Since You've Been Gone (22 page)

The last time she'd seen Skeeter before his death, he had
careened into the store at ten. “Tildy!” he'd called. “Tildy, wait till you hear!”

“I have a prescription to fill.” She counted pills with the speed of a machine. “Mr. Scarpatti will be here in five minutes to pick this up, so tell me your big news before he arrives.”

“It's Grandfather! He's been on top!”

“Oh, for crying out loud, Skeeter. You're taking up my time with this nonsense? Your grandfather is dead.”

Skeeter drew himself up and said in a dignified voice, “I know he's dead. He's a ghost.”

Matilda had huffed in exasperation, then softened. “I'm sorry, Skeeter. Certainly he's a ghost. You say he's been on top. On top of what?”

“The Presidential Suite.”

Matilda's lightning movements had stopped. “You mean he's been in the attic? Of Klein—of the hotel?”

“Sure as can be.” And then he'd launched into his tale of the ghost who paced and looked out the windows of the attic, a first for Carson Dobbs. “And I just don't know what to make of it, Tildy.”

Matilda had looked at him carefully. He was not drunk. And with the exception of thinking he saw his grandfather jump from the top floor of Klein Furniture each night, she'd never known him to spin tales. He didn't have the right kind of imagination for it. “Skeeter, are you sure you saw someone in the building last night?”

“Grandfather. I told you. And sure I seen him. Gave me a turn. What do
you
make of it, Tildy?”

“I don't know,” she'd murmured stiffly, her mind drifting back to Saturday night; she'd stayed late at the store to do paperwork. Even though she'd extended evening hours from nine until ten, profits were still down. She'd thought about raising the prices of medications. Then the faces of so many of the elderly had flashed into her mind, people who had been friends of her father's and who'd remained loyal to Vinson's. Not all of them had good insurance that paid for their drugs. No, she would hold drug prices down
as low as possible. Maybe she could charge a bit more for her scanty selection of cosmetics …

At 10:45 Matilda had stared at her accounting books and let out a little groan. She had been up since five and in the store since seven. Her eyes burned and her head hurt. She was worried, not because she was having trouble making ends meet, but because she didn't want her father to be upset when he saw this month's figures. She adored him. His approval meant everything to her and the doctor had told her he would not live out the year.

Matilda had walked to the front door and looked out. Skeeter was not at his usual post on her stoop. The storm had let up and he'd gone wandering. The theaters and two bars, the only places where people remained at this time of night, were two blocks away. Across from her sat Klein Furniture. The display windows had been lit, showing a huge cherry sleigh bed with matching dresser, and a living room suite in beautiful shades of cream, blue, and rose. The second and third floors had been dark. Some windows on the fourth and fifth floors had glowed with light from apartments. The sixth floor had remained dark. And above—

Matilda had frowned. Never in all the years she'd worked at the store could she remember seeing lights in the attic of Klein Furniture. But there was a faint one in the south end. She'd had the impression that it was not a light glowing from the ceiling. No, the steady light had seemed to come from something like a strong flashlight left resting on a table.

Matilda had unlocked the front door and stepped out on the sidewalk to get a better look. She couldn't imagine Herbert Klein rummaging around in the attic at this time of night. Still, she would feel silly if she called his home to report an intruder and found out that the building owner was working in his attic and thought she should mind her own business.

And then she'd caught a glimpse of a face. It was so brief, the light so bad, she wasn't sure if it was a man or a woman. But no more than five seconds later the light had
gone out. She'd started back inside when she'd felt a gaze traveling from her feet to her head. A penetrating, malevolent gaze.

Matilda had rushed into her store, slammed the door, and locked it. Then she'd fled to the back room and stood shivering for nearly ten minutes, during which time she'd called Herbert Klein to find no one home. So maybe he
was
in the attic, and wouldn't she feel stupid if she called the police?

At last she'd crept out and turned off the store lights. Then she'd waited another five minutes and almost crawled to the front of the store to peer out the front window. The attic was dark. She'd taken a deep breath, telling herself she was ridiculous.

Then someone had pulled gently on the front door, which mercifully she'd locked.

Matilda had collapsed onto the floor, her breath coming fast and loud. The pulling had started again. Slow but firm. Once, twice. Matilda had thanked God the old-fashioned door she'd always hated was not made of glass, like the slick doors on the new drugstores in the mall. It had only a small square of glass at eye level. Even if someone broke it, they could not reach the lock. But she had felt that awful gaze again sweeping through the store, looking for her like a cat looking for a mouse. She'd shrunk against a set of shelves, perspiration running down her neck.

And then she'd gone rigid as she wondered if she'd locked the back door.

Matilda had not been able to make herself move, to traverse the length of the store, race through the back room and check that door. It was too late, anyway, she'd told herself. Whoever had tried the front door had already had ample time to go around back. She would be best off to stay up front. That way if she heard someone coming in the back, she could unlock the front door and run into the street screaming.

She'd mentally rehearsed this plan three times although she was too terrified to move an inch much less take such
decisive action. She couldn't even crawl the 30 feet to the counter where the phone and its link to police headquarters awaited. She'd hated herself but that hadn't changed anything. She'd been paralyzed, remaining in a frightened little knot for nearly half an hour until abruptly she'd realized the stalker was gone. That was how she'd thought of him—because she was now almost certain she'd seen a man—as the stalker. She'd unwound her painfully tight body, finally called police headquarters, and fifteen minutes later been escorted to her car by a ludicrously young deputy who'd smirked at her skittishness and told her it was probably just some teenager trying to scare her.

On Sunday morning Matilda had tried to put the whole incident out of her mind. Her father had always said she made too much of things. Someone had been in the attic of Klein's, probably Herbert Klein himself, and someone had tried the door of the drugstore, probably a teenager or even Skeeter, although he'd always respected locked doors. Those were the only concrete things that had happened. Her imagination had invented the malevolent gazes. She spent too much time alone. She was getting strange. She'd probably end up a batty old woman who saw danger around every corner.

Then Skeeter had come in babbling about someone in the attic Saturday night and she knew in her heart it hadn't been Herbert Klein. “You must go to the police,” Matilda had told Skeeter, deeply alarmed but trying not to show it. Skeeter was already wound up, his eyes blazing with excitement.

” ‘Course I'm goin' to the police,” Skeeter had assured her. “I'm gonna talk to Chief Garrett. He'll take care of Grandfather. I'll come back when I'm done, Tildy, and tell you what he's gonna do.”

While Skeeter was gone Matilda had told herself again she was being a coward. No one would listen to Skeeter. She should go to the police herself, although she didn't like the idea since the deputy had so easily dismissed her. He'd looked at her as if she were a fool and his smug attitude
had stung. Besides, stirring up trouble with the police might get back to her father and he'd be upset. She couldn't stand for him to be upset. Still…

And then she had arrived at the store Monday morning filled with ideas for improving business and the energy to carry them out and nearly fallen over Skeeter's body. Nausea rose in her as she thought about the ice pick protruding from his eye. Poor exasperating, hopeless, pitiful Skeeter. She would miss him, although she would never admit it to anyone. But her real grief for Skeeter would come later. Now she was lost in terror over what his murder might mean. She knew Chief Garrett had actually followed up on Skeeter's story and found Todd Ryan's bloodstained toy in the attic. He'd been held captive up there. What Skeeter had thought was his grandfather's ghost “acting up” was actually the kidnapper. And if Skeeter had seen the abductor of Todd Ryan, men she'd seen him, too. Not clearly, of course. Not well enough for an identification, but the abductor might think she had. He might come after
her
with an ice pick.

Matilda shuddered slightly, then told herself to get control as she counted out Mr. Moreland's cholesterol medicine in groups of five with her metal spatula. Matilda considered the price of the medication exorbitant, but at least the Morelands had great insurance from all of Edgar Moreland's years as an employee of Grace Healthcare. He'd been in earlier in the day, telling her how he'd once discovered that Herbert Klein had left the attic door open and Skeeter Dobbs had been creeping up the stairs. “Wouldn't steal or damage a thing, poor soul. So one night Helen and I put cookies and juice up there for him. Not a drop or a crumb left the next morning. I think he had himself quite a time.”

Mr. Moreland said his wife was scared to death, knowing that Todd had been held in the attic right above their apartment. Said she blamed herself, too, for not calling the police sooner when she sensed something was wrong. Matilda knew exactly how she felt. Mr. Moreland said he
idn't want it known, but he was paying for Skeeter's funeral. He couldn't bear to have Skeeter shuttled away to some potter's field. The funeral wouldn't be anything elaborate, he'd told her. Just a nice coffin, a simple graveside service presided over by Father Brennan at Shady Mount Cemetery, and a simple granite headstone. Matilda had promised she would attend. Poor Skeeter. The ice pick, the blood, the
horror
—

“Miss Vinson?”

Matilda jumped, jerked the spatula, and scattered pills all over the counter. She glared at Lynn. “What is it?”

“I didn't mean to startle you. Tess says we're running out of chocolate syrup at the fountain.”

“I suppose Tess has also turned mute,” Matilda snapped.

Lynn lowered her voice. “She's a little bit afraid of you.”

Matilda glanced at Tess, who blew a pink bubble with her gum and stared back dully, not looking at all afraid of Matilda. She was simply lazy. She was also the granddaughter of an old customer and Matilda's father had insisted she hire the little twit. It was a waste of money. The fountain did hardly any business. “Tell Tess to order one gallon of chocolate syrup,” Matilda ordered, suddenly furious at having to pay a salary to the bovine Tess. “And Lynn, would you mind mopping the stoop again?”

Lynn's cold eyes suddenly smoldered. She had mopped up the area where Skeeter had been found exactly four times. You could eat off the recessed entrance, she thought acidly. “Why don't I wait until this evening?” She sounded pleasant and helpful. “That way it will be fresh for morning.” And fewer people would see her doing menial labor. She wasn't a janitor, for God's sake.

“All right.” Matilda gathered the pills to start another count. “But use ammonia in the water. The stoop still feels sticky to me.”

Her imagination, of course. She knew Skeeter's blood was long gone. Maybe she was becoming like him. He always saw his grandfather plummeting from the Presidential Suite and the blood splattering over him. Matilda would
always see the ice pick protruding grotesquely from Skeeter's eye, his gooey blood all over her new white pumps, the flies swarming around his limp body ripe with death in the hot morning sun.

Matilda shuddered and lost count of the pills again.

“I'm telling you this is Jonnie's bracelet,” Rebecca said shrilly. “He made it in Boy Scouts.”

Bill looked at her wearily. “I know Jonnie had a bracelet like it—”

“Not
like
it. This is
it
. He was wearing it when he was kidnapped.”

Bill turned the braided leather strap over in his hands. It certainly didn't look like the work of a professional. And it did bear Jonnie's initials. But it had the smell of new leather. Jonnie's bracelet would have been at least eight years old. “Honey, I know you're upset—”

“Don't patronize me!” Rebecca and Bill rarely argued and he didn't believe he'd ever seen such resentment in her eyes. She was furious that he wasn't fervidly jumping on the discovery of the bracelet in her car. “Do you think I put it in the car myself to draw attention?”

“For heaven's sake, Becky, I'd never suspect you of a thing like that. But to think that after all these years Jonnie's bracelet just happened to show up in your car. Your
locked
car—”

“A locked car with the windows rolled down a couple of inches. That's plenty of room to drop in the bracelet.”

Bill looked at her intently. “Just what is it you want me to do, Becky?”

“I would like for you to act interested. I might as well be in here arguing about a parking ticket for all the emotion you're showing.”

“I
am
interested. I care. But I'm puzzled. Hell, I'm baffled by this whole damned mess! But everyone keeps looking
to me to do something miraculous and I don't have any miracles up my sleeve.”

“Then maybe you know how I feel most of the time,” Rebecca said in a subdued voice. “I know Molly is disappointed in me. Actually, I think she's furious with me for not finding Todd. And as for Mother—”