Haunting Refrain (22 page)

“Well, that's reassuring. However, I will, in future, include the dining room in my early warning system.”

“Which is?”

“Bottles stacked mouth to mouth at critical points, such as a few inches in front of a door. When touched, however gently, they crash with a suitably loud noise.” Taking him into the kitchen, she placed a glass soft drink bottle upright on the floor a few inches in front of the door. The second bottle she carefully balanced upside down on top of the first. Then she opened the door, very slowly, barely touching the bottles. They toppled immediately, sounding like breaking glass. “If you're really worried, I could add a tin can or two. That should increase the volume.”

“Okay, McGuire. It works. But if someone seriously wants in here, that won't stop them. You must sleep upstairs. Can you get down the steps and out before someone reaches you?” Without thinking, John brushed a strand of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. After hearing about the truck on
Paris
Mountain
and with what he suspected about the elevator, he believed someone meant her harm, probably wanted her dead. He knew he had contributed to the danger she was in by publishing her name in his articles, but at the time, he hadn’t felt that he had a choice. If he had it to do over . . . , but of course, he didn’t.

He watched her fiddle around the kitchen, wiping away imaginary crumbs. She was clearly unused to having a man in her house. He had thought she must have gotten a bundle out of J. B., but why would she live where she did? She couldn’t be the promiscuous adulteress the press had made her out to be. And what was it
Venice
said about not having insurance? He would figure it out.

Wasn't that what he did best? Invade people's privacy? He’d never had any qualms about printing a story before. Now he found himself reexamining his standards. Maybe there were gray
areas,
times when printing the whole story did more harm than good. He shouldn’t let what happened to his father color everything, every decision he made.

She stood by a cabinet, a sponge in one hand, watching him. “If I thought someone were in this house, I'd go out my bedroom window. It's over the back porch, and I could get down from the roof. But thank you for worrying.” A small smile touched her lips, reflecting in her gray eyes.

Sliding his hand around the back of her neck, he pulled her toward him and lightly kissed her forehead. “Be careful, McGuire.”

* * *

Kate thought she could spare a couple of hours away from the studio this morning. Business was hardly booming right now. Although she didn't believe Helmut Kusch could be involved in the murders, she thought in fairness she should check out John's theory about Gisela. She supposed she would have to start by questioning his neighbors, but it seemed dishonest to sneak around behind Helmut's back. Unfortunately, she couldn't think of any other way. Maybe she would hit the neighborhood gossip on the first try.
Venice
, who knew everything, would know where he lived and what kind of area it was.

Venice
didn't answer the phone. She could be in the bath or outside, Kate thought, and continued getting dressed. She called again, but there was still no answer. Maybe she was talking to Ramses.
 
The third time, she let the phone ring a dozen times before hanging up. She checked the clock on the microwave.
Seven-fifty.
Wondering what could have dragged
Venice
out before
eight,
Kate turned to the phone book and looked up Helmut's address, resigned to going in blind. She would spend a couple of hours at the studio and then go. If she could wait until eleven, Helmut was sure to be at the restaurant, and then she would see what his neighbors had to say—if any were home on a weekday morning. Maybe
Venice
would turn up by then.

* * *

Promptly at eleven, with the help of a map—still no response from
Venice
—she found the subdivision and, finally, the street and Helmut's house. The neat, boxy brick appeared to be one of the smaller designs. Precisely laid out flower beds and trees lined the outer edges of the front yard. A green lawn, its smooth perfection unmarred by leaf or twig, spread across the center. Kate bet the lace curtains visible in the windows were leftovers from Gisela.

Only one house looked promising. A tricycle, a wagon, and various toys blocked the sidewalk leading to the front door. Kate rang the bell.

A plump brunette in a denim jumper and sandals warily opened the front door but left the storm door closed. Small hands clung to her knees, and a curly-haired toddler peeked out from behind her skirt.

Kate introduced herself as an old friend of Gisela's, and explaining that asking Helmut was a bit awkward, asked if the woman knew where she was living now.

“No, I don't know anything about them.” With disapproval written all over her, she quickly closed the door.

Feeling twice as guilty as before, Kate turned to the house on the other side of Helmut's.
Maybe she should give a false name, she thought, or give this up altogether. But since she had already given her real one to the first woman, it was too late. She might as well try this one.

Plywood covered the steps to the porch, creating a ramp. Pots of scarlet geraniums flanked a neatly painted green door. A cheerful place, it had a well-loved air. The handicap ramp made her think someone might be home. She rang the bell and stepped back, hoping this person was less suspicious than the young mother.

A tall, white-haired man came to the door. “Yes?”

Again, Kate gave her story about being an old friend of Gisela's who didn't want to ask Helmut about her.

“Oh yes, I understand. Mr. Kusch can be a bit intimidating, can't he? My wife knew Mrs. Kusch better than I did. You should talk to her. Come in. I'm Herschel Stern.” He held the door for Kate and gestured toward a wide archway off the small entrance hall.

“Oh, I don't want to intrude.” She hesitated at the door.

“No, no. Lila would love to see you. She doesn't get out much these days, and she enjoys company.” He led Kate to the living room and stopped before a frail woman in a wheelchair. “Lila, this is Kate McGuire. This is my wife Lila.”

The pride and love in his face as he introduced the still-lovely woman touched Kate. Lila Stern sat in a soft halo of light, framed by a picture window filled with blooming plants. A bag of potting soil and a watering can sat on a small table by her right side. She placed a small trowel under the fingers of her left hand, which rested in her lap, and, brushing her right hand against her skirt, held it out to Kate. The gentle smile that illuminated her face completed an irresistible picture. Kate forgot Gisela.

After taking her hand and exchanging brief greetings, Kate took a business card from her purse and handed it to Mr. Stern. “Your wife is beautiful.”

She turned back to Mrs. Stern and said, “I'm a portrait photographer. Would you let me get my camera from my car and take your picture? It would be my pleasure—certainly no charge.”

He responded with an enthusiastic “yes” at the same time his wife said “No.”

“Come, Lila. It would mean a lot to me to have a picture of you as you are now. You grow
more lovely
every year.” He bent and, taking her right hand in his left, lifted her other useless one to his cheek. She turned luminous eyes to him. They seemed to have forgotten Kate's presence.

“If it pleases you, my dear,” she whispered.

Kate slipped out, feeling like a voyeur. Quickly gathering her camera bag from the floor of the car, she ran back to the house, knocking before she entered.
If she could capture that inner radiance . . .

For the next hour, Kate talked with the couple while moving around to different angles, changing exposures, and switching between the Nikon with color film and her father's ancient
Leica
, which was loaded with black and white.

Finally Herschel remembered Gisela Kusch. “Didn't you want to know how to reach Mrs. Kusch?”

“Mrs. Kusch?” Lifting her head from the tripod she had just lowered, Kate looked up with a blank expression. “Oh! Yes.
Gisela.
I'm sorry, I had completely forgotten.”

“Are you a friend of hers?” Lila asked, frowning slightly.

Kate found herself unable to lie. “Not really. I'm just looking for her. I need to know where she is,” she added lamely, not wanting to explain John's theory or mention the murders to these gentle people.

Lila looked at her for a minute. “I trust that you have a good reason for asking, Kate, so I’ll answer your question. I've received two postcards from her since she left. She and her husband live in
Charleston
. Of course, she would prefer that Mr. Kusch not know where she is.”

“Husband?
Charleston
? I thought she went back to
Germany
.”

“That's what Mr. Kusch wanted people to think. Although theirs was not a match made in heaven, he was shocked when she left him. Had it not been for the embarrassment of her involvement with the meat salesman, I believe he would have accepted it much better.”

At least Helmut hadn't murdered his wife, Kate thought.
 

A short time later she left the Sterns, promising to return with the photographs next week. She envied their relationship, the closeness developed and nurtured over many loving years. Her parents would never have been like that, no matter how long they lived. She wondered how
Venice
and her husband had been. She knew
Venice
had loved him.

Thinking of
Venice
reminded her. Where would she have gone so early? She stopped at the first phone booth she came to. She let
Venice
’s phone ring for a long time.

She returned to her car, worried. “Where are you,
Venice
?” Maybe John had heard from her. She could also tell John to cross Helmut off his list. She got out and returned to the pay phone. The newspaper switchboard put her through to John. He hadn't heard from
Venice
. She told him briefly about the Sterns.

“You were crazy to go there, Kate. What if Helmut is the killer, and he finds out you're checking on him? Just because his wife is alive and ran off with another guy doesn't clear him. If anything, it gives him a better reason to go off the deep end.

“Look, I know you're worried about
Venice
. Why don't I meet you there, and maybe we can all get some lunch?”

Kate thought John must be worried, too, if he wanted to meet her at
Venice
's. Most of the time, he tried to avoid the woman.

* * *

Abingdon was a quiet street, overhung with the branches of ancient trees. Large old houses in a variety of styles sat on acres of lawn, discretely hidden by hedges, fences, and graceful evergreens. Kate hadn't realized how isolated each house was from its neighbor. She turned in at
Venice
's wrought iron gates, increasingly alarmed.

Alarm turned to panic when she saw the rear end of
Venice
's Cadillac in the open garage behind the house. Kate slid to a halt in the gravel drive and, leaping from her car, ran to the front door, calling to
Venice
. At the first knock, the door swung open. For an instant, fear took her breath away. Then, with her heart thumping madly, she plunged into the dim interior of the house, calling, “
Venice
!
Venice
!”

She found her in the study
Venice
used for readings, sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood. Unable to utter a sound, Kate fell to her knees beside the prone woman. Gingerly, she touched the still form, seeking some sign of life.

“My God!”
John's shocked voice sounded over her shoulder. Kneeling beside Kate, he took
Venice
's hand and placed two fingers over the inside of her wrist. “Kate, she's alive. Call nine-one-one!”