Dark Homecoming (7 page)

“They had thought she was the most beautiful creature to ever walk the earth,” Liz said out loud, looking at her pale reflection in the mirror.

All Liz's insecurities came bubbling back to the surface.

She'd have to face everyone eventually. She knew that. But not tonight. Her fears and anxieties were just too raw at the moment. No way was she going downstairs to try to win them over tonight. Maybe tomorrow. But not tonight. Liz placed her tray outside her door in the hall, then turned off her light and went to sleep.

W
hat Sergeant Joe Foley thought of as he looked over at the scene in front of him was the candied apples his granddad used to buy him at the county fair. An apple on a stick would be dipped into red sugar glaze, which would then harden over the apple, encasing it in a dark red shiny shield.

That's what the dead body on the bed in front of him reminded Joe of. The head and upper torso were encased in a hard dark red translucent shell—probably hardened blood. The body had been lying here all that time, Joe guessed. From the looks of it, the young man's throat had been slit and he'd bled out.

The landlady of the apartment building was still shaking as she gave her statement to Joe's partner, Sergeant Aggie McFarland.

“I took a delivery for him this morning,” the chunky, middle-aged woman said, clutching the apron she wore around her waist. She was the proprietor of the convenience store downstairs. “It was marked ‘perishable.' It looked like it came from his parents up in Georgia. His mother's always sending him fruitcakes and pastries. Well, I kept knocking on his door, but he didn't answer, even though his car was in his parking spot. It's been there all week. I thought maybe he was getting a ride to work, that the car had died on him, like it's done before. I really wasn't suspicious at all until he didn't open the door, even after I told him that I had this box for him. Finally I figured he must have been away, gone off with some friends. I figured I'd just let myself in and put the box in his refrigerator. But then, when I went inside, I saw . . .” The woman's voice trailed off in horror.

“Go ahead, Mrs. Marino,” Sergeant McFarland encouraged her.

“I saw through the open door to his room that he was in bed. And I just peeked in, didn't want to disturb him, and then I saw all the blood!”

“This was when?”

“Just an hour or so ago. I screamed and called down to my son, who was in the store below. He came running up, took one look, and then called the police.”

Joe Foley turned away from the corpse on the bed and walked over to the trembling woman, who wouldn't glance into the bedroom, having already been traumatized enough. “You say his name was Jamison Wilkes,” Joe said. “Can you tell us any more about him?”

“He was a good boy, though I think he'd had some hard times of it during the past few years,” said Mrs. Marino. “I had a feeling he was struggling.”

“Did he work for you?”

“Oh, no,” the woman replied. “He worked over at Huntington House. He was very proud of his job over there, how he had to wear nice pants and a nice cream-colored shirt every day.”

Aggie was taking all of this information down in her investigator's notebook. Joe took a moment to glance over at the dead young man again. So he worked at Huntington House.

Not so long ago, Joe had been up to that sprawling estate. He'd been investigating the death of the young woman who'd been found on the lawn. Her name was Audra McKenzie. She was a pretty girl. Just twenty-two. She'd been stabbed repeatedly in the chest and neck. She'd bled out, too, like this Jamison Wilkes, though most of Audra's blood was gone by the time they'd gotten to her, seeped into the earth. She'd been lying in the grass for hours in a torrential rain.

And now a second employee of Huntington House had been murdered.

Two dead employees. Not to mention the mysterious death a little over a year ago of Mrs. Dominique Huntington. A tragic accident on her boat. No foul play involved according to the verdict of the investigating team. Joe had only recently joined the force at that point; he'd played no role in that investigation. But the case had always struck him as odd. Mrs. Huntington takes the yacht out on her own—without its usual captain—and runs into a storm. She drowns. Joe had started thinking about the death of Dominique Huntington again when Audra McKenzie was found dead on the estate, and now he thought about it again.

Could there be a connection between these three deaths?

Joe took a few steps closer to the dead man encased in that glaze of dried blood. A retaliation killing? Revenge for something? Whoever slit this kid's throat was known to him. The door was locked from the outside. And Jamison's key was still on his ring. So whoever killed him had a key to his apartment. And only a friend would have a key.

It appeared Joe would need to drive out to Huntington House again.

Joe noticed something on the floor beside the bed. He stooped down, looking at it closely.

It was the tiny charred remnant of a marijuana cigarette, if he wasn't mistaken.

And he wasn't likely to be mistaken. Joe knew very well what a joint looked like. He'd smoked more than a few in his day. When he was a teenager, growing up outside Greensboro, North Carolina, he had been a bit of a rebel, driving around a beat-up old Camaro with a Confederate flag on its license plate, smoking pot and swilling Jack Daniel's. But he'd never been a bad kid, really. Drove too fast, partied too much, but never broke any real laws. He knew he wanted to be a cop since the age of ten, when he got hooked watching
America's Most Wanted
on television. More than anything else, even more than smoking weed with Maribeth Sinclair in the back of his Camaro, Joe had wanted to catch killers.

No doubt that was because no one had ever caught the killer who'd ended Joe's mother's life that terrible day in August when Joe was eight.

But Joe didn't like to think about that much. Instead, he concentrated on the dead body in front of him. Solving the murders of other people had to suffice, since neither Joe nor anyone else had ever been able to solve the murder of his mother.

He went over the details of Jamison's death in his mind.

The kid may have been high when he was killed. Or he had smoked the joint before falling asleep, then his friend had slipped inside the apartment and slit his throat.

Or perhaps the friend had been in bed beside him.

The coroner and the forensics team were arriving. “Hey, boys,” Joe said, “snap some pictures of this roach on the floor, then see what you can find on it. Also, I'll want to know if the kid was smoking pot shortly before he died.”

Aggie drew close to him, speaking softly. “Are you thinking what I'm thinking about Huntington House?”

“I am indeed,” Joe told her. “Shall we take a ride out there together?”

“Let's,” she said.

They exited the apartment to the sound of snapping cameras.

“M
rs. Huntington?”

Liz opened her eyes. Glancing around the room, she saw that it was late. The drapes were still pulled, but enough bright sunlight was making its way into the room that she could tell it was getting close to noon. And now someone was softly rapping at her door.

“Mrs. Huntington?”

It was Mrs. Hoffman. Liz pushed aside the white satin covers of her bed, swung her legs over the side, and placed her bare feet on the floor.

“Just a moment,” she called. “I overslept.”

“I'm sorry to bother you,” the housekeeper replied through the door. “I just wondered if you wanted some breakfast sent up to your room.”

“No, that's all right,” Liz told her, getting up, finding herself a little dizzy and steadying herself against one of the posters of the bed. “I'll come down.”

“Very well,” said Mrs. Hoffman.

Liz tried to wake up. She had slept so soundly. She felt as if she had gone far, far away during the night . . . She had been back home in her dreams, in her mother's house, and her father was standing outside on the sidewalk, refusing to come in, despite Liz pleading with him to do so. Then her dream had shifted, becoming vague and unclear, except that it was David standing there, beckoning to her, but she couldn't reach him . . .

She hopped into the shower in the bathroom adjoining her bedroom, hoping the hot water would bring her fully awake. For such a deep long sleep, Liz didn't feel rested. She felt as if she must have tossed and turned all night. She always felt that way when she had dreams about her father. As the water cascaded over her face, she wondered where her father was now. He had sent Mom child-support payments for about a year, then vanished, presumably finding another life for himself, possibly with other daughters—better behaved daughters, more obliging, more obedient, who didn't make him want to run away.

Or maybe
, Liz thought as she toweled herself dry,
Daddy's dead.

But she didn't think so. She imagined him still out there, walking his beautiful, obedient daughter down the aisle in a magnificent church wedding. He would lift her veil and tell her how much he loved her and how proud of her he was.

Liz got dressed, combed her hair, and ran a lipstick lightly over her lips. It was time she went downstairs and faced this life she had found for herself.

Mrs. Hoffman was waiting in the dining room. She smiled at Liz's entrance, though her cheeks and eyes barely moved as usual.

“I trust you slept well then,” the housekeeper said.

“Yes, thank you,” Liz replied, taking her seat.

“Rita,” Mrs. Hoffman called to a maid. “Will you bring Mrs. Huntington her breakfast?”

Liz watched as the young woman carried a tray into the room. Just as she had seemed that day at the pool, Rita was pretty—very pretty, in fact. Dark hair and dark eyes.

Just like Dominique.

“Here you go,” Rita said, placing the plate of what looked like scrambled eggs, rice, and tomatoes in front of Liz. “Variola said she made it special for you. Ham and egg jambalaya. A Cajun dish.”

“Smells delicious,” Liz said. “Thank Variola for me. She needn't have gone to any trouble. I could just have had some toast.”

“But you haven't joined us for breakfast since you've been here,” Rita replied. “Variola has been waiting to make you something special, and we've all been waiting to get to know you.”

Liz looked over at the young woman's face. The other day she had seemed distant, but now her eyes were kind. She offered Liz a sincere smile. Liz was touched.

“Thank you,” she said. “I'm very grateful to everyone here for all they've done since I arrived, and everything you all did to prepare for my arrival. I'm sorry if I've been staying mostly in my room. It's just—”

“I understand, ma'am,” Rita said. “It's a big house. It's a lot to get used to. If there's anything I can do to help you get adjusted, please let me know.”

Liz smiled. “You're very kind,” she said.

“Isn't she, though?” Mrs. Hoffman asked, moving over to stand beside Liz. A look from those frozen eyes sent Rita scurrying back into the kitchen. The housekeeper dropped her gaze down to Liz. “I'd watch out for that one,” she said once Rita was gone.

Liz had begun eating her jambalaya. It tasted as good as it smelled. “But she seemed so sweet . . . so sincere . . .”

“It's just that she can get overly familiar,” Mrs. Hoffman said. “I know Mrs. Huntington was always just a little wary of her. Excuse me. I meant the
first
Mrs. Huntington.”

“Well, I'll keep your words in mind,” Liz said. “But I prefer to make my own judgments of people.”

“Of course. And I'm sure you'll find everyone here to be most accommodating of you. In time, I'm sure they will all learn to love you as they loved her.”

“You mean Dominique?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Hoffman replied, still standing over Liz, watching her like a hawk as she ate. “How devastated the entire staff was when she died. But their grief was nothing to match the master's . . .”

“I'm sure it was a shock for all of you.”

“A terrible day. A beautiful, sunny morning, much like this one. When suddenly there came the chimes of the doorbell . . . and there stood an officer from the Coast Guard, come to give us the terrible news that Mrs. Huntington had drowned.”

“A tragedy,” Liz said quietly, wishing the old hag would move away from her.

“Now,” Mrs. Hoffman said, changing the subject, “I need to know any wishes you have about the household. Do you usually sleep late? If so, I will adjust the time that Variola prepares breakfast . . .”

“No, I usually—”

“And then I need to know any likes and dislikes you have.” She moved away from the table, toward the doorway, before turning around to face Liz again. “We wouldn't want to prepare you dishes that you have no taste for. The vegetarian jambalaya, for instance, was Mrs. Huntington's favorite. But for all we know, you might have very different tastes.”

Her cold, unmoving eyes locked onto Liz's.

Suddenly Liz lost her taste for the jambalaya. She placed her fork down onto her plate.

“Actually, I'm usually awake at the crack of dawn,” Liz said, “and I like most anything. I'm not very picky—”

Her words were suddenly cut off by the deep chime of the doorbell. Liz saw the look that entered Mrs. Hoffman's eyes. Her facial muscles didn't move, of course, but the sudden shine to her eyes seemed to indicate that, for her, the chime of the doorbell would always summon memories of the terrible day Dominique died.

“Excuse me,” Mrs. Hoffman said, and strode out of the dining room to answer the door.

Liz pushed the jambalaya away from her. Why did the fact that it was Dominique's favorite make her lose her taste for it? She didn't know, nor did she care to ponder the reason. She just poured herself a cup of coffee from the silver pot set on the table and drank it black. It tasted so good going down.

From the foyer she could hear Mrs. Hoffman talking with someone. She couldn't make out their words. But then, all at once, the housekeeper was back in the doorway.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Huntington, but you should probably come in and be a part of this conversation.”

“Who are you talking with?” Liz asked.

“The police.”

“Oh my God,” Liz said, rising quickly from her chair. “Has something happened to David?”

“No, not Mr. Huntington. Please come with me, won't you?”

Liz followed Mrs. Hoffman out into the parlor, where two police officers, a man and a woman, were standing. The man was tall, red-haired, and scruffily handsome; the woman was almost as tall, with piercing blue eyes that locked onto Liz as soon as she approached them from across the room.

“This is Mrs. Huntington,” Mrs. Hoffman said, introducing Liz to the officers.

“I'm Sergeant Foley,” the male officer said, “and this is Sergeant McFarland.” He indicated the female officer, who nodded in Liz's direction.

“Congratulations on your recent marriage,” Sergeant McFarland said, though she didn't smile as she spoke. “Welcome to Palm Beach.”

“Thank you,” Liz replied. “What can I do for you officers?”

“We want to ask you a few questions about an employee of yours,” Sergeant Foley told her.

“Oh, I'm afraid I don't know much about any of them yet. Mrs. Hoffman would know more—”

“His name was Jamison Wilkes,” Sergeant McFarland interrupted her.

Liz didn't miss the use the use of the past tense.
His name
was
Jamison Wilkes.
Liz couldn't speak.

“Mrs. Hoffman just informed us that Mr. Wilkes had recently been fired from your employ,” Sergeant Foley went on.

“And at your directive,” his partner added.

“
My
directive?” Liz looked over at Mrs. Hoffman in surprise. The housekeeper's face remained immobile. She just looked at Liz with those feline eyes of hers. “No, I didn't fire him . . . my husband did.”

“Mr. Huntington said he was acting on your wishes,” Mrs. Hoffman explained. “That's what I told these officers.”

“No,” Liz protested. “It was David's decision. I just—”

She turned and looked at the police officers.

“What's happened to Jamison?” Liz asked.

“He was murdered,” Sergeant McFarland informed her.

“Oh, dear God.”

“We wondered if there was anything you could tell us that might help us find the person or persons who did this.”

Liz could barely speak. “I don't know anything . . . I spoke to him only once . . .” She felt as if she might faint. “How was he killed?”

“His throat was slit, possibly while he was sleeping. He was found in his bed.”

“Oh, dear God,” Liz moaned again.

“Could you tell us why he was fired from his job in this house?” Sergeant Foley asked.

“It had nothing to do with anything that's happened,” Liz insisted. She suddenly felt her body trembling. She was sure everyone noticed.

“Why don't you let us be the judge of that, Mrs. Huntington?” Sergeant McFarland suggested.

Liz glanced over at Mrs. Hoffman. She stood there so implacably, so undisturbed by it all. She was just staring over at Liz.

“Mrs. Huntington,” Sergeant Foley said, his voice becoming compassionate, “I know this must be a shock to you, and so soon after you arrived here. But we need you to answer our question. Why was Mr. Wilkes fired from his job in this house?”

In her mind, Liz saw the young man once more. He was standing there in front of her in his cream-colored uniform, in her room—in Dominique's room—looking at her with such plaintive eyes, warning her about this house.

“But Dominique is dead,” Liz had said.

“Mrs. Huntington?”

Liz looked up from her reverie. It was Sergeant McFarland.

How could she tell them that story? She couldn't! She remembered David's distress. She knew how much Jamison's death would upset him . . .

“My husband is the one who fired him,” Liz said again. “It was his decision. I wasn't there. You'll need to speak to David about this.”

“We plan to, but we understand from Mrs. Hoffman that he's away,” said Sergeant McFarland.

“Yes,” Liz replied. “On business.”

“So, until we get in touch with him,” the sergeant went on, “we were hoping you might tell us whatever you know. Why would your husband tell Mrs. Hoffman that he was firing Mr. Wilkes on your directive?”

“I have no idea,” Liz whispered.

“Had he done something offensive?”

Liz looked over at Mrs. Hoffman again. What did the housekeeper know? How much did David tell her?

“He came into my room . . .” Liz began, her voice failing her.

“Into your room?” McFarland asked.

Liz nodded. “He said . . . well, he told me about a girl who had been killed here on the estate . . .”

As she spoke the words, the enormity of the situation became obvious to Liz. Another murder! There had to be a connection! She was suddenly terrified, both for herself and for David.

“I assume he meant Audra McKenzie?” Foley asked.

“Yes,” Liz replied, her voice shaking. “I believe that was her name. That happened before I came here, however.” She added that last remark instinctively, almost as if she felt she needed to protect herself in some way.

“Interesting,” McFarland said, looking over at her partner. “He speaks of Audra's death and a few hours later he's murdered.”

“It happened that same night?” Liz asked.

“That's what forensics is telling us,” Sergeant Foley replied.

His partner had another question for Liz. “Did Jamison say anything else to you?” Sergeant McFarland wanted to know.

Once again the dead young man's words echoed in Liz's mind. Should she tell them? Should she tell them that he'd insisted Audra had died not on the grounds but in her room—and that she had been slain by the undead hand of Dominique?

Liz felt the gaze of Mrs. Hoffman upon her. When she glanced over, sure enough, the housekeeper's cold cat eyes were burning into her, her face a frozen plastic mask, devoid of all emotion.