Eve waited, breathing in the soft late-aftemoon air. It was cooling down, would probably go into the fifties tonight. Perfect weather, she thought, fifties at night, seventies during the day... perfect.
She sat up suddenly and realized she’d actually dozed; her head throbbed, and sweat from the heat of the sun coming through the windshield stuck her clothes to her, but she was almost sober.
She looked at the house and wondered if Meg was watching her and giggling. Eve waved in case she was, then put the car in gear.
Scarsscarsscarsscars...
And took off down the driveway.
It was a straight run from the house, and the gates would be open during the day, but a dip hid them and she didn’t see the car parked across the driveway blocking the road until she was on top of it. She stood on the brake; the LeBaron screeched and skidded and came to a shuddering stop with the front fender about an inch from one of the stone pillars, and the front bumper almost touching the other car’s rear door.
She slumped against the wheel, with sweat pouring down her face and her hands shaking helplessly at the near miss. She should have asked George to take her no matter how many Saturday errands had to be run.
She raised her head, wiped the sweat out of her eyes, and looked out at the other car. It was a light blue Ford, much bigger than the LeBaron, and it looked empty. Someone had blocked the Grayson drive and blithely walked away to pick wildflowers or mushrooms or just take a goddamn nature stroll in the afternoon sun.
She honked the horn furiously, then stuck her head out the window and screamed, “Move it.” Just like a fishwife, Frances would think but never say.
Nothing happened. No one came stumbling out of the woods, looking shame-faced at obstructing the drive out of the huge Victorian monstrosity.
“Hey,” Eve shouted again, “you’re blocking the road.” Her voice died away; there wasn’t a sound except for a light breeze rustling the tops of the trees.
She went to unbuckle her seatbelt but it wasn’t on, and she opened the door and got out. The other car was so close to the pillars she had to squeeze past it to get to the road. She moved around the trunk of the Ford into deep grass and a cloud of spring flies (nothing to what they had upstate, but bad enough) flew up and batted her legs under her skirt. She plowed through the grass to the pavement, looked in the car window, and saw the keys in the ignition and a blanket over some parcels or luggage in back.
Maybe the Ford had stalled and the driver was slogging his way to town to get help. But he could have walked up to Grayson and asked to use the phone.
She looked back at the gigantic stone house with its forbidding stained glass and the huge, disproportionate veranda and understood how a stranger might feel intimidated and prefer to walk the three miles to the Shell station.
Only the car looked too new to break down... SCARSSCARSSCARSSCARS...
It was getting louder, more insistent; her head throbbed and her vision blurred a little.
Even a new car could break down, and maybe the driver had just walked off in a fury and left the keys, hoping someone would steal it (if they could get it started) and he’d collect the insurance.
Wrong neighborhood, buddy; no one around here’d steal anything under an S-class Mercedes, she thought.
If she could start it, she’d just move it far enough to unblock the drive and no harm done, and she reached for the door handle on the driver’s side. If it was locked, she’d have to go back to Grayson and call a tow to move the Ford. But the keys were in it; it must be open unless the fool had locked himself out. She touched the handle and Scarsscarsscarsscarsscars blasted through her head. She saw the painted-over white pulley on the car window... and over it Great-great-great-granny’s face, with her mouth moving silently but urgently—watch out... watch out...
It was so vivid she jerked her hand back and looked up and down the road. It was empty and quiet. Seeding maples sent their little flyers through the air and everything looked peaceful, but something was wrong here, she had to move this obstacle and get away. She grabbed the handle and pulled, the door swung open, and she slid into the seat and turned the key. The buzzer sounded to remind her about the seat belt, the gas needle swung to full, all the other dials did what they were supposed to.
She heard something shift behind her and, with scars screaming through her pounding head and the bumpy white bulge of the pulley half blinding her, she looked in the rearview mirror and saw the empty, light brown doll’s eyes looking back at her.
Pete answered the phone. “Dussault’s.”
“Mr. Dussault, my name’s Meers, Lemuel Meers. I work with—”
“I know who you are, Cap’n Meers. You’re Dave’s boss.”
“Well... yes.”
“Dave’s not here, sir.”
“No... he’s fishing, right?”
“Right. Out on Chalice, and he sure had a nice day for it.”
“Mr. Dussault, I know this is an imposition, but I’ve got to talk to him. Is there any way you can get him to call me?”
Pete fell silent. His eyes roved over the neat counter and cash register, with the pie case behind it, and, to his right, the shelves of STP and Quaker Oil. It had been a gorgeous day, with enough wind to keep the flies from settling. A perfect day for fishing a wilderness lake like Chalice, even with kids who were always more trouble than they were worth in a boat. He glanced out the front window; no one was pumping from the self-serve, no one waited for him to come out and pump for them, and he had no excuse to hang up. He knew something had happened for the captain to call Dave up here, and whatever it was would be bad because no one ever got good news from a cop. He hoped it wasn’t Dave’s mother... or his girlfriend, Jeanne. Jeanne was nice as fresh pie and about as wholesome, and her little boy was with Dave this minute along with Dave’s kid. Of all the people involved with Dave Latovsky, his ex-wife was the most expendable. Pete blushed with shame at the thought and said quickly, “What happened, Cap’n Meers?”
“A murder—two murders. Friends of Dave’s... but not best friends, you know what I mean?”
“Sure.”
“But that’s not why I’m calling, I mean not because they’re his friends.” Meers’s voice had taken on a mountain lilt and Pete wondered if the captain was mocking him, then realized it was genuine. He was talking to another mountain man.
Meers said, “I mean it’s not the kind of news I’d give Dave one second sooner than he had to hear it. No, Mr. Dussault, I’m calling because I need his help.”
“I understand, sir. But we got a kind of problem here. Don’t know if you know this area.”
“No. I’m from up north of Raquette Lake.”
“Ah... well, Chalice makes Raquette look like Central Park if you take my meaning. It’s a twelve-mile Jeep ride to Chalice. Takes a couple of hours even in the Cherokee.” He looked out again. Don Wallbrun was filling his rustbucket and clouds were piling up, dimming the light. There’d be rain and/or sleet by midnight.
“And it looks like some weather coming.” He spoke morosely, because he already knew he was going in after Dave. A double murder wasn’t the kind of thing you ignored because of a little weather.
Half an hour later, with sandwiches, a thermos, and his sleeping bag in case he got stuck for the night, Pete Dussault set out for Chalice. It was a gorgeous lake, but getting there was not half the fun, and Dave was a fool for taking the kids, although he’d done it before. So had Pete when his kids were little.