In the Blink of an Eye

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “YOUR DAUGHTER IS dead?” Paine asks in sorrowful surprise, turning to Rupert.

  “No!” Rupert protests. “No! Darling, please . . . don’t . . .”

  On the bed, Nan gasps for breath, looking up at them, both of them, her blue eyes pleading.

  Katherine had the same blue eyes, Rupert remembers.

  Big blue eyes that followed him everywhere from the moment she was born.

  She adores her daddy, Nan used to say.

  Katherine was Daddy’s girl, all right. Rupert wanted to give her everything. Everything his father couldn’t give him . . .

  And everything Rupert couldn’t give to her sister.

  The first Katherine.

  The baby girl who was born on a sweltering August day less than a year after he met Nan.

  The baby girl who was born after Nan’s mother told her pregnant teenaged daughter to leave and never come back; after Rupert struggled to support them with a couple of Wade’s tried-and-true scams and succeeded only in getting himself arrested.

  It was in jail that Rupert learned of the underground operation that arranged fast, illegal adoptions for wealthy suburban couples who were willing to pay big money for healthy newborns. If they signed the papers agreeing to give up the child, there would be enough money up front, before the baby was born, for Rupert to post bail. And afterward, when they handed over the child, there would be more than enough money to allow Rupert and Nan to make a fresh start somewhere else. . . .

  What choice did they have? They were penniless. There was no one to help them. Nan’s mother had disowned her. Wade was in prison.

  Eventually, Rupert convinced Nan that they had no business bringing a baby into the world until they were able to get married and raise it together. She was devastated, but she realized he was right. She trusted him.

  “We did what we had to do . . .” he murmurs.

  “Rupert?”

  The voice jars him back to the present

  “Is Katherine dead?”

  He stares at Paine Landry, trying to decipher the question. His mind is muddled.

  Katherine?

  Dead?

  He shakes his head slowly, remembering.

  Nan never got over the loss of her firstborn child. Giving up that baby for adoption broke her heart. And Rupert’s too. But he was better equipped to cope. He was accustomed to heartache.

  It was Nan who insisted on keeping track of their first child. An old friend of Wade’s was willing to keep them posted—for a fee, of course. For years, Nan cherished the sporadic progress reports, the furtively snapped photos from a distance, of a blond little girl with Rupert’s gray eyes. Her adoptive parents named her Katherine.

  When Rupert and Nan were finally married and Nan delivered their second daughter, she insisted that they name her after the sister she would never know existed. It didn’t seem like a good idea, but Rupert agreed. Nan wanted so much to recapture the child she had lost. Whatever Nan wanted, he tried to give her. Always.

  That was why they came here to Lily Dale in the first place. Nan wanted to live in a small town. She didn’t want Rupert to travel to make a living, the way his father had, and the way Rupert himself had, with Wade. There must be something he could do close to home . . .

  There was.

  Putting people in touch with the spirits of their dead loved ones turned out to be the easiest con of all. He always marveled at their willingness to believe, at their eagerness to dismiss anything that didn’t ring true. In time, he had more hits than misses, thanks to shrewd research into his clients’ backgrounds, luck, and a true knack for studying human nature.

  Wade had taught him well. It was simple for Rupert to perfect his skills over the years, simple to trick his clients—especially lonely widows—into thinking he was giving them information courtesy of the great beyond. They never realized he was simply performing one of the world’s oldest parlor tricks.

  “Rupert . . .” Paine Landry’s hands are reaching toward him. Coming to rest on his shoulder.

  Rupert shakes off the gentle grip, dazed, lost in memories.

  “I know this is traumatic for you, Rupert,” Paine is saying. “What can I do? How can I help? I’m so sorry I didn’t realize that your daughter was dead. For some reason I had the impression—”

  “Stop talking about her!” Rupert roars.

  “All right . . . I’m sorry,” Paine says helplessly. “Should I go? I don’t know what to—Look, I don’t want to leave you alone, Rupert . . . I don’t want to leave you and Nan . . . not now. I don’t think she has much time, and she needs to talk . . . Maybe if you talk to her about your daughter . . .”

  Rupert’s gaze settles on Paine. In the maelstrom of anger and fear swirling through Rupert’s mind, one terrifying thought touches down.

  He knows.

  With that knowledge comes the eye of the storm. A sudden calm settles over Rupert. Raw instinct takes over.

  He swiftly turns and leaves the room without a word.

  “I THINK DULCIE and I will walk back to my place,” Julia tells Andy as the three of them walk away from the pier toward Andy’s car.

  Andy doesn’t argue. Nor does he mention seeing her again. He looks up at the twilight sky and observes, “Lots of stars. It’s going to be a nice day tomorrow.”

  No, it isn’t, Julia thinks. Dulcie and Paine are leaving.

  They’ve reached Andy’s car.

  Julia begins, “Thanks for taking us—”

  She’s cut off by the sound of somebody calling Andy’s name.

  She turns to see an attractive woman strolling toward them. She’s tanned and pretty, and Julia notices that Andy’s face lights up at the sight of her.

  “Hey, Heather,” he says, shooting a wary glance at Julia, as if he’s suddenly wishing she would get lost “How’s it going?”

  “Not bad.” The woman licks the pink ice cream cone in her hand, her eyes flicking over Julia.

  “Heather, this is Julia. Julia, Heather,” Andy says, obviously uncomfortable.

  “And I’m Dulcie.”

  “Oh, right, that’s Dulcie.”

  Julia checks to see whether Heather has any reaction to Dulcie’s blindness, but she doesn’t even glance at the little girl. She has eyes only for Andy.

  And she can have him, Julia thinks, realizing she isn’t the least bit jealous. She wonders only fleetingly whether Andy has been dating other women—Heather included—since she started seeing him. It doesn’t matter. They’re completely wrong for each other.

  That’s what Grandma was trying to tell me.

  Andy will never love Julia. Not the way Paine . . .

  The way Paine loved Kristin.

  “Thanks for taking us out on the boat, Andy,” Julia says. How could she have convinced herself, out on the water, that Andy meant to harm her and Dulcie?

  “No problem, Julia. I’m glad I could help. See you later.”

  He isn’t even looking at her.

  Holding Dulcie’s hand, Julia leads the little girl away from the waterfront. The streetlights have come on and crickets have taken up their nightly chorus. People are strolling the streets or out on their porches, enjoying the warm summer evening.

  “How far is it to your house, Julia?” Dulcie asks.

  “Not far. Are you too tired to walk?” Maybe Julia should have let Andy drive them.

  “No. I don’t want to get there. Because Daddy will be there and he’d make me go to bed. And anyway, Andy was supposed to take us out for pizza. Remember?”

  “I forgot all about that.” Clearly Andy did too.

  Julia realizes that she forgot something else: she left the empty urn on Andy’s boat. She hesitates, looking back at the pier. Andy and Heather are already driving away in Andy’s car, heading toward the gate leading out of Lily Dale.

  He doesn’t waste any time, she thinks, almost amused. Oh, well. She’ll get the urn back later.

  She turns back to Dulcie. “I’ll tell you what, sweetie.
How about if we take the long way home? We can stop at the café to eat.”

  Dulcie’s face lights up. “That would be great. Thanks, Julia.”

  “Okay, then we need to head this way.” Julia guides Dulcie across the road and turns up Green Street.

  As they walk up the quiet block, a more cheerful Dulcie tells knock, knock jokes. Julia laughs at every one, but her thoughts are elsewhere.

  Who killed Kristin and Iris?

  And why?

  It’s a tired refrain, but Julia can’t stop the persistent questions running through her mind.

  Maybe she should go to the police.

  But she has no evidence that her friends were murdered. Only a gut instinct—and disturbing psychic visions. Will the authorities take her seriously? Or will they dismiss her as a quack?

  Julia is so caught up in her reverie that they’ve almost passed the Biddles’ house before she notices that Paine’s red car is parked in the driveway.

  “Hey, Dulcie, your dad is here visiting Rupert Biddle.” Julia backtracks a few steps to the front walk, pulling Dulcie gently along. “Let’s stop and tell him to meet us at the café.”

  “I thought it was going to be just the two of us, Julia.”

  “Your dad might be worried if he gets back to my place this late and we aren’t there, Dulcie. Come on.”

  “All right,” she says reluctantly.

  As they walk up the Biddles’ front steps toward the screened outer door, Julia is surprised to see that the inner door is standing open. That’s not like Rupert, who always seems to value his privacy. Maybe it’s because Paine is on his way out.

  Pressing her face close to the screen, Julia calls out, “Hello? Rupert? Paine? Is anybody . . .”

  She trails off, her knees suddenly buckling beneath her.

  Rupert Biddle is standing in the hallway, clutching a handgun.

  LISTENING TO NAN Biddle fight for every breath, Paine fights back panic. Rupert has left him alone with a dying woman, a total stranger. What should he do? Where the heck is Rupert?

  Paine instinctively reaches out and strokes her arm. “There you go, it’s all right,” he murmurs, looking around the room for a phone.

  He should call somebody. A doctor. Or the police. Somebody.

  His heart pounding, Paine says gently, “I know you must be afraid, Mrs. Biddle. But I’m right here, and Rupert is . . . I’m sure he’ll be right back.”

  A door slams somewhere at the front of the house. His first thought is that Rupert has fled in shock, unable to cope. Then he hears the sharp click of a dead bolt being turned, and footsteps in the kitchen.

  “Get in there,” Rupert’s voice says harshly.

  Paine looks up toward the doorway, half expecting to see Rupert ushering an EMT into the room.

  His blood runs cold at the sight of the old man herding a terrified Julia and Dulcie in front of him, aiming a gun at their backs.

  “THEY’RE OBVIOUSLY NOT home, Miranda,” Kent says as she reaches out for the third time to press the old-fashioned doorbell at Ten Summer Street.

  “I know, but . . .” She casts a longing glance at the lilac tree in the yard. “How are we going to wait any longer to find out what’s buried there?”

  “We’ll have to. No way are we digging there without their permission.”

  “I know. But—”

  “No way,” he says again. “Let’s go get coffee or something and we’ll check back later. Hopefully somebody will be home then.”

  “Even if they are home, there’s no guarantee that they’ll listen to what we have to say this time,” Miranda points out. “They thought we were a couple of crackpots before. What makes you think they’re going to let us dig up their yard?”

  “We’ll play the tape for them,” Kent says. “If that doesn’t convince them, nothing will. And if nothing will . . . then we’ll just have to forget about it.”

  Miranda sighs and follows him down the steps.

  “PAINE!” JULIA CRIES out. Thank God he’s alive. She was certain Rupert had already—

  “Shut up!” Rupert pokes her in the back with the hard nose of the gun.

  She can no longer see the mad glint in his eye, but she glimpsed it for a split second from the other side of the screen door, right before he aimed the gun directly at her and ordered her and Dulcie into the house.

  Sick waves of fear and nausea course through Julia as she struggles to stay calm, her mind racing to make sense of the bizarre scenario.

  “Rupert put the gun down.” Paine’s voice is somehow steady. He stands deadly still, his gaze fixed on the old man behind Julia and Dulcie, who has begun to whimper as she grasps what’s going on.

  “Shut up! All of you! Just shut up!”

  The room falls silent, but for Nan’s agonized gasps for air.

  “Nan, darling, please,” Rupert’s voice begs, behind Julia. “Please hold on. I’ll be with you in just a few moments, as soon as I . . .”

  He trails off, but his meaning is chillingly clear.

  “Why are you doing this, Rupert?” Julia asks softly, afraid to raise her voice to him, afraid to move a muscle. Her eyes are locked on Paine’s face; his eyes, in turn, are fixed warily on Rupert.

  “He knows. The kid knows, too,” Rupert says. “And you too, Julia. You know too, don’t you?”

  She finds her voice again, expecting it to come out small and frightened. But it doesn’t. “I know what, Rupert?” Lord, how can she sound normal when she’s feeling anything but?

  “You know about Katherine . . .”

  “Katherine. Your daughter?” Bewildered, Julia tries to stay on track, tries to make sense of what he’s saying. “What about Katherine?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know,” he snaps. “And you—”

  Julia hears Dulcie cry out, feels the child flinch at her side. Rupert must have jabbed her with the gun. A fierce, protective fury swoops through Julia. She wants to tell him to leave the little girl alone. But she doesn’t dare open her mouth. Nor does Paine. Yet Julia realizes that he looks poised, ready to pounce.

  No. Please. Don’t take any chances, Paine. Julia attempts to catch his eye, but he’s watching Rupert and Dulcie intently, his features a barren mask of dread.

  “I heard you talking to her,” Rupert is saying to Dulcie. “On the stairway the other day, when you didn’t even know I was there. You can’t see anything, but you saw her, didn’t you? What did she say to you?”

  “Do you mean . . . the lady?” Dulcie’s tiny, terrified voice cuts right through to Julia’s heart.

  “Katherine.” Rupert is impatient. “What did she say? How many times have you seen her?”

  “A few times.” Dulcie’s voice quavers.

  “What did you see?”

  “She . . . she was bleeding. She fell down the stairs because she was trying to get away from the bad man. He was yelling, and he was reaching toward her, and she fell . . . She was bleeding in her head!”

  “It’s okay, Dulcie,” Paine says in a soft, even tone.

  “Shut up!” Rupert screams.

  Julia’s mind is whirling. Rupert’s daughter Katherine is dead? It was her spirit on the stairs? Was Rupert—her own father—the “bad man” she was trying to escape?

  “It was an accident, Rupert, wasn’t it?” Julia is desperate to keep him talking, to keep his temper from careening out of control. If he starts firing that gun . . .

  “It was an accident!” the old man echoes with a sob in his voice. “Of course it was an accident! My daughter meant everything to me, and when I saw that she was . . .”

  “What happened then?” Paine asks, taking the slightest step forward.

  “Nan and I . . . we panicked. We didn’t know what to do. We had to do something. And then Nan . . . she collapsed. She couldn’t take it. She fainted. And I . . .”

  “What did you do, Rupert?” Paine asks, moving another few inches away from the bed where Nan lies dying. Toward all of them—Julia, and Dulcie, and
Rupert, and the gun . . .

  “There was already a hole,” he says in a faraway voice. “I always wonder if things would have been the same if I hadn’t dug that hole that afternoon. But I had dug it, because it was springtime, and Nan—she had bought some shrubs over at the garden center. Lilacs. Nan loves lilacs. They smell so sweet . . .”

  Julia numbly tries to grasp the horror of what he’s saying.

  Rupert buried his dead daughter in the yard at Ten Summer Street.

  It was springtime.

  That meant Lily Dale was still virtually deserted. He told people that he had sent Katherine away to boarding school, and . . .

  He and Nan have carried on the charade ever since? But that’s impossible.

  “If only Katherine had listened to me . . . I tried to tell her . . . Nan and I both tried to tell her. For months . . .”

  How could they have pulled it off? Julia wonders, bewildered, as he rambles on. How could they have convinced an entire population that their daughter still existed? That she was coming and going, visiting her parents during the bleak off-season. And nobody ever suspected the truth.

  Not even me. They even fooled the handful of us who were here year-round.

  Julia thinks back, trying to recall any mention of the elusive Katherine Biddle. She can see herself running into Nan and Rupert around town, making small talk with them, hearing them make casual reference to their daughter.

  “Katherine was here last week,” Rupert might say, or “We’re hoping Katherine will be able to come for Christmas.”

  There was never any hint that he wasn’t telling the truth. Never any reason to suspect that Katherine didn’t exist.

  Rupert always did all the talking, she realizes. He was so convincing.

  She glances at the woman in the bed, seeing her not like this, but as she always was, right by Rupert’s side, silently supporting her husband.

  How could she have gone along with it? Julia wonders. In a macabre Stepford-Wives scenario, Nan blindly agreed to whatever he said, whatever he did . . .

  Did she love her husband that much? Need him that much?

  The answer is clear, Julia thinks grimly.

  “Katherine wouldn’t have had any kind of life with that farmer.” Rupert’s voice is almost trancelike, as though he’s repeating a familiar mantra. “She would have been turning her back on the life we worked so hard to give her. She said she wouldn’t mind struggling, being poor, but she didn’t know. She didn’t know. Not like I know. When I saw that ring on her finger that night, I went out of my mind. I just . . . all I wanted was for her to take off the damned ring. To give it to me. I never knew . . . I never knew she’d fall . . .”