by Rita Herron
“Yes,” Veronica croaked.
“That’s great. I’m calling to invite you and a date, of course, to my house for a private dinner party tomorrow night. Can you make it?”
Veronica searched Nathan’s face for support. “I thought you didn’t want me becoming close to your family.”
“Veronica, honey, listen. That was a misunderstanding.” Eli’s breathing became labored.
“Are you all right, Eli?”
“Yes, but I don’t want you to be upset. Please, I really want you to come.”
Veronica hesitated. “Just a minute, Eli.” She whispered an explanation to Nathan and he nodded.
“Fine, Eli. I’ll be there.”
“Good. It means a lot to me. Cocktails are at seven.”
“See you then.” When she hung up the phone, her hands were trembling.
“A family get-together?”
“I suppose.”
“That should be interesting.” Nathan took her hand in his and stroked it. “Maybe we can find out more about Gerald and Mrs. Jones.”
“Yeah.” Veronica squeezed his fingers. “But first I have to do something.”
“What?”
“I have to go back to the old house.” Once again, she looked to Nathan for support. His amber eyes glowed with understanding, and what looked like admiration. “Last time it didn’t jog my memory, but maybe if I go inside it will, and I’ll finally remember what happened.” Then she looked at Nathan and voiced another worry. “But if it is Eli’s mother or his son, how will I ever tell him?”
Nathan put his hand on her back. “I don’t know sweetheart, but I’ll go with you.”
A FEW MINUTES LATER, Nathan had his hands clenched around the steering wheel as he drove Veronica to her childhood home. He wanted to find out who was threatening her and see them rot in jail, and the detective in him wanted to find it out at any cost.
But the man in him, the person who cared about Veronica, didn’t want her to suffer in order to find the answers. He wanted to protect her. If she relived the horrid memory she’d blocked out twenty years ago, what kind of an effect would it have on her mentally? Would she be able to handle the truth?
Should he call a doctor to go with them?
He reached over and covered her hand with his. “You don’t have to do this now.”
“Yes, I do.” She raised her delicate chin and he recognized strength and courage in her profile. Yet fear shaped her dark brown eyes into pools of liquid chocolate. “I never came back here after they died. My grandmother took me away as soon as I left the hospital.”
“I can understand that. I’d probably have done the same thing.” When he parked the car in front of the overgrown yard and saw Veronica bite down on her lip, he stroked the column of her neck and kissed her gently on the cheek. “You may not remember anything, even when you go inside.”
“I know. But I have to try.” She opened the car door and climbed out. Nathan followed her, letting her set the pace as he mentally prepared himself for whatever might happen. He needed to step back and to become invisible inside the house in order to let her concentrate. But if she struggled with her memory or became too frightened, he’d have to step in. He’d never be able to stand by and watch her in distress.
She looked cautious and thoughtful as she made her way past the weed-filled patch that had once been a flower garden. She paused and glanced at a magnolia tree in the yard, and he wondered if she had any recollection of it. Of course it had to have been tiny when she lived in the house.
Gingerly, she reached out and wiped spiderwebs from the boarded doorframe. Nathan pulled the rotting boards loose, then tore the boards from the windows. Sighing deeply, she gave him a slow smile before she opened the door.
AS SOON AS THE DOOR squeaked open, Veronica thought she heard music playing. The familiar tune “Somewhere over the Rainbow” drifted into her mind, but instead of the comforting, beautiful melody, the screeching gyrations grated on her nerves, consuming the space in the room and sucking the air from her lungs with the haunting clarity of impending doom. Her heart pounded, blood running hot through her veins and roaring in her ears.
The musty odor was a swift reminder that the house was devoid of life, empty of love and laughter. A cloud of dust and cobwebs streaked the outdated Early American style furniture. The avocado and gold colors made Veronica painfully aware she’d truly stepped back in time. Thick rust-colored shag carpet covered the floors, and a magazine rack filled with old Life and Time magazines overflowed the wooden holder. These were her parents’ old things. The faded gold couch with the flowers, the ruffled pea green chair, the worn vinyl recliner.
Immediately her eyes were drawn to the ugly words vandals had painted on the yellowed walls. A mouse skittered out from the sofa and darted into the corner. A brown clay ashtray in the center of the table surprised Veronica because as far as she’d known, neither of her parents smoked, then she noticed the ashtray had been made of clay. It was a child’s art project. She must have made it for her parents. Why hadn’t her grandmother taken it from the house and put it with the other memorabilia?
She bypassed the table and paused to wipe the thick dust from a book on the pine end table. An old copy of Dickens. Was it her mother’s or father’s? Or maybe they’d read it together. A musty smell filled her nostrils as she opened it and read the inscription. “For my darling wife. With all my love on our wedding day.” Veronica’s vision blurred as she read her father’s name.
She clutched the book in her hands and walked slowly toward the kitchen. The strong scent of mildew lingered in the air and she stopped to stare at the rusty porcelain sink. Mouse droppings littered the floor. Something seemed familiar about the room—the yellow gingham curtains, the dingy white appliances. The kitchen was supposed to be the heart of the home. Had her family cooked and had nice, cozy family dinners in here? Had she thrown baby food on the floor or helped her mother make cookies for preschool?
Closing her eyes, she hugged the book to her chest and conjured up a vision of her parents. She could imagine them standing in the kitchen, her mother baking biscuits, her father sipping juice and reading the morning paper. Or maybe her father had cooked and her mother had read the morning paper?
No, it was all wrong.
She tried to picture a Christmas tree in the den and the smell of cinnamon or gingerbread, but her vision became foggy with images of blood and the sounds of her parents’ screaming. Then she heard her own voice as a child’s. She was crying and begging her parents not to die, not to leave her. The memory shook her to the core, and she began to shiver.
Darn it, why couldn’t she at least remember some happy memories. Surely their family had had some.
Opening her eyes, she gripped the counter and saw Nathan watching her. “Are you all right?”
She simply nodded, too stunned by the vivid memory to speak. She stared through the broken glass of the back window and spotted a swing. It seemed vaguely familiar, but once again no details registered. Gathering her courage, she walked down the hall. A room to the left—a room to the right. Which one had been hers?
She caught a glimpse of blue and rose wallpaper. It seemed familiar. Then she remembered the wrapping paper on the gift that had been sent to her office and how she’d reacted to it. This room must have been hers. And the person who’d sent her the music box had known.
She heard Nathan’s shallow breathing behind her and felt grateful he was there, grateful also that he wasn’t pushing her to talk. She sidestepped a section of the wall where vandals had painted obscenities. Her finger traced the small rosebuds, and she smiled as she noticed a child’s drawing on a small pink bulletin board. It was obviously supposed to be the sun, but if she’d drawn it, she must have gotten carried away with the orange marker, for it looked more like a giant pumpkin. Then she realized that she didn’t know if she’d drawn it or if another child had given it to her.
Anger filled her. By forgetting that night and bloc
king out her childhood, she’d lost some treasured memories as well as the bad. She had to get them back. Spurred on by determination, she studied the white French Provincial furniture and tried to imagine herself as a child curled up in the bed asleep. She picked up a worn brown teddy bear and pressed it to her chest. Had this been her favorite bear? If so, why hadn’t her grandmother taken it with them? She studied the bear’s floppy ears and the place where a button was missing, hoping it would conjure up a familiar image. But her mind refused to focus, and her head started to pound. She rubbed her temple and felt Nathan’s gentle hands massage her shoulders.
“Don’t push it. You’ll remember when you’re ready.”
“No.” Veronica let anger drive her. “It’s time. I just need to concentrate.”
She pushed past him and examined the small box of toys: a broken doll, chalkboard, cards, blocks, puzzles and a sketch pad. She opened the pad and gasped in surprise. The first few pictures vaguely resembled the good witch in The Wizard of Oz and oddly, she’d scrawled her mother’s name above them. She’d named her father the Wizard. A childhood drawing of a nasty-looking witch filled several pages.
She’d labeled a stick picture of a man “Eli.” To her surprise, the picture had been colored over with black crayon.
Why would she have done that?
“I wonder if you drew those before or after the murder,” Nathan said. “And I wonder why the police didn’t take them.”
“It must have been before,” Veronica said. “Grandma said she never brought me back here afterward. I don’t understand why I would color over Eli.”
“Hmm, interesting. Maybe you didn’t. Another child could have done it. You know how kids are.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Veronica said, although a strange feeling came over her. It was as if she knew she had drawn the pictures. The dark, dank air in the room closed in around her, and she noticed a shadow rise above her from the window frame as the last remnants of the sun slipped away.
She turned the page of the sketch pad, and fear completely clogged her throat. Someone had drawn a picture of a little girl kneeling over a woman’s and a man’s bodies, and the little girl had a bloody knife raised above her.
WHEN NATHAN SAW Veronica’s face pale at the sight of the picture, he decided he had to get her out of there. Slowly, he tried to ease her fingertips from the sketch pad. “Come on, darling, let’s go.”
Veronica shook her head, her eyes glazed.
“You’ve seen enough today. We can always come back.”
She shook her head vehemently and her lower lip trembled, but her voice sounded amazingly strong when she spoke. “No, I have to see something.”
“What?” Was she remembering?
Her eyes still dark, her face as pale as the faded walls, she pulled away from him and turned to cross the hall. Immediately Nathan realized she was going to her parents’ bedroom. The room where they had died.
Sweat beaded on his forehead as he watched her enter the room. She stared at the simple maple double bed. The mattress and boxspring were missing, but the chalk lines the police had used to mark where her parents had died still remained on the floor. Although the lines were faint and marred with dust, the outline was clear.
She inched toward the bed, touched the worn lime green chenille bedspread piled on the end of the frame, then blew the dust from one of her parents’ pictures. A small smile spread on her face at the sight of her dad and mother holding her. The idyllic expressions on their faces made it clear they loved her.
“Dr. Baits said my father was disappointed I didn’t look like him,” Veronica whispered. “I think I might have his chin.”
Nathan took the photograph. He couldn’t see the resemblance, but then he never had been one to notice things like that with families. He sensed it was important he confirm her thoughts so he smiled. “Yeah. Maybe you do.”
She pivoted, her gaze moving to the faded shag carpet where the chalk marks served as an aching reminder of the tragedy that had taken place in the house. “Look at those pictures of them together. You can’t make me believe they killed themselves,” Veronica said quietly.
He had to agree. Domestic violence was common, but Veronica’s father had been an educated man, a pillar of the society. And the glow on his wife’s face was evidently one of admiration and love for her husband.
A lace doily covered the dressertop, its yellowed edges frayed. Veronica wiped a thin layer of dust from an antique music box that sat on top of it. He was amazed there was anything left in the room. In some cities, vandals would have robbed the place or the homeless would have moved right in. The neighbor who’d kept an eye on the place must have done a good job.
Veronica opened the box and paused, the look on her face strange when it started playing “Love Is a Many-splendored Thing.” Then she pulled out a small pin, and Nathan moved closer. It was a pin like the one the lady in the flower shop had mentioned, exactly like the one Veronica owned. Where had it come from? Veronica said there were only a few like it in the world.
“Can I take this and have it fingerprinted?” he asked.
Veronica nodded, still dazed. Then she surprised him by moving over to the chalk marks and kneeling beside them. “This is where they found me,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I was right beside them.”
A sudden chill swept through the air and the lacy curtains ruffled. The sky had darkened and Nathan wondered if a thunderstorm was on its way. He pulled the curtain back and peered outside. One of the window panes had been broken, and the wind whistled eerily through the jagged glass. In the distance he thought he saw a dark car skid around the curve. Had someone been following them?
When he glanced back, Veronica was staring at her hands, her face ashen. Then she brought her hands to her head and pressed them against her temples. He raced to her and encircled her with his arms. “Veronica, come on, let’s go.”
“My head hurts,” she whispered. “I want to remember, but I can’t.”
“Shh, it’s okay.”
“No, it’s not,” she said. She raised her face to look at him, and the pain and agony in her eyes made his chest ache. “I have to remember. I have to.”
“You will, sweetheart.” He started to pull her into a standing position, but she groaned and pressed her hands tighter over her head.
“Make it stop. Please make it stop.” She closed her eyes and rocked herself back and forth in his arms. Nathan gritted his teeth. He didn’t care if she remembered or not. He couldn’t stand to watch her suffer. Sweeping her up into his arms, he carried her to the car.
Once they arrived at her apartment, Nathan helped Veronica change into a nightshirt, gave her two painkillers and tucked her into bed.
“Stay with me,” she said softly. Her eyes were closed, her face etched with fatigue, and although Nathan knew he should be working on her case, he couldn’t resist her simple plea. He lay down beside her and pulled her into his arms. “Go to sleep, sweetheart. It’s been a long day.”
Veronica nodded. “I wish I’d remembered more.”
“It’s a start,” he said, stroking her back to calm her. “Just relax.” He talked softly and continued to stroke her until she fell asleep. For a long moment, he watched her sleep, reveling in her beauty and quiet strength. She was dealing with past demons he could hardly imagine. Her eyelashes fluttered and she jerked in her sleep. He stroked her again and curled his fingers in her hair, once again soothing her until she stilled. Finally, when he was sure she was sound asleep, he eased off the bed and went into her den to use the phone.
After dialing his partner, he relaxed on the sofa with a beer and contemplated the things he’d learned from the Pritchards and the former police chief while he waited for Ford to get to the phone. Could Eli’s mother or Gerald possibly be responsible for everything that happened to Veronica—her parents’ deaths, the threats, the attack, the music box, the crushed flowers? But if they had killed her parents and didn’t want h
er to remember, why send her things that might trigger that memory?
Unless…unless they thought she was unstable and might become so distraught she’d take her own life.
He certainly didn’t like that line of thinking.
“Dawson, Ford here.”
“Yeah. What did you find out on the Falk woman?”
“No relation to anyone who lived in Oakland in the seventies. Can’t find any connection or motive as to why she’d want to hurt the Miller woman.”
Nathan had to agree, but still she’d had access to Veronica’s keys. “Maybe someone paid for her help.”
“That’s a possibility,” Ford said. “She sure took a cut in pay when she quit prostituting.”
“Yeah,” Nathan said, wondering if Gerald or Alma Jones could have paid her to help.
“I’m meeting her at Richard’s. Maybe she’ll open up over a few drinks.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Nathan said. “How about the hypodermic I dropped off? Any prints?”
Ford paused. “Only one.”
Nathan swallowed hard. “Veronica’s?”
“Nope.”
“So she didn’t lie. She hadn’t given herself the shot.”
“She could have wiped them off.”
Nathan sighed in disgust. “You’re still determined to make her out as a crazy woman, aren’t you?”
Ford laughed. “I’m looking at all angles. Remember, I’m not the one thinking with my hormones.”
“Shut up,” Nathan growled. “Now, tell me whose prints you did find.”
“They weren’t registered.”
“Damn.” Nathan rubbed his face in frustration. Every time he thought he had evidence, it turned out to be incomplete. Then he remembered Eli’s party the next night. He would escort Veronica and find some way to get Gerald and Alma Jones’s fingerprints. “Well, keep it on file. Maybe we’ll find a match.”
“All right.” Ford hesitated. “And what have you learned—other than Ms. Miller’s bra size?”
Nathan cursed vehemently.
