“Made especially for her. No other pair like them.”
“But how could he—?”
“She was wearing them the night she died.”
“She … oh no, you must be mistaken.”
“I wish I were,” he said. “She had them on when she left here that night.”
Cecca shook her head: confusion, dismay.
“They should be lumps of metal, melted and fused by the heat of the fire. The only way he could've gotten them is if he were with her before the accident.”
“She could have lost them—”
“Both? And he just happened to find them? No, Katy must have given them to him for some reason. Or else he took them from her.”
“Even if that's true, it doesn't have to mean they were lovers. There could be another explanation.”
“The only one I can think of is a hell of a lot worse.”
“What …?”
“That her death wasn't an accident.”
She stared at him. “What do you— Suicide?”
“That's the first thing that occurred to me. An affair that had gotten out of hand, guilt, depression … I thought it might be possible.”
“But now you don't.”
“Now I don't. There was that private part of her, yes, but I can't make myself believe it was that bleak. She loved life too much to give it up voluntarily. She was full of life. You agree with that, don't you?”
“Yes.” She made herself take a long, slow breath before she spoke again. “You mean murder, then. You think Katy could have been murdered.”
“I didn't say that's what I thought. I said it's a possibility that occurred to me. I shouldn't have mentioned it.”
“Dix, you're scaring me.”
“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.” He moved over beside her, took her hand. “I think we'd better just drop this before our imaginations run away with us.”
“Random violence, is that it? Katy being in the wrong place at the wrong time?” She was trying to talk herself out of crediting it, even a little, by dealing with it directly. But the questions served only to open up her fear. “Or … somebody stalking her? The same man who … the man on the phone … if you're right about Katy, then he could be—”
“No, Cecca.”
“He could be after us, too. You, me, Amy.”
“That's what I meant by letting imagination—”
“But why us? Why would anybody want to hurt us?”
“We don't know that anybody does.”
“Those calls, the things he said—”
“—Could be nothing more than a sick game. There are all kinds of psychoses. He doesn't have to be violent.”
“Katy … the earrings …”
“He knew her, he got them from her—all right. But her death is still an accident as far as we know. The highway patrol, the county sheriff, were satisfied of that; we have to be, too. Dammit, I could kick myself for opening up this can of worms.”
“What're you saying? Just forget it?”
“That part of it, yes.”
Inside her now was a visceral sense of something unseen and terrible lying in wait for her—the kind of nameless terror she'd had as a little girl. Bogeyman in the closet, monster under the stairs. “I don't know if I can,” she said.
“You have to. We both have to. Wild speculations aren't doing either of us any good.”
“We can't just sit back and pretend none of this is happening.”
“I know that. We need to focus on identifying the tormentor, putting a stop to his damn games.”
“Tormentor,” she said. “That's the right name for him.”
Dix said, “Options. All right, we can go to the telephone company. They can trace one of his calls if they're set up for it and he stays on the line long enough. But I don't think that would work. He's too smart to fall into that kind of trap. Chances are, he makes his damn calls from a public phone anyway.”
“The police?”
“I doubt if there's much they can do without some idea of who he is. We'll have to try to find that out ourselves.”
“Us? How?”
“I've got some ideas. Are you willing?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“I don't see one for either of us. Except a stopgap measure: have our home phone numbers changed.”
“What good will that do? He could still call me at the office. Besides, a third of my business calls come to me at home. A realtor can't afford an unlisted number.”
“I see your point. But I'm still going to have mine changed. If nothing else, it may help narrow the field a little.”
“I don't understand. Narrow the field?”
“If he gets hold of the new unlisted number, keeps calling, it'll tell us he's someone we know.”
“Someone we know,” Cecca said.
“Not a friend—a casual acquaintance, a clerk or gas station attendant, somebody who took a disliking to us for some reason.”
“How would a clerk or a gas station attendant get your new unlisted number?”
Dix made no reply.
“It would have to be somebody we know fairly well in that case, wouldn't it?”
“Not necessarily.”
“But probably. And I don't want to believe that anymore than I want to believe Katy's death wasn't an accident.”
An afternoon breeze had come up; Cecca could feel it wafting in through the open balcony doors, carrying the scents of pine and dry grass. Outside the windows, a hawk wheeled down and sat fluffing its wings on the electrical wires strung from the house to the pole on Rosemont. From one of the neighboring yards she heard the shrieks and laughter of children in the midst of a swim party. Normal Sunday afternoon in late summer. Small town, small-town life: familiar, comfortable. Nonthreatening. Safe. The conversation they'd just had, the revelations that had made it necessary, seemed unreal … no, surreal, like a scene in a murky avant-garde play.
How can this be happening? she thought. I don't understand how a thing like this can happen to us.
She said abruptly, “I'd like that drink now.”
“I can use one, too. Bourbon, Scotch, gin, vodka?”
“Scotch. A double, on the rocks.”
He let go of her hand—she was surprised to discover that he'd still been holding it—and stood and went into the kitchen. She sat there staring out at the valley. Then, slowly, her head moved and her gaze shifted until she was looking again at Katy's “Blue Time” painting.
Façade, she thought, little snippets of the real Katy Mallory. What had lain behind the façade, what did the little snippets mean? Smile, wink—that's for you to figure out, sweetie.
I thought I had. I thought I knew her pretty well.
Maybe I didn't know her at all.
And what if Katy weren't the only one in Los Alegres she thought she knew well who was hiding behind a façade? Darkness concealed by a smile. Evil covered by a mask of normalcy. But no façade is perfect; that was one of the first lessons you learned in the real estate business. There are always little flaws, little indications of what lies hidden, if you look for them closely enough. The naked truth is there to be figured out, sweetie, if you can stand to face it. It's all there behind the façade.
SEVEN
It was cool and shady on the cabin's enclosed sun porch. Cool and shady most of the day, a fact that had always amused Eileen. A sun porch was supposed to be sunny, right? Or else it would be called a shade porch. But the angle at which the cabin had been built, the thick growth of pine and redbud that flanked it down to the water's edge, kept the sun's rays from hitting the windows there until late afternoon. This was one of the things she'd always loved about the cabin, coming up to the lake. She could sit here most of the day in perfect lazy comfort if she felt like it—and she often did. She had no use for direct sunlight; she burned easily, she had a light sensitivity that affected her vision, and she began to sweat like a pig as soon as the temperature climbed above eighty. Early evening was her
time to stir her stumps. And the hour before sundown was the best time of all. Cool then, with the night sounds just starting, the lake changing color under a sky that darkened slowly into a velvety black … oh, yes.
From where she was sitting in the big rattan easy chair next to the window, she had a clear view of the lake and the stubby pier directly below. Bobby and Kevin were in the water just off the forward edge of the pier, playing some kind of game with a beach ball. The noise they were making drifted up to her, brought a smile to her mouth. Teenagers. So damn much energy. She'd gone for a quick swim herself earlier, or, rather, a dunking because it had lasted for all of thirty seconds. The lake was just too cold in the morning. Maybe she'd go in again before her evening walk; the water would be warm then from the day's drippy heat. But probably she wouldn't. Swimming was too much like work. Let the boys exercise all they wanted. Ted, too. A leisurely sunset stroll—and a good-night screw if she and Ted were both in the mood—was more than enough physical exertion for her. Vacation days, as far as she was concerned, were for reading the new Danielle Steel, stuffing herself until she got sleepy, and then going in and taking a nap. With minor variations over seven glorious days.
She snagged the last of the English muffin with cream cheese from the plate beside her, popped it into her mouth. Her gaze fell on her thighs as she chewed. White and chubby; the fat cells rippled when she moved, like little winking eyes. I really ought to go on a diet, she thought. She knew she was only kidding herself. Diets were a torment, and she was not into self-abuse these days. Besides, she was forty-one and entitled to be middle-aged pudgy, and Ted liked her just the way she was. “Lying on you is like lying on a cloud,” he'd said a couple of months ago after they'd finished making love. She'd thought he was being smart-ass and smacked him one, but he'd been serious. Men. Alien creatures. Not that she'd trade her three, not for any amount of money.
She peered out over the flat surface of the lake. No sign of Ted yet. He'd gotten up at the crack of dawn and carted his fishing gear down to the skiff and rowed off happily to murder some poor catfish or lake bass or whatever. Fishing … now, there was a nasty sport for you. Not as nasty as slaughtering deer or elk for fun, but nasty just the same. Hauling those poor creatures out of the water at the end of a hook, watching them wiggle desperately to get free while they strangled on air, cutting or ripping the barb out of their mouths while they were still flopping … ugh! She'd gone with Ted once and that had been one time too many. Not only hadn't she been able to clean the fish he'd brought home since, she couldn't even bring herself to eat one. If he'd caught anything this morning, he and the boys would devour the remains at supper and welcome to it. She'd have a hamburger smothered in sauteed mushrooms.
The thought of a hamburger made her mouth water. Pig, she thought, and got up and went to see what the refrigerator had to offer. They'd stopped in Ukiah on the way yesterday and loaded up on groceries. Another bagel with cream cheese? No, something sweet … peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich. Yum. Eat your heart out, Jenny Craig. Chuckling, she took out the jar of Jif, the jar of Smucker's, and went for the loaf of white bread.
The telephone rang.
If that's the hospital, she thought, I'm not going back, not for any emergency. This is my vacation, dammit. Even resident nurses are entitled to vacations.
But it wasn't the hospital. It was Cecca.
Eileen was surprised and pleased. “Make my day,” she said, “and tell me you can get away after all. Did you close the deal on the Morrison house?”
“No, not yet. That isn't why I called.”
“Well, it can't be just to chat.”
“No. I saw Dix last night.”
“Took my advice and invited him to dinner? Good!”
“He called and said he wanted to see me.”
“Even better. How'd it go?”
“Eileen, it wasn't social.”
The way Cecca said that put Eileen on alert. When you'd been a person's close friend for more than half your lives, you developed antennae. “There's something wrong,” she said. “Tell mama.”
“Those crank calls I've been getting? Well, Dix has been getting them, too—from the same man.”
“Dix? Heavy breathing calls from a man?”
“They're not sexual. Not the way you mean.”
“What are they, then?”
“Something a lot sicker.”
Eileen listened breathlessly as Cecca explained about the calls she and Dix had received on Saturday. Hers was bad enough, but the one to Dix … good God!
“He claimed he was the one Katy was having an affair with?” she said. “But why in heaven's name would he tell Dix about it? What does he want?”
“To gloat, maybe. I don't know.”
“Well, he's got to be a head case, no matter what. You and Dix believe it's true?”
“It could be,” Cecca said. “All the details … it could be.”
“Lord. I've thought all along Katy had a lover, you know that, but a man with a bunch of his wires loose … brrr. That's not her fault, though. You can't always tell a book by its cover.” She shivered despite the day's gathering heat. “You think he's dangerous?”
“We don't know. He could be.”
“Well, have you gone to the police?”
“Last night. We went together and made a report.”
“Who did you see? Chief Rennick?”
“No, a lieutenant named St. John. He's been on the force here only about a year and a half. He was sympathetic enough, but he said what we expected to hear: There's nothing the police can do without some idea of who the man is and what he's after.”
Eileen began slathering a piece of bread with peanut butter. When she was upset she craved food. Some people wrapped themselves in their security blankets; she ate hers.
“What're you going to do?” she asked.
“Try to find out who he is.”
“How? A stranger, a disguised voice on the phone—”
“He may not be a stranger,” Cecca said.
“Someone you know? But then … if you know him, so do I. Oh, brother!”
“I hate the idea, too. But it could be.”
“I guess it could. Damn, I wish Katy hadn't been so secretive! If she'd dropped just a hint of who she was seeing …”
“But she didn't.”
“No. Not that night I told you about, in June, and not afterward. Every time I tried to bring it up, she changed the subject.”
“What exactly did she say that made you suspect she was having an affair?”
“It wasn't so much what she said, it was how she said it and how she acted.”
“Tell me again. In detail.”
“All right,” Eileen said. Strawberry jam on top of the peanut butter, big gooey globs of it that reminded her of clotted blood. She took a bite of it anyway. Another bite before she spoke again, with her mouth half full and peanut butter sticking to the roof. “It was a Friday night. The first Friday in the month, I think. Ted's bowling night, and the boys were off somewhere.” She finally managed to swallow. “You were having dinner with Jerry at River House. That Friday.”
“I remember.”
“Well, I was feeling lonesome, so I called Katy and she came over. We got into the wine. A chardonnay that Owen recommended to Ted. At first we just talked, I don't remember what about. Talked and drank. Then we started reminiscing, you know how you do on about four glasses of wine. The trip the three of us took up the Oregon coast after you and Chet split up, what a good time we had. Well, except for Pelican Bay.”
Eileen stuffed the rest of the bread and Jif and Smucker's into her mouth. Cecca said her name twice before she could get the mass—mess—chewed and swallowed. “I'm here,” she said, and wiped a smear of jam off her chin before she went on. “I said we should do something like that again. Take a trip together, just the three of us, let our hair down the way we did in Oregon. Put some excitement back in our lives. Katy agreed it was a good idea, but not
right away—next year sometime. Why wait? I said. All three of us had been bitching about how bored we were, hadn't we? She said, well, she didn't feel bored anymore, she was really getting into her painting. I said painting isn't exactly exciting and she said she had enough excitement in her life right now, more than she had any right to have. There was something about the way she said it … I don't know, but I said, Oh really? Don't tell me you've gone and taken a lover behind my back?”
“And she reacted to that?”
“Reacted is right. Jerked as if I'd slapped her, spilled her wine.”
“Then what?” Cecca asked.
“She covered up fast. You know how good Katy was at covering even when she was flustered.”
“What did she say? What did you say?”
Eileen's memory had flowered; she'd always had the capacity for near-total recall. The conversation with Katy was already replaying in her mind, as clearly as if she were listening to a tape of it.
“Katy, my God, you are having an affair!”
“I am not! What makes you think that?”
“Well, the look on your face …”
“Oh, crap. You surprised me, that's all.”
“Oh come on, honey. You are, aren't you.”
“I just told you I'm not.”
“You can tell me. I'm your best friend.”
“And you can't keep a secret for ten minutes.”
“I'd keep this one.”
“Sure you would. You'd be on the phone to Cecca as soon as I walked out the door. You'd probably have her paged at River House.”
“You're really not?”
“I'm really not.”
“But you would if the right man came along? The right man, the right circumstances, spice up your life a little?”
“I don't know. Would you?”
“I've thought about it. He'd have to have a big dick.”
“That doesn't matter, and you know it.”
“It does when you're married to Theodore J. Harrell. Ted's not exactly hung like a horse. Or a Shetland pony, for that matter.”
“Count your blessings. If he was, you'd be walking funny.”
“Katy, let's suppose you are having an affair—”
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