She Loves Me Not (26 page)

But what if he bought a new coat?

What if that was his big surprise?

If she could muster a smile, she would. Peter buying an overcoat to surprise her? That is surely the most ridiculous notion that's ever entered her mind. She can't even picture him in dress clothes.

Peter is safely at work right now, where he belongs, wearing his worn jeans, work boots, flannel shirt and down vest, same as he does every day.

The poor dead man in the yard cannot possibly be Peter. Whoever he is, he isn't Peter.

“Why are you crying, Aunt Leslie?” Jenna asks, alarmed.

Even Leo stops wriggling and is looking up at her with a worried expression.

“I'm not crying.”

Leo solemnly reaches out, touches a teardrop trickling down her cheek, and examines his fingertip. “Yes, you are.”

She forces a smile. “Well, these are happy tears. I just thought of something happy.”

Now, in the midst of chaos and tragedy and fear, she knows. At last, she knows.

He's the right person for me, because all I could think, when I thought for a moment that he was gone, was that life without him wouldn't be worth living.

How could I ever have questioned whether I love him enough to marry him?

The mere thought that something horrible could happen to Peter fills her with a hollow ache; yet she welcomes it, embraces it.

We really do belong together,
Leslie tells herself firmly, casting her doubts aside once and for all.

And the next time she sees him, she's going to make him some chocolate toast.

Y
ou shouldn't be doing this,
David scolds himself, sipping the last of his lukewarm coffee from a paper take-out cup as he spots the Saw Mill River Parkway exit for Woodbury Hills up ahead.

No, he shouldn't be driving on a slick, winding, high-speed highway on no sleep and an empty stomach.

And he shouldn't show up unannounced at 20 Colonial Drive.

But when he tried to phone Isabel Van Nuys, the answering machine picked up.

And when he tried, after leaving her a message, to convince himself that he had done his duty, his conscience refused to listen. He went to a coffee shop, stared blindly at a menu for about five minutes, and realized what he had to do.

Here he is, an hour later, steering the Land Rover along the exit. A light snow is just beginning to fall as he turns down a leafy Westchester County street, following the signs toward the village.

Moments later, he finds himself in the center of a small suburban town with a quaint Victorian flavor. The businesses along the main road have mansard roofs and hand-painted signs; the lampposts look like gaslights; there are even a couple of black wrought-iron hitching posts beside the curb.

Angela wouldn't be caught dead living here, he finds himself thinking as he pulls into a diagonal spot marked
TWENTY-MINUTE PARKING
.

Caught dead living here?

He shakes his head at the bitter irony in the phrase as he steps out onto the uneven brick sidewalk.

Angela wasn't big on old-fashioned charm. She preferred the sleek and modern, and she loved the fast-paced city. He can just hear her voice in his head as he feeds a quarter into the parking meter.
If I had to live on, couldn't you at least have found me some organ recipients who don't live in the middle of nowhere, David? First Staten Island, now this.

Oh, be quiet, Angela,
he thinks, the corners of his lips curling upward despite his grim mission.
It could have been worse. It could have been Jersey.

He scans the row of locally owned businesses, looking for a place to stop, get more coffee, and ask for directions to Colonial Drive.

There's a small deli in the middle of the block. A cloth banner depicting a steaming cup of coffee hangs from a flagpole beside the door. Perfect.

David steps in from the cold and is greeted by a blast of warm fragrant air: hazelnut coffee and eggs frying in butter.

His mouth waters.

There's a short line at the deli counter. The commuter crowd has no doubt long since boarded their Manhattan-bound trains. Two balding senior citizens chat with one of the countermen as he pours their coffee; behind them is a harried mother of two toddlers who can't agree whether they want to share a blueberry or banana muffin.

Waiting for them to decide, he half-listens to the conversation among the men as he rehearses what he's going to say to Isabel Van Nuys when he meets her.

“I heard her daughters haven't even been told yet.” One of the retirees is shaking his head sadly. “They're at two different colleges. I guess the ex-husband wants to tell them both in person, so he's got a lot of driving to do today.”

“Well, he better drive fast if he wants to get to them before they find out on their own.” The counterman dumps two sugars into one of the coffees and adds milk to the other without being told. Clearly, the men are regulars. “Everyone who's been in here this morning is talking about it.”

“I'm not surprised it's all over town. Cripes, that Mary she worked with at the real estate office is the town crier.”

“You got that right. I heard she called the
Daily News
and offered them an exclusive interview. Are you ready to order yet, Mrs. Hellerman?” the second counterman patiently asks the young mother in front of David.

“Yes, we'll have a blueberry muffin and a bottle of orange juice with an extra cup.”

“No! Cranberry juice!” one of the kids screeches so loudly that David winces.

“Ashley, I'm not buying two juices when you each only take one sip as it is. Decide, girls. Orange or cranberry?”

“Orange!”

“Cranberry!”

“You can go ahead,” the woman tells David wearily, waving him past her children. “I have a feeling we're going to be awhile.”

“Okay, sir, what'll it be?”

“A large coffee to go,” David tells the counterman. Oh, what the hell? “And . . . an egg sandwich.”

“Bread or roll, ham or cheese?”

“Bread. Ham. And cheese.” If he's going to eat, he might as well
eat.

“White, wheat or rye? Swiss, Muenster, or American?”

“Rye, Swiss, and would you mind giving me directions to Colonial Drive?”

The place goes silent, except for the whining toddlers.

David glances around to see everyone—the countermen, the senior citizens, and the mother— staring at him.

“You with the press?” one of the old men asks, eyeing him with interest.

“The press?” David frowns. “No. Why would—?”

“I've had reporters in here all morning, asking me how to get to Colonial Drive. Let me tell you before you go to too much trouble, the street is blocked off and there's cops all over the place.”

The woman raises a salon-arched eyebrow. “Really? But I thought she was killed over on Gilder Road.” On the word
killed
she lowers her voice and casts a protective glance at her oblivious children, who are happily poking holes in the wrapper of a loaf of bread on a nearby shelf.

“She
was
killed at that vacant place over on Gilder Road, but my nephew Tommy's a cop and my sister-in-law says they're looking for clues at her house. They don't need a bunch of reporters getting in the way,” he adds with a meaningful glance at David.

“I have no idea you're talking about.” Even as he speaks, David struggles to ignore the nagging inner voice telling him that he might very well have an idea.

“A woman who lives over on Colonial Drive was murdered yesterday,” one of the countermen says, as the other flips the egg on the sizzling griddle. “Stuff like that doesn't happen in a town like this, so people are going nuts. She was a nice lady, too. Got really sick a couple of years ago and almost died. People were saying it was a miracle she got better after all that. Shame something like this has to go and happen to her now.” He shakes his head and shakes some salt and pepper on the egg.

David no longer has an appetite; his stomach is suddenly churning.

“What is . . . what was her name?” he asks the counterman, and holds his breath for the reply, already certain what he's going to hear.

He shouldn't be caught off guard when he hears the name. But he is. It knocks the wind right out of him, and he can't decide whether suddenly everything—or nothing at all—makes sense.

“It was Isabel. Isabel Van Nuys.”

“G
ood morning, Bayview Books.”

“Bill?” At the sound of his chipper voice, she manages just that one word, his name, before her voice breaks. She's crying again. She's been crying for a few hours now, ever since she found the battered, bloody body of her murdered boss. The hysteria is subsiding but the shock, the sorrow, the fright are all more palpable now.

It isn't like before, seeing Sam lying there.

Sam wasn't bloody.

He was just . . .

Still.

Facedown.

There was no blood.

And anyway, she went right into shock when she found her husband. She doesn't remember much about it.

This time, she isn't crippled by grief, yet she can't seem to block out the gory image.

“Rose?” Bill sounds alarmed. “Sweetie, what's wrong? Are you okay?”

“No. Bill . . .” She sinks into a chair at the kitchen table, where the children's toast has long since grown cold. “Luke is dead.”

“What?”

“He's dead. He's here, at my house, and the police are here, and I found him this morning, a few hours ago, and he's—”

“Rose, slow down. You're not making any sense. How can Luke be dead? And what's he doing at your—”

“He was bringing me my paycheck last night. The police think he must have surprised a prowler, and . . .” She shudders, closing her eyes to block out the image of Luke's bloody, gaping neck wound.

“A prowler
killed
him?” Bill, incredulous, says, “Oh, my God.” Then, again, “Oh, my God.”

“I know. I'm sorry to tell you like this, I just— I realized I should call you. I thought you'd probably be wondering where I am . . .” She looks at the clock. Quarter past ten. It's only quarter past ten. It feels like an entire day has passed since she climbed out of bed.

“I was wondering. I just thought you were a few minutes late, so I didn't call. Sweetie, tell me, are you okay?”

“Not really. I can't even think straight. The police have been questioning me nonstop. I'm surprised they haven't been to the store yet.”

“Oh, Rose . . . they don't think you did it, do they?”

“I don't think so . . .”

No. No, of course they don't think she did it.

Who would possibly think she could be a murderer?

But then, who would think there would be a murderer anywhere in Laurel Bay?

“I see a patrol car pulling up at the curb right now,” Bill says anxiously. “What do you think I should do? Should I stay here? Should I close the store? Do you want me to come over there? You shouldn't be alone.”

“I'm not alone. Leslie's here, and the kids. She's taking them to my in-laws' house. We're going to stay there for a few days . . . or maybe forever.” She exhales sharply, unable to imagine ever coming back to this house.

“Your in-laws' house? The one here in town? You're not going to Florida, are you?”

“No! God, no,” she says, vaguely noting that the top of her throat suddenly has that sore, pinchy feeling. “We just have to get out of here.”

“So you're staying with your in-laws?”

“They're not there. The house is empty. And Leslie's place isn't big enough, so . . .”

“That's good, Rose. You should get out of there. What if whoever killed Luke comes after you?” He gasps, as though realizing belatedly what he's said. “I'm sorry, Rose. Don't worry. I'm sure you're safe, but—”

“It's okay, Bill. I know.”

It isn't as though she hasn't already considered the possibility that whoever was lurking outside of her house wasn't merely a neighborhood prowler turned violent.

It isn't as though she didn't tell the police detectives about the anonymous phone calls, and the valentines, and the necklace.

“Who is Angela?” asked Detective Molinari, the main one assigned to the case.

“I have no idea. It doesn't make any sense. That's why I thought my son must've stolen the necklace.”

“Well, it sounds as though somebody may have been stalking you, Mrs. Larrabee.” Detective Molinari proceeded to ask her whether she had recently broken off a relationship with anybody, or received unwanted attention from a stranger, or even a casual acquaintance.

She didn't tell them her hunch that Luke might have been interested. Why bother now?

Nor did she mention that she fleetingly thought Gregg Silva might have put the chocolates in her car. It would be downright embarrassing if they went to question her son's young, attractive teacher and mentioned that Rose thought he might have a crush on her.

And she certainly isn't going to tell them about Hitch. He was Sam's best friend. He's her friend. It was a stretch for her to envision him as her secret admirer, let alone to imagine him killing a man.

“You should be careful, Rose,” Bill tells her. “Don't tell anybody where you're going to be staying. Just in case . . .”

“Rose?” Leslie's voice calls from upstairs. “How many pairs of pajamas do you want me to pack for Jenna?”

How many pairs of pajamas?

It's such a simple question.

There should be a simple answer.

But she can't think what it might be. One pair? Four? All of them?

“Rose?” Leslie calls.

“Rose?” Bill asks gently in her ear.

Utterly numb, she tries to find her voice, to respond to him, and to Leslie . . .