Grace clapped her hands together. “I can’t wait to go to Hollywood.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Laurie said. “Our first stop is the Bay Area. To tell Susan’s story, we have to get to know her. Really know her. We start with the person who knew her the longest.”
“We start with her mother,” Jerry confirmed.
5
Rosemary Dempsey was Laurie’s reason for moving the Cinderella Murder to the top of her list for the show’s next installment.
The network had been pressuring her to feature a case from the Midwest: the unsolved murder of a child beauty pageant contestant inside her family’s home. The case had already been the subject of countless books and television shows over the past two decades. Laurie kept telling her boss, Brett Young, that there was nothing new for Under Suspicion to add.
“Who cares?” Brett had argued. “Every time we have an excuse to play those adorable pageant videos, our ratings skyrocket.”
Laurie was not about to exploit the death of a child to bolster her network’s ratings. Starting her research from scratch, she stumbled onto a true-crime blog featuring a “Where are they now?” post about the Cinderella case. The blogger appeared to have simply Googled the various people involved in the case: Susan’s boyfriend was a working actor; her college research partner had gone on to find dot-com success; Frank Parker was… Frank Parker.
The blog post quoted only one source: Rosemary Dempsey, whose phone number was still listed-“Just in case anyone ever needs to tell me something about my daughter’s death,” she said. Rosemary told the blogger that she was willing to do anything to find out the truth about her daughter’s murder. She also said that she was convinced that the stress caused by Susan’s death had contributed to her husband’s fatal stroke.
The overall tone of the blog post, filled with tawdry innuendo, left Laurie feeling sick. The author hinted, with no factual support, that Susan’s desire to be a star may have made her willing to do anything to land a plum role with an emerging talent like Parker. She speculated, again with no proof, that a consensual liaison may have “gone wrong.”
Laurie could not imagine what it would have been like for Rosemary Dempsey to read those words, written by a person she had trusted enough to confide her feelings to about the loss of both her daughter and her husband.
So when Laurie called Rosemary Dempsey about the possibility of participating in Under Suspicion, she had understood precisely what Rosemary meant when she said she’d been burned before. Laurie had made a promise to do her very best, both for her and her daughter. And she told Rosemary how she knew from experience what it was like not knowing.
Last year, when the police had finally identified Greg’s killer, Laurie had learned what people meant when they used the word “closure.” She didn’t have her husband back, and Timmy was still without his father, but they no longer had to fear the man Timmy had called Blue Eyes. It was closure from fear but not from heartbreak.
“That damn shoe,” Rosemary had said about the “Cinderella Murder” nickname. “The irony is that Susan never wore anything so flashy. She’d bought those shoes at a vintage store for a seventies party. But her agent, Edwin, thought they were perfect for the audition. If the public really needed a visual image to hang on to, it should have been her necklace. It was gold, with the sweetest little horseshoe pendant. It was found by her body, the chain broken in the struggle. We bought it for her on her fifteenth birthday, and the next day, she landed the lead role as Sandy in her high school’s production of Grease. She always called it her lucky necklace. When the police described it, Jack and I knew we’d lost our baby.”
Laurie had known at that moment that she wanted the murder of Susan Dempsey to be her next case. A young, talented girl whose life had been cut short. Greg was a brilliant young doctor whose life had been cut short. His murderer was dead now. Susan’s was still out there.
6
Rosemary Dempsey juggled two overflowing brown paper grocery bags, managing to close the hatchback of her Volvo C30 with her right elbow. Spotting Lydia Levitt across the street, she quickly turned away, hoping to slip from the driveway to her front door unnoticed.
No such luck.
“Rosemary! My goodness. How can one person eat so much food? Let me help you!”
How could one person be so rude? Rosemary wondered. Rude, and yet at the same time so kind?
She smiled politely, and before she knew it, her across-the-street neighbor was at her side, grabbing one of the bags from her hands.
“Multigrain bread, huh? Oh, and organic eggs. And blueberries-all those antioxidants! Good for you. We put so much junk into our bodies. Personally, my weakness is jelly beans. Can you believe it?”
Rosemary nodded and made sure Lydia saw her polite smile. If Rosemary had to guess, she’d have said the woman was in about her midsixties, though God knows she didn’t care.
“Thank you so much for your help, Lydia. And I’d say jelly beans are a relatively harmless vice.”
She used her now-free hand to unlock the front door of her house.
“Wow, you lock your door? We don’t usually do that here.” Lydia set her bag next to Rosemary’s on the kitchen island, just inside the entryway. “Well, about the jelly beans, tell that to Don. He keeps finding little pink and green surprises in the sofa cushions. He says it’s like living with a five-year-old on Easter Sunday. Says my veins must be like Pixy Stix, filled with sugar.”
Rosemary noticed the message light blinking on her telephone on the kitchen counter. Was it the call she was waiting for?
“Well, thank you again for the help, Lydia.”
“You should come down for the book club on Tuesday nights. Or movies on Thursdays. Any activity you want, really: knitting, brunch club, yoga.”
As Lydia rambled on about the various games Rosemary could be playing with her neighbors, Rosemary thought about the long road that had led her to this conversation. Rosemary had always assumed she’d remain forever in the home where she had raised her daughter and lived with her husband for thirty-seven years. But, as she had learned so long ago, the world didn’t always work precisely as one expected. Sometimes you had to react to life’s punches.
After Susan died, Jack offered to quit his job and go back to Wisconsin. The stock in the company that he had accumulated over the years and the generous pension and retirement benefits meant that they had plenty of money to take care of them for the rest of their lives. But Rosemary had realized that they had built a life in California. She had her church and her volunteer work at the soup kitchen. She had friends who cared so much about her that they kept her freezer full of casseroles for months, first after she said good-bye to Susan, then to Jack.
And so she’d stayed in California. After Jack died she did not want to stay in their home. It was too large, too empty. She bought a town house in a gated community outside Oakland and continued her life there.
She knew that she could either live with her grief or fall into despair. Daily Mass became a routine. She increased her volunteer work to the point where she became a grief counselor.
In retrospect, she might have been better off with a condo in San Francisco. In the city she would have had her anonymity. In the city she could buy multigrain bread and organic eggs and carry her groceries and check that urgent, blinking phone message without having to fend off Lydia Levitt’s attempts to recruit her into group activities.
Her neighbor was finally wrapping up the list. “That’s what’s nice about this neighborhood,” Lydia said. “Here at Castle Crossings, we’re basically a family. Oh, I’m sorry. That was a poor choice of words.”