Cravings (33 page)

"She said she doesn't need your assistance," Scott answered, moving closer to
her. She could feel his breath against the top of her hair, and she wondered
which man she least wanted in the house. She decided it was the cop.

"Uh, maybe I would like an opinion on modernizing my kitchen," she allowed.

She could practically hear Officer Wright bristling. "It sounded like he was
bothering you," he said.

"I'm fine."

When the pushy lawman had left, she wished she could just tell Charlie to
forget it. But she'd trapped herself now. "The kitchen is a little outdated.
Maybe you can make some suggestions for quick fixes."

"Of course."

She led the way back down the hall, then waited, hearing the real estate
agent walk around the room. When he opened the refrigerator door, she wondered
if there were any spills inside.

But her mind was going down a different path as well. Maybe being alone in
the house with this man wasn't such a good idea.

She didn't know she'd shaken her head until he asked, "Did you have a
problem?"

"Uh no."

Just then, the doorbell rang.

"I'd better answer that," she said quickly, wondering who it was this time.

The man who called out to her was another familiar voice. Dwayne Shipley.
Relieved that she was no longer going to be alone with Charlie, she opened the
door.

"Ms. Delarosa? I had some time, and I thought I'd look at that loose paneling
you wanted me to take care of. And see what else needs doing, like that wall
socket in the pantry."

"Yes. I appreciate it," she said, thinking that her house was turning into
Newark Airport. "What other small-town busybody was going to show up with an
excuse to look around?"

She was leading Dwayne down the hall, when she stopped short, remembering
where the paneling was. In the room where she and Grant had made love. Not long
ago.

"Maybe you should just do that socket," she said.

"And you wanted some painting done in some of the upstairs rooms. The
off-season is a good time to take care of that."

"I've got a guest now."

"Grant Marshall," he said promptly.

"How do you know?"

"From the other day at Bridges."

"Oh."

Footsteps approaching from the kitchen told her Charlie was coming to join
the conversation.

"Morning, Dwayne," he said.

She would have given a lot to see what kind of look the two men exchanged.

"Odd for you to take in lodgers in the winter," Charlie observed.

"Well, he… needed a place to stay," she said lamely.

"You call me if you decide to sell," the real estate agent said, using his
hearty, friendly voice. "Or you can do some easy updates. The kitchen needs
painting, for example."

"I'll keep that in mind. Just let yourself out," she added, thinking that she
should start keeping her door locked.

"I'll just get my tool kit and fix that socket," Dwayne said.

"Yes."

She busied herself with the rest of the dishes. Then got out of Dwayne's way
by going into the lounge and sitting with her cards. But if her concentration
had been bad earlier, it was worse now.

To her relief Dwayne announced he was finished with the wall plug about a
half hour later, and he could come back to do the painting another time.

She locked the door behind him. Then went back to her useless cards,
shuffling them and turning them over, hoping that the jumble of images would
tell her something important.

They only confused her more.

Hours crawled slowly by before she heard the doorbell ring.

Stumbling into the front hall, she called out, "Who is it this time?"

"GRANT," his now-familiar voice answered.

Relief flooded through her as she unlocked the door. When he came inside, she
wanted to reach for him, but she only stepped back as he locked up again. He
stayed near the door, and she raised her head toward him.

"Thank God. I've been worried about you," she said, uttering the
understatement very calmly before adding, "I've been listening for your car. I
didn't hear it."

"I left it in the parking lot at the 7-Eleven and came across the back way."

"Why?"

"Yesterday I thought it might be an advantage to let people know I was here.
Now I'm thinking there's too much damn interest in me in town. I couldn't even
get my hair cut without stopping all conversation at the barber-shop. I figured
it might be better if it looked like I'd gone somewhere else."

Her mind focused on the part about his hair. He'd gotten it cut? She hoped it
wasn't too short now. Would the length still feel good against her fingers?

Her attention switched abruptly when she heard him suck in a breath and let
it out in a rush.

"What?" she asked.

"Why was your house full of people?" he demanded, his tone suddenly sharp.

"How do you know that?"

"I know you had a bunch of guys in here, because I can smell them. Everyone
has a distinct scent. And I can sort them out. That's one of my talents."

"I should have figured that out."

"They're all men—men that I've met in town. Scott Wright, for one." He paused
for a moment, then said, "Also a real estate agent named Charlie Hastings and a
fellow wearing overalls. They were both at the dry goods store yesterday."

"Dwayne is the one in overalls."

"What—were they having a convention here?"

"Well, Scott thought Charlie was hassling me."

"Was he a problem?" Grant pressed.

"Only mildly. In that pushy way salesmen have." She cleared her throat. "He
kindly offered to appraise the house. And Dwayne Shipley, who does handyman
stuff for me, suddenly decided to fix a broken wall plug he's been neglecting
for months."

Grant's tone turned fierce. "One of them could have been the murderer,
looking for an excuse to check the place out. I mean, including your friend
Scott."

"No! And don't call Scott my friend. I can't stand him."

She turned and walked through the wide arched doorway into the lounge.

Grant followed but stopped near the doorway. "Did anybody else give you… bad
vibes?"

She sighed. "All of them, actually. That's why I locked the door. You need a
key. I'll show you where I keep them."

"Not now." She was so tuned to him, that she thought she could hear him
shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "While I was poking around town,
I had time to do a lot of thinking."

Suddenly sick with tension, she waited for him to say he was leaving.

"My getting involved with someone now isn't fair to her."

She raised her chin. "If you mean me, say it straight out."

"I came to Sea Gate with a purpose. I have to see it through. I have to find
out who murdered Marcy." He made an angry sound. "And Wendy Spencer in
Baltimore. Cara Boston in Williamsburg. Laurie Carmichael in Morristown. Donna
Dunn in Princeton. Phyllis Nelson in Camden. Tracy Porter in Rising Sun. Ginnie
Gold in Washington, D.C."

"So many," she whispered.

"That's not the whole list And until I nail the bastard who poisoned them,
then burned up the evidence, I can't… think about myself."

She considered the implications. "You mean, find him and rip out his throat,
don't you?"

"You're still being pretty direct."

She pressed her hands against her hips. She longed to argue that tearing the
killer to shreds wasn't a great prelude to the rest of his life. But she was
pretty sure he didn't want her opinion on that subject.

Walking to a wing chair, she gripped the back and asked, "You said one of the
men who came over could be the murderer. Why do you think so?"

He made an angry sound. "Because I put you in danger!"

"How? Just by staying here?"

"Unfortunately, yes. When I first started looking for the killer, I didn't
give a shit what happened to me. So I didn't bother to use an assumed name. I
even thought it might work like a lure. If the guy is in town, he probably knows
I'm the husband of one of his victims. Probably he's got a whole book full of
press clippings. For me, his interest is an advantage. But not for you."

"You could find somewhere else to stay," she murmured.

"That would be worse. Now that I've called attention to you."

"Maybe, over dinner, you should tell me what you know about the killer."

"It's not great mealtime conversation."

"But necessary," she said briskly. She hadn't thought about food in hours.
Now she started considering what to fix. "Um, since we haven't been drinking
coffee, I have some cream I need to use up. How does salmon chowder sound?"

"Don't go to any trouble for me."

"Right. You can always go out and catch yourself a couple of rabbits."

He made a strangled sound, and she wished she could see his face.

"That was a poor attempt at a joke. I guess because I'm nervous."

"Marcy never joked about the wolf," he said very quietly.

"Well, if I were an entirely sober-faced, respectable citizen, I wouldn't be
reading tarot cards for a living, would I?"

"I haven't noticed any other customers beating a path to your door."

"Wait until this summer."

The sentence hung in the air between them. Would he still be with her in the
summer?

When he didn't answer the unspoken question, she took a step toward the hall.
"The soup should be ready in about half an hour."

"Okay. Thanks."

She knew he was still lingering in the wide doorway. It took all her resolve
to keep from stopping and cupping her hand over his shoulder. Or touching his
lips with her fingers. She craved the physical contact. She longed to hear him
say something—anything—about their future. But he'd said he was still stuck in
the past. So she walked by him and into the kitchen, where she went about
assembling the ingredients she'd need for the soup. Glad to focus on cooking,
she chopped onions and garlic, then melted the butter in a small pot and added
the vegetables.

When they felt nice and soft against the spoon, she turned down the heat and
stirred in flour. Slowly, she added a little chicken broth, stirring until the
mixture was uniform. Then she opened the cream.

It smelled a little off, and she didn't want to ruin the soup. So she got out
another spoon to have a taste. She was lifting it to her lips when Grant's sharp
exclamation rang out from the doorway.

"Don't!"

Frozen in place, she heard running feet, then an arm lashing out and knocking
the utensil out of her grasp.

"WHAT? What's wrong?" she gasped as the spoon clattered to the counter.

"It's poison."

"Poison," she breathed, wondering if he'd lost his mind. "How do you know?"

"The same way I know who was here. By the smell. I can smell something
dangerous coming off that cream."

"Grant. Are you sure?"

When she reached toward the carton, he snatched her hand away, wedging it
against her side as he dragged her into his arms.

She could feel his heart pounding as he held her to his chest, feel him
shaking.

"How… how…" she tried to say. But her brain wasn't working all that well.

"It looks like one of your visitors left you a present. Either Charlie or
Dwayne or Scott," he said in a grating voice.

"One of them?" she asked, hardly willing to follow the logic of it.

He clamped his hands on her shoulders. "It has to be one of them. They were
here today."

"Somebody else…"

"I'd
know
if somebody else had been in the house."

As she struggled to rearrange her thinking, he went on, "And one of them is
using the killer's MO. Like I told you, he poisons his victims, then sets their
houses on fire."

"You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure! I've made a study of the bastard. Not only that, he
picks women who have some… handicap."

"Marcy had a handicap?" she gulped out.

"She had broken her leg." His fingers dug into her shoulders. "He went after
her. Now I've brought him to you."

"But… but you stopped him."

"And the bastard doesn't know we've caught on. He's probably waiting around
for you to use that cream."

"You mean he could be… waiting for it to happen?"

"Oh yeah. Do you usually have a cup of coffee after dinner?"

"Yes." She struggled to think logically. "But if he's outside watching, he
can see you knocked the spoon out of my hand."

Grant answered with a sharp laugh. "I don't think so. In case you don't
realize it, you were cooking in the dark. I'm the only guy who could have seen
what you were doing. I'd been standing in the doorway for a while—watching you."

"I didn't know."

"I can be pretty quiet."

She felt his body tense.

"What?"

"I…"

"Say it!"

"If he's waiting to see what happens, we can trap him."

"No. We can call the police."

"If it's Scott, we'll tip him off."

She thought about that. Thought about what might happen next. Swallowing
hard, she asked, "What would you want me to do?"

"You have milk, right?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't put any of that damn cream in the soup?" he asked very
carefully.

"No. I'd just opened the carton. I've got a better than average sense of
smell, too."

"You would." He held her a few feet away from himself, and she imagined he
was looking into her eyes as he issued clipped directions. "Put some milk into
the soup pot. But leave the cream carton on the counter right next to where
you're standing," he went on rapidly. "Then you'll turn on the light, pretend to
be cooking, and taste the soup. Act like you've drunk his damn poison. Maybe you
can start gagging—then fall to the floor. And lie there."

"What kind of poison is it?" she murmured. "What are the symptoms?"

"I don't know. But probably he'll be so excited that you took the bait that
he won't be real particular."

She made a strangled sound. She wanted to tell him they weren't in the middle
of a made-for-TV movie. Instead she asked, "And where will you be while I'm
lying on the floor?"

"Waiting for him," he said in a low, hard voice that sent a shiver down her
spine. And she knew that he was thinking this was his chance to get his claws
and teeth into the man. Could she keep the worst from happening? She didn't
know. But she had to try.

Her arms slipped around him and she hung on tight, pressing her lips against
his shoulder, wondering if it was the last time she would ever hold him.

Then she eased away. "Let's do it, before I chicken out."

"Are you sure ?" Now he was the one who sounded uncertain. "Maybe it's too
much of a risk."

"Is the wolf turning tail on me?"

"No!"

"Then help me get ready."

With the light still out, he carefully washed down the counter where the
spoon had landed, while she unlocked the back door. When he had left the
kitchen, she crossed to another drawer and got something she thought she might
need. With her private preparations made, she turned on the light and fussed
around the kitchen for a few minutes before pouring some milk into the soup,
keeping the carton shielded with her body before returning it to the
refrigerator.

As she stirred the mixture, she wondered if she had lost her mind by agreeing
to this crazy scenario.

Resolutely, she shoved her doubts aside and focused on making it look like
she was in the midst of cooking poison soup.

First she found the can of salmon she'd put into the pantry and marked with a
braille label. Then she carefully removed the skin and bones from the fish,
before breaking it into chunks and adding them to the soup, working slowly and
carefully, giving anyone outside in the darkness time to get a good look at what
she was doing.

She was glad she couldn't see the carton of cream, because the idea of
touching it again made her stomach roil.

Somewhere in the house, she could hear the sound of Grant's voice. He was
speaking strange syllables, words she didn't understand, but they raised the
hair on the back of her neck. She was pretty sure that the next time she
encountered him, he'd be a wolf.

Desperate not to lose her focus, she dragged in a deep breath, stuck a large
spoon into the milky soup and took a sip.

Wondering if thee killer was really watching her performance, she went for
melodrama. Face contorted, she pretended to cough and gag, then dropped to the
floor where she made a show of writhing in agony before going limp.

Once she was still, she wished she'd gotten herself into a more comfortable
position. Her leg was twisted, but there was nothing she could do about it
except lie on the floor with her pulse pounding.

Eons passed, and the leg began to ache. But she stayed still as death,
fighting the horrible sensation that she'd lost control of the unfolding drama.

Her mind screamed for her to scramble up and run. But she stayed where she
was. And finally, finally her straining ears caught the sound of the back door
opening.

When someone crossed the pantry and entered the kitchen, her stomach knotted
painfully. The worst part was that she had no way to know who was there.

Was Scott looking down at her? She'd bet on Scott.

For heartbeats, the man remained very still, then he walked toward her.

"How was your dinner, bitch?" he asked, and she knew then who it was. Dwayne
Shipley, who had come to fix her broken electrical plug and left a little
present in her refrigerator.

She felt him bend over her. When he jerked on a lock of her hair, she gasped.

"What the fuck?" he growled.

 

THE wolf who had been waiting in the shadows saw the man hover over Antonia.

It was Dwayne Shipley. The hayseed in the overalls. He was the monster who
had killed Marcy.

In a blinding rage, the wolf leaped through the doorway, landing on the
killer's back, bringing him down. A knife went flying from his hand, clattering
across the tile floor, as he fell forward so that his head hit the corner of the
cabinet before he sprawled in a heap on the floor.

Even as the wolf stood over the unconscious man, ready for the kill, he heard
Antonia's desperate voice.

"Grant, don't. Don't!"

Turning his head, he saw her crawling blindly forward across the kitchen
floor.

She couldn't know that Shipley was down, as she scrambled toward them. And
Grant couldn't tell her. As a wolf, he couldn't speak. He could only give a
warning snarl.

She ignored him and kept coming, still crying out as she closed the distance
between them.

"Grant, don't do it. Don't kill him. You'll regret it for the rest of your
life."

The rest of his life? He had dedicated the rest of his life to killing this
monster. And now she was trying to stop him.

He wanted to howl at her to back off, so he could take care of his own
business.

But it seemed she wasn't going to give up easily. She reached his side, half
falling over the inert Shipley as she grabbed the wolf's shaggy coat, tugging on
him. When he tried to shake her off, her grip on him tightened.

"You asked me to help you trap him. I did. Now turn him over to the police."
As she spoke, she came up on her knees, finding his muzzle with her hands and
locking his mouth closed with her fingers.

"Grant, I love you. I love you," she cried.

The declaration reverberated through him, even as she kept shouting.

"I want us to have a life together. Don't kill him. If you love me, don't do
it."

He went very still, his head spinning, partly because she was making it hard
for him to breathe. He was so close to achieving satisfaction. He could kill the
monster. Remove this obscene scar on the body of humanity. And now Antonia was
telling him to give up that pleasure? That necessity.

The wolf lusted for revenge. The man inside him knew that something
fundamental had changed since he had met Antonia.

He had lived to kill the fiend who had taken his mate from him. Now he wanted
something more. And he knew with a burst of insight that the woman on the floor
holding on to him with such courage and determination was more important than
revenge.

With that realization, something new and tender bloomed in his heart. He had
been trapped in the freezing winter of his life. Now green shoots dared to poke
through the sheets of ice.

He couldn't tell her any of that. He couldn't even use his eyes to convey
what he wanted her to understand.

All he could do was tell her with his body. Wordlessly, he bent one leg and
bowed to her in a gesture of submission, hoping the posture told her some of
what he was feeling.

She must have been waiting for a sign from him, because she loosened her grip
on his muzzle.

"Thank God," she breathed.

Delicately, he stroked his tongue against her cheek. He wanted to remain
close to her, but he couldn't stay in wolf form now.

Slowly, he eased away. The man on the floor lay without moving. But Grant
couldn't take a chance on leaving him alone with Antonia. Changing shape was
such a private act for him. Still, he stayed in the room, backing up a few feet
and saying the ancient chant of transformation in his mind.

As soon as his body was under voluntary control again, he ran back to
Antonia. Pulling her to her feet, he wrapped his arms around her and held on
tight.

"Grant. Thank you Grant," she whispered, as her hands swept over his naked
back and shoulders.

"No, thank you." He let himself hold her for a few precious seconds, then he
loosened his hold. "Got to put my clothes on."

"Yes."

He dashed out of the room, picked up his discarded sweatpants and shirt, and
brought them back to the kitchen. After dressing, he used a length of rope he'd
seen in a kitchen drawer to bind the man's hands. By the time he had secured the
killer, Shipley was stirring.

He put himself between Antonia and the bastard. "Why did you kill my wife?"
he asked.

"I don't have to tell you nothin'." The man lay there looking pale and sick.

From the corner of his eyes, he saw Antonia edging closer. When he tried to
hold her back, she gave him a savage shake of the head.

Then she faced the killer, staring at him with a gaze fierce enough to pierce
flesh and bone. "No, you don't have to tell us anything. I can read it in the
tarot cards. I know all the women you murdered," she said in a low, menacing
voice.

"Oh yeah? I say you don't know squat."

"I know… from the tarot," she insisted. "The cards tell me people's secrets."

"You're lying," he answered, but he didn't sound so sure of himself.

"The cards showed me your victims. Marcy Marshall in Fairfield. Wendy Spencer
in Baltimore. Cara Boston in Williamsburg. Laurie Carmichael in Morristown." She
stopped and took a breath. "Donna Dunn in Princeton. Phyllis Nelson in Camden.
Tracy Porter in Rising Sun. Ginger Gold in D.C., Wendy Spencer."

"Ginnie!" Shipley snapped.

"Thank you for correcting me," she answered.

Grant blinked. He had given Antonia those names and places only a few hours
ago, but somehow she'd memorized them.

"How… how do you know all that?" Shipley asked in a shaking voice.

"From the tarot. From their ancient wisdom," Antonia intoned. "The cards told
me who you killed. The cards tell me everything."

"No. I was careful."

"I know you poisoned them. I know you burned their houses to destroy the
evidence."

"You can't
know
!"

"I know everything," she corrected him. "Shall I tell you how you're going to
die? In the electric chair? Or by lethal injection?"

"No. I'm not going to get caught. They deserved to die. Every one of them."

"What poison did you use? I don't know that. What poison did you put in my
carton of cream when you were in here this afternoon?"

"Strychnine," he gasped out.

"Thank you for the information," Antonia said, pulling out the small tape
recorder from her pocket.

"You blind bitch. You taped me," Shipley screamed.

"That's right. And Grant didn't even have to beat a confession out of you."

"Yeah," he muttered, then took the recorder from her and clicked it off
before giving the bastard a swift kick to the chin. Once again, Shipley went
still.

"What did you do?" Antonia gasped.