by Tom Savage
When she’d asked him, several months ago, to return to St. Thomas, he’d asked no questions. He’d merely gone and observed and returned with the information she needed. Adam Prescott spent most of his time on his yacht, and he did not seem to have a specific girlfriend, though Car had seen him with several women. The mate on the Kay was a young man named Greg, a womanizer who hung out every night at a bar called Sparky’s. Furthermore, Car had reported, there was a new addition to the household at Cliffhanger, a homely young woman named Sandra Franklin who was the child’s companion.
One month after Car’s reconnaissance mission, a young woman named Selena Chase had arrived in St. Thomas. An attractive, amoral, green-eyed redhead: it was vital that Selena be a redhead. Karen Lawrence and Kimberly Brown had both been redheads. . . .
What had followed was astonishingly easy. The chance meeting, the sailing trips on the Kay, the kissing and cuddling (she shuddered at the memory), and the tacit promise of more—if only his wife were out of the way. It had been Adam, of course, who first mentioned the plan. And Selena Chase had readily agreed.
He was following the pattern, as she’d known he would. She was to return in two months and contrive to replace Sandra Franklin. There would be a string of local robberies, and he would leave the island just before the crucial time. Then, on Monday, September 2, he would sneak back to St. Thomas and murder his wife.
Labor Day. That, she knew, was the pattern. Ten years to the day since Darlene Bishop Phillips. Twenty years to the day since Madeleine Barclay Petersen.
It was her suggestion that he actually leave the island, a definite departure from the original blueprints. In the first two incidents, as far as she could ascertain, the mistresses had merely been used as alibis—though she had no doubt that both women had been in on the plans. This time she would be a sort of stage manager, giving him an alibi two thousand miles away while she made sure that everything at Cliffhanger was in place. He seemed to enjoy her participation in the evolution of the crime: he was not averse to improvements in his pattern, as long as the main rule was observed. It had to be Labor Day. She knew that, and she was relieved to know that Kay would not be harmed prematurely.
So the plans had been agreed upon, and Selena Chase had returned to New York to wait out the two months until the beginning of August, when another young woman—a dark-haired, brown-eyed potential governess named Diana Meissen—would arrive on the scene. A new identity and new coloring, just in case anyone had noticed and remembered the redhead on the Kay.
It was then, in New York, that her scheme had very nearly been destroyed. Adam Prescott had been remarkably easy to win over and manipulate, but she had not counted on a surprise opponent: Carson Fleming.
It had been her fault entirely; she was painfully aware of that. She would take it to her grave. Her beautiful plan had been jeopardized, and Car had been irreparably damaged, and all because she had made one incredibly stupid mistake.
She had told him.
She’d lied, of course. She hadn’t told him her true agenda, but the lie had been bad enough. She’d sat there on the couch in the little living room in Islip and informed him in a calm, rational tone of voice about Labor Day. About the significance of the date: Madeleine and Darlene Bishop Phillips. She told him that on this anniversary Adam Prescott planned to kill his wife.
Then, without batting an eye, she told him that she was going to kill Adam Prescott.
Now, sitting on the bench among the trees beside the docks, staring up at the Song of Norway, she closed her eyes, feeling the hot tears on her face, the anguish in her soul, remembering. Remembering his stunned expression and his automatic sputter of protest. Remembering the jerk of his body as he tried to rise from his armchair, to rush across the room and stop her—physically, if necessary—from achieving her reckless objective. Remembering his hand coming up to the side of his head, his eyes squeezed shut in a grimace of unbearable pain, the little squeal that escaped his lips as he sank to the floor. She remembered the telephone and the white-clad figures that seemed to materialize in the living room mere moments later, and the word spoken by one of them as he leaned over the inert form: apoplexy. And she remembered the long, wild minutes—hours, days—in the back of the shrieking ambulance, clutching his hand and searching his vacant eyes and whispering to him, to herself, to God, over and over.
“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.”
And now Car was gone.
She stood up from the bench and walked slowly through the empty shopping center to the Land Rover.
An orderly had found him late yesterday afternoon. He was sitting under a willow tree, facing the view, a box of chocolates resting on his lap. The candy was from a visitor, a woman who’d come to see him earlier in the day. She wondered who had visited him. He hadn’t had any friends, as far as she knew. Since his wife’s death, she had been his only contact with humanity. She silently thanked the woman, whoever she was, for her kindness.
I did this, she thought as she got into the Land Rover. I caused Car’s death. I caused Bob Taylor to fall from the balcony. Now he, too, is in the hospital. Sandra Franklin. Nancy Breen. Trish Manning. Greg.
And soon, very soon, other catastrophes will be ascribed to me. Kay Prescott and her daughter. Juana, inadvertently involved. Adam, having dinner now in a hotel in Palm Beach, alone, or maybe with his friend Roger, laughing and joking. Waiting for tomorrow.
Margaret: Mom. Perhaps my greatest victim. . . .
The engine roared to life. With a little shake of her head, she pulled out of the space and headed for the exit. Now, she told herself, there is only one thing left to do. I must go back and prepare for tomorrow. I must be ready to do this, to see it all through to the end.
I must play my role.
Margaret had to wait a long time for the doctor to be summoned to the phone. She sat on the burgundy velvet couch, kneading the folds of her dress with her free hand. The scrapbook lay on the coffee table in front of her, opened to the page with the clipping of the murder in Hawaii: “HOTEL HEIRESS SLAIN.” Her nervous gaze flickered constantly back and forth between the photograph and the logotype at the top of the page, the Gothic banner proclaiming the name of the newspaper, with something far more interesting in tiny letters directly below it.
The date.
She had tried calling the detective agency, but all she’d gotten was a recording. A woman’s voice—apparently black, apparently middle-aged, and obviously bored by her job—had intoned that Mr. Yakimadoro and his associates were gone until Tuesday, and that messages should be left after the beep. She had not been able to bring herself to leave so vital a message on so impersonal a device, and she had no other number for Mr. Yakimadoro.
She wondered about Robin Trask’s family, assuming he had one. Did they know anything? Were they on their way, even now, to St. Thomas? Would the authorities at St. Thomas Hospital be aware that she, Margaret, was not his mother and therefore not entitled to information regarding him?
She had just convinced herself that it was a chance she had to take when she heard a small clicking sound and the doctor at last came on the line.
“Darling,” Kay breathed into the phone, “I was just thinking about you. How’s everything there?”
“Fine,” Adam answered. “Roger and Sally are having dinner with me here at the hotel. They’re waiting in the lobby, so I’ll keep this short. How are you and Diana holding up?”
“Oh, we’re having a high old time,” Kay said. “Just girls together. She really is the loveliest young woman. We spoke to Trish earlier. She’s much better. She’ll arrive here Tuesday, so she’ll be ensconced by the time you get back.” Then, keeping her voice light, she told a lie: “I spoke to Lisa. She said to send you her love, and to tell you she’s rooting for you and Roger.”
There was the slightest pause before he replied. “That’s nice. Listen, I have to go. Are you going to be home tomorrow?”
“I should think so,
” she said. “I don’t really have any Labor Day plans. Diana’s going out sailing with Bob Taylor. She asked if I’d like to join them, but I’ve a marvelous feeling I wouldn’t be a welcome addition to the party.” She smiled to herself as she heard the Land Rover pull up in front of the house.
“Well, good for her,” Adam said. “Taylor seems like a nice guy. Tell you what: I’ll call you tomorrow, about two o’clock, all right? I’m busy later in the afternoon, but at two I’ll definitely be here, near the phone. How does that sound?”
“Terrific,” Kay replied, looking up and smiling as Diana came into the house. “Hi. I’m talking to Adam,” she told her.
“Give him my love,” the younger woman said, dropping onto a couch on the other side of the room.
“I’ll expect your call tomorrow,” Kay said into the phone. “Around two. Diana sends you her love.”
As she grinned over at Diana, Kay heard her husband say, “Send her mine. Good night, Kay.”
She said, “Good night, darling. I love you—”
But he was already gone.
She had just replaced the receiver and was in the act of rising when the phone rang again. She picked it up.
“Hello,” she said.
There was silence at the other end of the line. Not quite silence: a faint sound of static, and another sound that might have been breathing. She waited a moment.
“Hello,” she said again. “Kay Prescott.”
The static continued for a few seconds. Then she heard a distinct click, followed by a dial tone. She shrugged and put down the receiver.
“Wrong number, I guess,” she murmured as she went to join Diana, smiling at the prospect of another cozy slumber party.
The moment she heard the woman’s voice, Margaret knew that she could not possibly go through with it. She slammed down the receiver and pushed the telephone away from her. Bad idea, she thought, clutching her stomach as the wave of nauseating panic began, ever so slowly, to subside. A very bad idea. . . .
It was the doctor’s news that had prompted so rash an act. She would never normally have considered it. But as soon as the full extent of Robin’s incapacity had been made clear to her, she had been infused with a fear that had caused her to cut short the doctor’s droning diagnosis and call Directory Assistance. Prescott, she’d requested, at a place called Cliffhanger. Without pausing to think it through, she’d dialed the number.
She had known that he would not answer: Robin had told her that “Adam Prescott” was in Florida for a sailboat race. If “Diana Meissen” picked up, she’d simply break the connection. She was really expecting Kay to answer, and that was what had happened.
But it was no good. She didn’t know Kay Prescott, had not the slightest conception of what sort of woman she was. How could she, Margaret, even begin to tell this story to a complete stranger? That fact, however, had struck her only at the last possible moment, when she heard the clear, low-pitched, cultured voice on the other end of the line. An intelligent voice, she thought, the voice of an educated, well-bred woman. A woman such as I. . . .
And what if it were I? she wondered. What would I do if I picked up the telephone one day and heard a strange woman slandering my husband and my friend, telling me that my life and my child’s life were in danger? A disembodied voice, shrill and hysterical, babbling about shocking crimes committed long ago in remote places, involving people I’d never heard of? What would I do?
I’d hang up, she realized. Then I’d call the police.
The police. She had only the vaguest notion of what sort of government, what sort of police force, they would have down there. The Virgin Islands were a territory, she knew, one of the three territories belonging to the United States, along with Guam and Puerto Rico. They had governors, she believed, either elected or appointed by the president; she wasn’t sure which. There would, presumably, be police: a sheriff, perhaps, or commissioner.
No. She would not call the Virgin Islands police, or the governor, or anyone else. They, like Kay Prescott, would think she was a lunatic.
Robin Trask had only just regained consciousness. He had a concussion and a broken leg, and he had been shot full of painkillers and anticoagulants. He was resting comfortably, the doctor had assured her, and was not to be disturbed. Out of commission. . . .
She even, as a last resort, considered the possibility of calling Cliffhanger again and asking to speak to her niece, “Diana Meissen.” Telling the girl that she knew everything, that her plan had been discovered. She was in the act of reaching out for the phone when her hand stopped, drew back.
And then what? she asked herself. What would “Diana” do? Laugh, probably, and hang up. A life might be saved—perhaps more than one—if, indeed, any lives were in danger. But her niece would never, ever speak to her again.
With this thought, Margaret Barclay drew herself up. She rose from the velvet couch and walked out into the cool nighttime air, to the patio, bathed in the blue-white wash of moonlight. To her roses, glowing softly in the darkness.
I will be alone, she thought. But then again, when has it ever really been otherwise? My parents, my husband, my beautiful sister: gone, all of them. And my niece—the coffee cup and World’s Greatest Mom notwithstanding—is not my own, does not belong to me. She was never mine.
When at last she reached her extraordinary decision, she actually spoke it aloud. Her voice, clear and strong, traveled across the garden, ringing with the weight of her unshakable conviction.
“So be it,” she said, and then she turned around and walked back into the house.
Throughout the evening, the young woman constantly caught herself looking over at the telephone.
Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. You’re not going to place the call. Even if you did, what on earth could you possibly say? “Stay out of my life”? “Mind your own business”?
“I love you”?
No, she would not call Margaret. She would sit tight. She checked her watch: midnight. Only fourteen hours, and then . .
She regarded the woman sitting on the couch across from her. Kay Prescott was off on another one of her giggling, gossiping, pointless anecdotes. But they’d shared a bottle of red wine between them since dinner, and the older woman was beginning to slow down. Very soon Kay would yawn and stretch and mention sleep.
That must not happen, she reminded herself. Kay Prescott must not sleep tonight.
As soon as felt she could decently interrupt Kay’s monologue, she stood up and reached over for the empty bottle and glasses. “I think we could do with something cold to drink. How about some of Nola’s iced tea?”
“That would be lovely,” Kay agreed.
“I’ll just be a moment,” she said, heading for the kitchen.
She went through the swinging door and placed the bottle and glasses on the counter. As she turned toward the refrigerator, her hand slid down into the pocket of her robe and withdrew the little plastic bottle, her prescription from Kay’s doctor.
That part of the plan had been the easiest. Doctors, she mused, usually end up giving people exactly what they request, no questions asked. She’d gone to Kay’s doctor and complained that she had trouble waking up, getting started in the morning. She’d mentioned that her family doctor back in New York had once given her some tiny white pills that she took upon rising, thereby alleviating the problem. Would it be possible for her to get some of those now?
Of course. Within the hour, she had been in possession of what was essentially speed.
Now, in the kitchen, she opened the vial and shook out two minute tablets. Then, as an afterthought, she got one more.
Perhaps I’ll have one as well, she thought as she began to pour the tea.
It’s going to be a long night.
EIGHTEEN
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 2
LABOR DAY
THE PRETTY BLOND Pan American representative at Miami International glanced down at the name printed on the ticket, then smiled up at the
dark-haired man with the mustache.
“You’re traveling to San Juan with us this morning,” she said. “Just the one carry-on bag, right? Is this your first trip there?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Beautiful beaches. But I don’t suppose you’ll be doing much swimming, with that arm.”
“Skiing accident. The cast comes off next week. I’ll still be on the island, so . . .”
“Good. The sling is the worst part, isn’t it? I broke my arm once, when I was a kid. Fell off a trampoline, of all things!”
She giggled self-consciously as she prepared his boarding pass. He’s handsome, she thought, in a sinister sort of way. Such intense brown eyes. No wedding ring. Too bad about his posture: he’d look better if he stood up straight. I wonder if that scar on his cheek was part of the skiing accident.
“Here you are. Gate seventeen. Thank you for flying Pan American. Have a nice day, Mr. Phillips.”
The man smiled.
“I intend to,” he said.
“I can’t believe this,” Kay said, staring down at the Scrabble board. “That’s five games—three to two, your favor—and it’s eleven o’clock in the morning! What on earth do we think we’re doing?”
She regarded Kay Prescott across the table, suppressing an odd desire to answer her rhetorical question truthfully.
“You’ll sleep better tonight,” she said at last. Then, because she couldn’t resist, she added, “Trust me.”
Looking past Kay’s shoulder, she saw that the late-morning sun was flooding down onto the deck outside. The deep-blue sky was devoid of clouds. A beautiful day, she thought—as beautiful as I could have wished it to be.
The shriek of a gull swooping by the glass doors brought Jumbi to her feet. She jumped out from her place under the table and ran toward the doors, yapping furiously. She reared up on her hind legs, placed her front paws against the glass, and barked at the birds beyond her reach on the other side.
