Something Most Deadly

by Ann Self

  Jane looked up to see Brian step out of the dark alley and into the street and sunlight. He dodged cars and a horse drawn tourist buggy as he jogged across and turned right towards the parking building. He was just entering the dark glass lobby of the seven-story brick garage as Jane crossed the street.

  She slowed her pace when she feared they might be waiting for the elevator together. What if there were no other people in the lobby? Her mind worked furiously for a plan. There was no plan. She stalled, but it was a bad place to be preoccupied; she had to jump onto the sidewalk or suffer the impact of a yellow Checker cab.

  Slow pace or not, she inevitably reached the pedestrian entrance of the garage. She opened the heavy glass door just as Brian was swallowed into a black-metal elevator. She raced in to stare at the floor numbers, catching her breath. Seven round lights over his door—seven round lights that were non-functioning, giving her no idea at all which floor he might be parked on.

  Another man entered the lobby forcing Jane to act normal and press the UP button, as a sane person would do. It seemed to take forever for one of the two elevators to return, and when it did it was loaded with people. After the car disgorged, Jane rushed in and jabbed 2, as the other gentleman passenger stepped in. She had to squelch an irritated sigh when he held the door for more passengers as they filed slowly into the lobby.

  Damnit, they’re moving like aging donkeys. And they’re strung out like pearls on a necklace. God, has anyone got a cattle prod? Hurry up! Hurry up!

  It was taking forever to pack them all on. She glared at the CLOSE DOOR button until it nearly melted off the panel.

  Freed on the second level, Jane raced for her car, checking everyone and every car in the elevated parking cave. Row after row. No Brian. He had vanished, no sign of the man—maybe for another decade and maybe all for the best. Now she could come to her senses. She stood for a few minutes listening to voices and engines echoing through the open deck, checking cars as they headed for the ramp, but there was no sign of a flashy car carrying Brian Canaday.

  “I should end this foolishness before I become a deranged stalker,” she chided herself, breathing hard and pulse racing. She hesitated only a moment, flung her bags on the front seat of a beat-up old Buick—a car so ugly that locking the doors would be laughable—jumped into the pitiful thing and fired it up. She winced as the cement pillars echoed every defect the car owned—rapping rods, squeaking brake pads, grinding ball joints and various plinks and tinks. Jane cranked down her window right to the door, since air-conditioning was not an amenity.

  Reversing out of her slot in a choking cloud of fumes, she ripped the car into drive, bald tires making an embarrassing scream as the car decorated its area with rubber, burning oil and flakes of body rot. She piloted this monument to the indigent down a steep ramp and presented herself second in line at a tiny glass and aluminum booth, behind a gray-haired lady in a silver Camry.

  Still no sign of Brian. A car rolled in behind her and her eyes shot to the rearview mirror, but it was only an open Jeep jammed to the doors with laughing girls bobbing around like popcorn to a screaming radio. The bass was so loud it thrummed through her car seat.

  “Damn!” Jane slapped the steering wheel and then wondered why it should matter so much. Following this guy around like some kind of weirdo is going to gain me exactly nothing!

  Her eyes, now separated from the target of attention, fell disinterestedly on a sign that read: LOST TICKET PAYS MAXIMUM. The Camry ahead of her pulled away and a red and white barrier dropped down, challenging her.

  GIVE UP FORGET HIM, it seemed to say.

  Jane shoved her ticket and correct amount of money into the attendant’s hand and then shot out of the garage as soon as the gate was raised, making the Buick sputter and lay down another bank of smoke in protest. She wound around city streets to enter the rat-maze of jersey barriers topped with metal screens that directed cars through the construction mess of the “Big Dig”. Boston’s billion-dollar-a-mile project, to lower the elevated Central Artery of the expressway twelve stories under the city, made driving in the area a nightmare. Cars were funneled this way and that, slapdash signs went up and came down. Trying to find 93 south—or the central artery—was like driving through a pinball machine.

  She strained to see the expressway signs she wanted, isolating them from all the other road signs and the business signs tacked up in hopes of snaring customers before they were shunted out of the city:

  AIRPORT TUNNEL QUINCY MARKET GOVCENTER

  WATERFRONT AQUARIUM PEDESTRIAN ENTRANCE

  THIS WAY ONE WAY ENTER HERE

  93 NORTH NO TURN ON RED 93 SOUTH

  Jane felt sympathy for people trying to keep their establishments alive during such a massive upheaval of a beautiful city. They only needed to hold on a little longer, the new tunnels were nearly finished. She hoped the project that was supposed to free up acres of waterfront property and “bring the city to the ocean” wouldn’t bring it to its knees. The project was rife with delays, leaks, cost over-runs, expensive surprises, not to mention construction problems uncovered on the new Zakim Bunker Hill suspension bridge—the widest cable-stayed bridge in the world.

  Her car clattered over metal plates and squares of concrete that covered recent excavation as she raced through the maze. She zigzagged under the ugly green girders of the raised expressway trying to find her way to its entrance ramp. If Brian was headed for Brockton, where most of the other Canadays had residences, she knew he would have no choice but to take this cattle-chute route, and she could possibly catch up with him.

  She strained to see the driver of a big luxury car ahead of her—the kind the Canadays were all fond of—but as she closed in on it she could see the driver had white hair. She glanced in her rearview, but no flashy car there either. At the break-neck speed she was traveling no one had caught up with her yet. Besides, she was sure Brian got out of the garage way ahead of her. The elevator delay had just cost too much time.

  Jane finally came to a stop at the last traffic light before the ramp leading onto the overhead Central Artery, and watched cars that had made the light flow under the artery and dart onto the uphill ramp on the other side. No Brian as far as she could see. He was probably miles away in the opposite direction.

  “That’s it. I’ve lost him, and probably all for the best—I’m now free to stop acting like an idiot. See you in another ten years, Brian…”

  *****

  Huge gray eyes with a weird metallic glint held their own reflections in the mirror, flicking and focusing like a fly checking its surroundings. Pupils expanded to black pools as breath misted the glass. Every hair, tooth and pore was examined—she was still young but imperfections could appear at any moment, especially with another birthday looming. She tossed her head and diamond drop-earrings sparkled like a million fireflies, sending sequins of light cascading into the mirror and lending a third dimension to its planar surface. Reflections of an imperfect soul were some years down the road.

  Eight-foot sheers puffed from the mansion’s bedroom windows, billowing in the afternoon breeze like ghostly spinnakers. The curtain-ghosts tried to run back out with the fickle wind but were splayed flat against screens, soughing dejectedly. Outside the window a monstrous rhododendron rocked in the breeze. Spangles of low sun wrestled through the shrub and fired two heads of yellow hair into spun gold. One head belonged to the petite woman seated at her vanity and the other to her glass twin, returning the stare from rippling depths of vintage glass. The mirror twin came into sharper focus when the sheers parted and watery light strobed brighter.

  Blonde heads nodded in satisfaction on either side of the glass, observing a neck and shoulders flowing into a dress no bigger than a black hanky. Since the real woman consumed about as much food as her reflection, there would never be ugly bulges to spoil the dress. Finding nothing whatsoever to disapprove of, the wide, metallic eyes ended their inspection and began a stare of sheer admiration—lingering on a porcel
ain complexion, dwelling on a rosebud mouth and sliding along yards of butter-yellow curls still sparkling like firelight in the sun.

  The live image sighed, as both real girl and glass girl replaced diamonds with gold hoops and then spritzed on another cloud of perfume. As the flowery mist floated away, Lucinda Angela Whitbeck detached her eyes from her likeness in the mirror and fanned her hands out on the Victorian vanity her father had acquired at Sotheby’s in New York. She began an inspection of her nails, gleaming dark purple against the satinwood, deciding they would pass until a manicurist arrived for Sunday’s monster party. Her twenty-sixth birthday party. This would be the biggest party the Whitbecks had ever hosted, with every important person she and her father knew in attendance—and with Allison Paget on the guest list no one would blow it off. Allison Paget was insurance, an anchor guest, an academy-award-winning actress that would insure the arrival of big-shot businessmen, politicians and a smattering of producers and directors to round it off.

  Lucinda’s eyes wandered to the framed photograph of maternal grandfather Edward Barrett. The photo had been dug out from tons of claptrap in the attic and now occupied a place of honor on her dresser. She had removed broken glass and cleaned the tarnished frame as best she could; she admired this man even if no one else did. She traced a lily white finger over the frame, then locked a hypnotic gaze on the stern looking man with fair hair and sharp cheekbones. The Lucindas bent close to their respective photographs but only one woman produced a whisper: “No matter what people think, you’ll always be okay in my book!”

  Edward had died long before she was born—hung himself actually—but it was his money helping the family enjoy finer things in life, such as mansions, expensive cars and horses, and an estate the size of a small town. The man did what he had to after all, she thought, and I’ll never say a word against him. A shaft of sunlight found its way to the photograph, lending the black and white photo some animation and capturing the matching metallic glint of Grandfather Barrett’s eyes; strangely colored eyes that all the Barretts genetically shared, along with a few other color-linked traits. The eerie gaze pierced through decades to regard the Lucindas approvingly. The girls smiled back.

  Lucinda and her reflection straightened and looked around, tilting heads like mice as the flesh-and-blood girl listened to the quiet of her spacious bedroom. Her tiny sculpted nose could have used whiskers to detect air movement. The secluded second-floor domain of the Whitbeck mansion was a nest of rare antiques, luxurious Cowtan & Tout fabrics, mahogany wainscoting, high coffered ceilings and Abusson carpeting. Lucinda looked back into the mirror to watch sheer curtains undulating like dancing spirits in a graveyard. Again her senses tuned into subtle sounds of the mansion. The breeze still hummed through screens and leaf shadows swirled on the carpet like playful fingers. There was no other activity on the second floor that she could detect and her animal instincts went back to stand-by.

  An English Caseclock suddenly chimed five times in mellow tones, changing Lucinda’s train of thought. It was time to change clothes and drive the two-mile lane out to the stables and make a fuss over an outrageously expensive birthday gift from her father. The imported Trakehner stallion he’d purchased had just been delivered by a horse-transport truck from New York, and was guaranteed to make every other show horse in New England look like chopped liver. Pretty faces suddenly twisted with anger and leaned in close enough to melt together as one Lucinda hissed to another: “No matter how good you are Jane, you haven’t got a prayer against this million-dollar stallion!” Anger evaporated with the fog of angry breath and pleased Lucindas returned, arching their backs and contemplating enormous success in the dog-eat-dog international show world.

  Lucinda abruptly ended the love-fest with her reflection and stepped away to remove her slip-dress, yanking it down her hips and dropping it on the lush carpet in a black pool. She eased her tiny frame into fawn riding breeches that clung like a coat of paint, then pried herself into a little stretch jersey. Having very small bones spared Lucinda from the cadaver look of women who avoided food; and while the clock was running out, she still kept her beauty, and still maintained slight curves. Being so tiny was a powerful tool to use with men, who always felt protective and apt to do anything she wanted.

  Lucinda never worried about the future—she always lived in the moment, and for now the moment was just as she wanted it. Sitting back on the upholstered stool, she slipped dainty feet into tall black, stiletto-thin Dressage boots—custom, handmade boots from Holland that had set her father back about nine-hundred dollars. She sniffed, laughing in her mind about the Butler’s protests. She always wore the boots right up to her room despite his incessant carping about priceless rugs. The maids would get lazy if they had nothing to clean.

  Lucinda grabbed a brush from the dresser, stood up and kicked her dress out of the way. Pacing by the many tall windows of her bedroom, she let the curtains fan about her face as she lazily brushed at her long golden curls. Movement outside caused her to shove the sheers aside to clear her view. Her mother was rushing down the long drive with two dogs, waving to stop a car on its way to the barn. Lucinda watched the vehicle stop, and a frown raked her face when she recognized the car as it slid into view between large pine trees. She made a low grumble in her throat—something close to a growl—and batted the curtain away with the brush, nearly yanking off the pinch-pleats.

  “Well, speak of the devil...” she snarled. “Back to oblivion for you!”

  Lucinda stomped across her room to a four-poster bed. Flinging herself backwards over the bed she let her long yellow hair cascade over the edge of the fancy spread, brushing gold curls viciously—unmindful of breakage. She glared up at the high fishnet canopy and swung the brush to her mouth like a mic: “THE CHAMPIONSHIP AND SILVER TROPHY GOES TO MISS LUCINDA WHITBECK ON CHARMANTE, RIDING FOR HER FATHER’S SPRINGHILL ESTATE!!”

  She punched a fist into the air. No more screaming fits of rage, no more trashing her equipment. She’d be unstoppable now, her father had finally spent enough money to insure that success was attainable.

  Lucinda sat up, dropping little booted feet to the floor and leaning forward to flip hair over her head. “Boy, a certain someone will croak when they get a load of this horse!” She brushed her hair again with great energy as she chortled to the carpet, “If she’s lucky, I’ll let her clean his stall!”

  A mental picture of Jane shoveling piles of fancy horse manure gripped Lucinda with laughter and she flung herself back on the bed again, yellow hair whipping across the spread. She paused, gasping, and then brushed a long strand slowly out to arms-length in front of her face, listening to the screeching whine of electricity and snapping hair shafts as she caught her breath. “Since I’ve got the dad with the dough, and the dad with enough brains not to fly his plane into the ground...well hell, that’s just the way the cookie crumbles! Step aside, PlainJane!”

  A maid bringing linens to the master bedroom paused at Lucinda’s closed door when she heard yelling and laughter. Tiny hairs on her arms stood at attention and saluted.

  *****

  A black Mercedes AMG55—a traveling fortress of sport-utility vehicle and urban jungle warrior—purred down the multi-level garage ramp in Boston and came to rest in line behind an open jeep packed with young girls. The jeep moved up to the cashier booth as soon as the old wreck of a Buick in front of them exited the Dock Square garage. Brian Canaday watched the rumbling Buick lurch away in a cloud of white smoke, and frowned at the obvious lack of maintenance. With a soft hum, his window raised against the stench of burning oil. “Straight to the crusher with that monstrosity,” he muttered, as the rattletrap clunker shot into daylight and Boston traffic. He couldn’t help but pity the poor driver, but forgot about it as soon as the junk car disappeared.

  The jeep girls began the tedious chore of handing over their collected change to the cashier in the glass booth, plowing through backpacks and pockets, some of them coughing and waving away noxious smoke
from the Buick. Brian leaned his against his knuckles with a slight smile, amused at the noise level of the jeep’s radio as it blasted out in bone-jolting sound waves. He thought it a miracle the booth didn’t shatter into a pile of glass shards. He sighed impatiently and rolled his wrist, checking for the time: 3:45. The business call he returned on his cell phone while parked on the upper deck had delayed him. It would not be good to be late for dinner at his sister Susan’s; she would chew him out and call him “Big Shot” again. No one in the large family ever escaped put-downs, one-liners, or severe teasing; it was all good-natured and kept their egos roped in. Friday night dinners with the complete gang were more like “roasts”.

  Brian brushed dark hair from his forehead, and while he was forcibly stalled in place he scrolled the weekend schedule in his mind. It was going to be hectic: Call Allison to check on her schedule, check the limo service and pick up his dinner jacket for the party. At least he’d managed to grab a bow-tie, dress shirt and shoes without a lot of irritating fuss. Most clothes for tall men fit him right off the rack, but he always knew he’d be sorry for not keeping more formal things on hand—or for rebelling at having a personal tailor come to his high-rise office suite and wait on him hand and foot while he conducted business. Now he’d been forced to shop in a hurry, adding to the exasperation of shopping for formal clothes in the first place.

  Finally the jeep in front of him moved out. After handing the attendant his ticket and money, Brian gunned and bounced the big black SUV out of the parking garage, eager to make time. He passed the overflowing girl-jeep before it even cleared the end of the building. Since it was Friday, traffic was heavy and getting worse by the minute and he’d probably have to fight it all the way to Brockton. His first challenge was negotiating Boston’s “Big Dig” construction mess, and he charged into the narrow temporary roadway that eventually fed cars up onto the raised expressway. His electronically assisted four-wheel drive danced with ease over the patched and wounded asphalt as he grumbled about how part of Boston was beginning to look like Tin Pan Alley.