See No Evil (7 page)

He seemed insulted by the question I had thought appropriate. After all, I'd seen my brothers' apartments before they got married.

“Of course I've got furniture.”

I raised an eyebrow and waited.

“I've got a table and four chairs, a great recliner, a plasma TV, a Bowflex, a first-rate sound system and a bed.”

I didn't bother saying that a wall-mounted TV, a sound system and an exercise machine weren't furniture. I knew that
was a male/female definition thing. “Does the bed have a headboard, a footboard and a box spring?”

He became very interested in refilling his glass. “It will. Eventually. When I have time. Like I said, I'm very busy.”

“So what are you doing drinking lemonade in the middle of the afternoon?”

“Good question.” He looked at me for a long moment, then seemed to choose his words with care. “I don't want to scare you, but I don't think you should be alone right now, even here at home.”

I went all warm and melty inside. He was concerned about me.

“I certainly don't want you alone on the site. The last thing I need is another murder.”

Ah, a bucket of realistic cold water. It was Freedom's Chase that he was really concerned about, not me. “Yeah. Bad for sales.”

He frowned. “That didn't sound quite right, what I said. You know I didn't mean it that way.”

“Don't worry.” I gave him what I hoped was a frosty smile, though I don't do frosty well. “I understand just what you meant.”

He looked at me, clearly exasperated, but he chose not to pursue the issue. “How about your friends?” He nodded toward Lucy's and Meaghan's rooms. “Where are they?”

“Meaghan's at school locking horns with the new principal, and Lucy's getting food for the final weekend down the shore before school starts. They're leaving for Seaside tomorrow.”

“Are you going with them?”

I nodded. “But I probably won't leave until Friday when I'm finished at the model.”

“Home alone for a night?” He didn't look happy.

“Maybe I'll sew quickly and be ready to go with them tomorrow.”

“Much better. Where do you stay?”

“Lucy's brother James has a house right on the beach at Forty-Second Street.”

Gray looked surprised. “Does Lucy come from money or something? A house on the beach is worth millions.”

Trust him to think in terms of real-estate values. “James made millions with a dot-com company of some kind. He sold out just before the bubble burst, and now he's a novelist who can write exactly what he wants because it doesn't matter whether he makes money or not.”

“Is he any good?”

“Actually he is.”

“Huh.” But clearly Gray's mind was somewhere else. “So Lucy, Meaghan and James can keep an eye on you down there.”

Meg and James, maybe. But Lucy? I tried to picture her as bodyguard, flack vest, protective helmet and all. Somehow she ended up looking a lot like the biblical David, laden down with King Saul's armor just before he decided to confront Goliath with only his slingshot.

I heard the front door open and Lucy yell, “Ricky, I'm home.”

“In the kitchen,” I called back.

“Ricky?” Gray asked.

“It's her little bow to
I Love Lucy.
That's what happens when your mother names you after a TV person. It's almost as bad as being named after a color.”

Gray grinned. “Ha-ha. Well, she's got the red Lucy hair.” He poured himself some more lemonade.

“Maybe I should run to the pound and get a very vicious pit bull.”

“That's not a bad idea.”

Actually it was a very good idea. I wondered what Meg would think of a dog in the house. A big one with teeth, but one who was smart enough not to eat one of us for dinner if I was late feeding him.

At that moment Tipsy entered the kitchen and ambled to his water dish. He slurped indelicately.

“Tipsy won't like a dog,” Gray said.

I eyed the huge black beast who eyed me back with great golden eyes that never seemed to blink. “Tipsy doesn't like anything.”

“He likes me,” Lucy said as she came into the room with a bag of groceries. She set them on the counter and gathered the cat in her arms, cradling him like a baby. “Don't you, sweetheart?”

“Of course he likes you,” I said. “You feed him.”

“Are you sure he's got a backbone?” Gray eyed the animal doubtfully. “He's as limp as spaghetti.”

Lucy adjusted him in her arms. “He may not have any bones, but he's got plenty of fat.”

As if he understood and knew the comment was derogatory, Tipsy turned and stared at Lucy who stared innocently back.

“You'll never win a stare-down,” I said. “Tips doesn't blink.”

Lucy kissed the black monster on his nose and, bending, dumped him on the floor. She turned to the groceries and began stuffing them in the refrigerator.

Gray tore a corner off his napkin and wrote a phone number.

“We've got real paper you could use,” I told him.

He shrugged and pushed the napkin corner toward me. “This works fine. I'd give you a business card, but they're all in the truck, and I don't have time to go get one. I've got to get back to the site. Here's my cell number. I want you to call me immediately if there's any problem. Immediately!”

“Before or after 911?” I said, trying to defuse the anxiety building in me over his intense concern.

He reached over and placed his hand on mine where it lay on the table. “Anna, I'm serious.”

“About what? The danger? The dog? Calling you?”

“Yes.”

Goody. I smiled weakly. “I'll be okay. I've got Lucy.” Who had gone to get another bag of food from her car.

“And lock all the doors when I leave.”

I nodded, but I was all too aware that locked doors wouldn't keep a determined killer at bay. They never did on TV. It was enough to make you wonder why you had locks to begin with.

Gray stood and pulled me to my feet. Only then did I realize that somehow I had turned my hand over and that I now clasped his. Or he clasped mine. He seemed as surprised as I was, staring at our meshed palms.

At that auspicious moment, Lucy came back into the kitchen. Her eyes widened when she saw our hands. With what could be seen as insulting speed, Gray released me.

I trailed him as he walked to the front door, wishing for the comfort of his grip again. “What about you, Gray? Who's going to keep you safe?”

Gray paused with a hand on the doorknob. “He doesn't want me.”

“Oh. Right.” How could I forget that little difference in our situations?

When he drove away, I locked the front door and leaned against it. I shuddered as I heard the drip, drip again and saw the bright pool of blood in the beam of Gray's penlight. I tried to imagine how a man could shoot someone willfully and in cold blood.

Life was precious, not something to be done away with
at whim. As long as life continued, a connection with God the Father might be made through Jesus the Son. Then when life ended, there was heaven. Snuff out a life prematurely, and a person might never have the opportunity to make that choice for God.

I wondered about Dorothy Ryder. Had she known God? Had she even thought about Him? Not that anything could be changed now. Her opportunity to decide for God was gone. She'd either made that decision previously, or she'd never make it.

Lord, take care of Mr. Ryder. Comfort him. And help the authorities find the guy who did it—without me getting killed, too, okay?

Maybe I should call Sergeant Poole and ask the police to assign someone to guard me. I shook my head. Amhearst didn't have a big force, and I suspected there weren't extra cops lying around to take on a duty like that.

I went to my room rather than down to the cellar to work. As I walked in, my eyes were drawn to the fabric mosaic over the bed, and I smiled. It was a three-foot-by-four-foot whimsical depiction of the Ark with its animals, sewn from hundreds of little pieces of material of different hues, textures and patterns to get the shadings of color I wanted. It had taken me a year to finish it, but every time I looked at it, I felt better, no matter how bad my day had been.

A pair of giraffes held their heads high, each spot several tiny scraps of rusts or ecrus, their manes brown embroidery floss. The smiling lion's mane was several shades of gold and bronze yarn packed tight and cut into eighth- to quarter-inch lengths. His lioness was a tawny collage of beige and amber calicos. The elephants were strips of varying shades of gray, gathered to create their wrinkles. The porcupines squatting on the roof had their laid-back quills made from the straws of a new broom.

Meg kept urging me to take part in high-end craft shows or at least sell my mosaics on eBay. “You could make a fortune, Anna. Your stuff is so beautiful.”

“I just do this for fun,” I always answered.

Last Christmas I'd given Meg a mosaic of a single rose in myriad shades of pink, rose and crimson, the leaves made up of more greens than a spring meadow. I'd made Lucy a whimsical red-headed cat, its color slowly darkening until its tail was a deep, almost black crimson. Two years ago I'd given my father a pair of cardinals, male and female, sitting on a snow-laden pine bough. I'd loved the challenge of the slender needles and the fluffy snow, the subtle shading of the feathers.

I turned from my masterpiece-to-date and settled myself against the headboard of my bed. I reached for my Bible. I wanted the comfort of others who had lived through danger and adversity and had written about God's faithfulness in their dark nights. I wanted to be reminded that God was ever faithful. I turned to Psalm 66, one of Mom's favorite passages during her illness.

I put the Bible back on the bedside table.

Lord, not too much fire and water? Not too many men riding over my head? But I'll take that place of abundance whenever You send it my way.

T
hursday morning Dar walked in the back door of his home on the beach. A grocery bag crackled in his arms. Freshly ground coffee, half and half, a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread and a beautiful, thick filet mignon to grill for tonight's dinner. This afternoon he'd run up the road to a produce stand for some fresh Jersey beefsteak tomatoes. He'd grill them with the steak. He'd also get some fresh peaches, sweet and succulent, for dessert with some of the vanilla ice cream stashed in the freezer.

He stretched, pleasantly tired after a night in Atlantic City celebrating his kill. And what a lovely celebration she had been. What was her name? Kimba? Nola? Some cartoon animal thing. Bambi! That was it. Not that it mattered. He'd never see her again.

He wandered into his bedroom and stripped off his black T-shirt and black slacks. The bed looked very welcoming. A few hours sleep, and he'd be as good as new. He took a quick shower to wash Bambi away, and as he lay down, he still felt the satisfied afterglow of a hit well done. It was wonderful to love your work this much.

Four hours later he pulled on a pair of black shorts and a black T-shirt. He straightened his black sheets and summer-
weight blanket and pulled up the black comforter. He padded barefoot into the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee. As he leaned against the black granite countertop waiting for the brew to drip through the machine, he saw yesterday's newspaper lying on the kitchen table.

He pulled it over. Day-old news wasn't usually all that interesting, but maybe there would be something about the Amhearst job. Granted the
Atlantic City Press
didn't carry much Philadelphia area news, but you never knew.

He flipped the paper open and blinked. There he was on the front page, staring up from a pair of drawings, one full face, bushy mustache carefully in place, the other profile. He wasn't nervous that anyone would recognize him from the drawing. Between the wrong hair and the mustache, he was unidentifiable.

But whoever had done these drawings had gotten the nose. Not good. He ran a finger over the prominent bump. He studied the drawings some more. They were very good and had the words “Do you know this man?” beneath. They were no IdentiKit things either. They were closer to portraits.

He swore. It was that girl. It had to be her. No one else had seen him.

And there she was in the photo. He read the caption. Anna Volente. It said she was a friend of the victim's husband, she and that guy beside her.

Huh.

He filled his coffee mug and walked out onto the deck overlooking the beach and the Atlantic. A slight breeze blew off the water, rumpling his uncombed hair. He sat on the rail and thought.

When he came back in an hour later, he pulled the filet from the refrigerator and slid it in the freezer next to the
vanilla. He had some important things to attend to, and with the trip to Tuckahoe for the Taurus, he doubted he'd be back in time for dinner.