“Mentor?” He snorted. “I guess you could call it that.”
“What would you call it? And is he really your uncle?”
“No, just a close family friend. And growing closer every minute. Let’s just say Uncle John is good at following the money. He’s chasing Mother now, isn’t he? And she’s got at least twenty years on him. Why would you want to have lunch with him, anyway? He’s old. Oh, wait—you said you know him professionally?” He smirked, running his tongue over his fat, wormy lips. I pulled my hand back. “Well, I guess it makes sense to stay on a judge’s good side.”
“It wasn’t like that,” I said. “He had questions about Trinnie’s death. As do I. She was murdered, after all.”
“I don’t really understand the need to delve into all of this. I think it’s better to just leave it alone and let the police do their jobs. Mother agrees with me.”
“Perhaps, but some people find comfort in reminiscing. Stories about loved ones help keep them alive, so to speak. The past can be comforting as well as… informative. After all, the past is the best predictor of the future.”
As I let that little pebble drop, I sat back to observe the ripple. Considering his instantly icy demeanor, it surprised me that his spongy lips didn’t ice up. I decided to let him mull over the possibilities of my comments, and excused myself to the ladies’ room.
As I rose I had to practice Zen-like concentration to keep from glancing at Eli. Since having given him the evil eye, I’d successfully ignored him. It didn’t help knowing he now had an unrestricted view of my behind as I traversed the length of the room. On the return trip, I fought to maintain a benign expression in the face of twinkly eyes and sly smile.
As I regained my seat, I noticed the table had been cleared, leaving only our water glasses. Giving Bruce those extra moments to think had been a mistake. The conversation had lost its edge, and he appeared confident once more.
He also seemed disinclined to leave just yet, so I sat quietly, letting him choose the next topic. Surprisingly, he continued talking about Trinnie. Curious about his motive when he’d been so uncomfortable moments ago, I listened carefully.
“I’ve been thinking about what you’ve said and perhaps you’re right. I’ve always found it difficult to talk about Trinnie.” As he spoke his vivid blue eyes drilled into mine, a physical contradiction to his relaxed posture. In fact, his eyes never so much as flicked in the direction of the waiter when the man dropped off the check. I believed the intensity of the eye contact was the true barometer of his tension level, but the conflicting messages his body language sent were very disturbing. “She and I never really got along,” he continued. “In fact, I think she grew up hating me. Can you believe that?” He fake-chuckled, watching me closely.
I hummed a demurral and let him go on. The air suddenly seemed tight, full of dangerous undercurrents and eddies, and I wasn’t sure where they were coming from. I’d felt this sort of ominous aura before, the last time with a client who I strongly suspected of involvement in a series of multiple rapes. My mouth dried up. I drained my water, suddenly grateful for Eli’s presence.
Bruce came to an abrupt halt, perhaps finally realizing the impression he was giving. Smiling awkwardly, he picked up the check. The tension, so thick moments ago, appeared to have passed. I took a deep breath. Maybe I’d let my imagination get the best of me, but I didn’t believe it.
“We seem to have been given the wrong check,” he complained. Raising his hand, he snapped his fingers at a waiter in a way that had he done the same thing earlier, would have guaranteed loogie-flavoring in his shrimp alfredo. The waiter grimaced, but approached the table politely. Bruce peevishly explained the situation, and the man left to find our server. Perhaps it was just the accumulation of the evening’s tensions, but Bruce seemed overly agitated by the situation. On the other hand, wait staff are always fair game for bullies.
Within moments, our original waiter glided up to the table, and expressed his regret over the incident. He hadn’t yet determined which of his other tables had our check, but he assured us he would be back with it as soon as possible. Before Bruce could respond, I intervened and told the waiter that would be fine. Bruce’s senseless irritation got on my nerves. My stomach grew queasy, perspiration breaking out across my forehead.
After a few minutes, the waiter triumphantly held up a ticket from across the room and began making his way to our table. My eyesight blurred a bit as I watched his progress. Something felt strange. I tried taking a couple of deep breaths but a wave of unreality washed over me. Time warped. I realized Bruce was standing next to the table, signaling our departure. I wasn’t sure I could stand, but I heaved myself upright, swaying a little. The room tilted. I felt a horrifying familiarity with this disorientation.
I tried to set a straight course up to the exit, the door a tantalizing, yet ever shifting goal. Bruce had his hand on my arm, steering me, keeping me from making a fool out of myself. He smiled down and kept me from tripping over some dumb broad’s purse. As I passed her table, the bitch gasped and whispered to her dinner partner. Pissed me off. I half-turned to confront her, but Bruce resolutely led me forward.
He propped me up against the wall as he paid for supper. To the left of me, I sighted in on the bar and giggled. It shimmered like an oasis to a desert dweller. Lowering my head, I pushed off the wall, propelling myself forward, sighting on the room like a weary traveler.
Paradise was denied. I was caught in a tight grip and pulled willy-nilly into a room.
The bathroom.
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” I giggled at Eli.
The room spun and my giggles evaporated, popping like balloons, leaving a scared feeling crawling up my throat. Couldn’t make any of it stop. Why wouldn’t it stop? I tried to tell him, tried to talk. Couldn’t. Arms held me, lowering me to the tile floor. Nice and cool. I liked the floor.
And I was out.
TWENTY SIX
The sun chiseled through my eyelids and spiked the headache threatening to detonate my skull. Dragging a hand up to shield my eyes, I rolled away from the light.
When I could finally focus, I looked around. A shudder shook my body. Where the hell am I this time?
Squinting, I examined the room carefully, looking for clues as to its owner. Across the room, my dress lay neatly across a ladder-back chair. Shoes, bra, and nylons, too, which led to the second question of the day.
I peeked under the sheet: not naked. Thank God. I sported a faded Pink Floyd t-shirt and my lacy black underwear. Now the question evolved to whose faded Pink Floyd t-shirt? I continued my visual inspection of the room, as much to avoid asking myself how it was possible that I’d gotten drunk again as to make sense of my surroundings.
The room, cool and dim, sharply contrasted with my rising despair. Lying there, I caught the faint scent of lemon from years of polishing rising from the stolid dressers and nightstand, and heard the soothing, measured cadence of a clock which rested on the tall bureau. Softly, the hour chimed one o’clock. Had to be broke. Next to it leaned a stack of men’s socks. Oh, not good. Not good at all.
While I couldn’t for the life of me picture Bruce in this tranquil sanctuary, it was the only thing that made sense. In a completely bizarro kind of way, that is. Pushing myself up, I massaged my temples and practiced deep breathing, trying to force polluted brain cells to come up with a memory of last night. Things were clear for most of the meal, but entirely blank after a certain point. Try as I might I couldn’t remember drinking at all, much less enough to cause this kind of blackout. After almost a year of abstinence, the hideous but familiar shame made me weak. My eyes popped open, searching for a distraction.
Eli stood quietly in the doorway wearing a pair of jeans, nothing else. That worked. However, having him find me this way shattered me. I laid my head on my arms and weeped. He sat down next to me, the mattress tilting me into him, my body traitorously grooving to fit his like a puzzle piece.
“
It’s not what you think, Letty,” he said softly.
“This isn’t the first time—”
“Hush now and listen to me,” he broke in. “You did not drink. You did not get drunk.” He let that soak in.
“Then how do you explain this? Blackouts and hangovers don’t just appear out of the blue.”
“Your past is getting in your way. If this were something a client came to you about, you wouldn’t automatically disregard other possibilities.”
“Like what?” I finally sat up, pushed away from him, trying to read his eyes. They looked like copper pools, mysterious and filled with light. If anything, there was a slight hint of amusement lurking in their depths.
“How about Rohypnol, educated-therapist lady? Or GHB? Sound familiar?”
My gut clenched as the abrupt shift in pressure from debasement to utter fury gave me the emotional bends. Jumping up, I prowled the area between the bed and bureau. My jaws locked as anger gripped my throat, taking my voice hostage. Eli sat silently as I struggled to squash the anger down long enough to make sense of what he had said.
“Roofies?” I rasped.
Eli nodded.
“That bastard drugged me.”
“Yep.”
I took a deep breath. Then, another. Kept sucking air til I started to hyperventilate. I needed more information. I was desperate to gain some intellectual distance, so I wouldn’t feel so wildly—savagely—out-of-control. “Tell me what happened. What did you see? How did I get here?” More questions clumped in my throat; I swallowed them with a bile-chaser.
“I think he did it when you went to the bathroom. The waiter was in and out clearing stuff from your table, and I couldn’t see it the whole time. He probably dosed your water, but I think something went wrong with his timing. If he’d ever used Rohypnol before, he’d know it hits fast-sometimes in less than ten minutes.”
“He did know. Something happened with the check. Some kind of screw-up.”
“Okay, then. Doping you in the restaurant is a strange choice, but I think he planned to get you out at least as far as the parking lot. From there, even if there were witnesses, he could have loaded you up in his car. You would have just looked drunk.”
I shuddered. Leaning against the tall bureau, I hugged my arms across my breasts, and bent over to see if it was easier to breathe with my head lowered, like in fire safety courses. My hair swung forward, hiding my face. “He could have done anything to me. Anything.”
“That would be the plan, darlin’. I saw something was wrong as soon as you stood up. You were weaving, hanging on him, giggling—”
I held up a hand. “Never speak of that again.”
“No problem,” he said. “Bottom line is I caught up to him, and hauled you into the ladies room in case you were sick. You passed out almost immediately. You didn’t look like you were going to throw up, so I carried you out.”
“You carried me?” My mind hitched at the image of Eli carrying me across the bathroom threshold in an absurd parody of bride and groom. It surprised a laugh out of me. Relieved, I flopped back on the bed, back against the headboard.
Eli smiled, too. “You’re not heavy. I had to do something before they called an ambulance or the cops or something. Maybe I should have gone that route. At least they could have arrested the son-of-a-bitch.”
“What happened to him?”
“He took off as soon as I got to you. Anyway, I didn’t know where you lived, so I brought you here.”
“Are you sure this wasn’t just an elaborate ruse to get me in your bed?” Inside my head, the comment had sounded sassy. Outside?
I blushed at the slow, flirty smile he gave me. Belatedly, it dawned on me that I was sitting in front of this man in lacy underwear and a worn-thin, concert t-shirt. I hadn’t been capable of undressing. I knew that much. Clearing my throat, I nonchalantly pulled the coverlet up over my legs… and up to my chin.
“Who… Did you… ?”
“Not me. Although I wouldn’t have minded. My sister-in-law helped me get you in, and she got you, uh, ready for bed. Made me promise a few things before she took off for home, too.”
The blonde. His sister-in-law? The rush of happy relief warmed my cheeks. “And you kept your promise, too. Didn’t you?” No harm in verifying.
“I like my woman fully conscious and a willing participant. I had no trouble controlling myself.” He ran his fingers through his hair, giving it a fresh-from-bed look. “I can’t promise the same if I run into that slime-ball any time soon.”
“I don’t want to talk about him now. I don’t want to think about any of this. Not for a while.” I leaned back against the pillows and closed my eyes. The bed shifted as Eli stood, but I kept my eyes squeezed shut, concentrating on the sounds he made. I listened to the rustle as he crossed to the dresser, the squeak of wood on wood as he pulled a drawer out, the whisper of shifting cloth as he rooted through it.
“The bathroom is just opposite this room,” he rumbled. His voice sounded hypnotically alluring in my self-imposed darkness. “If you want to shower, feel free. Here’s a pair of shorts that might fit, if you use a safety pin. I’ll be in the kitchen down the hall.”
The floorboards creaked as he distanced himself. After a few moments, I heaved myself up, snagged my bra and the loaner shorts, and crossed to the bathroom.
Like the bedroom, it exuded a sense of soothing quiet. Fluffy, pale blue towels and area rugs kept the white-on-white decor from feeling coldly antiseptic. In fact, the room felt as clean and open as the sky. Not what I would have expected from Eli’s home, but in an odd way it fit, too. My curiosity about the rest of the house, and what it said about its owner, grew.
My curiosity would have to wait. For now, I simply craved a shower. Setting the taps to steaming hot, I spied a new toothbrush, still wrapped in cellophane, next to a bottle of Excedrin on the enameled edge of the pedestal sink. I helped myself to both, then climbed into the claw-footed tub, pulling the plastic curtain. The curtain rings made a screechy, rackety sound as they ran along the U-shaped ring that halo-ed the old tub, but the water was heavenly.
I took my time communing with the water. Shampooed, soaped, and rinsed several times, trying to clear my mind of everything except the sound of the water and the fresh smell of the soap. The realization I was repeating a rape victim’s compulsive need to shower—a cleansing ritual—pulled me abruptly out of my meditation.
Newly irritated, I clambered out of the tub and toweled myself roughly. The shorts were too big, which further annoyed me. I wadded them up in one hand as I pulled a comb through my dripping mop with the other. Finishing, I left my watery sanctuary, and wandered like a lost thing down the dusky hallway, following a tantalizing buttery smell. I found Eli stationed at the stove, stirring up scrambled eggs, and whistling softly.
TWENTY SEVEN
I‘d forgotten his tattoos. They twined around his arms, highlighting his biceps. The muscles across his back twitched as he whisked eggs. His spine created a pathway leading… Oy. I shook myself, then padded barefoot across the kitchen tile to the table.
He turned, looking at me speculatively. “Feeling better, babe?”
“It comes and goes, like waves,” I answered. “I can’t seem to get myself on an even keel.”
“What would you tell one of your patients if they felt like this?” he asked, leaning a slim hip against the counter edge.
I pondered a moment. “I’d tell her to let herself feel what she was feeling. To not fight it.” I sighed. “I’ve never been good at taking advice.”
“I noticed. But it’s good advice all the same.” Sitting down, he shifted a stack of law books to the side and placed a steaming pile of toast and eggs in front of me. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“I just want some time to sit and think.” I picked up the fork and poked at the eggs. The law texts at my elbow provided a distraction.
“Don’t you have a final exam today?”
“Been there
, done that. You were sleeping.
“By the way, Beth should be here in about an hour or so,” he continued, glancing up at the clock. “Unless you want me to call and tell her to cancel or come later.”
“You called Beth?” I said.
“I figured someone should know where you were. She decided we needed an emergency meeting.”
His use of “we” didn’t escape me. I forced a mouthful of eggs, swallowed before answering. “No. Let her come. But I don’t know how much I can contribute.”
“No problem. Listen, why don’t you sit quiet and finish your breakfast? I have some things I need to look into. When you’re done, you can sit out on the porch, go for a walk in the garden, go back to bed, whatever. If you need me, I’ll be in the den. It’s a couple doors back down the hall. Just holler.”
Gratefully, I met his eyes. He seemed to know exactly what I needed. As if to prove it, as I sat there numbly, he slid a safety pin across the table. I leaned forward, impulsively brushing his lips with a buttery kiss. He smiled, then stood and left me alone. Taking the toast, I walked down a short hallway leading past a pantry and a mud-room, then left by the side door.
I stepped out onto a wide, shady porch that appeared to circle the entire house. I hadn’t realized the size of the structure. One side of the porch alone was as big as my apartment. Ancient stonework ran halfway up the support pillars; themselves, great blocks of aged wood. The house, painted a simple white, was trimmed in forest green. I moved around the corner to the front where I discovered several rocking chairs and a couple of small tables placed seemingly at random down its length. Lush, potted ferns hung at intervals, swaying lightly in the breeze. The same breeze rustled through the surrounding oaks, setting up a background of soft leaf-whispers. If someone would toss me an apple now and then, I would willingly spend the rest of my life on this porch.
Descending the main stairs, I turned and walked backwards to get a better view of the house. Two stories stretched up before me, as solid and as wholesome as Mayberry, USA. I stood there dazed, and watched a Monarch flit daintily past. Following its dancing flight to the edge of the lawn, I discovered a path.
Whittaker 03 The Secrets We Keep Page 13
