even now in this horrible moment, she could still remember the thrill of Nick surprising her in the kitchen. She was reading a magazine when he’d wandered in. Jane had said something flinty to make him go away, and he’d kissed her, wordlessly, before backing out of the room and closing the door.

  Nick said, “I was practically an orphan when I met you. I didn’t have anybody. I was completely alone. And then I had you.” His hand held the back of her neck. He was suddenly serious. “Tell me you’re still with me. I have to know.”

  “Of course.” He’d done this in Oslo, then again on the plane home, then their first night back in San Francisco. He seemed terrified that the three months they’d spent apart had somehow weakened her resolve. “I’m with you, Nick. Always.”

  He searched her eyes for a sign, some indication that she was lying to him the way that everyone else had in his life.

  “I am yours,” she repeated, firmly. “Every part of me is yours.”

  “Good girl.” His smile was hesitant. He had been hurt by so many people before.

  Jane wanted to hold him, but he hated when she got clingy. Instead, she tilted up her face so that he would kiss her. Nick obliged, and for the first time in days, Jane could breathe again.

  “My darling,” he whispered into her ear. His hands slid under her camisole. His mouth moved to her breasts. Jane was finally able to wrap her arms around him. She didn’t want sex, but she knew telling him no again would hurt his feelings. What she craved most was the after. When he held her. When he told her that he loved her. When he made her feel like everything was going to be okay.

  That would be the moment to tell him.

  As Nick laid her back on the bed, Jane felt all the words she had silently practiced over the last month rush to her lips—I’m sorry, terrified, ecstatic, overjoyed, anxious, panicky, elated, so scared that you’ll leave me because—

  I’m pregnant.

  “Hello?”

  They both sat back up. Jane gripped the sheets around her neck.

  “You guys awake?” Andrew knocked on the door before peering into the room. “Everyone decent?”

  “Never,” Nick said. He still held one of her breasts underneath the sheet. Jane tried to pull away, but Nick snaked his arm around her waist so that she could not. He stroked the small of her back, his eyes on Andrew.

  Nick said, “Two more agents pulled into the front drive.”

  “I saw.” Andrew wiped his nose with his sleeve. He was still fighting off the cold from Norway. He told Nick what Jane dared not. “Don’t be aggressive with them, Nicky. Please.”

  They all looked at each other. Nick’s hand stroked lower down Jane’s back. She felt a flush of heat work its way up her neck and into her face. She hated when he did this sort of thing in front of Andrew.

  Nick said, “I feel like we should be touching the sides of our noses like they did in The Sting.”

  “This is real life.” Andrew’s tone was strident. They were all terrified that the house was bugged. The last few days had been like tiptoeing around the sharp end of a needle. “Our father has been murdered. A woman has been kidnapped. You need to take this seriously.”

  “I’ll at least take it cleanly.” Nick bit Jane’s shoulder before marching into the bathroom.

  Jane pulled the sheets tighter around her neck. She stared at the closed bathroom door. She wanted to go after him, to beg him to listen to Andrew, but she had always lacked the ability to tell Nick that he was wrong about anything.

  Andrew said, “Jane—”

  She motioned for him to turn around so she could get dressed.

  He obliged, saying, “Mother was asking for you.”

  Jane rolled on a pair of pantyhose. The waist felt tight when she stood. “Was that Ellis-Anne you were on the phone with this morning?”

  Andrew did not answer. The subject of his ex-girlfriend was somehow off limits now.

  Still, she tried, “You were together for two years. She’s just—”

  “Jane,” Andrew repeated, his voice low. He’d been trying to talk to her about Martin since they got home, but Jane was too afraid that speaking to him would open something inside of her that could not be closed.

  She told him, “You should go to the doctor.” Her fingers fumbled with the tiny pearl buttons on her blouse. She yanked a pair of slacks off the hanger.

  “I feel—” His head slowly moved from side to side. “I feel like something is missing inside of me. Like an organ has been taken away. Is that strange?”

  Jane tried to zip up the side of her slacks. Her fingers felt clumsy. She had to wipe the sweat off her hands. The pants were tight. Everything was tight because she was pregnant and they had killed their father and they were probably going to kill more people by the time this was over.

  “Andy, I can’t—” her words were cut off by a sob.

  I can’t talk to you. I can’t listen to you. I can’t be around you because you’re going to say what I’ve been thinking and it will end up tearing us to shreds.

  How had Laura Juneau done it?

  Not the physical act—Jane had been there, she had witnessed every single detail of the actual murder and suicide—but how had Laura flipped that switch inside of herself that turned her into a cold-blooded killer? How could the kind, interesting woman whom Jane had smoked with in the conference center bar be the same woman who had taken a gun from her purse and murdered a man, then herself?

  Jane kept coming back to the expression of absolute serenity on Laura Juneau’s face. It was the slight smile on the woman’s lips that had given her away. Clearly, Laura had been totally at peace with her actions. There was no hesitation. Not a moment of second thought or doubt. When Laura’s hand had reached into her purse to find the revolver, she might as well have been looking for a pack of chewing gum.

  “Jinx?” Andrew had turned back around. There were tears in his eyes, which made Jane cry even harder. “Let me help with this.”

  She watched him tug up the zipper on the side of her slacks. His breath had a sickly smell. His skin looked clammy. She said, “You’ve lost weight.”

  “Here it is.” He playfully pinched the new roll of fat ringing her waist. “Nick said we’ll get through this, right? And Nick’s always right, isn’t he?”

  They smiled, but neither one of them laughed out loud, because they didn’t know whether or not Nick was listening on the other side of the door.

  “We should try to pull ourselves together.” Jane found some tissue. She handed it to Andrew, then took some for herself. They both blew their noses. Andrew coughed. The rattle in his chest was like marbles clicking together.

  She put her hand to his forehead. “You need to go to the doctor.”

  He shrugged, asking, “When?”

  The bathroom door opened. Nick came out, naked, toweling his hair dry. “What’d I miss?”

  Andrew offered, “I’ll go downstairs before Jasper comes looking for us.”

  “You go, too,” Nick told Jane. “Wear the boots. They’re more intimidating.”

  Jane found a pair of black socks in the drawer. She slipped them on over her pantyhose. She held up a few pairs of boots before Nick nodded that she’d found the right ones. She was leaning over to do up the buckles when she felt Nick pressing behind her. He talked to Andrew as his hands rubbed her lower back. “Jane’s right. You should make time to go to the doctor. We can’t have you sick for the—the funeral.”

  Jane felt bile slide up her throat as she finished buckling her riding boots. She didn’t know if it was the awful morning sickness or the fear. From the beginning, Nick had been playing these unnecessary verbal games. Jane knew he got a thrill out of picturing an FBI agent sitting in a surveillance van down the street, hanging on his every wor
d.

  He put his mouth to her ear again. “Knock them out, my darling.”

  She nodded, telling Andrew, “Ready.”

  Nick slapped her ass as she left the room. Jane felt the same deep flush of embarrassment from before. It was pointless to ask him to stop because begging only made him worse.

  Andrew let Jane precede him down the front stairs. She worked to cool the heat in her face. She knew that Nick had grown up unloved, that it was important to him that people understood he belonged, but she hated when he treated her like a hunting trophy.

  “Okay?” Andrew asked.

  Jane realized she’d put her hand to her stomach. She had not told Andrew or anyone else about the baby. At first, she’d persuaded herself that it was because she wanted Nick to be the first to know, but as the weeks had passed, she’d realized that she was terrified that he would not want the baby and she would have to explain to everyone why she was no longer pregnant.

  Next time, he’d told her the last time. We’ll keep it next time.

  “Miss Queller?” a man was waiting for them in the front hallway. He had his wallet open to a gold shield. “I’m Agent Barlow with the FBI. This is Agent Danberry.”

  Danberry was standing inside the parlor with his hands clasped behind his back. He looked like a lesser version of Barlow: less hair, less confidence, less teeth, even, because he appeared to be missing an upper cuspid. He had been talking to Jasper, who was dressed in his Air Force Reserve uniform. Medals and colorful bars lined her brother’s chest. Jasper was twelve years older than Jane, the over-protective brother who had always been her anchor. He had attended her concerts and asked about her schoolwork and taken her to the prom when no one else would. Jane had always seen him as a miniature adult, a heroic figure who played with his toy soldiers and read military history books but could reliably be depended upon to scare the hell out of any boy who dared hurt her feelings or to give her cash so she could buy lipstick.

  “Miss Queller?” Agent Barlow repeated.

  “I’m sorry,” Jane apologized, taking a tissue from the box on the coffee table.

  Barlow seemed chastened. “My condolences on your loss.”

  Jane wiped her eyes as she looked in the mirror behind the couch. Her skin felt raw. Her eyes were swollen. Her nose was bright red. She had been crying for almost five days straight.

  “Take your time,” Barlow offered, but he seemed anxious to begin.

  Jane blew her nose as quietly as she could.

  Nick had made them practice their statements for hours, but nothing could prepare Jane for the stress of being interviewed. The first time, she had sobbed uncontrollably, panicked that she would say the wrong thing. In subsequent interviews, Jane had realized that the tears were a godsend, because crying was what was expected of her. Andrew, too, seemed to have figured out a strategy. When a tough question was put to him, he would sniff and wipe his eyes and turn his head away while he considered his answer.

  It was Nick who made them nervous—not just Jane and Andrew, but anyone who happened to be in the room. He seemed to get a perverse pleasure from taunting the agents, going right up to the line, then inventing an innocent explanation that pulled them back from the brink.

  Watching him with the Secret Service agents yesterday, Jane had wondered if he was suicidal.

  “Jinx?” Jasper said.

  They were all waiting for her to sit down. She perched on the edge of the couch. Andrew sat beside her. Barlow sat on the couch opposite with his hands on his knees. Only Jasper and Danberry remained standing, one to pace and the other, seemingly, to inspect the room. Instead of asking a question, Danberry opened an onyx box on one of the bookshelves and peered inside.

  Across from her, Barlow took a notebook out of his breast pocket and thumbed through the pages. His eyes moved back and forth as he silently read through the notes.

  Jane looked at Andrew, then Jasper, who shrugged.

  This was new. The other agents had started with small talk, asked about the house, the decorations. It was Andrew who usually gave them the rundown. The parlor, like the rest of the house, was a gothic-beaux-arts mishmash, with spindly furniture and velvet wallpaper between the dark mahogany panels. The twin chandeliers had belonged to some ancient Queller who’d worked with Mr. Tiffany on the design. The coffee table was from sequoias felled by her mother’s side of the family. A grown man could stand comfortably inside the fireplace. Rumor had it that the rug was gotten off a Japanese family who’d been sent to an internment camp during the war.

  Andrew shifted on the couch. Jasper resumed pacing.

  Barlow turned a page in his notebook. The noise was like sandpaper in the silence. Danberry had tilted his head to the side so he could read the titles on the spines of books.

  Jane had to do something with her hands. She found a pack of cigarettes on the coffee table. Andrew struck a match for her. He was staying only partially still beside her. He kept randomly tapping his foot. Jane wondered how it would look if she reached over to still his leg. Or if she asked Barlow to please begin. Or if she screamed as loud as she could until everyone left and she could go back upstairs and find Nick.

  This was a manipulation tactic, obviously. Barlow and Danberry were ramping up everyone’s nerves so that they would make stupid mistakes.

  Silently, Jane went through the questions that all the other agents had asked.

  Have you ever met the real Alexandra Maplecroft? What did Laura Juneau say to you at the conference? Why didn’t you know she was an imposter? Where do you think the real Dr. Alexandra Maplecroft is?

  Kidnapped.

  The answer to the last question was common knowledge. The ransom note had been printed on the front page of yesterday’s San Francisco Chronicle—

  We have Dr. Alexandra Maplecroft, a tool of the fascist regime . . .

  “Miss Queller?” Barlow was finally looking up from his notebook. “I’m just going to sum up what we already know from the other interviews you’ve given.”

  Jane could barely manage a nod. Her body had gone rigid with tension. Something was different about these two men. With their wrinkled suits and stained ties and missing teeth and bad haircuts, they looked like TV parodies of G-men, but they would not be here if they were second or third string.

  “Here we go,” Barlow said. “You’d never met Laura Juneau before the conference. You might’ve recognized her name from before, when her husband killed their children, because the story was in the newspapers. You were in Berlin to fill in for a friend at a studio for two months. You—”

  “Three,” Jasper corrected.

  “Right, three months. Thank you, Major Queller.” Barlow kept his focus on Jane as he continued, “You’ve never met Dr. Alexandra Maplecroft before and you’ve only heard her name in relation to your father, because she was a rival who—”

  “No,” Jasper said. “In order to be rivals, you have to be equals. Maplecroft was a nuisance.”

  “Thank you again, Major.” Barlow clearly wanted Jasper to shut up, but instead, he continued, “Miss Queller, first, I’d like to talk about your discussion with Mrs. Juneau at the bar.”

  Jane blinked, and she could see the delighted look on Laura’s face when she recognized Jane tapping out “Love Me Two Times” on the bar top.

  Barlow asked, “Did you approach Mrs. Juneau or did she approach you?”

  Jane’s throat felt so tight that she had to cough before she could speak. “I did. I was on the piano, playing the piano, when she walked in. I assumed she was American because of—”

  “The way she was dressed,” Barlow finished. “You wanted to speak to an American after being in Germany for so long.”

  Jane felt a sick kind of dizziness. Why had he finished the sentence for her? Was he trying to prove that he’d talked to the other agents, that they’d all compared notes, or was he just trying to get her to move along?

  Or, most terrifying of all, had Nick made them practice too much? Were their word cho
ices, their gestures, their comments, so rehearsed that they’d managed to throw up flags?

  Jane parted her lips. She tried to pull air into her lungs.

  Barlow asked, “What did you and Mrs. Juneau talk about?”

  Jane felt a pressing weight on her chest. The room suddenly felt stifling. She put the cigarette in the ashtray, worked to line it up in the groove. Her hand was trembling again. She didn’t know what to do, so she told them the truth. “She’d seen me play a few years back. We talked about the performance. And about music in general.”

  “So, Bach, Beethoven, Mozart?” Barlow seemed to be plucking names from thin air. “Chopin? Chacopsky?”

  Tchaikovsky, Jane almost corrected, but she caught herself at the last moment because—was it a trick? Had she told another agent something else?

  Andrew coughed again. He picked up the cigarette that Jane had left smoldering in the ashtray.

  Barlow prompted, “Miss Queller?”

  Jane found the tissues and blew her nose. She willed the panic back down.

  Stick to the truth, Nick had coached them. Just make sure it’s not the whole truth.

  “Well . . .” Jane tried not to rush her words. “We spoke about Edvard Grieg, because he’s Norwegian. A-ha, the pop music group, also Norwegian. Martha Argerich, from Argentina. I’m not sure why she came up, but she did.”

  “Did you see Juneau go into the bathroom?” Barlow studied Jane closely as she shook her head. “Were you in the bathroom at any point before the shooting?”

  “It was a long conference. I’m sure I was.” Jane was aware that her voice was shaking. Was that a good thing? Did it make her story sound more believable? She looked at Danberry. He’d been circling the room like a shark. Why wasn’t he asking any questions?

  Barlow said, “There was tape residue behind one of the toilet tanks. We think the gun was hidden there.”

  “Fantastic,” Jasper said. “Then you’ll have fingerprints. Case closed.”

  “They wore gloves.” Barlow asked Jane, “So, what we’ve been told is, before the murder, you’d heard about Laura and Robert Juneau. What about Maplecroft?”