Читать книгу Quiet as the Grave - Kathleen O'Brien - Страница 9

JUSTINE’S MANSION WAS every bit as overblown and pretentious as Suzie remembered from her visits here four years ago. Suzie stood in the center of the great room and shook her head. All this sprawling marble, frou-frou Louis-something furniture and cherubs grinning down from celestial ceilings.

Ridiculous. Marie Antoinette might have been comfortable here, but Suzie darn sure wasn’t.

But Mayor Millner had asked her to come. And considering that his daughter’s dead body had been found buried in the yard just two weeks ago, she hadn’t been able to say no.

She picked up a millefleur glass bowl, which was the only truly pretty thing in the room, lots of red and blue and yellow and green coils of glass captured inside it like a field of wildflowers. It must have been a wedding present. Justine would never have picked out anything so sweet.

Deep in the recesses of the house, a thump sounded. Then a whispering shuffle, as if someone dragged something heavy over the marble.

Suzie set the bowl back down carefully, replacing it in its same circle of dust. She looked over her shoulder toward the circular staircase. A shadow lay on the checkerboard marble floor, and it had a watery quality, as if something or someone just out of sight was stealthily moving.

“Mayor Millner?” Suzie walked to the edge of the room and looked out.

There was no answer. The shadow was perfectly still now, bisecting one white and one black square. She scanned the hall and realized that it came from a door, which was propped half open and cut off the light from the etched-glass front entry.

“Dork,” she told herself, and went back into the room.

She twisted her watch on her wrist and looked at the face. Where the heck was Millner? She didn’t like being down here all alone.

At least she hoped she was all alone. A half-naked gardener, who clearly believed he had come into the world gift wrapped and labeled To Women, From God, had opened the front door. He had licked her all over with his eyes, and then, when she’d given him her best no-way-in-hell look, he’d deposited her in this room and ambled out the back door.

He’d told her he needed to put out some poison for the rabid raccoons, which she had to admit was pretty funny as a response to her rejection. She did have on a lot of eye shadow today.

But who knew what he was really doing? Any dude who liked to strut his six-pack and his five-o’clock shadow at nine in the morning simply couldn’t be trusted.

He was probably the murderer himself.

She shivered. That didn’t come out as funny as she’d meant it to.

She looked out the big bay window toward the lake, which shimmered so violently under the bright morning sun that it seemed to be on fire.

And then, for the very first time, she realized that this wasn’t a scary story; it wasn’t a dream. And it wasn’t a joke.

Justine was really dead. Her body had been found right out there, between the marble house and the fiery lake.

There really was a murderer.

Suzie’s stomach tightened, which made her mad at herself. When did she get to be such a bundle of nerves? No one was after her. At any given moment, there were probably a hundred people in Justine’s life who might have been driven to murder. Ten years ago, Suzie could have been one of them. It wouldn’t necessarily follow that those people would ever kill anyone else.

Justine had always been a law of her own.

Suzie sat on the piano bench, her legs oddly weak. Back in Albany, when she’d heard about Justine’s body being found, she’d thought, oh, poor Mike. And then, poor Gavin. And then, though she wasn’t proud of this, good riddance.

But never once had she truly assimilated the reality. A real, breathing woman, a woman with laughter and dreams and passions and fears, was dead. All her possibilities for good or bad were extinguished.

And a son was motherless.

Much as she’d disliked Justine, Suzie wished that the beautiful blonde would saunter into the room, tossing her wavy hair and laughing through her full red lips at what a gullible dork Suzie Strickland was, falling for yet another of Justine’s mean practical jokes.

But it would never happen.

Suzie flipped open the sheet music and hit a few keys, thinking the noise might chase away the image of Justine’s red lips rotting in the garden just a hundred yards away.

The piano was so out of tune it made her ears hurt. She wondered whether Justine had been tone-deaf. Mike had been musical, she remembered that. Probably, after Mike moved out, no one had touched the piano at all.

“Suzie?”

She looked up at the sound of Mayor Millner’s voice. He stood in the entryway, and for a minute they just stared at each other, as if neither one could believe their eyes.

“Suzie Strickland?” He squinted. “Is that really you?”

She stood, smoothing her long hair, her blue cotton skirt falling around her shins. She was used to this stunned double take when she saw people who’d known her back in Firefly Glen. Sometimes it annoyed her. Had people really been so blinded by her purple hair and black glasses that they didn’t recognize her without them?

But it didn’t annoy her today. She was too shocked herself. The last time she saw him, Mayor Millner had been black haired, bold and big chested, in his prime and enjoying it. Exuding importance.

The man she saw now looked fifty years older, not ten. His hair was thin, unkempt and the color of unpolished silver. His shoulders were rounded, sloping in, like a person carrying a boulder on his back.

She flushed with instinctive shame, remembering her callous “good riddance” when she’d heard of Justine’s death. How could she have been such a bitch? To Suzie, Justine was little more than a bitter memory, a cartoon caricature of aggressive breasts and predatory lips.

To this man Justine had been life itself.

“Hello, Mayor,” Suzie said, about ten times as gently as she’d intended to. Mayor Millner had treated Suzie like dirt in the old days, and she’d been looking forward to a little payback. But that was unthinkable now.

He came into the room. His left arm seemed to be trembling, and he held it close to his side.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I wouldn’t have recognized you. You look lovely.”

She ignored the barb. Though she knew it hadn’t been intentional, it was true. She hadn’t been exactly “lovely” back in her high school days. She’d gone out of her way to avoid it. She’d been making a statement, or so she’d thought.

Mostly, she knew now, she’d just been hiding behind it.

“I know this must be a terrible time for your family,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.” His eyes, watery from the beginning, glistened in the light from the bay window. “It’s been a two-year nightmare, but in my heart I’ve always known she was dead. She would never have put her mother through this.”

Suzie nodded, though she wasn’t quite as certain about that. In the past, Justine had rarely seemed to concern herself with the fallout from her outrageous behavior. But she had to allow that perhaps Justine’s parents knew her better than Suzie did.

“Why did you want to see me, Mayor?”

She couldn’t imagine calling him anything else, though he wasn’t the mayor of Firefly Glen anymore, she’d heard. When Justine disappeared, he had resigned that job and come to live alone here, in this house, for eighteen months, looking for his daughter and waiting for her to come home.

She wondered if that haunted him now, knowing that, every time he walked down to the lake, he had passed within feet of Justine’s dead body.

If Suzie had ever needed proof that there was no such thing as ghosts, this would be it. Surely Justine’s ghost would have called out to her father as he tromped by, supervising the divers who dragged Tuxedo Lake.

“I need you to help me,” Mayor Millner said with more force than Suzie had seen yet. “I want justice for my daughter.”

Something invisible skittered down Suzie’s spine on tiny cold feet. What was he talking about? Did he think she had done something to Justine? Exactly how crazy had grief left this guy?

“Justice?”

“Yes. I want that bastard Mike Frome arrested, but the police say they don’t have enough evidence.”

Suzie frowned. “Mike? You think Mike killed Justine?”

“I don’t think he did. I know he did. And I’m going to make him pay for it, if it’s the last thing I do. I need you to help me.”

“Mayor Millner, I don’t think—”

“He did it, damn it. He never loved her. He just used her, and then, when he got caught, he had to marry her. He never gave a damn about her except as a plaything.”

The tears she’d seen in his eyes a minute ago had been replaced by a fanatical gleam. She had a cowardly urge to just turn and get the heck out of here, but she forced herself to remain calm. Maybe she could make him see reason.

Mike hadn’t loved Justine when he married her, that much was definitely true. Suzie had been with Mike the night he found out Gavin was his son, and that he would have to marry Justine. A sheltered Firefly Glen teenager, Mike Frome had been faced with the first problem so big his rich, loving family couldn’t fix it, and it had damn near broken his heart. He’d sat on the floor of her kitchen and cried like a child.

She had thought back on that night often, and wished she had been more sympathetic. But her own heart had been a little cracked, and at the time she hadn’t been very good at tenderness or compassion.

Still…Mike Frome, a cold-blooded murderer? Not until penguins ice-skated in hell.

“But why would he kill her? Even if he didn’t love her, they were already divorced.”

“That’s what the police said. But that doesn’t matter. He killed her. She had a new lover, did you know that? She was going to spend a month with him in Europe. Mike couldn’t stand that, so he killed her.”

“But…” She tried again to be logical. “If he hadn’t ever loved her, why would a new lover bother him?”

Millner shook his head roughly. “It’s not like that for a man. It’s not about love. It’s about…territory. Men get crazy when other men try to take away what belongs to them.”

Okaaaay…so logic was out. This guy had crawled out of the Dark Ages. He thought women were chattel, and he assumed all other men agreed.

“Well, assuming for a moment that you’re right, that he did kill her, how could I help you? I haven’t seen him in ten years.”

Millner’s eyes began to glow again, sensing hope. “But you saw her. You saw Justine, back when you painted Gavin’s picture. She told me about that. You must have heard something. Seen something. Maybe you heard them fighting.”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Not even on the phone?”

“No.”

“What about bruises? Was there ever any sign that he’d hit her, or pushed her around?”

Suzie scowled. “No,” she said firmly. “Mayor Millner, I’m sorry, but—”

He frowned, but he didn’t look defeated. “I thought for sure—well, no matter. You can always say you saw things.”

Good grief. She was through being gentle and logical.

“Are you out of your mind? You want me to lie?”

Millner didn’t seem to understand why she was so upset. “Not lie. You know what he was like. He toyed with you, too, didn’t he? Everyone says he broke your heart. Surely you’d like to see him pay for all the people he’s hurt.”

“Actually, you’re wrong on so many counts I can’t cover them all. I would not like to see him go to jail for a murder he didn’t commit. For God’s sake, Mayor. Would you pin a murder rap on an innocent man?”

His face was turning red. “An innocent man? You think Mike Frome is an innocent man? He didn’t love her. He used her. He broke her heart.”

“But that’s very different from—”

He looked at her through wet, bulging eyes. She wanted to look away, but the intensity of the gaze was mesmerizing.

“Did you know he left her alone that day, that last day? He pushed her out of his car and left her alone in the dark, all alone on the side of the road. If he didn’t kill her with his bare hands, at the very least he delivered her, helpless, to the man who did.”

Suzie stared at him. He was so red he was almost purple. She wondered if he had heart trouble. She thought of that trembling arm, and she wondered how long he had to live.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I can’t help you.”

He began to cry openly. They were harsh tears, torn out of him. Tears of frustrated fury, not simple grief. It was a horrible sound.

“You could help me,” he said raggedly. “You just won’t. And I know why. You still hate Justine. You hate my poor baby girl because she has everything you wish you had. You’re willing to let a man get away with murder because you won’t let go of your petty high school jealousies.”

She couldn’t even find the heart to refute it. How could she tell this man that high school jealousies died as soon as you hit the real world and discovered how big and rich and exciting it was—and that it definitely did have a place for you, after all?

Envy Justine? How could she tell him that she wouldn’t live in this expensive marble mausoleum for anything on earth? That she would rather paint than get a manicure, that she’d rather read a book than go to a party? That she’d rather have a child when she was old enough, when she was ready. That she’d rather have no husband than one who hated her?

Or the most unspeakable truth of all. That she’d rather be alive than dead.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. She meant it. “I’m sorry you’re so unhappy. I hope you’ll come to terms with that before you destroy an innocent man.”

He didn’t answer. He sank onto the Louis XIV chair beside the piano and put his face in his hands. The morning sunlight found a few black strands remaining in his silver hair, but it was like the echo of something sad. You knew it was already dying away even as you listened.

She let herself out the front door, her heart heavy.

When she heard footsteps, at first she thought it might be the gardener, and she took a deep breath, ready to breathe fire if he dared to get smarmy.

But, as she rounded the pillar to the portico, she saw a woman walking toward her. About forty, maybe. Pretty in a completely unglamorous way, but a nice face.

“Hi,” the woman said. “Is Mr. Millner in there?”

“He’s in there, but he seems a little distraught at the moment.”

“Oh.” The woman looked toward the house, looking concerned. “He asked me to come see him at noon, but I can’t. I wondered if he could maybe make it earlier.”

Suzie hesitated. She should leave, but…

“Do you know why he wants to see you?”

The woman shook her head. “Not exactly.” She held out her hand. “I’m Judy Stott. My husband and I live next door. I got the impression Mr. Millner wanted…well, that he was wondering if we might have…seen anything. You know, the night his daughter disappeared.”

Suzie’s jaw felt tight. “Did you?”

Judy Stott looked a little wary. After all, she didn’t know who Suzie was, and she probably wondered how much she should say.

“Never mind,” Suzie said. She beeped open the door to her Honda, and said a prayer that it would start. She couldn’t wait to get out of this place.

“Just promise me you won’t lie for him.”

Judy Stott smiled uncertainly. “Lie for him? I can’t imagine he’d ask me to.”

Suzie climbed in her car. She rolled down the window and poked out her head.

“Still. Promise me,” she said. “He’s not right in the head. Two wrongs don’t make a right, you know. And they damn sure won’t bring Justine back.”

Judy Stott backed away, clearly uncomfortable.

Hell, Suzie thought. She was acting as crazy as Millner. Besides, nothing was going to stop him. Even if this Judy Stott person had enough character to tell him no, he’d just move on to the next person.

What about that trashy gardener? He looked as if he’d tell a few lies for the right number of zeroes.

She turned the key to her car, which started up with a nice thrum, as if it understood that they were now on a mission.

She knew exactly where she had to go next.

MIKE AND GAVIN were playing paintball in the big empty Tuxedo Lake lot that he’d bought four years ago, intending someday to build a house. With one thing and another, someday had never come. He and Gavin were still living in the boathouse.

But the wooded lot made a great paintball field.

Today was the first time in two weeks that Gavin had expressed any interest in playing paintball—or anything else, either. When Justine’s body had been found, Gavin had simply shut down. He must have known Justine was dead. God knows Mike had talked to him about it often enough.

But “knowing” it and knowing it were two different things.

So when Gavin had suggested they play a little paintball, no matter how odd the choice sounded, Mike had said yes with enthusiasm. Maybe they could both work off some of this pain and anger.

Mike stood sideways behind a fifty-year-old hemlock and tried to peek around the trunk without getting nailed by a yellow paintball. Gavin’s aim was lethal. He’d hit Mike in the kneecap ten minutes ago, and those suckers hurt.

His mask didn’t fit quite right, and he considered taking it off, but he darn sure didn’t want a paintball in the eye. He could never be a bank robber. He didn’t like being all bundled up. He liked the sun on his skin and the wind in his face.

Maybe he’d ask Gavin if he wanted to move to Malibu and they’d become a couple of beach bums. As soon as the police would let him move anywhere, that is. Murder suspects weren’t allowed much mobility, as he’d learned over the past two years.

“I see you!”

He heard Gavin’s footsteps running toward him. He lunged out from behind the hemlock and, dropping to a squat to provide a smaller target, he pointed his gun in the direction of the sounds.

But the body he pointed at didn’t belong to his son. It belonged to Mrs. Cready, his ninety-year-old neighbor who had put her house up for sale the day they found Justine’s body. She told everyone who’d listen that she had no intention of living next door to a murderer.

Mike had considered warning her that comments like that wouldn’t exactly help her find a buyer, but then he thought, to hell with it. She’d treated him like a leper ever since Justine disappeared. If she liked the adrenaline rush of believing the guy next door was a murderer, who was he to spoil her fun?

She must be loving this, standing here at gunpoint. She let out a shrill “eeek” and threw her hands into the air, a move she learned on television, no doubt.

He lifted his mask and propped it on his forehead.

“Hello, Mrs. Cready,” he said. “You can put your hands down. I’m not worried that you might go for your six-guns.”

She frowned. “You’re the one with the gun. I don’t have any guns.”

He smiled wryly. “I think that’s my point.”

Slowly she lowered her hands, but she still looked terrified.

He wiggled his gun. “It’s not real, Mrs. Cready. It’s a toy. Gavin and I are playing paintball.”

She drew herself up, and her scowl deepened, as if the fact that it wasn’t real was somehow an insult. “A fine thing to be teaching your son.” She ended with a sniff.

He sighed. Was there some law that said a man’s next-door neighbor had to be an old bat?

“Well, anyway,” she said haughtily, “I wouldn’t have come down here at all, except that you have a visitor. A woman. She’s trying to find your house and got confused. Perhaps because you don’t have one.”

Yeah, that had always ticked Mrs. Cready off, too. Clearly, she thought, only a hopeless degenerate would live in a boathouse. She didn’t seem to think it mattered that, at 2,100 square feet, the boathouse was as big as most regular houses.

Not the Tuxedo Lake houses, of course. And that’s what snobs like Mrs. Cready considered the standard of respectability.

“Okay, thanks, just send her on down.” Mike would have asked who it was, but he didn’t really care. It was probably a reporter, or maybe a lawyer looking for business, or maybe even a plainclothes police officer.

Mrs. Cready sniffed again and walked away, her back as erect as a pylon. Mike called Gavin and explained that the game was over. They began pulling off equipment.

When he again heard footsteps and looked up, he saw a young brunette walking toward him. An eye-catching woman, who moved with a natural, unaffected grace. She wore a simple blue skirt and brown hemp sandals. Her glossy brown hair bounced on her shoulders.

Not a policewoman. Way too feminine, in spite of her thin, boyish figure. Her body language too open and free to be a cop. Too casually dressed for a lawyer, too outdoorsy for a reporter.

Still…he had a fleeting sense that he knew this woman, but before he could catch it the wispy image was gone.

He stared at her as she picked her way across tree roots and fallen branches. He realized suddenly that the perfect paintball field might actually look kind of scruffy as a lawn.

But she didn’t seem to mind. She didn’t tiptoe in exaggerated horror and scrunch up her nose, as Justine would have done.

Who was it? Even when she got close enough to see her features, he had no idea. Whoever she was, he decided he liked her. She had great cheekbones, a jaw that said she didn’t take any shit, and a mouth that knew how to laugh.

Finally, when she got close enough for him to see her eyes, he knew.

It was impossible. This graceful, good-looking woman was…

Mike’s heart began to race, and then it skidded in his chest, as if he were trying to throw on the brakes. He didn’t want this pretty woman to be Suzie. He wanted Suzie to stay geeky and smart-mouthed and purple…and permanently pissed at the world.

He needed her to stay the same. Something in this godforsaken world ought to.

Gavin didn’t have any such ambivalence. He threw down his paintball gun and began to run toward the woman, laughing.

“Suzie,” he said. “It’s me, Gavin. Do you remember me?”

Mike watched as the woman bent over and hugged his son. He waited until she lifted her gaze over Gavin’s head and met his eyes.

“Hi, Suzie. It’s me, Mike.” He tilted his head. “Remember me?”

“Yeah, I think I do,” she said, laughing, and when her eyes crinkled like that his heart stopped thumping quite so hard. It was still Suzie. In spite of the long, glossy hair, the contact lenses and the mind-boggling sexiness, the old Suzie, the real Suzie, was still in there.

She’d been a good friend to him once. Maybe she still could be.

He smiled. “How can you be so sure it’s me? You’ve changed. Haven’t I?”

“Not a bit,” she said. “You’re still the only dork dumb enough to be roaming around at a time like this holding a goddamn gun.”

She whisked her hands up over Gavin’s ears. “Ooops. Sorry.”

Mike laughed out loud.

“Don’t be,” he said. “I’m not. Come on, let’s go inside. I think I’m about ten years overdue for a good Suzie Strickland thrashing.”