At ten o’clock, Debbie knocked and entered without waiting for an answer. “Rough night, Abby? You look as if you’d been dragged through a knothole.”
Abigail’s head ached from her interrupted sleep, and two cups of coffee had only intensified the pain. “I feel like I was dragged—”
She stopped talking when she caught sight of the picture on the front page of the newspaper in Debbie’s hands. The woman featured was studious-looking, with her hair pulled back and clad in a demure white blouse with a high collar. “Abigail James, associate with Faber and Kallen” was printed below the picture.
“That’s the photo they published when you joined the firm,” Debbie said. “Great interview, Abby.”
“Interview?” Abigail snatched the paper and read the article, oblivious to Debbie’s departure. The byline was Woody Sandisto. The guy with the cowlicks, in the morgue. She remembered his insistence that Rosemary didn’t appear in their files.
The headline asked “Who Murdered Rosemary Dickison?” and the first sentence elaborated that she, Abigail James, had vowed not to rest until Rosemary’s killer was brought to trial.
The article went on to quote from the sheriff’s report and the enterprising Mr. Sandisto had also included a reference to Rosemary’s pregnancy. Abigail stared down at the crushed sheets of newsprint in despair—Woody might as well have put a sign around her neck reading “sitting duck.” She was out in the open now, an isolated target, and her tormentor might be pushed into taking drastic action by the same article giving Lieutenant Martin ample cause to brush her off as a publicity-seeking crank.
The valentine was her only solid evidence—she could prove she hadn’t printed the sinister block letters of the verse. A death threat should be brought to the attention of the state’s attorney’s office, but the use of a greeting card bothered her. To her knowledge, Ross was the only person who knew about her habit of carrying the pieces of Michael’s valentine.
Paul’s words came back to her. “Commitment is a basic human need—at some point you’ll have to trust someone again.”
Drawing a deep breath, she picked up the phone, dialed the courthouse, and asked to be connected to the state’s attorney.
Ross’s greeting was impatient. “Stewart here.”
“Have you seen this morning’s paper?”
A quick intake of breath. “No, Ms. James. I’ve been in negotiations on the McKenzie murder plea and if you’ll excuse me, I’m heading back in now.”
“I need to talk to you, Ross. About this article and the Dickison case—and about us. Something happened last night that—”
“I don’t believe we have anything to talk about, Ms. James. The Dickison case is closed, history. And so are we.”
“But, Ross—”
“Remember, you don’t beg.”
“Ross!”
She was pleading with a dial tone.
Chapter 43
Connie Pringle hated the plastic confines of the hotel room. A late breakfast had just arrived in the form of French toast, scrambled eggs, and coffee, and after pouring Harold a cup, she moved over to view the morning sunshine washing across the patio below.
The bright sun was eclipsed in her mind by the memory of the fierce red glow of the flames consuming their bungalow. If Gatsby hadn’t been such a light sleeper! And everything was gone, the pictures of their children and grandchildren, the souvenirs from each family vacation, the blue skirt she’d gotten married in.
Harold seemed to read her thoughts. “The house was well insured, Connie, and we can build again. Material things don’t matter as long as we’re all still alive. Give me a smile and come have some breakfast.”
She wished Harold would jump up and put his arms around her, but he remained in his chair and sipped his coffee. Connie turned back to the window, her fingers braiding and rebraiding the ties of her robe. A station wagon with a Minnesota license plate was in the process of being loaded and she watched the figures shuffling cases with the mindless diligence of worker ants toting grains of rice. A suitcase, duffel bag, another suitcase, no—remove duffel bag, put in garment bag. Still staring out the window, Connie let her gaze probe back into the past…
For once partnerless, Rosemary was standing by the buffet table when Connie finally nerved herself to approach the other girl. Her palms were sweating; the drummer’s frenzied beat echoed the pounding at her temples. Even the candles on the buffet table leaped in time to the band’s excitement and the silver braid on the saxophonist’s jacket flashed as he dueled two clarinets for the melody.
Connie raised her voice to be heard over the din. “Rosemary, please, we’ve got to talk!”
Without acknowledging the other girl’s presence, Rosemary snapped her fingers and nodded her head.
“Rosemary!”
The girl spoke without turning her head. “We have nothing to say to each other.”
The song finished on a trumpet’s brassy blare and some of the band members strolled toward the door, cigarette cases and flasks in hand. Two of them leered at Rosemary and she acknowledged them with a toss of her head.
Dismissed, Connie twisted her hands together. While crawling across a narrow branch and scraping her knees on its bark, she’d been inspired by the knowledge that the risk of being caught was outweighed by the prospect of making up the quarrel. But Rosemary had a horror of lies—always made a point of being truthful and demanded complete honesty in return. Connie had broken a rule for which there was no forgiveness and the realization was a bitter taste in her mouth.
She was still at Rosemary’s side, anchored by guilt, when Julia approached. Her companion’s features reminded Connie of a newly peeled tuber—white, shiny, and hard with a wart like a potato eye just below his hairline. Secure in his position behind Julia, he winked at Rosemary and blew her a kiss.
Standing straight and tall, Julia spoke first. “Don’t dance with my brother again—just crawl back under your rock.”
Connie was shocked at the vituperative outburst, but Rosemary only smiled, a princess amused by the ravings of a peasant. “Connie, here, is my witness that I offered to bring your little niece or nephew over for you to play with.”
Julia swayed as if to inaudible strains of music. “You mean you’re—”
Rosemary nodded. “Yes, I’m carrying your brother’s child. Give us your blessing, Aunt Julia.”
As Connie watched, the other woman made a quick recovery and brushed her hands together as if disposing of an unpleasant object. “Let’s get some punch, Nathan.”
As Julia pivoted on her heel, Rosemary spoke again. “He’s dirt, Julia.”
The taller girl glanced back—Connie found herself shut out from the brief flare of understanding that traveled between the two women as they looked at Nathan ladling up a dipperful of punch. But as Julia walked away, a pale pink balloon landed at her feet and her spiked heel stabbed with deliberation into its center, exploding the bubble.
Rosemary stooped to pick up the limp balloon, stretching it across her palm like a glove.
“You’ve been sleeping with Austin?” Connie’s voice was a croak. “You never told me—your best friend!”
Rosemary’s smile was tight. “I never made the mistake of believing a shared secret strengthens a friendship. Lies, on the other hand…”
She continued to stretch the rubber until it tore in two with a hiss of almost human pain…
“What’s bothering you, Connie?”
She traced a circle on the window glass. “I’m fine.”
“You’re worrying something like Gatsby gnaws his chewbone.”
Connie felt like sitting down and bawling like a baby, but Harold would never understand. Instead, she shrugged, keeping her back to her husband. “I was thinking that that young woman had no business prying into my personal life—I should have shown her the door.”
Harold’s voice was puzzled. “She was only carrying out an assignment, Connie. The truth never hurt anyone.”
&n
bsp; He was so confident, so wrong. “The truth is sharper than a two-edged sword, just like the Bible says.”
“The Good Book also says the truth can set you free.”
She turned and looked at him with somber eyes. “Free? One can never break free of the past, Harold. Memories are shackles attached to a ball and chain of guilt.”
Her husband had never heard her speak in such a fashion. To him, Connie had always been as placid and peaceful as a lake at dawn and the realization that an unruffled surface had concealed chilly black depths frightened him. “Please, Connie. Talk to me—tell me what’s wrong.”
“Last night I got a phone call.” The sunlight mercilessly revealed the sagging structure of her skin. “A man—didn’t give his name. But he told me not to speak to the James woman again.”
“He threatened you?” Harold’s hand clenched on the knife lying across his plate.
Connie sighed. “I wanted to tell you, but after the way I carried on at the interview, I was afraid you’d think I was turning into an hysterical old woman. Then Gatsby’s barking woke me out of a bad dream and the air was thick with smoke—” She broke off, coughing as if the smoke had permeated the air here, too.
“You think the man who called set our house on fire?”
She nodded and he sat in stunned silence, trying to digest the horror of what she was suggesting, before shaking his head in denial. “Why would someone want to hurt us?”
“Rosemary was pregnant, Harold. Someone doesn’t want me talking about the baby—the fire was a warning.”
“The fire was caused by a fault in the wiring, Connie. Put this whole mess out of your mind and after breakfast we’ll start looking at house plans.”
Resigned, Connie moved away from the window. Harold’s expression indicated the past had become a closed chapter and she realized anew that her husband was forever destined to travel the well-marked, sunlit streets, too timid to explore the grimy, shadow-filled alleys of human frailty.
Refilling their cups, she reflected that restoring Harold’s world to balance was as easy as tipping a coffeepot. Her husband unfolded the morning newspaper and she took comfort in the fact that although he was incapable of slaying a dragon, he wouldn’t flee from the beast without making sure she was at his side.
Harold, as was his habit, opened the paper to the financial section to check on the progress of their modest investments. Thus, Connie saw the front-page headline first and dropped a pitcher of maple syrup, which spread a sweet trail across the carpet.
Harold stared at her in dismay. “Honeybun, what is it?”
But Connie could only point to the stark black letters asking the question, Who Murdered Rosemary Dickison?
Helen sat at the kitchen table, her wire-rimmed glasses low on the bridge of her nose. If Warren had used better penmanship on his logs, her task would be much easier. But the lad had been a sloppy writer since the day he was born—took after his father in that respect, always in too much of a hurry to take the time to form the letters properly.
She paused for a moment. If Warren had lived instead of dying in a far-off Asian war…
With a sigh, she abandoned what might have been and jotted down another item on the shopping list, relieved that so far she could get everything required at the hardware store or the garden center. And a lot of miscellaneous junk that had belonged to her late husband was still stored in the garage.
She chuckled. If she’d known how Warren and his father had taken care of that stubborn tree stump, she never would have been able to close her eyes again for a night’s sleep while imagining what those two might be up to. And bless practical, pragmatic Warren who had documented every step and gotten an A on his experiment, along with a handwritten caution from the teacher. Finding the experiment logs in the Saratoga trunk in the attic had been a miracle, a delayed gift from her son.
One of the upstairs bedrooms had a windup alarm clock, which left only one item unmarked on the list. As she pondered the problem, the buzz of a lawn mower outside the house brought a smile to her face.
She crossed the kitchen and pushed open the screen door. “José!”
The young man pushing the mower stopped and left the machine idling as he crossed the lawn, ducking under low-hanging branches. “Yes, Mrs. Peters?”
She put her arm around his thin shoulders and hugged him.
“Now, José, remember when your baby sister was so ill and the doctor wouldn’t come because your family had no money? I took her to my doctor and paid the bills.”
He nodded, a wary look in his dark brown eyes.
“You told me that day if I ever needed anything, just ask.”
A flush crept up under olive skin at the reminder. “I give my life for you, Mrs. Peters. You are a good woman.”
Helen smothered a twinge of guilt and patted his hand. “José, I need a big favor. I’m in trouble and I’m asking you as a friend—not a debtor—for help. But if you can’t, just tell me and I’ll find another way.”
“You save Carmen’s life. I do anything.”
Helen described the item needed and José gulped. “Mrs. Peters!” He hesitated. A life debt was a life debt. “I don’t have the money to buy such a thing.”
Helen took her checkbook out of the pocket of her housedress, signed a blank check, and handed it to him.
“He won’t take a check, Senora Peters.” José’s English was slipping in his distress.
“I’ll go with you then and as soon as we find out how much it costs, I’ll cash the check and you can deliver the money. Let me get my shopping list.” Helen hurried inside, giggling. The cloud of depression had lifted and her path seemed clear—besides, another check made out to cash would just kill Darlene.
José shrugged and went to put the lawn mower away. Senora Peters had the generosity of an angel, but she was a little bit loco. What would Riveria say when he showed up with Helen in tow?
The Kyle mansion remained as outwardly serene as it had for nearly a century, surrounded by ancient oaks and manicured lawns, as a robin hunted worms near the fountain and a squirrel scolded a neighbor that had intruded into his domain.
Austin was in his workshop. Progress on the second duckling was advancing steadily; the pathetic reminders of his first attempt had been tidied away. While he was putting an edge on his tools, the maid entered bearing coffee, English muffins, orange marmalade, and a folded newspaper on a Gorham silver tray.
Pouring himself a cup, he perched beside the workbench to enjoy the paper in the heady atmosphere of wood curls and sawdust. Rosemary’s name caught his eye, however, and he choked in midsip. Slamming the cup on the bench, he read the article once, twice, and yet again, pausing each time on the last paragraph.
The driver who took Rosemary’s life had unwittingly twice bloodied his hands, as the autopsy revealed that Miss Dickison was nearly three months pregnant.
“No!” The distraught artist glared around the room, his gaze halting on the family crest inscribed on the coffee server and the arrogance of the initials inflamed his growing horror and disgust.
“I hate you!” he screamed, thrusting it away, unmoved by the gurgling clatter as the coffeepot struck the floor.
Upstairs in her bedroom, Julia had also received her breakfast, elegantly displayed on a white wicker table placed across the bed. The maid filled the bone china cup with tea that had been gently steeping and lifted a silver cover to reveal a croissant and a fluffy mushroom omelet.
“That will be all, Lizbeth.”
Accepting her curt dismissal with outward calm, the maid unfolded the newspaper and departed as Julia sipped her tea and glanced at the headlines. Hot liquid scalded her hand, however, as she dropped the cup and absorbed every smudgily printed word of the article.
“But Father had the part about the baby taken out of the report!” she exclaimed to the unresponsive bedposts. “No one was ever to know. Abigail James is responsible for this.”
Her face burned with anger as she reread
the article. Crushing the paper between her hands, she flung it across the room, snatched up the telephone receiver, and dialed a familiar number with jabs of her index finger.
Chapter 44
“There’s a Lieutenant Sloan from the Mayfield Police Department on line one, Abby.”
Lieutenant Sloan. The man in charge of Michael’s case. A spasm of nausea twisted her insides.
“Good morning, Lieutenant. This is Abigail James.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. James, but I did promise to keep you apprised of any new developments.”
“There’s been a development?” Please, get it over with, she urged silently.
“A young man has confessed to being the driver of the car that struck your husband. After breaking up with his girlfriend, he went to a bar to drown his sorrows and told everyone who’d listen that his troubles had started with a hit-and-run. Someone present in the bar tipped us off and we picked him up for questioning. He seemed glad to get it off his chest.”
“Why? I mean, how did it happen? Was he too stoned to see a six-foot-tall man at two o’clock in the afternoon?”
A brief silence. “He told us he’d been sniffing helium—purchased about twenty of those little canisters at a store and was driving around and snorting the contents. Kids like to try different highs—they tell me the gas makes you dizzy and light-headed. Too much of it can also cause a driver to black out.”
The lieutenant gave her statistics about the driver—his name was Gerald and he had just turned twenty. Tears trickled down Abigail’s face. The worst had happened—Michael had died because of someone else’s selfishness.
“You’d mentioned once that you’d like to meet the driver of that car face-to-face, Mrs. James. Bond hasn’t been set yet and if you’d like to drive over here to talk to the boy…”
At one time her only desire had been to spill her pain and heartache before Michael’s murderer and make him or her a witness to the havoc wrought in her life. But the urge to revenge herself, to seek satisfaction for her loss, had burned itself out—she’d seen firsthand how living in the past could destroy one’s future. She’d not been granted the power to judge another human being; Gerald’s torment had begun that rainy February afternoon and would continue until the day he died.
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