by Sylvie Kurtz
As she slipped her key in the lock, a voice called to her. She turned to find Kerry Merrill, dressed in her Winn-Dixie uniform, hurrying toward her. Her eyes were red and puffy, and streaks of tears still glistened on her cheeks.
Melinda's heart went out to the short brunette. Kerry and Angela had been best friends for a long time. The two girls' giggles had often drifted on the breeze into her garden, and sometimes in lonely moments, she'd envied their sisterly bond. "How are you holding up, Kerry?"
That set off another stream of tears Kerry tried to stem with ineffective swipes of her hands, soaking the bandage covering one of her palms. "I can't believe it. I just can't believe it. Angela's dead." Her voice had a strident tone to it that bordered on hysteria. "How could this happen?"
"I don't know."
Big, watery brown eyes pleaded up at her as she grabbed Melinda's wrists. "You were home. Did you see anything?"
Pressure again. It built in Melinda's chest, shortening her breath. All the relaxation she'd managed to gain at the duck pond drained in one instant. "I'm afraid not."
Kerry's grip fell away. She moved in slow, zombie-like steps until she faced Angela's house. "I—I can't go in there."
"I don't think you're allowed to until the police tape goes down."
"But Rusty, he'll miss Angela." A deep frown creased her forehead, as if in the horror she needed to hang onto something real, something alive, and so she'd settled on Angela's cat. A live tie between them to ease some of the pain. "He won't understand she's gone. I came to get him. But I can't find him."
A look of utter dejection crossed Kerry's face and fresh tears sprang from her eyes. "I've got to find him."
Melinda's tears almost joined Kerry's. Instead, she hugged the girl who now shook with grief. "It's all right, Kerry. I'll keep an eye out for him. When I see him, I'll call you. Okay?"
That seemed to calm Kerry somewhat. She sniffed and backed out of Melinda's embrace. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get so blubbery. It's stupid, I know, but Angela loved Rusty."
Melinda squeezed Kerry's arm gently. "It's okay. I understand. I'll look out for him."
They spoke for a few more minutes before Kerry left, then Melinda stepped inside her home, feeling drained once more.
The green message light on her answering machine blinked feverishly. She turned away, planning to ignore its beckoning call, then with a sigh, she pressed the message button.
"Melinda, this is Dolores. Where are you? There's a problem with the mock-up. I really need for you to come in." There was a crackling pause. "Are you all right, kiddo? Call me, okay? If I don't hear from you soon, I'm coming over. By the way, did you know your father's in town?"
Beep.
"Melinda, this is your father. Dolores says you didn't show up for work this morning. Give me a call so I won't have to worry about you."
Beep.
"Melinda! Where are you?!" Her father again.
Two hang-ups.
"Miss Amery, this is Lieutenant Sloan." His voice startled her. It rang clear and crisp, causing an almost identical rush of emotions to the one he'd created in person. Why couldn't he be on her side? "I need to see you again."
Simple words that could be taken so many ways.
Fear mounted once more, tiny at first, a mere granny knot in the pit of her stomach. Then it grew into Gordian proportions.
She couldn't remember much about last night. Some parts still lay in a cloud of fog. Always would.
Maybe remembering her fear's origin could extinguish her nightmare.
But the thought of searching through the black folds of her memory had her gripping the kitchen counter's edge as if her life depended on it.
What if...? But she couldn't have. She unglued her hands from the counter top's edge, and turned them over to look at her palms. She simply wasn't capable of killing.
Or was she?
A butcher-block knife rack stood next to the sink. She reached for the largest handle and drew out the blade. Hand fisted over the handle, she lifted the knife above her head. With a decisive movement, she sliced the air. The descending blade whooshed and caught a shaft of afternoon sun. With a gasp, she jettisoned the knife into the sink, heard it rattle against the stainless steel sides. Scurrying backwards, she reached for her heart with both hands to steady its racing drum. Her gaze flicked back to the knife rack on the counter. Two empty slits, dark and wide, became magnified by her awareness of them.
Two slits.
A knife was missing.
Her knife.
She turned her attention back to the answering machine, fighting the tears misting her eyes.
How long would it take the lieutenant to find the real murderer? With a shaking finger, she pressed the Erase button.
He wouldn't give up. He was too persistent.
And what if the answer he found was her?
Chapter 4
The watercolor sat propped on top of Melinda's computer terminal. It pictured the featured item, a metal Victorian rose arch, in sharp detail. Her paintbrush had stroked the pink, purple, and blue morning glories decorating the arch, and the couple kissing beneath it, against a background of misty, dreamlike haze.
She should be working on the president's letter for the inside front page of The Essential Gardener's Christmas catalog. Instead, she fiddled with the copy for the rose arch that would go in the spring catalog. She needed to finish the letter for her two o'clock meeting with Dolores tomorrow, but she just couldn't muster the enthusiasm needed for the task. She hoped to have the Christmas catalog in final layout by Thursday and the whole thing dumped at the printer's by the weekend. Another two weeks and this catalog would be out of her hands and on its way to the customers—one week ahead of schedule.
If she was lucky, which lately hadn't been the case.
Then she'd have a day or two of breathing space before she started on the spring seed and tool catalog.
Not that she was complaining. She loved her job. Not only did she get to indulge in her fancy of painting and writing, she also got to show off her organizational skills. Usually, the painting and writing parts came easy. The juggling of deadlines, office politics—even in this family-like atmosphere—and various outside support companies were the things that drove her crazy. But today she stared at her painting and didn't feel the pretty words flowing, didn't like what she saw, didn't want the feelings she wasn't quite sure how to handle.
After a fitful night's sleep, filled with black twisting nightmares of Angela Petersen, Lieutenant Grady Sloan, herself and flying knives, she'd woken up to morning sunshine and routine expectations, and both had brought a measure of balance to her whirling mind. Work, she understood. It was concrete. Her nightmares weren't, and therefore better off ignored. She'd arrived at the office and plunged into her work, catching up on yesterday's absence by lunchtime. Not until a minute ago when she'd cued up her file to the proper spot for her write-up on the rose arch did she realize how much Grady Sloan had infiltrated himself into her unconscious.
The man, bending over the woman to kiss her, bore a striking resemblance to the determined lieutenant, and even though the woman's back was turned to the viewer, even though she'd painted the waist-length hair blonde, even though she would never wear such constricting clothes, she knew the woman was her. In spite of her fears, in spite of her dislike, something about Grady Sloan inspired crazed fantasies of comfort and security.
But succumbing to those fantasies would prove pure stupidity. And years of growing up beneath her father's stern thumb had made sure she wasn't stupid. Grady Sloan's interest in her wasn't the man-for-a-woman kind, but the cop-looking-for-a-murderer kind. And enough fog existed in her mind to make her think that maybe, just maybe, the killer he wanted might be her. If she'd done something as uncharacteristic as biting a police officer when she'd mistaken him for the monster, couldn't she, under the same misconception, have killed Angela?
The mere thought roiled the acid in her stomach into a nauseating
wave. Why had she skipped lunch again? She closed her eyes and shook her head. She, who couldn't squash a bug, simply couldn't have committed murder—monster or not. She had to believe that, or she'd really go crazy.
Inhaling a deep breath, she hoped to clear her mind of her contradictory thoughts. With a cleansing sigh, she placed her fingers on the keyboard, focused on the painting, conveniently ignoring the couple under the arch, and lost herself in the watercolor mist.
The sky, a pastel palette... "No, no, the rhythm's wrong." Her little finger pressed the Delete key.
The morning was going to be special... "No, not right." Delete.
In the soft mist of the purple and pink dawn, he came to her. "Yes, that's it." She'd waited beneath the blooming flowered arch among the scent of roses, the song of birds, the lifting night, waited for him, unsure. His footprints disturbed the dew on the grass and his smile shone just for her. Alone. Finally. No phones, no interruptions, no worldly demands, as if the city had floated away, leaving them surrounded by a country paradise. She came into his open arms. He fit his lips to hers. They both remembered the kiss long, long after it ended. They both remembered the magic they found in her garden beneath the rose arch on a special summer morning.
Victorian Rose Arch. Beautifully hand-wrought of a quarter inch by three-quarter inch flat iron and treated with a weatherproof coating that will last for years of enchanting—
A commotion near the front door disturbed Melinda's concentration. Recognizing the voice, Melinda's head snapped up. She lifted herself a few inches off her chair to look above the partition of her workstation.
The first thing people noticed about Dolores, her partner, was her hands. She seemed incapable of carrying on a conversation without waving them about like semaphore flags. And right now her sun-wrinkled, smiling face and fluttering hands pointed Lieutenant Grady Sloan in her direction.
Melinda groaned. She didn't need this aggravation right now. She shuffled papers about until she found the item number and price for the rose arch.
Of course, Dolores would have fallen for his charm. He looked as gentle as a golden retriever with those deep dimples flashing. But Dolores hadn't yet had the pleasure of coming under the persistence of his pitbull-like determination. Melinda had. And she didn't like it one bit.
She reached for the phone, intending to call her father, then hesitated. No, not this time. For her mental health, she needed to handle this situation on her own.
Returning her fingers to the keyboard, Melinda typed the rest of the information with a speed she didn't know she possessed. But even the clicking of the keys and the low cacophony of office noises couldn't drown the sound of Grady's sure steps bringing him closer to her cubicle. The clean scent of his soap reached her before he stopped and leaned over the partition, making her type gibberish just to keep her fingers moving. Wonderful, now I'm acting like... like a suspect, for goodness' sake! Not quite the poised impression she'd hoped to make.
"Good afternoon, Miss Amery."
"What can I do for you, Lieutenant Sloan?" Her fingers never paused over the keys, and she didn't look up. She didn't want to see the disturbing blue of his eyes, didn't want to know if his charming dimples creased his cheeks for her as they had for Dolores, didn't want to feel the accusation etched in every line of his face.
"Is there somewhere we can talk privately?"
"I'm a very busy woman."
"I can see that." He leaned closer and lowered his voice. "But do you really want your employees to hear my questions?"
Her heart's rhythm increased, pounding her blood in deep whooshes across her ears. She lifted her head with measured control to look at him.
The slow, deliberate sweep of his gaze over her work area seemed to take in every detail. What did he see with those piercing eyes? What conclusions did he draw? Thank goodness he couldn't see her painting or her computer screen from his vantage point. She'd hate for him to know he disturbed her so much. "What kind of questions?"
"Regarding your memory."
Her fingers went spastic on the keyboard before they halted all motion. Her memory, or lack thereof, was the last thing she wanted to talk about. His determined gaze finished his meticulous perusal of her cubicle, then it skewered her. Relief would come only if she attempted to humor him. There was nothing for her to remember. He'd simply have to accept that fact. The sooner the better.
She averted her gaze to the gibberish on the screen. "Give me a minute to finish my copy and I'll meet you outside," she said, proud of the even, calm tone of her voice.
"I'll be waiting."
Though she focused on her computer screen, the teasing promise in his voice came through loud and clear. Why did he enjoy torturing her so much? She remembered the visceral verbal sparring he'd shared with her father yesterday. You won't get me a second time, Grady had said. Had she become a pawn in a power play between him and her father? What had happened between the two of them? Well, she had news for both of them. She wasn't going to play. She was much too busy.
Melinda jabbed the delete key and erased the two paragraphs of gibberish she'd typed, saved the rest of the material, and printed a copy. Nodding her approval, she turned off her terminal and slipped the sheet in its proper place on her mock-up. The deepening pain on the right side of her head warned her a major headache was on its way. She wouldn't get any more work done today. She grabbed her purse and her file, and readied to leave.
Dolores came around the corner, perched herself on the edge of her desk, and gave Melinda a slow smile and a curious look. "A date?"
"What?"
"The cute cop. Is he business or pleasure?"
Melinda dropped the file in Dolores' lap. "Definitely business."
"Too bad."
"He's all yours if you want him," Melinda said, knowing Dolores' wasn't above taking her place when she refused to go on the weekly blind dates the older woman arranged for her. The strange thing was, Dolores always seemed to have a good time with those men half her age.
"Thanks, but he looks a little too starched for me. Perfect for you though."
Melinda straightened her purse's strap on her shoulder. "I you weren't my partner, I'd fire you."
Dolores waved her comment away with a sweep of her work-roughened hands. "And if you weren't Abigail's daughter, I wouldn't have to worry about you so much. Having no men in your life isn't healthy."
Melinda smiled, another part of their weekly ritual. "In today's world, having too many is lethal."
Dolores snorted and laughed. The file on her lap fell to the floor. "I don't have to have 'em to enjoy 'em." As she jumped down to pick up the strewn pages, her single white braid bounced forward over her shoulder. "So what does he want?"
"The impossible."
Dolores glanced up and gave her a puzzled look. "Are you in trouble?"
Melinda shook her head. "I haven't done anything wrong."
Dolores looked up at her with a worried expression. "Are you going to tell me what's going on?"
"Soon, I promise."
"I worry about you."
"I know you do, and I love you for it."
"Go on, then." Dolores straightened from her crouch. Her gaze strayed to the front door. "Don't keep your hunk waiting. I'd hate to see sweat stains ruin the perfect creases of his uniform. I'll hold down the fort."
"He's not my anything." Except a thorn in my side.
Dolores cocked her head, her wide grin reaching almost to her ears. "Are we protesting a mite too much?"
"No, we're not." Melinda made to leave, then turned back. "By the way, that counts as your Melinda fix-up of the week."
"Ha, that's what you think! Wait till you see the dreamboat I've got lined up for you this Friday." Her smile faded and her pale-blue gaze sought Melinda's face. "Don't let life pass you by, hon. That's not what your mother would have wanted."
Swallowing hard, Melinda headed for the glass front doors. Between Dolores' parade of suitors and her father's not-so-subtle
suggestions of eligible bachelors dying to meet her, she could have a date every night of the week if she wanted. But she didn't. As much as Dolores kidded Melinda about her romantic heart, Melinda sometimes wondered if she had a heart at all, if she was capable of loving someone the way the imaginary people in her copy and her paintings loved each other.
As she wound her way around the cubicles, Melinda sniffed a sharp laugh. Whatever had possessed Dolores to believe someone like Grady Sloan would be perfect for her? She shrugged. None of Dolores' choices of dates for her had proved suitable. Why should this one irk her so much?
Lieutenant Sloan waited patiently in the bit of shade offered by the green canvas canopy. Dolores was right; he did look neat and pressed as if he was to appear at a press conference in the next few minutes. In the at-ease position of a soldier, his gaze swept the surroundings. Was he ever completely still? Did he ever relax? She had the sudden impulse to dip him in a vat of bronze just to see him perfectly still for more than a minute. A tiny smile curled the corners of her mouth. The thought did hold some appeal. Bronzed, he couldn't possibly disturb her the way he did in the flesh.
When he saw her approaching, he gallantly opened the door for her. He'd looked ordinary enough… until he'd moved. For a moment, she almost thought she'd made up her extreme impression of his presence yesterday. Then he moved, and intensity took over, making him appear bigger than life and twice as dangerous.
At least to her.
"How are you doing, Miss Amery?"
How could the sound of his voice make her feel caged and comforted at the same time?
"Fine." She had a feeling he wasn't asking about her health for idle reasons. Everything he said, everything he did, seemed to have a purpose.
"I'm glad to hear that. And your memory, has it all come back?"
Ah, yes, the memory. As they stepped into the sunshine, he pulled mirrored glassed from his breast pocket and slipped them on. A shudder of apprehension chilled her despite the afternoon sun's strong heat. If she couldn't see his eyes, how could she read his thoughts? How could she tell if he saw her as a killer or the unwitting victim she hoped she was?