Brad paused, fingers on his jeans zipper, and eyed the perfectly clean fireplace grate. “I doubt there’s been a fire in there for forty years,” he said without protest. “Want to try the fireplace in the living room?”
Claire, now stripped down to the buff, reached for her nightgown and froze, her hand clutching Brad’s favorite bit of pink froth. The very reasonableness of his tone, his calm cooperation in her proposed act of destruction, struck her as sharply as a dash of cold water. She stood for a moment, eyes closed, head bowed, holding the gown in front of her like a shield for her suddenly guilt-ridden soul.
“Okay, so I’m a silly fool,” she mumbled to the floor.
“If burning them will help, go ahead and do it. I’ll buy you a dozen more.” Brad unzipped his jeans and started to step out of them.
Claire, still clutching the frothy nightgown in front of her, stared at the pink marble fireplace and knew at last why she had been swept by such a strong wave of guilt. Brad was hearing her words, responding automatically, being matter-of-fact . . .
Covering up. Claire supposed it was part of his training.
Her face crumpled as she swung round to face him. “I can’t believe I’m such a self-centered idiot that all I could think about was burning some perfectly good clothes. What’s being stalked compared to losing someone . . . someone you knew so well . . . and then being accused of killing her? I’m sorry, so very sorry.”
In the immensity of Palm Court’s master suite they stood six feet apart and stared at each other, their souls as bare as their bodies. Brad’s breath hissed out between his teeth. Today he had been all but accused of killing his mistress. His wife—his brand new wife who was already intimately acquainted with betrayal—was not obligated to believe him innocent. And yet, here she was, not only trusting him, but able to grant him the right to grieve.
He’d done well that stormy night on a flooded bridge. The fates had been kind.
Brad closed the distance between them in two long strides, his arms coming around her so tightly Claire could scarcely breathe. Into her hair he murmured, “If I ever needed another reason why I married you . . .”
Their future hinged on blind faith.
Brad ran his hand down Claire’s cheek, cupping her head even more tightly into the solidity of his chest. “I thought I’d experienced everything,” he admitted slowly, “but this is different. I was so damned angry with Diane. She was driving me up the wall. But, let’s face it, we’d spent a lot of time together. When Garrett told me he’d gotten her a chance at a job in Atlanta, I wasn’t just glad to get her off my back, I was glad for her. It was what she really wanted. Men were just something she amused herself with. Hell, men have been using women that way since the beginning of time, so why should we blame Diane for doing the same? She was fun and full of life and deserved better than she got.”
Brad’s arms tightened around Claire until it was almost painful. “I’m going to find this weirdo,” he promised. “Believe me, I’m going to get him.”
Fun and full of life. And what did that make Claire Langdon Blue? The bride whose lips had thinned to a flat line as she fought against the ugliness of jealousy, particularly the insidious futility of being jealous of the dead?
What it made her was selfish, self-centered, spoiled. He married you, didn’t he? And Diane’s the one who’s dead.
“And you’re next.”
Claire’s head sprang off Brad’s chest. She looked wildly about the room. The threat had been so clear in her mind, the words seemed to have been spoken aloud. But there was no one there. Only Brad, looking at her very strangely indeed. How could she explain the striking reality of what she had heard?
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, isn’t that what they called it? Her mind was playing tricks on her. She was standing in her own bedroom, with Brad’s arms around her. There was no safer place in all the world.
“Come on,” Brad urged gently, “let’s go to bed. Somehow things always look brighter in the morning.” He took the pink gown from her lifeless fingers and slipped it over her head.
Sure, Claire thought. Platitudes were the panacea practiced on victims. The cure-alls mouthed by people who were tongue-tied by tragedy and forced to fall back on the comfort of traditional phrases.
Which didn’t mean the time-worn words weren’t true. Things usually did seem better in the morning. The scary part of that thought was the seem.
Docilely, Claire allowed herself to be tucked up in bed. Brad slid in beside her. The gentle intensity of his lingering goodnight kiss somehow communicated an apology, the bitter regret that this was not the honeymoon they’d planned. Nor was it the moment for anything more. Too many problems had wedged between them.
Brad cradled Claire in his arms, silently, grimly, willing away the shadows. Eventually, they slept.
He had been bad. Just as Mom always said. She’d worked so hard polishing him into a cultured gentleman. A lover of fine things. Beautiful things.
Like Diane.
There had been an awful moment of clarity when he recognized the finality of what he’d done. He’d arranged Diane on the bed with infinite care, leaving the stocking dangling like a modern-day echo of Isadora Duncan. And when everything was precisely as he wanted it, he stepped back . . . took a good look.
The stocking was a nice touch. But demented. That was Diane lying there. The shell of his beautiful golden girl. The witch who’d tempted him to lie with the warm life of her, to writhe and pant, give in to base needs that lowered him to the level of the stupid slugs who crawled their way through this world . . . mindlessly mating, reproducing . . .
Fucking.
Oh, yes, they’d spent the night at it. And when he was through, he’d killed her. As he stared at her still glowing beauty, he knew that Diane was already exacting her own brand of revenge. Behind her, around her, he could see all the others, from that first frightened creature in Manatee Bay to Mom, to the pregnant one who fought so hard he’d cut her up and thrown her to the gators.
Diane deserved better. Much better.
He’d been bad. He’d allowed himself one last lingering look at her neatly arranged corpse. Then he’d wiped his prints, turned out the lights, and carefully locked the condo door.
But Diane came back to haunt him. Each day his clarity of vision was growing stronger. Diane was his friend. She had done what no woman had ever done before, drawn from him passion he had not known he possessed.
He shouldn’t have killed her. He shouldn’t have killed any of them.
It was wrong.
He had to be punished.
“There’s not a word in the paper,” Claire said over her shoulder as she tossed small chunks of potatoes into the frying pan. “I checked every section.”
Brad, whose breakfast had been delayed by an early morning phone call, slid into a chair at the round table in front of the kitchen’s bay windows. Beyond the windows the inlet sparkled blue behind his boat, riding gently on the rising tide. “Only hurricane, fire and flood grab a reporter’s attention on a Sunday afternoon,” Brad said as he reached for his coffee mug, doubly appreciating the smell of a breakfast he did not have to make for himself. “It’s probably just as well. Gives us a little respite before the panic sets in.”
Claire mumbled agreement as she peered warily into the frying pan. The very sight of bacon, eggs, home fries and onions was nauseating at this hour of the morning, let alone the robust odor. She took a gulp of black coffee, her usual breakfast, before admitting, albeit dryly, “When I didn’t see any headlines, I was hoping maybe I imagined it all. That here we were on a Monday morning, just the two of us, enjoying our honeymoon without a care in the world.”
“You can scratch the wishful thinking,” Brad replied shortly, suffering from more guilt than he would ever admit. “Jeffries just called to say local TV is already on site and CNN is on the way to do an interview for Headline News. By the end of today’s News at Noon all Calusa County will know what happened, a
nd by tonight you’ll be national news. Our local maniac is going to love it.”
“Well, I won’t,” Claire snapped. Holding her breath, she shoveled the massive amount of greasy food from the frying pan onto a plate and plunked it down in front of Brad. Why couldn’t he eat cornflakes or oatmeal, like a normal human being? She supposed she should be grateful he hadn’t asked for grits. When this was all over, she was going to have to work on his eating habits. He wasn’t a kid any more. He ought to be more careful.
“Slow down,” Claire urged as Brad attacked his breakfast. “The food’s not going anywhere.”
“No, but I am.” When Claire’s eyes widened, Brad added, keeping his voice as expressionless as his face, “I’m wanted out at Amber Run. The dogs found something. Jeffries is sending a deputy over to guard the house.”
Claire struggled to keep her reaction from showing on her face. The day was just starting, and Brad, husband and defender, was abandoning her. “I’ll come along,” she volunteered.
Brad mopped the last bite of egg with his second slice of toast. “You want to talk to all those reporters?” he inquired blandly.
Claire groaned.
A knock sounded at the kitchen door. Brad’s old friend Deputy Farrell poked his head inside. “Sheriff said for me to take over here, Brad, so you could see what the dogs found. Guess he called you, huh?”
“Right.” Brad pushed back his chair and stood up. He checked the cell phone on his belt, gave his wife a swift peck on the cheek, and was gone, the screen door banging behind him. After a casual salute in Claire’s direction, Pat Farrell turned and followed Brad out, taking up a parade rest position just outside the kitchen door.
Claire poured herself a second cup of coffee, then slumped down in the chair Brad had vacated, seriously contemplating the inequity of the world. So much for Brad as a bodyguard. So much for togetherness. Wave a mystery under his nose, and her husband was gone with the wind, with scarcely a backward glance. He had not forgotten her, Claire assured herself; a substitute had been provided. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the same at all.
When Brad arrived at Amber Run, the local cable news truck was taking up half the parking area near the community dock. Calls of “Brad!” “Hey, Brad!” were easily shrugged off. The news team had worked with Diane Lake for three years. They knew Brad Blue well. Job or no job, their own shock and grief made them sensitive to his.
Brad followed a halloo and a wave from Tom Rausch to a portion of the lot nearest the river, now cordoned off by bright yellow crime scene tape.
“Looks like he parked here and walked up to the house,” Rausch said as Brad approached. “Dogs found this right quick.” The detective pointed to the ground where a ladies’ nylon stocking dangled from the long pointed leaf of a palmetto. “Kinda careless, huh?” Rausch added.
“I doubt it,” Brad said shortly. “Mind if I take a look?”
“Help yourself. Sheriff said not to bag it until you’d seen it.”
Well aware the TV camera was rolling, Brad picked up the stocking, which was still cool and damp from the moisture-laden night. He kept his face impassive as he examined the fine mesh, avoiding the slightest hint he might believe this stocking had covered the face of his wife’s stalker, his mistress’s murderer.
He was, however, nearly certain the stocking was Diane’s. The brand name, the quality of the mesh, the intricacy of the design at the top all looked familiar. The killer they were seeking was undoubtedly a madman, but he was anything but careless. So why leave a stocking in the parking lot when he could easily have taken it with him?
A message? Did the mysterious apparition want him to know Diane’s killer and Claire’s stalker were one and the same? A bit subtle, maybe . . . but possible.
Brad dropped the stocking into the transparent plastic bag Tom Rausch was holding, took a deep breath, and turned to face the TV crew. God, how Diane would have loved it. She’d have been right in the midst of it, interviewing every person in sight. Brad summoned his most sincere face, the one he used when he had the biggest lies to tell.
One thing was for certain. He was not about to tell them that Calusa County’s Most Wanted had just issued a personal taunt to Brad Blue: I did it. I did it all. Come and get me.
He looked like a parent. Sitting outside Golden Beach High in his shiny black BMW, he blended perfectly with the welter of parents waiting to pick up their children. A long caravan of school buses rumbled out of the drive, followed by the impatient zoom of Fords, Chevies, hand-me-down pickups, and an occasional sports car as their student drivers demonstrated their eagerness for freedom.
The parking area was nearly empty when he saw her. He should have known Jody wouldn’t try to outjockey the jocks. Sensible, that was the word for Jody Stevens. She wouldn’t be an easy target.
He welcomed the challenge.
Jody might have kept a wary eye on a bunch of rednecks waving beer bottles out of the cab of a pickup truck, but a BMW raised not a flicker of interest. Fifteen minutes later, as she turned onto the shell surface of Sea Grape Road, she was oblivious to the evil trailing behind.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Bentley. Hi, Jamie,” Jody said as she topped the last step to the front deck where Jamie and his great-grandmother were waiting. “You all set to go, Jamie?”
He scowled up at her, obviously skeptical. “Are you sure they have ice?” Jamie demanded.
“Absolutely. Did you go skating up north?”
“We had a pond right at our house.”
“Then you can hold me up,” Jody said. She leaned down and confided, “I’ve never been on ice skates in my life. It’s something kind of new for around here. Think you can show me the ropes?”
“Sure. Let’s go.”
“Thank you, my dear,” Ginny Bentley said to Jody. “It’s wonderful of you to help out this week.”
“Truth is, I’m looking forward to it, although I may be limping when you see me tomorrow.” Jody winked at the bright-eyed elderly lady. “Besides, I’m excused from my chores at home this week. See ya.” With a casual wave of her hand, Jody ran down the stairs after Jamie.
A cloud seemed to drift across the sun. Virginia Bentley shivered and went inside, locking the door behind her.
Chapter Twenty-four
Shit! Shit! Shit! Ice skating. In Golden Beach? The fever was burning hot in him. He wanted. He needed.
He’d wait.
He eased the Beamer behind some rental trucks. An hour later he froze to his seat as a white and green county patrol car cruised through the skating rink’s parking lot, past the rental trucks next door, and on to the industrial park beyond. Just a routine patrol . . . but he didn’t like the funny look he got as the deputy went by. Fuck! Stupid to be around when the cop came back. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. He’d have to try again tomorrow.
By four o’clock on Monday afternoon Sheriff Jeffries could be seen every hour on CNN’s Headline News assuring the citizens of Calusa County that the Special Task Force was working round the clock on a solution to the Realtor murders and, no, there was absolutely no evidence of any connection between the serial killings, the television reporter’s death, and the stalker at the model home. Brad Blue was prominently featured on the local News at Six. The reporter, accustomed to playing a distant second fiddle to Diane Lake, stumbled over his opening remarks, but the close-up of Brad accurately depicted his rock-like stance before the video camera’s winking red eye that morning when he had anticipated what Bill Jeffries would record for Headline News four hours later:
As a member of the Special Task Force, I can assure you that we are confident the stalker at Amber Run was an isolated incident. Some kind of a sick joke. We see no connection between Sunday afternoon’s stalker here at Amber Run and the murders the Special Task Force has been assigned to investigate. Nor do we believe there is any connection with the tragic death of Diane Lake. I’m sure the sheriff’s department would advise reasonable caution, but we see no reason f
or panic.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” Claire burst out. As the reporter stared into the camera, declaiming his windup with grim concentration, the new Mrs. Brad Blue regarded her husband with a look that should have curled his hair.
“So maybe no one over the age of eight believed a word of it,” Brad conceded, “but I don’t see any reason to cry madman and send the whole town stampeding to the gun shops. If that happens, we’ll lose more people to hasty trigger fingers than to our local monster. And,” he added, emphasizing each word, “just because I think we’re dealing with one supermadman doesn’t make it so. Nor am I stupid enough to go on local TV and contradict what I know the sheriff is going to say on national news. If lying will keep our killer from going to ground and maybe help the innocent get a good night’s sleep, then I’ll damn well stand up there and lie like a rug.”
“It also might make people careless!”
Brad’s exaggerated enunciation made it obvious his patience was wearing thin. “I’ve told you, Claire, he’s not interested in old ladies, children . . . or men, for that matter. And the younger women in town have already had warnings enough.”
“You’re so logical, it hurts,” Claire grumbled.
“By the way,” Brad added, making a conscious effort to ease the tension, “Slade came to work for us today. Said he wanted to help and Wade gave him time off from the ranch, so I took him on as our own private security patrol. He’ll come out every day after school and work weekends too until this is over.” Brad hesitated, then added, “Basically, he’s a good kid. Strong and competent, but finding an arm in the river was a nasty experience. I think he needs to do this for himself as well as for us.”
Shadowed Paradise Page 29
