Under the Skin (2 page)

Instead, I made a strenuous effort to sound composed
and adult as I tried to explain things to the back of Phillip’s head.

“It’s just that with all the farm work right now, not to mention getting things ready for the wedding next month, this isn’t exactly a good time for
anyone
to come for an open-ended visit, especially Gloria … she’s so bloody high-maintenance.”

All the old feelings were just below the surface: bitterness, guilt, annoyance, a touch of envy, and guilt again—an evil stew of emotion ready to break into a full boil.

Not attractive, Elizabeth
, I warned that nasty inner child who was still quivering with righteous indignation.
Aren’t you about forty years too old for this kind of adolescent reaction to your only sister … your only sibling?

I took a deep breath, forcing myself into the mind-set of rationality and general benevolence that I like to pretend comes naturally. Usually, it does. But now … oh, why the
hell
does my sister always bring out the worst in me?

Two more deep breaths and I was able to say, “On the other hand, if things are so bad between Gloria and her husband …”

I was thinking out loud now, trying to make sense of the just-ended conversation and trying also to ignore the tagline from Tennyson that was running through my head—
“ ‘The curse is come upon me,’ cried the Lady of Shalott.”

“… if it’s so bad that she’s actually contemplating staying
here
for a month or longer, what can I do? And things must be seriously awful. Glory hates it here at the farm—‘too much
Nature
,’ she always says, as if Nature was something you wouldn’t want to step in.”

Phillip, comfortable on the sofa with a dog on either side of him, his sock feet propped on the old cedar chest
that serves as a coffee table, finally looked up from his after-supper book with that calm, amused expression he’s so good at.

“This guy—he’s what—your sister’s third husband? So problems with married life aren’t entirely new to her. What’s the big deal this time?”

He wouldn’t be so calm and amused if he had any idea of what Glory’s like, I thought, wondering if this could be some elaborate joke of hers. But the thing is—my sister has no sense of humor. None. Never has.

“Well,” I told him, thinking at the same time that, after all his patient courtship, Phillip deserved better than this, “according to Gloria, the problem is that Jerry’s trying to kill her.”

He wants me dead, Lizzy
, she had whispered into the phone, her voice hoarse with what might be fear … or might just be Glory’s usual histrionics. The only thing that tempted me to take her seriously was that not once did she put me on hold—though I heard the telltale beep several times during the lengthy conversation.

Phillip lifted a quizzical eyebrow and, after carefully marking his place with an envelope, laid his book on the coffee table. Harlan Coben again, I noticed.

“Why don’t you tell me exactly what she said?”

His dark eyes were intent on me—one of the things I like so much about this man I’m about to marry is the way he can switch from a comfortable-as-an-old-shoe, easygoing sort of a guy to a seriously focused police detective. And vice versa, thank god.

Already he was worrying at the problem like one of the dogs with a bone. “Your sister thinks her husband wants to kill her—does she have anything concrete to base that supposition on? Or is it just a general feeling? I’m guessing that if he’d laid hands on her, she would have had the sense to get the law involved. Just what did she say?”

Phillip was studying my face with what I took to be professional interest. “Well,” I began, “there were several things …”

Standing there by the sofa, like a schoolgirl called on for recitation, I repeated what Glory had told me, trying to use just the words—leaving out what seemed to me Glory’s typical exaggeration. And leaving out, as well, my skeptical reaction. No eye-rolling—just the facts, Detective Hawkins, sir.

These little things keep happening
, Gloria had insisted, her voice breathless and hurried.
The slick place at the top of the stairs, the food poisoning; the brakes on the car going out all at once—the trooper said it was a miracle that I wasn’t killed—and that’s only three—there were more and they weren’t all accidents. I’m sure of it now. Jerry wants me dead. I know too much about his so-called businesses
.

When I came to the end of my account, Phillip nodded.

“Interesting.” He nudged Molly to dislodge her from her place by him. When her usual ploy of turning reproachful amber eyes on him was to no avail, the red hound gave a resigned sigh, rose, stretched her elegant body, and, with no evidence of hurry, made a graceful descent.

Phillip patted the vacant spot. “Come sit down, Lizabeth, and tell me what you think. Do
you
believe this story your sister’s telling?”

I sank down at his side, nestling close and savoring the solid reassurance of him.

“Do I believe her? … Well, I guess I believe that she
thinks
she’s in danger. But Glory’s life is
always
such a drama—no, not a drama, more of a soap opera.”

Phillip gave my ear a friendly nuzzle then put an arm around me and began to rub my neck. “Yeah, I got that
impression from a few things Ben said … his dad was her second husband, right?”

“Umm,” I nodded, closing my eyes. “That feels good. Yep, Ben’s dad was her second marriage. Or maybe it was technically her first since the other one was annulled.”

Was there any need to get into that episode of the Gloria Show? I wondered. Phillip’s hands moved to my shoulders. Since he isn’t asking, I decided, we’ll just fast-forward.

“Ben’s dad was a respectable young lawyer—nice enough but spectacularly boring—at least, that’s what Sam and I thought. And I guess Glory got bored with him herself because she divorced him after only a few years. Ben was really little—maybe two or three—when that happened.” I leaned forward. “Right on down my spine, if you would. Ben and I were transplanting starts for most of the day and my body seems to have decided that fifty-five is the new eighty-five. All my joints have kind of seized up.”

As Phillip’s strong fingers dug into my stiff muscles, I wondered if Ben knew about his mother’s plans to visit. My nephew has worked on the farm since a few years after my husband Sam’s death and I made Ben my business partner a while back. His choosing my lifestyle over his mother’s is only the most recent of Gloria’s many grievances against me. “Taking my only child from me” is how she put it during one particularly nasty phone conversation.

“About Ben’s dad …”

There was real curiosity in Phillip’s voice and I could almost hear the items being added to the file in that orderly cop-slash-detective mind of his:
Gloria: Elizabeth’s younger sister, city girl, second husband, Ben’s dad …

“Ben’s dad’s still around, isn’t he?” Phillip’s hands were beginning to stray as so often happened and I
swung my feet up on the sofa and stretched out with my head in his lap.

“Oh, he’s around, but Ben doesn’t see much of him. Benjamin Barton Hamilton the Third—and that’s how the dad introduces himself, just to give you some idea of how stuffed his shirt is—anyway, he’s a partner at some big important firm in DC. I think he was kind of disappointed in Ben’s career path—he’d hoped his son would carry on the family tradition of lawyering. But BBH the Third’s remarried now to a woman not a lot older than Ben. They have three young children and he’s just not a big part of Ben’s life anymore.”

“Is he the guy your sister’s money comes from? Ben mentioned something once about his mother being so rich that she was out of touch with the way real people live.”

“No, the
big
money came from Harold. Harold Holst came after BBH the Third.”

And was, very probably, the real reason Gloria left him. When she met Harold in connection with some charity do she was organizing and found out that not only was he recently widowed, but he had more money than God on a good day, that pretty well did it for old boring Benjamin the Third. Gloria and Holst were married before the ink was dry on her divorce papers
.

Oh, mee-yow, Elizabeth! What a catty bitch you are, to be sure!

I closed my eyes, remembering the handsome white-haired man and his magical effect on Glory. During the ten years they had together, before Harold died so suddenly, my sister had been a different woman—softer, gentler—and happier than I’d ever known her.

Amazing what a having few million dollars for mad money can do
.

Evidently that brat of an inner child was still whining and kicking. I bit my lip, then went on.

“Harold was a really nice guy. And he and Gloria truly adored each other.”

Phillip’s roaming hands fell still and I was amused to note that the cop was winning out over the lover. “So, if we count the annulment, this is her fourth husband that she’s running away from … What’s he like?”

“I’ve never met Jerry—two of Glory’s weddings were enough for me.”

That sounded pretty cold, I thought. It seemed hard to admit how little I knew of my sister’s life; I fumbled around for what scraps I could offer.

“Ben told me he was surprised by Jerry because he didn’t seem like Gloria’s usual kind of guy. I got the impression he’s maybe a little … 
uncouth
. From some other things Ben said when he came back from spending a little time down there, evidently the relationship was pretty intense—either Jerry and Gloria were yelling and throwing things at each other or they were carrying on like hormone-crazed teenagers. No middle ground.”

Sitting up, I swung around to face Phillip.

“Oh, here’s one interesting thing—Ben kind of wondered if maybe Jerry was … you know … 
connected
. Ben said there were these shady types who would drop by the house and Jerry would take them outside to talk business. Ben seemed to think”—
and now I’m the one sounding like a soap opera
—“that maybe Jerry was part of the Mafia or whatever they call it these days.”

Phillip raised an eyebrow. “Really? That
could
be interesting. Ben’s not the kind of kid to make up stuff like that. What did you say Jerry’s last name is?”

I spelled it out and he wrote it on the inside cover of the paperback. The schoolhouse clock in the den struck the hour and Phillip gave a Pavlovian yawn and then another. Glancing at his watch, he frowned and shut the book.

“Hate to do it but I better turn in—early meeting tomorrow.

But after that, I’ll make a few inquiries—see what I can find out about this Jerry Lombardo.”

Phillip was already in bed and I was making my last prowl through the house—turning off lights, putting dogs out for one last pee, and picking up odds and ends. I was moving the stack of Phillip’s paperwork—tedious cop stuff, he calls it—off the cedar chest when I noticed the corner of an airmail envelope sticking out from under one of the files. The spidery handwriting of the return address was familiar.

Sure enough, it was a letter from Aunt Dodie that must have gotten mixed in with his things when he picked up the mail—a part of Phillip’s routine when he comes home, saving me the half-mile trip to the mailbox for what’s usually nothing but bills.

But why airmail? I turned the light by the love seat back on and sat down to see what my honorary aunt had to say. I had my finger under the flap when it hit me—the stamp was wrong.

The return address was Aunt Dodie’s own—in New Bern—but the postmark was from the UK—Chipping … and something smudged. What in the world? I wondered, ripping open the flimsy envelope.

Her spidery handwriting was clear—unlike her thought processes. But as long as I’d known her—which was roughly forever as she’d been my mother’s best friend—Aunt Dodie had been a fluttery, scatterbrained little woman. And her infrequent letters were always marvels of exclamation points and underlining, dizzying changes of subjects and frequent long-winded asides. This one was no exception.

The letter rambled and nattered on for two more violet-scented pages of cream teas, Liberty fabrics, biscuits not really biscuits at all but cookies—“
very
nice
cookies too, though why called
digestive
, I couldn’t say.”

My eyelids were getting heavy and I was just skimming the waves of words when the last paragraph stopped me.