“You said you had an appointment with Tracy. How late were you?”
“I looked at my watch on my way down the hall and it was seven-forty. We were supposed to meet at seven because Tracy works—worked in the snack bar from eight until ten, three mornings a week.” She swallowed, trying to dissolve the block of concrete in her throat. “If only my car had started this morning. If I’d been there—”
“If you’d been there, you’d probably be dead and on the way to the medical examiner’s office instead of my place. It’s not your fault, Elizabeth.”
Liz took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes as she tried to erase the image of Tracy’s hand with the missing finger . . . of blood everywhere. “Am I a suspect?”
He gave an amused grunt. “No more than me or that overaged grad student. Is Whitaker still making your life miserable?”
“I changed my phone number. And the new one’s unlisted. I meant to give it to you earlier this week. Cameron’s a jerk, but he’s hardly a killer.”
“Was Tracy Fleming married? If she was, chances are that the husband did it. Or a boyfriend. Most victims know their murderers.” Michael eased off on the gas as the van rattled across the one-lane wooden bridge.
The abandoned and crumbling 19th-century farmhouse on the left was the last structure on Clarke’s Purchase Road before they reached Michael’s home. Her house lay another mile and a half beyond his place, surrounded by swamp and woods. On the far side of her farm were a wildlife preserve, more wetlands, and several potato farms, leaving the stretch of road without another inhabited dwelling for miles.
“I don’t know if Tracy had a husband,” Liz said, answering Michael’s question. “I never saw her except in class. Once she came in with a black eye. She’d tried to cover the bruising with makeup, but I know what to look for. I counseled abused women at my last college. When I asked her about the injuries, she had a logical excuse. They usually do.”
“Did she ask for the appointment?”
“Yes, but I don’t know why. Tracy’s grades weren’t outstanding, but she wasn’t in danger of failing. She even turned in her last paper early, and I gave her a 97 percent—the best mark she’s ever gotten.” Liz put her glasses back on. “I didn’t tell anyone but Amelia that Tracy would be there this morning. And that wasn’t until I called her for a ride.”
Michael shook his head. “That doesn’t mean Tracy didn’t tell someone.” He seemed to consider his last words before stating, “You’re telling me that your office door isn’t normally unlocked?”
“No—of course it’s locked. You don’t think the murderer was looking for me, do you?”
“If he or she was, there was no reason to kill Tracy. I’m betting that someone followed her into your office. And my guess would be that it was personal, a crime of passion.”
“Not some psycho targeting young women at our college?”
“Don’t look for the worst scenario. I’m not. I did suggest that they double the security at school until we know what’s what.”
Michael worked part time as a special security consultant, and he’d been instrumental in installing the new video surveillance system for the college. “The cameras weren’t running in the new wing yet, were they?” she asked.
“A glitch in the program when they were installed. Ernie already called the company, and they promised to have it fixed immediately.”
Michael turned into his driveway, and Liz made no protest. She didn’t want to go home just yet. She was afraid that if she were alone, she’d start crying and wouldn’t be able to stop.
“How does an early supper sound? I can toss up a salad and throw a couple of steaks on the grill,” he offered.
“Thanks. I do want to come in for a while, but I couldn’t eat. I don’t think I’ll ever be hungry again.”
“You will, trust me. This is a lot for anyone to deal with. You’re a strong woman. You’ll get through it.”
Michael’s two German shepherds, Heidi and Otto, bounded down the lane to greet the van. Trained guard dogs, the animals were highly intelligent. Michael had raised them both from pups, and he was as devoted to them as any parent could be to his offspring. The dogs returned the love tenfold. Now, neither animal barked, but their obvious joy at their master’s return was evident in their every stride.
“Don’t get out yet,” Michael warned.
“I know, I know.”
He slipped a silent dog whistle off the rearview mirror, put down his window, and signaled the dogs that they were off duty. “Okay.”
Liz waited as Michael made his way to the back of the vehicle, strapped himself into his chair, and used the electric lift to lower himself onto the concrete driveway. She followed him and the dogs up the ramp to the side door of the spacious ranch house and watched as he punched in the code to deactivate the alarm system.
“With Otto and Heidi, I don’t know why you need that protection,” Liz said. She put a bag of groceries on the counter and checked the dog bowls to see if they had clean water. Heidi was sitting in front of Michael’s chair, offering him her paw to be shaken, and her mate was wriggling all over, as excited as any pup to share in the attention.
“Sixteen years on the job,” Michael replied, stroking Heidi’s sleek head with genuine affection. “I’ve seen enough to make me cautious.”
“In other words, you’re paranoid?”
“All cops are. At least the live ones,” he said. “Lots of crazies out there. Some may figure that a cripple’s a pushover. I don’t intend to be anyone’s easy mark.” He rolled over to the counter, took down a container of dog treats, and gave one to each animal. “No more biscuits,” he cautioned. “You’ll get fat.”
“Stop calling yourself a cripple.” It was an argument they’d had often, and one she’d never won. “So your legs don’t work. That doesn’t make you less of a man.”
“I hear you. Make yourself at home,” he replied, changing the subject. “Time for an oil change.” He flashed her a boyish grin. “I’d appreciate it if you’d check the suet feeders. Those woodpeckers go through them as though they grew on trees. I think both pairs of Downies are feeding chicks.”
Heidi trotted after him as he rolled the chair toward his bedroom wing and the bathroom. Otto stretched out on the kitchen tile and gazed at Liz through half-closed eyes as she put milk, butter, and a dozen eggs in the fridge.
As always, Michael’s house was neat and orderly, despite his varied interests. Two cameras with telescopic lenses and a stack of bird books lay on the dining-room table beside an opened sketchbook and a set of professional artist’s charcoal pencils. A telescope and binoculars rested on the bench in the breakfast area beside the floor-to-ceiling bay window that offered a spectacular view of the marsh. Candid photographs of Michael’s deceased wife, Barbara, were scattered in the various rooms, and Liz knew that a large studio portrait of Barbara held the place of honor over the family-room fireplace.
This was clearly a man’s house, but not austere. Liz had felt at home here the first day she was invited in, two years ago, soon after she’d returned to Kent County. She still felt comfortable here. There was something very appealing about Michael Hubbard. She suspected she cared a lot more for him than she wanted to admit. “Want a beer?” she called.
“No, thanks. You have one, if you want,” he shouted back.
“Iced tea will do.” She wanted a double Scotch, but drinking alone wasn’t a luxury she allowed herself. Neither was drinking alcohol on a workday. Not even today.
She put ice in two glasses and filled them with tea from a pitcher in the refrigerator. Then she hurried outside to check the bird feeders, glad to have something ordinary to do on a day that was far from normal. But as she slipped a fresh cake of nut and berry suet into a wire basket, she wondered if any day would ever be routine again.
Ten minutes later, Michael joined her in the kitchen. His shirt and tie were gone, replaced with an Eddie Bauer T-shirt over the tan cords he’d worn to work. �
�I bought a new game,” he said, waving toward the computer workstation set up in one corner of the dining room. “Swords, dragons, and monsters. You’ll love it.”
“Maybe.” Liz perched on a stool and gazed down at her hands. “I’m not a flake, but I keep expecting to see blood.”
“You’re right, you’re not a flake.”
Michael pulled salad greens, tomatoes, cucumber, and green pepper from the refrigerator, piled them on the counter, and looked directly into her eyes. “You know you’re welcome to spend the night here, Elizabeth. I’ve got two extra bedrooms. I can’t vouch for how comfortable the beds are, but I’ve never had any complaints.”
“I’ll be fine, but I may need you to give me a lift in the morning. That is, if you’re planning to go in tomorrow.”
Michael nodded. “Sure. I’ll be there all week. But if you’re nervous staying alone after what happened—”
“I’m used to being alone.” She opened the utensils drawer, looking for a paring knife. “And I grew up . . . God, Michael!” She snatched her hand back. “Do you have handguns hidden in every drawer in this house?”
“Never know when you’ll need one in a hurry.”
She scowled at him. “I suppose it’s loaded.”
“Not much use if it isn’t.”
Liz removed a knife and slammed the drawer shut. “Don’t you worry about children?”
“No kids ever in here but your Katie. And she’s what? Nineteen? Old enough to respect firearms.”
Liz began to peel a cucumber. “You know my opinion of handguns.”
“I keep trying to talk sense to you.”
“I’m not afraid of staying by myself. I grew up on Clarke’s Purchase. Daddy always said that if you lived this far out in the country, the bad guys couldn’t find you. Besides, I’ve got good locks on the doors, and a cell phone as well as a house phone. If I need help, I’ll call the police.”
“Fair enough. Just remember, I’m a lot closer.”
Liz didn’t feel quite so sure of herself when she stood at her front window watching the taillights of Michael’s van grow smaller and smaller until they disappeared around the bend in her long gravel lane. Maybe Michael was right. Maybe she should consider getting a dog, as much for companionship as for protection.
The old Dutch farmhouse seemed twice as large since Katie had gone away to school. Sometimes Liz could swear she heard her father’s voice calling, “Rise and shine, porcupines! Time to get up!”
So many memories here . . . some happy, others best forgotten. And among them, those of her father were always the strongest. She’d read somewhere that the Chinese believed a house soaked up the events that had transpired there, that wood and brick and stone retained emotion. She’d never seen the ghosts that were supposed to haunt the brick farmhouse on Clark’s Purchase, but she’d often felt them around her.
“What do you think, Muffin?” she asked her cat. “Are you willing to share your quarters with the canine species?” Muffin closed her eyes, obviously unwilling to be drawn into a discussion that involved dogs.
Suddenly Liz needed to hear her daughter’s voice, to make certain that Katie was alive and safe. She was only nineteen, just a baby. The same age as Tracy Fleming.
Gooseflesh rose on Liz’s arms as she remembered Tracy’s eyes, wide and lifeless, empty of all expression. So what if it was the middle of the night in Dublin? Hadn’t Katie gotten her out of bed enough times? What else were mothers for if not to make their kids’ lives miserable? Liz hurried back to the kitchen. There wasn’t any need to look up the number. It was written in red marker on every page of her calendar.
Quickly she punched in Katie’s number, and after what seemed like an unusually long wait, the phone began to ring. Once. Twice. “Pick up, kiddo,” Liz urged.
After the sixth ring, there was a metallic click and Katie’s cheerful voice proclaimed, “Linda and Katie aren’t here. This is our day to have tea with the leprechauns. Leave a message and we’ll get back to you. Ta-ta.”
Liz replaced the handset with enough force to send a pen rolling to the floor. It was after nine p.m. here. That made it two in the morning in Ireland. Two a.m. on a school night and Katie wasn’t in bed. She hoped her daughter would have a good excuse. Studying at the library wouldn’t fly.
The irrational thought that something might have happened to Katie sent a chill through her. God, how she loved that kid. Her daughter was the only good thing she’d gotten out of four years of marriage to Russell Montgomery.
She’d been furious with Russell for suggesting Katie leave her tuition-free place at Somerville to go abroad and study. Now, despite her foolish fears, she was glad Katie was far away from Dover, where college sophomores who kept appointments with their professors ended up dead.
Too agitated to sleep, Liz made herself a cup of caffeine-free herbal tea and went upstairs to shower for the third time that day. She’d just stepped out of the tub when she heard the phone ring. Grabbing a towel, she wrapped it around her and darted into the bedroom. She snatched up the receiver but was too late. Whoever had called had hung up.
“Damn it.” She dropped the towel and rifled through a drawer for her phone book before dialing Katie’s number again. When the answering machine at her daughter’s flat clicked on, Liz said, “It’s Mom, Katie-Bird. Call me when you get in. I don’t care what time it is. Phone home, E.T.”
Something furry brushed against Liz’s leg. She jumped, and then saw it was only Muffin. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack, cat?” She groaned and dropped onto the bed. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up as paranoid as Michael.
Muffin’s tail was fluffed to a bottle-brush, and her ears were flattened against her head. She leaped up into Liz’s lap, and her back claws dug into Liz’s bare thighs.
“Ouch! Get down! What’s wrong with you?” Liz switched out the light and went to the window.
Without the lamp to blind her, stark moonlight illuminated the backyard, dock, and marsh. Liz stared out, taking in the familiar objects: trees, the overturned boat that she’d been painting, and the stand of cedars near the lane. Reeds and cattails swayed soundlessly beyond the bull’s-eye window glass, and ghostly clouds scudded across a pale lemon moon.
No wonder I’m jumpy, she thought. It was on nights like this that she and her sister used to scare each other witless with tales of headless apparitions and long-dead pirates. She’d been born in this house, the same as her father and grandfather, and his grandfather before him. There had been Clarkes living on this spot since the first Robert Clarke had traded a seaman’s sewing kit and a French musket to a Lenape Indian named Dancing Otter for his daughter and three hundred acres of swamp and woods.
Since she’d been a small child, Liz had been accustomed to staying alone. Few days or nights at Clarke’s Purchase had ever made her uneasy, but tonight was an exception. What was it that Michael had said? “When you get used to seeing violent death, that’s when you need to worry.”
She’d never get used to it.
A movement outside caught her attention. Something that could have been the figure of a man loomed at the edge of the cedar grove. Liz’s mouth went dry. Were her eyes playing tricks on her? She watched for a space of time without seeing anything suspicious, before turning away from the window.
“See what you’ve done?” she said to the cat. “Maybe I should give up history and teach creative writing. I’ve got the imagination for it. Next I’ll be seeing swamp angels.”
Resolutely she returned to the bathroom, but before she could turn on the water, the phone rang again. “Katie? Is that you?” Liz asked when she picked up the receiver. “Hello?” The crackling hum lasted for another thirty seconds, and she could have sworn she heard someone breathing before the connection broke.
“Son of a bitch!” Liz wondered if she should call Michael. Was she overreacting, or was it possible that Tracy’s killer had her unlisted number? Impossible, she thought. She hadn’t even given it to Mic
hael yet. She reached for the phone.
The ring startled her, and she snatched her hand back. Heart pounding, she snatched it up.
“Lizzy?”
“Who is this?” The voice on the other end of the line was hauntingly familiar.
“I know it’s been a while, but—”
“Jack?” She stared at the receiver in disbelief. It couldn’t be Jack, and yet she knew his voice as well as she knew her own. “Is that you?”
“Guilty.”
She exhaled with relief that just as quickly became irritation. “I thought you were in prison.”
Chapter Two
“I got out a month ago.”
“How did you get this number?”
“I heard Tracy Fleming is dead. Is it true?” Jack’s deep voice sliced away the years.
Liz felt her insides clench. “Somebody murdered her.”
Jack swore.
“Was Tracy a friend of yours?” she asked.
“Hell, she lived down the street.”
“She’s half your age.”
“Damn it, Lizzie, I’ve known Tracy since she was in third grade. What happened?”
Liz shuddered at the memory. “Somebody cut her throat. In my office at the college.”
“Somebody, hell! It was that friggin’ little shit, Wayne.”
“Who?” Liz asked. Goose bumps prickled the nape of her neck.
“Wayne Boyd. Her ex-boyfriend.”
“What makes you think he would kill her? Was he abusing her?”
“If you call beating her black and blue, and breaking her wrist, abuse. Yeah, he did his best. Six weeks ago, Tracy threw the bastard out, and he’s been harassing her ever since. Last week, she found her tires slashed.”
“You should be telling the police this, not me.”
“Right.” Jack’s tone got deeper, his words more deliberate. With the Rafferty temper, when a Rafferty stopped shouting, it signaled trouble. “Tracy had a protection order against Wayne. It didn’t mean shit.”
“This is a matter for the authorities.”
“A little late, don’t you think?”
At Risk Page 2
