Last Whisper (36 page)

“I just don’t know who could have sent it.”

“Guess you’ll have to open it, then.” The guy shifted impatiently from one foot to the other, looking slightly alarmed. “If you’d just sign the sheet here, Ms. Yeager. I hate to rush you, but I got another delivery to make before five or I’ll get in big trouble.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want that.” Brooke signed her name as if in a dream. The guy waited a minute longer, clearly hoping for a tip, then gave it up as a lost cause with the weird-acting woman on the other side of the desk. She was in her own world, not even thinking about how much he might count on his tips. He said sourly, “Hope you enjoy whatever’s inside—
not
.”

Brooke stared at the box sitting on her desk for what seemed an endless time. Finally, Hannah looked over from her own desk and asked, “What’s wrong? Afraid there’s a snake in it?”

“I’m afraid it’s something worse,” Brooke said, her mouth dry.

“Like what?”

This time Brooke didn’t answer. She couldn’t just keep staring at the thing. She had to know what was inside, even though every fiber of her being told her the contents were not going to make her happy. Not with that return address.

With trembling fingers, she loosened the tape and removed the brown wrapping paper as carefully as she would beautiful gift wrap. The paper fell away, exposing a small, white box. There was no label on the box, but Brooke instinctively knew it had come from a jewelry shop. It wasn’t a new box, though. The corners looked slightly frayed, and one end had the yellowish tinge of exposure to sunlight.

Her breath coming slowly yet deeply, she gently took the lid off the box. There, on a bed of white cotton, lay a small
gold wedding ring adorned with a tiny diamond. Even though she didn’t have to look to know what was engraved inside, Brooke picked up the ring and slanted it so that she could see the names written in tiny script:

Anne & Karl

Brooke hadn’t been able to rise from her chair. She asked Charlie to go out and get the surveillance cops while she sat at her desk, staring at the wide gold ring with its one-third-carat diamond. When she tilted the box slightly, she could see the engraving, but she didn’t touch the ring.

It was time for Townsend Realty to close, but naturally the arrival of the ring disturbed the schedule. Charlie insisted on staying with Aaron and Brooke until Hal Myers and Jay Corrigan arrived. Hannah, out of concern, had offered to stay as well. Judith, out of malicious curiosity, wanted to stay, too. Aaron had sent both women home.

“I have some brandy in my office, Brooke.” Aaron’s solicitous tone shocked her. She didn’t know he had it in him. “Would a little help?”

Brooke shook her head. “I think it would take the whole bottle to help, and then I wouldn’t make a good impression on the cops. Thanks anyway, Mr. Townsend.”

“Call me Aaron, please,” he said, sounding as if he’d like to add “just this once.”

“I’ll take some brandy,” Charlie volunteered, trying to lighten the mood.

Aaron answered stiffly, “If Brooke doesn’t need any, neither do you. This isn’t a party.”

“Well, excuse me for living,” Charlie answered, patting Brooke on the shoulder. He’d been patting it for ten minutes and she thought if he didn’t stop, she’d scream.

To her relief, Hal and Jay walked in and Charlie immediately backed off, as if he might be reprimanded for touching her. Hal smiled at her easily. Jay looked tense and angry. “Don’t anybody touch that ring!” he barked.

Brooke, Aaron, and Charlie all froze guiltily before Brooke said, “Sorry. I already did.”

“Calm down, Jay,” Hal said mildly, then to Brooke, “I’m sure there weren’t any fingerprints on it anyway. Tavell’s too smart to have left any.”

“So I assumed as soon as I saw the return address on the box.” Even Brooke noticed how tired and dull her voice sounded. “My parents are buried in that cemetery.” Hal nodded. “It was delivered by a boy from Archway Deliveries. And I did a little police work on my own. He said someone dropped this off to either the manager or his wife and said it was to be delivered before five o’clock. The boy didn’t see who left the package, but maybe the manager remembers.”

“What did the boy look like?” Jay asked.

“He was around nineteen. Straight brown hair. Some acne. I think his eyes were blue.”

“Nothing suspicious about him?”

“No. He was just impatient. And mad.” Brooke managed a small smile. “I forgot to give him a tip.”

Hal frowned. “Oh, the poor thing. Well, at least we’ll know which one he is at the delivery store—the one griping about you.”

Brooke smiled slightly. “By the way, the stinging on my
lower back is reminding me to ask if the lab found out what had been sprayed on me at the planetarium.”

Hal looked into her eyes. “Good old-fashioned drain cleaner.
Strong
drain cleaner, as if it had come from the bottom of a bottle that hadn’t been shaken. That stuff can be fairly corrosive, especially on delicate skin.” Hal paused. “Are you sure the girl with the blond hair sprayed it on you?”

“I’m ninety-five percent certain,” Brooke said grimly. “What I don’t know is her identity or why she would be working with Zach Tavell. I know you’re going to tell me it’s probably for money, but I have a hard time believing a teenage girl, no matter how hardened by the world, would be stupid enough to trust a half-crazy-looking man like Zach who she
has
to know is a murderer.”

Hal gave her a doleful look. “Brooke, you’d be surprised what some people will do for a couple of dollars. Unfortunately, she’s probably one of them.”

Brooke wasn’t sure when Vincent arrived. She sat slumped at her desk, answering Hal’s and Jay’s questions while Aaron and Charlie hovered around, acting as if they were being an immense help, when she looked up and saw Vincent standing about a foot away. He gave her a long, slow smile, bent down to lightly kiss her cheek, and said, “Hi, Cinnamon Girl.”

“Hi, yourself,” she answered. “Do you have an alarm that goes off at your house every time I’m in trouble?”

“It’s a whirling red light with one of those air horns like you hear at football games.” He looked at the detectives. “Hi, Hal, Jay.”

They both nodded as Aaron approached importantly. “I’m Aaron Townsend, owner of this firm. And you are?”

“Vincent Lockhart.”

“A friend of Ms. Yeager’s?”

“Obviously.”

Aaron colored slightly at his stupid question. “Well, I just wanted to be sure. You can’t be too careful, you know.” Charlie looked at Brooke and rolled his eyes. “Are you involved in the case, Mr. Lockhart?”

“Not directly.”

“His father was the lead detective when Ms. Yeager’s mother was murdered,” Hal supplied. “He’s a friend of Brooke’s.
And
he’s quite a famous writer.”

“Famous writer?” Aaron frowned; then his face lit with an almost sickening veneration considering his earlier near hostility. “Oh yes, I’ve heard of you. You’ve been on the
New York Times
Best Seller List a number of times.”

“A few,” Vincent said modestly.

“Well, this is most exciting.” Aaron became aware of the detectives looking at his beaming face and quickly rearranged his expression into one of concern. “Of course, our main worry is Brooke. This madman who seems to be after her . . . well . . . it’s just unfathomable.” And then he couldn’t help himself. “Are you going to write about it, Mr. Lockhart?”

“I don’t think so,” Vincent answered laconically. “I’m just here as Brooke’s friend.” He looked at Hal. “Are you about finished with your questions? Because Brooke looks like she could use a good meal and some time to relax, hopefully with me.”

Hal grinned at him. “We’re through questioning her. Whether or not she wants to go running around with you is up to her.”

Everyone looked at Brooke expectantly. What she wanted more than anything at that moment was to leap from her chair, grab Vincent’s arm, dash off into the evening with him by her side, and never look back. Instead, she tried for a restrained smile, controlled body movements, and said calmly, “Dinner does sound nice, Vincent. Thank you.”

Later, as Vincent pulled out of the Townsend Realty parking lot and they headed into the six o’clock traffic, he asked, “Any place in particular you’d like to eat?”

“Somewhere out-of-the-way. Informal. Dark. Quiet.”

“I know just the place. Music?” She nodded and he turned on the CD player. “Now relax. Forget about flowers and rings, beautiful lady, and just float to the mellow sounds of the Eagles, circa the 1970s.”

“You sound like a deejay.”

“But you’re smiling,” Vincent said. “It’s working already.”

They headed west and the sinking sun slanted directly onto Brooke’s face. She put on her sunglasses, then leaned her head back and listened to “Peaceful, Easy Feeling,” wishing she could slip out of her troubles and into the beautiful world of the song.

She realized she was almost asleep when Vincent announced, “Here at last.” She opened her eyes and looked at a cozy log cabin restaurant overlooking the river. “Do you want to go in and have dinner, or would you rather curl up and take a nap in the backseat?”

“You don’t have a backseat,” she said groggily.

“I guess we’ll have to go in and eat, then.” He cocked his head and grinned at her. “You’re the only woman I know who takes a nap after getting scared half to death.”

“I’m one of a kind, all right. Maybe you’ll put me in a book someday.” She looked at him. “A book of
fiction
, not a book about ‘The Rose Murder.’ ”

“I have no intention of writing about ‘The Rose Murder,’ ” Vincent returned gravely. “That’s the truth and I want you to know it for certain, Brooke. My interest in you has always been . . .”—he seemed to search for a word, looked away, then said lightly, “chaste as the driven snow.”

“Oh, heck, that’s what they all say,” Brooke returned, acting disappointed. He was teasing her, and for the moment, she was glad. But she hoped, she
knew
, their relationship had grown beyond mere altruistic friendship. And in spite of everything, that made her happy. “Let’s go in. I’m starving.”

Brooke immediately liked the knotty pine interior and the
casual ambience of the restaurant. They passed a bar where a plump man gave them a friendly, “Evenin’, folks,” then moved on to a larger room with round tables and portraits of country scenes on the walls. A jukebox played softly in the background, and only about ten other people sat around, looking as if even a hurricane couldn’t shake them.

“My goodness, this is a calm crowd,” Brooke commented as they sat down.

“I don’t think the people who frequent this place are looking for a rowdy, roadhouse atmosphere,” Vincent said. “My parents used to bring me here until I was about fifteen and I decided I was too cool to be seen having dinner out with them.”

“So they stopped coming and your mother stayed home to fix spoiled young you a fabulous meal.”

“Oh no. They came anyway and left me at home with a frozen dinner. A particularly
bad
frozen dinner. That taught me I wasn’t going to call all the shots, although I never backed down. I was as stubborn as they were.”

“And you all turned out just fine.” Brooke smiled. “Family life seems like fun.”

“I think it’s more fun in retrospect. When you’re young, particularly a teenager, you usually feel totally misunderstood and abused.”

Five minutes later, Brooke ordered a chef salad and an iced tea, until Vincent talked her into having a glass of Chablis instead. Afterward, she said, “I’ve drunk more in the last week than I have in the last year.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Vincent said solemnly. “I was beginning to think you were a lush.” She made a face at him. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Brooke. This hasn’t exactly been a tranquil week. A couple of drinks to calm your nerves aren’t going to turn you into an alcoholic.”

“It’s been more than a couple. Grossmutter absolutely forbade drinking. I think her uncle and grandfather were alcoholics, or maybe it was her father and brother. I can’t remember. Anyway, she never kept liquor at our house, and if she saw me with a glass of wine in front of me, she’d either
snatch it away from me or let me drink it, then give me a lecture on the evils of drinking.”

“Well, you’re a big girl now,” Vincent said soothingly. “You can make your own decisions.”

“I’ll
have
to make my own decisions from now on. Not that my grandmother ever dictated to me after I became an adult, but she was always quick with the advice, and it was usually good advice.” Brooke sighed. “I’ll miss that.”

“She’s not gone yet,” Vincent said gently.

“But she will be soon.” Brooke took a sip of her wine, then said, “Well, aren’t I the gregarious dinner companion? Tell me something funny to cheer me up.”

“Something funny?” Vincent frowned, then smiled. “Remember our next-door neighbor whose wife leaves regularly for a couple of weeks, claiming she’s never coming back and throwing her husband into a tailspin because the dope thinks she means it, so he offers her something great, like a diamond ring or a car, and back she comes? Well, looks like he finally caught on. He called her yesterday evening and told her not to bother coming back this time. Today she sent him a
telegram
—jeez, I didn’t even know they had telegrams these days—and said she’d be back tomorrow and she loved him madly.”

“Why the telegram?” Brooke asked, laughing.

“I suppose because if she called, he could tell her not to come or else listen to her message on the machine and not answer. Now she’ll just appear on the doorstep, whisk him up to bed, and hope for the best.”

“And maybe stop this stupid game of hers. What do you think gave him the nerve to give her the heave-ho?”

“Dad on the day they were watching the baseball game. He always thought the guy was stupid for letting her do this, but he was too polite to point it out to him. The tactful days ended with the Alzheimer’s. Now he says exactly what he thinks.”

“And this time, with a good result. I’ll bet she doesn’t try this trick again next year.”

“No, I give her two before she thinks the shock has worn
off.” Vincent looked at Brooke approvingly. “You’re smiling, Miss Yeager.”