by Kay Hooper
“Sorry, folks,” he said, more casual than apologetic, and not at all embarrassed; with his romance as well as theirs out in the open, scenes such as the one he was interrupting had been fairly common in the last week.
Laura forced herself to sit up beside Daniel, and stared at the large cardboard box Alex was placing on the coffee table before them. “What is this?”
Alex sat down on the other sofa. “Well, according to Madeline, Peter asked her to keep this for him. It was in her closet. She says he put things in it from time to time, but that she never looked. Because it was one of his secret places.” He grimaced slightly and looked at Daniel. “Anyway, I thought you should take a look and see if it’s what I think it is.”
With a slight frown, Daniel leaned forward and opened the flaps of the box. Inside was a veritable tangle of objects and garments. There were very simple things: a needlepoint bookmark, a tiny porcelain clock, a scented candle. But along with those things were several pieces of jewelry such as a gold bangle bracelet and a lady’s wristwatch. There was a little fold-out fan, a tiny bud vase, a small and nearly empty bottle of expensive perfume, a silk scarf, one suede glove—and a pair of bright pink lady’s underwear.
“It was the panties that gave me a clue,” Alex said.
“Christ, I thought he gave this up in college,” Daniel muttered.
“Gave up what?” Laura asked.
He sighed. “They’re trophies, love. When he was in high school, Peter began … collecting some personal possession from every girl he had sex with. Stole them, actually. He said the girls never knew, that that was part of the fun. When I found out, I told him it was an insulting and distasteful thing to do, and he said he’d stop. I thought he had.”
“This could be old stuff,” Alex pointed out. “But Madeline did say he put something new in from time to time. If she’s right …”
Laura looked into the box, both queasy and curious. For a moment all she saw was a jumble of objects and colors, bright and shiny things such as a child might have collected. When she first noticed the scarf, it was more with puzzlement than anything else, a vague sense of where-have-I-seen-you-before in her mind. She reached in and drew it from the box, her fingers examining the texture of the silk, her eyes studying the colors. Then the pad of one finger brushed the threads of embroidery, and she stared down at a neat monogram.
Realization dawned slowly, one fact after another listing itself in her mind with cold clarity. Possibilities and probabilities falling neatly into line. Two people who had acted in ways entirely characteristic of them.
It had been right in front of her the whole time.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
Daniel put his hand on her thigh. “Laura? What is it? What’s wrong?”
She turned her head to look at him, cold and miserable, hoping she was wrong but very afraid she was right. “I think I know who killed Peter.”
LAURA STARTED TO open the thick manila envelope that had been waiting for her with the security guard at her apartment building, recognizing Dena’s handwriting on the label, but decided that could wait. The last installment of the mirror’s history, no doubt; so much had happened in the last week that she had all but forgotten her young researcher was still working on tracing the mirror to the Kilbournes’ door. The envelope was bulky, and Laura thought there was a small book of some kind in it, but she still resisted the urge to look and see. Instead she left it on one end of her breakfast bar.
She went to her door when the bell rang, and Cassidy came in with a somewhat dry, “Now it really is ‘Hello, stranger.’ Do you realize it’s been more than a week since I saw or spoke to you?”
“Sorry, Cass. A lot’s happened.”
Cassidy grunted. “No kidding. I’ve been reading the papers. Are you just passing through again?”
“More or less.” Laura poured her friend a cup of coffee and slid it across the bar when Cassidy sat down. Then, casually, she reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a folded square of colorful silk. “I wanted to get this back to you, for one thing.”
“Hey, where’d you find that? Jeez, I was so afraid I’d lost your birthday present to me! Where was it?”
Laura drew a breath, feeling cold and miserable because until that moment she had hoped against hope that she had been wrong. “In a box of Peter Kilbourne’s sexual trophies.”
Cassidy was looking down at the scarf in her fingers, and though she went white, for a moment she didn’t move or speak. Finally, softly, she said, “I might have known he’d cut notches in his bedpost, the bastard.”
“You met him at the bank, didn’t you? The bank where the family did business.” Right in front of me the whole time … a connection I missed.
Cassidy nodded slowly, still looking at the scarf. “He came in sometimes, mostly taking care of business for his grandmother. He just flirted at first. Then, about six months ago he asked me out.”
“And you … fell for him?”
“Like a ton of bricks.” Cassidy smiled without humor and looked up at her friend. “For the first time with me, it was … body and soul. I’d never felt like that before. So … consumed by another person.”
Laura shook her head, bewildered. “Cass, you never said a word to me. Never even let on that there was someone new in your life, someone important to you. Why?”
“Because I knew you’d disapprove. He was married, after all. And because … it was so exciting, to have a secret lover.”
“Is that why I never saw him around this building? Because it had to be a secret?”
Cassidy shook her head. “Oh, Peter would have preferred the comfort of my bed to a motel’s. He liked his comfort. But I said no. I guess … I thought if I didn’t sleep with him in my own bed, I could pretend the worst of it wasn’t real, wasn’t happening. That I wasn’t sleeping with a married man … who had no intention whatsoever of divorcing his wife.” The ghost of a wry grin flitted across her face. “Isn’t it wonderful how we can talk ourselves into things we know are bad for us?”
“What happened?”
“What do you think?” Cassidy’s laugh was brittle. “He got tired of me, of course. The same way he got tired of every other woman who crossed his path. There I was mooning over him and clinging to him and making all these rosy plans for a future that was never going to happen, and he was already lining up his next hot piece. His cousin. His own cousin. Knowing him, I’m sure he thought forbidden fruit would taste sweeter. And it was something he hadn’t done before. That would have been a novelty.”
Laura forced herself to go on calmly despite the ache she felt. “How did you find out about Anne?”
“It was the day of the estate sale. I hadn’t seen him in more than a week, and I was getting desperate. That’s why I talked you into going over there. I think I knew he was trying to brush me off, but I wouldn’t let myself believe it.
I couldn’t let myself. I loved him so much it just didn’t seem possible that he wouldn’t love me back.”
That pensive statement brought a lump to her throat, but Laura still somehow managed to keep her voice even, her questions detached. “You saw him at the sale? When we split up?”
“Yes. I got past the guards and slipped around to the back, thinking that maybe I could find a way inside the house. Or see him through a window, maybe.” She smiled so briefly it was only a memory of self-mocking humor. “I was that far gone. Anyway, I did see him. He was in the conservatory—with Anne. They were … he had his hands on her.”
“That’s why you were so angry later. Not because you’d lost that table you wanted. Because of what you’d seen.”
“I’m surprised you noticed. That mirror was all you had on your mind.” Cassidy shrugged.
“Would you have told me the truth if I had asked?”
“No, probably not.”
There was a little silence, and then Laura said, “What happened that night, Cass?”
The beautiful blonde seemed miles
away—or weeks in the past. When she answered, her voice was almost absentminded. “I’d heard her say something about meeting him that night at the motel, and I realized how far they’d gone. That they were lovers. He had slept with me just a week before, but that night he was going to sleep with his cousin, and it wouldn’t be the first time.”
“What did you do?”
Cassidy stirred and looked at Laura. “I went there, of course. I was supposed to be at a party with that guy I’d seen a few times—my window dressing. But it was easy enough to slip away without anyone noticing; most everybody was drunk by then anyway.”
“Were you?”
“No. I’d told my date I’d be the designated driver, so he could drink all he wanted. I had the keys, so I took his car. The motel was across town; it was after eleven when I got there.”
Laura closed her eyes for a moment, then asked quietly, “Were you planning to kill him?”
Cassidy’s blue eyes were very clear, and she was smiling a little. “I know you’d like me to say no, but the truth is I’d been thinking about it. Very calmly, in fact. I had even stolen a butcher knife from my hosts that night and hid it in my purse. Just in case. But it didn’t have to happen. If Peter had only …” She shook her head. “But he didn’t.”
Laura tried to brace herself inwardly, forcing her mind not to shy away from considering a scene her imagination had conjured so vividly so many times. “What happened, Cass?”
“Anne was just leaving,” Cassidy said slowly, frowning as if remembering was difficult. “I was parked down the street a bit, and I could see the door of their room clearly. He went to the door to say good-bye to her, and he wasn’t dressed. I knew he would be taking a shower. I knew him. I sat in the car for a while, until I saw his shadow move across the blinds while he got dressed. Then I went to the door and knocked, and he let me in.”
“He wasn’t surprised?”
“Yes, he was. But Peter always thought he could charm his way out of any situation. I guess he never realized how angry I was.”
Laura swallowed. “I guess not.”
Cassidy looked at her friend, and her frown deepened. “I don’t remember doing it. I remember that we talked first, but I’m not sure what was said. Except one thing. I told him I loved him, that I’d forgive him for Anne, all I wanted was for him to love me. I would have gotten down on my knees, I think. Begged him. But … he laughed so hard he had to sit down on the bed. And I guess that’s when I did it. When he laughed at me, at my love. Because the next thing I knew, I was looking down at him. And he was dead.”
It took all the command over herself she could muster for Laura to say, “You must have been covered in blood.”
Shaking her head, Cassidy said, “No, not really. There was some, but not a lot. And I was wearing black pants, you know, and a black silk blouse. I got a towel from the bathroom to wrap the knife in, and a wet washcloth to take with me. I got most of the blood off my hands and—and face in the car. Then I stopped by a convenience store and washed again in the rest room.”
“What did you do with the knife?”
“Well, that night, I came by the parking lot here and locked it in the trunk of my car. So my date wouldn’t see it, you know. Later, I got rid of it. In a dumpster on the other side of town.” Cassidy shrugged. “Anyway, I went back to the party. They hadn’t even missed me.”
Sounding as helpless as she felt, Laura said, “My God, Cass. It—it never showed. You never seemed different, not to me.”
“You always said I was good at compartmentalizing myself. I guess I am.” Cassidy straightened and flexed her shoulders absently. “Well, that’s my sordid little tale. Did you tape it, Laura? My confession?”
“No,” a new voice said quietly. “But I did.”
Cassidy turned on the bar stool and looked toward the hallway that led to Laura’s bedroom. Two men were coming out. Both were tall; the one in front was a bit shorter and more slender, with dark, hawklike good looks. Cassidy had seen him on the TV news.
“You’re Landry,” she said. Then she looked at the powerful, rugged man behind him, and said, “And you’re Daniel. I suppose you and Laura are going to get married?”
Daniel nodded, more compassion than anything else in his eyes when he looked at her. “Yes. We are.”
“And they lived happily ever after.” Cassidy slid off the bar stool. She was smiling. “That was the ending I wanted, you know. The one I thought I deserved. The one they promised us as kids. But I guess they’d never heard of Peter Kilbourne.”
“I’m sorry,” Daniel said.
She looked at him, a little surprised, then nodded. “I see you are. So am I, as a matter of fact. But none of us can change the past, can we?”
“No. None of us can do that.”
Her gaze moved to Landry, and she said, “Well?”
He nodded very slightly. “Cassidy Burke, you’re under arrest for the murder of Peter Kilbourne. You have the right to remain silent …”
Laura didn’t listen to any more, and she didn’t watch Cassidy being led away. She just walked around the bar and went into Daniel’s comforting, loving arms. And cried.
IT WAS ON the following Friday afternoon that Laura remembered the manila envelope. She had brought it back to the Kilbourne house with her more or less automatically, dropping it into a drawer in Daniel’s room on top of a stack of her own underthings. And hadn’t given it another thought, until today.
She was alone in the big house except for the cook and two maids busy cleaning the ground floor. Daniel was at his office, Alex at his; Josie had taken Madeline in for a doctor’s appointment; and Kerry had taken a book and gone out to the maze to enjoy one of the last warm days they would have for a while.
Laura expected to be on her own for at least a couple of hours, and it seemed like a good time to read the rest of Dena’s research and learn the rest of the mirror’s history. It was the only thing still a question mark in her mind, the only mystery left unsolved, and she thought it might be why she still felt just a tiny bit wary. It was time to deal with that.
She took a cup of hot tea upstairs with her and went into his—their—bedroom. The big armchair made a very comfortable place for her to curl up and read, and the room was peaceful. She opened the envelope and dumped its contents onto the hassock. There were several typed sheets of paper clipped together, and a fairly small leatherbound book with a rubber band holding it closed and a note in Dena’s scriptlike handwriting.
Read the report first, Laura.
Intrigued, Laura left the small book on the hassock and leaned back to read the typed report. It opened with a brief note from Dena, just a reminder of where they had left off, with the deaths of Brett and Shelby Galvin. And then the report continued briskly.
In 1952 a man named Mark Coleman, 23, bought an old silver mirror at a secondhand store near San Francisco. The clerk told him that if he was interested in mirrors, he might want to attend a church auction being held nearby the following Saturday. The church was selling items donated to them by the estate of Andrew Galvin (Brett and Shelby Galvin’s surviving son, who had done very well in shipping and died, unmarried, at 50 by drowning). Mark went to the church auction, where he bought the brass mirror.
And where he found Catherine Archard.
She was 18 when they met, and deeply religious. She was also, from all reports, somewhat fragile, both emotionally and physically. Apparently, Mark’s courtship of her was slow and gentle; letters from Catherine to friends are filled with her happiness. Next to her God, she loved Mark.
A year and a half after meeting, they were engaged. Then, on Christmas Eve, 1954, just weeks before their wedding, Catherine and Mark apparently had some sort of disagreement, the nature of which he never confided to anyone else. She got in her car and drove off into a heavy rain. He followed in his own car. Catherine, known to be an uncertain driver, lost control and went over an embankment. Before Mark could get to it, the car burst into flames.
Mark Coleman was apparently devastated by his loss. Some friends even say he was still grieving ten years later, when he was killed in a plane crash.
He willed all his possessions to charity, including, specifically, the mirror. An antiques dealer from San Francisco bought the mirror, along with various other items. He reportedly placed the mirror in his shop—and there is no record of it being sold. The dealer went out of business in the early 1970s; his stock was liquidated. But there is no further mention of the mirror.
Here the trail stops, somewhere between 1964 and 1974.
Postscript: Laura, I can’t really explain the enclosed journal. Maybe you can. When I contacted a friend at a California archive for news clippings and so on relating to Catherine Archard and Mark Coleman, she found a few of Catherine’s letters for me (copies appended). And then, the very next day, she was browsing at a junk shop and found the journal. She called it an incredible coincidence, and FedExed it to me immediately. After reading the journal, I’m not sure I’d agree that coincidence had anything to do with it. But you’ll have to let me know what you think. Read the whole thing, when you have time. But it’s the final entry I especially want you to read. I’m almost afraid to draw my own conclusions … but if you think about it, the journal entry offers an explanation of sorts for the mirror’s history.
Let’s talk about this.
Laura shook her head, baffled and curiously uneasy. She read the copies of Catherine’s letters first, studying the childish, loopy handwriting and the sweet sentiments—mostly about Mark, although there was a good bit about her church and her God as well.
Laying the sheets on the hassock, Laura picked up the journal and removed the rubber bands holding it closed. She flipped through the pages quickly, not reading but noting the strong, clear handwriting so neat it was almost print. She found the last entry, dated October 23, 1952, and beginning abruptly.
When the clerk told me that the estate of Andrew Galvin had donated items to be auctioned for charity, I could hardly believe it. It’s always been difficult for me in concept—the death of a child of a previous life—but this is the first time I’ve been faced with the cold fact of it. My God, I could have gone to San Francisco and met Andrew, this son of my last life! I could have known him as an adult, a man older than I am myself. Strange. And unsettling. As I have so often before, I feel a guiding hand, destiny’s touch, perhaps, for Andrew’s death has enabled me to find the mirror once again. And to find her. Her name this time is Catherine.
