Murder In Her Dreams (8 page)

“Follow your heart.” His grandmother’s words
came unbidden to him. She had been special to him and had
understood him better than his mother. She’d always had time for
him. He still missed her advice.

His mother had wanted him to be the world’s
foremost concert violinist, the next Perlman, but he hated the
instrument and only practiced when he couldn’t get out of it. The
whine of the strings when he hit a wrong note irritated him. His
grandmother had smiled wisely and took him aside.

“Ian, you should not hate the violin. It is
not the instrument at fault. You must follow your heart and let
your fingers find their place naturally. Don’t force them.”

She had taken the instrument from him and
played
Danny Boy
. She closed her eyes and the music flowed
over him with a haunting, hurting quality to it that brought tears.
His grandmother played, eyes closed, a sad smile on her face. As
the last notes faded, she lowered the instrument, and Ian came to
himself.

“That is playing from the heart.” She handed
the violin back to him.

After that, Ian practiced more and tried to
make his notes echo those of his grandmother. Though he could never
quite do it, he became much better. He played the gay Irish and
Scottish jigs and dances best. He never played Danny Boy or the sad
ballads. His fingers rebelled.

“It will come,” his grandmother assured him.
“You have to grow up first. How can you play a sad song unless you
have known that sorrow yourself? Always listen to your heart.”

He hadn’t played the violin in years, not
since his grandmother died. That had happened during his senior
year in high school. After her funeral, he had tucked the violin
away on the top shelf of his closet. At the memory, he flexed his
fingers.

Follow his heart? Had he done that with
Sharon? He cared for her. He couldn’t see anyone else as his wife.
The relationship offered everything he had sought and yet something
niggled at him. He wanted something, something more, but he
couldn’t define what.

Sharon epitomized all any man could want in a
wife. She would be a partner on whom he could rely. He would never
have to worry about her. Cool, classic, always in control.

Follow your heart. Had his heart or his head
chosen Sharon? Did it really matter? He had made the decision to
marry before he had asked Sharon. He had no other woman in mind, so
he had no excuse for hesitating.

He had never been in love and had reached the
conclusion the movies had it wrong. He could admire and lust after
a shapely body like any healthy male, but love? He loved his
mother. He had loved his grandmother, but he had never felt that
‘til death us do part’ desire for anyone. Maybe he had grown beyond
that age and bypassed it altogether. So why this empty ache, this
yearning for something he couldn’t identify? How could he miss
something he had never experienced?

He should call David. It would be good to
talk to him and catch up a little. Tonight. Or was this the night
David bowled? If he didn’t call David soon, Sharon would ask him
about it, and he would have no answer. The thought of discussing
his doubts with her left him even more uncertain and dissatisfied.
Perhaps he just had a case of pre-marriage jitters. Making a
commitment for the rest of his life scared him and yet that was
exactly what marriage was. For the rest of his life.

Ian locked his desk, then his office, and
left. No one lingered in the outer office so he locked the outer
door as well. Pocketing his key, he went off, shoulders slumped,
hands in his pockets.

* * * *

Quiet settled over the empty office. Only the
dim green glow of the lights on the copier and the various computer
workstations remained. Everyone had left for the day, even Ian
McLeod. The cleaning crew would arrive soon. Brad would have to
check McLeod’s office now. He pulled out his key ring and fingered
the keys until he found the master key.

After he started work at McLeod Enterprises,
it had taken him some months to find the opportunity to remove
MaryLou’s keys without her knowledge. The day he did, she thought
at first she had lost them and was on the verge of telling McLeod
so the locks could be changed. Brad had urged her to wait and
search for the keys again. He agreed to help her look.

Late that afternoon, he almost laughed at her
look of relief when he produced them. He told her he had found them
on the floor behind the copier. Of course, he had made a copy first
on his lunch break before returning the keys. MaryLou had thanked
him profusely.

Brad pushed the brass key in the lock and
turned it carefully. Even though the building looked empty, he
exercised his customary caution to make as little noise as
possible.

He opened the door to Ian’s office and
slipped inside as he did every night. He waited a moment to allow
his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the fading sun and then
moved quickly toward the large desk positioned in front of the
window. He rifled rapidly through the various folders on the desk,
but kept them in neat stacks just as Ian had left them. Nothing of
interest caught his eye.

Picking up the wastebasket, he began sorting
through its contents. One empty milk carton, a yogurt container,
four empty foam cups, assorted crumpled pages of figures and notes,
and a couple of letters labeled
Draft
. He smoothed out each
of the crumpled sheets, read them, and then scrunched them back up.
The usual garbage.

About to set the basket back, he saw a
marble-sized ball of paper on the floor next to where the basket
had been sitting. He picked the paper ball up and carefully
straightened it out. The wrinkles made it hard to read at
first.

Dear Mr. McLeod,

Your life is in danger. Someone wants to
kill you. Dreams don’t lie. Beware rabid black rabbits.

A friend

A chill ran down his spine, as he read the
note and spread to his fingers.
Someone wants to kill you
.
Someone knew. He didn’t know how, but someone had found out about
his plans.

Brad stopped. He didn’t move, not even his
eyes as he sorted through the possibilities. How? Who? He had been
so careful, so meticulous. How could anyone know? Yet someone
did.

In a panic, he dug through the basket again
looking for the envelope, tossing pieces of paper right and left.
His fear threatened to overwhelm him. At the bottom, he found a
small envelope with no return address just a little larger than the
note. Marked
Personal
in a firm hand, the address had also
been handwritten in a script like that of the note. The note had
been signed
A Friend
. Neither the envelope nor the writing
told him anything.

Rabid black rabbits? Was someone playing a
joke? What did that mean? What could McLeod have to do with
rabbits? Brad could think of no connection for the word rabbit.
Maybe the keyword was rabid. Somebody thought a crazy person was
after McLeod.

Brad snorted. He wasn’t a rabbit, and he
wasn’t crazy. Maybe he was being paranoid, and the note wasn’t
about him. But, if not, who was it about?

He narrowed his eyes in a twisted smile. He
had good reason to want McLeod dead. The Bible said ‘an eye for
eye.’ McLeod owed him for the two lives he had ended.

Justice. He had become jury, judge, and
executioner because he couldn’t expect justice from a perverted
legal system whose only interest was to protect the property of the
wealthy. He would make his own justice.

He looked back at the note and crushed it in
his hand. McLeod would pay. Oh yes, he would pay. Brad couldn’t
afford discovery now, not when he was so close. He would have to be
even more careful. He clenched his fingers in a tight fist.

No one must interfere with his plans for Ian
McLeod.

He had worked too long and too hard to fail.
Vengeance lay within his grasp. Then, once he finished with McLeod,
he could get on with his own interrupted life.

For a brief moment, he considered his plan.
That McLeod would not know who had killed him or why, he regretted.
His own safety demanded secrecy. If the police had no motive, they
would also have no suspects. He had laid a false trail, and he
expected the hounds of the law to circle in vain looking for their
quarry.

He started to toss the crumpled ball back
into the trash and then stopped. Rubbing his chin, he considered
the possibilities of the note. False trails. Umm, maybe he could
use this to lay one more trail. The rabbit might be useful after
all.

He laughed and shoved the crumpled ball into
his pocket. Picking up the scattered debris from floor, he scooped
it and the envelope back into the trash. He glanced around the
office again to make sure he had left no trace of his presence.
Satisfied, he carefully locked the office and left by the back
door.

He whistled as he started his motorcycle.
Fate had played into his hands. Yes, things definitely were going
his way.

Chapter
Seven

Friday came before Cassie realized it. No
need to worry about fashion at Tula’s parties because casual ruled.
Tula lived in Victorian Village, north of downtown Columbus and
just south of the Ohio State University. The area of old Victorian
houses had undergone some renovation and investment but still
represented an eclectic mixture of students, professionals wanting
the proximity to downtown and the galleries of the Short North,
long time older residents, and even some less desirable elements.
Its student population varied with the seasons, lowest during the
summer and highest in the fall.

Cars lined both sides of Tula’s street, so
Cassie had to park on a side street a block away. Good food and
lively people attracted a diverse crowd including professors,
students, artists, poets, and authors. No one went away hungry or
bored.

Tula’s house, a red brick, had a wide front
porch. Despite the chill in the crisp air, a number of young people
lolled about smoking and talking. While Tula liked a wood fire and
candles or an occasional joss stick, she refused to allow smoking
in her home. As Cassie climbed the steps and crossed to the front
door, she nodded to the group on the porch, none of whom she knew.
The heavy oak door stood open. Two young men and a girl came out to
the join the others on the porch.

Having met Rod at one of Tula’s parties,
Cassie had hesitated about attending this one. Even Tula never knew
who would come to her gatherings. However, in a crowd, it would be
easy to avoid Rod if he came. Being with a lot of people would make
her forget dreams. Besides, with the note mailed, she no longer had
to worry about Ian McLeod and the black rabbit. This time she had
taken action.

Inside, the crowd milled in the square entry
hall and split into two streams. One spilled over into the large
front parlor and through the wide square arch to the dining room.
The other wound up the stairs to the rooms above. Carried forward
by the people entering behind her, Cassie found herself on the
staircase. Seeing no one she knew among those lining the stairs,
she climbed up to the second floor. The landing at the top formed a
large square hall with doors to four rooms and a bath opening off
it.

Through the door to her right, a group of
people clustered about a dark haired woman in a gold silk blouse
seated cross-legged on the floor in front of an overstuffed sofa.
Books lined three walls of the room with windows on the fourth
wall. A tall lamp lighted the room and cast a glow on the seated
woman.

She had a series of cards spread out before
her in a cross with another group of four lining the right side. A
young man in jeans and a white T-shirt kneeled opposite her and
stared down at the cards. A bearded man sat next to him while a
girl in a green miniskirt and another man in jeans hovered on the
other side of him. Cassie took a place to the left side beyond the
bearded man and near the windows lining the front wall.

Cassie studied the woman’s strong features
and wondered if she had Romany ancestors. Tarot cards had become
the in-thing. Funny how people clung to fortune telling. Tula
believed in the cards, but always reminded her, choice remained
with the person and not the cards.

As the dark haired woman nodded, the silvery
hoops in her ears jangled. “Yes, the answer to your question is
that you will succeed, but change may come from an unexpected
quarter. You are unlucky in your choice of romantic partners.”

The blond young man frowned and then glanced
quickly to the orange-shirted, bearded man on his left. “What type
of change?”

“I don’t know. These cards don’t tell that.”
She picked up the cards and added them to the others in her hand.
“Do you want me to cast again?”

“Come on, Brian.” The bearded man pulled on
the young man’s arm. “Enough of this mumbo jumbo. Let’s go. I need
a drag, now.” He stood up and ambled toward the door like John
Wayne. He leaned against the door frame as he waited.

Wistful, the young man looked at the cards
and then at the impatient man at the door. He sighed. “All right,
Victor, I’m coming. Thanks, Leah.” He rose and trailed after the
bearded man, his steps lagging.

The young woman in the green miniskirt moved
into his place. She accepted the cards from Leah, shuffled them,
and handed the deck to her.

Leah held the cards for a moment. “Your
question?”

The woman in green reached out a hand to the
man sitting next to her. “I want to know if I’m doing the right
thing.”

Leah, the diviner nodded and pushed up the
nest of silver bangles on her wrist. She laid the cards out face
up, beginning in the center. She laid a second card atop the first
at right angles to it, then one above the crossed pair, one to the
right, one below, and then one to the left of the pair. The girl
watched every movement, her eyes darting from place to place as
Leah placed the cards.