Time After Time

by Stockenberg, Antoinette

  "I'm not sure I will," she confessed. "Will you stay tonight after we get back?" she added. "I'd rather not be alone."

  "Do you think wild horses could tear me away?"

  It occurred to her that if he had gotten there on time, none of this would've happened. It wasn't a kind thought, but life was looking a little unkind to Liz just then. She said with pointed politeness, "How did things work out with your investors?"

  "Oh, them," he said. "They ended up lost in the shuffle. We had a fire."

  "What?"

  "A small one. It looks like arson. That sent chills up their spines, I can tell you. Everything's on hold for the moment. Anyway, go shower. We'll talk afterward."

  She threw her arms out, palms up, in a gesture of bewilderment. "Are the planets out of kilter or something?" she asked plaintively.

  Then she mounted the stairs to the bathroom, reliving every single step of her trauma as she did it.

  ****

  After a shower and two shampoos, Liz felt decent enough to get on with the process of putting away Eddy Wragg. She dressed in jeans and a shirt, then went downstairs where Jack was waiting for her.

  "All set?" he asked, watching her with a certain wariness.

  "Almost." She dropped to her knees, flattened her cheek to the floor, and began looking under all the furniture. "Ah. There it is," she said, reaching under the skirted slipper-chair for her canister of Mace.

  She tucked it into her purse. "Until I get a burglar alarm installed," she said in a steely voice, "and a gun, and Mace for every room, this stays by my side."

  Jack had a simple four-word response to all that: "You have a child."

  It pricked her resolve like a pin in a balloon. "Oh, God, that's right. I can't surround my daughter with weapons."

  "You don't have to surround your daughter with weapons, Liz. Wragg's in jail," Jack reminded her. He watched her lock the front door, then check it twice. "You're safe now."

  "But for how long?" she said as they walked to his car. "He knows I have the letters. He wants the letters." She could feel her voice rising, her throat constricting. "Sooner or later, he will be back," she said shrilly.

  She heard an upstairs window slam in a neighbor's house. It was pretty obvious that she was wearing out her welcome on the quiet, tucked-away street.

  "He won't be back," Jack said firmly. "He's going to do time. And we'll make sure he knows that you've donated the letters, or given them to me for safekeeping, or any of a dozen scenarios. He will not be back, Elizabeth."

  They were in his car now. Jack turned the key; the Mercedes sprang discreetly to life. Reassured by Jack's tone, Liz leaned back on the leather headrest, grateful to be in his care. She hadn't done that for a long time — given herself up for safekeeping to someone else. It felt good.

  "What did you learn about Wragg?" she asked reluctantly.

  "You remember that research you did on the guy who murdered Victoria St. Onge? The young gigolo who lived with her, then killed her and got sent up for manslaughter?"

  "Johnny Ripen? Sure I remember. After he got out of ACI, he came back to Newport. He died about ten years ago; I think he was seventy-something at the time. The police found him, bled to death, under a cherry tree in the Burying Ground."

  "Right. You told me his wrist was cut open on a broken vodka bottle and that the cops never made a case for it being a murder."

  "I can see why," she said, reflecting on the scene. "The obvious clue —fingerprints on the bottle — would be no clue at all if the victim happened to be a derelict sitting in a graveyard and passing around a bottle to other—"

  The little light bulb went on at last. "Eddy Wragg? Eddy Wragg knew Johnny Ripen?"

  "Bingo," said Jack. "Detective Gilbert told me that for a while the two were as thick as thieves get. The cops knew both men well. Johnny Ripen used to be arrested routinely for petty stuff — drunk and disorderly, urinating in public, that kind of thing. But Wragg was a younger, more ambitious bum. He got caught at bigger crimes: breaking and entering, assault, and a mugging."

  "And yet here he is, right back out on the street. Oh, boy. I'd better donate those letters to someone real quick," Liz said nervously.

  Jack reached over and took her hand in his. "We'll work this through. I promise. Anyway," he said, "until tonight Detective Gilbert never was able to figure out why someone like Wragg would have bothered with an old geezer like Johnny Ripen."

  "Victoria St. Onge?" Liz ventured.

  "Exactly. Gilbert remembered her name from when he investigated Johnny Ripen's death."

  "It does seem more than coincidental."

  "When you were showering, I got to thinking: By the time Johnny Ripen — still a good-looking gigolo, presumably — latched on to Victoria St. Onge, she would've been pretty old, probably senile if she let him under her roof. She would've had money, jewelry, securities. Maybe it was all buried in her backyard somewhere. She had a big place by then on Kay Street. Maybe Johnny Ripen got sent away before he could dig any of it up."

  "Maybe pigs can fly," Liz said dolefully. "Okay, for the sake of argument, let's say Johnny Ripen reminisced in his old age to Eddy Wragg about Victoria St. Onge. Ripen tells Wragg how he was this close to getting his hands on Victoria's money," she said, pressing her forefinger to her thumb. "And then, one dark night in the graveyard, they argue about something stupid, and Wragg kills the old man."

  "And then suppose, ten years later, Wragg sees the article in the paper about the trunk of St. Onge's letters that you found in your attic."

  "So? What does Wragg think is in her letters? A treasure map?"

  Liz could see, by the dim lights of the dashboard, that Jack was smiling. "Damned straight. Why not?"

  "I've read all of the letters, except for some of the ones Wragg stole. There is no treasure map."

  "Maybe it's in code."

  "Oh, come on." She closed her eyes — saw her attacker — and opened them again. "I don't get it. I do not get it."

  Her thoughts ebbed and flowed around the night's events. Suddenly she felt a surge of adrenaline.

  What if Susy had been home tonight? My God. What if she'd been home?

  She wanted desperately to think about something else.

  "The fire! Good lord, Jack, you haven't said anything about it!"

  "Lady, lady," he said, laughing softly. "One crisis at a time. Anyway, we're here," he said, turning left off Broadway and parking in front of the red-brick station.

  "Should I tell Detective Gilbert about our theory? Or will he think it's too goofy?"

  "Yes, and yes," said Jack. "If he doesn't want to take notes, he doesn't have to."

  ****

  By the time they got back from the station, there wasn't a whole lot left to their third and last night together. Not that it mattered. The last thing in the world Liz wanted was to have someone on top of her.

  "I guess your disasters and my disasters aren't related," she said in a dull, used-up voice.

  "Not unless Wragg is evil incarnate."

  That's just what she thought he was. "Jack ... oh, Jack," she murmured into his shoulder as they sat in the dark in the engulfing softness of her prized down-cushioned sofa. "I was terrified. If I weren't so exhausted, I still would be terrified."

  "I know," he said soothingly as he smoothed her hair away from her face. "I know."

  "What will I do? How will I get over this?" she asked in a voice that was bleak with despair.

  "Time ... give it time," he murmured, holding her close.

  "But Susy comes home tomorrow," she protested in a tired, aching voice.

  "Exactly. Susy comes home tomorrow."

  ****

  The next morning, Liz learned from Detective Gilbert that the police were getting a warrant to search the room Wragg was staying in at the local shelter. They expected to find the stolen letters and hopefully some clue to Eddy Wragg's deadly interest in the ones that Liz possessed.

  "Can I have the stolen letters back a
fter you look at them?" she asked the detective, knowing full well what the answer would be.

  He apologized and said they'd be kept for evidence.

  "Can I at least read through them myself'? I never got the chance, before they were stolen. I'd be willing to stay under someone's watchful eye."

  "I'll see what I can do, Mrs. Coppersmith," the detective said. "But don't worry. You'll get them back safe and sound."

  So that was that. In the meantime, Liz had a fund-raiser to launch. She had taken advantage of a completely unexpected lull (back-to-back broken-off weddings) to draft the working committees to handle decorations, publicity, and tickets.

  Victoria had, with her usual enthusiasm, volunteered to be on all three committees, but Liz managed to confine her to what she did best —decorations, which included helping design the invitations. Dr. Ben, who'd been shanghaied for various charity events from time to time, was willing to write and distribute the press releases. (Liz agreed to sign him up on condition that he absolutely, positively avoided the subject of psychotherapy until after the event was over.)

  Jack, with his widespread connections, was the obvious choice to head up the ticket committee; he promised, with two or three others, to come up with the ultimate list of guests to invite. Netta, Deirdre — the current nanny — and Liz's parents agreed to do the follow-up phone calls. Jack's father agreed to let his name be included in the honorary committee.

  It was turning out to be a regular family affair.

  On her way to the airport, Liz stopped by at East Gate to drop off some mailing lists she'd had on file. Cornelius Eastman, obviously on his way out, answered the door.

  She hadn't seen him since the day of the picnic. Did he know about her and Jack? If so, he wasn't letting on. He greeted her in his usual formal way, then added in a surprising, gentle pun, "Taking it on the chin lately?"

  Automatically Liz's hand went up to the bruise on her jaw. "It seems like it," she replied with careful good humor.

  Apparently Jack hadn't filled his father in on the previous night's events. Good. Liz had no desire for this man's sympathy.

  Jack came out of the Great Room just then. His face lit up when he saw her, which made Liz herself want to burst into a refrain from The Sound of Music.

  Hopeless, she thought, amazed at herself. I've become hopeless.

  "Hey," he said in greeting. "On your way to the airport?"

  "Yes. But I wanted to drop off this list for you to collate into your master. You may already have one; it's from the Chamber of Commerce."

  "Great. How about if I tag along with you? No, on second thought, Susy will want you all to herself. If I stop by after she's in bed? How about that?"

  If Jack's father had been in the dark about them, he wasn't any longer. It didn't take a Supreme Court Justice to decide that she and Jack had something going.

  Liz forced herself not to look at Cornelius Eastman for his reaction. "That ... would be nice," she said, coloring.

  It crossed her mind that Jack was showing off. Then it crossed her mind that she wasn't exactly a trophy date. Then it crossed her mind that she didn't have a clue what Jack was up to.

  Jack's father said blandly, "Should I leave the alarm on or off?"

  Jack answered just as blandly, "On."

  Liz had a sneaky suspicion that the question was a rich man's version of "Should I wait up?"

  Feeling once again caught in the middle, she said quickly, "I've got to be going. Nice to see you again, Mr. Eastman."

  Cornelius narrowed his eyes almost imperceptibly and smiled. "Please. Call me Neal."

  ****

  "Mommy! Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!"

  Was there a better word in the English language? Liz felt her heart leap up in simple joy at the sight of Susy breaking away from her grandfather's hand and making a mad dash for her. She crouched down and opened her arms wide for her daughter, then caught her and held her tight.

  She still smells like Susy, clean and sweet and innocent. My little girl ... three days ... three lifetimes.

  And suddenly it had never happened.

  "I love your T-shirt," Liz said, outlining the Mickey Mouse ears on her daughter's chest. "Was that a present from Gramma and Grampa?"

  "Yes, and Grampa gave me — this," Susy said, whipping her wrist up in front of her mother's nose. "It's quartz!"

  "A Mickey Mouse watch as well! My goodness, Grampa," said Liz with a scolding look above her daughter's head.

  "Not only that! I got Mickey Mouse pajamas, too!"

  "We did it for the others," said Liz's mother, cutting off her protest.

  Liz rose and gave each of her parents a quick hug, then turned her attention back to Susy.

  "What happened to your chin, Mommy?" Susy asked with a puzzled look.

  Liz was ready with her answer. "I slipped off the ladder when I was trimming the roses. I should have been more careful," she said gravely, turning the lie into a lesson.

  "And I got you a Mickey Mouse hat!" said Susy, returning to her adventure. "I hope it fits. It's way big on me. That's how I tested it. But if it doesn't fit, we can't take it back. I don't want to go on the plane right away," she said with a wary look in her brown eyes.

  Liz glanced up at her father, who made up-and-down movements with his arm. "Oh, it was bumpy, huh? Sometimes they're like that. But my goodness, after all those rides at Disney World, I'm surprised you even noticed!"

  Liz, her mother, and Susy fell in behind Liz's father, who was hell-bent for the luggage carousel. "Tell me what you liked the best," Liz asked her child, relishing the feel of the small hand in hers. "Tell me everything, every little thing."

  Susy talked nonstop, right through the drive home, right through her bath. Tired as she was, the child was still too wound up to sleep. Dressed in her new Mickey Mouse pajamas, she cuddled in her mother's arms, listening to her favorite dinosaur tape as Liz rocked her for longer than the usual time.

  Out of the blue, Susy said in a sleepy voice, "Are you going to marry Mr. Eastman, Mommy?"

  Liz was unprepared for that one. "No, sweetie. I only said Mr. Eastman is coming by later to help me plan the costume party benefit."

  After a moment of rocking, Liz couldn't resist a question of her own. "Susy? What made you think I was going to marry him?"

  "Just because," Susy said with a shrug of her small shoulders. Then she added, "Is my real daddy ever coming back?"

  "Maybe he'll come someday for a visit," Liz said vaguely. How she hated this particular conversation.

  "I mean to live."

  "No, honey. Not to live."

  "Well ... in that case ... I think Mr. Eastman would make a pretty good dad."

  "You do, do you," Liz murmured, rubbing her chin in her daughter's hair. "You know what? I think you could be right."

  There wasn't a doubt in Liz's mind.

  In a distressing display of perception, Susy said, "But he probably wants baby kids, not bigger ones, huh."

  Her voice was so forlorn, so resigned. She deserved a father so much. It broke Liz's heart to think that the sum total of Keith's contribution to Susy's existence was one spermatozoon.

  "I think if Mr. Eastman ever gets married," Liz said to her daughter, "he'll love all-sized kids: babies and older ones, too. But — he hasn't asked me, Susabella."

  Big, big yawn. "But if he did?"

  "He hasn't asked."

  "If he did?"

  "Hasn't."

  Another yawn. "If?"

  They played the game back and forth until Susy nodded off in her mother's arms.

  Liz tucked her daughter in bed and moved the night light so that its halo fell over her sleeping form. It didn't seem possible to love a child as much as she did at that moment. Liz would do anything — give up her life — to protect Susy from harm. She would do anything; but she couldn't manufacture a daddy out of thin air.

  ****

  Jack came later, knocking softly. Liz stood on her side of the door and whispered "Who is i
t?" which made her feel like a bouncer at a speakeasy.

  He identified himself, and she let him in, and he wrapped his arms around her in a long, silent embrace. "I missed you," he said simply.

  "Yes. Me too."

  Words were either unnecessary or inadequate, Liz couldn't decide which. All she knew was that when he had his arms around her, it felt as right as when she had hers around Susy.

  "All locked up?" he asked unnecessarily as they sat down in what Liz now considered "their" spot on the sofa.

  He was freshly showered, soapy clean and with damp hair clinging to the back of his neck. She loved that he was trying his damnedest to present a contrast to the filthy intruder who'd terrorized her the night before.

  She curled up against his chest. "I think I'm going to change the lock on the back door," she said, drawing idle circles around a button of his polo shirt. "It bothers me that a key to my house is sitting in an evidence room somewhere."

  She shuddered to think how stupid she'd been to announce, near an open window, where she was hiding the spare. "I can't shake the feeling that Wragg's going to get out, steal it, and come back."

  "Change the lock, then; get rid of the feeling. I'll change it for you."

  "And, Jack?" she said, gaining confidence from his support. "I wanted to say something else. About last night.

  There's something I can't explain. Or — I can explain it, all right, just not to the police. Not even to Victoria."

  She told Jack how at the height of the assault, after Wragg had nearly knocked her out — how he suddenly jumped off her and clapped his hands over his ears and was bent over in two from the pain. "I don't think Mace, even if it got in his ears, would cause that reaction," she said, trying to put a light touch on it. "It had to be the chime-sound."

  Jack knew all about the chime-sound by now. "But the chiming didn't hurt you at all?"

  She lifted her head from his chest and looked at him. "Oh, not at all. Just the opposite. It sounded like the cavalry." She laughed wryly and added, "Between the two of you, Wragg must not have known what hit him."

  There. It was out. Let him call her crazy.

  But Jack took another tack altogether. "Don't sell yourself short, ma'am. I can't think of many women who would've had your presence of mind. I'm not sure I can think of any."