Читать книгу Die Before I Wake - Laurie Breton, Laurie Breton - Страница 9

The accounts manager at the First National Bank of Newmarket was friendly and efficient. Millicent Waterhouse had gone to school with Tom, and she had nothing but good things to say about Newmarket’s dashing young obstetrician. “You’re a lucky woman,” she told me as I filled out paperwork. “As far as I’m concerned, Tom Larkin is the best thing that ever happened to this town. I was thrilled when he came back here to start his practice. He could’ve made more money just about anywhere else, but he chose to come home instead, and nobody around here has forgotten that.”

I glanced up from my clipboard and gave her a bland smile. “Is that so?”

“You’d better believe it. When Tom came back, old Doc Thompson was getting ready to retire. Nobody was sorry to see him go. He was a cranky old curmudgeon, and he usually smelled like a stinky old cigar butt that’s been sitting in a dirty ashtray for three days.” Millie’s eyes twinkled. “But Tom’s nothing like Doc Thompson. He’s patient and kind, he always smells nice, and he just puts you at ease. He delivered both of my youngest kids, and when my sister started going through early menopause, he explained everything to her and helped her decide whether or not to take hormone replacement therapy.”

This was the Tom I knew, the charming, kindhearted patron saint of mothers-to-be, menopausal sisters, and bent-but-not-broken thirty-year-old women in need of rescuing. Not the Tom that Riley had described, the man who’d come back from college, medical degree in hand, and proceeded to steal his brother’s fiancée. There had to be more to it than that. Tom was a good man, a man with strong ethics. I couldn’t imagine him crossing that fraternal boundary.

Finally managing to escape from the loquacious Millicent, I crossed the street to the federal building and took care of my business at the social security office. The DMV, thirty miles away in Portland, would have to wait for another day. Maybe, if Tom could get a few hours free, we could combine that with car shopping, as I suspected the selection would be greater in a larger city. Wandering up and down Newmarket’s block-long main street, I inspected the window displays and played tourist. A teenage girl feeding coins into a parking meter smiled at me. An elderly man with a buff-colored Pomeranian on a leash sat on a bench outside the barber shop. I passed an old-fashioned apothecary shop with a soda fountain. Two doors down, showcased in the window of The Bridal Emporium, was an elegant ivory satin-and-lace vintage wedding dress that shot a pang of longing straight through me.

Of their own volition, my feet slowed and then stopped. I stood before that plate-glass window, admiring the dress, for a long time. This was my one regret. I’d been married twice, yet I’d never had a wedding gown. Like most adolescent girls, I’d spent endless hours imagining what my wedding would be like when I finally met my prince. Whenever I’d pictured it, I was wearing a dress like this one. But fate had other plans in mind for me. Jeffrey, ever the romantic, had dragged me off to city hall to get married on our lunch hour. I should have known right then and there that the marriage was doomed. On the other hand, my wedding to Tom, on that beach in the Bahamas, had contained nearly all the elements of my teenage dream: the breathless bride, the handsome groom, the heartfelt and intensely personal vows. It was exotic, romantic, almost perfect. The only thing missing was the dress.

When I’d looked my fill, I moved on, to Lannaman’s bakery. If I’d previously doubted the existence of God, the smells emanating through the screen door were enough to make me reconsider. I went inside and bought a half-dozen assorted doughnuts and two chocolate éclairs. The doughnuts were for the girls, a blatant attempt at bribery. The éclairs were for Tom. They were his favorite dessert, and I intended to save them for later, during a private moment together, as I had a few dessert ideas of my own.

Carrying a cardboard bakery box tied with string, I was about to cross the street to my car when I noticed the bead boutique. I’d missed it on the first go-round, although I wasn’t sure how I had overlooked the mouthwatering window display of Chinese turquoise. I’d never been able to resist turquoise. The shop entrance was around the corner, tucked into an alcove. When I opened the door, a bell tinkled overhead. The woman behind the counter was unpacking boxes of merchandise. She glanced up, said, “Good morning,” and returned to her work.

As a bead shop pro, I didn’t need a road map to find my way around. The shop was organized by material and by color. I went directly to the turquoise gemstones that were hung on nylon strings along a side wall. I lifted a string of round beads, weighed its heft in my hand, rubbed my fingers against the cool, polished stone. No two natural stones are ever identical, and there are often subtle variations in color, shape and smoothness. Sometimes consistency is important in a piece. At other times, a little diversity makes life more interesting.

“They’re on sale right now,” the proprietor said, without looking up from her work. “Thirty percent off all gemstones.”

I checked the tag. The price was reasonable for a small shop in an equally small town. I was mentally calculating the thirty-percent discount when a voice from beside me said, “I like the turquoise, but with your coloring, have you considered the leopard jasper? I think it would be smashing.”

I glanced up. The woman who’d spoken had a narrow face, with green eyes and dark auburn hair tied back in a ponytail. “I’m partial to jasper,” she explained, then held out her hand. “Claudia Lavoie.”

“Julie Larkin.”

Her handshake was firm. “Yes,” she said. “I know who you are. I saw you get out of the car and I followed you in here. I recognized the Land Rover. You’re Tom’s new wife.”

A little nonplussed, I said, “That would be me.”

“Nice to meet you. I hear you had a little excitement over there last night.”

“Excitement? Oh, the tree. Wow. News travels quickly around here.”

“The chain saw was a pretty big clue. Riley filled in the rest for me. I’m your next-door neighbor. I live in terror that one of these days, that entire tree will fall—in my direction.”

“Your worrying days are over, then, because Tom told me last night he’s having it cut down.”

“That’s a relief. If it went through my greenhouse and murdered my babies, I’d have to kill him.” She smiled to show me she was just kidding. “You should stop in sometime. I’m always home. Except when I’m not.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“I’m serious, you know. People always say these things to be polite. I’m happy to report that I’ve never been polite. Or, for that matter, politically correct. If I didn’t mean it, I wouldn’t make the offer. Please come. Dylan—my four-year-old—has spent the last few days with his dad. I’m used to having him home with me, and my afternoons have been long and boring. Besides, I make a mean margarita.”

“In that case,” I said, “I’ll be sure to stop by.”

“Drop in anytime. If the car’s in the driveway and I don’t answer the door, come around the back. I’m probably in the greenhouse.”

I watched her leave, the bell over the door jangling cheerfully as she exited the store. I’d have to ask Tom about her. Unless he told me she was some kind of psycho, I’d probably take her up on her offer. She seemed a nice enough person, and I had a sneaking suspicion that Team Julie would need a cheerleader or two in order to balance things out.

Back on task, I selected two strings of turquoise that I really liked. And then, just because I could, I chose another string—of the leopard jasper.

When I got back to the house, Jeannette’s Caddy was parked in the driveway, and the chain saw was silent. Grabbing up the bakery box, I took a deep breath and girded my loins for the inevitable confrontation.

My mother-in-law was at the kitchen counter, mixing a meat loaf. The girls sat at the table, hunched over coloring books, scribbling away purposefully. I held the bakery box aloft and said brightly, “I come bearing gifts.”

All action stopped. Taylor dropped her purple crayon and examined the box with interest. “What’s in it?”

“Doughnuts.”

Sadie scratched the tip of her nose and said solemnly, “I like doughnuts.”

I felt not even the merest twinge of guilt at my blatant attempt at bribery. I was willing to pay whatever price it took to unlock the doors to their little hearts. I set the box on the table and lifted the cover to reveal an assortment of doughnuts. The coloring books were instantly forgotten. Their faces painted with identical expressions of delight, both girls craned their necks to see what was in the box.

Behind me, my mother-in-law cleared her throat. “Tom doesn’t allow the girls to eat sugar.” Her tone implied that I, as Tom’s wife, should already know this salient fact. “Besides, it’s only a couple hours to supper. You’ll spoil their appetites.”

I stiffened. It was at least three hours until supper. God forbid I should spoil their appetites. God forbid a single grain of sugar should pass their lips. The girls looked crestfallen, and suddenly that guilt, heretofore absent, reared its ugly head.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I had no idea.”

Jeannette covered the meat loaf pan with foil and put it in the refrigerator. Untying her apron and pulling it off over her head, she said, “As long as you’re here, I need you to run to the grocery store and pick up a few things. You’ll have to take the girls with you, because the babysitter’s sick. I’d do it myself, but I have to go back to work. I have a shampoo and clipping at four-fifteen. Late in the day, but not much I can do about it.” She folded the apron with precise motions, tucked it into a drawer, and reached up to smooth her hair. “If I’m not back by five, you might as well go ahead and put the meat loaf in the oven. Potatoes are already peeled and in the fridge. They just need to be put on to boil.” Her eyes, peering at me over the rim of her glasses, were skeptical. “You do know how to cook?”

What idiot couldn’t boil a potato? Did she really think I was that incompetent? “Of course,” I said, an ingratiating smile glued firmly in place. “I’m much more than just a pretty face. What do you need at the store?”

“I’ll give you a list. Girls, pick up your crayons and coloring books and take them upstairs. And put them away. I don’t want to come home and find them strewn around your room.”

“It’s not fair,” Taylor said. “I want a doughnut!”

“Yeah,” Sadie said, taking a cue from her older sister. Tiny fists planted on her hips, she echoed, “It’s not fair!”

“Life isn’t fair,” my mother-in-law snapped, “and you shouldn’t expect it to be. The sooner you learn that, the better off you’ll be.”

Yikes. Glad I wasn’t on the receiving end of her cutting comment, I carefully arranged my face in the most neutral expression I could manage. The girls made a few more token protests, but it was obvious that in this house, Grandma ruled. So while Jeannette wrote out a list for me, the girls put away their toys.

Afterward, I got them settled in the backseat of the Land Rover and, as I drove away from the house, I marveled at my amazing transformation from big-city career woman to small-town mom, complete with husband, two kids, and an SUV. I felt a little like Barbie, after she and Ken had built their Dream House somewhere in American suburbia. The only thing needed to complete the picture was a large, hairy dog.

I slowed for a red light. It turned green before I reached it. I stepped on the gas, and forgot to shift gears. The car stalled halfway through the intersection. Muttering under my breath, I pumped the accelerator, popped the clutch, and took off, tires squealing on the pavement.

From the backseat, Taylor said, in a tone that was far too accusatory for a seven-year-old, “Why are you having so much trouble driving?”

I glanced in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were narrowed with suspicion. Whatever happened to children being seen but not heard? “I’m not having trouble,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’m just a little rusty.”

“My mom never had trouble driving it.”

I checked the mirror again. This time, my stepdaughter looked smug, and far older than her seven years. Why was it that she always made me feel as though she were the adult and I the child? I took a breath and forced myself to be civil. “This was your mom’s car?”

A smile flitted over her face. The little wretch had hit a nerve, and she knew it. “Yes,” she said. “And Mom was a good driver. Sadie never got carsick when she rode with Mom.”

Mild panic assailed me as I imagined myself cleaning vomit from the backseat of a very expensive Land Rover. “Sadie?” I said in alarm. “Are you carsick?”

“I’m not sick,” Sadie piped up. “I love to ride.”

In the mirror, Taylor was grinning. Gotcha! her face seemed to say.

I reminded myself again that I was the adult, and far too mature for the kind of retaliation I was contemplating. I had other, more important things to focus on. Like the fact that the car I was driving belonged to a dead woman. A dead woman who happened to be my predecessor. Thanks, Tom. It would’ve been really nice if he’d bothered to drop a hint.

I wasn’t sure why it gave me the willies. Did I think Beth’s spirit was still hovering around, clucking in disapproval as I stole her husband, laid claim to her children, and burned out her clutch? It wasn’t as though she’d died in the vehicle and was therefore doomed to haunt it for all of eternity. Although, come to think of it, I was sure Tom had told me his wife died in an accident. If that was true, and if this vehicle really had belonged to her, then what had she been driving?

Maybe she hadn’t been driving at all. Maybe she’d been a passenger in somebody else’s car. Tom hadn’t gone into any detail about her death. I could tell it bothered him to talk about it; the wound was still a little too fresh to start picking at the scab, so I hadn’t pried. But I had to admit I was curious.

I glanced in the mirror again. Sadie was staring out the window, humming under her breath, some tuneless little ditty that kept repeating itself, over and over. Or maybe that was just Sadie’s interpretation of how the song went. Taylor had tired of toying with me and was now focused on her Game Boy. The self-satisfied look on her face confirmed what I already knew: She was going to be a challenge. But one way or another, I’d win the war. After all, I’d once been a seven-year-old know-it-all. To paraphrase an old country song, I’d forgotten more than she would ever know about being a brat. The kid didn’t stand a chance against me.

I eventually found the grocery store—the town was too small for it to stay hidden for long—and I pulled into a parking space. Just to satisfy my curiosity, I opened the glove compartment and rummaged around until I found the auto registration. I told myself I wasn’t snooping. After all, the vehicle belonged to Tom and, as his wife, that meant it was half mine. Besides, if I got pulled over for some infraction, I’d need to know where the registration was. I had a right to snoop.

I could rationalize until the cows came home, but in the end, it didn’t matter. The registration didn’t answer any of my questions, because the car was registered to Tom. It might have been Beth’s vehicle, as Taylor had said, or my stepdaughter might have been needling me. It was impossible to tell. The only way I’d know would be to ask Tom.

I shoved the registration back into the glove compartment and slammed it shut. “Okay, girls,” I said briskly. “Let’s do this!”

For a weekday afternoon, the store was busy. Lots of harried housewives and elderly people pushing their shopping carts up and down the aisles. Zippy muzak, designed to move shoppers along at the optimum pace for picking and choosing, blared out of overhead speakers. I checked Jeannette’s list. It was extensive, but not detailed. Standing in front of the milk case, I pondered all the choices, wondering what brand my mother-in-law usually bought. Did I dare to ask Taylor? If I did ask, could I trust her answer? Would she tell me the truth, or try to sabotage my already shaky relationship with Tom’s mother by pointing me in the wrong direction?

I wouldn’t put it past her. The kid was sly, and I’d once walked in her shoes. I could remember a time or two when I’d done just about anything I could to get rid of my father’s latest girlfriend. I hadn’t cared how obnoxious I was, hadn’t cared how childish some of my stunts were or how much trouble I might get into afterward. All that mattered was the end result: one more irritating woman out of our lives. One more opportunity for our nuclear family—that would be Dave and me—to remain intact. I’d been a real piece of work. And Taylor was so much like me it was scary.

From her perch high in the cart, Sadie kicked her legs and said, “Can I have orange juice?”

Orange juice hadn’t been on Jeannette’s list. I weighed the relative merits of garnering brownie points with Sadie against the pain of being reprimanded by my mother-in-law for the second time today, and decided to make the ultimate sacrifice. After all, I’m one tough chica. Just ask my friend Carmen. She’s told me that so often, I’ve started to believe her. I knew I could stand up to Jeannette Larkin and whatever she dished out. This was a simple matter of survival. “You tell me what kind of milk Grandma buys,” I told Sadie, “and I’ll let you have orange juice.”

Without hesitation, she pointed. “That one.”

My bribery skills were being honed to a fine edge. I opened the cooler door and took out the milk, grabbed two miniature bottles of OJ, and consulted my list. Next item: cat food. As descriptions go, it was beyond vague. There were eight trillion brands of cat food on the shelves, enough to take up one entire side of the pet food aisle. Was I supposed to guess? Did she want dry food or canned? Enough for one cat, or several? Were we talking kitten chow, or something specially designed for geriatric felines? I was clueless, especially considering that in the twenty-four hours since I arrived at Casa Larkin, I hadn’t seen any evidence that a cat actually lived there.

I was about to ask Sadie for clarification when I looked around and realized Taylor was nowhere to be seen. “Sadie?” I said, mildly alarmed. “Where’s your sister?”

She shrugged with childlike unconcern. “I don’t know.”

Great. This was all I needed. Tom’s mother already hated me. I couldn’t wait to hear what she’d say if I lost her grandchild.

With my heart thudding and visions of an Amber Alert dancing through my brain, I wheeled the cart around the corner of the next aisle. There, at the far end, was my missing stepdaughter, deep in conversation with some blonde who looked more like Julia Roberts than Julia Roberts.

I mentally cancelled the Amber Alert. Taylor and I were going to sit down later this afternoon and have a long talk about sticking together in public places. Pedophiles and serial killers lurked around every corner, even in small towns like this one. “Who’s that lady your sister’s talking to?” I asked Sadie.

Her head swiveled around. “Auntie Mel!” she shrieked so loudly they probably heard her in the next county. I struggled to regain my hearing, relieved to know that Taylor hadn’t been about to waltz out of the store hand in hand with some fabulous-looking stranger. Before I could stop her, Sadie had scrambled out of the cart and down to the floor. I stood glued to the spot as she ran the length of the aisle and wrapped herself ecstatically around the woman’s legs.

“Hey, yourself,” almost-Julia said, sticking a roll of price tags into the pocket of her teal-colored smock with the red-and-white Shop City logo stitched just above the breast. She gave me a long, assessing glance, then turned her attention back to Sadie and said, “How are you, baby doll?”

“I’m wonderful! When are you coming to visit?”

“I don’t know, hon. I’m pretty busy. But I’ll call your Gram one of these days soon and we’ll make plans.”

I maneuvered my cart to a stop. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Julie Larkin.”

The look she gave me was glacial. Crouching down, she hugged both girls and said, “Why don’t you girls run over to the bakery and see what Yvette has for you? I’m pretty sure she just baked a new batch of chocolate-chip cookies. Tell her I sent you.”

The girls hugged her and disappeared, their homing instinct infallible when it came to cookies. I propped a foot on the undercarriage of my shopping cart and said, “Tom doesn’t allow the girls to eat sugar.”

Almost-Julia stood up to her full five-foot-zero. “Yes,” she said, her expression challenging me to do something about it. “I know.”

Ah. A fellow subversive. We had something in common. “And who are you?” I asked, since she’d failed to provide me with a name, rank, or serial number.

“Melanie Ambrose. My sister used to be married to your husband. Before he killed her.”

“Come again?”

“You heard me. Tom Larkin murdered my sister.”

She was obviously deranged. While I gaped at her, an elderly man who smelled of sweat and pipe tobacco took an inordinate amount of time picking out a box of breakfast cereal. When he’d finally moved on, I said, “I don’t understand what you mean. Beth died in an accident.”

Melanie cocked her head to one side and looked at me with a sad, knowing smile. “Really? So that’s what he told you?”

“Well, I, uh—” I struggled to remember whether he’d used those exact words or whether I’d simply inferred them. For the first time, I wasn’t sure. “I think.”

“That lying sack of shit. Beth didn’t die in any accident. That’s just his guilt talking. He doesn’t have the cojones to speak the truth.”

My fingers tightened on the handle of the shopping cart. “Oh? And just what is the truth?”

“You want to know the truth? I’ll tell you.” Her pretty face twisted into a skeletal grimace of a smile. “Congratulations on your marriage. I hope you survive it.”