Alarmed, Merida turned to face a tall, skinny, slump-shouldered woman with a bruise on one cheek and her left wrist in a brace. How had she crept up on Merida so quickly and quietly?
Still in that small, timid voice, so out of place in a woman of her age and height, she said, “I’m Susie Robinson. I’m supposed to clean your room. I couldn’t get in.”
Merida gestured to the locks.
“I can clean it now while you’re at dinner.”
Merida reached into her bag and pulled out her tablet. She showed Susie the usual message, then typed, “I have to work.”
“I’m quick and quiet.” Susie wrung her bony, work-worn hands. “Please, Miss Falcon, Phoebe takes pride in caring for her guests and if I don’t…”
Merida remembered what Phoebe had said about Susie’s home situation, realized that she was inadvertently making the woman’s life harder, and held up one finger.
At once, Susie stopped talking.
Merida went inside, locked the door behind her, collected her computer from the wall safe, opened her door and gestured Susie in.
“Thank you, Miss Falcon, I promise I won’t disturb you.” She looked anxious again. “I have to fetch my cleaning supplies.”
Merida nodded and waited until Susie had lugged in her vacuum cleaner and cleaning bin, and shut the door behind her.
Susie’s worn face brightened. “Aren’t you going to Phoebe’s dinner, Miss Falcon? She’s a real good cook.”
Merida’s stomach growled; she hadn’t eaten since her breakfast at the Oceanview Café. Even up here, the scents of bacon, caramelized onions and freshly baked bread permeated the air. But Merida smiled and patted her computer.
“I know. Phoebe says you’re a real quiet guest and are here to work. Don’t worry, she’ll save you some leftovers. That’s what she does for me. I take ’em home, feed ’em to my kids. My husband, he don’t like that fancy stuff.”
Merida took a slow step backward. Please, no confidences. I don’t want to hear how your husband beats you. I don’t want to feel empathy.
“Sorry, miss. I’d love to chat, but you’re the last room and I have to get home soon as I can.” Susie headed into the bathroom.
Merida hurried down the maid’s back stairs to the dining room with its long table, its rows of knights standing guard—and the microwave.
She charred the frozen dinner. Apparently before you cooked it, you were supposed to read the directions. She tried to eat it and realized even if she hadn’t burned it, it would have tasted like cardboard and ketchup.
So frozen dinners hadn’t improved since she was in college.
No matter. When she had lived with Nauplius, she had learned to do without meals as necessary. When he tied her hands so she couldn’t speak … and when she wished to aggravate him by refusing the food he bought her. She hadn’t been able to do much to defy him. Just a few things.
Overhead, the vacuum cleaner started up.
Merida looked toward the door that led to the entry and from there to the large living room where every evening, Phoebe served appetizers and wines and ports in sparkling jeweled glasses. She was pretty sure the Cipres were gone from Virtue Falls. But she did really need to work. The program she had developed required daily tending, a sense of when to gamble, when to escalate the pressure and at the same time not call attention to her underlying purpose …
She bent to her computer screen and immersed herself in the labor … for fifteen minutes. Until her stomach growled so loudly she wanted to tell it to hush up—or feed it. Without the incentive of annoying Nauplius, self-denial wasn’t nearly as much fun.
Another fifteen minutes, and she began to realize socializing might not be all bad. She didn’t like it, but she knew how. Phoebe truly was a fabulous cook; the breakfasts Merida had grabbed in passing proved that. Maybe just this once …
She shut her laptop. What to do with it? She didn’t want to take it upstairs and put it into the safe. Not with Susie watching. Opening the mirrored doors on the old-fashioned cupboard, she slid it into the bottom drawer underneath a stack of ironed tablecloths. She shut the drawer, shut the cupboard and looked around to make sure she was unobserved. She opened the door into the entry, heard the clatter of silverware, shut the door. No use locking it. Not with Susie inside. She had to assume no one was going to bother with a stack of tablecloths.
She tiptoed toward the open door of the parlor, toward the murmur of voices and the clatter of silverware. She peeked around the corner …
The sideboard sported a fabulous buffet. An arrangement of charcuterie, cheeses and breads was laid out on an olive wood platter. Candles flickered beneath a chafing dish. Champagne rested on ice in silver buckets. The smells tantalized and enticed.
A quick sweep of the guests relieved her mind. She saw a young couple, possibly honeymooners, snuggling on the old-fashioned love seat. Four men in various degrees of casual touristy garb stood around the mantel, eating off crystal plates and watching a soccer game on someone’s computer tablet.
She saw no sign of the rotund Dawkins Cipre and his skinny scholar of a wife.
Still, so many people … so many explanations about her own inability to speak. So many difficult social niceties …
The thing that overcame Merida’s last scrap of reluctance was Phoebe, sitting forlorn in the corner by the sideboard. The vibrant woman had prepared this lovely repast, yet she had been unable to coerce her guests into visiting.
Very well. Merida would visit.
Stepping in, she walked over to Phoebe and touched her hand, and when Phoebe looked up, she smiled and gestured at the buffet.
At once Phoebe came to her feet. “Merida, I’m so glad you joined us. We are having such a convivial time! This week the country I’m honoring is France. Everything is prepared with butter and cheese. I hope you’re not worried about your cholesterol!” She laughed merrily.
Merida smiled and patted her fingers to her lips like someone using a napkin.
“Of course not. You’re young and thin. You can eat anything.” Phoebe led her to the buffet. “Let me take you on a tour. We have salade niçoise—the tuna is fresh off the boat! I prepared a simple quiche—eggs and chèvre in a pastry shell with bacon and spinach. I have a bowl of sour cream as a side. It’s not traditional, but I think that tang improves the dish, n’est-ce pas?”
Merida nodded, but noted in a panic that at the mantel, male heads swiveled. She looked away.
“Make sure you try some of my cassoulet au canard. When I was in college in France, I learned from the best.” Phoebe didn’t seem to trust that Merida would properly serve herself, for she took a plate and dished up generous portions. “Here I have pommes frites. French fries, of course, but does it get any better than deep-fried potatoes?”
Merida glanced back at the men. Damn! One of them was Officer Sean Weston, the patrolman at the roadblock who had so clumsily made a pass at her. No, no, no. She did not want to do this.
She started to back away.
Phoebe handed her the plate and silverware wrapped in a linen napkin, tore off a crusty chunk of baguette. “Look at the desserts I’ve prepared. Napoleons, cream puffs, éclairs with homemade custard and, the pièce de résistance—crème brûlée.” She clicked her miniature blowtorch. “I’m ready to caramelize the sugar whenever you’re ready. I won’t judge if you eat dessert first. Think of all the women on the Titanic who worried about their waistlines!”
Phoebe made a powerful argument for self-indulgence.
And Merida had lingered too long.
Officer Sean Weston stood beside her. “I was hoping to see you here tonight. How are you?”
Merida ate a bite of the glorious, garlicky cassoulet and realized this was worth whatever price she had to pay. She nodded at Sean, seated herself in a hard-cushioned antique chair, and went to work on the quiche. And the sour cream. As she ate, she liked Phoebe more and more.
Sean dragged up a chair and sat, elbows on his knees, leanin
g close. “I’m afraid I made you mad yesterday. Listen, I adore the sheriff. She’s smart and she’s tough. She let me guard her last night, so you know she trusts me.”
Phoebe said, “Officer Weston, Merida needs a glass of champagne!”
He looked startled, leaped to his feet and said, “Yes, ma’am!” and dove for the crystal flutes.
In a distressed voice, Phoebe murmured, “He wanted to come to dinner, I was afraid no one would be here to enjoy all this food, I said yes, I didn’t discover until afterward he was interested in pursuing you. I’m sorry, Miss Falcon.”
Merida patted her hand.
“Thank you, Merida. You are such a wonderful woman. I knew it! A kindred spirit.”
Then Phoebe, the traitor, faded away, leaving Sean hovering with a glass of champagne.
Merida took it with a nod of thanks.
Sean seated himself again. “Merida, do you know why I guarded the sheriff last night?”
Why no. She didn’t.
“Yesterday someone broke into her apartment. She moved to her friend’s house—Rainbow, who was shot when Sheriff Kwinault was shot—and the sheriff slept there. I protected her.”
Merida moved to sign language, trusting that she would be comprehended. “Who broke into her apartment?”
Sean got it. “We don’t know. We think it’s John Terrance, the drug dealer we’re pursuing. But … no fingerprints.”
Merida had spent the last year looking over her shoulder, fearing to see the paparazzi on her trail, or Nauplius Brassard’s children or some specter of her past … it had never occurred to her someone else could be in danger. That her friend Kateri Kwinault could also be looking over her shoulder. Maybe Dawkins and Elsa Cipre were not as bad as she feared. Maybe she needed to think about someone else for a change.
She glanced toward the other men by the mantel. One stood intently watching her and Sean. Intently, coolly, menacingly.
No. No. This wasn’t possible.
Benedict Howard. In the flesh.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The meeting with Kateri had gone so well.
The meeting with the Cipres had been so unfortunate.
This meeting with Benedict was so disastrous.
Maybe that was why Merida lost her temper. Lost her temper in a way she hadn’t since college.
She flew at Benedict. Standing toe to toe, with emphatic gestures she signed, “What are you doing here? Why are you here?”
He took a step away as if she intimidated him and observed her intently. A pause, then he said, “You know why I’m here.”
“Sex? Intercourse?” Her signing was rapid, vulgar and explicit, and drew gasps from the onlookers—and everyone was looking. “Bullshit. Bullshit! No way. All you want is the one beautiful woman you couldn’t have.”
He spoke the words clearly and calmly. “Now I call bullshit. I haven’t seen you in years. You’ve changed. Aged. I could have found a more beautiful and also less resistant woman than you.”
That knocked Merida back on her heels, made her think, made her silently laugh. Her temper marginally cooled. “How did you find me?”
Again a pause that involved his close scrutiny. “Pure luck. I had an investigative firm looking for you. Then my assistant saw you in the airport. She wasn’t sure. She took your picture.”
Merida had a flashback of rushing to catch a plane—she tried never to be early, to be caught standing around—and noticing a young, tall, smartly suited female fumbling with her phone.
Luck. Rotten luck. Damned fate.
And damn him. Benedict Howard. Always him.
Another man who wanted to make a deal. Another man who would use any leverage, no matter how abhorrent, to force her to sign a contract that would give him possession over her: her face, her body, her presence at his side until such time as he no longer wanted her—or, like Nauplius, he dropped dead.
“Go away,” she signed, gesturing wildly.
He caught her wrists.
She didn’t pause. She didn’t think. She head-butted him in the chest. He stumbled backward, yet held on. She stumbled forward. He hit the fireplace utensils. The clang and rattle as they fell over seemed to awaken him and abruptly, he let her go. Seeking balance, one of his hands swept out. He knocked over the tray of delicate crystal goblets.
Purple port splashed. Glass shattered.
Phoebe cried out in distress.
All at once, Merida realized every eye in the room was fixed on her. She was doing the thing she most needed to avoid: she was causing a scene, calling attention to herself.
Turning on her heel, she stalked toward the entry.
Sean caught her arm and swung her around. “Do you want to file a complaint against him?”
In a fury, she glared.
He let her go.
Clothed in dignity and exuding offense, she left the room. Behind her, she heard the murmur of voices, the general rise of surprised, shocked and scintillated conversation, then Phoebe saying, “Can’t she speak? She didn’t tell me she couldn’t speak. Why didn’t she tell me?”
Merida hoped to escape into her room before Benedict caught up with her. She inserted her key into the lock and turned it. No problem. She tried to input her code into the keypad. She got it wrong. She tried again.
Benedict tapped her shoulder.
She thumped her head on the door, then faced him.
He held up his hands, palms out. “I’m sorry I held you. I’ve been practicing sign language, reading it and speaking it, but I’m slow and I couldn’t keep up and you were … I’m not used to anyone swearing at me.”
She thought about it, then nodded a grudging acceptance. Again she signed, “Why are you here?”
“Is sheer lust not a good enough reason?”
“For years?” Every gesture was emphatic. “With this woman who is so much older than your usual paramours?”
He sighed as if he didn’t quite know what to say. “The thing is—I feel like I’ve known you forever.”
No. “No! You don’t know me. Go away and leave me alone.”
“I can’t. I tried to forget you, but there’s something between us.”
Yes. There was so much between them. Love. Lust. Joy. Betrayal. Betrayal on a cosmic level.
She wanted to grab him, shake him, demand he explain himself … pick up a knife and stick it in his chest, hurt him as he had hurt her.
“What?” he asked. “Tell me what it is.”
God. She would so love to tell him what it was. She would love to hear him deny, grovel, be shocked and appalled.
He would be lying, but she would love it anyway.
Nine years of servitude, and they were all Benedict’s fault. The explosion, the horror of waking and discovering she was broken in face and body … and discovering, also, she could be repaired … for a price, and that price was her freedom. Nine years spent knowing she had signed Nauplius Brassard’s draconian contract, that it was her name on the dotted line, and learning all too painfully that Nauplius had no pity, no compassion, and escape, physically or mentally, was impossible.
The front door slammed open.
Merida’s and Benedict’s heads swiveled to look.
Dawkins and Elsa Cipre stood in the entry.
Dear God, they were still at the B and B. Was Merida cursed?
Dawkins looked indignant. Elsa looked disheveled, or maybe it was simply another one of her odd outfits.
Dawkins proclaimed, “That wave came right at me. Right at me, Elsa!”
Elsa brushed at his jacket. “Dear, surely you can’t believe the ocean conspired to rob you of your dignity. That simply doesn’t make sense.”
“Are you saying I’m not sensible?”
Elsa struggled for words, then caught sight of Benedict and Merida frozen and staring. She seized on them like the diversion they were. “Darling, look! It’s Merida and … and the young man from the ship!”
Dawkins turned to his wife and in an accusing voice said, �
�So much for your theory that Merida is pining for Nauplius. They must have made an assignation.”
Merida shook her head and spelled, No. No. No.
No to the assignation. No to the Cipres residing here. No to the whole scene.
From the kitchen, another voice spoke, a feminine, high-class Baltimore, superior/nasty voice. With an indignation to match Cipre’s, the woman said, “My God, what kind of disgusting spectacle have I walked into?”
Merida’s and Benedict’s heads swiveled in that direction.
The woman continued to complain. “I should never have made a reservation in a bed-and-breakfast. So … common.”
Merida couldn’t believe her bad luck. Lilith Palmer. Lilith Palmer. Kateri’s sister, the one who had locked them in the basement. Merida and Kateri believed she had hoped to kill them.
She had met Lilith again, too, at some boring charity function she had attended as Nauplius Brassard’s wife.
But … but Merida looked very different now. Different from her teen years. Different from those years of suited and high-heeled bondage.
Yet Lilith’s Botoxed forehead almost wrinkled. “Do I know you?” She sounded scornful, but puzzled, too.
Merida shook her head. No. You don’t know me.
Sean Weston stepped into the doorway. “Merida, do you need assistance?”
No. None of you know me.
Dawkins Cipre. Elsa Cipre. Officer Sean Weston. Lilith Palmer. And most horribly, Benedict Howard. Why were they here? Now? In Merida’s refuge? To her, it seemed as if predator birds circled overhead, waiting for the moment of weakness when they would swoop down and tear her to pieces. She rubbed her forehead with her fingertips.
Benedict touched her arm. “Merida?”
She flung him away. Her hands moved violently and her lips moved, too. “Leave me alone!” She turned to the door of her rooms, fumbled with the key. Her hands shook.
Everyone was looking at her. She could feel them looking at her. She tried the key again. That lock was open. She touched the right sequence of numbers on the keypad.
She was in! She stepped over the threshold, slammed the door behind her—and saw Susie, looking horrified and guilty, the open laptop on the table before her … the laptop Merida had so carefully hidden an hour before.
The Woman Who Couldn't Scream Page 9
