"I'm sure she is, honey," Gloria answered, still staring at the phone, wondering what could be keeping her. She closed up at seven and it was only a ten minute drive. She should be here by now. She was pacing back and forth across her mother's cream-colored carpeting. She stopped and looked out the window, hoping to see the glow of headlights that would announce her arrival.
David had crawled up on the sofa earlier in front of the Christmas tree and had now fallen back to sleep. Poor David. He was trying so hard to stay awake for his Nanna. So much excitement. Right now, he looked pretty zonked out to her. Taking the multi-colored afghan off the back of the sofa, she covered him with it. Then proceeded to pace some more and gnaw on her already bitten-to-the-quick fingernails.
By eight-thirty she was in a full-blown panic and phoned the police to report her mother missing.
"Well, ma'am, if you say she closed up at seven on Christmas Eve, then I'd have to say you're jumping the gun a little." The officer at the other end of the line had a smile in his voice as he said, "It's only been an hour and a half since she locked up. She probably met some friends and went out for a little Christmas cheer. Or maybe she's doing some last minute shopping. Lots of stores are open till ten tonight."
"No, you don't understand. She wouldn't do that. I phoned her earlier and she said she was going to close up early so she could get home for David, my son. Her grandson. They're very close."
"So there you are. She's out buying something extra for David."
His patronizing tone brought a flare of frustration. She was just one more hysterical female he had to contend with in his job as an officer of the law. She tried again, forcing a calmness into her voice she didn't feel. "No, she knows we're waiting for her." She had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. "Officer, please, you have to listen…"
"Got another phone ringing," he cut in. "Sorry, ma'am. Look, if your mom's not home in an hour give us a call back, okay? Merry Christmas now, and to David too."
She opened her mouth to argue but he had already hung up.
"Was that Nanna?" David asked, his voice still thick with sleep.
"No, sweetie. Go to sleep. I'll wake you when Nanna gets here." Gazing at her son lying there curled up in his colorful cocoon, blond head peeking out, her heart ached, knowing how hard it was on David not having his daddy around. He adored Eric. Please God, don't let anything happen to David's Nanna. To my mother.
"Honey, I'm going to call Mrs. Abrams to come over and keep an eye on you for a little bit. Nanna's car might have broken down."
Mrs. Abrams was a widowed neighbor and a good friend of her mother's. She dialed the number and five minutes later Mrs. Abrams, a woman of ample girth and a cheery face was ringing the doorbell.
"I won't be long," Gloria told her, already into her coat and scarf. "An hour at most. I'm sorry for bothering you on Christmas Eve, but I'm worried. Her car might have broken down," she repeated for Mrs. Abrams, and prayed that's all it was.
"No problem at all, dear. I'm a little concerned myself. She sure wouldn't miss Christmas eve with her favorite boy if she had anything to say about it." Mrs. Abrams turned a smile in David's direction. He was awake again, and she tousled his hair playfully. "Bet you can't wait for Santa to get here, eh, David? Were you a good boy all year?"
"Hi, Mrs. Abrams," he said shyly. "I was good." Then, "Mom, is Nanna lost?"
"No, honey. Well, maybe."
The phone rang and Gloria snapped up the receiver. "Mom?"
"It's me, Gloria. Eric." The sound of her soon-to-be ex-husband's voice brought a rush of longing, of pain, of anger. Hearing it never failed to send a myriad of conflicting emotions through her. Most of all hurt, that after ten years of marriage he'd stopped loving her. Had found someone younger, prettier, and sexier. More interesting. Eric was a lawyer, Leslie his secretary. But for once, she was more focused on her mother's whereabouts than on her shattered marriage.
"Eric, Hi. Mom's not home yet. I thought it was her on the phone."
"Oh. Well…Gloria. I know it's past his bedtime but I, uh, wondered if I might talk to David, wish him a Merry Christmas. Uh, Merry Christmas to you too. And your mom. I have some gifts for David. I'll drop them off in the morning, if that's okay. Am I calling at a bad time? Is he asleep?" She heard the guilt in his voice, and thought with a flare of anger, Good, you bastard, you should feel guilty.
"Dad?" Behind her, David stood in his pajamas, barefoot, eyes wide with excitement.
"Yes, it's your dad, Sweetie." The anger died. "Of course it's okay, Eric. David's right here. One sec."
Leaving a happily distracted David talking on the phone to his father, she rushed out into the night to look for her mother, Mrs. Abrams' words ringing like a death knoll in her mind: 'She wouldn't miss Christmas Eve with her favorite boy if she had anything to say about it'.
If she had anything to say about it.
Thirty-Nine
Caroline sipped from her second glass of red wine and smiled at the man who sat across from her. She had little experience with wine, but this one tasted very nice to her. Neither too sweet nor too dry, and tingled on her lips.
"Thank you for bringing me here. Natalie Breen said you might bring me to a piano bar."
"Natalie…?"
"She owns Natalie's Boutique. She's a very nice lady. I brought this dress there. Do you like it?"
"I do. Very much. You look amazing, Caroline." He smiled and sipped his wine.
"Thank you." She paused. "I shouldn't have asked that, should I? It was inappropriate. Are you laughing at me?"
His expression turned serious and he set the glass down, laid a hand over hers, his touch warm as the candle-flame reflected in his amber eyes.
"Please, don't ever think that, Caroline. I would never laugh at you. Never. I love your frankness, your honesty. There's nothing coy about you. So many women play games; you're just never sure what's true. Meeting you, well, it's the best Christmas present I could ask for."
When she opened the door to his light rap tonight, she'd been ready with her coat on, and then fretted she might seem too eager. He was late, but only by a few minutes. He had said she looked lovely. But he hadn't seen the dress yet. So maybe it was okay to ask.
The little bar was nice, softly lit, a chimneyed red candle on every table. A big Christmas tree glittered in the corner of the room. It was so cozy here.
The elderly piano player, with his cottony white hair and shiny blue dinner jacket was up on the dais, playing Christmas carols, one following the other, all her favorites. He had nodded at Jeffrey when they walked in. Jeffrey gave him a small salute and a smile. So they knew each other.
Sitting at their table, the flickering candle cast shadows over the planes of Jeffrey's face and she thought how handsome he looked in a soft blue sweater and gray slacks.
There were only a few other couples in the room. Most people would be at home with their families on Christmas Eve, but she was happy to be here with Jeffrey.
"Did you grow up in St. Simeon?" he asked her.
She told him she did, that they'd lived on Gleneton Street, near the bay. "What about you?" she asked, eager to turn the conversation away from herself. "Were you born here?"
Three women came in just then, middle-aged, nicely dressed in their holiday finery, smelling of expensive perfume and the cold night air. They sat at a table across from them, talking, laughing merrily. A waitress came and took their order. Martinis, she guessed from the shapes of the glasses, which she'd seen on one of the soaps, and the olives that floated near the bottoms.
"No, we moved here when I was twelve," Jeffrey said. "I'm an army brat. My dad was in the service and we moved around a lot. But you're deliberately changing the subject," he said, grinning in mock chastisement, and poured more of the wine into her glass, then into his own. "I know a little about your past, where you've been, so you mustn't feel uncomfortable about it."
"Oh. Mrs. Bannister."
"She's a good person, our la
ndlady, but she does like to talk. Not that it matters. My mother suffers from depression. She's been on antidepressant pills ever since my dad died seven years ago. Christmas is especially tough on her. I try to be there, as much as I can. It's why I was a little late tonight. I was on the phone with her."
She wished he didn't know about her being at Bayshore, but then supposed he'd have to know sooner or later. You couldn't keep something like that a secret, even without Mrs. Bannister. She was glad it hadn't changed his mind about her.
"Christmas wasn't always the best time of year at the hospital either," she confided. "Not for many of them. But let's not talk about that now."
"Of course. I'm sorry."
She fell silent for a moment, then looked into his eyes, solemn. "It's okay. I don't know how much Mrs. Bannister told you, but I've been in Bayshore for the last nine years. I wouldn't be very good at games."
It seemed important to get that out, to say the words aloud, and dispense with the matter, because it had crossed her mind that he might be amusing himself with her. She hoped that wasn't so.
The silence between them seemed to go on forever. Then he said, "She didn't say how long you were in the hospital. Nine years. Did you kill someone?"
He'd spoken in such earnestness, she had to smile. She told him what she had told Mr. Goldman. "No. I didn't kill anyone."
"Oh, good. Well, I'm not good at games either. I hope we'll be good friends, Caroline. Very good friends."
She stared into her wine as if looking into a crystal ball and hoping to see her future there. Her cheeks were flushed, whether from the way he was looking at her or from the effects of the wine, she wasn't sure. To break the tension of the moment, she asked him if he enjoyed teaching piano, and he talked about that for a few minutes, the mood lightening.
"The most rewarding thing is not necessarily that you've discovered the next Floyd Cramer," he said, warming to his subject, "but that your student has mastered some difficulty he or she has been struggling with. Taking pleasure in their own musical expression. Maybe just learning to play a piece all the way through and feeling good about it. That's the best."
She liked him. Liked the way he cared about his students." It's really nice here. I'm glad you asked me—to come out with you."
The piano player had slid into Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow. A happy, bouncy tune that made her feel the same way inside.
"Me, too," he said. "I was afraid you might say no."
"I know. I could tell."
He laughed softly. "You are so refreshing, Caroline."
Again, she wondered if he was mocking her, but she refused to give in to such thoughts. She would let nothing ruin this Christmas Eve. Sitting in these elegant surroundings listening to Jeffrey talk, it was hard to reconcile herself with the woman who only a short time ago was an inmate in a lunatic asylum, with no thought of ever getting out. It seemed like a dream. One from which she hoped never to wake.
Her dreamy thoughts scattered with the wail of sirens outside, and as the chilling sound faded into the night she knew intuitively that something bad had happened.
Forty
Detective O'Neal looked down at the battered, bloodied body of Natalie Breen, the store's owner, sprawled on the floor, a scarf wrapped around her neck, near embedded in the pale flesh. Her face was swollen and bruised, dried blood trailing from one nostril. Her open eyes had trapped the horror of the last few minutes of her life. What the hell was going on? This victim wasn't young, neither was she dark-haired or blue-eyed. There were no obvious signs of sexual assault either.
The place reeked of apple cider and cinnamon He was quite sure he'd never be able to stomach the stuff again. Lights were flashing, hardly signifying the birth of Jesus. Hardly that. They were camera flashes.
"She put up a hell of a fight," his partner said softly beside him, not wanting the victim's daughter to hear.
Tom glanced behind him at the woman huddled on a stool at the back of the store, trembling and crying softly. She'd been hysterical when they arrived on the scene and it took some time to bring her down. Some Christmas present, Tom thought.
"He used one of those scarves," Detective Aiken said, indicating the rack of print scarves by the door.
It was practically the only thing upright in the store. The place was destroyed. The jug of cider had spilled onto the wood floor, was threaded through with her blood. The hems and cuffs of coats and dresses were soaking in the obscene mess.
Photos had already been taken of one very clear shoe print, leading to the door that could only belong to the killer.
The victim's daughter was silent now and simply sat on the stool, huddled in her coat, staring at the floor. Blond and slender, she looked very fragile sitting there, crushed under the weight of shock and grief. She would never forget the sight of her mother lying on the floor, dead, brutalized. She wouldn't be able to close her eyes at night for a long time without that ungodly scene visiting her. Christmases would always be a reminder. The thought angered Tom.
He walked over to her. "Just a couple of questions," he said gently. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay." She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. "Who would do this to her?" she asked him, or anyone who might have an answer. "She was such a good person, lovely to everyone. She was my best friend." She began to cry again, then abruptly regained control of her emotions, insisting they find the person who did this, make him pay for his crime.
"We're going to do our best to make sure that happens," Tom said. "Maybe you can help. Do you don't know of anyone who would want to hurt your mother?"
Whoever it was had been savage in his attack, out of control. In a rage. Why? Nothing was taken, as far as they could tell; there was money in the till and some fairly expensive items were still displayed in the window, including a pair of diamond stud earrings. Half a dozen suede and leather bags hung on one of the racks that somehow had remained upright in the violent assault.
She answered their questions with as much calm as she could manage. No, she knew no one who would want to hurt her mother. Tom then asked her to recount exactly what she saw or heard upon arriving. She added nothing he didn't already know.
"The door was partly open when I got here. Christmas music was playing. "I didn't see anyone around. The street was deserted."
It Came Upon a Midnight Clear was playing when they got here. Tom had turned the music off, but the unintended double-entendre wasn't lost on him.
"My son, David—he fell asleep on the sofa waiting for his Nanna to come home. David's four. He worships his grandmother. What will I tell him? It's Christmas Eve. Oh, God…mom…"
He had other questions, but they could wait. She needed to get home to her boy. "I'll drive you home," Tom said. "My partner will follow in your car. Is there anyone you'd like us to call?"
She shook her head sadly. "No. No one."
Forty-One
Buddy stood in a pool of darkness across the street from Caroline's building, gazing up at her window. He could see the shiny bulbs on a Christmas tree through the lacy curtain. Her light was on.
He'd gone home and showered away the blood and sour sweat and combed his hair neatly. Feeling the weight of the small package in his inside jacket pocket, he suddenly felt shy as a Victorian suitor. He hadn't wanted to kill that woman tonight. It was just that he'd had such a bad a feeling that everything was getting away from him. And the blond woman had suddenly seemed to represent all that stood in his way. The depth of his fury had frightened even him and some of what he had done while in its throes he could barely remember.
But there were forces out to destroy their plans. He had to save Caroline. Save her from herself. Their very lives were at stake. But everything had to be timed perfectly. He would need a car, though. You couldn't get to Toronto without a car. He planned to steal one, and he knew which one, too. He'd ditch it when they got there.
He wished Caroline could know how he had protected her tonight. How he had punished the woman
who would so readily expose her to strangers. His own mother had left him vulnerable to such strangers, unable to escape. Trapped like a rabbit in a snare. She had invited the beast into their lives, and it had devoured his soul.
Well, never mind that. Soon it would be as it was meant to be.
When he saw her light go out, he started across the street, the key clutched in his hand.
Forty-Two
Caroline removed her earrings, kissed them lightly the way she might have kissed her mother had she been here, then put them back in their small velvet case. You couldn't have your heart this full of happiness and still be mad at anybody. She took off her boots, slipped out of her dress and returned it to the closet. She would be wearing it again on New Year's Eve.
Night Corridor Page 14
