by Joanne Fluke
“What’s pretty, honey?”
She took a step closer, and he made the tears well up in his eyes. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We’re not supposed to talk, unless you talk to us first. But . . . you look just like the picture of my mother!”
He pulled out his precious picture to show her. For favors rendered, the monitor had given him a little plastic sleeve so he could carry it in his pocket. “Here she is, ma’am. See?”
She glanced down at the picture, and he could tell she was surprised. She didn’t look anything like his mother. His mother was beautiful, and she was just a plain-looking woman with a long, thin face.
“That’s very sweet, honey. But your mother was blond, and I have brown hair.”
“I know.” He nodded, looking up at her with wistful, puppy eyes. “But you have the same smile. It’s an angel smile, just like hers.”
“Why, thank you, honey!”
She blinked back tears as she smiled at him, and he knew he’d won. The Uncle was looking at her hopefully, and she nodded. It was done. They’d chosen him. He’d be a good boy for her, and a nice, nasty boy for the Uncle. It would all work out just fine.
He smiled at the pleasant memory. It had worked out just fine. They’d filed the papers to adopt him, and he’d gone home with them a month later to a pretty little condo in the San Fernando Valley. His room had been white with a blue bedspread and blue curtains. And theirs had been a pale, sunshine yellow. There had been no red rooms, and that had made him feel very good. When he’d asked, she’d told him she’d never liked colors that bright.
She had loved him from the start, and the Uncle had loved him, too . . . in a very different way. Luckily, she’d never found out about that. They had been very careful. At first the Uncle had only come to his room when she went out to her Bible study class, or her weekly bridge club. He’d been a good boy when she was with them, polite and happy, a regular kid. But when he’d been alone with the Uncle, he’d turned into another person.
After awhile, he’d felt the two boys grow apart, even though they’d occupied the same body. And that was when the trouble had started. The Uncle’s boy was crafty and smart, and more than a little nasty. Her good, studious boy didn’t like the Uncle’s boy at all.
She’d been a librarian, and there had been fascinating books on shelves all over the house. She’d loved to see him read, and he’d spent every Saturday in the library with her, devouring the books she’d recommended. By the time he’d finished sixth grade, he’d read his way through most of the classics. That was when she’d introduced him to poetry and plays.
Junior high had been next, and during those years she’d concentrated heavily on nonfiction. He’d read his way through the Dewey Decimal system from General Works to Geography and History.
When he’d entered high school, the Uncle had decided he was old enough to learn about business and he’d spent an hour every night analyzing data and predicting trends. He’d even gone on several business trips with the Uncle, and stayed in fancy hotels all over the country.
Her good boy had loved words, gobbling them up from the printed page and relishing the beauty of a perfectly concise paragraph. The Uncle’s boy had loved numbers, and he’d learned to figure out complicated equations in his head. Both loves had paid off. He’d been awarded a full scholarship to the college of his choice in the University of California system.
He’d decided he wanted to live with them and go to UCLA, and he’d really enjoyed the first half year. The class work hadn’t been all that difficult for him. Naturally, there had been a lot of reading, but she’d taught him good study habits. And his math classes had been simple, mostly because the Uncle had trained him to figure out percentages, and probabilities, and margins of profit. Before he’d known it, the Christmas season had rolled around, and the Uncle’s boss had invited them to a huge Christmas party at his home in Beverly Hills. If he’d known, he would have kept them away somehow. But nine years of safety, of being her good boy, had almost erased the memory of the bad thing that had happened in the red room. The memory hadn’t surfaced until he’d seen the new dress she’d bought for the party.
“Are you almost ready?” He knocked softly on their bedroom door. “It’s seven-thirty.”
The Uncle opened the door and stepped out. “It’ll take her just a minute. She’s still fussing with her hair.”
“Do you want me to back the car out of the garage?”
The Uncle smiled and nodded. “Good idea. We’ll meet you out front.”
He waited in the driveway with the motor idling, and a minute or so later they came out the front door. The Uncle looked handsome in a dark suit, white shirt, and tie. She was wearing her black dress coat with the gold Christmas tree pin he’d given her last year, and her hair was swept up in a cascade of curls. She looked almost beautiful, and he was glad. He’d made an appointment for her with the best hairstylist in the Valley as an early Christmas present.
Even though it was Friday night, it didn’t take long to drive to Beverly Hills. She was in a party mood, and she chattered gaily all the way there. And she and the Uncle oohed and aahed over the lavishly decorated homes on Camden Way.
“Oh, my!” she gasped, as they pulled up in front of the house. There were giant candy canes stuck at two-foot intervals on either side of the driveway. The roof sported a lighted Santa’s sleigh with eight reindeer, and there were evergreen garlands and wreaths on all doors and windows. Even though it was a dark night, the whole area was as bright as day. Every tree and shrub in the front yard was strung with thousands of colored light bulbs.
“His power bill must look like the national debt.” The Uncle turned to him with a twinkle in his eye. “Of course, he can afford it. He probably writes it off as a business expense.”
Then they were ushered inside by a maid in a black uniform. Her only concession to the season was a small sprig of holly pinned to her apron.
“The party’s out on the patio.”
The maid gestured toward the French doors in the living room that led to the patio, and they went out to greet their host and hostess. He lingered behind when he spotted a familiar face in a group of new arrivals. It was one of his professors, and he wanted to say hello.
The professor was talkative, and several minutes passed before he could break away and head for the patio to join them. He went out through the French doors and found himself in a huge tent that had been erected on the back lawn. The pool had been covered with wood, and it now held dozens of tables set with crystal and silver, all ready for the buffet dinner that would be served in the living room. Each table had six chairs, and there were gas patio heaters to take the chill from the air. The tent was so massive, it easily accommodated a giant Christmas tree, a string quartet playing an arrangement of Christmas carols, and over a hundred people.
He stared at the sight for a moment, ladies dressed in their finest and men in well-cut suits, all displaying their best party manners. Waiters and waitresses wove their way through the crowd with trays of appetizers and crystal glasses of champagne. Again, there were garlands of evergreen and holly everywhere, held in place by shiny gold ribbons.
He didn’t spot them at first, so he went to the bar and ordered a Coke. Since he was driving, he wouldn’t drink. It turned out that the bartender was also a UCLA student, so they talked about school for awhile.
“There you are!” The Uncle came up and patted him on the shoulder. “We thought we’d lost you for sure in this crowd. She’s waiting for us over there.”
He went with the Uncle around the huge Christmas tree. And then he saw her, sitting at a table alone. Someone had taken her coat, and now he could see the new dress she’d bought for the party. The cut was perfect. The style suited her beautifully. But it was red!
“Is something wrong?” She looked alarmed as she saw his horrified face. “What is it, Jimmy?”
He sank down in a chair next to her, and clenched his fists so his hands wouldn’t tremble. “Uh . .
. nothing. Everything’s fine.”
But it wasn’t. The horrible red mist was starting to swirl around his feet, and he fought to keep it down. It was the same red mist that had risen to choke his mind the night the Red Lady had died. It was difficult to fight something so intangible, so utterly unsubstantial, but this time he tried.
“How do you like my new dress? It’s Christmassy, isn’t it?”
He nodded and forced a smile. She had no idea what was wrong, and he wasn’t going to tell her. This was something he’d have to fight on his own.
He remembered the class he’d taken in clinical psychology, how coming face-to-face with an irrational fear sometimes rendered it harmless. But his fear wasn’t irrational, it was real. Red was the color of blood, and nothing but the ancient elements could disarm its potency.
“Champagne?” A waitress was smiling down at him, and he realized that they’d taken their glasses, and now they were looking at him. He wanted to tell the waitress to leave him alone, so he could fight the red mist, but he couldn’t seem to find his voice. Perhaps it was a good thing. The words would have frightened them. It was much easier to smile and nod, as she took a glass from the tray and handed it to him.
“To our son! You’ve made us very proud.”
The Uncle raised his glass, and she raised hers, too. And for a brief moment, the red mist thinned. Gratefully, he raised his glass and clinked it against both of theirs. Their love had made the red mist disappear. Now he had to make sure it didn’t come back.
“Excuse me for just a minute?” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “I have to get something.”
He watched his feet as he headed back toward the house. No red mist swirled up to threaten. It took a few moments, but he found the place where they’d hung the coats. Hers was easy to recognize, since it had his gold, Christmas tree pin on the collar. He grabbed it and hurried back to the tent, handing it to her with a flourish.
“How thoughtful!” She smiled as she took the coat. “Did you think I was cold?”
He nodded. “It’s drafty in here, and you’re just getting over a cold. You’d better put it on.”
“Oh, I’m just fine.” She draped the coat over the back of her chair. “It’s not chilly with all these heaters.”
His heart pounded with terror, as he realized that she wasn’t going to wear it. His plan to cover the red had failed. Then he looked down and saw that the red mist was swirling again, around his ankles. It was her fault for buying the red dress. Didn’t she know that red was dangerous? It was the color of blood!
Even though he tried his best to make it disappear again, the red mist rose and grew. It was hot in the tent, so hot that the whole room turned red. He jumped to his feet to turn down the heater, but the red mist knocked it over on top of her, and there was a terrible explosion.
People screamed as the Christmas tree caught fire. And then the sides of the tent began to turn fiery red. He saw her face, ugly with terror, as the Uncle tried to free her. But her red dress was caught on the heavy metal heater, and then the Uncle began to turn red, too.
He tried to help them, tried to free them, tried to lift and tug and pull, but someone shoved him, and then he was caught up in the stream of people fleeing the blazing tent. He felt the cool grass of the lawn on his scorched feet and then there was only a deep blackness.
He remembered the ride to the hospital, sirens wailing. And someone in white, with the face of an angel, who’d wheeled him down the hall to the operating room. Shock, they’d said. Shock and minor burns on his hands, and a shattered ankle. They’d used new technology to replace the shattered bones so he could walk again.
They’d held the funeral on the third day. A double casualty. Both of them were gone. He hadn’t been allowed to leave the hospital, but the Uncle’s boss had come to tell him it had been a beautiful service. He’d called him a hero for trying to rescue them from the inferno of the tent, and said he’d already filed a suit against the company that had catered the party. It would only be a matter of time.
The Uncle’s boss had been right. The company had settled very quickly. A million dollars. That, plus his inheritance, had made him a wealthy young man.
That had been years ago. Now he looked back down at his ankle; it was as good as new, perhaps better. And the scars on his hands were long gone. Of course, the emotional scars would never heal. That was what the doctors had told him.
He knew now that the doctors had been wrong. The emotional scars had healed completely. He was fine, perfectly normal, as long as he didn’t think about the red.
CHAPTER 11
Sam was having fun. He’d never been in the executive dining room at the studio before, and he was glad Marcie had invited him to join her for lunch. The restaurant looked like an upscale bistro, nicely decorated with green walls covered with white latticework, and lots of potted and hanging plants. There were white-linen-covered tables, fine china and silver, and attentive but unobtrusive waiters. The wine list was impressive, the menu was innovative, and the cuisine was on a scale with some of the best restaurants in town.
“You’re gawking, Sam.”
Marcie grinned at him, and Sam looked properly abashed. “Sorry about that. But isn’t that Robert DeNiro over there near that potted fuchsia?”
Marcie turned to look and then she giggled. “Don’t ask me. I’m terrible at recognizing the stars. Meryl Streep stopped by the set last week to say hello, and I didn’t know who she was until Jolene clued me in.”
“So, Marcie . . .” Sam turned serious. “You said you had something important to discuss?”
Marcie nodded. “I’m afraid I do. You see, Mercedes’s former chauffeur is my driver now, and he has a theory about how Mercedes died. I don’t know what to think, Sam. And I wanted to run it past you.”
Marcie’s hands were shaking as she told Sam everything George had said. When she finished, she realized that Sam was looking at her incredulously.
“It’s true, Sam. George is convinced that Mercedes’s death was no accident. He told me that he’s sure she was murdered.”
“Murdered!?”
Marcie held a warning finger to her lips. They were sitting at a table in the center of the restaurant, and she didn’t want anyone to overhear their conversation. Jolene had warned her that everyone in the executive dining room kept an ear out for interesting tidbits. “George asked me not to mention it to anyone else except you.”
“I’m glad you told me!” Sam reached out to pat her hand. “I don’t want you to take all this too seriously. Whenever anyone dies alone, there’s the possibility of foul play. That’s why the police came out and investigated. They brought in experts to examine the scene, and they all agreed that your sister’s death was accidental. It’s right there in the police report.”
Marcie nodded. “I know that. But George read a copy of the file, and he doesn’t agree.”
“Calm down, Marcie.” Sam patted her hand again.
“You’re getting alarmed over nothing. I sincerely doubt that George has seen the police report. You can’t just go down to police headquarters and ask to read a confidential file.”
“But George has contacts on the force. And he wouldn’t lie to me, Sam.”
“Wait a minute.” Sam frowned slightly. “Exactly what kind of contacts does George have?’
“Good ones. His partner’s a senior detective now. He got promoted to George’s old job.”
“Your driver was a senior detective?” Sam’s frown deepened as Marcie nodded. “What’s his name?”
“George Williams. He was in the—”
“Devonshire Division.” Sam’s frown changed to a look of respect. “That puts a different light on this whole thing, Marcie. Detective Williams is a legend. The guys still talk about the wild hunch he had that led to the capture of the Doorbell Killer.”
Marcie shuddered. “I remember reading about that. The killer rang the doorbell, and when people looked out through the peephole, he shot them
right through the door. They caught him just as he was about to do it again, but the poor officer who arrested him was almost—oh, Sam! That’s how George got his bad leg. He told me he was chasing down a murderer, but I never dreamed he was talking about the Doorbell Killer!”
“And Detective Williams says he’s got a hunch about Mercedes’s death?”
Marcie nodded. “Do you think he could be right?”
“Unless he’s lost his touch, and that’s pretty unlikely, I’m afraid he could be.”
“Oh, dear!” Marcie shivered slightly. “George asked me to bring you over to my trailer after we finish our lunch. He wants to ask you some questions. He needs more information, and he said that sometimes people tell their lawyers some very confidential things.”
Same nodded. “That’s true. Some people do confide in their lawyers. But, Marcie . . . your sister was a very private person. I really don’t know that much about her personal life.”
“Then she didn’t tell you about the threatening letters she got in the mail?”
Sam looked thoroughly bewildered. “What letters?”
“I’ll let George tell you. He’s got copies the studio gave him. I . . . I read them, Sam. And they scared me half to death!”
George and Sam were seated at the table in Marcie’s Winnebago, sipping cups of coffee that Jolene had brewed for them before she’d left to join Marcie on the set. Classical music was playing softly on the stereo system, and the curtains were drawn for privacy. The air conditioner hummed softly, circulating fresh, chilled air, and although the atmosphere was cool and comfortable, Sam felt beads of sweat break out on his forehead as he finished reading the first letter.
George handed him the second, and Sam read that, too. And then the third. He looked up at George several times, but the ex-detective’s face was impassive
