Haunting Refrain (10 page)

“Okay, we'll talk about ground rules.”

“Now, if you'll excuse me, I have
work
to do.” She began making notes in her appointment book to demonstrate. “Wait—one question. Who is the prophet of the mountains?”

“He’s some hermit type who shows up about once a
year,
comes to save the sinners and warn us about the end of the world. And while he’s at it, he accepts contributions. He calls himself Ezekiel, after the prophet. Why?”

“I saw him earlier this morning. He looked straight at me and said something about being a dreamer of dreams. It was a little disconcerting.”

“I don’t know much about him, but I can find out. I think he’s more of a nuisance than anything. Where was he?”

“Oh, just out on the street.” She shuffled some papers. “Thanks for the information. I have to get back to work now.”

“Now I have a question, and then I'll go.”

Kate raised an eyebrow.

“How does
Venice
get here? I know she lives over on Abingdon, but she got here before I did.” He had a sudden urge to see Kate smile. “And her broom wasn't in the parking lot.”

She rolled her eyes, but she did smile. “I'll never tell.”

After he left, she crossed to the big window that faced the street and lowered the blinds, blocking the sun. The shade was halfway down when she noticed a rusty gray Buick parked under a tree on the other side of the street. She couldn't see the figure slumped in the driver's seat very well, but she was sure the car was the same one she had seen again this morning near her house. At least it wasn’t a truck, and no one was waving a staff in her face. She turned back to her work and forgot the car and the prophet.

* * *

Venice
called just as Kate closed the darkroom door, ready for lunch. “Hello, my dear. Martin and I are going to dinner tonight and thought you might join us.”

“I can't. I'm meeting John at the
Black Forest
at seven.”

“Meeting him? He isn't picking you up?”

“It's not a date,
Venice
. He wants to talk about Kelly Landrum again.”

“
Hmmpf
.
It's high time you started going out and having fun. I will come by and help you get ready. Martin can pick us up at six, and we'll eat at the
Black Forest
before your meeting.”

Venice
rarely used her no-nonsense tone. Kate touched her fingertips to her forehead, knowing she was wasting her time by arguing. “No. I am not dressing up, and I want to take my car so I can leave when I want to. You and Martin may not want to stay and talk to John.” That was a joke—
Venice
not wanting to talk to the reporter?

“Of course I will. And so will Martin. We'll take you home afterwards. I'll see you at your house at five.” She hung up before Kate could say anything else.

So much for John's request to leave
Venice
behind.
There was no point in calling
Venice
back. Kate knew she wouldn't answer. She slung her leather bag over her shoulder and left, looking forward to soup and cornbread, today's special at Gene’s Restaurant. She wondered what else could happen.

* * *

He heard it on the radio on the way home. They had found her! How? How could that be? That lake was so deep, and he'd been so careful to put her in the deepest part. Even if he had missed the exact spot on that rainy, moonless night, he knew the water was too deep in that section for her to be found.

He snatched the newspaper off the driveway and ran into the house with it. Unfolding it, the first thing he saw was the banner:
COED'S BODY FOUND IN JOCASSEE
.

Frantically, he scanned the story. How had they discovered her? A fisherman, it said. A fisherman! No one fished on the bottom of the lake in that part. He didn't believe it. Rubbing his worry stone, he thought back to that night. He had been so careful this time. It wasn't right that she had been found.

He forced himself to sit down and read carefully so he wouldn't miss anything. It must have been Kate and
Venice
again. They must have seen the body and told the police where to find her. The police had said it was a fisherman only to protect the women. He wondered if Kate could have picked up something, some insight, when he saw her. Seeing her was risky, but he couldn’t help it.

He had to stop them. If they hadn't identified him yet, they would. He had to get rid of them. He couldn't take any more chances on their knowing he was the one.

Keep calm, he told himself.
Can't let anyone see me.
Have to plan this time, no impulsive actions like the other night on the mountain. Even then, if Kate hadn't been driving that damned Mazda, she would have gone over the edge and straight down to hell, but that little road hugger had held and Carson’s truck couldn't keep up on those curves.

His car was too easily recognized. And even though it had been dark on the mountain, Kate might recognize
Carson
's truck. He would have to borrow his bookkeeper's old Buick again.
 
But not yet, he thought. Even though he always returned it with a full tank of gas, Polly had made several pointed comments about the number of times he had borrowed it recently—and how much he had been out of the office.
Nosy bitch.

At least he had figured out Kate's routine, knew where she went, what she did.
Venice
didn't seem to have one, but she did live alone in that big, secluded house. She would be easy.

Kate had made it very convenient, living in that rough area. No one would think twice about anything that happened there. He thought about her, pounding down the pavement the other morning. She was the type who would fight back if she were mugged. Maybe it would be better if she had an accident. With the cops tracing hairs and fibers and doing DNA tests, it was better to keep his hands off her, not take chances.

The warehouse where she had her studio was another good place. He had checked that out, too. Yes, that was it. The idiots kept the big front doors locked, but the maintenance man unlocked the back door about seven every morning.

He started the computer and began arranging his information into a timetable. He typed in 7:30, the time Kate usually showed up. Then he added 8:00 to the maintenance man’s column. After Kate and before anyone else arrived, the man left for forty-five minutes and went across the street to the restaurant. He did the same thing every morning. The Players never showed up before lunch.

If he parked a block or two away, he could use his own car, not have to call on Polly again. Because he would be long gone when it happened, and it would look like an accident.

Descending into his basement, he thought about the situation and selected the tools he would need. Just one or two more
things,
and he could pick those up anywhere. He carefully replaced the tools.

Planning, that was the key. He returned to his computer and detailed his plan. He thought
better
when he could see the neat lines of crisp letters, marching with military precision across the screen. When he had worked it all out, he closed the hidden file in the computer and turned on his security system.

He drove to a Home Depot several miles away. It was a busy place, open late. They’d never remember him.
 
He bought a large pair of bolt cutters and a heavy leather tool belt, rather like an apron. He was grateful for the activity. Waiting gave him indigestion.

Back at his house, he packed the tools in the belt and experimented with the bulky leather under a worn denim jacket he had taken from a Goodwill donation box—let the police try to trace that! The bottom of the belt hung out, but he found that by rolling the apron tightly around the tools, he could tie it around his waist so it couldn't be seen. That way, the tools didn’t clink against each other, either. He was ready. All he had to do was pick the time.
Soon.

* * *

Venice
, in a blur of paisley, was waiting on the porch when Kate got home. “I knew you were on your way, so I took a chance and got out of the car.”

“I’m impressed. You should get a purple heart for bravery.” Kate unlocked the door and led the way in. “Come in.”

Venice
adjusted her shawl and followed Kate in. “I think you mean a bronze star for bravery. You have to be wounded to get a purple heart.” The shoulder strap of her tiny purse caught on the doorknob and she stopped to free herself.

“Bronze, then,” Kate said, kissing the old woman’s cheek. “You can read photography magazines while I dress.”

“What are you wearing?”
Venice
, suspicious, angled toward the stairway.

“I thought I'd wear the jeans without holes since Martin is going. I don't want to embarrass him.” Kate didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She knew she was in for a fight.

“You're impossible. John has never seen you dressed attractively. And,”
Venice
added in a knowing tone, “I found out a little about him today. He's divorced, but that can't be helped.”

“So am I.”

“Yes, but you were married to a pompous . . .” She hesitated,
then
found her word.
“A vampire.
That's what J. B. is. He would take your life's blood if he could. You were shriveling into nothing—a nonperson—when I found you.”

“I was not, and he's not that bad. But that's beside the point. I am having a meeting with John, not a date.” She started up the stairs, but could see that
Venice
had more to say. Still hoping to discourage her, Kate stopped with one foot on the step. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”

“He cooks.”

“What?
Who?”

“He cooks. John Gerrard is a very good cook. You should give this man serious consideration.”
Venice
cast a significant look toward Kate's kitchen. “Wear something nice.”

“I don't care if he does windows. I'm not dressing up. He won't even be there till after we've eaten. I told him I was too busy to come earlier.”

“Oh, Kate.
I despair of your future,” she huffed, following Kate up the stairs.

It’s not a date, Kate reminded herself as she stripped off her clothes for a quick shower, but she took out a bar of soap scented with
orris
root that a friend had given her. She was drying her hair when
Venice
’s voice floated in through the steam.

“I’ve found something for you to wear. Hurry up.”

She sounded excited, a bad sign in Kate’s book. While belting her robe, she peeped out through the bathroom door. A slither of green silk lay across the bed. “
Venice
! For heaven’s sake, we’re going to the
Black Forest
, not the governor’s ball!”

“I knew it was too dressy, but it’s such a beautiful thing and this color will turn your eyes green. I just wanted John to see you in it.”

“Oh,
Venice
.
I do love you,” Kate said, hugging her. “But I’m wearing jeans.” She turned back to the closet to retrieve her jeans and noticed that her shoes had been rearranged. “What have you been doing in here?”

“I just put your white shoes in the back, dear. It’s after Labor Day you know.”

“Saving me from a fashion
faux pas
? Or is that a social blunder?” Kate pulled out her oldest jeans, grinning wickedly.
“How about these?”