But when she looks at her phone, it isn’t Neal’s number in the Caller ID window.
Man, her psychic skills really are shot lately.
Which is why she probably shouldn’t be concerned about the nagging sensation that’s grown stronger all evening…as if something’s about to happen.
Something violent.
Not to her. She’s pretty sure of that—though she’s not positive about anything.
No, it’s going to happen to someone else. Maybe it already has.
Maybe to a stranger.
Not here, though.
Somewhere…else.
Way to go, Lucinda. There’s violence somewhere in the world tonight.
Brilliant deduction.
Cam takes one last look at her sleeping infant in the glow of the A.A. Milne honey pot-shaped night light.
Then she tiptoes from the nursery and closes the door, pretty sure she won’t share another waking hour with Grace until the day after tomorrow.
She’s leaving for the airport in about seven hours, at four A.M., and Grace is more likely than not to sleep through the night now that she’s been on rice cereal for over a week. Under ordinary circumstances, Cam would relish the knowledge that the baby won’t be up in the wee hours.
But it means Grace will still be sleeping when she leaves in the morning, and that she’ll be sleeping again when Cam gets home late tomorrow.
Down the hall, she knocks on Tess’s door and is surprised when she calls, “Come in.”
Cam opens the door a crack. “I was expecting you to be plugged into headphones.”
“I’m waiting for a call.” Tess is at her desk doing homework, phone close at hand.
“I thought you were on the phone with him when I brought the baby up.”
She could have sworn they were arguing, too. Tess’s end of the conversation had been so loud, even through her closed door, that Cam had to call to her to keep it down in there as she rocked Grace to sleep.
“He had to go help his mom with something. He’s supposed to call me back. What?” she asks, seeing the look on Cam’s face.
“Did I say anything?”
“No, but you’re thinking it. It’s not like I get to see him tomorrow morning at school. I can’t talk to him every day until late in the afternoon, you know. That’s, like, almost twenty hours from now.”
God forbid Tess have to wait almost twenty hours to reconnect with her boyfriend, is what Cam is thinking.
And she hates herself for thinking it, because it’s not like she was never young, and in love, herself.
Her first boyfriend’s name was Alex…Nickerson? Nicholson? Imagine, her not being able to remember which, after all these years.
But she still remembers his impossibly long eyelashes—not just for a guy, as they say, but for anyone—and the smell of the tangy aftershave he’d filched from his father’s medicine cabinet, and the taste of Strawberry Bubblicious on his tongue when he kissed her.
So, yeah, she knows what it’s like to be a teenaged girl and in love—or, really, infatuated is the more accurate word.
And because she herself didn’t have a mother around to keep tabs on how much time she spent on the phone with Alex Nickerson—she’s pretty sure it was Nickerson—she really should give Tess a break.
Thoughts of her own childhood remind Cam of her earlier conversation with Bernice Watts, and of the reason she has to fly away from her girls and Mike before dawn tomorrow morning.
“Good night.” Cam bends to kiss the top of Tess’s head.
“I’m not going to bed yet! It’s so early!”
She smiles at the horrified look on Tess’s face. “I know, but I am. I have to be up in a few hours to catch my flight.”
“Why are you going to Buffalo again?”
“I told you. To look up an old friend.”
“Who goes to Buffalo in the dead of winter?” Tess asks incredulously. “Isn’t it, like, buried in snow or something?”
“It’s officially spring,” Cam tells her—as if that makes any difference. She checked the Buffalo forecast earlier on Accuweather. They’re expecting two to four inches of snow by morning.
She only hopes the flight won’t be delayed because of it. She can’t afford to waste any time. Mike was able to take the day off tomorrow, but no more than that. And, anyway, she hasn’t weaned the baby yet, and she isn’t ready to. They’ll have to make do with bottles of pumped breast milk while she’s gone.
“Make sure you help Daddy with Grace tomorrow, Tess.”
“I’ll be in school most of the day.”
“I know. Have a good day. Good luck on that math test.” She starts for the door, stooping to pick up a stray sock on the way. Since true love came into her life, Tess has actually started to live up to Mike’s affectionate but formerly inappropriate nickname for her.
Messy Tessy actually fits now that she’s too caught up in her budding love life to spend much time picking up after herself, let alone anyone else, the way she used to.
Again, Cam thinks of her lost sister, of all the things she didn’t know, all the things they could have shared.
“Who’s the old friend, again?” Tess wants to know. “The one you’re seeing in Buffalo?”
Again? As if Cam has already mentioned the name, and it’s slipped Tess’s mind.
She hasn’t.
“Her name is Janet.” She throws the sock into the hamper. “Janet O’Leary.”
“O’Leary,” Tess repeats, apparently not finding it familiar and losing interest fast. She examines her fingernails.
“Right. Like the woman with the cow.”
“What woman with the cow?”
“Mrs. O’Leary. The cow that started the fire. In Chicago.”
“Chicago? Where are you going?”
“Buffalo.”
“Not Chicago.”
“No, I just meant—”
“Whatever, Mom. Have a safe trip.”
Safe.
There was a time, back before last summer, when Tess probably wouldn’t have used that word. A time when, even if she had, it wouldn’t have jumped out at Cam like an ominous warning.
“I’ll see you late tomorrow night,” she says, to reassure her daughter—and herself—that everything is going to be just fine.
“Hey, Bradley,” Lucinda says into the phone. “What’s up?”
“Are you over the flu? Dare I come visit you, or will I wind up contaminated?”
“I’m over the flu.” Not exactly up for visitors, though. She’s just had too much going on. None of which she’s mentioned to Bradley.
She might have, had she seen him, but she hasn’t in ages—and not just because she’s been sick. He landed a bit part in a show last month and has been busy rehearsing.
“Hey, by the way, when’s opening night?” she asks, setting down her grocery bags to let herself into her building. “Remember to save me a ticket.”
Maybe even two.
It’s not as if she and Randy are dating. But he’d probably like to get away to New York and see a show.
“I will, when and if we actually have an opening night,” Bradley tells her as she steps over the threshold and turns on the overhead light.
“If? Uh-oh.”
“It’s not looking good. One of the leads quit today.”
“Maybe you can take his role.”
“Her role, and I don’t think so,” Bradley says dryly. “Although Lord knows if I become any more desperate for cash, I’ll do it.”
And Lord knows he could become desperate for cash. His trust fund is long gone, and so are his parents—who left every cent they had to the foundation they established to help stray dogs, the irony of which was not lost on their only son.
“Anyway, rehearsals are on hold now so I thought I’d hop the Acela and come down to see you,” he tells Lucinda.
“Now?”
“I was thinking in the morning, but what the hey? If you’re up for a night on the town,
I’ll get my dancing shoes and shoot right over to Penn Station. I bet I can be there by midnight.”
She can’t help but smile. “Sorry, can’t do it.”
“All right, tomorrow.”
“No, I meant I can’t do tomorrow. Tonight? Are you kidding? Do you know how long it’s been since I went dancing at midnight?”
“Don’t tell me you’re getting old, because that’s no excuse. I’m older than dirt, and I frequently go dancing at midnight. Why can’t you do tomorrow?”
“I’m having brunch with Bitsy.”
“Good Lord. Want me to come down later in the day so that we can drown your sorrows together?”
“I thought you were broke.”
“Amtrak takes credit cards.”
“You have to pay the bill.”
“That’s what the other credit cards are for. I love those balance transfer checks they send out. So handy. What do you think?”
“I think you’re approaching financial ruin.” She fishes her mail out of her mailbox, drops it into one of the grocery bags, then starts up the stairs.
“No, I mean what do you think about my coming to visit?”
She hesitates.
“Oh…sure.”
“Is it me, or do you not sound thrilled?”
“It’s just you. I am thrilled.” She does her best to sound it. The last thing she wants to do is hurt Bradley’s feelings. “I’d love to see you. Come on down.”
“Will do. See you tomorrow.” He makes a kissing sound into the phone and hangs up.
Having reached her door, Lucinda sees a yellow Post-it note stuck above the knob.
Have a delivery for you. Peggy
Lucinda wonders whether she dares wait until tomorrow to visit the super’s basement apartment to collect her delivery, whatever it is. Probably something she ordered online, then forgot about.
She might as well get it now. Peggy probably heard her come in.
She leaves her bags propped against the door and descends again, only to find Peggy about to start up the flight.
The super, in her fifties and divorced, has short white hair and a broad-boned, well-scrubbed face. She’s wearing a T-shirt and white Keds with jeans that are pleated and high-waisted: not the neo-retro style that came back into fashion a year or two ago, but the kind that went out a few decades ago. Lucinda can smell the powdery perfume of her deodorant.
She’s holding a tissue-wrapped vase.
“Hi, Lucinda. Who’s sending you flowers?”
“Flowers! I have no idea.”
Truly, she doesn’t, unless…
“The florist was here this afternoon. You weren’t home, so they rang my bell and I signed for this.”
No. The flowers couldn’t be from Randy…could they?
“Looks like daffodils, doesn’t it?” Peggy comments as Lucinda stops a few steps above her and reaches down to accept the vase.
“It does.”
Peggy hasn’t necessarily struck her as a nosy woman before now. She didn’t even ask many questions when the police were here and Lucinda had to have her locks changed last month.
But tonight she does seem curious, and a little wistful, about the flowers. Maybe she’s living vicariously. The few conversations they’ve had, she’s mentioned how lonely she’s been and how nice it would be if a decent man would look twice at a woman her age.
“Secret admirer, Lucinda?”
“Ha, wouldn’t that be nice.”
“It would.” Still wistful, Peggy waits.
“Well, thanks for grabbing them for me. I’ve got ice cream melting in my grocery bags, so…good night.”
Obvious bummer for Peggy. “Good night, Lucinda.”
Carrying the vase, Lucinda heads back up the stairs. She can see the card through the tissue paper, propped amid the blooms.
She just couldn’t open it in front of Peggy. Not without knowing who sent it, or how she’ll react if it’s from Randy.
Maybe she shouldn’t be surprised.
Maybe this is his way of telling her he’s ready to move on, give it a real try at last.
She opens the locks, including the new deadbolt.
“It can’t be picked,” the locksmith assured her when he installed it. “You’re totally safe now.”
She’d love to believe that, but the thing is…
She’s not convinced her locks were picked the first time, or that someone came in the window—the other theory of Neal’s friend Roz, who investigated.
She’s had visions that involve someone coming in with a key.
And even more frightening visions of a shadowy figure of a man here, in her apartment, with her. Prowling around in the dead of night, when she’s asleep.
A man who steals her keys, slips out to copy them, and slips back in.
When she suggested that to Roz, he said, “That would be one hell of a bold move. And if he got in while you were sleeping, and he’s behind Carla’s death…then why are you still alive? He could have done the same thing to you.”
There’s truth—and cold comfort—in the fact that he didn’t.
If he was even here in the first place.
Roz didn’t think a former tenant had kept or lost the keys, reasoning that it would have been a more likely M.O. for a run-of-the-mill thief.
Nothing was stolen from Lucinda’s apartment.
It was entered very deliberately, and for a specific reason that has everything to do with Lucinda’s past—and Carla’s murder.
And she’s fairly certain that she’ll never feel entirely safe in this apartment again.
Neal thinks she should move.
So does Randy.
“That would be running scared,” she’s told them both, repeatedly.
They both get her; thus, they both get that.
They just don’t like it.
She turns on lights all the way to the kitchen, noting with relief that the apartment feels empty and looks undisturbed.
After setting the vase on the counter, she goes around drawing the blinds she reluctantly had installed over all the windows. Then she returns to the door to collect her groceries from the hall.
For a split second, she thinks the bags are going to be gone.
But they aren’t.
Of course not.
They’re right where she left them, just as everything else has been right where she left it for going on a month now.
You’ve got to get over being so jumpy, she tells herself, shaking her head as she returns to the kitchen.
She’s dying to open the flowers, but she forces herself to put away the groceries first, prolonging the suspense.
If they’re from Randy, she’ll call him.
No—she’ll drive right out to see him. Not tonight, but first thing in the morning.
No—brunch with her mother. And Bradley’s coming.
And all I care about, really, is seeing Randy.
She hates that she’s so caught up in him, like a teenaged girl with a crush. She hates that she needs to see him, needs to hear his voice….
Needs him, period.
What I need is a sugar fix.
She tosses a couple of marshmallow Peeps onto a paper plate and microwaves them for thirty seconds.
As she digs into the gooey ooze with a fork, she looks at the flowers.
For the first time in years—or maybe, ever—she feels as if her life has spun beyond her control. The sensation is wonderful and terrifying at once.
At last, she marches over to the vase and rips off the tissue paper.
The envelope bears the address of a neighborhood florist shop.
She pulls out the card.
HAPPY SPRING reads the preprinted message.
No note.
It isn’t signed.
All that’s on it are a pair of decimal numbers she’s seen before.
87.7
41.9
The longitude and latitude of Chicago.
Chapter Thirteen
&nb
sp; As the plane descends through a gradually thinning layer of gray, Cam is startled to see how close they are to the ground already. Wet snow whirls past the windows. Wisps of clouds momentarily obscure suburban rooftops symmetrically arranged along ribbons of wet black pavement that intersect against a backdrop of white.
Then they’re touching down, and the pilot is welcoming them to Buffalo, and Cam is on her own in this aging industrial city at the edge of a vast gray lake.
It’s been so long since she’s been on a plane—and she can’t remember the last time she took a flight by herself. Years ago, probably, when she was still working as a magazine editor.
It feels strange to be sitting here among solo business travelers, dressed in dark suits and lost in their morning newspapers; they take it all in stride as she once did.
Wearing slacks that have sat in dry cleaner’s plastic for a couple of years now, along with a tailored white blouse and black cardigan that, thank goodness, never really went out of style, Cam quite possibly almost looks like one of them.
But she doesn’t feel like one of them. She has a feeling no one else is flying to Buffalo to investigate a possible murder.
Who are you? Nancy Drew?
Back at the gate in New York, when she arrived only to find her flight delayed for over an hour, then two, it was all she could do not to turn around and go back home, where she belongs.
Not because the plane she was about to board was being checked and rechecked for some kind of mechanical problem.
But because she kept wondering why she was there in the first place. She’s no detective. She hasn’t a clue what she’s doing.
Only the thought of her dead sister made her get on this plane.
No one else is going to see this thing through for Ava’s sake.
Lucinda said the police aren’t interested—that they even seem to question whether she ever saw a scrapbook of so-called suicide victims in the first place.
Yet Cam and Lucinda verified that the two college girls whose names she glimpsed in the scrapbook—Elizabeth Johnson and Sandra Wubner—did indeed supposedly commit suicide over thirty years ago. Faced with that evidence, the Long Beach Township police still saw no reason to connect it to the death of Randy Barakat’s wife.
Dead Before Dark Page 21
