Secrets Amoung The Shadows (7 page)

He forced himself to squeeze out a smile. "Thank you, Ms. Greer. Everything's fine."

She nodded, though he could tell from her expression that she wasn't convinced.

Would she be so concerned about his welfare if she knew he was consulting a psychiatrist, that he could be mentally ill, that he could be a murderer? No, she'd turn away in horror if she knew the truth about him.

"You had a couple of calls," she said, handing him two pink slips.

"Thanks." He took the messages and went back into his office then slid into his chair before he collapsed. For several minutes he stared out the window, his gaze unfocused, as he tried to regain his composure, to collect his thoughts.

He needed to talk to Leanne. She always had a calm, rational explanation for the unexplainable, and he wanted desperately to believe the possibilities she presented.

He brushed away the need with a surge of irritability. Leanne was a damned attractive woman, a woman who could tempt a man to lay his head in her lap and let her replace his pain with other, more pleasurable sensations.

And betray you!

That voice in his head was becoming more frequent and stronger. How much longer would he be able to retain control of his own mind?

He shouldn't have been thinking of Leanne in those terms, anyway. That wasn't the role she played in his life. She possessed skills he didn't have, and he needed her expertise. But in the end, the only person he could rely on was himself.

He needed to do something. He couldn't continue to sit around and wait for the next incident, for further proof of his insanity.

But what the hell could he do? If it were that easy, he'd have already done it.

He picked up his message slips and thumbed through them, looking at but not seeing the names and phone numbers written on them in Ms. Greer's neat, unremarkable handwriting.

A few weeks ago Ms. Greer had given him a message telling him his manicure appointment had been changed. He'd assumed it was a joke predicated on the well-known fact that he resented taking time off from work for things like haircuts, and he certainly wasn't likely to indulge in a manicure.

He had no problem with jokes, but he had no time for them either. He'd pitched the note without really reading it. He had no idea if Kay Palmer's name had been on it.

He picked up the phone and dialed Ms. Greer's extension. "A few weeks ago you gave me a message regarding a manicure. I don't suppose you happen to remember that."

"Thank you." He focused on a spot on his desk to one side of the piece of paper, unable to face what the message might tell him.

It was probably nothing of any consequence. Likely a joke, as he'd suspected. The name would be something like
Queen Elizabeth
or
Madonna
.

Whatever it was, he had to know.

Moving his gaze to focus on the highlighted line of the report seemed to take a physical effort. The date was three weeks ago.
Kay at Executive Styles called. Needs to change your manicure appt. from 4:00 to 5:00. Call if this is a problem. You have the number.

He read the words again, his gut clenching as the air around him turned frigid.

Kay… You have the number.

He slid open his desk drawer and retrieved a stack of business cards.

He found it right after Bradley Orson. Kay Palmer's business card.

He yanked it out of the stack, stared at it, tried to remember how it got there. But it was no use. He'd never seen the card before.

At least, not that he could remember.

But—he forced himself to look at the facts—he couldn't speak for anyone else who might inhabit his body. Had someone else placed it there using his hands, read it with his eyes? Had that someone else thumbed through to the appropriate alphabetical position and placed it there? Did he have the memory of those events stored somewhere in his brain, somewhere only Edward could access?

The card fluttered from his suddenly numb fingers. Perspiration started on his upper lip.

Edward
.

Where had that name come from and why did it sound so right?

Edward
.

He must have a relative with that name. He didn't think he had conjured the name out of thin air.

But who?

His real father's name had been Thomas Wayne Dalman; Dad's was Theodore Keith Kane. He ran through the short list of uncles and cousins.

He'd been an only child, and Edward had been his imaginary playmate. He and Edward had piloted space ships to Mars and hunted down Billy the Kid. He'd shared his childhood secrets with Edward, and Edward had never told. Edward had cried with him when he fell and broke his arm and celebrated with him when he got a new bicycle.

The memories brought a bitter sweet smile. Life had been so happy then, so simple.

The only shadow in his small world had been that his Mom and Dad, normally lenient and relaxed in their parenting, had sternly and surprisingly disapproved of his fantasy friend. And he, normally an obedient child, eager to please his parents, had dug in firmly and refused to give up Edward. He'd taken Edward to school with him, insisted that Edward wanted to learn to read and write, too.

Edward had been so much a part of his life, so important to him, that the other children had even accepted him as a constant companion.

He turned back into the room with a frown. When had he given up his fantasy? When had Edward ceased to be a part of his life, and why had he blocked the memory until just now?

Had it happened gradually as a part of growing up, or had his parents finally prevailed? Somehow it seemed important that he remember.

He could recall the Halloween parties when he'd improvised a costume for Edward since his parents refused to buy him one. At Christmas he'd bought presents for Edward.

But then something had happened. Things had changed.

As he grew older, the kids at school had begun to laugh about Edward. And he'd finally stopped talking about Edwards, but he didn't stop playing with him.

Someone he'd gone to school with.

He'd been thirteen and totally enthralled with the changing bodies of the girls he once played baseball with...especially Kay's which seemed to be changing the fastest. When she came to school with her long, light brown hair bleached blond, he knew he was in love. They'd met at the movies, held hands in assembly, kissed furtively at a friend's birthday party.

Edward had still been his best friend though he'd learned to refrain from discussing their relationship. But he'd trusted Kay, wanted to share everything with her. He'd told her.

And she'd told all her friends. The laughter had started behind feminine hands but soon spread to male faces. His best friend Jason had confronted him and called him nuts.

His teenage heart had been broken. He'd never gone out with Kay again, and gradually the laughter and the jeers stopped. But he never spoke about—or to—Edward again. Kay moved to Mesquite, and at an age where everything changed so fast, his classmates soon forgot.

Even he had forgotten until now, forgotten that he had a reason to hate Kay Becker.

It was possible Kay Palmer was Kay Becker. She could have married and changed her name, dyed her light brown hair red.

Maybe he did know Kay. And maybe he'd never really let go of his childhood playmate but had taken him inside, somehow given him a life and turned him into something evil.

An hour later Eliot stood outside the Executive Styles shop. Through the windows he could see the women cutting hair and giving manicures.

He looked down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them. Had he sat in one of those chairs while Kay Palmer smoothed his hands with lotion then buffed his nails?

In his dream her nails had been long and red...and two of the tips had broken off as she fought for her life. He'd scoured the news reports but had never found that detail mentioned. However, he'd heard that the police often withheld certain details of a crime in order to weed out the false confessions. What would they say if he asked them about the broken fingernails?

One of the women inside looked up, then smiled and waved. Woodenly Eliot lifted a hand in a return greeting. Did she know him or was she only being polite to a potential client?

He had to go in. Much as the possibility of what he might discover frightened him, nevertheless he had to know the truth. He straightened his tie, took a deep breath and pushed through the door.

"Yeah, me, too."
More sorry than you can ever know.
"Do the police have any idea who did it?"

Patsy leaned forward confidentially, and he moved closer to the desk.

"Wayne was coming over that night. She was going to tell him she wanted a divorce. Did she tell you that?"

Eliot could hear the blood roaring past his ears as he listened to Patsy's revelations. "No, she didn't tell me."
But he couldn't say if she'd told Edward.

Patsy's forehead wrinkled. "You did know she was just separated, not divorced, didn't you?"

"Sure," Eliot lied. "I knew that."

"Well, Wayne didn't even like the idea of them being separated, so he probably didn't take too kindly to a divorce. I think he killed her in a rage, that's what I think. Wayne Palmer had a terrible temper, especially when he'd been drinking."

Eliot ran his tongue over suddenly dry lips. "So I was to blame for her death."

At Patsy's shocked look, he realized he'd spoken the words aloud. "Oh, no," she protested. "Don't you even think that. You made her happy. She was so excited that day. She had her hair done and her nails sculptured just for you. If Wayne agreed to the divorce, she was going to call you right away on your private number, the one that was just for her to use, so the two of you could celebrate."

"Sculptured? Does that mean her nails were long and red?" All the woman had to do was say
no
, and he would be able to breathe again.

"Yeah!" Patsy grinned. "Real long and real red. Just the way you liked them."

Real long and real red
. The air seemed to have gone out of the room. He couldn't get his breath.

"You really don't look so good, Eliot. You're taking this pretty hard, aren't you? Oh, I know you're a big, strong, macho man, but I also know you had some real feelings for Kay."