The Good Die Twice (4 page)

In all sincerity, with the innocence of her
naive eighteen years, the young woman replied simply, “With
Dagger.”

CHAPTER 6

The silence hung like a dark cloud. Even
women standing nearby, friends of Sheila’s mother, had eavesdropped
on their conversation. Sheila could feel her face turning red.

Molly forced a smile and as she turned to
leave said, “I guess that means my bridesmaid’s dress stays in
storage.”

“It’s actually Sara’s house,” Dagger
clarified.

Sara’s face flushed. “Of course, we have
separate living quarters,” she stammered. But the damage had been
done. She felt the room closing in, the large chandeliers hanging
dangerously close, the stares too numerous.

A five-piece band struck up a song in the
corner of the room. Sheila pulled on Dagger’s sleeve. “Dance with
me,” she ordered.

“I think I’ll go find the ladies room.” Sara
left quickly, trying desperately not to trip in the heels. One of
the security guards directed her up the staircase.

“When were you planning on telling me that
you and your little friend were shacking up? And to announce it in
front of my friends. How clever of the little...”

“Just stop it.” Dagger pulled her arms away
from his neck, grabbed her by the forearm, and steered her away
from the dance floor. “Come on.” He found a study down the hall
from the ballroom. It was ornate with thick wainscoting and dark
wood. Once he closed the door, Sheila tried to kiss him but he held
her back.

“I don’t know how many different ways I have
to say that we’re through, Sheila. I’m sorry but we just are not
going to make it.”

She folded her arms in front of her, eyes
flashing. Years of sunbathing and tanning booths had encouraged
tiny lines around her eyes. Her face was thin with lips to match,
and the constant sucking on cigarettes had caused tiny creases to
form above her top lip. “You aren’t one to just jump into bed with
someone, Dagger. My god, I ought to know. It took me, what? Six,
eight dates? You meet her three days before our wedding and all of
a sudden the wedding is off? Was she that great of a fuck?”

Dagger pointed a finger barely an inch from
her face. “Watch it.” His dark eyes seemed to withdraw, the pupils
enlarge. He felt the more he tried to pull away, the more she
thought he wanted her. The more disdain he displayed, the more it
seemed to encourage her. He didn’t know how many times he could
deny that he slept with Sara. Sheila wasn’t going to believe
him.

“STOP IT.” Dagger moved away from the door,
away from Sheila. “This isn’t about Sara. How many times do I have
to tell you? It’s about you. Listen to yourself. Is it that hard
for you to accept the fact that we are wrong for each other?”

“Yes,” Sheila whispered. “I love you, Dagger.
I don’t want anyone else.”

Dagger emitted an exasperated sigh and moved
over to the window, hands jammed in his pants pockets. Globe lights
lit up the brick walkway below leading from the patio. Guests stood
in clusters sipping their drinks. All he had ever wanted when he
met Sheila was to have an in with the Cedar Point elite, build up
his business with some higher-paying customers. All he had was a
little too much scotch one night, and next thing he knew Sheila was
picking out an engagement ring.

“Whining doesn’t fit you, Sheila. The only
thing I ever was to you was a slap in the face to your father.
You’ve told me yourself you used to bring home boyfriends in
leather jackets riding Harleys just to give your father gray
hair.”

Sheila trailed her fingers along the dark
mahogany desktop, all the while moving closer to Dagger. “So, you
didn’t sleep with Sara?”

“No, but even if I did, it isn’t any of your
business, Sheila.”

Her eyes flashed. “Even if you did...?”

“See, you’re reading into it again.” Dagger
looked down at her left hand. “Give me back the ring. I don’t
appreciate your giving people the impression the wedding is just on
hold.”

Sheila looked at the ring, the marquis cut
with tiny baguettes. She clasped her hand to her chest. “No, I
won’t. I’m going to give you as long as you want to reconsider.
Besides, what else am I going to do with a Bill Blass wedding
gown?”

Dagger shrugged. “It’s cubic zirconia
anyway.”

She clenched her fist, moved her hand behind
her back in a childish gesture. “No, it isn’t.”

Dagger shook his head. “You had the damn
thing appraised. Why should I be surprised?” He checked his watch
and wondered what Sara was up to. Was she lost somewhere in this
forty-plus room mausoleum? Or did she run to the car and is now
hiding in the backseat?

“Dagger!”

He jerked his gaze to her and suddenly
realized she had been talking to him.

“I don’t have time for this.” He walked out
leaving Sheila standing in the middle of the room spouting
something very unladylike.

Sara had never seen a washroom this large. If
it was supposed to be a bathroom, why were there two couches, a
makeup table, and a television set?

She checked her reflection in the mirror, ran
a hand through her hair. What little curl she had coaxed out of it
earlier had disappeared, giving way to the weight. She pulled her
hair behind one ear the way Sheila wore hers. But it eased its way
out. She ran a hand across her throat. The necklace Sheila wore
looked real. Sara didn’t own any jewelry. It was too
cumbersome.

Examining her features in the mirror, she
felt her arms and legs could use some trimming, her eyes were too
far apart and too odd-shaped, her lips too full. Turning, she
checked the back of her dress, which clung to her rear end, another
part of her body she felt was too muscular. She gave a resigned
sigh and sat down on one of the couches. It felt good just getting
off her feet. What would feel better would be to get out of the
shoes. She fumbled with the straps, pulled off the shoes, and
wiggled her toes. Relief, splendid relief. Dangling the heels in
one hand, she left the washroom.

Returning to the ballroom didn’t tempt her.
Facing Sheila and her friends after what Sara had just blurted out
would be too embarrassing. Instead, she walked past the stairway
and down the hall, which was carpeted in a thick, rich Oriental
design. She paused at the railing and stared down at the clusters
of people.

Some of the women looked like the models Sara
had seen in the catalogs Dagger brought home for her to look
through. He had wanted her to add more clothes to her nearly empty
closet, but she had not yet been up to shopping in crowds. Instead,
she thumbed through the colorful pictures of women with flawless
skin and expensive clothes.

Sheila and her friends were like the models.
Their hair was perfect, glossy as if coated with some plastic film.
Those with low-cut dresses seemed to have something pushing their
cleavage up to their throats. And their lips were pouty as if they
had been stung by a swarm of bees. Sara had read that some women
have plastic surgery to increase their bust size, their butts, even
their lips.

Sighing, Sara turned away from the railing
and wandered farther down the hall. Family pictures hung on a wall
covered in a velvet-textured wallpaper, picking up the peach and
navy hues of the carpeting.

She had heard that Robert Tyler had two sons,
but Sara had yet to meet any of the Tylers. The family photos
appeared several years old—two boys in hockey uniforms, the same
boys in baseball uniforms, school prom tuxes, and college caps and
gowns. Next was a picture of a man, very distinguished-looking with
thick, graying hair and dressed in expensive-looking clothes. He
was standing next to a woman with brown hair and a streak of gray
at her temple. Sara guessed her to be proud of that one streak. The
older son exhibited an identical streak. Probably ran in her
family. The couple and the boys were standing outside a resort
hotel, somewhere warm, palm trees in the background.

Photos that seemed more recent showed one of
the boys several years older with a baby and a wife. The other son
was photographed standing near huts, looking tan and shirtless.
Another picture showed the same adventurous son, rather attractive,
in a pose resembling the male models in a catalog.

Another portrait in an expensive, ornate
frame showed the father again but this time with more gray hair, a
trimmer build, and a different woman. She had blonde hair swept up
and surrounded by cream-colored flowers, which matched her lace
gown. She had bright blue eyes and clung to the man. He wore a
tuxedo with a spray of baby’s breath in his lapel. It looked like a
wedding picture.

Next to the wedding picture hung another
picture of the young woman, a close-up of her flawless skin and
long blonde hair. Sara studied the picture more closely and then
realized where she had seen the woman before.

CHAPTER 7

Sara and Dagger leaned against the opposite
wall and stared at the portrait. Dagger shook his head. “This is
unreal.” He had already asked Sara twice if she was sure it was the
same woman.

Sara said, “It doesn’t make sense, though.
Why would Mr. Tyler hold a party if his wife is dead or
missing?”

“Maybe he doesn’t know it. Maybe she’s
supposed to be out of town.”

“Or maybe he killed her and told everyone she
was out of town.”

“DAGGER!” The booming voice came from the top
of the stairway. A barrel-chested man with thick white hair that
fit like a helmet walked toward the two. He gave an approving
glance down Sara’s form, a disapproving glance at the heels
dangling from her hand. He pulled back his shoulders and tilted his
head back, giving Sara the same arrogant stare down his pointed
nose that Dagger had received on more than one occasion. With an
arch of a bushy brow he turned his gaze to the young man. Dagger
felt as if Dad had just caught his son and date necking in a
darkened living room. But the glint in his eyes told Dagger, good
taste.

“Mr. Monroe.” Dagger wanted to flatten him
right on his pompous ass.

Leyton Monroe pointed to a study down the
hall, saying, “If I could have a minute of your time.”

Sara watched the men leave and understood why
Dagger didn’t like Sheila’s father. And it seemed to her that
Monroe wasn’t too fond of Dagger, either. She returned her gaze to
the portraits on the wall, studying details of the woman’s face,
the woman who was obviously Robert Tyler’s second wife, the woman
she had seen lying on a blood-soaked white carpet in a townhouse at
the Dunes Resort a little more than forty hours earlier.

“Handsome fella, isn’t he?” The voice was
silken, a tone slightly higher than a radio announcer.

Sara turned to see the man in the photo, the
mountain climber, model, all-around sports enthusiast. He was even
better looking in person, with sun-bleached hair and soft brown
eyes. Any woman would kill for his flawless complexion. Although he
stood just under six feet tall, athletics helped him to fill out
his tuxedo rather nicely. And as if on a personal crusade against
formal attire, he left his tie off and his shirt collar open.

The man held his hand out and clasped Sara’s
with a firm grip. He smiled, revealing dazzling white teeth a
little too even to be god-given. “I’m Nicholas Tyler. But you can
call me Nick.”

Sara found Nick a little reluctant to give
her back her hand. “Sara Morningsky.”

Lifting his glass in a toast, Nick glanced at
the shoes dangling from Sara’s fingers, then at her feet.
“Sore?”

Sara smiled, color rising to her cheeks. “I’m
not used to wearing heels.”

“You are about as fresh as a breath of
springtime.” He turned his hand and brought the top of her’s to his
mouth, pressing his lips just a little too long and touching her
skin lightly with his tongue.

Sara pulled her hand back and smiled, saying,
“And you’re just plain fresh.”

“You’re quick.” Nick turned and looked at the
portraits. “Great-looking family, don’t you think?”

“Who is everyone?”

“Eric is my brother. He’s the married one.”
Nick pointed at the picture of a dark-haired version of himself.
“That’s Eric Jr. He’s three. Cute kid. Takes after Uncle Nicholas.”
Nick flashed another toothy grin. “And the brunette who now has
dyed red hair, which my brother hates, is the gold-digging Edie
Winthrop, my wonderful sister-in-law.”

“You sound like the brother scorned. Did Edie
pick Eric over you?”

Nick shook his head, wisps of blonde hair
falling across his forehead. “She’s not my type. Besides, she’s
several years older than me.” He flashed Sara his boyish grin
again. “I don’t like old ladies. She’s like a horse that’s been
ridden hard.” He casually draped an arm around Sara’s shoulder.

“This is your mother?” Sara pointed at the
photo with the two sons at the resort.

Nick’s boyish grin faded. “Theresa Tyler. She
was the prima donna of socialites. She could throw a party together
in two hours, wrote the etiquette books. And she still had time for
us kids.”

“You talk in the past tense.”

“My mother died about nine years ago. Ovarian
cancer. They diagnosed it in the summer and she died right before
Christmas.”

Sara watched his eyes. A sadness washed over
him for the first time. But he quickly recovered. He flagged down a
passing waiter and retrieved two glasses of champagne, setting his
empty glass on the tray. He handed a drink to Sara. She took a
polite sip. She had never seen so much liquor flowing. Everywhere
she turned there were waiters, even outside the restroom. She found
herself curious about how much of a head start Nick had gotten.
There was a slight slur to his words and a glaze to his eyes.

She pointed to the most recent wedding
portrait and asked, “So this is your stepmother? She doesn’t look
much older than you.”