Last Whisper

by Carlene Thompson

  And she was doing a good job of it.

  eleven

  1

  “So where would you like to have lunch?” Vincent asked as they walked out the nursing-home front doors.

  “Oh, anywhere.”

  “You must have a favorite restaurant.”

  “I have several, but you don’t have to take me anywhere nice, Vincent. Fast food will be fine.”

  “Absolutely not. Name a restaurant. I insist.” He tilted his head, a glint in his dark green eyes. “I will not stop harping on you until you give me the name of a real restaurant, and I assure you, Miss Yeager, I can be even more relentless than Stacy Corrigan.”

  “Dear lord, that’s a frightening thought!” Brooke laughed. “Okay. Tidewater Grill. It’s in the Town Center Mall.”

  “I ate there the last time I visited Dad. Great choice,” Vincent said as he took her elbow and guided her to the left. “Let’s just take one car. We’ll cut down on air pollution, do our part for the preservation of the ozone layer, and not clog up the highways. I’ll bring you back here afterward to pick up your car.”

  “Well, I can hardly argue with those good reasons for taking one vehicle.” Vincent stopped her at a silver Mercedes convertible. “Wow!” Brooke exclaimed. “The book business must be doing well.”

  “I splurged. I’d always wanted a convertible. Dad had a fit when he saw it. First he told me I’d flip it and turn my head to mush. Then he kicked all four tires. Then he asked how much it cost. I’ll admit only to you—I lied about the cost.”

  “Lying was probably your best option,” Brooke giggled. “I happen to know approximately how much a car like this does cost. Your father would have had a heart attack.” She ran her hand along the silver side. “I, on the other hand, have never even been in a convertible and I don’t give a damn how much it cost.” Vincent’s laugh rang out in the clear midday air. Brooke opened the passenger’s door. “Dark red leather seats. How racy.” She slipped into the car, leaned back her head, and let out a sigh of pleasure. “Ohhh, I’m in love.”

  Vincent shuffled his feet and ducked his head. “Oh, Brooke, I know I’m irresistible, but this is so sudden—”

  “With the car, Mr. Ego. I’m in love with the car.” Brooke wondered why Vincent was being so nice to her. He was acting, well, not only human but also flirtatious. He was looking at her questioningly, clearly aware of her puzzlement, which she covered by nodding at the police cruiser not far away. “We have to let them know where we’re going. I know having surveillance trailing you everywhere is a drag.”

  Vincent shook his head. “In the writing business, mine is a household name. I can never go anywhere without a full phalanx of security,” he said with mock seriousness. “I’m used to it.”

  “You mean you’re full of it,” Brooke shot back, making Vincent laugh again.

  Five minutes later the gleaming Mercedes, followed by the police cruiser, pulled away from White Willows. Brooke let out a sigh. “You know, as nursing homes go, White Willows is wonderful. The building is lovely, the staff is great, they bring in entertainment regularly, always trying to keep the residents happy and stimulated, and yet—”

  “It’s still a nursing home,” Vincent finished for her. “I’m sure at least half of the residents would rather be in their own houses following their own routines.”

  “Yes. My grandmother didn’t protest when I told her the doctor said she should be in a place where she could get round-the-clock care. Even a full-time caregiver has to sleep, and that’s when a lot of people get up and wander—you know, go outside, fall, and get hurt. Sometimes they get lost.”

  “Hence the locking of the nursing-home doors at eight o’clock,” Vincent said. “I heard about that on my tour, along with the alarm system in case there’s an escapee. In some ways it’s like a prison. Yet you didn’t have any choice except to put your grandmother in there. And I’ll have to put Dad either there or a place like it. He can’t go on by himself anymore, and he wouldn’t want me living with him. I know he loves me, but I get on his nerves with my odd working hours—sometimes I write all night and sleep most of the day—and he cannot stand taking orders from me, even when it comes to taking his medication. If I tell him it’s time for a certain pill, he refuses it out of pure stubbornness. He will not be bossed around by his son.” Vincent shook his head. “My moving back to West Virginia and into the house with him is definitely not the answer to our problem. Maybe a place like White Willows will be.”

  The day was dazzling, the sun a stunning daffodil yellow in a soft blue sky. Brooke put on her sunglasses, then leaned back her head, letting the wind blow her long hair as they sped toward downtown Charleston. Vincent looked over at her. “Thank God you’re not one of those women who wrap a scarf over their heads and clutch at their hair, trying to hold some complicated, gelled-up style in place.”

  Brooke laughed. “I’m afraid my hair has never been touched by hair gel. At work I usually wear it up so I’ll look more businesslike, but I really like to leave it loose. And I love the feel of wind blowing through it.”

  “That’s because you know you look so good with wind blowing through your golden tendrils.”

  “Golden tendrils?” Brooke asked dryly. “I hope you’re not going to start talking like some nineteenth-century poet.”

  “Why, sweet maiden? Don’t you care to hear about your rosebud mouth and eyes as blue-violet as wisteria drenched with beads of the sweet morning dew?”

  “Oh, good grief,” Brooke moaned. “That visit to the nursing home knocked you for a loop, didn’t it? Or did you sustain a blow to the head you didn’t tell me about?”

  “Actually, I’m just hungry. I always go off on poetic tangents when I’m hungry.”

  “Then let’s get to the restaurant,” Brooke said, grinning. “And hurry.”

  They found a spot on the third level of the parking building, then walked into the large, bright mall. “It always seems so cheerful in here,” Brooke said. “Sometimes when I feel down, I like to come and just window-shop and people-watch.”

  “You’re a Peeping Tom?”

  “I don’t peek in the windows of homes, Vincent,” Brooke said with dignity. “I sit on a bench and watch people in a public place.”

  “Oh. You’re just a voyeur.”

  “And you’re impossible. No wonder you get on your father’s nerves. We need to get some food in you so you start acting normal again.”

  Brooke had always enjoyed the casual ambience of the Tidewater Grill with all its wood, tile, hanging plants, dim lighting, and length of mirror behind the bar. The waiter seated them beside the expanse of windows looking out on Quarrier Street. Beyond the windows, which were decorated with heavy wooden blinds, hung an awning over more tables in a street café setting. Brooke often opted to eat there, but today the breeze had grown brisk and they agreed they’d be more comfortable inside.

  When the waiter appeared, Brooke impulsively ordered a piña colada and Vincent requested the same. “I usually have scotch and soda, but today I’m in the mood for something frivolous,” he told her.

  She nodded. “Something to get our minds off ailing loved ones and nursing homes. But I’m only drinking one, Vincent.”

  “Did I say you had to have more?”

  “No, but you probably expected it after my beer-drinking display at your house the other day.”

  “Well, I did wonder if that was normal behavior for you,” he said solemnly. “I just wondered how you got away with it at work. Oh, I know it’s easy to down a quick beer in the restroom, but that burping afterward!”

  She tossed a toothpick at him, her cheeks growing pink. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

  “Never,” he said. Then they both looked at the table. Never? That sounded like they’d be seeing each other for quite some time, when clearly whatever they were enjoying today—friendship?—would be short-lived.

  “I think I’ll just have a salad.”


  “I’m having a full meal.”

  They’d spoken at once in a moment of discomfort. Brooke grabbed for her drink and sipped with gusto. “A salad?” Vincent asked. “Certainly you’re too hungry for just a salad.”

  “They have a Salad Nicole with chicken that I love. Coleslaw comes with it and fresh rolls. That’s what I want.”

  “Okay,” Vincent said. “The lady shall have what she wants, even if she’ll be hungry in a couple of hours.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Bet you will.”

  “You’re as bossy as Stacy.”

  Vincent rolled his eyes. “I don’t think anyone is that bossy. You two seem so different. How did you get to be such good friends?”

  “Living next door to each other was the initial step. I moved in first. She and Jay came about a month later. I helped them unpack—Harry tried to help, too, but you can imagine how efficient he is. Stacy and I kept giggling about how he was crashing around and ogling us. After Jay came home and Harry left, we all had a big pizza and ended up spending another couple of hours talking.” Brooke lifted her shoulders. “I’ve never had a lot of friends, but I just felt I knew Stacy almost right away.”

  “That seems strange.”

  Brooke smiled. “I know on the outside Stacy and I seem different. She’s extroverted, even brash, and I’m self-contained. At least most of the time. But underneath, we’re remarkably alike—stubborn, even tough.”

  “You’re not as bossy and pushy.”

  “Maybe I’m just more subtle about it than Stacy is,” Brooke laughed. “And Jay is a sweetheart. Not a pushover by any means, the way he sometimes seems around Stacy. He’s a man to be reckoned with, especially on the job. He’s a good friend. And he adores his wife.”

  Vincent dug into the large tossed salad that came with his meal. “I’m glad you have a cop living right next door under the circumstances, and the fact that Jay seems to be moving up the ladder so quickly lets me know he’s got a talent for the job.”

  “He might grow up to be another Sam Lockhart!”

  Vincent smiled. “I hope so, but I’m afraid there’s only one Sam Lockhart. I swear, I think he was solving cases by age five.”

  “You mentioned a friend of his—Hal Myers, I think. Is he as good a cop as your father was?”

  “I’d say he’s a close second.” Vincent took a sip of his piña colada, then a second. “I might start having ‘girlie’ drinks more often. Just in places like this, though.”

  “I hope word doesn’t get back to California and ruin your reputation.” Brooke smiled, then said, “I wondered if any of your father’s friends had come up with any information about my case.”

  Vincent immediately became serious. “As a matter of fact, one did. It’s about the rose you received at our house, the one with the message ‘Say hello to your mother for me.’ ” We already knew it came from Flowers for You. Hal Myers, who you know has been put in charge of this case, said an assistant at the store claims the order was phoned in. She barely remembered the voice, but said it sounded ‘kinda deep.’ She couldn’t be sure if it was a man or a woman. Those are the kind of vague witnesses cops love. Anyway, the rose was charged to a card belonging to a woman named Adele Webster.”

  “Adele Webster?” Brooke repeated blankly.

  “It turns out she’s about sixty-five, married to a prominent lawyer, has no idea who you are, has not ordered flowers for at least six months, and, here’s the good part, her credit card has not been stolen.” Brooke looked at him. “She didn’t lose her credit card, Brooke. Someone managed to get her credit card number. There have been no other bogus charges on that card.”

  Brooke leaned back in her chair. “How could someone do that?”

  “A dozen ways. All anyone would have to do is get a look at her credit card and either write down or manage to memorize the number. Mrs. Webster says she rarely carries more than twenty dollars with her and uses the credit card constantly. That, of course, will make it even harder to figure out who might have used her number.”

  “Wonderful,” Brooke said glumly. “Of course it was Zach who used the number. I guess he just has all kinds of talents—memorizing credit card numbers, entering and leaving nursing homes with the stealth of a phantom, breaking out of a maximum security prison, and eluding capture for days.”

  “But not forever.”

  “How do we know that, Vincent? Maybe Zach will never see prison again. In fact, I have a very strong feeling he won’t.”

  “On what do you base that feeling?”

  “I don’t know,” Brooke said, her voice rising. “I just have it!” Their waiter threw them a quick look, then glanced discreetly away. “Maybe it’s just fear talking, Vincent,” she went on, lowering her voice. “Maybe I’m just afraid the police will never catch him and I’ll be running from him until one of us finally drops.”

  “Well, you’re a lot younger than he is,” Vincent said casually, “so he’ll probably drop first. That should give you a few peaceful years during your old age.”

  Brooke saw that he was only trying to lighten a dark situation, to make her laugh when she was letting nerves get the best of her. “You’re trying to make me think you’re one cool guy.”

  “I am one cool guy. The coolest, baby.”

  “You’re going to think you’re the coolest if you ever call me ‘baby’ again.”

  “What would you prefer? ‘Sugar lump’? ‘Sweetie pie’? ‘Tootsie Roll’?”

  “ ‘Miss Yeager,’ if you don’t stop acting like a dope.”

  Vincent bowed his head slightly. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”

  Brooke burst into laughter and the rest of the meal went calmly, even enjoyably. She even broke her own rule and they each had a second piña colada.

  A bit giddy from her two drinks and cheered by the bright, carefree atmosphere of the mall, Brooke suggested they not leave immediately. “I feel like I’ve been a prisoner for days,” she told Vincent. “I think even though I know we have surveillance following us, a turn around the real world might do me good. Would you mind keeping me company?”

  “It would be my honor to escort you,” he said.

  She tilted her head up at him, her blue-violet eyes sparkling. “To hell with escorting me. Just hang out with me like we’re two eighteen-year-olds without a care in the world.”

  “Now that sounds like fun.” Vincent smiled.

  First, she dragged him into Waldenbooks, with its prominent display of his novels, and loudly introduced him to the manager, staff, and any customers lucky enough to be around at the moment. His embarrassment was smothered by the obvious fun she was having as people crowded around him, asking for his autograph and praising his work.

  After they emerged from the bookstore, Vincent took over and led her to a kiosk where they sold Godiva chocolates, buying a big box for her and one for his father. Vincent then nearly pushed her into a dress store filled with youthful, colorful fashions. “Vincent, this stuff is too young and sexy for me,” she protested.

  He frowned. “Nonsense! You’re eighteen, remember? Not a care in the world? Now go forth and shop!”

  They emerged half an hour later, Brooke with a bag holding a frothy flowered chiffon skirt and a matching sequined tank top. “I don’t know where in the world I’ll wear this,” she said, acting baffled that she’d bought it, although Vincent had told her she looked breathtaking in it as she twirled in front of the mirrors, and two other guys had winked at both of them in approval.

  “You’ll wear it dancing,” Vincent said.

  “I never go dancing.”

  “You mean Robert never took you to any clubs?”

  “Robert?” Brooke giggled. “Robert’s idea of a good time was a rousing night at the symphony and a quiet glass of wine afterward, during which we could discuss the conductor’s interpretation of the piece.”

  “Then you definitely need to be taken dancing. And not to the kind of music my father listens to. There were
a few rock clubs in town when I lived here. There must be at least one left.”

  “There is,” Brooke said. “Tourmaline. Very hot.”

  “Tourmaline?”

  “Tourmaline is a pink gem.”

  “I know that. I just didn’t expect any place in Charleston to be named Tourmaline.”

  “What did you expect? Hernando’s Hideaway?”

  “Olé! And don’t laugh. That was one of my mother’s favorite songs.”

  “She sang it to me once!” Brooke laughed. “She played it on the piano, very dramatically, got up and acted out parts of it, and made me smile for the first time since my mother was killed. I’ll never forget it. Or her. I really loved your mother, Vincent.”

  He smiled wistfully. “So did I. I just wish I’d told her more often, but when you’re young, you think your parents will be around forever.” His smile froze. “God, Brooke, I’m sorry. Your parents died so young. I’m an insensitive—”

  To his surprise, she touched his lips with her fingers. “You’re not insensitive. Just natural. Mine was an odd case. Very odd, thank goodness. As for you not telling your mother often enough that you loved her, stop worrying. She knew it. One time she showed me your picture and started talking about you. Of course, she told me a lot of fabulous things about you that I’m sure were highly exaggerated”—she winked at him—“but she also said, ‘Sam and I have been very blessed to have a son like Vincent. He’s not only handsome and brilliant; he loves us, really loves us, although he never says it.’ ”

  “Moms always brag on their sons,” Vincent said offhandedly, although Brooke saw the rims of tears at the base of his eyes.

  “Your mother wouldn’t want you to mourn her,” Brooke said, pretending not to have noticed his emotions. “Your mother would want you to be happy. I know that sounds clichéd, but it’s true. She knew you wanted to be a writer, and that’s what she wanted for you. If she could have seen all those people gathered around you in the bookstore—” Brooke sighed, smiling. “Well, all I can say is that she would have been one enormously proud mother. And your father is proud of you, too. He’s just too cantankerous to show it.”