The Way You Look Tonight (26 page)

‘Yes. I talked with Mrs Robinson on the phone. Steve's father is sick, but as soon as he's well enough to travel, they're coming home.'

‘Well, that's something. I'll wager that Lorna Robinson didn't express a lot of concern, though.'

‘You'd win the wager,' Deborah said.

‘That woman! Puts on airs. She always tried to act like they were rich. They aren't. Very comfortable, yes, but not rich. Of course, their lifestyle went down a few notches when they had to start paying all of Emily's medical bills. I'll bet that bothers Lorna. She is
so
shallow. Why, if my Petey was in this situation, I'd be absolutely frantic.'

The woman was warming to her subject. She could probably tell Deborah volumes about Steve's early life, but not what she wanted to know, and the room suddenly felt hot. She was also growing nervous thinking about their planned trip to the Robinson home. It would be dark soon and she and Joe still had to plan how they were going to enter the Robinson house, which was undoubtedly under surveillance in case Steve returned there.

‘Violet, thank you so much for the hospitality,' she said, forcing a smile, ‘but we really must be going.'

‘Oh, not so soon!' Violet cried.

At that moment a feeble voice called to her from the back of the house. The invalid Ida had come to their rescue. Violet helped them into their coats, patted them both as if they were little children, and stood on her porch waving goodbye with great sweeping gestures as they drove away.

Three

They drove back to the nursing home to be told that Emily had been heavily medicated and Jean had left for the day. ‘Sick headache,' another nurse told them. ‘I wonder what brought that on,' Joe murmured to Deborah.

They asked for Jean's address. She lived in a narrow two-story shingled house not far from the hospital. Scrawny shrubs lined a cracked walk. A yellow cat watched them warily from a front window. Joe rang the bell and a moment later Jean swung open the door, looking pale and cross.

‘Now what?' she snapped.

‘Hello to you, too,' Deborah answered. ‘Could we talk for a few minutes?'

‘I'm sick.'

She was wrapped in a red plaid robe, and without lipstick she looked five years older than she had at the nursing home. ‘Jean, please. We won't take up much of your time.'

The cat weaved around Jean's legs. She looked at it, then somewhere above their heads, and finally said, ‘Oh, all right. But just for a few minutes.'

The house was small and crowded with too much cheap furniture and a plethora of knick-knacks sitting on every available space. Jean led them into a cramped living room and motioned toward a couch covered with a gaudy floral throw. ‘Elegant, isn't it?' she said. ‘My husband died four months ago, but thank God he left life insurance. I'm going to sell this place as soon as I can and move into something new and pretty.'

‘I'm sorry about your husband,' Deborah said.

‘He was sick for a long time. I think we were both relieved when he finally went.'

Deborah could think of no reply to this sentimental comment. She decided simply to launch into the subject without preamble. ‘I've learned you dated Steve at the time of Emily's attack.'

Jean's hands gave a reflexive jerk and she looked away. ‘I knew this was coming as soon as I saw you today.' Deborah remained silent. ‘Okay, yeah, I dated Steve.'

‘And you told the police he was with you at the time Emily was being raped and strangled.'

Jean's brown eyes blazed. ‘It was a long time ago. It's hard to remember what I said.'

‘Relax,' Joe said. ‘We're not the police and we're not here to accuse you of anything. Steve's wife would just like a little information.'

‘And what are you going to do with this information?' Jean asked Deborah.

‘Nothing. My husband is missing and I'd like to know more about his early life.'

‘Why? What's that got to do with him being missing?'

‘It might have something to do with Artie Lieber. He was in Charleston at the time of Steve's disappearance.'

‘Well, there you go,' Jean said. ‘Artie hated Steve. He must have killed him.'

Deborah winced at Jean's bald pronouncement. ‘We're not sure of that. Did you know Lieber?'

‘I knew who he was. I saw him working at the Robinsons'. He threatened to kill Steve after the trial.'

‘Do you think he would have followed through with that threat?' Joe asked.

‘How should I know? Steve's gone, isn't he? I don't understand why you're trying to drag me in on all this.'

‘Yes, you do know,' Deborah said firmly. ‘You lied for Steve a long time ago and that lie could be important now.'

‘Just supposing I did lie, how would that be important now?'

‘There's more to Steve's disappearance than you've heard on the news,' Deborah said. ‘I wish you'd just answer my questions.'

‘What do you mean, there's more to Steve's disappearance?' Jean's face took on a mulish look. ‘I'm not telling you a thing until I get some answers.'

The woman was becoming extremely agitated and Deborah knew she meant what she said. Although it caused her an almost physical pain to say Steve was suspected of being a serial killer, and she didn't like this woman, she could see that Jean wasn't giving information without getting some in return. ‘The FBI think Steve might be The Dark Alley Strangler and that Emily was his first victim.'

She expected surprise. She did not expect the woman's face to turn crimson, then pale so dramatically that Deborah was certain she was going to faint. Jean drew a deep breath and whispered, ‘Why do they think
Steve
is—' She broke off, her mouth going slack.

‘It seems that all of the Strangler's victims were killed within a one-hundred-mile radius of Wheeling on nights when Steve was here visiting Emily,' Deborah said calmly. ‘After Sally Yates was attacked, a witness saw a man fitting Steve's description get into a car the same color as Steve's with a license plate that read 8E-7. Steve's license number is 8E-7591.'

‘My God,' Jean muttered. ‘Sometimes over the years I wondered if Lieber was right about Steve, but I never suspected anything else.'

Jean had wondered if Steve had attacked Emily? Deborah felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach and suddenly she didn't want to hear any more. She wanted out of the room, out of the town—

‘Tell us about Emily,' Joe said, not looking at Deborah.

Jean glanced away. Her foot jiggled. ‘I'm not a drinker, but I need something. Just a minute.' She went into the other room and in a moment came back bearing a juice glass with clear liquid in the bottom. She didn't offer Joe and Deborah anything, merely took a gulp and stared at them, her lips chalky.

‘Tell us about Emily,' Joe repeated.

‘Okay, I'm going to. Just give me a minute.' She took a deep breath. ‘You see, Steve adored her. It was kind of sickening, really.'

They waited for more, but Jean merely stared at them, as if dazed. ‘We've been told that Emily was secretly married and Steve was out looking for the husband when she was attacked,' Joe persisted.

‘Who told you all this stuff?' Jean's eyes narrowed. ‘Oh,
I
know. That sanctimonious weasel Pete Griffin.'

‘You don't like Pete?' Deborah managed.

‘I can't stand him. Emily used to put up with him, but I don't know how.'

‘What do you mean, Emily put up with him?'

‘I
mean
she went out with him sometimes.'

Deborah was too surprised to say anything. It was Joe who asked, ‘Was
he
her secret husband?'

‘
Pete?
God, no.'

‘Then who was?'

‘I don't know.'

‘If you don't know who the husband was, how do you know it wasn't Pete?'

Jean looked from face to face. ‘I
know
. Look, I'm telling you the truth, although I don't really have to be talking to you at all.'

‘We know,' Joe told her. ‘And nothing you say is going beyond this room.'

‘How do I know that?'

Deborah leaned forward. ‘Steve is my husband and the father of my two children. Do you really think I want his name smeared? I'm only trying to find out for myself. I have two five-year-olds to protect, Jean. You have to realize how important that is.'

Jean smiled ruefully. ‘I had a kid once. She died when she was two of meningitis. I would have given my own life to save hers.' For the first time she looked at Deborah with compassion. ‘Yeah, I sympathize with you. And guess I'll help if I can. What do you want to know?'

‘Everything about the day Emily was attacked.'

Jean took another sip of her drink. ‘All right. Let me think. It was so long ago and I've tried to forget…Steve stopped by my place around one in the afternoon. He was crazed. He wanted to know if
I
knew anything about Emily's marriage. Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather.
Married! Emily?
I'd never been close to her. To me she was just Steve's spoiled, stuck-up little sister that I had to talk to when he took me over to his house, which wasn't often. And I guess I was jealous of her because he was so nuts about her. But I thought it was kind of funny that the kid had done something to throw those snotty parents of hers into a tailspin. I didn't have any idea who the husband was, but I did know she thought Pete was a bore. It couldn't have been him. That's all I could tell Steve. Then he took off like a bat out of hell and I didn't see him again that day. I heard that evening what had happened to Emily. They said it happened around two o'clock.'

‘Why did you lie for Steve and provide him with an alibi for the time of Emily's attack?' Deborah asked.

‘I didn't think he'd done anything to the precious Emily.' Her eyes dropped. ‘And I thought we might get married. That couldn't happen if he somehow wound up in jail.'

Deborah looked at her searchingly. ‘But you didn't get married.'

‘No. After the mess was cleared up he just took off for the university and that's the last I saw of him until I went to work at the nursing home. I was long married then, and he acted like nothing had ever gone on between us. I guess he felt safe after such a long time. Actually, I thought he acted weird.'

‘How did he act weird?' Joe asked.

‘Well, like he really
didn't
remember that there'd been anything between us or that I'd lied to save his skin. And then there were times when Emily acted like she did today.'

‘You said that had never happened before.'

‘I lied. I'm good at it,' she said sarcastically. ‘I really just wanted to get you two out of there.'

‘But she's shown fear around Steve?'

‘Yeah. Screaming about
Steve
and saying
it hurts
. It scared the hell out of me because, like I said, I'd already started wondering if maybe Lieber had been telling the truth all along. Steve knew what I was thinking. He gave me these creepy looks sometimes. I wished then I could tell the truth, but I couldn't without blowing the whistle on myself, and he damned well knew it.'

Bitterness edged her voice. Deborah realized that Jean still wasn't over the sting of Steve's rejection. Had Steve really acted ‘weird' and given her ‘creepy' looks? Had Emily often cried out in fear around him? Jean might be giving them a version of events colored by hurt and resentment. Or was she telling them a truth Deborah didn't want to hear?

One

After they left Jean's, Deborah called the Robinson home from a pay-phone. There was no answer, so she assumed they were not yet back from Hawaii.

Although she had never visited her in-laws, Steve had driven her past their house several years ago and she still remembered the general layout of the neighborhood, so she described it to Joe and they worked out a plan for entering the house.

Shortly after dark they stopped at a diner a couple of blocks from the Robinson home. They each ordered coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich. Deborah was too jittery to eat, but Joe wolfed down his sandwich as if he hadn't a care in the world. ‘Aren't you nervous?' Deborah asked.

‘I can't let myself be. I need to keep my head clear.'

‘So what's the plan from here?' she asked, feeling ridiculously like a terrorist making earth-rocking plans in an inconspicuous meeting place.

Joe wiped his mouth and hands on his napkin. ‘I know we're being watched, but no one followed us in here. In about two minutes I'm going back to the men's room. At the end of the corridor where the restrooms are, I saw a door. I'm sure it leads out the back. After I come out of the men's room, I'm going out that door. You're going to sit here for four minutes, then you're going to follow me. We'll walk to the Robinsons'.'

‘There will be surveillance on the house.'

‘The front, yes, but they probably don't have guards posted at every entrance. There's a back door, isn't there?'

‘Yes. I've seen it in photographs taken in the Robinsons' back yard.'

‘Okay, if we don't see anyone at the back, we'll go in that way. You did say there are a lot of trees and shrubs in that area, didn't you?'

‘Yes, as I remember from the pictures. But those pictures are old.'

‘Well, at least we can check it out. If nothing has changed and there's no surveillance on the back of the house, we're all set.'

Almost immediately Joe put enough money to cover the meal on the table, casually tossed down his napkin, and sauntered toward the restrooms. Deborah glanced at her watch. During the next four minutes she desultorily sipped her coffee, and even accepted a refill when the waitress came by. Then, with a casualness she hoped equalled Joe's, she went toward the restrooms. She glanced behind her to make sure no one was looking, then darted out the back door.

Outside snow was falling in a thick, wet veil whipped around by the wind. It was dark, and she almost cried out when Joe stepped up behind her and took her arm. ‘Okay, Mrs Robinson, walk briskly but don't run.'

For twenty minutes they sneaked through back yards, dodging behind trees and shrubbery like cartoon characters. At one point Deborah bent double with nervous giggles. Joe gave her a stern look and she apologized. ‘I just feel so
absurd
,' she gasped. ‘Is this really necessary?'

‘Do you want to get into that house?' Joe asked.

‘Yes.'

‘Well, if the FBI see you, you aren't going to get in. This is the only way.'

Forcing herself to keep her mind on the objective and not think about how silly she and Joe looked, she recovered only to be frightened half to death by a Doberman that came charging through a dog door and crashed against a chain-link fence. They were on the other side of the fence, but the dog was jumping so high Deborah was sure he was going to hurtle over the top and be on them. She backed away, but Joe stood his ground and spoke soothingly to the dog, who continued to show his formidable teeth for about a minute, then made whimpering sounds and allowed Joe to pat him on the head. The back door of the house opened and a man called, ‘Jake? What's going on, boy?' Jake obediently ran back to his master. The man peered suspiciously into his dark back yard, unable to see Joe and Deborah crouched behind a shrub obscured by the blowing snow. ‘What's wrong, fella? See a big, bad cat or something?'

He guffawed as if he'd said something amazingly clever, then took the dog inside. ‘I think I've made friends with old Jake,' Joe murmured, ‘but let's not push it. We'll circle around this yard and not try scaling the fence to go through it.'

‘I had no intention of scaling a fence anyway,' Deborah hissed.

Finally they reached the Robinsons' long one-story home. Although the colors didn't show well in the darkness, Deborah knew it was painted a lovely dusky blue with snowy-white shutters.

‘I hope they don't have a security system,' Joe muttered.

‘I doubt it. This is a quiet neighborhood.'

‘It was before we got here.'

‘Let's just pray whoever is watching the place didn't see these two shapes skulking through everyone's back yard to get here.'

‘You're the Robinsons' daughter-in-law. The neighbors can't get too upset about you being here.'

‘It's not the neighbors I'm worried about,' Deborah said, shivering. ‘It's Steve's parents. This is breaking and entering and they wouldn't say a word in my defense.'

‘With any luck, they'll never know you've set foot in their precious house.'

‘Oh, they'll know. I'm going to take a few things and I'll have to tell them. But that will be later.'

Joe took his laminated driver's license from his wallet.

‘I thought you used credit cards for this kind of thing,' Deborah said.

‘You can, but this is better. Credit cards are more brittle.'

‘I'll remember that for my next B & E job.'

‘Thank goodness this house isn't new.'

‘Why?'

‘Easier to get into.' Joe leaned against the door, inserted the license above the latch between the facing and the door, and pushed until half the license disappeared. Then he slid the laminated card down until it hit the strike bar, meanwhile pulling the door toward him. Deborah held her breath, then smiled when she heard a reassuring click. ‘Voilà!' Joe exulted. ‘Glad to see I haven't lost my touch. Ready?' he asked, his hand on the knob.

Was she? What if Steve were in there? What if he'd been hiding here ever since he disappeared from their home? Obviously the police thought he might come here or they wouldn't be watching the house. True, it would be hard for him to be living here with the house under surveillance, but it wasn't impossible. How awful it seemed to be afraid of going into a house because she thought her husband might be there. But that was the situation. She closed her eyes. You're not alone, she told herself, and you
have
to see what's in the Robinson home. ‘Okay,' she said softly.

Joe opened the door and they stepped into the house. It smelled slightly musty, and Deborah immediately knew no one had entered it since the Robinsons left over two weeks ago. Joe flipped on the flashlight, keeping the beam below window level. Deborah blinked a couple of times before her eyes adjusted to the strange half-light. ‘The kitchen,' she said needlessly, gazing at the narrow, scrupulously neat room with its white linoleum, cabinets, and appliances. The only touch of color was a small basket of silk ivy placed on the glass-topped kitchen table.

‘Are you sure someone lives here?' Joe asked. ‘It looks like a model home. Either that or an institution.'

‘Steve told me his mother is obsessively neat. She can't stand to see a dirty ashtray or a crumpled towel.'

‘And she's probably never eaten out of an open can over the sink.'

‘Which you do.'

‘Frequently.'

Deborah shook her head. ‘Men!'

‘A primitive but charming lot we are.'

‘Yeah, there's nothing more charming than watching a man eat beans over the sink,' Deborah giggled. She was cold and frightened and she appreciated Joe's efforts to take her mind off the situation.

They moved out of the kitchen to the dining room. Another silk flower arrangement sat on the shining table which had six chairs arranged around it. In the corner stood a china cabinet bearing dishes with a narrow gold rim. ‘Steve said they always ate dinner in the dining room,' Deborah said. ‘His mother insisted on dinner being a rather formal affair and was livid if he was even ten minutes late.'

‘Sounds like a fun meal,' Joe responded sourly. ‘And so far you've only mentioned Steve's mother.'

Deborah stopped in surprise. ‘Good heavens, I never thought of that. He didn't talk about his family very much, but when he did, he focused on his mother. I know hardly anything about his father except that he owns a chain of drug stores and plays a lot of golf.'

‘What about Emily?'

‘I don't know much about her, either. Just that she was pretty and popular—'

‘And married. But who was her husband?'

‘That's one of the things I hope to find out from this little illegal visit,' Deborah said. ‘I don't know why, but I keep thinking it's important.'

‘Well, I have to admit it seems pretty strange that no one seems to know who the guy is.'

‘No one except Steve. And his parents, of course. But what is the deep, dark secret about his identity? Why did the family consider him so
unsavory
?'

Joe didn't answer. Instead, his eyes traveled to the living room where a lamp glowed against the closed draperies. ‘I hope to God that lamp was turned on by a timer.'

‘It was. The timer is there on the end table. Thank goodness. This means we don't have to be so careful about the flashlight in here.'

The lamp shed soft light over the highly polished hardwood floors Steve had hated. Imitation Queen Anne furniture sat on an oriental rug. A few knick-knacks were placed strategically on gleaming tables. There were no ashtrays, magazines, or books. An ornately framed mirror was hung over the sofa, coldly reflecting the room.

‘Now this is what I call a warm, cosy place,' Joe said drily.

‘I think there's a television room in the basement.'

‘Let's hope so. Otherwise I'd feel like I was in a museum. Can you imagine two energetic kids growing up in this place?'

‘Certainly not my two. Maybe Steve and Emily were more restrained. I know hardly anything about them when they were growing up. Steve always acted as if they just appeared full grown. But I think the answers to a lot of our questions lie in their past.'

‘How are you going to learn those things? Photo albums? School yearbooks?'

‘Exactly. Maybe we can find a few old letters or diaries.'

‘I wouldn't count on that, particularly if they say anything revealing. I have a feeling Steve's mother would have destroyed anything like that.'

‘It's worth a try. Here's a hall. The bedrooms must be this way.'

Even though there were no windows in the hall, Joe still kept the flashlight shaded with his left hand. Four rooms lined the hall, two on each side, with all doors closed. Deborah opened the first door on the right. The room was small, overpowered by a huge four poster bed smothered with a flounced bed-skirt, comforter, several small ruffled pillows, and a canopy. On a dresser to the left sat a mirror tray holding various perfume bottles. Another silk fern stood in front of the window. The table to the left of the bed bore a crystal-based lamp and a small alarm clock. The one to the right carried a matching lamp and the unheard of – a book. Deborah tiptoed over to look at it.
The Last of the Mohicans
. She smiled, remembering Steve saying that although his mother considered reading fiction a waste of time, his father had a deep interest in American literature. ‘Dad wanted to be an English teacher,' he'd said, ‘but his father forced him into the drug store business, which he hated. But what would the world be without five Robinson pharmacies?' So she did know a little more about his father than she thought.

‘This is Steve's parents' room,' Deborah said, glancing into the small adjoining bathroom. ‘I don't think we'll find anything interesting here.'

Joe had gone to the window that faced the street, and parted the curtains slightly. ‘Quiet as a tomb out there.'

‘No bright lights and Swat teams ordering us to surrender?'

‘Not so far,' Joe smiled, ‘but we don't want to push our luck. Let's make this quick.'

Without a word Deborah turned and left the room. The next door on the right was a large bathroom with a separate shower stall, double sinks in a vanity unit, soap shaped like rosebuds in a dish, and heavy embroidered towels lined regimentally on a rack. She quickly shut the door and turned to the left. The first room contained a twin-sized bed and a naked dresser. Nothing hung on the walls. Deborah was sure this was Steve's room, although there was no sign of his occupancy. It looked as if every trace of the Robinsons' son had been carefully swept from the room. Her throat tightened. Steve had vanished from this house just as completely as he'd vanished from her life.

‘Let's try next door,' Joe said softly, as if reading her thoughts.

The next room was twice as large as Steve's and, unlike his, looked exactly as it must have twenty years ago when Emily occupied it. A white eyelet coverlet shrouded the double bed. A stuffed tiger resting against the pillows watched them with cloudy eyes, and a white Princess phone sat beneath a hand-painted china lamp. The dresser was lined with perfume bottles containing murky liquid, two jewelry cases, a collection of dried-out lipsticks in what once must have been corals and pinks, and a picture of Emily and two other girls wearing cheerleading outfits. On one wall was a large painting of a dark-haired girl wearing shorts riding a bike. Emily, probably at age fourteen or fifteen. There was no name in the corner of the portrait, only the scrawled initials P.G. ‘Pete Griffin,' Deborah said aloud. ‘He told me he used to dabble in art. And he was
good
.' On another wall was a poster of The Rolling Stones. A bookcase sat beneath the window. Deborah ran her eyes over the titles. Lots of Phyllis Whitney, Victoria Holt, and Mary Stewart. ‘She liked romantic suspense and intrigue,' Deborah mumbled. ‘I've read most of these myself.'