"But two women," she said softly. "Do you think... I should be afraid?"
"I think you should be careful. As I think you always should be," he amended, then glanced at his watch. "So what's up with the real estate agent?"
She drew a deep breath and raised her hand, palm toward him. "I want to tell you about my totally crazy idea, and it's okay if you tell me I'm nuts. I just want you to hear me out before you list all the reasons why it won't work."
By the time Marcy and Jake's salad and sandwich had arrived and they had eaten them and accepted a second round of iced teas, she had pretty much laid out her dream of opening a bistro, including how she was going to pay for it. Through the entire explanation, he had remained very quiet, asking only a few questions.
Marcy exhaled, watching Jake, waiting for a reaction. "So say something." She was so exited just talking about her restaurant that she felt like she was going to burst.
"Why?" he asked, his face impossible to read. "Why do you want to do this now?"
"Why?" She opened her purse and fished out her lipstick, taking her time in responding because she didn't want to hurt his feelings. "Because this isn't enough."
"What isn't?"
"My life."
He scowled. "The kids and me? We're not enough to make you happy?"
She carefully applied her lipstick. The old Marcy would have never dared this trick in public without a mirror. The old Marcy would have preferred one that was magnified to bring out all her imperfections.
"Me," she said carefully. "I'm not enough. This doesn't have anything to do with you or Katie and Ben."
"So, it's not enough to be thin and beautiful and have a family who loves you?" he demanded, raising his voice.
"Jake, I hated my job." She reached for his hand and squeezed. "You know I did."
He looked away. "No. I didn't know that. I just thought you hated me."
Tears welled in her eyes. She didn't know what to say because she honestly didn't understand yet what had been going on with her when she'd had the accident. But she felt like she was getting closer to the answer.
"I didn't hate you," she said softly, the realization washing over her like a cold shower. "I think I hated myself."
* * *
Claire rose from her desk as the mayor walked into her office. It was eleven a.m.—it had taken him longer to show up unannounced than she'd anticipated. "Morris." She gestured emphatically as he opened his mouth to speak. "If you ask me if I've caught the killer yet, I swear to God, I'm going to pull this Beretta from my holster and shoot you. A jury of my peers, anyone who knows you, would never convict."
Morris took a step back, and for an instant, he looked scared. As if he feared she might just do it.
Claire dropped into her chair. "Twelve hours. We found her twelve hours ago. Her father-in-law just came in to identify her body, and while the ME made her initial report at the scene, we have to wait on the full report for details."
"So what am I supposed to tell the reporters?" the mayor huffed. This morning, he was dressed uncharacteristically in a suit and tie, to conduct TV and newspaper interviews, no doubt. The white leisure suit was not becoming, nor was the perspiration that beaded his sunburned, widescreen forehead.
"Don't tell them any more than you have to." She tucked rolls of film she had taken last night into an envelope.
"You know what they're saying, don't you?" he prodded. "That Albany Beach has a serial killer. A serial killer who is murdering young women."
"Looks like they might be right."
"What?" the mayor exploded.
She took a cleansing breath before she responded. Her head was pounding, she was hungry, and she needed to go home and check on Ashley. She'd be getting up soon. Claire wanted to get into uniform, too. She was still in the jeans she'd pulled on last night. Somehow, wearing the tan and green just made her feel more competent.
"You heard me, Morris. I don't want you giving any details to the press, but in my opinion, the guy who killed Patti Lome probably killed April Provost."
"That's ridiculous! There's no connection between these two women. Patti was the town tramp. Some ex-boyfriend or drug dealer killed her."
"Maybe. But whoever did it killed April, too. It's the same MO. Slashed wrists, allowed to bleed to death, dumped beside a trash receptacle like an old mattress. It has to be the same guy." She came around her desk, not giving him a chance to speak again. "Now, I have to get to the drugstore and get these crime scene photos developed. Then I'm going home and getting a shower. You need me, call me here and Jewel will patch you through."
The mayor looked at the envelope in her hand in repugnance. "You're going to take those pictures to the drugstore? I thought we sent things like that out to be developed."
She glowered, irritated that he was still holding her up. "We usually do, but I don't want to wait." She shook the envelope. "I'll run the machine myself so no employee has to see what's in here."
"You can do that?" He looked unconvinced.
"I'm trainable, Morris. Now, if you'll excuse me."
Her phone buzzed as she grabbed the door knob. She turned back. "Yeah, Jewel?"
"Captain Gallagher on line two, Chief."
Claire contemplated letting Jewel take a message. She could talk to Kurt later. But then she thought better of it. "If you'll excuse me, Morris, I need to take this call." She pointed to the door. "You wouldn't mind closing it on your way out, would you?"
Claire slipped back into her chair behind her desk and waited until the mayor was gone before she picked up the phone. "Kurt."
"Claire." It was his concerned tone. "I just called to see how you're holding up."
She ran her hand over her face. Truthfully, she didn't know how she was holding up, but she certainly wasn't going to hand that to him on a silver platter. "I'm just peachy, Kurt. I've got two dead women, dumped, and a sick bastard on a learning curve who appears to like blood."
"Come again?"
"I don't want this out, obviously, but this time I've got one slashed wrist and one slashed—hell, I don't know, looked like the ankle to me, but it was hard to tell with the dried blood."
"You think he's doing some kind of research?"
She stared at the envelope on her desk that contained the film to be processed. "I don't know what he's doing, Kurt."
"You're sure it's the same guy?"
"Pretty, young, blond. Died of blood loss. Dumped near a trash receptacle." She kicked back in her chair, throwing one heel up on her desk. "Gotta be the same guy."
"What about the husband? He a candidate? You know, reads the papers, gets a clever idea. He brings his wife for a little weekend getaway, offs her to make it look like Albany Beach has a serious slasher problem?" he thought aloud.
"I'm going to interview him this afternoon, but my gut says not."
"You want me to send someone down to give you a hand?"
"No." She didn't have to think twice. "I can handle this, Kurt. I just need some time to get my evidence together, compare the two victims. Of course, I can't tell you off the top of my head what they had in common, other than blond hair. Patti was a waitress, only one step up from a hooker, and our tourist was married and a legal secretary. She was here on vacation, for God's sake."
"I'm not saying you definitely have a repeat offender here, but if you do, sometimes the correlation isn't obvious," he said. "This kind of investigation takes your thinking cap."
"Listen, I have to run." She grabbed the envelope with the film again. "Thanks for calling."
"Claire, I really wish you'd—"
"Hanging up, Kurt." Claire dropped the receiver into its cradle and made a beeline for the door before the phone rang again.
* * *
"Your date's here," Phoebe called as she rose up on her knees on the floral couch in the living room and peered out the window from behind the drapes.
"He's not my date." Marcy glanced in the hallway mirror, tucked her hair behind her ear, a
nd slipped on an earring. "And I have to say, I don't appreciate you running to Jake telling him where I'm going and with whom." She cut her eyes at her sister, who was still looking out the window.
"I didn't mean to tell him, Marcy. I really am sorry. It just slipped out." She came off the couch. "Of course, sooner or later he's going to find out you're dating. No harm in making it sooner rather than later. You don't want the poor guy to think he's got some chance of moving back in."
Marcy put on the other earring. She wanted to tell her sister that she was not dating Seth, but in order to make it fly, she'd have to tell her why she was seeing him. She knew she'd eventually have to inform her sister that she was seriously considering buying a restaurant, but she was hoping to get her out of the house first. Phoebe was going to be royally pissed when she found out.
"Do I look okay?" Marcy stepped back for Phoebe to see. She'd dressed in a just-above-the-knee-length khaki skirt, a black sleeveless shirt, and high-heeled sandals. She hoped the outfit was more professional-appropriate than date-appropriate, but her ego prevented her from wearing the dreary shapeless style she had once worn.
"I was going to say I'd like to borrow the skirt, but it is a little long, isn't it?" Phoebe reached around Marcy's waist, grabbed the waistband of her skirt and gave it a tug upward. "And it's snug. You putting on a little weight, sweetie?" Phoebe looked up with those big blue eyes of hers.
Marcy pulled the skirt down an inch, refusing to take the bait. "Actually it's a size six. Might be too small for you."
The doorbell rang.
"I'm leaving!" Marcy hollered into the family room. "See you guys! Be good for your Aunt Phoebe and don't stay up too late."
"Wait, Mom." Ben ran into the front hall, barefoot, shirtless in athletic shorts. "You think we could go back to the store? I know which carbon dioxide monitor we need, and I really think it should be installed right away. You just can't be too careful these days, you know." He drew himself up to his full four-foot-eleven. "What with all the environmental hazards these days."
"Phoebe, don't open the door to anyone." Marcy turned to Ben, catching his hand to lead him back toward the family room. She'd told the kids she was going out with a friend, but she hadn't elaborated. She knew she shouldn't have agreed to let Seth pick her up, but he'd insisted. "I think a trip to the Big-Mart tomorrow can be arranged."
Phoebe opened the front door. "Seth. How nice to see you again."
Marcy looked over her shoulder to see her sister all smiles. So much for not letting Ben see Seth. Marcy leaned over and whispered in Ben's ear. "I have a secret that I'll tell you later."
Ben glanced apprehensively one more time at the stranger in the doorway chatting with his aunt. "A good secret?" he asked suspiciously.
"Definitely." She led him into the family room, giving him a kiss on the top of his head before letting him go. "Your sister on the phone?"
He plopped on the couch and grabbed his video game controller. "Of course."
"Well, tell her I said good-bye. I probably won't be home until after you're in bed, but tomorrow I'll tell you my secret."
Ben held his controller tightly in his hands, staring straight ahead at the TV. "Dad know your secret?"
She smiled tenderly. She was just beginning to realize how hard this separation was on the kids, especially Ben. They really missed their dad. "He does. Of course he does. Now I have to run."
In the front hall, Marcy grabbed her purse off the bottom step. "Thanks for staying with Ben and Katie, Phebes." She smiled at Seth. "I'm ready."
"You kids have a good time," Phoebe called after them as they walked down the sidewalk. "Thanks for the pen, Seth. Stay out as late as you like, Marcy," she sang, her meaning obvious. Sleep with him; I'll cover for you. Marcy felt her cheeks color with embarrassment, but when she looked at Seth, he was grinning. He was apparently thinking along the same lines.
"You look great tonight," he said as he opened the car door for her.
It was a little silver BMW sports car. He'd mentioned several times the last time she saw him that he'd just bought the car. She knew she was supposed to be impressed. She wasn't, and she didn't even know why. "Thanks."
He strode around the front of the car and climbed behind the wheel. "In fact, I was just thinking what a good-looking couple we make."
She laughed aloud, thinking he sounded like he was in high school and was escorting her to the junior prom. "Seth, we are going to see those other two properties, right?"
"Yeah, right. Of course, of course. I just thought we might have a drink afterward." He glanced sideways at her, flashing his baby blues. "Did I mention to you that I was captain of the football team my senior year in high school? I—"
"You did." She laid her purse on her lap. "Now tell me about these properties, and give me the bottom line on what they have to offer. I'm looking for honesty, here, not the Taj Mahal."
Two hours later, Marcy had seen both new properties, one presently rented to a family-style Italian place which would be moving after the season, the other way out of her price range on the edge of the boardwalk in Rehoboth. When they had finished looking at the place in Rehoboth, Seth drove west, toward the bay, instead of south toward Albany Beach.
"I thought we were going out for a drink back in town," she said, glancing at the unfamiliar surroundings.
"We are." Grin. "My place, if that's okay with you. It's a great condo on the bay. I make a mean cosmopolitan."
Marcy wasn't sure what to say. After all, she had agreed to a drink. She'd just assumed he meant out somewhere in public. Now she wasn't sure how she felt about Seth. About being alone with him. She tried not to let her imagination run wild. She thought about the dead woman they'd found behind The Seahorse. Her pretty blond hair, her smile. Marcy had seen her picture on the news and on the front pages of all the papers. So far, her killer was unknown. The police didn't even know if it was someone she knew or not.
Marcy didn't know all the details, but the whole thing was making her uncomfortable. April Provost had just been in town for the weekend; it didn't make sense to Marcy that she could have known her murderer. Unless, of course, it was someone who had followed her there. Maybe her husband. But the papers hadn't mentioned that he was a suspect. Besides, how could he have known Patti? Anyway you looked at it—known killer, unknown, related murders or not—it still added up to two dead women. Something like that happening just naturally made a woman want to be more careful.
"Here we are, home sweet home." Seth zipped into a parking space in front of a three-story white stucco condo. There were three buildings just alike in a row, facing the bay.
Inside Seth's place, she set her purse on a table near the door. He walked around, flipping on a couple of recessed lights. It was a nice place, decorated with lots of glass and white wood and paintings of the ocean and seashells. There was a couch and a loveseat in pale pastels and a big glossy coffee table book on seaside paintings displayed prominently. She doubted Seth had done the decor himself. Except for two dog bowls on the floor in the kitchen, the place looked like a furniture store.
"Check out the balcony," he told her as he switched on a stereo inside a media cabinet.
Jazz music seemed to slide from the seams of the high-ceilinged, open living area. She didn't know where he had the speakers hidden.
Seth stepped into the galley kitchen and produced a stainless steel cocktail shaker. He gave her the impression that he made a lot of mixed drinks, probably for a lot of women. She opened the sliding glass door and stepped onto the balcony.
The moon was just beginning to rise in the sky, casting white light in a beam across the water. She walked forward and leaned on the rail, breathing in the warm, humid night air. The living room and balcony were actually on the second story, jutting out over the bay so she could hear the water lapping on the shore below.
Marcy stared into the darkness and wondered what she was doing here. She had gone out with Seth on the pretext of looking at more prop
erty, but that wasn't the only reason she'd come. She knew it. Seth knew it. He had asked her out because he wanted to sleep with her. She'd come because... she was tempted.
"Here we are." Seth stepped onto the balcony carrying a martini glass in each hand.
"Thanks." Marcy accepted the drink and took a sip. It was strong.
"You're welcome." He slipped his hand casually around her waist. "You see, I told you what a great view I had."
She leaned on the rail again and tipped her glass. She was flattered that Seth found her attractive, that he obviously was interested in having sex with her, married or not. But she could see that he didn't seem to be terribly interested in her personally. Though they had now been out five or six times to look at property or discuss their findings, he hadn't asked her any questions about herself. When they weren't talking about what he could sell her, he rattled on about his own accomplishments, the possessions he had accumulated, and where he was going on vacation.
Marcy didn't have a lot of experience with men; she'd begun dating Jake in college. But they had gone out for months before he'd even tried anything more than a kiss. By then, they not only knew each other well, but were already half in love.
In the last few years, Marcy had occasionally caught herself spotting a nice-looking man and fantasizing what it would be like to flirt with him, maybe even hop into the sack with him with the abandon Phoebe seemed to possess. But now, standing here beside Seth, opportunity obviously at hand for the taking, the idea of having sex with someone she didn't know wasn't terribly titillating.
"I bought this place at a steal. An old lady went into a retirement home and her kids wanted to unload it," he told her, moving closer. "How's your drink?"
As he spoke, his mouth glanced her ear. It didn't produce the effect she guessed he was hoping for.
"Good; it's good." She inched away, her forearms sliding across the black wrought-iron rail. She found herself thinking about Jake. About the promise she had made to him fifteen years ago in the same church where she'd been baptized and confirmed. She knew they were living in a modern age. Couples who were separated dated all the time—just the way Phoebe dated. That didn't mean it was right. "Listen," she told Seth, "I don't know what other properties you have to show me, but I'm thinking the old Mexican place would best suit my needs. Minus the sombreros." She gave a little nervous laugh and took another sip of the cosmo.
She'll Never Tell Page 14
