by Joanne Fluke
He hesitated in front of “Haunted House.” It was a three-level wonder of mechanical precision, but it played a theme song. Paul Lindstrom had told him the piece was Toccata and Fugue in D minor by one of those composers that started with a B, Bach or Beethoven or Brahms, he could never remember which. It didn’t really matter who’d written it. It wasn’t the sort of music he wanted to hear first thing in the morning.
The second alcove contained a great little machine he’d played as a boy, and it was every bit as much fun now. “All-Star Baseball” took the player through a whole nine-inning game, with extra balls if you got over a five hundred average. It played “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” a melody that reminded him of hot dogs slathered with yellow mustard, and warm beer in waxed cups. Laureen swore that hot dogs prepared in a microwave tasted just like ballpark franks, but she was dead wrong. Nothing could compare with the real thing.
He hesitated for a moment and then moved on. All-Star Baseball brought back painful memories of his brief moment in the limelight. He could still hear the roar of the crowd when he’d nailed someone stealing second, feel the slaps on the back in the locker room when he’d pitched a no-hitter, relive his elation when he’d faced a power hitter with a full count and caught him looking. Even after almost twenty years, Marc still felt incomplete without a ball in one hand and a glove in the other. Most days he could handle it, but not after losing out on his land deal to a man like Sam Webber.
Marc pulled out a padded stool and sat down in front of “Front Line Invasion,” a war game. There were three sets of flippers and two balls, one from either side, that were put in play simultaneously. It took six hits to knock out the big cannons at the rear and four hits to take out a sniper. Every time a ball missed its target and hit the surrounding bumper, the player lost points. The first time Tammy had played, she’d ended up with a minus score; her whole army was dead, and she’d lost the war. When the machine had played “Taps” and the rows of caskets had lit up, Tammy had gotten so bent out of shape that he’d ended up spending the rest of the evening coddling her. Of course he’d known that her father had been killed in ’Nam, but he’d never expected her to get so emotional about a game.
There was a pile of slugs in a bowl on top of the machine and Marc dropped one in the coin slot. Then he pulled back the twin plungers to release two balls in tandem. There was no way he’d ever understand how today’s kids could be so fascinated by video games. With their synthesized voices and computerized graphics, they were about as boring as watching Saturday morning cartoons. Pinball machines were real. The player controlled the action completely and anything could happen. You could even cheat the odds a little by tilting the machine if you knew just how far to go. It was no wonder that kids today sat back and waited instead of getting out there and making their own luck.
Ten Minutes before 10:57 AM
Jayne Peters was doing her best to be cheerful, even though she’d been depressed ever since the divorce papers had been filed. Life just wasn’t the same without Paul and how could she even begin to start a new life when she was surrounded by so many traces of the old?
Paul had designed every piece of furniture in their apartment. There was the built-in kitchen booth in the sunniest corner overlooking the ravine. And the bed with separate, cleverly shaded lamps built into the bookshelf headboard so they wouldn’t keep each other awake with late-night reading. And the wall-mounted speakers in every room so she could listen to her favorite country-western music. And the rough pine paneling in her studio with cattle brands burned into the wood to give her the feel of a western ranch. And the huge wagon-wheel table he’d designed to hold her music. Perhaps she should have been the one to move out, but she hadn’t wanted to give up the fabulous sound studio.
Balancing a piece of toast on top of a cup of coffee, Jayne opened the studio door with the other hand and headed for her piano. Years of coffee rings marred the finish already, along with other stains she couldn’t begin to identify. Red wine perhaps, or the imported cocoa Paul had made for her when she had to work late to meet a deadline. Now that she was a successful songwriter, she ought to think about buying a nice new piano, but she liked the sound of the old, battered Kimball that had been in her family for forty-odd years. She’d written her first hit on that piano, a little piece of fluff called “Scattered Roses” that sold when she was still in high school.
The toast was cold and Jayne gave up on it after one bite. Always a compulsive eater, she’d lost her appetite right along with her husband, and now she existed predominantly on crackers and cheese. No time was required to fix crackers and cheese. She just got out the jar of Cheese Whiz and smeared it on a couple of saltines. It was true that she was a bit tired of eating the same thing, meal after meal, but she couldn’t bear the thought of preparing a gourmet meal and eating it alone.
She frowned as she thought of Paul. He’d stopped trying to work things out and she couldn’t blame him, since she’d been too stubborn to take his calls or even agree to see him. Now she was sorry she’d been so pigheaded, but it was too late to try to mend fences. Their divorce would be final in less than two months and her twelve years of being Mrs. Paul Lindstrom would be over.
Jayne blinked back tears as she picked out the melody of the song she was writing. It didn’t sound as good as it had last night, but she’d promised to have it finished by the end of the week. Barbie Rawlins needed time to rehearse before she recorded it.
Her notebook lay open on the piano bench, and Jayne frowned as she faced the blank page. The melody was easy, but lyrics were much tougher going. It was lucky that most country-western songs fell into two categories: love found or love lost. Since Barbie’s last song had been about losing a lover, this one should be about falling in love. It would be difficult to get into that mind-set since she was still grieving over losing her own lover.
Nothing was going right lately, including her work. The only good thing she’d written since Paul had left was a song about how much she missed him. Johnny Day had recorded it before leaving for Italy, but Paul would have no reason to tune in to a country-western station and no interest in a song by his soon-to-be ex. As hard as it would be, she had to face the fact that Paul was completely gone from her life.
Jayne got up to pace the floor. The words to the chorus were hovering somewhere just out of reach, something to do with a merry-go-round. “Buy me a ticket on the merry-go-round of love?” Jayne spoke the line aloud to check the meter. Too many syllables. What was another name for merry-go-round?
“Carousel! The carousel of love!” Jayne was so excited, she almost tripped in the headlong rush to get back to her notebook. “Carousel of Love” was a great song title. It would knock Barbie’s socks off.
Jayne scribbled furiously for a moment. She had to get it all down before she forgot it. Then she picked out the melody from a standing position and started to sing.
It’s the best ride in town and I wanna take it
And this time I promise I’m not gonna fake it
Mister, please buy me a ticket,
A ticket to the carousel of love.
She sang it once more to be absolutely sure, and then she started to work on the verses. The first three came easily, standard fare that she could write in her sleep, but the last one was tricky. Sometimes it helped to sing it all the way through, even though some words were missing.
It’s the best ride in town and I wanna take it
And this time I promise I’m not gonna fake it
Mister, please buy me a ticket,
A ticket to the carousel of love.
I’ll trade in all my lonely nights
The tears I cried when I turned out the lights
The smiles I smiled to try to hide
If that’ll buy me just one little ride.
Why am I standing down here on the ground
While the man I love rides around and around?
Mister, please buy me a ticket,
A ticket to the
carousel of love.
I’ll swap my plans to that singular dream
A lady alone with her get-rich scheme
’Cause all I need is a blankety-blank
And a ride on the carousel of love.
Paul had been a genius for coming up with the perfect rhyme, but Paul was gone and if she started thinking about him, she’d never finish. Jayne picked up the telephone and punched out Ellen’s number. She wasn’t socializing much either since she’d broken off with Johnny. As the only women in the building who went to bed alone, they really ought to stick together.
Five Minutes before 10:57 AM
Ellen ran for the phone as it rang, hoping it was Walker. She still hadn’t located those mannequin arms. But it was Jayne.
“You got to help me, Ellen. I’m writing this song and I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place. What rhymes with love?”
Ellen grinned. Jayne was always asking for rhyming words. “How about above, or turtledove, or even shove.”
“Nope. This one’s for Barbie Rawlins and she pronounces love like the museum in Paris.”
Ellen frowned. “You mean the Louvre?”
“That’s it. So what rhymes?”
“I’m not sure.” Ellen thought for a moment. “How about groove.”
There was a slight pause while Jayne thought it over. “Close, but still not exactly right. Barbie’s from North Carolina and there’s no way I can match her accent. Maybe I should just ditch love and go with affection.”
Ellen chuckled. “That sounds like a good idea in more ways than one. A rhyme for affection would be easy. There’s direction, or protection, or . . .”
“Erection?” Jayne let out a whoop of laughter. “Thanks, but I think I’d better hang on with love. You want to take a break and beat me in a game of tennis?”
“Not right now, Jayne. I’m stuck filling an emergency order and Walker’s in town at the warehouse.”
Jayne took on a serious tone. “Come on, Ellen, honey. We haven’t played for a coon’s age, and I need something physical to take my mind off Paul. Besides, it’s not good for you to work all the time.”
“I know, but I’ve got a rush order. And . . .”
“You’ve got all day to fill it,” Jayne broke in before Ellen could think of another excuse. “I figured out that you’re avoiding Vanessa, but you’re going to have to face her sooner or later, living in the same building and all. You might as well take the bull by the horns.”
“Well . . . all right. Is eleven-thirty good for you?”
“It’s perfect. Keep thinking about what rhymes with love, will you?”
There was a thoughtful expression on Ellen’s face as she hung up. It was true that she’d been avoiding Vanessa ever since catching her with Johnny, but she hadn’t realized that anyone had noticed, especially since she’d been too embarrassed to tell anyone about that night. No one, not even Johnny himself, knew the real reason why she’d bought out his half of Vegas Dolls and hired Walker to take his place. Falling for Johnny had been a terrible mistake. He’d never promised her anything and she’d been a fool to assume that he felt the same way she did. At least she wouldn’t make that mistake again.
The phone rang again and Ellen grabbed it, but it was only a salesman peddling burial plots. Ellen told him she didn’t plan to die and slammed down the receiver. With all these distractions, she’d never get anything done. Ellen pulled out the drawer on her workbench to get a list of her suppliers. It was ten fifty-seven and Walker ought to be at the art supply store by now. She had just begun to dial the number when the phone went dead. Then she heard a noise like a freight train outside the window and the whole building started to shake.
Ellen screamed as the banks of fluorescent lights flickered and went out. There was no time to run and no place to go if there had been. Boxes of mannequin parts flew from the shelves and broke open to reveal the arms she’d been missing, but Ellen was too busy scrambling for cover to notice. Then her huge oak workbench began to tip and a crushing weight pushed her down.
FOUR
Jayne was the first one to reach the garage, the place they’d agreed to meet in the event of a building emergency. Since Jack had told them not to use the elevator in an emergency, she’d run down nine flights of stairs and she was breathing hard. They were to wait in an orderly fashion for the others to assemble, then, as a group, check on missing residents and assess the damage.
She paced, anxiously waiting for someone else to join her. She’d already broken one of Jack’s rules by taking the time to stop off at Betty’s floor, where Margaret Woodard had answered the door with a broom in her hand. A picture frame had fallen off the wall, shattering the glass, but that was the only casualty. According to the nurse, Betty had been watching television and hadn’t even noticed the tremor. Jayne was glad they were both all right, even though she’d never liked Margaret Woodard. Perhaps it was her starched efficiency or the fact that she never smiled. Even though Jayne had stopped by to see Betty every day for the past two years, she still called the nurse Miss Woodard.
Just as Jayne was wondering what she should do, the elevator doors opened and Alan Lewis stepped off. She was so surprised she said the first thing that popped into her head. “If Jack were here, you’d be in deep trouble.”
“You mean because I used the elevator?” Alan grinned as Jayne nodded. “It’s okay, Janie. I checked it out and the backup system’s okay. Aren’t you even going to ask me if I’m all right?”
“You look okay to me. How about Laureen?”
“She’s fine. That big spice rack over the stove fell down and I left her cleaning up basil and oregano and God knows what else. How about you?”
“My coffee cup smashed and the studio’s a mess, but nothing else broke.”
The door to the stairwell opened and Marc came in, followed by Hal and Vanessa, who was clinging uncharacteristically to her husband’s arm. It was obvious that Vanessa had been in the process of applying her morning makeup. She had blue eye shadow on her left eyelid with none on her right.
“Any damage?” Hal asked.
Jayne shook her head. “Nothing to write home about. Your place?”
“Vanessa’s makeup mirror fell off the wall. That’s major damage, according to her.”
“How can you joke at a time like this?” Vanessa pulled away from him. “I could have been killed!”
Hal began to grin as he considered that possibility and Alan jumped in before he could reply. “How about your pinball machines, Marc?”
“They’re okay. The one I was playing flashed a tilt, so the building must have taken a real jolt. Does everyone have power?”
Alan nodded. “We’re running off the emergency generator. Did you go out to check the building?”
“That was the first thing I did. There’s minor damage to one of the retaining walls, but that’s easy to fix. Our phone lines are dead, though. And our cell phones won’t work. I tried both of mine.”
The door to the stairwell opened and Clayton and Rachael rushed in. Moira was right behind them, a smile on her face. “None of us have any damage, but wait till Grace hears! She says nothing exciting ever happens up here on the mountain. Did anyone see what happened?”
“Laureen did,” reported Alan. “She was looking out the kitchen window and saw a solid wall of snow slide down the mountain.”
Clayton nodded. “An avalanche, then. Or an earthquake that precipitated an avalanche. Rachael and I were . . . well, we weren’t looking out the window, but we both heard a loud, rumbling sound.”
“And then the earth moved, didn’t it, Clay?”
Vanessa’s eyebrows raised slightly, but then she decided to let Rachael’s comment pass. Surely it couldn’t mean what she thought it meant. “I bet they blew up a bomb at the Nevada test site.”
Hal assumed his long-suffering look. “The Nevada test site shut down years ago.”
“But they could still have a bunch of bombs down there. Maybe one went off
by accident.”
Hal snorted. “Try using that little brain of yours. If they’d set off any kind of thermonuclear device, we’d all be crispy critters.”
Just then the elevator doors opened and Laureen stepped out. “Sorry I’m late. Who’s missing?”
“Grace is,” Moira answered, “but she left for work early this morning.”
“How about Betty?”
“Betty and Margaret are fine,” Jayne informed them. “I stopped off on my way down. Should I go up and check on Ellen?”
“Not until we find Jack. He’s the one with the master plan.”
Alan led the way to Jack’s security office and pushed open the door. The sight that awaited them was total destruction. The bank of closed-circuit television monitors had toppled off the shelf and shards of glass were everywhere.
“Careful where you step,” Alan cautioned. “Jack? You in here?”
There was silence for a moment and then they heard a moan. Jack lay behind his desk in a pool of blood. His lower leg was bent at a grotesque angle and his face was gray with pain.
“Oh, God!” Vanessa took one look and grabbed Alan, blocking the doorway.
Laureen pulled her away and shoved her into Hal’s arms. “Shut up, Vanessa. And hang on to your own husband for a change.”
“But Jack’s dead! We’re too late!”
Hal pushed his wife forward none too gently. “Dead people can’t moan. Now get in there and make yourself useful. You told me you had some nursing training.”
“Only two weeks.” Vanessa looked panic-stricken. “And all we learned how to do was empty bedpans. I can’t deal with this, Hal. The sight of blood makes me sick!”
Alan made his way past the group at the door and grabbed a chair cushion to protect his knees as he knelt down by Jack. After a moment, he motioned for Laureen. “Bring me all the blankets you can find, anything we can use to keep him warm. Rachael? Go up to Betty’s and tell the nurse that Jack’s got a compound fracture of the left fibula and send her down here on the double.” Alan took one look at Vanessa’s white face and added, “Take Vanessa with you before she faints.”
