MRS. WHITE
Andrew and Laurence Klavan writing as Margaret Tracy
For Lucia Faithfull
PROLOGUE
Mrs. Porter was a slim, elegant, attractive woman of thirty, and tonight she was going to make chicken cacciatore.
She had just about everything she needed: chicken breasts, mushrooms, tomato sauce. It was only when she had the ingredients laid out on the counter before her that she remembered she had forgotten to buy lemons. And so Mrs. Porter went to market.
In fact, she could just as easily have borrowed the lemons from her neighbor, Mrs. Perry. But she was glad to get out of the house and into the last of a fine April day. Mrs. Porter was glad to be going somewhere, even if it was only to the mall.
The Porter house was set far back from a scarcely populated, deeply wooded road. It made Mrs. Porter nervous and claustrophobic, sometimes, to be at home too long at one time, and she had been indoors all day. Her Peugeot was waiting outside the garage. She swung into it, started it up, and went on her way.
Mrs. Porter took the shortcut, over the broken tarmac of Pine and then Stamford streets, past the more comfortable homes of Putnam Wells. This was a well-to-do community, a suburb of both Stamford, Connecticut, and New York City. In the early spring evening, with children playing on the lawns and bicycling down the street again after a long winter, it presented a cheery picture.
The Peugeot pulled into the old town square. Here, a small, charming New England village—white storefronts, a single tall church spire, a frowning courthouse with uneven stone steps—surrounded a broad green common. This was not New England, of course, not really. The people who lived here were commuters, not country folk. But there was enough old money here; there were old boys and old school ties to preserve the central village through restrictive zoning and conservative government, and thus keep the original two-hundred-year-old flavor of the town intact.
Louise Porter and her husband, Jack, had moved here from New York just six months ago. They’d spoken often of leaving the city for the country, the real country. New England. For one reason or another—Jack’s job primarily—they had had to compromise. Putnam Wells was not a solution with which Louise felt entirely satisfied, and as she circled the common to head up Route 33 to the mall, she felt a twinge of bitterness. Perhaps the old town pols had known what they were about: lure the Manhattan career women from their dens with a realistic country façade, then, before they know what’s happened to them, they’re fifty-year-old suburban matrons—trapped.
But Mrs. Porter’s bitterness did not last. She knew she would not be trapped. She knew she was different.
She bought her lemons to the sound of Muzak piped with irritating tunelessness down the supermarket aisles. Part of the conspiracy, no doubt, she thought as she got on the end of the checkout line, part of the plot to melt women’s minds.
She drove back slowly. Jack was probably fighting his way onto the train right now and, the rail lines being what they were, he would not get home for another two hours. It was a dreadful commute, and it had been that more than anything that induced Louise to leave her job at the art gallery. Her salary had barely paid for the train fare, Jack had pointed out. She would be able to find a good job nearer home. And she had agreed. Or sort of agreed. She’d quit, anyhow.
It struck Mrs. Porter, as she drove back into her driveway, that her own house took up the theme of the village square. It was no more than five years old, and its lot had been carved out of the woods with a modern preciseness that was devoid of charm. Yet the Porter house, too, was in the colonial style, down to the fake iron eagle hung above the front door. Mrs. Porter herself had even tried to foster the illusion by placing antique tables, wooden chairs, American primitive paintings, and the like inside. She was helping the conspirators at their game.
Mrs. Porter parked the Peugeot and carried her lemons inside. She hung her light coat on the hall peg and stepped briskly down the hall and into the spotless modern kitchen. She returned to the counter where she’d left the meal’s fixings. The man in the corner watched her for a long moment before coming forward.
The man’s name was Paul White. He was by profession a carpenter, and he lived in the nearby town of Arbordale. Arbordale was what is politely known as a service community. The maids, the workmen, and the store clerks who served the rich of Putnam Wells lived there.
Paul White was a large man, a little chunky around the middle, but with muscular arms and thick shoulders, and hard, strong, callused hands. In the unbreakable grip of one of those hands he held a butcher knife. He came forward slowly.
Mrs. Porter began to hum softly to herself as she arranged the chicken breasts before her. She hummed a Beatles song: “Here, There, and Everywhere.” She turned toward the sink and caught Paul White’s motion in the corner of her eye. With a small, weak “Oh!” she spun around, her back to the counter. Paul White approached her.
Oddly, even when she saw that his white overalls were stained everywhere with dried blood, Louise thought Paul White was only going to rape her. She had thought about rape, wondered what she would do if she were ever threatened with it. She had not fooled herself about it: She didn’t think she would be heroic. She had, however, on occasion believed that she was prepared, mentally, for the unlikely event.
She was not, could not have been, prepared for what Paul White did to her. That was unspeakable.
When the police saw what was left of Louise Porter’s body, they agreed that the second murder in Putnam Wells in less than a month had been committed in precisely the same manner as the first.
CHAPTER ONE
With both hands Mary pressed the star-shaped cookie cutter into the flattened dough. Her lips tightened until she was the picture of five-year-old determination. Breathless with the effort, she continued her story.
“… so then Tommy said he would hit Clara if she didn’t give it to him and Clara said, ‘Oh, no, you won’t because’”—she lifted the cutter and looked with satisfaction at the star outlined in the dough—“‘I’ll tell Mrs. Jenkins.’”
“And what did Tommy say to that?” asked Mary’s mother.
“He said”—Mary raised her voice to a plaintive scream imitative of Tommy’s—“‘I hate you, Clara Burns, and you’re a boogie.’”
“Well!” was her mother’s comment.
“And Clara said,” the child went on more reasonably, “‘Well, then, I hate you too, and you’re a boogie also, and you stink too!’” It was clear from her tone that Mary sided with her own sex.
Her mother, Joan White, only shook her head. She was standing at the kitchen counter before a cookie sheet on which were arrayed not only stars, but bells, seals with balls balanced on their noses, and camels—her daughter’s handiwork and her own. Mrs. White had brushed these objects and creatures with egg white and they were gleaming and sticky-looking in the kitchen light.
She was preparing now to cover the cookies with colored sugar, but she paused before doing so to observe her daughter. The little girl was kneeling atop a stool set against the counter. Her tongue was set between her lips and she was laboriously transferring the cutter to a fresh space on the dough.
“Don’t fall off the stool,” advised Mrs. White.
Without removing her attention from her task, Mary shifted her knees and Mrs. White began sprinkling the sugar.
Mother and daughter worked on together. Beside each other like that, intent on their chores, it was clear that they looked much alike. This probably meant that the child would never be beautiful. But she might—if she was lucky, if she had as contented a life as her mother had had—develop something of the older woman’s homey good looks.
Mrs. White was a woman in her late thirties. She had light red hair which she wore up in an old-
fashioned bun. It was beginning to show streaks of silver now, but so far these only seemed like glistening lines in the red—as if her hair were being struck by the sun. Her face was round and nondescript: her cheeks were chubby, her lips a little too pale, a little too thin. Her best features were her eyes. They were almond-shaped and a blue so light that it made the pupils appear very black and deep in contrast. Everywhere on her face—there was no question about it—new lines and wrinkles were beginning to form and old ones were beginning to deepen. These, however, turned upward, as if they had been carved by a lifetime of smiling. All in all, they gave her a look of tranquillity and serenity. It was not a deceptive look. She was, in fact, more content than most: content with her lot, her family, her life. Sometimes she could feel it: a deep satisfaction with the things around her welling up inside her, making her feel good and safe. And, yes, she felt depressed sometimes, too, but she tried not to dwell on it. She favored life’s bright side and turned away from unhappiness as often and as quickly as she could. All this was in her face, and the comfortable appearance of it was accented by her figure. Always ample, it was even more so now. She was soft and full, and her hips pressed against her dark print dress and spread her apron at the sides.
Her daughter had the same red hair though she wore hers down long. She had the same plain, round, pleasant face and there seemed every chance that she would look like her mother when she grew up.
Right now, though, in her little blue jumpsuit, her hands and cheeks all but covered with white flour, it was difficult to imagine her as a grown woman at all.
“Carefully,” Mrs. White warned Mary. “You’ll cut the point off if you get too close.”
The girl wiped her nose with her hand, whitening it and her forehead with flour. She set about her task afresh.
Mrs. White watched her with obvious affection. It had taken her a long time to have this second child, and it made her feel warm to have her near. No doubt, though she wouldn’t have admitted this, the shared resemblance had something to do with it too.
When Mrs. White finished with the sugar, the stars, bells, seals, and camels were sparkling red, white, yellow, and blue. Mrs. White lifted the cookie sheet, carried it to the open oven door, and slid it inside. She closed the door and stepped to the sink to rinse off her hands.
There was a window over the sink, open on the cool spring day. As the water ran over her fingers, Mrs. White looked out through the gingham curtains. Outside, beyond the driveway and the barn, a small lawn sloped down into dense woods. The woods ran off out of sight ahead and to the right. The branches of the trees, still bare, were red with new growth. Occasional evergreens rose startlingly from the brown. Eventually, from somewhere she couldn’t see, the land raised itself into a series of high wooded hills. Beyond the last of these was a sky of the deepest April blue.
In the left-hand corner of the window the road was visible, but this, too, was surrounded by trees and infrequently traveled. It was a quiet, secluded spot.
The Whites were lucky to have such a place. Her husband, Paul, was a carpenter, and if they had bought a house with the money he made, they would really have been able to afford no more than one of the shoddy clapboards typical of Arbordale. By renting, they had found themselves a real country cottage on the border of Arbordale and Putnam Wells. The woods were part of a county conservancy and so were protected against developers. Their nearest neighbor was their landlord, Jonathan Cornell, and though his house was just across the street, it was back far enough in the woods to be hidden during the summer months.
The Whites’ cottage was perfect. Over a hundred years old, it stood by the forest so long that it seemed part and parcel of the overall serenity of the place. The simple white two-story frame rested on a stone root cellar that now housed the boiler and water pump. Above this, at ground level, was the dinette and the roomy kitchen. This latter, where she now stood, Mrs. White had done up with her mother’s old furnishings, with warm red-checked wallpaper, with samplers bearing pictures of Amish buggies and hex signs, and prayers or slogans such as “No matter where I serve my guests, they seem to like my kitchen best.”
And, as this was her workshop, so the barn was Paul’s. The barn stood just across the short driveway from the cottage. When they had first moved in eight years ago, it had been a rickety structure of rotting brown wood that swayed a little in strong winter winds. Paul had set to work on it and, before long, without altering its quaint exterior, he had transformed it into a sturdy shelter for his tools, machines, and benches. Mrs. White had seen the place when Paul had first remodeled it and given it her blessing. She rarely went in there now. It was—she smiled as she thought it—the bear’s private cave.
The whole house—inside and out—was part of Mrs. White’s sense of serenity and comfort. As long as it was clean and well-run, she felt she had succeeded for another day. The house was hers, was her, in a way. Her pride in it was personal pride. Nowadays some people laughed at the idea of homes and homemakers, and that, as they say, was all right for some people. But this was what she was, and what she loved. This was where she belonged. This was her sanctuary.
Mrs. White switched off the faucet and turned back to her daughter. The little girl had paused in her exertions. She’d raised her head and her face had lost all expression. Only her eyes were bright and alert. She looked for all the world like a kitten listening for a mouse scrabbling in the walls.
In another moment a blue Ford pickup pulled into the driveway, kicking up the gravel.
Mary began to climb down from the stool.
“Daddy’s home!” she cried.
CHAPTER TWO
Mrs. White looked through the window at her husband of twenty years. Paul was dismounting from his truck, swinging his toolbox in one hand.
He was still, thought Mrs. White, a good-looking man. His black hair had receded some over the years. It still fell forward onto his forehead but not quite as far as it once did. His face was still lean and hard and ruddy, the brown eyes sparkling with energy and life. He still could break into a smile more quickly and easily than any other man she had ever known. It was true that his blue work shirt was beginning to bulge out a bit around the middle, but it was also true that his arms bulged with powerful muscles, and his big hands were steady and sure and strong.
As he stood in the drive a moment, squinting and grinning like a man staring into the sun, Mrs. White was struck by her attraction for him. After all these years, it was odd, she thought. A man becomes so much a part of your life, so much of what you were—flesh of your flesh, as the good book said, bone of your bone—and then, suddenly, in a warm moment like this, he could come to you in a new way. Fresh again. Like a stranger.
Behind him now, bounding from the truck with the same strong heavy step, came their son, Paul Jr. At twelve, he was a big boy, with muscles bursting out of his baby fat. He was carrying a baseball in one hand. Casually, almost insolently, he flipped it to his old man. Paul caught it with his free hand, then, quickly, flipped it back. Suddenly, bending over, he made a run for the door. Toolbox in hand, the older man dodged and weaved past the young boy’s pursuit. Finally, Paul made it to the door and pushed through it with his pursuer panting at his back. The two came in laughing noisily.
“Look what I found,” Paul said, gesturing to the boy.
“Not in the house.” Mrs. White pointed at the ball with a wooden gravy spoon she now held in her hand.
Paul Jr. gave a slight grimace and, opening the door again, tossed the ball back out onto the lawn.
Mrs. White shook her head at him. He was, she thought, in many ways like his father. Besides the physical resemblance, he had inherited Paul’s restlessness—a wild spirit that made him fidget in church and skip school now and then. Paul had grown out of it: He had retained the exuberance and—by putting his energy into his work—had made a good life for himself and his family. Mrs. White felt hopeful that Paul Jr. would do the same.
Just as she felt a part of her
husband, she felt her children were parts of her. They were the extensions of herself she sent into the world, away from the home to which she clung. The emotion was too complicated for her to express in words. She, Paul, and the children were—this was how she phrased it—one.
But for now she said to Junior, “Wipe your feet, you’re making tracks.”
“What about Dad’s feet.”
“I told you to do something.”
Raising his eyes to heaven, Paul Jr. wiped his sneakers on the inside mat.
“Now go wash your hands for supper.”
Paul Jr. bounded up the stairs, but as he went he ran his hand with malicious tenderness across his sister’s head.
“Hello, punk,” he said.
Mary pushed her lips together and swung out at him, futilely, with one small fat arm.
“Shut up!” she said.
“You quit teasing your sister,” Mrs. White called.
“Punk, punk,” Paul Jr. got in before he ran up the stairs to safety.
“You’re a punk,” Mary managed ineffectually.
But the little girl’s pout disappeared when in the next second she was caught up in her father’s arms and paraded about the room.
“Mary White, Mary White, wild as a kite and sharp as a bite,” Paul sang.
The little girl squealed and laughed and made her father sing the song again. Then her mother told her to wash up too. Paul let her down and her laughter faded to a chuckled, happy “huh-huh” before she followed her brother up the stairs.
There was sudden quiet in the kitchen now. Paul White took his baseball cap off and put it on his wife’s small head, then he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.
“Hey, good lookin’.” He peered past her to the stove. “What’s cookin’?”
Mrs. White smiled. “Roast chicken.”
“Mmm, roast chicken, my favorite.” Paul held his stomach and made a face.