Falling Awake (21 page)

The furnishings looked as if they had come with the house. The sofa, chairs, coffee table and lamps were all nondescript and well worn, veterans of a lot of years of summer rentals.

He was mildly surprised not to see more evidence of Isabel’s personal style and tastes in the room. He had figured her for the kind of woman who would put her stamp on her environment. Why the bland backdrop? Probably hadn’t had time to do any interior design.

The collection of volumes in the plank-and-glass block bookcase proved to be the exception to the generic feel of the place.

He glanced at a few of the titles and smiled. As he had expected, it was a mixed lot that ran the gamut from serious academic dream research to the bogus television psychic stuff. G. William Domhoff’s
The Scientific Study of Dreams
sat side by side with a collection of Jung’s essays on dreams and a popular book that purported to tell people how to interpret the symbols that appeared in their dreamscapes. Freud’s groundbreaking work on the psychological analysis of dreams was juxtaposed with Stephen LaBerge’s experimental reports on lucid dreaming. The legendary sleep studies conducted by Dement were wedged between copies of the elaborate Hall/Van de Castle dream coding system and a volume containing Patricia Garfield’s theories on the same subject.

This was where Martin Belvedere had hoped to see his work shelved, he thought, right next to Freud, Jung, Domhoff, LaBerge and the others. He wondered if Isabel would someday make the old man’s dream of respect and recognition come true. One thing
was for sure. Belvedere had been right to entrust his papers to her. If anyone would take on the responsibility of getting him published posthumously, it was Isabel.

“Wine’s ready,” she announced cheerfully. “And I’ve got some hors d’oeuvres, if you’re hungry.”

“You don’t have to call me twice.”

He crossed the living area and took a seat on one of the high-backed swivel chairs at the counter. In spite of the seriousness of the situation and the knowledge that Isabel probably would have fixed dinner for anyone who showed up on her doorstep, he could not ignore the bone-deep satisfaction he was feeling. There was an inexplicable sense of rightness about this cozy domestic scene. It was as if some part of him were trying to tell him that this was where he belonged, what he had been waiting for all these years.

Or maybe the problem was simply that he could not remember the last time anyone had cooked dinner for him.

Isabel set a glass of wine and a small dish containing an assortment of olives, tiny strips of carrots and crunchy pale jicama, together with some cheese and crackers, in front of him.

“Here’s to our future as dream analyst and client,” she said cheerfully, raising her glass.

He was thinking of a much more intimate relationship but he figured this was not the time to mention it.

“To us,” he said, wondering if she was so intent on having him as a client that she was no longer interested in having him as a lover.

The phone in the living room shrilled an irritating summons just as Isabel took a sip from her glass.

“Excuse me,” she said.

Hastily she put the wine down and rounded the far end of the counter.

He swiveled on the chair, one heel hooked over the bottom rung, and watched her scoop up the phone.

“Hello?” she said. Surprise flashed across her face. “Dr. Belvedere. I wasn’t expecting . . . Yes. Yes, thank you. I’m doing very well. Did you hear about poor Gavin Hardy? Yes, he was killed by a hit-and-run driver last night. It was tragic. . . . What’s that? Oh, I see.”

Ellis watched her closely, wariness gathering inside him. What the hell was this about?

“That’s very nice of you, but I’ve made my decision,” Isabel said politely. Her eyes met Ellis’s. “I don’t want to go back into a lab setting. . . . Yes, that’s right, I’m going to open up a consulting business. . . . What?” She frowned and held the phone a short distance from her ear. “Sir, you’re getting a bit loud.”

Ellis could hear Belvedere shouting at her all the way across the room. He couldn’t make out the words, but there was no doubt about the tone. Belvedere was furious.

“No, I most certainly did not know that the contracts prohibited me from working with any of the three anonymous clients,” Isabel said coldly. “As a matter of fact, I’ve never seen any contracts. If you’ve got proof of such a clause, I will, of course, want
to show it to a lawyer. . . .” She paused again. “No, I’m sorry, sir, I don’t have that information.”

She broke off abruptly and then put the phone down very gently. “He hung up on me.”

“Let me take a giant leap in the dark here,” Ellis said. “Belvedere offered to let you return to your old job at the center.”

“With a substantial increase in salary.” She smiled. “I have to tell you, it felt very good to turn him down.” She walked back into the kitchen and picked up her wineglass. “He sounded quite anxious. Evidently he has just discovered that anonymous Client Number One paid some hefty fees for my services.”

“What did he say about Hardy’s death?”

She frowned. “He had heard the news but he didn’t seem the least bit interested. All he cared about was getting me back to the center. When I declined his offer, he got mad and demanded contact information for Clients One and Two.”

“But not Three?”

“No.” She paused and then shook her head decisively. “I got the impression he only knows about two anonymous clients.”

“And when you didn’t give him any information that would help him identify them, he threatened you with legal action if you lured Clients Number One and Two away from the center.”

She looked smug. “Guess I’m a player now, huh?”

He raised his brows. “Oh, yeah.”

Her expression turned uncertain. “He was bluffing when he said the two anonymous clients had signed contracts that made
it impossible for me to do any consulting work for them outside the center, wasn’t he?”

“Relax, neither Lawson nor I signed any contracts,” he assured her. “Didn’t want to leave a paper trail. You’re free to consult with us.” He considered briefly. “Sounds like Number Three didn’t sign anything, either.”

She picked up a knife and started to slice tomatoes. “Do you think the fact that Randolph was so callous and unfeeling about what happened to Gavin Hardy means he might have had something to do with his death?”

“If he killed him without getting the information concerning the three mystery clients out of him first, he really screwed up, didn’t he?” Ellis said.

“True. I’ll call my friend Ken Payne after dinner and see what he has to say about the situation at the center. He’s always a great one for in-house gossip.” She turned toward the refrigerator and then paused, looking worried. “Do you have a problem with puff pastry?”

“Depends what you plan to do with it.”

She looked anxious. “Cook it and serve it for dinner.”

He smiled slowly. “If you make it, I will come.”

s
he finally got ahold of Ken Payne at ten o’clock that evening. He sounded pleased to hear from her.

“Isabel, I’ve been meaning to call you but I’ve been kind of busy since you left. I kept that appointment with the cardiologist. The next thing I knew, I was headed into surgery.”

“What was it?”

“Aortic aneurism. Disaster waiting to happen but a straightforward repair job if you find it in time. Had the operation on Monday. I’m home and doing great.”

“Ken, I’m so relieved to hear that.”

“They said the problem is often hereditary and that an aneurism is probably what killed my father and grandfather. It often goes undiagnosed because there are no symptoms until it ruptures, and
then it’s usually too late. The results look very much like a sudden heart attack so that’s usually what goes down in the records as the cause of death.”

“But you’re okay, now?”

“Better than new, they tell me. Susan is here with me.” There was a short pause and then Ken came back. “She says thanks for everything. Needless to say, I second that. I really owe you, Isabel.”

“I’m just relieved that everything worked out so well.”

“What’s going on with you? I haven’t been back to the center since the operation but I’ve heard things are kind of chaotic there.”

“Yes, I can imagine. Not my problem anymore, though—I’m starting a new job at my brother-in-law’s company. It will pay the bills until I can get my consulting business up and running. Did you hear about Gavin Hardy?”

“Yeah, Jason called with the news this afternoon. What a shocker, huh? What was Hardy doing in your neck of the woods?”

She looked at Ellis, who was crouched in front of one of the six cartons containing Martin Belvedere’s research papers. He was sorting the documents by date.

When they had opened the first box after dinner they were dismayed to discover that several decades’ worth of notes, dream logs and unpublished journal manuscripts had been dumped haphazardly inside. Evidently, although the lawyers had dutifully saved everything Belvedere sent to them over the years, they had not felt any obligation to organize the mass of paperwork.

“Gavin was trying to put together a stake so he could go back
to Las Vegas,” she said carefully. “He offered to sell me some confidential client information he had discovered on Belvedere’s computer, but he was killed before I could find out what it was.”

“Confidential client data, huh? That sounds like something Hardy would try to peddle. He wasn’t a bad sort, but he definitely had a gambling addiction.”

“He lived for those trips to Vegas,” she agreed. “Did Jason have any other office gossip from the center?”

“He mentioned that several people are dusting off their résumés. I’m thinking of doing the same. Word is that the funding has dropped off quite a bit since the old man died. There’s even some question about whether or not Randolph will have to declare bankruptcy.”

Isabel curled her legs under her and frowned at Ellis, who was listening to every word. “That sounds serious.”

“That’s about it, gossip-wise,” Ken said. “Unless you’re interested in the news that Randolph Belvedere and Amelia Netley are an item.”

Isabel raised her brows. “No kidding? They managed to keep that quiet while I was there. Never had a clue.”

“According to Sandra Johnson, they were seeing each other even before the old man died.”

“Sandra would know. She sits right outside Belvedere’s office and she doesn’t miss a thing.”

“There may be trouble in paradise, though. Sandra heard Amelia and Randolph arguing behind closed doors a couple of times after you left.”

“Ken, you are a fountain of interesting office news, as usual.”

They chatted for a few more minutes and then Isabel said goodbye and put down the phone.

Ellis stopped stacking papers, got to his feet and rotated his right arm in an absent, circular motion, loosening his shoulder. She saw the faint tightening at the corners of his eyes.

“Would you like some anti-inflammatories?” she asked, starting to rise from the sofa.

“I’m fine,” he said tersely. “Did Payne have anything useful?”

“No, unfortunately. He’s recovering from surgery so he hasn’t been in his office since shortly after I left. The only gossip he had was the news that Randolph is sleeping with a member of the professional staff, Amelia Netley. Not very helpful, I’m afraid.”

“Who’s next on your list?”

She glanced down at the pad of paper on the table next to the phone. “Sandra Johnson. She was Martin Belvedere’s secretary. Randolph inherited her.”

She was reaching for the phone again when a muffled clatter followed by a soft thud sounded from the vicinity of the small laundry room off the kitchen.

Ellis spun around so quickly he was almost a blur. He dove for the briefcase and came up with a pistol in his hand.

Before Isabel could recover from her shock, he had hit the light switch on the wall, dousing all the living room lamps.

The space was plunged into darkness.

“Ellis—”

“Get down on the floor,” he ordered, his voice dangerously soft.

“But—”

“Do it.”

She sensed him moving toward the kitchen. It was all happening so fast she could scarcely understand it. Then she had a sudden, horrifying thought.

“Don’t shoot, it’s just Sphinx,” she said quickly. “He’s using the dog door in the laundry room. Please, don’t hurt him.”

There was a short silence. And then the light came on in the small space, spilling into the kitchen.

She saw Ellis silhouetted in the fluorescent glow, the gun alongside his leg, pointed toward the floor. He stood looking into the laundry room, his features stark and grim.

“You just had one hell of a close call, Sphinx,” he said, his voice still frighteningly low and even.

Unconcerned with his brush with a messy death, Sphinx greeted Ellis with a few flicks of his tail and then padded to his food dish.

Isabel started to breathe again.

“Sorry,” she said. “I forgot to mention the little dog door. Sphinx found it right after we moved in. He disappeared while I was unpacking. I thought he ran off. I was worried he wouldn’t be able to find his way back but he came home a short time later, just as calm as you please.”

For a couple of heartbeats, Ellis did not move. She was not sure he had even heard her. But just as she parted her lips to repeat her explanation of events, he turned, very slowly, as though reluctant to look at her.

“You’re supposed to be on the floor,” he said.

The ice in his words froze her to the spot.

“Ellis? What’s wrong? I’m sorry you were startled.” She was starting to get worried now. “Are you okay?”

His jaw was rigid and his eyes narrowed in a way that reminded her uncomfortably of Sphinx in a bad mood. She got the impression he was angry but whether he was mad at her or himself was not clear.

“Sorry,” he said roughly. He stalked back into the living room and put the pistol inside the briefcase. Then he straightened and looked at her. “I’ve been a little jumpy for the past three months.”

She cleared her throat. “Yes, I can see that.”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.”