The Girl in the Green Raincoat by Laura Lippman Page B

Tess was delivering him an exclusive, an intimate of Carole Massinger’s willing to speak at length. There would be no simple “She was a quiet child” homilies from Mrs. Zimmerman. She would talk. And talk and talk and talk. Primed like a pump, she spoke to a reporter for so long that it was almost dusk by the time she hung up. The dog walkers were beginning to arrive in the park.
    “This is how Carole first came to my attention,” Tess said. “She and her dog wore matching coats.”
    “She always did like nice things. When she was thirteen—thirteen, mind you—she got it in her head that she wanted one of those bubble skirts that were so popular. And not just any bubble skirt, but a designer one like Madonna wore. Dulcie and Gabba-Gabba-Hay, I think.” It took Tess a moment to translate this to Dolce & Gabbana. “It cost something like four hundred dollars and she wanted to go into her savings account. Her parents talked her out of that, thank goodness. So much money for such an ugly thing.”
    “Yet now bubble skirts are back,” Tess said.
    “And Madonna never went away. It just goes to show,” Mrs. Zimmerman said. She stood, did a few quick deep knee-bends to loosen her joints, stiff after so many hours of sitting. Then she was off, leaving Tess to wonder: What did it go to show ? The cyclical nature of fashion, the resilience of a pop star, or the eternal verity of young girls yearning for things they would regret?

Chapter 11
    E thel Zimmerman’s in-depth interview with the Beacon-Light brought results beyond Tess’s wildest dreams. The story was now hot enough for the national crowd. Ethel Zimmerman became the get of gets, holding out for not merely for the Today show, but Matt Lauer himself. Today even sent a crew to Tess’s home to get what they called B-roll of Dempsey, but Dempsey attempted to attack the young woman producer, and it was determined that a still photograph of the dog, held firmly in Tess’s arms, would suffice.
    The intensity of the media coverage turned the case into a bona fide red ball—stepped-up efforts to determine if Carole’s phone could be traced via the GPS device implanted in all cell phones, a sizable award offered by a local bank. From her sun porch, Tess watched men and cadaver dogs search the park.
    The one tangible result? Don Epstein, according to the Beacon-Light , began receiving literal sacks of mail, most of it from supportive women. Oh, there were some accusatory letters as well, and offers to pray for his mortal soul, but the bulk of the mail was from women angling to be wife number four.
    “Why do you think that it is?” an earnest reporter asked Epstein, arranging her features in that ubiquitous serious-yet-furrowless expression. Tess believed it must be taught in the nation’s broadcasting schools: Concerned Face 101.
    “Most women see that I’m the wounded party here. My wife left me. She took my money. They can search my house and the woods behind my house and all of Baltimore, and they’re never going to find her.”
    “But you must admit, Mr. Epstein—”
    “Call me Don.” Was he actually flirting?
    “You must admit that this all seems rather, well, ironic.” If Tess Monaghan weren’t seven months pregnant, she would have downed a shot, in honor of a drinking game she and Whitney had devised years ago: Whenever anyone misused the word “ironic,” slam back tequila. On a good night it was possible to get drunk fifteen minutes into the six o’clock news.
    “Your first two wives are dead. You had a girlfriend, between those two wives, and she died in a fall. That girlfriend happened to be the older sister of your third wife. Can you blame people for being suspicious?”
    “Yes,” he said, composed and measured. He must have hired a media coach , Tess thought. There was no sign of the defensive man that Mrs. Blossom had met. “Yes, I can blame people, and our tabloid culture, with its unquenchable thirst for other people’s