The Way You Look Tonight (3 page)

‘Barbara, you're thin as a rail.'

‘Flabby thin, not taut thin like you.'

‘You don't run after five-year-old twins and a dog all day. But in any case you do
not
look like you're in your sixties.'

‘Well, I at least look every year of my age plus a few more.'

Yes, she did look every year of her age, Deborah thought with regret. It was no wonder everyone had been surprised when Barbara began dating Evan Kincaid, seven years Barbara's junior and considered the glamour boy of the Prosecutor's office. According to Steve, some of the young secretaries could barely hide their jealousy and constantly made catty remarks behind Barbara's back about the relationship. ‘But I understand it,' Steve said. ‘Barbara's a brilliant, witty woman. Besides, Evan isn't one to judge by exteriors.'

‘He's like you in that respect.'

Steve smiled. ‘Sweetheart, you're a very nice-looking woman.'

Nice-looking, Deborah thought dismally. Nice-looking with her long black hair Steve liked to see pulled back in a French braid and serious blue-gray eyes usually hidden behind glasses she wore when working, nice-looking with her tall, slender frame he preferred in simple clothes, nice-looking with her smooth, creamy skin which cosmeticians at the department store makeup counters claimed was more like that of a woman five years younger. Nice-looking, but not a beauty like some of his former girlfriends had been.

‘A quarter for your thoughts,' Barbara said.

‘A
quarter
?'

‘Inflation.'

‘I was just thinking about some of the women Steve used to date. Where's my quarter?'

‘I don't have my purse with me. And why in the
world
would you be thinking about women Steve used to date?'

‘Do you remember the ones who used to come by the office? They were so flashy. I wonder why he picked me.'

‘Maybe because they were
all
flash and no substance. I remember giving him a stern talking-to about that one time.'

‘I'm sure he appreciated it.'

‘He told me to mind my own business. But shortly afterward he started dating you. Smartest move he ever made.'

‘Spoken like a true friend. Some of them even had money.'

‘Money?' Evan Kincaid said, walking up and putting his arm around Barbara's waist. ‘Are you two discussing the root of all evil?'

Barbara made a face. ‘He's not only great-looking, he's a mind-reader.'

‘No, a lip-reader,' Evan laughed. ‘I've been hovering nearby, although you two were too engrossed to notice me.'

‘Deborah is torturing herself by wondering why Steve didn't marry some flashy woman with money.'

Evan shook his head. ‘Sometimes I think you women look for something to worry about.'

Barbara threw Deborah a wry look. ‘Men, of course, never worry.'

Evan laughed. ‘Not like you do. In any given day the love of my life here thinks of at least twenty things to fret over.'

‘I do
not
!' Barbara protested in offended rage, although she couldn't hide her pleasure at hearing Evan call her the love of his life. They had been seeing each other for nine months, and Barbara had confided that the last two hadn't been smooth. ‘He thinks I pull rank on him because I'm older,' Barbara said. ‘You do,' Deborah returned frankly. Barbara looked sheepish. ‘I know. I hear myself doing it, but I can't seem to stop.'

Now, however, Barbara glowed as she looked adoringly up at the blond, blue-eyed Evan who Deborah thought resembled a young Robert Redford.

The resemblance was even more pronounced than usual tonight. Maybe it was the lighting, or maybe it was that Evan looked more relaxed than he often did. Either he and Barbara were getting along better, or the drinks had erased some tension from his incredibly handsome face.

Evan raised his eyebrows enquiringly, and Deborah realized she was staring at him. ‘Can I fix the two of you fresh drinks?' she asked quickly.

‘I think I've had my limit,' Evan said, holding up a half-empty glass. ‘Barbara?'

‘This mulled wine is delicious, but powerful. One more glass and I'll start telling dirty jokes.'

‘Cut her off, Deborah,' Evan said abruptly. ‘Dirty or clean, she couldn't tell a joke right if her life depended on it.'

‘That is not true,' Barbara retorted. ‘I heard a hilarious one just today. You see, there was this—'

‘Oh, God,' Evan groaned in exaggerated dismay.

‘I have to check on things in the kitchen,' Deborah laughed, turning away from them.

‘Coward,' Evan muttered.

Steve was closing the back door behind Pete when she walked into the kitchen. ‘Everything okay?'

He glanced at her, relief showing in his green eyes which had looked tired and a little bloodshot lately. ‘Yeah. I wish the guy would let up on Adam. He acts like some old-maid aunt or something.'

Deborah put her arms around his neck. ‘Honey, saying “old maid” is no longer politically correct. And
why
does everyone act like overprotection is the sole domain of women?'

Steve raised an eyebrow at her. ‘Mrs Robinson, drink has loosened your tongue. However, I stand corrected.'

‘Thank you for allowing me to speak my mind. You're simply too kind,' Deborah said drily.

‘No, I'm simply tired to my bones, not to mention a little worried about Pete. I wonder what will happen to him when Adam leaves home and he doesn't have anyone to stew over?'

‘Barbara thinks he should find some nice woman.'

‘That
would
be a perfect solution. But he's lived alone so long. And he was never a ladies' man, even when we were young. Then there's the fact that he's been very successful. He could get entangled with someone who's just after his money. I guess any romantic pairing is a risk, though.'

‘Is that how you felt about our marriage?'

Steve tightened his arms around her waist. ‘No. I knew we'd work out.'

Although he smelled strongly of the cigarette smoke that was stirring Deborah's desire for nicotine, she loved his embrace. Steve was not a demonstrative man and if he hadn't recently consumed a few drinks, he probably wouldn't be hugging her in the kitchen with twenty guests in the living room. Knowing this, however, only slightly lessened Deborah's pleasure. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him lightly. ‘I'm glad we got married.'

‘Are you?' Steve asked.

Deborah pulled back, looking at him. He seemed troubled. ‘Of course. Why do you ask?'

‘Because sometimes I think you're disappointed in me.'

And sometimes she was, Deberah thought guiltily. Sometimes she wished she'd married a man who loved her passionately instead of caring for her in the steady, distant way that was Steve's. But those kind of dreams should have been left behind in her teenage years, she reminded herself. This was real life, not one of her cherished romantic movies. Steve wasn't the poet Yuri Zhivago and she wasn't the tragic, dazzling Lara. As her father had often told her, she wasn't beautiful, or talented, or especially intelligent. She was just an ordinary woman whose only gift lay in the ability to keep house and cook well. He'd been disapproving when she'd become a secretary in the Prosecutor's office in Charleston instead of marrying Billy Ray Soames, the Baptist preacher back home in southern West Virginia. Later, his anger at her for marrying a man she'd dated for only two months had been totally out of proportion. In fact, he and her mother had visited only twice during her marriage – once when the twins Brian and Kimberly were born, and again last year when they were passing through Charleston on a rare vacation. In return, Deborah had taken the children to visit them only three times. As a result, Brian and Kimberly were barely aware of their grandparents' existence.

‘I'm not disappointed in you,' Deborah said, jerking herself out of her thoughts. ‘You're a wonderful man.'

Steve's eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled down at her. ‘And you're a wonderful woman.'

Deborah cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘We have to stop these torrid exchanges when we have guests.' Steve laughed, and Deborah felt immeasurably relieved that he appeared more at ease. For the last couple of days he'd seemed morose, distracted, irritable. She knew something was wrong, but he wouldn't discuss the problem.

She hugged him fiercely. ‘Hey, trying to break my ribs?'

‘Sorry.' She released her hold. ‘You know I always get emotional at Christmas.'

‘You get emotional over every holiday. That enthusiasm is one of your most endearing traits. It's great for the kids, too. You make holidays an event for them.'

‘I just remember when I was a child and my father did nothing but complain about the commercialism of holidays and where had people's values gone, and of course there was no Santa Claus and no Easter Bunny, what nonsense, etcetera, etcetera. It ruined everything for Mom and me.'

‘Well, no one could accuse your father of getting a real bang out of life.'

‘That's putting it mildly.'

The phone rang and Steve reached for the cordless extension on the kitchen counter. ‘I'll get it. And right before I came in here, I noticed we were getting low on ice. There's no more left in the freezer.'

‘There's a bag in the deep freezer in the garage. You take care of the phone and I'll take care of the ice.'

Opening the kitchen door into the garage, Deborah was at first shocked by the difference in temperature. Then she gratefully breathed in the cold, clear air. The heat and smoke and noise inside had been aggravating her dull headache. She flipped on the garage light and glanced at her watch: 11.15. The party would be winding up in about half an hour. Some of the guests had already left. Thank goodness. Although she'd have a ton of food to put away, maybe within a couple of hours she could get her aching feet out of these new and very tight high-heeled shoes and into her bed. She was exhausted and felt like she could sleep until noon tomorrow.

She lifted the heavy freezer lid. Frosty air wafted up, making her gasp. As she leaned over, she spotted something red atop the foil-wrapped meats. Brian's toy fire truck. She pulled it out, alarmed. Obviously the kids had been playing and managed to open the freezer. What if one of them decided to climb in? It wouldn't take long to smother if help didn't arrive immediately, and she couldn't keep her eyes on both children constantly, especially since she did so much clerical work at home. Presently she was typing a would-be author's manuscript which contained grammatical errors in almost every sentence. She spent hours poring over grammar books so she could prove to the defensive author that she wasn't making up rules as she went along. She would put a lock on the freezer, she decided. She'd buy a padlock tomorrow.

She lay the toy truck, coated with a heavy layer of frost, on the floor and lifted the bag of ice. As she was coming back into the kitchen, Steve flashed her a quick, almost apprehensive look. ‘Certainly. Thank you for calling,' he said stiffly into the receiver, then hung up. ‘Here. Let me help with the ice.'

‘Who was on the phone?' Deborah handed him the cold plastic bag. His hands shook slightly.

‘Joe.'

‘Joe?' Joe Pierce was an investigator with the Prosecutor's office. ‘Why is he calling at this hour?'

‘News about a case.'

‘He's working past eleven o'clock on a Saturday night? Is that why he didn't come to the party?'

‘I think he had a hot date.'

‘Women are allowed at the party.'

‘I don't believe chit-chatting with people from the office is what he had in mind for tonight. Anyway, you know how he is,' Steve said distractedly, setting the bag of ice in the sink. ‘He works with us but he's not prone to socializing with us.'

‘Well, why was he calling? To give you a bulletin on his date?'

‘Hardly. He just thought of something that might help me.'

‘And this thought came to him during his hot date? Things can't be going too well,' Deborah joked. Steve didn't answer. His forehead was creased and he tore into the bag of ice with unnecessary aggression. Her smile faded. ‘What case are you two working on?'

‘I need the ice bucket.' Deborah stared at him, puzzled. Was he paler? Did his eyes look even more troubled than they had for the past couple of days?

‘Steve, is something—'

‘I said I need the ice bucket. It's in the living room.'

‘I heard you. Why are you acting so strange?'

‘I'm not acting strange,' Steve snapped. ‘This stuff is cold. It's ice, you know. Would you please get me the bucket?'

Deborah bit back a retort. She usually didn't question Steve about cases, but he'd been so edgy lately and something Joe told him had obviously agitated him further. Clearly, though, he had no intention of confiding in her.

It's probably nothing, she told herself as she walked back into the living room to retrieve the ice bucket. He's just been working too hard lately and the strain is beginning to tell. In a couple of weeks, when the holidays are over, everything will be fine and we'll return to our humdrum routine.

Unfortunately, she didn't believe herself for one minute.

Tired as she was after the party, Deborah had trouble falling asleep. Steve lay beside her, quietly snoring. After eighteen years of listening to her father's stentorian snores which seemed to shake their cheap little house to the foundation, she had deeply appreciated the quiet she found in her small Charleston apartment. After marrying Steve, she'd been dismayed to find that he, too, snored. But at least he didn't make the window-rattling racket her father did, and she'd soon learned to ignore it.

Tonight, however, the snoring set her nerves on edge. She resisted an urge to give Steve a sharp nudge in the ribs. He would only emit an incomprehensible grumble, then resume the noise within two minutes. Sighing gustily, Deborah turned on her side and pulled the pillow around her head. Very comfortable, she thought sourly. And I can still hear him.

Oh, Deborah, what's really wrong? she wondered, rolling on to her back and releasing the pillow. Are you like the kids, who turn cranky when they're overtired? Or is it something more complicated? Are you resentful because every year you put in so much work on a party for a bunch of people who are mostly strangers to you? Or are you hurt by how completely Steve shut you out after that phone call this evening? Yes, her mind said. It was all three, but mostly the phone call which bothered her.

She didn't expect her husband to confide everything that went on in the Prosecutor's office, but that call was different. That call seemed
personal
, she thought suddenly. And he'd hung up so quickly. The idea of a mistress flashed through her mind, but she quickly dismissed it. She had never for a moment during their marriage doubted Steve's fidelity. No, the call
was
business, just as Steve had said. But it wasn't ordinary business. She'd seen Steve express frustration, even anger over a case, but never the hand-trembling tension she'd witnessed earlier. And although he was sleeping now, he'd drunk more heavily than usual all evening, and even more so after the call. Steve wasn't sleeping the sleep of a peaceful man. He was sleeping the sleep of a drunken man.

Impatiently, Deborah threw back the covers and walked to the window, peeking between the mini-blinds. How cold everything looked in the bleak light of the halogen dusk-to-dawn lamp attached to the back of the garage. Bare deciduous trees loomed over a carpet of frost-stiffened brown grass. The flower garden was an empty plot. The fanciful bird-bath Barbara had given them one summer bore an inch of frozen water. The only things that seemed alive were the evergreens planted along the back fence. She smiled. It had been Steve's idea to buy a living tree every Christmas and plant it in the back yard when the holidays were over. The one they'd bought for the children's first Christmas was the largest, standing tall and green in the far left-hand corner of the yard.

Distantly she could hear the brass wind-chimes she'd hung on the roof of the small back porch. A gentle breeze sent them dancing merrily. Slowly the breeze picked up speed and they jangled, no longer melodious but strident, demanding. She looked back at the evergreens to see their feathery branches waving—

Something moved near the tallest tree. Surprised, Deborah frowned and squinted, reaching for her glasses only inches away on the nightstand. She slipped them on and looked intently. The figure appeared to be just under three feet high. A dog? She couldn't think of any dogs in the neighborhood that tall or with hair thick enough to form such bulk. Actually, since the Vincents down the street had gone to Florida for Christmas and taken their ancient toy poodle Pierre, there were
no
dogs in the neighborhood aside from their own, Scarlett. Besides, the back yard was surrounded by a chain-link fence and last month, after Scarlett had learned to flip open the latch, Deborah had found a strong clip at the hardware store to keep it fastened. The gate couldn't possibly come loose without the use of human hands.

The figure stood up. Deborah drew in her breath. It was a man wearing a billed cap and a bulky jacket. He was watching their house, seeming to stare right back into her eyes.

Light bloomed behind her. ‘What's wrong?' Steve mumbled.

Deborah whirled. ‘Someone's out there! A man is hiding around the evergreens.'

Steve shot out of bed and within seconds was stampeding down the stairs. Deborah flew along behind him. ‘Steve, what are you doing? We should call the police!'

He ignored her, charging ahead like a man possessed. By the time they reached the kitchen, Deborah was winded. ‘Steve, we have to call—' She broke off in horror as Steve jerked open the back door. ‘He could have a
gun
,' she cried.

Steve didn't stop and, in her shock, she automatically followed. They both exploded out the door in a flurry of instinctive behavior and stood on the back porch, robeless and barefoot. Deborah shivered. ‘Steve, this is crazy,' she said tensely, the cold air snapping her back to rational thinking. ‘We have two little children upstairs. If we're shot and killed—'

‘Go inside,' Steve hissed.

‘But—'

‘I said to go inside!'

She stepped back into the house, amazed as she watched Steve stalk off the porch back to the evergreens. He went between and behind every one of them, and she thought she heard him saying something. Deborah shuddered, waiting for a burst of gunfire, Steve's scream as a knife plunged into his stomach, or even the sight of his body dropping from a powerful blow to the head. But after a couple of minutes, he emerged and raised his shoulders. ‘Nothing out here.'

‘But there was,' she insisted.

‘Some kind of animal,' Steve said, his arms folded across his chest as he loped back across the lawn, his bare feet obviously suffering the bite of frozen ground.

‘It was
not
an animal,' Deborah maintained, stepping out on the porch again, blocking Steve from entering the back door. ‘It was a man. He must have run when he saw our bedroom light go on.'

‘I doubt that. He'd have to move pretty fast and there's not a sign of anyone having been around the evergreens.'

‘You mean he didn't leave the convenient lighter or even his gun?' she asked, her voice turned waspish by Steve's casual attitude. ‘And since when do animals stand nearly six feet tall? Or do you think perhaps it was a bear?'

Steve was shifting from foot to foot. ‘Deb, don't get nasty. Let's get back inside before we freeze to death and be glad no one was there. Like I said, it was probably just a stray dog.'

She stood her ground, searching his harried face with her own worried, angry eyes. What on earth was wrong with him? she wondered in bewilderment. Then she heard the faint sound of metal clinking against metal. Steve's gaze shot to the gate, and Deborah didn't need him to tell her the gate she'd clipped shut that afternoon was open, swaying back and forth in the freezing night wind.