Текст книги "Dead Giveaway"
Автор книги: Joanne Fluke
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 20 страниц)
“That’s quite a sight, Rachael. You look like a drunken windmill.”
Rachael turned to look at him, an action that turned out to be her undoing. Her feet got tangled and she would have fallen if Clayton hadn’t wrapped his arms around her waist.
“Not fair, Clay,” she protested. “I almost had it before you scared me.”
“Sorry, Rachael.” Clayton looked concerned. “I thought it was advisable to lend a hand before you fell flat on your face.”
Rachael smiled up at him. After six months as his mistress, the sight of him still made her a little breathless, although Clayton wasn’t really a handsome man. Of moderate height and weight, he had hazel eyes set just a little too close together and he tended to squint when he wasn’t wearing his glasses. His light brown hair was streaked with silver at the temples and rather than lend him a distinguished air, it only served to emphasize the lines in his face. Clayton was far from the Adonis that Rachael had pictured in her dreams, but there was something about him, something she couldn’t identify, that made her knees turn weak every time she thought of making love with him.
Rachael pressed her body back against his and wiggled a little, knowing precisely what effect it would have. “You shouldn’t make fun of me, Clay. My teacher says that Tai Chi will help me get in touch with my body.”
“I wasn’t aware you had a problem in that area.” Clayton’s voice took on the slightly husky tone that Rachael had come to recognize. She loosened the belt on her uniform and guided his hand to her breast. When she’d first come to work in his law firm, he’d been all business. It had taken a full three months before he’d noticed that his new junior lawyer was also an attractive woman.
Clayton gulped as her fingers found the zipper of his pants. “Are you through with your karate for today?”
“It’s Tai Chi, not karate, and I’ve done all I’m going to do for now. Just let me slip out of this and we can test what I learned about agility and balance.”
Clayton’s breath caught in his throat as Rachael shrugged out of her pajama-like outfit. Barely over five feet tall, her body was compact and utterly feminine. Her skin was darker than his even though she never used the tanning booth up at the spa, a phenomenon she’d attributed to her mixed-blood ancestry. Her father had been a mulatto laborer, and her mother an underaged daughter of a Spanish diplomat. Rachael had been given up for adoption the night of her birth, and the identity of Rachael’s birth parents had been kept in strict confidence by the adoption agency. It was one of the reasons Rachael had decided to become a lawyer. Her first court appearance had been on her own behalf and the judge had granted her access to the adoption records.
“Come on, Rachael.” Clayton reached out to grab her hands. “Let’s go back to bed.”
“What’s wrong with right here? The rug’s nice and soft.”
“But, Rachael . . . I don’t think I could be entirely comfortable here.”
Rachael saw the lines of distress deepen in his face. It was definitely time to exorcise some ghosts.
“Don’t be silly, Clay. I promise to do something that’ll take your mind off everything except me.”
She put her lips to his ear and whispered exactly what she planned to do. Clayton’s face turned red and he grinned self-consciously. “That sounds wonderful, but shouldn’t we close the drapes first?”
“On the fifth floor?” Rachael laughed. “Come on, Clay, loosen up.”
Clayton hesitated. Then Rachael’s fingers reached their goal and his reticence vanished completely.
Twenty Minutes before 10:57 AM
Jack St. James took the breakfast tray from the nurse and set it back down on the counter. “Never mind, Miss Woodard. I’ll take her tray in this morning.”
He didn’t miss the nurse’s frown as he filled a silver carafe with coffee and set it on the tray. The doctor had limited Betty’s caffeine intake, but she loved coffee and it certainly couldn’t do her much harm at this stage. She had so few pleasures left that it seemed cruel to deprive her of her morning coffee.
“Is that decaffeinated, Mr. St. James?”
“No.” Jack straightened up to his full five and a half feet and neatly faced down Betty’s nurse. This was quite a feat since Margaret Woodard was almost six feet tall and outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. A small man, slightly though powerfully built, Jack had learned the trick of intimidation early in life. All it took was an authoritative tone and an unwavering gaze.
“Since you’re taking the tray, I’ll come in to bathe her later.”
He gave a smile of satisfaction as Margaret turned on her heel and headed back to her bedroom. It was nice to know he hadn’t lost his touch, not that the skill of facing people down was needed very often at Deer Creek Condos. It had come in handy when the telephone installer had claimed it wasn’t possible to run an extension of everyone’s line to a console up at the spa. And it had worked admirably the few times that cars filled with teenagers from Vegas had turned into their driveway to drink beer and enjoy the private view.
Jack reached for the jar of honey butter and put it next to the croissants on the tray. Margaret claimed that Betty should watch her cholesterol, even though the doctor hadn’t mentioned it. Since Margaret was on a low-fat diet, Jack suspected she just didn’t want to cook two menus. Betty ate little enough as it was and Jack wanted her to enjoy her food. It was one of the reasons he came up to Betty’s unit for breakfast every morning. It was no fun eating alone and he’d noticed that Betty’s appetite increased when she had visitors. She seemed to enjoy the time he spent with her and Jack enjoyed it, too. Unlike the other women he knew, Betty didn’t make any demands on him, and, even more important, he could tell her all about his job as security chief without worrying that his confidences would be repeated.
A couple of months ago, Jack had run a cable from the closed-circuit monitors in his security office to Betty’s bedroom television set so he could keep his eye on the building while he was visiting her. He hadn’t told anyone about the extra cable, and now he was glad he hadn’t, since Betty often watched what the other tenants were doing even when he wasn’t with her. Jack supposed it was an invasion of privacy, but he didn’t see how it could possibly do any harm. He’d told Betty that the closed-circuit channels were secret; she shouldn’t watch them when anyone else was there. And since Betty thought the glimpses she got into the other tenants’ lives were movies, no one would be the wiser if she talked about them.
Jack smoothed his close-cropped sandy hair and pinned on the name tag he’d ordered a month ago. It was white plastic and it said “JACK” in large black letters. Betty knew him, but she had trouble remembering his name. Whenever that happened, she cried in frustration. His name tag solved the problem.
He carried the tray into Betty’s room, shutting the door behind him. The big master bedroom had been especially designed to meet Betty’s needs. There was a huge television set on the wall opposite the bed and a rack of DVDs was within Betty’s reach. The DVD player/recorder sat on the bedside table so Betty could record or watch any movie she wished and a built-in bookcase next to the bed was filled with Betty’s favorite things.
In bits and pieces over the past two years, Jack had acquired the stories behind Betty’s mementos. There was a collection of shells she’d gathered in the Bahamas, several pieces of ebony sculpture she’d brought back from Africa, a hand-thrown clay pot she’d fallen in love with in Guatemala and a Royal Dalton tea service she’d shipped back from England. Clearly, Betty had come from a wealthy family, but Margaret had told him that she’d been hired by the law firm that paid her salary. She knew nothing personal about Betty; only the medical history in the doctor’s report. No one in the building had any additional information, not even Marc, who’d purchased the land on Deer Creek Road from the lawyers who handled Betty’s trust.
Ten years younger than Jack, Betty was thirty-four. That meant her parents would be in their fifties or sixties if they were living. Since Betty had no visitors in addition to the residents of the building and received no mail, Jack assumed she had no living relatives.
By nature curious, Jack had gone straight to the source. Betty’s life was an unsolved puzzle and Jack hated loose ends. All she could tell him was that she had no family. Of course it didn’t really matter, now that everyone in the building had adopted her as one of their own.
Betty was sitting up in bed, watching television. She was dressed in the green silk kimono that Clayton and Rachael had brought her from Japan and her light brown hair was tied back with a matching ribbon. She looked lovely and completely normal. There were no physical signs of the debilitating disease.
Jack set the tray on the table by the bed and leaned over to kiss her. Her cheek was a little too warm and he made a mental note to ask the nurse to check her temperature. “You look pretty this morning, Betty.”
“Thank you.” Glancing at his name tag, Betty flashed a big smile. “Happy to see you, Jack.”
“I’m happy to see you, too. What are you watching?”
“Answers.” Betty nodded. “I’m watching answers, Jack.”
For a moment Jack was puzzled. Then he noticed that the television was turned to a quiz show. Questions and answers. Everything Betty said made sense if he thought about it from her point of view.
“Drink?” Betty looked hopeful as he poured two cups of coffee from the silver carafe. “Brown is better than green.”
Jack grinned. “I know it is, Betty. And this is coffee. Real coffee, not that awful herbal tea.”
Betty nodded and took a sip. Then she drained her cup and held it out for more. “Caffeine is contraindicated in cases of hypertension.”
“What was that?” Jack stared at her in shock.
“I . . . I forget.” Betty looked confused. “Shotgunning again, Jack.”
Jack nodded. He knew exactly what Betty meant. Sometimes her words came out all in a rush, like the pellets in a shotgun shell. At those times she was amazingly fluent. On other occasions, when she reflected first, the words got short-circuited somehow.
“Go out today, Jack? Or is it ice?”
“It’s cold today, Betty, but maybe tomorrow.” Jack caught the disappointment on her face and quickly changed the subject. “Look at this. Croissants and honey butter. Shall I fix one for you?”
“No, please.” Betty nodded and Jack began to butter the flaky pastry. At first he’d been thoroughly disconcerted when Betty said no and nodded yes. Then he’d realized that her body language was much more accurate than her words.
Betty took the croissant he offered and nibbled at it daintily. “Will the cowgirl come?”
Jack nodded. Jayne dropped by every morning. He’d have to call her and tell her to wear a name tag.
“She comes after breakfast, Jack?”
“That’s right. Jayne’ll be here after breakfast.”
“Jayne.” Betty repeated the name. “My in-between name is Jayne.”
“Your middle name is Jayne? I didn’t know that.” Jack smiled at her. The doctor’s report had listed her name as Betty Matteo with no middle name. Another piece of the puzzle.
“Call me B. J. The J for Jayne and the B for . . . what’s my front name, Jack?”
“It’s Betty.” Jack turned away slightly to hide the moisture in his eyes. At times like this, he almost wished he wouldn’t be around when Betty’s illness took its unrelenting course and all the name tags in the world wouldn’t help.
Fifteen Minutes before 10:57 AM
Marc Davies rolled out of bed, pulled on a red silk dressing gown with an elaborate MD embroidered over the pocket and hurried to open the blackout drapes that enabled him to sleep late after a night on the town. The wind was whipping up gusts of snow that rattled against the pane, creating the snare drum sound that had roused him after only three hours of sleep.
As he surveyed the scene, a smile replaced the frown on Marc’s face. He ran his fingers through his curly dark hair and sighed in satisfaction. The sky was a mottled gunmetal gray and the wind was rising fast. Foul weather on the mountain was a great excuse to stay home most of the day.
Marc took time to pull on a pair of fur-lined slippers before punching out his office number on the bedroom phone. Waiting for his secretary to answer, he grabbed the aspirin bottle on the table by the bed and swallowed three.
“It’s me, Tam. Cancel my noon meeting, will you? Tell Nicholson I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped. There’s a winter storm warning and I’m stuck up here on the mountain.”
Marc grinned as Tammy asked the predictable question. “Hell, no. I’ll be in later this afternoon. One other thing, call the electrician and ask if he finished those junction boxes at the Sandhill development. I need them in today.”
Marc was halfway across the room before he remembered. He picked up the phone again and pressed the redial button. “Tam? If I don’t get in before you leave, meet me at the Golden Steer at seven. I want you to soften up a prospective buyer for Johnny Day’s unit. Name’s Roy Perkins.”
Just as soon as he’d hung up, Marc turned on his answer phone, started the coffee, and headed for the shower. He still felt a little groggy from lack of sleep, and last night had been a disaster. He’d entertained Sam Webber, the man who owned the land he needed for his next housing development, flying him in from Dallas first-class and picking him up at the airport in a limo. The little man in the ridiculous ten-gallon hat had seemed to enjoy himself during the dinner, but when Marc offered the services of a genuine showgirl for the rest of the evening, Sam had been less than interested. He told Marc he’d ordered a book on blackjack from a television ad, and he really wanted to try out its “sure-fire” system.
Marc had paid off the showgirl and sent her home in a cab. Whatever the pint-size Texan wanted was fine with him. So they’d started at one end of the strip and worked their way to the other, Marc watching while Sam swilled cheap booze, played impossible hunches, and hopped from table to table in casino after casino. The little Texan had been up five hundred dollars when they’d left for the airport at seven in the morning, despite the fact that he’d done everything wrong. As Sam had gone up the ramp to board, he’d thanked Marc effusively for the night on the town. He’d said that it was the best fun he’d had in years and he was real sorry, but he’d changed his mind about selling his land. He’d decided to hang on to it for a while, to see if it would go up in value.
Marc stepped into the giant shower stall and sighed as the hot water chased away the stiffness in his shoulders. Watching someone gamble was hard work. You sat or stood in one place for hours and the tension was just as bad as it would be in any high-powered business deal. And even though he’d managed to slip Sam enough chips to make him think he’d won, Marc had ended up with nothing but a giant headache.
He studied his image in the steamy mirror as he toweled dry. Pretty good for a guy approaching his fortieth birthday, lean and tall with what Tammy called devil eyes. They were a shade between dark green and blue, and his black eyebrows almost met in the center.
Marc tossed the towel in the hamper and dressed in a dark green velvet monogrammed sweatsuit. All his clothes were designer originals, carefully crafted to complement his dark complexion and accentuate his height. Several women had compared him to the tall, dark stranger who lived in their fantasies and he encouraged that image by living the life of a freewheeling bachelor. He enjoyed women, lots of them, as frequently as he could manage, but none had managed to lure him into one of Vegas’s sixteen deluxe wedding chapels.
He went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee, black and strong. On his way out the door, he grabbed a couple of raspberry Danish from the bag on the counter and headed for his game room.
Marc flicked the wall switch and grinned as his pinball machines came to life. Moira had carpeted the room in midnight blue; the walls and ceiling as well. With recessed lighting, it resembled a dark cavern. Each pinball machine was set back in its own alcove. There were twelve in all, enough variety so he’d never be bored.
He hesitated in front of “Haunted House.” It was a three-level wonder of mechanical precision, but it played a theme song. Paul Lindstrom had told him the piece was Toccata and Fugue in D minor by one of those composers that started with a B, Bach or Beethoven or Brahms, he could never remember which. It didn’t really matter who’d written it. It wasn’t the sort of music he wanted to hear first thing in the morning.
The second alcove contained a great little machine he’d played as a boy, and it was every bit as much fun now. “All-Star Baseball” took the player through a whole nine-inning game, with extra balls if you got over a five hundred average. It played “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” a melody that reminded him of hot dogs slathered with yellow mustard, and warm beer in waxed cups. Laureen swore that hot dogs prepared in a microwave tasted just like ballpark franks, but she was dead wrong. Nothing could compare with the real thing.
He hesitated for a moment and then moved on. All-Star Baseball brought back painful memories of his brief moment in the limelight. He could still hear the roar of the crowd when he’d nailed someone stealing second, feel the slaps on the back in the locker room when he’d pitched a no-hitter, relive his elation when he’d faced a power hitter with a full count and caught him looking. Even after almost twenty years, Marc still felt incomplete without a ball in one hand and a glove in the other. Most days he could handle it, but not after losing out on his land deal to a man like Sam Webber.
Marc pulled out a padded stool and sat down in front of “Front Line Invasion,” a war game. There were three sets of flippers and two balls, one from either side, that were put in play simultaneously. It took six hits to knock out the big cannons at the rear and four hits to take out a sniper. Every time a ball missed its target and hit the surrounding bumper, the player lost points. The first time Tammy had played, she’d ended up with a minus score; her whole army was dead, and she’d lost the war. When the machine had played “Taps” and the rows of caskets had lit up, Tammy had gotten so bent out of shape that he’d ended up spending the rest of the evening coddling her. Of course he’d known that her father had been killed in ’Nam, but he’d never expected her to get so emotional about a game.
There was a pile of slugs in a bowl on top of the machine and Marc dropped one in the coin slot. Then he pulled back the twin plungers to release two balls in tandem. There was no way he’d ever understand how today’s kids could be so fascinated by video games. With their synthesized voices and computerized graphics, they were about as boring as watching Saturday morning cartoons. Pinball machines were real. The player controlled the action completely and anything could happen. You could even cheat the odds a little by tilting the machine if you knew just how far to go. It was no wonder that kids today sat back and waited instead of getting out there and making their own luck.
Ten Minutes before 10:57 AM
Jayne Peters was doing her best to be cheerful, even though she’d been depressed ever since the divorce papers had been filed. Life just wasn’t the same without Paul and how could she even begin to start a new life when she was surrounded by so many traces of the old?
Paul had designed every piece of furniture in their apartment. There was the built-in kitchen booth in the sunniest corner overlooking the ravine. And the bed with separate, cleverly shaded lamps built into the bookshelf headboard so they wouldn’t keep each other awake with late-night reading. And the wall-mounted speakers in every room so she could listen to her favorite country-western music. And the rough pine paneling in her studio with cattle brands burned into the wood to give her the feel of a western ranch. And the huge wagon-wheel table he’d designed to hold her music. Perhaps she should have been the one to move out, but she hadn’t wanted to give up the fabulous sound studio.
Balancing a piece of toast on top of a cup of coffee, Jayne opened the studio door with the other hand and headed for her piano. Years of coffee rings marred the finish already, along with other stains she couldn’t begin to identify. Red wine perhaps, or the imported cocoa Paul had made for her when she had to work late to meet a deadline. Now that she was a successful songwriter, she ought to think about buying a nice new piano, but she liked the sound of the old, battered Kimball that had been in her family for forty-odd years. She’d written her first hit on that piano, a little piece of fluff called “Scattered Roses” that sold when she was still in high school.
The toast was cold and Jayne gave up on it after one bite. Always a compulsive eater, she’d lost her appetite right along with her husband, and now she existed predominantly on crackers and cheese. No time was required to fix crackers and cheese. She just got out the jar of Cheese Whiz and smeared it on a couple of saltines. It was true that she was a bit tired of eating the same thing, meal after meal, but she couldn’t bear the thought of preparing a gourmet meal and eating it alone.
She frowned as she thought of Paul. He’d stopped trying to work things out and she couldn’t blame him, since she’d been too stubborn to take his calls or even agree to see him. Now she was sorry she’d been so pigheaded, but it was too late to try to mend fences. Their divorce would be final in less than two months and her twelve years of being Mrs. Paul Lindstrom would be over.
Jayne blinked back tears as she picked out the melody of the song she was writing. It didn’t sound as good as it had last night, but she’d promised to have it finished by the end of the week. Barbie Rawlins needed time to rehearse before she recorded it.
Her notebook lay open on the piano bench, and Jayne frowned as she faced the blank page. The melody was easy, but lyrics were much tougher going. It was lucky that most country-western songs fell into two categories: love found or love lost. Since Barbie’s last song had been about losing a lover, this one should be about falling in love. It would be difficult to get into that mind-set since she was still grieving over losing her own lover.
Nothing was going right lately, including her work. The only good thing she’d written since Paul had left was a song about how much she missed him. Johnny Day had recorded it before leaving for Italy, but Paul would have no reason to tune in to a country-western station and no interest in a song by his soon-to-be ex. As hard as it would be, she had to face the fact that Paul was completely gone from her life.
Jayne got up to pace the floor. The words to the chorus were hovering somewhere just out of reach, something to do with a merry-go-round. “Buy me a ticket on the merry-go-round of love?” Jayne spoke the line aloud to check the meter. Too many syllables. What was another name for merry-go-round?
“Carousel! The carousel of love!” Jayne was so excited, she almost tripped in the headlong rush to get back to her notebook. “Carousel of Love” was a great song title. It would knock Barbie’s socks off.
Jayne scribbled furiously for a moment. She had to get it all down before she forgot it. Then she picked out the melody from a standing position and started to sing.
It’s the best ride in town and I wanna take it
And this time I promise I’m not gonna fake it
Mister, please buy me a ticket,
A ticket to the carousel of love.
She sang it once more to be absolutely sure, and then she started to work on the verses. The first three came easily, standard fare that she could write in her sleep, but the last one was tricky. Sometimes it helped to sing it all the way through, even though some words were missing.
It’s the best ride in town and I wanna take it
And this time I promise I’m not gonna fake it
Mister, please buy me a ticket,
A ticket to the carousel of love.
I’ll trade in all my lonely nights
The tears I cried when I turned out the lights
The smiles I smiled to try to hide
If that’ll buy me just one little ride.
Why am I standing down here on the ground
While the man I love rides around and around?
Mister, please buy me a ticket,
A ticket to the carousel of love.
I’ll swap my plans to that singular dream
A lady alone with her get-rich scheme
’Cause all I need is a blankety-blank
And a ride on the carousel of love.
Paul had been a genius for coming up with the perfect rhyme, but Paul was gone and if she started thinking about him, she’d never finish. Jayne picked up the telephone and punched out Ellen’s number. She wasn’t socializing much either since she’d broken off with Johnny. As the only women in the building who went to bed alone, they really ought to stick together.
Five Minutes before 10:57 AM
Ellen ran for the phone as it rang, hoping it was Walker. She still hadn’t located those mannequin arms. But it was Jayne.
“You got to help me, Ellen. I’m writing this song and I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place. What rhymes with love?”
Ellen grinned. Jayne was always asking for rhyming words. “How about above, or turtledove, or even shove.”
“Nope. This one’s for Barbie Rawlins and she pronounces love like the museum in Paris.”
Ellen frowned. “You mean the Louvre?”
“That’s it. So what rhymes?”
“I’m not sure.” Ellen thought for a moment. “How about groove.”
There was a slight pause while Jayne thought it over. “Close, but still not exactly right. Barbie’s from North Carolina and there’s no way I can match her accent. Maybe I should just ditch love and go with affection.”
Ellen chuckled. “That sounds like a good idea in more ways than one. A rhyme for affection would be easy. There’s direction, or protection, or . . .”
“Erection?” Jayne let out a whoop of laughter. “Thanks, but I think I’d better hang on with love. You want to take a break and beat me in a game of tennis?”
“Not right now, Jayne. I’m stuck filling an emergency order and Walker’s in town at the warehouse.”
Jayne took on a serious tone. “Come on, Ellen, honey. We haven’t played for a coon’s age, and I need something physical to take my mind off Paul. Besides, it’s not good for you to work all the time.”
“I know, but I’ve got a rush order. And . . .”
“You’ve got all day to fill it,” Jayne broke in before Ellen could think of another excuse. “I figured out that you’re avoiding Vanessa, but you’re going to have to face her sooner or later, living in the same building and all. You might as well take the bull by the horns.”
“Well . . . all right. Is eleven-thirty good for you?”
“It’s perfect. Keep thinking about what rhymes with love, will you?”
There was a thoughtful expression on Ellen’s face as she hung up. It was true that she’d been avoiding Vanessa ever since catching her with Johnny, but she hadn’t realized that anyone had noticed, especially since she’d been too embarrassed to tell anyone about that night. No one, not even Johnny himself, knew the real reason why she’d bought out his half of Vegas Dolls and hired Walker to take his place. Falling for Johnny had been a terrible mistake. He’d never promised her anything and she’d been a fool to assume that he felt the same way she did. At least she wouldn’t make that mistake again.
The phone rang again and Ellen grabbed it, but it was only a salesman peddling burial plots. Ellen told him she didn’t plan to die and slammed down the receiver. With all these distractions, she’d never get anything done. Ellen pulled out the drawer on her workbench to get a list of her suppliers. It was ten fifty-seven and Walker ought to be at the art supply store by now. She had just begun to dial the number when the phone went dead. Then she heard a noise like a freight train outside the window and the whole building started to shake.
Ellen screamed as the banks of fluorescent lights flickered and went out. There was no time to run and no place to go if there had been. Boxes of mannequin parts flew from the shelves and broke open to reveal the arms she’d been missing, but Ellen was too busy scrambling for cover to notice. Then her huge oak workbench began to tip and a crushing weight pushed her down.
