by Kathy
The door opened directly into the living room. It too was poorly lit, since the building next door was four stories high and the windows opened onto an airshaft. However, there was enough light for her to see the signs she had hoped not to see—signs of frantic, furious haste. Drawers stood open, cushions had been tumbled onto the floor and books from the shelves lining one wall littered the floor. A stab of deja vu pierced Meg as she remembered how she had rushed around her apartment after hearing of Dan's death. She had left it in a mess too.
Meg turned on the lights and closed the door. A dull, fatalistic calm had replaced her feeling of panic, and she went about her business without bothering to move quietly. Logic, as well as an instinctive consciousness of human presence, told her the apartment was empty of life.
Only the floor plan was as she remembered it. Dan's recent remodeling had improved the apartment almost beyond recognition, so much so that she wondered how much of its look of quiet comfort was Dan's contribution. His taste was strictly limited to jewelry; left to himself, he was inclined to go for baroque, favoring garish colors and an overabundance of ornaments. Pale ivory paint had replaced the faded wallpaper of the living room, brightening it and forming a fitting backdrop for prints and a few unusual but attractive pieces of three-dimensional art. The kitchen had new appliances and countertops; the cabinets were finished in smooth unvarnished walnut. It had not suffered the same violence as the living room; only a plate, cup and saucer and some pieces of silverware, washed and left to drain, were out of place.
However, the bedroom was a second, minor shock—minor only because she had seen the living room first. The bed was unmade, the sheet thrown back. There was no indication as to whether he had slept in it the night before; he might be of the school that considered daily bed-making a waste of valuable time. The bureau drawers were all open, clothing had been dragged out and left where it fell.
Kneeling, she picked up the books that lay tumbled on the floor, smoothing the crumpled pages, reading the titles as she returned them to the shelves. Bookshelves here and in the living room, even a few paperbacks in the bathroom—they showed a side of Riley she had never suspected, and the titles were even more enlightening in their wide range: hard-boiled detective stories rubbed shoulders with Dorothy Sayers; Rebecca West and Loren Eiseley shared a shelf with Dave Barry and Henry James. Dorothy Sayers . . . that was the source of the quote she had failed to identify when she asked Riley if he had a clean handkerchief. . . .
After she had replaced the books she returned to the living room. There was nothing more to be done here. Picking up the mess would take time she didn't have, looking through his clothes would tell her nothing—she wasn't sufficiently familiar with his wardrobe to know whether anything was missing.
Most of it was clear in her mind now. She had known for some time who must be responsible. Only the motive still eluded her. The motive, and Riley himself. Where could he be? Was there a chance that, like Darren, she had jumped to conclusions— that there was another explanation for his absence besides the worst-case scenario she envisioned? But she had eliminated most of the remaining possibilities. He hadn't had an accident on the road, or been picked up for DWI; the truck, parked with its usual precision, proved that he had made it safely home.
There was one last chance. If he had left a message for her, it wouldn't be here, it would be somewhere in the store.
There was no one waiting outside, and no indication that anyone had come to the store during her absence. Not even a dead rat on the doorstep. Nevertheless, she hesitated before entering, feeling the now-familiar prickle of tightened nerves as her eyes probed the shadowy silence of the store. He had keys, he knew the exits and entrances, the working of the security system, as well as she did. But—she assured herself—he wouldn't risk coming here. Not in broad daylight, with people on the street.
The logic failed to convince her completely, but she forced herself to go in. After she had looked into the washroom and behind the counters, she ventured into the office, finding it equally empty of life.
She pulled out one of the file drawers, glanced into it and then slammed it shut. It would take days to go through every folder, and what would be the point of such a search? She wasn't even sure what she was looking for. If Riley had left her a note it would be on the desk or on the counter. Unless. . . .
She pulled out the center desk drawer and pressed the false screw-head that opened the so-called secret compartment. No note. Nothing except the ugly, deadly weapon.
Meg fully intended to close the drawer. She watched with remote interest as her hand moved to the butt of the gun. It was astonishingly heavy. She examined it curiously, wondering if it was loaded, looking for the safety catch. This wasn't the weapon she had used so briefly so many years ago—but it didn't matter, she couldn't remember how to use that one either.
When she opened the door of the shop a rustle in the dark made her heart jump and her fingers fumble on the light switch. The glare of the overhead lights showed nothing alarming. The rush of air into what was essentially a sealed room must have stirred a loose piece of paper.
The workbench was bare except for tools and a scattering of scraps. Despite her efforts at control, it took her three tries to open the safe. Teeth sunk in her lower lip, she inspected each tray and each box. Nothing was missing, but there was one tray whose contents were unfamiliar. It must be Riley's current project, still unfinished. The jumble of shimmering color took shape as she moved it with a careful finger. Earrings, one almost finished, the other only a promise of loose stones and gold wire. They matched her necklace.
A stab of pain in her lip and the salty taste of blood brought her back to her senses. She replaced the tray. That was everything, except for a box of discarded gold findings and the little velvet bag of mixed citrines and topazes. What was it doing in the safe? She had left it in Dan's desk drawer.
Meg loosened the drawstring and put her hand in the bag. The smooth, cool surfaces of the stones, Dan's worry beads, slid through her fingers. When her fingers touched the alien object, she knew at once what it was.
The slender gold hoop had been shaped by a master craftsman, its design combining delicacy and strength in a variation of the old gimmel rings—two separate circles that joined to form clasped hands. This was no antique, nor a copy of an older ring, but a brilliant modern variation on the theme. It was not one of Riley's pieces; she had good reason to be certain of that. Yet it must have been Riley who put it in the bag and returned the bag to the safe.
With the ease of remembered habit her fingers found the hidden catch and pulled the golden circles apart. She needed a loupe to read the letters engraved on the miniature open palms: Letters and numbers, four of each, two on either side. EM 19, SV 60.
Meg slipped the ring on her finger. It was still too big, but not grossly oversized as it had been all those years ago, on the small hand of a child. Playing with the ring had been a special treat allowed by an indulgent parent to a beloved, spoiled little girl. How often had she tried to see the message entire, always failing because it became whole only when the ring was closed, reserving its message for the eyes of the heart? The initials were those of Simon Venturi and Elissa Mignot, the date was the year of their marriage. The ring was her mother's wedding ring, which should have been resting in the eternal darkness of her grave, its gold untarnished by the corruption that would by now have reduced the finger it encircled to bare white bone.
When Meg came out of the store, sunlight dazzled her eyes. It was later than she had realized. The sun rode high above the buildings across the street. Half-blinded and uncertain as to her next move, she didn't see the tall lanky figure approaching until he called her name.
"Meg! Did you just get here? Where's Riley?"
Trust Mike to come straight to the point. She answered the last question first. "I don't know. He's not in the apartment, I looked."
"So did I." The bright sunlight brought out every line and wrinkle in Mike's
face, including a few she had never noticed before.
"You have a key to the apartment?"
The question surprised him. "Why, no. I just knocked. He didn't answer, so I figured he wasn't there."
"Why were you looking for him?"
Mike took his time about answering, studying her face with a shrewd, unblinking scrutiny that made her feel like a bug under a microscope. "Something the matter, honey? You seem kind of upset."
"It's not like him to be late," Meg said. "And after last night. . . ."
"Uh-huh. There's some ugly talk going around town."
"About Riley?"
Mike nodded. "Somebody claims to have seen his pickup near the back gate on Old Hammond Road last night."
So the net was closing. Meg wasn't disturbed by the information; she wasn't even particularly interested. The case against Riley had become a matter of minor importance.
"I'm worried about that boy," Mike went on thoughtfully. "He could be in bad trouble."
He didn't know the half of it. Meg bit her lip, but didn't quite succeed in repressing a gasp of hysterical laughter. Mike gave her a reproachful look, and she explained disingenuously, "I was—it was you calling him a boy. He wouldn't appreciate that."
"I don't suppose he'd mind." Mike's forehead resembled a patch of crumpled leather, all creases and cracks. "I don't like this, Meg. I wanted to talk to him—that's why I was watching for him this morning."
He looked and sounded so concerned that Meg was seized with an almost overpowering urge to pour out her anxieties and dump them, in one smothering load, onto the broad shoulders of her old friend. Her fingers clenched over the cardboard box in the pocket of her skirt. She couldn't do it. Couldn't take the risk.
"I'll let you know if I find—if I hear from him," she said.
"Where're you off to? How about some lunch?"
"No." The thought of food was nauseating. "No, thanks. I've got to—I've got some errands. See you, Mike."
He was still standing in front of the store, scratching his head, when she pulled out of the parking lot. She waved with forced cheerfulness.
Now where? Someplace quiet and isolated, away from people, where she could get her thoughts organized and decide what to do. She drove almost at random, heading out of town, and away from the Manor. It wasn't until she found herself approaching the ornate iron gates of the cemetery that she realized she had meant to go there all along.
It was quiet enough. There was no funeral that day; the only people she saw as she drove along the winding road were a handyman mowing the grass and a woman arranging flowers at one of the graves. She pulled to the side and stopped when she saw the marble angel on Dan's monument lifting white wings over the soft green ground.
Dan's last joke, that sweet-faced alabaster angel. . . . He had had no expectation of ending up in a conventional Presbyterian Heaven, and the idea of flapping around in a long white robe lugging a harp would have moved him to ribald laughter. He had accepted the design partly because it pleased his wife and partly because he enjoyed its irony. Mary would lie beside him one day, under the shadow of those wings. Now they hovered over the graves of his two daughters. There was a plot reserved for George, too, but Meg's father was not there. He had been buried in Akron, Ohio, with his kin. She had read that in the newspaper. She had never visited his grave.
She took the cardboard box from her pocket and opened it. One last look at the ring; then she wrapped it carefully in tissues and returned it to the box, which she taped closed. She had already typed the statement she meant to enclose with it. She inserted box and statement into the mailing envelope and sealed it.
Just in case.
Her courage failed her then, for a moment, and she bowed her head over the steering wheel, fighting the panic that was her enemy within. She couldn't let it conquer her now. If the tenuous chain of evidence she had woven was right, she had several more hours before the situation became critical. But there were so many factors she couldn't control; her actions from now on would resemble those of a player in a computer game, trying to shoot down the bright, darting shapes of the enemy while at the same time avoiding their shots at her. What made it even more difficult was that she didn't know how many darting shapes were involved. Nor did she have the faintest idea where to look.
Think. Use your brains. There weren't that many possibilities. Not a hotel or motel; too public. An abandoned house? Possible; but she had been away too long, she didn't know the town as well as he did. How about going to a realtor? She had a good excuse, especially now that the cottage was destroyed; people knew she had been looking for a place to live. The old Barlow place—Barby had mentioned it. ... But an empty house, one that was on the market, was risky. A realtor might choose that day to show the place.
It was no use, she couldn't force herself to sit quietly. Her foot was tapping, her hands twitching. The need to take action, to be moving—doing something, anything—was stronger than the need to plan her strategy. An idea was just as likely to come to her while she was driving, she told herself.
With one last look at the marble angel and a half-formed prayer to the cynical old pagan who had erected it, she drove away.
After a stop at the post office to dispose of her parcel, she forced herself to take the time for one additional precaution— renting a car. The bright red Ferrari was too well known. Leaving it in the parking lot of the supermarket, she walked to the rental agency and selected a modest blue Ford Escort. He could trace that transaction, she had had to use her own name and credit card; but no matter how numerous his allies, he suffered from constraints similar to hers—time running out, the need for concealment.
With dark glasses hiding her eyes and a scarf covering her conspicuous black hair, she felt secure enough to risk a drive down Main Street, hoping against hope even now that she had been wrong. But the store was closed and dark, the pickup was still in the parking lot. Passing the bakery, she turned her head away; Ed stood sunning himself in the doorway, his round pink face fixed in its habitual smile. The hardware store was doing a thriving business, but there was traffic behind her, she couldn't stop to see whether Mike was there. He always was, though. . . . Lights shone from the windows of Barby's Beauty Shoppe, and Kate's Kafe was open for business. She drove on through town, catching a glimpse of Mrs. Henderson peering out from behind the roses—did the dreadful old woman ever go inside? She was like a vampire, deriving her life energy from the unhappiness of others. Meg pictured her hanging like a great black bat from the trellis, watching through the night with malevolent eyes. . . . She passed the gates of the Manor—no sign of unusual activity there.
A quarter of a mile farther on was a small shopping center, boasting the usual conveniences—grocery store, cleaners, drugstore, liquor store, insurance office . . . realtor. Meg went first to the phone booth outside the drugstore.
Frances answered the phone. Before Meg could say more than "hello," the housekeeper started berating her. "Where've you been? They've all been here except you. Clifford called twice, looking for you. He wouldn't say so, but I could see he was worried about you. What are you—"
"Clifford had no damn business worrying Gran," Meg cut in. "I've been—I've been very busy, Frances. I just wanted to check in and make sure she was all right."
"She's all right," Frances said, with heavy emphasis on the pronoun. "Nobody is gonna worry her, not while I'm around. You're the one who should be—"
"Is she listening?"
"I took the phone in the bathroom. It was disturbing her. Like I said, they keep calling here and asking about you. You want to talk to her?"
"No! I mean—not now. Later."
"When?"
"Later. Don't let her worry, Frances. Tell her everything is all right. And, Frances—watch over her. Don't leave her."
"As if I would." The housekeeper's voice sharpened. "What are you trying to say? Does somebody want to hurt her?"
Again Meg had to fight the urge to seek support and comfo
rt by telling all she knew. If she couldn't trust Frances to defend her mistress with her life, she couldn't believe in anything; yet for all her wiry strength Frances was an old woman, with too much imagination and too little common sense. Gran's best security now was ignorance.
Inspiration came to her from out of nowhere, as it sometimes does when it is desperately needed. She even summoned up a laugh. "Who would want to harm Gran? But she's still not out of the woods, and worry could set her back. I'll tell you the truth, Frances—"
"High time." A sniff emphasized the criticism.
"I have to go to New York. I left everything in such a mess, there are bills to pay, and food rotting in the fridge and—and I need more clothes, Gran knows I've hardly a stitch to wear. Explain it to her—she'll understand about the clothes, at any rate!"
"Oh. Well, why didn't you say so in the first place, instead of scaring me half to death? You can tell her yourself, I think she just woke up—"
"I haven't time to talk, I'm at the train station now; but I'll be back tomorrow night, I promise. Give her my love."
She hung the phone up before Frances could reply.
Seldon's small-town status was in no way more clearly demonstrated than by the fact that there was a telephone book in the booth, and that most of the pages were intact. Meg looked up several addresses and wrote them down. Then she put in another quarter and dialed.
The phone rang for some time before it was answered. That in itself told Meg one of the things she wanted to know, before her assumption was confirmed by Annie. "Sorry to be so slow, Miss Meg, but things are in a terrible mess around here. People running in and out, the police. . . . What? Oh, it's something about the fire. I don't rightly understand it, but your uncle's been looking all over for you, and Mr. Cliff—"
