Chill Waters (20 page)

A light going out. That always fascinated him. How a life could go out like that. So easy. So final.

Twenty-Four

On Saturday morning Rachael returned from her run to find Peter’s Marquis parked in her drive, Peter sitting on her porch step. He stood as she approached. “Hi.”

“Hi, yourself,” she said, breathless, and not entirely from the workout. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” he smiled, a trace of uncertainty in the smile. “Hope you don’t mind.

She didn’t. “Do the police have any new leads?”

“No. Then they haven’t looked any farther than Tommy Prichard. But that’s not why I’m here. There’s something I've been wanting to ask you. Ituh, has to do with Iris.”

“Oh,” she said, her curiosity stirred. “Well, sure, Peter. Would you like to come inside?” Slipping the knit headband off her head, she absently finger-combed her hair. “I’ll make coffee.”

“Actually, I thought we might go out for coffee if that’s okay with you. How about
Kathy’s?”

“Sounds fine. Give me a few minutes to change. On second thought, how about I meet you there. I have some errands I want to run afterward.”

Peter was already seated at a back table when she arrived. He waved, stood and pulled out a chair for her. As she approached the table, he sensed a certain aloofness he hadn’t noticed at the house, and her smile was not quite as open.
Sure. She’s had time to think.

He wondered if Rachael knew anything about the Ouija board Helen had been cramming back into a canvas sack when he walked in the room last week. Or the candles Iris had been non-chalantly blowing out. Somehow he doubted it. He’d known better than to question his aunt about what was going on, but one didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure it out. He’d hoped to find Rachael still there, was as crestfallen as a kid to learn she’d already left.

Before he could say anything, the owner, Kathy Burgess, approached their table. She smiled warmly at Rachael, then, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, turned a more serious expression on him. “Peter, I don’t suppose you’ve seen Hartley in your travels.”

“No, not lately, Kath. Why?”

“Well, he hasn’t been around the past couple of days. Had to buy my fish from another fella this mornin’. S’pose he’s okay?”

“I’m sure he’s fine. Probably a flu or something. I’ll drop by and see him later. Thanks for letting me know, Kathy.”

When she left them, Rachael said, “I hope it’s nothing serious. He’s a nice man.”

“Yes, the last of a rare breed. A man whose handshake is as good as a signature on a document.”

Rachael smiled. “You said this had something to do with Iris.”

You wouldn’t be here otherwise, Peter thought. So much sadness in those lovely grey eyes. A man could get lost in them. He wanted to drive away the sadness. He was dreaming.

“The St. Clair Arts Council is honoring Aunt Iris with a special dinner for her lifelong contribution to the arts community. I know it would mean a lot to her, Rachael, to have you there. She’s become very fond of you. And I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you I’d be delighted if you would come as my guest.”

“That’s wonderful. I mean…”

“I should tell you I’m not usually big on these affairs,” he said, guessing that perhaps she wasn’t either. “But this is special, don’t you think?”

“Incredibly special. Does Iris know…?”

“No. I’ve been sworn to secrecy. Which is not going to be easy knowing my aunt. Rachael, I don’t want you to feel any pressure about this, though. I know you’re going through a rough time right now. Let’s just think of it asan unofficial date.”

She smiled, perceptively let her guard down. “Unofficial sounds fine to me. I’d be honored to go with you, Peter. I’m thrilled for Iris. There’s no one more deserving.”

Despite everything, Rachael found herself looking forward to the dinner. Peter had guessed right; she’d never been comfortable at large gatherings. Especially those cocktail parties Greg used to drag her to because Halston’s thought it important to have a spouse on your arm. She’d always felt so out of place at those things.

Maybe because she could always count on seeing Greg in a corner of the room, flirting with some girl young enough to be his daughter, played a part in that. “It’s business, Rach,” he’d always say. “I’m expected to mingle.”

Past history, Rachael. And you were wrong to put up with it.

At the hardware store, she took advantage of a sale on paint. She also found some pretty paper edged with marigolds for the pantry shelves. The kids were talking about coming for a visit at Christmas, and she wanted the place to look nice. Remembering how the windows rattled in that last storm, she tossed a package of putty into her cart.

She’d reputtied windows when Greg was away on his business trips, even replaced one or two. She’d changed fuses, repaired the washing machine and once put a new chain on Jeff’s bike. No, she wasn’t quite as helpless as she’d thought.

Stowing her parcels in the trunk, Rachael drove a block farther to the little dress boutique she passed to and from her lessons with Iris. No markdowns here. But she wanted something special to wear for the occasion. It was Iris’ night, after all.

The store smelled pleasantly of pot-purri and designer clothes. Glass cases and brass adornments gleamed beneath a crystal chandelier.

In the tiny, plush dressing room, she tried on several dresses, finally settling on a winter-white, floor-length wool and silk blend, straight cut, a modest slit up one side. With its high neck and three-quarter sleeves, her gold rope chain and the earrings Betty had given her, would go perfectly.

“Absolutely elegant,” the elderly woman with the coifed platinum hair smiled, looking her over. “It’s so nice when a dress looks as the designed intended it to.”

Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have lapped up a salesperson’s flattery so readily, but she had to admit, turning slightly in the full-length mirror, all that running had paid off. In more ways than one.

God, she was behaving like a teenager on her first date. And forgetting that this wasn’t really to be a date at all. He’d said as much. And she certainly had no desire to make it anything more than that.

So why are you going to so much trouble to impress him?

It’s not for Peter; it’s for Iris.
Right.

Impulsively, she also treated herself to a new winter coat. Even on sale, it was more than she had ever paid for a coat in her life. Seal black with a hood, double-pleat in back, half belt. She felt wonderful in it. She ran her hand down the silky wool fabric as if it were an exotic pet. Beautiful detail, the woman said. She wore the coat home, refusing to let herself dwell on her dwindling bank balance.

She was watching a rerun of Seinfeld, enjoying a cup of lemon tea, when the phone rang. It was just past ten, not late. She heard a new brightness in her ‘hello’.

As the silence met her ear, her smile of greeting faded, the fragile good feelings drained away. And then came the whispered words that crept over her flesh like a thousand spiders.

“Nice coat. You always did look sexy in black.”

Twenty-Five

At the police station next morning, Rachael spied Detective Chuck Mason, the older of the two detectives who’d come to the house the night someone hurled rocks through her windows. He was across the room talking to a middle-aged woman with frowsy blonde hair, in a red mini skirt. Although it was as hot as a sauna in here, the woman was hugging herself as if she were cold. Her mascara had run, giving her face a sad, raccoonish look. Rachael felt sorry for her.

Seeing her, he passed the woman on to a colleague, and came over. “Nice to see you again, Ms. Warren. What can I do for you?”

She told him about the phone calls. “I didn’t report them before because I really didn’t think there was anything the police could do about them.”

“Well, you’re right on that count. There’s
isn’t
much we can do about anonymous phone calls. But it’s always a good idea to have the report on file just in case something … you might want to consider having your number changed. Or get caller I.D. That way we’ll know where the calls are originating from.”

“I thought at first it was just a wrong number. But I’ve gotten a dozen calls now. Daytime. Middle of the night. Mostly hang-ups. Except for the last two.” She repeated the caller’s comments about her new coat.

“He’s stalking you.”

The very word
stalking
sent a thrill of fear through her.

Rachael felt the detective assessing her, deciding how much of her story was concoction. Was she just another lonely woman, hungry for attention?

There was something about Detective Mason that made her know she wouldn’t want to be pulled over on a dark street by him. She'd seen the way he’d looked at the blonde woman. He didn’t like women much. Maybe he thinks we’re all whores. Up this close, she detected signs of the drinker in him broken capillaries around the nose, hard eyes. Or maybe she wasn’t being fair and it was just job-burnout she saw.

“Did he make any direct threats? Sit down, pleaseI’ll file a report.”
“No, not in so many words. But dammit, I feltfeel threatened.” She sat in the chair he indicated. The woman with the sad eyes was no longer in sight.

“You’re divorced?” Seeing her expression, he added, “Not idle curiosity, I promise. Just for the record.”

“In the process,” she said. She hated the half-smile that crossed his face. He was congratulating himself on correctly guessing her marital status.

“Maybe hubby’s not too happy about the way things are turning out. Maybe he wants to scare you into co…”

“No, that’s not Greg’s style. And there’s something else. I think someone has been in my house when I’m not at home. Thingsfigurines, candles—appear to be moved around. And one day last week I came home to find the TV turned up full blast, every light in the house on.”

“Are you sure you didn’t…?”

“I’m not senile, Detective. Of course I’m sure.” She tried to soften her sharp reply with a smile that felt more like a grimace. “We had that bad storm, and I did wonder if maybe a sudden surge of power could cause appliances and lights to come on.”

“Don’t know. Can’t say as I ever heard of it.”

She paused. Then, “And my spare house-key went missing.”

“Missing?” He jotted the information down. “You’re sure you didn’t give it to anyone.”

Why did everything he said sound like an insult?

“Actually, I did. I gave it to Peter Gardner who in turn gave it to Hartley McLeod. It was Mr. McLeod who replaced my broken windows.” She spoke slowly, as if speaking to a less than bright child. “When I called him he told me he put the key on the ledge over the door. It wasn’t there when I looked. I’ve been hoping he would come across the key in his overalls’ pocket or in his toolbox, but that hasn’t happened. Or maybe someone watched where he put the key, and simply took it.”

“The Prichard kid, maybe? He’s practically your neighbor.”

“No. II don’t think so.” She couldn’t have said why not.

He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t press it. “I assume you’ve had your locks changed.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Anyway, it’s my guess he’ll tire of the game and move on to someone else. If he’s not rewarded.”

“Rewarded?” she bristled.

“Don’t get your panties in a knot, me darlin’. All I’m saying is don’t make it interesting for him. Hang up the second you know it’s him. And keep on hanging up. As far as those night calls, you could always unplug your phone.”

Did he imagine she hadn’t thought of that? Or that I get some pleasure from some sicko’s phone calls.

“I have two grown children. I’m expecting a grandchild. The call could be important.”

“If it is, they’ll call back in the morning. It’s been my experience that no one calls in the wee hours with good news. And bad news ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

He walked her outside. As she started down the steps, he called after her, “And by the way, Ms. Warrendon’t be too sure about your husband’s style. Style’s change.”

Feeling less than comforted by her talk with the detective, Rachael hurried along the snow-dusted sidewalk, gloveless hands buried deep in her pockets, November’s icy fingers reaching inside her thin coat. She would have been warmer in the new coat, but she had not been able bring herself to wear it. Not today.
He
had spoiled her enjoyment of it.

Damn! She’d forgotten to tell the detective about the howling she’d heard outside her window last night. Like an animal in distress. Perhaps wounded? Had she dreamed it? She wasn’t sure. Just as well she didn’t mentioned it. He probably would have sluffed her off as a head case.

The bare branches of trees lining the street clicked together like old bones as Rachael hurried to her car. The small parking area attached to the police station had been full, and she’d parked half a block away.