Last Whisper (8 page)

“Well, now isn’t this a pleasure!” he thundered as if Brooke had stopped by unexpectedly. Vincent winced. Sometimes his father acted as if everyone around him were half-deaf. “And I see you’ve brought your dog. Hello there, fella!”

“I told you we were bringing the dog,” Vincent said mildly.

Brooke nodded. “Her name is Elise. She’s house-trained. She shouldn’t be any trouble. I appreciate you letting me bring her.”

“Why, honey, we always kept at least one dog until . . .” Sam looked blank. Until Mom died and her dog died one week later, Vincent thought. “Anyway, I’ve always had a way
with dogs,” Sam went on, “although this one seems a mite shy.”

“She spent her first few weeks in a dog pound,” Brooke said. “I think it frightened her for life.”

“Well, no wonder!” Sam stooped, his knees creaking and popping, and stroked Elise on her sleek head. “She’s a good dog, though. I can see it in her eyes. She’s smart. And nice. And she loves her mistress. Who could blame her for that?” Brooke smiled. “How about some sardines and beer, Brooke?”

“She might prefer a glass of wine,” Vincent said quickly, unable to picture Brooke wolfing down greasy sardines and beer like Sam did. “And maybe a sandwich.”

“I am a little hungry,” she said, almost shyly. “I can’t remember the last time I ate. Elise hasn’t eaten, either.”

Sam peered past Brooke as a patrol car pulled up out front. “You fix everyone something to eat and I’ll go talk to the guys for a few minutes.” Sam could never pass up talking to another cop.

Vincent made himself smile at Brooke as he shut the door behind his father. “Dad still likes to be in on the action.”

“I remember that he seemed so strong and capable when I was young,” Brooke said. “He made me feel completely safe at a time when my whole world was falling apart.”

Vincent nodded. “He was an incredibly strong man, and I’ve heard from quite a few other policemen he was the best cop they ever knew. I always wished I could be more like him.”

A slow, half-ashamed look twinkled into Brooke’s eyes. “You put Stacy in her place more than once today. I’d say that makes you a
very
strong man.”

He couldn’t help laughing and motioned for her to follow him into the kitchen as he said, “Is Stacy your closest friend?”

“Yes, although I haven’t known her for long. But I don’t have many friends. For a while I went through a stage of not having any. I suppose I was afraid if I cared for anyone, they’d be taken away from me.”

What a sad little girl she must have been, Vincent thought, sympathy springing up in him almost against his will. First
she lost her father when she was eight; then three years later her mother was brutally murdered by Tavell, a man Brooke had probably come to trust. No wonder she’d decided to keep her distance from people for a while. They did seem to have a tendency to let her down.

Which didn’t mean all those losses hadn’t turned her into a hostile, conniving—

“The note!” she said suddenly, startling him. “What happened to the note we found in my apartment?”

“It’s tucked in an envelope in my pocket. As soon as Dad gets through gossiping with the guys outside, I’ll take it to them. They’ll get it into headquarters and maybe we’ll get lucky and find some helpful fingerprints.”

“But what if Robert left the note?”

“Then maybe knowing his note is in police possession and being checked for fingerprints in an ongoing murder investigation will scare him into backing off.” He looked at her. “You wouldn’t mind that, would you?”

She looked surprised. “Mind it? I’d love it! Did you think I might be enjoying his attentions?”

“I didn’t know how serious you were about him,” Vincent said brusquely as he opened a fresh loaf of wheat bread.

“I don’t remember being serious about him even when we
were
dating.” Brooke sat down at the kitchen table and Elise placed herself daintily at her feet. “He seemed to be a pleasant guy to spend an occasional evening with, but I should have known he was a nut. I always attract nuts.”

“Oh,” Vincent said, torn between smiling and saying something sarcastic. He opted to let the remark drop. “Would you like chicken or turkey on your sandwich?”

“How about both? I don’t think I’ve eaten since this morning. At least I don’t feel like I have.”

“A girl with a healthy appetite.”

“More than healthy. If my metabolism slows down, I’ll be in trouble. And Vincent, could Elise have a few slices of chicken? She didn’t have any dinner.”

He turned and looked at the dog. He’d always been partial to dogs and had two dogs of his own being kept by friends in
Monterey. “I think we can spare some chicken for a beautiful dog.” Elise’s tail swished as if she understood the compliment. “Would she like turkey, too?”

Brooke nodded. “Like mother, like daughter. We both have healthy appetites, although she’s as fine boned and slim as most cats, not dogs.”

Vincent noticed Brooke yawning hugely after she’d eaten her sandwich and drunk a glass of milk. “I think it’s bedtime for Elise,” he managed diplomatically.

“Bedtime for all of us,” Sam boomed from the doorway. “I have to be at work at the crack of dawn tomorrow. That damned Zach Tavell is on the loose. He murdered the mother of one of the sweetest little girls I ever met.”

Vincent colored and Brooke looked at him in total confusion. Vincent hadn’t yet explained to her about Sam’s Alzheimer’s and he couldn’t imagine what she must be thinking, but he couldn’t fill her in on Sam’s malady, now. Instead, he tried to cover for Sam by taking Brooke’s arm and nearly lifting her from her chair. “I think the guest room at the north end of the house would be best for you,” he said loudly. “Nice view, although you’re probably not concerned with the view right now. Double bed. Small bathroom attached. You’d probably like to take a shower after all you’ve been through. Plenty of room for you and Elise.”

“Who’s Elise?” Sam asked.

“The dog,” Vincent said. “Remember that Brooke brought her dog?”

“Cinnamon Girl.”

“Yes. Cinnamon Girl and her dog, Elise.”

Sam looked down at the blond dog, who hovered close to Brooke’s legs, bristling. “A dog,” he mumbled. “A dog.” Then memory flashed in his eyes. “Of
course
I remember the dog, Vincent. I’m
not
senile!”

At least they’re not calling what you suffer from senility anymore, Vincent thought, but he didn’t press the matter. Lately, Sam’s temper had become hair-trigger, often a symptom of Alzheimer’s.

Vincent and Sam walked Brooke to the guest room.
Vincent flipped on the light to show a large bedroom decorated in shades of lilac and ivory. “How beautiful!” Brooke commented.

“Mom redecorated this room right before she got sick,” Vincent said. “Unfortunately, she never got a chance to have anyone stay in it.”

Sam grinned. “She’d be glad you’re the first guest, Brooke.”

Brooke smiled. “I’m glad, too. Thank you for being so kind to me. I don’t know what I would have done without you.” She hesitated and looked at Vincent. “
And
you.”

Vincent stared into her large violet-blue eyes, right now looking incredibly beautiful in spite of their fatigue. For a moment, she seemed to be looking back at him just as intensely. Then Sam blasted out, “Nighty night, Cinnamon Girl!” He looked down at the dog. “Good night, Bernice.”

“It’s
E
lise,” Vincent corrected, then could have kicked himself. What did it matter if his father didn’t get the dog’s name right? But Vincent just couldn’t bear to see his father’s once razor-sharp mind growing fuzzy and confused.

Sam glared at him for a moment and Vincent braced himself for a tirade. Then Sam’s expression softened and he said magnanimously, “Son, it’s past your bedtime. You’re getting cranky.”

Relieved that Sam hadn’t burst into a loud verbal dressing-down, Vincent allowed Sam to lead him down the hall as if he were an eight-year-old boy.

For a long time, Brooke lay wide-eyed and tense in the big, cool bed, staring into the dark, listening. Finally, Brooke felt her eyelids growing heavy. She fought sleep for a while, feeling she must stay up all night, alert and ready
for imminent flight, but finally sleep claimed her exhausted body.

Brooke dreamed of beautiful iridescent stars shining down from the ceiling. Then she heard the voices. Her mother’s, crying, saying she’d made a mistake and should never have married Zach, because Karl Yaeger had been her only love. Then Zach’s sharp reply that she didn’t know what she was saying. He’d saved her and Brooke. She was simply out of control. “I’ll divorce you!” she was screaming. “I should have done it months ago!” And later, ominous popping sounds that roused Brooke and brought her flying down the stairs to find her mother lying on the floor with half of her beautiful face gone.

Noise woke Brooke again. But this time, she didn’t hear the multiple reports of a gun. She heard a squeaking sound coming from the area of the window. Then she felt Elise pawing at her, then saw her running to the window and standing on her hind legs looking out between the draperies.

Brooke slid from bed and put her arms around the dog. “What is it, girl?” she asked, expecting the dog to have seen nothing more than an opossum or a raccoon. Instantly the squeaking sound stopped, and as Brooke became more alert she realized someone was trying to push up the window. She pulled back the drapery a fraction to see that a hole had been cut into the screen—a hole high up, close to the window lock. In a moment, she heard a man speak. “Brooke, it’s all right. God sent me. Just hold still.” And she did hold still, frozen by fear and shock, long enough to see the face of a man—long, pale, wrinkled, with a slightly crooked nose and hooded, exhausted dark eyes. A face that although it had grown older, she would never forget.

Zachary Tavell.

Without realizing it, Brooke began to shriek. The face darted away from the window, and Elise started barking furiously. Then someone from behind her yelled, “Brooke, what’s wrong?”

She screamed again at the nearby voice, then turned to
see Vincent. “Z-Zach,” she managed. “He was outside looking in the bedroom window.”

Vincent looked as if he was trying to convince himself that Brooke had dreamed the face at the window, but Elise’s vociferous barking eliminated that possibility. He turned and bounded from the room.

Brooke crawled away from the window, followed by Elise, and huddled by the bed frame, clutching the dog and trying to slow her painfully thudding heart. She hadn’t seen Zach Tavell for fifteen years, yet just a glance at him had filled her with dread and terror.

From beyond the bedroom, Brooke heard Vincent talking loudly and Sam shouting. Then they quieted. She crawled from the bedroom, thinking of what an easy target she would make if she stood with the window right behind her. She slunk into the living room, which was empty, and huddled by the huge stone hearth. What seemed like minutes, which were probably only seconds, ticked by before she heard an unfamiliar male voice yell, “Stop! Police!” Another couple of seconds ticked by before, “Police!”

And then, the gunshot.

Brooke slowly opened her eyes and looked up at a graceful ceiling fan swirling slowly above her bed. She did not have a ceiling fan above her bed. She jerked up, ready for flight. Elise, too, jumped, then crept toward her, touching Brooke’s nose with her own. Instinctively, Brooke ran her hands over the dog’s slim, warm body, which edged comfortingly toward her own. Outside, Brooke heard mourning doves searching the grass for breakfast. She looked around the beautiful ivory and lilac bedroom. For an instant, she wondered in whose bed she slept. Then relief washed over her when she realized she was in the Lockhart house, the home once occupied by Sam and Laura, now by Sam and Vincent. She was protected. She was safe.

Still, she felt fearful. Although she wore a light gauze gown, her body was sticky from perspiration brought on by her images of Mia’s and her mother’s shattered bodies that had danced through her tortured sleep. Brooke got out of bed slowly, feeling every muscle ache from the strain of
yesterday’s attack. Or rather, two attacks. Last night, after she learned Zach Tavell had escaped the surveillance team, she had simply crawled back into this bed and shivered for the next hour; then somehow, out of sheer physical and emotional exhaustion, she’d fallen asleep.

As soon as she got out of bed, her legs gave way. She crumpled to the floor, totally alert but too terrified to stand up. She didn’t call for help. She refused to give in to fear. Instead, she rested for about ten minutes, then slowly stood up, listening to birds chirping in the bright morning sun she could see through the crack where the draperies met. The sun. Light. Zach wouldn’t dare come near her in the light, she thought. He always committed his murders in the night.

Someone had placed a glass of water on the bedside table, and she drank it dry. Then she headed for the bathroom. She longed for a hot shower, still imagining she could feel the stickiness of Mia’s drying blood on her face, her hands, in her hair, even though she’d showered before she’d gone to bed.

After taking an unusually long shower and washing her already clean hair three times, Brooke thought she felt a bit better. She’d brought along jeans and a long-sleeved blouse to wear today, but when she took the clothes out of her suitcase, they looked too tight and binding. Her sore body simply couldn’t tolerate tight denim and new, stiff Nike shoes.

Five minutes later Brooke entered the kitchen barefoot and wearing a soft silk floor-length robe. Vincent and Sam stared at her and she felt herself blushing. “In all the excitement last night, I forgot to pack a robe, and I’m feeling sort of beaten up today—too beaten up for tight clothes. I found this robe in the closet. I hope you don’t mind that I’m wearing it.”

“Course not,” “It’s lovely,” Vincent and Sam said together.

Then Sam continued. “That was one of Laura’s robes. She always wore beautiful nightwear until the last few months of her life when she had to abandon it for flannel. I saved that one. It was my favorite.”

“Oh, I’ll take it off,” Brooke said hurriedly. She’d guessed
it was Laura’s but hadn’t thought of how tactless it would be of her to put on the clothes of the dead woman both men had loved. “I’m so sorry.”