“But she blamed me for not taking better care of Zoey!”
Rex nodded. “I’m afraid she did, which was silly. Zoey was your age, not a tyke for whom you were babysitting. And Zoey was the one who insisted on sneaking out that night. You kept saying she wouldn’t have gone without you, but I think she would have if that boy she was meeting meant so much to her. Anita ignored all of that, but then, Anita wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. I never understood why she and Vivian were such good friends.”
“Anita might not have been as bright as Mom, but she was sweet and kind and—”
“Adoring. Anita thought your mother was wonderful, and Vivian just couldn’t resist people who looked up to her.”
“Rex!” Chyna chided. “That’s an awful thing to say.”
“But it’s true, and you know it.”
“I know no such thing and I think it’s terrible of you to accuse Mom of cultivating friendships with people just because she thought they admired her!”
Rex smiled calmly. “I’m not saying that Vivian’s only reason for forming friendships was to gather a bunch of groupies around her, but not even you can deny that she craved adoration. Maybe we all do, just not as much as Vivian
did, but I’m not going to argue with you about your mother’s foibles, Chyna. You’re far too upset as it is. Besides, I hate to burst your bubble, but I’m not quite perfect, either.” He leaned over and gave her a light kiss on the cheek. “I’m going to take my unwanted candid remarks upstairs and leave you to visit with Scott. If any of those people come back here to harass you, give me a yell.”
Rex turned and headed for the wide staircase, throwing up a hand in farewell. Chyna and Scott watched him in silence until he reached the top of the stairs and disappeared down the hall. Then Chyna turned on Scott, saying hotly, “I don’t know what’s gotten into him. My mother did not use people!”
Scott took a step closer to her, the cool gray light from the broken front window falling on the chiseled, aristocratic lines of his face from the intense dark eyes to the strong chin with its indentation. “Rex didn’t mean to insult your mother, Chyna,” he said softly. “I believe all he was saying was that your mother was extroverted and charming and beautiful and sometimes that kind of person attracts others who aren’t so blessed.” He smiled. “Hey, even when I was a teenager, I thought your mother had it going all over the place.”
“And what exactly does that mean?” Chyna asked, not knowing whether to be offended.
“It means she was good-looking, friendly, dressed in clothes that showed she had a great figure without looking trashy, acted younger than her age—” He stopped, then said laughingly, “Chyna, your mom wasn’t like my mother or the mothers of any of my friends. She was hip and, well… sexy. If she’d been a few years younger I might have had a crush on her.”
“Oh really?” Chyna pictured her mother—beautiful, laughing, somehow seeming younger than all the other mothers she knew—and suddenly understood what Scott meant. But Chyna couldn’t let him off with a simple “Oh.” Instead, she cocked her head and said, “I thought when you were a teenager you had your eye on me.”
Scott flushed and said loudly, “I thought you were an in-
teresting kid who’d grow up to be an interesting woman. God, Chyna, I’m not a pervert!”
“I see,” Chyna answered as if in deep thought. “You thought I was an interesting seven-year-old. What did your other friends think of me?”
By now, Scott had regained his composure. “They thought you were a pretty little smart aleck.” He grinned. “And you grew up to be a pretty adult smart aleck. No, let me amend that. You grew up to be a gorgeous smart aleck.” He winked at her. “How about getting me another beer, chérie, and I’ll call Ridgeway’s and have them bring over a piece of plywood big enough to cover that front window until you can get it fixed?”
Ridgeway’s. Chyna thought of the expression on Gage Ridgeway’s face yesterday when he’d been up on the ladder cleaning gutters and he’d clearly seen the sudden fear in her eyes when she remembered he’d been Edie Larson’s boyfriend. Edie, one of the lost girls. Was Deirdre another one?
Scott followed Chyna into the kitchen, and while he flipped through the phone book, looking for the number of Ridgeway Construction, Chyna opened the refrigerator. She bent down to the bottom shelf and started to pull out a bottle of beer when suddenly she could smell dust and mildew and feel her arms trapped behind her, wrapped with duct tape, just like her ankles. She was cold in spite of an old, scratchy blanket that had been thrown over her, and she was terrified of death that might come any minute.
But she knew she was not having this experience. She was psychically linked to someone else having this experience. Aloud, she muttured, “Deirdre?”
Scott looked at her. “Chyna? Chyna, what’s wrong?”
Slowly, the feeling of duct tape, the smell of dust and mildew, and the feeling of imminent danger faded away. Slightly dizzy and weak, Chyna mentally returned to her mother’s shining clean kitchen, holding a bottle of cold beer as she looked up into the dark, alarmed eyes of Scott Kendrick.
“Chyna?” he asked again, softly, as if he didn’t want to scare her. “What is it?”
She swallowed and choked. Her heart must be going at least a hundred beats a minute, she thought, and her chest felt so tight that at first she couldn’t speak.
“I’m calling nine-one-one,” Scott said, picking up the phone receiver. Chyna shook her head violently and reached out for him. His hands closed on her upper arms, and he pulled her up, then drew her close to him. So blessedly close, she thought, clinging to him for reassurance and safety. She couldn’t stop looking into his eyes, calming herself with the sensation of his strong hands on her arms, of the nearness of his face to hers, of the comforting feel of his warm breath on her cheek.
Finally, Chyna took a deep breath. “Deirdre Mayhew is alive.”
Scott gently pushed Chyna a step away from him although he still clasped her arms. “You kept saying she’d been gone such a short time, there was no need for everyone to panic. Did you really think she was alive?”
“Yes,” Chyna said, barely above a whisper.
“I knew you were being far too calm about her, far too insistent that people shouldn’t panic,” Scott said slowly. “Now I realize you were afraid—”
“That if I said she’d been taken by whoever took the other girls, it would be true.” Chyna drew a deep breath. “She has been abducted, but now I know she isn’t dead. She’s being held a prisoner, though. Her ankles and wrists are bound. I think her mouth and eyes are taped shut, too. She’s terrified. And so cold. I think there’s a blanket over her, but underneath, she’s naked.” Chyna shuddered and desperately looked up at him. “Scott, I don’t know where she is, but I do know that the person who abducted Deirdre is torturing her by making her wait for her own murder.”
CHAPTER TEN
1
Scott stared at her for a moment. “You’re sure she’s going to be murdered?”
“I don’t know if that’s what’s she thinking right at this moment, but it’s what she has been thinking. Or rather, she’s certain of it and I’ve been almost sure of it ever since this morning when Beverly told me about Deirdre going missing. If I had the slightest doubt before, I don’t now. Deirdre is another one of Black Willow’s lost girls, just like Zoey, and Edie, and Heather, and … and maybe Nancy Tierney!”
Scott looked at her in shock. “Nancy! Chyna, Nancy Tierney died because of a fall.”
“I know, but there was more to it than a simple fall.”
“More? What do you mean? Was she pushed?”
“No. She did trip. But-—”
Chyna broke off, seeing Scott’s look of growing uncertainty, and knew she was losing his faith. “You don’t believe any of this, do you?”
Scott closed his eyes for a moment, then looked steadily into her eyes. “It’s not that I think you’re lying or delusional, Chyna. But you went through qui
te a bit outside with those people yelling things to you about Deirdre. Isn’t it possible you let that bunch of lunatics scare you into believing all
sorts of things, even about Nancy Tierney? Nancy doesn’t have anything to do with Zoey or Deirdre or the others.”
“Yes, I think she does.” Chyna began to feel the warmth of confidence trickling back into her. “Scott, I’m not impressionable. Not at all, although sometimes I’ve tried to convince myself I am. I’ll admit that crowd outside unnerved me, but they didn’t scare me into a belief about Deirdre I didn’t already have. And they didn’t say a word about Nancy.”
Scott took Chyna’s arm and led her to the kitchen table. “Sit and relax,” he said gently. “Tell me what you mean, Chyna. I don’t think you’re crazy and I’m not humoring you. I really want to know what you’re feeling about Deirdre and about Nancy.”
Chyna pulled one of the chairs away from the shining oak table, turned it sideways, sat down, and looked at Scott’s earnest face. “Are you sure you really want to know? After all, you never told me you believe in second sight.”
“But I said I’d keep an open mind. That’s what I’m trying to do. Please, Chyna. I want to believe you. Help me.”
She sat still, took a couple of deep breaths, and tried to compose her roiling emotions. Finally, she gave Scott what she hoped was a patient look. “You’re right. I’ve given you no proof that Deirdre has been taken just like the other girls because I have no proof. All I have is my belief based on an incident I haven’t told you about earlier because…”
“Because?”
“I was going to say because I haven’t had a chance,” Chyna said reluctantly. “But that would have been a lie. And I’m tired of lying—to myself and to everyone else. For some reason, especially you.”
Attention flickered in Scott’s eyes. Then he asked softly, “What have you been lying about?”
“How much I see, how much I know.” Chyna felt despair and relief wash over her at the same time. “Scott, I’ve told you about the voice at the lake and a few other things I’ve felt. But I made it sound as if I wasn’t certain about what I’ve heard or sensed. But I am certain. I don’t care if you think I’m raving
mad; I can feel my power, my second sight, whatever it is, more strongly than I’ve ever felt it in my life.” She glanced at him defiantly. “Well, aren’t you going to tell me again I’m just upset because of that crowd yelling at me earlier?”
The trace of a smile appeared and vanished from Scott’s face. “No, I’m not, Chyna. I’m relieved you’ve finally admitted what you’ve been feeling, and I’m glad you admitted it to me.”
“Oh,” she said, somehow feeling deflated. “You aren’t going to try to talk me out of it, make me see reason?”
He shook his head. “Every Tom, Dick, and Harry thinks he sees reason. You’re the one who sees beyond reason.”
“I thought you were a skeptic.”
“Maybe I’m not as much of a skeptic as I led you to believe.” Scott leaned toward her. “I’m not humoring you, Chyna. I’m not trying to make you say things I think are silly. In fact, I believe when I expressed doubts in the cafe, I was only trying to hide the fact that I was a little afraid of what you can do with your mind. It is a tad scary for just regular guys like me.”
“You’re not a regular guy.”
“Yeah, I am. But I’m not the subject right now. At least I hope I’m not, considering you believe someone abducted Deirdre with plans to kill her.”
Chyna nodded and murmured, “All right.”
“Tell me every so-called weird thing you’ve felt in the last couple of days,” Scott said, then exclaimed, “No, wait!” He walked to the kitchen door and glanced up the stairs where Rex had gone. Then he came back. “Okay, now tell me.”
“Were you checking to make sure Rex wasn’t lurking around listening?”
“Yes. I guess considering that crowd out there today, I should sweep the place for listening devices, but they didn’t strike me as sophisticated enough to even know one if they saw it, much less place some around the house.”
Finally, Chyna was able to laugh. “For God’s sake, Scott, you’re acting crazier than I sound.”
“At least you’re smiling. Besides, I have my reasons.”
Scott reached out and took her cold hand in his. “Hurry up before Rex comes back.”
“Here goes.” Chyna ran her tongue over her lips just as she always did before she launched into a long or complicated story. “The night Deirdre was taken, I was at Ned’s handing out candy while Beverly took the children out trickor-treating. Ned was at the car lot. When Bev and the kids came back, Kate was sick—vomiting, sweating—so Beverly and I rushed her to the hospital. I stayed in the waiting room with Ian. He was scared, so I got him to look out the window at that house across the highway where they never take down the Christmas decorations.” She paused. “All at once, I started muttering ’Forever,’ only I didn’t feel as if I were speaking. I felt as if I was … well, channeling someone else’s words.”
She blushed, feeling as though she really did sound like a fool. Or maybe worse. But Scott watched her intently, no derision showing on his face or doubt in his eyes, so she continued. “Then I saw, or rather, whoever I was channeling saw something pale. Just a glimpse. And I said, ’A ghost?’”
“ ’A ghost?’”
“Yes. But as I said, I didn’t feel as if / were talking, but I must have been because I think Ian repeated ’ghost.’ I’m not sure. Then I just dropped him.”
“You dropped him!”
“Yes,” Chyna said miserably. “He was wearing a Donald Duck costume with a pillow on his bottom, so he wasn’t hurt. Just scared.”
Scott grinned. “A pillow?”
“Yes. You know how ducks have a puffy rump? The pillow was under the suit and—”
“Never mind. I know what ducks look like. Poor Ian. Even at age three, I’ll bet he was mortified.” Scott got his grin under control. “Go on.”
“I started flailing. I knew I was doing it, but I couldn’t stop it. I felt something scratching my arms. Then I smelled something sweet. I kept thinking, Don’t breathe! but I couldn’t help it.” Chyna paused. “Then I snapped back to reality when someone came up to me and asked if I needed
help. Suddenly I was back in the reality of the waiting room and Ian wailing and some woman yelling at me.” She shut her eyes. “Scott, I didn’t see a flash of someone pale or mutter ’ghost.’ Nothing scratched my arms. There’s not a mark on me. And no one in that waiting room was wearing cologne. / didn’t smell anything sweet.”
“But you think someone was scratched and someone smelled something sweet.”
“When I heard they found signs of a struggle by the rhododendron bushes at the house where the party was held along with Deirdre’s shoe…” Chyna trailed off, looking down. “Well, I think I was sensing her experience. I think she was out there by those bushes—rhododendrons don’t lose their leaves in the winter, you know. The leaves are leathery and the branches of the bushes are strong. I think someone hit her on the head and grabbed her out there. When she was fighting to get free, the branches scratched her arms. And I’m sure that sweet smell she was trying not to breathe in was chloroform. She was excellent in chemistry. You said she was. She would have known the sweet smell of chloroform. She would also have known not to breathe it in. That’s why I kept thinking, Don’t breathe! But of course she couldn’t help it, and the drug made her lose consciousness.”
Chyna finally glanced up again to see Scott looking at her, his face rigid, his own breath suspended. He leaned even closer to her and whispered, “Did you see who grabbed her?”
Chyna shook her head. “No, dammit. I saw so much else, but not the most important thing—the person who abducted Deirdre Mayhew.”
2
Irma Vogel parked in front of L’Etoile, glanced in the rearview mirror to make certain her bright pink lipstick wasn’t smeared, her broad nose wasn’t
shiny, and hair spray held her thin bangs in a perfect sausage roll high across her wide forehead. As satisfied with her appearance as she ever was, she emerged from
the car and slowly climbed the stairs attached to the side of the restaurant and leading to the second-floor apartment where Ben and Deirdre Mayhew lived. The sheriff had told Irma Ben didn’t want visitors, but she was certain he would be glad to see her. After all, she was like family.
She knocked on the door. Nothing. She knocked louder. Nothing. The third time she almost pounded, and yelled, “Ben, it’s Irma!”
After a moment, she heard Ben’s ragged voice: “Not today, Irma. Go on home.”
Irma felt stung, then reminded herself that Ben was distraught. “Ben Mayhew, you don’t need to be alone right now,” she called. A teenage boy walking by on the sidewalk looked up at her and smirked, clearly understanding that her visit was being rejected. He needed a good smack, Irma decided, refusing to let him embarrass her into slinking away. Instead, she called, “Ben, you let me in!”
“Irma, please go home.”
“No. Absolutely not. You need me. I’ll sit on the steps until nighttime if that’s what it takes.”
After nearly three minutes, Ben opened the door with a weary I-know-you-won’t-go-away look, which Irma decided was just the result of worry and fear. He needed her more than he realized.
Abruptly she threw herself against him, wrapped her arms around him, and wailed, “Oh my God, Ben! Poor Deirdre!”
Ben stood rigid, his arms hanging at his sides. After a moment, he lifted his hands and pushed Irma away. She’d expected him to hug her back, grateful for her presence, but he just stared at her, his hazel eyes bloodshot, his hair awry, and his breath smelling slightly of gin. Ben Mayhew was not a drinking man, she thought. He must have turned to alcohol in despair, and that was responsible for his cool behavior toward her. “Oh, Ben!” she cried, swooping in for another try at a hug. “I know there hasn’t been any word on Deirdre yet and I’m so sorry!”
Last Seen Alive Page 18
