by Nora Roberts
So he sent the flowers, and he sat late at night in the dark, waiting for the right voice and the right words.
THANK YOU FOR COMING, Sister.” Grace knew it was foolish to feel odd about shaking a nun’s hand. It was simply that she couldn’t help remembering how many times her knuckles had been whacked by one with a ruler. And she couldn’t quite get used to the fact that they didn’t wear habits anymore. The nun who had introduced herself as Sister Alice wore a small silver crucifix with her conservative black suit and low-heeled pumps. But there was no wimple and robe.
“All our prayers are with you and your family, Miss McCabe. In the few months I knew Kathleen, I came to respect her dedication and skill as a teacher.”
Respect. The word came again as it had, in cold comfort, for an hour. No one spoke of affection or of friendship. “Thank you, Sister.”
There were several members of the faculty as well as a handful of students in the church. Without them, the pews would have been all but empty. She’d had no one, Grace thought as she stationed herself in the rear, no one who hadn’t come out of a sense of duty or compassion.
There were flowers. She looked at the baskets and wreaths in the nave. She wondered why she seemed to be the only one who found the colors obscene under the circumstances. Most were from California. A bunch of gladioluses and a formal card were apparently enough from the people who had once been a part of Kathleen’s life. Or of Mrs. Jonathan Breezewood’s life.
Grace hated the smell of them, just as she hated the glossy white casket she’d refused to approach. She hated the music that flowed quietly down the aisle and knew she’d never be able to hear an organ again without thinking of death.
These were the trappings the dead expected from the living. Or was it that the living expected them from the dead? She wasn’t sure of anything except that when her time came, there would be no ceremonies, no dirges, no friends and relatives staring teary-eyed down at what was left of her.
“Grace.”
She turned, hoping nothing showed on her face. “Jonathan. You came.”
“Of course.” Unlike Grace, he looked down the aisle at the white casket and his former wife.
“Still image-conscious, I see.”
He noted the heads that turned at Grace’s statement but merely glanced at his watch. “I’m afraid I can only stay for the service. I have an appointment to speak with a Detective Jackson in an hour. Then I have to get to the airport.”
“It’s good of you to fit your wife’s funeral into your schedule. Doesn’t it bother you, Jonathan, to be such a hypocrite? Kathleen meant nothing, less than nothing to you.”
“I don’t think this is the appropriate time or place for this discussion.”
“You’re wrong.” She took his arm before he could pass her. “There’ll never be a better time or place.”
“If you push, Grace, you’ll hear things you’d prefer not to.”
“I haven’t begun to push. It makes me sick to see you here, playing the grieving husband after what you put her through.”
It was the murmurs that made up his mind. The murmurs, and the almost guilty glances over the shoulder. Clamping his hand to Grace’s arm, he drew her outside. “I prefer to keep family discussions private.”
“We aren’t family.”
“No, and it would be foolish to pretend there’s ever been any affection between us. You’ve never bothered to disguise your contempt for me.”
“I don’t believe in veneers, especially over feelings. Kathleen should never have married you.”
“On that we agree completely. Kathleen should never have married anyone. She was a barely adequate mother and a poor excuse for a wife.”
“How dare you? How dare you stand here, now, and speak that way? You humiliated her, you flaunted your affairs in her face.”
“Better if I had had them behind her back?” With a half laugh, he looked beyond her to an elm that had been planted when the church’s cornerstone had been laid. “Do you think she cared? You’re more of a fool than I believed you to be.”
“She loved you.” Her voice was furious now. Because it hurt, hurt more than she’d ever conceived of to stand here on the steps where she’d stood so often before with her sister. In the May Procession in frilly white dresses, on Easter Sunday in yellow bonnets and Mary Janes. They’d walked up and down those same steps so many times together as children, and now she stood alone. The organ music came low and mournful through the cracks of the doors. “You and Kevin were her whole life.”
“You’re very much mistaken, Grace. I’ll tell you about your sister. She cared about no one. She had no passion, no capability for it. Not just physical, but emotional passion. She never turned a hair over my affairs, as long as they were discreet, as long as they didn’t interfere with the one thing she really prized. Being a Breezewood.”
“Stop it.”
“No, you’ll listen now.” He caught her before she could run back into the church. “It wasn’t just sex she was ambivalent about, it was anything that didn’t fit into her plans. She’d wanted a son, a Breezewood, and once she had Kevin, she considered her duty ended. He was a symbol more than a child to her.”
It hit home, too close to where her own thoughts had drifted over the years. And it made her ashamed. “That’s not true. She loved Kevin.”
“As much as she was capable. You tell me, Grace, did you ever see one spontaneous act of affection from her, to yourself, to your parents?”
“Kathy wasn’t demonstrative. That doesn’t mean she didn’t feel.”
“She was cold.” Grace jerked her head back as if she’d been slapped. It wasn’t a surprise to hear it; it was a surprise to realize she’d harbored the same secret opinion all of her life. “And the worst of it is, I don’t think she could help it. For most of our marriage we went our own ways because it was convenient for both of us.”
It made her worse than ashamed. It made her sick. Because she’d known it, she’d seen it, but she’d refused to believe it. She saw the way he smoothed his hair when the light breeze disturbed it. It was the casual gesture of a man who preferred no imperfections. Kathleen might have been at fault, but she hadn’t been alone.
“Then it stopped being convenient for you.”
“That’s correct. When I asked her for a divorce she showed the first emotion I’d seen from her in years. She refused, she threatened, even pleaded. But it wasn’t me she was afraid of losing, it was the position she’d grown comfortable in. When she saw I was resolute, she left. She refused a settlement of any kind. She’d been gone three months before she contacted me and asked for Kevin. For three months she hadn’t seen or spoken to her son.”
“She was suffering.”
“Perhaps she was. I no longer cared. I told her she was not going to uproot Kevin, but that we would make arrangements for her to have him for a time during his school vacation.”
“She was going to fight you for him. She was afraid of you and your family, but she was going to fight for Kevin.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“You knew,” Grace said slowly. “You knew what she was doing?”
“I knew she’d hired a lawyer and a detective.”
“And what would you have done to keep her from winning custody?”
“Whatever became necessary.” Again, he glanced at his watch. “It appears we’re holding up the service.”
He opened the door to the vestibule and stepped inside.
BEN PULLED A GLAZED doughnut out of a white paper bag as he stopped at a red light. It had warmed enough to have the windows at half mast so that the tunes from the easy listening station on the radio of the car beside him drifted over his own choice of B. B. King.
“How can anybody listen to that crap?” He glanced over, saw the car was a Volvo, and rolled his eyes. “I figure it’s a Soviet conspiracy. They’ve taken over the airwaves, filled them with inane orchestrated pap, and are going to keep playing it until the minds of ave
rage Americans turn to Jell-O. Meanwhile, waiting for us to fall over in a Manilow coma, they’re listening to the Stones.” He took another bite of doughnut before turning King up another notch. “And we’re worried about midrange missiles in Europe.”
“You ought to write the Pentagon,” Ed suggested.
“Too late.” Ben drove through the intersection and turned right at the next corner. “Probably already piping in Carpenters ballads. They’re mellowing us out, Ed, mellowing us out and just waiting for us to mold.”
When his partner didn’t comment, Ben switched the radio down again. If he wasn’t going to be able to take Ed’s mind off it, he might as well shoot straight on.
“The funeral’s today, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“When we finish this, you could take a couple hours of personal time.”
“She’s not going to want to see me unless there’s something I can tell her.”
“Maybe we’ll have something.” Ben began checking numbers on the narrow side street. “When’s she going back to New York?”
“I don’t know.” And he’d done his best not to think of it. “A day or two, I guess.”
“You serious about the writer?”
“I haven’t had time to think about it.”
Ben swung the car over to the curb. “Better think fast.” He looked beyond Ed to the tiny little shop nestled in the middle of a half-dozen others. It might have been a trendy boutique once, or a craft shop. Now it was Fantasy, Incorporated.
“Doesn’t look like a den of iniquity.”
“You’d know about that.” Absently, Ben licked glaze from his thumb. “For a business that’s chugging along at a steady profit, they don’t seem to be putting much into their image.”
“I watch Miami Vice.” Ed waited until two cars passed before opening his door to step out on the street.
“I wouldn’t guess they’d get many social visits from clients.”
Inside, the office was the size of an average bedroom, with no frills. The walls were painted white and the carpet was industrial grade. There were a couple of mismatched chairs that might have been picked up at a yard sale. Space was at a premium because the pair of desks stretched nearly wall-to-wall. Ben recognized them as Army issue, sturdy and unimpressive. But the computer was top of the line.
Behind one of the monitors, a woman stopped tapping keys as they entered. Her fall of brown hair was pulled back from a round, pretty face. Her suit jacket was draped behind her chair. Over a white silk blouse she wore a trio of gold chains. With a half smile for both men, she rose.
“Hello. May I help you?”
“We’d like to talk to the owner.” Ben pulled out his badge. “Police business.”
She held out a hand for Ben’s identification, studied it, then handed it back. “I’m the owner. What can I do for you?”
Ben pocketed his badge again. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been a tidy young woman who looked as though she’d just come from planning a field trip for Brownies. “We’d like to talk to you about one of your employees, Miss …”
“Mrs. Cawfield. Eileen Cawfield. This is about Kathleen Breezewood, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Sit down, please, Detective Paris.” She glanced at Ed.
“Jackson.”
“Please, sit down. Can I get you some coffee?”
“No, thanks,” Ed answered before Ben could accept. “You know Kathleen Breezewood was murdered.”
“I read it in the paper. Horrible.” She sat behind the desk again and folded her hands on a neat pink blotter. “I only met her once, when she came in to interview, but I feel very close to all my employees. She was popular. In fact Desiree—I’m sorry, I’m afraid we get into the habit of thinking of them as their alter egos—Kathleen was one of my most popular. She had such a soothing voice. That’s very important in this business.”
“Did Kathleen complain about any of her callers?” Ed flipped over a page in his notebook. “Did anyone make her uneasy, threaten her?”
“No. Kathleen was very particular about the kind of calls she would take. She was a very conservative woman, and we respected that. We have one or two who handle the more … unusual fantasies. Excuse me,” she said as her phone rang.
“Fantasy, Incorporated.” With the efficiency of a veteran receptionist, she had a pen in hand. “Yes, of course. I’ll be happy to see if Louisa’s available. I’ll need the number of a major credit card. Yes? And the expiration date. Now the number where you can be reached. If Louisa isn’t available, do you have another preference? Yes, I’ll see to it. Thank you.”
After hanging up the phone, Eileen sent Ben and Ed an apologetic smile. “I’ll just be another minute. He’s a regular so it simplifies things.” She pushed a few buttons on her keyboard, then picked up her phone again. “Louisa? Yes, it’s Eileen. I’m fine, thanks. Mr. Dunnigan would like to talk to you. Yes, the usual number. You have it? That’s it. You’re welcome. ’Bye now.” After replacing the receiver, she folded her hands again. “Sorry for the interruption.”
“You get many like that?” Ben asked. “Callbacks, regulars?”
“Oh yes. There are a lot of lonely people, sexually frustrated people. In today’s climate, there are more who prefer the safety and anonymity of a phone call over the risks of singles’ bars.” She settled back and crossed her legs under the desk. “We’re all aware of the rise in sexually transmitted diseases. The life-styles of the sixties and seventies have had to alter greatly in the latter half of the eighties. Fantasy calls are just one alternative.”
“Yeah.” Ed imagined she could take that routine on Donahue with some success. In fact, he didn’t disagree with her but was simply more interested in murder than in philosophy or mores. “Did Kathleen have a lot of regulars?”
“As I said, she was popular. Several clients have called for her in the last couple of days. They’ve been very disappointed when I told them she was no longer with us.”
“Has anyone not called her who should have?”
Eileen paused to think this through, then again turned to her computer and put it to work. “No. I’m aware you’d have to question anyone connected with Kathleen. But you see, the men who call here only know of Desiree. She was a voice, faceless, or we’ll say with whatever face they chose for her. We’re very careful here, for legal reasons as well as professional ones. The women have no last names, they aren’t permitted to give out their private home telephone numbers to any of the clients or to see them, ever. Anonymity is part of the illusion as well as part of the protection. None of the clients has any way to contact a woman except through the office telephone numbers.”
“Who has access to your files?”
“Myself, my husband, and his sister. This is a family business,” she explained as the phone began to ring again. “My sister-in-law is working her way through college and mans the phones in the evenings. One minute.”
She handled the next call with the same routine. Ed glanced at his watch. Twelve-fifteen. Obviously phone sex was a popular lunchtime activity. Then he wondered if the funeral was over and Grace was home alone.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “Before you ask, our files are confidential. None of us discusses our clients or employees with outsiders. It’s business, gentlemen, but not the kind we chat about over cocktails. We’re very careful to keep things legitimate and well within the law. Our women aren’t whores. They don’t sell their bodies, but conversation. Our employees are screened, carefully screened, and if they break any of our rules, they’re fired. We’re aware that there are some businesses similar to ours where a young boy can call and charge the conversation to his parents’ phone bill. I happen to think that’s irresponsible and sad. We serve adults only, and our terms are explained in full up front, before any charge is made.”
“We’re Homicide, not Vice, Mrs. Cawfield,” Ben told her. “In any case, we’ve already checked out your b
usiness and you’re within your rights. At the moment, we’re only interested in Kathleen Breezewood. It might help us if we had a list of her clients.”
“I can’t do that. My client list is confidential for obvious reasons, Detective Paris.”
“And murder isn’t confidential, Mrs. Cawfield, for obvious reasons.”
“I understand your position. You’ll have to understand mine.”
“We can get a warrant,” Ed reminded her. “It’ll just take time.”
“You’ll need a warrant, Detective Jackson. Until you have one, I’m obliged to protect my clients. I’ll tell you again, none of them could have located her unless they had access to this machine and broke the code to the program.”
“We’ll have to talk to your husband and sister-in-law.”
“Of course. Short of breaking client confidentiality, we want to cooperate in every way.”
“Mrs. Cawfield, do you know where your husband was on the night of April tenth?” Ed gave her a mild look as he held his pencil over his pad. Ben saw her fingers tighten quickly.
“I suppose you have to ask that, but I find it tasteless.”
“Yeah.” Ben crossed his legs. “Murder doesn’t have such a sweet taste either.”
Eileen moistened her lips. “Allen plays softball. He had a game on the night of the tenth. He pitched all nine innings; I was there. It was over about nine, maybe a bit before. Afterward, we went out for pizza with several other couples. We got home a little after eleven.”
“If we find we need names, you can provide them?”
“Of course. I’m sorry, very sorry about Kathleen, but my business isn’t involved in her murder. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to take this call.”
“Thanks for your time.” Ed pushed the door open and waited for Ben to join him on the sidewalk. “If she’s playing it straight, and I think she is, none of the clients would have gotten Kathleen’s location through the main office.”
“Maybe Kathleen broke the rules.” He pulled out a cigarette. “Gave out her address, her real name. Maybe she met one of the guys and he followed her back, decided he wanted more than talk.”