Dark Homecoming (16 page)

“S
he's trying to kill her,” Thad said.

Mrs. Hoffman turned around to glare at him.

“Who's trying to kill whom?” the housekeeper asked him in a cold, bored monotone.

“Dominique. Trying to kill that poor girl.”

Mrs. Hoffman gave him that expression that passed for a smile on her plastic face. “Dominique is dead.”

“That don't matter. She's still here, and you know it.”

“You've been spending too much time with Variola, talking about spirits.”

She tried to walk past him, but Thad grabbed her arm, stopping her.

“How dare you!” Mrs. Hoffman hissed. “Let me go.”

“I know too much—I've seen too much—for you to just dismiss me. And I'm not going to let anything happen to that poor girl. Enough is enough.”

“Let me go,” Mrs. Hoffman said again, in a low and furious voice.

Thad complied. “You'll see. I'm going to drive Dominique's spirit from this house. I'm going to find a way. I'm not going to let her kill again!”

T
he sun was setting, a big wet canvas of red and gold, as Joe Foley drove Aggie McFarland home to her husband and kids. Palm trees were silhouetted against the sky and long blue shadows were filling up the streets.

“I'm not sure where you're going with this line of investigation,” Aggie was saying to him as she flipped through the reports on her lap.

Foley stopped at a red light. “You don't think two of Audra's friends going missing not long after her murder is suspicious?”

“Sure it is, but what does it make us suspect? That they were killed by the same person, only we haven't found their bodies yet?”

“Possibly.”

“But they didn't even live in Palm Beach at the time of their disappearances. Look, Joe, all three girls lived rather fast lives. They were all involved in drugs to some degree.”

“So maybe there's no connection.” The light changed and he started to drive again. “But maybe there is. You know me and my hunches.”

Sometimes Joe just knew things were true. Like that horrible day he knew his mother was dead in her tent, and not just sleeping late.

“I agree we need to look into both cases,” said Aggie, “but I just caution you against making any quick assumptions.”

“Caution well taken,” he said.

“But what I really don't get,” Aggie continued, “is this inquiry into the drowning death of the first Mrs. Huntington. There was an inquest at the time. Her death was ruled an accident.”

“Without any body ever being found.”

“When someone falls off a yacht that far out to sea in shark-infested waters, it's rare that a body ever is.”

“True.” Foley turned to look at her. “But read the captain's statement.”

Aggie flipped through some pages, then found what she was looking for.

“Do you see what I mean?” Foley asked.

His partner just looked at him.

“This isn't going to go over well with the chief,” she finally said.

Foley pulled into Aggie's driveway. The front porch light came on. A couple of kids appeared at the door.

“I can deal with the chief,” Foley said.

Aggie tossed the reports at him. “Thanks for making our lives even more difficult,” she said, getting out of the car.

“See you in the morning,” Foley said.

Aggie just made a face. Foley watched her as she went inside, kissing the kids on the tops of their heads. He could smell pot roast cooking from the open front door.

He placed the reports on the empty seat beside him. He'd go home, pop a Lean Cuisine into the microwave, and look the reports over again to see what he could figure out.

He would crack this oyster. He vowed on his mother's grave that he would do it.

“T
his is quite possibly the most delicious dessert I have ever tasted,” Roger enthused, spooning another helping of Variola's pudding into his mouth.

“I agree,” Liz said. “What is in it? Mango, for sure. Cinnamon . . . what else?”

“Who knows? Whatever it is, it's magnificent!”

They were sitting out by the pool, the sun on their faces, the sound of the gushing waterfall in their ears. Liz was feeling perfectly content and happy, something a week ago she could never have dreamed she'd be feeling in this house.

“She did tell me it was packed with herbs to keep that cold from coming back,” Liz told Roger. “She said it was the healthiest dessert ever made!”

“If only everything healthy tasted this good,” Roger replied, laughing. “Usually healthy crap tastes like cardboard and dead leaves.”

Liz laughed, licking her spoon. Variola's pudding had the consistency of yogurt but none of the bitterness. She'd slivered almonds on the top and sprinkled it with cinnamon. “Eat this,” the chef had told her, “and you will stay strong and healthy.”

“What do you say we take a walk?” Liz suddenly asked, standing. “I've yet to really explore the grounds here, except for a couple of pass-throughs. It's such a beautiful day. Let's see what kind of backyard I've married into!”

Roger smiled. “David certainly pays enough for its upkeep. We might as well enjoy it.”

They wandered off along a path that wound through the gardens. Enormous red hibiscus grew on either side, accented by tall spiky yellow flowers that Liz couldn't name.

“I expect it does cost a great deal to keep these gardens maintained,” she mused. “I have no idea about the finances, or what it takes to run Huntington House. David's never shared any of that with me, and I've never thought to ask.”

“Money is a boring topic.”

“Yes, but I should know, shouldn't I? If I'm going to be expected to plan parties and things like that . . .”

“I'm sure you'll learn everything you need to know.”

She paused to admire a garden of orchids. “So beautiful,” Liz said. “Sometimes, I still can't believe how my life has changed . . .”

“Is it really so different from before?”

Liz laughed. “Only like the difference between night and day. Roger, I grew up very middle class. The only landscaping we had to do to our yard was mow it twice a month.”

“Well, you have gardeners now to take care of that.”

“That's what I'm talking about. I married David so quickly . . . and now I find myself in a world that seems so beautiful and yet . . . so intimidating.”

They stopped walking, and Roger took her hands in his. “There's no need to feel intimidated. You are going to be fine here.”

“Because of you, I've started to believe that,” Liz replied. “Thank you.”

The held each other's eyes for several seconds. Liz finally looked away.

“Have you heard from David?” Roger asked as they resumed their walk.

Liz shook her head. “No. I've tried calling, emailing. . . nothing.”

“When he gets wrapped up in business . . .”

“Don't make excuses for him. I've decided that if we are going to make this work, he and I are going to need to have a very honest conversation when he gets back.”

“That's probably smart.”

“He can't just go off like this anymore with only the occasional contact. Maybe his first wife allowed it. Maybe it didn't bother her. But I'm not okay with it.”

“Oh, I think it bothered Dominique as well. She just . . . found other distractions.”

“What do you mean, other distractions?”

“Well, she became so . . . involved in her causes, you know.”

“What causes?”

He shrugged. “Various clubs.”

Liz sighed. “I don't see myself ever being a Palm Beach club lady.”

“No. I don't see you that way either.”

“Anyway, David and I are going to have to come to some terms. I'm trying to remember the warm, caring David I knew when we met on the ship, and the man who was so sweet, so considerate, all during our honeymoon. It was really such a magical time. He was so kind, so interested in everything I thought and felt . . . I have to believe that David is still there.”

Roger gave her a small smile. “There are many sides to David.”

Liz was about to reply when she caught sight of something up ahead on the path. “Are those statues?” she asked.

“Yes. A sculpture garden. David bought most of the pieces from my gallery. Well, Dominique bought them, but it was David's money.”

Liz was walking faster. “Is that an angel up front?”

“Yes,” Roger was saying, and he sounded a little embarrassed or uncomfortable. “It's a sort of angel, I guess.”

He hung back, walking more slowly as Liz hurried toward the sculpture garden. What struck her first about the angel was that its wings were black, despite the rest of the piece appearing to be white marble. But as she got closer she let out a little gasp as she discerned the sculpture's head.

It wasn't like any angel she had ever seen before.

It had the head of a cow.

“What the heck?” Liz asked, standing in front of it, looking up into the cow's flared nostrils.

Roger still stood a few feet away, almost as if he didn't want to come any closer. “I knew you were going to find it bizarre. I saw how you reacted to Naomi Collins's pieces at the gallery. You're going to think the only art I feature is strange and twisted.”

Liz laughed. “Everyone's got to have an angle, right?”

She made her way into the sculpture garden alone.

“And I guess ‘strange and twisted' does describe these things,” she said, getting a look at the other pieces standing on pedestals.

Some of the sculptures seemed innocuous enough to Liz's eyes: a plain copper triangle; a six-pointed star made out of metal; a white marble obelisk that looked like a miniature Washington Monument. But others were just as weird as the cow angel. A porcelain little girl with three eyes, hands raised to the sky. A dog with two heads. A hand reaching up from a box.

“Dominique picked these out?” Liz asked. “And David actually paid for them?”

Roger didn't answer right away.

Liz had approached the porcelain little girl, inspecting her three eyes up close. No pupils had been etched into the porcelain. The eyes looked blank.

“Do these have some sort of meaning?” Liz asked Roger. “I mean, is there some sort of symbolism I just don't get?”

Again Roger didn't answer. Liz looked up. She didn't see him.

“It's okay,” she said. “I'm not judging you or your gallery. I've never understood art, especially abstract art. I guess I'm just a Thomas Kinkade sort of girl. Norman Rockwell. I like art that is easy to understand.”

Still no reply.

“Roger?”

Liz turned, wondering where he had gone. As she did so, she noticed movement between two of the sculptures a few feet away from her.

“Roger?” she called.

Had he just run between the obelisk and the two-headed dog?

Someone had. There was someone standing there.

“Roger?”

Liz approached.

“Roger, why don't you answer me?”

Suddenly, the person hiding behind the sculpture leapt out at her, maybe a foot and a half away from her.

And it wasn't Roger.

It was a woman. She had long, cascading gray hair and was wearing a white robe. And her face—it was the most hideous thing Liz had ever seen. Twisted, broken, burned. It was almost as if there was no face at all surrounded by all that hair—just a pulpy purple mass with two black holes for eyes.

Liz screamed.

“Liz!”

In her terror she could hear Roger's voice behind her. She turned and ran—and not knowing where she was running, suddenly collided with him. His arms wrapped around her.

“Liz, what is it?”

“That—woman!”

“I know these sculptures are weird, Liz, but you don't have to be scared of them.”

“No! That woman! Over there!”

She pulled her face off Roger's chest and looked behind her.

“Where?” Roger was asking. “What woman?”

She was gone.

“She must have run away,” Liz said, casting her eyes through the sculpture garden. There was no movement anywhere, only the occasional flutter of chirping birds in the trees.

“She frightened you terribly,” Roger observed.

“Her face! Oh, Roger, her face! It was all . . . deformed!”

He looked at her oddly. “Are you certain you saw a woman, Liz?”

“Yes, of course I am. She was right in front of me. I saw her clearly, as plain as I'm seeing you right now.”

“Because . . . I was approaching you at the moment you screamed. Your back was to me. And I saw no one.”

“You had to have seen her. She was right there.” Liz pointed to the spot beside the two-headed dog. “Right there! She jumped out at me.”

“I believe you. I just didn't see her.”

Liz looked from the spot up into Roger's eyes. “How could someone like that get on the property?”

“Well, that's just it. No one can get onto the estate. You've seen the gate out front. And the wall that surrounds the estate is pretty damn high.”

“She must have climbed over. She looked mad, Roger. Not just deformed, but insane. Her eyes—it was if she had no eyes at all!”

He took her hands in his. “You do know you're sounding a little hysterical, don't you?”

“But I saw her!”

“I believe you.”

“We need to tell Thad. Get somebody out here looking for her.”

“Yes, of course.” He sighed. “But Liz, you do realize you're sounding rather like . . . well, like the way you did when you were talking about witchcraft and ghosts.”

Liz broke free of his hands. “You think I imagined it. You don't believe me at all.”

“I believe that you believe you saw something. That you're convinced of it.”

“She was standing right there!”

“I'm just saying . . .”

Liz let out a long breath. “Do you think I . . . do you think it's possible that I . . . imagined what I saw?”

“I don't know, but it's possible. You've been pretty on edge these last few weeks, living here in this house. And these sculptures . . . they can get anyone's imagination racing.”

Liz covered her face in her hands. “It was so real.
She
was so real!”

“And maybe she was. We'll have Thad make a thorough search of the grounds. Point is, I just don't want you getting yourself all upset and anxious again.”

“Right,” Liz said, more to herself than to Roger. She lowered her hands. “I don't want to feel that way again. It was horrible, terrible. You brought me out of all that.” She looked over at Roger. He smiled at her.

“Liz, you're an extraordinary woman,” he said, drawing close to her. “I really hate seeing you in distress.”

She managed to smile. “Now that you're here, I feel better.”

He touched her chin with his thumb and forefinger.

And—before either seemed aware of what was happening—he kissed her.

For a second, Liz felt as if she were floating on air. Her head tingled. Every muscle in her body seemed electrified.

And then she pulled away.

“I—I am so sorry,” Roger said.

“It's all right,” Liz said, not looking at him.

“No, it's not. I—I shouldn't have done that! I didn't intend to—it just—it just happened!”

“I know,” Liz said, finding the strength to look at him again. “It just happened to both of us. It was the intensity of the moment—and our connection these last few days.”

“I'm sorry, Liz.”

“It's all right.” She tried to smile. “It was nice.”

“That it was,” Roger said.

“But it can never happen again,” Liz added.

“Of course not,” he agreed.

“Let's go inside. Have Thad check the property. If he doesn't find anyone, then I guess I imagined it. But I'm telling you, Roger, there could very well be some homeless woman out there who climbed over the fence . . .”

Even as she said the words, Liz glanced up at the wall that surrounded the estate. The nearly eight-foot-tall, solid stone wall . . .

“. . . or got through the front gate somehow . . .”

“Of course,” Roger said. “Let's go in and make the report.”

Liz stopped. “Will you do it for me? I hate to ask but . . . well, Thad is already a rather superstitious sort . . . he'll get talking about ghosts and I'll just get all worked up again.”

Roger nodded. “Of course. I completely understand. I'll speak to Thad.”

“Thank you.”

They headed back inside. Overhead, in the trees, a green, black-hooded parakeet began to squawk, setting off a handful of others, until the entire property echoed in angry cries.