Tonight You're Mine

by Carlene Thompson

  She opened the front door without knocking and heard the chatter of voices from the living room. Before she got the door closed, Phyllis had come to greet her. She wore slim black slacks and a white silk blouse, every hair of her white French twist in place, a slender necklace of real pearls—the last Christmas gift from her husband—around her neck. The only signs of her grief were faint mauve shadows beneath her eyes.

  “Nicole, how nice to see you,” she said, aiming a kiss at Nicole’s cheek and just missing. This was the way her mother had always kissed her. “The No-Smear Kiss,” Nicole had come to call it, referring to Phyllis’s concern that her lipstick always look perfect. “I called earlier, but no one was home.”

  “Roger took Shelley to Sea World, and I took a drive.” That wasn’t really a lie, she told herself. She had driven. “I see you have company.”

  “Mildred Loomis is here.” She steered Nicole into the living room where a plump middle-aged woman with daffodil-yellow bleached hair, bright blue frosted eye shadow, and a vivid pink suit with red poppy appliqués on the jacket sat on the couch. “You remember Mrs. Loomis, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.” Now that was a lie, Nicole scolded herself, but the woman was beaming at her, obviously remembering her. “It’s been a long time, Mrs. Loomis.”

  “I’ll say it has,” the woman agreed. “And please call me Mildred. Why, honey, I haven’t seen you since you recited that poem you wrote to your mother’s reading circle.”

  No wonder Nicole hadn’t remembered her. She hadn’t seen her for nineteen years. Now she recalled that even all those years ago, she’d wondered why the woman looked so blowzy despite her husband’s wealth. Certainly all that money could have improved her hair and makeup, if not her weight. “Oh, that dreadful poem,” Nicole groaned.

  Mildred beamed again. “Why, I thought it was precious.” At the time, Nicole had thought it terribly profound. “It rhymed so nice,” Mildred continued. “I just hate poems that don’t rhyme. I don’t think they should even be called poems if they don’t rhyme, do you?”

  “Well—”

  Obviously Phyllis saw that Nicole was about to argue and cut her off. “Mildred and her husband just got back from New York last night. That’s why they didn’t come to your father’s funeral.”

  Mildred’s beaming face immediately fell into a mask of woe. “Oh, Nicole, I am so sorry. What an awful thing. I was just tellin’ my husband, Willard, this morning, ‘What an awful thing! What would make a man who has everything want to stick a gun in his mouth—’ ”

  “I suppose we’ll never know,” Phyllis interrupted sharply. “Nicole and I have decided not to speculate. It’s too upsetting.”

  Sufficiently quelled, Mildred lapsed into a nodding, doleful silence. Phyllis looked at Nicole. “Would you care for some tea?”

  Why did everyone keep offering her tea? she wondered. Especially her mother, who knew she couldn’t stand tea. “I think I’ll pass, Mom.”

  “I could make coffee. We have a delicious pound cake that Mildred brought.”

  “No, thank you.” She smiled at Mildred, who was slicing off a piece of the cake. Nicole was certain it wasn’t her first. “I’m really not hungry now, Mom, and since you have someone to keep you company for a while, I wonder if you’d mind if I went upstairs and looked for something in my old room.”

  Phyllis allowed herself a small frown. “Look for what?”

  “My school yearbooks.” Lie number three, she thought. A lot of good mass did this morning. “Shelley was interested in seeing what her mother looked like in high school.”

  “Pretty as a picture,” Mildred managed around a mouth half-full of pound cake. “I always told Willard you were the prettiest girl I ever saw. You’ve only improved with age.”

  “Thank you,” Nicole said.

  “Your mama tells me you’re gettin’ a divorce. Our boy W. J.’s divorced, too.” She pronounced W as dub ya. “He’s only a couple of years older than you and a fine figure of a man, if I do say so myself. Maybe you two could go out to dinner or to the movies or somethin’.”

  “That sounds very nice,” Nicole said woodenly, suddenly remembering W. J. Loomis as an oxlike creature whose claim to fame in high school was dropping water balloons out of second-floor windows on the heads of passing girls.

  “I could give him your phone number,” Mildred continued hopefully.

  “Well…”

  “You run on upstairs,” Phyllis said quickly, rescuing her. “Mildred and I are having a very nice conversation. We won’t even miss you, will we, Mildred?”

  Mildred, stuffing another piece of cake in her mouth, waved a puffy hand in dismissal. Phyllis gave Nicole an unexpected wink, and Nicole felt like hugging her. Her mother rarely came to her rescue.

  Nicole hurried up the stairs before Mildred could ask for her phone number. Nicole knew the woman couldn’t pry the number out of her mother, but that didn’t mean W. J. couldn’t get it from Directory Assistance. Maybe I should get an answering machine so I can screen calls, Nicole thought.

  Her bedroom looked almost as it had when she moved away fifteen years ago. The thick pale green carpet seemed like new. The ultramodern white lacquer furniture was spotless, just like the snowy white bedspread adorned with decorative pillows in mint, forest, and ivy-green. The heavy pale green draperies hung over snowy sheers. A large framed print of “Idle Hours” by J. Alden Weir graced one wall. The only ornaments on the dresser and chest of drawers were framed photos of a four-year-old grinning Nicole wearing a bunny outfit at a dance recital, and her formal high school graduation picture.

  She shut the door to her bedroom and went to the walk-in closet. One side was for clothes, the other lined with built-in shelves for books. Garment bags hung on a rod. Nicole knew they held Easter dresses and prom gowns from her youth.

  But she wasn’t interested in clothes. She turned to the shelves. Books stood rigidly in place, so many she’d read over and over as a teenager such as Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre. A few schoolbooks stood among the crowd. At the end of one shelf were her school yearbooks and two photo albums.

  Nicole gathered up the yearbooks and albums and placed them on the floor by her bed. Then she went back to the closet.

  When they had moved into the house, she’d been delighted to find a small cabinet built into the base of the shelves. She called it her hiding place, but it wasn’t safe enough for her really private things like her diary and valentines she received from boys, so when she was twelve, she bought a padlock. Phyllis had been outraged, and even Clifton had complained. “What kind of secrets could my baby girl have that even her daddy can’t know?”

  Nicole had ignored both of them, though, tucking away what she considered top secret property and keeping the key to the padlock with her at all times. Until she moved away seven months after the rape, that is. Then she’d left the contents of her hiding place and the padlock key behind. Now she picked up her graduation picture and slid the photo from behind the glass. On the cardboard backing was taped the short, thin key. She’d never liked the picture, but it had been good for something.

  Nicole untaped the key and rushed back to the closet. The lock was stiff and at first she thought she’d have to sneak back with lubricating oil, but at last the lock clicked open. The hinges creaked as she swung open the storage-cabinet door.

  Sitting on the floor, she withdrew five diaries. “All full of torrid secrets, no doubt,” she mumbled, noticing they only covered her years between twelve and seventeen.

  At the bottom of the cabinet was a photo album. This was what she’d been looking for, although it wasn’t a traditional album. Her hands trembled slightly as she pulled it from the cabinet. Her hands had also trembled when she’d put it together.

  She dusted it off and sat down on the bed. Are you sure you want to dredge all of this up? she wondered. No, but after what Kay told her, she must.

  She opened the cover. On the first page beneath a plastic protector was a
yellowed newspaper clipping. The headline blared, “Daughter of Local Businessman Assaulted in Basin Park.” The story went on to describe how Nicole Marie Sloan, nineteen, a sophomore at Trinity University, had been raped and brutally beaten by two men. A male passerby had scared off the men with a handgun. Sloan’s rescuer had not seen the men’s faces, but Sloan had identified her attackers. Their names were being withheld until arrests were made. Nicole Sloan was in serious but stable condition.

  Nicole took a deep breath and moved on to the next page. Here was the story of the arrest of Ritchie Zand, lead singer of the local rock band The Zanti Misfits, and one of the band’s roadies, Luis Magaro. Magaro, thirty-two, had a previous record of assault. Zand, twenty-three, had been arrested three years ago for statutory rape, but the charges were dropped. Magaro and Zand had been positively identified by Nicole Sloan.

  A light tap sounded at the door. Nicole jumped and almost dropped the album, knowing that if her mother saw it, she would jerk it from her hands and immediately destroy it. Instead, the door opened and Carmen stepped in. “What’s going on? Hiding from Mrs. Loomis?”

  Nicole let out her breath. “Partly.”

  Carmen’s curly dark hair framed her face. She wore jeans and a long-sleeved peach-colored shirt. Except for the weight she’d gained lately, she looked almost exactly the same as when they were teenagers. “When I couldn’t reach you at home, I figured you were here. I thought you might need a friend today.”

  “Thanks. I do.”

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Memories. Close the door and come on in.”

  Carmen joined her on the bed. Her smile disappeared when she saw the clippings in the scrapbook. “You kept all this stuff?”

  “Yes. The album’s been hidden in this room since I moved away. I’ve never taken it home because I didn’t want Shelley to find it.”

  “My God, Nicole. I had no idea. Why are you looking at it now?”

  “I’m not sure. I heard something today…” Carmen’s dark eyebrows rose and reluctantly Nicole began telling her Kay’s story, knowing Carmen would never repeat it.

  When she finished, Carmen looked at her quizzically. “Why would someone send your father a picture of Paul Dominic?”

  “I have no idea. But I know that he started acting strange when those damned letters began coming. And because of what he mumbled in his nightmares, I’m sure the letters had something to do with what happened to me.”

  Carmen tapped a long peach-polished nail against her perfect teeth. “That sounds logical, although I still can’t imagine what in those letters could have upset your father so much. The picture of Paul hints that it was something about your assault and the murders, but it’s not as if your dad didn’t know exactly what had happened to you and everything that took place afterward.”

  “I know. I’m not even sure why I’m looking at this. Maybe it’s because of Dad. Maybe it’s because I want to see if I’ve really put it behind me. I thought I had—until lately.”

  “Until you thought you saw Paul at the cemetery.” Nicole nodded. “You were exhausted and emotionally drained. I agree that the guy looked like Paul. But it wasn’t.”

  “Probably not, but I still want to go over this stuff. Will you stay with me?”

  Carmen smiled. “Sure. But we’d better keep a sharp ear for your mother. If she sees this—”

  “We’re dead meat,” Nicole said melodramatically.

  Carmen smothered a laugh. “You’re still a big goof, do you know that?”

  “Thank you. Only you and my daughter seem to appreciate my sense of humor.”

  “Okay, if you’re determined to do this, turn the page. I don’t know how much more cake Mrs. Loomis can hold, and as soon as she leaves, your mother will be right up the stairs to see what we’re doing.”

  Nicole obeyed. The next page displayed an article dated two days after Zand’s and Magaro’s arrests. A picture showed a triumphant Zand waving to a crowd. And why wouldn’t he be looking triumphant? Nicole thought. Suddenly Magaro and Zand had alibis. According to two sons of a prominent San Antonio family, at the time of Nicole Sloan’s assault, Magaro and Zand had been with them. The brothers had gone to Mexico the day after the attack and had only just returned to San Antonio. Otherwise, they could have cleared Zand and Magaro immediately. “Yeah, sure,” Nicole said aloud. “In other words, it just took a while to find a couple of suitable guys willing to lie for them. Probably die-hard fans of Ritchie’s band. Either that, or Magaro was their drug supplier.”

  “Are you sure you should go on with this?” Carmen said tentatively. “It only gets worse.”

  “Yes.” Nicole noticed the steely edge in her voice. “I’m sure.”

  She turned the page and the headline seemed to scream: “Two Men Found Murdered in Basin Park.” Nicole scanned the article, although she knew the details by heart. Ritchie Zand and Luis Magaro, who only four weeks earlier were arrested then released for sexual assault and battery, had each been found shot in the head. The bodies were hanging from trees near the Interstate 281 overpass. The weapon was a .44 magnum. Both men had died instantly from the gunshot wounds. In a bizarre touch, black hoods had been placed over their heads. Some speculation existed that the men had been the victims of a ritual execution.

  The article went on to talk about the promising career of Ritchie Zand, lead singer of the rock group The Zanti Misfits, named for an episode of the science fiction television show The Outer Limits. Only a week before the killings, the band had been given a recording contract with Revel Music. Without Zand, however, the future of the group was unknown.

  “The Zanti Misfits,” Carmen said softly. “Ritchie Zand was slime, but he had that fabulous voice. Remember it?”

  Nicole shuddered. Oh, yes, she remembered him singing “Radio Ga-Ga” in the backseat while Magaro held a knife at her throat.

  “Without him, the band fell apart,” Carmen continued, “but Bobby still talks about it constantly.”

  “He does?” Nicole answered absently. Then her memory flashed. “Carmen, I completely forgot! Bobby was the drummer for The Zanti Misfits.”

  “That’s right. He’s certain that if Ritchie hadn’t been killed, they would have gone on to stardom. He would have been a millionaire, lusted after by hundreds of groupies, a household name. Instead he’s plain old Bobby Vega, co-owner of a trinket shop on the River Walk.”

  “I’d hardly call Vega’s a trinket shop,” Nicole said. “But I cannot believe I forgot about Bobby being in The Zanti Misfits. I thought I remembered everything about the events, the people…”

  “Apparently you don’t. I’m not surprised that you forgot about Bobby, though. He wasn’t mixed up in any of this.”

  “No, of course he wasn’t, but you were dating Bobby at the time. Didn’t he talk to you about it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he believed Zand was guilty, like I said?”

  Carmen looked at her in surprise. “Yes, Nicole. He knew Zand was no angel. Why would you ask such a question?”

  “Because I’ve always gotten the feeling Bobby doesn’t like me.”

  Carmen shrugged. “He is different around you. I’ve noticed it. Maybe it’s because he’s afraid you associate him with that awful time, that maybe you don’t like him because he was friends with Ritchie Zand.”

  “Good heavens, and I didn’t even remember he was in the band. So much for crossed wires. Sometime Bobby and I will have to have a talk.” Nicole drew a deep breath, her mouth getting drier. “Now for the worst part.”

  “Nicole, you’re looking very pale. I think you should stop—”

  But Nicole had already turned the page. She was right. This was the worst part. Here was the article about the arrest of Paul Dominic for the murders of Magaro and Zand. According to the article, the day after the discovery of the bodies, an anonymous tip had sent police to the home of Dominic. There they found a Smith & Wesson .44 magnum, registration numbers filed off, wrapped
in a shirt belonging to Dominic. The shirt was smeared with AB Positive blood, the rarest kind, and that belonging to Ritchie Zand. Both the shirt and the gun were stuffed in a trash can. Ballistics verified the magnum as the murder weapon. In addition, Dominic had no alibi for the time of the murders. Finally, several people claimed that Dominic had threatened to get even with the men who allegedly had attacked Nicole Sloan, with whom he was romantically involved. Miss Sloan herself told police that Dominic said to her he would kill Magaro and Zand.

  “I don’t remember saying that,” Nicole said faintly. “But everyone says I did.”

  “You were heavily medicated after hearing about the murders, Nicole.”

  “That’s right. You would have thought I’d have been glad Zand and Magaro were dead. Instead I got hysterical. The police insisted on questioning me. Dad was in Dallas on a trip. Mom was uncharacteristically flustered and called a doctor who sent me spinning with a bunch of tranquilizers.”

  “I remember. You were probably babbling to the police things you would never have said if you’d had your wits about you. And after all, Paul did tell you he’d kill them.”

  “What I said in such a medicated state should never have been quoted. I shouldn’t have been questioned at that time. I can’t believe what I said in that condition would have been admissible in court. Besides, Paul was just talking, just raging. He wasn’t a killer, Carmen.”

  Carmen looked compassionate but dubious. “You’d only known him a couple of months when all of this happened. How well do you really get to know someone in eight weeks?”

  “I knew Paul,” Nicole maintained firmly.

  “And I’ll bet you thought you knew Roger, too. Yet after all those years of being married to him, you found out you didn’t.” Carmen reached over and touched her hand. “I wonder if we really ever know anybody.”

  She’s right, Nicole thought. I believed I knew Roger. I believed I knew my father. But Paul…It was different with Paul.