Valentine (23 page)

“Sharon Williams was trying to break into the movie business. You know, screenplays. She’d actually sold a story idea to one of the studios, but the picture was never made. Three years ago, she disappeared. Walked out of her apartment in L.A. and vanished. Never seen again. I spoke to her mother. The family is very rich, and they offered a big reward.
The L.A. police got hundreds of tips—you know, sightings, confessions, the whole bit—but none of them led to anything. One of her friends told the cops that Sharon was very popular with the men, that she’d been dating a couple of guys, and maybe she’d run off with one of them. Apparently, the boyfriends were found and questioned, but they didn’t know anything, either. The father, Walter Williams, became obsessed. Every time there was the slightest lead, he’d follow it up personally. Flew all over the country, and twice to Europe. Nothing. He’d been in ill health even before his daughter took off, and this didn’t help. Six months after her disappearance, he died of a massive heart attack. On a plane to . . .”—Barney consulted his notes —“. . . Atlanta. Somebody there claimed to have seen her. Sharon is still missing.”

Jill curled her legs up under her, suddenly cold, and clutched her coffee mug tightly in both hands. She wondered how she had managed to miss this apparently national news. Then she remembered that Nate had confessed he’d never heard about Stacy Green, the fashion model who’d been married to Doug Baron, and that had been front-page headline stuff. When she was writing, she often went for days, even weeks, without any interruption from the outside world. After a moment of silence, she whispered, “And the others?”

She was getting to know Barney well, she thought as she watched him. His big, friendly face was the proverbial open book. He was worried. For me, she told herself. He’s worried for me. . . .

Barney cleared his throat, took a sip of coffee, and continued. “Yeah, well, it’s pretty strange. Belinda Rosenberg—or, I should say, Belinda Kessler—is dead.”

Jill looked up sharply. “Dead?”

“Yeah. Two years ago. But it wasn’t anything like—well, you know, what we were thinking. It was an accident. A skiing accident, at one of those fancy lodges in Colorado. She fell off a cliff while she and a couple of friends were trying to do some famous slope called Dead Man’s something-or-other. It was stupid of her, her husband said, because they weren’t that good, they shouldn’t have tried it in the first place. The trail had a nasty section about halfway down, where it was just a few yards from a sheer cliff face. She apparently hit a patch of ice on the snow and lost control. She fell about three hundred feet. The friends didn’t even find out about it until they reached the bottom. That’s what her husband told me—and we were lucky to find him. Belinda married him and moved to Boulder four years after she graduated, and Verna called all the Rosenbergs in Buffalo until she found Belinda’s parents. The husband was upset, of course, so I didn’t press him for
details. The ski resort is very famous, and they managed to keep publicity to a minimum. It didn’t get much play in the news.”

“How awful,” Jill whispered, guilt flooding through her. She actually blushed: someone she’d known had died in a senseless accident, and all she could feel was relief. She must not allow this ordeal to make her become self-absorbed. To cover her embarrassment, she pressed on. “You didn’t—you didn’t tell any of these people, you know, why we were asking about—”

“Of course not,” Barney assured her. “I just said an old classmate from Hartley was thinking of having a party, a sort of reunion thing, and had asked me to locate everyone. They accepted that.”

She nodded. “Okay. What about Cass MacFarland?”

Barney put down his notes and leaned back in his chair. “Ah. There I hit a dead end. I have no idea. The address in the yearbook was in Montclair, New Jersey, but she’s not there anymore. Verna tried their town hall, but all she found out was that both the parents and Cassandra had moved away. She was married for a while, but she was divorced before she left town. No forwarding. Same with her ex-husband.” He leaned forward. “You don’t remember anyone else who might know, do you? Friends or relatives?”

Jill thought about it for a moment, then shook her
head. “No. She mentioned an older brother a couple of times, but I don’t think she ever told me his name or where he lived. He was estranged from the parents, I seem to recall. He’d run away from home, or something like that. I don’t remember anyone else. . . .”

“Hmmm,” the detective said.

He’s a big one for grunting, Jill thought, remembering the little noises he’d made throughout their interview with Mrs. Sanchez in the flower shop. She imagined she could almost hear his mind working.

“So,” she said at last. “Where does that put me?”

He grimaced. “Square one, I’m afraid. One of your three friends is dead, but it was accidental. Another disappeared—for any one of a thousand reasons, I suppose. And the third simply moved: she could be anywhere. We have no reason to think this idiot who’s so interested in you is Victor Dimorta, and we
know
it’s not your stepfather.” He leaned forward, studying her face. “Any other ideas? Anything at all? An ex-boyfriend, a fan at one of your public appearances, some writer who’s jealous of your success? No matter how wild it is.”

Jill shrugged. “I only had two steady boyfriends before Nate. One, an editor I worked with, turned out to be gay—he and his lover just bought a house in Westchester. The other one is now married, and they’re expecting their second child. Both relationships
ended amicably, and neither man is even remotely wacko material. I’ve never noticed any particular fans: I don’t do that many signings. And if any other writer is jealous of me, I have no idea who it could be. Sorry.”

After a moment, Barney grunted again. “Okay, so we’re flying blind. We don’t know who he is or what he’ll do next. I suggest you may want to leave New York for a while. Think about it. If you hear from him again, you’re leaving, understand?”

“I’ve already considered that possibility,” Jill told him. “In fact, that’s what I’m planning.”

“Where will you go?”

She smiled. “Never mind now. If it comes to that, I’ll let you know.” She continued to smile even as she told the lie. She wasn’t going to tell him or anyone else in her orbit where she was going. It might be dangerous—for them as well as for her.

Barney nodded and rose from his seat. He pulled a card from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. “Fair enough. In the meantime, my home number is on the back of this card. Anytime, day or night, you call me. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said.

He watched as Jillian handed Barney Fleck his coat. Then the detective left the apartment across the street, and she was once again alone.

Okay, he thought. What now? He would have to come up with an idea of some kind. It was imperative that she know what she was dealing with—and with whom.

He could call her. . . .

No.

Nate? Or Tara?

No.

The detective . . .?

No!
That would be dangerous. That detective could ruin the whole thing. And the plan couldn’t be ruined. Not now. He’d worked too long and too hard.

And he didn’t have much time. . . .

He sat in the armchair by the window for the rest of the afternoon, thinking. The next time he became aware of his surroundings and looked out the window, it was already evening, and Nate was arriving across the street on his motorcycle.

The restaurant on the ground floor of Jill’s apartment building was a genuine, old-fashioned Greenwich Village pub, complete with cross-beams and long oak bar and leaded glass windows. For many years it had been the famous Blue Mill Tavern, but it was now under new ownership. A bit brighter, a bit more trendy, perhaps, but still a lovely place to enjoy a good meal surrounded by the attractive, upper-middle-class artists and writers and performers and
businesspeople who are the main population of this part of town.

Despite her apparent composure, Jill was not having a good time. They had come out of the building and walked the few short steps to the restaurant entrance. The bartender waved a greeting, and the waitress, who also recognized them as regular customers, immediately showed them to their favorite table in the corner. Jill was having ginger ale, and she watched Nate playing with the swizzle stick in his whisky sour. She looked from his hands up to his face, wondering for the thousandth time whether she should just say yes to his proposal. She wondered if she should tell him about the baby. Of course, if he knew about it he might insist on marriage. Either that or disappear: men could be unpredictable about these things, or so she’d been told. She’d never been in this position before.

No, she decided. He wouldn’t disappear. In their ten months together, he’d proved himself to be a gentleman. And he loved her: she was certain of that. He never mentioned the women he’d presumably been involved with before her, but he’d told her several times that he’d never loved a woman as he loved her. Thinking of her own earlier affairs, she realized that they had that, among so many other things, in common.

Then she thought of the other, more immediate
problem she was keeping from him. It had been Mary who’d spilled the beans to him about the roses. Jill had decided not to tell him for a very good reason. He would become angry and worried—which he had done—and this was not good for him. Not now. He was an artist getting ready for his second show. She’d seen the paintings: this collection could put him on the map, artistically speaking. The last thing he needed in his life right now was any kind of distraction. She knew that from her own experience. Writing and publishing were time-consuming enough without—

Writing. Another problem, as if she needed one. She wasn’t writing anything. She was going to have to start all over again. . . .

Oh, damn you! she thought as she reached for her soda. Damn you, Valentine! Whoever you are. Damn you and your stupid, nasty pranks.

But they weren’t pranks. She knew that now: whatever doubts she’d entertained before had vanished forever the moment she’d looked down to see the dead rat on her living room floor. She remembered her certainty as she’d stared down, filled with dread, at the vapid magazine article. This person was serious.

So, she’d come to one decision. Only one, she thought ruefully, counting the number of other decisions she would have to make in the very near future.
Sometime in the next few days she would disappear temporarily. A week, maybe ten days. She’d have to be back in time for Nate’s opening: nothing was going to keep her from that. But she would get away for a while to think about all this. The baby. The possibility of marriage. A new novel. Valentine. Everything.

She nearly smiled. What had Dr. Philbin said? Decide to decide. . . .

She looked up at Nate again. He was watching her, a quizzical expression on his face. She smiled at him, thinking, I’m not going to tell him where I’m going, or even
that
I’m going. I’m not going to tell anyone.

“Hello?” Nate said, grinning. “Anybody home?”

“Yes,” she said, grinning back. “I’m here.”

For the rest of the meal, she concentrated exclusively on him. She pushed the dark thoughts from her mind. She barely paid attention to her food. And she did not even notice the lone man who sat with his back to them two tables away.

He finished his coffee, paid the bill, and went out of the restaurant. Jillian and Nate had already left several minutes before, so he had no need for caution. He crossed the street and went up to his room across from her apartment. He removed the curly blond wig, the mustache, and the thick, nonprescription
glasses and dropped them on the table next to the recorder.

They were in the living room, and Tara had joined them. He listened as the actress told them about her date next Tuesday evening. Then Tara went back downstairs to her home on the sixth floor, and Jillian and Nate had a brief conversation alone. He asked her if she was feeling okay, and she said yes. She mentioned the missed appointment with the analyst, and then he told her that he had to be up early tomorrow, something about framing his paintings. He offered to stay the night if she wanted him to, but she shook her head and said no, that he should be at his studio in the morning when the framer arrived. They kissed, and then Nate left. A few minutes later the roar of his motorcycle filled the street for a moment, then quickly faded as he rode away.

Jillian Talbot was alone for the night.

He sat in the armchair, watching her, his new plan slowly forming in his mind.

Yes, he thought. Yes.

He knew what he was going to do next.

The music was coming from somewhere far away, and at first she couldn’t place it. Lush chords from a jazz combo, the lonely wail of a saxophone, and a woman singing in a low, achingly beautiful voice. It made her sad, this song, but it also made her feel uneasy
.

The other three were dancing, swirling slowly around a large, dimly lit room as the music washed over them. They were in long, flowing, identically designed but differently colored chiffon gowns: pale blue for the blonde, pale pink for the brunette, and pale yellow for the redhead. Overhead spotlights shone straight down, forming pools of bright white light in the darkness. The graceful, pastel-shaded forms of the women moved sinuously in time to the music, gliding in and out of her view as they danced from light to shadow, light to shadow. She had not joined them on the floor, but was seated instead on a hard metal chair at a large round table before a wall of glass. She turned from watching the women to gaze out over the snowy, moonlit landscape stretching endlessly away from her on the other side of the windows.