“Me? Charlotte, you are completely wrong if you think—”
The front door bell sounded again. Almost immediately, Scott walked in and stopped, looking from one to the other of them.
Behind him came Eugene and Renee.
All three of them appeared surprised to see anyone still in the office.
Into the frozen moment, Charlotte rose, picked up her purse, and started out.
Maggie stood. “Charlotte, you are wrong about — about what you said. If you want to talk more—”
The bell chimed again and Charlotte was gone.
“Sorry if we interrupted.” Scott appeared confused.
“It’s fine.”
“We stopped in to pick up work I did for Renee that I left here. Are you still working? You haven’t had any dinner?”
“Not hungry.”
“Oh, honey, you got to have something. We were just considering supper, too,” Renee said. “Eugene, you go get us all something from Cheforie’s and when you come on back, Scott and I’ll be done with our business.”
Maggie thought she saw protest brewing in Eugene. If so, it passed before any expression of it emerged. He took orders and left.
Renee followed Scott to the back, Maggie returned to Dallas’ office and the phone records.
Eugene delivered and they ate at the cleared end of the table with desultory conversation, carried mostly by Renee and Scott. Eugene kept shooting Maggie looks as if he expected her to strike.
He did not encourage lingering when the food was finished. At least he, Renee, and Scott said good-night when they left.
As she put her things together more than an hour later, Maggie’s mind returned to Charlotte’s strange visit.
She certainly had a chip on her shoulder about her sister. Possibly with cause.
But did that chip apply to more than Laurel?
We’re all supposed to do the right thing. Only some people get applauded for it, like J.D., while others don’t. And then there are those who don’t need to do anything at all and still get applauded.
Driving away, Maggie saw a vehicle close behind her. Uh-oh. Had she pulled out in front of them without looking? If so, she’d been away from Fairlington too long. She’d also been away too long if a little tailgating bothered her.
You’re like them, you know … Pan and Laurel. Just like them. It all came easy. Never had to work. Never had to work to be loved, either.
Presumably the flip side was Charlotte had had to work — filling her mother’s shoes as mistress of Rambler Farm, taking care of the judge, upholding the family name. Charlotte the reliable. Charlotte the indispensable. Charlotte the unappreciated.
Oh, yes, she saw herself that way.
And what about love? Her father’s? Her husband’s? She felt she’d had to work for that while Laurel waltzed through life taking for granted she deserved to have whatever she wanted?
Thinking about Charlotte was giving her a headache.
No, Maggie realized, the piercing glare of the headlights still behind her were causing the headache. She flipped the lever on the rearview mirror to dim the lights.
Too bad it wasn’t as easy to switch the angle on her thoughts.
Charlotte clearly resented Laurel. Couldn’t totally fault her for it, either. Unless it had led to murder.
Charlotte had lumped Pan in with Laurel. Yet there’d been no direct competition between the two women. At least that Maggie knew of. Certainly not for the affections of the judge or Ed, who hadn’t come along until after Pan’s murder. Or for the affections of J.D., because Charlotte’s lack of interest there rang true.
Maggie left Main Street, automatically noting the lights followed. Probably a truck, since the lights were higher than her sedan.
What about Rick Wade?
Could Charlotte have harbored resentment against Pan from their school days when the girl everyone loved won the town’s destined-for-success golden boy? Even after the gold tarnished and his limited success came ready-made from his family’s business?
Possibly.
On the other hand, Charlotte had included Maggie in her mix of people who had never had to work, including for love. Which nudged Charlotte significantly closer to off-the-charts whacko.
* * * *
Dallas watched Evelyn put away the clean dinner dishes.
“I’m old, Evelyn.”
Her rhythm never broke. “Getting there.”
“I should have died when Ruth did.”
“You’ve got too much imagination for that.”
“What does imagination have to do with it?”
“Comes in handy for all sorts of things, but folks surely need imagination to see living a life — a good life — after someone they love’s gone.”
“You had such imagination?”
“Had to,” she said flatly. “Had it then. Have it now.”
“Imagination,” he repeated. “Imagination to keep on living.”
Voices tumbled through his head. Voices of the departed, and of those still here. When he spoke, the words came before he’d formed and polished the thought. “Maybe imagination to keep on killing, too.”
“Maybe.” She sorted utensils into the drawer.
The tumbling sped up. Whirling, kaleidoscopic flashes of blinding colors mixed with glimpses beneath that surface to dank, depthless shadows. Too fast. Too sickeningly fast.
Clammy sweat oozed on his forehead, under his arms.
* * * *
9:16 p.m.
Maggie made the final turn into the dirt lane that dead-ended beside the guesthouse, and frowned again into the rearview mirror The lights had followed.
She flipped the lever on the rearview mirror to normal and the glare jumped out.
Could it be someone coming to see her? If so, they didn’t know how quickly the end of this lane was approaching.
She slowed. The vehicle behind her didn’t, narrowing the gap until she imagined she felt the other engine’s heat on her back. She eased her foot off the brake, tapped twice, flashing the lights to the other driver.
In that instant the vehicle’s high beams burst on, blazing through her car and out through the windshield, creating a spotlight on the fence.
If you count on that fence holding you, you’re going to find yourself smashed up.
Maggie hit the brakes hard. If the idiot hit her, she’d deal with a damaged bumper.
The vehicle behind her — yes, a pickup — banged her bumper. Her car pulsed forward. She jammed the brakes as hard as she could.
This was no accident, no lost driver.
In the narrow lane, there was nowhere to go, no room to escape.
* * * *
“Dallas?” Evelyn’s voice sounded distant.
You got to look beyond what you see to what’s really there. You got to feel what’s right. And what’s wrong.
His own words. But why? Why had they joined the whirl?
Was his heart giving out? Or had he seen—
“Dallas!”
Fear.
Evelyn was afraid.
It pulled him back. He grabbed his head in both hands, forcing the kaleidoscope to stillness.
“What? What’s wrong?” His own voice sounded odd.
She peered out the window toward the guesthouse. “Sounded like a car crash from back at the end of the lane. But it was wrong. No brakes or — There. Hear it?”
He did. He lumbered up, heading for the door.
“Call the sheriff!” he ordered.
She already had the phone in her hand.
“Don’t you do anything stupid, Dallas Herbert,” she ordered as she hit numbers.
The sick feeling came back. The feeling the kaleidoscope was getting worse.