High Noon (13 page)

She was going to be looking worse before it was over. But for now, he'd take a little time, a little trouble, to find who Mr. Fancy Car and his friends were.

You never knew who might be useful.

With one ear cocked
toward Phoebe's room, Essie carefully folded the white-on-white bedspread with its stylized pattern of lovebirds. The intricate stitching had kept her mind calm, as it tended to. She often thought that being productive—and creative with it, if she could brag a bit—held a firm rein on her mind and refused to allow it to wander into those places where panic waited.

It was good work, she could think that, and the bride who received it as a wedding gift would have something unique and special, something that could be passed on for generations.

She arranged the dark silver tissue. Even that, the fussing with the finished product, the meticulous packaging of it, helped keep her hands busy and her mind steady.

Because she didn't want to be afraid every time Phoebe went out of the house, didn't want to whittle her family's world down to walls, as she'd whittled her own. She couldn't allow herself to let that fear in, to let it take over. It snuck up, she knew, inch by inch, stealing little spaces, little movements.

First it might set your heart thumping, it might shut your lungs down in the grocery store, right there in Produce while you're surrounded by tomatoes and snap beans and romaine lettuce with Muzak playing “Moon River” until you want to scream.

Until you had to run, just leave your cart there, half full of groceries, and run.

It might be the dry cleaner's next, or the bank where the teller knew you by name and always asked about your children. It might sneak up then, dropping rock after rock after rock on your chest until you were buried alive.

Your ears ringing, the sweat pouring.

You let it win all those little spaces, all those little movements, until it had them all. Until it owned everything outside the walls.

She could still go out on the terraces, into the courtyard, but that was getting harder and harder. If it wasn't for Carly, Essie didn't think she could push herself even that far. The day was coming, she could feel it sliding closer, when she wouldn't be able to sit on the veranda and read a book with her precious little girl.

And who was to say she was wrong? Essie thought as she put the pretty oval sticker with her initials on the folded tissue to close it in place.

Terrible things happened in the world outside the walls. Hard, frightening and terrible things happened every minute of every day, on the streets and the sidewalks, at the market and the dry cleaner's.

Part of her wanted to pull her family inside those walls, lock the doors, bar the windows. Inside, she wished she could keep them inside, where everyone would be safe, where nothing terrible could happen to any of them, ever.

And she knew that was her illness whispering, trying to sneak in a little closer.

She lay the card that detailed instructions for the care of the lovebird spread, then closed the bright silver box.

While she gift-wrapped the box as the customer had ordered, she was calmer. Her gaze strayed to the windows now and then, but that was just a check, just a peek at what might be out there. She was pleased it was raining. She loved rainy days when it seemed so cozy and snug and
right
to be inside the house, all tucked in like the lovebirds in the silver box.

By the time she had the gift cushioned in its shipping box, sealed and labeled, she was humming.

She carried it out, pausing to peek into Phoebe's room, and smiling when she saw her baby girl sleeping. Sleep and rest and quiet, that's what her baby needed to heal. When she woke from her nap, Essie decided she'd bring Phoebe up a tea tray, a nice little snack, and sit with her the way she had so many years ago when her daughter had been down with a cold or a touch of flu.

She was halfway down the steps with the big box when the doorbell rang. The jolt shot through her like a bullet, driving her right down, legs folding, heart slamming, to sit on the steps with her arms wrapped around the box as if it would shield her.

And she could have wept, could have dropped her head down on the box and wept at the instant and uncontrollable terror.

The door was locked, and could stay locked if she needed it to. No one in, no one out. All the pretty birds inside the silver box.

How could she explain to anyone,
anyone,
the grip of the sudden, strangling fear, the way it set the little white scar on her cheek throbbing like a fresh wound? But the bell would ring again if she didn't answer—hear that, it's ringing again. It would wake Phoebe, and she needed to sleep.

Who was going to protect her baby if she ran away and hid?

So she was not going to cower on the steps; she was not going to allow herself to fear opening the front door, even if she was unable to walk out of it.

She got up, made herself walk to the door, though she did continue to clutch the box in front of her. And the relief made her feel foolish, and a little ashamed, when she saw Duncan on the other side.

Such a nice boy, Essie thought as she took a moment, just one moment more, to get her breath back. A solid, well-mannered young man who'd carried her hurt baby girl up to bed.

There was nothing to be afraid of.

Shifting the box, Essie unlocked the door and beamed a smile. “Duncan! How nice of you to come by. Look at you, all that rain and no umbrella! Come in the house.”

“Let me take that for you.”

“No, that's all right. I'm just going to set it down here.” She turned as she did, hoped he couldn't see her hands still shaking. “I've got a pickup scheduled for it. How about some coffee?”

“Don't trouble. Hey.” He took her hands, so she knew he had seen. “Are you all right?”

“I'm a little on edge, that's all. Foolish.”

“Not foolish at all, not after what happened. I've been jumpy myself.”

No, Essie thought, no, he hadn't. He wasn't the type to jolt at sounds and shadows. But it was sweet of him to say otherwise. “Don't tell Phoebe I said so, but it calms my nerves having a big, strong man in the house.”

“Someone else here?” he said and made her laugh. “Secret's safe. I just stopped by to see how the patient's doing.”

“She had a restless night.” Essie took his arm, steered him into the parlor. “But she's sleeping now. Sit down and keep me company, won't you? Ava's at the flower shop. She works there a couple, three days a week when they can use her. My daughter-in-law's going to come by later. Josie's a nurse, a private-duty nurse. She took a look at Phoebe yesterday, and she's going to stop in later, with Carter, after his classes. And you know why I'm talking so much?”

“Are you?”

“Duncan, I'm so embarrassed by the way I acted yesterday.”

“You shouldn't be. You had a shock.”

“And I didn't handle it well.”

“Essie, you ought to give yourself a break.” He saw surprise cross over her face, as if she'd never thought of any such thing. “What've you been up to today?”

“Keeping busy, pestering Phoebe with food on trays until I imagine she wants to knock me over the head with them. I finished a project and made half a dozen lists I don't need.”

Little tickled his interest more than the word
project.
Duncan stretched out his legs, prepared for a cozy chat. “What's the project?”

“Oh, I do needlework.” Essie waved a hand toward the foyer, where the shipping box waited for pickup. “Finished up a bedspread—wedding gift—last night.”

“Who's getting married?”

“Oh, a sometime customer of mine's goddaughter. I sell some of my pieces locally and over the Internet here and there.”

“No kidding?” Enterprising projects doubled the interest. “You've got a cottage industry?”

“More like a sitting-room interest,” she said with a laugh. “It's just a way to pay for my hobby, earn a little pin money.”

While he sat, at ease, his mind calculated: handmade. Customized. One of a kind. “What kind of needlework?”

“I crochet. My mother taught me, her mother taught her. It was a keen disappointment I could never get Phoebe to sit still long enough to teach her. But Carly's getting a hand at it.”

He scanned the room, homed in on the deep blue throw with its pattern of showy pink cabbage roses. Rising, he moved over to pick up an edge, study it.

Oh yeah, add in intricate and unique.

“Is this your work?”

“It is.”

“It's nice. It's really nice. Looks like something maybe your grandma made over lots of quiet nights, then passed down to you.”

Pleasure shone like sunshine on Essie's face. “Why, isn't that the best of compliments?”

“So, what, do you make specific pieces from, like, what, patterns, or tailor to clients?”

“Oh, it depends. Why don't I get you that coffee?”

“I've got to head out in a minute. Have you ever thought of…Hey.”

It was the way his face lit up that had Essie pursing her lips, even before she turned and saw Phoebe in the parlor doorway.

“Now, what are you doing up and coming downstairs by yourself?” In full scold, Essie hurried over to her daughter's side. “Didn't I put that bell right on your nightstand so you could ring if you wanted anything?”

“I needed to get out of that bed. I'm not going to lie there Cousin Bessing it all damn day.”

Duncan saw the look, the quick flash of maternal disapproval before Essie turned back to him. “You'll have to excuse her, Duncan. Feeling poorly brings out the sass in her. I'll go make us that coffee.”

“Mama.” Phoebe brushed a hand over Essie's arm. “Sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you.”

“You get a pass on that, due to being hurt. Talk to Duncan awhile. He's come out on this rainy day just to see how you're feeling.”

Phoebe only frowned at him as her mother left the room. “Yes, I know I look worse than I did yesterday.”

“Then I don't have to mention it. Do you feel worse?”

“Some parts of me do. Including my temper.” She glanced back toward the foyer, sighed. “Being fussed over makes me irritable.”

“I'll try to restrain myself, then. And I should probably take these back.” He picked up the shopping bag he'd brought in. “As it hits on two points—not wanting to lie around, and being fussed over. I assume bringing by a gift is fussing.”

“Depends on the gift. Oh, sit down, Duncan. I'm irritating myself with my bad mood.”

“I really have to go. I have a couple of things.” He held up the bag, shook it lightly. “You want?”

“How do I know when I don't know what's in it?” She limped her way over, peered into the bag. “DVDs? God, there must be two dozen.”

“I like to read or watch movies when I'm laid up. And I thought reading might be tough with the bum wing, so I went for movies. Chick flicks. I lean toward the oeuvre of
The Three Stooges,
but figured it would be wasted around here.”

“You figured correctly.”

“I don't know if you go for that type or if you like slasher films or watching stuff blow up, but I figured in a household of four women, this was the best bet.”

“I like chick flicks, and slasher films and watching things blow up.” Intrigued, she poked in the bag. “Since when is
The Blues Brothers
a chick flick?”

“It's not, I just happen to like it. It's the only one I picked out, actually. Marcie at the video store handled the rest. She assured me that they're all appropriate for a kid Carly's age, unless her mother's a real tight-ass. She didn't say tight-ass,” he added, when Phoebe narrowed her eyes at him. “I inferred.”

“It's very thoughtful of you. And Marcie. And when these help stave off screaming boredom, I'll think of you.”

“That's the plan. I have to go. Tell your mother I said goodbye.” He touched his lips to her forehead beside the bandages. “Take a dose of Jake and Elwood and call me in the morning.”

“If I don't walk you to the door, I'll have to lie to my mother and say I did.” She set the bag down to lead him out. “I appreciate the movies, and everything else you did—and didn't do. Such as comment on my bed hair and foul disposition.”

“Good. Then when you're feeling up to it, you can pay me back and have dinner with me again.”

“Are you bribing me with DVDs?”

“Sure. But I think my discretion over hair and mood earns even more points.” Since it pleased him to see her lips curve up in a quick smile, he lowered his for a little taste. “I'll see you later.”

He opened the door just as a woman jogged up the steps. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey back. Lieutenant.”

“Detective. Detective Liz Alberta, Duncan Swift.”

“Oh yeah, we spoke on the phone.” He held out a hand. “Nice to meet you, and I'll get out of your way. Talk to you later, Phoebe.”

Liz turned, studied Duncan as he dashed out and through the rain. As she lowered her umbrella she raised her eyebrows at Phoebe. “Nice.”

The tone, the look, told Phoebe that Liz referred to the exit view. “Oh yeah, it certainly is. Come in out of the wet.”

“Thanks. I didn't think I'd find you up and around today.”

“If I don't get back to work soon, I'm going to go straight out of my mind.” She took Liz's umbrella, slid it into the porcelain umbrella stand.

“Bad patient?”

“The worst. Are you here for a follow-up?”

“If you can handle it.”

“I can.” Phoebe gestured toward the parlor. “Anything I should know?”

“Your weapon hasn't been recovered, but I did bring you this.” She pulled an evidence bag out of her satchel. Inside was Phoebe's badge. “It was found at the base of the stairs, where we assume your attacker tossed it. No prints but yours.”

“He wore gloves,” Phoebe murmured.

“Yes, so you said.”

Her badge would have been hooked to the waistband of her skirt, Phoebe thought. He'd cut her skirt to pieces, shoved his hand up under what he'd left of it to…She shook her head. No point, none, in putting herself back there. “Sorry. Please, sit down.”