“This is a funeral, Lena,” Tam said. “Not the Oscars.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Make sure the designer knows they aren’t getting it back.”
I stared Tam dead in the eye until she looked away first. “I’m sure Veronika’s stylist can make some calls,” she finally said.
“Great.” I stood up. “I’m going to get some water. Anyone else thirsty?”
But I was gone before either of them could answer. I smiled as soon as I got back to the hall. If Desiree had insisted she wear something from the Oscar de la Renta fall collection to her own funeral, I would have been sharing disgusted looks with Aunt E and Tam. But there’s no doubt that she would have insisted. And I was happy that at least I was able to get that for her—silly as it may be.
The kitchen wasn’t eat-in, but it was connected to the dining room so it didn’t matter much. Veronika didn’t cook but also didn’t let that stop her from creating the ultimate chef’s paradise every few years. When Aunt E’d first seen the latest iteration, she’d spent a good half hour caressing each and every appliance while the rest of us wondered if we should give them some space. Even I had to admit it was beautiful.
Stainless-steel appliances.
Sub-Zero refrigerator and freezer with a vacuum seal.
Gas range with a 20,000 BTU burner and a griddle.
Two ovens with something called warming trays.
Two sinks.
Two dishwashers.
One island.
Though it wouldn’t take the place of my Magic Wand, I could see why it got Aunt E so hot and bothered. I got a bottle of water out of the humongous fridge, then leaned against an island big enough to film Survivor. I took a long drag, then almost choked when I heard the voice behind me. “Isn’t it good? We get it shipped from Japan. Four hundred bucks a bottle.”
Veronika.
I turned to face her. “Good thing I didn’t spit it out.”
She was as put together as the rest of the house. Nails done. Hair laid. Makeup precise, as if applied by X-Acto knife. You’d never be able to tell she’d lost her lone daughter. She said nothing, just walked up and pulled me into her. And I let her.
There’s that saying. How you got him is how you lose him. Veronika had clearly taken it to heart because she was determined not to lose. She was a socialite who wasn’t social. A stay-at-home mom who never stayed at home. A trophy wife who didn’t think she was the prize. She’d chased Mel until she got him. Twenty-five years in and she was still in pursuit. She went with him everywhere—be it chauffeured car, private jet, or yacht—oftentimes with Desiree and a tutor also along for the ride.
Veronika broke the hug first but kept her arm around me as she too leaned on the island.
“How you doing?” I said.
“I’ve been better,” she said. Super Black Woman. She smiled, laughed a bit, as if hoping to take the edge off. But that’s when I noticed the lipstick on her teeth. She must’ve rushed to pull herself together when she heard us come in. I didn’t tell her.
I couldn’t bring her daughter back. I couldn’t take away the pain. But I could let her at least think she was doing a good job hiding it.
Veronika was so seamless at playing Stepford Wife it was easy to forget she was an actual person. But even I had to admit she and Mel worked, both loyal as hell to each other in their own unique ways. I put my head on her shoulder as we leaned on the big fancy island in the big fancy apartment in the big fancy building. Each quiet, each lost in her own thoughts. For once, the silence felt comfortable, like we were actually family. Then she shifted and got back to our regularly scheduled programming.
“You need to do a better job of talking with your father, Melina. He’ll never admit it, but he’s been beating himself up. But he had to cut that girl off. He gave her everything. Gave all of us everything. And she was still acting like a child.” Veronika always spoke like this. Like she was presenting Mel with a lifetime achievement award. “Still, he thinks it’s his fault. He’s not taking Desi’s death well.”
“I’m sure none of us are,” I said.
“Of course not, but your father is taking it especially hard. You need to talk to him.” She waited for me to respond.
“You have lipstick on your teeth.”
Her eyes widened, perfectly painted pointer finger rushing to rub it away. We both said nothing until the nude brown was all but gone. Then I took a sip of four-hundred-dollar water and felt like shit so I changed the subject.
“When’s the last time you saw her?”
“We were supposed to have a spa day, but Mel had that last-minute trip to Miami. I FaceTimed on her birthday. Sent her flowers. You wish her a happy birthday?”
“No,” I said.
“You two really haven’t spoken since the accident?”
“Unfortunately. It feels silly now.” I couldn’t think about it. “You know, someone called me that night. The person who found her.”
“She called me too. We were at Morgan’s graduation.”
I’d forgotten Zor-El had said she’d tried to reach both Desiree’s parents but couldn’t. That’s why she’d called me. “But you didn’t talk to her?”
Maybe I’d remembered wrong. Maybe she had spoken with Veronika. Maybe that’s how Desiree had found out who Zor-El was.
“Nope,” Veronika said. “She left a message.”
I perked up. “She leave her name?”
Veronika turned to face me. If she hadn’t had Botox, she’d have probably raised her eyebrow. “If she did, the message is long gone.” Her pause was brief. “Why are you asking all these questions?”
I didn’t want to answer. Luckily, Tam came into the kitchen.
“The police are here. Should I call Mel?”
*
No one offered Detective Zizza a four-hundred-dollar bottle of water. He stood in front of us awkward as hell, like he was giving a book report. Still, he had a rapt audience. Veronika, Tam, Aunt E, and I all sat around the room. Mel had been called but apparently had an important meeting. I was surprised. That was standard behavior when it came to me, but this was his prized Desiree. I was sure he’d have Tam give him a play-by-play. Detective Green was also noticeably absent.
“We found the car,” Zizza said and then paused, as if waiting for a standing ovation.
We remained seated. Finding the car was what they were supposed to do.
He kept on. “It’s what we thought. Two local thugs who wouldn’t have passed a driver’s test even if they were old enough. Like to steal cars but never bothered to get past the 145th Street Bridge. Didn’t even think to ditch the car. Or sell it for parts. They were still joyriding when one of our guys caught them this morning.”
I tore my eyes off his mini rant to read the room. Veronika and Tam were nodding like he was a catchy beat. Aunt E was side-eyeing him so hard I could barely see the browns of her eyes. She looked like I felt. Like there was more to the story than an episode of World’s Most Clueless Criminals. I didn’t care how rich and powerful Mel Pierce had become; NYPD wasn’t making a house call just to rail about two kids who’d happened upon Desiree’s Tesla.