Tonight You're Mine (12 page)

A tear trickled down Nicole's face. “It just isn't fair, Mom. She had such an empty life—just the store and a few kids she gave piano lessons to, and some cats.”

“She had your father.”

Nicole looked at her mother warily. “You don't suspect an affair between Dad and Kay?”

“No, but Kay was in love with him. She always has been.” Nicole's eyes widened. “Oh, don't look so surprised, dear. Even you knew it long ago. When you were a little girl, I happened to be passing your room and heard you telling Carmen you thought Kay had a crush on Daddy.”

“Secrets certainly weren't safe with me.”

“I wouldn't say that. You certainly kept your involvement with Paul Dominic a mystery.” Nicole flushed. “You also kept quiet about the problems in your marriage.”

“There weren't really any until—”

“I know what you're going to say,” her mother interrupted, “but you'll never convince me there was nothing wrong until Roger suddenly met this young slut at the university.”

Nicole smiled ironically. “Okay, Mom, you're right. Things had been going downhill for about three years. Nothing major. As far as I know Lisa is his first affair and there was never any violence, but lots of arguments, then lots of silence.” She hesitated. “Mom, as long as we're being so honest, Roger said he thought you were more angry than grief-stricken about Dad's death.”

“Well, score one for Roger. He's brighter than I thought.”

“Then it's true? You're angry about Dad's death?”

Phyllis looked away. “His death. You mean his
suicide
!” she said vehemently. “And yes, I
am
angry. I'm furious!” She twisted her hands, looking out the window. “I know what everyone thought. ‘How does genial, gentle Clifton put up with that tartar of a wife?' ”

Nicole took a breath, wanting to deny what her mother said, but she couldn't because it was true. “Well, today you want honesty so you'll get it,” Phyllis went on. “It was your father who was the strongest one of us. When we were dating, most people believed my father would disapprove of him. General Ernest Hazelton, the man of iron, wanting his daughter to marry a man whose dream was to own a music store?” She laughed harshly. “The other officers at Fort Sam Houston thought it was either a joke or that Father was losing his mind.

“But Nicole, your grandfather saw something in Clifton that the other officers didn't—his strength. He also saw Clifton's intelligence and his devotion to me. He'd raised me to be strong because my own mother was so fragile, but he knew I was too strong for most men, that they would not tolerate me and the marriage would be destroyed. Father was a devout Catholic, so when I married, he wanted me to marry for life. He wanted for me someone who appreciated my strength but could control it. He also never wanted me to be a military wife, moving from base to base. And most important, he wanted someone who would put me, not his career, first. That's what Father did, moving us all over the world, always putting his career above everything, and it broke my mother. She was the saddest woman I've ever known. I think she was relieved to die when I was only fifteen. My father didn't want the same fate for me.”

“You never told me all this,” Nicole said in wonder.

“We've never really talked. But maybe now you understand why I'm so angry. Clifton was ideal for me. He put up with all my idiosyncrasies and bossiness and critical nature and old-fashioned ideas and loved me anyway. It may not have looked like it to outsiders, but our marriage was just about as perfect as a marriage can be. And then, the man I'd depended on, leaned on,
adored
for thirty-seven years, crept out of our house one night while I slept and shot himself in the head. He didn't even leave a note, Nicole.” For the first time in her life, Nicole saw her mother's blue eyes fill with tears although her voice turned fierce. “Clifton Sloan, loving husband and father, didn't even have the decency to leave his family a goddamned note!”

1

“And thus ends our section on Hawthorne.” Avis Simon-Smith, fiftyish, reed thin with large dark, baggy eyes, gave the students a narrow-lipped, insincere smile. “Dr. Chandler will be back tomorrow. I do hope you'll all be especially nice to her after the tragic suicide of her father. As if she hasn't had enough trouble this year.”

Miguel Perez closed his notebook and threw the woman a baleful look. Did she have to emphasize that Dr. Chandler's father had committed suicide? Couldn't she just have said “death”? And by mentioning Nicole's “other” troubles, she was purposely reminding everyone of Roger Chandler's affair. Miguel had taken Dr. Simon-Smith for one other class and not cared for her. Now he positively disliked her.

“I hope you've gained something from our sessions,” Avis went on in a falsely pleasant voice. Students had begun to rise from their seats but now collapsed back into them when they realized she wasn't ready to shut up. “I'm sure you all know I walked into this class cold, no time for preparation, and I
am
teaching four other sections, which is a full load. It has been
quite
a strain, let me tell you, but I was glad to help out Dr. Chandler.”

Yeah, sure you were, Miguel thought.

The students started to rise again. Class was supposed to have ended two minutes ago, but Avis continued. “Now that I've imparted to you an appreciation of Hawthorne, I hope all of you will read
The Scarlet Letter
.”

“I think I'll rent the movie,” one student wisecracked, leaving although they hadn't formally been dismissed. “I'd rather see Demi Moore rolling around naked in the hay than read about some chick in a gown with a giant
A
sewed on her chest.”

Other students twittered, but Avis Simon-Smith was not amused. She was rarely amused by anything
she
hadn't said, and she shot the student a withering look, which went unnoticed by almost everyone piling out of the room.

Later in the day, as Miguel prowled an upper hall of the Humanities and Business Building searching for Nicole's office so he could slip a “Welcome Back” card under her door, he passed Dr. Simon-Smith standing in the hall talking to another professor whose name he thought was Silver. The woman looked slightly younger than Avis and carried a load of papers under her arm. Just as Miguel located Nicole's door, Avis began speaking loudly.

“I simply get sick of all the breaks she gets around here, Nancy.” Fretful lines made her thin, plain face look almost ugly. “When
I
started here, I was allowed to teach
only
Basic English and Composition for
two
years.
Two
full years. But she prances in with her pretty face and blond hair and good figure and in the second semester she's teaching Major American Writers.”

The other woman, balancing her own papers and a mug of coffee, gave her a placating smile. “Avis, you must remember that we had a different department director when you came. He had a few pets and they got all the good classes. The rest of us were treated like dirt. Thank God he didn't last long.”

Miguel hovered at Nicole's door, pretending to study the office hours posted. Then he stole a look as Avis shifted to her other foot, planting a hand on a razor-sharp hipbone. “Oh, Nancy, you know she's getting preferential treatment. A whole week off because of a death in the family! And is it fair for a totally inexperienced teacher to be given Major American Writers?”

Another stolen look told Miguel that Nancy Silver looked uncomfortable. “Avis,
you
got a week off when your mother died. And Nicole isn't inexperienced.”

“Oh, that's right,” Avis sneered. “She taught
one whole year
in Ohio.”

“And she had an article published on Fitzgerald in a prestigious journal.”

“I read it. Trash. She doesn't know what she's talking about.” Avis paused. “I'm beginning to wonder if she's as free with her sexual favors as her husband. If so, unlike Roger she has the sense to give herself to administrators, not students. Maybe
that's
why she's doing so well in the department.”

Miguel's fists clenched. Jealous bitch. Suddenly he realized she was staring at him. “Did you need something, young man?”

He met her eyes, his own cold. “No. I was just leaving something for Dr. Chandler.” He bent to slip the card under the door.

“Stop! That should be taken to the office.”

“I'd rather leave it here.”

“I said it shouldn't be left there.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Down the hall in the office.”

Miguel shoved the envelope under the door, stood, and walked past her without a word.

“Honestly!” Avis huffed. “Some of these Mexican kids are
so
arrogant!”

“Avis!” the other woman gasped. “What an awful thing to say. He
heard
you!”

“I don't care. It's true and he knows it.”

“Avis, you've been a friend for a long time, but you're getting out of control. The department director has already spoken to you about your unseemly comments.”

“As if I care what
he
thinks! I should have his job and he knows it.”

Nancy Silver shook her head. “A word of advice, Avis. If you don't tone yourself down, one of these days that bitter tongue of yours is going to land you in
big
trouble.”

2

Shelley was in her bedroom, supposedly asleep, but probably watching something totally unsuitable on television. Nicole knew she should check, but it was nine-fifteen and she sat at the kitchen table, frantically composing her introductory lesson on Melville. She'd planned to have it done an hour ago so she could go over material for her other classes, then get to bed early, but the talk with her mother had destroyed her concentration for the rest of the afternoon. She felt as if she'd had a conversation with a woman she'd lived with over half her life yet never knew.

Now, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't add electricity to her lecture. This was the first section of Major American Writers she'd taught and she wanted to do a good job, not send everyone out of class vowing never to read Emerson or Melville or James again. “Maybe you're just trying too hard,” she muttered. “This
is
a lecture on serious subject matter, not a tabloid article.”

The knocker tapped lightly against the front door. “Oh, great,” Nicole groaned. She looked down at the gray sweatsuit she'd slipped into earlier when she thought a brief session of exercise might charge up her mind as well as her body. She stood, looking down at her heavy gray socks. Reeboks lay discarded somewhere in the living room along with her ten-pound weights, and she knew her hair was stringing down from its ponytail. Oh, well, it was probably only Roger here to pick a fight. Just what she needed.

She looked out the peephole in the door to see a surprising face. Opening the door, she was aware of alarm in her eyes. “Sergeant DeSoto! Is anything wrong?”

He smiled. “I wish my visits didn't immediately strike terror.”

She returned his smile. “I'm sorry. That wasn't a very polite greeting.”

“I'm used to it. Actually, nothing is wrong. I just wanted to give you some information.”

She opened the door. “Come in. I'm afraid both the house and I are a mess.”

“I should have called before I came. Besides, you look fine.”

“Have a seat,” Nicole said, motioning toward the awful brown furniture. “Would you care for something to drink?”

“Only if you're having something.”

“I've been drinking coffee all evening and I'm wired tight. I think I could use a glass of wine. How about you, or are you on duty?”

“I'm not on duty and wine sounds great. Whatever kind you're having.”

As she passed a mirror on the way to the kitchen, she cringed. She looked even worse than she thought, no makeup, tired circles under her eyes, an ink smudge on her cheek. She turned off the laptop computer, dashed to the sink and scrubbed at the ink mark with a wet paper towel. She thought she heard a faint groan from the living room. DeSoto trying to settle onto the voluminous, consuming furniture.

She poured the wine and when she walked back to the living room, DeSoto was sitting on the couch, his legs stretched in front of him, flipping through a copy of
Vanity Fair
. He laid it aside and accepted the wine, smiling again. He really was good-looking, she thought, although she didn't agree with Shelley that he looked like Jimmy Smits.

“I apologize for dropping by like this. I have a feeling I'm interrupting something.”

“I've been driving myself crazy all evening over a lecture. Tomorrow is my first day back at school. But don't apologize. I needed a break.”

“All right. I'll try to be as brief as possible.” He took a sip of his wine, then began casually. “Today I read the report about your intruder.”

“I'm surprised such a trivial matter crossed your desk.”

“Normally it wouldn't, but because of your father's death…well, anyway, I saw that it wasn't the first time you've had a visitor.”

“Our werewolf, my daughter Shelley calls him. He wears a wolf mask.”

“So I heard. I also learned that he's entering the yard by climbing a tree, then sliding down a rope. But that's not what interested me the most.” Nicole tensed, certain that she was about to get a lecture about pointing her gun and the dangers of civilians owning handguns, although she couldn't remember mentioning it to the policemen who were here last night. “It's the dog.”

This was worse than the gun. Nicole swallowed. “The big dog that bit the intruder?” she asked innocently.

“Yes. We did a check of local hospitals and no one came in last night with an animal bite, so apparently the dog didn't do any real damage.” He paused. “There were no fingerprints on the ID tag, but it gave an address in Olmos Park. The numbers were scratched, but we finally made them out.” Nicole stared at him, her mouth dry as sand. “Mrs. Chandler, I know all about what happened to you fifteen years ago and your relationship with Paul Dominic.”

“Oh,” she said weakly.

“The address on the tag is that of Alicia Dominic, Paul's mother.” Nicole opened her mouth, but nothing came out. “But then you knew that, didn't you?”

Nicole swallowed again and finally found a thin version of her voice. “I didn't
know
. I just suspected.”

“Why would you suspect that the dog belonged to Alicia Dominic?”

Nicole took a deep breath. “I don't think it belongs to Mrs. Dominic. I think it belongs to Paul.”

For the first time DeSoto showed surprise. “Why do you think that?”

“I believe I saw him at my father's funeral.” DeSoto raised his eyebrows. “He was at a distance with a dog. And then there was a call the other night.” She described the contents of the call threatening to give Roger a warning and the man calling her
chérie
.

When she finished, DeSoto looked at her dubiously. “Mrs. Chandler, have you been in contact with Paul Dominic in the last fifteen years?”

“No.”

“You do know that he's presumed dead.”

“ ‘Presumed' being the key word as far as I'm concerned.”

DeSoto sipped his wine, then gazed at her seriously. “Are you absolutely certain you saw Paul Dominic at the funeral and heard his voice on the phone?”

Under DeSoto's probing brown eyes, Nicole's confidence flagged. “Well, he was standing some distance away, and as I said, I haven't seen or spoken to him for a long time. But it
looked
like him and it
sounded
like him on the phone. No one else has ever called me
chérie
.”

“I see.” DeSoto looked away from her, focusing on the aquarium. “That's beautiful.”

“I think so.” Nicole stared at the neon tetras, red moons, black mollies, painted glassfish, and kissing fish. Plastic ferns waved gently against the blue gravel and various shades of coral on the bottom, and bubbles from the aerator rose beyond the castle, the skull, the diver, and the catfish hovering above the gravel. “The fish always look so calm.”

DeSoto nodded but remained quiet. Finally Nicole said, “I feel like you have something else to tell me.”

“It's not much. I went to the Dominic house today.”

“Oh.” Nicole was nonplussed. “I would have thought you'd just call.”

“Sometimes you learn more from a personal visit than from a phone call.”

Which is why you're here tonight, Nicole thought. “So what did you learn?”

“I only talked to the housekeeper.”

“Rosa?”

“You know her?”

“Not really. I just remember her. She's been there forever. She never liked me.”

DeSoto smiled. “She doesn't seem like the type who likes anyone.”

“Except Mrs. Dominic.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. She certainly acts like a pit bull protecting the woman.”

“She wouldn't let you see Mrs. Dominic?”

“No. The housekeeper said she's an invalid—a weak heart. She suffered a stroke last year.”

“How sad. She's not very old. Did it appear that anyone else lived in the house besides Rosa and Mrs. Dominic?”

“I didn't get past the entrance hall. The place looked fairly neglected, though, and it was quiet as a tomb.”

When it used to vibrate with music, Nicole thought, remembering an evening when she'd held a white rose and listened to “Rhapsody in Blue” throb from huge stereo speakers. She wondered how long it had been since music had soared down the house's halls.

“What did you find out about the dog?” she asked.