Every Wickedness (29 page)

“She must be incredibly disciplined.” Beth recalled Brad’s immaculate house, his silver picture frames precisely lined up. Ingrid sounded perfect for him. Then why did he sleep with Ginny?

“You’d know something about discipline yourself, running your own business. Set a goal, accomplish it, set another goal. Isn’t that how it goes?”

“You’re right,” Beth replied, thinking of her self-imposed late hours. “Ginny thinks I’m nuts.” She watched Brad’s face for some reaction to Ginny’s name. There was none.

“Watching Ingrid in action, I’ve come to think that photography is like being a peeping Tom,” he said. “Crouch behind a bush long enough and you’re bound to get a shot of something worthwhile.”

“I’ve never thought of it that way,” she admitted, then pressed on. “Anything else you can tell me about yourself? I know you play squash and racquetball, you throw a great party —”

“Love to cook. Great way to wind down.”

“I noticed your collection of videos, too.”

He nodded. “There’s nothing like the old stuff, is there?
Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Around the World in Eighty Days
… not that I’m a couch potato. I do a little volunteer work at a senior citizens’ home. I figure I’ll be old someday, and I might need someone to look after me.”

This was a side of Brad she wouldn’t have guessed existed. “The people you help must give
you some interesting perspectives on life.”

“You bet. They’ve got some great stories. They just need somebody to listen, that’s all. Maybe read them the newspaper if their eyesight’s failing.”

Beth nodded. Brad was right. Volunteer work involved just a little time, and it meant so much. How many of her New Year’s resolutions involved the promise of donating a few hours a week to some cause or group? Too many to count.

“I like to keep busy,” he continued. “Plan to get into snorkelling in the Caribbean, a little windsurfing. Marriage and a family aren’t far off either.”

To Beth, Brad appeared to thrive as a single. “I’m sure I’m not the only one who has difficulty picturing you in slippered feet, eating tuna casserole, and helping kids with homework.”

He smiled. “Nothing would please me more. Of course, the tuna casserole would have to be exceptional.” He let out a chuckle. “I’ve been lucky, Beth. Done more than my share of globe-trotting, lived the good life, but now it’s time for some stability.”

“With Ingrid.”

He nodded. “Popped the question last month. I was over the moon when she said yes. Ingrid will be a great mom, too.” He flashed a proud smile. “What about you, Beth? Any plans to settle down? Have kids?”

“Jordan and I are taking things one day at a time. But I suspect I was handed a biological pocket watch instead of the whole clock. I don’t daydream about Fisher Price toys and trips to the zoo.”

Brad didn’t respond, and Beth was glad. This was getting too personal.

It wasn’t long before the
BMW
made the turn at the Pelican Inn and headed uphill to Brad’s beach house.

The floor plans for Brad’s condo were laid out on his dining room table. There were detailed scale drawings with an acetate overlay showing the location of electrical sockets and overhead lighting. Beth studied the plans while Brad excused himself to the kitchen. Behind her, Beth could hear cupboard doors closing. The microwave beeped.

When he returned, Brad set a mug of mulled cider, heavily scented with cloves and allspice at her elbow, along with a small plate of assorted appetizers. “You must be famished,” he said, edging the plate toward her. A cocktail napkin bore the saying: Good Friends Last a Lifetime. “I feel guilty bringing you all the way out here on a Friday night, during the supper hour, no less. And I bet you didn’t have lunch.” He sat opposite Beth.

“You’re right,” Beth admitted and stabbed a meatball with a toothpick. The sauce was spicy, zestier than ordinary barbecue flavor, with an under-taste of something she couldn’t put her finger on. “Delicious, Brad. What’s in these?”

“Outerbridges Sherry Pepper Sauce. Made in Bermuda. Everything else is less exotic, I’m afraid. Chez Brad’s kitchen.”

“You made all this yourself?” Beth looked at the array of appetizers.

He nodded. “Told you I like to cook.”

At once Beth wondered whether she’d been foolhardy in coming out to Muir Beach in Brad’s car. Was this all some ruse to seduce her? At his party, Brad had women falling all over him. Did he expect Beth to do likewise? Clients had hit on Beth before and she had handled the situation with aplomb, she thought. Both she and Lorna had their stories about male clients who had stood too close, tried to get them to drink, wanted them to admire the view from their bedrooms. Usually, the design team went together after hours to homes where they knew women didn’t reside. It was a pact she and Lorna had. But Lorna was in Vegas, and Beth was here alone. The last thing she needed was an awkward situation with Jordan’s friend.

“Aren’t you going to eat something?” she asked him.

“I’ll just steal one of these,” he replied. He reached across the table and plucked a phyllo triangle from the plate and popped it into his mouth whole. “I’m saving myself for the thin crust pizza at the Postrio bar.” He patted his flat stomach. “What do you say we get down to business?”

She was relieved Brad appeared to be concerned with the design project and nothing else, and she mentally cursed her apprehension. This man was Jordan’s friend. Plus he had a date later. With his fiancée. Beth checked her watch. 6:15.

“It’s fairly spacious, as you can see,” Brad said,
interrupting her thoughts and shifting the layout closer to her. “What do you think? Can you make this my dream home away from home?”

“If I can’t, no one can,” she said and smiled. “Give me another moment to walk through this, okay?” She flipped back the acetate overlay and studied the plan. As she did so, she drained her mug of cider and helped herself to several more hors d’oeuvres. Brad seemed content to wait. He thumbed through a stack of decorator magazines, dog-eared a few pages, and bit into a sausage roll.

“Some lovely features, Brad,” she told him, though there was really nothing exceptional about it. Then again, a camper’s tent would be paradise in the Caribbean. “I’m sure we can turn this into your perfect getaway.”

“Like you said, if anyone can, you can. And I meant what I said at the party. You and Jordan will have to fly down for a week or two. The four of us can do some sailing, explore the local restaurant scene. St. Bart’s has some fantastic French restaurants.”

“That sounds nice, Brad.” Beth didn’t want to encourage more than a business relationship, though she felt better that Brad had mentioned Jordan, as well as his own fiancée.

Beth continued to examine the floor plan, feeling the good quality bond paper between her fingers. The condo association had assembled a typical package. There were sheets indicating square footage and layouts of the various models, along
with a list of amenities contained in the members-only athletic centre. All had been inserted into a slick forest green folder. Odd that the name of the complex hadn’t been printed on the front cover.

She could hear Brad mumbling something about colour schemes, aqua or perhaps pale peach, bleached wood, an aversion to rattan furniture. Though Beth felt herself nodding, she was unable to focus on what he was saying. His words seemed to run together. She sat up straight and tried to open her eyes wide.

“Beth, are you all right?”

She should be, she thought. She had taken her medication this morning, had recently gone for her checkup, and this didn’t feel like the flu. “Teach me for skipping lunch.” Her words were slush.

“What can I get you?” he asked, his face full of concern. “How about some strong coffee?”

“Anything cold,” she gasped. “Sorry, Brad. I’ll be all right in a minute.”

Brad hurried to the kitchen, and Beth forced herself to concentrate on the condo layout. It would be a breeze to decorate. It was so similar to the Stanton’s new place in Tiburon, only with one less bedroom and the plan reversed. Even printed on the same kind of paper.

“Brad,” Beth said as he returned to the dining room carrying a tall glass of orange juice, “where did you say your condo was?”

“St. Barts. Wait till you go there. You’ll love it.”

Her mouth turned to rubber, and though she willed her hand to reach for the juice, it wouldn’t cooperate. It hung at her side like some sleeping invertebrate. As her eyelids entombed her in darkness, she remembered that at his party, Brad had told her that his condo was in St. Croix.

A
t 10:30 on Saturday morning, Horace Furwell paced the sidewalk in front of Personal Touch Interiors. For the fifth time since he’d arrived, he jiggled the door handle and rechecked the business hours posted there.

Tues.–Sat.: 9:00–5:00

Thurs.: 9:00–9:00

He tapped his watch, then put his wrist to his ear. Still ticking.

Two smartly dressed women came by and mimicked what Furwell had done. One of them pressed her face to the store’s display window and peered inside, muttered a few unintelligible words to her companion, then both walked away.

Furwell didn’t see much point in waiting either. Must be some family emergency. These things did happen.

Ginny Rizzuto’s 11 a.m. student cancelled his violin lesson. A bad flu was going around. Her noon-hour pupil had succumbed to the bug as well, so Ginny had time to kill until her next lesson at 2:00.

She telephoned Beth, had planned to pick up deli takeout and drop by the store, but to her surprise, Beth’s answering machine came on. That
could mean only one thing: Beth was so swamped with customers that she couldn’t come to the phone. The thought of a crowded store made Ginny change her mind about going. Beth wouldn’t have time to eat, nor would there be much chance for a visit. Instead, Ginny left a cheery message on Beth’s machine, rammed a pile of dirty clothes into a green garbage bag, and headed to the laundromat to scout for cute guys.

At 2:00, Rex McKenna came to clean out his office. He originally intended to come after hours so he wouldn’t have to see that bitch downstairs, but Ida had invited the neighbours by for an evening of canasta, so he wouldn’t get another opportunity. He was starting a new job Monday, selling tools in Ida’s cousin’s hardware store, so he was in no position to argue with his wife. Bad enough that Ida would spend the next several months reminding him of how lucky he was that she was bailing him out. Again.

Drawing near his doorway, Rex was relieved to discover he didn’t have to sidestep that designer bitch after all. She wasn’t there. Whole damn store was locked tight as a chastity belt. This had to be a first. In the five years since Rex had been renting the upstairs, Ms. Yuppie Lifestyle hadn’t been sick a day.

He stepped over a bouquet of fresh white roses that lay in front of her shop door. As he negotiated the narrow flight of stairs, with three empty cardboard boxes bouncing against his hips, he felt a smile
spread across his face. Maybe the bitch was bankrupt, too. It would serve her right. A dark store on a Saturday afternoon was like the writing on the wall.

This called for a cigar.

Through partially blurred vision Beth could make out whiter-than-white surroundings and what appeared to be a wall of multi-paned windows about three feet to her left. It reminded her of a hospital, the room she’d been in when she was four years old. She’d had her tonsils out. Her mother was there when she awoke, knowing Beth would be frightened, coming to in a strange bed. There’d been
ice
cream.

She swallowed and wished she had
ice
cream now. Her saliva tasted awful, like salty water, and even in her half-stupor, the taste alarmed her. She blinked hard once, then again.

When her vision cleared, she realized she wasn’t in a hospital at all. This was one big nondescript room with steel support posts rising at intervals from the grey cement floor to the wood-beamed ceiling. She craned her neck for a better view but found her movement limited. There was nothing wrong with her eyesight now. Her wrists and ankles were bound with packaging tape, fastening her to some kind of portable table, like the one her masseur used. She was not gagged, and she was naked.

Now that she could see, she wished she couldn’t. For what she had mistaken for a large window beside her was, in reality, a series of
photographs, arranged in perfect symmetry, each one equidistant from the next. There were thirty pictures in all, six columns across, five photos down, filled with the most horrific images she had ever seen. Fear and cold made her shiver, the vulnerability of her nakedness shaming her into closing her eyes. Was Rex responsible for this? Why couldn’t she remember?

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to budge her restraints, to no avail. Not only was she firmly bound, but she felt dizzy, weak, as though she’d been walking in the desert for days without water. Or was dying of starvation. Her breath quickened. She had to get out of here.

Beth opened her eyes and forced herself to take inventory of her surroundings. A solitary black metal chair sat on the floor near her right knee. Just beyond her feet, a television and VCR perched on a tall stand. An extension ladder leaned up against the far corner and beside it, a two-tiered trolley held an assortment of paraphernalia too far away for Beth to distinguish. Nearer, on the wall to her right, metal brackets supported shelves lined with various manuals. There were cones that Beth recognized as reflector bowls. A pegboard beneath held scissors, tape, a ruler and set square. Lighting stands, flood lamps, and umbrella reflectors were scattered randomly about the room. The wall straight ahead was grey.

A photographer’s studio.

Her gaze returned to the gruesome wall beside her, its secrets drawing her in like a cobra’s stare.

The horror seemed to escalate as she looked from left to right, and when her gaze paused at the fourth row of photographs, she froze. There was a naked Anne Spalding, her mouth wide, a cavern of mute screams. The photograph was taken in this room, Anne supine on the table that now held Beth prisoner. The camera had captured a stream of blood shooting from Anne’s wrist, making an impossibly high arc in the air. The bottom picture showed Anne, eyes closed, mouth closed.