Gabe was watching her closely, frowning and tapping the back of his fork on the table. “After everything I’ve just told you, how can you have any use for anything Deborah has to say?”
Before Lauren could answer, the waiter arrived with their appetizers. When she ordered the veal Languedoc, the waiter bowed and told her it was an excellent choice. After he left, Lauren turned to Gabe. “Do they ever tell you it was a lousy choice?”
Gabe smiled in response and put a couple of stuffed mushrooms on each of their plates. “So explain to me why you still want to see Deborah tomorrow.”
Lauren speared a mushroom, but instead of eating it, she twirled the fork and watched the mushroom spin, wondering how much she should tell Gabe. “It’s more than just academic curiosity—Dan Ling thinks somebody might have murdered Jackie.” She popped the mushroom into her mouth.
Gabe looked alarmed, and Lauren thought he might be ill.
“Are you all right?” she asked, glad she had decided against telling him about Nigel Hawkes.
Gabe coughed and waved away her concern. He reached for his water glass, then drank. “Something went down the wrong way.” He sipped again. “I thought Jackie fell off a step stool.”
“Dan thinks there may be more to it than that.”
“Meaning?” Gabe asked, his mouth set in a thin line.
Lauren put her fork down and met his gaze. “Meaning that maybe she was messing where she shouldn’t have been messing.”
“You think Deborah and her hapless band killed Jackie?”
“That doesn’t make any sense. If Deborah wanted Jackie to stay away, why would she have given us the chronicle? Maybe it was one of the other witches Jackie was talking to.…” Lauren felt slightly foolish for having brought up the subject, but now that she had, she decided to push on. “Remember the poppets and the Bellarmine urn I was telling you about the other night?” When Gabe nodded, she told him about the shadow in Jackie’s hedges and the click of the back door. “Dan’s convinced Jackie was killed because she was getting close to something someone didn’t want her to know. Something involved with witchcraft.”
“Is this just Dan’s theory, or do the police think something’s up too?”
“He couldn’t convince his lieutenant to open an investigation, so Dan’s going to dig around on his own.”
Gabe leaned back and cleared his throat. “That’s one hell of a theory,” he said. “And even more reason for you to stay away from RavenWing.”
“But Deborah or Cassandra might know who’s using poppets and Bellarmines,” Lauren persisted. “And it does seem highly unlikely either of them had anything to do with Jackie’s death. Actually, now that I think about it, Cassandra couldn’t have—she was in Vermont taking a stained-glass course at the time.”
“With the sorcerers you mentioned?” Gabe asked.
Lauren looked at him in surprise. “I don’t know,” she said, making a mental note to check them out for Dan. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
Gabe reached over and took her hand in both of his. “You don’t really believe any of this, do you? A cursed chronicle and voodoo and shadows in the dark?”
“I don’t know what to think,” she said. With his hands warming hers, she was having trouble thinking about anything except how soft his lips had been the other night, how comfortable she had felt in his arms. “Dan’s convinced something’s not right.”
“You’ve got to remember Ling’s a cop and trained to be suspicious of—”
“Well, well, well. Look who’s here,” a booming voice interrupted Gabe. “It’s our own famous man.” With a few long strides, Simon Pappas was at their table, grinning down at them. A petite woman who had to be half his age, wearing perfectly applied makeup and far too much jewelry, came to stand shyly behind him. Simon neither introduced her nor indicated he was aware of her presence. “Is this kosher?” he asked. “Professors fraternizing with students?”
“You mean like Jackie and me?” Lauren asked, although she pulled her hand from Gabe’s. It was obvious Simon had had a few drinks.
Gabe squeezed her knee under the table. He stood and held out his hand. “How’re you doing, old man?” he asked. “Good to see you.”
Simon waved Gabe back into his seat. “Seriously,” he said, “isn’t this against university policy?” He leered at Lauren, his eyes dropping to her breasts.
“University policy against fraternization between students and faculty is intended to discourage abuses of power,” Gabe said smoothly. “And since Lauren’s completed her course work, and I’m not on her dissertation committee, I’ve got very little power over her.”
Lauren smiled at Gabe and he gave her a wink she felt in the pit of her stomach. Thinking again how different he was from Todd, she wondered how much power he might actually have over her. In this situation, Todd would most likely be on his feet yelling, perhaps even swinging, at Simon. Gabe was composed and reasonable, besting Simon with logic and a cool head.
“How’s the book coming?” Simon asked Lauren. “Did you get Jackie’s name off it?”
“I met with Nat Abraham just the other day,” she said, her voice sugarcoated. “The details of authorship are being worked out.”
“It’s funny I should run into you, Lauren,” Simon said, apparently accepting her evasive answer. “I was planning to call you. My son-in-law Dan tells me you’ve been going through some of Jackie’s things.”
Confused, Lauren nodded.
“I’m looking for something—a valuable painting—that seems to be missing. It belonged to my mother.”
“The Deodat Willard,” Lauren said.
“The one she had in the kitchen?” Gabe asked. “With the witch and the corn?”
“It isn’t a witch,” Simon snapped, glaring at Gabe. He turned back to Lauren. “Do you know where it is?”
Unwilling to tell Simon the truth, Lauren slowly turned her wineglass on the tablecloth. She hated to lie—and wasn’t particularly good at it—but she didn’t know what else to do under the circumstances. “Last time I saw it,” she said, raising her eyes for a moment, then lowering them, “it was hanging on Jackie’s kitchen wall.”
Simon narrowed his eyes at Lauren. “I hope you’re telling the truth, young lady, because I was told that painting is now worth a lot of money.”
Lauren looked up at him. “Didn’t your mother give it to Jackie?”
“Yes,” Simon said, crossing his arms over his chest, “but Jackie and I were still married then, and Mother had no idea what it was worth. That painting’s been in my family for generations, and that’s where it belongs now.”
“I’m sure it’ll show up,” Gabe said, his tone indicating that the conversation was over.
“I just hope those twits at the antiquarian society haven’t got it.”
Lauren and Gabe exchanged a glance that Simon caught.
“And I hope the rumors of your troubles with NEH don’t materialize,” Simon told Gabe, a smirk on his face. “Because if you’re counting on Jackie’s records to help you, you’re in deep trouble. She couldn’t keep track of her household expenses, let alone a grant budget.”
As Gabe’s face paled, Simon’s smile widened. He punched Gabe on the shoulder. “Have a nice night, famous man,” Simon said and then headed toward the door. The young woman followed closely behind him, her gold bangle bracelets clanking loudly.
As she watched Simon leave, Lauren was reminded of Dan’s search for motives among Jackie’s family and friends. Although Simon was undoubtedly a jerk, she couldn’t picture him as a murderer. She turned to Gabe. “What did he mean about the National Endowment for the Humanities?” she asked. “I didn’t even know you had an NEH grant.”
“It was years ago,” Gabe said, the color beginning to return to his face. “Ancient history. Simon’s just being a prick.”
Lauren shook her head. “I’ve always found it hard to understand how Jackie could have been married to him.”
“Believe it
or not,” Gabe said, as the waiter arrived with their entrées, “he was once a pretty good guy.”
The veal Languedoc was as superb as Aunt Beatrice had promised, as was the rest of the evening. They didn’t talk about Deborah or Jackie or the supernatural—although they did agree that they both detested Simon Pappas. Instead, they drank another bottle of wine and gossiped about the department. Then they had a heated discussion about the president’s foreign policy and discovered a mutual passion for travel, film noir, and mystery novels. Lauren hadn’t felt as alive or as happy in a long time. She was completely caught up in Gabe: in his conversation; in his charm; in his long, lingering glances. They skipped dessert and went to Lauren’s house.
“Would you like to come up for a nightcap?” Lauren asked Gabe as they stood in the foyer, her heart beating wildly at her boldness.
Gabe wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him. “I’d love to,” he said. They walked up the stairs with their arms around each other, but they broke apart when they entered the apartment.
Aunt Beatrice came out of the living room to greet them. She was a tall, wiry woman with the no-nonsense air of one who doesn’t have time for foolishness. She was very fond of Todd and, after Lauren introduced them, gave Gabe an appraising look as she shook his hand. She acted as if she had no idea who he was.
“Drew was talking about his father all evening,” Aunt Beatrice told Lauren, although it was clear she was speaking for Gabe’s benefit. “About Todd’s new camera and how if Todd gets some project in Washington, he might take Drew with him for a few days.”
Lauren kissed her aunt and thanked her for babysitting, shooing her down the stairs. When she turned from the door, Gabe pulled her into his arms.
“Wait,” she said softly. “Let me check on Drew.”
Acutely aware that Gabe was watching her from the doorway, she picked Bunny up from the floor and placed him in the crook of Drew’s arm. The boy murmured a few unintelligible syllables, then he drew Bunny to his chest and curled his body protectively around the stuffed animal. Lauren kissed him and tiptoed to the door, leaving it open a crack.
“Deborah never wanted any kids,” Gabe said, his eyes sad.
Lauren touched his arm. “Ready for that drink?”
Gabe was suddenly uninterested in a drink. Instead he gently removed her coat and draped it over a small table in the hallway. Then he began to unbutton her blouse. “It’s strange,” he murmured, tracing the crescent-shaped scar on her neck with his tongue.
Lauren pulled his shirt from his pants and ran her hands along his back, pulling him closer. “What’s strange?”
“I know someone with a birthmark that’s the same size and shape—and in exactly the same place—as your scar.”
But Lauren didn’t care about birthmarks. All she cared about was making love to Gabe, of feeling his flesh along the length of hers, of his hands, his tongue, his body inside hers. “Come with me,” she said.
His laugh emerged from deep in his chest. He took her hand and followed her to the bedroom. She closed the door firmly and turned to him. Within minutes they were naked.
Gabe was a wonderful lover, gentle and slow and caring—almost too slow for Lauren. He kissed her long and deep, and when he finally touched her breast, she moaned so loud he laughed again. “Don’t laugh at me, you stinker,” Lauren said, poking him in the side. “It’s been a long time.”
He ran his hand down the length of her body and kissed the inside of her wrist. “That’s a deprivation we’ll have to keep from ever happening again,” he said. Lauren was more than willing to comply.
Afterward, lying in Gabe’s arms, Lauren asked, “So who’s got a scar just like mine?”
“Birthmark,” he corrected. “And you probably don’t want to know.”
He was right. Lauren didn’t want to know. “Sorry I asked,” she said. “I really don’t care where Deborah’s birthmarks are.”
“I just want to start this relationship being honest.” Gabe sat up and pulled her closer. “Everything out in the open. I have a feeling we could be really good together.” He ran his finger along Lauren’s cheekbone and touched her lips. “Really good.”
Lauren looked at Gabe closely. He seemed to mean it. Gabe Phipps, the Gabe Phipps, sounded like he wanted a serious relationship with her. She leaned over and kissed him. His lips were so warm and enveloping that she wanted to stay in this moment forever. But thinking of Drew in the next room, as well as her early morning appointment, she said, “You really should go now.”
He cupped her chin in his hand and smiled at her. “Okay.”
“I had a great time,” she whispered, her voice husky.
“Me too,” he said as he climbed out of bed. Gabe dressed quickly and Lauren slipped into a robe. “Is there a night when Drew stays with his father?” Gabe asked as they walked together into the hall. “I’ll make dinner for you at my house—I’m actually not a half-bad cook.”
Lauren smiled. “Would Tuesday be too soon?”
“Perfect,” Gabe said. “And if you must go to RavenWing tomorrow, please don’t stay too long—and don’t read that chronicle.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in curses,” she teased.
“I don’t,” Gabe said. “But suddenly I don’t want to take any chances.”
After Gabe left, Lauren stood pressing her ear to the dosed door, keenly aware of the blood pulsing through her body, breathing in the musky male scent that clung to her. She thought about sex and love and lust, and wondered exactly what she was feeling right now. For a moment, she thought she heard a rustling sound coming from Drew’s room, but when she peeked through his doorway, he was fast asleep.
Humming softly, she floated back to bed.
That night Lauren dreamed she was in jail again. She was in a dungeon, a true dungeon filled with a bone numbing dampness and the odor of fear. Her feet were sunk into an oozing, clinging mud and shackles chained her to the wall. Fingers tore at her dress, oily and callused, their nails and knuckles caked with dirt. Repulsed and terrified, she twisted and turned but was unable to move. She was at the mercy of the groping, marauding hands.
Voices screamed and heckled her. The laughter and taunts grew until they echoed off the walls and the water, and Lauren thought she would be encased forever in the monstrous clamor. “Full of the devil,” the voices shrieked. “This witch must die!”
A bloated face rose before her, its teeth black and its breath putrid. It was Oliver Osborne. He began screaming in agony, holding first his gut, then his head, then his gut again, pleading with the Lord to let him die. As the Lord granted his wish, Osborne collapsed to the ground, knocking over an urn with the triple face of a bearded devil carved onto it. The urn tipped and opened, spilling human hair and fingernail parings onto the floor.
“They say it be witchcraft,” Gabe Phipps told Lauren as he walked nonchalantly down a long hallway into what was her living room and yet not her living room. As he approached her, his voice began to change and his face molted until he grew twisted and deformed, and his laughter became the laughter of the men in the dungeon. Gabe shrieked and, when he opened his mouth, his teeth were all black and his breath smelled just like Oliver Osborne’s.
Lauren bolted upright, icy sweat gluing her nightshirt to her back as Gabe’s voice from her dream slipped into her waking. “All witches must die,” he cried. “Hung at dawn until dead.”
Her hand was trembling as she groped for her dream diary, but when her eyes grazed the clock, she dropped the book and leapt out of bed. In her lust-induced fog, she had forgotten to set the alarm last night. Drew was due at Sunday school in less than thirty minutes and she was supposed to be at RavenWing in forty-five.
“Drew!” she called as she raced down the hallway. “We’ve overslept. It’s time to get up.”
But when she got to the boy’s bedroom, she skidded to a stop in surprise. Drew was already up and dressed, sitting on his bed and staring at the floor.
“Oh,” she said, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “I guess I’m the only one who overslept. Want to be my alarm clock from now on?” she asked as she leaned over to kiss him.
He didn’t say anything. He just shrugged, his eyes focused on the floor.
“Come on, Mister Boy.” Lauren ruffled his hair. “Come with me and I’ll whip you up a mean bowl of Rice Krispies.” When Drew still didn’t move, Lauren looked at him more carefully. “Are you feeling okay?” she asked, pressing her wrist to his cool forehead.
He shrugged again and his eyes skittered toward his desk.
Lauren followed his gaze, then walked slowly to the corner of the room. The desk was its usual mess, piled so high with Legos and drawing paper and stacks of old copies of Boy’s Life and Adventure that not a sliver of its red top could be seen. Finding nothing unusual, she turned back toward Drew, but as she did, she glimpsed something in his wastebasket.
“What the …?” Lauren dropped to her knees, hoping that what she was seeing was not actually there. But it was. Sticking out of the wastebasket was a jumble of dark brown stuffed arms and legs and other body parts. Wisps of cotton batting littered the floor.
It was Bunny. Bunny had been slashed and dismembered and thrown away in the trash.
Eighteen
AS LAUREN CLIMBED FROM THE BOWELS OF THE HARVARD Square subway station into the gray morning light, she found the dismal weather a perfect reflection of her mood. Drew had destroyed Bunny in a horrible and violent way, and she was terrified Mrs. Baker and Dr. Berg’s concerns were well placed—that there might be something seriously wrong with her son.
When she had questioned Drew about Bunny, he had glared defiantly at her. “Stuffed animals are for babies,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest in a heartbreakingly adult gesture. “You told me not to hurt other people’s things. Bunny’s mine and I can hurt him if I want.”
“But you love Bunny,” Lauren said, her voice breaking. “You’ve always loved Bunny.”
“Not anymore,” Drew had told her.
Lauren blinked back tears and looked up at the sky, which was the same color as the concrete beneath her feet. Glancing at her watch, she took the subway stairs two at a time. She was late to meet Deborah. She frowned at the bulky shopping bag she carried on her arm. Although she had remembered to bring the Bellarmine urn, in her haste and distraction she had forgotten the poppet.
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