His words came so fast and furious that I broke down. Tears rolled over my cheeks. I lifted my hand to brush them away and noticed the deep red nail enamel on the tips of my perfectly manicured fingers—a color I’d never worn in my life. More lost and confused, my sobbing intensified.
“Turn off the faucet, doll,” Jack said gently, coming to my side. “I hate it when dames cry.”
My sobs lessened. “That’s better,” he said. “I only wanted to wise you up. Toughen your hide. You’re a sitting duck otherwise, and I’d hate to think . . .”
“What?” I said with a sniffle.
“I don’t know . . . I’d hate to think of someone serving you up with orange sauce.”
I laughed. A spotless handkerchief was stuffed into my palm, and I swiped at my eyes, leaving streaks of black mascara on the fresh white cloth.
“I’ll be happy to stay on the case,” he said. “My fee is—”
“I know,” I replied, “twenty bucks a day, plus expenses.”
There was a long silence. Jack’s single finger lifted my chin. I stared into his slate-gray eyes, swallowed hard. I felt his hand caress my cheek, his body lean toward me . . . but I’m a married woman, I thought . . . I can’t do this. . . .
I may have felt frozen, torn. But Jack didn’t. His rough hands gripped my upper arms and lifted me, pulling my lips to his without the slightest hesitation. My mind went blank. There were no thoughts left. Just feeling. Just his hardness and my softness, the vivid sensual impression of his body . . . the sweet weight of it . . . as it pressed into mine. . . .
“PEN? PENELOPE, DEAR! Time for church!”
My eyes slowly opened.
The dream was over. I was in bed, the heaviness of Brennan’s open book pressing against my chest.
“Did you hear me, dear?!” called my aunt from the hallway. “Coffee’s on. Rise and shine!”
CHAPTER 16
Revelations
This pool of fire is the second death.
Book of Revelation, chapter 20
THE LATE MORNING sun nearly blinded me as I emerged from the gloomy interior of the First Presbyterian Church of Quindicott. Aunt Sadie’s conversation with Gertie Butler—concerning the upcoming church bazaar—didn’t look as though it would be ending anytime soon, so I was grateful when Fiona Finch rushed up to me at the top of the flagstone steps, where the wind was whipping strands of my copper hair into one big tangle.
“I have to show you something—at the inn,” Fiona whispered, one hand on her blue hat, its wide brim fluttering and flapping.
A small, brown-haired sixty year old, Fiona was the sort of wrenlike person one might easily overlook, except for her piercing dark eyes and flamboyant bird pins. Today’s was a black-capped chickadee, floating in the ruffles of her sky-blue blouse. She had at least two hundred of these molded feathered friends, and once a week she dragged her husband, Barney, around to every yard sale within miles on her never-ending quest for more.
Although few would ever guess it, Fiona was also an avid true crime enthusiast, her most recent purchase from our store being an out-of-print hardcover edition of James Reston Jr.’s Our Father Who Art in Hell, the story of how Jim Jones led one thousand members of his People’s Temple cult into killing themselves with poison-laced Kool-Aid.
Along with her husband, Fiona ran the town’s only hotel—many believed for the sole purpose of listening in on her guests’ private conversations. And with Deirdre, Kenneth, Shelby, and Josh all staying at Finch’s Inn, I was pretty sure Fiona had some dirt to dish.
I had an hour to spare before the bookstore opened and I was more than a little curious. So when Fiona approached, of course I touched Aunt Sadie’s arm and said, “Something’s up. I’m going with Fiona.”
“Not without me, you’re not,” Sadie replied, and we took off.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I steered my aunt quickly past young Rev. Waterman. I didn’t know what Sadie might have said to him, if given the chance, but I doubted it would have been charitable.
During today’s service the reverend had made a general announcement after his sermon: “The church parking lot is not to be used as a solution to the business district’s parking problems. Given that this terrible problem was started by an unfortunate event at one of the town’s businesses, I’d appreciate the owners of that particular business seeing to it that the cars of their customers stay out of the church lot.”
Rev. Waterman’s ice-blue eyes were staring directly at me and Sadie while he delivered his postsermon sermon. Other members of the congregation nervously peeked in our direction—with the exception of the Knitters for Charity Club, who openly glared—just to make sure we got the message.
Loud and clear, ladies!
(Apparently the Knitters had arrived at the church for their Saturday afternoon meeting to find the lot completely full. They were ready to kill—and a dozen pissed-off Presbyterian matrons armed with knitting needles can be as dangerous as your average weapon of mass destruction.)
By the time the service ended, I wanted to run for cover. Sadie, of course, was loaded for bear. Naturally, I was grateful to Fiona Finch for the distraction.
Despite my earlier misgivings, I was glad Spencer wasn’t with us today. Before I left for church, he was chauffeured to his cousin’s birthday party in Newport.
I knew from past experience that such an event would include a catered lunch; a series of children’s games organized and run by the McClure nannies; a hired magician; live music; a rented carousel; hot air balloon rides; three flavors of cake; and, once twilight descended, twenty minutes of fireworks that culminated in the birthday boy’s name written in lights across the sky.
I frankly wasn’t thrilled about Spencer going anywhere near his father’s family, but he wanted to go, and I really did feel guilty saying no. I still didn’t like the McClures. And I didn’t trust them. But they were Spencer’s relatives, and he had a right to see his cousins and spend a day playing with children his own age.
The weather was glorious, too. Except for the whistling wind, all evidence of last night’s storm was gone. The sun felt warm and pleasant as we strolled along Cranberry Street. Families and couples were drifting toward the common, already taking up benches for the free concert this afternoon in the band shell.
I’d heard some honking in the direction of the empty old Embry lot. The reason why would be apparent within the hour, but at that moment I was walking swiftly in the other direction, and my mind was elsewhere.
“What’s going on?” I asked Fiona.
Fiona shushed me. “Not yet,” she said with a hiss, her eyes darting suspiciously. “The wrong people might overhear us.”
So we continued our journey in silence until we heard a man calling: “Stop! Wait!”
We turned to find our fortysomething mailman, Seymour Tarnish, running toward us, gesturing wildly. By the time he got to our side, Seymour could hardly speak.
“I . . . was looking . . . for you.” His round face was flushed and covered with a sheen of perspiration. Bending at his thick waist, he leaned on his knees, gasping for air.
I was more than a little intrigued to discover what had gotten slow-moving Seymour excited enough to gallop like Seabiscuit down Cranberry Street.
“Simmer down, Seymour,” Aunt Sadie insisted. “You look like you’re having a heart attack.”