She Loves Me Not (29 page)

“I know. I will. I just need to talk to the police officer. I'll see you later.”

Rose hangs up.

Leslie frowns. What was that all about?

Her gaze falls on the teapot, sitting in the dry sink.

The pipes.

Dammit. She forgot to ask Rose about calling Hitch to come over and take a look at them.

She'll have to page Rose again and—

Wait a minute. She doesn't have to wait for Rose. There's no reason why she can't just look up Hitch's phone number and call him herself.

“How does this sound, Aunt Wes-wee?” Leo calls over the din in the living room.

“It sounds great, sweetie,” she calls back absently, taking the local directory from the shelf that holds her mother's cookbooks.

Sitting at the table with the phone in one hand, Leslie flips to the yellow pages with the other. It doesn't take her long to find a large ad for Hitchcock and Son under Plumbers.

She dials the number and finds herself listening to a recording of Hitch's voice.

When the machine beeps, she says, “Hitch, this is Leslie Larrabee. I don't know if you've heard, but there was a . . . problem at Rose's last night.” Not wanting to go into the details on a recorded message, she says, “She and the kids are fine, but they're going to be staying at my parents' house for a few days, and unfortunately, the pipes over here are frozen. If you could, would you come over as soon as possible to see what you can do? Thanks.”

She hangs up, smiling.

With any luck, Hitch will access his messages from wherever he's working before he calls it quits for the night.

“O
fficer Shanley!” Rose calls, hurrying through the blowing snow wearing only her sneakers.

“Mrs. Larrabee! Is everything all right?” He turns away from the small knot of officers and detectives huddled near the wind-whipped yellow crime-scene tape surrounding the spot where Luke's body lay before he was taken to the morgue.

The weather is deteriorating so quickly that even the crowd of reporters and curious onlookers in the street has thinned to a hardy handful.

“Do you remember how I told you and Detective Molinari earlier that somebody has been calling me in the middle of the night, playing the same music every time?” Rose asks the young policeman.

“The prank caller? Yes, I remember.”

“Well, I just found out that the song he kept playing is called ‘Heart and Soul.' ”

“Heart and Soul?” the cop echoes, looking blank.

“Hey, I know that tune,” another officer says, and hums it.

“That's it,” Rose tells him, tucking her already numb hands beneath the opposite arms to warm them.

“So what are you thinking? That it's a love song, so the stalker theory might be—”

“No, that it's a song about a heart. And the necklace was shaped like a heart, and so was the box of chocolates. And whoever broke in here and turned on the sound machine flipped it to the heartbeat setting.”

“So you're thinking—”

“There's something I didn't tell the detectives earlier, Officer.” She takes a deep breath. “I had a heart transplant almost two years ago. And I think that whoever killed Luke must know about it.”

“But what does that have to do with . . . ?”

She shrugs. “I don't know what it means. I just think that it matters.”

The cops exchange a glance.

“Who knows about your transplant?” one of them asks.

She shakes her head. “Just my family, and a couple of close friends. But it's a small town. The news might have gotten around.”

The wind gusts, blowing wet snow into her face, stinging her eyes. She ducks her head, shivering.

“You shouldn't be out here without a coat,” Officer Shanley tells her. “I'll talk to Detective Molinari about this and see what he thinks. Just be sure to give us a phone number for where you're going tonight in case he has more questions for you.”

“I will,” Rose promises and turns away, wading through several inches of snow already covering the ground.

What a shame. It would have been perfect weather for sledding,
she thinks ruefully, as she makes her way toward the house.

Chapter Thirteen

T
he phone rings as Leslie rummages through her parents' cabinets, trying to find something she can possibly give the kids to eat. Only the dry macaroni is a possibility, but she can't cook it until Hitch gets here to fix the pipes.

Hoping to find him on the other end of the line, she hurries to answer the phone. But it's Peter's voice that greets her, and he sounds aggravated.

“Leslie? I can't get the damn truck started.”

“You're kidding me. Where are you?”

“Where do you think I am? I'm standing on the street in Bellport, waiting for Triple A to come.”

“What about Arty and the other guys? Can't they help you?”

“They offered me a ride, but I can't leave the truck here overnight, especially with the plows coming through. The town will have it towed away if I leave it.”

“Oh, Peter . . . when is Triple A supposed to get there?”

“Who knows? They said they're really busy tonight because of the weather. I'll call you back when they show. Do me a favor and let Rose know I'm going to be late.”

“I will. I love you.”

“See you later,” he says, and hangs up without even offering his customary
you, too.

Frowning, Leslie crosses to the back door and reaches for the switch beside it. After flipping off the overhead kitchen light, she flips on the outside porch light. Now she can see that the snow is coming down so furiously that she can't even glimpse the chain-link fence at the back of the yard.

If Leslie pages Rose and tells her to wait for Peter, she'll insist on driving over here herself, and Leslie wouldn't blame her one bit. She wouldn't want to be alone in that house tonight for any length of time, either.

If only Rose had her SUV to drive, instead of Leslie's crummy old car.

She shakes her head, staring out at the storm.

The last thing she wants to do is take the kids out in it. But the Blazer has four-wheel drive, and they don't have far to go.

With a sigh, she heads for the living room, where Jenna and Leo are watching television.

“Come on, guys, let's get our coats on. We have to go get Mommy.”

“What about supper?” Leo whines. “I'm hung-wee.”

“We'll stop and get something on the way back. I can't cook anything here until Hitch comes to fix the water.”

“Uncle Hitch is coming?” Jenna brightens.

Uncle.

Leslie nods and tells her, “Just to fix the pipes. Because he's a plumber.”

Not to win your Mommy's heart, or anything like that.

“When is he coming?” Leo wants to know.

“Probably the second we leave,” Leslie mutters, wondering what to do.

They'll only be out a few minutes.

Still, she'd better write a note and leave the front door unlocked so that Hitch can let himself in.

“I
'm sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Larrabee,” Officer Shanley says hurriedly when she answers his knock, “but I just wanted to let you know that we have to be going now. There was a bad accident—a big pileup out on Sunrise Highway just west of here. They need us over there.”

Sunrise Highway? Rose hopes Peter isn't on it, trying to get here. Leslie said he'd page her first, but maybe he wanted to wait until he got close.

“Thank you, Officer.” She can hear sirens in the distance. “Be careful driving over there.”

“And you be careful, too. We'll be on patrol here tonight,” he calls over his shoulder, already heading down the steps into the whirling snow illuminated by the porch light. Only one patrol car remains at the curb with Shanley's partner at the wheel. The motor is running and its red lights are already spinning.

“You're leaving soon, right?” Officer Shanley calls back from the curb.

She nods, thinking that she certainly hopes so. Even the media has abandoned her, undoubtedly chasing the police to the accident scene in hopes of capturing some grisly footage. Glancing over at the Kirkmayers' house next door, Rose sees that the lights are on. She can always go over there to wait for Peter . . .

No. After what happened, that would be too uncomfortable.

She watches the patrol car drive away, lights flashing, siren wailing.

With a shiver, she heads back inside, locking the door behind her.

The house is eerily silent.

Rose finds the keyring Leslie left her on the kitchen counter, then picks up the phone and dials her in-laws' number. She'll tell Leslie she's driving over. She'll be fine, as long as she takes it slowly.

The phone rings on the other end.

After all, Rose thinks, not counting the half-mile stretch of highway she'll have to drive, it's only a few blocks. Besides, why should Peter go out of his way to come get her? Leslie's parents' house is on the west side of town, not far from the Sunrise Highway exit. To pick up Rose, he'd have to come all the way through town and then circle back again. It doesn't make sense.

Nor, she realizes, does the fact that the phone is still ringing.

She counts ten rings. Eleven. Twelve . . .

No answer.

Feeling sick to her stomach, Rose bangs down the phone.

Maybe Leslie and the children are playing the piano so loud they can't hear the phone.

Maybe they're outside playing, making snow angels.

The image of Luke's bloody corpse fills her mind.

Or maybe . . .

No. Don't even think that.

Clutching Leslie's car keys, Rose races up the stairs to the master bedroom, grabs her packed duffel bag, and opens the closet door to get her coat.

L
istening to the rush-hour traffic report on the radio, David concludes that taking the Long Island Expressway was the best decision he's made all day. There's a nasty pileup down on Sunrise Highway east of Patchogue, not far from Laurel Bay. The road is closed due to multiple fatalities, and the backup stretches for miles. If David had chosen that route, he'd be stuck in that traffic . . .

Or worse.

There's nothing David can do for the poor people who were killed in that accident. But in less than two miles, he'll be at the Laurel Bay exit off the L.I.E., and racing to get to Rose Larrabee's house. This time, he isn't going to stop in town and ask directions. He bought a Suffolk County street atlas when he stopped for gas earlier, and he quickly pinpointed Shorewood Lane on it.

Now all he has to do is get there.

No, that's not all.

But it's a start.

When he comes face-to-face with Rose, he'll figure out what to say so that she won't decide he's a lunatic and slam the door in his face.

Slowing the car as he spots the green sign for the exit, he half-listens to a WLIR news report topped by coverage of the storm.

As he searches for the off ramp, he hears, “. . . murder in a quiet residential neighborhood has stunned the citizens of tranquil Laurel Bay on the south shore.”

Uneasiness swoops over David. He quickly raises the volume on the radio, listening intently as he steers cautiously off the highway, following the winding ramp to a sign that bears an arrow marked
LAUREL BAY.

“Details are sketchy, and police are withholding the victim's name pending notification of next of kin. They do confirm the slaying took place outside a home on the east end of town not far from the water, and that the culprit is still at large. We'll bring you more on this story as information becomes available. The stock market took a tumble this afternoon as trading—”

Pulling up at a stop sign, David turns off the radio and presses the overhead light switch.

Grabbing the street atlas from the passenger's seat, he rapidly flips the pages until he comes to the one whose corner he folded down earlier.

Holding his breath, he scans the street map of Laurel Bay until he finds Shorewood Lane—and confirms that it is, indeed, on the east end of town not far from the water.

L
eslie's heart sinks as she pulls up in front of 48 Shorewood Lane to find that her car is missing and the windows are dark.

“Where's Mommy?” Leo asks from the backseat.

“I have no idea. She must be on her way to Grandma and Grandpa's house.” Peter must have paged her to tell her he wasn't coming.

“Is she going to be all right?” Jenna's tone is fearful.

“Of course she is.” The kids don't know about the murder, but Jenna is old enough to be aware that something frightening is going on. “Come on, let's turn around and head back. I'll bet she'll be there waiting for us.”

“But what about food?” Leo asks. “You said we could stop and get something on the way back.”

“I know I did, Leo,” she says wearily, “but nothing was open when we drove through town, remember? Everything is closed early because of the storm.”

“But I'm hung-wee.” He's starting to cry.

Fighting the urge to join him, Leslie says, “I know, baby. And as soon as we get to Grandma and Grandpa's we'll find something to eat.”

“But you said there was nothing there,” Jenna reminds her. “Can't we get some stuff from home?”

Leslie hesitates, eyeing the house. It would take her only a few seconds to run in and get some food from the kitchen . . .

“All right,” she decides, turning off the Blazer's engine and debating whether to leave the kids here or drag them with her through the snow. That would take longer . . .

But after what happened here last night, she doesn't dare leave them outside, even locked in the car.

With a sigh, Leslie says, “Come on, guys, we're all going in. You can each choose two things from the fridge or the cupboards, and then we're outta here.”

Stepping out of the cozy car, she gasps as the icy wind hits her. She hurries through the blowing snow to the curbside door and grapples with the straps on Leo's car seat, first with clumsy, gloved fingers, then with numb, bare ones.

“Hurry, Aunt Leslie,” Jenna begs, shivering as she stands by, waiting in a snow drift.

“I'm trying!” The strap comes free, and Leo scrambles out of his seat. She helps him out of the car, takes his hand and Jenna's, and together, the three of them trudge toward the front door.

Climbing the front steps, Leslie drops Jenna's hand to fumble with Rose's keyring as a car's headlights arc across the porch.

“Who's that?” Jenna asks, and Leslie realizes that the car has pulled into the driveway.

“Probably the pol—” Turning to see that it isn't a patrolling police car after all, she feels her heart skip a beat. She doesn't recognize the Land Rover in the driveway . . . or the stranger who quickly jumps out and strides toward her through the snow, calling, “Rose? Rose Larrabee?”

W
ith a sinking feeling, Rose realizes that the driveway at her in-laws' house is empty. Judging by the barely snowed-over fresh tire tracks in the driveway, though, Leslie and the kids haven't been gone long. And they left all the lights on, as though they intended to come right back.

Maybe they just went out to get milk or something,
Rose tries to reassure herself.

Slipping and sliding, still wearing her sneakers and clutching her heavy duffel bag, Rose makes her way up the snowed-over walk to the front door.

Turning the knob, she discovers that it's unlocked. She steps inside and sees a note taped to the mirror.

She's about to pick it up when she hears the door opening behind her.

With a startled cry, she spins around . . . then thumps her palm against her chest in relief when she sees the familiar face in the doorway.

“Oh, God, you scared the hell out of me,” she says, trying to catch her breath and adding, “What are you doing here?”

“N
o, Rose isn't here,” the young woman on the porch informs David as he mounts the steps two at a time. She places a protective hand on the children's shoulders and half-pushes them behind her, as though to shield them from him.

“I'm David Brookman,” he says quickly, casting a glance at the wind-whipped yellow crime-scene tape stretching across the side yard. He spotted it the moment he pulled up in front of the house. Now, praying he isn't too late, he asks, “Is Rose . . .”

What?

Dead?

You can't just come out and ask that.

The young woman rescues him. “She's out.” Relief courses through him as she adds, “I'm Rose's sister-in-law, Leslie. What did you say your name was?”

“David Brookman. You don't know me, but my wife . . .” He breaks off, casting a glance at the two small children staring up at him. Telling himself that he can't afford to waste time beating around the bush, he continues, “My wife was Rose's organ donor two years ago.”

Leslie gasps. Before she can comment, David rushes on, “But that's not why I'm here. Is Rose . . . look, do you know for certain that she's safe?”

“Why?”

He shoots a meaningful look at the children, and then at the crime-scene tape.

The light dawns in Leslie's eyes. “Oh . . . you heard about what happened last night? It was her boss, not Rose. She's fine. The police think he must have startled a prowler,” she says cautiously, obviously not wanting to frighten the children, who are listening, wide-eyed.

David doesn't want to frighten them either. But somehow, he has to find out if the murderous prowler is the same person who killed Isabel and Olivia. “Did anyone see what the prowler looked like?”

“No.” Leslie takes a wary step back, pulling the children more securely behind her. “Why?”

“Look, I have a picture of a man who just might be a suspect.”

“Did you show it to the police?”

“No. First I'd rather show it to you, to see if you recognize him.”

“All right. I'll look. But out here,” she says, obviously not trusting him enough to allow him into the house.