Mommy Said Goodbye Read online

  “You think I’m making all this up.”

  “No. I…”

  Craig gave a half laugh that hurt her to hear. “I don’t even blame you. It’s crap. None of it explains a woman walking out on her kids without even saying goodbye.”

  Robin felt a thrill of fear. “But…didn’t she?”

  His expression changed. A mask seemed to close over his face. “Yeah. If you call what she told Brett saying goodbye.”

  Robin didn’t know what Julie was supposed to have said; she’d heard rumors that Craig would have been arrested except for his son’s story.

  He’d pulled back and now stood waiting, remote. “Will you call for Brett?”

  “Oh. Yes, of course.” She passed him, but paused in the living-room doorway. Turning back to him, Robin said, “Craig, I…”

  “Don’t lie. Don’t say you’re sorry.” His voice sounded heavy, slow, wary. “Don’t say anything.”

  Dear Reader,

  As a writer and reader, I am fascinated less by the big dramatic scenes than I am by the aftermath. Someone survives a childhood trauma and most bystanders assume that the story is over. But is that really the end? I want to know what comes next.

  I’m also fascinated by mystery, although like most of you, I really like to feel secure. The unknown is terrifying. So what happens to a man and his children when they are faced with a dreadful unknown: the disappearance of a wife and mother?

  Of course, I don’t write about the drama of the disappearance, or the following days. I take up the story a year and a half later, when they have lived with this awful unknown for seemingly endless months.

  Think about it. Your husband, your daughter, your mother, disappears. No blood, no clues, no goodbye notes. Did he choose to walk away? Was she abducted? Is she dead or alive? How do you live a normal life as you search for answers that may not be found? And what if finally you get an answer, but it’s not one you’ll ever fully understand or be able to explain to your children?

  Can you fall in love in the midst of this turmoil, this anguish, this guilt and anger?

  I hope you’ll be fascinated by this story and these characters.

  Best,

  Janice Kay Johnson

  Mommy Said Goodbye

  Janice Kay Johnson

  Books by Janice Kay Johnson

  HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

  483—SEIZE THE DAY

  561—HOME AGAIN

  627—HER SISTER’S BABY

  648—IN THE DARK OF THE NIGHT

  677—HIS FRIEND’S WIFE

  720—WHAT SHE WANTS FOR CHRISTMAS

  736—THE MIRACLE BABY

  758—BEAUTY & THE BEASTS

  789—THE FAMILY NEXT DOOR

  854—THE WOMAN IN BLUE*

  860—THE BABY AND THE BADGE*

  866—A MESSAGE FOR ABBY*

  889—WHOSE BABY?

  913—JACK MURRAY, SHERIFF*

  936—BORN IN A SMALL TOWN*

  (anthology with Debbie Macomber & Judith Bowen)

  944—THE DAUGHTER MERGER

  998—HIS PARTNER’S WIFE**

  1009—THE WORD OF A CHILD**

  1040—MATERNAL INSTINCT**

  1092—THE GIFT OF CHRISTMAS

  (anthology with Margot Early & Jan Freed)

  1140—TAKING A CHANCEº

  1153—THE PERFECT MOMº

  1166—THE NEW MANº

  HARLEQUIN SINGLE TITLE

  MISSING MOLLY (Part of WRONG TURN with Stella Cameron)

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  A MAN SUSPECTED of murdering his wife can pretty well count on being left off guest lists.

  Laughter, the clink of ice in glasses, the shouts of children and the smell of barbecued beef drifted over the fence from the next-door neighbor’s.

  Craig Lofgren stood on his back deck, the lid of his Weber kettle grill in his hand. Just like that, he was hit by a fist of anger and loss so powerful, he reeled back a step.

  “Daddy?” His daughter tugged at his free hand. “Daddy, what’s wrong?”

  He swallowed and opened his eyes. His voice sounded hoarse to his ears. “Just taking a whiff. Smells good, doesn’t it?”

  The anxiety on her face faded and she nodded. “You haven’t lit the charcoal yet.”

  “I’m doing it, I’m doing it.” Somehow, he found a grin for her. “Hungry?”

  Abby—who just turned nine—nodded, then gave a wistful look toward the fence. “They’re all there, aren’t they?”

  There was no point in pretending. She knew as well as he did why they were excluded. “Sounds that way.”

  Solemn, she nodded again. “I think I heard Brett putting his bike in the garage.”

  “Yeah? Go ask him if the teacher lists were posted yet.”

  The intense emotion had passed, leaving bitter resignation in its wake. He dumped charcoal in the kettle, making no effort to be quiet, poured on lighter fluid and flicked a match. To hell with it if he cast a pall on the block party. Let ’em whisper about him. Feel a tiny twinge of guilt, or at least pity, because they had made his innocent children pariahs with him.

  Once he was sure the charcoal was burning, Craig went in the house and sought out his eleven-year-old son. Brett had ridden his bike to the school, where rumor had it the lists had been posted showing which classrooms kids would be in and who their teachers would be when school started next week. Abby was the one who’d worried all summer about whether she’d be in the same class with her friends. But Brett, who professed not to care about school at all, had been the one to leap on his bike the minute Abby said she’d heard the lists were up.

  Craig headed upstairs when he heard his daughter’s squeal.

  “Daddy!” She popped out into the hall from her brother’s bedroom. “I got Mrs. Jensen! She’s super nice!”

  “Great.” He gave her a hug and went into Brett’s bedroom. As usual, it looked as if a burglar had ransacked it. “Who’d you get?”

  Shoulders slumped, Brett sat on the edge of the bed. “Ms. McKinnon.”

  Damn. Some of his earlier anger and tension gripped Craig again. He’d hoped for any other teacher for Brett.

  Carefully, he said, “She’s supposed to be good.”

  Brett nodded without looking up.

  Craig hesitated, then stepped over piles of clothes, a soccer ball and God knew what else so that he could reach the bed and sit down, too, right next to Brett. Abby stood in the doorway and watched, her jubilation gone and her face pinched, as it so often was these days.

  “What’s the deal?” Craig asked.

  He hadn’t expressed any of his concerns and hadn’t realized Brett had his own. The truth was, Robin McKinnon was said to be the best sixth grade teacher in the district. Right now, Brett needed someone who might be able to inspire him, energize him, discipline him.

  Craig just wasn’t sure Robin would even try. She’d been a friend of Julie’s, which meant, in this town, that she would believe heart and soul that Craig had murdered his wife and hidden the body. Or ground it up into bits and fed it to some farmer’s pigs. Who the hell knew? Craig understood there were a dozen or more theories. Every one of them involved him as a crazed killer, a man who couldn’t stand the thought that his wife wanted to leave him
. Nobody had considered the theory that maybe Julie Lofgren had just up and walked out on her family. Or that a stranger had abducted her.

  If the police had had one grain of proof… But they hadn’t then, a year and a half ago when Julie disappeared, and they didn’t have one now.

  Which hadn’t changed a single mind. The community had closed ranks against him. His lovely, innocent wife! they cried. A devoted mother and president of the parent-teacher organization two years running, she was well-known in Klickitat. Craig had never been anything but Julie’s often-absent husband, Brett’s dad who came to games when he could, Abby’s father who had missed her second grade parent-teacher conference because he was flying to Juneau.

  Now, every single person in Klickitat knew who he was. He couldn’t go to the grocery store or get gas without feeling eyes on him, without knowing he was being judged.

  He’d hoped that Brett would get the man just hired to teach sixth grade. Someone would have told him Brett’s sad story, of course, but at least he might not share the fervor of the people who’d known Julie.

  No such luck.

  After a long silence, Brett muttered, “Ms. McKinnon used to come to games and stuff.”

  “She was a friend of your mom’s.”

  Brett didn’t say anything.

  “Her boy—what was his name?—was a friend of yours, wasn’t he?” Craig remembered.

  “Malcolm.”

  “You know, she’s not going to treat you any differently because your mom disappeared.”

  “Yeah?” Fury blazed on Brett’s face when he lifted his head. “Everyone does! They either feel sorry for me,” he spat out, “or else they’re wondering if I saw anything. You can see what they’re thinking!”

  Yeah. You could.

  “Robin knows you.”

  “So?”

  Craig groped for an answer to the unanswerable. So she’d known Brett, known Julie, even, casually known Craig. She, too, had shunned the entire family after police cars with flashing lights were seen in front of the Lofgren home. She hadn’t called to find out why Brett quit the Little League team. Malcolm hadn’t called to invite Brett over to hang at his house.

  Brett bowed his head again, but tension still ran through him. “She’ll think you killed Mom.”

  “I’m not the one in her class,” Craig said. “Brett.” He waited until his son met his eyes. “I can ask for a change of teacher if you want.” No response. “Otherwise, we’ll give Ms. McKinnon a try. If you’re not happy, then I’ll have you changed to a different room.”

  “Why can’t we move?” his thin, dark-haired son cried. “Where no one knows us?”

  Because this is purgatory, Craig thought, and we’ve been consigned to it.

  “You know why.” He wrapped an arm around Brett’s shoulders and squeezed. “We’re outta here the minute the police find out what happened to your mom.”

  “But they think you killed her.” Brett searched his face. “Don’t they? So, are they even looking for Mom?”

  “Sure they are.” Craig hated his falsely hearty voice, never mind the fact that he was lying to his kids despite his vows never to do so. No, the cops weren’t looking for Julie, because they were sure she was dead. Fish bait. What they were doing was waiting for him to screw up. Head out furtively some Tuesday afternoon for that storage space, rented under another name, where he’d hidden the bloodstained tarps. Or maybe even the body. The cops were probably listening to this conversation. Craig was willing to bet the house was wiretapped. He was the suspect, and the cops were dogging his every footstep.

  Abby, still in the doorway, let out a sniff. “I miss Mommy.”

  Craig held out his hand to her and lied yet again. “Me, too, Punkin. Come here.”

  She plopped onto the bed on his other side and wept a few tears onto his T-shirt. Brett continued to sit stiffly, saying nothing.

  “Daddy?” Abby said after a moment. “Did you light the coals?”

  “Light the…” He swore and leaped up. “I forgot all about them.”

  They’d burned down to fiery embers, perfect for barbecuing. Abby brought him the plate of steaks, which he laid on the grill. Juice sizzled as it hit the coals. Soon, the scent of their meat cooking mingled in the air with the smells from across the fence.

  And finally, he and his children ate, near to the laughter and conversation in the next yard but not part of it, isolated as they always were now.

  Because one day Julie had vanished, leaving behind her car keys and purse. Who would befriend even the children of a man who must have murdered his wife?

  ROBIN MCKINNON sat in her classroom and waited for the bell that would bring students rushing in. Hands flat on her desk, she took one last survey of her newly hung decorations, the welcome she’d written on the blackboard, the arrangement of the desks, the names she’d stenciled onto cards and taped below each wooden cubby where her sixth-graders would park their backpacks and lunches.

  Her gaze paused halfway, on one name: Brett Lofgren. She both dreaded and anticipated seeing him walk in the door. Notes from Brett’s fourth grade and fifth grade teachers made it clear that he had become a troubled boy since Robin had known him. And no wonder! How horrifying for him, to be torn between fear that his mother had abandoned him and his sister and the more frightening possibility that his father had killed his mother.

  The Tribune had reported that Brett claimed his mother had said goodbye to him; his story was one of the major reasons Craig Lofgren hadn’t been arrested. But what if he’d made up that story to protect his father? Imagine as the weeks and months went by and his mother wasn’t found. Would he start wondering if his father had murdered her?

  She shivered, thinking about it, remembering Julie Lofgren. Robin had met Julie through circumstance, just…oh, two mothers who often sat together at sporting events, rooting for each other’s kid, talking in that idle way you did when a Little League game dragged on for hours. After several years, she’d have sworn she knew Julie, the bubbly, pretty woman with dimples and an irresistibly childish delight in the triumphs of her children. Robin had talked about her husband, then their marital troubles and finally the divorce. Just before Julie disappeared, a year after Robin’s divorce—when she and Glenn had become embroiled in an ugly custody battle because Glenn was trying to impress his new girlfriend—Julie had listened sympathetically.

  In turn, she had confessed to problems in her own marriage, nebulous but enough to make her lower her voice and to cause the light that imbued her to dim. She had never once suggested that Craig was abusive or that she was afraid of him, but she was never quite specific about what was wrong at home, either.

  Robin felt guilty that she hadn’t stayed in touch with Brett. He and Malcolm were more soccer buddies than close friends, rather like their mothers, but Mal would have been okay with inviting Brett over. She just hadn’t thought to suggest it, even though she’d read all the newspapers with her friend’s face constantly in her mind, wondering at her fate, first thinking about Craig as a distraught, loving husband, then as a violent man who wouldn’t take rejection. She and Malcolm had had their own turmoil about the same time, thanks to Glenn…. But that was just an excuse. Robin prayed that Brett’s closer friends had been more faithful.

  The bell rang, its shrill clamor making her start. Feet thundered in the hall and two boys jostled to be the first into the classroom. Other children pressed behind them.

  “Children” was still the right word, although they wouldn’t like to hear it. This was her favorite age, these boys and girls on the brink of so much more: of physical maturity, of making decisions that would direct their lives, of being genuinely cool, of “going together” meaning more than the words. You could mistake a sixth-grader for a sophomore in high school one minute, a fourth-grader the next. Like the boys’ voices, cracking and squeaking and booming, these eleven-year-olds wavered between childhood and adolescence. She liked to think she could still have an effect on them that she might
not be able to in another year or two.

  She smiled as they poured in. “Take a seat. Any desk is fine today.”

  A few she knew well, because of extracurricular activities or because they were younger siblings of former students. Others were familiar faces, because she’d seen them in the halls every year. A few were new to the district.

  As always, she marveled at how much less mature the boys were than the girls—a sad fact that had the girls longing for middle school. A curvy brunette sauntered in, flipping her hair and eyeing the boys sidelong. Pants darn near as low and tight as Christina Aguilera’s hugged her hips; her baby tee, snug over a buxom chest, announced that she was a “princess.” Slipping quietly into a front seat was another girl, slight as a fourth grader, who would undoubtedly pretend with friends that she was interested in boys, even though she still played with Barbies at home.

  Boys punched each other, rocked their desks, guffawed and shouted at friends passing in the hall. Most were shorter than the girls, just beginning a growth spurt that would have them looking like men in only a few years.

  Unless he had changed extraordinarily, Brett Lofgren hadn’t yet made an appearance. Robin scanned faces yet again. The second bell rang, making a few kids clap hands over their ears. She started toward the door with the intention of shutting it.

  A tall, handsome boy with his father’s dark hair and gray eyes ambled in. She’d have been fooled by Brett’s air of nonchalance, by his sneer, if she hadn’t seen how fixed his gaze was. He walked right by her and sat down without meeting anybody’s eyes or speaking to a soul.

  It might have been her imagination, but there seemed to be a brief hitch in the noise level, a moment when others snatched a surreptitious look, then ostentatiously turned back to their friends and began chattering again. Brett slumped in his chair and began tapping his fingers on the desk.

  Robin closed the door and cleared her throat. Quiet spread slowly.