Stunner (3 page)

“It looks like one,” I answer, appalled. “Who would send such an awful package to Frank’s friend here at the farm?”

“I don’t know, but the box has a Scranton, Pennsylvania postmark, the same place that those hang-up calls are from. Look.” Laura points at the corner of the lid. “It’s dated the day before they arrived. I wonder who knew she was coming here.”

So Laura’s bad feelings really aren’t unfounded. “This
is
alarming—the contents of the box and the fact that the sender knew she’d be here.” Even though I haven’t touched anything, I feel the desire to wash my hands.

“I wonder why Juliana didn’t want anybody here to find out about the package,” Laura says. “Maybe she knows who sent it, and that’s why she was so upset before she even opened it.”

“That’s a good point, Laura. If it was a stranger who sent this, you’d think she’d want us to help and call the police to investigate.” I glance down at the contents again. “Ugh.”

“Exactly. Anyway, I took pictures of the box and the mess inside with my phone. You know, in case you hire a private detective.” She closes the lid of the garbage bin and walks me back inside. “I’ll send the photos to you.”

As we enter the front hall, I notice goose bumps on my arms and rub them away. I’m truly disturbed.

From upstairs, I hear the sound of a man’s voice. My brother is speaking soothingly to someone. Laura and I look at each other, and she gives me a small shrug.

A silky, melodic woman’s voice answers, but I can’t make out what they’re saying to each other. I feel a bit guilty, even hearing that little, as though I’m eavesdropping on an intimate conversation between two lovers.

Then I hear footsteps move down the hall.

Frank and Juliana walk down the stairs. Well, Frank walks. Juliana
sweeps
down, even though she stays right in step with Frank the entire way.

To be fair, if I were coming down our splendid stairway to meet a bunch of people for the first time, I would sweep down, too. I remember making the same show-stopping entry (or so I thought) on a regular basis in my teens at special family parties.

The stairs curve along the wall from the second floor of our high-ceilinged octagonal foyer and then descend gracefully to the ground floor. It’s a staircase that calls for a big entrance, and I must say, Juliana is certainly worthy of such a grand introduction.

This lovely, tall creature is in her late-thirties with long, dark, perfect hair, just as Laura described. A flowy summer dress in vivid 1960s Pucci aqua colors does nothing to hide her amazing figure.

Even though some of my girlfriends proclaim fifty-five is the new thirty-five, and, OK, I look good in my simple Jackie-O-style shift, bejeweled sandals, and a pair of drop earrings, what I do miss about really being thirty-five is that it didn’t require as much work to get myself together. I was also able to cheat much more on exercise, diet, and even sleep.

I bet Juliana rolls out of bed every morning pretty much the way she looks right now. She certainly didn’t need four hours of prep for this party, as Laura had complained.

Something about her features is vaguely familiar to me—the high cheekbones, full lips, and inscrutable cat-like eyes. Is she simply an Angelina Jolie-type with a similar staggering beauty, or is my feeling of faint recognition something else?

Frank steps forward, and his lanky six-foot-two frame folds me into a familiar big-brother embrace. “I’m happy to see you, Sis, and happy to be home.”

I pull back, look up into his handsome, weathered face and smile. “We’ve missed you, Frank.” I affectionately mess his salt-and-pepper hair, an old habit from when we were little.

My brother, always so confident, seems a bit awkward now, like a schoolboy in the presence of a goddess. “Ronnie, you’re the only one who hasn’t met Jules yet.” He quickly corrects himself. “I mean Juliana. Uh, I’m the only one who calls her Jules.” OK. I try for a nonreactive expression.

Frank guides me to her. “Ronnie, this is Juliana Wentworth.” He looks at her as though she’s the only one in the room. Oh, boy, he’s a goner. “Juliana, this is my sister, Ronnie Lake.”

As we shake hands and smile, her sphinxlike eyes look straight into mine, and I see a momentary flicker of… what? A flash of something like repulsion and then maybe a question—or is the perception only my imagination? Her eyes are unreadable, even though her smile is responsive in a normal, polite way.

Before she and I can say much of anything except hello, guests begin to arrive. Pretty soon we’re all caught up in the friendly chit-chat of our small cocktail party. The evening is beautiful and balmy. Two dozen of us mingle on the terrace off the dining room. Brooke, Richard, and Susie keep the finger food circulating, and the bartender makes sure everyone has a drink.

As I catch up with old family friends, I’m able to step back somewhat and watch Juliana. I have to hand it to her: She’s doing all right. She has a laser-beam gaze that, while she talks with someone, I’m sure makes that person feel as if he or she is the only individual on the planet.

She listens, she nods, she ask questions, she offers a comment when that’s appropriate—all the while picking the right moments for those special looks with Frank. I chuckle to myself. He never leaves her side, and she seems very relaxed.

The phone rings in the library, and I see Juliana flinch ever so slightly. Her eyes shift in the direction of the sound for a split second. Then she notices me looking at her, and she smiles, an unknowable, Mona Lisa-type of expression. I smile back and walk through the set of French doors that leads into the bookshelf-lined room. I cross to a desk and answer the phone.

“Hello?” Nobody responds. “Hello? Who’s there?” I think I hear a slight breathing sound and then a click, and the line goes dead. Hmmm. It’s most certainly another one of the hang-ups that Laura’s been talking about.

I return to the terrace, where Frank and Juliana have moved over to a different couple, again deep in sociable conversation. Juliana has her gaze on the elderly husband and wife exclusively and doesn’t look at me.

Fifteen minutes go by, then Juliana politely excuses herself to step into the house. I do the same a moment later under the pretext of helping in the kitchen. I step into the library and the phone rings, again. I pick it up, and, once again, nobody responds, and I hear a click.

As I walk through the foyer, I hear a cell phone ring upstairs and then Juliana’s voice speaking to someone. I stop to listen. The only part I can make out is “stop calling—you’ll ruin everything…” I can’t understand the rest of what she’s saying. Ruin what? Does she have some scheme in mind?

I think about these mystery hang-ups from Pennsylvania that Laura says started when Frank and Juliana arrived the other day. I mull over the disgusting white box in our garbage bin that Juliana wanted to hide, the one with the Scranton postmark showing it was mailed to her before she and Frank arrived. Who knew she was coming, and why does that person want to frighten her with the revolting contents of the box?

After catching her slight reaction on the terrace to the ringing phone, which resulted in another one of those hang-ups, and now hearing this cryptic conversation upstairs during our party—well, it seems pretty obvious that some connection exists between these calls and Juliana. The calls could all be perfectly innocent or reasonable, of course, but given the box, the circumstances do seem strange.

Her voice stops, and I hear footsteps above. I dash into the kitchen, now empty, waiting to hear Juliana go back out to the terrace and rejoin the party. When her footsteps tell me she has done just that, I make an immediate, rash decision. This concerns my darling, somewhat recently widowed big brother, whom I worship and adore—although he would go ballistic if he knew what I was about to do. But the nauseating white box has definitely upped the general creepiness factor surrounding Juliana’s arrival at Meadow Farm.

I quickly run upstairs with pen and paper and stop at the bedroom that Frank shared with Joanie for almost thirty years. I stick my head in and see some of Frank’s things tossed on the bed, but not Juliana’s.

I continue walking a few steps further down the hall and push open a half-closed door to the main guest room, where I see her things. I’m glad Frank has given Juliana this room and not put her in his room, which belonged to Joanie. Of course, who knows what their sleeping arrangements are at night—and who cares since it’s absolutely none of my business.

Juliana’s cell is by her purse, and I hesitantly tap it with my finger. Then I quickly pull back my hand as if the phone’s as hot as a cooktop burner. The idea of invading her privacy makes me hesitate, but then I think again of Frank. I check Juliana’s most recently received calls and write down the last number from moments ago, 570-341-5772.

Scrolling down, I see that Frank’s cell phone number shows up repeatedly, as do quite a few other area code 570 phone numbers, which I also write down. The small pad of paper next to her cell has the initials
BT
scribbled on it and an angry
X
scrawled over the letters.

I put down the phone and quickly give the room a visual sweep. I’m shocked to see Juliana’s things in such disarray. The huge armoire is open, showing nothing on the hangars except a lonely jacket dangling limply by one shoulder. All her other garments are strewn across the bed, dropped on the floor, balled up in the bottom of the wardrobe, or piled on top of a chair.

Pairs of shoes have been separated and flung into different parts of the room. Jewelry and open, smudged cosmetics bottles are scattered on available bureau and table surfaces. Wet towels have been tossed on the floor and rug.

No wonder Juliana needed four hours to get ready. She must have tried on every outfit she brought in every possible configuration. And here I thought she effortlessly stepped out of the shower and into that marvelous dress and was good to go for cocktails. Silly me.

The chaos of this room also provides a striking contrast to her smooth, calm demeanor downstairs. It’s as if she may have been in a frenzy as she got ready for this party, which seems extreme for a woman used to socializing among the same kind of people with her first husband. I wonder what that’s all about.

I’m such a
neatnik
, so part of me wants to straighten up her things. But before I can give in to the stupid urge to tidy up, I hear a door slam somewhere downstairs and immediately dash out of the room, taking the back stairs down.

As I step into the kitchen, I come face to face with Juliana, who is filling a glass of water and looking toward the stairs to see who’s coming. “Oh, it’s you,” she says and seems surprised. “I didn’t expect to see you coming down from there.” She hesitates a moment as if she has something additional to say, but changes her mind. “See you outside.” She simply leaves.

That was close. And I’m horrified by my sneaky behavior. This isn’t my ex-husband I’m checking up on, the only other time I’ve been so nosy. What’s gotten into me? Well, I guess I wouldn’t be so on edge about Juliana if not for the ongoing estrangement Frank and I have with our brother, Peter.

I come back to the terrace with a platter of food, my digital camera, and a new plan. The party carries on as I make the rounds taking pictures of our friends and family, including plenty of Frank and Juliana.

“Don’t mind Ronnie, Jules,” Frank says, and he holds Juliana close, surrounded by his children, Laura and Richard; daughter-in-law, Susie; and my daughter, Brooke. They all laugh and tease each other while I click off several shots. “She’s been taking pictures at every family gathering and party in this house since she was six,” he mock-complains.

I play my part as the loving sister and perfect hostess, welcoming this stranger who has quite apparently touched Frank’s heart. I think back to my sister-in-law Joanie, a pretty woman but open and approachable. Not at all like this mysterious goddess, whose physical beauty is so perfect it makes her seem aloof and therefore intimidating and off-putting. She’s the kind of super-gorgeous woman you’re not sure you’re going to like.

Plus she has those eyes, those unfathomable eyes that give nothing away. I’ve been watching, and Juliana has clearly demonstrated this evening that she’s a master at keeping the spotlight on the person she’s having a conversation with. That makes getting a fix on what she’s thinking kind of tough. Does she do that because she’s generous in spirit and truly interested in others, or does she herself have something to hide?

Even though I try to feel happy for him, I can’t help wondering for the rest of the evening—who is this person Frank has brought into our midst?

Once everybody leaves the party later, Laura slips me the list of Scranton phone numbers that she got off Caller ID after the anonymous hang-ups. At home, online, I reverse those phone numbers, plus those I got from Juliana’s phone, to uncover the locations: a hotel, a diner, a baseball stadium, several bars. I still don’t know who was making the calls, but these locales tell me the caller was probably a guy.

After my research, I doze off with my laptop next to me until the
ping
of a new email wakes me up. Laura has sent me her photos showing the contents of the white box. Looking at them reminds me of that awful smell. What kind of twisted person would create such a morbid display and then send it through the mail?

In one close-up, I notice a small scrap of paper hanging out of the dead pigeon’s beak. I zoom in for a better look at the writing on the paper. The only words I can make out among the scribbles are
Teresa & Frankie
.

~~~~~

After coffee in the morning, I throw a canvas cover over the front passenger seat of my Mustang. My dog jumps in, ready for me to snap on his canine seat belt. He’s excited, because he knows we’re going on a road trip.

Warrior and I look for any excuse to take a drive, and we avoid the highways as much as possible. When you have the top down, the back roads are a whole lot more fun. I begin the twisty, scenic drive to Lambertville to visit an outdoor antiques market, where a leashed Warrior will walk around with me.