At Risk (9 page)

Not that Michael had ever asked her to move in with him in a
significant other
situation. His pride wouldn’t let him. But if she showed up at his door with a suitcase, there was no doubt in her mind that she could stay forever.

She swore and tightened her fingers on the steering wheel. There was no justice in the world. How could a sweet girl like Tracy Fleming end up with her throat cut, and a good guy like Michael have his world come crashing down around him? First a drunk driver had left him unable to walk, and then he’d lost a wife he loved and cherished in another senseless accident.

She thought for a moment how it must have been for Michael—returning home to find Barbara face-down on their bed, tangled in a down comforter and suffocated during an epileptic seizure. Life was so damned unfair.

Liz was so engrossed in her thoughts that she drove past the entrance to the supermarket. As she moved into the turn lane to go back, she decided to call the phone company about Caller ID and voice-mail service. She’d always been opposed to voice mail in her home, but since Katie had left for Dublin, she’d reconsidered.

Jack Rafferty was waiting for her at the end of her driveway. Liz felt herself tense when she sighted the motorcycle and the black-helmeted driver. She turned into the lane fast, braked hard, and rolled down the window. “Why are you here?” she asked. “I told you I had plans tonight.”

“I’m worried about you, Lizzy. Why didn’t you tell me that somebody had broken into your house and left muddy tracks on your kitchen floor?”

“How did you know that?”

“I know a lot of people. They gossip. You had a state trooper out to investigate and you didn’t say anything about it?”

“There wasn’t anything to tell. It was a prank. The officer said so.”

“Well, whoever the joker is, he’s back.” He pointed to her house. “He left a present on your back step.”

Liz didn’t wait to hear more. She stepped on the accelerator, drove up the lane, and pulled up by the gate. Lying in front of the door was a large funeral wreath of dead flowers. She got out and ran to the steps. The gilt letters on the faded purple ribbon were peeling, but there was no doubt as to the original wording.
Beloved Mother.

Cursing, Liz grabbed the arrangement to hurl it off the porch. Then she froze and clamped a hand over her mouth. Hidden under the flowers were two dead mallard ducklings, with their necks twisted at an impossible angle. Bile rose in her throat as she threw the wreath onto the grass. Racing down the steps, she kicked and stomped the ruined blooms and stems into the grass.

Jack stopped his bike just behind her car, shut it off, and came toward her. “No need to kill the wreath. I think it’s already dead.”

“Is this you?” she cried, whirling on him. “Did you do this?” She pointed at the limp, brown and yellow ducklings.

He stared at her, an expression of disgust on his face.

“Nothing awful happened to me until you showed up in my life,” she said. “Nothing—”

“You found a dead girl in your office. Think I did that too?”

She looked down at the crushed roses and swallowed hard, trying to hold back the tears. “How do I know?” she whispered. “How do I know anything?”

He moved to take her in his arms, and she laid her head against his chest. Jack smelled of aftershave and tobacco, and she refused to let herself think just how good he felt.

He held her for a long moment, and then let her go. “This isn’t like you. You were always a lot tougher. And you really ought to lock your door when you go out.”

“What?” She looked toward the house and noticed that the screen door was closed, but the interior, eighteenth-century Dutch door stood wide open. “I did lock it,” she said, hurrying up the steps and into the house.

“Don’t touch anything,” he called after her.

Liz glanced around the kitchen with its white-plastered walls and smoke-stained, hand-hewn beams. The redbrick floor was as clean as she’d left it. A blue china pitcher of daffodils stood in the center of the table beside the Hunter Morgan novel she’d been reading. Over the doorway that led to the hall, her great-grandfather’s ten-gauge shotgun hung undisturbed. Nothing seemed out of place.

Jack followed her in. “You could wait outside while I look—”

“I locked my damn door.”

“Go outside, Lizzy.”

Where was her cat? “I don’t see Muffin,” she said. “Kitty, kitty, kitty!”

“I’ll look for the cat. You stay here.”

Ignoring Jack’s order, Liz went into the parlor. Again, everything seemed to be as she’d left it. The twenty-dollar bill that Michael had advised her to leave on the mantel was still there. “Kitty, kitty!” she repeated.

Jack’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. A minute later, he called down. “Cat’s fine. Up here, sleeping on a bed. I’ll look in the other rooms.”

She went into the small room in the front of the house that she used as an office. Her computer, printer, and fax were there, and the blue glass butter dish full of quarters hadn’t been touched. She pulled open her filing cabinet. Her can of pepper spray was there, still in its shrink-wrap, unopened.

Liz’s heart rate slowed to a near normal rhythm. Was there a possibility that she’d left the back door open? She’d been in a rush to get to the funeral on time and . . .

No, she hadn’t forgotten. Locking up the house was as ingrained in her as fastening her seat belt when she got into a car. She hadn’t left the back door open, and she hadn’t left funeral flowers on her own porch.

Was it possible that Jack . . .

“Nothing.”

His voice came from right behind her. Startled, she turned to face him. “There’s . . . there’s no one here.”

“You want to call the cops?”

“No, I don’t. I’m fine. There’s no need for you to—”

“I don’t want to leave you here alone.”

“Why did you come, Jack? After I told you—”

“Shit, you think it’s me, don’t you? You must think I’m Superman. I murder Tracy, drown Wayne to throw the blame on him, break into your house twice, and bring you flowers. I’m a busy boy.”

She wanted to say she didn’t think he was guilty, but the words wouldn’t come out. The possibility was there. “I—”

“Right. Forget it. Just forget it.” He took three steps toward the doorway, and then turned back. “Get yourself a gun and learn how to use it, Lizzy. If you’re going to play games with guys like me, you need all the help you can get.”

“He’s right about that,” Michael said, hours later over supper. “Until they find Wayne’s body, there’s a possibility that Wayne is behind this. And if he’s not, your boyfriend’s a good second choice.”

She took a sip of wine. Yellow Tail, Michael had called it. It was Australian, earthy, with a hint of berry and very good. Wine with dinner didn’t break any hard and fast rules, not as long as she wasn’t drinking alone. She shrugged. “Jack isn’t my boyfriend.”

“You two had something going years ago, didn’t you?”

“I was a stupid kid then,” she said. “I didn’t know any better.” She shrugged. “I had a crush on him, but when I wouldn’t put out, he consoled himself with my big sister.” How could that still hurt after so long? But it did. She averted her eyes to keep Michael from seeing how much it hurt.

“You were a good kid. Decent.”

She shook her head. “It wasn’t morals that kept me from having sex. I was afraid of getting pregnant, of being stuck here with no education, an illegitimate baby to support, and no future.”

“He would have done that to you?”

“Maybe.” She shrugged. “Probably.”

“I’m your friend, Elizabeth. I don’t have the right to tell you whom to see, but Rafferty is scum. I can’t imagine you with somebody like that.”

“Jack’s not scum. At least, he never used to be.”

“People change.”

She nodded. “You’re not the first one to tell me that.” She swirled the red wine in the crystal Lenox glass.

“I care about you. I don’t want to see you hurt. This thing with the muskrat trap and the flowers—it could be a college prank, some asshole kid that you gave a failing grade, or it could be somebody you should be afraid of.”

“I don’t scare easy.”

He nodded. “I know you don’t, but there’s a difference between being easily spooked and overly confident.”

Heidi got up and came over to lay her head on Michael’s knee, and he stroked her back and scratched behind her ears. The dog closed her intelligent eyes to slits and uttered a deep rumble of contentment.

“I bought that handgun I told you about,” Michael continued. “I’d like to teach you how to use it. And I want to loan you Heidi, just until this is over.”

“Heidi?” Michael adored both of his dogs, but the female was his darling. “I couldn’t,” Liz said. “She’ll never stay—”

“Heidi’s well trained.” He refilled her empty wineglass. “She’ll obey you. And she’ll be no trouble.”

“Michael . . .”

He took a deep breath. “Please, Elizabeth. Take Heidi as a favor to me. I’ll sleep better if I know she’s guarding you.”

“I hate to admit it,” she answered. “But so would I. I’ll borrow her, but I’m not sure about the gun. You know how I feel about firearms.”

“Guns aren’t evil. It’s the people who misuse them.”

“So you keep saying.”

“Tracy wasn’t killed with a gun.”

“No.” Liz’s heart sank. “She wasn’t, was she?” She stood up and began clearing dishes off the table. “Thanks for asking me over tonight,” she said, changing the subject. “Your crab cakes are the best.”

“You gave me the recipe.”

She chuckled. “Dad got it from his grandmother. But they never come out right for me. Either I burn them or . . .” She broke off as her cell phone jingled “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

She dug it from her purse on the third ring and was delighted to hear her daughter’s voice. “Katie, hi!”

“Ask her how she likes Ireland in the spring,” Michael said.

“What’s up, sweetheart?” Liz asked.

“Daddy called.”

“On his own dime? There’s a switch.”

“That isn’t funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be amusing. It’s just odd that we should both hear from your father at the same time. He called me—”

“I know, Moms. He told me you said you weren’t paying my tuition for next semester—that I had to come home. You didn’t say that, did you?”

“What was our agreement? I told you that paying Aunt Crystal for her share of Clarke’s Purchase, plus all the repairs on the property, took our savings and ran up the credit card. Your father was supposed—”

“Money. Is that all you ever think about? You can’t make me come home. It’s not fair. I’ve got to spend at least another year—”

“This isn’t the time to discuss this. I’ll have to call you later, from home.”

“I want to talk about it now,” Katie insisted.

“I don’t.”

“Fine. Have it your way. You always do.”

“Don’t whine.”

“You tell me I might have to drop everything and come home, and I’m not supposed to complain? Besides, it’s been a bloody day.”

“Lovely talk. This is the education I’m paying for?”

Katie’s voice lost its defiant tone. “Somebody sent me flowers.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Liz asked.

“Now, don’t get all freaky on me, Moms. It was probably that jerk Larry that I broke up with last fall.”

“Explanation, please,” Liz said.

“The florist delivered an arrangement, addressed to me. Somebody’s idea of a sick joke.”

A cold chill washed over Liz. “What kind of flowers?”

“It’s a hoot, really. Nothing to get in a spin about. White funeral lilies tied in a black ribbon that said
Beloved Daughter
.”

Liz gasped and stared at Michael as fear gripped her. “Katie? Are you alone? Is anyone there with you?”

“Moms. That’s really not any of . . .” The exasperated sigh on the other end of the line was all too familiar. “If you must know, Niall is here. But it’s not what you think. He just—”

“Good. Ask him to stay the night! I don’t want you alone.” She sank into a chair, shocked at her own level of panic for her daughter’s safety. “Niall—”

“Moms, have you been drinking?”

“What is it?” Michael asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Just a second,” Liz said to Katie. “Don’t hang up.” She pressed the phone against her chest and told him about Katie’s flower delivery. “What do I say to her?”

Michael reached for the phone. Reluctantly she passed it over and sat numbly as he asked questions and then told Katie about the similar floral arrangement on the back step at Clarke’s Purchase. Her daughter’s reaction didn’t need to be relayed—Liz could hear her swear. Michael grinned, offered a practical lecture on personal safety, and handed the cell phone back.

“Some sick bastard must be having fun at our expense,” Katie said.

“Where did you pick up that language?”

“From you.”

“True. But I want you to listen to Michael and—”

“No need to freak. I’m in Dublin. What idiot is going to pop for a plane ticket to play Halloween when he can access the internet for free?”

“You’re right,” Liz agreed, beginning to breathe normally again. “I’m trying to think who would have your address there. Your father, certainly, and the latest Mrs. Montgomery. We’re barely on speaking terms, but she’s never struck me as—”

“It’s not Danielle. She likes me. Remember the pink silk sweater I got for my birthday? Dad certainly didn’t send it,” Katie reminded. “I wouldn’t put it past Larry or that creep who’s been stalking you—Cameron Whitaker.”

“He’s not stalking me. He’s a nuisance and a major loser. But I’ve never given him your address.”

“He’s a grad student,” Katie said. “How hard would it be for him to get into your office files?”

“I keep the filing cabinet locked.”

“Right, and I could pick that lock with a hair clip. It’s probably his idea of a joke. Mystery solved. Got to go. Stop worrying. I can take care of myself.”

“Katie, wait—”

“Love ya. Bye.” There was a distant click and then dead silence.

Still gripping the phone, Liz turned to Michael. “What do—”

“She’s an ocean away.” He refilled her wineglass. “And you are definitely staying here tonight.”