Her honey-gold hair was wrapped up in a soft chignon tonight, but he remembered how it looked when it was loose, flowing over her body—their bodies. He gazed at the simple black dress she wore and imagined slowly peeling it off of her.
He stopped himself—letting his mind wander now could be dangerous. There were too many who were hoping for perfection, but looking for flaws.
He turned toward her once again and barely nodded. She understood; they had existed on shared secrets for several months now. He had to carefully consider his next steps, especially when it came to Renee. He couldn’t afford a scandal—not now, when his political career had just taken off. Whatever he decided, he had to move quickly and make sure that any residual damage was minimized.
She caught his eye once more, lifted her glass in a subtle toast and grinned. The teasing in her eyes lasted until she stopped at the open French doors. She turned at the door and looked back over her shoulder, sending him another kind of look altogether. He felt the heat across the room. Coughing into his hand and nodding slightly, he signaled that he would be meeting her soon.
“So, where are you off to?” Jerry asked.
Renee smiled. “It’s getting a little stuffy in here. Now that the announcement’s been made, I’m going to catch a little air.”
With her hand on the stone balustrade, she slipped off her high heels and stepped from the patio to the grass. The mild fall weather had encouraged late blooms and thick lawns. She inhaled the spicy scent of chrysanthemums as she wandered through the ornamental gardens. The full moon lit the way as she walked past arbors and fruit trees to the back of the gardens.
The incongruent scents of hardy mums, burning leaves, mesquite smoke and grilling steaks melded together to form a unique perfume that spoke of memories and possibilities.
She peeked over her shoulder once again before she slipped through a break in the tall hedge that surrounded the garden, and made her way cautiously across a small bridge. Following the path from the bridge, she found the wrought iron fence covered with ivy from years of growth. She lifted the well-oiled latch on the gate and slipped inside.
A beam of moonlight floated on the top of the water. Sitting at the edge of the pool, she slowly lowered her bare feet into the warm darkness. When he had first brought her out to the secluded heated pool, she thought it was the ultimate self-indulgence. But after spending some of their most intimate moments in the pool, she now thought of it as a definite necessity. She wiggled her toes—her movements causing the reflection to dance in soft waves against the other end of the pool. She giggled and splashed her feet flatly against the surface of the water. A small wave of moonlight splashed up against the opposite deck.
She lifted her glass for another sip of champagne and was surprised to find it empty. She licked the edge of the cup and sadly put it down on the mosaic tile.
The music from inside the house drifted out to her, slow and bluesy. Her body swayed to the sound. But even the blues couldn’t dampen her spirits, for once in her life things were going to go her way.
She slowly rubbed her abdomen beneath her black silk sheath. Yes, wonderful things are going to happen, she thought.
He watched her slip through the gate. Perfect. Nice and private.
He moved swiftly and quietly down the path, making sure that he was not discovered.
Such a shame, she was a looker. But hey, you gotta clean up all the loose ends.
The gate opened noiselessly. His soft-soled shoes made no sound on the deck surrounding the pool.
She gasped in surprise when his hands came down on her shoulders. She tried to turn and look at him, but his fingers bit down on her shoulders, keeping her in place. Her angry cry quickly turned into a purr when he slowly massaged her back and her neck.
“I’m so glad you could meet me out here, I have such wonderful news for you,” she said.
She felt a slight pinprick against her neck and tried to jump away, swatting at the invisible bug. But his hand held her firmly in place.
“Ow, damn mosquitoes!” she complained. “You really should spray some insecticide out here…”
She yawned softly and closed her eyes.
“I guess I’m feeling a little tired,” she whispered, “too much champagne. I can’t keep my eyes open.”
Her body sank slowly down, she felt enveloped by the darkness. She looked up, saw the glitter of the moonlight above her and smiled.
Suddenly, her mind broke through the haze of the drug. She struggled against the strong arms holding her under the water. Her shouts surfaced as large bubbles of air, her thrashing arms and legs as soft waves against the sides of the pool. In a few moments the bubbles stopped, the waves became gentle ripples and Renee sank to the bottom of the pool.
“Oh, God, my baby!” was her last thought before she slipped away.
ONE
Moonlight stole through the living room windows of the small two-story home in the quiet town of Freeport, Illinois. Its light cast shadows around the tastefully decorated room, turning ordinary objects into spectral stalkers.
The wind ruffled the sheer curtains that swept over the polished wood floor. In the hall, an antique grandfather clock struck the hour of midnight. Clear tones echoed the twelve chimes throughout the quiet house.
Silence shrouded the home for a moment. Then a muffled noise came from behind the door that led from the basement stairs. Thump. Thump. Thump.
It moved closer. The polished ceramic doorknob rattled. Thump. Thump. Thump.
The door shook from the force of the blows. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Once again the lock and hinges held the door in place. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Finally, the wood around the brass lock splintered and the door crashed open.
He slowly shuffled from the doorway toward the staircase that led upstairs. Upstairs to the beautifully appointed bedroom. The bedroom where one woman slept. Alone and unprotected.
The wind moved through the curtains on the landing, midway up the stairs. The wind caught his scent and carried it forward—the sickly sweet scent of a decomposing body. He paused for a moment on the landing and then continued slowly up the stairs.
All of his movements were marked by a clear trail of blood. Streaks of blood mottled the floor, the Oriental rug and now, the top of the stairs.
The bedroom door at the end of the hall was slightly ajar. Thick white carpeting muffled his footsteps. He slowly pushed the door open and entered the room.
Moonlight spilled over the bed. Mary’s long, light brown hair was spread across the pillowcase, a blanket covering half of her face. She was snoring lightly and her arm was stretched over her head.
He moved closer to the bed.
She wanted to hold her breath. The smell was almost too much to take. Instead, she concentrated on keeping her breath steady and rhythmic as if she were really asleep.
He stopped next to the bed and leaned forward. Hanging over her in the dark.
She heard the drops of blood hit the ivory 400-count down comforter. Plunk. Plunk. Plunk.
“Damn!”
She turned in her bed and looked up at him. He was dressed in gray, a Union soldier. His uniform was riddled with bullet holes and thick, red blood slowly seeped from each opening. But the blood dripping on her bed was not coming from those oozing apertures. No, the blood dripped from the stump where his head used to be. Plunk. Plunk. Plunk.
She watched as the blood pooled on the comforter.
“Crap, this is going to stain!”
She closed her eyes for a moment and then pushed herself up in her bed.
“Look, I’ve just had a really bad day and I can’t deal with you tonight. Okay?”
He paused…and then straightened. After contemplating her response for a moment, he shrugged his shoulders, turned and slowly shuffled out of the room.
“And try to keep your blood off the new tiles in the kitchen,” she called after him.
She put her elbows on her knees, laid h
er head in her hands and sighed. Was she ever going to get a good night’s sleep?
Well, she might as well go and see what kind of mess he left downstairs.
She slipped out of her bed, examining the comforter for damage. Fortunately, when he had departed, so had his blood.
“Bonus,” she muttered.
Pulling on a short, silk robe, she tied it as she headed down the stairs. She watched him retreat through the broken door, then closed it and moved a chair in front of it in until she could replace the lock—this time, she decided, with a deadbolt.
“Deadbolt—good one,” she chuckled.
Glancing around the room, she could see that other than a rumpled rug, he did surprisingly little damage.
“Not bad for a headless dead guy.”
***
The broadcaster’s voice pierced the fog of sleep that encompassed Mary. She moaned and blindly reached out from her cocoon of blankets, trying to find the snooze button. Of course she couldn’t reach it—she’d purposely placed the radio alarm far enough away from the bed so she had to get up to turn it off. She knew herself better than that.
Grumbling, she tossed the blankets off and stumbled across the room to her dresser. She flipped off the alarm and started to turn back to her inviting bed when she saw the yellow sports bra hanging as a reminder across the corner of the mirror.
Mary’s eyes widened—oh, yeah, the race!
She groaned and opened her top drawer, grabbed the rest of her running gear and headed to the bathroom.
A few minutes later she was outside on her front porch, putting her half-asleep body through a series of stretches, while she inhaled slowly and deeply. She loved the scent of fall mornings. She turned toward the road and did her quad stretches, bending her right leg back and holding her right ankle with her hand.
She could tell someone in the neighborhood had used their fireplace last night, inhaling the faint aroma of burnt wood. Turning toward the porch, she slowly touched her toes. The dew was still heavy on the Marigolds and Mums in her front yard, the combination of spicy flower and damp soil filled her lungs. Somehow the morning air was fresher and more invigorating than any other time of the day. She glanced up to the thermometer on her porch, fifty-two degrees. Although the mid-October morning was chilly, she knew the day would warm up soon enough. Feeling stretched out, she jogged down the street toward the city park.
The streets were deserted and the morning sun was just barely peeking over the hill on the east side of town. She breathed in deeply. This was the nice thing about living in a small town: fresh air, quiet streets and interesting people.
Interesting people. She smiled to herself as she thought about the interesting person who was likely to be waiting for her at the park. Her mystery man. Her morning motivation. Her competitor.
At first, the meetings had been accidental. They both jogged in the park at the ungodly hour of five o’clock. They kept to the same path—never speaking—but during the last lap an unspoken competition had developed. Both raced to the finish line, trying to outrun the other.
After a few weeks they waited for each other, still never speaking a word. Only a courtly nod of greeting and the race was on. Now, six months later, he was a regular part of her routine.
Mary jogged past the entrance of the park. This was another part of the small town that she loved. The park was located on one-hundred acres of grasslands, woods and limestone bluffs and would have made Norman Rockwell whistle with glee. Americana at its best: an old fashioned carousel, a band shell that hosted Sunday evening concerts in the summer, a baseball diamond for softball games and a nature trail for young lovers. That is, until the local police caught them.
Mary smiled as she turned onto the jogging path and headed toward the playground. Once she crested the hill she could see the playground and him—stretching.
Oh wow, she thought, he does that really well.
She took in his usual garb—a pair of cut-off sweats and a muscle tee.
I wonder if he ever considered Spandex? she mused, as she jogged closer. Probably wouldn’t be too polite to suggest it.
Besides, she actually liked him better because he wasn’t into designer athletic gear. His clothes seemed to match him: down to earth, hard-working, honest. His brown hair was slightly shaggy and he never shaved before he ran.
He’s stubborn, demanding and used to having his own way, Mary silently decided. Pretty good for never having spoken to the guy.
She grinned.
She passed the teeter-totters and jogged up to the swing sets where he waited.
He smiled and nodded.
Mary nodded in response.
They took their places and ran.
The run was great—fast and hard. It cleared the cobwebs out of her mind, but her nocturnal visitor had taken its toll. Her competitor was pulling out in front. She hated to lose—no, she really hated to lose. Quickly, she assessed the situation. In a moment they would be reaching the fork in the road. The high path was smoother, but it was uphill. The lower path gave you downhill momentum, but you also had to go through the band shell obstacle course. If she could hurdle those three park benches, she would more than make up for his speed. Deciding, she took the downhill path on the left and ran toward the white band shell. Gauging the height of the first bench, she gathered herself and jumped.
She easily cleared it and ran the few yards to the next, sailing over with no trouble. Heading for the third, she glanced over her shoulder. She could see that he had nearly caught up with her. Pushing harder, she leapt over the last bench, came down a little unsteady, caught herself and sprinted to the finish line.
She touched the tall chain-link fence around the merry-go-round only moments before he did.
Breathing heavily, she bent over and placed her hands on her knees. Mary wiped the sweat from her forehead and turned to him. He was as winded as she, his t-shirt soaked with perspiration, his hands on his knees. He caught her glance, grinned, and winked in approval.
She returned the grin, straightened and started the slow jog back to her house without looking back.
It was going to be a good day.
TWO
The tall brownstone office building sat in the midst of a decaying downtown. It seemed people preferred to shop in the strip malls or the “Marts” that were located where the urban sprawl had guided them, rather than in the quaint storefronts of yesteryear.
Mary pulled her car into the diagonal parking spot in front of her office and stepped out. She gazed up and down the nearly deserted street, enjoying the fact that the folks who usually wandered down Main Street were there for a purpose, rather than spoiled teenagers with time to kill. She also liked the atmosphere of the area and could feel the past generations of townsfolk who had walked down the street, looking for the new shoes for Suzie and the baseball mitt for Tommy.
Her gift allowed her to catch a glimpse of the past. Shadows of young boys dressed in dungarees and cotton shirts, pressing their noses against the storefront window, coveting the new Red Flyer wagon or Keds tennis shoes. Teenage couples making doe-eyes over a shared ice cream soda. A uniformed soldier hugging his girl goodbye before the bus carried him away to war.
Sometimes she wondered about the rest of their stories. Unfortunately, she only got part of the picture, unless she was able to research and follow the story through. These shadows walked in and out of her life like commercials during primetime. She had a glimpse of their lives, but not the whole story.
She unlocked the door to her office and switched on the lights. The answering machine light was blinking. That was always a good sign, unless it was a desperate telemarketer.
Just before she clicked the messages button her phone rang.
“O’Reilly Investigations, Mary speaking,” she said.
“He’s dead!” the voice on the other end of the phone cried. “I came in this morning and tried everything—he’s just dead.”
Mary smiled, recognizing the voice of h
er two-doors-down neighbor, Rosie Pettigrew, a highly successful real estate broker.
“Calm down, Rosie,” she said, “I’m sure we can revive Mel.”
Mary pictured Rosie waving a lace handkerchief at her face while she clutched the phone in her other hand. Rosie was in her early sixties, but had the appearance and energy of a woman much younger. She was always outfitted as if she were expecting to take tea at the White House.
She had buried four husbands, raised five children and gone through three careers. She was extremely confident and looked to each new challenge as an adventure, except for one area of her life—computers.
She had named her computer Mel because—as she explained to Mary—anything that took this much time out a woman’s life, caused as many headaches and, on occasion, gave a woman pleasure beyond belief, had to be a man.
“No, Mary, I’m sure he’s dead this time,” Rosie cried. “Can you come over and have a look?”
Mary glanced at the blinking light on her answering machine and shook her head.
“Sorry, Rosie, I might actually have a client. Let me give you a couple of over-the-phone pointers and we’ll see if we can get Mel back to his old sexy self.”
Rosie sighed audibly. “Fine, we can try. But I tell you, Mary, he’s dead for sure this time.”
“Okay, first click on the button on the monitor—anything?”
Mary heard the click and waited.
“No, nothing,” Rosie said. “That little green light isn’t even coming on.”
“Okay,” Mary said, “now try turning the computer on again. Do you hear any sounds?”
“No, nothing at all,” Rosie responded after a moment.
“Okay—check the power strip. Is the switch in the ‘On’ position?”
“Yes, the switch is on—but the red light on the power switch isn’t even lit up!” Rosie groaned with frustration.
Mary smiled.
“Okay, Rosie, I want you to unplug the power switch and plug your lamp into that socket.”
Crimes of Passion Page 86