She Loves Me Not (28 page)

No, he can't go to the police. Not until he's sure. Not until he has concrete evidence linking the mysterious Clarence to both Isabel and Rose as well.

If only he had that damn picture.

Now he'll have to convince Rose to come with him back to Staten Island in a blizzard, probably in the middle of the night, he thinks, gazing up at the darkening sky.

He presses the brake and slows to a stop as the traffic in front of him stalls once again.

Dammit. This is maddening. He hasn't felt this helpless since . . .

Since you sat by Angela's bedside in the hospital.

No.

He doesn't want to go there now. This isn't about Angela. Not really.

Yes, it is. Of course it is.

Saving Rose Larrabee's life is David's last chance to keep a part of Angela alive.

Angela's heart beats in Rose's chest.

Her
cheating
heart.

Yes, but it's her heart, just the same.

All David knows now is that in the end, he loved Angela, no matter what she did.

And that Rose Larrabee isn't going to die.

She
can't
die. He won't let her.

Suddenly aware that the New Jersey radio station he was listening to has given way to static, David turns the dial until he finds WLIR, a local Long Island station.

“Coming up next, we'll have the latest on your rush-hour traffic and weather,” the DJ promises as an old Elton John song comes to a close. “But first, these messages.”

As the DJ's voice gives way to a jaunty jingle, David glances down at the cell phone lying on the console. He could try to call Rose again. But he should probably conserve the waning battery. And he has the feeling it would be futile, anyway. Her line has been busy for hours.

That can't be a good sign.

Maybe she just took it off the hook because one of her kids is taking a nap.

Or maybe she's using the Internet without a DSL line, so her phone is tied up.

The Internet!

Why didn't he think of it before?

Joan McGlinchie's voice drifts back to him.

Ralph bought a computer, and he learned how to use it. He sent Olivia's picture all over . . .

If Ralph sent Olivia's picture over the Internet, he can send Clarence's.

His heart racing, David reaches for his cell phone.

“C
hristine! Open up! It's me!”

“Ben?” Stunned, she rises from the couch and makes her way to the door, still carrying the fireplace poker. It sounds like her husband's voice, but why would he be home at this hour of the day?

She peeks through the crack in the door.

It's Ben, all right.

Maybe he couldn't stand being at work, knowing I'm so sick here. Or maybe he heard about the murder next door and he rushed home to make sure I'm okay.

She pulls the door closed enough to release the chain, then steps back to let him into the house. A gust of snow blows through the door with him.

“Christ, it's miserable out there. Why'd you put the chain on? Oh, hell, I think my shoes are ruined.” Ben stomps his feet on the mat. She sees that he's wearing his black wing-tips, and resists the urge to ask him why he didn't think to wear boots when he left this morning.

Instead, she asks, “What are you doing home so early?”

“The office closed at noon because of the storm. Good thing, too. It took me four hours to get home. I couldn't get a cab over to Penn Station so I had to walk across town, and the trains were all running late when I got there.”

Shivering in the fresh draft, she returns to the couch. So he didn't come home early merely because he was worried about her. She should have known better than to even entertain the ridiculous notion.

“Why didn't you call and tell me you were on your way?” she asks, pulling an afghan over herself and leaning her throbbing head against the pillow again.

“I didn't think of it. I left the office pretty fast. They wanted everyone out of there so the cleaning staff could do their thing and go home, too.”

“I tried to call your cell phone. You didn't even have it turned on.”

“I forgot to bring it with me. It's probably still on the dresser upstairs. Sleeping on the couch last night really threw me off,” he says, almost in an accusatory tone.

She clenches her jaw, staring at the television, where Oprah is welcoming Dr. Phil.

“What's going on next door?” Ben asks, coming into the living room. He sits in a chair and bends to unlace his shoes. “There are cops and news vans all over the street.”

“There was a murder.”

He stops short, his hands frozen, clutching the ties. “A murder?”

She nods. “Remember that prowler? The one you told me was none of my business? Apparently, he came back and killed somebody.”

“The woman next door?”

“No. A man. I don't know who he was. All I know is that the police haven't caught him yet, and they want to talk to both of us.”

“Us? Why do they want to talk to us?”

“Because we live right next door, Ben. We're witnesses.”

“I'm not a witness. I'm never even here. Did you tell them that I'm never even here?”

“They're not marriage counselors, Ben. They're cops.”

“That's not what I . . .” He trails off, shaking his head, untying his shoes. As he removes them, along with his socks, he seems to be digesting the fact that somebody was killed right next door.

When he speaks again, his tone is kinder. “You must've been a wreck all day, Christine.”

Tears well up in her eyes. “I was. And I feel so sick . . . and I'm out of Advil and my head is killing me.”

“You're out of Advil?”

“I tried to call you at work to tell you to get me some on the way home,” she says miserably, sniffling.

“I'll go get it for you. Just let me get changed, and warm up. Then I'll go to the store.”

“You will?”

He nods. She's stunned.

“Is there anything else you need? Chicken soup?”

“No,” she says quickly, her stomach churning at the mere thought of it.

“Jello? Ginger ale?”

“Ginger ale would be good,” she tells him.

“Okay. Don't worry, Christine. You're going to be okay. Everything's going to be okay.”

She nods, wishing she could believe that.

“D
o you have a safe place to spend the night, Mrs. Larrabee?” asks the kind young policeman with the blond crewcut. Officer Shanley, his name is. “We're going to be patrolling the neighborhood, but—”

“Oh, I'm not staying here,” she says with a shudder. “My sister-in-law already took the children over to—”

She breaks off, feeling a sudden vibration against her hip bone. Sam's pager is hooked to the belt loop of her jeans. Lifting it, she glances at the window, certain it's Leslie calling. For a moment, she's taken aback by the unfamiliar number. Then she recognizes that the call is coming from her in-laws' house.

“I have to get in touch with my sister-in-law, Officer,” she tells the policeman, who has been at her side for the past half hour, showing her a series of local mug shots to see if she recognizes any of them.

Nobody, including Rose, was surprised when she didn't.

As she pointed out to the police, she never saw Luke Pleuger's assailant. Nor did she ever actually see a prowler lurking around her house, or have a run-in with anyone who might have been stalking her.

“Go ahead and make your call, Mrs. Larrabee,” the officer says, standing and walking to the door. “And then you might want to get wherever it is that you're going. The roads are getting pretty bad out there.”

“It isn't far,” she tells him, managing a faint smile as she picks up the cordless phone. Remembering it was off the hook, she holds the Talk button down for a few minutes. As soon as she releases it and hears a dial tone, she punches in her in-laws' number.

As she waits for the call to go through, she presses the back of her hand to her forehead, as she does to the children when she's trying to figure out if they have a fever.

Her head feels warm, and it aches. And her throat is really starting to hurt. Candy Adamski told her earlier that Gregg Silva is still out with the flu, as are a number of the Toddler Tyme children. Rose wonders if she's coming down with it, too.

The phone rings twice before Leslie answers it.

Rose can hear a terrible racket in the background. “Les, is everything okay?”

“Jenna and Leo are playing the piano. I'm giving them a lesson. Maybe we can have a recital for you when you get here.”

“I'm about to leave now, just as soon as I can throw some things into a bag.” Rose carries the cordless phone up the stairs to her room.

“No, don't. Peter's coming for you in the truck, Rose.”

“Why? He doesn't have to do that. I have your car, remember?” She opens her closet and pushes past the coats hanging there to find Sam's old duffel bag on a shelf in back.

“No, Rose, the roads are too slippery for you to be out in my car. Just wait there for him. He'll page you when he's coming. It won't be long.”

“Okay,” Rose says reluctantly, not wanting to stay in this house a moment longer than she has to.

If Peter takes too long, and the police leave . . . well, she'd rather take her chances on an icy road in Leslie's car than stay here alone after dark.

“Listen, Rose, I just tried to turn on the water and the pipes are—” Leslie breaks off, hearing a loud shriek.

“Leo! Cut it out!” Jenna screams. “Aunt Leslie!”

“Hang on a second, Rose.” The phone clatters as Leslie hurriedly puts aside the receiver.

With the cordless phone propped between her cheek and shoulder, Rose goes into the bathroom. While retrieving her daily medication, she finds a half-full package of throat lozenges in the medicine cabinet. She pops one into her mouth and puts the package, along with the prescription bottles, into her duffel bag. Opening a dresser drawer, she counts out a few days' worth of underwear, then several pairs of socks. She carries it all over to the open duffel bag on the bed, listening as her sister-in-law soothes Jenna and Leo in the background. She can hear Leslie telling them something about teaching them piano again just as soon as she's done on the phone.

“We're going to work on that duet, guys,” her sister-in-law is saying.

“How does my part go again, Aunt Wes-wee?” Leo asks.

“I'll play it in a minute.”

“No, now!”

“Okay, but just quickly. Your mommy's waiting on the phone.” Leslie begins playing the piano on the other end of the line.

After a few hauntingly familiar chords, Rose lets out a startled gasp.

“M
rs. McGlinchie? This is David Brookman. Thank goodness you're home.”

“David! Where are you? The connection is—”

“I know. It's not great. I'm on my cell phone, driving on the L.I.E.,” David says hurriedly, above the static. “Listen, Mrs. McGlinchie—”

“Joanne.”

“Joanne,” he obliges tightly, “I need your husband to do something for me.”

“He's not home, David.”

He deflates. “Do you know when he'll be back?”

“I hope it isn't long. He went to the supermarket to get bread and milk. We're all out, and we're afraid we're going to be snowbound if this weather keeps up. What's it like out there on the Island?”

David ignores her question. “Mrs. McGlinchie—
Joanne
—I need a favor, and it could be a matter of life and death.”

The line crackles. His battery is low, and he doesn't have an adaptor in the car. Dammit.

“Did you say life and death? “Joanne McGlinchie asks.

“It might be. Does your husband have a photo scanner for his computer?”

“A scanner? I think that's what it's called.”

“Tell him—”

The line buzzes with static.

“What, David?”

He shakes his head. “Tell him that I need him to scan the picture of Olivia's birthday party. The one we were looking at the other night. I need that picture of Clarence.”

“How are you going to get it?”

“I'm going to give you my e-mail address, Mrs. McGlinchie. Do you have a pen?”

“I'll get one. Hang on a moment.”

Hurry,
he urges, his gaze fastened to the slow-moving stream of taillights ahead as the static grows louder in his ear.
Please hurry.

“I've got a pen.”

“Good! Write this down.” He gives her his e-mail address. “Please have Mr. McGlinchie scan in the photo and e-mail it to me just as soon as he gets in.”

“But why—”

Her question is lost in a loud, double beep as his phone's battery goes dead.

“O
kay, now you guys practice that while I finish talking to Mommy,” Leslie tells her niece and nephew, before leaving them on the piano bench and returning to the phone in the kitchen.

She has to smile, hearing the kids resume their disharmonious pounding on the keys.

“I hate to say it, Rose, but I don't think either of them is going to win a Juilliard Scholarsh—”

“What was that, Leslie?” Rose cuts in breathlessly.

“What was what?”

“That song? The one you were just playing?”

“Oh, that? It was the bass part of the duet I'm going to teach—”

“I know. I know the song, I used to play it with my father. And I tried to teach it to Sam, once.”

“Sam? He was all thumbs on the pian—”

“Leslie, what is it called?” Rose interrupts again, her voice high-pitched. “I have to know.”

“It's ‘Heart and Soul.' Why?”

“Just . . . never mind. I have to go.”

“Go where? You're supposed to wait for Peter to page you, Rose.”