Rosemary for Remembrance

by Christine Arness

  “The rain didn’t wash away that!” She pointed at the soot-smeared drawing with its sinister blood trail. “Can’t you get any clues from the sketch?”

  The lieutenant shrugged. “I’m sorry, Mrs. James, but this appears to be some type of personal vendetta and unless you can give me names of persons who might want to frighten you…”

  While waiting, Abigail had compared some of the less charred plants remaining on the china plate with the photographs in the herb book and had identified them as rosemary leaves. Trying to keep her voice level, she said, “This is the latest in a series of harassments connected with my investigation into Rosemary Dickison’s death. You must have a report about the drawing that was chalked on my driveway last night.”

  The lieutenant was polite but firm. “You also said the woman died over fifty years ago and no criminal act was proven at the time. Unless you’re prepared to give me a list of the persons you’ve interviewed so far, I can’t proceed.”

  Looking into his cold, cynical eyes, Abigail realized she couldn’t turn Connie, Oliver, Matt, or even Austin over for questioning and allow their private agonies to be exposed to this man’s jaded gaze. Lieutenant Martin scratched his mustache, awaiting her response, as one of his men packed up the fingerprint kit and the other, who’d been taking notes, fidgeted with his pen.

  “He must have come in before the rain started or he’d have left tracks on the rug.” She gestured to the unsoiled carpet and looked back to the police officer, hoping to have generated a spark of interest.

  But Lieutenant Martin nodded in a noncommittal fashion, a brown-suited brick in the law-enforcement wall of indifference. His attitude clearly expressed his opinion: If this babe wasn’t going to cooperate, he certainly wouldn’t bust his butt finding who’d fingerpainted a valentine on her wall. Calling out a lieutenant for a lousy heart and an arrow—not even a Nazi swastika or a gang symbol. The agate-blue eyes had taken in her flushed face and patent relief at their arrival and written her off as an hysterical woman before she’d even opened her mouth.

  “If you have any more problems, be sure and give us a call.” He jerked his head toward the doorway and the three men starting walking.

  “I requested extra patrols in this area after last night’s incident.” Abigail trailed the departing policemen to the door. “Short of buying a gun, what else can I do to protect myself?”

  “If you’re not a licensed owner with some expertise, Mrs. James, I’d forget the gun. You’d be in more danger than anyone else, and we’d have to cite you for a violation.”

  They were out on the driveway now. The schematic woman chalked on the driveway, which resembled the outline of the body of a murder victim, had blurred into a grayish-white puddle and Abigail felt the bone-deep exhaustion settle upon her once more.

  Hugging her arms against her body, she shivered as rainwater dripped down her neck and plastered wet tendrils against her forehead. The lieutenant opened the passenger door of the squad car without looking at her again and her frustration burst out in angry questions. “You mean that’s it? My house is broken into and vandalized and you’re just going to drive off like nothing happened?”

  Lieutenant Martin gave her a gritty smile. “Almost forgot my manners—we’re supposed to be polishing our public image. So, ma’am, you have a nice day.”

  She opened her mouth to invoke the magical name of Ross Stewart, but the first syllable died on her lips. Why would Ross be interested in her problems after she’d practically accused him of harming his own son? And how did she know Ross hadn’t been the one who’d broken into her house?

  The squad car backed out of the driveway and left her standing in the rain, her freedom undoubtedly a disappointment to the neighbors watching through chinked blinds. The police twice in twenty-four hours. At this rate, they’d be getting up a petition to have her evicted from the block. She walked back inside to discover the arm of the law had done more damage than the intruder, leaving her with a fine powder on the furniture and windowsill, wet footprints in the hall, and a stomach churning with anger.

  The hollow clink of a mallet against a croquet ball led Abigail down the hall to Paul’s office. The head of the firm spent most weekends working and since his nine-year-old son, Sean, had defeated him seven times in a row, Paul had fallen into the habit of snatching a few moments of practice in between files, his lanky form bent over a mallet as he tapped a ball through little hoops anchored in Styrofoam squares.

  This evening a desk piled high with work had been abandoned as Paul crouched low in concentration, his back to the door. Abigail skirted two hoops and sank into the client’s chair.

  “Abby!” As Paul hadn’t raised his head, she had to assume he’d recognized her legs. “Be with you in a moment. Sean beat me again last night and I’ve challenged him to a rematch.”

  He tapped the ball, which missed the stake, rolled across the room, and wedged itself under the desk.

  “A pox on it!” Paul cried, shaking his mallet at his colleague. “A pox on this and any other sport requiring more coordination than lifting a TV remote.” He collapsed into his chair and wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his sport shirt. “And what may I do for you, stranger?”

  “I knew you’d be working late.” She refrained from glancing at the mallet that he’d dropped on the desk. “It’s time we talked about the Dickison investigation.”

  He listened quietly to her recital until she got to the break-in. “My poor girl! What have Flora and I gotten you in to? And Ross—what is he doing to stop this fiend?”

  “I haven’t asked for his help.”

  “But as state’s attorney, he could get you protection—”

  Abigail shook her head. “He may be part of my problem. I wanted to ask you if it were possible that the death of his son and his divorce have driven him around the bend. Certain aspects of the case, together with his history of violence, have made me wonder if he’s somehow behind these attempts at intimidation.”

  “History of violence? Ross?” Paul chortled. “He may be a bear of a man but he’s also one of the gentlest souls I know. Why back in high school he forfeited a match because he refused to continue wrestling after his opponent broke a finger in the first period.”

  “What about the time Gentle Ben broke Papa Bear’s jaw?”

  Paul frowned. “He told you that? I hadn’t realized the two of you had become so close. His father was an abusive alcoholic—Ross used to come to school with livid bruises on his body—but he never told anyone about the hell he must have gone through at home. Dear old Dad put Ross’s mother into the hospital more than once, but she always refused to press charges against the drunken brute.”

  “What you’re saying only lends weight to my theory. A person trapped in such a situation might turn to violence as a safety valve.”

  “Now, Abby, Ross and I sort of grew up together—”

  Abigail had been toying with a pencil, but at Paul’s words, she snapped it in half and flung the pieces down in exasperation. “You’d put Dracula in charge of a blood bank if he’d been on your Little League team, Paul. If only I had a way to verify that what Ross has told me is the truth, then I’d know if I were misjudging him or if I should tell him to get out of my life.”

  Paul raised his eyebrows at the bitter note in her voice. “You can’t run around testing people with a lie detector, Abby. Sooner or later you’ll be betrayed in a relationship, but you must have the guts to trust again. The act of committing part of yourself is a basic human necessity—like breathing.”

  She smoothed the tape holding the gauze in place on her hand. Her emotional ambivalence and confusion had built to the point where she had to unburden herself and the dam broke. “I can’t handle a relationship with Ross! When I’m with him, I feel this deep attraction to the man—he’s warm, sexy, compassionate, and seems equally attracted to me. I want to bind his wounds, kiss his hurts, and make them better. I want to jump his bones, Paul, I want to pour o
ut my soul and tell him my life story. Me! Ms. I’m Independent And Don’t Need Anyone Else Abigail James. Yet I still have these doubts and end up saying the most terrible things to keep him from getting close enough to hurt me.”

  Paul sighed. “My wife and I were married for ten years and the lines of communication were down for at least seven of them, which doesn’t qualify me as an expert on man-woman relations. But I do know that you shouldn’t be alone tonight—why don’t we pick up Sean and all go out to supper?”

  “You’re just trying to postpone that croquet rematch, but I accept.” Abigail gave him a watery smile. “Thanks, Paul, for being a listening ear.”

  “Just hope you like pizza—Sean has two basic requirements for food: must be served in a crust and covered with cheese.” He fanned out the deck of cards on his desk. “Pick a card.”

  She watched him reshuffle her selection into the deck and after a moment of intense concentration, he whipped one out with a flourish. “Your card, Abby.”

  Paul was holding up the ace of spades.

  Across town in a booth at Al’s Steak House, another couple ate supper and planned the rest of their Sunday evening.

  “So all you do is key in the number and the computer dials the phone and tells the customer that their order is in?”

  Gwen nodded, taking another sip from her glass of beer. He was interested in the most peculiar things and his idea of a good time was somewhat kinky, but he was so handsome that Gwen would agree to anything to keep him. Short of murder, of course.

  “But you can change the program, can’t you? Put in a different message and the computer will recite it to the person answering the phone?”

  “Sure. Piece of cake.” Gwen wondered if she dared suggest dessert. And why was he asking so many questions about a job that bored her to death? Brown-wrapped packages and lists of phone numbers. She squeezed his knee and rubbed her cheek against his sleeve like a kitten seeking affection.

  “And you’ve got a key to the office.”

  “I have to have one—I open up the store every morning.” She ran her tongue over her lips, aware that her smile was one of her best features.

  “Why don’t we go over to your office? I always wanted to be a boss and have a secretary to obey my slightest whim.”

  Gwen gave a pleasurable shiver as she recognized the look in his eyes. That look had resulted in Gwen lying on a chilly driveway while he outlined her figure in chalk, an excursion that had proved to be both exciting and enjoyable—with his bold hands roaming intimately over her body and the added stimulation that at any moment someone might see them. And screaming outside that window had been kind of a kick—they ran three blocks to his car, laughing, and made love in the backseat with the sound of police sirens ringing in their ears.

  Now he wanted her to do something else for him, she just knew it. Gwen shrugged. Why not? A refusal would condemn her to a movie with only a jumbo tub of buttered popcorn for company.

  Although she didn’t dare risk losing him, she wanted to be coaxed. “But, lover boy, I’m not wearing my office clothes,” she pouted, tracing the rim of her plate with a lavender-tinted nail.

  “Then don’t wear any clothes at all,” he suggested and nibbled on her ear.

  She arched against him. “Don’t stop—please, don’t stop,” she whispered.

  “Are we going to your office then?” His hand caressed her waist and he dragged her across the seat—pressed her hip against his own lean, hard one.

  “You’re the boss,” she said pertly and giggled as he bared his teeth and nipped at the soft flesh of her neck.

  Early Monday morning, fire sirens were audible in the east side of Lincoln City. If it hadn’t been for the barks of a frightened puppy, Connie and Harold would have died in the flaming holocaust that consumed their cottage and melted the bulgy-eyed plastic frog standing sentry by the front door.

  Chapter 41

  The first call came at two A.M. and the persistent ringing jerked Abigail out of an uneasy sleep. “Hello?”

  “—for you.” The voice was hollow, inhuman.

  “What?” Abigail heard a click and then the dial tone.

  She hung up. A wrong number. But the warm cocoon of sleep had been shattered and she was wide awake when the phone rang again.

  “I am coming for you.” Click. Dial tone.

  She stared at the receiver by the light of the luminous numbers of the bedside clock before replacing it. She watched the sweep of the second hand and in exactly one minute, the phone rang.

  Abigail forced herself to pick up the receiver and listen to the mechanical-sounding voice recite the message again. She cut in, her voice breathless. “Who is this?” Click.

  She slammed the phone down. Stared with fascination at the clock. Picked up the phone and listened in growing horror as the voice repeated the warning, the same even pacing marking the words.

  A faint whir at the beginning of the speech indicated it was a recording and Abigail realized that someone had set a machine to dial her phone at one-minute intervals and repeat a message. The phone chirped again as she tried to sort out the implications. The person responsible for the warning might be anywhere, even crouched beneath the window with the broken lock used to gain entrance earlier. She pushed herself out of bed and ran over to lock the bedroom door.

  The phone cycled through and rang again, the sharp sound like the taunt of a bully on a school playground. Abigail was unable to think with it shrilling at her, demanding an answer, and she crouched to unplug the phone from the jack, but the instrument in the living room kept ringing, its muffled burr somehow sinister.

  Hampered by her bandaged hand, she fumbled with the zipper on a pair of jeans and pulled a sweatshirt over her head. Her recurring thought was that the person harassing her was giving a final warning.

  She knelt to plug the phone back in to call Lieutenant Martin, but cord in hand, she paused. Like a house infested by termites, Abigail’s credibility had been riddled with holes—her hasty exit from the Kyles’ reception, the tortured figure of the woman chalked on her driveway, the smeared drawing on the living-room wall, all added up to a picture of a neurotic female. She hugged her knees and remembered the other negative factors: Michael’s death and what might be viewed as an obsession to discover Rosemary’s murderer when all evidence pointed to an accident.

  Heart sinking, she realized that Ross Stewart would be the best witness against her. The waiter at the Creole Scamp could testify to her distraught condition. She remembered the clash over the pieces of the valentine at the tavern. Again, the bartender’s description of her actions would paint a picture of a woman on an emotional roller coaster, out of control. Ross could also attest to her Jekyll and Hyde response to him last night, first kissing him and then accusing him of infanticide half an hour later.

  The gashed hand on the broken glass might be viewed as a failed and drunken suicide attempt. Someone could even construe her repeated visits to Dale’s Nursery as mere paranoia. No one in Lincoln City could vouch for her stability; Abigail had kept her private life sealed off from possible intrusions by colleagues and acquaintances.

  She remembered the aide remarking on Ross’s obvious concern at the hospital, but looking back, had his fear been for her injury or what she might be telling the hospital personnel?

  Abigail tried to shut out the sound of the phone ringing down the hall and concentrate on the problem at hand. By the time the police arrived, whoever was waging this psychological campaign of terror could stop the calls and leave her without supporting evidence of the threat.

  She knelt to pick up the phone again. Paul would come. But, receiver in hand, she paused and remembered the anxiety in his eyes when she had voiced her suspicions of Ross. Suppose Paul had humored her all evening, his kindness the kid gloves used for a mental patient just out of the asylum—could she count on him to back her up?

  The phone rang and rang in the living room. I am coming for you.

  Abigail shud
dered. Someone had bound a web of circumstantial evidence around her and the more she struggled against it, the tighter it became—her efforts to solve the mystery had only served to insure that her voice would not be heard. And what if this devious mind planned to carry Abigail’s obsession with Rosemary to the ultimate conclusion—a body lying on a dusty country lane, a murder dismissed as an accident.

  Awakened by the sun’s warmth pressing against her eyelids, Abigail sat up and looked around the room, dazed. Sometime during the fear-paralyzed watches of the early morning hours, she’d fallen asleep.

  Thrusting her feet into a pair of battered moccasins, she ran through the silent house to the garage. Once behind the wheel of the car with the doors locked, she felt safe enough to draw a deep breath and stretch her cramped muscles.

  As she pressed the button to close the garage door, she noticed a red square marring the cream paint of the front door of her house. Daylight gave her the courage to leave the car’s protection and discover that the red square was an envelope pinned to the wood—an envelope containing a valentine featuring a chubby cupid holding an empty bow. On the inside, the original verse had been marked out with a black pen and someone had printed a rhyme:

  Roses are red, violets are blue.

  Rosemary is dead—you will be, too.

  Above the verse, the heart pierced by Cupid’s arrow had been cut out—only the tip and feathers of the arrow remained.

  Chapter 42

  Abigail drove to the office, shut herself in her room, and began listing the sequence of events starting with her first visit to Flora. By placing a detailed memo before Lieutenant Martin, she hoped to force the lawman to acknowledge a pattern and keep him from dismissing the incidents as the flimsy and unsubstantiated anxieties of a neurotic.