Last Whisper

by Carlene Thompson

  “I don’t think so,” Vincent answered laconically. “I’m just here as Brooke’s friend.” He looked at Hal. “Are you about finished with your questions? Because Brooke looks like she could use a good meal and some time to relax, hopefully with me.”

  Hal grinned at him. “We’re through questioning her. Whether or not she wants to go running around with you is up to her.”

  Everyone looked at Brooke expectantly. What she wanted more than anything at that moment was to leap from her chair, grab Vincent’s arm, dash off into the evening with him by her side, and never look back. Instead, she tried for a restrained smile, controlled body movements, and said calmly, “Dinner does sound nice, Vincent. Thank you.”

  Later, as Vincent pulled out of the Townsend Realty parking lot and they headed into the six o’clock traffic, he asked, “Any place in particular you’d like to eat?”

  “Somewhere out-of-the-way. Informal. Dark. Quiet.”

  “I know just the place. Music?” She nodded and he turned on the CD player. “Now relax. Forget about flowers and rings, beautiful lady, and just float to the mellow sounds of the Eagles, circa the 1970s.”

  “You sound like a deejay.”

  “But you’re smiling,” Vincent said. “It’s working already.”

  They headed west and the sinking sun slanted directly onto Brooke’s face. She put on her sunglasses, then leaned her head back and listened to “Peaceful, Easy Feeling,” wishing she could slip out of her troubles and into the beautiful world of the song.

  She realized she was almost asleep when Vincent announced, “Here at last.” She opened her eyes and looked at a cozy log cabin restaurant overlooking the river. “Do you want to go in and have dinner, or would you rather curl up and take a nap in the backseat?”

  “You don’t have a backseat,” she said groggily.

  “I guess we’ll have to go in and eat, then.” He cocked his head and grinned at her. “You’re the only woman I know who takes a nap after getting scared half to death.”

  “I’m one of a kind, all right. Maybe you’ll put me in a book someday.” She looked at him. “A book of fiction, not a book about ‘The Rose Murder.’ ”

  “I have no intention of writing about ‘The Rose Murder,’ ” Vincent returned gravely. “That’s the truth and I want you to know it for certain, Brooke. My interest in you has always been . . .”—he seemed to search for a word, looked away, then said lightly, “chaste as the driven snow.”

  “Oh, heck, that’s what they all say,” Brooke returned, acting disappointed. He was teasing her, and for the moment, she was glad. But she hoped, she knew, their relationship had grown beyond mere altruistic friendship. And in spite of everything, that made her happy. “Let’s go in. I’m starving.”

  Brooke immediately liked the knotty pine interior and the casual ambience of the restaurant. They passed a bar where a plump man gave them a friendly, “Evenin’, folks,” then moved on to a larger room with round tables and portraits of country scenes on the walls. A jukebox played softly in the background, and only about ten other people sat around, looking as if even a hurricane couldn’t shake them.

  “My goodness, this is a calm crowd,” Brooke commented as they sat down.

  “I don’t think the people who frequent this place are looking for a rowdy, roadhouse atmosphere,” Vincent said. “My parents used to bring me here until I was about fifteen and I decided I was too cool to be seen having dinner out with them.”

  “So they stopped coming and your mother stayed home to fix spoiled young you a fabulous meal.”

  “Oh no. They came anyway and left me at home with a frozen dinner. A particularly bad frozen dinner. That taught me I wasn’t going to call all the shots, although I never backed down. I was as stubborn as they were.”

  “And you all turned out just fine.” Brooke smiled. “Family life seems like fun.”

  “I think it’s more fun in retrospect. When you’re young, particularly a teenager, you usually feel totally misunderstood and abused.”

  Five minutes later, Brooke ordered a chef salad and an iced tea, until Vincent talked her into having a glass of Chablis instead. Afterward, she said, “I’ve drunk more in the last week than I have in the last year.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Vincent said solemnly. “I was beginning to think you were a lush.” She made a face at him. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Brooke. This hasn’t exactly been a tranquil week. A couple of drinks to calm your nerves aren’t going to turn you into an alcoholic.”

  “It’s been more than a couple. Grossmutter absolutely forbade drinking. I think her uncle and grandfather were alcoholics, or maybe it was her father and brother. I can’t remember. Anyway, she never kept liquor at our house, and if she saw me with a glass of wine in front of me, she’d either snatch it away from me or let me drink it, then give me a lecture on the evils of drinking.”

  “Well, you’re a big girl now,” Vincent said soothingly. “You can make your own decisions.”

  “I’ll have to make my own decisions from now on. Not that my grandmother ever dictated to me after I became an adult, but she was always quick with the advice, and it was usually good advice.” Brooke sighed. “I’ll miss that.”

  “She’s not gone yet,” Vincent said gently.

  “But she will be soon.” Brooke took a sip of her wine, then said, “Well, aren’t I the gregarious dinner companion? Tell me something funny to cheer me up.”

  “Something funny?” Vincent frowned, then smiled. “Remember our next-door neighbor whose wife leaves regularly for a couple of weeks, claiming she’s never coming back and throwing her husband into a tailspin because the dope thinks she means it, so he offers her something great, like a diamond ring or a car, and back she comes? Well, looks like he finally caught on. He called her yesterday evening and told her not to bother coming back this time. Today she sent him a telegram—jeez, I didn’t even know they had telegrams these days—and said she’d be back tomorrow and she loved him madly.”

  “Why the telegram?” Brooke asked, laughing.

  “I suppose because if she called, he could tell her not to come or else listen to her message on the machine and not answer. Now she’ll just appear on the doorstep, whisk him up to bed, and hope for the best.”

  “And maybe stop this stupid game of hers. What do you think gave him the nerve to give her the heave-ho?”

  “Dad on the day they were watching the baseball game. He always thought the guy was stupid for letting her do this, but he was too polite to point it out to him. The tactful days ended with the Alzheimer’s. Now he says exactly what he thinks.”

  “And this time, with a good result. I’ll bet she doesn’t try this trick again next year.”

  “No, I give her two before she thinks the shock has worn off.” Vincent looked at Brooke approvingly. “You’re smiling, Miss Yeager.”

  “You were successful. You cheered me up when I thought it wasn’t possible.”

  “I guess I’m just a miracle worker.”

  “You seem to be.” She looked down at her barely touched salad. “Now if you could just find Zach.”

  “Maybe I overestimated myself,” Vincent said. “I don’t think I can find Zach. And I’m beginning to wonder if the police can, either, which is why I’m asking you again to leave Charleston. Brooke, he sent you your mother’s wedding ring.”

  “I do recall that, Vincent. The ring that’s been missing since the same time as the letter opener. At least Zach is polite enough to have returned all of Mom’s things.”

  “I don’t think being polite was his reason for returning the ring,” Vincent said dryly.

  “I know. I was being sarcastic. Or sardonic. Whatever—you’re the master of words.”

  “Don’t change the subject, Brooke. You must leave Charleston.” She gave him a hard stare. “Okay, I’m going out on a limb here, but would it make any difference if I asked you to leave?”

  “Why do you say you’re going out on
a limb?”

  “Because I’m implying you care about what I want, that your safety is very important to me.” He made a small huffing sound. “And you are changing the subject again.”

  Brooke’s gaze dropped. Vincent had said he cared about her, not in those exact words, but his meaning was clear. And she did care that he cared. She cared so much, the feeling frightened her. But she could not tell him how much his concern meant. She’d spent too many years closed off, hiding her feelings, not letting people in, especially a man she’d known less than a week, a man who would probably take off and forget all about her as soon as the excitement was over. At least, that was what she told herself, although the look in his eyes said that’s not at all what he intended to do. Still, if she let down her guard, she could only be asking for trouble.

  “Look, Vincent, I don’t mean to be harsh, but I’ve made myself clear on this topic. I’m not leaving my grandmother. Period. Now, it’s very polite of you to spend so much time with me, to express this much disquiet over my situation—”

  “Polite! Disquiet!” Vincent burst out, his eyes flashing. “I think if you were a guy, I’d punch you!”

  “Well, then, I’m glad I’m not a guy,” Brooke returned, her voice remarkably calm in spite of her surprise. “To what do I owe that outburst?”

  “To your patronizing attitude. I am not being polite to you. I am not disquieted by your situation. Good God, Brooke, why can’t you believe someone cares about you? Because your father died and your mother was murdered?” She winced, but he went on relentlessly. “Well, I’m sorry as hell all that happened to you, but it doesn’t mean you have to shut yourself away from everyone except your grandmother, dammit! You’re being absurd!”

  A young waitress appeared at their side and with a red face said softly, “Sir, would you mind lowering your voice?”

  “Yes, I would,” Vincent snapped.

  The girl turned even redder. “Oh. Well, then I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave. You see, this is a family restaurant and the manager is—”

  “Too much of a coward to come over here himself and tell me to shut up.” Vincent took a deep breath. “I apologize to you for my bad behavior.” He looked at Brooke. “I don’t apologize for one thing I said to you.”

  “I’m crushed,” Brooke returned.

  Vincent tossed a fifty-dollar bill down on the table. “Keep the change,” he told the cringing, crimson-faced waitress. Then to Brooke, “Let’s go back to the car.”

  “No thank you. I will ride home with the surveillance police.”

  “Surveillance police?” the waitress wavered.

  “Now you’ve scared her,” Vincent accused Brooke. “If you don’t go get in my car, the cops outside will think we’ve had a lovers’ tiff and spread it all over headquarters. Would you rather have that than ride home with me?”

  In a huff of annoyance, Brooke grabbed her purse, marched with head high past the other staring customers, walked out into the warm summer evening, and climbed into Vincent’s Mercedes. Well, there’s one restaurant I won’t be able to enter again, she thought, seething. In a moment, Vincent climbed into the driver’s seat and they left the parking lot with a squeal of tires.

  He did not put on any music. He drove too fast. He breathed heavily. At last he said sternly, “Brooke Yeager, you are the most stubborn woman I have ever known.”

  “You acted like a jerk back there.”

  “I haven’t been called a jerk since the eighth grade.”

  “You’re acting like you’re in the eighth grade.”

  Vincent was silent for a couple of minutes. Then he said almost meekly, “I’m sorry.”

  “Fine.”

  “ ‘Fine’? Not ‘apology accepted’?”

  “I don’t know yet if I want to accept your apology. Give me time to think about it.”

  Brooke expected him to keep pushing her, but Vincent just looked at the highway, his face set, his hands tight on the steering wheel. She wasn’t quite certain why she was so angry with him. True, he’d caused a scene in the restaurant, but the scene was minor and in a place where she’d never been before and knew no one.

  A thought hit her. Could the reason for her anger possibly be that she knew he was right? That he was being perfectly reasonable and she was acting almost like a reckless, mulish kid?

  She stopped breathing for a few moments. Almost? No. Exactly. A slow flush crept up her face. She, too, looked straight ahead but said reluctantly, “I guess you think I’m a total fool.”

  “Not total.”

  “Oh. Thank you.”

  “Well, do you want me to throw you a line of bull to get back in your good graces or do you want to hear the truth?”

  She paused, then finally said, “The truth, I guess.”

  “I don’t think you’re a fool. I think your judgment is skewed because this bizarre experience hit at exactly the time you think your grandmother is dying.”

  “The time I know she’s dying.”

  “Okay. You’re probably right. But Brooke, the woman has spent most of your life trying to protect you. Do you think she put in all those years so you could throw it away just to be with her at the end? I know that sounds cold, but if she loves you as much as I’m sure she does, she probably couldn’t think of a worse ending for both of you. You know her better than anyone does. Leave sticky sentiment out of it and look at the situation rationally. What would your grandmother want? For you to live, or for you to sit helplessly by her bedside while she dies, leaving you with a good chance of being murdered within the next few days just like your mother was?”

  “You don’t mince words, do you, Vincent?”

  “I don’t sugarcoat things, if that’s what you mean. I say what I think. I didn’t mean to offend you, but I don’t apologize for anything I just said.”

  Brooke wanted to say something cutting, something to put this know-it-all in his place, but nothing came to her. She wasn’t certain if that was because she was just too tired to argue anymore or if she simply was no longer mad. He’d made a lot of sense. She was beginning to think her own actions didn’t make sense.

  They rode in silence for miles. She hadn’t paid attention to how far the restaurant was from her apartment building, but the trip back seemed to take forever in spite of the velvet warmth of the night. Somewhere along that drive, her anger at Vincent drained away. He’d been right. And he cared.

  When they pulled up in front of the apartment building, Vincent finally turned to her. “Do you want me to walk you to your door or just let you out here?”

  “I want you to come up and stay awhile,” Brooke said softly. “If you want to, that is.”

  Vincent blinked at her. “I’ve been thinking you couldn’t get away from me fast enough.”

  “You’re very often correct, Vincent,” Brooke said seriously, then with a smile, “but not always.”

  He stared at her for a moment, then returned her smile. “I’m glad that I’m not always correct. I’d really like to come up. And I promise not to lecture anymore.”

  “Good,” Brooke said easily. “Because more lecturing could get you tossed down the stairs in a heartbeat.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, ma’am.”

  As soon as they entered the lobby, Vincent had the impression that a large parrot was darting at him. It turned out to be Eunice in a floating cheap green net and chiffon concoction apparently meant to be a negligee. “Have you seen Harry?” she nearly screeched at the couple in a high, tight voice. “Is he outside?”

  Vincent, still taken aback by the birdlike creature in front of him, stepped backward and left the situation to Brooke. “No, Eunice, we haven’t seen Harry this evening,” she said calmly. “How long has he been gone?”

  “Too long. I need to talk to him!”

  “Did he forget about your insulin shot again?”

  “Uh . . . yes. Insulin.”

  Brooke knew better than to suggest that someone else be allowed to give Eunice
her injection. “Maybe he’s doing something in the alley.”

  Eunice shook her head violently. “He won’t go out there after dark since that Eads fellow got stabbed.” Eunice rubbed her arms and Brooke saw that they were beginning to break out in a rash caused from nerves. Brooke also smelled scotch and clove cigarettes.

  “Maybe he’s in the basement,” Brooke said. Eunice looked at Brooke as if she were crazy. “I just noticed a light flickering back behind you.” This was a lie, but she didn’t want to stand here for twenty minutes with a nearly hysterical Eunice Dormer. “There could be something wrong with a circuit, and the circuit breakers are in the basement.”

  “I’ll bet you’re right!” Eunice burst out. “He’s not afraid of the basement. I’ll go down right now and check.”

  Eunice headed for the basement door in a cloud of violent green. Brooke looked at Vincent, who raised an eyebrow at her and said, “I didn’t notice a light flickering.”

  “Neither did I, but she’s gone, isn’t she? We just have time to get to my apartment before she comes back.”

  “Why, Miss Yeager, you wily woman!” Vincent laughed.

  “What’s she done now?” Stacy asked, descending the bottom of the interior stairs into the lobby.

  “Successfully diverted Eunice Dormer,” Vincent said. “Sent her to the basement in search of Harry.”

  “The basement?” Stacy echoed.

  Brooke nodded. “She was desperate for her insulin.”

  “And romance, judging by that outfit,” Vincent added drolly.

  Stacy shook her head. “Those two are nuts. I wish Harry would really screw up and we’d get a new superintendent.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” Brooke said. “The next one might be even worse.”

  “I don’t know how he could be.” Stacy glanced between the two of them and a small smile, almost a smirk, appeared on her pale, taut face. “Have a nice evening, you two. Jay’s working a double shift, so if you need me, I’ll be right next door.”