“It’s not the baseball game I’m worried about, Stephen, it’s—”
The doorbell rang. I ignored it. Kelly would answer.
“—what you might be doing outside of the game.”
“What are you talking about? I’m not going to be doing anything!”
“Stephen, look, I don’t—”
“Mom!” Kelly’s voice floated from the upper level. “Are you going to answer the door?”
With a sigh, I pushed away from my desk and crossed the room to yell up to her. “Can’t you answer it?”
“We’re trying on clothes and we’re not all dressed.”
I closed my eyes. “Stephen, let me get the door.”
“But I have to know—”
“No, you don’t have to know right now. You can call Jeff back.”
My footfalls echoed off the hardwood floor, bouncing against the rich wood wainscoting of the great room. I reached the front door and opened it to a beautiful, sunny May afternoon—and an empty porch. I stepped outside, looking right and left. A small blue car was driving down the cul-de-sac, away from my home. Had its driver been here and left that fast?
I dropped my gaze. Only then did I notice the long white box lying at my feet. Tied with a red ribbon. It looked like the kind of box that would contain long-stemmed roses.
Surely not. No one had ever sent me roses. Including Vic, during our entire marriage.
I bent down, tilting my head to read the handwriting on a small envelope taped to the box. It was addressed to Ms. Annie Kingston.
Ms.? If someone was sending me roses, the title sounded so formal.
I reached out for the box, then stopped to first close the front door. No need for Stephen to come barreling to the threshold, intent on his own agenda, and gawk impatiently at me while I discovered what lay inside.
Could someone really be sending me flowers? My heart fluttered at the thought.
Carefully, I picked up the box. Roses were delicate. I wouldn’t want to lose the smallest leaf. I carried it the length of the porch, then sat in one of the wicker chairs I’d recently bought. I laid the box on my knees.
Which to open first, the card or the box? I hesitated, then pulled off the envelope and opened its flap. Slid my fingers into it.
Nothing.
I pressed the sides of the envelope, ballooning it open, and peered inside. Not even a tiny slip of paper.
Strange.
Setting the envelope aside, I began working at the red bow. Pulling out the loops, untying the knot. When it gave way I slid the ribbon from the box and dropped it to my feet. I placed my fingers on either side of the cover and gave it a gentle tug. It resisted at first, then lifted with a little shushing sound. At the slight jostle something sounded from within—almost like a crackling.
What was that? Flowers didn’t crackle.
Apprehension drizzled through my veins. This wasn’t right. I didn’t know anyone who would send me roses, particularly without a signed card. And that sound . . .
I shook the box gently.
A dry whisper-clatter, like the rustling of skeletal fragments.
Visions of brittle bones twitched through my head.What would they do upon my opening the box? Pull together, unite themselves with mummified flesh into a grasping hand . . .
For heaven’s sake, Annie. Enough.
Firming my mouth, I took off the cover with one swift motion and threw it aside. Looked into the box.
A dozen long-stemmed roses. Completely dead. Withered leaves, dessicated flowers. The buds were so blackened, I could hardly tell they used to be red.
A chill dusted my shoulders. What kind of trick was this? Who could have done it? Surely not a woman. The joke was too sick, too defiling of something a female considered sacred. It had to be a man. Someone I knew? The projector in my head clicked on, flashing an imagined close-up of
a man’s hands laying the roses into the box. One by one. Carefully, watching out for the thorns. Brown/black on white, the crumbling leaves scraping each other and the cardboard . . .
I blinked the scene away.
Then I saw the single, lace-edged paper—a note card that matched the envelope. Stuck between the thorny stems, with half-hidden small block letters in red ink. Using thumb and forefinger I pulled it out. Held it up to read.
SOME THINGS ARE BETTER LEFT ALONE.
LIKE THIS CASE.
STAY WELL, ANNIE. AND ALIVE.
I gasped, then flicked the card aside like a match burning my fingers. I jumped to my feet, the box spilling from my lap. It turned on its side, the contents hissing against my porch like snakes.
Who did this? Was he still close? Was he watching me now?
My thoughts tangled, then hurled me back to last summer, to The Face. For a minute I couldn’t move. What should I do? I wanted to run in the house and hide. To deny, deny this was happening again, that I’d gotten myself into another dangerous assignment, and now I would pay.
I swiveled toward the front door—and smacked into a figure blocking my way.
Chapter 8
He scrutinized her face.
Rounded cheeks. Hazel eyes. Brown hair to her shoulders, wispy bangs. Lips slightly turned up at the corners. Not beautiful. But . . . appealing. Something about her beckoned.
His narrowed eyes cut back to hers. Yes. There. Softness in those windows to the soul. Caring.
This was good. Very good. Traits he could bend for his purposes.
Leaning back in his chair, he folded his arms, chin raised. Stared at her picture on the computer screen. I will come to know you, Annie Kingston. I will read every article written about you and your “heroism.” But something tells me you don’t feel like much of a hero, do you? You’re just . . . pliable. Your heart pangs for the underdog.
This, too, he would use.
She was Valery Ness in Doom’s Night. The unwitting pawn. He was Mel Platson. Mastermind.
He checked the clock in his small home office. The one room where family was not allowed. Time mocked him. Too many hours gone since he’d seen the dreaded news story. Good thing he’d diligently watched. Few had his foresight. Now tenacity and planning would save his life. Again.
He clicked on to the next article.
The clock ticked.
He had less than twenty-four hours.
Chapter 9
“Ah!”
I jerked backward on the porch, fists rising. In a split second my mind flew me to last summer, to my enemy’s hands,
pulling me across the room of a strange house, around the couch, and into the kitchen. He shoves me up against the cabinets, my head bouncing back to hit hard. Folding his arms, he looks at me, death in his eyes, biceps pumping. The questions spit from his mouth, questions he needs answered before he kills me—
“Mom, what’s the matter with you!” Stephen dropped the phone, sending it spinning toward the steps, and threw up both arms.
I took in my son’s form, his startled expression, and my knees went weak. “Oh. Oh.” My heart kicked against my ribs like a horse in a fiery stall. I brought up both palms in trembling apology. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I thought . . .”
“What’s that?” Stephen looked beyond me, frowning at the white box, the scattered dead roses. He brushed me aside, drawn toward them, one side of his mouth curling in morbid fascination.
“No, Stephen!” I pushed in front of him. “Don’t touch them.”
He looked over my head, eyes narrowed. “What is it?”
My mind scrambled for some vapid explanation. “It’s . . . something somebody sent me.”
He stared at me. “Dead flowers?”
I tried to laugh. It sounded more like a half strangle.
Stephen’s expression firmed, and in it I saw the remnants of his fear from last summer. “Why would somebody—” he dragged out the words—“send you dead flowers?”
My tongue slid over my lips. “Look, Stephen, please. I don’t want the girls to know about this. They coul
d come out any minute.”
He absorbed my words. “This is about the case you’re working on, isn’t it.”
“I . . . Yes.”
The off-the-hook signal emanated from the phone. Stephen sidled over to pick it up, clearly distracted. “I was going to call Jeff. Tell him you’d let him bring me home from the game tonight.” The words sounded distant, as though he made small talk to put off his burning questions. And my answers.
“So. Mom.” He scrunched his mouth and glared at the flowers. “Are you in trouble again?”
“I don’t know. But I think I’d better call the Sheriff’s Department. They’ll want to take a look at that.” I indicated the roses with a tilt of my head. “And we don’t need your fingerprints on them.”
Fear tire-treaded his features. Almost immediately his face reassembled itself.He gave an exaggerated shrug. “Probably just some nut who read the paper. Jeff told me there was an article in there about you.”
I managed a tight smile. “Probably.” I pointed to the phone. “Go put that away for now, okay? And get me a pair of gloves under the kitchen sink. I need to put these dead things back into the box. Then I’ll stick it in my office, out of sight. I don’t want to have to explain this to Kelly right now. It will only scare her.”
“Yeah, okay.” He headed for the front door, looking over his shoulder at me. His puckered forehead betrayed the truth: he felt more concern for his mother than he’d ever let me know.
Dear God, please help me deal with this. Please help us all.
The next half hour whirled by as I attended to one need after another, doggedly focusing on details. It was the only way to keep my anxiety level down.
First I gathered the crackly flowers into their box, adding the card and envelope. I managed to take the package into the office and shut the door without being seen by the girls. Then I called upstairs to Kelly until she and Erin materialized out of the bedroom, wearing an interesting assortment of clothes. I raised an eyebrow at their getups but said nothing. “Time to go over to Erin’s house now. Kelly, don’t forget to take stuff to stay overnight.”
Naturally my son seized the opportunity of my distracted state to ask again about Jeff bringing him home from the ball game. I’d lost the energy to argue. “Fine.” I waved a dismissive hand. “And can he come get you too? Looks like I’m going to be busy.”
Stephen ogled me, then caught himself. “Sure.”
He beat a hasty retreat downstairs before I came to my senses.
Guilt somersaulted through my head. In self-defense I turned to rationalization. He’ll be fine, Annie, you’ve got enough to deal with right now.
That thought propelled me back into the office to call the Sheriff’s Department. I told my story, requesting Detective Chetterling. With our history in working on cases, I naturally turned to him over Sergeant Delft. Thank goodness Chetterling was on duty. Within minutes of my call he phoned from his car, saying he’d be on his way.
Only then did I remember my meeting with Edwin Tarell. I sank into my office chair. What should I do? By the time I gave my statement to Chetterling, no way would I make the appointment on time. Even if I did, how could I keep my mind focused?
A bigger question loomed. Why should I go at all? Wasn’t my grim present enough to convince me to pull out of this case?
Breathing a prayer, I flipped through the files stacked on my desk until I found the folder containing all the contact information. I dialed Edwin’s number like a robot. How much should I tell him? If I pulled out of the assignment, he’d surely want to know why. But if I did pull out, what would happen to the American Fugitive segment? With this tight a deadline, I doubted they’d find another artist to do the fugitive update in time. The show would have to be put off—who knew for how long?
Vaguely, I heard a hello then realized Edwin had said it more than once. My tongue felt tied in knots.
“Hi. Edwin. This is Annie Kingston.”
“Oh yes.” The anticipation in his tone sank through me like lead. A large part of me still did not want to let him and his mother down.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel our meeting for today. Something . . . has happened.”
“Oh, no. Not with your children, I hope.”
“No, my children are fine. But I received a . . . threatening package today. About our case. I don’t quite know what to do about it yet. Somebody from the Sheriff’s Department is on his way over, and I don’t know how long that will take.”
A second of stunned silence passed. “Annie. Please. Tell me what happened.”
Briefly, I told him. When I finished, he said nothing. I could picture his shocked expression, his mind filtering through possibilities.
“Bland sent you dead roses? And threatened you? What exactly did the note say?”
“Basically to keep away from the case. But, actually, we can’t be completely sure Bland sent the package.”
“Who else would send it? There isn’t a person in town who doesn’t want to see that man caught.”
“I don’t know.” My throat tightened. I didn’t want to think that it was Bland. Surely Stephen was right. “It could just be some prankster.”
“Maybe.” Edwin didn’t sound very convinced.
“You . . . don’t think so?”
Our breathing intermingled on the line. “It could be, Annie. I want to tell you that’s all it is. But I know Bill Bland. I know what he’s capable of. Now I’m feeling terrible—like I should have foreseen this. I saw the two sides of Bland before, but still never thought he’d kill my father. Now you get this threat. I can’t stand back and let anything happen to you, too. I’d never forgive myself.”
“Edwin, I’m not blaming you for this.”
“I know, but . . . look. You’ve done the right thing by calling the Sheriff’s Department. Surely they can trace where this package came from. If it did come from Bland, the good news is, this just might lead us to him all the more quickly. But then you could be in real danger in the meantime.”
Please, God, no. “Even if Bland did send the package, that doesn’t mean he’s here. He could have read the newspaper article online from anywhere and ordered those . . . things. Although I can’t imagine from what store.”
“True. But this could merely be step one in some wild scheme of his.” Edwin fell silent for a moment. “It just doesn’t make sense, though. That package has to be easy to trace, and Bland’s smarter than that.”
“What if it isn’t traceable?”
He hesitated. “Well, that would definitely leave us with too many questions. But let’s worry about that if the time comes.”
I stared at the boxes of files, picturing the murderous man they represented.
“Annie, I’m so sorry this happened. It must have scared you terribly. Particularly after what you went through last year.”
“Well. I have had better days.”
A car door slammed outside. I swiveled in my chair to see Ralph Chetterling heading toward my front walk. “Edwin, the detective’s here. I need to go.”
“Okay, good. Look, while they’re tracing this package, why don’t you come on over and talk to me whenever you’re done with the detective? Because if it turns out to just be a prankster, we both know there’s little time to waste on the drawing.”
“Uh, okay. Let me see how it goes, then I’ll give you a call.”
“Right. And Annie. Does my mom know about this package?”
“No, it just came. And I haven’t talked to her.”
“That’s good. Would you perhaps not tell her? She’s been through enough, and now she’s really placed her hopes on this show. If she knew this has happened, she’d be terribly upset and fearful for you.”
“I know she would. I won’t tell her.”
“Thank you. Take care now, Annie. And call me as soon as you can.”
I hung up the phone and headed for the front door, my mind on a fast track. The previous circumstances that had brought the
detective to our house had been nothing but threatening. I’d have to give the girls a diffusing reason for Chetterling’s presence.
In other words, I’d need to lie.
“Girls, you ready to go yet?” I called upstairs.
“Coming!” Kelly and Erin spilled out of the bedroom, laughing. They bounded down the steps, each carrying an overnight bag, verbally jousting in half whispers. My heart panged at their innocence. I could not imagine putting them through any more trauma.
“All right, out you go.” I grabbed Kelly for a hug. “See you tomorrow.”
The doorbell rang. Kelly frowned at it.“Now who’s here?” She trotted over to open the door. At the sight of Chetterling, she stepped back, her smile fading like an eclipsed moon.
“Hi, Ralph, come in.” My words practically floated on their forced lightness. “Kelly, say hi. The detective is here to talk about that drawing I’m doing for American Fugitive.”
“Hello.” Kelly threw me an uneasy glance.
“Hey there, girls.” Chetterling stepped inside, his stocky frame an authoritative presence. The coiled spring of tension in my chest loosened a little. If anyone could help me see this situation clearly, it would be Ralph.
“Hi.” Erin’s lips curved in a split-second smile. “Come on, Kelly, let’s go.”
The girls scurried outside and down the porch steps.
The detective turned to watch them. “They don’t seem to like me much.”
“That’s not true.” I shut the door. “Just too many memories, I’m afraid.”
He nodded, then gazed at me, probing. “How are you?”
My shoulders raised. “I’m not sure. Scared. Mad. Thinking maybe I’d better pull out of this assignment.”
“Can’t say I blame you for feeling any of those things.”
“Yeah. So. Let me show you my little present.”
In my office, Chetterling perused the florist box and its contents with gloved hands. He said he’d take the package to the lab for fingerprinting. I told him every detail I could think of—the time it arrived, the blue car I’d seen driving away.
Stain of Guilt Page 7
