She knew the fax could be traced with the help of the police, and she spent another ten minutes trying to decide what to do. She’d reached for the phone three times, meaning to call local law enforcement, and three times she’d jerked her hand away from the receiver as if it were a snake.
Police. The word had struck fear in her ever since the murders, ever since she’d been questioned until she’d grown too hoarse to answer and finally allowed the lawyer Kent had hired to stop the police interrogation. Even after the capture and confession of Roscoe Lee Byrnes, she’d been subjected to “follow-ups,” the FBI wanting to ask “just a few more questions, Miss Farr,” until law enforcement in general terrified her as much as the thought of a monster would a child.
So, she would not call the police, Teresa decided. If the fax turned out to be anything important and she was later forced to show it to them, she would say she hadn’t done so earlier because she thought they would dismiss it as a prank. And that’s exactly what they would do, Teri told herself. Dismiss it. After all, the confessed killer of Hugh and Wendy Farr would be executed in less than a week. Everyone who followed the case knew about the execution of Byrnes. So the fax was nothing more than a sick joke, just like the note in her car—something to unnerve her during the last few days of Byrnes’s life. So forget the fax, she thought. Forget the note. Forget all of it. Someone simply had a nasty sense of humor.
Determinedly cheerful, she turned to Sierra, who sat beside her chair. “I say we have some fun this morning; how about you, girl?” The dog’s tail flew back and forth and she barked once. “Okay. Race you down the stairs!”
Teresa had set the timer on the coffeemaker and could already smell the aroma of a strong African blend as the two of them ran into the kitchen. Sierra led the way, as always, and Teresa announced, “You won!” She handed Sierra a dog biscuit before pouring her own mug of coffee. The dog looked at her reproachfully, biscuit clenched between her teeth. “I know you want a big breakfast, but until I’ve had at least one cup of coffee, that’s the best I can manage. And quit glaring at me that way. I’d like to remind you that there are starving dogs all over the world who’d give anything—”
Like a child, Sierra began munching furiously as if trying to drown out the lecture she’d heard countless times. Satisfied, Teresa took two aspirins for the dull headache lingering behind her eyes and wandered out of the kitchen into her living room, enjoying the feel of cool varnished hardwood floors warmed here and there with thick flax rugs.
Her mother would have liked this room, Teresa thought. Her mother would have approved of Teresa having the ramshackle farmhouse torn down, and hiring an architect to design a modest home that looked like a graceful brick country house with a wide front porch, beamed wooden ceilings, and lots of windows. Although Marielle Farr had suffered from what Teresa now knew was chronic depression, she had never hidden herself in dark rooms with draperies pulled against the light. In fact, Teresa remembered her mother often standing in front of windows, her dark head leaned back, eyes closed, and a faint smile on her perfect lips as she seemed to soak in outside light, whether it was sunny or gray. She’d even loved thunderstorms, gathering her children, Teresa and Kent, close beside her and encouraging everyone to imitate the roars that sometimes shook the house. Whoever did the best imitation got an Eskimo Pie, and the kids had begun looking forward to the contests instead of fearing the storms.
The phone rang and Teresa jumped, slopping hot coffee on her hand. She cursed under her breath, reluctantly admitting to herself that she was still deeply rattled by the note and the fax no matter how hard she pretended to dismiss them. She supposed what she felt was normal, though. After all, how could she dismiss the fact that someone out there wanted to remind her of the murders, wanted to hurt and to frighten her? Teri had always thought she had better than average self-control, but she realized she didn’t have complete self-mastery. She couldn’t shut out all anxiety and worry, especially when someone was trying so hard to roil those feelings in her, but she could try.
The phone rang again. Teri took a deep breath, determinedly crossed the room, picked up the cordless receiver, and managed a jaunty, “Hello?”
“Church will be out about noon, Sharon has a roast cooking for lunch, so we’ll be eating immediately after we get home. We can make it to the farm around one thirty.”
“Pardon me?” Teresa couldn’t help grinning in spite of her rocky night and morning. “To whom am I speaking?”
“Kent, of course.”
“Oh, of course. Tell me, Kent, is this your usual phone manner or do you sometimes deign to greet people before you begin speaking at machine-gun rate?”
He paused, then asked sweetly, “Hello, Teresa; how are you on this beautiful morning?”
“Why, I’m fine; thank you for inquiring. How about Sharon? Not too hungover to go to church?”
Kent’s voice had returned to its usual abrupt rate. “No, but I wish you hadn’t taken her to Club Rendezvous.”
“I didn’t. She went of her own free will. Carmen and I didn’t kidnap her. And what’s wrong with Club Rendezvous?”
“Don’t be ingenuous. You know who is wrong with that place.”
“Mac MacKenzie.”
“Good guess. I’m surprised you went there.”
Teresa had never told either Kent or Sharon about seeing Mac clutching and kissing a redhead while he was engaged to her. She had confided only in Carmen. Teresa had told Kent she’d decided she was simply too young to get married, she really didn’t know what she wanted out of life, she couldn’t see herself tied down to one person until she died… And Kent hadn’t believed one word of it.
“I went because I was curious, Kent.” Teresa congratulated herself on the casual tone of her voice. “I did help Mac design the place, if you remember.”
“I remember,” Kent said dourly.
“Well, we all had a good time. Even Sharon.”
“I guess that’s why she didn’t mention earlier she was going there.”
“She didn’t mention it because she knew you wouldn’t approve. For heaven’s sake, Kent,” Teresa said in exasperation. “You used to be fun.”
“I’m still fun.”
“Yeah, you sound like a barrel of laughs.”
“I’m just so busy at work, I forget there’s anything but keeping Farr Coal Company up to speed.”
“That’s what happened to Dad, and you sure don’t want to turn out like him, even though he did make time for Wendy in his busy schedule.”
“Well, Sharon doesn’t have to worry about other women. We’ve been sweethearts since high school.”
“And married with a child while you were still in college,” Teresa said. A child who arrived only six months after their wedding, which had been a quick, unemotional ceremony held in a judge’s chambers three weeks after the deaths of Hugh and Wendy and a week after the arrest of Roscoe Lee Byrnes. It had been a bleak affair, but Sharon and her only living parent, her father, Gabriel, had looked immensely relieved—and six months later Teri had realized why. But those times were best forgotten, she reminded herself, especially because Kent was so touchy about the early birth of his son. “Is Daniel excited about meeting his horse today?” she asked quickly.
“He’s ecstatic. I don’t know how we’ll hold him still through Sunday school and church.” Kent paused. “Sorry I was so curt earlier, but frankly I am a little on edge. Sharon is worried about him taking riding lessons. She’s worried about him doing anything—swimming, playing soccer, you name it—and she’s making him nervous and unhappy because she usually keeps him from doing the things his friends do.”
Sharon was a wonderful mother but increasingly overprotective, just as Carmen had pointed out last night. But Carmen was not one of Kent’s favorite people, either, so Teresa dared not mention having discussed the problem with her. Unfortunately, Teri had no advice of her own except for Kent to put his foot down and insist that Daniel be allowed to participate in sports
, which she knew would cause trouble in what she’d once considered almost the perfect marriage. “Maybe you should talk to a professional, Kent,” she said carefully. “I’m childless. I don’t have much experience with children except for Celeste, and that was a long time ago.”
“Yeah, Celeste,” Kent said softly. “Poor kid. I guess you heard that she started talking again.”
“Yes.” Instinct told Teresa not to mention that she’d learned the news by a threatening note left in her car last night. “I don’t know where Celeste was or what she said, though.”
“I’ve gotten about five different versions, but it seems Jason had taken her to lunch at Bennigan’s yesterday and all at once she just started babbling about the night of the murders.”
“The night of the murders!” Teresa tried to sound surprised, although she’d already learned that information from the note. “What did she say?”
“I don’t know. It seems she suddenly stopped talking and started shouting some kind of chant.”
“A chant?”
“I know it sounds crazy.” Kent paused. “You might as well know, she mentioned you in the chant. You and death. We must have gotten twenty calls last night about it. People giving garbled accounts of the incident and wanting more information. I just said I had no idea what people were talking about and hung up.”
“A chant about me and death?” Teri repeated. “What about me and death?”
“I wasn’t lying to those people. I really don’t know. Listen, I shouldn’t have said anything.” Teresa could hear Kent’s regret for bringing up the subject. “Besides, I don’t have the story straight. I’m sure we’ll get all the details at church today, though, and Sharon can tell you about it this afternoon. Unless you want to call Jason. I know you two were friends.”
“We were acquaintances, not friends. He was always nice to me because Celeste told him I treated her well.”
“You treated her like she was your real sister. I liked the kid, but you really loved her.”
“I felt sorry for her,” Teresa said abruptly, feeling ridiculously guilty for admitting to her brother that she’d loved Wendy’s child. “I don’t think I should call Jason, though. I haven’t heard a word from him since she was taken to the hospital the night of the murders. Fay Warner lives less than a mile from here, but she’s kept Celeste safely away from me—I haven’t even seen the girl for eight years, which is no surprise considering that everyone thought I’d tried to kill her.” Teri realized her heart was pounding.
So Celeste was talking again. Not just talking—chanting about Teri and death. Was that why she’d gotten both the note and the fax? For a moment, Teresa felt like telling Kent about the hateful messages she’d received. Then she remembered that he was already on edge about Sharon. Teresa didn’t want to ruin the day, especially for Daniel, and if Kent told Sharon about the harassment Teresa was enduring, she knew Sharon would use it as an excuse to cancel Daniel’s visit to the horses—she might even declare that the child couldn’t take lessons. Keeping in mind how disappointed Daniel would be if everything went wrong, Teri forced herself to breathe deeply and keep her mouth shut about the notes.
Kent was saying, “Teri, not everyone believed you tried to kill—”
“It doesn’t matter now.” The subject was still painful for Teresa and she didn’t want Kent wasting his breath trying to comfort her. “Even if Sharon hears everything at church, she probably won’t tell me. She’ll want to spare my feelings. Someone else will give me the details about Celeste later,” Teresa rushed on, trying to sound unconcerned. “Carmen, probably. She has an uncanny way of knowing everything that’s going on in town.”
“That’s because she’s a gossip who loves to spread bad news.”
“Oh, Kent, she is not,” Teri said in annoyance. “If so, she would have mentioned Celeste last night so she could spoil my birthday. You just don’t like her.”
“I don’t like loud, pushy women,” Kent pronounced.
Teresa rolled her eyes. God, he was starting to sound downright prim. “Carmen is not a shrinking violet, if that’s what you mean by ‘pushy.’ And she is not loud. She’s just not soft-spoken.”
“She’s not soft-spoken. That’s an understatement,” Kent said derisively. “Teri, I don’t see why you can’t find a friend your own age. Carmen is old enough to be your mother.”
“She doesn’t look or act like it. And I do have friends my age.”
“Who?”
“Well…” Teresa suddenly realized she wasn’t close to any woman near her own age except for Sharon. The friends Teresa had in high school were busy young mothers or always had an excuse for not dining out or going shopping with her. In other words, she had never been completely accepted back into the fold of her hometown. That fact hurt, too, but she’d never let Kent know it. “I’m good friends with some women I meet at the horse shows and auctions.” Actually, she’d only had lunch with two of them a couple of times. “You wouldn’t know them.”
“I hope they aren’t wildcats or weird. You were always attracted to the wrong sort of people, just like Mom.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Just that both of you could be incredibly naive.”
“That is—”
“Ridiculous. Insulting. I don’t know what I’m talking about.” Furious, Teresa tightened her lips to prevent getting into a useless argument with him. “Well, I’m in a hurry, Sis. Bye for now.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Self-Righteous,” Teri snapped, but Kent had already hung up.
Angry yet nevertheless half-amused by her brother’s increasingly foolish certainty of his own good judgment, Teresa smiled ruefully, knowing that life had a way of taking down those people who thought they had all the answers. She didn’t need to say a word to Kent—he’d find out on his own someday that he didn’t know everything. She just hoped the lesson wasn’t too hard—certainly not as hard as it had been on her father, much as she’d hated the man.
Teresa stared out the big front window over the twenty acres of her land that were visible from her front window. At one time people had farmed that land. When Teri had been looking for a home, she was told the former owners hadn’t kept up the land, not that it had been prime farming land anyway—too much clay, not enough topsoil—and she’d been able to buy the one hundred acres comprising the whole farm along with the house for a ridiculously low price.
Teresa immediately had hired a crew to clear the land, then a construction crew. After two years, when their jobs were finished, she had a beautiful house sitting on a knoll rolling down to a field covered with kelly-green grass, thanks to what seemed like tons of fertilizer spread over the ground time after time. Pristine white fences lined the field that boasted two riding rings and two large paddocks. There was also a jumping course for those students further along in their riding expertise and the people who were already good riders and merely boarded their horses at Farr Fields.
The other eighty acres of her land spreading beyond the view from the house included a large, beautiful pond and riding paths carved out of the sycamore and honeysuckle jungle the land had become during the twenty years it had been neglected. Her two employees, father and son Gus and Josh Gibbs, were already at work this morning: Gus exercising Kent’s palomino, Conquistador, whose coat shone like burnished gold in the sunlight, while Josh brushed the ebony mane of Teresa’s Arabian, Eclipse. If the truth were known, Teri thought, she was really closer to Josh and his father Gus than to any female friend Kent would have deemed suitable. She would trust either man with her life.
Absently, Teresa rubbed her left arm with its long, thin scar left from the killer’s knife. The vista stretching beyond her was beautiful, but she looked at it with vague eyes, not really seeing the rolling fields of rich grass, the horses, the hyacinth blue sky.
Her vision had turned inward to the house on Mourning Dove Lane—the house where she’d walked in terror one night, knowing something dark and evil had invaded the o
nce-peaceful walls; the house where she’d found her father and his wife dead and mutilated in the warmth of their own bed; the house where someone had stabbed little Celeste and seemed to kill her psychologically if not physically, leaving her mute from shock and fear, nothing more than a consciousness trapped in a silent body.
But the attacker had failed with the child, Teresa thought. Celeste, the spirited little girl Teri once knew, had been too strong and smart even for a vicious killer. She had survived her knife wound, and after eight long years, when everyone had given up hope of her bouncing back emotionally, she’d finally begun talking again.
To Teri, the news was a miracle, a reason not only for amazement but also for joy. Unfortunately, she knew that for some people, the most fascinating thing now about Celeste Warner would be what she had to say.
CHAPTER THREE
1
CARMEN NORRIS STRETCHED LANGUIDLY, pulled the sheet higher over her slender body, kept taut by tri-weekly workouts, and scooted closer to Gabriel O’Brien. She asked softly, “Gabe, how much longer are we going to keep this relationship a secret?”
“Not long,” Gabriel answered in his deep, resonant voice. “You know I’ve just been giving Sharon enough time to get over her mother’s death before I tell her I’m planning to marry again.”
Carmen tried not to betray the growing irritation she felt about keeping Sharon happy at the expense of everyone else’s feelings. “Gabe, Sharon’s mother has been dead for four years. Sharon will always miss her, but you’re still alive and you have a right to happiness. Sharon will never be delighted about you even dating another woman, much less marrying her, though.”
If You Ever Tell Page 6