Herbal tea. He made the permanent switch from coffee awhile back.
Predictably, his last partner, Don Kopacynski, gave him a hell of a time about it. Quincy didn’t bother to tell him that coffee aggravates his irritable bowel syndrome. He figured Kopacynski would have had a field day with that added information.
Deb, to her credit, has so far refrained from commenting on Quincy’s food-and-beverage choices.
“Sure,” she says with a shrug, “Wilmington could be telling the truth. He might have tossed the bouquet like he said, and then someone could have walked by the garbage can, seen a beautiful bouquet of red roses, and taken it.”
“Not beautiful. Wilted. And, theoretically, sure, that could have happened. But it didn’t. This guy is hiding something.”
“Your gut instinct again?”
“Exactly.”
At least now he has something a little more solid to go on, though not enough to make an arrest.
They’ve just spent the last few hours interviewing Matilda Harrington’s—and Ray Wilmington’s—coworkers at the nonprofit headquarters where they worked. Mike is still over there, wrapping things up.
The descriptions of Ray Wilmington were almost cliché, at least in Quincy’s line of work. The guy is “quiet,” “a loner,” “keeps to himself.”
He is also, everyone agreed, infatuated with Matilda Harrington, much to her coworkers’ amusement—and her own ill-concealed dismay.
That she didn’t welcome Ray’s awkward advances was common knowledge around the office. Yet nobody seemed to know any details about her love life, and she didn’t bring a date to her party.
Her date book, confiscated from her home, reveals little information that might shed any light on her dating habits.
The daily notations, all made in pencil from last June on, are pretty straightforward: work-related appointments, arrangements she was making for her birthday party, personal errands and reminders.
There is only one cryptic entry…
And it’s for next weekend.
The initials G.S. are jotted on all three pages in Tildy’s unmistakable handwriting.
In ink.
That alone sets the entry apart.
Why not in pencil, like the other entries?
Who is G.S.?
And who sent those roses that were found inside her house? They were ordered from a busy Back Bay florist shop weeks ago, paid for in cash. The clerk thought a woman had ordered them, but couldn’t be sure.
Still pondering that, Quincy shifts into DRIVE and pulls out of the parking lot, heading back toward headquarters. They’ve got a ton of paperwork to do before they can call it a night. So much for the Red Sox game.
“So we’ll keep Wilmington for further questioning, right?” Deb asks from behind a cloud of steam as she blows on her coffee.
“For as long as we can. In the meantime—”
Quincy is interrupted by his ringing cell phone again.
He pulls it out and flips it open with a glance at the caller ID window. Crime Scene Investigation Unit.
“Yeah?”
Without preamble, the efficient voice on the line informs him, “We opened that gift-wrapped box, Hiles. Are you ready for this?”
Cassie called a security company from her cell phone on her way back to Danbury from Brynn’s, and they promised to send someone over to her condo within a few hours.
True to their word, they sent a locksmith and an alarm installer, who are now both hard at work as Cassie sits on the couch and sips a cup of hot tea Alec forced on her.
Of course he and Cassie’s parents were here when she got home, along with Marcus and Reenie.
Their momentary relief at seeing her immediately gave way to a barrage of questions, but Cassie headed them off with the news about Tildy.
They were instantly somber. Her mother cried.
Somewhere in her own anguished fog, Cassie found herself wondering, mean-spiritedly, if Regina Ashford’s tears were for Cassie’s—and Tildy’s family’s—loss, or for her own. Now she won’t be able to introduce Matilda Harrington to her constituents at the wedding.
Regina pulled herself together while Marcus and Reenie stepped out to use their cell phones, and Alec and Cassie’s father were in the next room notifying the police that Cassie had turned up safe and sound. Sniffling, wiping her eyes, Regina promptly started to ask questions again.
“Mother, please, not now. I can’t talk about anything right now.” Cassie’s emotional exhaustion was genuine.
For once, Regina listened.
So Tildy’s death is, for Cassandra…well, certainly not a blessing. But it has offered her a temporary reprieve from explaining why she really disappeared for twenty-four hours.
Her brother and his wife departed for their jobs in the city almost immediately, but her parents lingered, along with Alec.
“Is there anything you need, honey?” Cassie’s father wanted to know. “Anything we can do to make this easier for you?”
Yes, Cassie thought, you can leave and take Mom with you, because I just can’t deal with having you here.
Unable to say it, and still riddled with guilt over what she’s put them through, Cassie sent her parents on a series of errands designed to keep them away for a little while. Actually, she suggested that Alec go, too, but they wouldn’t hear of leaving her alone.
“Mrs. Ashford?” the locksmith asks from the doorway of the living room, apparently assuming Alec is her husband. “The locks are all set. How many sets of keys do you want?”
“Two is fine.”
“Are you sure?”
She nods.
“We need three, actually,” Alec speaks up. “We should keep a spare set here in case one of us loses ours.”
Oh. He assumed one of the two she mentioned would be for him.
Of course he did. He’s her fiancé. He’s going to be living here full time in a matter of weeks.
“Three,” Cassie confirms with a reluctant nod, wishing she didn’t feel so…violated. She should want Alec to be here with her, shouldn’t she?
Especially after what happened to Tildy.
For some reason, though, she wants only to be left alone, in a fortress no outsider can possibly penetrate.
But Alec isn’t an outsider, she reminds herself sternly.
She stands abruptly, and he looks up questioningly at her. “Where are you going?”
“I need to go call Dr. Prevatt at the hospital.”
“Do you want me to call?”
“No.” The word comes out bitchier than she’d intended.
She opens her mouth to apologize…for what?
I don’t need him to make my phone calls for me. I don’t need him here at all.
She closes her mouth and retreats to the phone in the bedroom, closing the door after her.
Dr. Prevatt takes the call.
Cassie apologizes for not showing up this morning, attributing the lapse to the sudden death of her best friend.
He is immediately sympathetic. “Take as much time as you need, Cassandra. I’m so sorry about your loss.”
She hangs up.
Sitting on the bed, she looks around at her familiar belongings.
Those are my things, she tells herself, gazing from the books to the clothes draped over the doorknob to the framed photos on the bedside table. This is my life.
But it isn’t sinking in. She’s been gone only twenty-four hours, but she feels like she’s trespassing on unfamiliar turf.
She buries her head in her hands, her breaths coming fast and shallow.
Hold it together…You’ve got to hold it together.
Alec is knocking. “The alarm guy needs to talk to you, Cassie.”
“Just…handle it.”
A pause.
“Please, Alec.” Her voice comes out in something close to a wail.
“Okay.”
She emerges a short time later, temporarily lucid again, to find Alec alone in the condo.
“Where did they go?” she asks him.
“They finished. They left the keys and instructions for using the alarm. I chose the code word for you.”
“What?”
“You said to handle it, so I used Marshmallow. That’s your usual password for everything anyway, right?”
Right, but…
“And I paid them. So you’re all set.”
He chose the code word.
He paid them.
This is my life…
But she had told him to handle it.
And he did.
Now he has the keys, the alarm code…
Of course he does. He should. Because this isn’t my life. This is our life. This is what I signed up for when he proposed and I said yes.
And now…
Now you have to tell him you just can’t go through with the wedding, she realizes with startling clarity.
With it comes a tide of relief.
She will. She’ll break it off. She can’t get married in a few weeks, on the heels of all this.
As soon as the dust settles, she’ll tell Alec.
What will you say?
Just that I can’t marry him yet.
Yet? nudges a persistent voice. Or ever?
But Cassie, consumed by the monumental task of simply keeping herself upright and breathing, can’t answer that question now.
“Okay, thanks. We’ll come right down and take a look.” Quincy disconnects the call and looks at Deb.
“What was it?” she asks, watching him over her coffee cup.
“A piece of gray wool.”
“Wool?”
“You know…knitted. They said it looks like it was cut from a scarf or a sweater or something.”
“Was that all?”
“That was all.”
“What do you think it means?”
“Who the hell can tell?” Quincy clicks on the turn signal, approaching an intersection.
“No hunches? No gut instinct?”
“Not until I know more.”
“Did they say anything else at all?”
Quincy rounds the corner, heading toward the lab, his brows furrowed.
“Just that the forensic botanist ran some preliminary tests on it,” he tells Deb, “and found embedded particles of soil and pine needle fragments.”
PART III
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR CASSIE
CHAPTER 13
First thing on the Wednesday morning after Tildy’s death, Brynn opens her eyes and bolts for the bathroom.
Crouched over the toilet, vomiting miserably, she thinks back over last night’s dinner, wondering if it’s food poisoning or a stomach bug.
She’s been too stressed to cook so Garth picked up KFC on the way home, but the greasy chicken didn’t appeal to her. She ate only plain mashed potatoes, which couldn’t have made her this—
Oh.
Oh, God.
Oh, no.
Brynn stands on shaky legs, flushes, and rinses her mouth with cold water. Then she flips on the light switch to look at herself in the mirror over the sink.
Her face is pale and puffy, her eyes sunken into purplish trenches.
Good Lord, you haven’t looked this awful since…
Has she ever looked this awful?
Yes. After she lost her mother, there was a long stretch of sleepless nights and nightmarish days, just like this past week. She remembers her high school friends—and, yes, Sue—gently helping her to pull herself together, not just emotionally but physically.
This time, though, it isn’t just about emotional trauma and physical appearance. It’s about constantly feeling sick. Nauseous, achy, weak, exhausted…
She’s been so distracted by the dramatic circumstances surrounding Tildy’s death—and the rumors that one of her coworkers is about to be charged in the murder—that she never stopped to consider whether her general malaise might be attributed to more than just that stress.
Never until now.
She’s felt this way before, she realizes. This same distinctive blend of cloying nausea mixed with sheer exhaustion…
She’s felt it twice before. And both times, it wasn’t related to death.
It was, in fact, quite the contrary.
Tightly gripping the edge of the sink to keep from swaying, she does a quick mental calculation.
With mounting trepidation, she does it again.
And again.
You’re late.
She should have had her period well over a week ago.
Brynn’s reflection registers the utter shock coursing through her at the stunning, but indisputable, truth.
You’re pregnant.
“Hello?”
Startled when the ringing phone gives way to a voice on the other end of the line, Fiona sits up straight in her desk chair. “Deirdre! I’ve been trying to call you forever!”
“Well, we had a little problem down here called Hurricane Gregory and I had to evacuate. But—don’t tell me, I know you never have time to watch the news or read the papers, so you’re probably clueless about that.”
Actually, Fiona has been watching the news and reading the papers. But not because of the violent storm that devastated parts of the Caribbean last weekend; rather, because of the tempest that raged through her own world to a similar effect.
Reports that the Boston police have an official suspect have done little to ease Fiona’s concern.
They’ve got the wrong person; she knows it will be only a matter of time before they figure that out. Meanwhile, for all anyone knows, the real killer is preparing to strike again.
And again…
And I’d give anything if I could evacuate from my life, she finds herself thinking wistfully. If not forever, than just for the next few days, at least.
It’s been the week from hell, with no signs of letting up.
There’s a memorial service for Tildy this weekend in Boston, and she knows her attendance is mandatory. A delegation of ZDK sisters, past and present, is going.
James Bingham is not. He said he and Tildy weren’t really friends, and, anyway, he’s having some weekend work done on his Cedar Crest house that he wants to oversee.
Fiona was mildly surprised, and immensely relieved. She doesn’t want him entangled with her past in any way.
“So, are you okay down there, then?” she asks her sister, pushing unpleasant thoughts of Tildy from her head for the time being.
“We had some wind damage to the roof and we lost a shutter. We also lost a big, beautiful hibiscus Antoinette just planted out back.”
Fiona toys with her Montblanc, tapping it on the stack of client folders lying untouched in her in-box.
“And the cell service and power had been down since last weekend,” Deirdre continues, “but today we’re back up and running—obviously, because I’m talking to you. We were lucky.”
“Thank goodness. And why don’t you get a regular land line?” she asks her sister, not for the first time. “Your cell goes down all the time.”
“That’s fine with me. I like being incommunicado. So what’s up? You didn’t call just to check on me.”
Fiona knows better than to pretend she did.
She and her twin have always shared some level of what Fiona has come to realize is telepathic communication. It’s how she knew, without having to be told, that her sister weathered this recent hurricane without injury.
And it’s how she’s known in the past that Deirdre was in some kind of trouble, and vice versa.
She still clearly remembers the September morning a decade ago when Puffy summoned her to the house phone, and she unexpectedly heard her sister’s voice on the other end of the line. That was a few months after Deirdre left home for good; they hadn’t spoken since.
“What’s going on, Fee?” Deirdre asked from somewhere in Europe.
“What do you mean?” Fiona told herself Deirdre couldn’t possibly know what had happened with Rachel.
No, bu
t Deirdre could sense that Fiona was in the midst of an ordeal.
“Something’s up with you, Fee,” she said that morning. “I know something’s wrong. I dreamed about you last night, and you were running in the woods and something was chasing you.”
Fiona forced a laugh. “Don’t worry. That didn’t happen.”
She didn’t run in the woods, and nothing chased her. Not literally, anyway.
Figuratively, Deirdre had hit the nail on the head.
“I can’t explain it now,” she said, conscious of the lack of privacy in the sorority house. “I will when I see you.”
“Just tell me if you’re okay.”
“I’m okay, yes.”
Now, ten years later, without a soul in earshot, Fiona can talk freely.
“Listen, where’s Antoinette?”
“Outside pulling shingles out of the pool. Why?”
“She’s not right there?”
“No. What’s going on, Fee?”
“I just need to know…Did you ever tell anyone about what I told you about Rachel back when I was in college?”
There’s a pause.
Slight, but long enough for Fiona to know the answer before Deirdre gives it.
“Only Antoinette. Why?”
“You swore you wouldn’t tell a soul. You gave me your word, Deirdre.”
“That was ten years ago. I didn’t even know Antoinette back then. She and I share everything.”
“Yeah, well, you and I used to share everything, and I wish we hadn’t,” Fiona lashes out bitterly. “How could you tell her something like that?”
“Because it was bothering me. And because I trusted her. I still trust her.”
“Well, I don’t. And it was my secret, not yours.”
“It became mine when you told it to me. And she and I don’t keep things from each other. That’s how mature relationships work. You just don’t realize it because you and Pat never—”
“Please don’t bring Pat into this.” Fiona closes her eyes, tilting her head against the back of the chair.
“All I mean,” Deirdre says more gently, “is that if you’d had the kind of marriage where you share everything with each other—”
“Well, we didn’t, okay?” Fiona snaps, sitting upright again, eyes wide-open. “And this isn’t about my trusting Pat, which I don’t, it’s about my trusting you. Which I should never have done.”
Don't Scream Page 22