The Summer Bones (8 page)

Emily's clothes were the best. Chanel, Saks, and other famous designers marched in splendor through the ranks of her wardrobe. She didn't pay for all this with her salary, Victoria knew that. Ronald paid for it—Ronald and his family's drugstore chain. Emily had always liked money.

And there were the shoes. Seventy pairs. Maybe more. Neatly stacked in boxes from floor to ceiling. With so many things, how on earth could she tell if Emily had taken clothes with her?

A search of the bathroom proved just as fruitless. Jars of creams and bottles of various cosmetics filled the drawers—eyeliner in a dozen shades, forty tubes of lipstick. Searching with a growing sense of frustration, Victoria bent and rummaged under the sink. Something black caught her eye and she pulled it out, weighing the box with her hands.

A gun lay inside—perfectly legal, with the license folded neatly beside it. Gingerly, Victoria closed the box and slid it back to rest in the cabinet. A lot of people owned guns. She even vaguely remembered Emily mentioning buying one.

There was nothing helpful, nothing to enlighten the current drama. After twenty minutes of searching, and the growing fear that Ronald would wake and come upstairs, she gave up. The most sinister thing she found was a dirty book hidden under the mattress—
Mistress of Bondage
or some such rot. Some blonde wrapped in chains being threatened by a gorgeous man with unlikely muscles on the cover. In disgust, she put it back.

The guest room was neat, sterile, useless.
To hell with it
, she thought miserably. The only place left was Ronald's studio.

She'd never been allowed in the studio in the past. For that matter, she'd been told by her sister that no one was allowed in the inner sanctuary of his artistic muse, not even Emily. The door was even equipped with an expensive and effective-looking lock, but today the knob turned easily in her hand and she quietly slipped inside.

Skylights filtered warm sunlight into cool illumination. There was little furniture, just a few straight chairs and several stools. Three easels sat in varying positions, and a businesslike set of shelves held bottles and brushes and streaked jars of liquid. Several completed paintings leaned against a far wall. Curiously, Victoria wandered over to the easel nearest the door. It seemed to be a typical Ronald Sims piece, one of the landscapes that had made him respectably well known in the artistic world and fairly popular locally. She silently studied a host of ghostly gray trees against a background of snow. It was good enough to make a winter chill finger your spine. Even in midsummer, even half done, his talent was undeniable, whatever else you could say about the man.

The next canvas was blank except for a few mysterious streaks of black that had yet to take recognizable form. She moved on to the third easel, stopping with shock as she took in what seemed to be a complete picture. Her mouth opened in surprise and her palms went suddenly damp and clammy.

The distinct form of a woman stood at the forefront against some kind of darkish background. Either she was admiring herself in a mirror, or perhaps taking a shower, it wasn't clear.

The nude figure stood in a seductive pose, one knee raised, the swelling outline of breast and thigh done in precise detail, the arch of her throat in distinct relief. Brown hair, touched with clever highlights of gold, brushed her bare shoulders and fell down her back. She was smiling.

Behind her, in disquieting contrast, was the partial figure of a man, half his face visible, giving the impression he was peering through a doorway like a voyeur, with the woman unaware. It was eerie and haunting.

Swallowing, Victoria lifted her hand to touch the canvas, then dropped it by her side. The woman was easily recognizable as Emily—or, of course, herself.

Ronald had managed to make the man in the background look disturbingly like her cousin Damon.

His watch said three o'clock. He shouldn't be there. What was the point?

However many times he asked himself that question, he couldn't find a legitimate answer.

Danny Haase stretched his arms above his head and flexed his shoulders. He'd been sitting in his car for over an hour, watching the glinting sunshine on the roof of the yellow house across the street. Looking at the glare of the windows. Staring at the white gauzy curtains that shut the world outside and the occupants inside.

What am I doing here?
he had to ask himself again as he wiped a bead of sweat off his upper lip. The inside of the black and white was stifling.

Then it happened. The door opened and a woman stepped outside. The sunlight touched her hair and gave it the glow of burned honey. She was wearing white shorts, a blue tank top, and thin, strappy sandals. As she came down the front steps, she reached upward and pushed the blond hair off her forehead in an absent and well-known mannerism.

It was odd. He hadn't thought for a long time about how pretty she was, how her breasts moved slightly when she walked, the way she held her head. But now, watching his wife walk away from another man's house, he thought how lovely she looked as she moved. His heart began to hurt in his chest and his hand flexed convulsively on his knee.

She must have caught sight of the patrol car out of the corner of her eye. Laura stopped dead suddenly, turning to stare at him. From across the street, he couldn't tell if her expression was surprise, anger, or shame.

For a long moment they simply looked at each other across the hot expanse of asphalt. The trees hung weblike branches over the shimmering street.

The moment snapped. She turned and walked away without so much as a backward glance. He felt compelled to keep his eyes fastened on her graceful form until she rounded the corner of Main and disappeared from sight.

Reaching for the keys still hanging in the ignition, he found his hands were shaking and useless.
Idiot
, he said to himself fiercely,
what did you just prove? That you know they are together, like this, in the afternoons? That you sat outside while another man made love to your wife?

He breathed hard out of his nose and steadied his hands.
Let her go
, he silently pleaded with himself,
just let her go
.

Too bad it was easier said than done.

* * * *

Victoria sat on the plush mauve settee and looked at her hands. Slender fingers, no rings, no polish, short businesslike nails well equipped to tap away at a computer keyboard—a statement about her personality, just as Emily's long polished nails and expensive rings were indications of a more exuberant persona. The office was part of it, too—expensive plum carpeting stretching to cream walls, scattered chairs, glass-topped tables with lovely arrangements of silk flowers in soft tones, a walnut reception desk complete with a demure and pretty young girl who was frowning at a magazine between furtive peeks at their visitor and answering phone calls.

And, of course, the paintings—two original Ronald Sims landscapes framed beautifully against the cream background. The room was very much Emily … so much that Victoria felt a physical pang. Ducking her head, she picked up an issue of
House Beautiful
from the coffee table. She swallowed and glanced through a section on Italian architecture.

The phone buzzed on the desk. The girl punched a button and picked up the receiver, her gaze flitting toward Victoria and then away as she nodded her head. An artful curve of brown hair bounced against her neck.

“Gail can see you now.” She replaced the phone. Her interested stare crept up Victoria's body, past the shorts and causal top to what appeared to be her fascinating face.

“Thank you.” Victoria tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. Being kept waiting for nearly thirty minutes, like someone seeking an audience with the queen of England, hadn't sat very well. The business was as much Sims as it was Benedict, and at present, Sims was missing. And Sims was her sister. She had a certain right to be here. She stood up, dumping the magazine on her chair.

“Uncanny,” the girl said and then looked pleased with her choice of the word. “Absolutely uncanny. Freaky.”

Victoria summoned a polite smile.

“When you walked in, I about shi—er, was really surprised.”

“Some people are.”

“I mean it! I've seen twins before and it's nothing like this. It's like a carbon copy. Your face, her face …” The brown hair swung in wonder. “If I didn't know better, I mean, if you hadn't said who you were when you came in—”

“You would have thought I was Emily,” Victoria finished. She'd seen that expression before—all her life, in fact. Most often it happened when she and Em weren't together. When someone who knew them both couldn't compare the difference, not in the symmetry of their features, but in animation and expression.

The secretary nodded, eyeing Victoria's outfit. “Not the clothes, but …”

“I suppose it's been hectic here without her,” Victoria said directly.

“You wouldn't believe.” The girl rolled her eyes. “Gail has been beside herself.”

“With worry?”

Another nod. “The client load is at an all-time high. You wouldn't believe the calls.”

Worried
about the business, and not about Emily herself.
One more person seemed to be convinced that Emily had disappeared on purpose, and that seemed to be Gail Benedict. Victoria felt a stirring of interest at what Emily's partner might have to say.

“Have you worked here long?” she asked, pausing by the desk and glancing at the closed door of the office.

“Six months,” was the prompt reply.

“Six months?” Victoria smiled encouragingly. “How many other people work here? Besides Emily and Gail, of course.”

The girl puckered her brow. “Just me—unless you count the two delivery guys and Gail's son. When he's home from college in the summer and on breaks, he helps out. He's twenty.” A small dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth. Apparently, Gail's son was worth smiling over.

“You do all the secretarial work? Scheduling and everything?”

“Most of it. Some Gail and Emily do themselves, you know, and Kevin is studying accounting, so he works on that when he's on vacation.” The phone rang again, and shrugging, the girl answered brightly, “Benedict and Sims Interiors.”

Victoria turned and walked to the door, knocking lightly and then turning the knob.

Inside, the mauve and plum tones gave way smoothly to pale blue and charcoal, set off by a glass and chrome desk. A huge window faced the flowing cars on Allisonville Road, giving movement to the austere surroundings. The only splash of color came from some pale pink roses in a black lacquer vase sitting on a glass pedestal.

Victoria knew instantly that this room, with the cool feel of glass and neutrality, had not been decorated by her sister. Gail, then, favored a more modern school of artistic taste.

Emily's partner was sitting in a leather chair behind the desk. She squinted gravely at a computer screen, taking a studied moment before she glanced up and acknowledged that someone had come into the room.

To Victoria, it seemed a careful act of indifference—a statement of how Gail felt about the interruption to her afternoon business, an insult.

They had met once before. Two years ago, when Emily had a gleeful dinner party to celebrate their first anniversary in business. Victoria had been visiting the farm at the time, and she and Damon had both been coerced into driving up to Indy for the event. Elegant Gail, late forties, smiling, well dressed, had been charming and enthusiastic. It was easy enough to see that the charm was fully buried at this moment by something that seemed like annoyance.

A little off-balance, Victoria stood awkwardly just inside the doorway. Whatever she had expected, it wasn't this.

“I don't have a lot of time,” Gail said by way of greeting. “I've got a meeting at two thirty.”

Blatant rejection.

Victoria cleared her throat. “I just want a minute or two. May I sit?” She indicated a black leather chair nearby.

Gail's eyes flickered. “Of course. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude; it's just I've been a little overwhelmed this past week. I'm lucky that Donna hasn't quit.”

Victoria sat down and put her hands in her lap. She hadn't intended on this particular visit and didn't really have a speech prepared. She'd left Ronald still sleeping at the house in Carmel and driven back toward the freeway, only to impulsively change course. It seemed foolish to drive all the way to Indianapolis and not talk to the people who saw her sister every day—ask them questions, ask about
that
Monday.

Gail regarded her evenly. Dark hair was pulled back from a face emphasized by high cheekbones. Expensive makeup took care of the encroachment of wrinkles near the full mouth and softened her eyes, but nothing short of surgery could tighten the betraying sag underneath her chin. She was dressed in a black silk blouse and gray slacks and seemed as much part of the room as the leather furniture and shining glass—cool, attractive, functional.

“I'm naturally here about Em,” Victoria opened, clasping a bare knee with both hands. “We're all very worried. I came down from Chicago yesterday.”

“Naturally,” Gail said. “Is there some word? Something I should know?”

“They've found her car. But perhaps you knew that already?”

Gail nodded. “Ronald called.”

She folded her hands on the desk. Her nails were short and polished in a clear shine. “A person's hands,” Emily had once said, “can tell you a lot about them.” Gail's shouted “businesslike” and “efficient.”

“He said the car didn't offer the police much in the way of clues. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmm.” Gail tapped a pen restlessly on her day planner and looked bland.

Victoria asked slowly, “Do you have any idea where she's gone?”