Haunting Refrain (26 page)

“Ah,
dammit
.”
Kate sagged back in her chair.

“What have you done?”

They had been friends since childhood. Gwen knew her too well. Kate muttered, “Called and left a rude message.
Very rude.”

“I have to say, your temper’s been getting the best of you lately.” Gwen softened her unsympathetic words by adding, “But you’ve been under a lot of strain. He’ll probably understand.”

“I hope so. By the way, how are you and Thomas doing? I saw him yesterday.”

“Oh, Thomas.”
Gwen turned to the window for a second. “He’s turning out to be rather possessive. We have a date tomorrow night, and I’m going to tell him I don’t want to see him anymore, cancel that trip to
Atlanta
. I’m not looking forward to it. He’s a little too intense for me.”

“Oh, Gwen.”
She knew that in spite of Gwen’s glamorous lifestyle and the attention she received, the gorgeous woman was lonely. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

“Flash in the pan, that’s all.” She shrugged. “I have to go. I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

As soon as the door closed behind Gwen, Kate returned to Charlene’s box. Carefully sifting through the contents, she selected a sheet of pink stationary and held it for a moment, trying to let her mind go blank.
Nothing.
She opened the letter and found a note in a round, childish script, thanking “Cousin Charlie” for a Michael Jackson album.

Maybe she should check first to see if there was something in the box Charlene might have handled frequently or kept close to her. She lifted out the contents carefully, placing the items on the desk. Nothing seemed intensely personnel. A card from Business Express with a telephone number scrawled on the back drew her attention. Concentration brought only a faint feeling of pleasure. Envisioning some tall, dark man answering, she dialed the number.

“Maitland Pharmaceuticals,” a woman’s voice said.

“I’m calling from Business Express,” Kate lied. “Can you tell me if our delivery truck has already been there today?”

“Not yet. He usually comes after lunch.”

“Thank you,” Kate said and quickly hung up. Maitland was just one of their customers.
Nothing there.

After several fruitless attempts with other objects, she turned her attention to the photographs at the bottom of the box. There
were
several of Charlene. In spite of their poor quality, Kate could see that she had been a pretty girl, obviously full of life. In most of them, she was clowning or posing with friends. In a drugstore photo package, Kate found several taken at a party. The prints had a murky, greenish cast. Printed with dirty chemicals, Kate thought, disgusted, but the sheer joy expressed in one caught her eye. It should have been a really good picture.

Dancing barefoot on a table top, Charlene had her head thrown back, laughing.
 
Her skirt swirled around her legs in a blur of color, and one hand arched above her head, gypsy-style. Light sparkled on her gold hair and a wide silver bracelet. An earring glinted at her ear.

Kate stared at a group of upturned faces, all watching the exuberant dancer. Even though they were difficult to see because of the dark print, their rapt expressions were apparent. Charlene drew all eyes. But as Kate handled her things, sadness for the loss of this bright girl was the only feeling that came to her.

The negatives were still in the package. Kate wondered if the Nelsons would like an enlargement of the little photo. She was sure Rita would. When she went back in the darkroom, she would see what she could do in black and white. If it looked good, she would send the negative to the color lab she used. They could do wonders if there was anything at all to work with.

Carefully replacing everything in the shoebox, she shut it in the back of a file cabinet.

Now John.
She looked at the telephone. It was past time for lunch, which her stomach reminded her she had missed. He ought to be back. Wishing in vain that somehow his voice mail had lost her earlier message, she dialed his office. “You have reached—” Kate hung up. She would try again from home.

Excuses and justifications played in her mind on the drive home. There were none.
 
“No way, McGuire.
Admit it. You’re a bad-tempered bitch. Grovel and get it over with.”

The door still smelled of paint from the fresh coat John had given it. It needed another. The mocking HARLOT still showed, if faintly. The key turned easily in her front door lock, snapping her to attention. She froze.
Had it been unlocked?
She wasn’t sure—she had been operating on automatic. If someone were there, she would hear a creak or a footstep, something, she told herself. She dropped her bag at the door, wanting her hands free just in case. Cautiously, her heart thudding in her chest, she stepped into the living room. A ceramic vase lay against a corner of the sofa. Magazines littered the floor, as if someone had taken a wild swipe across the top of the low coffee table.

Shaking, she crossed into the dining room. The mutilated remains of the pictures she had been considering for the Caesar’s Head show were scattered over the work table, a few on the floor. A faint stirring of the air from the open door caused tiny bits of the paper that had been her acceptance notification to drift slowly to the floor. Shards of frosted glass surrounded naked fluorescents in her light box. She halted, surveying the wreckage, her breath coming short and hard.
Calm down
. At least she still had the negatives.

A torn and crumpled photo of fog-shrouded trees fluttered from the table to the floor at her feet, precipitated by her passing. She bent to pick it up,
then
stopped. She had seen enough crime flicks to know she shouldn’t touch anything.

Holding her breath, she picked her way through the debris to the kitchen. Cabinet doors stood wide and the contents of the open drawers lay on the floor. Kate’s hands shook as she dialed the police. “Detective Waite, please.”

“She’s out right now. Can someone else help you?”

Kate explained about the intruder to another detective and asked that he pass the information to Detective Waite.

He didn’t sound too impressed, but promised to send someone to check. Kate was afraid he would write it off as a simple burglary.

“Please call Detective Waite. Tell her it’s connected to Kelly Landrum and give her my name.”

“McGuire.” He placed the name; Kate could hear it in his flat voice.
“You the one with the visions?”

“Yes.” She ground her teeth. “And the other woman involved was nearly killed Tuesday,” she snapped.

That got his attention. He said he would send someone out right away, and although he still sounded skeptical, he promised to notify Waite. “Don’t touch anything, Ms. McGuire.”

She hung up and dialed John’s number, her earlier phone call completely forgotten.

“Gerrard,” he answered.

Thank God.
“John, he’s been here. He’s been in my house! I called the police.”

“Are you sure he’s gone? Get out of the house. I’m on my way.” His voice trailed off, the connection broken as his last words sounded.

She wasn’t ready to go upstairs even though she was certain the killer was long gone. Holding herself tightly, she went to pace on the front walk as she waited.

Within minutes, she heard the uneven roar of John’s Mustang. He braked sharply at the curb and was out of the car before the engine died. “God, Kate!”

She threw herself into his arms as he reached the sidewalk.

A patrol car arrived, parking behind John, and two uniformed policemen got out. Kate recognized Paul
Wolynski
. So did John, who held out one hand to the young officer, keeping Kate tight against his side with the other arm.

The second policeman, an older man with a long, sour face, introduced himself as Officer Dill. Kate had to bite her lip to keep from giggling. Adrenaline did not have a good effect on her.

She told them what she had seen and that she had left the house after using the telephone. “Except for tearing up some of my photographs and smashing the glass on my light table, I think he just made a mess, but I didn’t go upstairs.”

The officers asked her to wait outside while they checked the house. Dill added, “You, too, Gerrard.” Apparently he also recognized John.

Kate felt an excessive amount of fear, considering what she had seen. Nausea clutched at her stomach. “It was him.” She started to shake again.

John kept his arm around her, watching her through narrowed eyes. “I got your message. Didn’t your mother teach you not to use words like that?”

Kate winced. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everything seems to set me off.”

“Understandable, considering, but I hope it wears off soon.” He kissed the top of her head. “You smell better today. I like it.”

“You should. It’s your shampoo. After you left, I took a quick shower.” She smiled, realizing he had successfully distracted her.
Again.
“I didn’t have time to come home.”

Wolynksi
signaled to them from the doorway. “No one’s here, but there’s something upstairs you should see. Be careful not to touch anything.”

Kate hesitated, then took a deep breath and started up the steps, John right behind her. Dill waited at the door to Kate’s bedroom.

“It’s a good thing you weren’t here last night, Ms. McGuire. Somebody doesn’t like you very much.” Watching her, Dill abruptly moved out of the way, giving her a clear view of her bed.

Kate’s eyes widened and her knees sagged. The air left her lungs in a rush, and her stomach contracted as if she had been punched. John locked his arm around her and pulled her against him.

A large kitchen knife protruded from the mattress. Multiple stab wounds pierced the sheets, and
polyfoam
from the pillow littered the room like wool from a shorn sheep. Shreds of lace and nylon hung from her dresser drawers. Above it all loomed the word
BITCH
, scrawled across her mirror in lipstick letters. The ruined tube lay open on the dresser.

“Waite’s on her way. She’ll want to talk to you. Don’t touch anything,” Dill said again. He took a ballpoint pen from his pocket and retrieved his clipboard from a chair.
“You up to answering a few questions?”

“Outside.
She doesn’t need to stand here in this mess.” Glaring at Dill, John turned Kate and led her down the steps.

“Just don’t touch anything,” Dill said.

“I never want to touch any of it again,” Kate said, her teeth chattering.

“How about the kitchen?
Can I make her some coffee?” John asked over his shoulder.

“The fingerprint guy will be here soon. Better not.”
Wolynski
stepped aside to allow them room to pass at the bottom of the steps.

“How did he get in? Do you know?” John asked the younger officer as he led Kate to the porch. The officers followed.

Dill answered. “Cut a hole in the dining room window.
Very small, very neat.
He reached in and unlocked it, climbed in and closed the window.” He leaned against the porch railing and quickly straightened, frowning when it wobbled beneath him. “You ought to have that fixed.”

Kate nodded absently at the loose rail, intent on their information.

John said, “He’s learning. He butchered
Venice
’s door.”

Wolynski
took up the story. “Yeah, I saw that. We almost missed the window. He probably let himself out the front door. My guess is that he did the pictures and the coffee table stuff on the way out, just a last token of his esteem. Is that knife upstairs yours?”