Last Seen Alive (17 page)

at home with her father watching educational programming on the habits of the wildebeest, one of his favorite episodes. How much happier he’d been, how different everything had been, before her mother’s death from cancer last year.

Deirdre took another puff on the cigarette, listening to the laughter and bantering of the few inside who had actually managed to get drunk. Honestly, the people her own age sounded like a bunch of adolescents. She tugged at the silly balloon-skirted party dress of her mother’s she’d worn as a costume and thought about Chyna Greer. Deirdre knew Chyna’s mother had also just died, but her life wouldn’t change as Deirdre’s had when her own mother died. Chyna had already left home and was well on her way to a successful, admirable career. And she was so beautiful, so smart.

Throughout the years, Deirdre had heard all about Chyna and even seen old pictures of her winning numerous science contests while a teenager and a picture in the high school showcase of her as senior class president, but she was so much prettier in person. She’d gotten even lovelier with age. She didn’t look like a teenager anymore. She looked womanly and somehow slightly exotic even in a turtleneck sweater and slacks. No wonder Scott Kendrick gazed at her the way he did. The day they were in the café, he didn’t see anyone in the room except Chyna. Not even me, Deirdre realized glumly, although he was polite enough to talk to me and introduce me to Chyna. But that was Scott’s way. Good looks, good mind, good manners. He was a prize, the kind of man women dreamed about having as a husband.

But he’d never be hers, Deirdre mused. He was in his thirties, just a year or so younger than her father. And Scott didn’t think of
her
as a woman. He called her
kiddo,
for heaven’s sake. Besides, even if he were in his twenties and he’d never met her before, if Deirdre was any judge of potential romance, what she’d seen today told her he’d like to end up with Chyna Greer rather than Deirdre Mayhew.

Besides, I’ll be at L’Etoile next year, not in a fancy college like the one Chyna attended. Even Lynette will be leaving for college in September, although neither her grades nor

her ambition can compare with mine, Deirdre thought guiltily. After all, Lynette was her best friend.

Although she’d had an excellent school record, Deirdre hadn’t even applied for a scholarship. Daddy won’t find any help to suit him, she’d thought. If I left, he’d miss me. He’d forget to eat. He’d already lost twenty pounds he didn’t need to lose since her mother died. Deirdre understood his intense grief. Her parents had met in grade school, “gone steady” since they were fifteen, and been married since they were seventeen. Ben Mayhew had spent over half of his life with Deirdre’s mother. He won’t go out with friends, Deirdre added to the list of ways in which her father wouldn’t try to help himself. He’ll just work and come home to watch television until he dies. Or until he gets so lonely he lets Irma Vogel force herself into his life. That thought almost made Deirdre ill. She couldn’t stand Irma, who’d circled like a vulture waiting for Deirdre’s mother to die so she could swoop in and snatch up Ben Mayhew. No other man in his right mind would have Irma. Only someone so devastated or crazy he didn’t know what he was doing would marry Irma with her little mind and sneaking ways.

No, I’m Dad’s only lifeline, Deirdre decided. I’m his only protection against someone like Irma. So how can I ever go blithely off to college and leave him? I’ll just stay here in Black Willow forever. Forever and ever and
ever.

She took another deep drag off her cigarette and wished she’d brought a beer outside with her. It would be nice to sip it and look up at the clear, star-studded night all alone even though it was cold. Going back into that den of raucous music and whooping teenagers earnestly trying to have as good a time this year as they usually had seemed unbearable.

Deirdre tossed down her cigarette and walked to a hedge of rhododendron that stretched across the back lawn. In the spring, the bushes towered over seven feet tall and were laden with white and bright pink flowers. The bushes bore no flowers now although they were still heavy with leaves. Deirdre reached out and touched one of the thick, leathery

leaves that would stay on the shrubs, sturdy and green, until warm weather returned.

Her mother had been an excellent gardener. The Mayhew lawn used to look beautiful all through the spring, summer, and autumn thanks to her. Neither Deirdre nor her father had the knack, though, and it seemed to Deirdre that their lawn had died along with her mother.

The weather was much chillier than the newscaster had predicted. Deirdre drew her sweater tighter around her, wishing she’d worn a jacket instead. Oh well, she planned to go home in fifteen minutes or so anyway. Deirdre was reaching out again to touch a rhododendron bud that would be a flower in the spring when she heard a scratching noise, the sound of shrubbery branches brushing together. She dropped her hand, standing still. Again the sound. She tensed. Then she smelled a caramel-coated apple and saw a flash of white.

Deirdre immediately relaxed. “Oh my!” she exclaimed dramatically. “Is there a scary
ghost
hiding in these shrubs?”

She thought she heard a stifled giggle. Obviously, a child was in a ghost costume trying to scare Deirdre. She’d play along. “Gosh, I’m
really
afraid of ghosts. I always have been. I sure hope one doesn’t jump out at me!”

Another rustling in the bushes. Something ran past her legs so fast she almost let out a scream, stepped backward deeper into the tangle of branches, then realized the runner was just Lynette’s small black cat. Deirdre smiled. How pleased the child must be that a black cat happened to be available to add to the suspense of the moment. Halloween was just
made
for black—

Suddenly everything went quiet. The air around Deirdre stilled as if suspending itself, waiting, waiting… Then, in an instinctive flash, Deirdre knew danger was upon her. She heard an intake of breath just behind her, followed by the quick rushing noise only a few steps might make—adult steps. In one blinding, terrifying instant, Deirdre realized it was not a child who stood hiding in the leafy growth behind her. As she started to run, something hard crashed against

the back of her head. Deirdre crumbled, hitting the cold, hard ground with a thud, still conscious but stunned by pain in her scalp, feeling a trickle of warm blood running through her hair. A clump of dead grass and dirt fell into her mouth when she opened it to scream, but she still tried and managed a ragged grunt just as an arm circled her throat, jerking so hard she couldn’t make a sound. She flailed her arms, but even through a sweater the strong rhododendron branches painfully scraped her arms. She fought for footing, once digging the heel of her shoe into the moist earth near the bushes, but the heel broke and the shoe slipped off as someone dragged her over dew-laden ground.

Abruptly the pulling stopped. Deirdre struggled to free herself from the strong arms, but almost immediately she heard a grunt, then something that sounded like a macabre snicker before a sweet-smelling cloth completely covered her mouth and nose. She tried not to breathe but couldn’t help herself, her need for air even greater because of her struggle. Her lungs filled with the sweet scent of what she recognized from science class as chloroform.

Dizzy after one breath, she tried not to inhale again, but she’d fought so hard she was starved for oxygen. Don’t breathe, she thought. Don’t breathe! But her need for air was too great. She tried to take as small a breath as possible, but even that was too much. She managed one last twist of her head, feeling a searing pain in her earlobe. The cloth held firm, though, and she was forced to take another breath. The fight slowly draining out of her, she caught one quick glimpse of a face before the cool, star-studded world went spinning into darkness.

Scott’s heart thundered in his ears. He clutched at the wheel as the plane bucked and shuddered. He tried to turn right. Nothing. He tried the brakes. Nothing. He looked out the window and saw flatlands—no city, no mountains, no ocean, only flatlands. Thank God, because they were losing altitude fast, diving unfalteringly nose first to the ground, where he was sure the plane would explode. What would it feel like to have flames consume his living body?

Scott slammed facedown against the floor and a woman shouted, “Scott, Scott! Wake up! It’s just a nightmare! Wake up!”

Scott opened his eyes. He didn’t see dirt and grass or feel his own body bathed in sweat and stinging from a dozen cuts or a throbbing dislocated leg lying unnaturally at a right angle from his pelvis. He didn’t hear the grinding of metal against metal, fuel exploding followed by vicious, crackling flames, the screams of people in agony. Then he felt someone bending over him, pulling on his shoulders, chattering in a shrill voice.

“My land, you nearly scared me to death when I came in this morning and heard you up here shouting something about hydraulics. By the time I got to your room you were flying out of that bed onto the floor and—Scott Kendrick, don’t you own

a pair of pajamas?—and I heard your head hit and if you didn’t give yourself a concussion it’ll be a miracle!”

Scott groaned and focused on the face that shot words at him like a machine gun. Irma Vogel. She’d used her own key. Last night he’d forgotten that this was one of Irma’s days to clean but mostly to follow him around talking, singing, hovering, and generally making his life miserable. Oh God, he thought almost desperately, closing his eyes again. Please make her go away.

“Get up. No, don’t get up until I can help you. You might have broken something. Where’s your robe? Don’t you have a robe, either? Why are you in bed so late? It’s ten o’clock. You never sleep this late. Here, wrap up in the blanket and I’ll call the Emergency Service.”

“I don’t want the Emergency Service,” Scott growled, sitting on the edge of the bed while Irma draped a blanket over him. “You don’t have to fuss, Irma. I’m not hurt.”

“Tell that to the lump on your head, young man. And your nose is bleeding.”

Scott touched his forehead and indeed found the beginnings of a fine bump. He ran his finger under his nose. A tiny trickle of blood, no gushing.

“Put that phone down, Irma,” he said. “I don’t need the emergency squad. I just fell out of bed.”

“And if you were a well man, that wouldn’t be dangerous. But you, with all your injuries—”

“My injuries are almost healed. I’m fine. I just need a cold cloth for my nose and some,” he’d started to say “peace,” but that would hurt her feelings, “coffee. Please fix me a cup of that wonderful coffee of yours, Irma. If I don’t feel better after I have that, I’ll go to the hospital. Deal?”

“I’ll
take
you to the hospital.” Irma, five foot eight, broad shouldered, and thirty-five pounds overweight, probably because she worked at L’Etoile and frequently sampled the cuisine, rushed into the bathroom, came back with a dripping washcloth that she tried to hold beneath his nose before he snatched it away from her. “Irma, coffee, please,” he said, sounding as if he had a bad cold. She leaped up with all the

grace of a buffalo and thundered down the stairs so fast, Scott feared she would plunge headfirst.

After a minute, Scott held the cloth away from his nose, took a deep breath, ran his hands through his thick, black hair, and looked at the sun streaming through one of his bedroom windows. Usually he woke up early. But this morning he’d slept late and badly. He hurt everywhere and all he wanted was a hot shower, because he felt dirty, almost grimy. He remembered walking through the cold night— exhausted, shaken, afraid someone had seen him.

Abruptly he forced the memory from his mind. He whipped off the blanket Irma had wrapped around him like a shroud and hoped he could shower and put on a robe before she arrived with coffee.

He stepped behind the shower curtain to a cloud of steam, moaned, and turned his back to the showerhead. Hot water rushed over his rigid neck and shoulders. As he lathered, the soap stung dozens of scratches on his arms. He’d taken off all the Band-Aids and Steri-Strips yesterday because some of them itched and some were already coming off. The lacerations and scratches beneath them were mostly healed, anyway. All except for a few.

“I’m back with the coffee!” Irma trilled. Scott jumped, almost sliding to the slippery wet floor of the tub. Through the shower curtain, he could see Irma’s sturdy form standing in the doorway.

“Thanks, Irma. Would you just set it beside the bed for me?”

“Sure.” He listened to the clatter of cups on a tray but no thump of steps going back down the stairs. Great. Irma intended to stay in the bedroom along with the coffee. He thought she’d had that
look
this morning, the look that usually meant she had important information to divulge.

Scott stepped from the shower, toweled his body and hair, and slipped into his heavy terry cloth robe. When he came out of the bathroom, he cringed to see Irma sitting on the delicate chair accompanying an ornate desk that supposedly once belonged to Prince Albert. Scott’s mother cherished

the antique set and insisted on placing it in front of the French doors in Scott’s room. She also insisted he never sit at the desk. She would prefer he not even look at it for fear of damaging it. Scott sighed. This was just one of the joys of having a mother who had once been a museum curator.

Irma began pouring coffee into dainty china cups—Scott preferred insulated mugs—and he couldn’t help noticing that in the sunlight her thin, naturally whitish-blond hair looked like a wispy cobweb covering her scalp and her bluish-red lipstick was smeared. Aside from the lipstick, she wore no makeup, a first in his experience. She was also pale, her light blue eyes red-rimmed and seeming to bulge even more than usual. She obviously had a bad-news bombshell to deliver.

“What’s wrong this morning, Irma?” he asked.

“I guess you haven’t heard what’s happened.”

“I just woke up, remember?”

“Well, brace yourself.”