Authors: John Saul
"It's a wonderful thing the foundation does," Risa said, then followed Lexie into the ladies' room, where her friend bared her teeth in front of the mirror to make sure not a fleck of anything was marring their whiteness.
"Boy," Lexie said as she fished in her bag for her lipstick. "This is the place to schmooze the rich and famous, isn't it?"
"It's an admirable charity," Risa observed archly, even though she knew at least half the people in attendance were there for exactly the reason Lexie had just stated. "But I'm worried about Margot. She doesn't look well."
"I wonder why her husband hasn't fixed those appalling scars yet?" Lexie said. "Everybody—and I mean
everybody
—is talking about it."
"I'm sure he will," Risa replied in a tone that clearly told Lexie she didn't want to talk about it anymore.
As usual, Lexie ignored her tone. "I mean, how long has it been? A year? Don't you think he would have done something by now if he could have?"
"I don't know," Risa said, freshening her own lipstick. "And I don't think we need to talk—"
"She's probably just going to have to learn to live with it," Lexie broke in, carefully adjusting her studiously casual hairdo. "How awful would that be?"
"Very, very awful," Risa replied. "And she certainly seemed depressed. I feel so bad for her."
Lexie's brow rose sardonically. "Well, she better get undepressed or she's likely to lose that gorgeous husband of hers. Every woman in this place would kill to take him over."
Risa gave her a sidelong glance in the mirror. "Including you, Mrs. Happily Married?"
"I could be Mrs. Happily Unmarried in a heartbeat if Conrad Dunn came on the market!"
A toilet flushed, and a moment later Margot Dunn emerged from one of the stalls. Risa's cheeks burned as she quickly replayed in her mind everything she and Lexie had said while standing in front of the mirrors, and wished she could drop through the floor.
Not even acknowledging their presence, Margot walked directly to the sink, calmly washed her hands, then dried them and left the room.
Risa slumped against the wall, her stomach churning, her face still burning with embarrassment.
Lexie, though, only shrugged. "So what if she heard us?" she asked, reading Risa's mind. "It's not like any of it was news to her."
Risa said nothing, but made a mental note to call Margot in the morning and apologize.
If, that is, Margot Dunn would even take her call.
* * *
CAROLINE FISHER BALEFULLY EYED her last customer of the evening, who was still sitting at the round table in the corner, still sipping his decaf, and still reading the paper. He'd been there for at least an hour and seemed in no hurry to leave, even when she'd made a fairly unsubtle show of locking both doors and turning off the OPEN sign in the window.
Now, at seven minutes past her ten o'clock closing, Rick was cleaning the espresso machines while she finished straightening the displays of coffees, mugs, and other caffeine-related accoutrements the shop sold, then began to put the chairs up on the tables.
"Oh," the man said, finally folding his paper. "I didn't realize it was so late."
Caroline gave him a smile she hoped looked warm. "You can just leave your mug there," she said. "I'll take care of it."
"Thanks," he said, tucking his paper under his arm as he waited for her to unlock the door to let him out into the warm Encino evening.
"Some people have no place to go," Ricky said as he gave the countertops a final desultory wipe-down.
"Well, I
do,
" Caroline said, "and I don't want to be late."
"Yeah, me, too. I think I'm finished here."
Caroline nodded, looking at the clock and deciding that whatever else needed to be done could wait until tomorrow. "We're good. I'll leave a note for the morning crew to sweep up."
"See you tomorrow."
Caroline locked the door behind Ricky, then swept her gaze around the small coffee shop she'd managed for the last year. It looked good. If Corporate sent a shopper in for a cup of coffee in the morning, he—or she—would have nothing to complain about, especially with her numbers not only far better than those from a year ago, but going steadily up every single week. She might be only a single store manager now, but within two more years she intended to be running at least the whole district, if not the region itself.
For now, though, the long day was over. She turned out all the main lights, leaving only the two small fluorescents glowing behind the counter, and went into the tiny room that barely met the legal standards for an "employees' lounge" to begin the process of getting the smell of coffee off herself and freshening up for her date. Terry—if that was even his real name—was probably already at Weasel's, waiting for her. According to the clock on the wall, they were to meet in five minutes. She'd be late, which wasn't good, and not like her at all. Besides, the later it got, the more crowded Weasel's would be, which would just make it that much harder to find him. When they were chatting online last night, he said he'd be wearing a white button-down pinstripe shirt and jeans. Blond, blue-eyed, six feet tall, waiting for her at the bar.
She hoped he looked at least
something
like the photo he'd put up with his profile.
She taped a note to Sheila's locker asking her to sweep up before opening tomorrow morning, then took a pink cotton sweater and jeans out of her locker, along with her makeup kit, and headed for the unisex restroom. She'd have to hurry: being a few minutes late would be all right, but if she was too late, Terry just might stop waiting and start looking around at whoever else was cruising the bar.
Caroline peeled off her white top and black slacks, and then, wearing only bra and panties, dampened a paper towel to wipe away the smudges under her eyes before freshening up her makeup. At the last minute she added a little dark eye shadow for some extra evening drama.
She was just pulling her favorite pink sweater over her head when she thought she heard one of the bathroom stalls open.
Who could still be here? Keisha? Impossible—her shift had ended an hour ago. Or had she been in the bathroom all this time?
Could Keisha be sick?
Caroline struggled with the sweater for a moment, trying to figure out what she could do if Keisha really was ill. If the girl couldn't drive, then she would have to take her home, and that meant—
Before she could finish the thought, a rubber-gloved hand grabbed her hard around the mouth and jerked her head back. She barely saw the glittering flash of the blade before it sliced across her throat and she began to choke.
It took a moment—a half second or two that seemed an eternity—before she realized she was breathing in blood instead of air.
Her own blood.
But there was no pain—no pain at all! How was that possible? How could she be sinking down to the floor, feeling her own blood gushing from her throat, choking on the very fluid that gave her life, and not feel anything?
The light in the restroom began to throb in strange synchronization with her own heartbeat, and a terrible melancholy settled over Caroline as her life drained away onto the bathroom floor. Mutely—numbly—she watched as her assailant sliced through her sweater and her skin and laid open her abdomen.
And still she felt nothing.
She watched as a detached observer as her intestines were torn out and flung aside, as greedy hands reached deep inside her as if searching for some specific thing.
The blade glimmered once more in the now fast fading light of the restroom, and the awful spurting of Caroline Fisher's blood slowed to nothing more than a dribble.
Her last thought was of Terry. Blond, blue-eyed Terry, waiting at the bar.
Waiting for her.
Waiting for eternity…
RISA SHAW REACHED OVER AND SPOONED TWO DOLLOPS OF YOGURT from the container in front of Alison into her own bowl, added some cereal, and topped her breakfast off with a large handful of blueberries, earning herself a quizzical look from her daughter.
"Mom! You don't even
like
blueberries."
But even with Alison's words ringing in her ears, Risa could barely focus on the food in front of her. Rather, her entire consciousness had been filled with only two things since she'd awakened this morning: the fact that Michael had not only not come home for dinner last night, but still hadn't been home when she finally fell asleep sometime after midnight; and Lexie Montrose's words from the banquet the night before.
I could be Mrs. Happily Unmarried in a heartbeat if Conrad Dunn came on the market!
Had some ambitious young talent thought the same about Michael Shaw? The thought had begun to haunt her as soon as she got home and found not only that Michael's side of the garage was empty, but that he hadn't even called to say he'd be late until Alison already had dinner on the table and waiting for him. Indeed, it had still been on the table when she herself had come home, and instead of being worried that he'd been hurt in an accident or something, as she would have in the first years of their marriage, she found herself instead recalling Lexie's sleazy comment.
Was it possible that Michael had spent the evening with another woman?
Of course it was possible—in this day and age, in fact, it was even probable.
Still, the thought was both infuriating and terrifying.
"Well, maybe I'll just have to learn to like blueberries," Risa said, gazing at her bowl morosely. "Maybe I'll have to learn to like a lot of things I hate." She poured a glass of juice for Alison and another for herself, pushing Alison's across the breakfast bar.
"Aren't you going to pour one for Dad?" Alison asked as Risa set the pitcher down, leaving the third glass conspicuously empty.
"If he wants it, he can pour it himself," Risa said, and regretted her sharp tone when she saw Alison recoil. "Oh, I'm sorry, honey," she went on, too quickly. "I guess I'm just a little cranky this morning. Plus I have an early appointment. I have to be at the marina in half an hour." She gulped down her orange juice, decided to ignore the blueberries, then wondered if that could be symbolic of something, and blew on her coffee in hopes of cooling it fast enough to drink at least half a cup before she had to leave. "Are you coming home right after school today?"
"Track practice," Alison said. "I'll be home by six. Why?"
"Just trying to keep up with you," Risa said, forcing a smile.
"Keep up with
me
?" Alison shot back. "Give me a break, Mom—I'm the one who has to keep up with
you.
"
The smile her daughter's words brought to her lips faded when she heard her husband's footsteps on the stairs, and she tried to renew it. The last thing she needed this morning was a confrontation with Michael, especially in front of Alison. Yet even as she told herself to let it go at least until she and Michael were alone, she felt the bitter anger rising in the back of her throat. Then Michael came around the corner—fresh from the shower, wearing an open-collared shirt and sport coat over chinos, and looking far younger than his forty-two years—and she knew she wasn't going to be able to hold her temper in check.
"Good morning, ladies," he said, as if he didn't have a care in the world. He reached for the orange juice.
"Morning, Dad—" Alison began, but abruptly cut herself short when her mother reached out and clutched her father's wrist, keeping him from the pitcher.
"What time did
you
roll in last night?" she demanded, a hard edge of anger in her voice.
"Late," Michael said.
A little too smoothly? Risa wondered.
"I worked until after midnight," he explained, "then went out for a nightcap."
Risa stared at him until he lifted his gaze to meet hers.
He was lying—she could see it in his eyes. "Alison stayed home to make you dinner, and you didn't even bother to call until it was already on the table."
"Oh, cupcake, I'm sorry," he said, and walked around the bar to kiss the top of his daughter's head. "Sometimes the newsroom just doesn't care that I have a real life."
"She was home
alone
until I got back from the banquet about ten," Risa said.
"Mom, I'm fifteen!" Alison protested. "It was no big deal."
"That's not the point!" Risa snapped.
"I'm sorry, babe," Michael said. "What can I say? You know the news doesn't stop for my convenience."
"But apparently your daughter can be ignored."
Michael sighed heavily. "Maybe we should have this conversation another time."
"Fine," Risa said. "How about tonight? Or won't you be home tonight, either?"
Alison's eyes glistened as she looked up at her parents. "Come on, you guys. Don't fight."
"We're not fighting, honey," Michael said, his eyes pleading with his wife to let it go, at least until they were alone. "I was inconsiderate, and your mom has a right to be mad."
Risa took a deep breath, checked her watch, and decided she had neither the time, the energy, nor the stomach for whatever might happen if they kept talking right now. Without responding to Michael, she poured a fresh cup of coffee into a traveling mug, though she was certain her stomach was already far too upset for her to drink it. "I've got to run." She looked directly at her husband. "You'll be home tonight?"
Michael nodded. "As usual."
"'Bye, Mom."
"'Bye, honey." Risa grabbed her briefcase and hurried through the house to the garage.
A wife always knows,
her mother had told her.
And Risa knew.
Michael was having an affair.
* * *
MARGOT DUNN SAT quietly in the tiny glass chapel overlooking the Pacific where she and Conrad had been married a dozen years ago. The joy of that day—when her own beauty exceeded even that of the setting she had chosen for her wedding—was only a faint memory now, but the serenity of the Wayfarer's Chapel imbued her spirit as much today as it always had. Through all the years since she'd married Conrad, this small church had been her refuge, the single place where everything else in her world could be shut out, and today, with the bright sun of the clear morning pouring through the great glass panels and filtering through the branches of the redwoods outside, Margot knew she was at last going to be all right.