After Alice went upstairs, Nicole remained seated at the table. She thought of that moment at Heathrow when she’d first noticed her suitcase was gone. In retrospect, this first glimmering of dislocation seemed like an omen—if she’d known enough to recognize it—that this trip might be a mistake.
She glanced at the clock and did a quick calculation. It hardly seemed possible she’d been here less than nine hours. The thought of the Lowrys—and the fact that they’d soon be in L.A.—set off a new wave of anxiety. Hearing Alice’s opinion of Freddy had altered Nicole’s view of him and his family. They were no longer the respectable Brits who could be trusted with her property. My God! What was I thinking?
She tried to summon back the terms of the agreement they’d signed, whether it was possible to change her mind and toss the Lowrys out once they established themselves in the condo. She hoped the papers were upstairs in her remaining suitcase, but she made no move to go up and see. No matter how unreliable the Lowrys were, she wasn’t about to give up her plans for the summer. If she let this opportunity escape, it would be gone forever.
At that moment, a clattering sound brought her to her feet. She rushed to the front door and looked out, but no one was there. She walked from room to room through the lower floor, but the house was silent and benign. Still uneasy, she made a second tour, inspecting windows and doors to make sure they were locked.
Outside, daylight had faded and early evening threatened rain. The house was quiet, and she decided the noise had been the building settling as the temperature dropped. Her nerves were shot; that was the trouble. It might be a while before the police arrived, and she was too jittery to wait down here alone.
As she tiptoed up to the second floor, she was aware of the creaking stairs and the fact that this was the same noise she’d heard while she was locked in the bathroom.
In the Lowrys’ room, she felt better knowing that Alice was asleep just down the hall. Even so, her hands shook as she peeled off the green knit and dressed again, this time starting with the bra and panties she’d omitted in her earlier haste. As she was brushing her hair, she saw something she hadn’t noticed before. The door to the closet that held the safe was slightly ajar. She was certain she’d closed it.
For a moment she debated whether to go down the hall and wake Alice from her nap. She told herself she was being silly, but her heart thumped as she walked to the closet and gave the door a pull. As it swung toward her, she saw that the door of the safe was open. Now she understood what the intruder had been up to.
She squeezed into the space in front of the safe and bent down to have a look. The main compartment held a medium-sized cardboard carton. On one of the shelves, a short stack of envelopes was secured with a rubber band. She pulled the carton out, unfolded the flaps, and peered in. It was filled with blue felt packets, the sort used for storing silverware. She untied the ribbon on one packet and unrolled it. Sure enough, it held a place setting of silver: a table knife, a butter knife, two forks (salad and main course), and two spoons (tea and soup).
The pieces were old and tarnished, but she could tell from their weight they were solid silver. The pattern was quite beautiful: a lush mosaic of flowers covered the entire handle. She rolled the felt up again and retied the ribbon. Then she opened a few others. More silver.
Judging by the size of the box, there were at least a dozen place settings, perhaps more. Silverware like this had to be worth several thousand dollars, and it struck her as odd that the intruder hadn’t taken it.
She shoved the carton back then undid the rubber band on the stack of envelopes. The top one contained the deed to the house. It was in the names of Frederick H. and Muriel B. Lowry, dated a little over a year ago. It seemed a short time for the house to have such a settled look. She wondered if they’d bought the place furnished or had rented it first and lived here a while before buying it.
In the other envelopes were registration papers for the car and last year’s Inland Revenue statement for Frederick Lowry. His occupation was listed as “financial consultant, self-employed.” He’d paid £2,900 taxes on a reported income last year of £14,000. She did a quick calculation. Translated into US currency, that was less than $24,000 — hardly enough to maintain a decent-size house in a good area of London. And they had a lot of rather nice furniture, including antiques, the set of sterling, and a number of original paintings. Well, she thought, there might be family money. Maybe Muriel Lowry had come with a dowry. Still, if they had additional income, wouldn’t it appear on the tax form as earned interest or dividends?
It struck her that there should have been more documents, if these were the family’s most essential records, worth keeping in a safe. Where, for example, were the Lowrys’ insurance policies or their bank and investment records? Granted, she and Brad kept such things in a safe deposit box, but they didn’t have a heavy-duty safe in their bedroom.
Taking a second look at the tax form, she wondered what a self-employed financial consultant actually did. It could be anything from managing investment portfolios to laundering money. She made a mental note to ask Alice. Surely she’d know that much.
She put the envelopes back in the safe and straightened up. As she squeezed her way out of the closet, she heard a loud click and realized—too late—that the door to the safe had swung shut. She rushed back and tugged at the knob. It was locked, and no amount of pulling would persuade it to open.
At least she knew what was inside. All she had to do was call the Lowrys and describe what she’d seen. They’d be able to tell her if anything was missing.
She placed another call, got the same recording, and left a message describing the break-in. “I don’t think anything was stolen,” she said. “But I won’t know for sure until I speak to you. It’s urgent that you call me right away.”
She’d just hung up when she heard more knocking downstairs. This time the sound persisted, swelling to an insistent crescendo. As she hurried down, a cool rush of relief swept over her. This had to be the police. Here, at last, was someone who’d help her make sense of what had happened.
Instead of a policeman, she found Brad and Brenda waiting on the porch. Seeing them, Nicole felt a flurry of anxiety. It was as if something had disrupted a bees’ nest in her stomach, and the insects—smaller and more excitable than the ones back home—were buzzing around in there.
“My God, Nicole,” Brad said. “I’ve been half crazy. Where the hell have you been?”
“Oh, I’ve been right here.” Even to her own ears, Nicole’s voice sounded high and strained. Gazing at Brad and Brenda, she had a sudden revelation. It was as if she knew exactly what they were thinking. Perhaps it was Brenda’s expression—that look of composed innocence—and the fact that it was identical to Brad’s. Nicole could see that they were dissembling, pretending not to be in collusion against her. It wasn’t only their faces, but something about the way they stood apart, leaning in opposite directions. Brenda (her tiny purse slung from one shoulder) had her arms folded across her midsection, as if to protect herself from a quick punch. Brad was holding his laptop in front of him, at crotch level.
As Nicole regarded them, her stomach gave another flutter. Something had happened between them, something irrevocable.
The seconds ticked away, with no one venturing to speak. Finally Nicole glanced at her watch. “You’re late,” she said. “What happened?”
Brad shot a quick look at Brenda. “I — uh — I’m really sorry. We got tied up. I kept trying to call you, only nobody answered. I think maybe I wrote down the wrong number.”
While he talked, Brenda was blinking and fluttering her thick, dark eyelashes. She was dressed in a white silk suit that seemed more appropriate for dinner in Beverly Hills than a day at the office. The skirt was short and tight, and she wore no blouse under the jacket. Apart from her great cleavage, she was flat and elongated —like a teenager after a sudden growth spurt. With her widow’s peak, shaggy lashes and Cupid’s bow mouth, Brenda had the sort of face illustrators put on flowers in children’s books. While it was pretty in its own way, it didn’t quite work on a real person.
The odd thing was that everyone else seemed to think Brenda was beautiful. After meeting her, Nicole’s sister had asked Nicole how she felt about Brad working with such a stunning woman.
Nicole had been incredulous. “Stunning?” she’d said. “Brenda?”
“You don’t think so?” Stephanie had said. “Ask Brad what he thinks.”
It wasn’t in Nicole to do that. Instead, she kept an eye on Brad and realized Stephanie was right. Brad behaved differently when his assistant was around. Brenda had his complete attention. Even when he was speaking to Nicole, his eyes sought out Brenda as the audience.
Despite this, Brenda’s personality, which was both bland and coy, allowed Nicole to dismiss her as a threat—that and the fact that, as Brenda’s boss, Brad knew her limitations. He was always complaining to Nicole about Brenda’s screwups, mistakes she made at the office because (in his words) she was too “sloppy” and “distracted,” “immature” and “guy-crazy” to focus on work. Nicole thought it a wonder that he didn’t fire her or, at the least, put her on probation. His putting up with her seemed to prove what a good person he was. Now, however, Nicole understood how completely she’d misread the situation.
“We sat down with the Brits and went into the whole morale thing,” Brad was saying. “They got pretty steamed up, and I had to do some major negotiating. I’m really sorry we kept you waiting.” As he talked, he kept looking around. “Is something burning?”
“Not anymore,” Nicole said. It was an effort to keep her voice calm. While you were out there screwing Brenda, I came within a hair of being raped and murdered.
She took a deep breath. “I guess I’d better explain,” she said evenly. “You did have the right number, Brad. I heard my cell and the Lowrys’ phone ringing. Only I couldn’t answer because someone had broken into the house and locked me in the bathroom.”
Brenda gasped and said, “Oh, Nicole,” in a strangled whisper. “How awful.”
“Locked you in the bathroom,” Brad repeated. “My God, Nick. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she lied. “Perfectly fine.” And she went on to calmly describe her conversation with Reinhardt, the break-in, and, finally, Alice’s arrival. As she neared the end of her story, she said, “We called the police. They said they’d send someone right out.”
Brad stared at her for a long moment. Then her words seemed to sink in, and a look of panic crossed his face. “Wait a minute! What about our passports? The cash?” By now he was halfway up the stairs.
“It’s fine. I checked,” Nicole called after him. “Nothing’s missing.”
He turned and looked down at her, his face troubled. “This doesn’t make sense,” he said. “Why would someone bother to break in, lock you in the bathroom, and then leave without taking anything?”
“Maybe he did take something,” she said. “After he left, the safe was open, and it was locked when we got here. We won’t find out what’s missing until I get in touch with the Lowrys.”
By now, Brenda had disappeared into the living room. Nicole imagined her wandering around, looking at the pictures, running her hand across the backs of the damask-covered sofa and chairs.
She reappeared just as Brad reached the bottom of the stairs. “I hope I’m not butting in,” Brenda said. “I mean, I wonder if I could make just one teeny little observation.” Her voice was high and soft, like a little girl’s, and she had a way of pausing between sentences. “Look, Nicole—isn’t it possible you accidentally locked yourself in?” She stopped and cocked her head. “I mean, people are always doing that in strange houses.” She smiled, “I’ve done it myself.”
“Yeah,” Brad agreed. He nodded his head, and his scowl relaxed. “That makes a lot of sense. The door stuck, and you sort of panicked. Hey, it’s nothing to feel bad about. It could happen to anyone. You’re jet lagged, alone in an unfamiliar house…”
“Listen—I know what happened,” Nicole said. “Someone was in the house. He locked me in the bathroom. I wasn’t imagining things, and I’m not hysterical.” But her voice had gone all shaky again. And she did feel slightly hysterical, as if she were about to cry.
“It’s all right, Nick. Just take it easy.” As Brad said this, he reached over and gave her shoulder a squeeze. Nicole sensed Brenda’s eyes on them and felt a surge of resentment. If Brenda weren’t here, Brad would have taken her in his arms to comfort her. He wouldn’t be doubting her like this.
“You had a bad scare,” he was saying, “and you have every right to be upset. What you need is a good stiff drink. We could all use one. Listen, I noticed a great-looking pub a couple of blocks away …”
“We have to wait for the police,” Nicole repeated, trying to hold on to her patience. “I was just having some tea. Why don’t you fix some for you and Brenda? Then, after the policeman leaves, we can all go out for dinner.”
It was another forty-five minutes before the policeman arrived. Nicole had expected to see a real Bobby, in full regalia—the black uniform with brass buttons and brass-trimmed epaulets and the tall, Victorian helmet with its big metal badge. But this man was wearing an unfamiliar costume that, she supposed, must be his summer uniform—black slacks and a white, short-sleeved shirt with nerdy-looking tabs on the shoulders. His hat was shaped like a helmet, but made of felt instead of metal.
When she invited him in, he carefully removed the hat and tucked it under one arm, as if he were carrying a basketball. With his freckles, pale blue eyes and fair curls, he looked like a very tall schoolboy.
Constable Browne, as he introduced himself, was nothing like the British law enforcement types Nicole had seen on PBS. He was neither sympathetic nor especially polite. Nor did he seem to be much of a listener. From time to time he jotted something in his notebook. Between jottings, his eyes strayed over to Brenda, drawn to the cleavage peeking from her jacket.
Nicole had been sure that when she told him about Alice, he’d insist on waking her from her nap to question her. But news of the tenant failed to produce even a squiggle in his notebook. He didn’t ask many questions, and those he did ask seemed calculated to cast doubt on Nicole’s story.
“You got a good look at the person who detained you, then?” he said.
“Yes, I did. When I talked to him in front of the house, he was standing only a few feet away.”
“I see, madam, but did you actually see him inside the house, this…” he paused to consult his notebook. “Reinhardt chap?”
“Of course not. That’s why he locked me in the bathroom—to keep me from seeing him.” As she said this, Nicole could feel their incredulity, which made her even more resentful and upset.
She led them upstairs to the bathroom, explaining how Alice had let her out with the key the man had left in the lock. It was still in the keyhole on the outside of the bathroom door, where Alice had left it. The police officer acknowledged the key with a nod but made no move to examine it.
Next, she ushered them in to look at the safe, explaining how she’d found it open but had accidentally let it shut. The whole time she was talking, she was aware of how unlikely her story sounded, the fact that she had no real proof any of it had happened.
When she finished, the policeman put away his notebook. “That’s fine, then,” he said. “I have enough for my preliminary report. Tomorrow one of our DCs—that’s detective constable—will pop ‘round to take a full report.”
“Wait,” she said. “Aren’t you going to take fingerprints?”
“We have our procedures,” the policeman said. “You said you touched the knob of the safe. And we haven’t got the residents’ fingerprints, so we couldn’t sort them out from the intruder’s, could we? We don’t even know if anything was stolen. I don’t mean to cast doubts on what you’re saying, Mrs. Graves, but we can’t make bricks without straw.” His eyes wandered over to Brenda, and he winked. She flushed prettily and flashed him a smile.
Frustration and anger roiled in Nicole’s head as she followed the others along the hallway and back down the stairs. At the door, the constable, who seemed to have lost track of who was married to whom, turned to Brad. “I’d strongly advise that one of you stays with her tonight. She’s a bit overwrought after her—uh—experience. I don’t think she ought to be left alone.”
“I’ll stay, officer,” Brad said. “I mean—of course I’m staying. I’m her husband.” He gave an embarrassed laugh, as if this small detail had slipped his mind.
The policeman stole one last glance at Brenda. “Well, that’s all right, then. I wish you all good night.”
By the time his car pulled away, it was 11:00 p.m., too late, they all agreed, to go out for dinner. Brad ordered a pizza delivered, then foraged through the cupboards for a bottle of wine.
They ate in the small dining room. Brad and Brenda didn’t lapse into their usual shoptalk, nor was there mention of the tumultuous meeting that had supposedly kept them late at work. On the contrary, they were infuriatingly attentive to Nicole. Brenda, in her piping little voice, kept coaxing her to eat until Nicole finally snapped, “For God’s sake, Brenda. I’m not hungry. Give it a rest.”
Brenda’s eyes grew very wide. After that, Nicole noticed Brad avoiding his assistant’s wounded looks. A short time later, he sent her home alone in a cab.
Nicole didn’t take any of this as a good sign. She had the feeling that Brad was going to use this incident as yet another argument to send her home.
She lay in bed a long time before she drifted off to sleep. A while later, she woke with a start. An unrelenting ache in her stomach reminded her how miserable she was, even before she remembered why. She turned to glance at the luminous face of the alarm clock on the night table. It was 1:30 a.m. She’d been asleep for less than a half hour.
She looked over at Brad. He was sleeping, his face relaxed and unperturbed. Her mind skipped back to the moment she saw him standing on the doorstep with Brenda. Now she knew why he’d been so inattentive, the reason he no longer seemed to like her much.
Brenda.
Over the last—how long was it? Six months? A year?—Brad had grown more and more distant, and this transformation had puzzled, distressed, and, finally, alarmed her. When she asked, he denied anything was wrong. She began looking for a reason outside their marriage. Perhaps it was something he didn’t want her to worry about, trouble at work or some kind of emotional crisis.
She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She had to stop doing this to herself. She was tired and altogether too irrational to think. She remembered the sleeping pills she’d brought along. But if she took one this late, she’d be groggy tomorrow. She decided to try a glass of milk; if that didn’t work, she’d take the Ambien and sleep late. She turned on her bedside lamp and found her robe. Then she went down to the kitchen.
As she was pouring the milk, she remembered her earlier call to the Lowrys. She looked at the clock. It would be 7:30 p.m. in Dallas now. Maybe they’d be in.
After she put in the number, the phone rang three times; there was a click, and the now-familiar voice came on: “Please leave a message,” it drawled.
Nicole left another message, this one more desperate than the last. As she was hanging up, she heard a car slowing in front. Instinctively, she reached over and flipped off the light. Then she padded into the hall and looked out the small window in the front door. A battered white Renault coupe drove by slowly.
When it was gone, she went back into the kitchen, turned on the light and retrieved her glass of milk. In the cupboard, she found the open package of chocolate-covered biscuits. She munched on one, ears cocked for any new sound from the street. All was quiet.
She finished the milk and cookie and turned off the kitchen light. She was just starting up the stairs when she heard another car approach. Trotting back to the window, she was surprised to see the same white car, now heading in the opposite direction.
As she looked out, the car zipped over to the curb and parked. Then two men got out and started across the street toward the house. Under the streetlight, they were an odd pair, odder still by virtue of the fact that they were dressed almost identically in black leather jackets and dark pants. One was short and grossly obese with a ruffle of jowls that hung down over his collar. The other was tall and skinny with a long neck and small, narrow head.
They stopped on the sidewalk in front of the house and stared directly at the front door, where Nicole was cowering behind the little window. Then the fat one touched the other man on the arm, and both heads swiveled up toward the bedroom window where the lamp on Nicole’s night table was the only light in the house.
She froze, her heart launching into a brisk percussion as the pair headed through the gate into the front yard. Only when they disappeared around the side of the house was she able to set her legs in motion and take flight up the stairs. “Brad,” she hissed, when she reached the bedroom. “Oh God! There are a couple of guys sneaking around outside.”
“Huh?” Brad said groggily. “Wha —?”
“They look like thugs. They went around back.”
He got out of bed and went to the bedroom window.
“Out back,” she repeated. “You’ll have to go downstairs and look out the kitchen window.”
Brad left the room and clumped noisily down the steps. She followed him as far as the top of the staircase, then waited while he walked around the lower floor, looking out the windows.
When she heard him open the back door, she dashed down after him, calling, “What are you doing? Don’t go out there!”
The door slammed and, after a minute or so, reopened. Brad came in and, brushing past her, began trudging up the stairs.
“Did you see them?” she said, as she trailed after him.
“Nobody’s out there, Nick.”
She was filled with dread. “I think we should call the police.”
“Jesus, Nicole. Everything’s fine. Just try to get some sleep.”
When they reached their room, he climbed into bed. Nicole turned off her lamp and went back to the window. The white car was still parked across the street. The sight of it chilled her.
She turned to look at Brad, now cocooned under the blankets. “They must be the ones,” she said. “The ones who broke into the house.”
He pulled the covers back and propped himself up to look at her. “You told the cop you were sure it was that guy Reinhardt.”
She stared at him, suddenly filled with anger. He was doing it again, refusing to listen to her. “Look,” she said. “I don’t understand why you’re acting like this. It’s like you don’t even believe there was a break-in—”
“Listen, Nick, I do believe you,” Brad said wearily. “But those men you just saw out there? They’re probably the neighborhood watch or something. Two guys picking up a third to go fishing, only they got the wrong house. Get some sleep, and in the morning, we’ll both have a good laugh about it.”
“You think I imagined the whole thing.”
“No, I think ...” he paused, reaching for the right phrase. “I think you’re overreacting. You had a bad scare, and you’re exhausted. That’s enough to make anybody a little nuts.”
With that, he lay down, turned toward the wall, and pulled the covers over his head.
Nicole stood at the window, staring down at the white car. The street was completely still. Finally, she climbed back into bed.