The Jewelry Case (4 page)

Then she glanced outside the sliding kitchen door, another mid-century update
,
and noted a hand-painted china pet-food bowl on the step. Ray followed the direction of her eyes. "The Perlemans always had cats," he said. "Long as I can remember."

"Do you know what happened to Esther's pet?" She felt a stab of hope that the cat hadn't starved without the old woman to feed it. She wasn't an animal person, but she hated to think of any living creature suffering.

"Dunno. A neighbor might have taken it in, or maybe it went feral. Or got eaten by coyotes. There's still a few of them around here." He didn't sound very interested. "If you step this way, ma'am, I believe there's a powder room down the hall you might want to take a look at."

It had luridly pink floral wallpaper, and was situated near a set of creaky stairs. Upstairs, Paisley found three small bedrooms, the front one with a beautiful view of the ancient oak's middle branches, the other two with a view over the large back yard, fringed with tall trees. She opened a door between them and found a large bathroom with a claw-tooth tub.

For a moment, she did not notice the cracked tiles or the old-fashioned wallpaper as she indulged in a vision of herself soaking in bubbles, surrounded by scented candles, hair piled atop her head.... Then she looked up and saw brown stains on the ceiling. Ray had been right. The roof leaked.

The old stairs creaked under Ray's weight as he followed her upstairs. "So what do you think? Still plan to stay?""

She let the words tumble out before she changed her mind. "I've got a little money left in the bank, enough to make any necessary repairs. By the time the house is in shape, we can find a buyer. We could talk to this Steve ... er.... Steve...."

"Lopez."

"Steve Lopez. Until then, a cold shower or two won't hurt me. If it rains, I'll put buckets under the roof leaks. As for food, I saw some canned goods in the kitchen, and you said it was less than a mile to River Bend. Give me the number of a contractor, and I'll take care of everything."

His friendly expression disappeared at her peremptory tone. She could guess what he was thinking:
Diva.

Little did he know the diva act was just that, she thought: an act she had adopted to cover her innate shyness and raging insecurity. When Jonathan had plucked her out of obscurity, she couldn't convince herself that she deserved her new-found success. The daughter of an itinerant alcoholic, she had never really known a stable home life. Singing had been all she could cling to.

But Jonathan had changed all that. She had thrown herself into her new life with abandon, glomming on to the character of what she thought a diva should be. The singer Jonathan wanted her to be. Hence the designer clothes, the heavy makeup, the jet-set lifestyle. It almost seemed natural by now.

She winced. Divas could get away with bad behavior because of their talent. But she was no longer an up-and-coming new star of the Met, with reporters begging for an interview. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to ditch the act and figure out who she really was.

Turning away, she fingered the edges of the scar while struggling to combat a fresh wave of depression. Later she would gargle with hot tea and honey. If she rested her voice over the summer.... Plenty of other singers had come back after similar tragedies. When Frank Sinatra was a young man, he had strained his voice, and although it had never regained its former silky quality, his career had not suffered. Adele had famously undergone throat surgery just before winning her first Grammies. Julie Andrews....Well, no, perhaps not Julie Andrews. With a shiver, Paisley remembered that after what had been expected to be a simple operation to remove polyps on her vocal cords, the venerable star of
The Sound of Music
and
Mary Poppins
had been forced to give up singing forever, and had taken up writing children's books instead.

Ray fished out one of his business cards from a little metal case, jotted down a phone number on the back, and handed it to her. "This contractor's fully licensed. Can't trust just anyone from the yellow pages." Before he left, though, he couldn't resist one more test of her resolve. "If you really intend to stay here, be sure to shut the windows and lock the doors," he warned. "We're semi-rural out here, but that doesn't mean there's no crime. You take care now, hear, ma'am?" He flashed square white teeth, to show there were no hard feelings. "And no dallying with the gentleman next door. Steve Lopez is an experienced lady killer, I hear. He'll probably turn on the charm full force to get you to sell." Ray winked again.

She smiled politely.

#

Her facial muscles were feeling strained by the time the real estate agent's car rolled down the driveway. Her head ached, and she couldn't wait to sit down. But first, she went into the kitchen and opened a can of tuna, then dumped it in the cat bowl on the back step. The poor thing was probably gone forever, either starved to death or hit by a car, but just in case.... It was the least she could do for Esther's cat.

What had caused Ray Henderson to sing that snatch from
Annie
? she wondered when she returned to the living room, kicking off her shoes next to where she had dropped her handbag. Greedy Miss Hannigan, singing about her dream of unearned luxury.... Ray must have been inspired by her unthinking use of the word "jewels." But it was an odd coincidence, nonetheless. She fingered her cameo, an old-fashioned piece of jewelry that probably clashed with her modern clothes, but one which she had come to cherish. Jewels. Something about the house and jewels. What was it?

After pulling off a sheet from an armchair facing the front window, unleashing a shower of dust. Sneezing, she propped her tired feet on the coffee table and looked out at her new domain, wondering idly who had thought to cover the furniture after Esther had left.

Outside the front window, beyond the good-sized yard, overgrown with weeds, she saw another white Queen Ann-style house facing hers, a near twin of her own. It was barely visible through the growth. Steve's Lopez's home, no doubt. In front of it stood the beautifully hand-painted sign she had noted earlier, bearing the name of the vineyard.

Some self-important white-haired gentleman, no doubt, with a neat mustache and a gold cane, who considered himself quite the lady’s man and bored the locals discussing under-notes and aftertastes and tannin, or whatever vintners talked about. He would be disappointed to learn the new resident of the late Esther Perleman's house was a teetotaler and had no interest in the subject of wines. She had never regretted her choice of eschewing alcohol: if you didn't took that first drink, it could never control your life. She'd never understood why more children of alcoholics didn't follow her path.

Idly she wondered how much the venerable Mr. Lopez was prepared to pay for her land. If he wanted it that badly, maybe it would be worth entertaining his offer after all. Her spirits lifted slightly at the thought. She wouldn't be broke any more. She could pay off her debts, and....

Suddenly an odd sensation rushed through her, as if a pair of ghostly hands were restraining her, and an unheard voice seemed to whisper in her ear, "No! You belong here."

Paisley shifted uncomfortably in her seat, tempted to look over her shoulder although she knew she was alone in the little house. What had the hospital shrink had told her, right before scribbling out the prescription for the little white pills? "Don't worry about the dreams, they'll lessen eventually." But until now, the dreams had only come at night. And she was wide awake.

She shook the strange feeling off. It would be good for her to be out here in the country, she told herself firmly. Plenty of long walks, fresh air, sunshine ... and nothing to remind her of her lost career, of the role that should have been hers and which would now go to someone else. Peace. And maybe, although she was too afraid to say the words,
please God
her voice would come back. The doctors had been pessimistic, but they hadn't ruled it out entirely. There was always that glimmer of hope.

She stood and went over to the window, looking out. Beyond the front yard, to the side of the neighbor's field, she could see the two-lane road winding behind the prairie oaks like a black ribbon. The sound of an occasional passing car sounded muted from this distance, like wind in the trees. For the first time in longer than she could remember, she was completely alone. No grim-faced doctors, no busy nurses, no hovering friends, no concerned agents or publicists.

And no husband.

She walked around the house one more time, familiarizing herself with the rooms before returning to the small front parlor and sinking back into the couch. She leaned her head against its floral-patterned cushions, submitting to the pain of her losses like a patient allowing a nurse to sink a syringe into a vein. Her widowhood felt even more poignant, here in the house that Jonathan had grown up in.

Oddly, though, except for the piano there were little signs of him here, except for a cluster of family photos hanging in the hallway by the kitchen. But he had left River Bend long ago, shortly after graduating from high school. That was years before she had met him, and even more years before Esther had moved back. Over the past fifteen or so years, the older woman's presence must have effectively erased those of the house's previous occupants.

As the quiet soaked in, the muscles in her neck and shoulders relaxed. For the first time in two years, her future was entirely up to her, for the next hour, for the next week, and, for the rest of her life. With a sigh of new contentment, Paisley shut her eyes. Gradually, her breathing slowed, and her body slumped on the sofa.

Then the dream came.

Chapter Three

At first it seemed real. Paisley found herself onstage, wearing a long, sweeping satin dress. Nothing odd in that. She had performed in period costumes dozens of times, had even worn tight corsets like this one, that whittled her waist to nothing while holding her unnaturally erect.

The audience rustled in the dark, waiting impatiently. As always, the knowledge of their presence, their expectations, gave Paisley a prickle of excitement mingled with fear. Yet, something was different, she realized. Something was
wrong.
Somehow she was inhabiting someone else’s body, her essence superimposed on that of someone else: a stranger who, like her, was a young, petite woman with long coal-black hair. Paisley felt heavy curls piled in an elaborate hairdo, hairpins jabbing painfully into her scalp.

The woman opened her mouth and sang. The voice that poured from their shared throat was not one Paisley recognized. It was lighter than her own, a lyric soprano. The aria was German. She recognized the sound of the language, although the song was unfamiliar. The aria rose to a glorious conclusion, and the audience rose to its feet, applauding thunderously.

By now Paisley’s eyes had adjusted to the odd lights fastened to the front of the stage.
Gaslights?
Now she could see the men in the audience wore ascots and embroidered waistcoats. Gold-handled walking sticks were propped against the seats, silk top hats were balanced on knees. As she stared with disbelief, the scene faded.

Paisley opened her eyes, shaking. She was still sprawled on the couch in her wrinkled travel clothes, and bright light streaming through the dusty windowpanes showed it was still daylight.

A dream. Of course it was a dream! Yet it had felt so real that she was sweating, and her heart was still beating rapidly, at a tempo Jonathan referred to as
prestissimo
. Pushing damp strands of hair out of her eyes, she tried to recapture the fading images, disturbing more for their vividness than their content: the sweeping satin dress, the corset that had crushed her ribs and cinched in her waist. The more she strained to recall the aria she had sung, the more certain she grew that she had never heard the song before. Every note
had
sounded as clear as if the performance happened right here, in the aging living room with the peeling floral wallpaper. Even now, the melody hung in the air. Paisley had the disturbing sensation that the dream was not some invention of her subconscious, but that she'd relived a real experience, one that actually happened. Except that was impossible, of course.

Then, as naturally as if the knowledge had been there all along, something Jonathan told her nibbled at her memory. Only one of his ancestors had been as famous as him, although with the injustice of history the woman had disappeared into obscurity long ago. Paisley must have been dreaming of Jonathan's famous ancestress, the singer. That was why the dream had seemed so real! The thought filled her with relief.

She crinkled her forehead, trying to remember what Jonathan had said about the woman. What was her name? Rose? Rosalind? Ruth? That was it! Ruth. Ruth Wegiel, known as the Polish Jenny Lind.

Paisley blinked. Odd, how the name had suddenly popped into her head. How could she have remembered, after all that time? Yet there it was! She was certain she was right.

Still shaken, she reached for her purse and groped inside for the amber-colored plastic vial, shaking one of the small pills into her palm. She stared at it, wondering if that was the reason for the intensity of her dream. But never before had the painkillers caused her to hallucinate. Perhaps they hadn’t brought on the dream, after all.