Death Angel, page 12
Kate leaned back in her chair, staring up at the tops of the trees. It was soothing to watch the breeze swirl the leaves in ever-changing patterns. She sat quietly, just following the motion with her eyes. It was a few minutes before she spoke again.
“Over the years swimming has always been my solace, but this time I haven’t tried it. I think it’s somehow wound up with pleasure. How can I do something that’s pleasurable when my whole life has fallen apart?”
“I felt the same way after George died. People told me time would make a difference. I hated them,” Marian said. “Ah, here comes Richard.”
Kate hurried across to open the screen door. Richard handed out the drinks then waited beside his chair until Marian had tasted hers.
She kissed the tips of her fingers. “You are a true master when it comes to Manhattans.”
“I should be. Your husband taught me how to make them.”
“George always said that the answer to every crisis was to make up a pitcher of Manhattans, then sit back and ride out the storm.”
It was warm outside, even in the fading sunlight. Kate was thirsty. The cold effervescence bit into her throat as she gulped the Diet Coke.
Mike was right, Kate thought as she looked at the back of the yard. The daffodils were lovely. She had planted bulbs in the fall along the picket fence. The buttery yellow was perfect against the brown wood.
“I’d like to put in a rose garden,” she said.
The abruptness of her words surprised Richard. “Roses? Well, I guess we could do that. Where would you put them?”
“In the vegetable garden. Then we can see them from the deck and the kitchen.”
“Will there be room for vegetables?”
Kate shook her head. “This year I’d like flowers. Something beautiful.”
“No cucumbers or beans? We always have those, don’t we, Marian?” He turned to the older woman for help.
“I’ll give you some of mine.”
“It’s not the same,” he said, sounding like a sulky child. He eyed Kate and she kept her expression neutral. Finally, he tossed his head in defeat. “All right. You win.”
“In this case we both win,” Kate said. We’ll have wonderful flowers and you won’t have to spend endless hours in the garden. We could go to the nursery tomorrow.”
“You seem in an awful hurry to get this project started. Do you think that’s such a good idea?”
Marian jumped into the conversation. “I think it’s a great idea. My mother had a rose garden. One Mother’s Day, my dad bought her a rose bush. It became a tradition. Every year he gave her a new one until finally she told him she had enough.”
“That’s funny,” Richard said as he took a slow sip of his drink. “My father grew roses when I was a kid. I’d forgotten all about them. I was never allowed to run around in the backyard with my friends for fear of trampling a bush. They were special roses. Maybe rare. I can’t recall. All I can remember is my dad spent all his spare time with them.”
“At your mom’s house in Ohio?” she asked.
Richard nodded. “They were gone before we got married.” He chuckled at some long ago memory. “You never met my mother, Marian. She was a very quiet, repressed woman. She taught Junior High math.”
“She died the year after we were married. I was very fond of her,” Kate said.
Richard reached over to take her hand. “You’re going to love this story then. My father was a big man, overbearing. He was the office manager and head of accounting for an automotive company in Akron. It was summer and the roses had been particularly lush that year. Strange, but just telling this, I can smell them.”
Richard paused to take a sip of his drink. Kate looked over at Marian who was leaning forward in her chair, waiting for him to continue.
“It was a weekday,” Richard continued. “I’d been out playing with my friends. On the way home I cut through a neighbor’s yard and jumped the fence. I was halfway to the back door when I came to a screeching halt, and looked back at the fence.”
When he paused for effect, Kate groaned. “Come on, Richard. What happened?”
“The rose bushes were gone.”
“Gone?”
“They’d been cut down to the ground. Stacked neatly in a pile beside the garage. I charged into the house to tell my mother. She was sitting in the living room, her face a picture of contentment. Her hands were folded in her lap on top of the garden shears.”
“What did she say?” Marian asked.
“Nothing.”
Like Marian, Kate was fascinated by the story. “Did you find out why she did it?”
“Not then. In fact one of the strangest parts of this story is that the roses were never mentioned in my presence. It was after my father died that I finally asked her.” Richard laughed in genuine amusement. “She said she’d always hated the roses. She thought father spent too much time with them. He said a man needed a hobby. He worked so many long hours that he needed something to help him unwind.”
“On that summer morning, mother was taking father’s suit to the dry cleaners. She found a letter in his pocket. Apparently my father was involved in a long-standing affair. She put the letter on top of my father’s dresser, put on a pair of leather gloves and cut down the rose bushes. She said a man didn’t need two hobbies.”
“Way to go, Mother Warner,” Kate said.
Marian shook her head in awe. “Heavens to Betsy. Talk about a woman scorned. Your mother sounds like quite a gal.”
“I suppose.” Once more Richard looked thoughtful. “I never knew my parents very well. I was an only child, and they both worked. At the end of that summer I was sent to military school in Pennsylvania, and then I went off to college. I came home for the summers, but I didn’t spend much time with them. I’d forgotten all about this until you mentioned the roses.”
“We’ll dedicate the garden to your mother.” Kate held up her hands to make a square. “I can see the sign: The Blanche Warner Rose Garden.”
“Her name was Blanche?” At Richard’s nod, Marian smiled. “How delightful. There’s a cabbage rose called Unique Blanche. We had one when we lived in England. It’s white and has a million blossoms. It’s an old rose, so I don’t know if the local nurseries will stock it. I’ll go online and see if I can’t come up with a Unique Blanche. That’ll be my contribution to the project.”
Gratitude for Marian’s thoughtfulness flooded Kate. She smiled at Richard when he leaned over and kissed Marian on the cheek.
“What a grand idea,” he said.
Her cheeks pink with pleasure, she said, “If I can find one, you’ll both love it. The flowers have a glorious fragrance. It’ll remind you of your mother. As everyone knows, revenge is sweet.”
***
“I’m coming, damn it.” Kate yelled as she fumbled to unlock the front door.
The key jammed and she gritted her teeth as the phone rang again. She was moving slowly, stiff from the weekend of gardening. Juggling three bags of groceries, her purse, and her keys, she shoved the door closed with her hip and hurried through the hall to the kitchen. The answering machine picked up the call.
She shoved two of the bags onto the counter, but the third caught on the edge and the plastic ripped. The contents spilled out, cans and boxes dropping and clattering across the floor.
It was the last straw. In a childish tantrum, she kicked as many of the soup cans as she could reach, watching in satisfaction as they slammed against the wall.
“Damn! Damn! Damn!”
Kate shouted the words at the silent walls of the kitchen. Her own voice brought her back to the present, and she looked in amazement at the dented cans scattered around the room. This was the first time she had reacted in anger instead of tears. She had been aware of the bottled up fury and had been afraid to let it loose for fear it would consume her. Yet, after her outburtst she felt only relief.
With a shuddering sigh, she stood up straight and opened the refrigerator. She grabbed a Diet Coke, popped the top, and gulped down half the contents. The caffeine gave her the lift she needed. She made a face as she surveyed the jumble of groceries on the floor.
“All told, it’s been a shitty day,” she said.
Oh, Jenny where are you? Please don’t be gone.
She’d been in the middle of grocery shopping when she looked up and saw Jenny. Her response had been instantaneous. Her heart leaped with joy and her mouth stretched wide in a smile. She started to call out but when the child moved, Kate realized her mistake.
It wasn’t Jenny.
Something about the pigtailed girl had reminded Kate of her daughter. It had happened before, and each time the letdown was excruciatingly painful. It brought home to her the fact that she would never see Jenny again.
“Damn! Damn! Damn!”
What a limited swearing vocabulary she had. She’d have to ask Richard for a new supply.
Reminded of Richard, she wondered if it had been his call that she’d missed. She pressed the message button on the answering maching. Hearing nothing, she turned up the volume and leaned closer, but there was no message. She was reaching for the delete button when she heard the soft disconnect sound and then the final beep. Puzzled, she pressed the message button and listened again. Long silence, then in quick succession, the disconnect and the beep.
The phone rang again.
She reached for the receiver, but then decided to let the machine pick it up again. Something about the call on the answering machine made her uneasy.
She fidgeted until the outgoing message finished, waiting for the caller to speak. Once again nothing. She strained to hear over the heavy beating of her heart. First the long waiting silence, then just before the final beep, the soft disconnect.
Glancing up at the clock, she noted the time. It was 2:15. She’d come in at 2:00. Would another call come at 2:30?
Fear crept through her body, chilling her. Trying to ignore it, she bent over to pick up the cans and boxes scattered across the floor. She put away the groceries, folded up the bags, and avoided staring at the clock.
The phone rang at 2:30 and again at 2:45.
Four calls fifteen minutes apart. Each call was the same. When the answering machine picked up, the caller listened to the message but didn’t speak or hang up until just before the final beep.
The first time might have been an accident, but listening to the other calls Kate realized the disconnect was timed. The mental picture of someone watching the clock to gauge precisely the moment to hang up was disturbing.
Kate paced back and forth in front of the telephone, wondering what she should do. It was exactly a week ago that she had received the phone call from the person she thought of as the “Witness,” who claimed to have seen the murder. It had been a frightening incident and she was relieved that it had not been repeated. Now these hang-up calls were as disturbing in their way as that first one had been.
The fifth call came at three o’clock.
Right or wrong, Kate picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“I saw him,” was the whispered reply.
Heart hammering in her ears, Kate tried to remember what she wanted to say. “You didn’t see my husband. If you have any information please go to the police. It will help them find Jenny’s murderer.”
“I need to talk to him.”
“He’s not here. He’s at work, but don’t hang up. Please help us. Please go to the police.”
She squeezed the receiver tightly against her ear. Her fingers ached from the pressure. Drawing air through her nose in a long, steadying breath, she waited for the voice to speak again.
Silence. And then the dial tone.
She began to shiver. Gritting her teeth, she replaced the receiver and backed away from the phone. She moved clear across the kitchen and out into the family room. Even that didn’t seem far enough, so she opened the patio doors and stepped out on the deck. She needed to put distance between herself and the voice on the end of the phone line.
Was it the same person who had called before? The whispered voice could have been either male or female. There was nothing familiar about the voice. It sounded disembodied. No color or personality to give it substance.
What was the purpose?
The caller had wanted to talk to Richard specifically. The only question in Kate’s mind was whether the person had any real information concerning Jenny’s death.
No matter who the caller was or what the reason for the call, it was necessary to tell Richard about it.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. She shivered as she stared at the darkening sky, grateful that she’d made a decision. Back inside she dialed Richard’s direct line. His secretary answered.
“Hi, Candy, it’s Kate. Is Richard around?”
“You just missed him. He said he was going home early. If you want, I’ll see if I can catch him at the elevator.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
Kate drummed her nails on the countertop as she waited. In no time, a breathless Candy was back on the line.
“Gosh, I’m sorry, Kate. He’d already gone down in the elevator. Was it urgent?”
“No. Thanks for trying.” With a sinking feeling, Kate hung up.
Was it just a coincidence that Richard had decided to leave work early?
Of course it was. She either trusted Richard or she didn’t. There couldn’t be any halfway measures. She’d go right out of her mind if she began to second guess him. When Richard came home, she’d tell him about the phone calls. He’d be angry that she hadn’t told him about the first call a week earlier. Well, that couldn’t be helped. She tried to focus on the clock, wondering if the Witness would call again at 3:15.
It rang five minutes before she expected it.
“Hi, Kate, it’s Chris Mayerling. Am I catching you at a bad time?”
“No, but Richard’s not home yet.”
“Actually I wanted to talk to you. I’m coming out your way, and I wondered if we could meet for a drink.”
Kate frowned. Although Chris was always welcome at the house, it was as Richard’s boss that they had any social contact with him.
“Would you like to come here?” she asked.
“No. I’d rather go someplace else.” He chuckled. “I want to talk to you about Richard. I’m worried about him.”
First Mike, now Chris. Bowing to the inevitable, Kate agreed. “Where would you suggest?”
“Do you know Dave’s Place? It’s on the north side of Pickard. The corner of Cumberland and Buckeye.”
“One-story place with a deck and noisy beer parties in the summer?”
“That’s it. Inside it’s surprisingly respectable.”
“Okay. What time will you be there?”
“I’m just finishing up some work now. The traffic won’t be bad, but it looks like we’re in for a storm. Is it raining in Pickard?”
Kate pulled the curtain back to peek outside. “Not yet. We’ve got thunder, but it’s still dry.”
“I’ll try to get there by five. Is that okay?”
“That’s fine. I’ll see you at Dave’s Place.”
Kate hung up the phone. There was a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. Despite Chris’s light tone, an edginess to his voice warned her to prepare for some sort of bad news.
Dear God, how much worse could things get?
Twelve
He stood several feet off the main path, motionless as the maple he leaned against. His face beneath the canopy of leaves was in shadow, and his dark clothing blended with the surrounding bushes. From where he stood, he had an excellent view of the circular path that ran along the edge of the open field.
He stared down at his watch.
Four-twenty. He made a mental note of the time, but knew it was futile. The moment he looked away, the numbers flickered like fading stars and disappeared without a trace in his memory until the next time he was forced to check again.
Tension had been building for the past two days; the anticipation was intoxicating. He could feel little bubbles of excitement rising in his chest, breaking and sending a tingle of energy along the paths of his nerves.
The feedback from his senses was heightened. The colors in the woods were sharp, tinged a yellowish green, throbbing with vitality in the late afternoon light. The sky was darkening and thunder growled in the distance. The loamy smell of decay rose to his nostrils and he breathed in the air, heavy with the imminence of rain. Sound was magnified. The first drops hit the leaves in a crisp staccato rhythm.
It had rained the last time his father had beaten him.
He was sixteen. Not a man yet, but taller than his father. It was summer, a weekend. He’d been out with his friends and he’d come home late, hoping the sound of the rain would cover his arrival.
No lights in the house. The old man would be passed out, his drunken snores a familiar rumble, muffled only slightly by the closed bedroom door.
The silence should have warned him.
His sneakers were wet and squeaked on the linoleum as he crossed the kitchen floor to the refrigerator. The old man always stocked it with beer on Friday. Swiping a few had gone unnoticed for several months. He knew stealing from the bastard was risky but despite the danger, or maybe because of it, each icy sip was ambrosia.
His heart pounded in his ears as he opened the door of the refrigerator. Careful not to hit the other bottles, he eased one out. With infinite care he closed the door. Plunged into darkness, he stood still, waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. With one hand he twisted off the bottle cap and with the other he raised the bottle to his lips.
His father’s cane crashed down on the bottle, shattering it. Pieces of glass cut into his skin and blood mingled with the beer as it rolled down his face.
Stunned by the attack, he shook his head to clear it. Another blow cracked him across the shoulders and despite the pain, he spun around to face the shadowy figure, cane raised to strike again.
Instinctively he lashed out. His fist struck bone. The physical sensation brought him to his senses and the chilling knowledge that for this latest sin the old man would beat him senseless. The thought was only a second in time, but in that instant he resigned himself to death. He cringed, bracing himself for the shattering blows of the cane.
