Against the far wall was a work area. She crossed the room to the desk. To one side of the computer system she saw a group of photographs. There were pictures of John’s aunt and uncle, pictures of him standing with strangers, both men and women. There was a portrait, done by a professional photographer, of John, a baby cradled in his arms, and a stunning blond woman. His wife and baby? Where were they now?
“Sugar? Cream?” John said from the kitchen doorway.
She spun around, embarrassed to be caught peering at his little gallery of pictures. “A little milk, please.”
He stared at her a moment before nodding and disappearing back into the kitchen.
One entire wall, from floor to ceiling, held shelves of books. Books upon books; fiction, nonfiction, reference, but mostly fiction. Three books had the same title. Evil Tidings by — she lifted the book to read the name of the author—John T. Davie. She turned the book over to see his photo on the back. Inside she read the dedication: “To Darlene and Andrew with eternal love.” She closed the book, staring at his picture.
John entered the room carrying a glazed terra-cotta tray with two steaming mugs and two squares of a sugar-glazed pastry. He put the tray down on the coffee table.
“This table,” he said, “was once the door from a Spanish mission in California. A friend sent it to me as a gift. The freight nearly bankrupted me.”
She turned with the novel in her hand and said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”
“I’d like to read it.”
“Take it. It’s yours.”
“I’d rather buy one.”
He smiled. “I appreciate that, but I doubt it’s still in print. Take it. A gift.”
“Thank you.”
“Let me know what you think. If you hate it, lie.”
She laughed. “Any others?”
“There’s one coming out in the fall”
“I’ll buy that one.” Bringing the book back with her to the sofa, she sat and picked up the coffee mug.
John sat on the other end of the sofa. He handed her a plate of strudel.
“Looks delicious. What is it?”
“Sour cherry and walnut strudel.”
“You and Pillsbury?”
“This is homemade and I had nothing to do with it.”
She took a bite. It was delicious.
“Can you get a list of the contestants from the pageant?” he asked.
“You think it may go beyond the finalists?”
“It’s possible.”
She remembered the call from one of the contestants in the studio Saturday. Jamie Sue had nearly died from an allergic reaction to alcohol. Regina felt an iciness inside her. “I have a list at the office. I’ll bring it home tomorrow.”
He rose, came around to her side of the sofa, took her hand, and pulled her to her feet. “Come,” he said.
She put down her plate and allowed him to lead her across the room. He pulled out the desk chair for her. Over her shoulder he activated the computer and pointed to the monitor.
Materializing on the blank screen was a list of names. Under VICTIMS, she read: Corinne, Donna, and Tammy. She saw Amelia’s name, and finally her own. Question marks followed the latter two. The icy feeling returned.
John pulled up the pine chair and sat beside her. On the keyboard he typed, CHEMICALS: Acid-like substance: Rat Poison: Chlorine.
“Those chemicals—assuming chlorine was used —can be bought in most hardware or building supply stores. If the dog was poisoned, then the killer was in her yard. He or she could have dropped something. Something considered evidence. I doubt the police did anything beyond remove the animal and file a report. We’ll check it out.”
Regina positioned her fingers on the keyboard and typed, Telephone warnings before both assaults.
“How many knew about that scheduled program?”
“The employees, the guests, and, of course, whoever they told.”
“That should narrow it down. Have you personally had a warning?”
“Not directly.”
Over her shoulder he pressed function buttons, saving the latest text. She became acutely aware of his body close behind her. She could smell some vague after-shave, musky, yet light. When he reached around her to shut down the computer, his arm grazed her arm and she felt a slight current of electricity run through her. They were just inches apart. She sensed he was staring at her. She held her breath. Time seemed suspended. She had only to turn her head and ...
He pulled back.
She rose quickly only to find he had also risen. They stood facing each other. She breathed deeply and was filled with his scent. His hands came up to cup her face lightly. Their eyes found each others and locked.
Her heart began to pound. She hadn’t kissed a man in a long time. The thought both excited and terrified her. She lowered her eyes and felt his lips, warm and soft, lightly touch hers. Her lips parted.
The sound of the street door closing sent a jolt through her. Someone was coming. The inner door open and closed. They broke the kiss, and, like deer caught in the blinding light of a car’s high beams, stood facing each other, frozen.
“Hi,” Kristy said cheerfully from the open doorway. “What’re you two working on?”
Her voice broke the spell, sending John in one direction and Regina in another.
“Kristy,” Regina said, her voice cracking. “You’re home.”
Kristy looked from her mother to John, a sly smile working at her mouth. “It’s after nine.”
John consulted his watch. “So it is. Say, Kris, how about some strudel?”
“Love some. But first I want to change clothes and check the machine for messages.”
“I’ll go with you,” Regina said. She felt uneasy, shy —vulnerable.
“Don’t bother,” Kristy said hurrying out.
Regina glanced at John. He was watching her, an enigmatic expression on his face.
John went into the kitchen. She picked up her coffee mug and drank. It was cold. She took the two mugs into the kitchen. John stood at the counter cutting the strudel.
Regina began to clear the abandoned dinner dishes from the table.
“You don’t have to do that.”
Oh yes I do, she wanted to say. “I don’t mind.” She filled the sink with soapy water.
He poured fresh coffee for them and milk for Kristy.
Behind her she could feel his presence, unmoving, yet overpoweringly absolute. It took every ounce of willpower for her to not turn and look at him. What was he doing? Why was he standing so still? Would he touch her again? Kiss her again? She forced herself to stop before she could finish the thought.
She scrubbed a soup bowl, the dishcloth going around and around. From the corner of her eye she saw him move, and then he was out of her peripheral sight. She swallowed. Her body tensed. She anticipated his touch.
Waited for his touch. Longed for his touch.
And when she felt his hand at her waist, she jerked, dropping the bowl in the sink. He stood close, the heat of his body warming her. She closed her eyes and leaned against him, her head bent forward. His lips came down on the nape of her neck, making her shiver. His fingers played the vertebrae along the length of her back.
Feelings she had forgotten she possessed rushed through her like a flash flood. She hadn’t felt a man’s special touch in ages.
A voice inside her head said, He’s been gone only six months. Yes, yes, I know. Six months. But it’s actually been years. Years.
“Momma?” Kristy’s voice, strained and shaky, spoke from the kitchen doorway.
Regina spun around.
John stepped away.
Kristy’s face was pale, her brow furrowed. “Momma, there’s something I think you should hear.”
Regina shook the water from her hands and hurried to her daughter. “What is it?”
“On the answering machine. A message.”
John was a
lready out the door and climbing the stairs when Regina and Kristy came out of his apartment. They took the stairs two at a time. When they entered the apartment, John was standing in the living room looking around, confused.
“Bedroom,” Regina said, and rushed down the hallway to her room. She activated the machine.
The voice, low and gravelly, said, “The prettiest shall be last. Which one is the prettiest?” Rushing air, the dial tone, then a final beep before the cassette rewound itself.
“I’ve been warned,” Regina said softly.
In a fit of jealous rage, Corinne pounded her fists on the metal dashboard. Oh, God, why hadn’t she driven away before Jack came home? Then she wouldn’t have had to see him tenderly kissing another woman the way he used to kiss her.
Regina Houston. The bitch. The only woman Corinne had feared. The only one who could compete with her. Then she laughed ironically. There was no competing now. Regina had won again. Regina always won.
She put her forehead on the steering wheel and cried, deep, choking sobs that tore into her frail lungs and throat.
Many hours later, after John had returned to his apartment and Kristy had gone to bed, Regina finally managed to fall into a deep, drug-like sleep. Sometime in the night she awoke to her own voice, the memory of ringing still echoing in her head. The voice was coming from her answering machine. It beeped.
Groggy, she struggled to wake up.
The gravelly voice repeated the message left on the cassette. “... be last. Which one is the prettiest?”
What was happening? Oh my God, what was happening?
The phone rang again. Regina reached for the receiver, then decided to let the machine screen the call. After the greeting a raucous tone warbled in her ear. A recorded voice began, “We’re sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please check the number and dial agai—”
“Momma?” Kristy cautiously slipped into the room, rubbing her eyes. “What’s going on? Who keeps calling? Is it him?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m scared.”
So am I, Regina wanted to say, but instead she patted the bed and said, “Get in, sweetheart.”
Kristy slid under the covers. Regina clasped hands with her daughter. Kristy fell asleep quickly. Finally, exhausted, Regina followed.
CHAPTER 25
Donna wondered about it. She wondered about it a lot lately.
Would it hurt? Could she do it without making a mess of it? The last thing she wanted was to live indefinitely in a comatose state, a burden on her family, her brain fried by the overdose of drugs.
Why me? That was one of a dozen questions she asked herself. What kind of monster would do this? What would the future bring? Depression, fear, anger, those were the emotions that carried her through each dreary, pain-filled day. Although she wanted to lash out, to cry and scream and vent the pent-up rage that twisted at her insides, such behavior from someone so habitually kind and optimistic would shock those who knew her. And she was a conformist to the bitter end.
Donna pulled her hand out from beneath the covers and slowly opened her fingers. The bottle was nearly full. Percodan. Painkillers prescribed for her last winter when she’d injured her back skiing.
Donna’s aversion to any drugs stronger than aspirin stemmed from the fear of becoming dependent upon them. For as long as she could remember, her mother had been addicted to one prescription drug or another, in addition to nicotine, coffee, and alcohol.
Nolan had brought Donna the Percodan the night before.
Poor Nolan. He could never tolerate ill health, mental or physical. Just showing up at the hospital each day had to employ a great deal of effort. He came every day, though his visits had become shorter and shorter. He seemed gravely discomforted and wired, pacing the room, standing at the window nervously snapping the band on his wristwatch, until she too wanted him away from her.
The worst was his inability to look directly at her. He looked everywhere but at her face and throat. Occasionally he slipped, casting his gaze where he had so carefully avoided, and the instant flash of repulsion, no less a reflexive action than if he had been punched in the stomach, would leap over his face.
Her father insisted she would be normal again. Dr. Sexton said there would be a dramatic improvement, and that with makeup, high collars, and the right lighting, it would be difficult for the TV viewers to discern the burned flesh from the unburned flesh.
But Nolan would know.
She opened the bottle and spilled the contents out in her hand. She heard footsteps in the corridor. Someone was coming. With tremulous hands, she poured the pills back into the bottle and pushed it under the sheet. It was probably Nolan. He had taken to coming early in the morning, using the excuse of the station as a means of breaking away sooner.
As the door opened slowly inward. Donna felt a sense of hopelessness sucking painfully at her insides. She pulled the sheet up to her chin.
“Hi,” Tom Gansing said with a warm smile, holding up a book. The room seemed to brighten. Donna smiled back, the sheet slid down unawares.
Amelia parked in front of Fletcher’s apartment building. She refused to use the parking garage. She cautiously climbed the steps to the third floor, avoiding the elevator as well.
At the door of 31 she raised her hand to knock, changed her mind and used her key instead. She slipped in silently and closed the door.
The apartment had an unoccupied smell, devoid of coffee and other cooking aromas. She crossed the living room to the hall that led to the bedroom and bath. In the bedroom an unmade bed and the usual clutter of a bachelor awaited her. Had he slept in this bed the night before?
She went to the closet. His clothes were there, five suits, a dozen shirts, and nearly as many pairs of slacks. In the dresser drawers she found underwear, socks, and T- shirts. On the dresser top was his watch—not the gold Pulsar, but the less expensive Calvin Klein.
She strode to the telephone on the night table and lifted the receiver. The dial tone confirmed that it was in working order. With the receiver tapping lightly against her chin, she stood stiffly, her gaze sweeping the room. Everything was as he’d left it. So goddamnit, where the hell was the sonofabitch?
She scribbled out a note telling him to call her house and use the code of two rings. She signed it with a large A. As an afterthought she squeezed in the word “love” over the initial.
In a tiny, cramped office in the courthouse, John watched Wilma Greenwood squeeze honey from a small plastic package into her coffee mug. She stirred it as she looked from him to Regina, then again at him. She smiled. John, somewhat self-consciously, returned the smile.
He’d met Regina that morning at the station and she’d seemed reserved, avoiding his eyes, jumping at his casual touch, talking quickly and nervously. She’d had plenty of time to think about what had happened between them in his apartment last night, and he suspected she had deemed it a mistake. Her husband had been dead six months. Only the widow could decide how long was long enough to grieve. She had enough problems without adding guilt and shame. He wanted her. The next move was hers. He could wait.
“How do you like married life?” Regina asked Wilma.
“I like it. Clyde’s a loner like me, so we respect each other’s privacy. And he has warm feet.” She sipped her coffee. “I have a feeling the two of you are about to enhance my life. Or should I say my workload?”
John looked to Regina. She cleared her throat. “Wilma, we suspect Tammy Kowalski may have been murdered.”
“Pretty strong word ... murder,” Wilma said.
“Yes, it is.”
Wilma leaned in, forearms on her desk. “So tell me.”
Regina explained about the poisoning of Tammy’s dog, the chlorine at the gym, the fingernail they’d found, and, finally, the message on her answering machine.
“You have that message?” Wilma asked.
“Right here.” Regina dug in her purse and extracted the cassette. “Isn’t ther
e something police use, like fingerprints, to identify a voice?”
“A voiceprint analysis. But it determines identity through comparison. We need a voice to compare it with.”
“If we got a voice?” John asked.
She nodded. “It could be done. Anyone in particular in mind?”
“Not yet,” John said.
“Where’s the fingernail?”
Regina went back into her purse and pulled out a sandwich-size ziplock bag. She held it up.
Wilma stared at it a moment, then she rose, and before going out the door she said, “Sit tight.”
She was back within minutes with a file folder. She sat behind her desk and opened the folder. John saw photographs and reports.
“May I?” Wilma said, holding out her hand.
Regina handed over the plastic bag.
“Hmm.” Wilma handed John the bag along with one of the photographs.
Regina leaned toward him. Her hair, smelling of scented shampoo, tickled the side of his neck as she looked at the color picture.
In the picture two hands were displayed, obviously female by the slim contours and the long painted fingernails. The left hand, ring finger, was missing a nail. Something red —torn flesh, John guessed—ran across the edge of the nail. He didn’t have to compare the nail in the bag with the hand in the picture. The bright color, the diagonal stripe and glitter told the story.
Wilma read from the report. “Lacerated finger above nail bed. Trauma, fresh. Contusion on upper thigh, fresh. Lacerations on face determined to be caused from the fingernails of deceased.”
“We found the broken nail in the utility room,” John said.
“What about the bruise on her thigh?” Regina asked.
Wilma shuffled papers. “According to the police report the bruise and broken nail likely occurred when she went into the pool.”
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