She Loves Me Not

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can, babe,” he promised. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

  “And I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “For a minute I was worried that it was you lying out there dead on the ground,” she admitted.

  “But I was at your place last night.”

  “I know you were. I’m just . . . I’m so relieved you’re safe.”

  She wanted to tell him, right then and there, how much she loves him. How she no longer has a doubt in her mind about marrying him.

  Then she realizes that he has no idea she was ever in doubt. As far as Peter knows, she’s been enthusiastic about their coming marriage from the day he proposed.

  “I’m freezing, Aunt Leslie,” Jenna complains, sitting on the piano bench, her arms huddled miserably into her jacket.

  “It’s warming up in here already,” Leslie tells her, hearing the telltale groan of the basement ductwork. “I turned the thermostat up to seventy. It just takes awhile.”

  “I want my Mommy,” Leo says.

  So do I, Leslie thinks, her gaze falling on a framed family portrait, one that was taken in her childhood. I want my Mommy and my Daddy, and my big brother. I want somebody to make everything okay.

  When Peter comes, she’ll feel better. She always feels safe with him nearby.

  “I’ll be back in a few seconds,” she tells the kids, heading toward the kitchen, turning on more lights as she goes.

  The first thing she’ll do is put on some water so that Rose can have tea when she gets here. Then she’ll call Peter and tell him to swing by and get her sister-in-law.

  The instant Leslie steps over the threshold into the kitchen, somebody begins pounding on the piano’s bass keys.

  “Aunt Leslie!” Jenna shrieks. “Leo is giving me a headache!”

  “Play gently, Leo,” Leslie calls back, taking the empty teakettle from its home on the stove’s back burner.

  “I am pwaying gentwee!” He continues to pound the keys in ear-shattering discord.

  Not for the first time, she wonders how Rose manages to keep her sanity, alone with two small children all the time. It’s not that they’re bad kids, even, Leslie thinks, pressing the button to flip open the cap on the teakettle’s spout.

  They’re just . . . noisy, she thinks, as the treble keys are added to the cacophony in the next room.

  “Aunt Wes-wee! Jenna’s ruining my song!” Leo bellows.

  “No, she’s not. It’s a duet,” Leslie calls back, peering into the teakettle, then sniffing it. It smells clean, but she should probably wash it out before using it.

  She picks up the phone on the way to the sink, dialing Peter’s cell phone number. He picks up on the third ring, just as she’s reaching for the hot water tap.

  “Peter? It’s me. Can you pick up Rose in your truck? The roads are bad and I don’t want her driving over here alone in my car.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not ready to leave yet.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll tell her to wait until you get there. How long do you think it’ll be?”

  “I can’t tell. We’re still working on the roof. Tell her I’ll call when I’m leaving.”

  “Page her instead. She took the phone off the hook because the press kept calling and bugging her.”

  “What’s her pager number?”

  She gives it to him. “Be careful driving, Peter.”

  “I will. Are you okay over there with the kids, Les?”

  “We’re fine . . . except, there’s no water. Damn!” She tries the cold water tap. Nothing. “The pipes must be frozen.”

  “You’d better get a plumber over there right away if Rose is going to be staying there with the kids. She can’t be there without water.”

  “I know. I’ll tell her to call Hitch. Maybe he can come tonight.”

  “Aunt Leslie!” Jenna yells. “He’s hogging the bench!”

  Leslie sighs. “I’ve got to go, Peter. Love you.”

  “You too.”

  He hangs up.

  Funny how the absence of the word love on Peter’s tongue doesn’t bother her nearly as much this afternoon as it did last night, she thinks, dialing Rose’s pager.

  The Land Rover’s wipers beat a fast-paced rhythm that seems entirely at odds with the creeping traffic on the Long Island Expressway. David taps the steering wheel anxiously in time with the wipers, peering through the windshield at the string of red taillights dotting the sheet of swirling snow.

  He should have headed south when he came off the Whitestone Bridge from Westchester. He could have taken the Southern State to Sunrise Highway, the way he and Angela used to do when they went out to visit friends in the Hamptons. He never takes the L.I.E. Why did he get on it today?

  He’s only at exit thirty. He’s got over thirty more to go. At this rate, that’s going to take hours.

  But you might have days. Months, even.

  After all, more than a year went by between Olivia McGlinchie’s and Isabel Van Nuys’ murders. There’s no reason to assume that Rose Larrabee is in imminent danger.

  For all David knows, Olivia’s and Isabel’s deaths were tragic coincidences.

  No, he tells himself firmly, remembering the letters in his study. The letters that revealed the names of the organ recipients. The letters that somebody opened and read.

  Olivia’s and Isabel’s murders were connected, somehow. Connected to each other, and to Angela.

  David is as certain of that as he is that Angela’s mysterious lover has something to do with both deaths.

  If only he had that picture of Clarence from the McGlinchies’ photo album, so he could show it to Rose. He intended to make a detour to Staten Island to get it after he left Woodbury Hills, but by the time he reached New York the snow was coming down hard and traffic was a mess. He was afraid to go anywhere but straight to Rose Larrabee, driven by the urgent instinct to warn her.

  So strong is his conviction that she’s in danger that he even considered going to the police.

  Yes, and they‘ll throw me in jail as a suspect the minute they figure out that I was up in Woodbury Hills this morning asking about Isabel Van Nuys, and that Olivia McGlinchie’s body was found near my property, and both women have Angela’s organs.

  No, he can’t go to the police. Not until he’s sure. Not until he has concrete evidence linking the mysterious Clarence to both Isabel and Rose as well.

  If only he had that damn picture.

  Now he’ll have to convince Rose to come with him back to Staten Island in a blizzard, probably in the middle of the night, he thinks, gazing up at the darkening sky.

  He presses the brake and slows to a stop as the traffic in front of him stalls once again.

  Dammit. This is maddening. He hasn’t felt this helpless since . . .

  Since you sat by Angela’s bedside in the hospital.

  No.

  He doesn’t want to go there now. This isn’t about Angela. Not really.

  Yes, it is. Of course it is.

  Saving Rose Larrabee’s life is David’s last chance to keep a part of Angela alive.

  Angela’s heart beats in Rose’s chest.

  Her cheating heart.

  Yes, but it’s her heart, just the same.

  All David knows now is that in the end, he loved Angela, no matter what she did.

  And that Rose Larrabee isn’t going to die.

  She can’t die. He won’t let her.

  Suddenly aware that the New Jersey radio station he was listening to has given way to static, David turns the dial until he finds WLIR, a local Long Island station.

  “Coming up next, we’ll have the latest on your rush-hour traffic and weather,” the DJ promises as an old Elton John song comes to a close. “But first, these messages.”

  As the DJ’s voice gives way to a jaunty jingle, David glances down at the cell phone lying on the console. He could try to call Rose again. But he should probably conserve the waning battery. A
nd he has the feeling it would be futile, anyway. Her line has been busy for hours.

  That can’t be a good sign.

  Maybe she just took it off the hook because one of her kids is taking a nap.

  Or maybe she’s using the Internet without a DSL line, so her phone is tied up.

  The Internet!

  Why didn’t he think of it before?

  Joan McGlinchie’s voice drifts back to him.

  Ralph bought a computer, and he learned how to use it. He sent Olivia’s picture all over . . .

  If Ralph sent Olivia’s picture over the Internet, he can send Clarence’s.

  His heart racing, David reaches for his cell phone.

  “Christine! Open up! It’s me!”

  “Ben?” Stunned, she rises from the couch and makes her way to the door, still carrying the fireplace poker. It sounds like her husband’s voice, but why would he be home at this hour of the day?

  She peeks through the crack in the door.

  It’s Ben, all right.

  Maybe he couldn’t stand being at work, knowing I’m so sick here. Or maybe he heard about the murder next door and he rushed home to make sure I’m okay.

  She pulls the door closed enough to release the chain, then steps back to let him into the house. A gust of snow blows through the door with him.

  “Christ, it’s miserable out there. Why’d you put the chain on? Oh, hell, I think my shoes are ruined.” Ben stomps his feet on the mat. She sees that he’s wearing his black wing-tips, and resists the urge to ask him why he didn’t think to wear boots when he left this morning.

  Instead, she asks, “What are you doing home so early?”

  “The office closed at noon because of the storm. Good thing, too. It took me four hours to get home. I couldn’t get a cab over to Penn Station so I had to walk across town, and the trains were all running late when I got there.”

  Shivering in the fresh draft, she returns to the couch. So he didn’t come home early merely because he was worried about her. She should have known better than to even entertain the ridiculous notion.

  “Why didn’t you call and tell me you were on your way?” she asks, pulling an afghan over herself and leaning her throbbing head against the pillow again.

  “I didn’t think of it. I left the office pretty fast. They wanted everyone out of there so the cleaning staff could do their thing and go home, too.”

  “I tried to call your cell phone. You didn’t even have it turned on.”

  “I forgot to bring it with me. It’s probably still on the dresser upstairs. Sleeping on the couch last night really threw me off,” he says, almost in an accusatory tone.

  She clenches her jaw, staring at the television, where Oprah is welcoming Dr. Phil.

  “What’s going on next door?” Ben asks, coming into the living room. He sits in a chair and bends to unlace his shoes. “There are cops and news vans all over the street.”

  “There was a murder.”

  He stops short, his hands frozen, clutching the ties. “A murder?”

  She nods. “Remember that prowler? The one you told me was none of my business? Apparently, he came back and killed somebody.”

  “The woman next door?”

  “No. A man. I don’t know who he was. All I know is that the police haven’t caught him yet, and they want to talk to both of us.”

  “Us? Why do they want to talk to us?”

  “Because we live right next door, Ben. We’re witnesses.”

  “I’m not a witness. I’m never even here. Did you tell them that I’m never even here?”

  “They’re not marriage counselors, Ben. They’re cops.”

  “That’s not what I . . .” He trails off, shaking his head, untying his shoes. As he removes them, along with his socks, he seems to be digesting the fact that somebody was killed right next door.

  When he speaks again, his tone is kinder. “You must’ve been a wreck all day, Christine.”

  Tears well up in her eyes. “I was. And I feel so sick . . . and I’m out of Advil and my head is killing me.”

  “You’re out of Advil?”

  “I tried to call you at work to tell you to get me some on the way home,” she says miserably, sniffling.

  “I’ll go get it for you. Just let me get changed, and warm up. Then I’ll go to the store.”

  “You will?”

  He nods. She’s stunned.

  “Is there anything else you need? Chicken soup?”

  “No,” she says quickly, her stomach churning at the mere thought of it.

  “Jello? Ginger ale?”

  “Ginger ale would be good,” she tells him.

  “Okay. Don’t worry, Christine. You’re going to be okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  She nods, wishing she could believe that.

  “Do you have a safe place to spend the night, Mrs. Larrabee?” asks the kind young policeman with the blond crewcut. Officer Shanley, his name is. “We’re going to be patrolling the neighborhood, but—”

  “Oh, I’m not staying here,” she says with a shudder. “My sister-in-law already took the children over to—”

  She breaks off, feeling a sudden vibration against her hip bone. Sam’s pager is hooked to the belt loop of her jeans. Lifting it, she glances at the window, certain it’s Leslie calling. For a moment, she’s taken aback by the unfamiliar number. Then she recognizes that the call is coming from her in-laws’ house.

  “I have to get in touch with my sister-in-law, Officer,” she tells the policeman, who has been at her side for the past half hour, showing her a series of local mug shots to see if she recognizes any of them.

  Nobody, including Rose, was surprised when she didn’t.

  As she pointed out to the police, she never saw Luke Pleuger’s assailant. Nor did she ever actually see a prowler lurking around her house, or have a run-in with anyone who might have been stalking her.

  “Go ahead and make your call, Mrs. Larrabee,” the officer says, standing and walking to the door. “And then you might want to get wherever it is that you’re going. The roads are getting pretty bad out there.”

  “It isn’t far,” she tells him, managing a faint smile as she picks up the cordless phone. Remembering it was off the hook, she holds the Talk button down for a few minutes. As soon as she releases it and hears a dial tone, she punches in her in-laws’ number.

  As she waits for the call to go through, she presses the back of her hand to her forehead, as she does to the children when she’s trying to figure out if they have a fever.

  Her head feels warm, and it aches. And her throat is really starting to hurt. Candy Adamski told her earlier that Gregg Silva is still out with the flu, as are a number of the Toddler Tyme children. Rose wonders if she’s coming down with it, too.

  The phone rings twice before Leslie answers it.

  Rose can hear a terrible racket in the background. “Les, is everything okay?”

  “Jenna and Leo are playing the piano. I’m giving them a lesson. Maybe we can have a recital for you when you get here.”

  “I’m about to leave now, just as soon as I can throw some things into a bag.” Rose carries the cordless phone up the stairs to her room.

  “No, don’t. Peter’s coming for you in the truck, Rose.”

  “Why? He doesn’t have to do that. I have your car, remember?” She opens her closet and pushes past the coats hanging there to find Sam’s old duffel bag on a shelf in back.

  “No, Rose, the roads are too slippery for you to be out in my car. Just wait there for him. He’ll page you when he’s coming. It won’t be long.”

  “Okay,” Rose says reluctantly, not wanting to stay in this house a moment longer than she has to.

  If Peter takes too long, and the police leave . . . well, she’d rather take her chances on an icy road in Leslie’s car than stay here alone after dark.

  “Listen, Rose, I just tried to turn on the water and the pipes are—” Leslie breaks off, hearing a loud shriek
.

  “Leo! Cut it out!” Jenna screams. “Aunt Leslie!”

  “Hang on a second, Rose.” The phone clatters as Leslie hurriedly puts aside the receiver.

  With the cordless phone propped between her cheek and shoulder, Rose goes into the bathroom. While retrieving her daily medication, she finds a half-full package of throat lozenges in the medicine cabinet. She pops one into her mouth and puts the package, along with the prescription bottles, into her duffel bag. Opening a dresser drawer, she counts out a few days’ worth of underwear, then several pairs of socks. She carries it all over to the open duffel bag on the bed, listening as her sister-in-law soothes Jenna and Leo in the background. She can hear Leslie telling them something about teaching them piano again just as soon as she’s done on the phone.

  “We’re going to work on that duet, guys,” her sister-in-law is saying.

  “How does my part go again, Aunt Wes-wee?” Leo asks.

  “I’ll play it in a minute.”

  “No, now!”

  “Okay, but just quickly. Your mommy’s waiting on the phone.” Leslie begins playing the piano on the other end of the line.

  After a few hauntingly familiar chords, Rose lets out a startled gasp.

  “Mrs. McGlinchie? This is David Brookman. Thank goodness you’re home.”

  “David! Where are you? The connection is—”

  “I know. It’s not great. I’m on my cell phone, driving on the L.I.E.,” David says hurriedly, above the static. “Listen, Mrs. McGlinchie—”

  “Joanne.”

  “Joanne,” he obliges tightly, “I need your husband to do something for me.”

  “He’s not home, David.”

  He deflates. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “I hope it isn’t long. He went to the supermarket to get bread and milk. We’re all out, and we’re afraid we’re going to be snowbound if this weather keeps up. What’s it like out there on the Island?”

  David ignores her question. “Mrs. McGlinchie—Joanne—I need a favor, and it could be a matter of life and death.”

  The line crackles. His battery is low, and he doesn’t have an adaptor in the car. Dammit.

  “Did you say life and death? “Joanne McGlinchie asks.