"Yeah."
Before she could absorb that bit of information, Judge Bennett and his wife were announcing their departure. Alex excused herself to see them to the door.
Just before midnight, Greg listing slightly from too much to drink, came up behind Alex and, locking his arms around her, kissed her on the neck. Her heel caught his shin.
He groaned and released her. "Be nice, now. It's my birthday.”
"That's doesn't give you an excuse to manhandle me.” She flicked ashes from his tie. "Are you having a good time?"
"I'd have a good time anywhere you are." He leaned down to kiss her lips but found her chin instead.
"You're hammered.”
"Absolutely. I better spend the night.”
Margie strolled up. "We'll take you home."
“Why do you hate me so?" Greg said to Margie.
"How can I hate someone who just turned forty. Happy birthday, darling.”
"You're a heartless hussy."
Margie made kissing sounds at Greg. For Alex's benefit, as she moved away she tipped her head toward the windows, where David Sloane stood looking out, and mouthed the words, "Go for it.”
"What'd she say?" Greg asked, frowning.
"C'mon, let's get something in your stomach besides Beefeater.”
The telephone rang.
Alex gently pushed Greg in the direction of the buffet table. She worked her way around a knot of people at the breakfast bar to answer the phone.
"Hello?"
There was a pause on the line before she heard mumbling and what she thought was the word cat.
"Sorry. What?"
More mumbling. This time, though, she distinctly heard the caller say "cat.”
Guests talked and laughed all around her. Someone was running water in the sink. A chorus of "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" broke out. Alex frowned. She put a hand over her ear to hear better. "I'm sorry, I can't hear you. Could you speak up, please."
No response.
"Hello? Hello?" She heard a series of clicks. Then the dial tone came on.
The doorbell rang.
What was that all about? she wondered. She hung up and hurried down to the foyer. The call was forgotten when she opened the door to a uniformed policeman.
"Do you live here, ma'am?" the officer asked.
“Yes.”
"There's been a complaint. Disturbing the peace."
"You're kidding." Alex said.
Greg leaned over the rail from above. "What's going on, babe?"
Alex shrugged. "Police."
Greg took the stairs two at a time. His arm went around Alex, pulling her to him. "What's the problem, officer? Jesus—Gunther, I should've known it'd be you."
"Evening, Mr. Ott. I'm sorry to interrupt the party, but I'm just following up on a disturbing the peace complaint," Gunther said.
"Who's complaining? Which one of her two neighbors was it?"
"Anonymous call, sir."
"Although it is my birthday party, Gunther . . ." Greg said slowly and carefully, "given to me by this beautiful lady . . ."— he kissed Alex's cheek --"and all the most important people . . . in the state . . . are at this very moment — as we speak — upstairs . . . it is far, and I repeat far, from being a boisterous affair."
Guests began coming down the stairs. After thanking Alex and extending best wishes to Greg, they uttered goodbyes and filed out in pairs. Within minutes, it was obvious the party was over.
"Look what you did, Gunther," Greg said. "You broke up my party."
"He didn't break up anything," Margie cut in. "Tomorrow's Monday. Some people work. C'mon, Greg. We're driving you home."
"I'm not leaving till my birthday's over.”
Margie looked down at her watch. She counted backward from ten. "Okay, it's over. I have your cake. Say goodbye."
"I'm not leaving till this goddamn spoiler does," Greg whined, nodding at the policeman.
A short burst of laughter erupted from Alex before she could control it. Greg, though being childish, was funny when he was juiced. The corners of her mouth quivered.
Gunther shot Alex a penetrating look before melding in with the departing guests.
"Oh-oh," Alex said. "Officer Gunther is ticked at me."
"The guy's a bootlicker, an ass kisser, a brown-nose, a sycophant of the most toady kind,” Greg- said.
Alex kissed his cheek. "Happy Birthday.”
"Alex, don't touch a thing," Margie called over her shoulder. "I'll be over in the morning to help."
Alex watched as Margie and Bob escorted Greg out between them. Then there was no one.
Before going back inside, she called out softly, "Winnie? Kitty?" An owl responded. Alex shivered. Wasn't there some folklore about the hoot of an owl and death? No, that was a wild bird loose in the house. Maybe it was both. Who cares?
She went in, closed the door, and flipped the dead-bolt. She pulled off her shoes, dropped them at the base of the staircase, then, taking deep breaths and massaging the back of her neck, she climbed the stairs to the living room.
"Nice party."
Alex started and spun around. David Sloane leaned against the wall in the dining room.
"I thought they'd never leave," he said.
Alex smiled uneasily. She began to gather glasses. "I'm sorry if I wasn't a very good hostess. But . . . well, it was Greg's party.”
"Your boyfriend?"
"A friend."
Pushing away from the wall, he crossed the room to the unbroken line of windows that faced south.
"Quite a sight. Ever take it for granted?"
She put the glasses on the dining-room table, turned, looked out the window, then shook her head. "Uh-uh." It was true, she never tired of looking at the panoramic view of Reno, Sparks, Washoe Valley, and the High Sierra mountain range.
"May I have one for the road?" he asked, holding out his glass.
Alex hesitated a moment. She felt less relaxed in his presence now that she was alone with him. He smiled. She took the glass.
"What are you drinking?"
"Whiskey, rocks."
From the kitchen Alex called out. "So tell me, Dave, are you glad to be back in Nevada?" With a drink in each hand she turned and was startled to find him standing directly in front of her. She held his glass out to him. He ignored the drink, took hold of her upper arms, and began to run his hands slowly down, then up the satiny fabric of her blouse.
"Nice. Very soft. Very sexy.” His hand moved to a lock of hair on her shoulder. "May I confess something?"
She tilted her head.
"When Joe and I played racquetball at the gym, I couldn't wait to see you each week when you dropped him off and picked him up again. I thought you were really something. And that hasn't changed. In fact, you’re even hotter now." He gently twisted the hair around his fingers. "Joe made like you were a personal possession of his. Did you know he talked about your sex life — yours and his?” He moved his face in close to hers.
Alex pulled back, pushed his drink into his hand, and maneuvered around him. As she headed for the living room, she heard a low chuckle behind her. She felt a chill.
"Dave, I hope you won't be offended if I ask you to drink up and leave. I'm really tired. It's been a long day. The roses were —"
Without warning he grabbed her from behind and spun her around in the circle of his arms. His mouth came down hard on hers. His lips were rigid and crushing as he tried to force his tongue into her mouth.
With a twist, she pulled her head free. Pushed at him.
He tightened his grip. "Your friend's a real fondler, isn't he? And you seemed to like it. How about getting friendly with me?" His hand cupped her buttocks. Then it was tugging on the zipper of her slacks.
Breathing hard, struggling silently, Alex pushed at him. His breath was raspy in her ear. His arms pinned hers to her sides. She tipped her head forward and bit into his shoulder. He grabbed her hair, yanking her head back until she thought her neck would sn
ap. She looked at his face. He was smiling. But the hard, icy glint in his eyes told her he was far from amiable. Her mind was racing. She felt dizzy. Sick to her stomach. His hand had found a breast and was kneading and pinching.
Date rape. No, this couldn't be happening, she thought as panic rose.
He loosened his grip to reach for the top button of her blouse. Alex brought both hands up and pushed hard against his chest. He grabbed at her, getting a handful of the blouse. Buttons popped, flying in all directions. The blouse lay wide open. The bra and the tops of her breasts were fully exposed.
"Get out. Get out right now," she said, backing away.
He lunged at her like a lumbering, enraged drunk, snatching a piece of the blouse as she turned to run. She slapped at him. Her fingernails scraped over skin. There was a tearing sound as the fabric ripped up one side. He lost his grip on the material and staggered backward. She prayed he would fall. He regained his footing, but Alex took that moment — those crucial few seconds—to run to the far wall in the dining room. Her hand flew to the red button mounted on the wall.
Holding a finger within an inch of the button, she said in a hoarse whisper, "Emergency alarm. Come any closer and I'll press it—so help me God, I'll press it."
Stopping in his tracks, he looked from her face to the button and back again. He's debating, she thought, weighing his chances of reaching me before I can push the button. Don't let him think.
"C'mon." She beckoned with her fingers. "C'mon, I'd love to have you thrown in jail for assault and attempted rape."
He put his hand to his ear and then brought it around to look at it. Blood stained his fingers.
"Bitch. Rotten bitch." He took a step forward. Rage made his face terra-cotta; his eyes bulged. "You'll be sorry."
"Get out." she said tightly, lightly placing a trembling finger on the red button. "I'll give you to the count of five. One . . . two . . ."
"You won't call. Rape is tough to prove these days. Real tough," he said quietly.
"Three . . ."
"I can make you out a liar —"
"Two . . ."
He stormed from the room, his heavy footsteps shaking the house as he tromped down the stairs. She heard the front door open and slam shut with a resounding bang.
Her breath exploded from her lungs in a rush. Her hand dropped to her side. She took a step away from the wall, about to leave her post to lock the door after him, when she froze. If he were faking her out, only pretending to leave, she was in a world of trouble. She held her breath, listening. She heard no sounds of soles on concrete, no car door opening and closing, no engine turning over.
"You sly bastard,” she said over a lump in her throat. She picked up the phone and dialed 911. At the exact moment the dispatcher said "Reno Emergency" she heard a car engine rev up. She quickly hung up the phone. The last thing she wanted was the police out at the house again.
The phone rang.
"Reno emergency calling. Is this 555-2300?"
"Yes." Alex's heart pounded.
"Did you just dial 911?"
"I'm sorry . . . it was a mistake."
"Is there a problem, ma'am?"
"Not anymore." She watched the red taillights rapidly descend the tenth of a mile driveway. The car turned the corner onto the main road. "Someone I know tried to get a little physical with me. He's gone now.”
"An assault, ma'am?"
"Well, no. . .”
"Do you need assistance?"
"No, really. It's okay. He's gone now."
"Are you unable to talk freely at this moment?"
"No. I can talk. Everything's fine.”
"If you have further problems, call —"
"Yes, I will. Thank you. Sorry again."
Alex hung up. If she had known a tracer detected and recorded the phone numbers of all callers, she wouldn't have been so hasty. She went to the window, feeling foolish, shaken.
"Goodbye, asshole. Thanks for the roses.”
She peered down at herself and quickly stepped back from the window. Slowly undoing her belt, she surveyed the damage to her new blouse. Trashed.
Her father's words came back to her: "Don't trust men, Allie. They only want one thing." Yeah, tell me about it, she thought grimly.
The clock struck the half-hour, twelve-thirty. After locking up, Alex filled the sink with soapy water and left the dirty dishes to soak overnight. All she wanted to do was go to bed and pray that sleep would come, She turned off the kitchen and dining-room lights.
Her hand moved over the "panic button" on the wall. The button looked commanding enough. Red—the color of panic. She pressed the button firmly. A loud metallic clank-clanking came from the overhead area of the patio. The automatic aluminum awning noisily clanked into place over the redwood deck. Thank God the creep hadn't called her bluff.
Blackie scratched at the glass of the sliding door. She let him in and stepped out on the deck.
"Winnie," she called. “Winnie, kitty, kitty."
The air was crisp and filled with the spicy aroma of sage. Alex shivered. Winnie, Winnie, where are you? There was nothing she could do that night, but first thing in the morning she would look for her cat.
The next morning, Alex set out on foot in a futile attempt to find her cat. As she was returning to the house she heard shouting, then caught a glimpse of a man as he stormed around the side of the house waving his arms frantically and yelling: "Here you — scat. Scat, scat. Get outta there you goddamned, filth-spreading varmint!"
It was Otis Hawkins, her yard man.
Alex's property, located on the side of a hill, consisted of five acres of craggy ridges, sagebrush, and rocks. Better Homes and Gardens would have described it as "natural landscaping." The area actually landscaped was no greater than the yard of the average tract home. Spread out below, to the west, was the Wild Woods Golf Course. The proximity of the lush course considerably increased the value of Alex's property.
She rounded the corner of the house, heading into the rear yard. "Mr. Hawkins?"
He stepped out of the storage shed, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "Over here," he said. He hiked up his faded jeans, eliminating some of the bag in the seat. He was forever hiking up his pants, only to have them glide back down and come to rest beneath his massive gut.
"I'm looking for my cat. Have you seen her? The white one?"
Alex waited, looking into his perpetually bloodshot eyes, and wondered again what it was he had fermenting in the shed.
"Ain't seen that one. Saw the black one though. He’d been using that fill earth I brought in for the garden, y'know, using it for a potty place.”' He jerked his bullet head in the direction of an ordinary mound of dirt.
"Lord knows it’s got plenty land around here to do its nasty business without using my clean earth. I seen him just minutes ago, going and then covering it over like cats do. Course it gets uncovered when I shovel.” As he spoke, puddles of saliva formed in the corners of his mouth. Wet. Shiny. A glistening, beaded thread of spittle stretched and retracted from his upper lip to his lower lip, stretched and retracted hypnotically.
Alex pulled her gaze away, turned. "I'll see what can do.”
"Coyotes, maybe.”
"What?" She turned back.
"Coyotes maybe got your cat. Happens all the time in these hills."
“Thank you, Mr. Hawkins, for that enlightening bit of information."
He grunted again. "Y'asked."
"My mistake.” She found her eyes drawn to the craggy hillside, wondering if a carcass with white fur lay up there in the sun drawing magpies and other scavengers. Her throat tightened.
"I put that window screen back on for you.”
She gladly brought her attention back to Hawkins. "Screen? What screen?"
"The one on your bedroom window. It was laying there on the ground.”
"How do you suppose it got off?"
"Musta been them boys what belong to that friend of yours. I been meanin' to tal
k to you about 'em. Been climbin' the apple tree again, they have. One of them branches was near broke off.”
He was referring to the Meachams' two preteen sons.
"Mr. Hawkins, trees are for boys to climb,” Alex said, smiling complacently.
"Boys? Humph. No better'n monkeys."
Would he feel better if she were to rip their offensive little fingers off one by one? she wanted to ask. Or perhaps having the boys locked away in reform school until their heinous tree-climbing days were over would be more to his liking?
Instead Alex said, "If you see the white cat, let me know, okay?"
He mumbled something under his breath, then turned and walked back to the shed.
Maybe she should have a talk with Junior and Stevie. They were typical boys, but sometimes they did get a little overzealous in their tactical maneuvers.
Alex was about to return to the house when she heard a shout.
"Hey, you there. Wait!"
She spotted Thelma Klump, a purple and green apparition, pedaling laboriously up the driveway on her ancient bicycle. Her legs pumped up and down, up and down like two well-oiled pistons.
Although Thelma Klump was her nearest neighbor to the west, Alex was certain the spinster was not making a neighborly call. The feud had begun eighteen years ago when Alex's father had built on the land below Klump's. Exhausting every avenue open to her the woman had fought, unsuccessfully, to prohibit construction of Carlson's tri-level house. Her view, she claimed, was being severely obstructed.
The last time Alex had been subjected to the woman's wrath was three years ago, when Klump had arrived at her house in the same alarming manner to inform Alex that her son Todd—now eighteen and in college five hundred miles away—was a trespasser and a thief. Todd had invaded Klump's property, she claimed, and ripped off a peach from a tree.
Now here the woman was again. Her face, Alex noted as she reluctantly went to meet her, no less red, her clothes no less eye-catching, than the last time.
Klump didn't waste time on social amenities.
"Are you the owner of a cat?"
Alex's pulse quickened. "Winnie?"
New Title 1 Page 2
