Cool Shade (3 page)

Enid quickly went from cigarettes to drinking. Then drugs. Then sex. Like it was nothing. Like losing her virginity was something she had to get done and out of the way so she could get down to the real nitty-gritty.

Anything dangerous, anything off limits, anything bad, Enid tried it.

No, now that Maddie thought about it, prostitution was exactly something Enid would do.

Maddie continued to thumb through the book, the only thing keeping her from feeling guilty was knowing Enid would have done the same to her without a qualm.

More about the same guy. She really had it bad for him.

I must be the only person in town who didn't know about Eddie Berlin, about his being crazy and all.

Eddie Berlin.

Why did that name sound familiar?

They say he hasn't left his property in four years. That's crazy. No wonder none of the other girls wanted to go on the call, no wonder they left him for me. Lucky me.

When he smiled his slow smile—God. My legs went weak. My stomach hit the ground. And in that second, I was afraid. I mean, what if I fell for him?

Another entry:

I just couldn't stay away. He lives so rustically. It should really be a turnoff, because I hate that stuff. I really do. Give me good old concrete under my feet. Give me the sound of traffic. He really flips my switch. I just have to look at him to get horny. I don't know what it is. Maybe because he's so aloof. Maybe I want to know what it would be like to drive him crazy, to make him come undone. I'd like for him to look at me and really see me. I'd like to be the one to drive him wild.

Another page:

He told me not to come back! I can't believe it! No guy has ever told me not to come back! I hate him! Hate him!

A woman scorned. And not just any woman. Enid.

Don't Follow

Maddie sank her teeth into her third slice of homemade bread. At the same time, she looked across the table to see Evelyn eyeing her with amazement and possibly a little disgust.

"Your sister was a good eater, too," was Evelyn’s blunt observation.

The bread stuck halfway down, bringing Maddie to the realization that she'd been putting away food like a sumo wrestler.

A curse.

"The people in my family have always had a high metabolic rate." Her father used to say that their engines ran a little faster, but they weren't as fuel efficient.

Maddie swallowed. "This is wonderful. I don't know when I last had a home-cooked meal."

"More applesauce?"

"Why not?"

When she was finished eating, Maddie patted her mouth with her napkin. "I'd better get back and check on my cat."

"You have a cat?"

"Is that a problem?" Maddie certainly hoped so. Maybe Evelyn would be willing to box up Enid's stuff after all.

"I don't much care for animals," the older woman explained. "They make messes."

Maddie picked a few long black cat hairs from the front of her T-shirt. "Don't we all."

"Well, just don't let it mess on the carpet."

Oh,
that
kind of mess. "He's litter-trained." Maddie didn't think it was necessary to mention Hemingway's penchant for gagging up the occasional hairball.

Maddie got to her feet, thanking Evelyn for the meal. She was reaching for the front door when a photograph on the doily-covered buffet caught her eye.

She reversed. Slowly, she picked up a framed picture displayed next to one of Evelyn. She stared at the light-haired young man in the photo. "Is this Rick Beck?"

No answer.

Maddie swung around. "I could swear…" Her words trailed off, arrested by the sad expression on Evelyn's face.

"I always called him Ricky."

"You knew him?"

Maddie meant no offense to Evelyn, but it was hard to put the two together. Rick Beck, of the deep, passionate, thought-provoking lyrics; Evelyn, of the butt garden.

"Ricky was my nephew. He used to stay with me when he was little. I didn't live here then. I bought these two houses after my husband passed away."

Like so many other people, Maddie had spent years devouring media information about Rick Beck. From that, she could recall that he'd had a pretty normal childhood. He'd come from a small town in Nebraska—it very well could have been Chester, Maddie couldn't remember. He'd grown up in an intact family. He'd played with the school band. Captain of his football team. President of his class. Maddie had often wondered how someone from such a traditional background could have written lyrics that contained so much pathos. What had he drawn from?

Evelyn took the picture from Maddie's fingers and placed it back on the buffet. "Come on. I'll show you something."

She led Maddie to the basement.

The steps were wooden and narrow, the cement floor damp and smelling of mildew.

Evelyn reached up and pulled a string attached to a light bulb that dangled from the ceiling. The light swayed, casting bobbing shadows.

Maddie hung back. This was giving her the creeps.

Evelyn crossed the basement. When the older woman realized Maddie wasn't behind her, she stopped, motioning for her to hurry. Then she disappeared into a little room.

Telling herself there was nothing to be afraid of, Maddie followed.

A shrine.

Packed wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-ceiling, with Rick Beck memorabilia.

Albums. Tapes. Posters. T-shirts. Jackets. Buttons. Mugs. Lights. Stage clothes. Guitars. Microphones. Framed awards. Autographed pictures.

"My God." Maddie reverently ran her fingers across a T-shirt. "I loved his music," she said in a hushed voice.

"He's dead."

"I'm sorry."

"Killed, you know."

"Yes."

"By his manager."

"His manager?"

Where was Evelyn going with this? Everyone knew it had been a crazed fan. The madman had confessed on national television. Later, in prison, he'd hanged himself.

"I thought it was a crazed fan," Maddie suggested, not wanting to set Evelyn off.

"That's what people were supposed to think. That was Eddie's plan."

"Eddie?"

"Eddie Berlin. I tried to tell people Ricky had something on Eddie. He knew something Eddie didn't want to get out. So Eddie had him killed."

Eddie Berlin. The name in Enid's book.

Malfunction Junction

Maddie put the map aside and stopped her battered Fiat at the beginning of the lane that led to Eddie Berlin's.

A road to nowhere.

No gate. Nowhere didn't need a gate. Or a fence. Or an intimidating sign that said KEEP OUT. Those things weren't necessary. People didn't go to nowhere.

Nobody wanted to go there, Evelyn had explained, trying to talk Maddie out of it. But there were too many weird things going on. Like the Evelyn thing, and the Eddie Berlin thing, and the Enid thing. Maddie was beginning to wonder if there was more to her sister's disappearance than a simple spur-of-the-moment, take-off-with-a-new-guy and not-look-back situation. She couldn't help but feel that Eddie Berlin just might be a clue to the whole mess. And to be honest, she was curious about Eddie Berlin.

Hot.

It had been hot when she’d left Arizona, but in the desert it was a dry heat. The kind of heat that dehydrated your eyeballs and shrunk your skin until you looked like a piece of beef jerky.

This… this was smothering.

So
wet
.

A steambath.

In Arizona sweat immediately evaporated. In Nebraska it just pooled. It ran down your neck, your spine, between your breasts, and it stayed there.

Maddie let out the clutch and accelerated, easing the little car up a road that had more potholes than a minefield had land mines. Twenty yards in, tree branches smacked the windshield and tattered green leaves stuck to the car's wipers and metal trim. She could feel thick-stemmed weeds scraping the floorboard under her feet. The steering wheel, when she hit a deep rut, was wrenched from her hands.

Should have left the car at the end of the lane and walked. Too late now.

Story of her life.

There was no place to turn around, and there was no way she could back the distance she'd come. It was hard enough going forward, but to go in reverse was unthinkable. Her rusty muffler and wired tailpipe would never make it.

She'd probably gone a mile, but it seemed like five, her car creeping so slowly that the speedometer tried to register something but could only bob feebly.

Then the darkness of the overgrown lane suddenly gave way to muted light.

A circle. And not of the crop kind.

She’d arrived in an area that had once been cleared but was now on its way to becoming overgrown with brush and several years' growth of saplings. In the center of the clearing was a two-story farmhouse.

Just a farmhouse.

She didn't know what she'd expected. Some Gothic structure with turrets and a swirling sky behind it. Like everything else, the house was a victim of years of neglect. There was no way to know what color it had once been. Every stroke of paint was gone, and the exposed wood had turned a depressing shade of gray that made her think of storms.

On the porch, below wooden, moss-covered shingles that bore witness to the absence of light, was an abandoned wicker rocking chair, a broken railing, and a torn and rusted screen door. Half of the building was covered with tangled ivy, several windows completely obscured.

She shut off the car and stepped out.

The air was heavy and still, smelling sweet, like clover, and pungent, like the catnip that made Hemingway go nuts. She took a deep breath and stood a little straighter. To her left, not far from the house, was an abandoned car. The kind of car that had once used a lot of gas and made a lot of noise.

It wouldn't be doing any gas-guzzling now.

It looked as if it had been driven up the road into the clearing, parked, and never touched again. The tires were flat and petrified. The body had settled into the ground so the car rested on the frame and axles. Huge tangled weeds with leaves that looked suspiciously like marijuana grew out the broken back window.

To the right of the vehicle she detected what may have been a trail leading to the front steps, or at least an area that wasn't as tangled, that seemed somewhat beaten down.

As in other instances in her life when she had to make a choice, she now took the path of least resistance.

Weeds scraped her bare legs, making her think longingly of the jeans she'd left back at Enid's house, and of her penchant for finding even the smallest bit of poison ivy.

At the farmhouse, she picked her way across the bowed porch, careful to watch for rotting boards. She felt like an idiot. No one except for maybe a family of racoons could possibly be inside. She knocked, the outer door banging loosely, releasing the smell of old, musty wood.

Through the screen was a carved oak door, a door that, barring a tornado or fire, would outlast the house. The only ground-floor window that wasn't covered with ivy had a yellowed shade pulled down tight against the sill.

Nobody could possibly live in such a dump.

Feeling more ridiculous by the minute, she knocked again.

Nothing.

Except for the sound of bees moving through wildflowers. Except for crickets. And cicadas. Except for blackbirds, calling noisily from nearby trees, as if angered by her presence.

Except for barking.

Barking?

Coming from the wooded area to her right.

Getting closer.

She froze, one hand raised to the door, her body turned slightly in the direction of her car.

Never run from an angry dog. Just slowly back away. Never look an angry dog directly in the eye. It might take that as a challenge.

A shaggy, middle-sized dog burst from the underbrush, barking frantically.

Moving fast.

She wasn't going to stick around long enough to issue a challenge. And to hell with walking.

She gauged the distance from the porch to her car. If she hurried, she could make it before the dog nailed her.

Her brain issued the command. Her feet, miraculously, obeyed. She tore down the steps. In her blind panic, she snagged the toe of her sneaker on a clump of tangled vines. She went down face first, as if she'd belly-flopped from a high-dive, her stomach, breasts, and legs all making contact with the ground at the same time, knocking the wind out of her.

Dog food, she thought, fighting for air, knowing she didn't have enough time to recover, thinking about how painful a dog bite must be, about how those sharp, pointed teeth would feel sinking into her flesh. She had just enough time to bring her arms up to protect her face and throat before the animal was upon her.