"Yes you d—"
His brow twitched and his eyes went blank: he was in that place again, that hiding place between him and her that he retreated to so often. "I'm sure you did," he said at last.
"No."
"Well, I suppose I assumed it, then," he said with gruff nonchalance. "That's the way it usually is. I'm sure the guy didn't put a pillow over her face and then over his own."
"I didn't even say that her father was the murderer."
"Well, that would be obvious, don't you think?" he asked her coolly.
Wendy's heart wasn't breaking so much as it was being tempered in the furnace of her fury. "Not to me," she said.
"Then you're either naive or stupid, Wen. And I know you're not stupid." He brushed her aside. "I'm going out," he growled. "If you want me to pack my bags, let me know when I get back."
He walked out of the kitchen, and for reasons she didn't understand, Wendy went immediately to look for Walter. Her body was shaking from head to foot; she felt like an escapee who'd just jumped between the roofs of two buildings. She found the old, fat cat curled in a lump on one of the sun-washed wicker chairs in the breezeway. As soon as she touched him, he lifted his big head and began to purr.
"Sorry about that, Wally," she said with a voice that was no more steady than her limbs. "Diet or no diet, you deserve a treat."
****
Wendy stayed in the guest room that night. She thought about Tyler, wondering how he was going to react when he found out that his worst fear was true. She thought about Zina, wondering how she was ever going to be able to move beyond the betrayal and horror that she'd already gone through. She thought about Zack, wondering—truly wondering—how he could still have enough strength for his sister and him both.
She didn't think about Jim, as Jim, at all. He was someone's father, someone's husband, the worthy target of someone's blackmail scheme. Other than that, he really had no place in her life. She didn't even know what to call him.
When he knocked softly on the door of the guest room in the morning, Wendy was in the adjacent bathroom, preparing for her day. She ignored his muffled summons. The door was locked—had been locked, since he'd leaned his head inside late the night before and had whispered, "Are you awake? Because I have something to say to you."
"It can wait until morning," she'd said from her bed in the dark.
It was morning now, and she still didn't care.
She changed into nondescript sleuthing clothes—a denim skirt and a beige knit top—and slipped into comfortable walking sandals. She opened the door to go down the hall and nearly tripped over the man she once had believed was her husband. He'd been sitting on the floor with his back against the door, and when she swung it open, he'd been caught unawares and had fallen back. He looked so undignified; anyone would have thought he was trying to peep through the keyhole.
Wendy stepped over him and continued on her way, but he scrambled to his feet and fell in beside her.
"I remember now," he said, eager as a jumping puppy. "I knew about the shootings because Zack told me; it was Zack himself who told me. It was when we were in the basement, when he was going on about his sister. Remember how I couldn't figure out what he was talking about?
Some of his garbled story had to do with his sister's suffering ... her father ... a gun, her mother in bed. That's how I knew, Wen! Yesterday it didn't come to me—"
"You're pathological, you know that?" she said without looking at him. She didn't dare: she was dismayed to realize that once again he could be telling the truth.
She stepped out more briskly, headed for the kitchen; Walter would need to be fed.
"Wendy, please, you're not listening," Jim said, catching her lightly from alongside.
She felt suddenly violated. "Get away from me!" she shrieked, as if he were an attacker in a dark alley.
Stunned by her vehemence, Jim threw up his hands and said, "Wendy, come on, it's me, Jim."
"I don't know you! Get away from me!" She turned into the nearest room, Tyler's bedroom, and tried slamming the door on Jim. He got hold of it on the other side and shoved it open, all the while trying to calm her sudden fury. But she was past calming, a wild thing, kicking and pushing as he tried to hold on to her. Finally he let her go; but she wanted him out of the room, out of her life.
She looked around her for something to throw: the closest missiles were old Beanie Babies. She grabbed the first one off the shelf, a pug, and hurled it at him, but it went sailing over his head and hit the wall with a thwack. He threw up his arms in surprised self-defense. She seized a cat and then an ostrich, throwing them hard, aiming them wild. It was ridiculous, throwing little stuffed animals at him; it belied her hurt and rage.
She couldn't stop. She grabbed a flamingo and hurled it at him with particular fury, landing it squarely on his cheek and raising a big red blotch there. If she had bloodied him on a medieval battlefield, she couldn't have felt more satisfied.
He seemed genuinely stunned by the depth of her rage. "You're crazier than she is," he said, rubbing his cheek.
Wendy lifted one shoulder in a defiant jerk. "All the more reason for you to leave. You could get hurt."
"I'm not leaving. Someone has you under a spell, Wen, and I'll be right here to bring you out of it."
"Ha. Don't hold your—"
The phone rang, an ordinary sound at an extraordinary moment. Automatically she picked up the phone on Tyler's nightstand. "Hello?" she said, breathing heavily but sure that she sounded not the least bit crazy.
It was Pete. He'd been hit by a car the night before and had broken his leg.
****
Standing at the southeastern tip of the town beach, he had been able to see the water side of the house real clear. Good binoculars, he'd decided, impressed. Worth every cent. Jimmy had been no sweat to pick off, with his red hair. But the broad on the beach, waving him in from the boat—she was a surprise. Jimmy had always liked blondes. After all, his ma was a blonde.
So a brunette, yeah, she was a real surprise.
Chapter 23
"I'm gonna be in this cast for six months," Pete growled from his hospital bed. "I need you to help me out here, man."
"Sure," Zack said instantly. "Tell me how."
As if he didn't know.
"First of all, I'd like to know why she's so hopping mad at you. I just got off the phone with her. She doesn't want you running the project, no way, no how. So I'm thinking to myself, what the hell? My mind is working along the lines of, she's a good-looking woman, maybe you made a move on her—"
"Hey!"
"Okay, or maybe she just misinterpreted you or something like that. Anyway, I mentioned it. She says that's not what it's about, but she won't tell me what it is about. So I'm askin' you."
"Fair question," Zack said easily, and one he had prepared himself to answer. "She got royally pissed when I told her that, given her situation, this would be a perfect time for her to move up to a nicer house. I may have said something about her being able to do much better, in fact. I told her that she'd still get her money back on the expansion—not that she needs it—but at that point I'm fairly sure she wasn't hearing me."
"Man, how dumb can you get? That's like telling someone her baby is ugly. The house has been in her family for generations; you know that. Her great-grandmother helped shingle the roof with her skirts tucked in her belt. What the hell were you thinking?"
"Yeah, well, I guess I wasn't. Anyway, I figured I'd give her a day or two to cool off, then show up, apologize, and get on with it."
Actually, Zack had had no idea how to get back inside the house, short of breaking and entering; all he knew was that he had to be there. It was obliging of Pete to break his leg and offer Zack his key to the front door, in effect—but Zack was going to have to make sure that it turned the lock.
"If she's as offended as you say she is, then I'm not sure an apology from me is going to cut it," he said, choosing his words carefully. "Does she un
derstand that without me to supervise the crew until you're back on your feet, the house isn't going to be built?"
"Well, that's obvious, wouldn't you say?" Pete said, whacking the cast on his leg.
"You might want to mention it anyway. And you might want to mention that without me to keep your crew occupied, they're bound to get hired away from you by some other contractor. This is your livelihood we're talking, and who knows if she understands that?"
"Another good point. I'll have to make it," Pete said. He invited Zack out of the room with a promise to call him with an update as soon as he talked with his client.
Zack was brooding over a cup of coffee in the hospital cafeteria when the call came through on his cell phone.
"Okay, you're back in," Pete announced. "She's not too happy about it, and I'm not too happy about the guilt trip I laid on her, but I've got a family to feed, and I'm not about to let a couple of bruised feelings get in the way. Now for God's sake, just get over there, do your job, and keep your trap shut I didn't hire you to be a guidance counselor, understand? Just build the damn house."
"Yessir," said Zack, joyous.
"I'm gonna hang up, now, before the medication wears off and I get really pissy."
****
Zack had to steel himself against looking too happy as he waited for Wendy to get the door. When she finally did open it after an especially long wait, she looked ready to give him the boot again. Despite an angry flush in her cheeks, her normally animated expression seemed scarily cool. It brought Zack down a quick peg or two, and he found that he didn't have to fake looking chastened at all.
"I know you'd prefer some other arrangement," he acknowledged after she let him in, "but I promised Pete, and I'm promising you, that I will build you a house that your children and your children's children will be proud to call their own."
He'd had no idea that he was going to say that, but once he did, he realized that he meant it with all his heart. When Wendy looked unconvinced, he also realized that he could hardly blame her.
So he said simply, "Thanks for putting aside your feelings and for considering Pete instead. That was real generous of you—but then, I'm not surprised."
Wendy stood there without apparent emotion as she heard him out. In a brisk tone she said, "Just so you know: I offered to pay Pete—and his crew—for the time that they would've lost from being shut down on this project. But Pete says that the house can't stay exposed to the elements for that long, and he's also afraid that the boys will move on even if I paid them to stay and do nothing. Which I personally don't believe, by the way, but you don't argue with a man on a hospital bed."
Zack was nodding and saying "yup, yup" to everything she said.
It seemed to be throwing her off balance. "So ... so I want you to understand," she finished up, "that I'm doing this for Pete. Period." Again the color flared up in her cheeks, but whether it was leftover anger, or embarrassment that she was being forced to scold a grown-up, or something else altogether, Zack could not divine. No question about it, he was rooting for the last option.
"Pete's a good man, as good as they come," he said fervently.
"Yes. We agree on that. When do you think you'll be finished?"
Zack considered saying, "When I'm old and gray, if I play my cards right," but he decided against it. There was just something in her look. "Well, Pete told you by Labor Day, right?"
She nodded.
"What he really meant by that was Halloween."
She looked genuinely surprised. Obviously this was her first brush with a contractor.
"Unfortunately, we're now shorthanded, and of a key player," he went on.
"So that means?"
"With any luck, Thanksgiving."
"You can't be serious."
"Actually, I'm not," he said with a hapless shrug. "If you want an honest, serious, realistic estimate, then figure on Christmas."
"Christmas! You're not building a pyramid, for Pete's sake!"
"No. I'm building an addition for Pete's sake."
"What can possibly take until Christmas?"
"The inevitable delay that the electricians will cause, for starters."
"I'll find other electricians for you," she said with desperation.
He merely cocked one eyebrow.
She let out an exasperated sigh and said, "Yeah, I know: try to get someone to return my calls. But that was different; that was a plugged-up sewer line. There aren't that many people who can unplug a—Oh, all right, then. Christmas. Is that absolutely, positively?"
"If the creek don't rise."
Another sigh, as she threw up her hands and shut her eyes against the prospect. "Just ... tell me when it's over," she said, completely exasperated by then.
She handed him the rolled-up architect's plans that she'd had waiting for him on the hall table and left him to study them while she went back to making a few phone calls.
She and Jim had obviously paid big bucks for a complete set of drawings. Besides the usual elevations and floor plans, there were plans for the wiring, plumbing, heating, masonry, and built-ins, from kitchen cabinets to multiple bookcases. All in all, it was a straightforward project. Zack was going to make Wendy a perfect house. Whistling a tune, he took the plans upstairs.
She followed him almost immediately afterward. "I don't mean to be petty or anything, but could you not whistle?" she asked through gritted teeth. "It's hard to concentrate."
He blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I have a lot on my mind, and it's hard to think when all I'm aware of is you. Whistling," she added quickly.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Of course I'll stop."
"Thank you."
She left him alone and feeling good.
It's hard to think, when all I'm aware of is you.
He let the complaint roll back and forth in his mind, lulling him with its sweet promise. He couldn't remember when he'd felt so sky-high. The closest he ever came anymore was in his studio, when he was shaping a particularly fine piece of wood, excited about the possibilities but not yet there.
Who was he kidding? There was no comparison.
His euphoria lasted nearly an hour, until she came back upstairs and said, "I won't be back today; can you lock up when you leave?" She looked completely distracted.
Don't go, he thought, but aloud he only said, "Ty won't be here this afternoon, then?"
"No. That plan's been changed. He's staying with his grandparents another day."
So Zack wouldn't be baby-sitting. He was a little disappointed; with Wendy's permission, the boy had been allowed to pound in a few nails (the old-fashioned way, with a hammer and a swing of his young arm) and he'd seemed to get a kick out of it.
Before she walked out, Zack felt obliged to say, "You saw the message, on your machine?"
"The one for 'Jimmy'?" she asked, lavishing contempt on the nickname. She had a canvas carrier slung over one shoulder and was checking through some papers in it.
"Yeah. Him."
She looked up with her wide-set, hazel eyes, and Zack saw a doe caught in the headlights. For a split second she seemed completely overtaken by events; but then she snapped out of it and said, "He's Jim's problem, not mine."
She walked out, slamming the much-abused screen door, and Zack's mood took a nose dive that lasted the rest of the day.
****
Wendy was a woman with a mission. She needed to get to Tillicut, Massachusetts, population, nine hundred and thirty-two, before its town hall closed, or else wait until the following Tuesday, the only day of the week on which it was open.
Earlier she had phoned the town clerk, hoping to get the information she needed without having to drive the distance (and it would be a distance: near the border between Massachusetts and New Hampshire, and too off the beaten track to be approached with any speed).
The clerk who'd answered the phone had been very friendly, as small-town clerks are, and had apologized profusely for keeping Wendy holding while she looked up
the information that Wendy had been seeking about James Hodene. But the woman sounded pleased to report that she had all the facts, such as they were, right there in front of her.
Odd, how a voice as sweet and comforting as Cracker Jacks could have had such a bitter sting.
Wendy flogged her Taurus northward, wincing at every glub-glub of her failing muffler. Her life, her son, and now her car had been put on hold while she tracked down the truth. She felt not only angry but almost embarrassed about that. Zack was right: she could easily have handed the odious assignment to a PI. But Wendy hadn't lived a PI kind of life, and something inside her balked at living it now just because she could suddenly afford to pay one.
She drove across winding, hilly country through a procession of small New England towns, each of them made up of little more than a steeple, a filling station, a café, and a general store. Occasionally she passed a mom-and-pop motel, and sometimes a string of cabins, but rarely a chain-type accommodation. She was in God's country now, far away from corporate America. A man like Jim would hate it.
The road sign at the entrance to Tillicut was leaning, rusted, and half obscured by a weedy vine; but it was the beginning of the end of Wendy's journey, so she pulled over impulsively and snapped a photo of it. Maybe she would put together a small album of her little day trip into the bowels of truth.
The Tillicut Town Hall was a tiny Victorian dollhouse that fronted the road and had parking behind. Wendy took a photo of it and went inside. The clerk, Janice, a full-bodied woman with fluffy hair and a warm grin, greeted her like an old friend. She was the only one in the building; her days were undoubtedly quiet ones.
She had the birth record open and ready for Wendy's perusal on a small oak worktable positioned next to a sunny, east-facing window. Variegated ivy in a glazed pot sat on the deep-set sill, ruffling in the morning breeze. The scene was so guileless, so innocent, so reassuring; it seemed impossible to Wendy that she would find slyness and guilt and unnerving deceit there.
But find it she did.
"Would it be all right if I took a photograph of the page?" she asked the obviously curious clerk.
Sand Castles Page 22
