Tonight You're Mine (29 page)

“Oh.” Another short pause followed. “Yes, Nicole, you did.”

“For how long?”

Phyllis took a deep breath. “Well, your attack happened in February. I believe the sleepwalking stopped in May.”

“Did I just walk around inside the house or did I go outside?”

“Inside, mostly, but there were a couple of times when it seemed you'd been outside. Your feet and legs were dirty and scratched. But you never remembered a thing.”

“I see,” Nicole said slowly. “Did I ever have access to a gun?”

“A gun! Of course not. Your father deplored guns.”

“He used one on himself.”

“He was ill,” Phyllis said in a pained voice. “Besides, he used a gun he'd bought recently. He never kept one at the store or the house for protection.”

Nicole wished she felt better, but she didn't. “Mom, do you remember the night Magaro and Zand were murdered?”

“Nicole!” Phyllis's voice was developing an edge. “These questions are very alarming. What are you driving at?”

“I want to know, Mom. Was I back in the hospital for plastic surgery? And don't say you don't remember. If you say that, I'll check the hospital records.”

Phyllis sighed. “Don't threaten me, Nicole. You don't have to look up hospital records. You hadn't had the plastic surgery yet. You were home.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes, because I tried to keep the newspaper from you, but you saw a report about the murders on the morning newscast. You became very upset and I had to call the doctor. He gave you a tranquilizer. Then the police were here. It was awful.”

“I remember being home, now. Did I sleepwalk that night? The night of the murders?”

Phyllis's voice tightened. “Nicole, I really don't see why this is so important to you. Why does it make any difference after all this time?”

“It does, Mom. Believe me, it does. Just tell me.”

“All right. You did not sleepwalk that night.”

“You're certain?”

“Absolutely,” Phyllis said.

But Nicole heard the doubt in her voice.

1

“For today I asked you to read Melville's ‘Bartleby the Scrivener,' ” Nicole began, facing her Major American Writers class. “What was your impression of Bartleby?”

“I think he was nuts,” one student near the front volunteered.

“No, he
ate
nuts,” another countered, throwing the class into gales of laughter.

Nicole, who usually didn't mind a bit of levity in classes, was uncharacteristically annoyed. “Those were very perceptive comments,” she said tartly. “Can anyone offer a more sensitive analysis of the character?”

Sensing her mood, the class fell silent. She waited. She looked at Miguel, whom she could usually count on for an intelligent comment, but he stared steadily down at his open book, clearly determined not to respond to her.

“All right,” Nicole said with forced patience. “Let's start with something easier. What is a scrivener?” Silence spun out. Finally a mousy girl in the back row volunteered a halting answer.

Nicole was never able to get the class off the ground, and as she trudged back to her office, she blamed herself. When students sensed the teacher's lack of enthusiasm, they responded in kind. And I
like
that story, she thought. But with all the other stuff going through my mind, it's hard to work up any fire for sad young Bartleby.

When she returned to her office, she called her mother. “Feeling better today?” Phyllis asked.

“Yes. I'm sorry I disturbed you last night. I must have sounded like a lunatic.”

“No daughter of mine could ever sound like a lunatic.”

I wish everyone thought that, Nicole thought. “Mom, Roger wants to see Shelley. He sent Lisa to pick her up yesterday afternoon.”

“Well, that's nerve!”

“I thought so, too. But he does have a right to see her. I told Lisa I'd bring Shelley to the hospital this evening.”

“You will do no such thing,” Phyllis said firmly. “I don't want you around that man. I don't want Shelley around him, either, but as you said, he has his rights.
I'll
take her.”

“Oh, Mom, I hate to ask you to do that.”

“That's the way I want it. For once indulge me, Nicole. After all, you know Roger won't get violent or obnoxious around me. He's always been intimidated by me.”

“I didn't think you knew that!”

“Of course I know it. I deliberately cultivated it in him. I always sensed he might someday turn into a man who needed to be kept in line.”

Nicole laughed. “You read him better than I did.”

After a slight pause, Phyllis said, “Nicole, you've always wanted to see nothing but good in people. Sometimes I think you wouldn't know evil if it looked you right in the face.”

Nicole was silent. Had she been unable to see it in Paul? In Carmen? Or maybe, if her fears about what she'd done during her bouts of sleepwalking were true, had she been unable to see it every time she looked in the mirror?

2

After her classes, none of which went much better than the first, Nicole hurried to the university library. Using one of the computers, she looked up articles on somnambulism. Finally finding one that looked promising, she began printing it out.

“Finding everything you need?” a librarian asked.

Nicole stiffened irrationally, feeling that if the woman saw the subject matter of the article spinning out from the printer, she would know Nicole's purpose for wanting it. “I'm doing fine, thank you,” she said in a strained voice.

“If you need any help, let me know.”

“I teach here. I know how to use the library.” The woman looked slightly affronted. “Thank you for your help, but I think I've found exactly what I was looking for.”

“Well, good for you,” the woman muttered as she turned away.

Nicole was ashamed of snapping at the woman, but her nerves felt raw. After the printer finally stopped, she hastily gathered the pages of the article, stuffed them in her briefcase, and left the library.

She had almost reached her car when she saw Avis Simon-Smith heading toward her own old brown Mercedes. “Avis!” she called.

The woman stopped and turned toward her. Students filled the parking lot. Some of them glanced up at Nicole as she reached Avis. “I'm glad I caught you,” Nicole said, slightly breathless from her dash in high heels. Avis looked at her expressionlessly, her baggy pants flapping in the breeze around her skinny legs, her short, overpermed hair looking dry as a tumbleweed. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior the other morning.”

“You mean when you laughed at me right to my face?” Avis asked coldly.

“I wasn't laughing at you, Avis.”

“Really? You could have fooled me.”

“No, honestly, Avis. I'm telling you the truth.” Or part of it, Nicole thought. “I've been under such a strain lately—my father's suicide, the murders. I'm sure I don't have to explain to you what that kind of tension can do to a person.”

One of Avis's scanty eyebrows rose. “What makes you think you wouldn't have to explain acting crazy to me?
I
don't act crazy.”

This isn't going well, Nicole thought. She was tired, her briefcase suddenly seemed to weigh a ton, and the two big books she'd tucked under her right arm were causing a cramp. “Avis, I wasn't implying you act crazy. I was only saying that you must be able to
imagine
what the recent events in my life have done to me. I'm very nervous. When I'm nervous, I'm prone to laugh over nothing at all.”

“You
do
seem to be having a run of bad luck, but that doesn't give you any right to take it out on me.” Avis's voice rose. “But you
like
taking it out on me. You think I'm comical.”

Nicole blinked at her in surprise. “Avis—”

“Shut up! Let me finish. You think I'm comical because I'm over fifty, plain, and generally considered a washout”

“Avis, I
don't
consider you a washout—”

“Yes, you
do
. But let me tell you something.” Avis stepped closer to her, the hollows under her eyes looking cavernous in the bright sun. “I've written a book—you haven't. I've taught for years—you haven't. I've spoken to hundreds of people at literary conventions—you haven't. But I'll tell you what I've never done that you have—I've never lost a man to a Kewpie doll whose IQ is less than her breast measurement.”

Anger flooded through Nicole. “That's probably because you've never had a man to lose!”

Avis's eyes narrowed, her gaze brimming with pure hatred. Suddenly she reached out, placed both hands on Nicole's shoulders, and shoved. Nicole staggered backward. She could have caught her balance if her high heel hadn't landed on a pebble. Instead, in a flash she lay sprawled in the parking lot, her briefcase and books scattered around her.

As Avis stalked to her car, students surrounded Nicole. “Are you all right, Dr. Chandler?” they asked. “Are you hurt? Everyone knows she's wacko, but how could she
do
something like this?”

For the most part unhurt but embarrassed, Nicole pulled down her skirt, which had ridden up to expose her hips, and rubbed at her elbows, which had borne the brunt of the fall. “I'm fine, really,” she assured the students, her cheeks scarlet. “Gosh, what a scene. So much for winning friends. Could someone help me up?”

But while other students gathered around Nicole, murmuring comfort, offering help, Miguel Perez stood rock-still thirty feet away, his venomous gaze following Avis Simon-Smith's Mercedes out of the parking lot.

1

Two hours after Nicole returned home, she felt slightly more relaxed but very tired, so tired she might never be able to summon up any energy again. If only it were summer break, she thought. If only none of this were really happening.

When the phone rang, she lay on the big, ugly couch wearing a silk robe, her body feeling so tender and weak from fatigue she couldn't even bear the weight of clothes. She groaned and went to answer it.

“So how are you today?” Ray asked.

“I have sore elbows and a bruised ego.” Nicole explained her earlier encounter with Avis. “At least we provided some entertainment on campus this afternoon.”

“The woman sounds like she needs some psychiatric help. She also sounds like she should be charged with assault and battery. You have plenty of witnesses.”

“You want me to charge two people in one week?” Nicole laughed. “I don't think I'm up to it, although I
am
beginning to feel like a punching bag. It's like I'm wearing a big sign saying
HIT ME
.”

“I'm sorry that happened,” Ray said sympathetically. “I don't expect you're up to a quiet dinner tonight.”

“Thanks, but not really. I still have to prepare for school tomorrow, and then I thought I'd go to bed early.”

“Sounds like a good plan. But may I reserve a space on your calendar soon for a nice dinner at the Tower of the Americas?”

“Oh, Ray, I haven't been there for years! I'd love it, but I thought you weren't allowed to date suspects and that's such a public place.”

“This will all be settled within a couple of weeks.”

“From your lips to God's ears.”

“I have a direct pipeline. Do we have a date, then?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

“Great,” Ray said enthusiastically. “I'll keep you informed about the case this week. Be sure to keep all your doors and windows locked, call me anytime if you need me, and try to quit worrying and get some sleep tonight.”

“Yes, sir. Talk to you soon, Ray.”

What a nice man, Nicole thought. Nothing like that partner of his, Waters. And he's good-looking, too. I'm very lucky he's working this case. I was very lucky to meet him.

She smiled, going to the refrigerator and pouring a glass of orange juice. She hadn't eaten dinner, and the thought of food was unappealing now although she hadn't eaten since breakfast and knew she needed to gain weight. The cold, tart juice tasted delicious, though, and she poured a tall glass, carrying it back to the living room with her.

Nicole sat on the couch and placed her briefcase beside her. Tomorrow she would teach the stirring Composition I, which was never a problem. She did, however, need to refresh herself on how to create believable characters for Creative Writing. She opened her briefcase, looking first for the page of partial notes she'd already made for the class, then at the folded pages of the article on somnambulism. Her hand went to the article.

Twenty minutes later she'd learned that sleepwalking is one of the parasomnias that include night terrors, nocturnal enuresis, and nightmares. She also learned that it typically happens during stages three and four of sleep when there is no rapid eye movement, and that it is more common in children than in adults. Episodes can last between thirty seconds and thirty minutes, although sometimes they are longer.

But it wasn't until she reached the end of the article that her heart began to pound when she read that sleepwalkers rarely remember their episodes, which are often caused by stressful or traumatic events. She leaned forward and read the last sentence of the article aloud, her hands trembling: “Somnambulists often inflict violent or even fatal injuries on other people during their episodes.”

She looked straight ahead. “They're capable of inflicting violent or even fatal injuries to others,” she repeated emptily. Injuries like gunshots to the head?

2

Nicole wasn't aware of exactly how long she had sat holding the article in her hands when the phone rang. It was her mother reporting that she'd taken Shelley to see Roger. “He looks awful, but the nurses say he's doing fine. He seemed totally deflated when I walked in instead of you,” Phyllis said with satisfaction. “I think he had quite a tirade prepared. One look at me, though, and the wind went right out of his pompous sails.”

Nicole laughed. “Mom, you're incredible.”

“You're just realizing that?” It was the nearest thing to a joke Nicole had ever heard her mother make and she was too surprised to respond. “Your daughter wants to speak to you.”

“Wonderful,” Nicole said. “And Mom, thanks for keeping her and taking her to see Roger.”

“You have nothing to thank me for.”

A moment later her daughter's buoyant voice sounded in her ear. “Hi, Mommy! We went to see Daddy.”

“Grandma told me. How is he?”

“Pretty messed up. He's got bandages all over and he complained like crazy. The nurses said he was the worst patient they've ever had.” Shelley giggled. “I think they'll all be happy when he goes home.”

“Then he's Lisa's problem.”

“She wasn't there, Mommy. I was glad, but it was one of the things Daddy was so cranky about.”

“Maybe she just needed some time to herself.” Or maybe she had a date, Nicole thought. The cat was flat on his back and it was time for the mouse to play. But with whom?

“Nobody else has come to see him. There was only one vase of flowers. I told you his friends didn't like him anymore.”

“Well, at least he got to see you, honey. I'm sure that meant more to him than a dozen vases of flowers.”

After the call, Nicole's mind immediately returned to the article and she decided she needed a drink. Five minutes later she sat on the couch again, the article lying on the floor at her feet and a glass of vodka and tonic in her hand.

Oh, God, was Carmen right? she wondered. Could she have killed Magaro and Zand? She'd certainly suffered a traumatic event—the brutal rape and beating that probably triggered the sleepwalking episodes. Basin Park was only half a mile from where she'd lived. The article said the episodes were characteristically short, but it wouldn't have taken much time for her to get to Basin Park and back, even on foot. And the hoods. Her mother had said she made two and didn't know what happened to them. “Maybe I do, Mom,” Nicole said, taking a gulp of her drink. “Maybe they ended up on the heads of Magaro and Zand.”

I couldn't have killed them, she thought. I just couldn't have. Still, she couldn't get the sound of their voices out of her head as they sat beneath the overpass.

Nicole slapped her hands over her ears. “Maybe I didn't kill them,” she moaned. “But I was there the night they were murdered. I know it. I was
there
.”

3

Avis poured another glass of burgundy, started out of the kitchen with only the glass, and paused. “Oh, to hell with it,” she muttered and went back for the bottle. Carrying both the half-empty bottle and the glass, she walked down the long hall of the house to what her parents had always called the “drawing room.” It was cavernous, decorated with valuable, if dusty, antiques, and very chilly on cool Texas winter nights. As a child she'd never been allowed in the room. Now that her parents were dead and the house was hers, it gave her great pleasure to eat and drink in it, knowing her mother and father would be horrified by such uncouth behavior.

Her father had been a famous lawyer, the kind who took on the glamour cases, always traveling around the country with his beautiful young wife. They were a dazzling couple who had been immensely proud of their handsome, equally dazzling son, John, and immensely disappointed in their plain, bookish, gawky daughter. Avis had spent her childhood trying unsuccessfully to win their love, which was focused on John. When Avis was seventeen, her brother was killed in Vietnam performing a stupid, reckless act that her parents, if not the army, labeled “heroic.” After John was gone, Avis believed her parents would turn some of their love her way, particularly if she distinguished herself in some way. But graduating from Harvard with a Ph.D. in English had not done the trick. Neither had the publication of her critically praised book on Samuel Johnson, of whom they had never heard. And after her father died abruptly of a heart attack and Avis had given up her position at Brown University in Rhode Island to come home to a mother who perpetually complained of loneliness, there had been no difference. It seemed to hurt her beautiful mother even to look at Avis's face, which aged before its time, making her look middle-aged by the time she was thirty-three.

Avis gazed up at the portrait of her mother above the mantel. It had been painted when she was twenty-two, one year after her marriage. She had blond hair, startlingly blue eyes, high cheekbones, a porcelain complexion, and Avis thought she looked remarkably like Nicole Chandler. Nicole should have been her daughter, Avis thought bitterly. She would have been proud of Nicole.

Avis's jaw tightened. She raised her glass to the portrait. “Here's to you, Mother,” she ground out. “And here's to your daughter in spirit, the one who looks and acts so much like you.” Avis giggled. “She didn't look so beautiful sprawled in that parking lot today.”

She gulped the wine, almost choking, then burst into laughter at the thought of Nicole lying on the concrete, her skirt up around her hips. Then she thought of how the students had rushed to help Nicole, how concerned they'd looked, how someone had called
her
a wacko, and her laughter died. They didn't care that Avis had once been considered a brilliant young scholar, that she'd written articles and a book, that she had just finished what she considered a pivotal book on Alexander Pope, even if those idiots at the university presses to which she'd submitted it said the manuscript was rambling, the criticism unsound. “As if they'd know unsound criticism if they heard it!” she said to the room at large. “They just can't accept anything as sophisticated as what I've done. They don't understand it.”

Thinking about the much-rejected manuscript made her feel worse. She emptied her glass, then filled it again to the brim. She addressed the portrait. “Yes, Mother, I know the glass shouldn't be full, but who cares? There's no one here to see my breach of good form. There's never anybody here.
Never
.”

Her eyes welled with tears. How long had it been since she'd had company? Nancy Silver and her husband used to come, but they hadn't visited her for over a year. Her few other friends had vanished long before. And men? Several years ago there had been a man; a handsome, sensitive man who'd gone to foreign films with her, talked of literature with her, had even eaten dinner with her and her mother in the big dining room that hadn't been used since her father's death.

Then, one hot summer evening when they'd sat in this room, Avis, summoning all her courage, took his hand and raised it to her lips. She kissed it and looked deeply, meaningfully into his dark eyes. He'd blushed, averted his eyes, and haltingly told her that while he cared deeply for her, he was afraid she didn't realize he was gay.

Her mother had laughed when, the next day over dinner, Avis had burst into tears and told her. “You mean you didn't
know
he was gay?” she'd asked incredulously.

“How could I have?” Avis had asked in bewilderment.

Her mother shook her head. “Avis, did you really believe a heterosexual man
that
good-looking would want to spend so much time with
you
?”

Avis had leaped up from the table, turning over her chair as she went. Two days later her mother was found at the bottom of the steep staircase, her neck broken. The death was ruled an accident, although Avis knew the police had their suspicions.

She quickly turned her mind away from the image of her mother's glassy eyes staring up at her. Even in death Avis thought she saw disappointment, even repulsion in them. After that the house had been all hers and she'd made changes. She closed off both her parents' and John's bedrooms, and virtually abandoned the upstairs. She'd fired the housekeeper, then thrown away the key to the wine cellar, indulging herself in all the fine vintages her mother had reserved for company. After all, what did it matter? There was very little company anymore, and there was no one to whom she could leave the house and its treasures, including the wine cellar. At one time Avis had planned on leaving it to Nancy Silver, but three months ago she had changed her will, bequeathing it to charity.

She took another sip of wine, then slipped a CD into the portable player she kept in the room. Just before Handel's
Water Music
began, she thought she heard the tinkling of glass coming from the back of the house. She cocked her head, but the music obliterated all further sound. Probably nothing, she thought. She hadn't washed dishes for three days. Maybe one of the glasses stacked in the sink had fallen over and broken.

Avis drained her glass and refilled it, emptying the bottle. “Oh, well, the hour is young and many more bottles await.” She set the glass down on a dusty Sheraton drum table and reached out her hand to a handsome, invisible suitor. “Yes, sir, I would most surely enjoy a dance.” She began an elaborate gavotte, preening and dimpling at her imaginary lover, picturing herself in a gown of lavender satin, her thick blond hair piled high, her ample breasts nearly spilling from the top of her low-cut gown, her beauty the desire of all the men, the envy of all the women.

She tripped, almost fell, and giggled loudly. The room seemed to be moving. “Please forgive me, sir. I fear I'm dizzy from dancing,” she told her dance partner.

The music softened during one of the string movements and she heard it. A thump. Then another and another. Near the stairs.
On
the stairs. The stairs where her mother had died.