by Devon, Gary;
“Faith! What’re you doing here?” The girl snatched up her T-shirt and covered herself.
“The same sinful thing as you are, I imagine,” Faith said, concealing a jealousy so monstrous that she couldn’t bear to look at her any longer. “Is this your friend?”
“Oh, you know Mary McPhearson, don’t you, Mrs. Slater? I stayed with her for a while after the funeral.”
“Yes, of course, I remember,” Faith said. “It’s nice to see you again under more pleasant circumstances.”
“Hi,” said Mary. “Excuse me, though, Mrs. Slater, I was just going to try on some shoes.”
When Faith turned again to Sheila, the girl had slipped on a dress of rough amber silk and was struggling with the zipper. “Here,” Faith said, dropping her things on a chair, “let me.” Wrestling with the unbidden images of her husband’s hands on this body, she set the hook and eye. Faith could still see them through the farmhouse window, his hands all over her, as she adjusted the material squarely on Sheila’s shoulders. Stop it! Oh, stop it! With a light touch under the chin, she tipped the golden head toward the mirror. “There. Take a look at yourself.”
The girl’s eyes sought her own reflection; Faith watched as a tiny knowing smile of approval played at the corners of Sheila’s mouth.
Forgive me Rachel, but you see what I must do. I can’t let this go on. Some things were never meant to happen.
“I only wish your grandmother was here to see how lovely you look.”
Pain, like a blow, flew into the girl’s face.
“But I’m here now,” Faith said. “Let this dress be my gift to you. I know Rachel would want you to have it.”
Faith gauged her visits to the Buchanan house with care. Every two days or so she would appear to help Sheila pack, bring little gifts, offer encouraging advice or simple conversation, reassurance that this difficult time in the girl’s life would pass. How she loathed the perfect body, the unblemished skin, the astonishing blond hair. Her resolve burned: she would turn Sheila Bonner to her.
It was Tuesday morning when the call came from Burris Reeves’s office. Faith was again at the house, tagging boxes for Sheila in the dining room.
“Mr. Reeves wants to see me again,” Sheila told her. “Right away; this afternoon.”
The girl’s face was white with dread.
“But whatever for?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. They just said a few more questions.”
Faith could see the fear, the shrinking uncertainty in her eyes. She said, “Of course I’ll drive you there, darling. You can’t go alone!”
But it was alone that Sheila walked through the glass-paneled door next to the police chief’s office. In the reception area Faith bought a cup of coffee at the coffee machine. She couldn’t sit still. Pacing in the hall outside the glass door, wondering what more the police could want with Sheila, she lifted the paper cup and sipped the coffee, feeling it burn the inside of her mouth and her throat when she swallowed.
Through the glass, she could see Sheila sitting through the interrogation. There were three officers in the room with her; Faith caught a glimpse of Reeves, sitting on the edge of the table, his heavy body leaning toward Sheila, his face filled with sympathy. Henry had told her about Reeves. A snake, he had said, slithery as hell.
But not so slithery as you, my darling, she thought bitterly.
The sound of the door opening forced Faith to return to the moment at hand. Now Sheila was at her side, the girl’s face filled with horror and grief. Instinctively, Faith put her arm around her and just as naturally Sheila allowed her body to sag against her. At last.
Faith led her gently up the stairs through the vestibule, into the sunlight. “Are you all right?”
Finally Sheila said, “They had to show me some pictures. They said maybe something was moved between the time I came … I came home that morning and when the photographers came.” She seemed stunned. “And it brought everything back.”
On the way to the house, they were quiet. Sheila sat staring out the window, biting her lips, fighting, Faith saw, to keep control of her emotions. They were on Canyon Valley Drive before Faith said, “Sheila, is there anything I can do? Was it so terrible? Can’t I help you?”
“You’ve been so nice to me; you’re always there. But you don’t know me. You don’t!” Sheila shook her head. “I’ve done a lot of things I’m ashamed of, Mrs. Slater. I keep thinking about my Gramma. I’ve been selfish. Believe me, if you only knew, you wouldn’t stick around.”
“But you’re wrong!” Faith protested. My God! Is she going to tell me?
Suddenly, Sheila reached out and grasped Faith’s hand, and for a moment the strong young fingers clung to her gratefully. “No, I’m not,” she whispered.
She got out of the car abruptly. “I’ve just got to be alone for now,” she said, and fled up the walk into the house. Faith watched as the door closed behind her. All right, Faith thought, all right now; let it be.
She’s about to fold in spite of herself, Faith thought while driving home. When she walked through her living room minutes later, her back was straighter than it had been in weeks. She hadn’t expected Henry to be home, and he wasn’t. She could never forget that he ran to meet the girl every chance he had. The truth was still scalding. For all I know they could be together right now. Well, Henry would find it rough going with her on this day.
Her charade with Sheila had worn her out. Faith took off her suit and blouse, stepped out of her navy crocodile pumps, whisked off her underclothes. Wrapped in a thick, white, terry cloth robe, she threw a few scented beads into the tub and started a hot bath. The room immediately filled with a cleansing fragrance.
At her vanity, while taking off her makeup, Faith began to formulate her plan. Tomorrow at eleven she had a brunch, and then at one-thirty, Nancy had reserved a court at the club. Back here by midafternoon. She slid the silver tray to the side and there it was: the two ripped pieces of Rachel’s letter. She could feel Rachel’s words fueling her rage, the fine mean taste of her wrath between her teeth. Faith stood and stalked up and down the room, striving to work off her tension. Stop by to see Sheila again the day after, maybe for morning coffee. Good, she thought.
When the tub was more than half full, Faith lay back in her bath, the steaming ripples lapping her body. The girl would never be able to bear this burden for long; today was proof of that. One day soon she would need someone—someone she could trust absolutely. Someone older. Who would she want to run to? Henry? No, there were some things even he couldn’t fix. The girl needed a mother. Suddenly Faith felt elated, icily certain that when the moment was right, Sheila Bonner would finally come to her.
27
“When do you expect her?” Reeves asked the maid.
“Mrs. Slater tells me if anybody calls, she be home very soon.”
“Then, if you don’t mind, I’ll wait on the veranda.”
That had been twenty-five minutes ago. Why hadn’t Henry said it was his diamond? Listening to the late-afternoon silence, Reeves wondered what Faith Slater knew. Well, it’s time I found out. Before long, he heard a car coming and the red Mazda swooped down the driveway; it stopped beside his cruiser, and Faith’s long legs swung out on the driver’s side.
Reeves watched her close the car door and come up the walk, her eyes riveted on the police cruiser. With every step, she moved slower until, within a few yards of the entryway, she stopped, clasping her purse in her arms. She looked right and left, then, through a gap in the bougainvillaea, the police chief’s eyes met hers.
A smile of recognition blazed over her face, although it only highlighted the anxiety that quickly overtook her. “What is it?” she asked. “Has something happened?” She stepped up on the veranda toward him.
“No, nothing like that, nothing disastrous,” Reeves said, keeping the file folder in his left hand. “Mrs. Slater, I don’t believe we’ve ever actually gotten to know one another—I’m Burris Reeves.”
“Yes,” she said. “My husband’s told me of your exploits over the years.” She smiled courteously for a moment, waiting for him to state his business.
“We’re still investigating the Rachel Buchanan murder,” Reeves told her, “and I’ve been meaning to talk to you. You might be able to help us, if you would. I promise not to keep you too long.”
“But—I thought those convicts—”
“That’s what the murderer wanted us to think,” Reeves said. He watched her eyes, but they told him nothing. “Mrs. Slater,” he said, directly, “did you see or talk to Mrs. Buchanan in the few days preceding her death?”
All at once he saw something flash across her face. But what? What was she thinking? “Oh, but you must forgive me, Mr. Reeves,” she exclaimed. “You’ve taken me so completely by surprise that I’ve forgotten my manners.” She went to the door and held it open on the lofty, white living room. “Wouldn’t you like to come in?”
“If it’s all the same to you,” Reeves said, “I wouldn’t mind staying here on the porch. In the fresh air.”
“Then, please … make yourself comfortable. May I get you something to drink?” She continued to look at him with grave curiosity. “Iced tea, perhaps?”
“Yes, something cold would be good, but I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”
“Surely you’ll stay long enough for a drink,” she said graciously, stepping inside the door and asking Luisa to bring two glasses of iced tea. “Now where were we?” she asked, coming back and taking a place on the wicker settee across from him. She laced her fingers around her crossed knee.
“The last time you talked to Mrs. Buchanan,” he repeated. He settled back into the wicker chair, the file folder on his lap.
Faith paused, staring before her into space. Slowly she shook her head. “I really can’t remember. It’s been—what?—over a month now since she … I used to see Rachel every so often in town, but … I’m sorry, but I honestly can’t recall.”
Some people had trouble looking at him squarely during questioning even if they had nothing to hide; Faith Slater, he thought, was the sort of woman who would look him straight in the eye no matter how innocent or guilty she might be.
“I’m working my way through a list of people who were Rachel’s friends,” he explained.
But before anything else could be said, the front door opened and the maid came out, carrying a tray with a pitcher of iced tea and glasses of sparkling ice. She put it down on the wicker table at Faith’s side and left. Faith said, “Thank you, Luisa,” then to Reeves, “there’s lemon and sugar, if you’d like.” Bracelets clicked on her wrist as she filled the two glasses. Reeves noticed that the hand offering him the glass was not quite steady. She said, “What are you doing to catch the killers? All we ever get in the newspapers is the same old song and dance. Are you on to anything yet?”
“We know quite a lot,” Reeves said. “But it’s never enough. For one thing, I’m convinced that Mrs. Buchanan knew her killer. And there was only one assailant—not two or three. A lot of things indicate this. For instance, we’ve been told that Mrs. Buchanan was upset and despondent—very deeply troubled on the evening before she died. I’ve been led to believe that such depression was unlike her. Would you agree with that, Mrs. Slater?”
“Yes. Rachel was almost always in good spirits.”
“We looked everywhere—did you know?—for one solid piece of evidence. We searched that property inch by inch.”
“Evidence?” Faith said blankly. “What kind of evidence?”
“Anything—a fingerprint, an article of clothing. Whoever killed Mrs. Buchanan was wearing gloves and they had to have been … well, bloody.” Reeves noted that she didn’t change expression. Her control was remarkable. “We believe the gloves were probably hidden or thrown away right after the murder. By the way, did Henry tell you about driving out to the Buchanan house with me?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Faith Slater said. She glanced up at him and then away again. “I’m sure he didn’t.”
“Well, it’s not important,” Reeves told her, lowering his eyes. He didn’t tell you about the diamond? Although he didn’t move, he could feel her cool scrutiny on him. “Then after we were absolutely sure nothing would be found, not a trace—we got lucky.”
He leaned forward, reaching for his glass of iced tea, when the file folder on his knees fell to the floor and a number of black-and-white eight-by-ten glossies spilled across the flagstones of the veranda. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Faith said automatically, reaching for them. “I hope they’re not …” Then she blanched, her eyes immersed in the photograph she held in her hand. It was of Rachel—taken, no doubt, moments after the police had arrived at the scene that ghastly morning. Rachel’s old eyes were still staring, her bloody hand clutched at her throat.
Faith shivered, now, looking at Reeves. “My God!” she gasped, “My God! Why didn’t you tell me what those were? Here! Take them!”
“She died a horrible death, Mrs. Slater. Unbelievable. That’s what I think about; it’s what I dream about at night. A vicious murder.”
“My God.” She was still visibly shaken. “How could somebody get away with this?”
“It was luck. A run of pure luck.” Reeves took the lump of tissue from the small manila envelope in his pocket, unwrapped it and placed the diamond in Faith’s hand, his eyes fixed upon her face.
She blinked and—he was sure—almost shuddered.
Both waited for the other to speak. Faith looked up and saw his cold, steadfast eyes.
Faith turned the diamond over and over in her palm. It’s Henry’s, she thought. She could feel the tiny nick on its back. I’d know it anywhere.
“Have you ever seen a diamond like this one before, Mrs. Slater?” He asked, and again waited. “You knew her fairly well. Did you ever see Rachel Buchanan wearing a diamond like this, maybe in a piece of jewelry?”
What does he know? Faith found her voice, or thought she had, and said, “No.” But she hadn’t: her response was choked, hardly more than a whisper. “No,” she repeated.
“That’s what I thought. A jeweler told me it was most likely a man’s diamond.”
She was aware by the nature of his silence that although she had told him nothing at all, she had been understood only too well. In spite of the scare he’d given her, she was determined not to let things deteriorate any further. It’s Henry’s diamond, she thought, it’s from his ring. The police chief had been holding it back all along, waiting to spring it on her after unnerving her with Rachel’s photographs. Too late, Faith realized exactly what he had done. He knows something.
“Where … did you find it?”
“Do I need to tell you where we found it, Mrs. Slater?”
By the way he phrased it, Faith no longer needed to be told.
“We found it near the place where Rachel was killed.”
Still aware that her face was flushed, she looked hard at the diamond, trying to compose herself.
“Is there anything else you want to say to me, Mrs. Slater?”
“No,” she said, “nothing.” He’s my husband, she thought, wanting to clutch the diamond even tighter. But she handed it back.
Until these last few minutes, she had appeared to be utterly sure of herself, but as Reeves collected his things, he saw that she could hardly sit still.
“I’ll see you out,” Faith said.
He rose from his chair and stood at the railing, a balding, imposing figure. His iced tea sat untouched on the wicker table as they went down the walk. “Sometimes it takes a long time,” Reeves told her. “But sooner or later something breaks and we start getting close to the answer.” He left her by saying, “Take care of yourself, Mrs. Slater. Thanks for making me feel at home.”
Faith smiled bleakly.
Could it be? She went inside, closed the door and stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by the echo of every word that the chief of police had said. Her teeth and her fists w
ere clenched; she had to keep swallowing to hold back the tears or nausea, she hardly knew which. The thought that Henry was involved in this in any way was unbelievable. And yet.
That was Henry’s diamond, she thought, I know it was. She took several deep breaths, waiting for the sound of the motor outside to recede.
But he couldn’t have. No, my God. It can’t be true.
Faith glanced at the clock: four-thirty. When would he be coming home? I gave him that diamond!
She tore through the house.
I’ve got to find it. I’ve got to know for certain.
In his study, she quickly went through his desk starting with the large central drawer and working her way down through the drawers in its stout legs. She sifted through stacks of paper and copies of old correspondence, ran her fingers under things and into the corners, but Henry’s ring wasn’t there.
She stepped into the middle of the room, looking, searching for a place where he might have put it. But what if he didn’t want her to find it, she thought, what if he had hidden it deliberately?
Faith left the study and went through the bedroom, into the bath. It would take forever to search this house and even then there was no guarantee that it was here. She opened the medicine cabinet and examined the shelves. Nothing. She ran her hands through the linen closet, again nothing, and stepped back into the bedroom. She felt the hanging clothes and examined the storage bins in his dressing room. The ring wasn’t anywhere.
That diamond was his; I know it was.
Where could it be?
Faith ran back toward the living room through the kitchen, where Luisa was preparing dinner, and went through the laundry room, opening the door to the garage. She stepped down on the one concrete step, flipped on the light, and the drab gray walls leapt away from her. Through the gloom she saw the rows of tools arranged and gleaming on the pegboard, but if he had hidden the ring out here she knew she would never find it.
Where? Where?
Then somehow it occurred to her. She thought, What’s the first thing he does when he comes home in the evening? Where’s the first place he goes? Faith walked back into the living room. With the tips of her fingers, she pushed the red leather spine of David Copperfield and the hidden bar rose on whirring gears before her. It’s here somewhere, she thought. She looked in the obvious places, behind the rows of liquor bottles and in the area around the bucket for the ice maker; then she remembered the small, secret cash drawer, triggered by a sliding panel on the side of the cabinet. With her fingertips, Faith slipped the panel backward, and the shallow drawer, released, sprang forward an inch. Faith pulled it open and looked down through the square, empty hole in the gold setting of his ring.