Never Tell a Lie Read online

  In the background Ivy could hear Riker’s shrill cry: “Da-oo!”

  “If my son grows into a juvenile delinquent, it’ll be your fault. Would you pick up the frickin’ phone?”

  I’m here! Ivy wanted to scream back.

  “Honest to God, you can be such a pain,” Jody said, and hung up.

  Focus. Concentrate.

  Ivy’s clenched hands felt sweaty, slippery like they used to get during rope drills for Coach Reiner, especially when she reached the top of the rope and looked down.

  She could imagine Melinda, chatting up the receptionist and flashing Ivy’s driver’s license. Banking on her disguise to fool the technician.

  Soon Ivy had to reach the second-floor dumbwaiter opening. How much farther? She found herself staring down into inky blackness. She gasped and shuddered, panic rising inside her. One foot slipped off its perch. Then her other foot slipped. She fell with a lurch, and a moment later she was dangling from the straps by her armpits. Her legs bashed against the rough plaster wall, and her own screams echoed around her. The tough leather cut into her underarms.

  But the canvas spiral had tightened and held fast. She flailed for another foothold, and at last she felt an exposed two-by-four on one side and a wider ledge on the opposite side to anchor her feet against. She rested for a moment, panting and catching her breath.

  The wider ledge—Ivy looked down and saw a sliver of lighter gray, seeping through at just that spot.

  She steadied herself, sweat trickling into her eyes, legs shaking. All she had to do now was raise the panel and climb out. She envisioned her fingers uncurling, her hand reaching out and pushing the panel up.

  Three, two, one…let go! With a clean swipe, she reached out in the dark, felt for where she knew the lower panel had to be, and pushed. Then she grabbed back on to the canvas-wrapped cable.

  The cable shimmied and creaked, but the panel hadn’t budged. Or…Was it her imagination, or did the band of gray light seem just a bit wider?

  A shadow moved across it, and for a moment Ivy froze. Then she recognized the sound of Phoebe’s claws on the wood floor just beyond.

  She reached out again and gave the panel a harder push. The band of light widened to a quarter inch. She wedged her toe in the opening, and it rose an inch more.

  There was Phoebe, just on the other side. The dog put her paws up on the sill, sniffed at Ivy’s sneaker, and woofed.

  “Shoo,” Ivy said, as she pressed with her foot, raising the panel halfway. The dog rested her white-whiskered muzzle on the sill. “Go away!” Phoebe’s back end wiggled in ecstasy. “Phoebe, sit!”

  The dog obeyed.

  “Stay!”

  She lowered her head onto her paws. Amazing.

  Little by little, Ivy managed to raise the panel the rest of the way. When it was open as wide as it would go, she planted her feet on exposed two-by-fours on either side of the shaft, grabbed on to both sides of the dumbwaiter opening, and shifted her weight.

  The straitjacket loosened. Ivy held her breath as it slithered away into the darkness below.

  Slowly, carefully, her legs trembling, Ivy lowered herself until one knee rested on the sill. Sideways, she pulled herself through the opening and just kept going. With her hands out in front of her to break the fall, she tumbled out onto the floor beside Phoebe.

  The dog licked Ivy’s face as she lay there crying and laughing at the same time. Bruised but in one piece, she’d made it.

  33

  Ivy got to her feet and raced for the stairs. Please let the side door still be unlocked. She’d just reached the curve in the staircase when she heard a familiar squeak—the front storm door was being pulled open. She crouched, making herself as small as she could.

  There was the sound of a key being inserted into the lock, turning. Ivy’s mouth went dry. From between ornately carved wooden balusters, she watched the door open.

  Melinda backed into the house. Ivy’s rain slicker barely covered her fake pregnant belly. She locked the door, dropped the key into her pocket, and let her purse—Ivy’s purse—fall to the floor.

  She took down the rain hood. She was wearing a pair of wraparound sunglasses and the wig of long dark hair. She was whistling. Apparently, things had gone well.

  Ivy heard Phoebe chuffing and moving around above her on the second-floor landing. Melinda went still, then pivoted toward the stairs. She removed the sunglasses. Her gaze traveled up.

  Ivy drew back, deeper into shadow.

  Melinda tilted her head. She stepped to the base of the stairs. Wrapped her fingers around the feet of the bronze statue on the newel post and lifted it from its perch. Holding it upside down, the heavy base with its six-inch bolt raised like a club, she stepped on the first stair tread.

  Grrr-ruff. Phoebe’s warning came from behind Ivy.

  Melinda took another step.

  The dog gave four sharp barks and padded down the stairs, past the curve where Ivy was hidden. Phoebe dropped her head and gave a menacing growl.

  Melinda lowered the statue. “Shut up, you stupid dog. I’ll take care of you later.” She set the bronze figure back on the newel post, then turned and walked off, into the living room.

  Relief flooded through Ivy. She recognized the sound of the window seat being pulled open. A thump. Then what sounded like footsteps on creaky floorboards. What was going on? She raised her head. Waited for the familiar thud of the window seat dropping shut. Listened for the rustling of Melinda moving about in the living room. Waited for Melinda to turn the light on or to come back out.

  But she heard nothing, no movement at all—just utter silence.

  A wave of queasiness grew from a dull ache in her back. Please, not now. Not yet.

  Ivy rose to her feet and moved down the staircase as quickly as she could, her belly heavy. As she started across the entryway, again she heard floorboards creaking, the sounds growing louder. Through the doorway to the living room, she could see that the lid of the window seat was raised.

  Too late to turn back. Ivy grabbed her purse from the floor where Melinda had dropped it and hurried through the dining room.

  “Hey!” Melinda had seen her.

  Through the kitchen Ivy raced. Into the mudroom. She reached the side door. Thank God, it was still unlocked. As she threw it open, the contraction, well into its relentless climb, ground her to a halt. She couldn’t run. She could barely move.

  She managed to push open the storm door and let it slam shut, then pressed herself in among the winter coats and parkas hanging from hooks on the wall adjacent to the door. She pulled the door fully open to mask her presence.

  A moment later she heard Melinda. Felt the open door press harder up against the coats she was sheltered beneath.

  The contraction grew, and sweat beaded on Ivy’s forehead. She grabbed on to a jacket sleeve to steady herself. To keep from crying out.

  Melinda had to be just on the other side of the open door, looking outside, assuming that Ivy had run out into the night.

  Ivy stopped breathing. The contraction was reaching its peak, and she couldn’t have stirred even if she’d wanted to.

  Scree. It was the storm door being pushed open. Ivy felt a cold, moist breeze on her legs. She could imagine Melinda standing there considering whether to go after her. Get out! Go!

  The pressure of the open door against her eased. The storm door wheezed and snapped shut. Ivy counted to three and fell forward, slamming the wooden door. With shaking hands she rummaged inside her purse, turned it upside down, and dumped the contents on the floor. She found the keys and locked the door.

  Then she leaned against the wall, panting for breath. The contraction had been longer than any she’d had before. She touched her belly and felt the muscles still softening.

  It was only a matter of minutes before Melinda would realize the ruse. She could easily get back into the house—Ivy had seen her drop a house key into her pocket when she arrived.

  Ivy had to barricade the door
s and call the police. Now!

  She ran into the kitchen, plugged in the phone, and dialed 911. Holding the handset to her ear, she grabbed a kitchen chair and dragged it to the side door. She wedged it firmly under the knob.

  “This is 911, what is your emergency?” Ivy heard the dispatcher’s calm voice.

  “Please, please, send the police! She’s trying to kill me!” Ivy screamed. She gave her name and address as she tore back to the kitchen and hauled another kitchen chair toward the front hall, jerking it free of the dining-room carpet that bunched up under it.

  “Hello? Are you there?” the dispatcher said.

  Ivy yelled the address again and had just managed to wedge the chair under the knob of the front door when she heard the screen door open. A key turned in the lock.

  Ivy dropped the phone.

  “Go away! I called the police!” she yelled through the door.

  There was a heavy thud as Melinda pushed against the door.

  “It’s too late!” Ivy screamed. She backed away. “They’re on the line right now. They’ll be here any—”

  Melinda pushed again. And again. And again. The chair began to slide.

  Ivy lifted Bessie off the newel post.

  Another heavy thud as Melinda heaved all her weight against the door. The chair slid another inch. Another push and she’d be in the house.

  Ivy ducked into the coat closet. She was just closing herself in when she heard the crash of the chair sliding away completely. She sat on the closet floor and scrabbled back as far as she could.

  Footsteps. Melinda was in the house.

  Ivy waited, peering out from among the pieces of luggage, through the barely open closet door, terrified that the door would pull open, sure that at any moment it would and that Melinda would haul her from the closet.

  And then there were sirens.

  For a moment Ivy caught a glimpse of Melinda moving across the entryway toward the living room. The sirens grew louder and louder until they seemed to come from inside Ivy’s head. She heard a muffled thump.

  Heavy footsteps, running, getting louder.

  The closet door flew open. Ivy cowered. The coats parted. There stood a police officer, his gun pointed at Ivy. Flashes from emergency vehicles, parked in front of the house, lit the hall. The house behind him swarmed with uniforms.

  “Thank God,” Ivy whispered as she crawled from the closet. Detective Blanchard strode in through the front door, his gun drawn. He rushed over to her.

  Ivy’s abdomen tightened. “She’s here,” she managed to say. “Melinda White.”

  Detective Blanchard offered Ivy his hand and helped her to her feet.

  Ivy stumbled. This time there was no gentle preamble. In seconds it felt as if she were in the grip of some beefy hand, squeezing and squeezing, hardening her body from the inside out. With a thud, Bessie hit the floor.

  “Clear up here!” came a cry from upstairs.

  “Okay down here,” from below.

  “Where is she?” Blanchard asked.

  “I thought she went—” The contraction choked off Ivy’s words. With a weak wave, she indicated the living room.

  Gun raised, Blanchard approached the doorway and looked in.

  Ivy hung back, leaning against the wall, counting and trying to keep from screaming. She crept forward into the doorway. Blanchard made a circuit of the room, checked behind the couch and the wing chair. Threw the window seat open and closed it.

  He turned to face her, his gun down at his side. “There’s no one in here.”

  Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe Melinda had managed to get away in all the confusion when the police arrived.

  Ivy pushed herself past him, the contraction nearly over. On the coffee table was a section of newspaper, folded in quarters. There was David’s half-finished crossword puzzle, the one he’d been working on his last night home. She picked it up, remembering how she’d tossed it into the window seat. Twice. And not taken it out again.

  That thump she’d heard when Blanchard had dropped the window seat shut—it was the sound she’d heard moments after Melinda had crossed in front of the closet on her way to the living room.

  Ivy approached the window seat. Drops of water beaded on the painted surface of its closed lid. Her heart pounding, she raised it. It was empty—just four side walls and a floor. But there were dark spots on the bottom where the raw wood was stained with moisture.

  Ivy reached in and felt along the inside edges. There was a half-moon cutout in the bottom panel. She anchored a finger there and started to pull.

  Blanchard grabbed her wrist. He motioned for her to step aside and raised his gun. He reached in and pulled up. Like a trapdoor, hinged on the opposite side, the floor of the window seat swung open.

  Ivy shivered, and it felt as if a sudden gust of cold filled the room. Beneath were narrow, steep, descending steps, more ladder than staircase. Light glowed from below.

  “Police!” Blanchard shouted. “We know you’re in there! Come out now!”

  He jerked his head toward a uniformed officer who came up alongside him, his gun out.

  Blanchard didn’t wait long for an answer. “I’m coming in,” he announced, and stepped over the front wall of the window seat and onto the top step. Ivy recognized the creaking sounds as he descended.

  From below she heard muffled voices, scuffling sounds. Then nothing. Moments later Melinda emerged, hands cuffed behind her. The wig and the pregnant belly were gone. Detective Blanchard followed close behind, supporting her elbow.

  Ivy backed away until she was in the corner of the living room and couldn’t go any farther, her heart clanging in her chest.

  Melinda stepped into the room. The strobes from outside lit her pale face. She seemed flat, emotionless as she looked around. Her gaze came to rest on Ivy.

  “Her husband raped me,” Melinda said, her voice calm.

  Detective Blanchard stepped between Melinda and Ivy and nudged Melinda forward.

  Melinda took a few more steps and turned again to look at Ivy. “Know what your precious husband said to me while we were doing it? He told me I was something else. He said I was special.”

  34

  Ivy sat at the base of the stairs waiting for the ambulance to get there and take her to the hospital. Phoebe’s furry coat was warm against her side. One of the police officers had called Dr. Shapiro and Jody.

  Another contraction had just ended, and Ivy knew that it wouldn’t be long before a new one began. She wiped the sheen of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand.

  Detective Blanchard emerged from the dining room holding Ivy’s purse. “I imagine you’ll be needing this,” he said, and dropped it beside her on the step.

  “Thanks,” Ivy said, realizing that he’d gathered up everything she’d dumped onto the floor in the mudroom and put it all back into her purse for her.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I will be.”

  “I found these on the floor,” he said. He showed her three driver’s licenses, fanned out like a hand of cards. He gave them to her, one at a time.

  Melinda White. Ruth White. Elaine Gallagher. The photo on each one was Melinda.

  Ivy heard a siren approaching.

  She handed the IDs back to Detective Blanchard. “I guess she thought she looked enough like me with that wig that she didn’t have to fake my driver’s license, too. She went to your crime lab today as me. Gave them a DNA sample. It won’t match the DNA you have from the toothbrush you collected from her apartment, because that was my toothbrush. She stole it weeks ago.”

  Blanchard blinked, and the crease in his brow deepened. “You mean the DNA we collected from her apartment is yours?”

  “That’s right. And the DNA from the fetal remains you recovered from the knife that David tried to hide? That’ll match the DNA from that same toothbrush. Because it’s my DNA.” Ivy started to cry. “David’s and mine. Melinda was there working in the hospital when I had my last miscarria
ge.”

  The siren abruptly stopped. Blanchard helped Ivy to her feet and guided her out the door and down the front steps.

  Ivy leaned forward. “My husband?”

  “We’ll get him there as fast as we can,” Blanchard said.

  A waiting EMT helped her into the back of the ambulance and strapped her in.

  Detective Blanchard started to close one of the ambulance doors.

  “Melinda’s wearing a necklace that’s mine,” Ivy called out to him. “It belonged to my grandmother.”

  Ivy barely heard his reply, because a new contraction grabbed hold and felt as if it were wringing her inside out.

  Push!

  The pain that assembled in Ivy’s lower back enveloped her entire body, and pressure built inside her like steam, threatening to blow the top off a pressure cooker. Harsh light glaring over her in the hospital delivery room seemed to pulse as, with more urgency than she had thought possible, Ivy knew it was time.

  David was there with her, holding her hand as she bore down and focused on this single task, recruiting strength from every part of her body. He’d come flying in moments earlier, tying on his surgical mask and replacing Jody at Ivy’s side.

  “I brought you this,” he whispered, slipping Ivy’s grandmother’s amulet into her hand.

  This time labor had been fast and intensely efficient. No leisurely stroll through admitting. She’d been rocketed directly to the delivery room and immediately hooked up to a fetal monitor and an IV drip.

  It was all that tansy, Dr. Shapiro had said, and they were taking its effects very seriously.

  “Good. That’s good,” David said, the surgical mask over his mouth puffing and puckering.

  It burned and stung as pressure built. David’s eyes crinkled with strain, as if he were pushing, too.

  “That’s right. That’s great. You’re a champ,” he said.

  Finally the contraction loosened. Ivy barely had time to recover before a new one began and rapidly roared to full strength. Dripping sweat, she pushed and pushed again, until it felt as if a locomotive were hurtling along at top speed in her head.