Last Whisper (17 page)

Harry had caught her in an apartment one afternoon last winter and given her hell, telling her that if the couple came home and found her, he’d lose his job, like she didn’t already realize that possibility and hadn’t been careful to choose the apartment of a couple who’d gone to Pennsylvania to visit family for Christmas. She’d solemnly promised never to do such a stupid thing again. She’d laid low for a while, which had been pure misery, but Harry hadn’t remained vigilant for long. Since February, when he’d dropped his guard, she’d invaded apartments at least a dozen times, but she’d been more careful to do so only when she’d been certain Harry would be out of the building for at least a couple of hours. Fortunately, Harry wasn’t any more heedful about always taking his keys with him than he had been about keeping his eye on her.

Eunice stamped out her cigarette in the ashtray beside her recliner, got up, and moved in slow motion to the pantry, where Harry’s master keys hung on the Peg-Board. She hoped if she walked sluggishly enough, she could talk herself out of her desire for “exploration” by the time she reached the pantry, but her halfhearted try at self-control failed. Five minutes later she climbed the stairs to the third floor, clutching the key ring, forcing herself to maintain her usual leisurely gait, trying not to let her eyes dart around furtively. By the time she reached her goal, her heart pounded and her mouth
had gone dry. But she’d made it to the apartment she’d always wanted to invade but never dared to enter—Stacy Corrigan’s.

Eunice had taken an instant dislike of Stacy the first time she saw her striding across the lobby with her tall, lithe body, big breasts, long curly hair, and air of ultimate confidence. Stacy wasn’t beautiful like Eunice’s mother, Liz, had been, but she had that same aura of self-pride and tremendous self-confidence. When Eunice had told Harry she thought Stacy was a bitch, he’d snapped at her that she was jumping to conclusions when she’d never even talked to the younger woman. Besides, didn’t Stacy always smile and say hello to Eunice when they ran into each other in the lobby and hadn’t she even asked how Eunice was feeling a couple of times, instead of ignoring Eunice like old Mrs. Kelso? And after all, Stacy was Brooke Yeager’s best friend, and Eunice liked Brooke. So why would Brooke be friends with a woman who was a jerk?

Harry had almost convinced Eunice she was wrong about Stacy until suddenly Eunice realized Harry’s defense of her had been a bit impassioned. And he stared at Stacy even more than he did at other pretty women in the building, like Brooke. Also, he’d been gone on mysterious fix-it jobs around the building more than usual lately. Eunice was certain Harry was having an affair, and she’d begun to think it was with Stacy. Maybe Stacy hadn’t actually given in and slept with him, but she was probably taking advantage of his interest. The more Eunice mulled it over in her mind, the more she became convinced this was a definite possibility. She just had to know for sure.

Eunice didn’t think Brooke had gone back to work, but she’d passed her in the lobby this morning and Brooke had said hello, asked about Eunice’s health, because she never forgot about Eunice’s diabetes, then said, “I’ll be back this afternoon. If any flower deliveries come for me, please see that they’re left in the lobby.” Flower deliveries? Harry had told her how upset Brooke had been about a note being in her apartment a few nights ago, but she didn’t know anything about a flower.

Brooke must have given Robert Eads a key to her place and he’d left the note, Eunice decided. Robert was great looking and polite, but Eunice had always gotten an odd feeling from him the few times she’d run into him with Brooke. Eunice had told Harry that Robert didn’t look at Brooke the way a man should look at a pretty woman. Harry had asked if she thought she was a psychic like those crazy people on television who claimed to know all about you by just hearing your voice on the phone.

One of the bulbs had burned out in an overhead light, making the hall dimmer than usual. Harry would have to replace it this evening, but right now Eunice was glad for the added concealment of shadows. She slipped the key in the apartment door lock. It turned easily; she opened the door about a foot, then slipped in and silently shut the door behind her. She took a deep, relieved breath and looked around.

As Eunice expected, the apartment was immaculate. Moss green and chocolate brown furniture sat on the tan carpet, and the few lamps and knickknacks were arranged with precision on end tables. Eunice far preferred the splashy colors of Brooke’s apartment and the air of casual comfort with a few magazines tossed around, a couple of houseplants, some CDs and DVDs piled beside the entertainment center. Brooke’s apartment was full of life, Eunice thought. Stacy’s had a stillness, an air of waiting, that made Eunice jumpy. She wondered how the exuberant Jay felt in here. Stiff and uncomfortable in his own home, probably, but he’d put up with anything for Stacy. Eunice could tell he was wildly in love with her.

Eunice crept across the living room to the bedroom. Here she found the same tan carpet, a double bed covered with a moss green spread and pale green decorative pillows, a gleaming maple dresser and chest of drawers, and matching bedside tables. Both tables had lamps, but only one bore a book. Eunice hurried over and picked it up. It was a hardcover called
Black Moon
.

She flipped over the book again.
Black Moon
by Vincent Lockhart. Vincent, she thought. That was a nice name.
Lockhart. Eunice Lockhart. “Mrs. Eunice Lockhart,” she said aloud like an adolescent girl trying out the name of a boy on whom she had a crush.

With a jolt, she thought of fingerprints. She’d left her fingerprints all over the book and Jay was a policeman! Then she relaxed. Certainly Jay didn’t check the room for fingerprints regularly. Of course, even if he did, he wouldn’t do it himself. He’d call in a crime scene investigation unit. Eunice knew about these things. She’d learned from watching television. And a CSI unit wouldn’t search the room unless there had been a crime here, and there hadn’t been. She let the trapped air of fright out of her lungs but quickly laid down the book, pulled up the bottom up her dress, and wiped it over both sides of the novel’s jacket, just to be safe.

Eunice turned away from the bedside table, her gaze falling on Stacy’s jewelry box—a large, square maple piece holding about ten drawers with gold handles. The box was obviously a nice piece, which had probably cost nearly a hundred dollars. Eunice thought of her old, skinned pink box—not even half the size of Stacy’s—and felt furious. Of course, she didn’t have much to put in her box. Harry wasn’t one to give jewelry for presents. At least to her. Maybe Stacy was a different matter.

I swear, if he said I couldn’t have a new microwave oven because he spent money on jewelry for that silicone-enhanced floozy, I’ll kill him, Eunice thought in a rage. She marched over to the jewelry box and jerked a drawer so hard it flew out of the box and the contents fell on the floor. Eunice crawled to pick up each piece and place it neatly in the drawer just like she thought it had been originally. As she did, she looked at everything and saw that it was all delicate and sophisticated. The very few times Harry had given Eunice jewelry, it was large and gaudy, which he thought was beautiful. No, Harry definitely hadn’t picked any of this tasteful stuff, Eunice thought, half-glad, half-disappointed. So far she had no evidence of an affair between Stacy and Harry.

Eunice moved on to the double closets. Jay’s held three suits of fairly good quality, two pairs of khaki pants, four
pairs of jeans, dress shirts and T-shirts, and four pair of shoes, the running shoes looking in desperate need of replacement, as did his jogging suit. Stacy’s closet was more interesting. For one thing, not one piece of clothing was out of place. The sweaters all hung together, the blouses together, the dresses together, the slacks together, the jeans together. And clearly Stacy had a penchant for shoes. Eunice counted twenty-one pairs, all placed in a large shoe organizer.

Eunice knew Jay couldn’t afford so many fine clothes, but Stacy got a discount at Chantal’s, where she worked. It must be wonderful to be around such finery all the time, Eunice thought. She stroked a soft cashmere sweater, then couldn’t resist taking it out of the closet and holding it against her flat chest. She’d never had a cashmere sweater in her life and it felt like heaven, even if she didn’t have to glance in the mirror to know it wouldn’t look as good on her as it did on Stacy. Eunice had a sudden urge to steal it, which she quickly quelled. Somehow, Stacy would know who’d taken her sweater and all hell would break loose. Harry might even leave Eunice, and then what would she do? She hadn’t even finished high school. She could try working at a fast-food restaurant, but her legs always swelled and gave out after two hours of standing. No, she
had
to hang on to Harry. He wasn’t much, but she wouldn’t let Stacy or anyone else take him away from her.

A framed eight-by-ten color photo sat on the dresser. Jay and Stacy posed against a background of heavily wooded mountains. He was sitting on a large rock, wearing a pale blue shirt under a red sweater. His sandy hair was mussed and his cheeks ruddy. Behind him stood Stacy, her curly hair long and wild, her arms crossed over Jay’s chest. They both beamed, looking like the happiest couple in the world. Of course, people could fake smiles, Eunice reasoned, but their smiles seemed real.

She sighed. She would have been frantic if she’d found any sign that Harry was involved with Stacy. At the same time, she couldn’t stifle her disappointment that she’d been wrong. Of course, just because Harry hadn’t dared to pursue
his infatuation with Stacy in this apartment—the apartment of a woman whose husband was a police detective—didn’t mean there was nothing going on between them. But Eunice couldn’t imagine Harry springing for a motel room or Stacy meeting him at one for a passionate afternoon tryst. Actually, now that Eunice had satisfied her curiosity about Stacy’s apartment and seen the photo of her with Jay, she felt silly for even thinking that young, shapely, pristine Stacy would have anything to do with overweight, sloppy Harry.

Eunice glanced at her cheap watch and saw that she’d spent more time in the apartment than she’d intended. Harry would be back in half an hour, maybe sooner. If he caught her up here . . .

Eunice hurried across the living room and had her hand on the doorknob when she heard a footstep in the hall. Oh God, she thought, her eyes darting around the room. Where could she hide? The pantry in the kitchen? The closet in the bedroom? She nearly fainted when someone banged on a door. Then, slowly, she realized the banging was on Brooke’s door, not Stacy’s. After a moment, someone pounded again, this time even harder. “Brooke, I know you’re in there!” Robert Eads, Eunice thought. He was just a notch below shouting.

If I was in there, I sure wouldn’t open the door, Eunice mused. But she wasn’t in there, thank goodness, and neither was Brooke. It wasn’t usual for Eunice to feel protective of anyone besides herself, but Brooke had taken time to inquire about the seriousness of Eunice’s diabetes, to offer to do anything she could to help, and to inquire after her health at least once a week. That made Brooke okay in Eunice’s mind. Even Harry didn’t show that much concern, although he was good about giving her insulin injections, even if he grouched about it sometimes.

Robert pounded on the door again and then let out a full-fledged yell: “Brooke! Dammit, open the door!”

Eunice cringed. Robert was a big man—at least six foot two—and muscular. Could he actually beat down the door? He wouldn’t find Brooke, but God only knew what damage he might do to her apartment. And that sweet little dog was
probably in there. Eunice liked Elise, who was gentle and always licked her hand. Plus, the longer Robert stood out in the hall, the longer Eunice stayed trapped in Stacy’s apartment, and Harry would be coming home soon.

The phone on an end table rang and Eunice literally jumped at least two inches off the floor. Apparently Robert heard the ringing, too, because he stopped shouting and pounding. Another ring. A third ring. Then the answering machine flipped on. Stacy’s slightly husky voice cooed, “Hello there. This is five-five-five one-two-two-two. We’re not in right now, but if you’ll leave your name and number, we’ll get back to you just as soon as we can. Have a simply
fabulous
day.”

Robert remained silent, although Eunice knew he must have realized he wasn’t listening to Brooke’s machine. “Lila?” a man’s voice asked. “Lila, you know who this is.” Lila? Oh great, Eunice moaned inwardly, a wrong number. A violent wave of frustration washed over her. Now she’d be trapped in here even
longer
because of a stupid wrong number. “What you’re doing is wrong.” The male voice took on a plaintive note. “You’re doing it out of pain.” Eunice frowned. Was the man crying? “Lila, I do love you. I didn’t realize how much because I was a fool. But I’ve learned things, had time to think. . . .” He trailed off pathetically and Eunice thought with relief he was going to hang up. Then he said in an incredibly strong voice, “But my love for you doesn’t mean I’m just going to leave you alone like you want.” The line went dead.

Robert was still quiet outside. Eunice knew the voice had been loud and he’d been just as riveted by the words as she. No wonder, Eunice thought. The guy on the phone sounded as frantic as Robert. He was obviously another spurned lover, just like the man beating on Brooke’s door. God, why hadn’t she ever met any of these crazy-in-love guys? Because I don’t look like Brooke or Stacy, she thought, or probably the unknown Lila, either. And probably neither one of them appreciated what it was like to be desired. They took it for granted, not knowing what it was like to be plain and unwanted like
Eunice was. The thought made her mad, but only a little. Over the years, the hurt of being what she was had dulled for her. Still, Eunice wondered if Lila, whoever she was, would be moved by the words of the man who loved her. I’ll never know, Eunice reflected, because I have no idea who Lila is, and Lila will never get that message, anyway.