WOMAN IN RED
Eileen Goudge
Vanguard Press
Literary Fiction
ISBN-10: 1593154445
ISBN-13: 9781593154448

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Prologue

NINE YEARS AGO

“All rise!”

A rustle of movement around her, the scrape of chairs and feet. Alice was slower to react, her senses dulled, as if by blunt instrument, by two days of testimony: dry, reasoned discourses on skid patterns, blood-alcohol levels, and degree of vehicular damage in relation to bodily injury, all of which seemed to have as much to do with her son, with David, as a chalk outline on pavement with the living, breathing person brought to such a cruel end.

With her palms flat against its surface as leverage, she pushed herself up from the table at which she sat. Her lawyer, Warren Brockman, shot her a look, his gray eyes kind and concerned, and she nodded almost imperceptibly to let him know she was okay. In fact, she was anything but. The blood was draining from her head, and she felt unsteady, a faint, persistent buzzing in her ears, the muscles in her legs quivering like after a mile run.

Lies! she had screamed silently as her son’s killer sat up there on the stand, visibly remorseful, as only an innocent man would be—or one who was going out of his way to appear so—giving his distorted version of events. She’d listened and she’d screamed in her head, biting down on the inside of her cheek until it bled to keep her mouth from flying open, her outrage from spewing out into the courtroom.

Now the jury was back with a verdict.

She glanced to her right. Owen White’s attorney, a boxy, graceless woman in an unflattering chartreuse dress, stood beside her client, a hand resting lightly against the small of his back. Her strategy had been to paint him as the victim, an innocent man relentlessly hounded by a mother unhinged by grief. He even looked the part, soft and harmless, with his pale, forgettable face and blameless blue eyes, his thinning hair the same flesh tone as his skin, and off-the-rack suit that belied his wealth. He might have been any of the nameless, faceless middle-aged men you came into contact with out in the world, in banks and insurance offices and rental agencies, the ones who smiled at you and chatted easily as they pushed a form across their desk for you to sign.

On the witness stand, he’d answered her lawyer’s questions in a quiet, respectful tone. She’d detected no gleam of sweat on his brow, and his eyes behind the wire-rim glasses he wore had been clear as a baby’s conscience, only turning sorrowful as they’d come to rest briefly on Alice from time to time, as if he weren’t unsympathetic to her plight.

But she knew the real story. Which was why she’d spent the past eighteen months and nearly all of her and Randy’s savings trying to bring the man responsible for their son’s death to justice.

If only Randy were here now! Her husband had scarcely left her side through the dark tunnel of days following David’s death. But once the criminal investigation had been put to rest, he’d grown increasingly impatient with her as the months had dragged on and her pursuit of justice showed no sign of flagging. When she’d insisted on filing a wrongful death suit, he’d gone along merely to appease her and had attended the subsequent court proceedings only sporadically, using the excuse of not being able to miss any more days of work.

In a way she didn’t blame him. All he had wanted was to mourn their son in peace. Randy wasn’t even convinced they had a case. Wasn’t it possible she’d been mistaken? he’d challenged her. The light would have been fading at that time of day and David was all the way down the block, a distance of at least a hundred yards. A little boy they both knew had been prone to taking risks, he could easily have darted out into the road on his bike, just the way Owen had told it.

But she knew she wasn’t mistaken. And now, suddenly, she found herself despising Randy almost as much as she did the man responsible for all this. Why wasn’t he as outraged as she? What kind of a father would allow his son’s murderer to walk free? Randy’s glaring absence might even have swayed some of the jurors in Owen’s favor. How must it look to them? A crazy lady who couldn’t convince her own husband.

Do I look crazy? Alice wondered. No, she thought, taking a mental inventory of herself. She’d chosen her dark gray suit with the navy piping and a pair of low-heeled navy pumps for today’s court appearance. Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, fastened at the neck with a tortoise-shell barrette, her only jewelry a single strand of pearls and the tiny diamond studs in her ears.

Throughout the proceedings she’d been a model of restraint as well, someone of whom her parents could be proud. She hadn’t indulged in any outbursts, and except for the one time she’d wept silently into her hands, at the coroner’s description of David’s injuries, she hadn’t given in to tears. It was as if she’d been training all her life for this; it was what she did, what she was good at. Even at the funeral, she had felt it was her job to provide solace to others. Grieving was something you did in private, with a minimum of fuss.

She looked over her shoulder at her parents. Her mother wore a bright, expectant look as she gazed up at the bench, as if confident that the judge, a large, fleshy-faced man now settling into his seat, would make sure the jury did the right thing. Lucy Gordon believed that anything could be overcome with the right attitude. Like when Alice had been little and prone to car sickness; her mother, convinced it was a case of mind over matter, would press her to join in on sing-alongs and play games like I Spy on long trips to distract her until the nausea passed. (Though, if Alice had managed to keep from throwing up those times, it had had less to do with positive thinking than with a deep-seated terror of making a mess.). Now, with her perpetual schoolgirl’s face tipped up in a firm, fixed smile and framed by a ruffle of graying auburn hair, Lucy was once again refusing to let pessimism get the better of her.

In contrast, Alice’s father stood rigidly at Lucy’s side, his austere face frozen in a kind of grimace. Was he angry at her, for putting the family through so much grief? Alice wondered. It was hard to know with her dad. He was a man of few words, an architect whose language was that of line and space .The only time she’d ever seen him cry was as his grandson’s coffin was being lowered into the ground, and even then she wouldn’t have known if she hadn’t seen the tears leaking from under the dark glasses he’d worn.

Denise, six months pregnant with her second child, stood beside them, a hand resting on the dark head of Alice’s younger son, Jeremy. There were those who might have questioned Alice’s judgment in having her seven-year-old here for the reading of the verdict, she knew, but Alice had felt it was important for Jeremy to be a part of this moment, one that, either way, would define the rest of their lives.

She turned around, focusing now on the ornately framed painting on the wall to the left of the bench, to keep her stomach from going into free fall as the judge banged his gavel and court was called back into session. Ironically, it was a portrait of Owen’s father, Lowell White, who’d donated the land upon which the courthouse sat—a bit of history she hoped hadn’t factored into the jurors’ decision. A handsome, florid-faced man, with thick black brows and dark, wavy hair gone gray at the temples, he bore little resemblance to his son. His eyes seemed to meet hers, dancing with bemusement as if he knew something Alice didn’t, and she was reminded of the unsolved mystery surrounding his disappearance when Owen was a small boy, a mystery, passed from one generation to the next, which had become a part of Grays Island lore.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?” asked the judge.

The foreman, a big man with military-issue hair and a once-muscular physique now going to seed, rose to his feet. “We have, Your Honor.” Like most of the jury, his was a familiar face to Alice, a manager at the bank where she and Randy had an account, someone she might have smiled at pleasantly in passing and never given a second thought to before this.

The judge instructed the bailiff to bring him the verdict. The foreman handed the folded piece of paper on which it was written to the short, heavy-set man in uniform, who carried it over to the judge. The judge glanced at it, his expression unchanging, before reading it aloud. “We, the jury, find in favor of the respondent.”

The words fell like a blow to some soft, unprotected part of Alice’s body. She felt all the breath go out of her. Black specks swarmed at the periphery of her vision, and for a frightening moment she thought she was going to pass out. Yet she showed no emotion; her face was as smooth as a pane of glass. Her mind, too, was glass, the full impact of those words sliding away like so many raindrops off a windowpane. She thought, If I stay very, very still, it will be as if none of this ever happened.

Warren put his arm around her shoulders and said in a low voice, “I’m so sorry, Alice. We did our best.” But she was unable to respond. It was like when she’d given birth, a great, heaving pressure beneath the numbness from the epidural.

Then her sister Denise was at her side, a large, moist presence, looking like a very pregnant Holly Hobbie in her smocked maternity dress. Her brown eyes, pooled with tears, seemed to fill up her whole face, a face as incapable of concealing emotion as a child’s. Denise only shook her head, wise enough to know that there was nothing she could say or do right now that would help the situation.

It was their mother who rushed in to embrace Alice, while their father hung back, still wearing that stern look, though Alice could see now that his anger wasn’t directed at her—he was staring hard at Owen’s back as if he’d like to plant a dagger in it. “Oh, honey.” Lucy’s voice was choked with emotion. “Don’t take it too hard. Look at the bright side. Now you and Randy can get on with your lives.”

As if such a thing were possible.

It wasn’t until Alice’s gaze fell on Jeremy, standing next to his grandfather, looking up at her with a pinched, worried expression, that she roused herself and spoke. “I’m fine,” she said in a calm voice that seemed to be coming from outside her, that of a doctor assuring them that the patient was recovering nicely. “I just need to get home.”

“Let me drive you,” said Denise.

“No, really, I’m fine,” she assured her. In Denise’s present, distraught state, she appeared more at risk than Alice of getting into an accident.

For a moment Denise looked as if she were about to insist, but she let it go. Younger by four years, she’d always been the one Alice looked out for, from the time they were children. When the other kids in school had made fun of Denise for being fat, Alice had made sure the bullies knew who they were dealing with. And with her sister’s first baby, it had been Alice, not Denise’s husband, in bed with a herniated disc at the time, who’d seen her through a difficult labor. Now that the roles were reversed, they were both somewhat at a loss as to how to handle it.

Alice managed a small, bitterly resigned smile, as if to say that yes, it was a blow, but not entirely unexpected. And in a way, she wasn’t surprised. Owen White was a -respected member of the community, the heir to one of the island’s great fortunes, and she . . . well, she’d become the resident crazy lady. Even those of her neighbors who’d gone out of their way to show support in the days after David’s death now looked at her askance. Yes, it was tragic, their eyes seemed to say, but she’d gone too far. Was it fair to punish a man whose only crime was that he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Walking to her car, holding tightly to Jeremy’s hand, she thought that if there truly were a hell, she was in it now. The events of that terrible day ran like a film on a continuous loop inside her head, one she always hoped would have a different ending but never did.

It had been early evening and Randy had phoned to say he’d be working late, that they shouldn’t wait for him. But when she’d gone outside to call David in to supper, he wasn’t in the driveway shooting hoops, where he’d been the last time she’d checked, and there was no sign of him anywhere. Darkness had been closing in, the sidewalk in front of their house swallowed up by the shadows of the gingko trees that lined their street. Yet she hadn’t felt worried, not then. She remembered being annoyed at him instead. At eight and a half, David was far too independent for his own good. While Jeremy was content to play in his room for hours, David had been on the move ever since he’d learned to walk; it seemed she spent as much time looking for him as looking after him.

She’d walked out onto the sidewalk still calling his name. She was halfway down the block before she spotted him, a small, fair-haired boy in a white T-shirt and jeans pedaling furiously toward her on his bike. He’d lifted a hand to wave to her, and almost at the same instant a car had rounded the corner onto their street, a silver Mercedes moving at a speed well beyond the posted limit. Alice had opened her mouth to shout to the driver to slow down, but the words caught in her throat, swallowed by the shriek of brakes and the sickening thud that followed, one that had slammed through her as if she herself had experienced the impact.

David, she’d thought, breaking into a run.

She’d found him sprawled face-down on the pavement, not moving. His bicycle, an old Raleigh that had belonged to Randy and that David loved above all things, had been flung into the middle of the road by the impact, twisted into something resembling bent coat hangers. Later, Owen would claim the boy had darted out into the middle of the road and that he’d been unable to brake in time. But that wasn’t what Alice had witnessed. David had been in the bike lane that she herself, along with those of her neighbors with young children, had campaigned for; she’d had a clear view of him from where she’d stood.

But it had been her word against Owen’s; by the time the neighbors had stepped outside to see what the commotion was about, it was all over. When Alice reported that the driver had been drunk, no one believed that, either. Owen White had a reputation as a churchgoing man, nothing like his flamboyant father, who’d been known to tip back a few in his day. Yet Alice had smelled alcohol on him even from where she’d knelt, clutching her son’s broken body to her chest. She’d screamed at Owen to get help, but he’d just stood there wearing a stupefied look, as if not quite grasping what any of this had to do with him, before he’d finally stumbled to his car and driven off.

It was several hours before the police finally caught up to him, by which time Owen had sobered up and gotten his story straight. If his behavior had seemed erratic at the time, he’d explained, it was only because he’d been in shock. As to why he’d left the scene of the accident, it was only to find a phone to call for help. After a cursory investigation that was more a formality than anything, the official cause of death was ruled accidental. Another tragic case of a little boy riding his bike where he shouldn’t.

“Mommy, why aren’t we going?”

Alice roused from her thoughts to find herself sitting behind the wheel of her car, Jeremy buckled in beside her. A solemn-faced little boy with her dark hair and fair complexion, dressed in the suit she’d bought him for his brother’s funeral, and which he was already outgrowing. He was eyeing her quizzically, wearing the deeply worried look she’d seen too often of late. Jeremy had always been the more thoughtful and sensitive of her two boys, but since David’s death he’d been so withdrawn that at times it was almost as if she’d lost both her sons.
She forced a smile. “We are, honey. I just needed a minute is all.”

“Are we going home?” he asked, when she’d started the engine.

“Yes, honey. Straight home.” Where else would she go? To the grocery store for a quart of milk? To pick up her mail at the post office? Mundane chores she couldn’t imagine ever doing again much less tackling now.

“Will Daddy be there?” There was a querulous note in his voice that sounded almost panicky.

Alice realized now that it had been a mistake bringing him with her today. But she’d wanted so much to believe the jury would see things her way, she hadn’t been thinking straight. Now she was a bad mother on top of everything else. The thought pierced her like a shot through the heart.

She did her best to maintain an even tone as she replied, “Daddy’s at work, you know that. But we’ll call him as soon as we get home.” Even as she spoke, anger was rising up in her again. Where had Randy been when she needed him most? Where was he now?

Alice backed out of her slot and was heading toward the exit when she saw Owen at the other end of the lot. She slowed at once, braking to a stop. He was walking with his wife, who had accompanied him every day to court. Elizabeth White, a tall, rail-thin woman, reminded Alice of a greyhound, with her narrow face and long, arched neck, her wide-set protruding eyes. They looked relaxed, smiling at their victory as they strolled along, arm in arm. They would go home to a celebratory supper and a good night’s rest, while Alice was left to pick up the pieces on her own. She watched Mrs. White step around to the passenger side when they reached their car, the same silver Mercedes that had mowed David down, while Owen paused to reach into his pocket for his keys.

Later, Alice would remember almost nothing of what came next. In that moment, though, every detail was magnified: a puddle of grease gleaming dully on the pavement near where Owen stood; the reflection of trees swimming across the windshield of a Chevy Malibu pulling out behind him; the innocent sounds of children playing in the small park adjacent the courthouse. The last signposts of the known world before it tilted on its axis, sending her spinning off into space.

Alice had no awareness of her foot pressing down on the gas pedal; it was as if the car were being propelled by a force beyond her control. Then there was only the startled face of her son’s killer as she closed in on him, and Jeremy’s high-pitched scream.

Excerpted from WOMAN IN RED © Copyright 2008 by Eileen Goudge. Reprinted with permission by Vanguard Press. All rights reserved.

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