Last Whisper (40 page)

“Another communication from Zach,” Stacy said tensely, “only this one was mailed, handwritten, and even signed. Look at it.”

Brooke shakily held out the card. “I’m afraid my fingerprints are on the outside, but I didn’t touch the inside. As soon as I saw that picture on the front of a blond girl with her blond dog, I knew who’d sent it.”

Jay first picked up a tissue from a table next to the couch, then took the card from Brooke. He read it without expression and slipped it back in the envelope, which he wrapped in the tissue. “I have to take this in and log it as evidence. I’ll call Hal, too.”

“Jay, do you think Zach is holed up at the Holt Street house where he shot my mother?” Brooke asked. “After Mom’s murder, no one stayed in that house for long. One or two years and 542 Holt Street was back on the market. I kept track. But this time, it’s been empty for over two years.”

Jay sat on a dainty armchair slipping shoes over his dark socks. “That neighborhood has really run down since you lived there. It’s now a high-crime area. Maybe that’s the reason for the quick turnover and recent desertion. Anyway, we searched the house after Tavell broke out of prison and again a couple of days later. There was no sign of him.”

Jay stood up. “We might have located the car Tavell has been using, though. According to the airport, a silver Taurus
with the license plate number 3R-1615 was put in long-term parking last week. The family is in Paris and will be for five more days, but the car is missing.”

“Just like Vincent suggested,” Brooke said. “Just like the scenario he used in his book. I wonder if Zach read that book?”

Jay opened the front door. “We’re only certain the car is missing, not that Zach took it.”

“Oh, he did,” Brooke said with certainty, remembering the day at the café when she’d felt someone watching her and she’d seen an apparently empty silver Taurus parked across the street. “I’m absolutely sure that’s the car he’s been using.”

After Jay left, Stacy gave Brooke a glass of wine and a chicken salad sandwich. The wine she wanted; the sandwich she did not, but Stacy insisted and because her stomach was rumbling, Brooke obeyed and ate it. The food tasted like cardboard, though. She couldn’t really taste the wine, either, but she could feel the effects. As she emptied her glass, she felt as if the tight muscles in her neck had begun to relax.

“I’m pouring you another glass of that,” Stacy said.

“I really shouldn’t have two.”

“Why not? Will it throw you into a fit? Make you explode?” Brooke managed a faint smile. “Just one more glass and you’ll be able to unwind enough to sleep tonight.”

To sleep, Brooke thought as Stacy moved around in the kitchen. Greta was finally sleeping. Brooke hoped it was a peaceful sleep. Greta’s life had not been easy.

And neither has mine, Brooke thought. She’d never been one to wallow in self-pity, but so many people she knew had led happier childhoods, more peaceful young adult years.

“Drink this slowly,” Stacy said, handing her a glass. “Do you want some music?”

“For once, no.”

“That’s out of the ordinary for you.” Stacy smiled. “Conversation?”

“If you don’t mind—”

“I will gladly keep my mouth shut. In fact, I will even bury my face in this new magazine I got today called
InStyle
full of things too expensive for me to buy. If you feel like talking, though, don’t hesitate to drag me away from the splendor on these pages.”

The apartment was almost unnervingly quiet without the music or television Brooke usually kept on for company. Elise lay beside her chair, breathing rhythmically and thumping her tail on the floor when Brooke reached down to touch her. The glass-domed clock Brooke had always admired ticked softly on an end table, and once in a while Stacy turned a page and sighed.

At last, Brooke said, “I’m going to leave tomorrow.” Stacy looked up. “I’m leaving Charleston tomorrow. Grossmutter wanted to be cremated, have no ceremony and be placed in the mausoleum next to her husband. She’s gone. All of her arrangements have been made. Meanwhile someone wants to kill me. In fact, he even warned me tonight that I haven’t much time. I finally have no choice—no reason—to stay in this city.”

Stacy gave her a long, measuring look. At last she said, “Thank God you’re finally doing what you should have done a week ago.”

“If I’d done it a week ago, maybe Robert wouldn’t have been killed. . . .”

“Now don’t go down that path.” Stacy set down her wine-glass. “I’ll help you pack tomorrow.”

“No. I’m going to the basement, get my luggage, pack, and leave tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“I hate to admit this, but I’m afraid to stay until tomorrow. I know I won’t get any sleep anyway.”

“You don’t want a nap now or . . . or to talk to Vincent?”

“A nap? I just told you I’m not sleepy. And I can talk to
Vincent later tonight. Or in the morning. What’s the matter, Stacy? You act like I need his permission.”

Stacy drew back. “His
permission
?” Stacy suddenly looked stern and almost offended. “I certainly don’t think you need Vincent Lockhart’s permission to do
anything
. In fact, I’ll be glad when there’s some space between you. I’ve never liked the way he just turned up when all the trouble started. But you seem so . . .”

“So
what
?”

“Attached to him. I got the feeling you wouldn’t make a move without asking him first.”

“You thought
I
wouldn’t make a move without
asking
him first?” Brooke bristled. “Good heavens, Stacy, you act like I’m a little girl. I don’t owe Vincent either explanations or his permission!”

“Okay!” Stacy held her hands up. “I’m sorry. I read the signals wrong.” She lowered her hands. “If you’re determined to get your luggage tonight, I’ll help. If Harry were around, we’d get him to do it, but nobody has seen him all day.”

“Oh God, don’t tell me he finally ran off with that mistress Eunice was always so certain he had.”

“That’s probably exactly what happened. They’re together on a Caribbean island right now, she in a bikini, he in a Speedo, drinking mai tais.”

“Harry Dormer with his hairy shoulders and back, beer gut, and beautiful spider necklace wearing a Speedo.” Brooke shut her eyes. “I think I’d rather be stalked by a murderer than conjure up
that
picture.” She stood up. “If you help, I’ll only need to make one trip to the basement. Thanks, Stacy.”

Brooke made a hurried trip to her apartment and picked up the key to her storage cage in the basement. She kept it in an empty candy dish so she wouldn’t have to add it to the collection of keys on her key ring.

“I hope Harry isn’t messing around down here,” Brooke said as they took the elevator to the basement. “I think having to put up with him tonight would just about tear it for me.”

Stacy half-covered her eyes and groaned. “Wouldn’t it, though? Especially with you collecting your luggage. He’d be full of questions.” She paused. “And as a matter of fact, even
I
have one. Where are you going tomorrow?”

“I haven’t decided yet. There are no relatives I can go to, although I wouldn’t anyway. When Zach discovers I’ve left town, he’d no doubt track me to them. I could go to New York City, but that would be expensive if I plan to stay for long. Maybe New England. For some reason, I’ve always wanted to go to New England.”

“You can go to Vermont and watch them make maple syrup.”

“I don’t think they do that at this time of year. Besides, I couldn’t take the excitement,” Brooke said dryly, then added, “although lately I think I’ve taken about all the excitement I can stand for a while.”

The elevator jolted to a stop. “So much for smooth landings,” Stacy said. “I think this old thing has about had it. That’s why I usually take the stairs.”

The doors creaked slowly open to pitch-darkness. “Oh no,” Brooke moaned. “I forgot that the light switches are nowhere near the elevator.”

“I didn’t,” Stacy said, triumphantly holding up a flashlight. “Always on my toes.”

Stacy plunged ahead with the flashlight, shining it on the cool concrete floor, then flicking it around until she finally reached the far wall midway down the basement. “Shield your eyes,” she called before flipping on the fluorescent tubes that lit the far end.

“I would like to know what genius forgot to put in a light switch panel beside the elevator,” Brooke grumbled as she stepped out of the cubicle and headed toward the safety of blazing light. “Light switch at the top of the stairs, light switch halfway down the length of the basement. Nothing beside the elevator. Brilliant.”

“Maybe Harry designed the building,” Stacy said solemnly.

“I don’t think so, unless he was an architect in 1922 when this place was built.”

Every apartment had a wire storage cage, each approximately twelve by fifteen feet in size, with a door that locked. Many of the cages were stuffed full. Brooke’s contained only her luggage, a box containing her artificial Christmas tree and another holding all the tinsel and ornaments, and a horribly old steamer trunk Greta had given Brooke when she’d sold her possessions and moved into the nursing home.

When Brooke had protested, Greta insisted. “You might need this on a trip,” Greta had pointed out.

“A trip!” Brooke had cried. “What kind of trip? An ocean voyage on the
Titanic
?”

Greta had frowned, pretending to think. “
Titanic
is at the bottom of the ocean. Unsinkable. Ha! Pick something better, like the Love Boat. You’ll find a handsome man on that trip and marry him.”

“Not if he gets a look at this trunk that comes along with the bride. He’ll think I’m a kook.”

Greta had thrown back her head and laughed but still insisted Brooke take the trunk, which had originally belonged to Greta’s grandmother.

Brooke used her key to open her cage door. Both she and Stacy stepped in and looked around. “I swear, Brooke, you have the neatest cage down here,” Stacy said.

“That’s because I don’t have much to store.” She glanced at the red luggage set she’d bought in a fit of extravagance last year. “Let’s see. I’ll take the upright Pullman, the port case, and the boarding bag.”

“Only one upright bag?” Stacy asked.

“I don’t want to be loaded down with baggage.”

Stacy reached for the largest upright case. “How does Elise like flying?”

“I have no idea,” Brooke said, picking up the other two smaller bags. “She’s never flown before.”

“I’ve heard that some dogs have to take a tranquilizer. Ouch!” Stacy had brushed against the steamer trunk and a sharp-edged brass fitting had pierced through the back thigh of her beige slacks. “Damn it. I think I tore them.”

“Oh no.” Brooke knelt down. Sure enough, the fitting had
slit Stacy’s slacks and Brooke saw a drop of bright red blood beginning to spread against the linen. “I think you cut your leg, too.”

“The leg will heal. The linen won’t.”

“Don’t be silly, Stacy. Your leg is more important than your slacks. You might need a tetanus shot. I have no idea how old that brass is—”

She broke off and Stacy craned around, trying to look down. “What else is wrong?”

“Stains,” Brooke said slowly. “There are rusty-looking stains where you brushed against the trunk.”

“Stains!”
Stacy sounded horrified. “Have I been wearing stained slacks all day?”

“No. The stains weren’t there earlier.”

“Rust. Dammit.”

“Maybe it’s rust.” Rust was the most obvious answer, but fear fluttered in Brooke’s stomach like a cold, dark wing. She touched one of the stains with her index finger. It wasn’t moist, but it wasn’t completely dry, either. The tip of her finger looked darker than the others. She held it close to her nose and caught a faint whiff of copper.

“Well, maybe the dry cleaner can get out rust,” Stacy was chattering on. “If the tear isn’t too large, maybe they can fix that, too. These aren’t my favorite slacks, but they are fairly new.”

Brooke sank from kneeling to sitting on the concrete. In spite of the fluorescent lights, she felt as if the room had dimmed. “Stacy, I don’t think you have rust on your pants. I think it’s blood.”

“Am I bleeding
that
much? Do I need stitches?”

“Not your blood,” Brooke quavered. “Older blood. But not old enough to be dried.”

“What are you talking about?” Stacy let go of the bag and looked at Brooke’s face, then at her slacks, then at the trunk. “Let’s open it,” she said finally.

“No! It’s locked. I don’t know where the key is—”

Stacy stooped down and looked at the brass fittings. “The
lock is broken.” She placed both hands on the lid and began pushing upward.

“Stacy, don’t!” Brooke almost shouted. “Don’t open that thing!”

But it was too late. With a strong push, Stacy flung the lid back so hard it almost hit the side of the wire cage. She pointed the flashlight into the trunk, drew a deep, shaky breath, then whispered, “Brooke, we need to get the police.
Don’t
look.”

But it was too late. Brooke had staggered up and grabbed the flashlight. Now she stood gazing down into the trunk, down at what seemed to be yards of green net and chiffon, down at the white face of Eunice Dormer lying in a puddle of blood that looked like dark red sludge.

After a moment of stunned, horrified silence, Brooke and Stacy turned and almost ran for the stairs. By the time they reached them Brooke was hyperventilating. Stacy went first, grabbing Brooke’s hand and almost dragging her up the stairs. When they reached the top, Stacy slammed the basement door, pushed Brooke into a chair, and forced her head between her legs. “Breathe deeply or you’re going to pass out,” Stacy ordered.

Mrs. Kelso, who spent most of her time in the lobby, gaped at them. A haughty woman who found most of the world beneath her, she rarely spoke to either woman, but now she couldn’t resist. “Is something wrong?”

“No, we always act this way,” Stacy snapped. “Where’s Harry?”

“I haven’t seen him all day, the shiftless—” Mrs. Kelso, who finally realized Stacy had spoken to her with sarcasm, stiffly turned her back and walked away.