| |
––––––––
“MOMMY AND MR. KENT are yelling.”
“I can hear that, sweetheart.” Jack slid Marie’s breakfast onto her plate: her custom-ordered Daddy’s Special Pancake, shaped to her specifications. When he’d constructed his first pancake bunny years ago, thus instituting a family tradition, he couldn’t have guessed that one day he’d find himself trying to fashion a unicorn out of Aunt Jemima batter.
“What’s that?” she asked, pointing.
“That’s its horn.” He studied the misshapen lump of batter extending from the horse’s head. “It’s having a bad-horn day. What’ll it be, Nora?”
Daisy already had her turtle. Turtles, he had down. They took all of about ten seconds. Big blob, foot, foot, foot, foot, head, little pointy tail.
“I want an angel,” Nora said. “Like Uncle Pete. He’s an angel now.”
Jack ruffled her hair tenderly, thinking that if he was going to craft Uncle Pete in pancake batter, he’d better practice those horns. And forked tails while he was at it. “An angel it is.”
An especially vociferous screech from the living room brought everyone’s head up. It was just as well they couldn’t make out Meg’s exact words, although a few snippets did rocket through the door. Pompous! Overbearing! Nitpicky! Plus a smattering of those choice terms sure to curdle Mother Kent’s Geritol.
“Daddy, why are you smiling?” Marie asked.
“Oh, I’m just happy to be with my girls.” Batter sizzled in the pan as he poured out an angel with less-than-symmetrical wings. Its halo looked more like a sombrero.
After a minute he flipped his creation, one ear cocked to the escalating squabble in the living room. Winston didn’t strike him as the type to lose his cool, much less get physical with a woman. Nevertheless, Jack deemed it prudent to pull in the reins. The girls had already gotten an earful. Enough was enough. His little practical joke had probably outlived its amusement potential, anyway.
Too bad. It was fun while it lasted.
He quickly deposited Nora’s south-of-the-border angel on her plate and pushed through the doorway. The combatants faced off near the far wall next to the mantel: Meg flushed with anger, fists planted on her hips; her betrothed in a posture of supreme arrogance, arms crossed over his chest.
She snapped, “Give me some credit, Winston. What are you afraid I’ll say when you introduce me to your mother? ‘How the hell are you, Mrs. Kent, I’m damn proud to be marrying your son’?”
“When I’m satisfied that you’ve expunged such slatternly words from your vocabulary, then I’ll—”
“Slatternly?”
“Then I’ll consider introducing you to Mother.”
She got right in his face, forcing him to back up to the wall. Jack was gratified to see her venting her temper on someone else, especially this particular someone else. He hung back, knowing they were unaware of his presence.
She poked a finger in Winston’s chest. “If you stop acting like such a prissy old maid, then I might consider going through with this marriage.”
“Such name-calling is unbecoming, Meg.” He smiled suggestively. “And so pointless when you and I both know how turned on you are right now.”
Jack thought if her jaw dropped any lower, it would dislocate. She struggled to say something but appeared to be choking on her outrage.
Winston added, “I’ll show you just how much of a ‘prissy old maid’ I am on our wedding night, darling.”
He reached for her. She batted his hand away. He balled his fist. In the heartbeat of time it took Jack to spring across the room, Winston had pivoted and smashed his knuckles into the wall.
And recoiled instantly, clutching his hand, his face contorted in a rictus of agony. The wall was unscathed.
Meg wheeled around and collided with Jack, shoved past him, sprinted up the stairs, and disappeared into her room. The door slammed.
Meanwhile Winston was doing a little rain dance, stomping around in a circle, hunched over. Finally he ground to a halt, took a long, wheezing breath, and swore savagely at the wall.
Jack said, “It’s broken.”
“Nonsense. There’s not a scratch on the damn thing.”
“Not the wall. Your hand.”
Winston gaped at him, then stared at the appendage, gingerly unclenching his fingers. Jack examined the smashed knuckle at the base of Winston’s pinkie, already swelling alarmingly. “This is what they call a boxer’s break. And that’s a surefire way to get it, trying to put your fist through a solid wall.”
“But you—But you—!” Winston gestured at the neat hole Jack had made in the adjacent wall two days earlier.
So that was it. The poor sap had been at it again, trying to prove to the love of his life that he was every inch the macho man her ex was.
Jack said, “You don’t know much about house construction, do you?” Winston’s only response was a dark glower. “You see, that wall—” Jack pointed to the newly ventilated one “—is only four years old. It’s plasterboard. This living room was a lot bigger before Tanya decided she needed a den. See there? Those two sconces are hung on the studs. I knew if I aimed between them, I’d hit nothing but Sheetrock. Felt damn good, too.”
“And I hit a stud,” Winston growled.
“Maybe, maybe not. See, you went after an outside wall, original to the house. Back then they used plaster over wooden lath. No matter where you hit it, that wall’s gonna win. You really don’t know this stuff?”
Winston responded with an expletive Jack knew he hadn’t learned from Meg. Perhaps now wasn’t the best time to let him in on the joke that had started this whole debacle.
Jack said, “Better ice that sucker. Let’s see what we can scare up in the way of a sling.”
*
“FETCH ME THE AFGHAN, would you, darling?” Winston gestured with the bottle of single-malt Scotch he’d been methodically draining for the past three hours. At some point he’d abandoned his glass and started swigging straight from the bottle of very old, very expensive whisky, which had sat unopened in the liquor cabinet for about thirty years, a gift from some long-ago visitor. Pete hadn’t been a Scotch drinker.
Winston lay sprawled on the living room sofa, propped up with pillows. His plaid flannel shirt was half-untucked, his hair disheveled. Tanya’s Cosmopolitan magazine served as a makeshift splint, cradling his arm, which was further supported in a sling fashioned from one of her silk scarves. A plastic bag of ice lay on the swollen knuckle.
As Meg passed him, she bestowed her best imitation of a casual smile. “Let me take that for you. I’ll bring you a sandwich.” She reached for the whisky bottle.
He jerked it out of her reach and stared up at her, his eyes glassy and unfocused. “Just the afghan for now. I couldn’t eat a bite.” He seemed to be overenunciating, obviously compensating for his thick tongue.
Gritting her teeth, she retrieved the afghan from an easy chair. Jack stood in his usual spot leaning against the mantel, munching his ubiquitous sunflower seeds and watching her fetch and carry for her foolish show-off of a fiancé.
She knew perfectly well why Winston had punched the wall. She supposed she should be flattered. However, she couldn’t help feeling that for all her fiancé’s self-professed maturity and prudence, he could be incredibly insecure at times. This childish stunt was the direct result of that insecurity.
She didn’t care for the misgivings creeping into her mind, undermining her well-laid plans. She’d had it all worked out—her whole future, her children’s future. She thought of all the pain she’d endured the past few years, the emotional turmoil. The strength of will it had taken for her to leave a man she loved and start life over.
This was the only life she was going to get. She had one chance to do it right. And so she’d taken steps. She’d undone her one big mistake: marrying Jack Wolf. So why did she feel cheated?
“Do take care, darling. My hand!”
She’d been tucking the afghan around Winston with a bit more fervor than the task required. Sighing, she straightened. “Winston, I really wish you’d give me that bottle.”
He glared at her with startling malevolence. “I never realized nagging was one of your myriad shortcomings. Seems I’m learning new things about you every day, darling.”
She was stunned by how deeply his words hurt. Humiliation twisted her stomach and burned her eyes. She struggled to keep her expression neutral.
She felt Jack’s eyes on her and wanted to crawl under the braided rug. She didn’t dare look at him, afraid she’d see the smugness he had every right to feel at that moment. He had to be laughing at her, glorying in Winston’s taunting words. After all, isn’t that what she’d done to Jack—nagged him incessantly to abandon his reckless dreams and settle down?
She tried to remind herself that Winston was in pain. That was the only reason he’d resorted to copious quantities of booze, after all, when she’d never before seen him take more than a few sips of wine. She’d almost forgiven him his cruel gibe when his good arm whipped out and playfully slapped her on the butt.
“But I think I’ll keep you!” he hollered.
Before he could see the hurt in her eyes, she turned away. In that instant she wanted nothing more than to yank the ostentatious rock off her ring finger and throw it in his face.
Supposedly alcohol broke down a person’s inhibitions. Was this petulant, mean-spirited boor the genuine article, then, the real man beneath the veneer of urbane sophistication Winston presented to the world?
Heaven help her.
Jack’s gaze drew her in against her will. The mocking smile she’d expected was absent. To Winston his expression must have appeared bland, even bored. But she knew Jack as no other, and what she read beneath the surface made fresh tears spring to her eyes. It was all there, everything he felt for her. Respect. Concern. Love.
She knew it then as clearly as she’d ever known anything. He loved her. He always had.
Had she given up on the two of them too easily? Had she allowed her irrational fears to rob her of the one great joy in her life?
During the past two years she’d made great strides in her career. She should have been deliriously happy. Isn’t that what she’d always wanted—financial stability? But at the same time she’d never felt more adrift, more incomplete. Her success meant nothing without Jack to share it with.
Countless times she’d craved his steady presence. She’d longed to see his face break into a proud grin at every little milestone, no matter how trivial. Longed to bask in the comfort of his loving support during the occasional setback.
But she’d given it up. Given him up. Her choice. She’d learned long ago that you can’t have everything. Sometimes you have to sacrifice something you want for a greater reward.
She had her reward, but somehow it felt more like a consolation prize.
From the den came the sound of three shrill voices squealing in delight. The girls were watching A Little Princess. The front door opened and Neal sauntered in. For the hundredth time he asked, “Phones still out?”
Meg wished he’d stop asking and just pick up the receiver himself. “Last time I checked.”
He swore and tossed his leather jacket toward a coat hook. It slid to the floor and he left it there. Flopping down in his father’s favorite easy chair, he asked his second-favorite question. “Where’s Tanya?”
I don’t know and I don’t care, Meg wanted to answer. “I really couldn’t say.”
The lady of the house chose that moment to appear at the top of the stairs, blowing on her fresh nail polish—vivid tangerine. She descended the steps. “Give it a rest, Neal. You don’t have to keep track of me every second of the day, you know.”
Neal’s eyes flicked to Jack. “I just like to know what you’re up to.”
“Oh, don’t start.” She ambled over to Winston and ran her fingers along his arm over the sling. “How’s that hand feeling, Winston?”
“Still hurts like the devil, but thank you for asking, Tanya. It’s nice to know someone cares.”
Meg rolled her eyes.
Tanya perched on the edge of the sofa, and Winston scooted over to make room for her. She tapped the multicolored silk scarf. “Is the sling working out okay?”
“Jus’ dandy.”
“Do you need more ice? Another pillow?”
“I think I’m set for now.”
“How’s that Scotch holding out?”
He wagged the half-empty bottle.
Her voice oozed admiration. “I don’t know how you endure the agony, Winston, with only a little whisky to take the edge off. It’s times like this that really test a man’s virility.”
He gazed at her with a big, foolish grin, preening under her insincere flattery. Meg felt embarrassed for him. She wondered who this little display was meant to impress, Jack or Neal. Perhaps both. Tanya wouldn’t be happy until she had every male in the place slavering over her.
She patted his good hand. “You just rest. I’ll do everything I can to ease your suffering.”
He squeezed her hand. “Jus’ knowing you’re concerned makes it feel better already.”
“Taking care of others helps keep my mind off...” Her chin trembled.
“You’re going through your own agony now, my dear. And quite bravely, might I add.”
“There are just so many... unanswered questions.” She sniffed. “I know I won’t have any peace until they’re resolved.”
Intriguing words from the woman Meg considered Suspect Numero Uno.
Winston said, “You mean questions like what was Pete doing in the attic?”
“That’s part of it.”
“Well, and then there’s the matter of his ring, of course. The missing ring.”
Tanya perked up. “That’s right. The ring. I just can’t get it out of my mind.”
“Why, there’s only one thing to do,” he declared. “We mus’ find that ring. If it turns up in someone’s personal effects, that would certainly shed some light on this nasty business.” He squeezed her hand again. “And give you some peace of mind, my dear.”
“Well, if you insist.”
Neal sat up straighter. “Are you suggesting we search everyone’s stuff?”
“It would seem the sensible course,” Winston replied.
Meg said, “Don’t you think we should leave that sort of thing to the police?”
“Now that we’re talking about it, we’ve got to follow through or whoever has it will stash it somewhere it’ll never be found,” Tanya pointed out. “No, I agree with Winston. We have to look for it now. All of us together. So no one can pull a fast one.”
Neal surprised Meg by agreeing. “Damn straight. Let’s get started. Meg?”
She shrugged. What harm could it do? “Okay, I guess.”
Jack had been silent. Now she looked at him, wordlessly questioning. What she saw in his expression prickled her scalp.
“No one’s touching my duffel,” he said, his features rigid. He refused to look at Meg.
Neal made a grunting noise that indicated he wasn’t surprised. Tanya appeared genuinely taken aback. “It’s okay, Jack,” she said. “Everyone’s stuff will be searched, not just yours.” Her eyes widened fractionally. Unless Meg was mistaken, she was sending him a message.
“Forget it,” he said. “My things are off-limits.”
Meg’s chest tightened with foreboding. Why would he refuse to go along? He had to know how guilty his lack of cooperation made him appear.
She knew he hadn’t killed Pete. That knowledge was branded on her heart. She’d never believe him capable of such an act. But could he have taken the ring? Last night he’d told her he hadn’t done anything illegal since the bungled holdup that had landed him in jail at age fifteen. She’d believed him.
Dammit, she still did. Whoever took Pete’s ring had to have done so before she discovered his body. It could have been anyone.
Winston struggled up from his lounging position, carefully supporting his bad arm. Appearing almost sober, he addressed Jack. “I advise you to reconsider, my friend. Your refusal to cooperate casts you in a less-than-favorable light.”
Meg sensed Winston was dismayed by Jack’s resistance, as if he, too, believed in his innocence.
“I’m not worried,” Jack said. “I have nothing to hide. I just value my privacy, that’s all.”
Still Jack wouldn’t meet Meg’s eyes. She knew this wasn’t just an issue of privacy for him.
Winston sighed. “Come along, then. We might as well get this over with.”
*
JACK CHOSE TO accompany them during the room-by-room search, prompting Neal’s snide observation that apparently the only privacy Jack valued was his own.
They started in Neal and Winston’s room. Clothes were shaken out, laundry bags emptied, toiletry kits pawed through. It didn’t take long to come up empty.
“You know,” Neal said, eyeing Jack, “any one of us could have the thing in a pocket. Or it could be hidden in one of the other rooms of the house. Even the toolshed or boathouse.”
Tanya scowled at him. “At least this is a start.”
They searched Tanya’s room next. Meg was baffled as to why one woman would bring so many clothes for a four-day trip. The makeup bag was the size of a small suitcase. Tanya invited Winston to examine her drawer full of lingerie. If he were sober, he probably would have insisted Meg do the honors. As it was, he eagerly applied himself to the task, one-handedly groping his hostess’s lacy underwear and filmy nighties.
“Nothing here,” Neal announced at last. “Next stop, Meg’s room.”
She watched as Neal, Tanya, and Winston went through her clothes and toiletries. At that moment she regretted having agreed to participate. This must be why Jack had refused, she thought, hugging herself against the feeling of violation. She was grateful for his solid, watchful presence beside her.
Winston struggled to unzip her small cosmetic bag, battling his handicap and the whisky sloshing around in his brain. He shook the contents onto the crocheted ecru bedspread. Out tumbled her mascara, two lipsticks, powder, blusher, and Uncle Pete’s ring.