The Cinderella Hour (5 page)

Appearances mattered to Marielle Larken’s eldest daughter.
Vivian’s relief when she saw Mira’s gown translated into such a relaxed
atmosphere inside Blaine’s Lexus that Mira decided to defer, perhaps for the
entire trip, the subject of the obscene phone calls she had received.

If she didn’t raise the topic, it wouldn’t get discussed. Bea
alone knew about the calls. Mira hadn’t even told Luke. She had been preparing
to tell him, steeling herself against what would be his instant advice—
move
out of that house
—when the auction program arrived. With it had come the
more daunting prospect of informing him that Snow was returning home.

Mira would be in the advice-giving business then. Friendship’s
a two-way street, she would remind him when he greeted with silence her
suggestions about Snow. If you can give me advice about my life, Luke, I can
give you advice about yours.

Knowing Luke, he would smile at that. It would be a
thoughtful smile and an appreciative one—an acknowledgment of her concern,
whether he intended to follow her advice or not.

Knowing Luke . . . Mira did know him. Better, he had confessed
to her, than he had ever let anyone know him who wasn’t Snow. And Luke knew her.
Better, she had confessed to him, than any other two-legged creature she had
ever known.

They had met five years ago, when Luke appeared at Hilltop
Veterinary Clinic with a chocolate lab he rescued from a sink hole. He had waited
to hear Mira’s assessment—the muddy pup would be fine—by which time the dog’s
grateful owners had arrived and the clinic was closing for the night. Luke
asked Mira to join him for a drink. They had both ordered coffee, and more
coffee, and talked. And talked.

Five years later, they were still talking, still sharing,
usually by phone during the late-night hours when their long workdays were
through and they were too keyed up to sleep.

For the time being, conversations with Luke were on hold.
Like every other available firefighter in the tri-state region, he was battling
the floods in southwest Illinois.

Besides, Mira had come up with her own approach to Snow’s
return. And, if Luke knew of her plans, he would kill her—figuratively
speaking. Despite what some Quail Ridge townspeople might think, including
perhaps a sister in this very car, Lucas Kilcannon was not a killer.

“That’s a grim thought, Mira.” Blaine looked at her in the
rearview mirror. “Want to share?”

She made an immediate decision. “As a matter of fact, Blaine, I do. In the past week, I’ve gotten two obscene phone calls.”

“That’s just terrific,” Vivian weighed in. “But honestly,
Mira, what did you expect when you moved there?”

“I expected exactly what I’ve found. A lovely home, a
welcoming neighborhood, and an ideal location for my practice.”

“A lovely home,” Vivian repeated in a tone very like Luke’s
when Mira told him she was buying the property where he had lived until that
fiery night.

She had used the term “property” advisedly. The Kilcannon
house itself had burned to the ground. In an effort to erase all traces of the
structure, the builder had demolished the existing footprint, poured a new
foundation, and constructed a sprawling rambler a substantial distance from
where the two-story craftsman had stood.

And, its bloodied contents hauled away, the pool had been
filled with topsoil and planted with roses.

Three families had lived in the rambler on Meadow View Drive. Three families, and not a single tragedy. Or even a minor mishap. Still,
the families had chosen to leave . . . as if the ground itself was a graveyard
to haunted spirits.

There was no money to be made from the land where Jared
Kilcannon died. Each owner bought it for a song and sold it for less.

Luke hadn’t wanted Mira to buy the place. He had simply said,
without elaboration, that it was a bad idea. Vivian had been equally adamant in
her opinion of the purchase, and she had been forthright in her reasons.
Leaving Hilltop Veterinary Hospital to go into solo practice was one thing, a symptom
of Mira’s lifelong and apparently ungovernable independent streak. But moving
from Hilltop to Pinewood—and to
that
house—was both foolish and
inappropriate.

Not surprisingly, Vivian’s response to the obscene phone
calls was
I told you so.

“I’m not sure how Mira’s decision to move to Pinewood would
logically result in her getting obscene phone calls.”

Thank you, Blaine,
Mira thought as Vivian replied, “It’s an undesirable
neighborhood. It always has been.”

“That’s not true, Vivian. Pinewood’s a wonderful
neighborhood.”

Vivian gave a dismissive shake of her stylishly coiffed head.
“Even though you’re getting vulgar phone calls from a Pinewood hoodlum?”

“Prank calls,” Mira murmured. From a teenager. She hadn’t
considered the possibility. The restraint in the disgustingly pornographic
suggestions, the control despite the explicit language, made her conclude he
was a grown man—who was deadly serious. “I wish they were. But I don’t think
so.”

“Let’s hear a little more about the calls,” Blaine said. “Any
thoughts about the caller?”

“Lots of thoughts, Blaine, none of them very charitable.”

Blaine
smiled. “I meant thoughts about his demographics. Age, education, accent, that
sort of thing.”

“Not really. His voice is electronically disguised. I thought
his access to voice-altering technology might be a clue, until I discovered how
available such technology is. He could be any age, I suppose, but based on what
he’s saying and how he’s saying it, I think he’s an adult. In terms of
education, his grammar is good, and his vocabulary is X-rated. If there’s an
accent, it’s hidden by the technology.”

“You keep saying he.”

“Well, yes.
Yes
. A woman wouldn’t be making the sort
of anatomical allusions he makes.”

“Unless she’s calling for nonsexual reasons.”

“Such as?”

“To harass you for dating an ex-boyfriend of hers. Or an
ex-husband.”

“I’m not dating anyone, and I really believe he’s an adult
male.”

“That’s certainly the most likely, and if it’s what your
instincts are telling you, it’s probably right.”

“May I say something?” Vivian asked.

Mira saw the adoration in Blaine’s profile as he turned
toward his wife.

“Of course,” he said.

During what became a reciprocally adoring moment, Mira toyed
with the possibility that her attorney sister might have a legal contribution
to make. Vivian hadn’t taken the prosecutor path following her graduation,
magna cum laude, from law school. Criminal law—notably, the criminals—held no
appeal. But there had undoubtedly been required courses during law school on
how to approach what Mira was experiencing.

“It sounds like you’re listening to what he’s saying.”

So much for an opinion from Vivian’s brilliant legal mind. “Yes.”

“For heaven’s sake, why
?
If it were me, I’d immediately
hang up and call the police.”

“He makes threats about what would happen if I did either of
those things.”

“What kind of threats?”

“He says he’ll make similar calls to people I know.”

“Does he name the people?” Blaine asked. “Has he mentioned
us?”

“No to both.”

“Has he said anything that indicates he knows who you are or
where you live?”

“No. That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Maybe. Is there anything else?”

“Like what?”

“Are you being watched? Followed?”

“No.”
Not that I’ve noticed
.

It wasn’t a dazzling reassurance. Like most women, even as
she was paying for groceries, Mira’s mind was on her next errand, or the
next—assuming her mind had accompanied her on her shopping, banking, library, or
post office foray in the first place. It might have remained at the clinic,
preoccupied with an animal in her care.

Would Dr. Mira Larken have noticed someone watching her?
Stalking
her?

Not a chance.

“I assume you haven’t notified the police?”

“No. I haven’t.”

“You need to,” Blaine said. “This is potentially serious,
Mira. You have to take it seriously. For all you know, he’s making other calls
in Quail Ridge. The more data the police have, the more likely they are to
catch him.”

“All right. You’re right. I’ll let them know.”

“May we change the subject?” Vivian asked.

“Soon,” Blaine promised. “Remember as much as you can about
what he said, Mira, and how he said it. Verbatim, if possible. Write everything
down before showing it to the police.”

“Charming.”

That was said in unison by the sisters.

“Necessary,” Blaine countered. “His language is like a
fingerprint.”

“And?” Mira pressed as the unspoken “and” hung in the air.

“And,” Blaine said, “his language also provides insight into
any delusions he might be having.”

“Delusions about me?”

“Possibly. Yes.”

“In other words, how dangerous he is.”

“That’s right.”

“The police will be able to tell?”

“They damned well ought to be able to. I’m not sure who’s doing
forensic psychiatry for Quail Ridge PD. Do you know, Vivian?”

“Not a clue.”

“If there’s any question, I’d be happy to take a look at what
you prepare. Maybe I should look at it anyway, Mira. If anything he said to you
suggests psychosis to me, I’ll show what you’ve written to the best forensic
psychiatrist I know.”

“That’s very nice of you, Blaine.”

“But awkward?”

“A little. I know it’s silly of me. You’re a professional.
This is what you do. But . . . what he said is really explicit.”

“I think we could handle it, Mira. But it’s up to you. I’ll
be working at home all day tomorrow. If you change your mind, email me what you’ve
written, and I’ll email you my reply. Okay?”

“Yes. Thank—”

Vivian’s gasp silenced Mira’s “you.” She followed Vivian’s
gaze to a brightly lighted billboard.

WCHM welcomes radio phenomenon Snow Ashley Gable home to Chicago and proudly announces the Monday, October
31
st debut of her award-winning show
, The Cinderella Hour
. Tune to
AM
777
weeknights from
10
:
00
p.m. to
1
:
00
a.m. and discover what all of Chicago will be raving about. Simulcast at WCHM
777
.com.

“I can’t believe it.” Vivian’s gasp became a hiss. “How
dare
she?”

“How dare who?” Blaine hadn’t seen the billboard.
Saturday-night traffic on the Edens Expressway compelled his eyes to remain
focused on the road.

“Her name is Snow and she’s apparently got some new show on
WCHM radio.”

“Which she shouldn’t dare do?”

“What she shouldn’t dare is show her face in Chicago. Although, come to think of it, the billboard didn’t actually show her face.”

“You said she’s doing radio.”

“What else could she do, given her blimp shape and phone-sex
voice?”

Blaine
glanced at Mira in the rearview mirror. “No wonder you became a veterinarian,
Mira. Little did I realize you had such a catty sister. Do you share Vivi’s
feelings about this Snow?”

Mira’s feelings about Snow were, like Vivian’s, far from
positive. Luke had loved Snow and she had hurt him deeply. Mira had ample
reason to feel negatively about the woman who had been so callous toward her
friend. But she was stunned by Vivian’s reaction—that Vivian had any reaction
to Snow
at all.

“I never knew her,” Mira replied.

“Neither did I,” Vivian said. “Not really. She was a
sophomore when I was a senior. We only overlapped for half a year. But that was
long enough. Snow was a disgrace to Quail Ridge. And to Larken High. It was a
relief when she left. And now she’s back. I can’t believe it.”

“Chicago’s a big town, darling. I’m confident you can avoid
her if you try.”

“This isn’t funny, Blaine.”

“Yes, it is. Funny—and fascinating. I’m seeing a whole new
side of you.”

His right hand touched Vivian’s face. It was a masculine
hand. Blaine was a handsome and masculine man . . . who wore, on his little
finger, a gold ring.

Mira, who had met Blaine first, hadn’t noticed the ring. But
Vivian’s friend and law partner Lacey Flynn had. She had even toasted it at the
bridesmaids’ luncheon. Who’d have
imagined, she had asked with her
champagne flute held high, it would take a man with a pinkie ring for our
Vivian to fall in love? To pinkie rings and the studs who wear them!