by Joanne Fluke
“Oh, I hope so!” Marcie had reached out to squeeze his arm. “Shall I save you the last dance? And then maybe you could drive me home.”
Hal had walked away in a daze, right past the room where his European history class was meeting. He’d turned around and run back, sliding into his seat just as the final bell rang. Mr. Harmon had given a rousing lecture on the battle of Waterloo, but Hal hadn’t heard a word.
Just as soon as they’d parked up on the overlook, Marcie shrugged out of her blouse and turned that dazzling smile on him. “Everyone says you’re going to be famous, Hal. Isn’t that just wonderful?”
“Yeah.” Hal wasn’t thinking about fame and fortune. He was too busy staring at Marcie’s lovely white breasts in the moonlight. “They’re wonderful, all right!”
Marcie giggled. “Oh, Hal, you’re so funny. Touch them if you want to.”
Hal reached out to run tentative fingers over her smooth warm flesh. His fingertips tingled, but Marcie’s little groaning sounds made him draw back quickly. “I’m sorry, Marcie. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Marcie giggled again. “You didn’t, silly. It felt wonderful.” She reached out to pull him closer. Hal’s head swam with the sensation of being this close to her deliciously soft skin.
Marcie groaned again and held his head tighter. Hal thought he’d died and gone to heaven and then a headline popped into his mind. Promising young cartoonist found smothered by Marcie Wilson’s breast. What a way to die!
It could have gone on for hours, Hal didn’t know. He was vaguely aware of the cars whizzing past on the causeway below, but maybe that was the sound of the blood coursing through his veins. Marcie’s fingers played in his hair, combing and twisting playfully. He’d never known that individual strands of hair could tingle with delight.
“Will you do a drawing of your darling chicken for me, Hal? I’d just love to have one to hang in my bedroom.”
“Sure. I’ll do that, Marcie.” Hal didn’t even recognize his own voice. It was low and muffled, and he felt himself gasping for breath. He wondered if he was too young to have a cardiac arrest.
“I want you to sign it, too.” Marcie was very serious as she wiggled away. “An original Hal Knight to hang where I can look at it every time I get ready for bed. Will you promise to do that, Hal?”
“I promise, Marcie.” Hal would have promised anything just as long as Marcie didn’t put on her blouse again.
“You’re so nice, Hal. And I’ve got something for you, too. Just look.”
Hal looked down just in time to see Marcie pull up her skirt. He gasped out loud as he saw she was wearing only a baby blue garter belt.
“God!” It was a combination sigh and prayer. He’d seen pictures of women with no clothes on before, but he’d never expected to see Marcie Wilson like this.
Marcie giggled and caught his hand. “I just don’t know if I should let you or not. Maybe if I had that drawing, I might. You have some art paper with you, don’t you, Hal?”
“Art paper?”
It took a minute for Hal to understand what she wanted. Then he straightened up in the seat and grinned as he reached for the drawing pad he always carried with him. He’d dash off a drawing of Chiquita Chicken for her and Marcie would let him do what he’d been dreaming about for months. What a deal!
His hands were trembling and he had to take a couple of deep breaths to make them steady enough to draw. He’d spent a lot of time perfecting Chiquita Chicken and it should have been no problem to draw her now. But Marcie had slipped down in the seat and she hadn’t put any of her clothes back on, even though he’d flicked on the dome light. He ruined three sheets of drawing paper before he finally got a rendition of Chiquita good enough to give her.
“That’s wonderful.” Marcie smiled as he showed her his drawing. “Sign it, Hal. And then turn off the dome light. You’ve been so nice to me that I’m going to be just as nice to you.”
Hal’s head reeled as he scrawled his name on the bottom of the drawing. What a night this would be!
Hal poured himself another drink and didn’t bother to sip it. Marcie Wilson was probably an overweight matron by now, but the thought of that night still made him sick. The most beautiful girl in the senior class and he hadn’t been able to do it. Naturally, she’d told her girlfriends, and they’d spread it all through the school. Hal had spent the remainder of his senior year in an agony of embarrassment.
He stuffed the drawing back in its portfolio and reached for another. Marcie’s drawing was worth real money now, and he was sure she’d kept it. That’s what she’d been after in the first place.
Far away on the West Coast, the chances of running into anyone who knew Marcie Wilson had diminished considerably. But it had still taken Hal a full year before he’d tried to make love to another woman. He’d picked an expensive call girl knowing that high-priced hookers with big mouths didn’t last long in a city like Vegas. But even then he hadn’t been able to go through with it, not then and not in several attempts after that.
So he’d gone to a shrink who’d suggested a therapy that had made Hal laugh out loud. He’d told Hal to find a girl who looked just like the Marcie he remembered and attempt to reenact that night. It hadn’t crossed his mind in the years since . . . until he’d met Vanessa.
Vanessa was a ringer for Marcie, right down to the cute little mole on the side of her neck. And she’d had no idea that he was rich. The dinner she’d made for him in her run-down apartment had been the nicest thing anyone had done for him in years. That’s when he’d made up his mind to marry her, if she’d have him. He hadn’t been able to resist the girl of his adolescent dreams.
Hal sighed as he opened another portfolio and drew out a whole series of drawings he’d shelved to preserve his marriage. In a moment of weakness, when he’d still thought it might work between them, he’d offered to name one of his cartoon characters after her. Naturally, Vanessa had been delighted.
Unfortunately, all Hal’s previous characters were alliterative. He’d used it as a gimmick at the beginning of his career and now names like Skampy Skunk, Benny Bunny, and Chiquita Chicken had become the Hal Knight trademark. If he used Vanessa’s name, her character would have to start with the letter V and he couldn’t think of any V animals. Vanessa had been insistent. So late one night, Hal had sat down in front of his drawing board, determined to come up with a character that would please his wife.
It had taken hours, but he’d finally come up with a series of drawings for Vanessa Varmint, a cute little red weasel that flew in from Paris to tug on the heartstrings of everyone’s favorite character, Skampy Skunk. And he’d introduced her in his Sunday strip.
Hal still remembered Vanessa’s shocked expression when she’d picked up the paper and caught the first glimpse of her personal cartoon character. A weasel? She didn’t care how cute it was!
That Sunday strip had been Vanessa Varmint’s debut and her swan song, all rolled into one. She’d never seen the light of day again. And here Hal was, stuck with a whole portfolio of drawings he’d never used.
Hal sighed. They really were pretty good. He guessed he could reintroduce Vanessa Varmint now that her namesake was no longer around to object, but Skampy Skunk was better off as a freewheeling bachelor. Right now he was in the midst of a tenuous romance with Penelope Possum, the unwed mother of six. There was a problem with the babysitter and Skampy Skunk couldn’t seem to get his ladylove alone. Since Penelope’s sister, Patricia, was now working for the postal service and using her pouch to carry the mail, Penelope and Skampy had to take the kids along on all their dates.
Hal picked up the portfolio with the Vanessa Varmint drawings and started to toss it into the trash, until it dawned on him that someday someone would pay top dollar for an unpublished series by Hal Knight. As he stuffed the portfolio back in the file drawer, Hal wondered whether the real Vanessa would have changed her attitude toward varmints if she’d known just how valuable that little red weasel might turn out to be.
It was past midnight and Hal yawned as he got to his feet and headed for bed. At least he wouldn’t miss Vanessa there. They’d had separate bedrooms for over a year.
A key fell out of his pocket as he slipped out of his shirt. Bending over to pick it up, Hal saw it was on a little gold ring with a tag that said, Smiling Bill Korman in Henderson. I’ve Got a Deal for You! Hal was thoroughly puzzled; he’d never bought a car from Smiling Bill in his life. Then he remembered that Walker had given it to him when he’d come back to Grace and Moira’s apartment, explaining that he’d found it on the floor next to Vanessa’s body. Hal had slipped it into his pocket without even looking at it, assuming that it was Vanessa’s door key.
Turning the key over in his hand, he reached for his own door keys. The notches didn’t match up, and he was willing to bet it wouldn’t fit Alan and Laureen’s door, either.
His mind was reeling, and despite the effects of the brandy, he slipped back into his shirt. He couldn’t sleep now. He staggered to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, which helped a bit, and took three aspirin. If he kept on taking aspirin, maybe the hangover wouldn’t have time to hit between doses.
Three cups of instant coffee later, Hal felt almost human, still a little woozy but clearheaded. It was all beginning to add up. Vanessa hadn’t gone into Laureen’s freezer under her own steam. Someone had carried her there after she was already dead.
“This key’s the key.” Hal spoke aloud and chuckled at his own wit. If he could manage to sober up enough, he’d try it on every door in the building.
FIFTEEN
The Caretaker was scowling as he switched off the shortwave. The Old Man had no idea what hell was breaking loose up here, and again, he’d failed to get through. It was a good thing he’d been able to handle it without any help.
When Vanessa had discovered the loose patch of earth, he’d had no choice. At least he’d covered his tracks brilliantly in the process, even setting the stage with the box of brownies. It was something the Old Man’s soldiers seemed incapable of doing.
He sighed as he shut the door to Jack’s apartment and headed for the elevator. How many gruesome accidents and disappearances would these people swallow before someone got suspicious? Even though he’d always wanted this kind of responsibility, keeping his eye on everyone was exhausting. The only thing that made it possible was the monitor in Betty’s unit. Jack would probably have a heart attack if he knew that he’d done the Old Man a real favor.
There was the sound of irregular breathing in the darkness. “Alan? Are you sleeping?” The voice quavered slightly.
Alan opened his eyes to find Laureen sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out at the big pine tree, her shoulders slumped and her arms folded across her chest as if she were hugging herself for comfort. After twenty-two years of marriage, he knew that she was close to tears.
“What’s the . . . what’s the matter, honey?”
Laureen’s voice was still quavering. “It’s the freezer, Alan, it’s haunting me. Every time I close my eyes, I see what’s in there.”
Alan rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Problems he’d encountered during the day seldom kept Alan awake, but he wasn’t as sensitive as Laureen. He hated it when she cried. Laureen didn’t cry often, but when she did, it took hours to soothe her.
“I’ve got an idea.” He went over and put his arms around her. “Since we’re both awake, let’s go up to the spa and enjoy the Jacuzzi. No one else will be up there and it’ll be nice and relaxing. And then we’ll take a nap on the lounge chairs. The freezer won’t bother you as much if you’re nine floors away from it.”
“That might help,” Laureen agreed hopefully. “But you were sleeping just fine before, and you always get a backache when you fall asleep on those lounge chairs. Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. My back won’t bother me if I take along a pillow. I’ll get a bottle of wine and we’ll sit in the Jacuzzi and look at the stars.”
“It’s snowing, Alan. We won’t be able to see the stars.”
“Then we’ll look at the snow. Come on, honey. It’ll be fun.”
“Well . . . all right. I’ll just pack up a couple of things and get into my suit.” Laureen began to feel a little better as she packed up their pillows and blankets. She took her new blue swimming suit out of the drawer and struggled into it. It had a special tummy-slimming panel, but nothing short of a miracle could hide all the extra pounds. She’d been a perfect size eight when they were married, but now, as she caught her reflection in the mirror over the dresser, she sighed. This shade was perfect for her coloring, but she looked like a big blue beach ball.
Alan went into the kitchen and put together two huge sandwiches, roast beef and cheddar on whole wheat bread with a generous dollop of horseradish sauce, and packed them into a picnic hamper. He stuck in a bottle of wine and two glasses and two napkins. Maybe a full stomach and a couple glasses of wine would make Laureen sleepy. Then he went to get some brownies for dessert. He loved Laureen’s brownies.
Alan stopped with his hand on the freezer door, recoiling at the thought of Vanessa in her plastic shroud. Forget the brownies. There was no way he wanted to go in there.
As he walked away, he turned to look back at the freezer door, its brushed steel gleaming in the fluorescent glare of the kitchen lights. Even at wholesale, it had been an expensive addition to their gourmet kitchen, but Laureen found it indispensable for storing those hard-to-find ingredients sometimes required for her show. The industrial appliance was twelve feet long and six feet wide, holding thousands of cubic feet. Its motor was powerful, guaranteed for ten years, and its hum was barely discernible. Although the appliance appeared perfectly benign unless you knew what was inside, Alan certainly couldn’t fault Laureen for being jumpy around it. He was a little jumpy, too. They’d never had a dead neighbor stored in their freezer before.
“Laureen? Ready?”
She appeared almost immediately, carrying a tote bag with their towels, two pillows, two thermal blankets, and a change of clothing for each of them.
Alan’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at his wife. Her eyes were puffy from lack of sleep, but she still looked pretty. And the swimsuit reminded him of one from a long time ago.
Laureen caught his expression and flashed a shy smile. “I just got this suit last week. Do you like it?”
“It looks great. It reminds me of the one you wore on our honeymoon.”
“I didn’t think you’d remember!” Laureen stared at him in pleased amazement. “That’s the reason I bought it. It’s exactly the same shade. Not the same size, of course.”
“So who can wear the same size?” Alan glanced down at his expanded waistline. “People change, Laureen. Besides, you were much too thin when we got married.”
“I was?”
Alan nodded. “We were both pretty skinny back then, and those hipbones of yours almost killed me. Remember?”
“I do.” Laureens’s smile grew wider. “You said you’d have bruises in the morning—and you did. Did you know that I ate nothing but cottage cheese and fruit for three solid months before our wedding?”
Alan looked puzzled. “Why on earth did you do that?”
“I wanted to fit into my mother’s wedding gown and that meant losing thirty-five pounds. It looked nice on me, didn’t it, Alan?”
“You looked ravishing. Where’s our wedding album, anyway? I haven’t looked at those pictures in years.”
“Right here.” Laureen opened the drawer to the table by the couch and handed him a heavy leather book embossed with gold. They’d hired the best photographer in town, and it’d been worth it.
While Laureen looked over his shoulder, Alan opened the book. It was like stepping back in time. “Look at that, Laureen.” Alan pointed to the picture of them at the altar. “We certainly were a handsome couple. And I was right, you did look ravishing.”
Laureen smiled as she examined the photograph, remembering her tears right be
fore the wedding when she thought her hair hadn’t curled right. It looked just fine. Chalk it up to bridal jitters.
Alan flipped the page, “Here’s the one where you’re tossing the bouquet. Who caught it, anyway?”
“Your sister, Shirley. And I had to toss it again because she was already married.”
“Oh, yeah.” Alan nodded. “Pure reflex. In high school Shirl was a star shortstop, so she just reached up and fielded that bouquet.”
Laureen giggled. “I wish the photographer had gotten a picture of her. She was so embarrassed.”
Alan flipped through several photographs of the reception and Laureen smiled as she noticed that the photographer had caught her mother, Millie, nervously rearranging the flowers on the tables. Millie had been in an absolute tizzy for months before the wedding. She’d bought a book with a checklist of everything that had to be done and she’d quizzed Laureen constantly. Had she gone down to pick out the bridesmaids’ flowers? Arranged the ceremony with the minister? Chosen the music? Put down a deposit on the Elks Hall for the reception? And was she absolutely certain the invitations had gone out to all of Alan’s relatives?
A month before the wedding, Laureen’s father had pulled them into the kitchen for a private talk. He’d heard Millie say it might be nice if white doves were released from a net as the bridal couple left the church, but he didn’t think Reverend Thurgood would go for bird shit all over the steps of the church. Millie’s idea of a perfect wedding was not only costing him a fortune, it was turning poor Millie into a nervous wreck. Rather than go through all this nonsense for another four weeks, he’d be glad to write them a check for the whole amount the wedding would cost, provided they eloped right now.
Laureen had turned to Alan for the final decision. They could use the money for a new car or even a down payment on their first house. But just as they were about to agree, Millie had stormed into the kitchen. She’d heard the whole thing and she was furious. He was depriving his only daughter of the precious memories she’d treasure for the rest of her life! And besides, what would everyone think if they called off the wedding now? Only brides who were “that way” ran off to elope . . . unless there was something that Laureen wasn’t telling her?
