The Night Before Christmas, page 16
Ian looked at her curiously as a warning bell went off in his head. How did she know he had six pairs of glasses? He didn’t remember telling her that. Suddenly he knew...
She’d searched his room and he hadn’t even noticed.
A clammy chill skated across his shoulders as all the suspicions he’d laid to rest about Laurel came back to haunt him.
She’d beaten him at his own game.
* * *
THEY DROPPED Dorie off at preschool the next morning at nine sharp. Laurel watched the sea gulls circling over the choppy waters of the Burrard Inlet as they joined the traffic creeping over the Second Narrows Bridge. She felt good this morning in her maternity dress with a pillow strapped around her waist. Empowered. Part of that had to do with Ian, with the feeling that they were working together.
Ian seemed serious this morning, his gray eyes hinting at an undercurrent of thought. What was he thinking? she wondered. Yesterday they hadn’t kissed or made love again, or even talked about the intimacy they’d shared on New Year’s Eve. He’d been warm all day, but as soon as they’d begun discussing their disguises she’d noticed a definite shift in his manner as he’d adopted a cool, remote air that held her at a distance.
It was difficult to tell, but she thought the man sitting beside her was the real Ian. A man of few words, who was most comfortable in his worn leather jacket and jeans. His features seemed harsher without the false, studious affectation of the glasses. But she liked that ruggedness about him.
It was a shock to see him an hour later clothed in a handsomely patterned designer sweater complemented with a tweed jacket, brushed twill slacks, Italian leather shoes and an ostentatious gold watch. He’d even slicked his hair back. He oozed success and a healthy bank account.
“Nice watch,” she commented, trying to get used to the change in him. She hadn’t gotten used to the change in herself yet.
“It’s fake, and so are these,” he told her, digging a flashy zirconia ring, a pair of gold earrings and a chunky gold necklace out of a shopping bag and handing them to her. She felt strange putting the ring on in front of him. He seemed so businesslike.
The office for Roma Developments Ltd. was on West Georgia Street. Laurel practiced a lumbering gait with her hands pressed nervously against her artificial belly. What if Romanowski recognized her?
Ian squeezed her hand as they rode up to the seventh floor in the elevator. “It’s showtime,” he mouthed to her as they entered a large reception area richly appointed in burgundy and oak. Several project models were on display throughout the room.
Laurel had to admit he was smooth when he talked to the receptionist.
“My wife and I are very interested in investing in the Serenity Cove project,” he explained.
“That project hasn’t been approved yet, but I’ll let Mr. Romanowski know you’re here. He should be out shortly.”
Then suddenly Victor Romanowski was in the room with them. Laurel smiled politely, holding her breath and rubbing her tummy absentmindedly as they exchanged greetings. Romanowski sized her up in two seconds flat, then dismissed her as being a Barbie doll wife. He led them over to the architect’s model. “Panorama Place is an exciting project. Serenity Cove has the quaint atmosphere of a waterfront village and that’s what we’re trying to emphasize in our models. Of course, they’ll be luxury condos with quality finishes throughout....”
“Which is precisely what piqued my interest,” Ian said. “I’m considering the purchase of three condos as an investment. My wife and I have a residence in the British Properties.”
Victor’s eyes gleamed with dollar signs. “Well, let me point out some of the highlights of the project.”
Laurel saw her chance to slip away. She glanced down pointedly at her belly and asked to use the ladies’ room.
“Of course. Nancy, would you escort Mrs. Esterling to the ladies’ room? Then bring me the floor plans for these models. From all indications, Mr. Esterling, approval of the project will go through next week.”
Laurel lumbered slowly down the plushly carpeted hallway after the receptionist, taking note of the spacious office on the left. A brass nameplate on the desk indicated it belonged to Victor.
Laurel thanked the receptionist and stepped into the washroom, waiting a few seconds for the woman to leave before she darted out into the hall. The pillow strapped around her waist jounced up and down as she ran into Victor’s office. She couldn’t tell if anyone could hear her. Her heart pounded too loudly in her ears. She partially closed Victor’s door, then flipped back through the pages of his desk calendar. The receptionist hadn’t inserted the pages for the new year yet.
Laurel found December 23, the day Gertie May had disappeared. Janet Smithe had checked into Harris House earlier that day, and Laurel had spoken to Victor that night at the Crow’s Nest. There were only two entries made on the page: 8:00 a.m. c.t.; 9:30 p.m. meeting—Hank. S.C. project.
Laurel had no idea what “c.t.” stood for—circuit training? But the nine-thirty Saturday evening meeting had to be with the contractor for the Serenity Cove project. Though she could swear it was well after ten before Hank had shown up at the pub.
There were no notations on the pages from the twenty-fourth to the end of the month. Someone had drawn a line across them.
Laurel heard the warning jingle of keys out in the hallway. She quickly sat down in a side chair and leaned forward with her head down. She could feel her wig slip.
“Mrs. Esterling?” she heard Victor say as he entered his office. Ian was with him, too. She recognized his shoes.
Ian crouched beside her and put his arm around her. “Darling, are you all right?”
“Yes,” Laurel said weakly, putting her hand to her brow. “I suddenly felt dizzy and this was the closest chair I could find.”
“You should have called out.”
“I didn’t want to disturb you, sweetheart. I know how important this investment is to you.”
“I’ll get you a glass of water,” Victor offered. “Nancy!” he hollered down the hallway.
“She’s in her eighth month,” Ian explained. “We’re hoping for a boy.” He gently patted her stomach. Laurel seemed to be able to feel that touch through the thickness of feathers.
Nancy brought the glass of water. Laurel took a sip. “Thank you, I’ll be all right now.”
“Here, let me help you,” Ian insisted as she tried to rise. Slowly they made it out into the reception area with Ian assuring Romanowski that he’d phone him later in the day. When they were alone in the elevator, Ian pulled Laurel into his arms and gave her a chaste kiss. “I had a feeling you were an accomplished actress,” he said dryly. “That Romanowski character is pretty confident his project will be given the go-ahead. Did you find out anything?”
“I’m not sure.” She told him about the appointments she’d seen written in Victor’s calendar. While Ian wondered aloud what “c.t.” meant, Laurel pondered over the significance of the kiss he’d just given her. Was it another performance? Another charade like the one they’d just executed in Romanowski’s office? How could you tell with someone like Ian?
* * *
IAN GRIPPED the steering wheel tightly as they sped through the dingy streets of East Vancouver. They’d have to hurry if they were going to pick Dorie up at preschool on time. Beside him, Laurel had her dress hiked up around her hips and was struggling to remove the pillow from the elastic bandages that held it in place. She’d already discarded the blond wig and had wiped the beauty mark off with a facial tissue. He much preferred her natural beauty and hair color. He reined his thoughts in sharply—it was exactly that kind of thinking that had got him hopelessly tangled up in Laurel’s problems in the first place.
Laurel tossed a pillow onto the back seat. “I think we’ve been looking at the time Gertie May disappeared all wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“All along we’ve been assuming that Gertie May disappeared between ten-thirty and eleven, because that’s when Janet said she heard the doorbell. I think Gertie May actually disappeared earlier—sometime between nine-thirty and ten.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, several reasons.” Laurel ticked them off on her fingers. “One, Dorie saw someone peeking in her bedroom window twice, which means they were watching the house. Two, Romanowski’s calendar says his meeting with Hank Morrison, the contractor for the project, was at nine-thirty. But I remember running into Romanowski at the Crow’s Nest around ten. Hank didn’t arrive until several minutes later. And three, Janet. She’s obviously Romanowski’s alibi. She said she came in around ten, and heard the doorbell between ten-thirty and eleven. Romanowski and Hank didn’t leave the Crow’s Nest until after eleven that night.” Her eyes glowed with excitement. “I think Janet and Hank kidnapped Gertie May. Maybe they’re only planning to hold her until after the district council meeting.” The hope in her voice was contagious. Ian felt his own hopes burgeoning, and guilt that he’d started to doubt her again.
He squeezed her knee. “That’s why we’re holding Christmas, honey.”
They both got out at the preschool. Dorie met them with a proud smile, a wet painting dangling from her hand.
“This is for you, Ian,” she said shyly.
Ian felt the eyes of the other mothers on him. Laurel’s, too. “Hey, a rainbow. Just what I need. Thanks, kiddo.” He rolled the painting up carefully, not caring about the dribbles of paint that stained his pants. A man could never have too many gifts of love. Isn’t that what Aunt Gem always used to say when she’d give him a hug?
Aunt Gem. He hurried Laurel and Dorie into the car, feeling a sudden urgency to share Laurel’s theory with Rafferty as soon as possible.
Rafferty must have been on the same wavelength because he was waiting for them at the house. Ian felt a ripple of uneasiness as he invited the constable inside. Rafferty’s expression struck Ian as being grave. Or was it just a shadow as a cloud blotted out the sun? “You’re just the man we wanted to see. We have some new information—”
“Ma’am, maybe you’d like to get Dorie busy in another room, so we can talk privately,” Rafferty suggested somberly.
Something was wrong.
An inexplicable heaviness descended on Ian’s shoulders. He and Laurel exchanged a glance.
“O-of course,” Laurel stammered.
Ian led Rafferty to the living room and made awkward conversation about the weather until Laurel joined them. “I-is it Gertie May?” she asked from the doorway, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.
“I think you’d both better sit down,” Rafferty said gently. “I left a message on your answering machine, but you’ve obviously been out most of the morning. I wanted to tell you in person... We had a report late yesterday of remains being found by hikers on the Woodlands trail—the trail leads to several abandoned cottages higher up the mountain.”
Ian felt the air being sucked from his lungs, the joy leaving his heart. “Remains?” He groped along the couch cushions for Laurel’s hand. Her fingers felt like ice. He didn’t want to hear this alone.
“Yes. We went in this morning and found partial human remains. This is very difficult...the body has been dismembered, by coyotes, we think, so a positive identification has yet to be made. An autopsy is being performed to determine the cause of death. We should have the results by tomorrow. But based on the fragments of clothing, we have reason to believe the deceased was female.”
Ian felt Laurel’s fingernails dig into his palm. He wished they would rip his heart out so he wouldn’t be feeling anything. His mind was numb, incapable of thought.
He was vaguely aware that Rafferty was still talking. “The clothing fragments match the description of what Miss Harris was wearing when she went missing. But there was no ID. I’ve brought some samples with me and I’ll have to ask you, Mrs. Wilson, to identify them. Are you up to that?”
Laurel made a small sound like a kitten mewing. Ian reached out for her as Rafferty left the room. His throat was tight with the ache of loss as he pulled her hard against him, finding comfort in the feel of her body. The pain in his chest dulled when her head rested upon it.
They clung to each other until Constable Rafferty returned, then pulled apart, still holding hands while Laurel examined the plastic bags of clothing Rafferty carried.
Ian felt the last gossamer threads of hope disappear when she mumbled, “These are—were—” she corrected herself “—Gertie May’s pajamas. Her orange coat.” Her voice cracked as she pointed at a torn, bloodied pair of rose-patterned underpants sealed in a plastic bag. “I don’t know...”
Constable Rafferty nodded. “In any case, a DNA test will be done to positively identify the body, which means it won’t be released for burial for about two weeks. You’ll need to keep that in mind if you wish to commence funeral arrangements. I’ll need to take her hairbrush...it’ll contain hairs that we can compare against—”
Ian interrupted him. “Can’t you use dental records?”
“Only partial remains were found—not the skull.”
Ian felt sick to his stomach. Laurel sobbed quietly against his shoulder. He held her tightly and stared at Rafferty. He wanted justice. “If that bastard Romanowski killed Aunt Gem,” he grated harshly, “just what the hell are you prepared to do about it?”
Chapter Thirteen
Silence weighed heavily upon the house. An omnipotent presence that forced Ian away from the solitude he’d thought he’d wanted this sorrowful evening downstairs into Laurel’s arms.
He found her sitting up in bed in the dark, arms clasped around her knees. Rocking to and fro.
He felt the tears spring to his eyes. His heart ached with a tightness he didn’t think he could bear alone, and there was only one person he could share it with. “Laurel?”
She lifted her head, opening her arms to him. “Oh, Ian. I was hoping you’d come,” she whispered tearfully. “I didn’t want to be alone tonight—especially tonight. Hold me, please.”
“Oh, Laurel,” he groaned, agony overwhelming him as his hands slid over the soft flannel covering her back, pulling her closer. He buried his face in the fragrant curls at her neck. “Oh, I need you, too.”
They lay there together in the dark, grieving and holding each other. He told her things about Aunt Gem that he’d never told anyone before. He wasn’t sure why he was telling her all this, but somehow it felt right. He just wanted to lie in Laurel’s arms and drift away from reality. Forever...
Ian dreamed he was lost in a dark cavern and he couldn’t find his way. Being alone had never felt so frightening. He reached out, trying to find his way in the darkness...and there was Laurel, reaching out for him, too.
His arms tightened around her as he breathed in her fragrant scent. He wanted to bury himself in the sweet warmth of her body, feel the release of emotions that had been building inside him and erase the fears that made him want to doubt her. His hands moved over her, slipping up under her nightgown to stroke her hips and breasts. Her skin felt like warm silk.
Suddenly her fingers were entangled in his hair. He kissed her deeply, terrified he might lose her in the darkness of the cavern. The dream took on a sudden urgency that Ian couldn’t deny.
He tugged at his belt, groaning low in his throat when her fingers frantically pushed the jeans off his hips and wrapped around him, guiding him to enter her. Such exquisite feeling! Ian started to move. Passion lapped over him in waves, rising in crests as she locked her legs around his hips. Each thrust brought a comfort as forceful and soothing as a wave breaking on the shore...an eddy of sweet release, followed by a savage rush as the next wave broke. Then another. And another. And finally, a quiet joy that lasted until Ian realized it wasn’t a dream at all. And in the heat of the moment, he’d forgotten his grief.
* * *
GERTIE MAY WAS DEAD. Laurel lay still with her head resting on Ian’s chest, dreading the day ahead. Her eyes filled with tears. She wasn’t going to speculate on how her dear friend had died—that was just too horrible. How on earth was she going to tell Dorie?
She wasn’t, she decided staunchly. At least, not until the DNA test results were back in two weeks. Rafferty had advised them to hold off on a memorial service until then. By that time, she should have figured out how she and Dorie were going to live. And where. Laurel squeezed her eyes shut tight and prayed. It might all work if Rafferty didn’t come up with the idiotic notion that she’d killed Gertie May.
Ian’s sleep-warmed hands glided over her hips and belly, pulling her against him. She lifted her head as his eyes opened, seeing pain, grief and doubt reflected in his gaze. A mirror image of her own feelings.
She draped her thigh across his hips and snuggled closer, needing the comfort only he could offer. A hot clot of tears lodged in her throat. In two weeks, three weeks at the most, they’d be out of each other’s lives.
* * *
IAN WASN’T SURE Laurel should be trying to keep Aunt Gem’s death from Dorie, but he agreed that they should stay inside all day with the TV off so Dorie wouldn’t see the news reports of the discovery of Gertie May’s body.
The phone started ringing after lunch—neighbors and friends of Gertie May’s, offering condolences.
“I can’t take any more of this,” Laurel told him after the fourth call, her eyes murky with grief. He tried to put his arms around her, but she brushed them away, glancing meaningfully in Dorie’s direction.
The doorbell chimed and Ian went to answer it, prepared to do battle with journalists. The last thing they needed were reporters finding out about Laurel’s past. Frederick stood on the porch, head bowed, looking like an old gray heron.
He held up a store-bought coffee cake. “I brought this by for you. I’m terribly sorry about your aunt. She was a fine woman. Is there anything I can do?”
“I think Laurel could use a friendly face. Do you have time to stay for coffee?”
