Last Seen Alive (23 page)

Scott stared at her for a moment. “You’re sure she’s going to be murdered?”

“I don’t know if that’s what’s she thinking right at this moment, but it’s what she
has
been thinking. Or rather, she’s certain of it and I’ve been almost sure of it ever since this morning when Beverly told me about Deirdre going missing. If I had the slightest doubt before, I don’t now. Deirdre is another one of Black Willow’s lost girls, just like Zoey, and Edie, and Heather, and … and maybe Nancy Tierney!”

Scott looked at her in shock. “Nancy! Chyna, Nancy Tierney died because of a fall.”

“I know, but there was more to it than a simple fall.”

“More? What do you mean? Was she pushed?”

“No. She did trip. But-—”

Chyna broke off, seeing Scott’s look of growing uncertainty, and knew she was losing his faith. “You don’t believe any of this, do you?”

Scott closed his eyes for a moment, then looked steadily into her eyes. “It’s not that I think you’re lying or delusional, Chyna. But you went through quite a bit outside with those people yelling things to you about Deirdre. Isn’t it possible you let that bunch of lunatics scare you into believing all

sorts of things, even about Nancy Tierney? Nancy doesn’t have anything to do with Zoey or Deirdre or the others.”

“Yes, I think she does.” Chyna began to feel the warmth of confidence trickling back into her. “Scott, I’m not impressionable. Not at all, although sometimes I’ve tried to convince myself I am. I’ll admit that crowd outside unnerved me, but they didn’t scare me into a belief about Deirdre I didn’t already have. And they didn’t say a word about Nancy.”

Scott took Chyna’s arm and led her to the kitchen table. “Sit and relax,” he said gently. “Tell me what you mean, Chyna. I don’t think you’re crazy and I’m not humoring you. I really want to know what you’re feeling about Deirdre
and
about Nancy.”

Chyna pulled one of the chairs away from the shining oak table, turned it sideways, sat down, and looked at Scott’s earnest face. “Are you sure you
really
want to know? After all, you never told me you believe in second sight.”

“But I said I’d keep an open mind. That’s what I’m trying to do. Please, Chyna. I want to believe you. Help me.”

She sat still, took a couple of deep breaths, and tried to compose her roiling emotions. Finally, she gave Scott what she hoped was a patient look. “You’re right. I’ve given you no proof that Deirdre has been taken just like the other girls because I have no proof. All I have is my belief based on an incident I haven’t told you about earlier because…”

“Because?”

“I was going to say because I haven’t had a chance,” Chyna said reluctantly. “But that would have been a lie. And I’m tired of lying—to myself and to everyone else. For some reason, especially you.”

Attention flickered in Scott’s eyes. Then he asked softly, “What have you been lying about?”

“How much I see, how much I know.” Chyna felt despair and relief wash over her at the same time. “Scott, I’ve told you about the voice at the lake and a few other things I’ve felt. But I made it sound as if I wasn’t certain about what I’ve heard or sensed. But I
am
certain. I don’t care if you think I’m raving

mad; I can feel my power, my second sight, whatever it is, more strongly than I’ve ever felt it in my life.” She glanced at him defiantly. “Well, aren’t you going to tell me again I’m just upset because of that crowd yelling at me earlier?”

The trace of a smile appeared and vanished from Scott’s face. “No, I’m not, Chyna. I’m relieved you’ve finally admitted what you’ve been feeling, and I’m glad you admitted it to
me.”

“Oh,” she said, somehow feeling deflated. “You aren’t going to try to talk me out of it, make me see reason?”

He shook his head. “Every Tom, Dick, and Harry thinks he sees reason. You’re the one who sees
beyond
reason.”

“I thought you were a skeptic.”

“Maybe I’m not as much of a skeptic as I led you to believe.” Scott leaned toward her. “I’m not humoring you, Chyna. I’m not trying to make you say things I think are silly. In fact, I believe when I expressed doubts in the cafe, I was only trying to hide the fact that I was a little afraid of what you can do with your mind. It is a tad scary for just regular guys like me.”

“You’re not a regular guy.”

“Yeah, I am. But I’m not the subject right now. At least I hope I’m not, considering you believe someone abducted Deirdre with plans to kill her.”

Chyna nodded and murmured, “All right.”

“Tell me every so-called weird thing you’ve felt in the last couple of days,” Scott said, then exclaimed, “No, wait!” He walked to the kitchen door and glanced up the stairs where Rex had gone. Then he came back. “Okay, now tell me.”

“Were you checking to make sure Rex wasn’t lurking around listening?”

“Yes. I guess considering that crowd out there today, I should sweep the place for listening devices, but they didn’t strike me as sophisticated enough to even know one if they saw it, much less place some around the house.”

Finally, Chyna was able to laugh. “For God’s sake, Scott, you’re acting crazier than I sound.”

“At least you’re smiling. Besides, I have my reasons.”

Scott reached out and took her cold hand in his. “Hurry up before Rex comes back.”

“Here goes.” Chyna ran her tongue over her lips just as she always did before she launched into a long or complicated story. “The night Deirdre was taken, I was at Ned’s handing out candy while Beverly took the children out trickor-treating. Ned was at the car lot. When Bev and the kids came back, Kate was sick—vomiting, sweating—so Beverly and I rushed her to the hospital. I stayed in the waiting room with Ian. He was scared, so I got him to look out the window at that house across the highway where they never take down the Christmas decorations.” She paused. “All at once, I started muttering ’Forever,’ only I didn’t feel as if I were speaking. I felt as if I was … well, channeling someone
else’s
words.”

She blushed, feeling as though she really did sound like a fool. Or maybe worse. But Scott watched her intently, no derision showing on his face or doubt in his eyes, so she continued. “Then I saw, or rather, whoever I was channeling saw something pale. Just a glimpse. And I said, ’A ghost?’”

“ ’A ghost?’”

“Yes. But as I said, I didn’t feel as if / were talking, but I must have been because I think Ian repeated ’ghost.’ I’m not sure. Then I just dropped him.”

“You
dropped
him!”

“Yes,” Chyna said miserably. “He was wearing a Donald Duck costume with a pillow on his bottom, so he wasn’t hurt. Just scared.”

Scott grinned. “A pillow?”

“Yes. You know how ducks have a puffy rump? The pillow was under the suit and—”

“Never mind. I know what ducks look like. Poor Ian. Even at age three, I’ll bet he was mortified.” Scott got his grin under control. “Go on.”

“I started flailing. I knew I was doing it, but I couldn’t stop it. I felt something scratching my arms. Then I smelled something sweet. I kept thinking, Don’t breathe! but I couldn’t help it.” Chyna paused. “Then I snapped back to reality when someone came up to
me
and asked if I needed

help. Suddenly I was back in the reality of the waiting room and Ian wailing and some woman yelling at me.” She shut her eyes. “Scott,
I
didn’t see a flash of someone pale or mutter ’ghost.’ Nothing scratched
my
arms. There’s not a mark on me. And no one in that waiting room was wearing cologne. / didn’t smell anything sweet.”

“But you think someone was scratched and someone smelled something sweet.”

“When I heard they found signs of a struggle by the rhododendron bushes at the house where the party was held along with Deirdre’s shoe…” Chyna trailed off, looking down. “Well, I think I was sensing
her
experience. I think she was out there by those bushes—rhododendrons don’t lose their leaves in the winter, you know. The leaves are leathery and the branches of the bushes are strong. I think someone hit her on the head and grabbed her out there. When she was fighting to get free, the branches scratched her arms. And I’m sure that sweet smell she was trying not to breathe in was chloroform. She was excellent in chemistry. You said she was. She would have known the sweet smell of chloroform. She would also have known not to breathe it in. That’s why I kept thinking, Don’t breathe! But of course she couldn’t help it, and the drug made her lose consciousness.”

Chyna finally glanced up again to see Scott looking at her, his face rigid, his own breath suspended. He leaned even closer to her and whispered, “Did you see who grabbed her?”

Chyna shook her head. “No, dammit. I saw so much else, but not the most important thing—the person who abducted Deirdre Mayhew.”

Irma Vogel parked in front of L’Etoile, glanced in the rearview mirror to make certain her bright pink lipstick wasn’t smeared, her broad nose wasn’t shiny, and hair spray held her thin bangs in a perfect sausage roll high across her wide forehead. As satisfied with her appearance as she ever was, she emerged from

the car and slowly climbed the stairs attached to the side of the restaurant and leading to the second-floor apartment where Ben and Deirdre Mayhew lived. The sheriff had told Irma Ben didn’t want visitors, but she was certain he would be glad to see
her.
After all, she was like family.

She knocked on the door. Nothing. She knocked louder. Nothing. The third time she almost pounded, and yelled, “Ben, it’s Irma!”

After a moment, she heard Ben’s ragged voice: “Not today, Irma. Go on home.”

Irma felt stung, then reminded herself that Ben was distraught. “Ben Mayhew, you don’t need to be alone right now,” she called. A teenage boy walking by on the sidewalk looked up at her and smirked, clearly understanding that her visit was being rejected. He needed a good smack, Irma decided, refusing to let him embarrass her into slinking away. Instead, she called, “Ben, you let me in!”

“Irma,
please
go home.”

“No. Absolutely not. You need me. I’ll sit on the steps until nighttime if that’s what it takes.”

After nearly three minutes, Ben opened the door with a weary I-know-you-won’t-go-away look, which Irma decided was just the result of worry and fear. He needed her more than he realized.

Abruptly she threw herself against him, wrapped her arms around him, and wailed, “Oh my God, Ben! Poor Deirdre!”

Ben stood rigid, his arms hanging at his sides. After a moment, he lifted his hands and pushed Irma away. She’d expected him to hug her back, grateful for her presence, but he just stared at her, his hazel eyes bloodshot, his hair awry, and his breath smelling slightly of gin. Ben Mayhew was not a drinking man, she thought. He must have turned to alcohol in despair, and that was responsible for his cool behavior toward her. “Oh, Ben!” she cried, swooping in for another try at a hug. “I know there hasn’t been any word on Deirdre yet and I’m
so
sorry!”

“Thanks for your concern and for coming by,” Ben said flatly. “I have to go sit down now. I’m not feeling too well.”

“That’s why you shouldn’t be alone.” Irma, all five foot eight, 190 pounds of her, pushed past Ben and planted herself in the middle of the living room. He couldn’t have gotten rid of her without dragging her to the door, shoving her onto the porch and down the stairs. “You need someone to talk to about poor Deirdre,” she pronounced.

“I do
not
need someone to talk to about poor Deirdre,” Ben said with an edge to his voice. “I’ve been talking to people about poor Deirdre since midnight. I searched for her everywhere I could think of for sixteen hours and I finally had to come home and rest.”

“Of course you did!” Irma cried. “You’re worn-out and you needed to get in from the cold. I mean, it’s not too cold right now, but it was cold during the night when you were out searching for her, going around town and tramping through fields where you thought you might come across her body, all lifeless and staring up at the sky, maybe raped, naked, and mutilated, even decapitated—”

“Irma!” Ben shouted. “For God’s sake! I don’t want to think about Deirdre maybe being dead and mutilated and all that other stuff. That’s part of why I had to get away to myself. People like you keep harping on the horrors that might have happened to my daughter. Can’t you understand that I needed a little peace right now?”

“And apparently more than a little gin!” Irma returned, insulted and hurt that he didn’t appreciate her concern.

“Yes, I had a couple of gin and tonics. I might have another one.”

“You don’t need alcohol; you need hot food and coffee.” Irma was already shedding her bulky pink, down-filled jacket. “I’ll fix you a nice meal—”

“I don’t
want
anything to eat!”

Irma recoiled, looking as if she were going to cry, and some of the tautness left Ben’s wide face, puffy from exhaustion and what were obviously tears of fear and frustration and, no doubt, self-flagellation for letting Deirdre go to the party.

“I’m sorry,” Ben said weakly. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. But I’m tired, I’m worried sick, and I can’t even

think rationally right now. Besides, you look a little tired yourself. Or… not well. Your cheeks are almost glowing.”

“I’m fine,” Irma protested quickly, feeling her cheeks growing even pinker as she remembered the fracas at the Greer house, picking up the rock and slamming it through the window, the things she’d screamed to Chyna. Irma’s cheeks were hot pink because of the excitement of the near riot, but she wasn’t ashamed of herself. Still, she didn’t want Ben to know what had happened earlier. He might not understand what she’d done, and he definitely didn’t like scenes. “I’m just worried about Deirdre,” she sniffled.

“Yeah, well, me, too.” Ben took a deep breath. “I need to lie down for a while, Irma. Maybe have a nap….”

“Yes, yes, that’s what you need,” Irma announced promptly. “A nap. Put down that glass of gin; get in bed. I’ll tuck you in and stay right by your side—”

“Right by my side?” Ben sounded horrified.