Last Whisper

by Carlene Thompson

  “We’ll keep that in mind,” Vincent said over his shoulder as he and Brooke raced for the elevator, hoping to avoid Eunice when she returned, with or without Harry. Brooke already had her keys out of her purse by the time they reached her door.

  Elise ran to them, joyful as usual when her mistress came home for the day. “She’ll need a walk,” Brooke said. “I think there’s some wine in the refrigerator and some Pepsi and Sprite. Fix yourself something to drink.”

  “No, you fix yourself something to drink,” Vincent said. “I’ll take out Lady Elise. After all, it’s after dark. Besides, you don’t really want to run into Eunice again, do you?”

  Brooke let out a groan.

  “I didn’t think so.” He knelt by the dog. “Want me to take you out for a change?” The dog licked his hand before he reached for the leash Brooke offered. “We’ll be back soon. I promise not to run off with her.”

  “Sure you don’t want to go down the fire escape to avoid Eunice?”

  “We’ll take our chances, won’t we, Elise?” Vincent said. “Why don’t you put on some music?”

  Vincent had ordered Chablis at the restaurant, just as she had, and neither had finished their glass. After he’d left with Elise, Brooke filled each glass, then found half a can of relatively fresh cashew nuts and dumped them in a glass bowl. You can certainly tell I don’t do much entertaining, Brooke thought ruefully. She had nothing else to offer a guest.

  Well, she might be short on party food, but she had plenty of candles. They were festive, weren’t they? Festive or romantic. But she didn’t want to go for romantic. Or did she? Suddenly she didn’t know and was baffled. An hour ago she’d been furious with Vincent. She’d felt like she never wanted to see him again. And now . . . She lit five scented candles and turned off all but one lamp with a low-watt bulb glowing beneath a pink shade. The flickering light threw the room into soft relief, and the scent of the candles helped hide the faint, odd smell Brooke had picked up on as soon as she entered the apartment—a faintly familiar smell. Cloves? Had Stacy been right? Did Eunice prowl and had she been in this apartment tonight? If so, she hadn’t found the errant Harry.

  Brooke pushed Eunice from her mind and concentrated on Vincent. He’d asked for music. She knew he liked rock—she’d heard him play it in the car—so she went through her CD collection and first pulled out Los Lonely Boys. No one could stay in a bad mood listening to them, she thought as “Señorita” came on. She knew the only other occupied apartment on the third floor was Stacy’s, and she certainly wouldn’t care how loud the music was as long as it wasn’t classical. Brooke turned up the stereo, kicked off her high heels, and took the pins out of her upswept hair, letting it trail down her back. She was sipping wine and dancing by herself when Vincent returned with Elise.

  He walked back into the apartment, stopped dead, staring at Brooke moving gracefully around the middle of the living room holding a glass of wine. His mouth opened slightly in surprise. Elise barked at her, clearly shocked by this abandoned behavior. Vincent let go of the dog’s leash, walked to Brooke, took her lightly into her arms, and quickly fell into the step of the sensuous music with her. He put his mouth beside her ear. “Does this mean I’m no longer a jerk?”

  “Perhaps. It all depends on how well you can dance.”

  “My mother made me take dance lessons at Miss Lucille’s when I was five. I was one of her best pupils and the star of the recital, I’m proud to say. Now. At the time, I thought my macho image was shot to hell. I believe I alternately pouted and cried in my room for a nearly a week afterward. Then there was a brief, regrettable disco period in my early teens followed by grunge when I hit California. Three years ago I learned salsa dancing.”

  “That settles it, then. Unless you’re fibbing to me.”

  “I’m not.” Vincent held his right hand against his chest. “Cross my heart.”

  “Okay,” Brooke laughed. “I was much mistaken in my appraisal. You’re not a jerk. You never were.”

  “I’m glad. I must say I have trouble keeping up with your moods, though, Brooke.”

  “Yeah, me, too. Chalk it up to my frequently being wrong, then able to admit when I am.”

  “You think you were wrong this evening?”

  “I think I’ve handled this entire situation wrong. I should have left Charleston days ago. It just takes me a while to get things through my hard head.”

  The mention of a hard head sent her mind flying back to the last client she’d had before the ring was delivered—Mrs. Amelia Gracen, who claimed her husband, Orville, had possessed the hardest head she’d ever encountered, the man Brooke knew Mrs. Gracen would love to the end of her days. Brooke laughed slightly, both at the irony that the woman had cared so much for a man she’d found so flawed and also at the happiness the woman had found with him for so many years.

  “Any reason for that laughter?” Vincent asked.

  “Just my eccentric nature.”

  “I don’t think you’re eccentric.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is. I think you’re naturally a fun-loving, optimistic woman who’s been keeping all her hope and joy buried for a long time.” Vincent leaned back and looked at her. “You might even be hedonistic.”

  “Fun-loving and optimistic, maybe. Hedonistic—well, don’t get your hopes up.” She smiled. “Drink your wine.”

  He looked deep into her eyes, his arms tightening around her. “I’d rather keep dancing with you.”

  “You can drink and dance, too. I am. And you should certainly be able to pull it off since according to you, you’re one of the dance masters of the world.”

  “I didn’t say that!”

  “Close enough. Get your wine.”

  Vincent did as he was told. Elise sat on the couch, her tongue lolling happily as she watched Brooke and Vincent dance to “Nobody Else.” The candles flickered as Vincent tangled his right hand in her long hair, gently pulled back her head, and kissed her deeply. She didn’t pull away, but when the kiss ended, she whispered, “You’ve had too much to drink.”

  “I haven’t had one sip.”

  “Do you kiss all the girls you dance with?”

  “Not lately.”

  “And how long is lately?”

  “Does it matter?” Vincent asked huskily. “You’re the last girl I’m going to kiss tonight.”

  “And tomorrow night?”

  “Tomorrow night, too.”

  “And the next and the next?”

  His green eyes seared into hers before he bent his head, kissed his way up her neck to her ear, and murmured, “I think I’d like for you to be the last girl I ever kiss.”

  Brooke tipped back her head, her own burning glance meeting his. “I think I’d like that just fine.”

  Just before he kissed her again, he whispered, “My Cinnamon Girl.”

  3

  Eunice didn’t like the basement. She always told Harry she couldn’t stand dark, dank places, to which he always replied accurately that the basement was not dank and it wouldn’t be dark if she’d just turn on the fluorescent light panel at the top of the stairs and the one halfway down the length of the basement wall. True, at night the area got a bit dimmer before you reached the second panel. True, the basement was crowded with tools, utility supplies, the furnace, the dehumidifier, and all the locked cages holding storage for the tenants. However, if Harry could navigate the basement at three in the morning using only one set of lights when the furnace or the water heater clicked off, Eunice could certainly do it with both sets of lights when it was barely dark.

  But Brooke had said there might be something wrong with the circuit breakers. That meant if they snapped off, so would the lights. So would the comforting hum of the dehumidifier and the water heater. At least, Eunice thought water heaters hummed. Maybe she was thinking of the furnace.

  Oh, blast it! Eunice thought in a fury as she started down the stairs in her best negligee, the one she’d bought on sale for two-thi
rds off and thought made her look fetchingly feminine with its net and chiffon, even if the green was a bit bright for her sallow complexion. She hadn’t meant to come into the lobby wearing it—people would think she was showing off—but she wouldn’t don her faded chenille robe over her beautiful negligee, and a quick search for her winter coat stored during the summer months had proved fruitless. So, frantic to find Harry and tell him what she’d heard, she’d simply dashed into the lobby wearing net and chiffon. She hoped Brooke wasn’t jealous. She liked Brooke.

  At least she’d worn her thick, furry house slippers, so the cold floor wouldn’t chill her feet. Of course, it was summer, so the floor probably wouldn’t be cold, but with basements you never knew. After all, when she’d been “bad,” Liz had locked her in their basement more than once, and no matter what time of year, it had always been chilly in there. And dank. And full of shadows even in midday. Eunice shivered at the memory. God, she’d hated that place and she’d tried hard to be a good girl so she’d never again have to enter a basement.

  And here she was, looking for her husband in a basement at night. Eunice thought this was no better proof that the universe was vastly unfair and if there really was a God, he didn’t like her. In any case, she was extremely mad at God, the universe, and Harry at the moment.

  Eunice flicked on the switches at the top of the stairs, and three rows of fluorescent lights flared blindingly yet comfortingly. Thank goodness, she thought. “Harry!” she called from the top of the stairs. “Harry, I need you.”

  How wonderful it would have been to have heard, “I’ll be right there, darling!”

  Instead she heard nothing. Her anger level raised a notch. “Harry Dormer, if you’re playin’ some kind of game with me—well, you’d just better stop it right now.”

  Again, nothing. He wasn’t down here. He probably never had been. Eunice was about to turn and leave the basement when something on the fifth step down caught her eye. It was a silver chain with something round attached. In a flash, she knew what it was. She scurried down and picked up Harry’s beloved necklace—the silver chain bearing the pendant with the black widow spider encased in plastic. Eunice gingerly picked it up by the chain, looking at the spider splayed and forever frozen in some kind of acrylic. Horrible thing. Harry had said he won it in a card game, but she’d always believed one of his trashy girlfriends had given it to him during her bout of depression after their child’s death. That’s when he’d started wearing it, and he wouldn’t give it up.

  Well, he’s given it up this time, she thought in victory as she bent down and tucked it in her big, fuzzy shoe. If he’d known it had dropped off his neck, he would have immediately picked it up and put it back on. Now he’d never find it because Eunice intended to destroy the hideous creation. But its presence proved one thing—Harry had come to the basement, and when she’d last seen him a little over an hour ago, he’d worn the pendant proudly against a tight white T-shirt.

  “Harry, I know you’re here!” Eunice yelled.

  Once again, she heard nothing except the gentle humming of the dehumidifier. Nothing scary about the piece of equipment that kept the basement dry and pleasant-smelling. Nothing scary about the whole basement, in fact, she thought with spirit.

  “Harry, if you’re going to play stupid games and hide because you think I won’t bother you here, you’re wrong. I’m coming down!”

  She waited a few moments for him to realize he was trapped; then she gave up. He didn’t think she’d come after him, but that she was just making idle threats. Well, he’d find out!

  Eunice descended the stairs without hesitation. She wished she had on hard-soled shoes so that Harry could hear the firmness of her steps. When she reached the bottom, she looked around. She saw some shelves with toolboxes, other shelves holding extension cords and drills, and more containing larger tools such as an ax and a hatchet. A selection of shovels leaned against one wall. She had never seen Harry use even half of this equipment and decided it must be left over from former superintendents/handymen who were more energetic than Harry. In fact, aside from the toolbox he carried around, mostly for show, she’d only seen him use the snow shovel on the steps at the front of the building, and only then after several tenants had complained. As for the tenants, they only came down here when they wanted to get something out of their storage cages.

  Obviously, Harry wasn’t dusting, oiling, and polishing the tools of his trade. He’d probably never even touched most of them. He wouldn’t be working on the furnace in August. Eunice hadn’t heard any complaints about the water being cold, so he wouldn’t be fiddling with the water heater. The air conditioners were outside. What could he be doing?

  Halfway down the length of the basement sat a small, enclosed space with a commode and a sink. Perhaps Harry was in there, Eunice thought, although the walls weren’t so thick he couldn’t have heard her calling to him, and he lacked any modesty—if he had been sitting on the commode, he wouldn’t have cared if she stood right in front of him. But he could be using the enclosure as a hiding place. Eunice could just see him standing in there, ignoring her, maybe even snickering at his cleverness.

  Furious over the imagined scene, Eunice marched smartly to the bathroom enclosure and flung open the door, her mouth already open for the beginning of a tirade. But the little room was empty. No Harry. No bulb burning over the sink. Just a dusty, dim little room badly in need of a good cleaning.

  She stepped out of the space, looking around her without quite so much confidence. She’d passed the bright glare of the first set of fluorescent lights. Now there was only a soft glow. She could either go back upstairs or make herself walk to the opposite wall and turn on the second set of lights. Was the trip across the basement worth it?

  Then she heard it. A sort of skulking sound at the farthest end of the basement, not like a mouse or rat—something much larger. A man! Eunice thought triumphantly. A man tiptoeing around in the dark, hiding from her! Harry, the creep! He was not only trying to avoid her; he was trying to scare her. Well, it wouldn’t work because she was already more scared than he could make her with his stupid tricks. That’s why she’d come down here in the first place—not for her insulin, but to tell him something was terribly wrong. She’d heard something that had seemed merely confusing at the time, then snapped into frightening focus as she was donning her lovely negligee—something so frightening, she didn’t think she could go back upstairs without Harry, such as he was. But if he wasn’t down here . . . well, she just couldn’t go back upstairs alone, even if it meant she might have to sleep in this awful place.

  Eunice swept across the basement, net and chiffon wafting out behind her, and touched the cold metal of the light switch plate. She flipped the switches, closing her eyes against the burst of fluorescent light she knew would follow. Except there was nothing. She kept her eyes closed, flipped the switches up, then down, then up, then down again. They weren’t working. Brooke had been right. There was something wrong with the circuit breakers and it was affecting the lights at the far end of the basement. Well, she was certainly capable of snapping circuit breakers back into place. The only problem was that she couldn’t remember exactly where the circuit breaker box was.

  “Oh, hell,” she said loudly, hoping Harry heard her and knew just how irate she was getting. Harry liked to tease her, he liked to get her about half-angry, but he really didn’t like it when she was furious because she slammed doors for days and refused to serve a meal that was fit to eat. Harry needed to get the message that he’d better end his little game if he knew what was good for him.

  She stood for a moment, trying to decide whether to keep looking for Harry or to go back to the bright end of the basement. There was an old couch there. Yes, it smelled moldy, but perhaps she could bear to sleep on it. She wouldn’t feel so frightened in the morning and she’d go back up to the apartment and maybe even pack her things and leave if Harry had still not returned.

  Abruptly, all the lights went of
f. Eunice stood absolutely still, too startled to be afraid for a moment, just surprised. She turned and took two steps, then realized she was headed for the back of the basement, not the stairs. She had turned the other way and started forward when she heard a deep voice murmur, “Eunice?”

  She froze again. Then she realized the voice must be Harry’s. Someone had told him she was down here and he’d decided to give her a good scare. Well, he’d regret that impulse.

  “Harry Dormer, turn on the lights this instant,” she said harshly. The lights remained off. “Harry, this isn’t funny.”

  By this time Harry should have been guffawing at the cleverness of his trick. But Harry wasn’t laughing. No lights were flashing into brilliance.

  And Eunice realized she was in trouble.

  Once one of Liz’s “boyfriends” had held Eunice down and pressed an ice cube against her neck. She remembered the pain that had shot into the base of her skull and down her spine. She had that same sensation now. She drew quick, shallow breaths because they hurt less. And she held perfectly still, as if whatever was trying to prey upon her might not see her if she didn’t move. She wanted to close her eyes, but she didn’t dare. Vision might be the only weapon she had at the moment. For nearly ten seconds she stood immobile as a statue and just as blind in the dark. She heard a tiny scraping noise, like metal against concrete. Then, slowly, her eyes adjusted slightly and she caught a glimpse of movement, something coming toward her, cutting her off from the stairs.

  She swallowed hard and said in a small, trembling voice, “Just let me out of here. I won’t say anything about this. I can’t say who you are because I don’t know who you are. And I don’t care about finding out. I just want to go. Please.” Nothing, but the movement seemed to be undulating toward her, and she still couldn’t move. Her body absolutely would not cooperate with her brain’s instructions for her to run, or even to open her mouth and scream. “Please,” she whispered this time, her throat too tight for anything but a slight passage of air. “Please, don’t hurt me. I won’t say a word. I promise—”