Occasion of Revenge (12 page)

I shook my head. “Noon is too early for Her Majesty, it seems.”

Paul crooked a finger under my chin and tilted my
face toward his. “You’re up to some mischief, aren’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”

“Unless you call trying to talk him out of a disastrous marriage mischief, no.” I widened my eyes in mock innocence.

Paul threw back his head and roared. I began to giggle. Sometimes it’s an advantage having a husband who can read you like a book, just as long as it’s not cover to cover.

chapter
8

At one end of Darlene’s front porch two guys
were arguing football in a haze of Marlboro Lights, so Paul and I waited at the upwind end for Emily to bundle Chloe in her pink bunny snowsuit. My farewells to our host and hostess had been far from satisfactory. A tepid smile and a limp hand from Darlene and from Dad, a boozy kiss that went wide of the mark—my cheek—and landed squarely on my ear. I filled my lungs with the cool night air, heavily scented with the dusky smell of wood smoke that was curling from a hundred nearby chimneys. I’d had a bit more to drink than was good for me and was counting on the night air to clear out the cobwebs. I wondered how my sisters, especially Ruth, would react to the news of Daddy’s impromptu wedding. Perhaps I’d send each of them an e-mail and stay out of town until the fireworks were over.

When Emily appeared, Paul plucked Chloe from her arms, hoisted the baby to his shoulders, and trotted down the sidewalk ahead of us. Emily and I followed at a more leisurely pace.

“So,” I said, “what did the charming Darryl have to say?”

Emily linked her arm through mine. “Reminds me of somebody I used to date. Jimmy, remember? The Harley freak?”

“How could I forget?”

Emily chuckled. “Darryl’s harmless enough for a self-centered prick. He kept twitching his pecs. Guess I was supposed to swoon at his feet.”

I jiggled Emily’s arm encouragingly. “So, what did he
say
?”

“Not much. His dad keeled over from a coronary, his stepdad died in a plane crash. Darryl didn’t know much about husband number three, the Tinsley guy, except to say that he lived in Fall River, Massachusetts, and was in real estate.”

We turned into the parking lot of the Imperial Hotel, where our car was still parked. Through a wide gateway, the parking lot gave way to a courtyard and garden where evergreen shrubs twinkled with thousands of white pin lights. Wreaths of fresh holiday greens adorned both sides of the double door. When Emily and I pushed our way through into the lobby, Paul already stood at the elevator opposite the reception desk punching buttons.

“If there’s anything you need, just let me know.” The young desk clerk, probably a Washington College student, smiled at us from behind the counter. As we stepped inside the elevator and the door closed on her fresh-scrubbed face I waved. “We will!” I was already picturing the Parlor Suite with its red swag drapes, lace curtains, pink-and-white striped wallpaper, reproduction Victorian lamps, and the double bed with its ornate Victorian headboard. Most of all the bed.

Once inside our room, I peeled off my holiday regalia, draped it over an antique chair, and crawled beneath the comforter, just for a moment, to wait for Paul to get out of the shower.

The next thing I knew, Paul was snoring, open-mouthed, beside me and morning sunlight was kissing the railing of the verandah just outside our window. I peeked at my watch. Nearly ten o’clock! Without waking Prince Charming, I stepped out of bed, rummaged through my overnight bag for the copy of
Longitude
I was reading, and headed for a long soak in the tub. Through the wall I could hear the TV playing in Emily’s room next door; she’d be watching cartoons with Chloe, pretending not to enjoy them.

I was up to the chapter about sauerkraut kicking scurvy overboard on James Cook’s second circumnavigation when Paul tapped on the bathroom door. “Sweetheart?”

“Ummm?”

“Mind if I come in?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Is that an uh-uh
yes
or an uh-uh
no
?”

I was feeling limp, like an overcooked noodle. “That’s a come-in-quickly-and-close-the-door-behind-you.” I didn’t want any of the delicious steam to escape.

Paul slipped his narrow body through the doorway. Wearing only his briefs, he stood in front of the sink and peered into the mirror. “You better get a move on, sweetie.” He grabbed a washcloth and wiped the mirror free of condensation, then began to shave.

I rolled over lazily, rested one arm and my chin on the edge of the bathtub, and watched as he pulled the razor down each cheek then raised his chin and
cleaned the lather off his neck with practiced, upward strokes. “What time is it?” I asked as he rinsed the razor under the hot water tap.

He grabbed a towel and patted his face dry. “Almost noon.”

“Yipes!” I stood up so fast that my head swam and I had to grab onto the wall for support. “We’re going to be late!”

Paul tossed me a clean towel. “Here. You dry off and I’ll go pick up Emily and Chloe and be downstairs in time to meet your dad. Take your time.”

Time! I turned in a personal best, maybe even an Olympic gold medal performance for hair drying and makeup application. When I breezed into the restaurant fifteen minutes later, radiant in my favorite black slacks and red sweater, my family was waiting for me.

But two chairs at the table were empty. “Where’s Daddy?” I asked as I headed for one of them.

Emily shrugged. “He’ll be along.”

I checked my watch. “But he’s twenty minutes late.”

Paul stood and pulled out my chair. “And so, may I remind you, darling, were you.”

I plopped myself down. “Oh. I see your point.”

Paul handed me the menu. “I’ve ordered you some coffee.”

“Thanks.” I decided on a mushroom phyllo, then sipped my coffee and watched Chloe push Cheerios around on her high chair tray with a plump finger. Emily poured orange juice from her glass into a bottle, screwed on the nipple cap, and handed it to Chloe. The sun shone, cars passed by on High Street just outside the window, my family was around me … what could be wrong? But when fifteen more minutes had
passed, my third cup of coffee did little to calm my growing dread. I rummaged through my purse, extracted my cell phone, and handed it to Paul. “Here. You call him.”

“Why me?” he asked. “I don’t even know Darlene’s number.”

I opened my address book and read it off to him. He dialed and after a long minute, he mashed his thumb down on the End button. “No answer.”

“That’s odd. Somebody should be there!”

Paul shrugged. “Sorry.”

“Here, let me try,” I said, taking the phone from him. “Maybe you got the number wrong.” I punched in Darlene’s number and waited. After the tenth ring, I hung up. “Not even an answering machine.” I laid the phone on the tablecloth and rested my chin on my hands. “Do you suppose he forgot?”

Emily spooned applesauce into Chloe’s mouth. “Not likely. He told me he was looking forward to it.” She studied me with serious eyes. “Maybe he’s too hung-over, Mom.”

I pushed my plate away, my lunch barely touched, knowing that Emily was probably right but a little annoyed at her for saying so. “I’m going over there.” I sent Paul my I-dare-you-to-try-and-stop-me look.

Paul folded his napkin and laid it next to his plate. “All right, but I’m coming with you.”

Emily looked up from wiping applesauce off Chloe’s chin. “Did you ever think you might be interrupting something?”

I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling, trying to wipe
that
picture out of my head. I stood up. “I certainly hope so!”

“We’ll be here when you get back,” Emily said. She waved a spoon. “Don’t think you’re going to stick me with the bill.”

As I passed behind her chair, I patted the top of Emily’s head. “Don’t worry, we’ll be back soon.”

I believed it when I said it, I really did. But ten minutes later, standing on Darlene’s front porch, repeatedly ringing the doorbell and listening to Speedo’s urgent barking from the entrance hall just behind the door, I forgot my promise. Darlene’s Porsche was still parked on the street, but Daddy’s car was nowhere to be seen.

Paul parked his buns on the porch railing. “Hannah, they must have gone somewhere in your father’s car. Be reasonable!”

While Paul sat there, relaxed, both hands stuffed in his pockets, I peeked through the front window. The Christmas tree lights still blazed, lamps on the end tables burned softly, and I could see the red and green glow of the indicator lights on the stereo system. Plates with bits of food still on them and half-empty glasses covered every surface. Clearly the party had gone on long after we left.

I turned around to face my husband. “Look for yourself, Paul! If they went somewhere, don’t you think they would have cleaned up first?”

“Not necessarily.”

I tapped on the window with my knuckles and was startled when Speedo lunged into view. The dog leapt onto the sofa, settled his big paws on the windowsill, and pressed his wet, black nose against the glass. I tapped on the window again. “Hey, boy!”

Speedo went berserk. He jumped off the sofa, raced
in a tight circle about the room, scrunched up two scatter rugs with his windmilling paws, then leapt onto the sofa again, barking furiously.

“Hey, boy, what’s wrong?” I laid my hand flat on the window where Speedo’s nose had left a smeared impression. I turned my head to look at my husband. “Something’s wrong in there, Paul. I just know it.”

Paul was beside me in two long strides. Shading his eyes with his hand, he peered through the window, which did nothing to calm the frantic dog, who began to scrabble at the windowpane, toenails clicking on the glass. Paul straightened, walked to the front door, and turned the knob. “Locked.” He gave the doorbell another try, listened, then rapped loudly with the knocker. Speedo relocated himself behind the front door and began to howl.

“I’ll try around back.” I scampered off the porch and dashed around the side of the house, through a wooden gate, and into the garden. I careened around the patio table, exclaiming as I scraped my thigh against the arm of one of the chairs. Still swearing and rubbing the sore spot, I stepped onto the neatly laid brick patio and peered through the double French doors into the kitchen.

The screen on the TV Daddy had been lounging in front of the night before was dark. Like the living room, dirty dishes were piled on every flat surface and open bottles of alcohol, including a bottle of schnapps—Ruth’s?—stood like soldiers on the long kitchen counter. The light over the kitchen table still burned, but the candlesticks on the table were empty. My heart did a flip-flop in my chest. “The candles burned down to nothing,” I said as Paul caught up with me. “Nobody blew them out.”

I jiggled the door handle and gasped when the door swung slowly inward. I pulled it closed just as Speedo thundered into the kitchen. When the dog sat politely on the other side of the door and simply whined, I said, “I’m going in.”

“Hannah! What if they’re asleep?”

“If they are, then we’ll wake them up. If they’re gone, then what they don’t know won’t hurt them.” And before he could persuade me to change my mind, I pushed open the door and eased myself into the house.

What I saw then made Speedo hang his head: A prizewinning pile of dog poop had been deposited squarely in the middle of Darlene’s highly polished floor. I scratched behind the dog’s drooping ears. “Poor Speedo. It’s not your fault. Nobody let you out today!” Cold fingers squeezed my heart and I looked at Paul. “This is not good.”

Although sunlight flooded the kitchen, cheerful with its glossy white woodwork and blue-and-white gingham curtains, it did little to lighten my mood. “Let the dog out, Paul,” I said.

Paul held the door wide, stepped out onto the patio, and slapped his thigh. “Come on, Speedo. That’s a good boy.” But Speedo refused. I was standing under the overhead rack where copper saucepans and frying pans hung in a gleaming row when Speedo startled me by dashing past, through the pantry and into the dining room. I followed, catching sight of the dog’s tail as he disappeared around the curve in the staircase that led to the second floor. With my heart thudding, only partly from the exertion of racing up the stairs two at a time, I finally caught up with Speedo, sitting, four feet firmly planted, waiting politely by the
bathroom door. My pulse drummed in my ears. I tried to breathe normally, and failed. The last time I’d followed a crazed dog there’d been a body at the end of the trail. I didn’t relish a repeat performance. So, when Paul appeared at the head of the stairs I wimped out and waggled my hand toward the door. “
You
open it.”

Paul reached for the knob, then swiveled his head in my direction. Our eyes locked and I knew he was reading my mind—
dog, door, death
. Life with Hannah is never dull. I clutched Speedo’s collar and held my breath as Paul turned the knob and … slowly, slowly … pushed open the door.

I was kneeling beside Speedo, my arms wrapped around his neck, my cheek pressed against the comforting warmth of his fur, so I didn’t see anything unusual at first.

Then Paul stumbled backward. “Sweet Jesus!”

With one hand grasping Speedo’s collar, I slowly rose until my eyes were level with Paul’s shoulder and I saw what he saw, a scene that is etched indelibly in my brain like a VCR frozen on Pause. “Who is it?” I asked.

“I think it’s Darlene.”

The naked body in the bathtub bore little resemblance to the Darlene I knew. It was the head that confused me, covered with thin graying hair that erupted from a nearly bald landscape of scalp in untidy tufts. But the nose and the chin … that patrician profile was unmistakable. Darlene’s eyes were closed and she lay in the tub peacefully, as if she were asleep.

“Is she dead?” I whispered.

“I think so.” Without touching the tub, Paul squatted
on his heels and placed two fingers on Darlene’s pallid neck, just under her left ear. He nodded.

“Jesus!” And then I noticed something strange. “There’s no water in the tub!”