Killing Bliss (7 page)

She pulled herself together, went to the antique desk in the corner of her bedroom, and searched out the number for Star Lake.

Drawing in a calming breath, she picked up the phone.

* * *

Addy was getting milk from the fridge when the phone rang.

"Star Lake Resort," she said brightly, grabbing the milk container, then swinging the fridge door closed with her hip.

"Addy?"

One word. In a voice barely above a whisper.

"Mary Mother of Christ. Beauty."

"The latter," Beauty said, her tone lifting a notch. "And nothing at all like the former." A pause. "How are you, Wart?"

Her mind still a shocked whiteout, she mumbled, "I'm good." She set the milk carton on the countertop and pressed a palm against the fridge to steady herself. "Damn it. I can't believe it's you."

"I guess it has been a while."

"Yeah. Like fourteen years."

"That long?"

"Close to." Addy took her hand from the counter and rubbed her stomach. Something slithered there, a wary tension, settling, coiling itself into place. "Where have you been all these years? Even Lund couldn't find you."

"You mean he actually roused himself to give a damn? Amazing." She laughed, and when she did, if there'd been any doubt it was Beauty, that low, smoky laugh of hers put it to rest. "How is the old geezer anyway?"

"Dead. A few months ago."

"Oh." After a moment of silence, she added, "I'm sorry to hear that. Lund was okay."

"Yes, he was."
And better to us than we deserved.
"You should have called, let him know you were all right. He would have appreciated it. So would I. God, Beauty, we thought you were dead, figured—" She didn't finish, didn't want to show that her trust in Beauty ran so deep she'd actually thought she had to be dead not to call, that she'd been dumb enough to buy into the sisters-forever routine Beauty had promised so many years ago. Lund had given up on her long before Addy did.

"As you can hear, I'm very much alive." She stopped again. "And I'm coming up to see you."

"Up? Where's down?" The slithering sensation intensified. She tamped down the surge of excitement that came with the idea of seeing Beauty again. It was for sure if she did show up after all this time, trouble would follow.

"San Francisco."

Addy's lips twisted, not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. "Let me guess. You married a ton of money, and you're living on Nob Hill." She might be joking, but she wouldn't be surprised, either.

"I'm working on that, but no. I followed in my good mama's footsteps. I'm a prostitute. One of the expensive ones." She said it as calmly as if she'd announced she was a teacher of third grade.

"Oh, Beauty. You idiot."

"Maybe, but an idiot who's made a buck or two, and she's coming to see her sister."

"Quit with the sister stuff, would you?" Addy snapped. "Sisters don't run off with the milkman, then not call for half a lifetime." God, the amazing thing was, hearing her voice now, it was as if all those missing years had the weight of a Kodak moment.

"He wasn't a milkman, sweetie," she said. "He was a long-haul driver with a thick wallet and a generous hand, and I didn't call because I had nothing to say."

"And you do now?"

"I do. And it's important." Beauty paused, and Addy heard her inhale long and deep. "Have you ever heard from our mutual friend?"

Addy knew Beauty meant Gus. It was her turn to inhale, hesitate. "No." Her heart boomed in her chest, and she coughed to clear her throat. It wasn't as if she were telling a lie, exactly. "And, Beauty—"

"Uh-huh?"

"About your coming here. I don't think it's a good idea. Maybe even... dangerous."

"You're probably right, but I'm coming anyway." This time the pause was longer, and when she spoke her voice was shaky, her tone low. "Because it's even more dangerous if I don't come. There's a big bad wolf out there, Addy, and unless we do something, he's going to huff, and he's going to puff, and he's going to blow my house down." She stopped again. "Then he'll come after yours."

"What are you talking about?" The hair on the back of Addy's neck stood up and screamed. Screams that vibrated down the cords of her memory.

"Put some fresh sheets on a bed, Wart. I plan to drive—safer, I think. I'll be there as soon as I can." She hung up.

Addy replaced the receiver on its wall cradle and stood staring at it, dread clawing at her ribs in long gouging scrapes, her breath refusing to settle in her lungs.

She pulled out a chair from the kitchen table, ignored the late dinner she'd hungered for, and sat down heavily. She was still there when the sinking sun disappeared behind the cedars, still there when the warm October day cooled into evening.

It couldn't be about that night. It just couldn't.

But in a deep, long, unlit part of her soul, she knew it was.

Chapter 5

Wayne Grover arrived home by seven-thirty. He tried to close the door quietly, but even the soft click of the lock was enough. Sandra immediately came to meet him, her face pale and tight. "You're late. Again. I told you dinner would be on the table at seven-fifteen."

He turned his back to her, hung up his coat, and stowed his briefcase in the closet. "Traffic," he said, not adding further explanation, knowing more words made a bigger net for her to catch him in.

She snorted. "Get in there, then. I don't want to be doing dishes all night because you don't know how to press down on the pedal."

She waited until he passed her. "You had some calls. One of them was a man named Cade Harding."

He turned to face her, his expression carefully blank. "Yes."

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

She pursed her lips, adding, "I don't know the name. You know I like to be apprised of all your colleagues."

He walked the few steps to the dining room, took his seat, and surveyed the perfectly placed cutlery. He thought about Linda Curl, her froth of unruly hair, her smart mouth, her plump, willing body. "He's not exactly a colleague, Sandra."

"What then?" she said, her tone sharpening.

"He's a man looking into a file of mine." Wayne sighed, rubbed his forehead. "Can we just eat? It's been a long day. I'm hungry." There was no food in evidence, but Wayne knew it was in the kitchen, each portion aligned perfectly on pure white plates, enough to feed at least a pair of robins, with no chance for seconds, because Sandra was watching his weight.

Thank God for lunch.

"What file?" she demanded.

He laced his fingers, placed his hands in front of him on the orderly table, knowing now there'd be no escaping her interrogation. "The Perkins file," he lied.

She frowned. "The Perkins file? I've never heard of it. You haven't told me."

"It's new. A missing girl. Harding's been hired by the family to find her. She was in the system for a few weeks. He came into the office today, thought I could help him find her. I told him I couldn't. He probably had a last minute question." He waited to see how the lie played.

"You're not telling me everything."

"No, I'm not. Because I don't know everything."

He realized too late his reply was edgy. He ignored the headache belching fire into his skull, and took her hand in his, stroked it in an effort to calm her. Unlike Linda's hand, Sandra's was narrow, and the bones made high ridges under her pale skin.

"You're lying, Wayne. You always lie."

"Sandra, please."

She yanked her hand from his. "Someone else called today," she said, her voice ominously low, her eyes hot and unblinking.

"Who?"

"Frank Bliss."

The name entered him like a blunt, jagged knife, and along with Sandra's vicious grin, twisted and jerked in his chest. He struggled to catch his next breath. Frank Bliss. Dear God. Seven years he'd been in prison, and the minute he was out, he was on Wayne's back like a voracious, creeping fungus, his promise never to call Sandra again lost in his bottomless greed.

"What did he say?" He kept his tone mild the way she liked it.

"Nothing. He asked for you, and when I said you weren't home, he hung up in my ear."

Wayne nodded, swallowed the clot of nerves in his throat, tried to think.

Sandra set her gaze on him. Leaning over him, her face so close to his he had to blink to bring it in focus, she said, "If you'd dealt with him, Wayne, when you should have, if you'd acted like a real man, he wouldn't be troubling us, would he?"

He didn't answer, couldn't deny her accusation.

"Answer me."
She screamed and slapped the table. The cutlery on the table jumped—as did his heart.

He tightened the knot of his hands. "No, Sandra, he wouldn't. It's my fault. All my fault. I'll take care of it. I promise." If he only knew how. If only he had the power to make Bliss go away. Forever.

Her laugh was sharp, derisive. "'I'll take care of it, Sandra,'" she parroted, her voice rising. "That's what you said then, you stupid, stupid fool. We could have lost everything, your job, this house. But you did nothing. Nothing." Her voice turned shrill. "You're useless." The look she gave him was filled with disgust and loathing. "You were useless then, and you're useless now." Her expression shifted, darkened. "You deserve to be punished for your weakness."

"No, Sandra..."

She ignored him. "But you like that, don't you, Wayne, being punished. Because you're not a real man. If you were, you wouldn't like the things... you like. The things only I can give you."

Wayne's pulse quickened, a mixture of fear and arousal. "Don't, please," he pleaded. "This time I'll do it. I'll take care of Bliss. He won't bother us again. Let's just have dinner. Please, Sandra."

"Oh, yes, Wayne, you'll take care of it, all right, because I'll make sure you do."

Her hand came suddenly, as if from nowhere, slapped his cheek, palm open, taut, and mean with intent. Again. Then again. His head snapped and swiveled under each blow.

"Get up, you dumb, ignorant beast." She hissed, putting her mouth to his ear, filling it with heat and spit. "Go to bed. There's no dinner for you tonight."

Wayne took in a breath, drowning in his shame. Shame for his lies, his failures, his growing erection. More than anything, shame for his sinful abiding rage. He thought longingly of his office, his files, the work he could bury himself in. He should leave, walk out the door, and never come back.

He should run...

"I said get up." she ordered, her voice shrill, feral.

He stood, which put him eye-to-eye with the dark-haired woman whose brilliant, burning gaze poured into his worthless soul like boiling tar, whose mouth frothed with fury—and whose hand now curled, knuckles white, around a steak knife.

She put the knife to his chin and prodded; blood trickled down his neck. "Did that feel good, lover?"

He did what she expected—what he'd always done—and nodded obediently, his mouth slack, his eyes wide and dry.

She dropped the knife in disgust. "Go upstairs, you piece of filth. I know what you like, what you want, and I'm happy to oblige. You know what to do. Wait for me."

He lowered his gaze, placed his napkin on the table, and walked out of the room, his impotent rage no match for the depravity that ruled his rotting soul.

He was an evil man, the devil's own tool.

Grover went up to the bedroom, removed his clothes, dropped to his knees, and said the same prayer he'd intoned for years, tonight more desperately than ever, his need grown terrifyingly critical as if his brain were fissured, threatening to fragment into a million jagged, violent pieces.

Any time now.

Any moment.

His mind a fog of pain and blinding fear, a blizzard of despair, he prayed again and again...

"Dear God, I beg you to make me strong. Give me peace. And, please, please stop me from killing my wife."

* * *

Addy stooped, picked up an empty cola can, and walked to the back of the house to put it in the garbage bin. Lord, people were messy. Most days, she accepted litter pickup as part of the job, but since Beauty's call her nerves were so fierce and jangled every task seemed like a mile-long broad jump.