The Way You Look Tonight (22 page)

‘I don't know. I go to college and my girlfriend takes calls when I'm in class. This evening she told me this package had to be delivered at ten o'clock on the dot. I thought maybe ten had some symbolic meaning. A lot of people go in for that, you know. Symbolism, I mean.'

‘I know what you mean. Do you know who sent the package?'

‘She said it was some guy.'

‘Any idea about a name?'

Dale rolled his eyes. ‘Maybe she took it down. If they pay cash, though, sometimes she doesn't. She forgets.' Dale shrugged. ‘Sloppy, I know, but she works for free.'

‘Didn't she say anything about the sender?' Deborah asked. ‘It's very important.'

Dale sighed. ‘Okay. Let me think.' This took a few moments of foot-tapping as he stared to the right. ‘Okay, I do remember her saying something about him. His name was…Travis. Let's see…yeah, Travis McGee. Name seemed familiar to me – that's how come I remembered.' Joe's eyes flashed at Deborah. Clearly he, too, recognized the name of John D. MacDonald's famous private detective. ‘Come to think of it, you look kind of familiar,' Dale said to Joe. ‘Do I know you?'

‘You've made deliveries to the Prosecutor's office where I work,' Joe answered, handing him back the clipboard.

‘Hey, that's it! You don't look like a lawyer, though.'

‘I'm not. Listen, Dale, could your girlfriend give us any more information about this Travis McGee?'

‘Does this involve a big case?' Dale asked excitedly.

‘Maybe. I can't be sure until I get a description of the man who sent the package.'

‘Well, my girlfriend notices guys' looks. That bothers me, but maybe she could help you.'

‘But she didn't tell
you
what the man looked like?'

‘No, but if it's so important, you could call her later. Her name's Marcy. I got my own listing in the Yellow Pages. Dale Sampson Deliveries. Got a little corner store. My dad financed it. I live upstairs. Marcy lives with me and she'd be glad to tell you anything she knows.'

He smiled ingratiatingly but made no move for the door. Joe reached into his pocket and withdrew a five-dollar bill. ‘Thanks for going to all the trouble of delivering this so late, Dale. And I will call your girlfriend later. You won't mind, will you?'

‘Shoot, no. You're way too old for her.'

In spite of the situation, Deborah smothered a smile at the boy's innocently egregious remark, but Joe didn't seem insulted. ‘Yeah, I'm probably old enough to be her father. Thanks, son. Better get back in your car out of this cold.'

When Dale had gone, Joe turned to Deborah. ‘This is no ordinary Christmas gift. Do you have some rubber gloves?'

‘Gloves?'

‘I don't know how many people have handled this package, but I'd bet it's no more than Dale, Marcy, me, and the sender. It looks perfect – no frayed corners, bow not mashed. I might be able to get some physical evidence from it.'

‘I see. I have gloves in the kitchen.'

Joe stood in the hall while she went into the kitchen, picked up her rubber gloves from the cabinet under the sink, and rinsed them off. Then she remembered she'd bought a new set just a couple of weeks ago. She rummaged through the cabinet and found them, still in their plastic wrapper. She carried them into the hall. ‘Brand new.'

‘Great. I think they're too small for me. You put them on and open the package.'

‘You're just afraid this really
is
a bomb,' Deborah said, trying for lightness while her hands shook.

‘I'll stand outside while you open it.'

‘Very funny. You stay where you are. I refuse to be blown up by myself.'

Once she'd stuffed her cold hands inside the gloves, she picked up the box from the hall table. It was wrapped in silver paper decorated with green and red wreaths. The bow was red, large, and had obviously been bought at the store, not tied by hand.

‘Open it very carefully, touching as little as possible.'

‘I always open packages that way. My mother was a fanatic about saving Christmas paper. I was never allowed to just tear into a gift.'

She ran a hand under one of the flaps on the end and gently loosened the tape. Peering inside, she saw a brown cardboard box. She slipped her hand into the tunnel of loosened paper and managed to slip out the box without tearing the wrapping.

‘Good job,' Joe said quietly. He peered at the box, which read, ‘Kitcheneer. Combination Meat Grinder and Food Chopper'.

‘This can't be a meat grinder.' Deborah's voice quavered. The words conjured up a terrible image.

‘I don't think it's a meat grinder,' Joe said reassuringly. ‘Open the top.'

Being as careful as she had been before, Deborah slowly peeled back the tape that held the lid closed. When she opened the box, she saw styrofoam chips. She looked at Joe. ‘It must be something fragile. Do I just dig through this packing?'

‘Yeah. Go ahead.'

Deborah plunged her hands through the chips until her fingers came into contact with something hard. She pulled it up and gazed at a box made of cherry wood with ornate carvings around the sides. A small gold clasp held the lid. Slowly, she turned the clasp and lifted the lid. Musical notes tinkled through the hall.

‘It's a music box.'

‘And a pretty nice one,' Joe said. ‘What's it playing?'

Deborah frowned. ‘I know it. It's an old song.'

‘I know it, too, but I can't quite get it.'

‘Something about a glow…oh hell, why can't I remember?'

‘Close your eyes and concentrate a minute.'

Deborah did as Joe directed. They both stood very still, eyes closed, Deborah holding the beautiful music box in her yellow-gloved hands. They listened for at least thirty seconds and Deborah was on the verge of saying, ‘I can't remember,' when abruptly a scene popped into her head. Fred Astaire. Fred Astaire singing to Ginger Rogers, whose hair was full of shampoo. ‘ “The Way You Look Tonight!” ' she said triumphantly.

‘That's it!' Joe beamed. ‘How does it go?'

‘I can't remember all the words. Snatches. “Someday, when I'm low…a glow.” Oh, wait a minute. I think I'm getting it.' She closed her eyes again and the words floated out of her mouth, words that seemed to come from nowhere. ‘ “Someday, when I'm awfully low/When…the world is…cold/I will feel a glow…just thinking of you/And the way you look tonight.” '

‘Great!' Joe congratulated her.

Deborah smiled for a moment, then grew serious. ‘Joe, the man who called me the other night said, “I love the way you look tonight.” What does it mean? Why would someone anonymously send me a music box that plays this song?'

Joe was peering into the cardboard box. ‘It may not be an anonymous gift. There's an envelope inside.'

Deborah set down the music box and looked in the box. In the bottom lay a red envelope. She picked it up. It was not sealed although a card was tucked inside. She pulled out the card, on whose glossy cover was a beautiful Christmas tree. Inside, the card simply read, ‘Season's Greetings'. There was no signature, but a note on cheap white paper dropped to the table. Deborah picked it up. Joe looked over her shoulder so she didn't have to read the typewritten words that turned her cold all over:

‘Is “The Way You Look Tonight” your favorite song?' Joe asked quietly.

‘No. My favorite song is “Greensleeves”.'

‘Did Steve know that?'

Deborah felt as if she could hardly get her breath. ‘I'm not sure. I may have mentioned it, but I don't know that he'd remember.'

‘Was “The Way You Look Tonight” Steve's favorite song?'

‘I don't think he had a favorite song. He never paid much attention to music.' She paused. ‘At least, not that I know of. But then I don't seem to know much about my own husband.'

‘Do you like the Travis McGee series?'

‘Very much.'

‘Did Steve know
that
?'

‘I don't know,' she said miserably. ‘When he read, it was mostly history. He never asked what I was reading.'

‘Well, Artie Lieber certainly couldn't know you liked MacDonald's work.'

‘No…'

Joe looked at her sharply. ‘What is it?'

‘Only that I have several boxes full of books in the storeroom upstairs. The whole Travis McGee series is in those boxes. Whoever was in that room could have looked through the books. Oh Joe, I'm scared.'

‘You're supposed to be. And the damned thing is, I don't think we're going to find out much about this package. The note is typewritten and I'd bet my last dollar whoever sent it wore gloves when he handled it.'

‘But the sender
couldn't
be Steve.' Her words emerged almost as a wail and she swallowed, regaining control. ‘I mean,
why
? Why would Steve, or Artie Lieber for that matter, send me a music box and a note that doesn't make any sense?'

Joe looked reflectively at the box. ‘I think the note does make sense,' he said slowly. ‘I think this song has some significance, not for you but for the person who sent it.'

‘Such as?'

‘Could be anything. Something so obscure we'd never understand it.'

‘Then what would be the point of sending it to me if I'd never understand it?'

Joe's right hand tightened into a fist, then relaxed. She'd begun to recognize this as a sign that he was thinking deeply. ‘You're right. Why send you something you couldn't understand? The message has to be more obvious.' His forehead wrinkled. ‘ “The Way You Look
Tonight
.” '

Deborah glanced down at her red blouse and black slacks. ‘I'm semi-dressed-up tonight, but I wasn't the other night when he called. I was in an old robe.'

‘Now wait. Let's try this. “The Way You
Look
Tonight.” ' Deborah stared at him questioningly. ‘Maybe the emphasis isn't on transitory appearance depending on what you're wearing, but on your physical appearance. Your build, your features.
That
could be the significance.'

‘What about appearance? I don't understand.'

Joe's eyes went from wondering to consternation. ‘Oh, hell, I'm afraid I do.' He rushed into the living room again and came back with a notebook. ‘After the FBI visited Steve a few days ago, I made a list of The Dark Alley Strangler's victims and their descriptions.'

‘What for?'

‘Like everyone else, I've followed the killer's activities, but not in detail. When Steve told me the FBI suspected him and he asked for my help, I decided to study The Dark Alley Strangler as if I were a homicide detective working the case.'

‘How did you get your information?'

‘I still have contacts,' Joe said abstractedly. ‘Now, I want you to hear the list so you'll understand where I'm headed with this line of reasoning, okay?' Deborah nodded. ‘Here goes. Victim number one was killed in August 1991. Mandy Lambert of Waynesburg, Pennsylvania. Age twenty-two. Bank teller. Five foot eight, one hundred and thirty-two pounds, long dark brown hair, blue eyes. Victim number two was murdered in February 1992. Jane Kawalski of Bellaire, Ohio. Housewife. She was twenty-nine, five foot seven, one hundred and thirty pounds, long black hair, brown eyes. Next came a grocery-store manager, Margaret Snyder, in June 1992. Margaret lived in Washington, Pennsylvania. She was twenty-three, five foot nine, one hundred and thirty-six pounds, and had long dark brown hair and green eyes. October 1992, our guy killed Patricia Latta, twenty-four, of Cambridge, Ohio. She was a waitress with long, dyed black hair and gray eyes. She was five foot seven, one hundred and twenty-eight pounds. In August 1993, the victim was Karen Macy of Zanesville, Ohio. She was a student at Ohio State University home on summer break. She was twenty, five foot seven, one hundred and twenty-five pounds, with long dark brown hair and brown eyes. October 1993, Leona Chesbro of Bethel Park, Pennsylvania, was murdered. She was an aerobics instructor, five foot ten, twenty-nine years old, one hundred and thirty pounds, with long brown hair and blue eyes. Victim seven was Sally Yates, twenty-one, of Wheeling. She was a nurse. Height five foot seven, weight one hundred and twenty-five pounds, and she had long black hair and green eyes. Sally's still alive, although she's in a coma and not expected to live. Last victim was Toni Lee Morris, housewife, five foot eight, one hundred and thirty pounds, long dark brown hair and blue eyes.' He looked at Deborah. ‘So what do they all have in common?'

‘Long hair.'

‘Long
dark
hair, above average height, slenderness.'

Deborah's eyes instinctively flew to the mirror over the hall table. ‘I have long dark hair.'

‘Height and weight?'

‘I'm five foot eight. My weight fluctuates between one hundred and twenty-five and one hundred and thirty.'

‘And you're in your twenties.'

‘I'm twenty-eight.' Deborah swallowed. ‘So you're saying the killer picks his victims on the basis of their looks and age?'

Joe looked at her steadily. ‘Also the fact that they're married. And Deborah, you fit the profile perfectly.'

One

Deborah stood staring at Joe for what seemed an age. Sound roared in her ears and she experienced a feeling of unreality. Finally she managed to say in a rough voice that didn't sound like her own, ‘Joe, this has to be a coincidence.'

‘That's what you said about the woman who spotted Steve's license plate.'

‘You're saying you think Steve
is
this killer and I'm a potential victim?'

Joe looked at her gravely. ‘I
do
believe you're a potential victim.'

‘But what about Steve?'

‘That part gives me a lot of trouble.'

Deborah hesitated. ‘Why?'

He put a comforting hand on her arm and smiled. ‘Come sit beside me on the couch and I'll tell you.'

He led the way and Deborah followed, almost blindly. At this moment she wanted someone to take control, to tell her everything was going to be all right.

She didn't so much as sit on the couch as collapse on it. Joe sat nearly a foot away.

‘I'm not basing my point of view on my personal feelings about Steve,' he started slowly. ‘Impressions can be wrong. I'm looking at the facts. I don't know exactly what's going on. I do think you're being targeted, and that scares the hell out of me. But targeted by Steve, the man you've lived with for seven years? It doesn't make sense. If he was this person, the Strangler, why would he wait until now to come after you? What's changed about you? Nothing. Besides, he has to know you're under surveillance. You're not wandering around by yourself, hanging out in bars. Besides, the FBI theory is that he staged his own death because the net was closing in on him, so why would he surface again
here
, in Charleston, only days after this elaborate disappearance, to terrorize his own wife? That's not the best way to make it look like he's dead at the hands of some ex-con.'

Deborah thought. ‘No, it wouldn't be the wisest thing for a
rational
man to do, but the Strangler isn't rational.'

‘Isn't he? Maybe his reasoning isn't the same as ours, but he has a very strong sense of reason all his
own
. These people always do. And he's wily as hell. Now does this stunt with the music box seem like the act of a frighteningly calculating man, a man cautious and smart enough to elude the police for all these years?'

‘Then you think it's a prank?'

‘Maybe. But that doesn't feel right, either. I think whoever sent you that music box is dangerous and has an agenda all his own, one that would seem crazy to us but makes perfect sense to him.'

‘This is getting too convoluted for me,' Deborah said stubbornly. ‘I don't understand all this FBI behavioral scientist bull.'

‘Oh yes you do, or you wouldn't have even known I was talking “FBI behavioral scientist bull” as you put it.'

‘I watch television.'

Joe grinned. ‘Deborah, come off it. Don't hide behind ignorance because you're scared. We're talking about the workings of a man with sick but incredibly convoluted logic.'

Deborah's eyes dropped. ‘The mind of the Strangler,' she said hollowly. She raised her eyes. ‘Which may be the mind of my own husband.'

Two

Deborah slept uneasily that night. Twice she tiptoed in to check on the children, and once she realized she had been standing at her bedroom window peering through the mini-blinds for twenty minutes. The night was cold and clear. A stiff breeze had risen earlier in the evening and the evergreen branches moved restlessly against a star-strewn sky. Deborah thought of the birds that had probably taken refuge from the cold in their thick, feathery limbs. ‘These trees are better than birdhouses,' Steve had told the children last summer when he was cutting them in a way necessary to prevent malformation after they'd been trimmed into the conical Christmas-tree shape. ‘The birds stay warm and safe in these branches, even if it snows.' Would a man who showed such concern for plants and animals – even birds – beat, rape, and strangle all those young women? It seemed hard to believe – no, impossible to believe. The FBI had totally missed the mark on this one. Her husband was missing and probably dead. But had he been a killer in life? Absolutely not.

Still, she couldn't stop thinking about the Strangler's victims. Emily flashed into Deborah's mind, Emily with her long dark brown hair and slender frame. Was she tall? Deborah had only seen her seated. But she
was
married.

She also thought of all the things Steve had left unsaid. Why hadn't he told
her
Emily was secretly married and he'd heedlessly gone in search of the husband when Emily was attacked? Was it because he knew Deborah had never heard the rumors about him being Emily's attacker and he therefore wasn't on the defensive? And what about the music box? The note had read, ‘My dear wife'. True, anyone could have written that salutation. But what about the description Dale Sampson's girlfriend Marcy had given of the sender? Around six feet tall, early thirties, slender, brown-haired, and wearing dark-tinted glasses. That could be Steve. It could also be a thousand other men in the city.

However, there was the raid on the savings account. What was the explanation for Steve withdrawing six thousand dollars the day before he disappeared? Was it for an elaborate Christmas gift? No. Steve leaned toward the practical, not the extravagant. He would never have spent such a sum on a gift, especially at the cost of wiping out their savings account.

Nervous and unbearably frustrated from the unending turmoil of her thoughts, Deborah's craving for a cigarette returned. I'm too weak to resist right now, she thought, going to her bedside table where two aged Salems rested in a crumpled pack. She lit one, inhaled deeply, and felt her stomach lurch. The cigarette tasted like burned rags. She tried two more puffs and when her mouth began watering dangerously, she stubbed out the cigarette. Everyone told her that after a long hiatus from smoking, the first cigarette tasted awful, but she thought they'd been exaggerating. They weren't.

Her eyes filled with tears. Damn it, on top of everything else was she to be denied the simple comfort of a cigarette? She went into the bathroom and looked at her reddened eyes, knowing she was acting as childishly and petulantly as Kim and Brian did sometimes. ‘Pull yourself together,' she said sternly into the mirror. ‘Everything is out of control, but you can't let yourself go, too. You have to stay strong for the children.'

She sniffled into a tissue, guiltily took a sip of Pepto Bismol directly from the bottle (how many times had she told the children what a nasty habit
that
was?), then brushed her teeth vigorously.

She walked back into the bedroom, her mouth tasting pleasantly like peppermint. The house seemed so quiet. Earlier she'd heard the television downstairs, but Joe must have turned it off and gone to sleep on the couch. Otherwise she would have gone down for some company. Unhappily, she climbed back into bed and pulled up the comforter. In spite of the warmth, she shivered. What had her mother always said when a person inexplicably shivered? She announced in a sepulchral voice that someone was walking on your grave. ‘Well, that's ridiculous,' Deborah said aloud. ‘No one can be walking on my grave if I'm not in it.' She shivered again. ‘If I'm not in it
yet…
'

Three

A figure stood in the shadows, beckoning. Deborah strained to see through the dark. She took a step forward. Something jabbed her on the shoulder. She tried to brush it away, but the jabbing continued. She moaned, then slowly became aware of someone saying, ‘Mommy?'

She opened her eyes. Brian stood beside the bed, steadily tapping her on the shoulder. ‘Mommy, get
up
.'

‘What's wrong?' Deborah cried, immediately alert.

‘Kim and Scarlett are gone.'

She jerked up from the pillow. ‘Gone? What do you mean, gone?'

Brian looked bewildered and a little frightened. ‘They're gone, Mommy, and it's still dark out.'

Deborah glanced at the clock: 3.30. She flung back the covers, her heart pounding. ‘Kim must be downstairs,' she said, struggling to sound calm in spite of her fear.

‘Nope. I already looked.'

‘You looked
everywhere
?'

‘Yeah. She's not here.'

‘Where's Joe?'

‘Sleepin' on the couch.'

Deborah grabbed her robe. ‘Did you wake him?'

‘Nope.'

No, he wouldn't, Deborah thought. Brian was still a young child, and in times of trouble he would instinctively run for a parent. ‘Did you check the storeroom?'

Brian shook his head. ‘Kim wouldn't go in there. She's scared of the dead boy's ghost.'

Deborah rushed down the hall and flung open the door of the dusty storeroom. Cold air hit her in the face. She flipped the switch and the naked bulb sprang to life. Her eyes shot around the room. ‘Kimberly, are you in here?' Silence. Nothing except boxes and big footprints made by the policemen and Joe. There was no sign of a little blonde-haired girl. Still, Deborah circled the room, looking in every corner and behind every box.

‘Mommy, I told you she wouldn't come in here,' Brian persisted.

‘Yes, all right,' Deborah said distractedly. She turned off the light and, without closing the door, hurried to the guest room. It, too, was empty.

Downstairs she shook Joe awake. He looked at her groggily and mumbled, ‘Go ‘way.'

‘Joe, wake
up
,' Deborah said breathlessly. ‘Kim is missing.'

‘And Scarlett,' Brian added.

Comprehension slowly dawned in Joe's eyes. He threw off his blanket. He was wearing a tee-shirt and gray sweat pants. Deborah had never seen him in anything except jeans. ‘Kim's gone? She can't be. She has to be in the house somewhere.'

‘Kim? Scarlett?' Brian yelled. He puckered his lips and made a futile attempt to whistle. ‘Here, Scarlett! Here, girl!'

The three of them were still for a moment, but there was no response. ‘Where could she be?' Joe asked.

Deborah's mouth worked but nothing came out. All she could think about was the man who'd tried to lure Kim away from the school.

‘Damn it, I'm usually a light sleeper,' Joe fumed, breaking the silence. ‘I guess I've lost too much sleep lately and it caught up with me. I can't believe Kim went out the front door and I didn't hear her, though.'

‘I already checked it,' Deborah said. ‘The dead-bolt is secured. You can't secure the dead-bolt from the outside without a key, and Kim doesn't have a key.'

Joe was pulling his boots on to bare feet. ‘Deborah, you search all the downstairs rooms. I'll look in the back yard.'

The house was not large. ‘All the downstairs rooms' consisted of the living room, dining room, Steve's study, and the kitchen. They were empty. Frantic, Deborah ran to the back door. ‘Any luck?' she called to Joe, who was circling the evergreens with a flashlight.

‘Not a trace,' he called back.

‘Damn,' Deborah muttered. She started out the door to join him when a terrible thought hit her. For a moment her muscles locked in a paralysis of fear. ‘Oh, God, no,' she whispered.

‘What is it, Mommy?' Brian asked.

She didn't answer. She pushed past him, flying to the door leading to the garage. Once again she'd forgotten to put on slippers, and the cold concrete floor sent chills up her legs.

‘Please,
please
God, let me be wrong,' she muttered desperately, reaching the big freezer in which she'd found Brian's toy fire truck the night before Steve disappeared, the freezer for which she'd forgotten to buy a padlock. ‘Please don't let her be here.'

With trembling hands and closed eyes, she pulled on the handle and slowly lifted the lid. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes.

Her scream tore through the frigid quiet of the garage.