The Way You Look Tonight (28 page)

There seems to be a lot of that going around, Deborah felt like saying. Joe flashed her a quick look. Her expression must have betrayed her distress because he jumped in immediately. ‘How long have you been in business?'

‘Forty years last month. Everybody said I was a fool to open this place. Said it would never go over.' He laughed without arrogance. ‘Just goes to show that sometimes you've got to follow your instincts, not everyone's advice. Well, you folks enjoy your dinners. Music will be starting in about twenty minutes.'

Over dinner Deborah asked Joe what he had thought of Jean's story. He chewed a piece of steak for an unusually long time, then said reluctantly, ‘The thing that bothered me the most was that she kept talking about how crazy Steve was about his sister.'

Deborah nodded. ‘I know. It makes you wonder. What if he was unnaturally possessive of her? If so, is it possible he was in love with her and when he found out about her marriage, he reacted in a jealous rage?'

‘And since he couldn't find the husband, took that rage out on Emily?'

Deborah laid down her fork. ‘That's a revolting thought. And so hard for me to accept. And yet, he
was
possessive of her. He always acted like he didn't want even me to be around her – visits to her were something private.'

‘Maybe he was telling you the truth. Maybe he just didn't want you to be upset by her. After all, look what happened today.'

‘And according to Jean, she often showed fear around him. That outburst wasn't unusual.'

‘Just because she showed fear around Steve doesn't mean it was directed
at
him. Listen, Deborah, Jean has had a hard life and she definitely has an ax to grind with Steve. She might have the wrong perspective on those outbursts. Maybe Emily is remembering when she was terrified and is begging Steve to help her. Think about the
way
she said what she did. “Steve, hurt”.'

‘As if she's telling him something hurts.'

‘If he'd been strangling her and pounding her on the head with a pipe, I don't think she would have been telling him it hurt. It was more like she was telling him about something that
had
hurt.'

Deborah sighed. ‘Oh, lord, now we're trying to take apart her sentences, just like we did with that note that came with the music box, experimenting with inflections to figure out what someone meant. But Jean had her doubts.'

‘As I said, she's an unhappy woman with her own agenda.'

‘But we can't ignore all the physical evidence. The money missing from the bank account, the
jewelry
, for heaven's sake.' She picked up another shrimp and abruptly dropped it. ‘My God, the oleander plant!'

Joe stared at her. ‘What are you talking about?'

‘Steve had brought Emily an oleander plant. Agent Wylie asked me if Steve grew oleanders! I completely forgot it because it seemed like such a silly question. I thought he was just trying to divert me.'

Joe looked baffled. ‘What's the significance of oleanders?'

‘I don't know. But Steve took great pride in those plants. He said they weren't easy to grow. He also said they must always be kept on a high shelf, out of the reach of the children and Scarlett, because they're poisonous.'

‘So you're making a point out of Steve bringing his sister a poisonous plant? Deborah, hundreds of plants are poisonous. Yew trees are poisonous and lots of people have them. Hell, lilies of the valley are poisonous, too, and they're my mother's favorite flower, but she doesn't eat them.'

Deborah smiled. ‘I guess I'm going over the edge. I just wondered what point Agent Wylie was trying to make about oleanders. I'm sure the fact that Steve grew them wasn't a casual observation on his part.'

‘Maybe it was. FBI agents
are
human beings, Deborah. They're not all business all the time.'

‘I think Wylie is. I wonder if he's married.'

‘Got someone you want to fix him up with?' Joe asked.

Deborah pulled a droll face. ‘How about Barbara if she and Evan break up?'

‘Wylie and Barbara. Now that would be a match made in hell. Then you can arrange something for Jean and Pete.' He frowned. ‘I wonder why Pete never mentioned he dated Emily.'

‘It was a long time ago. He did make a point of telling me once that he'd been friends with Steve and Emily. Maybe he took her out a few times and Jean made more of the whole thing than there was.'

‘That's the puzzling thing. We don't know how seriously to take Jean.'

‘You can't deny that she was ill this afternoon. Our visit brought on that sick headache. Seeing us must have really upset her to bring on that reaction.'

‘She perjured herself fifteen years ago, Deborah. That's serious, and she probably thought you already knew about it.'

‘Maybe. But what if she was right about Steve acting weird and giving her creepy looks?'

‘He had to be uncomfortable around her. After all, she did lie for him and he must have known she expected to marry him. How would you feel in Steve's position?'

Deborah shook her head. ‘I have no idea. There's so much I didn't know until this week, Joe. I still haven't absorbed it all.'

‘Then put it out of your mind for a few hours. Later you can come back to it fresh. Maybe things will make more sense then.'

Deborah decided to take his advice and they relaxed after that. Although she was not a jazz fan, the group was good and she enjoyed drinking another glass of wine while they played their first set. A few people danced. Joe looked at her apologetically. ‘Sorry, but all I can do is the two-step.'

‘That's okay. I don't want to dance.'

‘Feel like singing?'

She smiled. ‘I don't even feel like doing that. Actually, I'm afraid tonight's been too hard on me. I'm worn out. Mind if we go back to the motel now?'

‘I was just going to suggest the same thing.'

They returned to the motel at ten o'clock. Although she was terribly tired, she wasn't sleepy. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, slipped out of her slacks and sweater and, sitting on the bed in panties and bra, spread out the yearbooks, the album, and the letter she'd found in the Robinson house. She was still amazed by her temerity in breaking into the house, and she knew Lorna Robinson would be furious, but given the woman's fear of publicity, Deborah was certain the matter wouldn't be brought to the attention of the police when she returned the items.

The letter was disappointing. Written on yellowed parchment stationery decorated with little pink flowers, the unfinished letter was to a girlfriend named Martha who lived in Florida. It was full of trivial details about Emily's life in Wheeling, followed by exclamation marks, sometimes two or three in a row. The only interesting part was a paragraph about a young man:

Good heavens, how young she sounded, Deborah thought. How starry-eyed. But the important thing was her emphasis on how different the mystery lover was, because Deborah was certain he'd become the secret husband. But
what
was so different about him? Simply the fact that he was older than Steve and Pete? Or that her parents would disapprove of him. That would make him forbidden fruit, irresistible to a passionate, headstrong girl like Emily.

The yearbooks were next. They revealed little except how much styles had changed in the past twenty years. Emily had been a sophomore when Steve was a senior and in the yearbook she beamed from a small picture, her dark hair shining under the lights, her teeth perfect from years of braces. Deborah turned to the picture of Steve. He looked so different, the eyes serious, the chin fuller. Then she looked closer. There was a mole beside his right eye. Steve didn't have a mole. ‘That's not Steve, it's
Pete
!' she exclaimed aloud. She flipped forward to find Steve's familiar smile beneath thick hair parted on the side and worn longer than he wore it in recent years. She turned back to the picture of Pete. His hair hadn't thinned then. It was thick and styled exactly the same as Steve's. Even their facial structure was similar except for the chins. She laughed. No wonder their pictures had been exchanged. They looked so much alike when they were teenagers, they could have been brothers. But how dismayed they must have been to have had their senior pictures reversed.

She went through two earlier yearbooks, those dating from Steve's sophomore and junior years, scanning the senior section for Emily's mystery husband. The exercise was fruitless. She had no idea who she was looking for.

Frustrated, she turned to the album. The older photographs showed two attractive people, obviously the Robinsons. Then they were joined by a baby that turned into a light-haired little boy. At last came another baby. Dozens of pictures of young Emily followed: Emily grinning in a ballerina outfit; Emily in a swimsuit holding her nose before she plunged into a pool; Emily seated at a piano. ‘Not much film wasted on Steve after she came along,' Deborah muttered.

Feeling chilled, she pulled back the covers and climbed into bed. Next door she could hear Joe's television going. Once again the urge for a cigarette assailed her, but she hadn't brought any with her. Just as well, she thought. She fished in her purse for a peppermint, then settled back against the pillows with the album.

There were a couple of pictures of Emily in a pink party dress, determinedly smiling with her mouth shut. She was still wearing the braces, Deborah thought, amused. Another photo showed a more mature Emily in a red dress with a sparkling clip in her long, thick hair. Deborah took the picture from the album and looked at the back. ‘Valentine's Day. Queen of the Dance,' was written in large, round script. The next shots revealed an older and lovelier Emily. She obviously loved having her picture taken – she looked completely relaxed, even flirtatious, as if the eye of the camera were the eyes of a man. Deborah thought of the photos taken of herself when she was a teenager. She'd stood self-consciously stiff, squinting and wearing a silly, lop-sided smile. Cindy Crawford had nothing to fear from me, she mused. Emily had been another matter.

Pictures on the next page proved more interesting. In one, Emily sat on a blanket wearing a bikini and sunglasses. She looked almost like a
Playboy
model, lush-figured and deliberately provocative. Is this why Steve had always preferred she dress so simply and look almost plain? Deborah wondered. Was it because of his deliberately tantalizing sister who'd ended up so tragically?

Deborah forced thoughts of her own relationship with Steve aside and continued her study of the pictures. In the next one, Emily wore a different, yet no less sexy, bikini. Beside her was a young Pete, laughing shyly although his eyes were serious. A beautiful German Shepherd lay in front of Emily, and her hand was buried in its hair. Deborah took the photograph out of the album and turned it over to inspect the handwriting on the back. ‘I'm sweet sixteen! Me, Pete, & Sax, June 2.' ‘
Sax
,' Deborah said aloud. She thought of the way Emily had reacted to the picture of Scarlett, who was part German Shepherd. She wasn't saying
sex
at the nursing home. She was saying
Sax
. It was the dog's name. Had Pete given it to her?

She stared at the picture, but it gave no further clues. The date was alarming, though – 2 June. She'd been attacked on 7 June. With a catch in her throat, Deborah realized that the beautiful, insouciant girl in the picture had only five more days of normal life.

There were a few more photos of Emily posing saucily in her bikini. Then Deborah turned the page and gasped as she looked at a copy of the photo she'd seen at The Blue Note. Two young men and two girls sat at a round table. Now that she'd seen what Steve's sister looked like as a teenager, she knew that one of the girls was Emily, gazing rapturously at the handsome young black man on the dais playing the saxophone directly to her.

The saxophone. Sax. ‘Oh my God,' Deborah murmured, collapsing back against the pillows. What had Harry Gauge said the saxophone player's name was? Eddie. Eddie Kaye. Emily had said ‘Ed' over and over. Jean had said he was an orderly.

Deborah abandoned the album and jerked open the nightstand drawer, looking for the Wheeling phone book. In a moment a young woman was saying, ‘The Blue Note.'

‘May I speak with Mr Gauge, please?' Deborah said breathlessly.

‘Who's calling?'

‘Deborah Robinson. I was in earlier this evening. It's very important that I speak with him.'

‘Just a minute.' Deborah could hear jazz playing in the background. She drummed her fingers nervously on the nightstand until Harry Gauge's deep voice came on the line. ‘This is Gauge. How can I help you?'

‘This is Deborah Robinson, Mr Gauge.'

‘Sorry, ma'am, but I don't believe I know you.'

Fool, Deborah chided herself. She hadn't given him her name earlier in the evening. ‘I was in your restaurant a couple of hours ago. I have long black hair. I was with a man and we were asking about the photos on your wall—'

‘Oh, yes, I remember. Did you leave something here?'

‘No. I wanted to ask you about that saxophone player you told us about. Eddie Kaye.'

‘Eddie? What about him?'

‘Was his last name K-a-y-e?'

‘No. He used the initial K. His last name was King. Why?'