Pete sat at the breakfast table, reading the newspaper. Mohair rubbed against his legs, and he reached down absentmindedly to stroke her. He looked relaxed and carefree for the first time since he’d come home. I hesitated to disturb him.
“Whatcha lurking in the hallway for?” Aileen stomped into the kitchen in a silk kimono bathrobe. Who knew why she opted for modesty this morning. Her pink-and-green hair lay matted on one side of her head. She wrenched open the fridge, pulled out a big wedge of chocolate cake, and plunked it down on the table. “Any news on that murderer?” She paused for effect. “He’s casing our house, you know.”
Pete and I goggled at Aileen. She grinned—the woman lived for attention. She sat down and took a big bite of cake. We waited in silence. She regarded us calmly and took another bite.
“Why do you say that?’ I said.
Aileen swallowed with a big gulp and wiped her chocolaty fingers on her kimono. “I saw the same car drive past our house a dozen times yesterday, and that was just when I was looking. A dark green Volvo. Two men in the front seat.” She took another huge bite of cake.
“Did they have moustaches or beards?” I said.
“Did you get the license number?” Pete said at the same time.
“It was a rental. I got the number, but the car companies have privacy policies, so they wouldn’t tell me jack.” She looked at me. “One of them could’ve had a beard—I couldn’t say. One guy was black and the other was white. Both were wearing sunglasses.”
“It was sunny yesterday.” I knew I was making excuses so I wouldn’t have to face facts. I dropped into a chair at the table.
Aileen snorted. “And they could’ve been lost, or looking for a parking place, or they just liked the look of our house, right?”
“Did you call the police?” Pete said. He got up and placed his coffee cup in the sink.
“Nah. What am I supposed to tell them—two guys keep driving past my house?” She looked at Pete. “Plus, I didn’t think the cops were your best friends.”
He smiled briefly. “I gotta go. Are you guys gonna be okay here?”
I sat up ramrod-straight in my chair, slapping both palms on the table. I hoped I looked braver than I felt. “All your money’s on Aileen, remember?”
“Have some faith, Moron,” she said.
He grinned and walked out the door.
Aileen and I sat in silence for a while. She finished her hunk of cake and followed it up with a bag of chips. I had a bowl of cold cereal.
Aileen stood up and shook the chocolate crumbs off her robe. “I gotta practice. You guys should come to the gig tonight, at the Foundry.” She gave me one of her wicked grins. “I’ll spring you some earplugs.”
“Will you let me play the drums?”
“Not a chance in hell.” We laughed.
I headed up to my workroom to try to work on Marsha’s wedding gown. I knew I only had a few days left—assuming Chris got out of jail in time for his wedding—but I couldn’t concentrate. The windows had a good view of the street, and I kept standing up to peer out. Aileen played her guitar in the room next door, rather than the basement. I knew she was doing the same thing.
I finally dropped Marsha’s gown in a silken swirl on my worktable and started tidying my desk. I picked up the envelope with Colonel Windstrom’s cash inside, feeling guilty for the anger that washed over me at the thought of him stiffing me. It couldn’t be good karma to harbor a grudge against a dead man. I rifled through the bills, just in case I’d counted wrong and he’d actually paid full price. Nope. I started to slide them back into the envelope when I noticed some notes scrawled on the inside flap. It looked like: “S. McC.: NY Times v. Rosterling, 2010. Got him now!”
S. McC.—was that Sean McCarthy? I sat down at my computer and did a search on NY Times v. Rosterling. Forty minutes and several websites later, I had a new understanding of the obnoxious photographer Sean McCarthy. The New York Times had employed him several years ago, in the midst of the political scandal involving Florida state senator Douglas Rosterling and the crocodile hunts in the Everglades. McCarthy broke the story of the illegal hunting, but his overzealous pursuit of the senator proved to be his downfall. Following a series of caustic articles accusing the senator of misdeeds, McCarthy was arrested for breaking into the senator’s backyard shed in search of evidence. It was never proved that McCarthy planted the crocodile pelt in the shed, but the suspicion of doubt was enough to cause the case to be thrown out of court. The senator proceeded to sue both McCarthy and the New York Times for libel. The paper fired McCarthy, and the senator gave his reelection speech sporting new crocodile boots. McCarthy disappeared from the newspaper scene for a number of years, reemerging as a lowly local photographer for the Daily Chronicle in Laurel Springs. And it sounded like his work here was problematic as well, since Jim said he’d had a series of defamation cases brought against him.
I stood up and stretched, depressed by the task set before me. Did Marsha expect me to consider everybody I knew, sifting through everyone’s backgrounds for a motive for murder? What if I found a compelling motive for Chris, or for Marsha herself? Was I the only person in Laurel Springs who I could trust not to be a killer?
I groaned and leaned over to look out the front window again. I didn’t see any green Volvos, but I caught my breath as a blue Subaru cruised slowly past the house. I popped into Aileen’s room. She lowered a pair of binoculars and wrote rapidly on a piece of paper.
“It’s another rental car, with the same guys inside.” She handed me the binoculars. “Friends of yours?”
I peered through the binoculars, shifting my gaze through the mist on the windows. I saw two men: The white man in the passenger seat did have a beard and moustache, but he didn’t look familiar. The black man had a big diamond ring on his right hand, which was gripping the steering wheel. On this drizzly day, they both wore sunglasses.
I shivered and handed the binoculars back to Aileen. “I don’t know who they are. Shouldn’t we call the police?”
She picked up her guitar and strummed, building up speed and volume. “They’re not hurting anything.”
I sighed and headed back to my workroom. When the doorbell rang a few minutes later, I jumped a mile. I looked out the window, but didn’t see a blue Subaru parked on the street. Aileen burst out of her room at the same time I did, and we went down together to see who it was. She held a baseball bat behind her back. I didn’t know Aileen played baseball.
I peeked through the front door’s leaded glass window and jumped again. Aileen tensed beside me and hefted her bat. I fumbled with the bolts and flung open the door.
It was Marsha and her mother.
Mrs. Withers was a tall, commanding woman. She was impeccably dressed in a red suit, multicolored silk blouse and matching red heels. Her graying hair was cut fashionably short. She ushered Marsha through the doorway.
Poor Marsha sagged in a shapeless housedress. I could hardly recognize her as the perky bride-to-be she was on Tuesday. She looked like she hadn’t slept for two days. Her eyes and nose were red; dark circles surrounded her eyes. Rain drops clung to her tangled hair.
“We’ve come to approve the lace,” Mrs. Withers proclaimed. She stood stock still in the front hallway, head held high. Marsha was silent beside her. Aileen glanced at me, then retreated upstairs without a word. I never would have credited her with that much tact.
“Of course. I’ll go get it.” I led them into my fitting room, then nipped upstairs to retrieve the lace samples. Somehow I knew, before I even presented them, that they wouldn’t pass muster.
I was right, of course. Mrs. Withers held each piece up to the light, laid them all together side-by-side, and sorted them according to shade, darkest to lightest. Not one met her approval.
“We have every expectation that the wedding will proceed as planned,” she informed me. “I trust Marsha’s gown will be ready.”
“Yes, of course. But abou
t the lace. I’ll try using coffee as the dye, but I should warn you that it has a different look and feel than tea does. I usually find that tea gives superior results, but who knows—this dress might be the exception. I’ll have some samples dyed and dry for you to look at tomorrow, if you like.” I couldn’t resist adding, “Or you could just trust me to pick the best one?”
“I’m sure we’ll feel more comfortable with an advance look at the options.” Mrs. Withers swept regally out of my fitting room. “Come along, Marsha.”
Marsha lingered for a brief moment. “Did you find out anything that could help Chris?” she whispered. Clearly her mother was not privy to her attempts to clear her fiancé’s name.
I walked her out to the car. “I wish we had more of a chance to talk,” I said in a low voice, with a meaningful glance at Mrs. Withers, who already sat behind the wheel, running the windshield wipers against the fine drizzle. “Could we get together for lunch tomorrow?”
Mrs. Withers rolled down the window. “Get in the car, Marsha, or we’ll be late!”
The blue Subaru cruised slowly by. The man in the passenger seat held a cell phone. He inclined his head toward Marsha and me. I couldn’t tell if he was taking a picture, recording our conversation, or chatting with his girlfriend. All I knew was that I didn’t trust him.
I reached out to Marsha. “How about lunch tomorrow? At Leanne’s, on the Commons? We can talk then.”
Marsha nodded. “All right.”
“Twelve o’clock, then. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I waved as they drove off. Then I caught my breath. The blue Subaru had parked two houses down. Both men were out of the car, heading straight for me.
I looked over my shoulder wildly. I couldn’t get up the steps and into the house before they reached me. Maybe I’d be better off outside, in the middle of the street. If Mrs. Farrillo was home next door, she’d see if anything happened to me. But where was Aileen, with all of Pete’s money on her? I caught my breath; he really didn’t have any. Was that an omen?
I breathed a quick prayer and faced the two men coming toward me on the sidewalk.
Chapter Eight
The two men stopped barely a foot away from me, and stood with arms crossed, menacing.
“Ms. Dembrowski?” the white guy drawled.
I gasped. “How do you know my name?”
The black guy laughed. “Looks like we came to the right place.” He leered at me. “Aren’t you going to ask us in?” He reeked of sweat and tobacco.
“We can talk out here.” My voice sounded high and scared.
“I don’t like the rain,” the white guy said. He ran his finger along my cheek. “You’re getting all wet.”
I flinched. “Why do you keep driving past my house?” I demanded. I didn’t want them to think I was helpless. Where, oh where, was Aileen?
“What do you know, Karl, she noticed us,” the white guy said. He stroked his beard. I saw my frightened reflection in his dark sunglasses.
“What are you doing here? Did you kill Colonel Windstrom?” The words came out almost at random.
Karl stepped closer, crowding me. “Daria, Daria. It’s not even you we’re here for.” He grabbed my arm, thrusting his face close to mine. His tobacco breath assaulted me. “Where’s your brother, Daria?”
“My brother?” My mind reeled. These guys weren’t murderers. They were after Pete—that menacing voice on the phone echoed in my mind. “My brother’s not here.” I shook off his hand. “I don’t know where he is.”
Karl stepped back and shook his head with feigned pity. “You got that, Ivan? He ran away and left his little sister all alone. He oughta be ashamed!”
Ivan scowled. “We know he’s living here with you. We know he’s ducking us.” He pulled a phone out of his pocket and tossed it at me. “Call him—tell him to come home.”
I would have, except that I missed. The phone slipped through my fingers and smashed into the pavement. That satisfying crash did more to bolster my courage than anything else. “Call him yourself!”
Ivan lunged at me, but I scurried up the porch steps just as Aileen threw open the front door.
She barred the doorway, magnificent in her black leather miniskirt and knee-high black patent leather boots. A studded dog collar encircled her throat, and she gripped the baseball bat like a slugger waiting for a fastball. Fire flashed from her eyes.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.
Ivan froze in the middle of the street.
“You tell your brother we’re not through with him,” he yelled. He grabbed the remains of his phone, and he and Karl hopped back into the Subaru. The tires squealed as they sped away.
I grabbed Aileen and pulled her inside.
“What did those scumbags want?” She dropped the bat and frowned, arms crossed.
“They wanted Pete.” My hands shook as I locked the front door. “I don’t know what’s going on with him, but he’s got these thugs after him. They kind of freaked me out.”
She snorted. “Couple of cowards, if you ask me. Did you see how fast they split at the sight of a measly baseball bat?”
Or at the sight of the intimidating woman who wielded it. “You came out just in time. Thanks for having my back.”
She nodded. “You can tell your brother he owes me one.” She picked up her guitar case. “I’m off to set up for my gig.”
I went into the kitchen and made a cup of hot chocolate, then sat at the table to wait for Pete. I had a few things of my own to tell him.
* * *
When Pete got home, I didn’t even let him take off his jacket before I launched into him. He listened in silence as I told him about Karl and Ivan and the threatening phone message. “They said they knew you lived here, and they knew you were ducking them. They knew my name and said you should be ashamed for running off and leaving me alone.” I glared at him. “What the heck is going on?”
“Daria, I am so sorry.” Pete sat down at the table and dropped his head into his hands. “I didn’t think it would be this bad. I never thought they would send hit men.”
Hit men? Is that who I’d tangled with this afternoon? “Who are they? What is this tale from Hollywood that’s ‘not for the kiddos,’ according to Emmett? And why does Emmett know all about this when your own sister doesn’t?”
He didn’t look up. I could hardly hear his response. “I owe some Hollywood guys a lot of money. For drugs. I’ve got to figure out how to pay them back. I thought I could handle it without getting you involved. I swear, Daria . . .” He lifted his head and looked at me desperately. “I swear I never thought anything bad could happen to you.”
I sighed deeply, tired from years of putting up with this kind of nonsense. “I forgive you,” I said. “Next time they come around, you better be home.”
He took my hand. “I won’t let you down again, Daria. I promise.”
I’d heard that one before. I remembered Pete in high school, picking me up ninety minutes late from the school play. He’d been drinking at a basketball party and missed my stage debut as Lady Macbeth. He hadn’t tried to defend himself when I yelled at him in the school parking lot. Instead, he’d said, “I’m sorry, Daria. I’ll never let you down like this again. I promise.” What could “never” mean to a seventeen-year-old?
The phone rang, and I jumped, my nerves still on edge. But I wasn’t about to let those creeps Karl and Ivan get to me. I took a deep breath and picked up.
“Daria! I was hoping I’d catch you at home.”
Jim’s voice sent delightful shivers down my spine. I flashed Pete the “okay” sign and turned my back on him.
“Do you have time to go over to the movie set tonight to pick out a ball gown? I’m tied up until seven . . . could you meet me there?”
The next best thing to sewing period costumes was dressing up in them. “That would be great. I’d love to.”
* * *
I met Jim at
the Frisco warehouse in the Flats down by the Schuylkill River. Once a vibrant shipping center with warehouses clustered along the docks, the Flats had changed over the years with the decline in river traffic. A few warehouses had converted to tony restaurants and clubs, with loft apartments upstairs. Others stood vacant, gathering rust. The Frisco warehouse was one of the latter. Its dingy brick walls, dotted with shattered windowpanes, gave the impression of abandonment and decay—a fitting place to base a movie.
Jim met me at the door and took my arm. I’d put on a strapless bra, hose and heels to try on the gowns. I’d wasted half an hour trying to style my hair. Little wisps escaped from the fancy bun I’d struggled to construct, but still—I felt a bit like Cinderella going to the ball, or at least trying on her fairy godmother’s ball gowns.
Jim rewarded my efforts with an admiring glance. He took my hand and led me into the building.
The movie folks had created a glorious ballroom in this cavernous warehouse. Glittering chandeliers hung from the ornate dropped ceiling, defining the set. Full-length mirrors alternated with red-draped windows surrounding the shining parquet dance floor. Gilt cupids and curlicues topped the crown molding running along three sides of the room. The fourth side stood open to the cool, musty air of the warehouse.
Movie people bustled around, working on a variety of tasks. Several couples in full Civil War dress danced a slow waltz in the middle of the ballroom. They were probably practicing for the actual filming, which Jim said would start tomorrow. An array of cameras were scattered around the room—huge cameras with seats. I wondered if Pete would be filming the dance scene. I should have asked him.
Jim led me to an older woman with long gray braids, a three-tiered skirt, and Birkenstock sandals. “I’m Jim Laker, one of the Civil War reenactors,” he told her. “I’ve brought my dance partner to find a dress.”
Uniformly Dead Page 10