Tell Me Your Dreams (6 page)

“It’s lovely, but it’s much too—”

“It is yours.” Jean Claude took out a small key, unlocked the case and pulled out the ring.

“No, Jean Claude—”

“Pour moi.”
He slipped it on Toni’s finger. It was a perfect fit.

“Voilà!
It is a sign.”

Toni squeezed his hand. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

“I cannot tell you how much pleasure this gives me. There is a wonderful restaurant here called Pavilion. Would you like to have dinner there tonight?”

“Anywhere you say.”

“I will call for you at eight o’clock.”

At six o’clock that night, Ashley’s father telephoned. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you, Ashley. I won’t be able to be there for Christmas. An important patient of mine in South America has had a stroke. I’m flying to Argentina tonight.”

“I’m—I’m sorry, Father,” Ashley said. She tried to sound convincing.

“We’ll make up for it, won’t we, darling?”

“Yes, Father. Have a good flight.”

Toni was looking forward to dinner with Jean Claude. It was going to be a lovely evening. As she dressed, she sang softly to herself.

“Up and down the city road,

In and out of the Eagle,

That’s the way the money goes,

Pop! goes the weasel.”

I think Jean Claude is in love with me, Mother.

Pavilion is located in the cavernous Gare du Palais, Quebec City’s old railroad station. It is a large restaurant with a long bar
at the entrance and rows of tables spreading toward the back. At eleven o’clock each night, a dozen tables are moved to the side to create a dance floor, and a disc jockey takes over with a variety of tapes ranging from reggae to jazz to blues.

Toni and Jean Claude arrived at nine, and they were warmly greeted at the door by the owner.

“Monsieur Parent. How nice to see you.”

“Thank you, Andre. This is Miss Toni Prescott. Mr. Nicholas.”

“A pleasure, Miss Prescott. Your table is ready.”

“The food is excellent here,” Jean Claude assured Toni, when they were seated. “Let us start with champagne.”

They ordered paillard de veau and torpille and salad and a bottle of Valpolicella.

Toni kept studying the emerald ring Jean Claude had given her. “It’s so beautiful!” she exclaimed.

Jean Claude leaned across the table.
“Tu aussi.
I cannot tell you how happy I am that we have finally met.”

“I am, too,” Toni said softly.

The music began. Jean Claude looked at Toni. “Would you like to dance?”

“I’d love to.”

Dancing was one of Toni’s passions, and when she got out on the dance floor, she forgot everything else.
She was a little girl dancing with her father, and her mother said, “The child is clumsy.”

Jean Claude was holding her close. “You’re a wonderful dancer.”

“Thank you.”
Do you hear that, Mother?

Toni thought,
I wish this could go on forever.

On the way back to the hotel, Jean Claude said,
“Chérie,
would you like to stop at my house and have a nightcap?”

Toni hesitated. “Not tonight, Jean Claude.”

“Tomorrow,
peut-être?”

She squeezed his hand. “Tomorrow.”

At 3:00 A.M., Police Officer René Picard was in a squad car cruising down Grande Allée in the Quartier Montcalm when he noticed that the front door of a two-story redbrick house was wide open. He pulled over to the curb and stepped out to investigate. He walked to the front door and called,
“Bon soir. Y a-t-il, quelqu’un?”

There was no answer. He stepped into the foyer and moved toward the large drawing room.
“C’est la police. Y a-t-il, quelqu’un?”

There was no response. The house was unnaturally quiet. Unbuttoning his gun holster, Officer Picard began to go through the downstairs room, calling out as he moved from room to room. The only response was an eerie silence. He returned to the foyer. There was a graceful staircase leading to the floor above. “Allo!” Nothing.

Officer Picard started up the stairs. When he got to the top of the stairs, his gun was in his hand. He called out again, then started down the long hallway. Ahead, a bedroom door was ajar. He walked over to it, opened it wide and turned pale.
“Mon Dieu!”

At five o’clock that morning, in the gray stone and yellow brick building on Story Boulevard, where Centrale de Police is located, Inspector Paul Cayer was asking, “What do we have?”

Officer Guy Fontaine replied, “The victim’s name is Jean Claude Parent. He was stabbed at least a dozen times, and his body was castrated. The coroner says that the murder took place in the last three or four hours. We found a restaurant receipt from Pavilion in Parent’s jacket pocket. He had dinner there earlier in the evening. We got the owner of the restaurant out of bed.”

“Yes?”

“Monsieur Parent was at Pavilion with a woman named Toni Prescott, a brunette, very attractive, with an English accent. The manager of Monsieur Parent’s jewelry store said that earlier that day, Monsieur Parent had brought a woman answering that description into the store and introduced her as Toni Prescott. He gave her an expensive emerald ring. We also believe that Monsieur Parent had sex with someone before he died, and that the murder weapon was a steel-blade letter opener. There were fingerprints on it. We sent them on to our lab and to the FBI. We are waiting to hear.”

“Have you picked up Toni Prescott?”

“Non.”

“And why not?”

“We cannot find her. We have checked all the local hotels. We have checked our files and the files of the FBI. She has no birth certificate, no social security number, no driver’s license.”

“Impossible! Could she have gotten out of the city?”

Officer Fontaine shook his head. “I don’t think so, Inspector. The airport closed at midnight. The last train out of Quebec City left at five-thirty-five last night. The first train this morning will be at six-thirty-nine. We have sent a description of her to the bus station, the two taxi companies and the limousine company.”

“For God’s sake, we have her name, her description and her fingerprints. She can’t just have disappeared.”

One hour later, a report came in from the FBI. They were unable to identify the fingerprints. There was no record of Toni Prescott.

F
IVE
days after Ashley returned from Quebec City, her father was on the telephone. “I just got back.”

“Back?” It took Ashley a moment to remember. “Oh. Your patient in Argentina. How is he?”

“He’ll live.”

“I’m glad.”

“Can you come up to San Francisco for dinner tomorrow?”

She dreaded the thought of facing him, but she could think of no excuse. “All right.”

“I’ll see you at Restaurant Lulu. Eight o’clock.”

Ashley was waiting at the restaurant when her father walked in. Again, she saw the admiring glances of recognition on people’s faces. Her father was a famous man.
Would he risk everything he had just to
—
?

He was at the table.

“It’s good to see you, sweetheart. Sorry about our Christmas dinner.”

She forced herself to say, “So am I.”

She was staring at the menu, not seeing it, trying to get her thoughts together.

“What would you like?”

“I—I’m not really hungry,” she said.

“You have to eat something. You’re getting too thin.”

“I’ll have the chicken.”

She watched her father as he ordered, and she wondered if she dared to bring up the subject.

“How was Quebec City?”

“It was very interesting,” Ashley said. “It’s a beautiful place.”

“We must go there together sometime.”

She made a decision and tried to keep her voice as casual as possible. “Yes. By the way…last June I went to my ten-year high school reunion in Bedford.”

He nodded. “Did you enjoy it?”

“No.” She spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. “I—I found out that the day after you and I left for London, Jim Cleary’s body…was found . He had been stabbed…and castrated.” She sat there, watching him, waiting for a reaction.

Dr. Patterson frowned. “Cleary? Oh, yes. That boy who was panting after you. I saved you from him, didn’t I?”

What did that mean? Was it a confession? Had he saved her from Jim Cleary by killing him?

Ashley took a deep breath and went on. “Dennis Tibbie was murdered the same way. He was stabbed and castrated.” She watched her father pick up a roll and carefully butter it.

When he spoke, he said, “I’m not surprised, Ashley. Bad people usually come to a bad end.”

And this was a doctor, a man dedicated to saving lives.
I’ll never understand him,
Ashley thought.
I don’t think I want to.

By the time dinner was over, Ashley was no closer to the truth.

Toni said, “I really enjoyed Quebec City, Alette. I’d like to go back someday. Did you have a good time?”

Alette said shyly, “I enjoyed the museums.”

“Have you called your boyfriend in San Francisco yet?”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“I’ll bet you want him to be, don’t you?”

“Forse.
Perhaps.”

“Why don’t you call him?”

“I don’t think it would be proper to—”

“Call him.”

They arranged to meet at the De Young Museum.

“I really missed you,” Richard Melton said. “How was Quebec?”

“Va bene.”

“I wish I had been there with you.”

Maybe one day,
Alette thought hopefully. “How is the painting coming along?”

“Not bad. I just sold one of my paintings to a really well-known collector.”

“Fantastic!” She was delighted. And she could not help thinking,
It’s so different when I’m with him. If it were anyone else, I would have thought, Who is tasteless enough to pay money for your paintings? or Don’t give up your day job or a hundred other cruel remarks. But I don’t do that with Richard.

It gave Alette an incredible feeling of freedom, as though she had found a cure for some debilitating disease.

They had lunch at the museum.

“What would you like?” Richard asked. “They have great roast beef here.”

“I’m a vegetarian. I’ll just have a salad. Thank you.”

“Okay.”

A young, attractive waitress came over to the table. “Hello, Richard.”

“Hi, Bernice.”

Unexpectedly, Alette felt a pang of jealousy. Her reaction surprised her.

“Are you ready to order?”

“Yes. Miss Peters is going to have a salad, and I’m going to have a roast beef sandwich.”

The waitress was studying Alette.
Is she jealous of me?
Alette wondered. When the waitress left, Alette said, “She’s very pretty. Do you know her well?” Immediately she blushed.
I wish I hadn’t asked that.

Richard smiled. “I come here a lot. When I first came here, I didn’t have much money. I’d order a sandwich, and Bernice would bring me a banquet. She’s great.”

“She seems very nice,” Alette said. And she thought,
She has fat thighs.

After they had ordered, they talked about artists.

“One day I want to go to Giverny,” Alette said, “where Monet painted.”

“Did you know Monet started out as a caricaturist?”

“No.”

“It’s true. Then he met Boudin, who became his teacher and persuaded him to start painting out of doors. There’s a great story about that. Monet got so hooked on painting out of doors that when he decided to paint a picture of a woman in the garden, with a canvas over eight feet high, he had a trench dug in the garden so he could raise or lower the canvas by pulleys. The picture is hanging at the Musée d’Orsay in Paris.”

The time went by swiftly and happily.

After lunch, Alette and Richard walked around looking at the various exhibits. There were more than forty thousand objects in the collection, everything from ancient Egyptian artifacts to contemporary American paintings.

Alette was filled with the wonderment of being with Richard and her complete lack of negative thoughts.
Che cosa significa?

A uniformed guard approached them. “Good afternoon, Richard.”

“Afternoon, Brian. This is my friend, Alette Peters. Brian Hill.”

Brian said to Alette, “Are you enjoying the museum?”

“Oh, yes. It’s wonderful.”

“Richard’s teaching me to paint,” Brian said.

Alette looked at Richard. “You are?”

Richard said modestly, “Oh, I’m just guiding him a little bit.”

“He’s doing more than that, miss. I’ve always wanted to be a painter. That’s why I took this job at the museum, because I love art. Anyway, Richard comes here a lot and paints. When I
saw his work, I thought, ’I want to be like him.’ So I asked him if he’d teach me, and he’s been great. Have you seen any of his paintings?”

“I have,” Alette said. “They’re wonderful.”

When they left him, Alette said, “It’s lovely of you to do that, Richard.”

“I like to do things for people,” and he was looking at Alette.

When they were walking out of the museum, Richard said, “My roommate is at a party tonight. Why don’t we stop up at my place?” He smiled. “I have some paintings I’d like to show you.

Alette squeezed his hand. “Not yet, Richard.”

“Whatever you say. I’ll see you next weekend?”

“Yes.”

And he had no idea how much she was looking forward to it.

Richard walked Alette to the parking lot where she had parked her car. He waved good-bye as she drove off.

As Alette was going to sleep that night, she thought,
It’s like a miracle. Richard has freed me.
She fell asleep, dreaming of him.

At two o’clock in the morning, Richard Melton’s roommate, Gary, returned from a birthday party. The apartment was dark. He switched on the lights in the living room. “Richard?”

He started toward the bedroom. At the door he looked inside and was sick to his stomach.

“Calm down, son.” Detective Whittier looked at the shivering figure in the chair. “Now, let’s go over it again. Did he have any enemies, someone mad enough at him to do this?”

Gary swallowed. “No. Everyone…everyone liked Richard.”

“Someone didn’t. How long have you and Richard lived together?”

“Two years.”

“Were you lovers?”

“For God’s sake,” Gary said indignantly. “No. We were friends. We lived together for financial reasons.”

Detective Whittier looked around the small apartment. “Sure as hell wasn’t a burglary,” he said. “There’s nothing here to steal. Was your roommate seeing anyone romantically?”

“No—Well, yes. There was a girl he was interested in. I think he was really starting to like her.”

“Do you know her name?”

“Yes. Alette. Alette Peters. She works in Cupertino.”

Detective Whittier and Detective Reynolds looked at each other.

“Cupertino?”

“Jesus,” Reynolds said.

Thirty minutes later, Detective Whittier was on the phone with Sheriff Dowling. “Sheriff, I thought you might be interested to know that we have a murder here that’s the same M.O. as the case you had in Cupertino—multiple stab wounds and castration.”

“My God!”

“I just had a talk with the FBI. Their computer shows that there have been three previous castration killings very similar to this one. The first one happened in Bedford, Pennsylvania, about ten years ago, the next one was a man named Dennis
Tibbie—that was your case—then there was the same M.O. in Quebec City, and now this one.”

“It doesn’t make sense. Pennsylvania…Cupertino…Quebec City…San Francisco…Is there any link?”

“We’re trying to find one. Quebec requires passports. The FBI is doing a cross-check to see if anyone who was in Quebec City around Christmas was in any of the other cities at the times of the murders.…”

When the media got wind of what was happening, their stories were splashed across the front pages across the world:

SERIAL KILLER LOOSE…

QUATRES HOMMES BRUTALEMENT TUÉS ET CASTRÉS…

WIR SUCHEN FOR EIN MANN DER CASTRIERT SEINE HOPFER…

MANIAC DI HOMICIDAL SULLO SPREE CRESPO DI UCCISIÓNE.

On the networks, self-important psychologists analyzed the killings.

“…and all the victims were men. Because of the way they were stabbed and castrated, it is undoubtedly the work of a homosexual who…”

“…so if the police can find a connection between the victims, they will probably discover that it was the work of a lover the men had all scorned…”

“…but I would say they were random killings committed by someone who had a dominating mother…”

Saturday morning, Detective Whittier called Deputy Blake from San Francisco.

“Deputy, I have an update for you.”

“Go ahead.”

“I just got a call from the FBI. Cupertino is listed as the residence of an American who was in Quebec on the date of the Parent murder.”

“That’s interesting. What’s his name?”

“Her. Patterson. Ashley Patterson.”

At six o’clock that evening, Deputy Sam Blake rang the bell at Ashley Patterson’s apartment. Through the closed door he heard her call out cautiously, “Who is it?”

“Deputy Blake. I’d like to talk to you, Miss Patterson.”

There was a long silence, then the door opened. Ashley was standing there, looking wary.

“May I come in?”

“Yes, of course.”
Is this about Father? I must be careful.
Ashley led the deputy to a couch. “What can I do for you, Deputy?”

“Would you mind answering a few questions?”

Ashley shifted uncomfortably. “I—I don’t know. Am I under suspicion for something?”

He smiled reassuringly. “Nothing like that, Miss Patterson. This is just routine. We’re investigating some murders.”

“I don’t know anything about any murders,” she said quickly.
Too quickly?

“You were in Quebec City recently, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you acquainted with Jean Claude Parent?”

“Jean Claude Parent?” She thought for a moment. “No. I’ve never heard of him. Who is he?”

“He owns a jewelry store in Quebec City.”

Ashley shook her head. “I didn’t do any jewelry shopping in Quebec.”

“You worked with Dennis Tibbie.”

Ashley felt the fear beginning to rise again. This
was
about her father. She said cautiously, “I didn’t work with him. He worked for the same company.”

“Of course. You go into San Francisco occasionally, don’t you, Miss Patterson?”

Ashley wondered where this was leading.
Careful.
“From time to time, yes.”

“Did you ever meet an artist there named Richard Melton?”

“No. I don’t know anyone by that name.”

Deputy Blake sat there studying Ashley, frustrated. “Miss Patterson, would you mind coming down to headquarters and taking a polygraph test? If you want to, you can call your lawyer and—”

“I don’t need a lawyer. I’ll be glad to take a test.”

The polygraph expert was a man named Keith Rosson, and he was one of the best. He had had to cancel a dinner date, but he was happy to oblige Sam Blake.

Ashley was seated in a chair, wired to the polygraph machine. Rosson had already spent forty-five minutes chatting with her, getting background information and evaluating her emotional state. Now he was ready to begin.

“Are you comfortable?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s start.” He pressed a button. “What’s your name?”

“Ashley Patterson.”

Rosson’s eyes kept darting between Ashley and the polygraph printout.

“How old are you, Miss Patterson?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Where do you live?”

“10964 Via Camino Court in Cupertino.”

“Are you employed?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like classical music?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know Richard Melton?”

“No.”

There was no change on the graph.

“Where do you work?”

“At Global Computer Graphics Corporation.”

“Do you enjoy your job?”

“Yes.”

“Do you work five days a week?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever met Jean Claude Parent?”

“No.”

Still no change on the graph.

“Did you have breakfast this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Did you kill Dennis Tibbie?”

“No.”

The questions continued for another thirty minutes and were repeated three times, in a different order.

When the session was over, Keith Rosson walked into Sam Blake’s office and handed him the polygraph test. “Clean as a
whistle. There’s a less than one percent chance that she’s lying. You’ve got the wrong person.”