Читать книгу Bone Cold - Erica Spindler, Erica Spindler - Страница 14

Saturday, January 13 The French Quarter

Just after 2:00 p.m., Anna arrived home from her half-day shift at The Perfect Rose. She shivered and glanced up at the gray sky, wishing the sunshine predicted by the Channel 6 meteorologist that morning would make its promised appearance. Winter had only just begun and she was already ready for it to end.

After her lunch with Jaye on Thursday, Anna had returned to work, unsettled by Jaye’s revelation that somebody had been following her. She had even considered calling Jaye’s foster mom or the police, then had rejected the thought. First off, Jaye would have been furious with her, and secondly the girl had agreed they would go to the police if she saw the man again. Although not completely comfortable with her decision, Anna had decided that for now she would let it drop.

Anna retrieved her keys from her purse. In addition to her concerns about Jaye’s safety, she had been preoccupied with thoughts of Minnie and the discomfiting “He” of the girl’s letter.

Deciding that Jaye had been right about Minnie needing a friend, Anna had responded to the child’s letter. She had kept it light and chatty, working in a couple of subtle queries about Minnie’s parents, about her relationship with them. Now she hoped they had been subtle enough. She worried that Minnie’s folks would see right through them.

And come down on her like a ton of bricks.

Anna opened the gate to her apartment building’s courtyard, pausing to wave at old Mr. Badeaux from across the street. A neighborhood character, Alphonse Badeaux spent most of his days on the front steps of his shotgun double with his ancient, one-eyed bulldog, Mr. Bingle.

Alphonse, a two-time widower, chatted with everyone who came, went or passed his front steps. Anna had learned that if she needed to know anything about anyone on this or the immediately surrounding blocks, Alphonse was her man.

“You got a package today,” he called to her, standing then moseying over. “Saw the man deliver it. Don’t know who it’s from, though. None of my business.”

She fought a smile at that. “Did they toss it over the gate?” If no one in the building was available to buzz a delivery in, packages were often thrown over the courtyard gate. That practice worked out well except when it rained unexpectedly. Considering how often that happened in New Orleans, Anna had received a number of soggy packages.

“Nope.” He scratched his head. “Somebody buzzed him in. Came and went in about four minutes. Don’t know who, though. None of my business.”

“Thank you, Alphonse. I’ll look for it.” She glanced across the street to where the old bulldog lolled on the porch steps. “You and Mr. Bingle been feeling okay?”

“Pretty good.” He ran a hand across his face, skin leathery and lined from age and years exposed to the south Louisiana sun. “Don’t like the cold, though. Goes down deep, into my bones.”

“I know what you mean,” she agreed. “It’s so damp.”

He nodded and jerked a thumb toward his dog. “Doesn’t seem to bother Mr. Bingle. Cold or hot, wet or dry, old Bingle doesn’t seem to notice the difference.”

The dog lifted his head and looked at them with his one good eye. Anna smiled and touched her neighbor’s arm. “Come up for a hot chocolate one day. If I do say so myself, I make a pretty mean cup of the stuff.”

“That’s mighty sweet of you, Miss Anna. I’d like that. You watch out for that package, now.”

She told him she would, then let herself in through the gate, locking it behind her.

Like many of the old buildings in the French Quarter, or Vieux Carré, hers had been built around a central courtyard. In days gone by, the courtyards, with their brick walls and lush vegetation, had offered New Orleanians a respite from the stifling heat of summer; today, they served as an oasis from the city that lay beyond their vine-covered walls.

Anna made her way up the narrow staircase to the second floor. As her neighbor had warned, a padded mailing envelope sat propped against her door. She retrieved it, unlocked her apartment and stepped inside. After dropping her purse on the entryway table, she took a closer look at the package. It was addressed to her but unmarked in any other way. No return address, postmark or shipper’s label.

Odd, Anna thought. She tore open the envelope and drew out a videotape marked Interview, Savannah Grail.

Her mother. Anna smiled. Of course. Last time they’d spoken, her mother had mentioned that her agent had called about a couple of opportunities. This must have been one of those.

Anna turned on the TV, popped in the tape, then wandered to the kitchen for a glass of water and a handful of crackers. Her mother missed working. She missed the limelight, the adulation of fans. She missed being a star.

Although, she hadn’t been one for a long time now. For a while after the kidnapping, her mother’s already waning career had been revived. It hadn’t lasted. She had already been forty-five at the time, the age when Hollywood’s sex symbols began metamorphosing into movie moms. Those roles went to Oscar-caliber actresses. Something her mother had never been, not even at the zenith of her acting career.

The sad fact was, her mother had now reached an age where, save for an occasional television commercial or local theater production, there simply wasn’t any work to be had.

It had been hard for her mother to accept, though she had survived. When her marriage to Anna’s father had ended, she’d left southern California and moved back to her hometown, Charleston, South Carolina.

There, she was still a star, still the Savannah North—the part she had been born to play.

Smiling with anticipation, Anna settled on the floor in front of the TV and pressed the play button. A moment later the screen was filled with her mother, gorgeous in a peacock-blue silk suit and diamonds.

Anna smiled and munched on her goldfish-shaped crackers, watching as her mother came to life before the camera, preening for the interviewer, every bit the celebrity. She was still so beautiful, Anna thought. Still the flame-haired, green-eyed bombshell that the American public—particularly the male public—had loved to ogle.

The interviewer went to work. He remained unseen. From growing up around cameras and taping, Anna knew it would be easy to piece in the interviewer later. Many taped interviews were done exactly that way.

The man questioned her mother about her work: about being a screen goddess: about the movies and television series she had starred in. They talked about the Hollywood of the fifties, about the stars of the day, Savannah’s romantic conquests.

Then the interview changed directions. The videographer began to question Savannah about her personal life: her divorce, her move back to Charleston and her only child, little Harlow Grail.

Anna straightened at the mention of her own name, a knot forming in the pit of her stomach. The interviewer pressed on despite the wrinkle of discomfort that marred her mother’s forehead. He discussed the “tragic” kidnapping, its aftermath on Savannah’s marriage, their family, on Harlow’s psyche.

Anna studied her mother’s reactions to the questions, acknowledging the interviewer’s skill. He alternated between adulatory and accusing, admiring and suspicious, seeming to know not only which of her mother’s buttons to push, but when to push them. He went so far as to comment on the way her career had profited by the tragedy.

The last infuriated Anna. She saw through the man’s manipulation to what he was attempting to do. Obviously her mother did not. She folded like a house of cards, becoming apologetic and defensive.

He used her discomfort to his advantage, moving in for the kill. “It’s just tragic,” he murmured, “that Harlow never overcame her kidnapping. She had such strength and courage, it must hurt you terribly to have watched her disappear into obscurity. I can only imagine how angry and…helpless you must feel.”

“Harlow has certainly not disappeared,” she said proudly, jumping to her daughter’s defense. “She’s a novelist, living in New Orleans. And quite a successful novelist, I might add. Her first two thrillers received rave reviews.”

Anna’s heart began to thunder; she felt ill. In one fell swoop her mother had revealed not only her occupation but her city of residence as well.

“A mystery novelist?” the interviewer murmured. “I’m surprised I hadn’t heard this before. It seems the name Harlow Grail alone would have made her a bestseller.”

“She’s taken a pseudonym. After what she lived through, she prefers to avoid the spotlight. I’m sure you understand.”

The interviewer made a sound of sympathy. To Anna’s ears it sounded false. “Oh, I do. Completely. But surely you can tell us a little more? After all, the story of Harlow’s nightmare ordeal and daring escape held all of America captivated for seventy-two hours. We feared for her, then cheered for her. She was, and still is, one of our heroes. Could you at least share a title with us?”

“I wish I could, but—”

“What about her publisher? Is it Doubleday? Cheshire House?” He saw by her expression that the last had been correct. “Cheshire House publishes some big names in suspense. Would Harlow be one of those?”

Anna hit the pause button, struggling to catch her breath. She felt as if she had been struck in the chest by a baseball, one speeding off a professional’s bat.

Blood pounding in her ears, she stared at the television, at the frozen image of her mother. Her mother had revealed everything about Anna but her new name and phone number: her city of residence, occupation and the kind of books she wrote. She supposed she should be grateful her mother hadn’t mentioned The Perfect Rose or announced her street address.

Calm down. Don’t panic. Assess the damage.

Anna breathed through her nose, ticking off the facts in her head. New Orleans was a big city, one with a large community of writers. Nothing in her publisher’s materials revealed the city in which she lived, including her author bio. Cheshire House published quite a number of mysteries and suspense novels; her mother hadn’t mentioned the exact month her book was scheduled to appear.

Or had she? Anna glanced down at the remote control, still clutched in her hand. Without giving herself time to reconsider and chicken out, she hit the play button.

The video advanced. Her mother looked distressed, near tears. The interviewer wrapped the segment; a moment later the television screen went to black.

Black save for the crudely executed white words that flashed onto the screen:

Surprise, princess.

E! Today at three.