She Loves Me Not (21 page)

She knows too much already. She's too suspicious. You'll never be able to slip into her day-to-day life and toy with her the way you have the others.

It would have been such a pleasure, though . . .

No. It's too late to go back to the original plan. Just accelerate everything. Do what you have to do.

Isabel will be next; Rose, his grand finale.

Then he'll go back to his real life, to his original appearance, to . . .

To what?

There are times when he can't even remember what his life was like before Angela. But one thing is certain: it was lonely.

Well, maybe you'll meet somebody once you've settled in back home, he tells himself. Somebody who won't betray you, the way Angela did.

After unlocking the car trunk, he casts a furtive glance over both shoulders to be absolutely certain he's alone.

Yes. Good.

This will only take a moment. After he's finished, he'll drive over to the mall to get everything he'll need: more duct tape, a pillow, and something to use as a tarp. A couple of vinyl shower curtains, he thinks, his lips curling into a grin. Maybe he can find something lavender and pretty for her. Lavender was Angela's favorite color.

When he used her house keys to sneak into David Brookman's brownstone last winter in search of the organ recipients' names, he detoured into her walk-in closet. Her wardrobe was still intact, and he helped himself to her favorite lavender sweater and a filmy lavender-sprigged scarf. Souvenirs, along with the monogrammed letter opener.

He reaches into the trunk and removes a small bundle wrapped in the navy wool pea coat he was wearing a few hours ago, when he left Rose's bedroom. Now, unfortunately, it's soaked in blood.

He didn't like the coat much when he bought it last fall—it really isn't his style. But it's grown on him.

Oh, well. You wouldn't have been taking it with you when you move on, anyway,
he reminds himself. And if the weather cooperates, he'll be leaving in a matter of days.

The forecasters are promising snow on the island before the week is out.

With a grimace, he holds the stiff bundle at arm's length and carries it back to the waiting hole.

He bends to drop it in.

“Sorry, little guy. I let you go once, but this time, you got in my way.”

It's a shame. A real shame. He's always liked dogs.

Shaking his head, he begins to shovel dirt over the little black puppy's lifeless body.

Chapter Nine

“T
hank you. Have a nice day,” Rose tells a departing customer, Mrs. Abernathy, who just bought the complete set of Little House books for her granddaughter at Rose's suggestion.

Too bad I'm not working on commission,
she thinks ruefully, tucking the Visa receipt into the register drawer just as Luke comes out of the stock room, wearing a belted trench coat she's never seen before.

“I'm going to lunch, and then I have to do some errands,” he tells her. “I may not be back until after you leave, but I told Emily Bill is still out sick and she promised to get here an hour early so that you'll be on time to pick up your children. Have a good—”

“What about my paycheck?” she cuts in, dismayed. It's already coming a day later than usual because of yesterday's holiday, and this is the shortest month of the year. The mortgage payment is looming and her American Express bill is overdue.

“Oh, right.” He looks uncomfortable. “I was going to stop at the payroll accountant's to pick up the checks later.”

She sighs. She'll have to drag the kids back to the store after dinner and homework to get her paycheck. It's the last thing she wants to face at the end of this draining day, but she has no choice. She has to deposit it as soon as the bank opens in the morning.

Rose gloomily watches Luke pause to straighten a pile of paperbacks on a display table, lining up the bindings with precision.

What a crappy day, all around.

First the odd gift on Sam's pillow, with its cryptic inscription.
Angela?

Who is Angela?

Leo must have stolen it from somewhere. It's the only explanation that makes sense.

What doesn't make sense is to call the police about it—though the thought has crossed her mind throughout the day. She's undoubtedly already the laughingstock of the Laurel Bay police force. She wouldn't feel comfortable at this point calling them if somebody stole a necklace from her, let alone calling because somebody left her one.

Another thing that doesn't make sense, no matter which scenario she conjures, is that Cupid is missing.

“Maybe he climbed out the window when the tooth fairy flew in last night,”
Jenna suggested, when her hysterical tears had finally subsided.

“I doubt that. Leo, you didn't let the puppy out, did you?”
Rose asked her son.

Naturally, he denied it.

“When you came into my room this morning you said you checked outside and it wasn't snowing. Did, you open the door to check?”

“No. I just wooked out my window.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yup.”

But how can she believe him? He lied about breaking the Lenox vase, about the liquid soap, and probably about leaving the chocolates in her car and the
Angela
necklace on her pillow. And it wouldn't be the first time he went outside in his pajamas to check for snow. The puppy could have followed him out.

But if Leo's telling the truth and he had nothing to do with anything . . .

“I'll drop the check at your house for you later if you want,” Luke offers unexpectedly, turning away from the pile of books and breaking into Rose's troublesome thoughts.

“You will? That would be . . .” Grateful, she says, “You don't know how much I'd appreciate it.”

“It's no problem. I go that way on my way home every night.”

“You know where I live?”

He nods. “Shorewood Lane, right? What's the number?”

“Forty-eight,” she murmurs, reminding herself that of course he would know where she lives. He's her employer. Her address is in her file.

Luke opens the door. “You know, that breeze actually feels warm today,” he says over his shoulder. “It's nice not to wear a heavy coat and gloves for a change. I'll see you tonight, Rose.”

“See you tonight,” she says, pushing aside her nagging doubt about just who left that package on her pillow, and why.

I
sabel's cell phone rings as she's standing beside the driver's side door of her Mercedes, shaking Jason Hollander's hand.

“I'm sorry—I should answer that,” she says.

“Of course you should.” He releases her hand. “Thank you for everything. Why don't you call me when you have the appraisal ready?”

“I will,” Isabel promises, sneaking a glance at her watch as she reaches into her pocket for her phone. It's five minutes to three. She'll only be a few minutes late meeting Mr. Gabriel and his wife if she hustles back to the office right now.

Watching Jason Hollander stride back up the well-shoveled stone steps into his house, she flips open her Motorola and lifts it to her ear. “Isabel Van Nuys.”

“Isabel, it's Amy. That Mr. Gabriel just called. He said he and his wife are stuck in traffic and running a little late.”

Relieved, she says, “So am I. I was just going to try to beat them back to the office, but I'll take my—”

“He said not to bother meeting him here,” Amy cuts in. “He said they'll just meet you over at the Gilder Road address.”

“Oh.” Isabel frowns. “Did he leave a phone number? I'd rather meet him at the office.”

“No, he didn't. I assumed you had it. I'm really sorry,” Amy says nervously. Just this morning, Mary flew off the handle at her for failing to screen one of her calls. “If I'd known you didn't have the number I would have asked him for it. Maybe he'll call again—”

“It's all right, Amy,” Isabel tells the anxious girl. “I guess it's fine if I meet him at the property.”

Is it?

Just yesterday, she had herself convinced Mr. Gabriel is a serial killer.

Now, in the broad light of this sun-splashed afternoon, that seems ridiculous.

And anyway, he's bringing his wife with him, she reminds herself.

D
avid's hand trembles as he dials the phone.

Why the hell are you doing this?
he asks himself, but he doesn't stop dialing.

And when a woman answers, he finds himself saying, “Hello, may I please speak with Olivia McGlinchie?”

The voice on the other end of the line emits an odd sound, something that sounds like a gasp, then falls silent.

Mystified, David clears his throat. “Hello? Is anybody—”

“I'm Olivia's mother,” the woman says quietly. “Olivia died last year.”

Died?

The woman to whom Angela's precious eyes were given?

David doesn't know whether to be more shocked by the news, or by his own utterly unexpected reaction to it. His throat painfully tight with emotion, he says hoarsely, “I'm sorry to hear that. I . . . I don't know what to say.”

“Who is this?”

Make up a name. Just make up something, a story about how you're an old friend who knew her years ago or something, and get off the phone. Don't go into the truth. Not now. There's no reason to tell her now.

David opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

“Hello? Who is this?” the woman asks again, and to his horror he realizes that Olivia's mother sounds as though she's crying.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. McGlinchie,” he says, fighting off the threat of tears himself. It's almost as though Angela has died all over again. “I didn't mean to . . . to—”

“It's just hard,” she says, sniffling. “Whenever I hear her name, I—”

She breaks off, and he can sense, somehow, that she's trying to get hold of herself. Her voice is stronger when she again asks, “Who is this?”

He takes a deep breath.

“My name is David Brookman, Mrs. McGlinchie. My wife Angela was Olivia's organ donor.”

S
till wearing her workout clothes beneath her yellow parka, Leslie hurries into Toddler Tyme, hoping she isn't late. In her mad scramble to get dressed after her last Yoga class, she forgot her watch in her locker at the gym. So much for total inner peace and relaxation.

She's taken only a few steps down the corridor inside the day-care center when a woman materializes in her path. Her dark hair is in a single long braid and she has on ballerina flats, a long denim skirt, and a bright blue sweater embroidered with yellow daisies. Green plastic shamrock earrings dangle from her ears—a bit early for Saint Patrick's Day, Leslie thinks.

“May I help you?” she asks Leslie.

“Yes, hi. I'm Leo Larrabee's aunt, and I'm supposed to be picking him up today. My sister-in-law has to work later than usual.”

“Right. Rose called from the bookstore to say that her replacement hadn't arrived and you'd be here to get Leo instead. I'm Candy Adamski, the day-care center's director.”

“Nice to meet you.” Leslie reaches toward her, but the other woman shakes her head.

“I'd shake your hand, but the flu is going around. I'm sure you understand. I've been encouraging the children to wash their hands and we wipe down the toys with bleach water every night, but you can't contain every germ.”

“No, you can't,” Leslie murmurs, wishing this chatty Candy would just go find Leo. She's anxious to get home with him and see if there's any sign of Cupid. The puppy somehow disappeared overnight.

Rose seemed oddly stilted when she told Leslie about it on the phone this morning. It was almost as if she wasn't willing to reveal all the details. But maybe that was because Jenna and Leo were within earshot.

All Leslie knows is that when the three of them woke up this morning, Cupid was gone.

“It's a beautiful day out there, isn't it?” Candy Adamski chirps. “Still cold, but it's wonderful to see the sun at this time of year.”

“Yes, it is.” Leslie clears her throat. “Is Leo . . . ?”

“He's in the big playroom. You can come with me to get him, if you'd like. He's had a difficult day, poor little thing.”

“Did he tell you about his puppy running away?”

“Yes, and on top of that, I'm afraid his favorite instructor is out sick today,” Candy confides as she leads the way to a large, bright room filled with toys and children. She adds, in a low voice, “Mrs. Heifer, the substitute, is wonderful, but Leo has really bonded with Mr. Silva.”

“Aunt Wes-wee!” Having spotted her, Leo comes bounding across the floor and throws his arms around her.

“Hi, sweetie.” Leslie strokes his hair. “Are you ready to go home?”

“Yeah. Mist-o Gwegg wasn't my teacher today. He's got the fwu.”

“I know. But I'm sure he'll be better soon.”

“Yeah.” Leo's lower lip trembles. “Did Mommy tell you about Cupid?”

She hugs him close. “Yes, she did, Leo. But we're going to go home and look for him. In fact, why don't we go for a walk and call him? Maybe he'll hear us and come running.”

“Do you think so?”

No, she doesn't. Her intuition tells her the puppy is gone for good. But she can't bear to dash the hope on her nephew's face.

“Sure. Come on, sweetie. Let's go home.”

T
here are fresh tire tracks in the snowy driveway at 27 Gilder Road.

Isabel heads slowly up the winding lane, wondering how Mr. Gabriel's wife feels about the prospect of living in such a secluded spot. Even with the leaves off the trees at this time of year, you can't see the house from the road. It's tucked behind a thick stand of evergreen trees and shrubs.

But some people really like their privacy. Mr. Gabriel certainly strikes her as somebody who would.

She pulls to a stop beside a small black sedan with New York rental plates, surprised to find it empty.

Maybe he took his wife around back to show her the property, Isabel concludes, turning off the ignition and opening her car door. After all, the sun is already low in the western sky, and he did say his wife was interested in the perennial gardens—which amount to little more than muddy patches filled with dried-up stalks at this time of year.

Clutching her keys and Mr. Gabriel's black bag, Isabel steps out of the car, then hesitates. Should she leave his bag here? Yes. No reason to lug it around the house.

She tosses it back onto the seat and closes the door behind her. The slam seems to echo loudly.

This really is the middle of nowhere, she thinks. No woman in her right mind would want to live out here, especially in an ugly house like this.

She looks up at the deserted contemporary, its blind-covered windows making it seem especially desolate and forlorn in the long late-afternoon shadows.

Well, your job is to build the place up, not focus on its shortcomings,
she reminds herself, her feet making a pleasant crunching noise in the snow as she walks around the side of the house.
If you sell it, you'll be able to
—

She cries out as a strong pair of hands grabs her from behind, and a familiar voice ominously says, “You're late.”

T
he late-afternoon sun is sinking rapidly in the western sky when Christine pulls into her driveway, the back of the station wagon filled with groceries. After driving out to a deserted beach and brooding for a few lonely hours, she found her way to a supermarket.

A different supermarket chain than the one in Laurel Bay. A store for which she doesn't have the bonus savings card Ben expects her to use at their regular place. Nor did she have her coupon pouch.

She bought all brand names, all at full price. loading a cart with every forbidden junk food she could find.

When all else fails, eat,
she thinks grimly, turning off the ignition and opening the door.
Eat Hostess Twinkies and Breyer's Chocolate Chip Ice Cream and Lays Barbecue Potato Chips, real ones, not the fat-free kind.

Eat, because you just got your period and you can blame it on PMS.

Eat, because your husband isn't the least bit interested in you, and even if he were, you can't seem to get pregnant anyway.