The Jewelry Case (5 page)

She put them back in her purse, frowning. She had the nagging feeling that the images had been triggered by something else. Something Ray Henderson had said, perhaps. What was it? After trying a few more moments to tease the memory from the corner of her brain, Paisley got off the couch where she had fallen asleep and went to get her suitcase.

The angle of light from the window coming through the living-room window told her several hours had passed; it must be late afternoon. Too bad she hadn't asked Ray to bring the bag upstairs for her, she thought, dragging it upstairs, bumping it against every step and swearing under her breath. Why had she brought so much stuff for what was supposed to be a short visit?

As she hung her change of clothes in one of the empty closets, a rumble in her stomach reminded her that she hadn't eaten lunch. She went downstairs to scratch together a meal from the canned food she had seen in the pantry: Spaghettios and canned peaches. Tomorrow, she told herself, she'd go to town and load up on as many staples as she could reasonably carry. Fresh bread, milk, eggs, vegetables.

And while there, she must look for a car rental agency. Stupid of her to have overlooked the importance of transportation, but again, she hadn't planned to stay. Even before those tasks, however, she needed to find a handyman. She could do without amenities like cable TV or a working microwave, but hot water was a necessity.

Carrying the dishes to the sink, Paisley sighed. So many things to do. And she had looked forward to doing nothing but rest. Barry was probably right. Coming here had been a foolish mistake.

Digging through her purse again, she found the repairman's business card that the real estate agent had given her. It took a few minutes to get through layers of recorded voices, but finally a receptionist answered.

"Hey, I know that old house!" The cheerful young voice could have belonged to the contractor's teenage daughter, or a college student working a summer job. Paisley pictured a teenager snapping gum and sporting hot-pink streaks in her hair. "The little white place on old Highway 30, near where the river curves around? A big oak tree in front?"

"That's right," Paisley said, trying to hide her impatience. She wanted to make an appointment, not have a leisurely chat with a stranger.

But the girl would not be hurried. "I thought so. A nice little old lady lived there. There aren't many houses on that side of town, that's why I recognized the address. Hang on, please."

Classical music filled her ear:
The Hall of the Mountain King
, by Grieg. At least the contractor Bruce Harris had good musical taste, Paisley thought.

A few minutes into the first movement, the melody broke off and the young woman returned, sounding crestfallen. "Gosh, sorry, lady, but it looks like we're all booked up. The earliest we can take you is in four weeks."

"Four weeks?" Paisley couldn't hide her incredulity.

"Sorry," the girl repeated. "This is a busy time of year for us. But there's a nice motel in town. You could stay there in the meantime."

Paisley removed her cell phone from her ear and stared at it. Ray had suggested that as well. Did everyone in this area own stock in the local motel? She put the phone back to her ear.

"That's not acceptable," she said firmly. "The only reason I came to River Bend was to stay in this particular house." Otherwise, she would be in New York right now, soaking in a bubble bath, being pampered by sympathetic friends, and taking in an occasional show at the Lincoln Center. The thought seemed appealing, and once again she wondered why she had rejected Ray and Barry's advice. Pure stubbornness, probably.

"I'm afraid you'll have to wait until we've got an opening. Maybe there will be a cancellation before then, but I can't make any promises."

"Thanks," Paisley said grudgingly, and hung up. She sat staring at the phone for a minute, massaging her neck. No way would she sit around for a month until Bruce Harris shoehorned her into his busy schedule, nor was she going to knuckle under and retreat to the local Motel 6.

Rummaging around, she found an ancient telephone book in a closet and flipped through the Yellow Pages until she found the only other home repairman listed within forty miles. The ad was nothing more than a couple of lines: the contractor's name, followed by a license number and a local phone number. It posed a stark contrast to the half-page spread for Bruce Harris. The good news was that this guy was probably less busy than Bruce, she thought. And, with luck, cheaper.

No one answered the first five rings, dousing her hopes. Then, just before the phone went to voice mail, a sleepy male voice yawned into the receiver. "Yeah? Who is this?"

For some reason Paisley didn't hang up immediately, although she had obviously dialed a wrong number. "Sorry. I was trying to reach Marvin McMurtry Construction."

Curiosity crept into the voice, which sounded slightly less sleepy. "This
is
McMurtry Construction. What do you want?"

Whoever was on the other end of the line sounded as if he were still in bed, although, when she glanced at her watch, she saw it was four o'clock in the afternoon. What kind of construction company was this? No wonder the real estate agent had recommended the competition.

With misgivings, she explained what she had in mind.

A longer silence followed. Then, "The Perleman place, huh? Sure, I know it. Exactly what kind of repairs were you thinking of?"

Her initial picture of a paunchy guy scratching a hairy armpit evaporated when she realized the male voice was younger and lighter than it had first sounded, now that it was no longer hoarse with sleep.

She remembered Ray's warning about calling a stranger from the yellow pages, but desperation spurred her on. She couldn't live in the house in its current condition, not even for a few days. "Some roof tiles need to be replaced. And the water heater doesn't work." Paisley eyed the peeling wallpaper. "Maybe some cosmetic improvements, too, if it doesn't cost too much."

"Sorry, but I can't give you a quote over the phone. I'd have to take a look at the place first." To her relief, the voice sounded brisker, more professional.

"When can you come?" she asked hopefully.

"Well, I guess I can squeeze you in, ah ..." A pause, as if he were consulting a calendar. "...How about tomorrow morning?"

A hot bath might be available sooner than she had expected. Relief filled her. "That would be perfect. I'll see you tomorrow, Marvin."

"The name's Ian," the voice corrected her abruptly. "Marvin was my father. He's dead."

Paisley stared at the phone in her palm. He had hung up.

Belatedly she realized Ian McMurtry hadn't asked for her address. But then, everyone around here seemed to know where old Miss Esther Perleman's house was located.

For better or worse, she realized with a fresh burst of surprise, by agreeing to fix up the house, she had committed herself to staying in River Bend until the repairs were finished. If only she knew
why
.

Suddenly the depression she had fought off for so long washed over her. The short nap had left her agitated, not refreshed, so she decided to leave the dishes in the sink and go to bed early. Besides, with no cable TV and no internet, there wasn't much else to do. She rummaged in her purse for the vial of painkillers.

The effect was almost immediate. It was almost more than she could do to set one foot in front of the other as she climbed the narrow wooden staircase. She left her clothes in a pile on the floor where they fell, and threw herself across the bed, vaguely hoping the sheets were not as dusty as the ones covering the furniture downstairs.

Laundry. Just one more thing to add to her list. Everything in the house needed to be washed, and she had no budget to hire someone to do it for her. Would she remember how to operate the machine? In her last coherent thoughts, she hoped once again she had not made a huge mistake.

#

Paisley moved her head away from the damp area of the pillow where she had drooled during the night and sneezed as the last remnants of the new dream dissipated. It was similar to the one she had the previous afternoon, but instead of singing onstage, she had been waltzing with a handsome bearded man at the Czar's reception at the Winter Palace, rubies sparkling at her throat, on her wrists, and in her upswept dark hair.

Bright morning light flooded through the window. She lay, blinking, enjoying the last remnants of the dream. Like the other dream, this one had been unusually vivid, so vivid she could still hear the delicate strains of the string quartet, the low rumble of conversations, the soft sound of her slippers on marble floors as she left the ballroom on the count's arm and made her way toward the waiting coach, a thick fur wrapped around her naked arms and shoulders. But this time, the dream had not disturbed her. It had enveloped her with the warmth of familiarity, as if she were returning to a time and place she already knew. It felt disconcerting to be pulled back to the present, to reality.

It took a few moments to remember where she was. Then her hand reached for her throat to touch the ruby necklace but felt nothing but the rough edges of her scar. A profound sense of loss stabbed through her, and a sob caught in her throat. She could not have said why. It was not just Jonathan's death. Not the loss of her career. It was another sorrow, one of a loss that threatened to overwhelm her. What was it?

Even as it faded, the dream seemed more real than the rumpled bed she was lying in, the goose bumps on her bare upper arms from the cool morning air, or the tousled, layered hair falling around her shoulders. Why was she so sure the dream had taken place at a Czar's reception? Or that her handsome escort was a Count? She knew nothing about Russia, had no interest in it, had never visited there. And yet she had been as certain of her surroundings in the dream as if she had actually been there.

She closed her eyes, teasing the memory from her consciousness. Again she saw the tall, high-browed Russian leader greeting his long line of guests. He had sandy side whiskers and stylish Van Dyke beard. A red satin sash crossed his chest bearing an array of medals. If she Googled Russian Czars, she suspected she would find his picture on the internet, looking just as he had in her dream.

Had the man on her arm been real too, the tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired Count who had led her to the carriage and helped her in, who had pressed his warm lips to the back of her hand? And how did she know he was a Count?

Gradually Paisley became aware of a distant pounding downstairs and realized that was the noise that had awakened her. Groggy from being wrenched away from that other world, she wondered if the sound presaged an earthquake. They had earthquakes in Northern California, didn't they? She had never experienced one before. Then she realized the sound sounded more like a fist striking wood. Someone must be banging at the front door.

She fumbled for her cell phone and checked the time. The small screen told her it was barely seven o'clock.

Grumbling, she kicked off the sheet that coiled around her legs and pushed her curls out of her face. In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her cheeks and scowled into the mirror at the purple circles under her eyes.

The hammering didn't stop. Instead, it redoubled, and small bits of brittle, curling wallpaper fluttered to the floor. Swearing under her breath, she pulled on an oversized T-shirt and sprinted downstairs as the knocking's pattern resolved itself into the slow, steady rhythm of "Shave and a Haircut."

Just before "two bits," she yanked it open, and a man's fist nearly connected with her nose. She yelped and fell back. Startled light-gray eyes stared down at her from a pale narrow face with a wide mouth, which was hanging open in an expression of surprise.

The stranger wore blue jeans and an untucked plaid shirt with one point of the collar sticking up. She almost reached out and pulled it down to make the sides even, restraining herself just in time. His shock of hair looked dusty, but then that might have been his natural hair color. A wide leather tool belt hung low around his slim hips like a gun belt, reminding Paisley vaguely of a character on an old western movie on the Turner Broadcasting Network, her favorite channel. She loved to curl up on the couch and watch old black-and-white movies and TV shows.

"I assume you're Ian McMurtry," she said finally, when the silence lengthened. One of them needed to say something eventually.

His surprised look changed to a more neutral expression, and he closed his gaping mouth. "And you must be Paisley Perleman. You took so long to answer the door that I thought you weren't home." She recognized the pleasant, tenor voice from the phone call yesterday afternoon, but today it sounded alert instead of slurred and sleepy.

She noticed he was still staring at her, and self-consciously she pulled a lock of hair forward to cover the scar on the side of her throat. "Then why did you keep knocking?"

"Because you said you'd be here."

The statement did not sound quite logical to her, but he strode past her as if she had already invited him in. Stopping in the center of the room, he angled his head around like a periscope, light-gray eyes taking in everything in the room: the scarlet Stella McCartney jacket slung across the old, striped Herculon couch, the Coach handbag lying on the scuffed coffee table. The vials of anti-anxiety pills poked out of the unzipped compartment. She’d forgotten about them when she galloped down the stairs a few moments ago.