Last Whisper

by Carlene Thompson

  “If I’d done it a week ago, maybe Robert wouldn’t have been killed. . . .”

  “Now don’t go down that path.” Stacy set down her wine-glass. “I’ll help you pack tomorrow.”

  “No. I’m going to the basement, get my luggage, pack, and leave tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “I hate to admit this, but I’m afraid to stay until tomorrow. I know I won’t get any sleep anyway.”

  “You don’t want a nap now or . . . or to talk to Vincent?”

  “A nap? I just told you I’m not sleepy. And I can talk to Vincent later tonight. Or in the morning. What’s the matter, Stacy? You act like I need his permission.”

  Stacy drew back. “His permission?” Stacy suddenly looked stern and almost offended. “I certainly don’t think you need Vincent Lockhart’s permission to do anything. In fact, I’ll be glad when there’s some space between you. I’ve never liked the way he just turned up when all the trouble started. But you seem so . . .”

  “So what?”

  “Attached to him. I got the feeling you wouldn’t make a move without asking him first.”

  “You thought I wouldn’t make a move without asking him first?” Brooke bristled. “Good heavens, Stacy, you act like I’m a little girl. I don’t owe Vincent either explanations or his permission!”

  “Okay!” Stacy held her hands up. “I’m sorry. I read the signals wrong.” She lowered her hands. “If you’re determined to get your luggage tonight, I’ll help. If Harry were around, we’d get him to do it, but nobody has seen him all day.”

  “Oh God, don’t tell me he finally ran off with that mistress Eunice was always so certain he had.”

  “That’s probably exactly what happened. They’re together on a Caribbean island right now, she in a bikini, he in a Speedo, drinking mai tais.”

  “Harry Dormer with his hairy shoulders and back, beer gut, and beautiful spider necklace wearing a Speedo.” Brooke shut her eyes. “I think I’d rather be stalked by a murderer than conjure up that picture.” She stood up. “If you help, I’ll only need to make one trip to the basement. Thanks, Stacy.”

  Brooke made a hurried trip to her apartment and picked up the key to her storage cage in the basement. She kept it in an empty candy dish so she wouldn’t have to add it to the collection of keys on her key ring.

  “I hope Harry isn’t messing around down here,” Brooke said as they took the elevator to the basement. “I think having to put up with him tonight would just about tear it for me.”

  Stacy half-covered her eyes and groaned. “Wouldn’t it, though? Especially with you collecting your luggage. He’d be full of questions.” She paused. “And as a matter of fact, even I have one. Where are you going tomorrow?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. There are no relatives I can go to, although I wouldn’t anyway. When Zach discovers I’ve left town, he’d no doubt track me to them. I could go to New York City, but that would be expensive if I plan to stay for long. Maybe New England. For some reason, I’ve always wanted to go to New England.”

  “You can go to Vermont and watch them make maple syrup.”

  “I don’t think they do that at this time of year. Besides, I couldn’t take the excitement,” Brooke said dryly, then added, “although lately I think I’ve taken about all the excitement I can stand for a while.”

  The elevator jolted to a stop. “So much for smooth landings,” Stacy said. “I think this old thing has about had it. That’s why I usually take the stairs.”

  The doors creaked slowly open to pitch-darkness. “Oh no,” Brooke moaned. “I forgot that the light switches are nowhere near the elevator.”

  “I didn’t,” Stacy said, triumphantly holding up a flashlight. “Always on my toes.”

  Stacy plunged ahead with the flashlight, shining it on the cool concrete floor, then flicking it around until she finally reached the far wall midway down the basement. “Shield your eyes,” she called before flipping on the fluorescent tubes that lit the far end.

  “I would like to know what genius forgot to put in a light switch panel beside the elevator,” Brooke grumbled as she stepped out of the cubicle and headed toward the safety of blazing light. “Light switch at the top of the stairs, light switch halfway down the length of the basement. Nothing beside the elevator. Brilliant.”

  “Maybe Harry designed the building,” Stacy said solemnly.

  “I don’t think so, unless he was an architect in 1922 when this place was built.”

  Every apartment had a wire storage cage, each approximately twelve by fifteen feet in size, with a door that locked. Many of the cages were stuffed full. Brooke’s contained only her luggage, a box containing her artificial Christmas tree and another holding all the tinsel and ornaments, and a horribly old steamer trunk Greta had given Brooke when she’d sold her possessions and moved into the nursing home.

  When Brooke had protested, Greta insisted. “You might need this on a trip,” Greta had pointed out.

  “A trip!” Brooke had cried. “What kind of trip? An ocean voyage on the Titanic?”

  Greta had frowned, pretending to think. “Titanic is at the bottom of the ocean. Unsinkable. Ha! Pick something better, like the Love Boat. You’ll find a handsome man on that trip and marry him.”

  “Not if he gets a look at this trunk that comes along with the bride. He’ll think I’m a kook.”

  Greta had thrown back her head and laughed but still insisted Brooke take the trunk, which had originally belonged to Greta’s grandmother.

  Brooke used her key to open her cage door. Both she and Stacy stepped in and looked around. “I swear, Brooke, you have the neatest cage down here,” Stacy said.

  “That’s because I don’t have much to store.” She glanced at the red luggage set she’d bought in a fit of extravagance last year. “Let’s see. I’ll take the upright Pullman, the port case, and the boarding bag.”

  “Only one upright bag?” Stacy asked.

  “I don’t want to be loaded down with baggage.”

  Stacy reached for the largest upright case. “How does Elise like flying?”

  “I have no idea,” Brooke said, picking up the other two smaller bags. “She’s never flown before.”

  “I’ve heard that some dogs have to take a tranquilizer. Ouch!” Stacy had brushed against the steamer trunk and a sharp-edged brass fitting had pierced through the back thigh of her beige slacks. “Damn it. I think I tore them.”

  “Oh no.” Brooke knelt down. Sure enough, the fitting had slit Stacy’s slacks and Brooke saw a drop of bright red blood beginning to spread against the linen. “I think you cut your leg, too.”

  “The leg will heal. The linen won’t.”

  “Don’t be silly, Stacy. Your leg is more important than your slacks. You might need a tetanus shot. I have no idea how old that brass is—”

  She broke off and Stacy craned around, trying to look down. “What else is wrong?”

  “Stains,” Brooke said slowly. “There are rusty-looking stains where you brushed against the trunk.”

  “Stains!” Stacy sounded horrified. “Have I been wearing stained slacks all day?”

  “No. The stains weren’t there earlier.”

  “Rust. Dammit.”

  “Maybe it’s rust.” Rust was the most obvious answer, but fear fluttered in Brooke’s stomach like a cold, dark wing. She touched one of the stains with her index finger. It wasn’t moist, but it wasn’t completely dry, either. The tip of her finger looked darker than the others. She held it close to her nose and caught a faint whiff of copper.

  “Well, maybe the dry cleaner can get out rust,” Stacy was chattering on. “If the tear isn’t too large, maybe they can fix that, too. These aren’t my favorite slacks, but they are fairly new.”

  Brooke sank from kneeling to sitting on the concrete. In spite of the fluorescent lights, she felt as if the room had dimmed. “Stacy, I don’t think you have rust on your pants. I think it’s blood.”

  “Am I
bleeding that much? Do I need stitches?”

  “Not your blood,” Brooke quavered. “Older blood. But not old enough to be dried.”

  “What are you talking about?” Stacy let go of the bag and looked at Brooke’s face, then at her slacks, then at the trunk. “Let’s open it,” she said finally.

  “No! It’s locked. I don’t know where the key is—”

  Stacy stooped down and looked at the brass fittings. “The lock is broken.” She placed both hands on the lid and began pushing upward.

  “Stacy, don’t!” Brooke almost shouted. “Don’t open that thing!”

  But it was too late. With a strong push, Stacy flung the lid back so hard it almost hit the side of the wire cage. She pointed the flashlight into the trunk, drew a deep, shaky breath, then whispered, “Brooke, we need to get the police. Don’t look.”

  But it was too late. Brooke had staggered up and grabbed the flashlight. Now she stood gazing down into the trunk, down at what seemed to be yards of green net and chiffon, down at the white face of Eunice Dormer lying in a puddle of blood that looked like dark red sludge.

  twenty

  1

  After a moment of stunned, horrified silence, Brooke and Stacy turned and almost ran for the stairs. By the time they reached them Brooke was hyperventilating. Stacy went first, grabbing Brooke’s hand and almost dragging her up the stairs. When they reached the top, Stacy slammed the basement door, pushed Brooke into a chair, and forced her head between her legs. “Breathe deeply or you’re going to pass out,” Stacy ordered.

  Mrs. Kelso, who spent most of her time in the lobby, gaped at them. A haughty woman who found most of the world beneath her, she rarely spoke to either woman, but now she couldn’t resist. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, we always act this way,” Stacy snapped. “Where’s Harry?”

  “I haven’t seen him all day, the shiftless—” Mrs. Kelso, who finally realized Stacy had spoken to her with sarcasm, stiffly turned her back and walked away.

  “The beginnings of a lovely friendship down the drain,” Stacy said. “Are you feeling better?”

  “I think I can get my breath, if that’s what you mean.” Brooke raised her head. “The police.”

  “You sit here. I’ll run out and get the surveillance cops. That’ll be faster than calling nine-one-one. Don’t you dare move.”

  “I won’t,” Brooke muttered. “I can’t.”

  As Stacy dashed out the front door, Brooke sat rigid, her hands clutching the chair arms. She closed her eyes. Immediately the image of Eunice, buried in folds of garish green except for her stark white face and mouse brown hair matted with blood, flashed behind Brooke’s eyelids. She jerked and nearly jumped out of her chair. She felt as if she were in a nightmare in which she kept experiencing looking into the trunk at a woman’s dead, bloodstained face. First her mother, then Mia, next Robert, now Eunice. How many more people would die before Zach Tavell could be stopped?

  Stacy ran back inside, two policemen right behind her. “They’ve already called headquarters,” she said to Brooke. Stacy motioned to the basement door. “She’s down there,” she said to the cops. “The cage door is open. You don’t want me to go with you, do you?”

  “No, ma’am,” the other one said. “The more people present, the more chance there is of contaminating evidence. Could you keep other tenants from coming down, though?”

  “I wanted to get Brooke back to my apartment as soon as possible. . . .”

  “The detectives will be here in five minutes,” the other cop said. “Then you can go. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Stacy said reluctantly. She turned to Brooke. “Can you hold up another five minutes or so?”

  Once the initial shock passed, Brooke simply felt tired. Tired to her bones. “I’m okay, Stacy. I’m not a little kid, you know,” she said, sounding exactly like a querulous little kid. She sighed, rubbing her forehead. “I’m sorry. You just seem so strong and in control and I’m piled in this chair like a sack of potatoes. I’m ashamed of myself.”

  “I’m not as calm as I act. Besides, I haven’t suffered as many shocks as you have lately,” Stacy said kindly. “And you make a very pretty sack of potatoes. If Harry could see you—”

  Their eyes met. “Harry!” they nearly shouted together.

  “Where’s Harry?” Brooke asked Stacy, although she knew Stacy had no idea.

  “I haven’t seen him all day. Mrs. Kelso said earlier she hasn’t, either.” Stacy paused. “Those cages downstairs, Brooke. Harry has a key to each of them just like he does to all the apartments. Your key wasn’t missing. The lock on the cage wasn’t broken—”

  “But the lock on the trunk was,” Brooke said slowly. “You don’t think Harry—”

  “Harry what? Murdered Eunice? You think Harry, not Zach, murdered Eunice?”

  “I guess not. It was just a silly thought.”

  “Maybe not so silly. Harry wanted to be rid of Eunice. If she was murdered in the basement of this building, the building where you live, where Zach has been hanging around, what conclusion would the police draw? That Eunice went to the basement in search of Harry—”

  “She did. Last night. She seemed upset.”

  “All right. She went down in search of Harry and instead ran into Zack. That’s what they’d think.” Stacy nearly wrung her hands. “Oh, I wish Jay would get here. I need to tell him this.”

  “Tell me what?”

  Stacy whirled around to find Jay standing behind her. She threw her arms around him. “Thank God you’re here. In the basement. Brooke and I went down and we found Eunice. She’s in some old trunk in Brooke’s storage cage. The storage cage was locked, but there was an old trunk with a broken lock and Eunice was in there and there was so much blood. . . .”

  Jay hugged her tightly, then gently pulled her away from him. “We’ll need to question you, but right now you both need to calm down. You’re talking like at a machine-gun rate and Brooke looks like she’s going to faint. We need some time to get this area secured, so Stacy, take Brooke upstairs. Do not drink to calm down. I’ll need some very clear and precise answers in a little while. Hal should be here soon.”

  Brooke remembered garish red lights flashing against the night sky as men and women in uniforms poured through the lobby doors, all seeming to be talking at once. My, wouldn’t Harry dearly love all this commotion, she thought distantly, then wondered where Harry could be. Had he done this to Eunice, hoping Zach would be blamed? Was Harry making preparations with that mistress Eunice always feared for flight to better places? Or had Zach gotten to him, too, just the way he’d gotten her mother and Mia and Robert and maybe Eunice? Brooke’s stomach turned and she prayed she wouldn’t be sick. She could not let herself be a nervous, nauseated little weakling, she thought. She had to be strong. It’s what Greta would have wanted. That’s what she had to keep in mind: what dear Grossmutter would have wanted.

  When they went back to Stacy’s apartment, Brooke decided to call Vincent to tell him about Greta, and now the horror of finding Eunice. Her cell phone showed that she had one unanswered call. It was from Vincent, and on the voice mail he sounded tense and hurried:

  “Hey, Brooke. Sorry I haven’t been able to get in touch with you. Dad usually takes a nap in the afternoon and I write. Today he sneaked out on me. He didn’t take the car, thank God. Keys are on the seat, though. He tried to drive somewhere. I’ve been out looking for him all afternoon. Take care of yourself. I’ve got a bad feeling today. Sorry I couldn’t be with you at the hospital. Uh . . . I lo—” He broke off. “See you soon, Cinnamon Girl.”

  Stacy, who had been hovering close enough to hear Vincent’s message, looked at Brooke and raised an eyebrow. “Was he about to say, ‘I love you’ at the end?”

  “I don’t think so,” Brooke said briskly, passionately hoping he was, also afraid he was, and finally depressed because she was certain he wasn’t. “You could tell he’s nervous about his father. Probably even he doesn’t know what h
e was about to say.”

  “Uh-huh,” Stacy drawled. “The only reason I can think of that an articulate man like Vincent didn’t know what he was going to say is because he was unsure of how well his declaration would be received.”

  “I never knew you were such a sloppy romantic,” Brooke returned, putting her cell phone back in her purse.

  “I have my moments.” Stacy grinned at her. “Well, we’ve had orders not to get rip-roaring drunk so we can be halfway coherent when we talk to the police, although rip-roaring drunk sounds like a wonderful condition to be in after what we’ve just been through.”

  “I agree,” Brooke said with a shudder.

  “So, since I don’t want to humiliate my husband in front of his colleagues, especially Hal Myers, I’m going to put on a pot of coffee. Do you want decaf, or something with some kick?”

  “Caffeine will make me more wired than I already am, but at the same time, my bones feel like they’re made of rubber. Maybe some caffeine will put some life back into me.”

  Stacy disappeared in the kitchen and Brooke scooted out of her chair and sat cross-legged on the floor, pulling Elise onto her lap. She buried her face in the thick hair around Elise’s neck, hair that still smelled fresh from her bath less than a week ago, and fought off the urge to cry. She couldn’t say she’d really liked Eunice. Brooke had never even had a real conversation with the woman. Eunice was a perpetually agitated, suspicious, prying hypochondriac, but Brooke had felt sorry for her. She’d been plain, bordering on ugly, and not the type who could make people look past her physical deficiencies to see a beautiful soul, if indeed she had one, but Brooke sensed that Eunice’s life had been a hard one, driving out any potential charm or attractiveness. And now her death had been hard, too. Not just hard. Horrifying. Brooke didn’t want to think about it.

  But she couldn’t think of anything else. How had Eunice been murdered? All they’d seen was the body and an incredible amount of drying blood. They would find out soon enough, as soon as they talked with Jay, but no matter what the method, Eunice had looked shocked even in death. The attack must have been swift. They hadn’t seen blood on the floor. Someone had been careful to wipe that up, although luminol and ultraviolet lights would certainly show the point of attack and the trail leading to Brooke’s storage cage.