Last Whisper (25 page)

Vincent stepped closer to her but made no move to hold her. He only gazed into her eyes, his own so mesmerizing she couldn’t look away. “The key word in what you just said is ‘stepfather.’
You
didn’t do anything to Mia or to your mother. Zachary Tavell did. He’s the one who bears the guilt, Brooke, not you.”

Brooke finally managed to shut her eyes, causing more tears to roll down her face. “Intellectually I know that. But emotionally I don’t. I couldn’t help Mom, but if Zach had gotten me, too, then—”

“Then
Mia
would be alive now. Good God, Brooke, is that what you’ve been torturing yourself with?”

“It’s true.”

“It’s a possibility. That’s all. Hell, if Mia hadn’t been killed that night, maybe she would have stepped in front of a bus the next day or crashed in a plane the next week. Maybe it was her time to die.”

“Her time to die? Vincent, I’ve been around you long enough to know you’re not a man of faith, someone who
believes everything happens because it’s predestined. You don’t believe all those people you write about were predestined to be viciously murdered. You believe they were in the wrong place at the wrong time, or they met the wrong person. And for Mia,
I
was the wrong person.”

“Brooke, stop it,” Vincent said quietly. “Just stop it. You do not know what I believe about fate versus coincidence. You’re attributing your own beliefs to me, and I’m sorry to say this, but your beliefs are more than a little skewed by all that’s happened to you in your short life.”

“Well, thank you very much for telling me I’m crazy!”

“I didn’t say anything about you being crazy.” Vincent closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, then took a small step toward her. “You’re not crazy, but you’ve gotten the idea that you’re a magnet for misfortune. It’s why a beautiful, intelligent, warm, basically joyous woman has so few friends, has dated such a little bit, and when she does settles for someone like Robert, who didn’t give a damn about you except as a mask for someone he
did
love. You think you don’t deserve anything good in life and if something good does come your way, you’d better shun it before you inadvertently destroy it.”

Brooke raised a defiant face to him. “Well, aren’t you just full of psychological insight today!”

“As a matter of fact, I am.” Brooke glared at him. “Brooke, baby—”

“Do not
ever
call me baby. Or babe. Or any of those other stupid endearments you use on your adoring California airheads!”

Vincent rolled his eyes. “Okay, Miss Yeager, I’ll watch my language from now on. And may I say that not every woman in California is an airhead. Talk about stereotyping!”

Brooke breathed heavily for a moment, looking away from him. Finally she said, “You’re right. I
was
stereotyping.”

“Is that all I was right about?”

She looked away again, wiped a hand over one damp, streaked cheek, then glanced at Elise, who sat quietly in the chair quivering with nerves over the controversy playing out
in front of her. Elise. Brooke loved Elise. But who else had she loved in the last few years? She counted. Of course, Grossmutter. And the memory of her parents. And she cared for Stacy and Jay. And . . . and . . . and no one except for Mia, whom she barely knew.

Reluctantly, she said, “Maybe you weren’t
entirely
wrong.”

“Under the circumstances, I’ll take that as a ringing endorsement of my theory.”

“I don’t know that you should go
that
far.”

“Okay. An endorsement that doesn’t ring true?”

Brooke couldn’t help relaxing a bit. “A
partial
endorsement that doesn’t ring true.”

“Well, that’s better than nothing.”

“It’s a helluva lot, seeing as you just showed up here uninvited in your designer suit spouting theories about how I think I’m a disaster magnet.”

Vincent grinned. “Yeah, I guess it is. I’ll accept it as a compliment.” He looked at her seriously for a moment. “Do you want me to leave so you can go to the funeral by yourself?”

She pretended to think it over. “No, I guess not. I mean, you’re already dressed up and everything.”

“And so are you, although at the risk of offending you again, I’d suggest you do something about your face. The smeared mascara is giving you a Goth look that isn’t really your style.”

“Oh God!” Brooke exclaimed, covering her face and rushing to the mirror. Vincent was right. Her eye makeup had not only smudged into big circles around her eyes, but her mascara had left long, bizarre streaks down her face. She went to the bathroom and began wiping off all her makeup. “This shouldn’t take long,” she called. “I’ll just do a little touching up. . . .”

“I’ll read this copy of
Vogue
while you’re working. I should have just enough time to finish it.”

Ten minutes later Brooke emerged from the bathroom looking fresh-faced, her subtle makeup as expertly applied as it had been when Vincent arrived. “Better?” she asked.

“Beautiful,” he said, laying down his magazine and scooting Elise off his lap. “But I could use a lint brush.”

The blond dog had left her mark on his navy blue suit. Brooke quickly found the brush, and while he worked at removing the hair, Brooke inserted her pearl earrings. The same earrings I wore the night Mia was killed, she thought, considering changing them for another pair, then remembering how much Mia had liked their slight dangle. “I’ve dropped hints to my family like crazy, but if no one gets me a pair like that for Christmas, I’m getting them for myself. If it’s all right with you, that is,” Mia had said. “I’d be flattered,” Brooke had returned sincerely.

Her eyes started to fill with tears again and she quickly blinked them away. She and Vincent certainly didn’t have time for her to complete another makeup job if they were going to make the funeral on time.

Mia’s parents had picked their tiny Methodist church for the ceremony rather than a mortuary. As Vincent looked for a parking place, Brooke noticed that most of the group trailing into the church looked grief-stricken. Mia had obviously been loved. The people were also dressed simply, so plainly that Brooke guessed they were wearing their Sunday best, which was subdued. Mia had not come from a prosperous or stylish family. Brooke remembered when she’d first started at the agency and her clothes had looked cheap, almost frumpy. After two weeks, she’d worn an outfit that looked amazingly like Brooke’s. After that, her emulation of Brooke’s style had begun, growing over her two-month employment. Growing until it got her killed, Brooke thought with a pang.

“Are you all right?” Vincent asked.

“Sure.” She looked around and noticed that they’d parked. “You won’t mind if I cry a little during the service, will you?”

Vincent reached over, took her hand, and brought it to his lips. “Cry all you want.”

“Even if my makeup smears?”

“This isn’t a fashion show, Brooke. And who gives a damn what I think, anyway?”

I do, she thought, startled. I care a lot.

“Let’s go,” he said, nearly jumping out of the car to rush around and open her door. “The service is supposed to start in five minutes.”

They hurried down the street and up the steps into the cool dimness of the church. Someone was playing “Amazing Grace” on the organ. Brooke caught a glimpse of the oak coffin with a blanket of pink carnations beneath the pulpit. Mia hated pink, she thought. Didn’t her own family know that?

A man Brooke barely saw stepped up, handed her and Vincent each a program, and said, “Welcome. The family appreciates your attendance.” He pointed to a gilt-edged book on a wooden stand. “Would you sign the guest register, please?”

As Brooke stepped forward to sign the guest book, she noticed a girl of around sixteen hovering near the stand. She was extremely slender and had long blond hair and corn-flower blue eyes. She looked enough like Mia to be her sister. The girl smiled at Brooke, then looked down and watched her sign her name. Abruptly the girl vanished down the hall and into one of the back rooms.

“Someone you know?” Vincent asked softly.

“No, but someone who wanted to know who I was. The way she watched me sign my name . . .”

Vincent raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It just seemed odd. She looked so much like Mia. Or me at that age.” Brooke shook her head. “Never mind. I’m just edgy.”

Vincent scribbled his name, took Brooke’s elbow in his hand, and began to lead her into the main room. That’s when the girl appeared again, carrying a large vase of white roses. She stopped in front of Brooke. “You
are
Brooke Yeager, aren’t you?” she asked in a young, innocent voice.

Brooke nodded and the girl handed her the vase of roses. “This was delivered about an hour ago. The deliveryman said you wanted to carry them in yourself and place them at the head of the coffin and that he wanted
me
to give them to you.” She smiled. “They’re very pretty, Miss Yeager.”

“Yes, they are,” Brooke said vaguely, an uncomfortable tickle of fear touching her neck. “But I didn’t—”

“There was a card with them,” the girl interrupted. “I took it loose from the flowers so you could look at it first. I didn’t read it, though, honest.” She shyly held out a small envelope, which Vincent took. Then he looked at Brooke.

“Read it,” she said flatly.

Vincent removed the card from the envelope and glanced over it, his expression hardening. “I think we should leave now.”

“Just read it, dammit.” The young girl’s eyes widened and Brooke felt a grim dread flowing through her like a poisonous creeping vine.

Vincent paused, then read softly: “ ‘Dear Mia, Thanks to you, I have kept myself from the paths of the destroyer. Love, Brooke.’ ”

Everyone turned to look when Brooke dropped the vase of beautiful white roses with a loud crash and ran from the church.

“It’s biblical,” Brooke said.

Jay Corrigan and Hal Myers stood in front of her as she sat rigidly in a chair, clutching the arms. She hadn’t stopped shaking since she’d fled from the church, Vincent chasing her, the police surveillance team following them back to Brooke’s apartment, then calling Myers and Corrigan.

“What’s biblical, Brooke?” Jay asked.

“The message on the card. ‘Thanks to you, I have kept myself from the paths of the destroyer.’ It’s biblical.”

“ ‘Thanks to you’?” Jay asked. “That doesn’t sound like the Bible to me.”

Brooke rose on trembling legs, walked to the bookshelf, and pulled out the Yeager family Bible. “Grossmutter is very religious. She used to read the Bible to me. Frankly, I was bored to tears, but I remember parts. Unfortunately, not accurately. If you’ll just let me look, I’m sure I can find it.”

“Look all you want,” Vincent said, guiding her back to
the chair. “But sit down before you fall down. You’re as pale as a ghost. Do you want something to drink?”

“Something cold. Anything. Look in the refrigerator,” Brooke mumbled distractedly as she flipped through the large, old Bible that had been in the family for generations. “Certainly it’s not in Genesis. Or Revelation.”

“How about the New Testament?” Jay asked, wishing he’d paid more attention in Sunday school instead of concentrating on trying to be the class clown to impress an ugly, haughty little girl named Patty Lou. “Could it be in there?”

Brooke shook her head. “No. Not the New Testament. I don’t know how I remember that, but . . .” She trailed off, still furiously flipping through the book as Vincent brought her a glass of iced tea. She sipped it absently, grimaced, and asked him if he’d added sugar to already-sugared tea, to which he admitted. He was on his way back to the kitchen for a fresh glass when Brooke cried, “Here it is!”

Everyone stiffened, as if she’d just happened on something potentially dangerous. “It’s Psalms 17:4: ‘I have kept myself from the paths of the destroyer.’ Grossmutter had it marked, maybe because of Zach.”

The three men stared at her.

“Is that it?” Jay asked, looking deflated. “Just that one line?”

“Yes. Why do you look so disappointed?”

“I just thought the quote might give us more of a clue.”

“A clue about what?” Brooke asked.

“About Zach’s intentions.”

“You mean a guide about what he intends to do to me next?”

“No, I . . .” Jay blushed and Hal stepped in.

“Miss Yeager, was Zach Tavell a religious man?”

“Religious? He murdered my mother,” Brooke said incredulously.

“Many religious people—not truly religious, of course, fanatics—feel they’re committing crimes in the name of God. Following God’s will. Was Tavell that type?”

“Absolutely not. In fact, he didn’t even like for my mother to take me to church after their first few weeks of marriage. Sometimes he let my grandmother take me, but only about once a month.”

“That was fifteen years ago,” Myers said mildly. “It’s not uncommon for prisoners to ‘find the Lord,’ as they put it. They repent for what they’ve done to get themselves thrown in prison and become extremely religious. It could be that Tavell was that type. He might have been reading the Bible all these years.”

“He could have,” Brooke said bitterly. “But what does that have to do with anything? This quote certainly wasn’t written to give me comfort. It was written to make me feel guilty.”

Vincent nodded. “I have to agree, Detective Myers.”

“Of course it was,” Myers said. “But if Tavell wasn’t religious, he had to do a lot of reading to find the perfect quote for the occasion.”

“Which proves exactly what?” Brooke demanded.

“Maybe that he’s had some kind of breakdown. Or he means to torture you and he’s been planning it for quite a while.”

“I’d say it was the latter,” Brooke said dourly. “If he had a breakdown, it seems it would have been years ago when he murdered my mother. Or before that. Even though I was a child, I knew there was something wrong with him. I could tell my grandmother did, too. She was extremely uneasy around him. Only Mom seemed to think he was great. At least at the time she married him. After the first year, even I could tell she was having second thoughts.”