It had made Ross downright queasy to watch his old-enough-to-know-better friend’s mind turn to mush, and so, shortly after they’d arrived, he’d asked Martin to help him chop firewood. After a few minutes, as Ross had hoped, Melissa had gotten bored and announced she was going to walk down by the creek. For a couple of hours, Martin had been his old self, and then Melissa had come back from her walk, her nose pink from the sun.
But looking at them tonight, Ross saw the lovebirds were showing signs of discord. In the last few minutes, Melissa’s giggles had given way to a strident insistence that Martin had been ogling Candi, who now rested her fingers on José’s arm as they talked.
Ross stepped closer to his friend, noticing the sweat beading on Martin’s upper lip and forehead. Martin’s normally intelligent dark eyes had a fevered look, and his movements were quick and agitated.
Melissa’s eyes flared. “I know what I saw!” She spat the words at Martin. “You think I’m stupid?” She inched forward on the sofa, her crimson silk dress hiking up to show slim, freckled thighs.
Ross’s lips tightened. He circled around behind the sofa, clutching Martin’s shoulder, leaving a damp palm print on his shirt. “Maybe you’d have more privacy outside.”
Martin jumped at the touch, his eyes wary.
Nervously Melissa slid her bracelet around her wrist, her long pale nails clicking against the metal. “Maybe I’ll just leave,” she said, oblivious to the heads now turned in her direction. She swiped the back of her hand under her nose.
Martin’s eyes darted about the room. He touched her thigh. “Aw, can’t we just—”
Like a pouting child she thrust his hand away. A tear rolled down her cheek and she slumped forward, covering her mouth with shaking hands.
“C’mon, babe,” he said, more gently. “You’re in no condition to drive.”
This time she didn’t push him away. She turned her face to his. Martin ran a finger along her jaw line and kissed her forehead. Her features softened into the homegrown Minnesota wholesomeness that had first caught Martin’s attention. She twirled a strand of hair around her finger.
From a discreet distance, Ross watched them. She really is delicious, he thought, tilting his head to view the full length of her legs. He knew her to be around thirty, give or take a year, with a body she obviously worked on and eyes that evoked childlike wonder. Her long auburn hair tumbled over her face as she sagged against Martin’s shoulder.
Ross pulled his eyes away from Melissa’s dress, now hiked up to show the black lacy edge of her panties. He crossed the room and when he looked up, it was into José’s eyes.
The corners of José’s mouth were upturned in something that bordered on contempt. “Are you keeping me away from her for his sake?” he said, gesturing with his chin toward Melissa and Martin, “or could it be you want her for yourself?”
“What happened to your slimy Latin Lover accent?” Ross said.
José clicked his tongue, flipping an imaginary switch. “Whachew mean, boss?”
“Just keep it zipped. The mouth, too.”
“Man, you’re so tight, you’re gonna snap. Maybe you need something, you know?”
Yeah, maybe he did.
3
Though the weather had been ideal earlier in the day, by Friday evening Robin felt the wind shift and stepped onto the back porch to look at a sky that held nothing more sinister than a few scattered clouds. Nevertheless, she set several mismatched candles, unlit, about the living room and porch.
In the kitchen, Catherine chilled stem glasses with ice while Grace juiced a couple lemons into the gin and olive juice. Louise slid a tray of pistachio puffs into the oven. She had attended cooking schools in France, Japan, and Italy, and her creations were always delicious and beautifully presented.
Robin walked in saying, “As soon as I smelled the olives, my mouth started watering.”
Catherine opened her mouth to say something, then frowned.
“What is it?”
“I can’t think of the guy’s name—that Russian scientist who trained dogs to salivate.”
“Does the name Pavlov ring a bell?” Robin prompted.
Grace and Catherine rolled their eyes at each other before going to the the screen door to tell Louise and Foxy that it was “time to move inside for the next feeding.” The sun was low on the horizon and hidden behind trees.
With a sharp bang, Louise returned, slamming the outside door shut. “Those mosquitoes are positively vicious,” she said waving her hands over her head. The odor of her last cigarette of the evening accompanied her into the room.
Foxy strode through the living room, glancing up cautiously, sure that at any moment the bats would swoop down on any insects that had followed them indoors. Molly Pat cocked an ear and sat, suddenly fascinated by the ceiling. As if on cue, a squeak came from the rafters.
Leaving the dog to her vigil, the women retreated to the back porch for dirty martinis and smoked oysters. The first drink disappeared quickly. When Robin poured a second round, she noticed how much condensation had pooled beneath the pitcher.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight, Gracie,” Cate said. “How’s everything in the investment consultant business?”
Grace shrugged. “Fine.”
“Fred and the boys okay?”
“They’re fine.” The lower part of Grace’s heart-shaped face crinkled in a smile that did not extend to her eyes, and a sort of wistfulness settled on her features briefly.
Conversation cascaded from one topic to another. The five women munched away at hors d’ouevres, with the waterfall shimmering in the moonlight only a hundred yards away. In the middle of one of Louise’s stories, Robin’s head snapped to one side. “Did you hear that?”
Nobody had, including Molly Pat, who lay in an overfed stupor at Foxy’s side.
Robin rose and walked through the living room, slipping down the hallway and out the door on the other side of the cabin. She ducked her head around, trying to penetrate the darkness. “Hello,” she called out to the trees. “George?” There was no answer.
Rejoining her friends, Robin said, “I guess I’m just imagining things.” But she was sure she’d heard it—feet pivoting on gravel just outside the front porch.
“Surely George wouldn’t come at this hour to fix the fireplace, would he?” Catherine asked.
Louise gave an involuntary shriek when a flutter of wings overhead reminded her there were bats in residence. “Which one was that?” she asked, flapping a hand in front of her face.
In fact Robin couldn’t tell them apart, but she pretended to recognize each by name. “I didn’t get a good look. Either Bat Masterson or Batsy Cline, I think.” The bat flew a little higher on its return trip and settled again in the rafters. “Nope,” Robin amended, “Definitely Belfry Lugosi.”
Wind gusted through the screen, scattering napkins across the porch. The moonlight on the water blinked out.
“It’s only 8:05. Can that be right?” Foxy squinted at her wristwatch. “Look how dark it is!”
Nobody else wore a watch.
“Who’s ready for dessert?” Robin asked.
Louise reached for the last oyster. “Hors d’ouevres and dessert! What a perfectly delightful way to live!”
Robin headed for the kitchen, but instead of getting the praline cheesecake, she grabbed a flashlight and stepped outside. From the doorstep, she shone a thin stream of light on the ground by the screened porch. There were footprints, plenty of them, none distinguishable except for the dog’s. She turned the light off and peered at the nearest trees.
But then, before her eyes could adjust to the dark, a series of sounds immobilized her, a car on the gravel road, traveling east, if she had to guess, then a thud. She held her breath. Her heart thumped in the silence. What exactly had she heard? She waited, hearing only the crackle of heat lightning in the distance.
Cursing to herself, she hurried back inside. “Did you hear that?” she called.
&
nbsp; Heads shook. “Hear what?”
“Don’t tell me we’ve discovered a new symptom of menopause!” Grace wailed. “Hearing things! Good Lord, they’ll have us put away.”
“It sounded like … I don’t know … maybe a car hitting something out on the road.”
“Oh, not another deer.” Catherine’s hand flew to her chest.
“You’ve got some hearing,” Louise said. “The road’s pretty far away.”
Molly Pat roused, and Foxy stroked her ears. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Just the wind. Maybe a tree fell in the—”
“If a tree falls in the forest and only one person hears it … Shoot, I know there’s a punch line in there somewhere,” Grace said as she sneaked another cracker to the dog.
“And maybe it was a car, like Robin said.” Catherine folded her arms around herself, suddenly chilled. “I say we go check it out.”
As soon as Catherine and Foxy stirred, Molly Pat ran to the door, barking.
“Grace and I will hold down the fort,” Louise announced. “Want the cell phone?”
“Won’t work here, especially in a thunderstorm,” Robin called on her way out.
They traipsed down the driveway—Robin, Catherine, Foxy, and the dog.
Catherine grabbed an arm on either side of her. “We’re off to see the wizard,” she sang.
“No heart, no brain, no courage. That pretty well sums us up,” Robin intoned.
“And Toto leading the way,” Foxy added. “Now all we need is a tornado.”
They’d gone only a few more steps when lightning flashed across the sky to their left and wind whipped the trees into a frenzy. “Now you did it,” Robin said. Her flashlight flickered and she shook it back to an insipid glow.
“Look!” Foxy said in a stage whisper. She pointed, and they saw headlights through the trees and heard a car engine purr as it came to life. The lights moved slowly at first, then gathered speed and disappeared down the road. “You were right, Robin.”
“If they hit a deer, shouldn’t we see if it’s hurt?” Catherine’s question was answered by big, fat drops of rain angling down through the trees. Thunder and lightning now came ominously close together.
“Molly Pat!” Foxy yelled as they turned back. “Where is that fool?” They had the cabin’s lights in view when the dog finally pelted towards them from the direction of the road, then past them, heading for the door where Grace stood waiting to welcome the soggy bunch. In the shelter of the overhang, Molly Pat plunked herself down, whimpering as she waited for the bipeds to catch up.
Grace handed out towels, stooping to dry Molly Pat, who whined and shuddered through the pampering. “It’s all right, girl, it’s just a storm,” she said, toweling the dog’s fur. “Hold still, Molly Pat. What have you done?”
“What’s wrong?” Foxy bent to look.
“There’s blood on the towel. Look.” Grace held out the white towel with its faint, reddish smudge.
Foxy lifted up the frightened dog and carried her inside. She held her in the light of the bare hallway bulb as Catherine put on her reading glasses to check each paw. Finding no wound, she and Foxy ran their hands methodically through the dog’s fur, coming up with wet but unbloodied hands.
“Not a single cut,” Catherine said. “But look at her. She’s terrified.”
“Thank God she’s not hurt.” Robin reached for the phone. “I think you’re right about the deer, Cate. I’d better report it to the sheriff.” She poked at the buttons, frowned, and set the phone back in its cradle. “It’s dead.”
They all jumped at the crash of thunder, turning to see the sky light up again.
Robin draped her towel over her shoulders and watched nature’s fireworks. “Sorry, ladies, but I’ve got to get some shots of that lightning.” She took off, her leather sandals squishing as she strode down the hall to the storage room where she kept her backup camera loaded with black-and-white film. Lightning crackled all around them now, and she shook trying to get the right filter on the lens. Then, with one spectacular crack-boom, the lights went out.
Robin grabbed a shelf for support, tried to catch her breath. Cursing her stupidity, she remembered leaving the flashlight by the door. The darkness was almost total. “Oh, God,” she said, slumping to the floor and pulling her knees to her chest. From the other end of the cabin, she heard Cate calling her name. She tried to answer, but what came out was the whimper of a frightened child.
4
Ross Johnson sat on a leather-upholstered barstool, smoking a contraband cigar. He and his guests were unaware of the approaching storm.
At the first crack of thunder, Ross clutched his chest, and for a very brief moment thought he’d had a heart attack. He knew it was possible, knew that even younger men in prime physical condition suffered sudden coronaries when they messed with the stuff, sometimes even the first time. It could happen one day, his heart could just up and quit: You’ve fucked with me once too often, it would tell him. But he’d loved it from the very first sniff. Loved the warmth creeping, sometimes galloping through his body, loved the potency the magic powder delivered.
When his wife—ex-wife, now—had found out about the cocaine, she’d pounced on it to explain all that had gone wrong in their marriage. Oddly, she wasn’t particularly angry at him, but at the drug, to which she ascribed a human willfulness to enchant her husband.
It had taken her some time to figure out his connection to José, a fact he found endlessly amusing. “Why would you want to hang around with him?” she’d ask in that prosecutor’s way she had. “And what does he have in common with you? You’re old enough to be his father, for God’s sake!” She poked and probed, sure he’d taken the beautiful young man as his lover—a simple matter of transference, of course. She’d never understood until after the divorce that José was Ross’s link to the world of drugs.
He looked over at the young man leaning against the doorframe, his pale blue eyes a startling contradiction to his dark complexion and ebony hair that hung to his shoulders. He remembered the lustful way his wife had gazed at José Churchill, like some freaking teenager.
Ross walked across the living room, retrieved his date from a flirtatious encounter with the blond jock, and pulled her down onto the pillows by the fireplace, where he began idly stroking her hip. Candi-with-an-i stroked him back.
As lightning strobed outside, he wondered what had become of Martin and Melissa. If she’d been telling the truth, Melissa had never tried cocaine before, a hell of a spot for Martin to have put them all in. Under its influence she’d obviously become belligerent, and then she’d demanded to be taken home. Maybe by now the high would be wearing off and they’d be back.
Pretty girl. Smart, too. He just hoped Martin was being careful. All it took was one whistle-blower and the party would be over, and not just for tonight. It was always risky with an employee, he’d warned Martin from the beginning.
Not to mention that Martin was a married man who, when it came right down to it, did not want to risk losing Brenda, his wife of almost three decades.
But risk, Ross knew, could be a powerful aphrodisiac.
Candi’s playful fingers failed to arouse him. Ross’s eyes wandered about the room. When he didn’t see José, he pulled himself away from Candi and began working the crowd himself, ensuring that his guests were well supplied with food, drinks, and cigars. As for the nose candy, there was still an adequate supply on the mantel, complete with the necessary paraphernalia.
It was an impressive assemblage: a realty company executive, a high-powered attorney, an oral surgeon, a pro ball player and his old friend Martin, now a college president. The girls weren’t your run-of-the-mill bimbi either, except for Candi, maybe. Melissa had graduated from one of the Seven Sisters, either Wellesley or Bryn Mawr, he thought, and had come to Martin’s notice at Bradford College when she’d developed a program credited with almost doubling alumni giving in its first three years.
Ross wandered into the kitchen. Damn that
José, he thought. Where was he?
Turning at a scraping sound, he looked out into the dark. Flickers of lightning showed a human form at the deck’s edge. Ross slid the door open. “José?” he called softly.
There was no answer.
“Martin?” It was difficult to see clearly, but he thought the figure beckoned to him. “George, is that you?” he asked, stepping into the dark.
It had been several minutes since the lightning, with one brilliant white flash, had knocked out the electricity. Guided by the cabin windows, dimly lit from within by the fireplace’s glow and by the frequent flashes of lightning, Ross found his way back across the gravel driveway and fumbled his way up the outside stairs, his hand slipping along the slick wet deck rail. Once inside, he abandoned his soggy loafers just inside the kitchen door and stepped barefoot into the room. Snatching a dishtowel, he swiped it across his face and began blotting his hair. Outside the lightning continued to crackle.
With a prickly feeling, he sensed someone watching him. Raising his eyes, he uttered a strangled cry and clutched the counter. The woman had flames emanating from her body and electricity springing from her head. Vertigo seized him. He lowered his head and gulped air, blinked and looked again. She was still there, silhouetted in the doorway, the fire casting kaleidoscopic shadows in the living room behind her—not a flaming woman or a hallucination after all, but a trick of the light.
She covered her mouth, not quite suppressing a giggle. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
He recognized her as the oral surgeon’s girlfriend. Finding his voice, Ross croaked, “No problem.”
“Oh, you poor thing, you’re sopping wet!”
He stared past her, flicking his tongue over his lower lip. “I closed everyone’s car windows,” he said, adding unnecessarily, “It’s really coming down out there.”
She turned to look out at the pouring rain.
Murder at Spirit Falls Page 3
