Murder In Her Dreams (15 page)

At ten past one, Mrs. Wentz insisted the
serving crew and Ian take a fifteen minute break. She commandeered
part of the kitchen crew to fill the breach.

The five-person crew sat on folding chairs
around the large kitchen table and sipped mugs of coffee, tea, or
plain water. Ian drank his coffee with plenty of milk and sugar. He
watched, amused as Cassie watered her tea down and added a slice of
lemon.

“Ohh, that tastes good.” She wiggled her feet
up then down. “I hadn’t realized how tired my feet were.”

An old black man in army fatigues laughed.
“The Cong used standing as a form of torture.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s why I hate cocktail
parties.” Cassie gave him a small smile and warmed her hands on her
cup.

Ian studied her over the rim of his mug. Her
face had a rosy glow, and a smudge of flour graced one cheek. She
looked normal. He wanted to understand what had made her act the
way she had in his office. Sharon had warned him to leave well
enough alone, but it bothered him. He didn’t know how to start or
what questions to ask. Small talk had never been his strong
suit.

Cassie gave him a shy smile, and he realized
he had been staring. He worried that might set her off again. He
had to say something, something not threatening or too
challenging.

“You seem to know a lot of the people.”

She laughed. “I should, I’ve been doing this
for ... let me see ... five years.”

“That’s a lot of dinners. Don’t you have any
family?”

“Yes, but not in Columbus. My mother’s in
Austin, and my brother’s in Orlando. The library’s closed on Easter
so this is just a small way to make a little difference.” She
sipped her tea, and closed her eyes a moment.

Maybe that was it. No relatives nearby. What
had MaryLou called her? A repressed old maid. Somehow, the old part
didn’t fit. She didn’t look more than twenty-five. In fact, with
the ponytail, she looked more like seventeen. Maybe she was one of
those manic depressives, normal some of the time and out of control
part of the time. Today must be one of the good days.

“Most of the crew works every year. Right,
Homer?”

The black man grinned. “Right, Cassie. If you
folks will give me your mugs, I’ll wash ‘em up.”

Cassie drained the last of her tea and Ian
did the same with his coffee. Homer gathered the five mugs and took
them to the sink.

Rising, Cassie stretched. Her jeans revealed
a nice rounded figure, and her full breasts filled the T-shirt.
Before, because of the baggy sweater, he had not been able to tell
much about her figure at his office.

“Oh,” she looked crestfallen, “I forgot about
the Easter baskets.”

“Easter baskets?” Ian stared after her,
wondering what she meant.

She walked to the corner and opened up one of
the cartons he and Will had carried in earlier. She began to set
the colorful cellophane-wrapped baskets on the floor next to the
box.

Curious, he joined her, towering above her
kneeling form. “Can I help?”

She looked up at him a moment, hesitating,
then nodded. “I guess you can help carry these.”

The cellophane crinkled as he filled his arms
with the baskets and followed Cassie through the kitchen door. He
watched as she scanned the room and walked toward the closest
family group.

“Mrs. Miller, I hope you’ll let the children
have these Easter baskets.”

Mrs. Miller, a red-faced woman with rough
skin, looked up at Cassie. For a moment, she just stared and then
bright tears filled her eyes. “Oh, Miss Blake, you shouldn’t.” She
stood up and hugged Cassie, baskets and all.

Cassie laughed. “It’s the least I can do.”
She gave baskets to the small boy and girl with Mrs. Miller.

The little girl looked down as if afraid to
take hers. Cassie lifted one small hand and placed it on the basket
and then the other. “It’s for you, Missy. The Easter Bunny came and
left these in the kitchen for you and Joey.”

The little boy bobbed up and down as he took
his. He backed toward his mother and hugged the basket close to
him.

Mrs. Martin gave each child a little push.
“Thank Miss Blake.”

“Thank you, Miss Blake,” they mumbled in
unison.

“You’re welcome.” Cassie gave them each a
dazzling smile before she turned to the next family.

Ian followed behind with his armful of
baskets. She worked her way through the hall until every child had
an Easter basket and she had emptied Ian’s arms.

As they walked back to the kitchen, Cassie
sighed. “Too bad it’s not a new house or new Easter clothes.
Holidays mean so much to kids, and it’s especially hard to feel the
Easter Bunny or Santa or whatever has forgotten you because you
don’t have a home anymore.”

Ian nodded. “Perhaps, but such generosity
must cost a lot, even wholesale.”

Cassie stared at him, her face hard. “Money
hasn’t anything to do with it. Anyway, I asked the local merchants
to donate the baskets. If I had to, I’d buy them all. I can’t bear
to see a child disappointed.”

“Lucky for them.”

This Cassie Blake had little in common with
the fruitcake who had knocked his coffee all over the office
carpet. If anything, she might be a little too nice. Maybe she
wanted to impress him. Sharon had hinted Cassie might have designs
on him. Still, he hadn’t seen any sign of such behavior today.
Except for the request to carry the children’s trays, she had
ignored him, only speaking when he asked her a question.

By the time they finished with the baskets,
Mrs. Wentz signaled for them to return to their serving duties. Ian
grabbed a heavy pot of potatoes and headed for the serving line. As
he filled the steam tray, Cassie slid into her position in the
center of the line.

On his next trip to the kitchen, Ian found a
moment to chat with Mrs. Wentz. “Miss Blake said these volunteers
work every year.”

Mrs. Wentz sighed. “Don’t I wish.” She gave
Ian an appraising look. “We’re always looking for helpers. The
people in Cassie’s crew come back every year, but most volunteers
come once and don’t come back. Some of them find it too
depressing.”

“Not Cassie Blake.”

“You’re right. She’s a real treasure, that
girl. She came at eight and won’t leave until we’ve washed the last
dish. I wish I had more like her.”

Mrs. Wentz sounded like someone who would
know lot about Cassie Blake. Ian decided it wouldn’t hurt to prod a
little. “She knows everybody.”

“She volunteers a lot and tutors some of the
adults in reading. That’s her dream.”

“Dream?” Ian felt his stomach lurch. Cassie
Blake had dreams all right. If only Mrs. Wentz knew.

“To get all of them enrolled in the tutoring
program. Not very realistic I’m afraid.”

“She’s not realistic?” Ah, now he was getting
somewhere. This began to sound more like the Cassie Blake he had
met.

“About getting them all into the program,
yes, but in other ways she’s so practical. Yes, idealistic is
probably the best word. She has this single-mindedness. Once she
gets started on a project, she’s determined to see it through.”

He nodded — he had already experienced that.
“Stubborn?”

Mrs. Wentz frowned. “That’s not what I meant.
Cassie cares about people, especially the children.”

“The Easter baskets.”

“Yes, her own idea. I saw you helping her.
Might we count on you for next year?” Mrs. Wentz gave him a winsome
smile. “Cassie and her crew could always use another pair of
hands.”

Ian swallowed, suddenly wondering where Mrs.
Wentz was taking the conversation. “Uh, I’ll think about it, but
I’m getting married soon, and I can’t really say what I’ll be doing
next year.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Wentz looked disappointed.

“I’d better get these potatoes in there
before someone starts yelling.” Ian hurried off before Mrs. Wentz
could say anything more.

Her comments about Cassie had been mixed. A
dreamer, stubborn, idealistic. Yet Cassie Blake’s behavior today
had been humane and caring. She had said nothing about the
confrontation at his office. It puzzled him. Why had she picked on
him? He wanted to ask her about that, but Sharon’s warning held him
back. In any event, their paths weren’t likely to cross again

* * * *

By four o’clock, they had washed up all the
dishes and cleaned the kitchen. To Cassie’s surprise, Ian McLeod
was one of the last to leave. He had pitched in willingly and done
every job Mrs. Wentz had assigned him and several extra tasks as
well. She couldn’t help admiring his dedication. She wished they
had met here and not in his office. She cursed the dreams that had
brought them together too soon and that dratted rabbit, the source
of all the trouble.

Just like Rod, Ian McLeod couldn’t accept her
dreams. He hadn’t said anything today, but she had caught him
looking at her several times with a puzzled look on his face. She
remembered her own reaction to the rabbit, disbelief at first.
However, once she had experienced its menace, she couldn’t dismiss
it as a joke. She had wanted Ian McLeod to believe her, to
understand the danger threatening his life. She had had no more
dreams. Perhaps her visit had ended the threat of the rabbit. Maybe
she didn’t have to solve the puzzle after all.

She couldn’t deny she found Ian more
attractive in person than he had been in her dreams. She had wanted
to reach up and push that lock of auburn hair off his face. He
reminded her of Jimmy Wilson, but older and oh so much more
sexy.

He had worked hard and had appeared pleased
to help with the Easter Baskets, but his suspicion of her still
surfaced. She had smiled at his disappointed look when she told him
the source of the baskets. She wondered if they would meet again in
a more normal setting, one not determined or colored by her
nightmares. She preferred to see him in person, not in her dreams.
She wanted to know the man who joked with the children and made
them smile. She longed to become friends with such a man and maybe,
just maybe, something more.

* * * *

Easter Monday, Brad roared off, relishing the
power of his bike and the wind rushing past. He shot on to Highway
315 and merged into the traffic flow. Ahead he saw a gray Accord
just like McLeod’s. Damn! It reminded him he had failed in his
attempt to kill McLeod.

He hit the gas and swerved suddenly to the
left. A horn blared from the car in the left lane as Brad slipped
past. He laughed. Let ‘em honk.

He pulled alongside and then zoomed ahead of
the Accord. The driver, an old woman with fluffy white hair,
ignored him. He dashed in front of her and slowed. He heard the
screech of brakes and a horn blast. He speeded up and then slowed
again. The car behind him slowed and dropped back.

Smiling, Brad cut to the right into the exit
lane and just ahead of another car. The driver honked and waved his
fist.

Brad roared to the stop sign, hesitated a
moment, and then roared off just ahead of an oncoming driver. A
line of traffic blocked the ramp ahead so Brad took to the berm. He
hated traffic.

At the light, he brooded again about McLeod.
Too bad the coffee hadn’t worked. That damned bitch had interfered,
but how had she known? He remembered the crumbled note from
McLeod’s wastebasket. He’d told no one of his plans. How could she
know? Was she some kind of mind reader?

The light changed, and he roared off just
squeaking past the gray car in front before he reached the line of
cars parked on the street ahead. He smiled as the driver behind hit
his brakes, however the smile dimmed as he thought more about the
coffee. It had been a dumb idea, and he cursed himself for his
stupidity. Suspicion would naturally fall on someone with access to
the office. He had covered his tracks well and could easily
disappear again. Still, he wanted no loose ends that might lead
back to him.

Maybe he hadn’t been so smart trying to run
that bitch down either. He had been angry and had reacted too
hastily. His major focus was McLeod, not some stupid bitch. If he’d
been caught, he might have lost his chance to do in McLeod. His
mother had always warned him his temper would get him into trouble.
Anyway, he knew how to handle trouble.

He needed another way to kill McLeod, one
that had no connection with him. He parked his cycle and hunched
his shoulders as he walked along the sidewalk from the parking lot
to McLeod’s office building. A commotion above startled him.

Several workers moved equipment around the
rooftop. He had almost reached the door of the building when a
broken brick hit the sidewalk just ahead of him.

“Hey,” he yelled. “What the fuck are you guys
doing?”

A worker dressed in dusty gray coveralls and
wearing a red baseball cap peered over the edge. “Oh, sorry, we
didn’t think anyone would be here yet.”

“Well, I’m here.” Brad struck a belligerent
pose as he glared upward. “You want me to sue you?”

“No way, buddy. I said I’m sorry. You
okay?”

Brad made a show of brushing off his jacket.
“I’m fine, but don’t do such a dumb ass thing again. Somebody might
get killed.”

“Would you like a beer?” The worker wore an
anxious look.

“A beer? What kind?”

“I got a can o’ Bud.”

“Yeah, sure, toss it down.”

The workman let the can drop, and Brad caught
it neatly. “Thanks.” He waved the can at the worker. The man waved
back.

Brad smiled as he entered the building. Now
he had just the idea he needed. A little accident would take care
of McLeod and wouldn’t be connected with anyone in the office at
all.

Chapter
Twelve

Ian had agreed to accompany Sharon to the
annual Women in Communications award dinner. Inside the Hyatt
Regency’s Grand Ballroom, he led Sharon to Table 3 near the dais at
the front. As they worked their way through the crowd, he saw
several clients as well as the CEOs of a few local companies among
the men. He’d have time to talk with some of them later. He greeted
those he knew and smiled at others he recognized.