Fatima kicked the side of her stall and snorted. “Okay. I guess my very presence isn’t enough to satisfy you.” Fatima snorted again, then pulled back her lips and showed her teeth. “It’s an apple you want.” Patricia pulled a second apple from her other pocket. “And an apple you shall have—”
The wood overhead creaked and Patricia looked up. A low inside ceiling created an upper room that was the loft, one end of which was neatly stacked with bales of hay. The other remained empty, a cool and private spot for meetings with her lover. A large, square hole in the center of the ceiling, several feet away from the stalls, allowed for hay to be pitched down for the horses. A sturdy ladder led up to it.
“Darling?” she called, her heart beating harder.
For a moment, nothing except silence answered her. Sultan blew air, flapping his lips and tossing his head. Patricia glanced at him. “You want another apple, but no more.” He snorted again at the sound of wood popping and kicked the side of his stall. “Darling?” Patricia called again, looking up.
Suddenly music floated down to her. Music from Prokofiev’s ballet Romeo and Juliet. A thrill rushed over Patricia. How she loved ballet. How she loved this music. How she loved this man who could make a secret meeting in a horse barn romantic. “Thank you for him, God,” she whispered, temporarily forgetting that she didn’t believe in God.
In an instant, the horses she cared for so deeply were forgotten. She strode toward the ladder leading up to the opening in the loft, then took a deep breath, bracing herself. This was the only part of the rendezvous she didn’t like. Heights bothered her. Not to the point where she couldn’t brave the ladder if her motivation was strong enough, but she was always relieved to reach the top or the bottom. She let out her breath and started up. One step. Two steps. He would have brought liquor, she thought. He always did. And something to snack on. One time expensive caviar, another time oysters. She’d tasted the food in her mouth for hours and imagined she smelled it for days.
“And what are we having today, darling?” she called. “Festive champagne? Pale, golden sherry? Or are you going to lead me into the depths of sin with absinthe?”
“Something better!” he called, his voice muffled by the music.
Another step and another as she tightly grasped the sides of the steep ladder. “I can already smell something delicious!”
“Vanilla candle wax.”
“Aside from that, silly!”
“Hurry!”
“I am. We need an elevator in here. Exactly how many steps are on this blasted ladder?”
“Too many.”
Slightly out of breath from climbing twenty feet, Patricia was blinded as she stepped into the loft. Dust motes swam in the light streaming through two windows in the roof. The light of candles flickered at the eastern end of the barn, away from the hay bales. The floating hay dust, candlelight mixed with the strangely bright sunlight, and the smell of vanilla tinged with that of straw gave the scene a surreal quality. Patricia stood still for a moment, trying to adjust. “Well, here I am. Where are you?”
“Stand still and close your eyes. I have a surprise for you.”
“Close my eyes? I really . . .” Patricia was embarrassed for abruptly feeling old and tottering as she stood beside the hole in the loft. “I have to close my eyes? I . . . well . . . I feel slightly dizzy.”
“Trust me.”
“Okay,” she sighed. “Anything for you.”
Patricia closed her eyes. She heard the whisper of footsteps coming across the wooden floor. She heard one of the horses whinny. She felt the strong hands clamp on to her shoulders—
The fall seemed to go on forever. One minute her bootencased feet stood firmly by the opening in the loft. The next she was plummeting down, hitting the ladder a couple of times with a force that sent excruciating pain up her arm as a bone snapped. Then she slammed against the concrete barn floor, her head angled oddly to the left, and all pain ceased. She saw a long-legged spider creeping through a tiny shaft of sunlight. She heard one of the horses kick the side of its stall. She smelled a faint mustiness seeping up from the cold concrete. But she felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. Physically. Mentally, her mind spiraled into a black pit of shock and panic.
The rungs of the ladder creaked. A horse kicked again and Sultan whinnied. She knew Sultan’s sound. Human knees popped as ligaments snapped over bone, and someone knelt beside her.
“Still alive? My God, you do have stamina.” Patricia tried to open her mouth, but the effort was too much. She lay crushed, bleeding, and barely breathing as her vision darkened. “You’re turning blue, you know. You’ve broken your pretty neck.” A long sigh. “I’d hoped the fall would kill you instantly, but do you want to know something? This is even better. Now I get to watch you die. I guess it’s true that all good things come to those who wait.” A flutter of movement near her forehead, maybe a kiss. “Good night, darling.”
Patricia heard one last frightened neigh from Sultan. Then a fantastic thought popped into her dimming mind. She’d found the note asking for this meeting in Eve’s “magic” garden, under the statue of Persephone. Persephone, who in Greek myth had been carried away to the underworld by the lord of the dead.
CHAPTER 12
1
Christine had known that Jeremy had told Ames about their finding Dara’s diary. From Michael she had learned that Ames now knew the diary was in the possession of the police. The deputy’s description of Ames’s behavior let her know he was enraged.
What did I expect? Christine thought. She’d known he’d be angry if she gave Dara’s diary to the police. But being honest with herself, she had to admit she’d thought the attack on her would elicit some sympathy that would dissipate his wrath, or at least weaken it. She now knew that she’d been fooling herself. Ames cared about her, but he’d adored his daughter. Anyone who hurt her, or her reputation if she was dead, would suffer Ames’s everlasting ire.
The thought hurt. Ames had been so good to take in her and Jeremy. It wasn’t as if he and her father had been close in the years right before the deaths of her parents. Christmas cards and an occasional phone call were all that remained of the old law school friendship. But Ames had honored the promise he’d made to her father right after the birth of Jeremy—that if anything happened to him, Ames would step in. He had. And although he hadn’t been able to show her and Jeremy love, he’d provided a home and unfailing consideration. And what had she given him in return?
After Michael left, she had time alone to brood on the matter. By afternoon, she was miserable. Restless, she started to watch television, tried to take a nap, wandered around her house like an uncomfortable visitor, and finally ended up listening to music while absently downing the last, lonely doughnut as her mind churned. She should give Ames time to calm down, she told herself. She should just leave the situation alone for a couple of days, maybe even a week. . . .
Patience had never been one of Christine’s virtues. She rose from the table and went for the phone. Without thinking, she called the law office, because it was a week-day afternoon. The receptionist told her Mr. Prince had come in for an hour, then left saying he wouldn’t return for the rest of the day. Christine wondered if Sloane could give her a reading on Ames’s mood, but when she asked to talk to him, the receptionist said he was out on a deposition. Frustrated, Christine hung up and wondered what to do next. Ames had already taken one bad blow when the body was found. Now he’d suffered another. She felt desperate to talk to him, to explain why she had turned over the diary to the police.
Perhaps he was at home, she thought. If not at home, then maybe at Streak’s. She called the Prince home first. She listened to the answering machine message, which did not mean Ames wasn’t around. He could just be screening calls. She felt compelled to drive to his house first. If she didn’t find him there, she would try Streak’s.
The drizzle had stopped just as Michael left. A short while later two men arrived in separate vehicles—a p
ickup truck and a car. The car was a rental from the garage where her Dodge Neon was being repaired, they told her. Ames had arranged the rental for her yesterday. Ames thought of everything, she thought. Her eyes filled with tears. She felt lower than low.
Right after the men drove away in the truck, a blazing sun had mysteriously appeared, then vanished half an hour later, leaving the day gray and dismal. She had the doleful feeling that she’d seen the sun’s last gasp. It would never shine again. At least it would never shine so brightly as in the past. But she was being maudlin. She was being scared. She’d never realized until this day how much Ames’s good opinion of her meant.
Ames’s silver Mercedes was not in the driveway, but the windowless doors of the three-car garage were shut. The car could be in there. Christine went to the front door and rang the bell. Nothing. Of course Ames could merely look out a window, see it was her, and decide not to answer the door. And she had no idea whether or not Patricia was home. Even if she was, he could order her not to answer the door, either. But perhaps she was making the scene more dramatic than it was. Maybe Ames or Patricia was merely behind the house in Eve’s garden. Although this didn’t seem likely on such a dreary day when nothing bloomed except a few misguided crocuses, it was worth a try.
But her instinct had been right. The garden looked sad and dingy, although not neglected. Bethany had been helping Patricia tend to it simply because she couldn’t bear to see what had been such a lovely garden fall to ruin, not because Bethany had any special desire to please Patricia. The statue of Persephone looked especially sad today, Christine thought. According to the Greek myth, the lord of the underworld had drawn her down into a chasm in a chariot pulled by four black steeds. Her mother, Demeter, the goddess of corn, in her grief turned the world bleak, killing all vegetation. At last Zeus decreed Persephone could return to her mother four months a year, and during these four months Demeter allowed the earth to bloom into summer.
“Apparently you’re still in the underworld,” Christine muttered inanely to the statue, which needed a good bath of bleach to remove mildew and the stains of winter. “I hope you come back soon. This garden is too dismal to bear.”
She jumped in surprise when something stung her ankle. A snake at this time of year? Christine looked down and was shocked to see a wet, mud-covered Pom-Pom dancing around her legs. He tried to nip her again, but she backed away too soon.
“What on earth are you doing out here?” she demanded as if the dog could answer. Patricia always kept Pom-Pom on a leash when she brought him outside. And she never allowed him to get dirty, although even fresh from a trip to the dog groomer he looked like a ragamuffin. Christine was convinced no one with mere earthly talents could improve Pom-Pom’s appearance.
She stooped and touched the top of his matted head. Even his fancy rhinestone collar was caked with mud. “Where’s your mistress, boy?” The dog panted, then turned in a jittery circle. “Where’s Patricia? I’ve never seen you outside without her. Did you manage to break free of her?”
Pom-Pom yipped three times and turned in that frantic circle again. Christine looked at him. Pom-Pom seemed to adore Patricia as she did him. Even if he’d broken free of his leash, which Christine had never known him to do, he wouldn’t have run far from Patricia. He was a colossal yipping, snapping ankle biter, but he displayed such ferocity only around his mistress. He seemed to feel safe and strong only in her presence. He wouldn’t have left her far behind.
Christine stood up and looked at the French doors at the back of the house. She hadn’t noticed earlier, but one of them stood slightly ajar. Could Pom-Pom have simply escaped and, not being the smartest canine in the country, not been able to find his way back inside? That would be fairly dumb, even for Pom-Pom.
Christine walked toward the house and pushed the door open farther. “Patricia?” she called. “Ames?” No one answered and she stepped inside. Although she had once lived in this house, she had never thought of it as home, had never entered uninvited since she moved away. Pom-Pom followed her, breathing noisily, his muddy paws leaving tracks on the pale carpet. “Patricia? It’s Christine! Are you here?”
Complete silence. Pom-Pom stood beside her, not running in search of his mistress. He had never shown the slightest affection for Christine, so she was certain devotion didn’t rule his actions. The dog simply knew Patricia wasn’t in the house. And neither was Ames. Although he might be angry with Christine, he wouldn’t have let her stand at the door bellowing for him. He would have come to confront her. The house was empty. The cherished, overprotected nitwit of a dog who didn’t know to avoid speeding cars was on the loose. Something was wrong.
They walked back outside. “Okay, Pom-Pom,” Christine said, looking down at the panting, shivering dog. “I know heroics aren’t your forte, but you’re all I have right now. I’m going to follow you. Take me to Patricia.”
Pom-Pom cocked his head, gazing at her with the beady eyes of a crow. “Come on, Pom-Pom, act like the dogs on television and take me to your mistress. I know she’s around here somewhere and I know something isn’t right or you wouldn’t be such a wreck. So do that wonderful thing dogs do—track a person. Please.”
Pom-Pom looked confused, then lifted his leg and drenched a budding purple crocus. Christine closed her eyes, determined not to yell at him. When she’d taken a couple of deep breaths, she focused on him again. This time he turned around twice, yipped shatteringly, then tore away from the house and headed for the acres of damp field lying beyond.
“Great,” Christine muttered. “This just couldn’t be easy, could it?”
She thought about following the dog in the car, then decided that method might completely confuse the less-than-brilliant Pom-Pom. So she tramped after him, wishing she were wearing boots instead of her best black loafers. Halfway between the house and barn, Pom-Pom stopped running and began spinning in agitated circles. Then he dashed back and nipped her ankle.
“Dammit, Pom-Pom!” Christine exploded. “We’re on a mission. Or are we? Did Patricia just go someplace, you managed to get out of the house, and now you’re trying to impress me? Well, all you’ve done is piss me off after that last ankle bite.” She paused, looking at the usually cosseted dog, now quivering and covered with drying mud. He looked twice as bad as usual, and usual was bad enough. He suddenly struck her as pathetic, and she asked in a kinder voice, “Are you really so scared you don’t know what you’re doing?”
He appeared to be mulling this over behind his tiny, undoglike eyes; then he was off again, running top speed for the barn and managing to hit every water puddle along the way. If he’s just having fun with me, I’ll kill him, Christine thought as she felt water seeping into her shoes.
As they neared the barn, Christine could have sworn she heard music. Maybe I’m flashing back to yesterday morning and the attack, she thought as a chill rushed over her at the memory. But she wasn’t hearing anything that sounded faintly like the pounding “Relax.” Pom-Pom stopped. He ran back to her and whined. Christine ignored him and walked forward, intent on the music. It was something classical, now growing louder, the sound soaring. And the horses were kicking their stalls. Hard. Continuously.
I’m going right back to the house, she thought in a panic. I am going into the house and shut the door and not even look at what’s going on in that barn.
As the thought repeated itself, she looked at the securely padlocked double doors. Go back, her mind said. Go back. She stood frozen with indecision until Pom-Pom whined again and shuddered.
Go back! her mind screamed as her body seemed to move without directions from her brain around the corner of the barn to the narrow side door, which stood open. She paused before the open door. Go back. She entered.
The music swelled around her. Although the barn sat far from the house, the music could not long have gone unnoticed. At least five cars passed near the barn each day. Unless their radios were blasting, passengers would have heard the music through the open door.
It had undoubtedly drawn Pom-Pom to the spot. It was setting the horses wild.
Christine walked slowly into the dim, cool barn interior, her hand closing over a pen lying in the bottom of her jacket pocket. Consciously she did not consider the pen a weapon. Without thought, though, she snapped off the plastic top to expose the sharp point. A pen was a pathetic weapon, but she might slow down someone with it if she aimed carefully.
A weapon? Slow down someone? She was being crazy. She needed to get back to the safety of the house, away from the awful thing she knew awaited her in the barn. But she couldn’t stop herself.
Christine took three more hesitant steps into the barn and looked up. The music came from the loft. She glanced at the kicking, rolling-eyed horses. “Settle down, you two,” she said gently, more to bolster herself than to calm them. “I’m here. Everything is all right now.”
Her apprehensive gaze shot around the dim first floor interior. Gray light fought its way inside, almost tunneling through the gloom to fall on a heap of clothes at the foot of the ladder—
Christine squinted in the light, which seemed to grow brighter as she focused on the clothes. But they weren’t just clothes.
Patricia lay huddled and broken at the foot of the ladder on the cold concrete floor. In one terrible glance that would imprint itself on her mind forever, Christine saw her bluish face, her blood drying in a little streak running from her mouth, and her blue eyes staring blindly at the horses.
Christine felt as if her heart were plunging to her feet, leaving her weak and light-headed and clinging to consciousness. She closed her eyes, fighting not to faint. “I lied,” she said softly to the horses. “Everything isn’t all right now.”
2
Later Christine barely remembered the next few minutes. She recalled kneeling by Patricia, feeling for a pulse, making a clumsy and futile attempt at resuscitation, noting with horror that her skin was still warm. Next came a mad run back to the house, Pom-Pom galloping along behind her, abandoning the mistress who’d loved him so dearly. She’d hit the French doors with a bang, so breathless she was on the verge of passing out, cursing herself for leaving her cell phone in the car. Then a call to 911. Then she sat down on an elegant Queen Anne chair, put her head between her knees, and drew in deep breaths while the wet dog lay on her wet feet, shaking, terrified, and confused.
If She Should Die Page 21
