Final Masquerade (33 page)

"Colette doesn't pull any punches when it comes to quilting,” Eva said.

"I think you should do these again.” Colette ran an index finger some of the white thread lines. “And here too."

Paige was silent as Eva drove the short trip back to the inn. “Don't let Colette's candid remarks get you down. She doesn't mean to be so blunt."

"She didn't bother me at all,” Paige remarked. “I'm anxious to get started on it."

"Good girl."

Paige spent the remainder of the afternoon in her room working on her quilt. Eva brought a tray upstairs around two. The pair shared sandwiches and herbal tea. The phone on Paige's dresser rang.

"Hello."

"Max's shop was closed.” He spoke fast. “I went to the bakery. Polly said he opened the place the day after you left. When you didn't show up, he went home. Hasn't been open since. Even after his wife died, he still opened the place. We've called the police. I'll let you know what's going on. Is everything all right there?"

"Yes."

"Glad to hear it. Bye."

Paige replaced the phone in the charging base.

"I didn't know you had a phone,” Eva said.

"Neither did I. Before I left M ... er, someone gave me a Christmas present. With everything going on, I never opened it until the other day."

"It's good you can be in touch with ... your friends.” Eva cleared the lunch plates and napkins. “Why don't you bring your quilt down to my sewing room? We can chat while I work on mine. I have an hour or so free."

Paige stifled the thought that Stefano's men had gotten to Max. It wouldn't do any good to worry about it. Harry would find out.

She dropped her quilting supplies into her brocade bag, flung the quilt over her shoulder, and went downstairs.

The following morning, Paige breakfasted in the dining room with the ski crowd who was anxious to be off to higher terrain. She helped Eva clear the tables, then said, “I think I'll go for a walk. The sun is shining, the..."

"...frost is lifting, the mud is flowing, spring is here,” Eva chanted as she dusted the mantel.

Paige laughed. “Mud is flowing?"

"Apparently you've never been to New England during mud season.” Seeing Paige's confused expression, she continued, “When the snow melts, the ground thaws and we have mud. Mud that gets into your carpets, mud that—oh never mind. I'm sure you get the picture. Just wear boots."

"Okay. For a moment there I thought you were telling me you might have to send a crane to pull me out."

"It's not quite that bad."

"Oh good."

"Usually."

Paige turned right at the end of the inn's brick walkway. The air was fresh and clear. Traffic—the word had an entirely different definition here in Vermont—was sparse. People had already gone to their jobs in Middlebury and Rutland.

The hairdresser gave a lighthearted wave from her chair where she sat reading a magazine, and waiting for her next customer. Paige passed the real estate company located in the front room of a white colonial house. From the sidewalk she could see the wall of photographs, computers, and desks. A bald man sat at one of them, head down, concentrating on whatever he was doing.

Across the street, several cars were parked in front of the pharmacy and the bank. Paige thought of the cash under the bed in her room. She needed to get a safe deposit box, but worried about the small-town gossip-vine. Did bankers have confidentiality agreements, like priests? She thought not.

As she left the main part of town, buildings were spaced further apart. She slogged through inch-deep mud and tripped over ridges of crusty snowbanks, lost in thought. Cars passed frequently since this was one of only two main routes through town, but they slowed and moved into the other lane so they wouldn't splatter her with slush.

She knew it was well past time to think about a future, but had no idea what to do. Her reasons for choosing this wonderful little town had seemed logical as she'd perused the map back at that bus depot in Vermont.

There was an aura here, a camaraderie amongst the townsfolk that she found appealing. Her hosts, Eva and Alf Nordstrom, who'd befriended her not knowing anything about her, assuming only that she had suffered some huge trauma, had been patient and supportive. The quilt store owner, Colette, was brusque and outspoken, but willing to accept her and teach her the nuances of quilting. Debbie, the hairdresser was more than willing to talk about herself before hearing Paige's tale. For all any of them knew, she was a serial killer hiding in their midst. Paige grinned. A serial killer who makes quilts and collects old books. She wondered if these small town people could deal with all her truths.

She turned, crossed Route 73, and returned to town. She entered the pharmacy and ambled up and down the well-stocked aisles. She purchased some shampoo and conditioner, a new collar for Spirit and a trio of rose scented air fresheners; for some reason lately she couldn't stop thinking about the Laura Conyers Smith Municipal Rose Garden. With a lighter step, Paige returned to the inn.

She kicked off her boots in the inn's foyer. Eva hollered from the dining room. “Cassidy? Is that you?"

Paige padded into the dining room where Eva was setting up for the wine and cheese fest in a couple of hours.

"A package came for you a few minutes ago.” She picked up the cardboard box on the side table and placed it on the sideboard.

"A box for me? Oh, Harry!"

"I don't know who it's from. There's no return address. The postmark is from California."

Paige's heart stopped. She felt faint.

Eva rushed to her side and helped her into a chair. “Alf!"

Through her fog, Paige heard Alf's lumbering footsteps hurrying from the back of the house. The heaviness of them reminded her of Stefano's man, Vito, who'd run from the back of their Santa Barbara mansion to help his boss dispose of Luther's body. Luther, shot in the heart because he'd made a mistake. Mistakes weren't something Stefano tolerated well. And now, he'd found her again, and sent her something in this package, a little bigger than a breadbox. Breadboxes, always the brunt of jokes and now, a machination for murder.

She squeezed the tears back as another vision assaulted her—Luther's body slumping silently to the thick carpet of Stefano's den. The body beating on the sharp rocks that lined the shore below.

Alf's hand on her shoulder jerked her back to reality. Eva pressed a glass of water into her hands.

"Thank you. I'm all right now."

"I hardly think so,” Eva said. “Your face is whiter than Casper the Ghost's."

"Friendly ghost,” Paige corrected. Her attempt at humor brought smiles to the faces of her hosts. The dizziness gradually faded away.

Alf said, “Looks like you have things under control. I'm going back to my workshop. Call if you need something else."

"Thanks,” Paige and Eva said in unison.

Eva pulled up a chair beside her. “Honey, I've been patient and silent through all this. I know you've had an awful time of it, and I've tried not to ask too many questions. I want you to know we're here for you and—"

"You've both been wonderful."

Eva rapped her knuckles on the box. “Is there something dangerous in here?"

"I don't know. More likely something threatening rather than deadly.” Stefano wouldn't want her to die unless he or one of his thugs was on the scene to witness it.

"Should I call the bomb squad?"

Paige went to the box and put an ear to side. “It's not ticking."

Eva chuckled nervously. “Should we submerse it in water? That's what they always do on television."

"And when they do that, it always turns out to be a cake or papers of some kind.” Paige lifted the box gingerly. “I'll take it outside and open it, just to be sure."

Eva's face turned pale. Paige added, “It's okay. They can't have found me...” Her voice trailed off as she carried the box out the back door, down the three wooden porch steps, and midway into the soggy field.

"Are you sure you want to do it this way?” Eva hollered from the porch.

Paige didn't reply. Goosebumps prickled against her shirtsleeves. Sweat seeped into her bra. She could feel Eva's eyes on her. Paige bent and placed the box on a clump of grass. It careened precariously to one side. She heard Eva's sharp intake of breath over her own raspy breathing.

She settled the box gently on a level spot of yellowed grass, turned and walked back to the inn, occasionally glancing back over her shoulder at the mysterious parcel.

Eva's expression was one of total fear.

"I need a knife or scissors—something to open it with. If I tear the tape off, it might jolt things too much."

"I'll be right back,” Eva said, obviously anxious to be out of the possible line of fire, even for a moment.

Paige stood on the lowest step, rubbing her hands up and down her biceps, trying to ease the gooseflesh, wishing she'd put on a coat, but realizing in a few minutes, it might not make any difference.

Eva returned with a box cutter and Alf in tow. He took the cutter from Eva's hands and started down the stairs. Paige stepped in front of him. “No. I'll do it alone. This is my trouble. I won't have anyone else getting hurt because of me."

The comment prompted two sets of raised eyebrows, one bout of beard tweaking, and one pair of wringing hands. “If something happens, will you take care of Spirit?"

Paige didn't think it possible, but Eva paled even more and grabbed for something solid to hold onto. Paige waited for an affirmative response before taking the knife from Alf's pudgy fingers and slowly walking toward the box, straining her ears for ticking or any other strange sounds.

She kneeled in the saturated grass, the cold wetness instantly soaking through her jeans. Paige held the box with her left hand and slipped the blade into the narrow space between the nylon-fibered tape and the box flaps. White knuckles held it still while more white knuckles gripped the handle as the sharp cutting edge sliced through the tape at one end, then the other. Now, all that held the box shut was the strip down the center. The flaps were loose now and she braced her free hand in the cold grass and peered into the dark recesses of the carton.

"Can you see anything?” Alf hollered.

Paige shook her head, allowed herself one deep breath, and ran the tip of the blade between the flaps. The tape parted and the flaps loosened. Paige dropped the cutter on the ground and grasped one flap with pale fingertips. It might have been a slow motion replay of an automobile crash for the amount of time it took her to pull back that single corrugated flap.

She bent forward, both hands in the frosty grass. Some of the afternoon light was able to seep inside and Paige finally was able to discern the contents of the box sent from the post office in San Jose, California.

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Suddenly too heavy to hold up, her head dropped till it rested on her chest. Tears peppered the stiff box top. She sucked in as much air as her lungs could hold, then let it all out at once.

Relief flowed through her at the sight of
Carrie
on the top of a pile of books. Books from her Minneapolis apartment.

"Cassidy?” Eva called.

Paige dried her hands on her thighs, then stood, knees and back protesting from the long time spent folded in fear. She picked up the box and walked toward the inn, this time with a lighter step, though the tears still flowed freely. This time they were tears of joy.

On the porch, both Alf and Eva peeked inside.

"Books?” Alf asked. “All this for books?” He puffed out some air, squeezed Paige's arm, and took the box from her. She went up the steps giving Eva an embarrassed grin. Alf followed and set the carton on the table.

One by one Paige lifted out her treasured books she'd collected so carefully. Packed in bubble wrap, at the bottom of the box was her laptop.

Alf patted her arm once again. “As long as everything's all right and my inn isn't going to blow into the sky, I'm going to pick up our patrons at Killington. I'll be back in an hour."

Eva nodded, gazing stupidly at the array of books on her kitchen table.

"In my other life, a really short one, I worked in a book shop. I was learning about valuable books. I bought these, but had to leave them behind when...” Paige neatly packed her things back in the box. “I'll take these upstairs, then come back to help you when Alf gets back."

"You don't seem completely at ease with this."

Paige flopped into the nearest chair. “I'm confused, that's all. This box was sent from California. I lived in Minneapolis. What could Harry have been doing in California?"

"Why don't you call him?"

Paige barely heard the words over the roaring of terror in her head. Stefano! He went to see Stefano. They sent the box just to make sure she was there to accept it.

She fumbled at her waistband and finally got the phone loose. She flipped it open and dialed Harry's home number. Getting the machine, she hung up and punched the buttons to his office. No answer there either.

The days dragged past. Paige's time was divided in three equal parts: helping Eva around the inn, working on her quilt, and peering out the windows. She didn't sleep and barely ate, certain that any moment Stefano would burst through the front door, guns blazing. Stress and emotion took its toll; she began to lose the bloom she'd regained. Eva and Alf continually stressed their concern, though Paige refused to discuss it.

In spite of things, she completed her quilt. Colette praised its workmanship, bringing a blush to Paige's cheeks. It hadn't been hard for her to convince Paige to let her take it to the quilt show in Montpelier, Vermont, where it won Honorable Mention.

Even though it was too large for her twin size bed, she put it on and tucked the excess under the mattress on the side away from the door. Spirit took up residence at the foot, in a patch of sunshine, bathing and leaving multi-colored hairs behind. The first few days, Paige meticulously picked each hair off, but eventually allowed the cat to “own” a corner of the bed.