Plum Girl (Romance) (41 page)

"Let's not talk about Maine," she said, and cast a sincere look at him. "I don't want to think about saying good-bye. Not yet."

"I don't want to think about saying good-bye, either. That's the whole point." He paused. "How would you feel if I came with you?"

"You mean... what, help me move in?" She had a feeling that wasn't what he meant, but she had trouble believing he would really want to pick up and move to Maine. That seemed too extreme. Didn't it?

"No, I meant... what if I came, too? Wait, before you say anything, just think about it. I'm starting my own business, anyway. I can start it wherever I want. I just have to pick what office space I'm going to rent. Besides, Maine is ripe for the software industry right now." He'd obviously already put a lot of thought into the idea, and that alone sent shivers through her.

"But, Dominick... don't get me wrong. I'd love to have you with me." She took one hand off the steering wheel to rest on his leg. "Of course I'd love that—so much. But still... I think it's way too soon for us to think about living together."

"Living together? Oh,
no,
that's not what I want!"

"Sound more horrified at the idea, that was nice," she muttered, and he laughed.

"No, no, that's not what I meant," Dominick said. "I just meant that I agree. It is too soon to move in together. And the last thing I want to do is have to adjust to a new career
and
a new roommate."

"Well, me either," she agreed, a little defensively, and turned onto Glassgow Boulevard.

"I know. That's why if I went to Maine, I'd get my own place. Look, I've given this a lot of thought, and I want to do it."

"But what if we broke up, and then you'd be stuck out in Maine—"

"I wouldn't be stuck anywhere. It's not like I'm married to Boston. I'm not even from here, like you are. I only came here for GraphNet, but I'm moving on now, and Maine's just as good a place as any."

Lonnie started to panic. This was all happening too fast. What if Dominick set up his business in Maine and then hated it there? He'd end up resenting her, and then their relationship would end even sooner. She couldn't let that happen.

"I'm sorry, Dominick."

"What do you mean?"

"I can't say yes." She slotted Jack's car to the right, and put it in park.

"What do you mean you can't say yes?"

Ignoring him, she motioned to the gorgeous stucco mansion, numbered 44, across the street. "This is it," she said, and cut the engine.

THE LINSEYS was inscribed on the mailbox in gold calligraphy, and the streetlamps were bright enough for Lonnie to make out a silver BMW with a personalized license plate that read: REGINALD parked in the driveway. "Do you want to come with me, or wait here?" she asked. He shot her a look like she was nuts, and then opened his door.

It took only a few steps forward before Lonnie realized that the only lights were streetlights; Bette's house was completely dark. "Maybe nobody's home," she whispered. They got to the door, and Lonnie sucked in a nervous breath. So what if she looked like a raving fool to her coworker? She was just a temp, after all. Dominick rang the doorbell. They waited a couple minutes before they rang it again. Still no answer.

Typical.
"Oh well. Let's go," she said, with resignation.

They were halfway across the cobblestone path that bisected the lawn when a square of light hit the property. They turned around, and saw that it had come from an upstairs window. "Maybe she is home," Lonnie said.

"You want to ring the doorbell again?" he asked, sliding his arm beneath her neck and rubbing gently.

"Um... I don't know. I really do want to talk to her."

He mulled it over for a second, then suggested, "Let's just see if any other lights are on around the house. At least see what the deal is, before we go back to the city."

"Okay." They rounded the corner and moved to the side of the stucco mansion, where things were still completely dark. Just then, a large rectangular window on the side of the house lit up.

Instantly, they crouched down, as an image of Bette crossed in front of them. Her hair was wet; she must have been in the shower when they'd rung the doorbell. She was wearing a plain white robe, holding a box of cheap Zinfandel in one hand and a red plastic cup in the other. And she was standing alone... in the middle of a completely empty room.

"Is that her?" Dominick whispered.

"Yeah. But, wait... I don't get it. The house looks totally empty on the inside. Where's the furniture? Where's... I don't know, anything?"

"Where's the people? Didn't you say that Bette is married with kids?"

"Yeah. She has two daughters. Although, it is after nine—they could be in bed. But where's Reginald? His car was parked outside."

They watched as Bette plopped down on the bare floor, sitting cross-legged, and violently ripped at the tab on her box of wine. She filled the red plastic cup to the rim and set it down on the floor. She got up again and went into another room, out of sight.

"Talk about depressing," Dominick muttered, and Lonnie agreed, before turning her attention back to the window.

"Look," she said, pointing. They both watched as Bette came back into the empty room, carrying a large mirror. She sat down on the floor. She held the mirror in front of her so she was looking directly at herself. Then she smirked and brought her cup of wine up to tap its reflection, creating an illusion of two cups clinking each other in a "cheers" motion. Lonnie thought,
What the hell,
just as Bette burst into tears.

"What the hell?" Dominick muttered. Lonnie was temporarily speechless. "What do you think?" he whispered.

"I... I don't know," she whispered back, shaking her head, confused. "Maybe... Hmm. Maybe Reginald left her," she offered.

"Yeah, and took all the furniture, it looks like," he said. Lonnie leaned forward to get a better look, and dropped her cell phone. It landed right on a rock, making a loud, crashing thud, and Bette jerked her head around. Lonnie jumped onto her stomach, to get out of view, but she didn't know if she'd done it quickly enough. Dominick started to come out of the bushes to help her, but she commanded him not to. "No!" she whispered. "No, stay hidden. I think she might've seen me!"

"What do you want to do?" he whispered through the bushes. "Do you want to just get out of here?"

"Yeah, okay, but look through the window. What's Bette doing right now?"
Please say she's back to bawling in isolation and doing fake toasts with cheap wine.
Suddenly that never seemed more innocuous. Here Lonnie had been worried how awkward it would be to show up at Bette's door... imagine peering through her window like a psycho!

"Uh... well, from what I can see... she's... staring right at me," Dominick said.

"What are you talking about?" Lonnie asked, panicked. "She can see you?"

"No, I don't think so. But she's looking out the window, right in my direction. I doubt she can see through the bush, but let's get the hell out of here before—oh,
shit!"

"What? What?" Lonnie was still lying facedown on the ground right below the windowsill, hoping Bette wouldn't walk over and look out her window.

She started belly crawling backward to make her way to the bushes for cover, and she heard Dominick say again, "Shit."

"What?"
she asked, poised midcrawl, halfway between the windowsill and the bushes, with an undoubtedly savage mud trail on her clothes.

"Lonnie, just stay down, whatever you do," he warned in a steely voice.

"Will you please tell me what's going on?" she demanded.

"She has a gun."

"What?
What the hell are you—
a gun
? Where did it come from?"

"She grabbed it from somewhere. I have no idea. But she's gripping it and looking right at the window."

"Omigod, omigod."

"Baby, we gotta get out of here," he ordered.

"I know," she said, doing the fastest backward belly crawl of her life. (At least, so far.) He crept behind the bushes, meeting her midway, and took her hand.

"She must've heard the noise, and thinks there are prowlers," he offered, while he pulled her along the side of the house, toward the front.

"Oh, God, let's go before she shoots us."

"C'mon, she's not going to shoot us," he said. "If she thinks we're prowlers, she'll call the police."

"Oh please, don't you watch Lifetime?"

Just as they got to the front yard, the heavy oak door swung open, and the porch light went on full blast. "Who's there?" Bette yelled into the semidarkness. "I see you," Bette called, her voice trembling. Lonnie knew the porch light was bright enough to illuminate figures on the front lawn. She'd tried to hide behind a tall, skinny shrub, but since Lonnie was neither tall nor skinny herself, it didn't provide much cover.

"I said
who's
there? Who
is
it?" Bette cried out.

Lonnie gripped Dominick's arm. "What should we do?"

"We can't rum now; she might shoot at us. That would be ridiculous, but still."

"All right, I'll just have to tell her it's me, and deal with the awkwardness later," Lonnie said, reminding herself that she was just a temp, and that even if she got fired from Twit & Bell, she could easily get another job that was just as exploitative and degrading. "How do I get myself into these things?" Lonnie muttered to herself before she came clean. "Bette, wait!" she called. "Please don't shoot! It's me, Lonnie!"

"Lonnie?"
Bette repeated, confused, and put the gun down at her side.

"Um, yeah, Lonnie Kelley. Please, I didn't mean to startle you."

"Well, what the fuck are
you
doing here? And who's that with you?"

Lonnie and Dominick took tentative steps forward. "I'm so sorry, Bette," Lonnie said. "I didn't mean any harm. This is my boyfriend, Dominick."

"Oh, right, from the holiday party," Bette said, as they came into clear view.

"Bette, please allow me to explain," Lonnie started, wondering just how she was going to do that without looking like a weirdo, even to herself. "Remember those HR questions I asked you at the office today? Well, you were right. I was asking for myself, not a friend."

Bette smiled patronizingly.

"Anyway," Lonnie went on, "you know how I was out of the office last week for interviews?"

"No. I hadn't noticed."

"Yeah, well, at one of the interviews, someone mentioned the abbreviation 'PNH,' and I had no idea what they were talking about. Um."—she darted a look at Dominick for support, and he tightened his hand around hers—"I just need to know what it means. Maybe it sounds obsessive, but I can't stop thinking about that... interview."

"Oh. I see. Well, I'm sorry it didn't work out for you, dear," Bette said. "Generally, PNH stands for possible new hire."

"Possible new hire," Lonnie repeated.

"Yes. I make a note of it when an employee's performance is inadequate enough to raise questions about whether or not he should be replaced."

Lonnie thought for a second. It made sense, of course, that B.J.'s performance report would have a PNH notation back in June, considering Lunther's intention to fire him. What seemed strange was that the notation was also made on the report dated December 31st, after Lunther had died. That meant that B.J.'s job status was just as precarious before the murder as it was after. And he had to
know
that, or he wouldn't have been so desperate to get his hands on the file.

And
that
made her wonder. Was it possible that B.J. had much less of a motive to kill Lunther than she'd assumed?

"Let's go inside and I'll explain more," Bette suggested. "It's cold out here."

"Okay," Lonnie agreed, and pulled Dominick by the hand inside the lovely albeit absolutely empty stucco mansion. Bette shut and locked the front door behind them.

"You like my place?" she asked sarcastically.

"Oh... yes, yes," Lonnie managed politely.

"It's great," Dominick added.

"A lot of light," Lonnie said stupidly. "Um... I love the hardwood floors."
Great going. Remind her of how the floors go on forever, with no rugs or furniture. Next, tell her you like the pristine white walls, and remind her how devoid they are of art and photographs.

Wait!
Why
were
Bette's walls devoid of photographs? Lord knows, she was proud of her family. They shamelessly graced the surface of her desk at work. Surely, even if Reginald had left her, she'd still keep pictures of Burberry and Skylar-Blaise in the house.

"Take a good look," Bette sneered. "It's the last image you're gonna see."

And then she cocked her gun.

Chapter 31

"B -Bette?" Lonnie swallowed hard, and felt her heart thudding against her chest. Dominick tightened his hand on hers fiercely. It was the only thing that steadied her, and she never wanted to let it go.

"What's going on?" he asked Bette, trying for an even tone of voice.

"Oh, shut up," she snapped. "The last thing I'm in the mood to see is
young love."
She said the words with disgusted acrimony, and then pointed her gun even closer at them. "In fact, let go of your hands. Let them go!"

Lonnie jumped, dropped Dominick's hand, and only then did she realize how sweaty her own was. Sweaty with fear and anxiety and impending doom; obviously, being a pessimist didn't make this situation any easier. "Bette," she said gently, "I-I don't understand. I said I was sorry for trespassing. If you'll just let me explain—"

"Explain what? How you're not gonna tell anyone the truth? How it'll be 'our little secret'? Spare me. I didn't buy it from Lunther, and I'm sure as hell not buying it from some temp."

Lunther?
Oh, God, no.
Surely Bette didn't mean—

"So now you know. It's all crap. It always was. And if I let you and him go, then pretty soon everyone will find out about my real life." Was all this just because Bette didn't want anyone to find out that her husband had left her? Was she
that
obsessed with image?