“Mrs. Kelso saw you folks comin’ in the lobby and said Brooke, Miss Yeager, looked kinda shook up and—” Harry’s small, pale blue eyes widened. “Holy shit, Brooke, is that blood all over your suit?”
“Subtle, Harry,” Stacy said.
“Well, jeez, she looks like she got beat half to death, except her face isn’t hurt. Pretty as ever. That’s a relief.”
“Better for her to have a broken back than a cut on her pretty face, right, Harry?” Stacy asked acidly.
Harry feigned amazement. “She has a broken back?”
“I was in an accident,” Brooke interrupted so smoothly that Vincent was slightly astonished. She sounded completely composed, almost casual. “This isn’t my blood. It’s someone else’s, but I’d rather not discuss the details right now.”
“Did somebody get killed?” Harry asked avidly.
“Watch the news tonight,” Stacy quickly intervened.
“So somebody did get killed! Well, gosh, that’s awful.” Harry looked excited, not the least bit concerned. “I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”
“I appreciate that,” Brooke said evenly. “I’m fine. But I’ll be spending the night somewhere else, and I need to get a few things together.” She gave him a slightly lopsided smile. “I hope you’ll excuse me . . .”—Vincent could see the search for a name behind her eyes—“. . . Mr. Dormer,” she finally managed, “but I’m in a hurry.”
“Mr. Dormer!” Harry boomed. “Since when do you call me Mr. Dormer? I can take a hint, but—”
Stacy put a slim, strong hand on his shoulder. “One question before you leave. Was Robert here a while ago? Robert Eads?”
“Brooke’s guy that can’t take the brush-off? Not that I saw, but I don’t stand around the lobby all day,” Harry said virtuously. “I have lots of work to do.”
“I know, and you do it very well,” Stacy returned. Everyone in the room except Harry could see that she was just playing up to him for information. “Please think, Harry. This is important. Did you see anyone unusual? Not a tenant? A man who came up here?”
“No. Why?”
“It’s not important.”
“Then why do you keep asking me about it?” Harry peered around the room as if he expected someone to jump out from behind a drape. “You saying someone’s been up here that shouldn’t be?”
“We don’t know. Thanks for the information,” Stacy said quickly, and pushed him into the hall. “Good night, Harry. See you tomorrow.” She closed the door behind him.
“I didn’t know who he was at first,” Brooke said desolately.
“It would have been better if he could have stayed a blank spot permanently,” Stacy said dryly, then looked at Vincent. “Harry probably saw more than he’s saying. He’s acting like the overworked superintendent who never hangs around the lobby gossiping or just looking over all the guests and visitors. But Jay is the policeman, the one who needs to be asking Harry these questions, not me. He’s intimidated by Jay. Harry doesn’t act like a smart aleck with him.”
Stacy continued talking to Vincent as if they were old friends, gossiping. “Harry is just sickening. He looks at every woman under fifty like he can see right through her clothes. He’s especially bad about eyeing Brooke and me from head to toe, even when his wife is around. Besides, I think there’s something sneaky about him.”
“Such as?” Vincent asked.
“He lurks. Or he gives the impression of lurking. I sound paranoid, but Jay has noticed it, too. And his wife Eunice is a real piece of work. Always playing off sick.”
“She is sick,” Brooke said. “Her diabetes is serious and her legs swell and she has migraines.”
“Honestly, you are such a soft touch for a sad story, Brooke.” Stacy shook her head. “Harry and Eunice are probably harmless, but I’ve always felt you need to keep an eye on them.”
“Which you do,” Brooke said. “I think Harry’s a little scared of you.”
“Good.” Stacy smiled. “Okay, you sit down, Brooke, and I’ll pack up a few things for you to take tonight, although I still think I should just stay here with you—”
“Stacy,” Brooke said warningly.
“Right. No more orders. Where’s your overnight bag?”
“On the top shelf of the bedroom closet.”
“Where I probably can’t reach it.”
Vincent headed toward what he thought was the bedroom. “I’ll get it. You’re tall, Stacy, but I have a few inches on you.”
“It’s tan with brown trim,” Brooke called. “More like a giant tote bag than a suitcase.” She looked at Stacy. “How could I remember that so clearly, but not Harry’s name?”
“Memory is a funny thing, and you’ve been through a hell of a night. Don’t worry about it,” Stacy said, giving Brooke a pat on the arm.
Within half an hour, Brooke had packed the bag, attached a leash to Elise’s collar, and reassured Stacy for the fifth time that the Lockhart house was where she really wanted to stay for the night. Tomorrow night, she would probably make other arrangements. Stacy walked the three of them to a cab and gave Brooke a quick kiss on the cheek. “If you get lonely or scared, call me. Don’t worry about waking up Jay. He could sleep through an earthquake.”
“Thanks, Stacy,” Brooke said with genuine warmth. “I’ll call you before noon tomorrow.”
Vincent and Brooke said little in the taxi on the way to the Lockhart house. Brooke still felt stunned by what had happened, and Vincent couldn’t think of one comforting thing to say in this situation. He had already called Sam to let him know that Brooke would be staying with them, and Sam greeted them at the front door wearing striped pajamas and a plaid robe turned inside out.
“Well, now isn’t this a pleasure!” he thundered as if Brooke had stopped by unexpectedly. Vincent winced. Sometimes his father acted as if everyone around him were half-deaf. “And I see you’ve brought your dog. Hello there, fella!”
“I told you we were bringing the dog,” Vincent said mildly.
Brooke nodded. “Her name is Elise. She’s house-trained. She shouldn’t be any trouble. I appreciate you letting me bring her.”
“Why, honey, we always kept at least one dog until . . .” Sam looked blank. Until Mom died and her dog died one week later, Vincent thought. “Anyway, I’ve always had a way with dogs,” Sam went on, “although this one seems a mite shy.”
“She spent her first few weeks in a dog pound,” Brooke said. “I think it frightened her for life.”
“Well, no wonder!” Sam stooped, his knees creaking and popping, and stroked Elise on her sleek head. “She’s a good dog, though. I can see it in her eyes. She’s smart. And nice. And she loves her mistress. Who could blame her for that?” Brooke smiled. “How about some sardines and beer, Brooke?”
“She might prefer a glass of wine,” Vincent said quickly, unable to picture Brooke wolfing down greasy sardines and beer like Sam did. “And maybe a sandwich.”
“I am a little hungry,” she said, almost shyly. “I can’t remember the last time I ate. Elise hasn’t eaten, either.”
Sam peered past Brooke as a patrol car pulled up out front. “You fix everyone something to eat and I’ll go talk to the guys for a few minutes.” Sam could never pass up talking to another cop.
Vincent made himself smile at Brooke as he shut the door behind his father. “Dad still likes to be in on the action.”
“I remember that he seemed so strong and capable when I was young,” Brooke said. “He made me feel completely safe at a time when my whole world was falling apart.”
Vincent nodded. “He was an incredibly strong man, and I’ve heard from quite a few other policemen he was the best cop they ever knew. I always wished I could be more like him.”
A slow, half-ashamed look twinkled into Brooke’s eyes. “You put Stacy in her place more than once today. I’d say that makes you a very strong man.”
He couldn’t help laughing and motioned for her to follow him into
the kitchen as he said, “Is Stacy your closest friend?”
“Yes, although I haven’t known her for long. But I don’t have many friends. For a while I went through a stage of not having any. I suppose I was afraid if I cared for anyone, they’d be taken away from me.”
What a sad little girl she must have been, Vincent thought, sympathy springing up in him almost against his will. First she lost her father when she was eight; then three years later her mother was brutally murdered by Tavell, a man Brooke had probably come to trust. No wonder she’d decided to keep her distance from people for a while. They did seem to have a tendency to let her down.
Which didn’t mean all those losses hadn’t turned her into a hostile, conniving—
“The note!” she said suddenly, startling him. “What happened to the note we found in my apartment?”
“It’s tucked in an envelope in my pocket. As soon as Dad gets through gossiping with the guys outside, I’ll take it to them. They’ll get it into headquarters and maybe we’ll get lucky and find some helpful fingerprints.”
“But what if Robert left the note?”
“Then maybe knowing his note is in police possession and being checked for fingerprints in an ongoing murder investigation will scare him into backing off.” He looked at her. “You wouldn’t mind that, would you?”
She looked surprised. “Mind it? I’d love it! Did you think I might be enjoying his attentions?”
“I didn’t know how serious you were about him,” Vincent said brusquely as he opened a fresh loaf of wheat bread.
“I don’t remember being serious about him even when we were dating.” Brooke sat down at the kitchen table and Elise placed herself daintily at her feet. “He seemed to be a pleasant guy to spend an occasional evening with, but I should have known he was a nut. I always attract nuts.”
“Oh,” Vincent said, torn between smiling and saying something sarcastic. He opted to let the remark drop. “Would you like chicken or turkey on your sandwich?”
“How about both? I don’t think I’ve eaten since this morning. At least I don’t feel like I have.”
“A girl with a healthy appetite.”
“More than healthy. If my metabolism slows down, I’ll be in trouble. And Vincent, could Elise have a few slices of chicken? She didn’t have any dinner.”
He turned and looked at the dog. He’d always been partial to dogs and had two dogs of his own being kept by friends in Monterey. “I think we can spare some chicken for a beautiful dog.” Elise’s tail swished as if she understood the compliment. “Would she like turkey, too?”
Brooke nodded. “Like mother, like daughter. We both have healthy appetites, although she’s as fine boned and slim as most cats, not dogs.”
Vincent noticed Brooke yawning hugely after she’d eaten her sandwich and drunk a glass of milk. “I think it’s bedtime for Elise,” he managed diplomatically.
“Bedtime for all of us,” Sam boomed from the doorway. “I have to be at work at the crack of dawn tomorrow. That damned Zach Tavell is on the loose. He murdered the mother of one of the sweetest little girls I ever met.”
Vincent colored and Brooke looked at him in total confusion. Vincent hadn’t yet explained to her about Sam’s Alzheimer’s and he couldn’t imagine what she must be thinking, but he couldn’t fill her in on Sam’s malady, now. Instead, he tried to cover for Sam by taking Brooke’s arm and nearly lifting her from her chair. “I think the guest room at the north end of the house would be best for you,” he said loudly. “Nice view, although you’re probably not concerned with the view right now. Double bed. Small bathroom attached. You’d probably like to take a shower after all you’ve been through. Plenty of room for you and Elise.”
“Who’s Elise?” Sam asked.
“The dog,” Vincent said. “Remember that Brooke brought her dog?”
“Cinnamon Girl.”
“Yes. Cinnamon Girl and her dog, Elise.”
Sam looked down at the blond dog, who hovered close to Brooke’s legs, bristling. “A dog,” he mumbled. “A dog.” Then memory flashed in his eyes. “Of course I remember the dog, Vincent. I’m not senile!”
At least they’re not calling what you suffer from senility anymore, Vincent thought, but he didn’t press the matter. Lately, Sam’s temper had become hair-trigger, often a symptom of Alzheimer’s.
Vincent and Sam walked Brooke to the guest room. Vincent flipped on the light to show a large bedroom decorated in shades of lilac and ivory. “How beautiful!” Brooke commented.
“Mom redecorated this room right before she got sick,” Vincent said. “Unfortunately, she never got a chance to have anyone stay in it.”
Sam grinned. “She’d be glad you’re the first guest, Brooke.”
Brooke smiled. “I’m glad, too. Thank you for being so kind to me. I don’t know what I would have done without you.” She hesitated and looked at Vincent. “And you.”
Vincent stared into her large violet-blue eyes, right now looking incredibly beautiful in spite of their fatigue. For a moment, she seemed to be looking back at him just as intensely. Then Sam blasted out, “Nighty night, Cinnamon Girl!” He looked down at the dog. “Good night, Bernice.”
“It’s Elise,” Vincent corrected, then could have kicked himself. What did it matter if his father didn’t get the dog’s name right? But Vincent just couldn’t bear to see his father’s once razor-sharp mind growing fuzzy and confused.
Sam glared at him for a moment and Vincent braced himself for a tirade. Then Sam’s expression softened and he said magnanimously, “Son, it’s past your bedtime. You’re getting cranky.”
Relieved that Sam hadn’t burst into a loud verbal dressing-down, Vincent allowed Sam to lead him down the hall as if he were an eight-year-old boy.
2
For a long time, Brooke lay wide-eyed and tense in the big, cool bed, staring into the dark, listening. Finally, Brooke felt her eyelids growing heavy. She fought sleep for a while, feeling she must stay up all night, alert and ready for imminent flight, but finally sleep claimed her exhausted body.
Brooke dreamed of beautiful iridescent stars shining down from the ceiling. Then she heard the voices. Her mother’s, crying, saying she’d made a mistake and should never have married Zach, because Karl Yaeger had been her only love. Then Zach’s sharp reply that she didn’t know what she was saying. He’d saved her and Brooke. She was simply out of control. “I’ll divorce you!” she was screaming. “I should have done it months ago!” And later, ominous popping sounds that roused Brooke and brought her flying down the stairs to find her mother lying on the floor with half of her beautiful face gone.
Noise woke Brooke again. But this time, she didn’t hear the multiple reports of a gun. She heard a squeaking sound coming from the area of the window. Then she felt Elise pawing at her, then saw her running to the window and standing on her hind legs looking out between the draperies.
Brooke slid from bed and put her arms around the dog. “What is it, girl?” she asked, expecting the dog to have seen nothing more than an opossum or a raccoon. Instantly the squeaking sound stopped, and as Brooke became more alert she realized someone was trying to push up the window. She pulled back the drapery a fraction to see that a hole had been cut into the screen—a hole high up, close to the window lock. In a moment, she heard a man speak. “Brooke, it’s all right. God sent me. Just hold still.” And she did hold still, frozen by fear and shock, long enough to see the face of a man—long, pale, wrinkled, with a slightly crooked nose and hooded, exhausted dark eyes. A face that although it had grown older, she would never forget.
Zachary Tavell.
Without realizing it, Brooke began to shriek. The face darted away from the window, and Elise started barking furiously. Then someone from behind her yelled, “Brooke, what’s wrong?”
She screamed again at the nearby voice, then turned to see Vincent. “Z-Zach,” she managed. “He was outside looking in the bedroom window.”
Vincent look
ed as if he was trying to convince himself that Brooke had dreamed the face at the window, but Elise’s vociferous barking eliminated that possibility. He turned and bounded from the room.
Brooke crawled away from the window, followed by Elise, and huddled by the bed frame, clutching the dog and trying to slow her painfully thudding heart. She hadn’t seen Zach Tavell for fifteen years, yet just a glance at him had filled her with dread and terror.
From beyond the bedroom, Brooke heard Vincent talking loudly and Sam shouting. Then they quieted. She crawled from the bedroom, thinking of what an easy target she would make if she stood with the window right behind her. She slunk into the living room, which was empty, and huddled by the huge stone hearth. What seemed like minutes, which were probably only seconds, ticked by before she heard an unfamiliar male voice yell, “Stop! Police!” Another couple of seconds ticked by before, “Police!”
And then, the gunshot.
five
1
Brooke slowly opened her eyes and looked up at a graceful ceiling fan swirling slowly above her bed. She did not have a ceiling fan above her bed. She jerked up, ready for flight. Elise, too, jumped, then crept toward her, touching Brooke’s nose with her own. Instinctively, Brooke ran her hands over the dog’s slim, warm body, which edged comfortingly toward her own. Outside, Brooke heard mourning doves searching the grass for breakfast. She looked around the beautiful ivory and lilac bedroom. For an instant, she wondered in whose bed she slept. Then relief washed over her when she realized she was in the Lockhart house, the home once occupied by Sam and Laura, now by Sam and Vincent. She was protected. She was safe.
Last Whisper Page 6
