“Quint, thank God, you’re here!” Misty rushed inside, breathing hard, her enormous chest heaving.
“Misty, what—”
Misty proceeded to supply the answers before he could ask the questions. “Quint, they were in the house when I got back tonight.” Misty grabbed his arm in a viselike hold. “They were trying to take stuff! I caught them red-handed with some jewelry and Townie’s collection of gold coins and that old stamp album, too. When I told them to get out, they wouldn’t. They cursed at me.” She burst into noisy sobs. “It was horrible, Quint. They wouldn’t leave. They said—”
“Misty, I assume you’re talking about the Tildens and not some ordinary, run-of-the-mill burglars you caught in the act.”
“I woulda rather caught ordinary burglars, they woulda treated me nicer.” Misty sniffed. “The Tildens were so mean! Without Townie there to shut them up, they said the most hateful things. They were even worse than they were at the funeral and remember how nasty they were that day?”
Quint well remembered Townsend Tilden Senior’s funeral and Misty in her short, tight black mourning dress and five-inch spike heels. Her widow’s veil, which she’d rush-ordered from New York, resembled something Queen Victoria might’ve worn to her husband’s royal funeral. Town Junior had looked as if he were going to have a stroke, right there in the middle of the church when Misty walked in and seated herself with the family in the first pew. Words had been exchanged between the widow and Town Senior’s surviving relatives, forcing the minister himself to intervene before continuing the ceremony.
“I think reality is finally beginning to dawn on the Tildens. Town Senior is gone and you’re still in the house. Which family members broke in, Misty?”
“That son of a bitch Town Junior and his prick son Town Three. And that witch Marguerite and her wimpy husband and snotty daughter Sloane and jerk son Tilden. I hate them, Quint, I hate them so much.”
“You’re certain you didn’t give them permission to enter the house?”
“Permission? Are you nuts? I wasn’t even there! I went out to dinner with—a—a friend and when I got home that crew of vampires was there. I shoulda expected them to show up at night ‘cause that’s the only time they can come out of their coffins.”
“Do you know if any of them has a key to the house, Misty?”
“If they do, they stole it. I changed the locks the day Townie died, just like you told me to, Quint.”
“Okay. We can definitely nail them on breaking and entering. Tell me more. Did you call the police, Misty?”
“Like the cops would ever be on my side!” Misty gave a harsh, bitter laugh. “You know they’d suck up to the Tildens like everybody else in this damn town. Everybody but you, Quint.” She squeezed his arm and gazed up at him. And though she’d been sobbing, there were no tears on her face and her dark, heavy eye makeup remained intact. “Everybody but you and—and my new friend who is a real sweetie-pie.”
“Are the Tildens still at the house?” Quint pressed. “Did they drive you out, Misty?”
“My friend drove me over here,” Misty misinterpreted. “He’s outside in the car waiting; he said he’d better not come in.”
Quint didn’t let himself wonder about who her new-friend-the-real-sweetie-pie was. Why summon a potential headache before its time?
“My friend wanted to call the cops and since I wouldn’t, he said I should come tell you what happened right away.”
“Your friend was right, Misty. And I am going to call the police and file a complaint which could lead to criminal charges. I definitely want a written record of this incident on file.”
“The cops don’t care about me. They’ll just blow you off, Quint.”
“No, Misty, they won’t. Now, are the Tildens still at the house? And if not, what did they take with them when they left?”
“They’re gone. My friend made them leave, and they didn’t take nothin’.” Misty smiled, her eyes shining. She looked almost girlish as she talked about her heroic friend.
“They were bad-mouthing me and threatening me and meanwhile, my friend had a brainstorm. He grabbed one of those guns from Townie’s collection and said he’d shoot them all on the spot if they didn’t get out.” Misty was positively glowing now. “Quint, he made them empty out their pockets! Tilly had some gold coins stuffed in his and that bitch Sloane had some of the jewelry in her purse!”
“Your friend held them at gunpoint?” Quint did not share Misty’s elation. This was a complication he did not want.
“Town Junior was so pissed!” Misty exclaimed happily. “He cursed a blue streak, sounded like my old boss at Fantasy’s. He said that gun was used in the Civil War or something and that my friend wasn’t allowed to touch it.”
“So it was an antique pistol that probably wasn’t even loaded,” Quint thought aloud, visualizing the police report in his mind.
“Nuh-uh. That jagoff Tilden Lloyd started blabbing about how the gun doesn’t take bullets, only balls or something and while he was talking, I got a brainstorm of my own. I sneaked up to go get my own gun from my bedroom.” She smiled triumphantly. “It was loaded and I fired once, just to show them I could shoot. They put down the freakin’ stuff and ran out of there fast!”
“You’re the homeowner and you were defending your life and your property. You’d been threatened and actually found your possessions on their person. Do you have a permit to have that gun, Misty?”
He would’ve said a prayer if he thought that was the kind of thing one could pray for. But he didn’t think it was, so he held his breath and hoped.
“Sure, Townie got me a permit,” said Misty.
“Good.” Quint allowed himself to exhale. “Now, concentrate, Misty. Is there a chance that one of the Tildens might’ve managed to take something from the house, something they smuggled out without you or your friend seeing? Maybe a rare gold coin or a priceless stamp or something?”
“Robbery! Cool!” Misty grinned. “Sure, there’s a chance they swiped a stamp or coin or two. I didn’t check out the collections. I don’t even know all the stuff in ‘em.”
“Robbery would involve attempted or sustained violence. Without it, the crime is larceny. Hmm, those coin and stamp collections are worth a fortune. That escalates it to grand larceny. Okay, I’m going to call the police and—”
“Daddy!” Brady ran into the living room. “Come see Bananas.”
Rachel had followed and stopped dead on the threshold of the living room, when she saw Misty Tilden standing beside Quint. Her eyes widened. She’d seen the woman at a distance and heard many tales about her but none of the Tildens’ remarks had prepared her for Misty Tilden in the flesh.
She exposed plenty of it. The young widow wore an eye-popping chartreuse spandex minidress, her heels were impossibly high, more like stilts than shoes, and her makeup and hair color defied description. Rachel stared at her, transfixed.
Misty had noticed her too. “Who’s that?” she asked loudly, as if she had every right to know.
“That Mommy,” Brady said helpfully.
Misty’s reaction amazed them all. “So you’re back, huh?” she shrieked at Rachel, and started toward her. “You rotten bitch!”
Fortunately, her heels were so high and her dress so tight, she could only take tiny, mincing steps. Rachel positioned herself safely behind a high-backed armchair, knowing she could easily outrun the other woman, if need be.
Misty obviously decided the same thing, for she stopped in her tracks and settled for a verbal attack instead. “You have the goddammed nerve to come back here after you already dumped that baby? Do you get off on jerking people around or are you just set on trying to ruin the kid’s life?”
Rachel was speechless. She remembered feeling this way in a college physics class, uncomprehending and impossibly confused, yet expected to understand and participate. It had been as hopeless then as it was now.
“So what happened, bitch?” Misty’s face was contorted with rag
e. “Did your boyfriend dump you over in Romania or wherever the hell you chased him to? So now you’re back to grab some bucks from Quint and plan to use the kid to do it?”
Rachel met Quint’s eyes. Either Misty was truly insane or she knew quite a bit about Quint’s ex-wife—except what she looked like, of course—and was righteously infuriated by her past behavior.
Quint cleared his throat. “Misty, I don’t want Brady to—uh—hear any of this.”
Brady was tugging on his father’s hand, ignoring the adult conversation. “C’mon, Daddy. See Bananas.”
For once Quint was grateful for the toddler’s one-track mind, firmly set on his beloved video.
“I’ll put him to bed,” Rachel said quickly, hurrying over to take Brady from Quint. She cut a wide path around Misty, half-expecting the other woman to spring at her like a wild jungle cat. Those chartreuse claws of her looked like they could slash through internal organs.
“Bitches like you oughta be shot,” Misty called as Rachel fled the room with Brady. “They oughta rip out your ovaries so you can’t have any more kids to—”
“Misty, this is only making things worse,” Quint cut in, but Misty was not to be appeased.
“You gotta take a stand, Quint. She doesn’t give a damn about that baby and she’ll—”
The voices became indecipherable as Rachel reached the top of the stairs but she didn’t slow her pace until she reached Brady’s room. She closed the door, feeling safe in the quietude and cheerful colors of the nursery.
“Who that?” Brady asked as he ran to his shelves to rummage through one of the bright plastic baskets filled with toys.
“Cruella De Vil’s tacky cousin,” said Rachel, then felt a twinge of shame because one shouldn’t prejudice a child in such a way. “A lady to see Daddy,” she amended, though Brady seemed uninterested in either of her answers.
He found what he was looking for, a small banana doll dressed in striped pajamas, a replica of the character in the video.
“Is he going to listen to your story with you?” Rachel asked, and Brady nodded his head. She found his ritual storybook and carried him over to the rocking chair. He clutched the toy banana while she read and rocked.
Brady was almost asleep by the end of the story, and she placed him carefully in his crib. He smiled up at her, looking as cherubic as a little angel, and Rachel felt her heart ache with tenderness for him. Then he stretched out his arm, grabbed the generic raccoon by its striped tail and tossed it out of the crib.
Rachel laughed as the toy hit the floor. “Reject Raccoon is foiled again. Even half-asleep, you can spot those gatecrashers, can’t you, Brady?”
She wanted to tell Quint that Brady’s eviction record still stood. But as she crept down the stairs she could hear Quint’s and Misty’s voices in the kitchen. It sounded as if they were talking on the telephone, and Rachel decided not to hang around. Why bother to correct her mistaken identity when her true identity—an attorney for the Tildens—would hardly inspire any overtures of friendship from the widow, either. Not that she wanted to be Misty Tilden’s friend.
But Misty was Quint’s friend. Her drop-in visit, her knowledge of Brady’s mother was evidence that her relationship with Quint Cormack extended beyond the formal limits of attorney-client. Rachel felt jealousy spiral through her. Was Quint sleeping with Misty Tilden? The thought made her sick. And where did Dana Sheely fit into the equation?
Thoroughly dispirited, Rachel left the house. She felt as if she were trapped in a soap-opera plot, an unwilling part of a quadrangle—or was it a pentagram?—because there was also Carla Cormack to add to the roster. Rachel pictured Quint’s pretty young stepmother, who’d clung to him like he was her rock during the fire.
There were already too many women in Quint Cormack’s life, and possibly more she didn’t know about. Perhaps enough to form a sorority all their own. Rachel, never one for large groups, made a resolute vow not to join.
She was surprised to see lights shining from her apartment windows as she walked from her parking space to the front door of the restored Victorian gingerbread house, which had been subdivided and remodeled into four apartments. Each apartment consisted of only three rooms—kitchen, living room, and bedroom plus bath—but the rooms were large with high ceilings and window seats and other interesting turn-of-the-century touches that distinguished them from the dull high-rise apartment buildings which abounded along the highways surrounding Lakeview.
Only two people had keys to her apartment, her aunt Eve and sister Laurel. Rachel glanced at the wide wooden staircase as she inserted her key in the lock and wished that she lived on the upper floor instead of at ground level. At least she would have an extra few moments to compose her thoughts, for she was certain that Aunt Eve was waiting for her inside, ready to plan their Tilden strategy.
And to indulge in some major Quint Cormack and Misty Tilden bashing?
Rachel swallowed hard. She remembered everything she’d ever said about Quint, but her antipathy to that demonic lawyer felt unconnected to the man she’d come to know over the past few days. She couldn’t summon the requisite hostility, and she wondered if Aunt Eve would notice.
Nervously, Rachel pushed open the door. Maybe, just maybe, it might not be in her own best interest to disclose where she’d been tonight. Or with whom.
But Eve Saxon wasn’t waiting inside for her with stacks of will-busting law texts.
Laurel sat curled up on the flowered chintz sofa, leafing through a yellowing-paged paperback. Rachel read the title from across the room. Games Mother Never Taught You. Upon Aunt Eve’s suggestion, Rachel had read it years ago but couldn’t imagine Laurel ever picking up a book about corporate gamesmanship for women. Then again, she couldn’t imagine why Laurel was here on a Friday night without her husband and child.
“Laurel, what’s happened?” Rachel was concerned. “Is something wrong?”
“You think there’s something wrong because I’m out alone on a Friday night past nine o’clock?” Laurel tossed down the book and stood up. “Can’t I even drop by to visit my own sister without everybody assuming that something happened?”
She looked sulky and defiant, without a trace of her usual people-pleasing smile. And she was wearing tight jeans—Laurel never wore jeans because her husband didn’t like them—and one of those short clingy T-shirts that Katie Sheely favored. The kind that Aunt Eve had deemed unsuitable office attire but Katie wore anyway because she paid no attention to Eve’s wardrobe advice. The kind that the always conservatively dressed Laurel never wore.
“Where are Gerald and Snowy, Laurel?”
“At home, of course. Where else would Gerald be on a Friday night?”
Rachel felt anxiety strike her solar plexus and radiate outward as her sister’s face grew harder. Laurel Saxon Lynton smiled and flirted and wept, but this rebellious attitude of hers—which even included her clothing—was something new. Something worrisome.
She followed Laurel into the kitchen, watched her open the freezer portion of the refrigerator and stare at the contents inside.
“Everybody else in the world might have plans for Friday night but never Professor Gerald Lynton. Oh no, he wants to stay home on Fridays and have his dinner served to him on a tray so he can watch C-SPAN while he eats. That’s his idea of kicking off the weekend—eating dinner in front of the TV set watching Congress doing nothing. Wow! Really wild, huh, Rach?”
“You two had a fight,” Rachel surmised.
Laurel sneered. “Duh!”
Rachel studied her sister closely. Laurel was something of a drama queen. She and her husband used to fight a lot but in the past year, their quarrels seemed to have diminished in number and ferocity. Rachel had been frankly relieved. It seemed to her that Laurel and Gerald were heading toward a higher realm, a comfortable mature companionship.
Now it appeared the couple had relapsed and were back in the lowlands of fighting and tears. Except Laurel’s eyes were dry, not even slight
ly red-rimmed. She had not been crying, an observation that filled Rachel with trepidation. Laurel always cried!
“You don’t have any ice cream.” Laurel closed the freezer and turned to Rachel to flash her adorable smile, the one that Wade often joked she should patent because it worked so well. He had a similar version of his own.
“I know what, Rachel. Let’s go out for ice cream. Please!” Laurel caught her sister’s hand. “We can go to Richman’s in Cherry Hill and we’ll get banana splits, like we used to. Oh let’s, Rachel. It’ll be fun!”
Was it destiny or a peculiar coincidence that bananas seemed to be play an integral part of this evening? First, Brady with his video, now Laurel with her demand to go to the ice-cream shop. Scarily enough, Laurel was acting a bit like Brady, clutching Rachel’s hand, practically jumping up and down … ready to throw a tantrum if thwarted? All of that was perfectly normal for a two-year-old, but Laurel was a married woman, the mother of a three-year-old girl.
Rachel thought of her small niece and her heart clenched. “Laurel, I think you should go home and make up with Gerald right now. Does he know where you are? I didn’t see your car outside. How did you get here?”
“Gerald wouldn’t let me have the car keys, so I ran out of the house.” Laurel pouted, all traces of adorable amiability gone. “I decided to walk over here, and who should be driving along Lake Avenue but Wade, so I hitched a ride with him. He was in a horrible mood—he just about bit my head off when I asked him why he was alone on a Friday night—but he dropped me off here.”
“Did you tell Wade you’d had a fight with Gerald?”
“I told him what I told Gerald, that I was sick and tired of acting like I was forty instead of twenty-three. I want to have some fun, I want to have a life!”
“You have a life, Laurel. You’re married and a mother; it’s what you’ve always wanted.”
“You sound just like Wade!” Laurel snapped. “Well, I’ll tell you what I told him. It’s not enough! I don’t have any friends, I don’t have anyone to talk to or do fun things with. Gerald expects me to hang around with those dull faculty wives and most of them have kids as old as me or even older! Well, I have nothing to—”
When Lightning Strikes Twice Page 17