by Joanne Fluke
Alan flipped the lock on his office door and sat down at his father’s desk. His office was his refuge, a replica of the one his father had maintained in the back room of his country hardware store. Moira Jonas had decorated the walls with antiques. There was an old red Flexible Flyer hung from the rafters over his head, along with assorted shovels and rakes and even a hand plow. Laureen thought the room looked cluttered, but Alan loved the sense of hands-on merchandising that was difficult to maintain in the modern world of computer-generated orders and automatic restocking. His father hadn’t needed a computer to know what was on his shelves. Of course, his father hadn’t owned fifty-three stores in six different states, either.
He pulled out the center drawer and felt in the back for the hidden compartment where a carton of unfiltered Camels was secreted away from Laureen’s prying eyes. Opening a pack, he withdrew a cigarette, rolling it between his fingers almost reverently. As he touched the flame of his lighter to the tip of the cigarette, the intercom crackled into life.
“Alan? Do you want oat bran pancakes for breakfast? Or would you rather have egg substitutes and oat bran toast?”
Alan gave a guilty start and dropped the cigarette into the ashtray. Laureen would confiscate his Camels if she knew they were here.
“Alan? Can you hear me?”
“I hear you, honey.” Alan sighed deeply. The last thing he wanted was more oat bran. Ever since Laureen had read that it reduced serum cholesterol, she’d been sneaking it in everything she cooked. “I guess I’ll have fake eggs and toast. But if you’re working on something important, I can wait.”
Laureen’s voice was impatient. “Of course I’m working on something important. You know I’m doing the chocolate show next week.”
“It’s all right, honey. I’m not very hungry and I can always fix something later.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! I always cook for you when I’m home. Five minutes, and don’t be late!”
The intercom crackled again and Alan was glad he couldn’t see Laureen’s expression. “Thanks, honey. I’ll be there.” Alan switched off the intercom and picked up his cigarette, coughing slightly as he inhaled. Laureen had been up late last night with the chocolate caramels, and her unaccustomed failure, coupled with the strain Vanessa had put on their marriage, had put her in a foul mood.
Alan leaned back and puffed on his forbidden Camel, wishing he could turn back the clock. Hal Knight had married two years ago and since then his wife, Vanessa, had gone after almost every man in the Deer Creek Condo complex. The moment Alan had recognized Vanessa’s little game, he’d been very careful to give her a wide berth, even though she was younger than anyone in the building and probably lonely. He’d even begun to feel a little sorry for her, alone every day while Hal was off on his business trips.
Looking back on that day, a month earlier, Alan could honestly say he hadn’t suspected a thing. Vanessa had called to say her garbage disposal wasn’t working right, so he’d grabbed his toolbox and headed right up to the third floor. When he found her waiting in a see-through pink negligee, Alan had thrown his previous caution to the winds. It had only happened a couple of times before Laureen had caught them, and Laureen wasn’t the forgiving kind.
Almost time. Alan put out his cigarette and hurried to the attached bathroom to flush the evidence down the toilet. He brushed his teeth, used some mouthwash, and headed down the hallway to the kitchen to try to make peace with his wife.
Forty Minutes before 10:57 AM
Moira Jonas took a blue and gold caftan off the hanger and slipped it over her head, careful to avoid her reflection in the mirrored closet doors. Her newest outfit, decorated with ropes of shiny gold beads on a cobalt-blue background, had long sleeves and a high mandarin collar to hide the crepe that was beginning to show on her neck. She’d tried all the expensive creams and moisturizers, but nothing seemed to help, and Grace had noticed; she was sure of it. Of course Grace was much too kind to say anything critical, but she worked with gorgeous showgirls all day long and even though she insisted she loved Moira just the way she was, comparisons were inevitable.
Moira brushed her long red hair and pulled it up into a tight bun she’d been wearing lately. It hurt, but it smoothed out some of her wrinkles. Last night she’d casually broached the subject of a face-lift and Grace, ten years younger and blessed with skin as smooth and elastic as a baby’s bottom, had been less than sympathetic. Didn’t Moira realize that any surgery, no matter how minor, was dangerous? Subjecting yourself to elective cosmetic surgery just because you had a few character lines was totally insane.
As Moira walked through the bedroom, she stopped to study several swatches of material tacked to the wall. She’d vowed to decorate their unit by Christmas at the latest, but three rush jobs had come up and she’d put it off. What was the old adage about doctors’ wives never getting the proper medical attention? Or dentists’ wives having rotten teeth? Grace was probably sorry she’d fallen in love with an interior decorator since she was still living in a million-dollar condo with bare white walls.
“Damn . . . I mean, darn!” Moira ripped down the swatches and went to put on the coffee. Just as soon as she’d finished her breakfast, she’d make a final decision on the patterns and colors, drive into town to pick up materials, and start turning their condo into a showplace that would make Grace proud.
Thirty-five Minutes before 10:57 AM
Vanessa Knight sat on her pink satin bedspread and pouted. Today was her twenty-third birthday and her husband hadn’t even bothered to say good morning. He was locked in his studio, working on that dumb comic strip of his, and he’d yelled at her when she’d knocked at the door. She wished she could drive into Vegas to have a birthday lunch with some of her friends, but Hal wouldn’t let her go anywhere alone and he refused to take her along on his business trips since that silly incident with the bellhop. All the poor man had done was hold her arm a second too long when he’d helped her into the elevator, but Hal had been furious. He was insanely jealous when any man paid the slightest bit of attention to her.
She got off the bed with a flounce and the towel she was wearing slipped down to her waist. It was a pity there was no audience. Vanessa knew she had a dynamite body. When Hal had first seen her in the buff, he said that with her curly blond hair and vivid blue eyes, she looked exactly like a live version of Little Annie Fanny in the Playboy cartoon.
Vanessa walked over to the window and stared out at the snow-covered landscape. There was no one in sight except a curious squirrel, so she did a bump and grind just for the hell of it. Then she flipped off the towel and tossed it aside with a frown. This particular towel brought back memories, most of them unpleasant. It was royal blue with a pink satin border and it had cost Hal over a thousand dollars. Forty-nine dollars for the towel, twenty for the matching washcloth, and nine hundred and fifty-six dollars for Vanessa’s public humiliation.
The saleslady at Heroldson’s had been very impatient when Vanessa had been unable to make up her mind between royal blue and sunshine-yellow. She was an older, overweight woman with a blue rinse in her hair, the type who secretly envied Vanessa’s beauty and made up for it by treating her with contempt. And when Vanessa had handed her the charge card to pay for the towel, the clerk had taken vicious delight in telling her that it was no longer valid for any purchase over fifty dollars.
Despite the long line, Vanessa had protested. That was ridiculous. She’d charged over fifty dollars just last week. She was Mrs. Hal Knight and her husband would be very angry when he heard about how Heroldson’s had treated her.
The saleslady had smiled and said she didn’t think Mr. Knight would be upset at all, since he’d called the store personally to place a limit on his account. Perhaps Mrs. Knight had been charging excessively?
Vanessa’s face had turned red. She’d whipped out her MasterCard, but the saleslady had informed her that Heroldson’s didn’t accept any other credit cards. Vanessa would have to go up to the credit
office on the fourth floor if she wanted to find out the details, but since the account was in Mr. Knight’s name, he could monitor the charges in any manner he chose. And right now she was holding up the line. If she’d be so kind as to step aside?
Naturally, Vanessa had been furious. Her first instinct had been to drive right home to confront Hal. She’d been halfway across the parking lot when she’d remembered that a friend of hers worked in Heroldson’s credit department. Turning around, she took the elevator up to the fourth floor.
Tricia had been only too happy to help. She’d told Vanessa that there were ways to get around the ceiling Hal had placed on his credit card. Since the limit applied to a single purchase, Vanessa could buy the towel on one charge slip and the washcloth on another. Tricia would write it up for her. And while she was at it, she’d be glad to help Vanessa find lots of other items under fifty dollars.
Naturally, they’d had a big fight when the charges had come in and now Vanessa was forced to ask Hal every time she needed anything, even a new toothbrush. She was right back where she’d been as a single girl—short of cash.
Vanessa knew everyone in the building suspected that she’d married Hal for his money, but she’d honestly loved him and thought that their marriage would work. Of course his money was the reason she was sticking it out, but it hadn’t been the deciding factor.
When Vanessa was a child, her mother had told her that it was just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one. Money made everything easier. If her mother had married a rich man instead of the truck driver who’d deserted them before Vanessa was born, Vanessa could have grown up in a nice house with nice clothes and plenty of spending money. And she certainly wouldn’t have been forced to drop out of school to take a job in a factory. She’d gotten out of the small Southern town eventually, but it had taken her three long years of punching a time clock and saving every penny to do it.
Things had started to look up the moment she’d rolled into Vegas. She’d bought herself some fake ID and landed a job as a change girl in a downtown casino, where she’d met the producer who had turned her into Vanessa Thomas, rising young starlet. Of course, it had been only one movie and she hadn’t spoken any lines, but it had been a far cry from the plastic seat cover factory in Georgia.
And then she’d met Hal and fallen in love. He’d taken her out for dinner almost every night and sent her roses at least once a week. She hadn’t guessed how wealthy he was, not then. Of course, she knew the places he took her were expensive, but lots of guys put fancy meals on their expense accounts.
Then, one night when her roommates weren’t home, she’d invited Hal to her apartment for dinner. Afterward, she’d tried to seduce him and that was when she’d found out about his problem. Poor Hal had been so embarrassed that Vanessa’s heart had gone out to him. She’d told him she loved him anyway, and Hal had said he was crazy about her, too. But there was no way he’d ever ask her to marry him. It wasn’t fair to ask a healthy young woman to live without sex.
After Hal had left, Vanessa had settled down on the lumpy couch and done some hard thinking. She’d had a red-hot affair with the producer, but he’d treated her like an absolute nothing when they weren’t under the covers. Hal was just the opposite. He said he couldn’t make love to her, but he treated her just like a princess.
The next morning she’d told Hal she wanted to marry him anyway. The sex wasn’t that important to her. She’d signed the papers he’d asked her to, and they’d gone off to a wedding chapel to make it legal. She hadn’t found out Hal was rich until after it was all over.
Now, looking back on the whole thing, Vanessa knew she’d set herself up. She hadn’t really believed that a good-looking, masculine man like Hal couldn’t perform in bed. She’d simply thought that he just hadn’t met the right woman yet. And she’d talked herself into believing that she was that woman.
Right after the wedding, she’d bought all kinds of books guaranteed to get results, and treated herself to lots of sexy negligees and kinky outfits. When the books and the clothes hadn’t worked, she’d driven down to the strip and talked to a couple of hookers she knew. She’d tried every single thing anyone had suggested, but Hal had just gotten more anxious and uptight. So she’d moved into a separate bedroom and resigned herself to a celibate life. They would be loving roommates and that was fine with her.
In some ways, Vanessa was an old-fashioned girl. She’d taken her marriage vows seriously. She’d promised Hal she wouldn’t sleep with anyone else, and she hadn’t, not then. But Hal still got angry if he thought her dresses were too tight and someone whistled at her on the street. He stopped taking her to restaurants because he said the waiters leered at her. And he made her give up her acting classes because of a love scene, even though it was right there in the script.
Then he’d started to harass her about the other men in the building. Couldn’t she see that Clayton was staring when she wore her pink bikini? She should wear a modest one-piece suit. And no more tennis in the mornings with Jayne and Paul. He was sure that Paul had gotten an eyeful when she’d bent over to lob the ball.
At first Vanessa had tried to please him. But one day last year, when he’d yelled at her about parading around in front of the man who came to repair the refrigerator, Vanessa had lost her temper. The refrigerator repairman was at least sixty years old and life was too short to put up with this kind of grief. She’d told Hal she wanted a divorce.
Hal had laughed and told her to talk to Clayton about that prenuptial agreement she’d signed. An honest lawyer, Clayton told her all the facts. She’d only get a small allowance if she divorced Hal, but she’d get half of everything Hal had if Hal was the one to divorce her.
Vanessa had set out to drive Hal straight to divorce court. First, she’d spent hours in town, shopping in all the expensive stores and picking out everything she’d ever wanted. But Hal had just cut off her credit. And he’d taken away the keys to her car so she was stuck up here on the mountain like some sort of prisoner.
When spending too much of Hal’s money hadn’t worked, she’d tried to play on his jealousy. Surely he’d divorce her if he knew she was sleeping with his friends. Vanessa was a little ashamed of herself, but she’d set out to seduce them systematically, starting with Clayton. Ever since Darby had died of cancer, he’d been lonely and he’d jumped at the chance to take her to bed. Then there was Marc, who was always up for a pretty woman. And Johnny Day. But Hal hadn’t reacted at all, even though she’d flaunted it.
Paul had been polite and friendly, but he hadn’t seemed to understand what she wanted. Vanessa figured it was his Scandinavian background, so she’d finally given up and tried for Jack. He’d been impossible, too. One day, when she’d practically thrown herself at him, Jack had hugged her and told her that he was flattered. She was pretty and sexy and he didn’t blame her for trying to drive Hal to divorce, but he wasn’t about to play her game.
She’d picked Alan next, mostly because Hal liked Laureen. But sleeping with Alan hadn’t worked, either. Hal had shouted at her and called her a tramp, but he hadn’t filed any papers. There was only one man left, Walker Browning, but while Vanessa no longer had a Southern accent, she still had her Southern prejudices. There was no way she’d seduce a black man. At her wits’ end, she’d figured that Moira was nice enough, and Hal might go crazy if she slept with a woman. So she’d spent the past two weeks cozying up to Moira, asking her advice on decorating and pretending to be very interested in learning about furniture arrangement and color schemes. Moira was flattered at all the attention, but Grace kept interrupting at just the wrong times.
Vanessa sighed as she tossed the towel into the hamper. Over a year old, its satin edges were already beginning to fray, just like her nerves. Something just had to happen to take Grace out of the picture for a couple of days so she’d have time to zero in for the kill.
Thirty Minutes before 10:57 AM
The phone on the fourth floor rang three times.
“Hello, this is Johnny. I can’t answer the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Wait for the beep.”
A woman’s amplified voice filled the room. “Johnny? Are you there? This is Karleen and I’m sick of leaving messages on your damn machine! Are you avoiding me, or what?” There was the sound of a dial tone and a moment later, the machine clicked off. Less than two minutes later, the phone rang again. After the required three rings, Johnny Day’s disembodied voice answered again.
This time the woman’s tone was conciliatory. “Sorry, Johnny. I didn’t mean to bitch, but I haven’t heard from you in over a month and time’s running out. I’ve got enough money, that’s not it. But I need to know what you want me to do about our little problem. Please call me.”
There was a dial tone and the machine clicked off. A moment later, it activated again and the tape began to rewind, making way for new incoming calls and erasing five weeks of messages that Johnny Day would never hear.
Twenty-five Minutes before 10:57 AM
Rachael stood in the exact center of Darby’s sitting room, the best place in the fifth-floor condo to practice her Tai Chi. All the other rooms had the look of an exclusive men’s club with ceiling to floor bookcases, standing floor lamps, and leather furniture. This sitting room had been Darby’s domain and she’d decorated it with pink and white poof pillow couches and chairs, lightweight and easy to shove back against the wall. When Rachael had moved in, Clayton had offered Darby’s sitting room as hers to use as she wished. He seldom ventured inside and Rachael presumed the room brought back painful memories of his late wife’s illness.
