I miss Rachael, he thought, picking up his drink and taking a swig. Just one to bolster the old courage. She’d sounded so final on the phone. So strong. Why did her strength seem to weaken him?
But she loved him. He’d always known that Rachael loved him. She would come back. He just had to play his cards right.
Thirty-Two
Rachael stepped back from the mirror to get the full effect of her efforts. The gold chain and earrings went perfect with the dress as she’d known they would. She’d taken time with her make-up, with everything, even to giving herself a pedicure. For the first time ever she’d painted her toenails, choosing an almost clear polish with just a hint of peach to match her fingernails. Though it wasn’t likely anyone would see her feet. Still, they felt lovely inside her new ivory shoes with the narrow strap across the ankle. She’d have to wear boots, though, carry the shoes in a bag. No matter.
“You look m a r v e l l o u s,” she told her reflection in a bad imitation of Billy Crystal, and had to laugh at herself.
Leaving the mirror, she rifled in the dresser drawer for her good black gloves. Susan had bought them for her two Christmases ago. They were expensive, butter-soft, came up high on her wrists. Because she had a tendency to lose one glove, she wore them only for special occasions. Not here. She sifted through the other drawers, but they were not there either.
How could that be? She distinctly remembered putting them in that drawer. She was standing in the middle of the floor puzzling over the mystery of the missing gloves when the doorbell rang, shooing all thought of missing gloves from her mind. Peter.
Settling for her old black wool gloves, she changed into her boots, slipped into her new coat, grabbed up her evening bag. Forcing herself to walk, not run, she went to answer.
On opening the door, her smile of greeting wavered, her stomach dropping into no-man’s land. “Martin. What are…”
“Hi. II’ve been feeling pretty crummy aboutwell, I just wanted to tell you again how sorry I am for what happened.” He shifted his feet on her porch floor. “I was hoping you might let me try to make it up to you. I thought maybe you’d let me take you out for…”
He stopped, his eyes taking her in, realization dawning. Apparently, he’d had his little speech ready and went straight into it before gauging the situation. She felt sorry for him.
“Guess someone else beat me to it,” he smiled ruefully. “Lousy timing on my part. You were just on your way out.”
“Yes.”
His eyes swept over her a second time, more thoroughly. She felt uncomfortable beneath his gaze. Never mind that he nodded his approval. “You look real nice, Rachael. Real nice. He’s a lucky guy.”
“Thank you, Martin. I’m sorry I…”
“Think nothing of it.”
Why did she get the feeling he was remembering the jeans and tee-shirt she’d worn last night, resenting that she’d thought him so unworthy of any effort on her part. Well, tough. If she’d worn something more presentable, it would only have further encouraged him. Someone else would have to make Martin Dunn feel like Mr. Wonderful. It wouldn’t be her. And she was sure that in time, someone would. Martin wasn’t hard to look at, and he wasn’t a bad person.
She was considering telling him right then and there that she thought it best if he vacated the cabin as soon as possible, when Peter drove into the yard. The headlights of the Grand Marquis swept the front of the house like sunshine breaking through a dark cloud.
Why start the night off with unpleasantness with Martin? So he’d tried to kiss her. Big deal. Hardly the end of the world, was it. She’d get over it.
Watching Peter get out of the car and stride up the path toward them, she couldn’t help thinking how incredibly handsome he looked in formal dress. He carried himself with the same ease in black tie as he did in jeans. Neither could she deny the girlish thrill that made her heart sing.
“Your date has arrived. Another time, perhaps,” Martin said.
She didn’t reply. None was necessary. She knew the answer was in her eyes, and that Martin had read it. Because he stopped smiling.
“Aunt Iris mentioned you’d rented out the cabin,” Peter said, searching the stations on the car radio until he found one playing rhythm and blues. “How’s that working out for you?”
“He’s leaving tomorrow,” she said, resolved to make that a reality. One way or the other. She’d brought this upon herself and she would take care of it. As Betty would say, “Ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.” She should have known better, she berated herself again.
Sensing her reluctance to discuss her tenant, Peter moved on to a new topic, for which she was grateful. She soon found herself relaxing in the plush seat of the Grand Marquis discreetly tracing Peter’s profile with her eyes, thinking again how handsome he was. She wanted to touch his face. He smelled wonderful, too. Slightly woodsy, subtle.
“Iris must be excited about tonight,” she said. “I’m so happy for her.”
He grinned proudly. “Yeah, me too.”
Neither Rachael nor Peter spoke again until they were driving along the main street, heading into St. Clair. Snow fluttered past the windshield. Only a few flurries, the weatherman said.
At a stoplight, Peter turned and gave her a slow admiring gaze she felt all the way down to her pedicured toenails.
“May I say, Ms. Warren, you look absolutely fetching this evening.”
Fetching. Such an old-fashioned word, it made her smile.
“Thank you, Mr. Gardner. And may I say you look rather dashing yourself.”
***
He took a quick look around to make sure he wasn’t observed, then, producing a jackknife from his pants pocket, he slipped the blade under the sash of her kitchen window. At a sharp nudge upward, the lock gave. The window slid up easily with barely a whisper.
He climbed inside, heard the floorboard creak softly as he stepped one foot onto the kitchen floor.
Thirty-Three
The dinner was held at the Rankin, St. Clair’s only hotel. Although Built in the mid 1800’s, it remained as elegant as a grand duchess in her prime.
The tables had been arranged strategically around the large room, to allow room for dancing later. Every attention to detail had been paid. Blue patterned china and crystal graced snow-white tablecloths, glittered beneath a chandelier befitting a production of Phantom of the Opera.
After a half-hour of mingling, guests were summoned to dinner. There were numerous heart-felt toasts to Iris. The meal, which began with a consommé and green salad, was served up in spectacular fashion.
The main dish was breast of chicken broiled in a special sauce (definitely not tomato soup, Rachael mused) with lemon-parsleyed potatoes. There were side dishes of baby peas, glazed carrots, beets, and baskets of warm crusty rolls, along with an assortment of pickles and relishes set out on each table in cut-glass serving dishes.
A banquet fit for a queen, Rachael thought, glancing affectionately at Iris who looked positively regal in the sapphire taffeta gown and the single strand of pearls Peter had given her to mark the occasion. At the moment, she was deep in conversation with the woman seated to her right whom Rachael knew to be Hedda Neilson, President of the Arts Council.
Rachael was quietly enjoying the last crumb of her strawberry cheesecake, and the witty conversation and laughter that drifted around the table. Earlier, there’d been a few hushed comments and speculations about the body having washed up on the rocks, and Hartley McLeod’s disappearance, but each time Peter deftly steered the topic onto more pleasant paths, clearly determined that nothing was going to spoil the mood of the evening. But Rachael didn’t miss the distress that came into his eyes at the mention of his old friend.
She was happy to follow his lead.
Up on the small dais, a five-piece band, its members looking splendid in maroon jackets and white pants, had launched into a rendition of Deep Purple. Above the music, Iris was saying, “You know, Hedda, Rachael is b
ecoming quite a fine sculptor. You should see her latest creation. A work reminiscent of Rodin, if he’d been a woman, and lived in this time. He worked mainly in clay and wax, you know,” she said to the table at large.
The outlandish praise both warmed and embarrassed Rachael. Iris was smiling at her with the pride of a teacher for her favorite student. The flame from the glassed-in candle danced in her blue eyes.
“Yes, I do believe you mentioned it once or twice, Iris,” Hedda Neilson said in a teasing tone. She was a tall, handsome woman in a shimmering burgundy dress. Her smile showed off large, perfect teeth. “Perhaps, Rachael, you’ll let us arrange a showing of some of your pieces, come spring.”
Rachael had to tamp down the rush of excitement at her words. Don’t let it go to your head. An idle comment made at a dinner party. No doubt to please Iris.
“That’s very kind of you, but I’m really just a beginn…”
“Posh,” Iris broke in, waving off her protest. “You’re far too modest, Rachael. She has her grandmother’s genes, you know. You can’t escape your destiny, dear,” she said, reaching over and patting Rachael’s hand. “You have the soul of an artist.”
The soul maybe. Talent was something else. Rodin, indeed. She couldn’t deny, though, the buzz of warmth that flowed through her body. Or maybe it was just the wine.
“I was so delighted, Rachael, when I learned your grandmother was Emily Warren,” said Irene Lord, the gamin-faced woman with silvery hair and little girl voice, seated across from her. Peter had told her earlier that Ms. Lord had been a fixture at the town library practically from the day of its inception. “We have two of Emily’s paintings hanging in the gallery. She was a fine artist,” Miss Lord said. “Underrated, unfortunately. But then so was Van Gogh in his lifetime. The only painting he sold was to his brother.”
“If Iris says you’re ready, my dear,” Mrs. Neilson of the Arts Council said, “then you are. You mustn’t hide your light under a bushel, Rachael. When one has been given a gift, there is a duty.” Her tone was at once warm and mildly chastising.
“Yes,” Peter said, as he refilled those wineglasses nearest him, her own included. “My aunt is a fine judge of talent and I learned long ago that it does no good to argue with her once she gets that determined look in her eye.” His smile included both Rachael and Iris.
Rachael graciously thanked them for their vote of confidence, then subtly brought the attention back to Iris, where it belonged. Nonetheless, the seed had taken root. Was it possible that someone would actually pay her for her work? Work that had begun as therapy, and was now a passion? It seemed like a dream, too good to be true.
And probably, despite all the good hearts here, it was. Still, what harm to fantasize? A least for a few hours. Who would have thought that at her age, she could become someone’s protege? Especially someone as well respected in her craft as Iris was. Dream on.
She sipped the wine. Neither too sweet nor too dry. Perfect. Everything was perfect. She felt Peter watching her, was acutely aware of his physical presence beside her. Easy, Rachael, she told herself, feeling just a tad light-headed, and pretty sure it was not all due to the wine.
Deep Purple had glided smoothly into another old standardSeptember Song, music chosen especially for Iris, but that were among Rachael’s own favorites. Swaying inwardly to the music, she hadn’t realized she’d closed her eyes until Peter spoke to her.
“May I have the pleasure of this dance, Ms. Warren?”
He was smiling down at her, his hand outstretched in invitation. Looking past him, satisfying herself that a few couples were already up dancing, she slipped her hand into his and let herself be led onto the dancefloor.
At first, she felt awkward, like she was made out of wood. It had been so long since she’d danced with anyone. But then, with the warm pressure of his hand on her back, guiding her about the floor, she began to relax. Soon, she was following his rhythm until their bodies were moving as one. As if they had always danced together.
“Enjoying yourself?” he said into her hair, drawing her closer to him.
“Oh, yes. It’s a wonderful evening.”
Her senses were intoxicated with the touch and smell of himthe velvety feel of the fabric of his jacket against her cheek. The strong beat of his heart against her own. The way his arms felt around her, the warmth and strength that flowed from them, into her, into every fiber of her being. Like being submerged in a warm bath. Like coming home. Yes, that was what she felt. That she had come home.
“Careful,” the warning voice said again, pricking at the lovely bubble she was moving inside. Absolutely, she thought vaguely. But she did not open her eyes.
“The food was heavenly,” Mrs. Neilson was saying when they returned to the table. “I’ll have to fast for the next two weeks to make up for tonight.”
Peter held out Rachael’s chair for her and she was grateful to sit down. Her breathing was feathery in her chest. Her head still in the dance.
“Oh, listen,” Iris cried, clapping her hands in child-like delight, “they’re playing La Vie en Rose. I haven’t danced to that since I was a girl.”
The words had barely left her lips when Peter whirled his aunt onto the dancefloor. Rachael smiled after them, sipped more wine, chatted with Mrs. Neilson who wanted to know more about her. So hard to believe that only a few months ago she had found herself wandering among the ruins of her life. Dazed. Detached from all but her pain.
But it was more than that. Always before she had felt like an alien in social gatherings. But tonighttonight she belongedshe was with friends.
All at once Rachael was gripped by a certainty that just beyond the periphery of laughter and good spirits, something hovered. Something dark. Like a black, malignant cloud.
Waiting to descend.
The room faded from her, voices growing fainter. She became aware of a faraway buzzing in her head. Her hand was shaking. Realizing she was still holding her glass of wine, she set it down. What was wrong with her? Why was she thinking like this? Couldn’t she let herself enjoy one pleasant evening without…?
She looked up to see Iris watching her.
When had the dance ended?
Thirty-Four
Captain Elton Sorrel was in his den, nursing a beer and watching some rookie trying to snap the puck past the goalie and pull one out of the fire for the Rangers, when the phone rang. A collective groan went up in the stadium. Close, but no cigar. Where was Gretsky when you needed him. The Great One would be missed.
His eyes riveted on the game, he picked up the receiver. “Sorrel.”
“Captain Sorrel?”
“One and the same.”
“I’m Doctor Alan Whittaker.” Without waiting for a reply, he went on explain that he was the retired head of the state mental hospital. Listening to that deep, hypnotic voice, Sorrel wasn’t all surprised to find himself talking to a shrink.
“Yes, Doctor.” He turned down the volume on the TV. “What can I do for you?” Whittaker. Where had he heard that name before? Recently too.
“Perhaps it’s more what I can do for you, Captain. I just minutes ago opened a package from a woman name Iris Brandt. She lives…”
“In my neck of the woods,” Sorrel finished. “I know Ms. Brandt.” He’d read the article in the local paper about her receiving some artsy honor tonight over at the hotel.” Sorrel didn’t know or care much about art.
“I see. Well, as I said, I’m in possession of this package. Came by courier. There are copies of several articles here, written some years ago. One recent. My name appears in one of the later articles. She circled it in red pen or I might not have noticed. At any rate, Captain, Ms. Brandt seems very concerned about a friend of hersa woman, who, by the photograph I’m looking at right now, looks uncannily like Marie Morley. Or how she might look if she were alive today. Not that that would make an appreciable difference. Morley will project onto his victims whatever qualities he needs them to have for his dark
purpose. A curve of cheek, a tapered back, a walk, even a smile could be enough to trigger the psychosis. But that Rachael Warren actually does look like his sister certainly adds another dimension.”
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