The Summer Bones (32 page)

He was wearing rumpled shorts and a dark green shirt that looked clean but was not pressed. His hair was carelessly combed and his eyes were bloodshot with hangover. As far as Victoria could tell, he was fairly sober at the moment, but the signs of recent dissipation were unmistakable. He said, “Gail has closed the office for the whole week because of Emily.”

Victoria remembered pale, trembling hands grasping a martini glass as if it were a lifeline and the sobbing figure of yesterday at the service. She nodded in understanding. Kevin—if she were his mother, she would take him and hide out, too.

Ronald was staring at her. His body language was unfriendly, arms at his sides and no smile.

Searching for something to say, she settled for, “What are you doing here?”

“This place is half mine,” he said flatly. He'd obviously expected the question. His mouth twisted. “I gave Emily the money to invest in this business.”

Victoria said quickly, “I know you did.”

“I have her keys. If I want to come here and look around, I will.” His voice was heavy with bitterness. Victoria could still remember his scathing words the day he had come to the farm.
Your sister is a slut and I don't care if she ever comes back
.

And it wasn't easy to forget that Ronald was an angry, jealous man who had taken to following his wife—his wife, who was now dead.

Being alone with him in a business that was ostensibly closed awakened feelings of discomfort and mistrust. She slid a foot backward and smiled without sincerity. “I'm sure Gail wouldn't mind you looking around, Ronald. As you say, the business belongs partly to you. Maybe you could tell her the next time you talk to her that I came by. I want to talk to her sometime soon. Is she at home?”

“I have no idea.” His face was uncooperative and shuttered. “The woman won't give me the time of day.”

The phone rang again, two shrill notes into the quiet, closed building. The click of the answering machine sounded loud.

“Well, I'm headed back to Chicago.” It was as much of a good-bye as she could summon. She turned, feeling his burning gaze on her back as she started for the door.

“Did you know she was pregnant, Vicky?” The deadpan voice stopped her cold, like running into a wall of ice.

It was tempting to lie—to turn back and feign astonishment. Unfortunately, she wasn't much of an actress. When she turned around, all Ronald Sims saw on her face was guilt.

“Yeah.” His face was grim. “I thought so. Goddammit, I thought so.”

“I didn't,” her voice was small, “until after she was dead. She never told me.”

He moved, a convulsive bunching of muscles in his shoulders. “And why would that be, huh? She told you everything—every damn thing. She used to laugh about it. I don't need a conscience, she would say, I've got Tori out there to disapprove when I do something wrong.”

Victoria made a helpless gesture of denial with her hand. Emily
would
say something like that.

“Only this time she wasn't interested in having you know everything. Why is that, would you say?” The words shot like arrows of accusation and deep, dark anger.

“Ronald, I don't know … we had that fight in April,” she stammered.

“I'm going to tell you why.” He wasn't interested in her protestations. “Because of Damon. She was seeing him, screwing him. She didn't want you to know, and I'm sure as hell that
he
didn't want you to know. A nasty little bit of incest with a baby on the way. Jesus, no wonder he killed her. He would hardly be the hardworking little hero now, would he, if everyone knew the truth.”

“Damon wouldn't—”

“Bullshit. Don't give me some of that like-a-brother crap. It makes me want to puke. Even you can't be that naive.”

Her anger was a welcome relief. Anger made him seem less threatening. Anger made her shoulders straighten and her voice ice cold. “You're obsessed.”

“I'm dead right and you don't want to hear it.” His face was livid. The phone began to ring again, but neither of them paid any attention.

“It wasn't Damon,” Victoria said with utmost conviction. “Yes, Em had a lover, but it wasn't Damon. And he certainly didn't kill her. Ronald, listen to what you're saying. To kill her and hide the body right there on the farm—right on the property? Give him credit, even if you don't like him. He's not that stupid, he doesn't have a violent bone in his body, and I know for a fact that he wasn't Emily's lover.”

Ronald laughed unpleasantly. “Not a violent bone in his body? He had no problem slamming me up against a wall and nearly choking me to death. Or are you so blind that you choose to ignore that little scene, just as you've ignored the way he has drooled after you for so damn long.”

It was close enough to the truth to make her pause, fumbling for the right defense. She knew that Damon had been prodded into that confrontation with Ronald; she had sat there and witnessed the whole ugly thing. She also knew that Damon had loved her a long time.

All she could think to say was to repeat insistently, “I
know
he wasn't Emily's lover, Ronald.”

The air-conditioning switched on again with a gentle purr. Ronald seemed to finally comprehend what she was saying, his face going from furious to sharpened interest. His mouth opened, his eyes narrowed. He asked slowly, “How do you know?”

Too late, the trap was clear. Images flashed through her mind—a laughing Emily, not denying Damon because she preferred Ronald's suspicions to him knowing the truth; Gail with her martini glass and hollowed eyes; the boyish face of Kevin Benedict looking at her as if she were a ghost raised from the dead. She hadn't intended this. Kevin might be the man who had murdered her sister, but Ronald was a much more likely candidate and she had a good idea of what he might do if he knew the truth.

Gail had known. “I was scared to death,” she had said, “every time he came to the office.” She had good reason to be, if she loved her son.

Ronald took a step forward. Spots of color had come up into his cheeks, like a fever burning. His eyes were like pebbles, his fists clenched in a way she had seen once before.

“How do you know?” He enunciated each word carefully, like he was talking to a child.

There was no way she could tell him. To give him a name and face to direct that anger toward—a purpose, a target.

Mute, she stared.

“Tell me, Vicky.” His voice was soft with menace. He added, “You will tell me.”

She turned and ran. It was impulsive and ill advised, but she yielded to the self-preserving instinct.

It had come. Ronald lunged after her, catching her arm. Determined fingers dug in. He spun her around and the glimpse she had of his face clogged the breath in her chest. His features were so distorted by rage that he was unrecognizable.

“You little bitch,” he jerked her close, his voice thick. “Tell me what you know. If it wasn't Paulsen, who the hell was it?”

His fingers were hurtful, cutting into her upper arm. She felt dizzy with panic and fear. “Let me go.”

“No.”

“Ronald, please. You're hurting me.”

“Tell me.” He gave her a little shake.

Numbly, she jerked against his hold. It was incredible, in that civilized room with the soft subtle shades and lovely paintings, that this could be happening.

“If you have proof it's someone else, you'd better let me in on it.” His face was thrust close to hers and she caught the stink of alcohol. “Otherwise, I'm going to take this up with Damon, Vicky, you can bet on it.”

Without thinking she jerked, bringing her knee upward in a classic defense move that he never expected, and connecting with his groin. Groaning, he loosened the grip on her arm and clutched his shorts.

Oh, God!
She pulled away. The doors were bathed in blue and gold from the outside sunshine. She stumbled on the carpet as she ran toward freedom. He was right behind her. She could hear his breathing like a freight train coming, and the hair on the back of her neck rose in terror.

She felt his hand grasp her shoulder just as she reached for the door handle. His hand, and then a crashing weight as he overbalanced, propelling them both forward. The sound of breaking glass was the last thing she heard.

The night was fine and drawn, webbed across a sky that faded from indigo to charcoal. The air smelled like wine, new grass, and the memory of rain. Danny Haase pulled into his driveway and parked the car, switching off the motor and sitting there in the resulting silence. His body felt like lead.

It had been a long day. He got out slowly and moved along the walk to the front door. His weary gait was a testament to the grueling past hours.

With the key in the lock, he pushed open the door. He stepped inside and stopped, registering two things at once, the rich smell of tomato and oregano, and the sound of running water. For a long minute he stood there, undecided and astounded. Then he shut the door and locked it in an automatic movement.

“Hello?” His voice sounded thin and rather high.
Fatigue,
he told himself, clearing his throat. No answer came. Whoever had been cooking in his kitchen was taking a shower. He wandered down the hall and peeked into the unused depths of a room he had actively avoided in the past week. On the stove was a pot exuding the delicious smell of homemade spaghetti sauce. He took the fragrance in through his nose and memory crawled along his spine like an unwanted intruder—basil, garlic, and a touch of allspice overlying the essence of tomato—Laura's secret recipe. The table was set for two with their wedding china, linen place mats, and a pair of crystal glasses. A bottle of ‘95 Chianti was open and breathing polished oak and fruit overtones. His chest felt tight as he moved toward the bedroom.

He didn't so much sit as let his legs give out and drop him onto the bed. He loosened his tie, tearing it off. Removed his shirt, kicked off his shoes. The scent of strawberry shampoo wafted from the bathroom. She'd left the door open and he could see her behind the glass of the shower door, her form faint and suggestive as she moved in subtle shades of beige and gray.

He would not allow himself to think—to hope. Instead he took off his pants and lay down in his briefs, one arm across his eyes. The room was cool and shuttered after the heat of the day. The water switched off eventually and the shower door clicked open. He could hear his wife gasp as she reached for a towel and realized he was there.

“Danny.”

“Sorry to startle you.” He raised his arm. Their gazes locked across the expanse of the bedroom. He wanted to point out that he hadn't expected her. He wanted to ask why she was there and what she wanted. But he didn't. She was
there
. At the moment, after the hellish day he'd had, that was enough.

“It's all right.” She wrapped a towel around her body and took another for her hair. He watched her move with regret and longing; the lift of a slender upper arm, the swell of her breasts above the dark blue towel.

“I smell something wonderful.” It was all he could think of to say.

“You love spaghetti.” Her smile was brief as she began to tousle her hair dry. “Luckily, as it's about the only thing I know how to make. Two or three times a week. It probably got old, didn't it?”

“I've never complained about your cooking.”

“No, you never did complain.”

He closed his eyes. Exhaustion made his muscles quiver. “I'm starving.”

Her answer was soft. “I thought you might be.”

The news on television, of course—she would know, wherever she had been, about the two dead women. What she wouldn't know was that one case had basically been solved. There were de tails to be sorted, of course, but he could still see Randy Knox's face as he and Pino had confronted him. A sneering mouth belied by sick, desperate eyes.

That was an image he wished to banish. He sat up, rubbing his forehead. “Let me take a quick one,” he pointed to the steamy glass of the shower doors, “and become human again. I'll be right out.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like what?”

“I can walk back in?” Her eyes were luminous, her voice strained. “No questions, Danny?” With her damp hair, she looked young and defenseless.

His smile was an effort. “I'm tired of questions, Laura. Today I'm so very tired of asking questions. So, yes, I guess so. Just like
that
you can walk back in.”

She flinched as if he'd struck her. Turning away, she groped for a shirt that was folded and sitting on a chair. “I'll get everything ready. Just come out to the kitchen when you're done.”

He didn't stay to watch her dress. There were limits, after months of abstinence, to what he could stand even as tired as he was. The bathroom was warm and perfumed with the scent of her. He leaned against the wall of the shower, letting the water run over his skin and into his mouth. The stickiness and ugliness of the day faded under that miraculous stream of warm, soothing water. He even almost forgot the sound of Lila Knox's anguished sobbing as her son confessed to killing another human being.

Almost.

Getting out, he toweled off and dressed in a pair of gray cotton shorts and a dark blue shirt. The smell of food drew him like a light in the darkness.

Laura was putting salad into glass bowls, the swing of her drying hair touching her shoulders. The wine was poured, the pasta draining, the sauce simmering thickly. She motioned him to his chair, waving away any need for his help. With hunger that was more than for food, he watched her economical movements as she traveled back and forth across the kitchen.
She looks thinner
, he realized slowly,
and has lost some of her summer tan.

But still achingly beautiful. Always that.

“Here we go.” She avoided his gaze but set down a plate of steaming food in front of him, placing her own across the table. “Have you tried the wine? Mother says this is the latest craze. Chiantis are coming back, did you know?”