Killing Her Softly (27 page)

"Why don't you and I say good night to the few stragglers, send them on their way and then go upstairs?"
Perdita
urged Annabelle toward the foyer. "After we get ready for bed, I think we should talk, don't you?"

Annabelle sighed. Her aunt was the only person she could trust with her secrets, the only person who knew that Wythe had once tried to rape her.

"Yes, we need to talk." Annabelle grunted. "I need to talk. I need someone trustworthy who'll listen and tell me what to do."

Perdita
slipped her arm around Annabelle's waist and herded her out of the dining room. Pausing in the doorway, she looked at Joanna
Mclntyre
. "Prepare two plates with a variety of food and send them upstairs to Miss Annabelle's room in about twenty minutes, along with a bottle of wine."

"Yes, ma'am," Joanna replied.

"I don't think I can eat a bite," Annabelle said. "I seem to have lost my appetite."

"Nonsense. A decent meal is just what you need, along with a trustworthy confidante."

When
Perdita
winked at her, Annabelle couldn't help smiling. Pausing in the foyer, she put her arms around her aunt and hugged her. "You just don't know how glad I am that you're here."

I
must be very careful. Locking my door and turning off the lights should be enough to deter anyone from bothering me. If they knew, they wouldn't understand. No one understood. Sometimes, even I don't understand why I do the things I do.

But I'm not crazy. And I'm not bad. She was wrong about my being a bad boy. I tried to tell her, but she wouldn't listen. It was her fault. All her fault.

"I'm sorry, Mama. I'm so sorry."

Why should I be sorry? I don't
have to justify myself to her. Not any longer. I will never again have to plead for mercy. I have all the power now. The power of life and death.

You'd be so proud of me, Mama. I put them out of their misery, just as I did you. I kill them softly. Gently. No pain. It's so much better for them to die than to suffer the way you did for so many years. Didn't you tell me that over and over again? Didn't you say that you'd rather be dead than to live in such agony?

I
can see moonlight coming in through the windows now that my eyes have adjusted to the dark. But if I get out my case and look at my souvenirs, I'll need to use a flashlight. And I'll have to be very quiet. I don't want anyone to pass by my room and think I'm still awake.

Maybe I shouldn't take the case from where I've hidden it. After all, it's been only three days since
1
looked at it, when
I
placed the latest addition with the others in my collection.

But you want to look at them again. You know you do, that haunting inner voice said. After all, that's the reason you carry the case with you, isn't it? So you
'11
have them with you, so you can look at them whenever you'd like.

Yes. Yes, of course. I can do whatever I want to do. No one can tell me that I can't take the case from its hiding place, open it and look at the contents.

That's it. Go over there and get the carryall, then lift up the bottom flap.

It's so simple.
I
can see the carryall lying on the floor beside the TV, just where I left it.

Pick it up.

Yes, I will.

Lay it on the bed.

I
am.

Lift up the bottom flap. I need a flashlight.

You left the flashlight on the TV stand. Just reach out and get it.

Yes, of course.

The light shone brightly, focusing on the hidden compartment in the carryall.

Just look at those five small glass bottles glistening in the yellow-white glow. Lined up, side-by-side, they are a beautiful sight.

My souvenirs.
                                    

After what I did for Mama and those other women, killing them in the kindest way possible and ending their torment, I deserved to take some small token, didn't I? Something to remember them by.

I wait until they 're dead, until they can't feel any pain, before I do it. I'd never want to hurt someone because I know how it feels to hurt. To hurt really bad.

Inside the case were his prizes. Five identical clear glass bottles, filled with formaldehyde. Each one containing an index finger.

Aren't they beautiful?

Touch them gently. Remember to show the proper reverence. Trace your finger up and down each bottle, the last one first.

Kendall.

Her fingernails had been painted a bright red.

Now the next to last.

Lulu.

Her finger
was
long and slender, just as she was. What's that sound? Is there someone outside my door? I have to put my prizes away. I can't let anyone else see them. No one would understand. Hide them. Do it quickly. Now!

Wearing a bright turquoise
kaftan
trimmed in heavy beige lace,
Perdita
Austin sprawled out on the chaise lounge in Annabelle's bedroom. With her stylishly short, salt-and-pepper hair swept away from her face and all her makeup removed,
Perdita
still didn't look her age. Anyone would guess her to be at least ten years younger than the age on her birth certificate, which Annabelle knew was fifty-seven.

Perdita
balanced a plate, piled high with edible delights, in her lap and held the crystal wineglass with her right hand. "If you don't eat at least half the things on your plate, I shall be very cross with you, Annie Belly."

Sitting at the antique desk by the windows, Annabelle chuckled softly as she glanced at her aunt. "It's been years since you called me Annie Belly."

"Oh, my sweet girl, you're like my own daughter and I'm afraid I've neglected you lately, ever since Christopher died."
Perdita
shook her head sadly. "I suppose I thought that once he was gone, you'd be too busy living and loving to need me. But I was wrong, wasn't I? There hasn't been anyone since. . . well, since Christopher died, has there?"

"No, no one."

"Why ever not?"
Perdita
popped a chocolate-dipped strawberry into her mouth.

Annabelle shrugged. "I haven't met anyone."

Perdita
eyed her contemplatively. "That's nonsense. The world is full of gorgeous, eligible men." Squinting,
Perdita
scrutinized Annabelle pensively. "You haven't let that nasty incident with Wythe turn you off men, have you?"

Annabelle gasped. "Good God, no."

"You should have called the police that night and had the scoundrel arrested. It makes my blood run cold to think what might have happened if he hadn't been drunk and you were able to
coldcock
him with that marble statue."
Perdita
tsk-tsked
. "Damn shame about that lovely statue. I brought it back to you from Venice."

"Exposing Wythe for what he is would kill Uncle Louis."

"If he ever tries anything like that with you again, I'll cut off his pecker with a dull knife."

Annabelle smiled. "And you would, wouldn't you?"

"Most definitely."

"I don't think that will be necessary. I'm perfectly capable of dealing with Wythe. He's made numerous overtures since that night, but he never puts his words into action. I actually think that after I knocked him out and he had to get stitches in his head at the ER, he's just a little bit afraid of me."

Perdita
giggled. "I love the thought of Wythe being afraid
of you." She sliced into a piece of prime rib, speared it with her fork and lifted it to her mouth.

Annabelle's cell phone, tucked away in her purse, jingled the distinctive Mozart tune she had
programed
into it.

"Is that your phone?"
Perdita
asked, her mouth half full.

"It's my cell phone." Annabelle shoved back the chair, hurried across the room to the nightstand where she'd laid her purse earlier in the day. After unzipping the side compartment, she retrieved the phone, flipped it open and placed it to her ear. Surely this wasn't a business call. Not at ten in the evening, the day before Lulu's funeral.

"Hello."

"Annabelle?"

Her heart skipped a beat when she recognized the voice of her caller. "Yes."

"You probably don't want to talk to me, but I had to call," Quinn Cortez said. "If you want me to hang up, I will."

"No, don't. It's all right. Really." Annabelle glanced across the room at her aunt
Perdita
who was watching her like a hawk.

"I've been worrying about you," Quinn told her. "Under different circumstances, I'd be there tomorrow. I would give anything if I could be there for you."

"I wish—I wish the same thing."

"How are you? Really."

"I'm all right."

"You don't sound all right."

How could this man who barely knew her, whom she'd met less than a week ago, conclude only from the sound of her voice that she was barely holding on, barely managing to put up a brave front and keep her emotions in check?

"You're very perceptive."

"Annabelle . . . honey . .."

"It was very kind of you to be concerned, but I'll be fine. My aunt
Perdita
Austin is here with me, so I won't be facing Lulu's funeral alone."

"I'm glad you have someone there with you."

"Is everything all right there?" she asked, doing nothing more than making idle conversation, but reluctant to say good-bye. The sound of his voice soothed her, reassured her. But she didn't understand why.

"Things here in Memphis are about the same. No updates from Griffin, yet. And the police have stopped harassing me, at least for the time being."

"So the police don't have any new leads, no other suspects?"

"No new leads. No new suspects. Just me."

Annabelle sighed. "I—I really should go . . ."

"1 miss you."

Her breath caught in her throat.
Oh,
Quinn, I miss you, too.
"Thank you for calling."

"Annabelle?"

She hit the
off
button and closed her cell phone, then tossed it on the bed. Nothing Quinn could say or do would change the basic facts. One: He was a suspect in Lulu's murder. And two: She couldn't trust him, no matter how much she wanted to.

"Who was that dear?"
Perdita
asked.

"A friend."

Lifting a questioning eyebrow,
Perdita
studied Annabelle. "Your cheeks are flushed and you look like a woman who's been talking to her lover. Who was that? And don't lie to me. I've been able to tell when you're lying ever since you were a little girl."

"It was Quinn Cortez."

"The man who might be a suspect in Lulu's murder?"

"He didn't kill Lulu."

Perdita's
eyes widened in speculation. "You met him in Memphis, after Lulu's death, right?"

Annabelle nodded.

"You've known him for how long? Five or six days?" "Yes."

"Oh, my dear girl, you've fallen in love with this man, haven't you."

"No, I. . ." Tears misted her eyes. "I don't know. Maybe I have."

"Oh, my . . . my . . ."

"Nothing will ever come of it. We aren't going to see each other again."