Читать книгу Cold Mourning - Brenda Chapman - Страница 4

Tuesday, December 20, 10:45 p.m.

Tom Underwood looked across the room at his wife and wondered how it would feel to place his hands around her slender neck and throttle the life out of her. He imagined her sinewy veins under his fingers and the satisfaction of hearing the bones crack as he twisted in a quick motion — like putting his hand around a jar lid and applying pressure in one glorious snap. Her red lips would form a soft “o” of comprehension as he tightened his hold and her eyes would widen before freezing open in death. He’d seen people murdered in enough films to know the drill. Would it be better to get rid of her before or after Christmas? He could return the gifts he’d bought her on Boxing Day if she were to die within the week. That could be the deciding factor. The gold link bracelet he’d bought her was overpriced. He took a long swallow of Scotch, and kept his eyes on her, then blinked back the dream.

Laurel lifted her head and tossed back her ironed veil of red hair. She’d lined her violet eyes in kohl and filled in the lids with gold shadow that shimmered in the light from the chandelier. She’d seen him looking at her. Her full lips curved into an amused smile as she trailed the fingers of one hand up and down between the V of her breasts as if rubbing an ice cube across her skin to cool off her hot flesh. Her lips parted in a suggestive smile before she turned her attention back to the man standing next to her.

Tom imagined the man eying Laurel’s breasts, poor bastard probably wondering if he stood a chance of getting her somewhere alone so he could run his own hands up and down the curves outlined by her black form-fitting gown that dipped like a crescent moon in front. The thought of plunging one’s face between those twin mounds could drive a man crazy if he let it. Tom knew all about that. He felt the familiar heat in his groin and cursed himself for being weak, for still wanting her.

“You meeting Archambault tomorrow?”

Tom dropped his eyes to look down at the man in front of him. J.P. Belliveau. He couldn’t be in the same room as his partner anymore without thinking of bullfrogs — squat, round toads with oversized cheeks and bulbous eyes under heavy lids. He forced his face to relax, as if he had nothing on his mind but the deal.

“I have a call scheduled with him when I get into the office tomorrow. I’m going to fax him the contract before lunch and then head to his office in Montreal right after Christmas to finalize and pick up the signed papers.”

“For less than we offered last month?”

Tom nodded.

“How did you manage to talk Archambault down?”

“I told him we would only assume the risk if he came down in price. I knew we were his only real hope so he had to drop his bottom line.”

“I thought an American company expressed interest.”

“They didn’t have the capital to take it on this quarter. I might have also planted a seed with their point man that the design was flawed.” Tom shrugged and smiled.

“You impress me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think we were separated at birth.”

Tom nodded again but something burned in his guts like bile on a barbecue. He’d forgotten to bring antacid tablets and would be in rolling pain by the time he pried Laurel away from the party. Maybe he would make time for the doctor’s appointment tomorrow. He’d cancelled the last two times but this ulcer was getting worse.

He felt an arm slip through his and flinched involuntarily until he looked down and saw that it was his daughter. He let his arm relax against hers. Geraldine tilted her shiny blond head and smiled up at him, a smile that softened her long, narrow face and plain features.

“Max and I are just heading out, Daddy. He’s got an early day tomorrow and I’m a bit whacked.” She patted her rounded belly for emphasis. “This baby is sapping my energy.”

“I’ll walk you out then,” said Tom. He noticed Max standing behind Geraldine, checking his BlackBerry and punching keys with his thumbs. “Something in the hopper?” Tom asked over Geraldine’s head, not sure why Max’s fiddling with the contraption unsettled him. It might have had something to do with the focused look on Max’s face that shut out everybody around him, including his pregnant wife.

Max glanced up. “Just a question about a meeting tomorrow. It could have waited until morning but you know Benny. He’s a bulldog when it comes to nailing down the details.”

“Sure.” Tom looked closer at his son-in-law. When had he added the blond streaks to his hair? His grey pinstriped suit looked tailor-made and his shoes brand new. Tom grimaced. If Geraldine hadn’t begged him to give Max Oliver a job, he never would have let the guy through the front door. Tom had Max’s number at hello — as deep as a puddle and as vain as a show horse — but Geraldine couldn’t live without him, and he couldn’t deny her. Tom felt a stab of indigestion below his rib cage. It was worse than normal tonight and that was saying a lot. At this rate, he’d have to find somewhere to lie down and curl into a ball until the pain lessened to something approaching bearable.

“You okay, Daddy?” Geraldine squeezed his forearm as they walked. “You’ve turned pale all of a sudden.”

“Just tired. I think I’ll leave right after you.”

“What about Laurel?” Geraldine’s eyes narrowed as she looked toward his wife holding court. “She doesn’t look like she’s ready to leave.”

“Don’t worry about Laurel,” Tom said. He gently steered Geraldine toward the coatroom. He didn’t feel like another scene tonight. He hoped Geraldine didn’t feel his weight on her arm. The spasm of pain nearly had made him double over.

He forced himself to walk upright as they stepped outside into the welcome cold of the winter evening. The air chilled the sweat on his forehead and he felt like he might just make it home. He handed the doorman in the heavy red overcoat their two tags and watched him speak into a radio to have their cars brought around. Tom looked past him at the blue and green Christmas lights swaying on the tops of the trees in the square across from the Chateau Laurier.

“Looks like I have to go back to the office,” Max said stepping close behind them. Tom and Geraldine turned in unison to face him.

“No!” Geraldine wailed. “You promised me not tonight.”

Max frowned and his shoulders rose in a quick shrug. “Sorry angel, but it can’t be helped. Benny’s found a problem with one of the contracts. If I deal with this now, I might avoid a trip east. God knows, I have no desire to head to the coast this time of year.”

Geraldine began to say something, but whoever was driving their car approached a little too fast and it skirted to a stop, fishtailing slightly so they all took a step backwards. Her voice trailed away.

“What the hell?” said Max. He raised a fist toward the car.

A kid in his early twenties wearing a red toque and an iPod jumped out and grinned at them before he headed back to the parking lot. Max lowered his hand and cursed again. He took Geraldine by the arm and guided her to the other side of the car, walking slowly so she didn’t slip on the ice. He opened the door and lowered her onto the seat. Whatever he whispered into her ear must have been amusing because when he straightened she was smiling up at him, her eyes luminous in the overhead light of the car.

Tom motioned Laurel over. He’d left his overcoat on and didn’t want J.P. to see that he was leaving early. Laurel said something to one of the men and he laughed as she stepped away from them. She made her slow way toward him, her hips swaying in time to the music like a stripper crossing the stage. Tom pulled her into the hallway.

“I’m heading home,” he said. “I’m a bit done in.”

“I can come with you. I don’t mind leaving.”

Her eyes said otherwise. He could see the wine glow on her face and knew she was just warming up to the evening. He’d long since stopped worrying about trying to keep up with her. Their twenty-seven-year age difference had become an insurmountable chasm.

“You should stay. If J.P. sees us all cutting out early, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“If you’re sure.” Her eyes slid past him, back into the glitter of the party room. The DJ had replaced Bing Crosby with Beyonce and couples were dancing in the centre of the gilt ballroom.

“Will you manage to get home okay if I take the car?”

“I have cab money if nobody is going my way.”

“I’ll kiss Charlotte goodnight for you then,” he said.

“She’ll be long asleep.” Laurel leaned forward and for a second he thought she might kiss him on the mouth. He felt her lips brush his cheek and the disappointment was more than it should have been. “Don’t wait up.”

“I never do,” he mouthed at her retreating back. The musky smell of her stayed on his skin, like a memory that would not leave him alone.

This time, it was an older bald man who delivered Tom’s silver Mercedes to the front of the hotel. Tom tipped him generously before slipping behind the wheel and pulling away, careful not to spin the tires on the patches of black ice. The doorman was spreading salt from a bag onto the driveway when Tom glanced into the rearview mirror. The temperature had risen since they’d driven to the hotel some four hours earlier, but it was still a cold night. He was glad for the blasts of dry heat coming out of the vents on either side of the dashboard.

He drove toward the Rideau Centre and made a right onto the Canal driveway, following its curved length to the Pretoria Bridge. He stayed to the same side of the canal and continued south through the Central Experimental Farm. The blackness of the sky sequined in stars and the reassuring hum of the car’s powerful engine gave him the feeling of driving in the country, even though the farm was surrounded by subdivisions and commercial buildings. Turning onto Prince of Wales, he passed a string of bungalows with Christmas trees lit up inside their living rooms. He continued on to what used to be the country but was now a series of new subdivisions that had sprung up along the Rideau River. Winding Way, where his six bedroom grey stone with the three-car garage nestled, was another ten minutes away. The thought of going home to his mausoleum of a house was suddenly depressing.

Tom stopped at a light and watched a woman and a boy around ten years walking along the other side of the road. It was late for the kid to be up. At that age, he’d have been long asleep no matter holiday or school night. The kid hung back, dragging his feet.

For a moment, Tom flashed to the boy he’d been and the parents who’d tried to cocoon him from the world’s worst. They’d been lower middle class with strong Catholic values in a more innocent time. They’d be appalled at today’s youth if they were still alive. The world had changed drastically even between the short years raising Geraldine and Hunter and now Charlotte. He shuddered to think what lay ahead for his youngest daughter. Sometimes it felt like too much to deal with. He saw himself now, a man approaching sixty with more money than he would ever spend and no ability to keep the women in his life happy. He was running on empty, drained of conviction, an utter failure in anything that mattered. The innocent, hopeful boy he’d once been was long gone.

But maybe, just maybe, there was still hope.

The light turned green. Tom released his grip on the steering wheel and pressed his foot on the gas pedal. The car powered forward while he rummaged inside his coat until he grasped his cellphone in his suit jacket pocket. He held it for a moment, debating with his inner voice that told him to just go home. Loneliness won out in the end. He kept one hand on the wheel as he looked down and punched in the familiar number. Two rings and her voice like warm honey in his ear.

“Tom? Is that you?” He could tell he’d woken her. He smiled to think of her tousled hair and bleary eyes.

“Yeah. Would now be a bad time…?” He hesitated, not sure he could get the words out. Her breath exhaled stronger in his ear but she didn’t speak. He knew she was weighing what his call could mean and whether she should let him in. “I shouldn’t have called,” he said, now sorry that he had. He shouldn’t have put her in this position. They’d agreed last time that it should be just that until they’d both made some changes.

“I’ll leave the back door unlocked,” she said at last. Her voice was stronger as if she’d shaken away the sleep.

“I have a bottle of Grand Marnier with me,” he said. “I’ll pick up a few glasses from the hutch on my way to your bedroom.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

She hung up before he did, but the night seemed less empty than it had a moment before.

It was three a.m. when Tom pulled into his own driveway on Winding Way. The outside lights were on but the interior was in darkness except for a light in Winnie’s room on the far side of the house. She’d probably put Charlotte to bed and then fallen asleep reading. He turned off the engine and sat with his arms resting on the steering wheel, looking at his fortress until the car cooled and the chill began seeping into his bones. Only then did he stir himself to step outside the car into the winter night. Snow had begun to fall and it wet his face when he lifted his eyes to the sky. A bank of clouds had blown in to hide the stars.

The ticking grandfather clock marked time as he padded upstairs in his socked feet. He’d left the lights off and the branches of the oak tree made dark patterns on the wall through the windows that lined the staircase. Laurel’s bedroom door was closed. He hesitated for a moment standing next to it, listening to hear her inside. At last he turned the knob and pushed the door open. Her bed was empty, the covers folded neatly over the pillows.

He quietly closed the door and continued on to Charlotte’s bedroom. Her door was partially closed. He pushed it fully open and stepped inside. The one bright spot in his marriage was sleeping on her back, one arm wrapped around her favourite teddy and the other flopped over the side of the bed. He moved closer and gently lifted her arm to place it under the covers. She stirred and mumbled something but didn’t wake up. He straightened and looked down on her. Charlotte had inherited Laurel’s thick mane of hair. If her eyes had been open, he’d be staring into the same violet ones that had made him throw away his twenty-year marriage to Pauline. He reached out a hand to push the lock of hair that had fallen across Charlotte’s face but pulled back his hand before he touched her silken hair. Leave her, he thought. Don’t chance disturbing her sleep.

He raised his hand to his lips and blew a kiss toward his sleeping daughter before backing as quietly as he could from her room. It was time to find his bed. Maybe tonight he’d had enough to drink so that his sleep would be long and dreamless. It would be the first time in a long time and his body could use the rest. His mind could use the oblivion.