Rehearsal for Murder (Maggie Ryan) (14 page)

As they turned into their oak-lined street, he could see that there was something wrong. Elaine tensed too. “What’s going on, Steve?”

“I don’t know.” It was hard to pinpoint. Past the tall hedge he could see Rachel standing out on their lawn, outlined by the light that streamed from her own living room window next door. Bob was patting her rigid shoulders. That was it, maybe, her stiff posture, hands clamped one in the other. Her usual relaxed good humor had evaporated completely.

“Oh, God,” said Elaine. “Do you think it’s premature labor? She was doing so well! And where’s Muffin?”

“I don’t know,” said Steve. Something heavy and cold was growing in his gut. Evil things were in motion. He pulled up to the curb. Elaine was out almost before they had stopped, running across the light-streaked lawn to Rachel.

“Rachel, are you all right? Where’s Muffin?”

“You don’t have her? Oh, God!” Rachel sagged against Bob, whose arms went around her supportively.

“What the hell is going on?” Steve felt far away, as though he were watching the scene from the stars sparkling above. Rachel was sobbing, Elaine standing before her, alert and anxious.

Bob said, “Rachel went to pick her up, but she wasn’t there. The woman said someone else had come for her.”

“Someone else?”

“A young woman who said you had sent her.”

“Have you called the police?” demanded Steve. Rachel shook her head. “I didn’t know what to do! I called your office right away, but you were out.”

“Yes. I had to leave for a little bit,” said Steve guiltily. Susan. He’d been with Susan while this was happening, while Rachel was trying to reach him.

“And I thought maybe you really had found someone else and then couldn’t reach me because I’d already left. So I just came back here to see if you might be home. Tried to call you at your office again.”

“I was probably on my way to meet Lainey by then.”

Elaine was looking back and forth, not comprehending, maybe not wanting to. “What young woman? Where’s Muffin?”

“Oh, honey, we don’t know!” said Rachel. “I don’t know what to do!”

“We call the police,” said Steve. He bounded across the lawn and up his flagstone walk. The others trailed after him. He flipped on the hall light and hurried into the kitchen to pick up the phone. What should he dial? Local police? Manhattan?

“Steve!” cried Elaine. “Steve! Oh, God, stop!”

“What?” Still holding the receiver, he stepped back into the hall.

Elaine was crouched on the floor where the mail had fallen through the slot into a rough pile. She was holding a sheet of paper printed with large letters. Looked a little like an advertisement from here, Steve thought. But badly set, letters unmatched.

Elaine was looking up at him, dazed, like a shot animal that cannot comprehend what has happened to it. Steve dropped the receiver and squatted beside her, one arm around her shoulders. Gently he took the paper from her.

This isn’t real, he thought, a bad movie or a bad dream. The words consisted of the cliché letters-cut-from-newspaper-headlines, as though already preparing for cliché tabloid emotions. But the message, cliché or not, went straight to the heart.

We’ve got Muffin. Cute kid. If you want her back, pay us $500,000 by Friday night. We’ll tell you where and how. We mean business. If we don’t get the money, we’ll send you her finger. If you call the police, we’ll send you her ear.

Part Three

A GRASSHOPPER’S UNCLE

Friday morning

March 9, 1973

VIII

Friday morning

March 9, 1973

By morning Steve was beyond exhaustion, existing in a world of numbing fatigue and paradoxically heightened senses. For hours he and Elaine had been alternately bickering and comforting each other. They both felt panic; they both ached for their child; they both felt enormous, paralyzing guilt. And in this state of emotional chaos they had to hammer out a plan of action.

“Steve, we’ve got to be rational!” Elaine had sobbed last night after one bitter exchange of accusations. “Her life depends on it!”

“I know, honey.” Steve had hugged her, his face buried in her hair, guilt washing over him again. How could he ever have believed that being with Susan was worth risking this? A giddy kid, now paying dearly for his irresponsibility. He couldn’t add confession to Elaine’s burdens now. But her pain was another knife twisting inside him. He said, “We’ll be rational. Let’s finish the finances.”

They’d totaled it up. Most of their assets were tied up—the house, the cars, insurance. Bank accounts and stocks that could be cashed in before the Friday night deadline came to just over $100,000.

It was Elaine who finally acknowledged it. “We’ll have to call Dad.”

“Yeah. Damn.”

She had called, near midnight, only to be reminded by her mother that Avery Busby was under sedation on doctor’s orders. Elaine had refused to tell her mother the problem, but said she’d call back early the next morning. “Oh, I hope I didn’t worry her too much,” she’d said as she hung up.

“You were fine, honey.”

“But do you think he can help?”

“Yes, but not till the banks open.”

“Steve, how could you have let someone else pick her up?”

“It was Rachel, damn it!” Steve had just not been able to tell her about Maggie and Mrs. Golden. “You’ve left her with Rachel sometimes yourself!”

“Oh, God, why did I ever leave her?” Her anguish had shifted again, aimed at herself now.

“Honey, we can’t do anything about what’s already happened. We have to go on from here. Let’s try to get some sleep.”

A foolish suggestion; there was little sleep for either of them. Steve’s thoughts were a maelstrom of worries—about Elaine, about Susan, about money, most of all about his daughter. Was she all right? Was she frightened? Would he ever see her again? The memory of her delicious dimpled smile knifed, clear as glinting sunlight, through the fatigued muddle of his worries. In the unfriendly darkness Steve put his head into the pillow and wept for his lost daughter.

But then Elaine, who with the aid of Valium was dozing a little beside him, awoke with a sob, and Steve blinked back his own tears so that he could try to comfort her.

Friday’s dawn found them both ravaged by the night, but at least they could begin to act. They hurried first to the front door, to see if by chance a second message had already arrived, but nothing was there. Mechanically Elaine made coffee and toast. Only minutes later there was a knock on the door: Rachel, her belly enormous under a plush bathrobe.

“I saw the light on. Any news?”

“Nothing yet.”

“I feel so guilty!” she sobbed. “If only I’d tried harder to check with you, Steve! If—”

“Rachel, please, it’s not your fault. Anyway, I wasn’t always by the phone.”

“Oh, Steve! You shouldn’t have come to pick me up!” Elaine burst out.

“Lainey, don’t you think I’d do everything differently if I could?” Steve sat down helplessly, head in hands.

But her mind had already spun on to another question. “It’s still too early to call Dad, I guess.”

Steve checked his watch. “Maybe not. He’ll kill us if we wait too long about something like this.”

Elaine handed coffee to Rachel. “Really? It’s okay?”

“Go ahead,” said Steve.

Avery Busby was awake, all right. Elaine’s mother put him on, and from across the kitchen Steve could hear the testiness in his “Hello?”

“Oh, Daddy, the most awful thing has happened!” Elaine was instantly a little girl again, pouring out her problem. She’d always be Busby’s little girl. And Steve would always be the kid. Guilt twisted inside him; he had to forget his resentments now, to focus on Muffin’s dilemma.

“Daddy, you’ve got to believe me! Listen, I’ll read the note.” Elaine picked up the paper and recited the ghastly words.

She listened a moment, then said, “No, of course we haven’t called the police. Because of what the note said!” And in a moment she turned to Steve. “Here, he wants to talk to you.”

Steve gripped the receiver. “Hello?”

“Is all this true, Steve?”

“I’m sorry, especially with your operation, but—”

“How much cash have you got?”

“Hundred and two, liquid.”

“I’ll get the rest. You call the police.”

“No! The note said—”

“The police will know what to do. They’re—”

“I don’t care! The important thing is Muffin’s safety!”

“Of course it is! All right, I’ll call them. I’ve got connections.”

“After she’s back! Not before!”

“Look, Steve, they’ve got specialists. They’ll know that getting her back safely and quickly is the important thing. They’ve seen this sort of thing before.”

“I know,” said Steve stubbornly. “But that note meant business. If they bumble things even a little, our baby might be hurt.” In the background he could hear Elaine sobbing in Rachel’s arms, and he hated Busby for forcing him to say these things.

But the old man was obstinate. “You’re more likely to bumble on your own. In fact, I think I’ll come up.”

“But you can’t travel yet!”

“Bill was in the medical corps in the Army. When did you get the note?”

“I don’t know when it arrived. We found it about nine, when we got back.”

“And you know she was safe at the school at five?”

“I called them to say someone else would be picking her up. They would’ve said something if there was already a problem then.”

“Well, we’ve lost a lot of time already. We’ve got to get the police on it now.”

“Please.” Steve heard the desperation in his own voice. “Elaine is upset enough already. Damn it, so am I! We’re just going to do exactly what they say until we get Muffin back. After that you can call in the FBI if you want. But not yet!”

“You’re forgetting two things,” said Busby acidly. “First, I won’t let them hurt any relative of mine. I’ll do what’s best for the kid. Second, any kidnapper with half a brain wouldn’t ask you for that much money. It’s not your daughter who was kidnapped, Steve. It’s my granddaughter. And so I’m going to run this show. I’ll be there by noon.”

“But—oh, damn.” The line was dead. Steve slammed the receiver back into the cradle. Red visions of smashing Busby flooded his mind.

“Is he calling the police?” Elaine’s hands clenched and unclenched jerkily.

“Yeah.” Steve cleared his throat. “He’s taking over. Damn, I should have known!”

“Well, maybe it’s for the best,” Elaine faltered, but her gaze strayed to the note.

“Look,” said Rachel, concerned but a little more objective. “He’s got the money, right? You can’t do what the kidnappers say without him.”

“That’s true. Not by tonight,” admitted Steve.

“So you need him, and he’s going to help but on his own terms. What did you expect?”

“I expected some understanding of the problem! I mean—what they say in the note—”

“Well,” said Rachel practically, “it’s clear the police are going to be called. Better deal with that as a given.”

“That’s right,” said Elaine. “You know how Daddy is.”

“I sure do.” Steve knew they were right. He’d just have to try to convince the police to stay out of it. Maybe the note would do it. “But what if the kidnappers are watching the house?” he asked. “I’d better call them myself.”

He was forestalled by the imperious ring of the telephone. Avery Busby again. “It’s all set,” he informed Steve. “Their top specialist will be meeting you at the office at nine.”

“The office?”

“Yes, of course. Your house may be under surveillance by the kidnappers. Much safer to talk to them at work.”

“You don’t think I’ll be under surveillance there?”

“Look, they know what they’re doing. This Lugano is the top man. Be sure to give him the note and a photo of Muffin. See you soon.”

Steve hung up and turned to Elaine. “Okay, I’ll do my best to keep them away,” he said to her. “Honey, you’ll have to manage the phone. Okay? In case the instructions come that way. And take care of your dad when he arrives. It’ll be okay to call me if you need me.”

“Yes.” Elaine nodded.

“Do you want me to stay?” asked Rachel.

“Please,” said Elaine. “Unless Bob needs you.”

“I’ll see him off and come right back.” Rachel heaved herself to her feet and lumbered out.

Steve went for his tie and jacket. When he returned to the kitchen, Elaine had moved her chair near the telephone and was sitting dry-eyed, clutching Muffin’s fuzzy brown teddy bear. Steve knelt before Elaine.

“Honey, it’ll be all right. I’m sure it will,” he lied. But the dazed grief in the lovely hazel eyes was beyond the reach of his words. He kissed her tense hand and, miserable, waited until Rachel returned.

On the way to his office he made plans about how to handle the police. Busby might insist on calling them, but the note had been more than clear: no police. Well, Steve would do what he could to keep them off the trail long enough for Muffin to be safely returned home.