Laurel shook her head. “She never said a word to me. She’d been acting odd for a couple of weeks—”
“Odd?”
“Moody. One hour quiet, withdrawn, even depressed, the next almost boisterous. That’s how she was the night of her death. She’d barely said a word all evening, then she was gung ho to go to the Pritchard barn. She insisted on putting her head in that noose, even though most of us were trying to stop her.”
“Most of you. Let me guess who encouraged her. Monica.”
“Monica really wanted Denise to do it. Denise refused.”
“And if she hadn’t, she’d be dead instead of Faith,” he said coldly.
“Not necessarily—”
“And when Faith died, you all kept your mouths shut.”
“Neil, we were afraid people would think we’d gotten drunk and murdered her. At the very least we might be charged with manslaughter.”
“That’s Monica talking, even then. All I know is that you kept quiet and let me take the blame, let everyone think Faith had committed suicide because she was pregnant with my baby and I wouldn’t marry her!” He stood, towering over her, his face red with anger. “Damn you, Laurel! Damn all of you and your sick little club. I hope you all get exactly what you deserve!”
Laurel thought he was going to strike her. Time slowed for her as she mentally and physically braced for the blow. He raised his hand, glared at her with the desperation and fury of a man driven to the edge, then turned on his heel and stalked from the kitchen.
When Laurel heard the front door slam, she let out her breath. She ran to the door, locked it, and looked through the front window. There was no sign of Neil.
Abruptly she realized she was trembling and sank to the floor, crying as she hadn’t cried for years.
2
Laurel still hadn’t heard from Kurt when she slipped on a navy blue dress and gold button earrings. In twenty minutes she was leaving for Angie’s visitation. She’d thought she’d be going with Kurt.
Her hopes lifted when the phone rang. They abruptly plummeted when she heard her mother’s voice. “Laurel Damron, why didn’t you call me about Angie? My goodness, how many nights has that girl stayed under my roof? You two were friends since grade school and I have to hear about her murder on television!”
“I’m sorry, Mom. Things have been hectic around here.”
“Too hectic to give me a ten-minute phone call?”
Meg Damron could harangue for an hour straight when she was in the mood, and she was definitely in the mood. “Mom, I didn’t want to upset you.”
“But I left four messages! Don’t you ever check your machine?”
“You know I’ve always been careless about that. I’m really sorry. How’s Claudia?”
The change of subject worked. “We had a false alarm yesterday. Spent hours at the hospital. Claudia got rather…well, rude with the doctor when he wouldn’t do a cesarean and get the whole business over.” I’ll bet she was rude, Laurel thought, grinning. Claudia had a lightning temper and an extensive vocabulary of expletives. Laurel could just imagine the scene she’d created. “Your father got upset and told her if she got pregnant again, we were moving back to West Virginia. I was angry with him for losing his temper with her, but it did quiet her a bit.”
It threw her into a sulking spell, Laurel thought. She genuinely wished she liked her sister, but she didn’t. She wanted all good things for Claudia, but she couldn’t stand to be around her for long, and she knew the feeling was mutual.
“Now tell me how this awful thing happened to Angie,” Laurel’s mother said abruptly.
“I don’t know any more than you do. I was just getting dressed to go to the visitation tonight.”
“And there are no flowers from your father and me!”
“Yes there are, Mom. A huge basket. I wouldn’t forget something like that.”
“Good. Oh, Angie’s poor parents. They adored her. Spoiled her rotten, of course.” Laurel rolled her eyes. No one could have been more spoiled than Claudia. “They spent a fortune on all those singing and dancing lessons.”
“Well, they paid off. She was a Broadway star.”
“Yes.” Meg Damron sighed. “Sometimes I wish Claudia had taken that route.” Impossible, Laurel thought. Angie had phenomenal talent. Claudia only had good looks. “How’s Kurt?”
“He’s fine. I’m expecting him any minute,” Laurel lied, wanting to cut the conversation short. She could not talk about Kurt. “I have to go, Mom.”
“All right. We’ll be seeing you in a few days. Give the Riccis your dad’s and my heartfelt condolences.”
“I will, Mom. Talk to you soon.”
Laurel drove to the funeral home without even turning on the radio. Usually she enjoyed singing along as she drove, but not tonight. She dreaded this visitation even more than she thought she would. After the scene with Kurt last night and the one with Neil today, she wanted nothing more than to be alone. When she pulled into the funeral home parking lot, she thought of simply going home again. If she went to the funeral tomorrow, that would be enough…
Someone tapped on her car window. She jumped before looking around to see Denise. Laurel opened the door and stepped from the car.
“How could you?” Denise exploded before Laurel shut the door.
“How could I what?”
“Tell Kurt about Faith. He came to my house today. Thank God Wayne was out with Audra. Laurel, I just can’t believe you went to the police!”
“After what happened last night to your own daughter?” Laurel flared. “Good Lord, I’m surprised you didn’t go to them. How could you possibly think of keeping quiet after what someone did to Audra?”
“Don’t you dare imply I’m a bad mother because I didn’t go to the police about something that happened thirteen years ago!”
“I’m not implying you’re a bad mother in general, but you’re not showing good judgment at the moment. Denise, we’re not really talking about Faith’s death. We’re talking about what’s going on now.” She took a deep breath, trying to quell her anger. “What did you tell Kurt?”
“That I didn’t know what you were talking about. I never heard of the Six of Hearts and I certainly wasn’t around when Faith killed herself.”
Laurel’s jaw dropped. “You lied about all of it?”
“You’re damned right I did. I told you I would. So did Crystal and Monica.”
“Do you mean that Kurt talked to the three of you and you all lied?”
“Yes. We did exactly what we told you we’d do. We can’t have our lives ruined because of a thirteen-year-old accident.” She turned her back on Laurel. “I’ll never tell,” she flung over her shoulder. “Never!”
Laurel watched her stride to her car. “Denise, you’ll live to regret this,” she called. “At least I hope you’ll live.”
3
Twenty minutes later Laurel emerged from the funeral home. The place had been packed, mostly with people Laurel didn’t know. Monica stood near the family and gave Laurel a look that could melt glass when she drew near. Laurel stiffened her spine and ignored her, holding out her hand to Mrs. Ricci.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, thinking how empty the words sounded. The woman, who looked ten years older than she had in the spring when Laurel last saw her, grasped her hand.
“I know you are, dear. It’s such a tragedy. Our beautiful Angela and we can’t even open the casket. Did you know that ex-husband of hers sent flowers? Orchids. Son of a bitch!”
“Now, Gina,” her husband said mildly.
“Well, he is. He did it, but he hired some fancy New York law firm that will get him off—Goldstein and Tate or something.” Laurel’s gaze snapped to Monica, who was edging away. “It’s the O. J. Simpson case all over again!”
Dr. Ricci, whose soothing manner made him such a successful veterinarian, placed his hand on his wife’s arm. “Gina, please don’t upset youself. If Stuart is guilty, he’ll pay.”
&nbs
p; “I told her not to marry him,” Mrs. Ricci continued, beginning to cry. “I begged her…”
Dr. Ricci threw Laurel an apologetic look and led his sobbing wife away. Laurel signed the guest book, glanced at the cherry wood coffin with its blanket of red roses, and slipped out the door. The crowd, the overwhelming scent of flowers, the sight of Gina Ricci’s raw grief next to her husband’s quiet devastation, and the knowledge that Monica’s law firm was defending Stuart Burgess, a fact she’d carefully omitted from her seemingly boldly honest meeting with the other Six of Hearts, had been too much. Laurel felt light-headed, almost sick. All she wanted was to get home as quickly as possible.
Getting home did not bring the peace she thought it would, though. In the two years since her parents had gone to Florida and she’d moved back into their house, Laurel had relished her privacy. Her apartment in town was tiny, the walls like paper. She could hear neighbors on both sides, and there always seemed to be someone around, watching every time she went to her car. Here she had no near neighbors, she could have pets, and she could make as much noise as she wanted without worrying about disturbing anyone.
But lately she’d felt lonely in spite of the dogs. Tonight she felt desolate. She knew without a doubt Kurt would not be dropping by. Mary would not be calling to discuss any special orders for tomorrow. And even though she hadn’t been close to Denise and Crystal for years, she had at least known they wouldn’t refuse to speak to her if she phoned. She suddenly felt more alone than she had in her entire life.
Laurel tried to watch a Sunday evening movie that was supposed to be the uplifting story of a woman dying of cancer who finds what life is truly all about in her last month of life. Laurel found it unbearably depressing. She turned off the television and picked up a book. The reviews called the novel “spellbinding.” She’d been drudging through it for over a month, never once finding herself anywhere near spellbound.
Finally she tossed down the book, went to the stereo, and slipped in a CD. She lay down on the couch, pulling the afghan over her, and drifted along with the strains of “Moonlight Sonata.” After a few moments she could see Faith and Angela dancing. Faith’s father thought all dancing was a sin, but Faith wanted desperately to be a dancer. So many Saturday afternoons when Laurel’s parents were at the store, they’d come to her house and Angie taught Faith what she’d learned in ballet class that week.
Now, behind closed eyes, Laurel could see them spinning in slow motion to the haunting music. They were both tall and graceful, one with long, glossy black hair, the other with shining copper curls that fanned out behind her as she floated in eternal youth and timeless perfection.
Then Faith looked at her, her azure eyes bright, her smile enigmatic. “Laurel,” she said softly. “You can stop all this death because you know. You’re the only one. You know.”
Laurel jerked to a sitting position, her eyes darting around the empty room. What the hell was that? She hadn’t been asleep. At least she didn’t think so. Was there such a thing as a waking dream?
But more important, what did it mean? Faith and Angie had danced, but Faith had never uttered those words to Laurel. “You can stop all this death because you know.” Knew what? The truth about how Faith died? “You’re the only one.” She wasn’t the only one. Angie, Monica, Crystal, Denise, and she had all known. And now Kurt and Neil also knew how Faith died. Could the imagined words mean she knew why Angie had been murdered? She thought she did. Retribution. But she didn’t know who killed Angie.
The music ebbed on hauntingly, filling the shadowy room. “Laurel, you’re losing your mind,” she muttered, throwing off the afghan and sitting up. But she couldn’t shake the vision. She also couldn’t shake the feeling that either Faith, from beyond the grave, or more likely her subconscious, was trying to tell her something.
Laurel turned off the CD and walked down the hall. When she moved into the house after her parents left, she’d taken their bedroom. It was larger and had more closet space. Her old bedroom now served as a guest room, but nothing had been changed since she left it years ago for college. She flipped on the light. The yellow walls needed to be painted—they’d dulled over the years. Laurel remembered Claudia asking why she wanted a yellow bedroom. “Because it looks like sunshine,” Laurel had answered. Claudia turned a disdainful back. “Pink is more flattering to the skin.” Laurel couldn’t have cared less what color looked best with her skin. She wanted a cheerful bedroom.
She went into the room and ran a hand over the white and yellow quilted bedspread. On the wall hung a print of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, a photo of her beloved Irish setter Rusty who’d died many years ago, and a poster of Tom Selleck during his Magnum, P.I. days. Heavens, what a crush she’d had on him. She laughed aloud at the memory of the sacred time each Thursday when she watched the show religiously and had a fit if her father blundered through the room talking, drowning out any of Tom’s precious words. It seemed so long ago.
A cedar chest rested under a window, its top covered with stuffed animals from her childhood. A polar bear, a Siamese cat, a tiger, a dog, and her favorite, a little melon-colored teddy bear she’d named Boo Boo after the character in the Yogi Bear cartoon series. How old had she been when she got Boo Boo? Three? Four? His synthetic fur was worn, but his eyes still gazed at her brightly.
On her dresser sat a battered pink jewelry box holding a few pieces she’d abandoned during her teenage years. Beside it was an old-fashioned alarm clock and an empty navy blue cologne bottle she’d thought elegant. In the corner sat her desk. Usually she did her homework sprawled on the bed, but her mother had insisted both girls have real desks. It bore a goosenecked lamp, a globe, a dictionary and thesaurus, and a blotter with a few scribbles. She touched the blotter, running a finger over badly drawn flowers, cats, and a heart with L. D. + T. S. (Laurel Damron + Tom Selleck). Then she noticed that in the corner was a small but perfect drawing of a baby. She hadn’t done it.
She frowned, sitting down at the desk, lightly touching the drawing. Suddenly she remembered the week before Faith died. She’d spent Saturday night with Laurel. They’d listened to tapes, tried different hairstyles and makeup, the usual routine. But Faith had seemed different. She wasn’t really having a good time. She was trying to have a good time and Laurel sensed it. She’d asked what was wrong until Faith finally snapped at her, then apologized.
They went to bed around midnight. Laurel recalled waking up hours later. Faith sat at the desk, the goosenecked lamp on. “What are you doing?” Laurel had mumbled. “Nothing,” Faith answered. “Go back to sleep.” Laurel was so sleepy, she’d done exactly as she was told. She hadn’t thought of that incident for thirteen years, not until this moment. What was Faith doing? Drawing the baby? Probably. But that wasn’t all. She’d been writing. Laurel could see her clearly now. But what had she been writing?
Laurel flipped through every page of the blotter, searched every drawer, even looked under the lamp and the globe. No folded sheets of paper. Faith hadn’t been writing something she’d hidden for Laurel to find. But the tiny drawing of the baby showed what was on her mind. So what did she write? A note to Neil? Perhaps a plea for marriage?
From another room the phone rang. There was no extension in her old room and Laurel hurried out, a tingle of relief running through her. It was after eleven. This had to be Kurt.
But it wasn’t. Her “Hello” was followed by a slight pause before a male voice said, “Laurel, I’m sorry to disturb you so late. This is Neil Kamrath.”
Eleven
1
Laurel’s mind went blank for a moment. Was he still angry? Had he called to continue his tirade? But his voice sounded calm, even polite. Finally she managed, “Yes, Neil.”
“I wanted to apologize for my behavior this morning.”
Laurel swallowed. “It was certainly understandable.”
“So was your silence thirteen years ago. You were only seventeen.”
“Seventeen, not seven. We were mature en
ough to do the right thing, but we didn’t.”
“It’s always easy to look back and know what was the right thing to do. At the time it isn’t so easy.”
Why was he being so nice? Laurel wondered uneasily. Kurt couldn’t seem to forgive her and he’d suffered none of the fallout from Faith’s death. Neil, on the other hand, had been treated like a leper.
“I do want to assure you, Neil, that if there had been any suspicion of you, we would have come forward.”
“You would have. And probably Angie. The others—I don’t think so. Anyway, apologizing is only part of the reason I called,” Neil went on. “You said you were going to tell me about things that are happening now and things that happened a long time ago. I stormed out on you right after you told me about Faith’s death. I didn’t give you a chance to tell me what’s going on now.”
So that’s why he was being so civil. He wanted information. Should she tell him everything? All along she’d thought he might be the possible murderer of Angie, the person who sent the photos, the one who tried to ram her car. But now she realized her suspicion had been almost a game. She hadn’t known Neil well in high school, but she’d been fascinated by the things Faith told her about him—his intelligence, his creativity, even his aloofness. Later she’d been mesmerized by his books, and after she’d talked with him at the hospital, his kindness and obvious pain over the death of his wife and son touched her deeply. This morning, though, he’d genuinely frightened her. He wasn’t just a sensitive, hurt soul. He was a man capable of rage. Now he wanted details about present events. Was he playing a game, only trying to find out how much she knew, what she suspected?
“Laurel, are you still there?”
“Yes,” she said slowly. Even if this were a game, she’d go along with it, she decided. Maybe his reactions to her narrative would reveal something.
She told him everything from the heart and the number and tarot card at the scene of Angie’s murder to her harrowing ride back from Wilson Lodge with someone trying to push her off the road to the funeral wreath and the heart painted on her door. “The other day Audra received a Christmas card with a weird verse on it.” She quoted it. “And I don’t have to tell you what happened at the party.”
In the Event of My Death Page 15