by Sheryl Lynn
She turned off the water, the cloud of rising steam echoed her fog of lonely dismay. Even if Jeffrey explained why he lied, she doubted if she’d ever trust him again. A man who’d lie about his age might lie about anything. She had a moment of horrible clarity, foreseeing a future of gazing at her husband across the breakfast table while wondering where he’d really been the night before.
“Damn you, Easy Martel,” she mouthed. This particular can of worms would never close again. She ought to run off to Vegas and marry Jeffrey just to spite Easy and ruin his stupid game.
A thump vibrated in the ceiling directly over her head. Startled, she stared upward. Gooseflesh broke over her entire dripping body.
The kitchen was above the bathroom. She reasoned that one of the dogs grew bored waiting for her to come upstairs and serve breakfast. One of them had explored a counter, then dropped back to the floor. She almost convinced herself—until she heard the footsteps. Stealthy and quick, they reverberated softly through the ceiling.
Her heart leaped into her throat. She clutched a towel to her breasts.
It must be the dogs, she told herself reasonably. She strained to listen, hoping for confirmation that the dogs romped, perhaps tussling with each other, or else they’d spotted another deer.
Those were footsteps, human footsteps.
The door from the deck had been unlocked. No matter how much she thought about it, she couldn’t recall if she’d locked the door when she came inside. She slid a step across the cold tiles and caught the bathroom door with both hands. She pushed it closed and winced at the faint clunk of wood against wood. She fingered the steam-damaged finish and gaps around the frame. A cheap door, hollow and flimsy, with only a simple push-button lock on the knob. She jammed her thumb against the push button. The dogs weren’t barking, but they rarely barked. If threatened by a stranger, they’d probably hide.
A telephone sat on the table next to her bed. Reaching it meant opening the door and exposing herself. A sob choked her throat.
Another thump jerked every muscle in her body tight. She turned her head from side to side, trying to locate the exact source of the sound. She feared it came from the top of the stairs. Cautiously she pressed her ear to the door.
Her thumb pressed so tightly against the lock button, bands of white and pink appeared on her nail. The door felt as substantial as cardboard. If the intruder kicked his way into the bathroom, she had no window to escape through, no place to hide.
She looked around for a weapon. No aerosol cans, only environmentally friendly spray bottles of hair spray and roll-on deodorant. Her feminine razor would be about as useful as a safety pin against an attacker. The blow-dryer might do some damage, but in the close quarters of the bathroom, she doubted if she could swing it hard enough to help. Rising tears filled her eyes with grit.
She dashed impatiently at her eyes, then pressed her ear to the door again. The wooden stair steps had dried over the years, so all of them squeaked. She heard nothing.
She risked taking her hand off the doorknob long enough to wrap the towel securely around her nakedness. Then she jammed her thumb on the lock again.
Think.
Her gaze fell on the towel bar. With one side of the holder improperly attached, the bar hung loosely. Several times she’d almost accidentally torn it off the wall. Keeping her thumb securely against the lock, she stretched to reach the bar. She missed by a scant inch.
Another sound thudded overhead. It was more of a clunk than a thud. A cabinet door had closed. No matter how hungry the dogs were, they would never in a bazillion years open a cabinet. Worst fears confirmed, she stretched across the bathroom, straining to reach the bar and still hold the door. Another sob ruffled her chest. Her erratic heartbeat echoed the water drip-drip-dripping down the drain. Surely the intruder could hear the drumming of her heart.
Distinctive footsteps hurried across the floor. Light, quick, purposeful.
Catherine lunged at the towel bar and wrenched it. Screws ripped from the drywall. The end holder fell and flakes of gypsum trickled to the floor. The noise thundered like crashing crockery.
Resigned calm filled her. She backed away from the door, but never took her eyes off it. If he burst through the wood, she’d brain him. Her arm muscles quivered; her hands ached with the ferocity of her grip on the metal bar. She pictured herself hitting and hitting and hitting until she could hit no more. No matter his size or strength, no matter what his evil intent, she was going down fighting. He’d find no timid victim. If he hurt her, he’d get hurt, too.
Scritch-scritch-scritch.
Catherine screamed at the top of her lungs. “Get away!” she screeched. “I have a weapon! I’ll kill you!” She shifted her weight to the balls of her feet and gripped the slick tiles with her toes. She gave the bar a short practice swing. “I’m warning you! I have a deadly weapon!”
The scratching sounded again on the door. Its familiarity penetrated her panic. She lowered the bar and leaned forward, staring as if she’d somehow see through the wood.
Scritch-scritch, and then a whine. One of the dogs scratched at the door.
“Oscar?” The husky whisper hurt her throat, which felt as if iron bands held it in a vise. “Bent?”
A low, coughlike bark answered.
Perhaps it had been the dogs after all. She turned the doorknob a fraction of an inch at a time. The lock popped with a snap that made her muscles twitch. She opened the door, but with her shoulder toward it so she could slam it shut in an instant.
Oscar and Bent waited outside the door. They peered up at her with anxious eyes. She felt positive that if an intruder were in the house, they’d be hiding under the bed. Keeping a two-handed grip on the towel bar, she crept out of the bathroom.
“Is anybody here?”
Oscar and Bent wagged their tails in reply.
She snatched her robe off the bed and jammed her arms in the sleeves. Gulping, she stared through the open bedroom door to the sliding glass doors leading outside to the lower garden. Filmy lace panels covered the glass. She saw no sign of movement outside. She picked up the cordless telephone from the bedside table. After pressing nine, she paused.
Oscar leaped gracefully onto the bed, putting himself nearly eye-to-eye with her. With his silky ears flattened against his skull, he gave her his most pitiful, starving-to-death hound look.
“What were you guys doing up there? Trying to give me a heart attack? Do you think if I kick off, you get to inherit this place?”
Bent sat on Catherine’s foot. She leaned her full weight against her mistress’s leg and sighed mournfully. The dogs acted so clownishly normal, Catherine couldn’t conceive that anything odd had been going on in the house.
Holding the towel bar in her right hand and the telephone in her left, she sneaked up the stairs. No matter how lightly she tried to step, each time she put her weight down, a loud squeal echoed in the stairwell. The house sounded right. It felt normal. The dogs snaked past her, racing each other up the stairs.
“Hello?” The word emerged in a croak. She cleared her throat. “Is anybody here?”
Oscar gave her an impatient look from the top of the stairs. Silence answered Catherine’s call. She trotted up the stairs and hurried to the front door. As she’d feared, it was unlocked. She threw the dead bolt.
The telephone rang.
Screaming, she dropped the telephone. It bounced on the throw rug in front of the door. Shrill ringing told her she hadn’t broken the unit. She snatched it off the floor and answered.
“Hey, Tink,” Easy said cheerfully. “I can’t believe you actually answered. Is it too early for a visit?”
“You just scared me half to death! What are you doing?”
“Whoa, it’s just a phone call. What’s the matter?”
She eased back the curtain over the window in the upper half of the door. A tiny junco perched on the deck railing. It pecked at the wood. “Were you just inside my house?” She prayed he had been. Then she could yell at hi
m and put another black mark against his list of deficiencies, but there wouldn’t be any reason for terror.
“What?” The line crackled with static. “I’m losing the connection in the hills. Hold on. I’ll be right there.”
Before she could say a word, he disconnected.
Clutching the towel bar, she crept into the kitchen. The coffeemaker gurgled. The aroma of coffee filled the air. Even though the sun had come up over the trees, she turned on the lights. Towel bar ready to strike, she jerked open the tall pantry door. Canned fruits and vegetables, boxes of cereal and bags of bulky beans and rice lined the shelves. A fifty-pound bag of dog food sat open on the floor.
No bogeyman.
Both dogs grumbled when she left the kitchen without feeding them. She sneaked into the back bedroom she’d converted into a combined office and storeroom. She turned on the light. Again, ready to defend herself with the towel bar, she jerked open the closet door. Winter clothes, ski equipment and linens were exactly as she’d left them.
In the other bedroom, in which she’d used her grandmother’s antique sofa, secretary and china hutch to convert the room into a Victorian-style parlor, she turned on the lights. The room was undisturbed, down to the dust she’d been neglecting on the furniture.
Perhaps it had been the dogs after all. On occasion they played in the house. The deer might have roused their spirits.
A car crunched gravel in the driveway. Through the window, she recognized Easy’s nondescript white sedan. She wondered if he were sneaky enough to break into her house then pretend he happened to be in the neighborhood.
She watched him walk across the driveway and onto the deck. Despite her tension, she admired the fit of his blue jeans and the way sunlight sparked against his hair. The old thrill swept through her. Long ago, whenever he arrived for a visit or to pick her up for a date, the sight of him filled her with wonder that this beautiful wild boy chose her to love.
He knocked on the front door. If, she determined, he played some sick game and had broken into her house, she’d beat him to death with the towel bar. She answered the door. Too late she remembered that she wore only a terry-cloth robe and her uncombed hair dripped water down her back and shoulders.
He looked her up and down, his dark eyes warm with concern. His eyebrows knit in a worried frown. “Are you all right?”
Glad for company, even his, she invited him inside. “I was taking a shower when I heard somebody walking around up here.”
He glanced at the dogs. “Somebody?”
“It could have been the dogs, I guess. But I was never so scared in my life! Sheesh, it was like being in Psycho.”
A faint smile pulled his supple lips. She followed his gaze to the towel bar in her hand. Knowing she’d ripped a hole in her bathroom wall, she barely suppressed a groan. She set the bar on a table.
Easy glided around the room, his athletic shoes barely making a sound on the wooden floor. “Any sign of a break-in? Anything missing?”
“Everything is okay. But I forgot to lock the door.” She’d left the door unlocked while she’d been out running, too. The intruder could have been in one of the back rooms, listening to her, watching her, when she returned. A shivering shudder rippled down her back.
“Catherine?” Easy rushed to her side. Only then did she feel her buckling knees. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. Easy’s here to protect you.” He helped her onto a chair. She had enough mental facility remaining to tug her robe closed over her thighs. He crouched next to the chair. “Have you had problems around here? Prowlers? Peeping Toms?”
“It’s safe here. You can’t even see my house from the road.” She glared at the dogs. “You two are no help. You’d hold a burglar’s flashlight for him.”
“They aren’t watchdogs?” Easy asked. “They’re big enough.”
Catherine rolled her eyes. “They don’t have a ferocious bone in their bodies. They’re retired racing dogs. I adopted them through the greyhound rescue project so they’re used to having strangers around. The only things they get excited about are rabbits, squirrels and deer.”
“I know a guy with a rottweiler mix that needs a home.” He petted Oscar’s sleek head.
Tempted, she murmured that she’d think about it. She hugged her shoulders, repressing another shudder. “I need to feed them.”
“So tell me what happened. Exactly.”
While she fed the dogs, she told him what she’d heard. Easy wandered through the small kitchen, his eyes busy while his hands trailed over cabinets, counters and appliances. Catherine bristled over the way he acted as if he owned the place.
“Are you sure nothing is missing?” he asked.
She opened her mouth to assure him that nothing had been touched, but realized something was missing. She turned in a circle, but could not recall exactly what had been in the kitchen when she left this morning for her run. She kept a clean house, but not a particularly tidy house. She had a bad habit of misplacing items. “I don’t know. Something….”
“Who has keys to your house?” he asked, his tone neutral.
“No one—wait. My mother has a key, but that’s only for emergencies. My parents never drop in unannounced.” The missing item nagged at her. She checked her purse. She always left it on the kitchen counter next to the refrigerator. Her wallet was intact, containing ten dollars in cash, her lone credit card and ATM card. Her checkbook was still there, with all checks accounted for. She glanced at the wall next to the doorway. Her spare car keys hung from a small wooden hook. In its place above a cabinet, Grandma’s silver tea service gleamed.
“Did you change the locks when you moved in?”
“No.” Growing scared again, she swiped at her wet hair.
“Then you don’t know for certain how many keys are floating around.”
“The former owners moved to Texas. I got all the keys at the closing. Jeffrey gave them to me.”
He made an mmm-mmm noise, reminiscent of a car mechanic peering under a hood while preparing to impart expensive news. “So you don’t know for certain how many keys are floating around.”
“Jeffrey doesn’t have a key to this house. Nor does he need one. I resent what you’re implying. He has no reason to come in here and sneak around.” She clutched the neck of her robe closed. “Excuse me. I need to get dressed.”
She stomped downstairs. Jeffrey most certainly did not have a key to this house and he didn’t need one and he’d never asked for one. Why would he?
The answer came in a nasty little scared voice—because if he’s a killer, then why not make a copy? It made killing her all the easier.
She dressed quickly in jeans and a T-shirt. Easy had a good motive to snoop around her house. He wanted to find Elizabeth, so maybe thought he’d find a clue in her personal papers. He could have arrived while she was running and happened to find the door unlocked. Then, when she returned, he hid and slipped out while she showered.
With indignation replacing the fear, she marched upstairs.
Easy stood before her worktable, studying a nearly finished painting for the spider book.
“Easy.”
He turned his head. He raked her with an impudently admiring glance. “What?”
“Look me straight in the eye and tell me you didn’t break into my house.”
“I didn’t break in.” His steady gaze never wavered.
Believing him frustrated her. “Then why are you here?”
He followed her to the kitchen. He crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. “You know how much I hate being ignored.” He graced her with a smug smile. “You don’t return my calls.”
She poured two cups of coffee. “I have nothing to say to you.” She met his grin with a sweet smile of her own. “Nothing nice anyway.” She handed him a cup of coffee.
“So nothing I said about your boyfriend got through to you? I don’t buy it, Tink. You just won’t admit I’m right.”
She jerked a carton of nonfat milk from the
refrigerator. “Fine! I admit it. Jeffrey is a liar.” She added a generous dollop of milk to her coffee. “Happy now?”
“What happened?” He sipped the coffee and made an approving sound. “What did he tell you?”
She cringed inwardly over the prospect of discussing her disintegrating relationship with Jeffrey. It had taken her years to find a man she found attractive and trustworthy, then with a few words Easy Martel proved her judgment was as poor now as it had been back when they were dating.
“What difference does it make? He’s probably going to break up with me anyway. He won’t see me. He barely speaks to me on the phone.”
“Did you tell him about me? Or John Tupper?”
“Your little undercover operation is safe. I didn’t tell him about you.” She faced him. “We talked about Roberta. You didn’t tell me she was an alcoholic with mental problems.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
She caught the edge of sarcasm. “Really. Has it ever occurred to you that it’s a lot easier for her brother to believe Jeffrey killed Roberta, than it is for him to think she killed herself?”
“No kidding.” He cocked one eyebrow, his smile undiminished. “So what did he say about the insurance policy?”
“All I have is your word that he profited from her death. And I’m not at all convinced your word is worth anything.”
He lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “So he fed you a story and you swallowed it.”
Knowing he deliberately goaded her, she advanced on him. He stood his ground, sipping coffee as if he had absolutely nothing better to do than hang out in her kitchen. She grabbed a paper towel off a roll. Then, needing something to do with the towel, she put down her coffee and began wiping the counter.
She caught a whiff of him, an alluring mixture of sunshine and maleness that was exclusively his. With rising panic, she realized he’d been imbedded permanently in her brain. She’d never be rid of him, ever. Her eyes glazed.
“I didn’t think you were that dumb, Tink.”
“I didn’t say I believed what Jeffrey told me. But I don’t believe you either.”
“How about if you meet John Tupper? You’ll find out he isn’t delusional about his sister.”
