Her Last Letter (19 page)

I hired a locksmith to change all the locks in the old house. Just to make sure he didn’t damage the old wood doors too badly, I’d watched him for a while as he did his work. But he was a fastidious worker, so after a while I’d roamed the house, particularly the basement.

The police had gotten back with me and found only my own fingerprints on the broken pieces of glass, the remains of a jelly jar I’d saved for whatever reason. Maybe I’d set it too close to the edge of a table, and movement generated from Caroline’s and my footsteps on the floor above had finally sent it plunging to the floor. That was what I wanted to believe. In any case, I planned to keep a much closer eye on the house than before.

With Mr. Garvey, a muscular man of fifty or so, installing locks above me on the first floor, I didn’t worry too much as I descended the stairs to the basement. I was certain no one was down here now, and was curious to see if I could do a better job than the police at finding signs of an intruder. After all, they didn’t know how Linda and I had arranged things.

I stopped momentarily on the stairs to call back to Mr. Garvey. “I’ll be in the basement if you need me.” Not because I thought he might need me, but in case I needed him.

It was warmer in the basement than in the rest of the house, as the furnace resided there, its tangle of ancient pipes reaching up to the ceiling like arthritic arms. Two basement windows covered by dusty plaid curtains let pale light into the room, and the usual dampness and soggy odor had diminished since summer.

The basement had never been a favorite part of the house for me and my sisters while growing up. Strange sounds emanated from it, especially at night, after we’d gone to bed. Oddly, the noises had abruptly ceased after our father died, making me wonder if he’d been up to something.

I stopped to reach overhead and pull the string for the bulb installed in the ceiling. Instantly, everything was brighter. Still, it all gave me a case of the creeps. Nothing to worry about, I told myself. Only an idiot would still be down here.

There wasn’t much to see. The walls were cement block and had never been painted. My dad’s tool cabinet, tall and four feet wide, faced the stairs. On the shelves were various saws, hammers, and widgets of all descriptions.

On every table were boxes, most of it Kelly’s stuff; other boxes contained my parents’ things, mostly items of sentimental value. I checked the outside of some of the boxes for the mold Linda had said she’d found on the ones containing Kelly’s journals, but they were dry. I didn’t feel like checking the interior of the boxes, which could very well be covered with the stuff.

But nothing seemed at all suspicious, or out of place.

I turned around and studied the dark shadows behind the stairs. Yes, back there, it would be possible for someone to hide, ducking down if an unsuspecting soul began to descend the steps, and they would be close enough to hear the conversations of those on the first floor, maybe even all the way upstairs, on the second floor.

I stood very still, gazing into the shadows. I glanced up toward the main floor, heard Mr. Garvey shifting around, the thud of a tool placed on the floor.

“Was it you?” I asked quietly into the dark void. “Was it you, Kelly? Did you break the glass?”

The shadows remained still, but I felt something, a soft current of air, and I quivered with fright. “You can tell me,” I said. “You can. It’s okay.”

I inched closer, still aware of Mr. Garvey’s faint shuffling and scraping overhead. I’d almost reached the shadows when the booming sound of his boots on the top steps brought my head up and around.

“I’m almost done here,” he called down, “but I’m going to take a break, have lunch in my truck. You can look over what I’ve done and see what you think. I’ll be sanding and touching up the paint next.”

I nodded up to him. “Okay.” But stood still and listened as he pounded across the floor and closed the front door. I eased around the stairs and wiped a damp palm on my hip. “Don’t be afraid,” I said.

A cobweb caught on my face and I wiped it away. Stopping, surrounded by darkness, I turned and looked out into the basement, then ducked my head behind the stairs. I waited for a hand to touch my shoulder, for some sign, my heart thumping wildly. Goose flesh traveled electrified up my spine into the small of my neck.

I waited until I could stand it no longer, then reached farther into the darkness and touched something that made me squeal and run headlong up the stairs. It was slimy and cool, and later, when I’d calmed myself, I realized it wasn’t anything other than mold-more moldy boxes.

Mr. Garvey’s flashlight confirmed it.

It wasn’t, as I’d thought in that instant, Kelly’s hand reaching out to me, trying to warn me, telling me who and what to fear.

Trevor and I arrived at our condo on Friday night overloaded with suitcases, boot bags, and skis. It was five o’clock, almost dark, but the silhouette of Aspen Mountain could still be discerned black against the night sky. Trevor held the key in his hand and smiled as he turned it in the lock.

“This is going to be a great weekend,” he said, pushing the door open for me.

I stepped into a wide entrance with a coat closet running along its length. Trevor followed me in, dropping the suitcases and bags on the carpet, then went back outside for the skis. He leaned them, clattering, against the wall.

“Let’s look around first,” he said, walking forward. “Nice. Very nice.” He looked back at me.

“Yes, I agree.”

The entrance opened into a spacious living area with a kitchen at the far end. A log fire burned in the fireplace on my left and I could tell from the scent of cherry wood that it was real. “Are you sure we’re in the right condo?” I motioned to the fire.

“Yes, she said they’d get it ready for us.” He stepped to the counter that separated the living room from the kitchen. “See, chilled champagne.” He pulled the bottle from the ice bucket. “And munchies. Cheese, crackers, fruit, salami. But let’s not eat now. Let’s save our appetite for dinner.”

I continued toward the hall on my right to the first bedroom, which contained a king-size bed covered with a multi-colored patchwork quilt. Lamps on either side picked up the rust shades of the spread. Around the corner I found a spacious bath, complete with fluffy towels and a whirlpool tub and shower. A vase of yellow roses sat atop the counter. I finished my tour with a peek into the second bedroom, decorated in the same manner as the first, but this one with twin beds.

Trevor was slicing salami onto a plate when I returned. He shrugged. “Couldn’t wait.” He handed me a cracker topped with cheese and salami, along with a glass of bubbling champagne.

“Pretty nice, isn’t it?” he asked, and I could tell he was looking for my approval since I’d hardly said a word since we’d parked the car.

“Oh, it certainly is. You should see our bedroom. I love the bedspread. And roses too.”

“I guess we don’t have to dress up too much tonight,” he said. “I’m not sure what they have planned. We might be walking into town, or we might go over to their place first.”

“When are we supposed to meet them?”

“Actually, I should call.”

I carried my suitcase to the bedroom, but tried to listen to Trevor’s conversation as I unpacked. I could hear him laughing, his voice rising and falling, his words a little too low to hear clearly, then he was off the phone.

“Six-thirty,” he called in to me. “We’re going to meet over at their condo.”

Though I had showered earlier in the day, my hair looked limp, and I decided more hairspray would only make it worse. And in spite of my efforts not to feel that way, I knew I would be in a competition tonight. I decided to start from scratch and shower again, begin the canvas with fresh paint and clean soft brushes.

By the time I’d spritzed on perfume, I felt I was a match for anything Sylvia could throw at me. I had chosen a long suede skirt and leather boots-the ones with decent tread on the bottom-and a soft burgundy sweater.

“Should I wear my new jewelry?” I asked as I approached Trevor, relaxing on the couch in front of the fire.

He frowned. “I don’t know. Maybe save it for tomorrow. I’m not sure where we’re going tonight.” He stared at my boots. “Are you going to be able to walk in those? There’s a lot of snow out there.”

“Yes, they’re okay.”

“You look nice,” he added with a smile. “And don’t worry. Bob and Sylvia are good people. They’re not going to be talking about business with you there.”

Sylvia’s condo was similar to our own, only the general color scheme differed, this one in contrasting shades of blue and beige.

“Welcome,” Bob said, standing aside as we walked through the doorway. “Gwyn, nice to see you again. You’re looking as lovely as ever. Hey, Trevor.”

I looked around for Sylvia, but she wasn’t in the room.

“What can I get you two?” Bob glanced in my direction first.

“The champagne was good.”

“We have more.” He stepped to the counter and poured me a glass, then looked to Trevor.

“She’s right. The champagne was good.”

Bob poured another glass for Trevor and one for himself. He held his glass toward ours. “To a fantastic weekend of great skiing and absolutely no work.”

“I hear you,” said Trevor.

“She’ll be out in a minute.” Bob motioned toward the bedroom. “She needs to hear the
no work
part of our toast.”

“I’m listening, Robert.” Sylvia’s voice floated in from the hallway. “Now don’t go making me out to be some kind of workaholic.” She entered, dressed in a red beaded jacket and slim black velour slacks that hugged her petite frame. Her lipstick, nail polish, and earrings matched the red of her jacket exactly. “Hi,” she said, taking my hand demurely in her own. “I’m so happy you could join us this weekend. Is everything okay over there? I didn’t get a chance to look, myself.”

“Everything’s great,” I said, withdrawing my hand slowly.

“Yes, it is,” said Trevor. “Perfect.”

She turned to him and patted him affectionately on the cheek. “Mr. Charming, you are. There could be an elephant standing in the kitchen and you wouldn’t complain.”

“Yes, I would.”

She poured herself a glass of red wine and leaned on the counter. “The snow is supposed to be excellent this weekend.” She gazed at us. “Sit, sit. Everybody sit.” She pushed the air with her hands, driving us toward the grouping of chairs and couch. “We have an entire hour before dinner.”

“An hour?” Bob said.

“I pushed it back.”

He stared at her.

“It’s important, Robert. I have to take the call, here, without interruptions. You can go on ahead. You should go on ahead.”

“No,” said Trevor. “We’re not even hungry. We never eat this early.” He looked to me to agree.

“No, we never do. And we ate a lot of that cheese and salami before we came over.”

“I’m so selfish,” she said, “and you’re all so nice to put up with me.”

We all shook our heads in unison.

Sylvia collapsed into a chair and crossed her legs. “I love the scent of cherry wood. I always ask for the cherry wood.”

I scratched at my ear, feeling as if I were a part of a dutifully respectful audience. I wondered if Sylvia ever bowed and left the stage.

Bob took several trail maps off the end table and shuffled through them. “Does anybody have a preference where they’d like to ski tomorrow? Here? Over at Snowmass? The Highlands?”

I waited for Sylvia to voice her views, but she sat quietly.

“Nobody?” said Bob. “In that case, I say we stay here. That way if I get tired and desire a brewski, I can leave everybody and quit early.”

“I might be joining you,” said Trevor. “I haven’t skied at all this year.”

The phone rang and Sylvia popped up and out of the room.

“It will be better when we get out of here,” Bob said in an aside to Trevor. “The proverbial shit could hit the fan. She’s worried.”

“I know,” Trevor said.

When Sylvia finally returned fifteen minutes later, her smile was wide with triumph. “Well, let’s go. I’m hungry now.”

We had reservations at The Silver Strike, a new restaurant in Aspen that Sylvia had heard good things about. Located on Cooper Avenue, it was a few short blocks from our condo complex.

We walked two by two through the frigid winter night, Bob and Sylvia leading the way. I threaded my arm through Trevor’s, bringing him close, hoping to send a clear message to Sylvia that she would have a fight on her hands. I also prayed that Trevor was telling the truth, that he wasn’t interested in Sylvia, or any other woman for that matter.

We checked our coats at the door. The restaurant was dimly lit, decorated western style, coarse wood beams crisscrossing the ceiling and walls. Thick linen tablecloths and napkins adorned the tables, along with what appeared to be authentic silver silverware. Candles flickered seductively.

The host led us to a reserved table in a secluded corner where we were attended to by several helpers, who offered goblets of ice water and a lavish assortment of bread, cream cheeses, and butter. Our waiter, Hugh, tall and sporting a thin goatee, greeted us soon after.

In his pronounced English accent, he quickly made several wine suggestions, but Sylvia smiled pleasantly and requested a French wine at the top of the wine list. Though no prices were given for any of the wine selections, my guess was that the best and costliest were listed first. Our waiter’s delighted grin at the choice confirmed my thinking.

We were not to be insulted with actual dinner menus. Hugh rattled off four gourmet entrees offered that evening-a filet mignon with portabella mushrooms-a seafood medley with crab legs and lobster, flown in fresh this morning from the east coast-a roast leg of lamb accompanied with a “spectacular” mint jelly-and pheasant.

I ordered the steak, not my first choice, but I didn’t want to wrestle with crab and lobster shells in front of strangers. Sylvia, as expected, ordered the seafood, and Bob and Trevor ordered the lamb and pheasant, respectively.

“I love Aspen,” Sylvia said to the group. “I wish I’d discovered it sooner. And I’m learning to love skiing too, though I’m absolutely frustrated by my inability to get off the easier slopes.”