Superstition (16 page)

Nicky’s stomach turned inside out. Suddenly the hot, greasy smell of the food was more than she could bear.

Before she could do more than glance up from her plate, a brisk knock cut through the desultory talk that was still going on around her.

All conversation ceased as everyone in the room looked toward the sound. It came from the back door, which stood open so that the cool night breeze could blow in.

“Something smells good,” a male voice Nicky didn’t recognize said through the screen. Since it was bright in the kitchen and dark on the other side of the door, it was impossible to see who was there. “Mind if we come in?”

“That depends on who you are.” Leonora slewed around to look at the door while Uncle John got up to unlatch it. “And what you want.”

“It’s Dave O’Neil, Miz Stuyvescent,” Dave said in the drawling accent typical of area natives as he stepped into the kitchen.

It was, Nicky saw, Deputy Dave—and right behind him came his boss, the nasty cop. But he’d come to her aid back there on the driveway, so thinking of him as the nasty cop was probably something she might want to reconsider. “Barney Fife” was probably out now, too.

“I don’t think I had a chance to introduce myself earlier,” the no-longer-quite-so-nasty cop said, glancing around the kitchen. As she’d noticed when she had first heard him speak, he clearly wasn’t from around there.
Yankee
was the word that popped into her mind upon hearing him now, which showed her just how far back into her deep Southern childhood she had temporarily regressed. “Joe Franconi, Chief of Police.”

He was clearly taking everything in, and for a moment, Nicky imagined the scene from his perspective: the homely smell of breakfast still lingering in the air, the uneven thumping of the paddle fan overhead, the outdated avocado-and-gold kitchen with its dark cabinets and harsh lighting, countertops cluttered with eggshells and paper towels and the various implements Uncle Ham had used to cook with, the ancient black iron skillet that was one of Uncle Ham’s prized possessions still smoking slightly on the only modern appliance in the room, the six-burner, stainless-steel, professional-quality gas stove. In the center of the room, directly beneath the lazily rotating fan, the table stood, crowded with plates of bacon and eggs and hot-chocolate mugs and Livvy’s nearly empty pudding bowl. Around the table sat Leonora, who, having rid herself of the overdone makeup and purple caftan sometime before arriving at the clinic, was dressed in a very ordinary-looking blue-flowered shirt and matching slacks, her only makeup a barely-there trace of deep red lipstick, with a pair of the oversized tortoise-shell-framed glasses she wore when she took her contacts out slipping down her nose; Livvy, with most of her two-toned hair having now escaped from its wispy little knot to straggle toward her shoulders, her top on wrong side out, her face almost as pink as her top, her mouth crammed full of bacon, which she continued to defiantly chew; Uncle Ham, in a turquoise Hornets T-shirt and loose plaid flannel pants, a strand of his thinning red hair hanging limply across his forehead, his face flushed and sweaty from working over the stove; and Nicky herself, dressed in Livvy’s way-too-bright pink pajamas and robe, her undoubtedly pale and shiny face scrubbed clean of makeup, her still slightly damp hair pulled back and secured in a ponytail at the nape of her neck . . .

With a white plastic bag of frozen peas pressed to her forehead.

Realizing that, Nicky hastily lowered the peas, only to discover that the police chief’s eyes were on her. His mouth quirked slightly as his gaze touched on the plastic bag. Then his eyes slid back up to her forehead, and suddenly there was no trace of amusement at all on his face.

“John Nash.” Uncle John, looking as natty as he always did in the same black T-shirt and khaki slacks he’d been wearing earlier, introduced himself, distracting the police chief’s attention from the knot on Nicky’s head. As they shook hands, Uncle John nodded toward Uncle Ham and continued the introductions. “Hamilton James”—with a slightly sour expression on his face, Uncle Ham stood up, shook hands, and immediately sat back down again—“Leonora James Stuyvescent”—Leonora nodded regally—“Olivia Hollis”—Livvy swallowed and waggled her fingers by way of a greeting—“and I know you’ve met Nicky.”

“Yeah.” His eyes met hers again. As before, his expression was impossible to read. He had the kind of lean, hard-featured face that the harsh lighting sharpened and filled with shadows. It also picked up on lines around his eyes and mouth which she hadn’t noticed previously. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, and his mouth was grim. He’d changed his dorky uniform shirt for a ratty black Chicago Bulls T-shirt that looked nearly as old as he was. It struck her as an odd thing to have done, given that he’d almost certainly been conducting some kind of investigation into what had happened, until it occurred to her that maybe he’d gotten blood on his uniform shirt.

Her blood . . . or Karen’s blood.

Suddenly, Nicky felt light-headed.

“Y’all know me,” Dave the Deputy said comfortably, which was true; he’d been a resident of the island for so many years that even Nicky, whose visits as an adult had been sporadic at best, could vaguely remember seeing him around. He wandered over to the table as he spoke and stood eyeing the food while Nicky, gripping her chair seat on the off chance that she might slide right off it if she didn’t, took a couple of discreet breaths as she fought to recover her equilibrium. “We’re real sorry to bother you at this time of night, folks, but . . .”

“So where’s the . . . oh,” Harry interrupted. Having finally managed to tear himself away from whatever program he was watching in the den, Harry paused in the doorway as he realized that there were strangers in the kitchen. His thick hair looked parchment-white under the fluorescent light, which also seemed to leach some of the golf-course tan from his face and made the lines running across his forehead and down his cheeks look deeper than they actually were. Dressed in rumpled khakis and a short-sleeved blue dress shirt, he had smallish blue eyes, a large, triangular nose, thin lips, and a square chin. About six feet tall and in reasonable shape, he was an attractive man for his age.

No surprise there: All Leonora’s husbands had been attractive. Physical beauty was important to her, and she wouldn’t have settled for anything less.

“Harry Stuyvescent,” Uncle John introduced him.

“Leonora’s husband. Harry, this is Joe Franconi. You know, he took over Barry Mead’s job.”

“I guess that would make you our new Chief of Police then.” Harry moved on into the kitchen and they shook hands. “Welcome to the island, Mr. Franconi. You’ve been on the job since—what? Christmas?”

“January. And call me Joe.”

His glance included everyone in the room in the invitation.

“Terrible business tonight.” Harry shook his head as he headed for the table. “Unbelievable thing to have happen.”

“That poor girl,” Leonora chimed in with feeling. “And to think it could have been my darling Nicky. . . .” She broke off, pressing her lips together, her gaze shooting to the bump on Nicky’s head.
Her darling Nicky
was keenly aware of the injury now. It was throbbing and swelling and felt as though it had grown to about the size of a tennis ball since she’d last checked it. Livvy was right, she decided, as all eyes in the room suddenly seemed glued to her forehead. She
felt
as if she were growing a horn.

She had to resist the urge to clap the bag of peas over it again just to hide it from view.

“So, what’s going on?” Harry sat down at the table where his plate of bacon and eggs was waiting at his usual place, and directed his question up at Joe. “You got any idea who the sick bastard is who would do something like that?”

“Not yet,” Joe said.

“Harry!” Leonora frowned at her spouse. “Would you please watch your language at the table?”

That was rich,
Nicky thought, coming from somebody who, when the occasion warranted, could and did swear like a sailor. Of course, there was a Yankee stranger in the room, and her mother was a great one for keeping up appearances.

“Oh. Right. Sorry, dear.” Harry, looking suitably abashed, subsided and turned his attention to his plate. In the six years he’d been married to her mother—Nicky never could manage to think of him as her step-father; she simply didn’t know him well enough—he’d clearly learned that the best way to deal with Leonora was simply to not resist her. She was a force of nature, not to be denied—at least not without a fight.

Nicky didn’t think any of them were up to any more fights tonight. At least, she knew
she
wasn’t. She was bone-tired, nauseated, physically and mentally hurting—and afraid to allow herself to acknowledge any of it. If she did, she would have to face the hideous truth of what had happened.

Karen had been butchered.

She shuddered inwardly as her mind immediately shied away from the thought.

“Can we offer you two some breakfast?” Uncle John asked, having moved back to stand behind his chair. “You don’t know it yet, Joe, but Ham’s the best cook in these parts, and he always makes plenty.”

Indeed, Nicky noticed as she determinedly focused on the here and now again, there were three untouched helpings of egg on toast on a plate in the center of the table, and another plate—only about a third full now, since Livvy had been helping herself—of bacon. In case, as Uncle Ham would have said, anybody should want seconds. Or thirds.

“Appreciate the offer,” Joe said, eyeing the food with what looked to Nicky like considerable regret. “But I actually came by to talk to Ms. Sullivan, if she feels up to it.”

Nicky’s stomach sank.
No, Ms. Sullivan doesn’t feel up to it. Definitely not.

“Now?” Uncle Ham’s brows snapped together. Could he read her reaction in her face? “It’s nearly two-thirty in the morning, and she’s been through a lot.”

“I know.” Joe looked at Nicky. “I understand from some of the people you work with that you’re planning to fly out later today. Otherwise, I’d just ask you to stop by the office tomorrow and give us a statement.”

“Are
you leaving today? I would have thought—after what happened . . .” Leonora’s voice trailed off and her brows slowly met over the bridge of her nose as her gaze touched Nicky’s. “Maybe you
should
go.”

Because she might be in danger. Her mother’s expression as much as her words crystallized the fear that Nicky had until that moment refused to face.

She had nearly been killed along with Karen tonight. If things had happened just a little bit differently, she would be dead right now.

And the killer was still out there.

Wild horses couldn’t keep her off that plane.

“Now is fine,” Nicky said, pushing her chair back and standing up. Her scraped and bruised knees ached, the cut in her side reminded her of its existence with a sharp twinge, and her head swam unexpectedly. Tottering a little, she caught hold of the back of the chair for support, then gritted her teeth and fought to pull herself together. Talking to the police was unavoidable, and if she meant to be on that plane at ten-thirty a.m., then now was the moment to do it. From her own work as a reporter, she knew that as the person who had found the body—
Oh, God, “the body” would be Karen
—any evidence she could give would be of vital importance to the investigation. And beyond that, she had been attacked, too, presumably by the same man, presumably for the same purpose.

Could she identify the killer?

Her skin turned to gooseflesh at the thought.

“Is there someplace we can talk in private?” Joe asked, and the confused images that had begun to swirl through her mind receded.

“Use the den,” Leonora suggested, peering at him over the top of her glasses.

Fighting not to shiver, Nicky glanced at Harry—the den was his secondary place of refuge after the garage—and he nodded.

“Game’s over,” he said. “Feel free.”

“This way.” Taking a deep breath, Nicky squared her shoulders, let go of the chair, and started to lead the way out of the kitchen. Joe followed. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him pause to look back at the group around the table.

“Dave will be taking statements from the rest of you while we’re here, if you don’t mind. Your whereabouts during the last fifteen minutes or so that the show was being broadcast, anything unusual you might remember, things like that.”

There was a murmur in response, but Nicky was too far away to hear what was said. Anyway, she didn’t care. Walking was much harder than she remembered it being, and just putting one foot in front of the other without collapsing required all her concentration.

By the time she reached the den, Nicky was freezing. It was a small room, paneled in rare longleaf pine, with an elaborately carved fireplace built into one wall and a single tall window that looked out into the side yard in the middle of another. A pair of shabby leather armchairs flanked the fireplace; a tapestry-covered couch had been placed opposite them. The faint smell of wood smoke from decades of fires hung in the air. Harry was a Civil War buff, and paintings of the Blue and Gray engaged in various epic battles adorned the walls. The drapes—once-grand gold damask panels that were now so old that they were almost see-through in places—were closed. The only light, a faint bluish glow, came from the small jabbering TV in the entertainment center that took up nearly the entire wall beside the door. Unable to bear its too-cheerful noise, Nicky switched the TV off as soon as she entered, then found the sudden near darkness unexpectedly unnerving.

Get a grip,
she told herself, and walked steadily across the shadow-filled room to the lamp on Harry’s big desk, which was positioned in front of the window about as far away from the door as it was possible to get. Turning on the lamp, relieved at the soft yellow glow that banished the shadows, she didn’t realize that she had been holding her breath until it escaped in a soft
whoosh.

Then she sank down in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, wincing a little as the tape that held the bandage in place tugged at her skin, and pulled Livvy’s too-pink robe closer around her throat.