The piano player had slid into
Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow
. A happy, bouncy tune that made her feel the same way inside.
"Me, too," he said. "I was afraid you might say no."
"I know. I could tell."
He laughed softly. "You are so refreshing, Caroline."
Again, she wondered if he was mocking her, but she refused to give in to such thoughts. She would let nothing ruin this Christmas Eve. Sitting in these elegant surroundings listening to Jeffrey talk, it was hard to reconcile herself with the woman who only a short time ago was an inmate in a lunatic asylum, with no thought of ever getting out. It seemed like a dream. One from which she hoped never to wake.
Her dreamy thoughts scattered with the wail of sirens outside, and as the chilling sound faded into the night she knew intuitively that something bad had happened.
Forty
Detective O'Neal looked down at the battered, bloodied body of Natalie Breen, the store's owner, sprawled on the floor, a scarf wrapped around her neck, near embedded in the pale flesh. Her face was swollen and bruised, dried blood trailing from one nostril. Her open eyes had trapped the horror of the last few minutes of her life. What the hell was going on? This victim wasn't young, neither was she dark-haired or blue-eyed. There were no obvious signs of sexual assault either.
The place reeked of apple cider and cinnamon He was quite sure he'd never be able to stomach the stuff again. Lights were flashing, hardly signifying the birth of Jesus. Hardly that. They were camera flashes.
"She put up a hell of a fight," his partner said softly beside him, not wanting the victim's daughter to hear.
Tom glanced behind him at the woman huddled on a stool at the back of the store, trembling and crying softly. She'd been hysterical when they arrived on the scene and it took some time to bring her down. Some Christmas present, Tom thought.
"He used one of those scarves," Detective Aiken said, indicating the rack of print scarves by the door.
It was practically the only thing upright in the store. The place was destroyed. The jug of cider had spilled onto the wood floor, was threaded through with her blood. The hems and cuffs of coats and dresses were soaking in the obscene mess.
Photos had already been taken of one very clear shoe print, leading to the door that could only belong to the killer.
The victim's daughter was silent now and simply sat on the stool, huddled in her coat, staring at the floor. Blond and slender, she looked very fragile sitting there, crushed under the weight of shock and grief. She would never forget the sight of her mother lying on the floor, dead, brutalized. She wouldn't be able to close her eyes at night for a long time without that ungodly scene visiting her. Christmases would always be a reminder. The thought angered Tom.
He walked over to her. "Just a couple of questions," he said gently. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay." She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. "Who would do this to her?" she asked him, or anyone who might have an answer. "She was such a good person, lovely to everyone. She was my best friend." She began to cry again, then abruptly regained control of her emotions, insisting they find the person who did this, make him pay for his crime.
"We're going to do our best to make sure that happens," Tom said. "Maybe you can help. Do you don't know of anyone who would want to hurt your mother?"
Whoever it was had been savage in his attack, out of control. In a rage. Why? Nothing was taken, as far as they could tell; there was money in the till and some fairly expensive items were still displayed in the window, including a pair of diamond stud earrings. Half a dozen suede and leather bags hung on one of the racks that somehow had remained upright in the violent assault.
She answered their questions with as much calm as she could manage. No, she knew no one who would want to hurt her mother. Tom then asked her to recount exactly what she saw or heard upon arriving. She added nothing he didn't already know.
"The door was partly open when I got here. Christmas music was playing. "I didn't see anyone around. The street was deserted."
It Came Upon a Midnight Clear
was playing when they got here. Tom had turned the music off, but the unintended double-entendre wasn't lost on him.
"My son, David—he fell asleep on the sofa waiting for his Nanna to come home. David's four. He worships his grandmother. What will I tell him? It's Christmas Eve. Oh, God…mom…"
He had other questions, but they could wait. She needed to get home to her boy. "I'll drive you home," Tom said. "My partner will follow in your car. Is there anyone you'd like us to call?"
She shook her head sadly. "No. No one."
Forty-One
Buddy stood in a pool of darkness across the street from Caroline's building, gazing up at her window. He could see the shiny bulbs on a Christmas tree through the lacy curtain. Her light was on.
He'd gone home and showered away the blood and sour sweat and combed his hair neatly. Feeling the weight of the small package in his inside jacket pocket, he suddenly felt shy as a Victorian suitor. He hadn't wanted to kill that woman tonight. It was just that he'd had such a bad a feeling that everything was getting away from him. And the blond woman had suddenly seemed to represent all that stood in his way. The depth of his fury had frightened even him and some of what he had done while in its throes he could barely remember.
But there were forces out to destroy their plans. He had to save Caroline. Save her from herself. Their very lives were at stake. But everything had to be timed perfectly. He would need a car, though. You couldn't get to Toronto without a car. He planned to steal one, and he knew which one, too. He'd ditch it when they got there.
He wished Caroline could know how he had protected her tonight. How he had punished the woman who would so readily expose her to strangers. His own mother had left him vulnerable to such strangers, unable to escape. Trapped like a rabbit in a snare. She had invited the beast into their lives, and it had devoured his soul.
Well, never mind that. Soon it would be as it was meant to be.
When he saw her light go out, he started across the street, the key clutched in his hand.
Forty-Two
Caroline removed her earrings, kissed them lightly the way she might have kissed her mother had she been here, then put them back in their small velvet case. You couldn't have your heart this full of happiness and still be mad at anybody. She took off her boots, slipped out of her dress and returned it to the closet. She would be wearing it again on New Year's Eve.
"Do you like to dance?" he had asked her.
She had told him she didn't know, but she thought she used to like it. He only smiled at the puzzling answer, said good; they would dance in the new year.
She didn't tell him that her father didn't believe in dancing, or that he'd said it was the devil's way to tempt young people into sins of the flesh. The only dancing she had ever done was in her room with the door shut and the music turned low. Music she was always quick to shut off at the sound of approaching footsteps.
She was standing at the closet door, caressing the soft fabric of her new dress. She couldn't afford another new dress, but she wouldn't need to. The owner said just wearing different accessories would totally change the look of this one. Caroline knew exactly what she'd wear with the dress too; the rhinestone belt and dangly earrings that had been in the trunk. They'd be perfect for New Year's Eve. She wondered when her mother had worn them. And suddenly wished she was here so she could ask her.
Jeffrey had said they were going to a veteran's club his father had belonged to when he was alive. As his son, he'd inherited the privilege of membership. The place was near the bay not far from where she used to live. She told him the number of the house and he said he'd driven past it on a number of occasions. "I think it's up for sale," he said.
Later, as they stood at her door, his eyes lingered on her mouth and she knew he wanted to kiss her, and she was drawn to him like a heat magnet. But she made no move toward him. And without touching her, he had merely leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. "Goodnight, Caroline. Sleep well."
Then he went on upstairs to his own room.
Forty-Three
Her cheek still tingling from the touch of his lips on her skin, she let herself into her room and closed and locked the door. Smiling dreamily. She'd forgotten that you could be this happy.
The wine had made her sleepy and she had thought she might fall asleep at once, but instead she lay awake admiring her little tree and thinking about Jeffrey Denton, spinning dreams she dared to imagine had a possibility of coming true.
The streetlight entered her room like a bright moon. A magical moon. Its light played over the backs of her hands that rested on the blanket, turning them an ethereal blue-white as she lay there reliving the evening, replaying Jeffrey's every word and gesture and expression.
Then, like a slow eclipse blocking the moon, other thoughts, other voices infiltrated her mind, diminished her smile and chased the glow of tonight away. She tried to deny them entry but to no avail. He kept you waiting tonight, the voice said, made you anxious, worried that he might not come at all. How do you know it wasn't a deliberate ploy? You don't know this man, really. Just because you heard him playing piano and spent a couple of hours in his company doesn't mean you know him. He had been late calling for her because he was talking to his mother on the phone, he said, but how did she know that was true? She didn't.
She tried to shake off the rush of insecurity, of anxiety, told herself she was being silly. If he hadn't wanted to be with her he wouldn't have asked her out in the first place.
He might have changed his mind. It would have been awkward not to show up considering they both lived in the same building. Well, he certainly wouldn't have asked you out twice, would he? Yes, this finally made sense to her. This voice belonged to the part of her that wanted her to be happy. That wanted her to be able to trust her heart again.
In a way, life was easier living at Bayshore, which had served as a kind of cocoon, leaving her with no decisions to make. No responsibility. In a way, like crawling back into the womb. Then she thought of Ella's snoring beside her, the constant rhythmic squeak of the rocking chair, and those pretend knitting-needles that you could almost hear clicking madly as Ella's fingers busily knitted one, pearled two. No, she didn't miss that, nor did she want to return to it.
She had come to like the sound of rain outside her barless window, hearing the laughter of children playing down on the sidewalk. She liked talking to her customers, being treated like a whole person, someone strong and intact. Someone a man like Jeffrey Denton would find interesting.
With this pleasant thought, she closed her eyes and was soon asleep.
Sometime in the night, she woke up thinking she heard something. She sat up in the bed and listened.
The green glowing numbers on the clock on her night table said 3:01 a.m.
The room was in semi-darkness. She peered into deep shadows that the glow from the streetlight did not reach. Everything seemed fine. Glints of Christmas bulbs pierced the darkness. Just a dream, she told herself, and snuggled down into the blankets again. She was about to go to sleep when she heard it another sound, a soft shuffling of feet outside her door.
She stared at the door. The narrow strip at the bottom, where light found its way from a low watt bulb in the hallway, had darkened, like ink spilled and spreading, blocking out the light.
Someone was standing outside her door. At first she was not really afraid, just startled and curious. But when the doorknob slowly turned, first one way and then the other, her simple surprise and puzzlement turned to fright and her heart galloped in her breast like a small hunted animal. She willed herself to remain calm. It was probably just a neighbor coming home late from a party, confused from having consumed a little too much Christmas cheer. Maybe he was on the wrong floor. Obviously not the wrong building, since whoever it was out there, had to have a key to the outside door.
Finally she called out in a timid voice, "Who's there?" The doorknob grew immediately still and silent. But someone was out there. She pushed back the blankets and sat up, eased her feet onto the cool floor, reached for her robe at the foot of the bed.
She padded to the door, tying the robe as she went. Yes, whoever it was still out there; she could hear them breathing. Who was it? Jeffrey? Harold? Mrs. Bannister? Why didn't they answer? Why would anyone want to frighten her?
Maybe it was someone else. Maybe the killer. Hadn't she told Mrs. Bannister anyone could get in here if they really wanted to? She remembered the sirens she had heard tonight as she sat across from Jeffrey. The sinking feeling she had had at the bone-chilling wail, the fading of it into the night.