Valentine (33 page)

“Yeah. Listen, I’ve got to check in with Barney Fleck, so—”

“Oh, he sent the security people Monday, and I let them into your place. You now have an alarm system.”

“Great. Say hi to Nate for me.”

“Haven’t you spoken to him?”

“Not in a couple of days. It’s hard to talk to him without telling him about—you know, everything that’s been going on.”

“I think you should tell him, Jill.”

“I will—soon. Gotta go. ‘Bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Tara waved to him from the table in the corner of the crowded restaurant on lower Broadway. He grinned, taking in the sight of the potted palms and garish tropical murals that were the decor for this trendy West Indian place. Calypso music formed a background for the buzz of voices in the room. He made his way through the tables and dropped into the rattan chair across from hers at the bright yellow wicker table.

Tara took one look at him and began to laugh. “You have paint on your face.”

He raised a hand to his cheek. “It’s not paint, it’s stain. I’ve been working on the frames for the paintings. Thank you for calling. I was going a little crazy.”

“It’s the fumes.”

“Probably. How are you, Tara?”

“Oh, fine. Let’s have piña coladas, okay?”

“Sure.” He signaled to the waitress in the flower-print muumuu, and they ordered. “Have you seen Doug lately?”

“No,” Tara said. “I was about to ask you the same question. He canceled our date the other night.”

“Hmmm. Well, he mentioned a job the other day, some magazine layout, or something. . . .”

“Oh, don’t worry, Nate. I’m sure he’ll explain. That’s not why I asked you here.”

“Oh?”

The drinks arrived. He took a sip, wincing at the sweetness of the frothy coconut-and-pineapple concoction. Tara nearly drained hers.

“Yeah,” she went on. “I’m afraid I’m going to meddle, but I think it’s the right thing to do. I know you’re busy getting ready for your show, but—well, it’s about Jill.”

He leaned forward, lowering his glass to the table. “What about her? Is she all right? Where the hell is she?”

Tara raised a hand to stop the barrage of questions. Then she told him.

He sat there in the rattan chair in the silly, chi-chi restaurant on lower Broadway, listening to the whole story. The break-in. The jewelry box. The bug on the phone. The listening device under the couch. The music on the stereo. Then she told him what she’d
gleaned from Jill’s conversation with the detective, Barney Heck. Victor Dimorta killed his parents, and Jill thought he’d killed these three other girls she went to college with. The four of them had played some kind of practical joke on him, and he’d been systematically killing them. On Valentine’s Day.

For a moment he couldn’t move as the room whirled around him. Then he was on his feet leaning down, his hands clutching the edges of the wicker table. “Where is she, Tara?”

She shook her head. “I—I don’t know. But Mary does. The other day, she said that Mary suggested it to her.”

“Thanks for the drink, but I couldn’t possibly eat now. I—I’ve got to call Mary.”

“I thought you should know about this, Nate.”

“Thanks. You did the right thing.” He was already heading toward the door.

After lunch, Jill called Barney Fleck’s office. The secretary answered on the second ring.

“Fleck Agency.”

“Hello, Mrs. Poole, this is Jill Talbot. I was wondering if Mr. Fleck was back from Pennsylvania yet.”

“No, Ms. Talbot, he’s not. He said he might not be back until today. But he called Tuesday with some information for you. . . .”

She listened as the woman relayed Barney’s message.
Then Jill thanked her and hung up. She sat in the living room of the house by the lake, staring into the fire.

Plastic surgery. Victor Dimorta had a new face.

She actually smiled when she thought of the second part of Barney’s message: stay put until after Valentine’s Day.

Yes, Barney, she thought. I certainly will. Trust me. I’m not going
anywhere!

The framer was in the studio downstairs, hammering and sanding. He put his free hand over his ear to block out the racket.

“Hello, Mary, it’s Nate.”

“Hi, Nate. How are you coming with the paintings?”

“Oh, fine, fine. Listen, Mary, I want to know where Jill is.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line before the agent replied. “Gosh, Nate, she’d kill me! She said nobody was to—”

“I know what she said. But I think—well, I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but I think she may be in danger.”

Another pause. You mean, this ‘Valentine’ guy?”

“Yeah. He’s done some other stuff, stuff she didn’t tell us about.” He told her, briefly, about the break-in and the listening devices.

“Oh, my God! I had no idea, Nate. That’s awful!”

There was a sudden, loud hammering from downstairs. In frustration, he reached over and slammed his apartment door. “Listen, I want you to tell me where she is. I’d just feel better if I was with her. I’ve got to put my pictures in the gallery tomorrow, but after that I can go to her. Is she far away?”

Mary didn’t hesitate this time. “No. Just a sec.” He heard rustling papers. “She’s with some friends of ours at a writers’ colony on Long Island. Peconic Writing Colony. It’s way the hell out, at the end of the North Fork. You know where that is?”

He uttered a sigh of relief. “I can find it. Thanks, Mary.”

“Nate, are the police in on this?”

“Oh, God, Mary. We went to the police. They couldn’t do anything because he hadn’t committed an actual crime.”

“Well, if he broke into her apartment—”

“Yeah, I know. But then she took off, you see, without telling anyone anything.”

“That sounds like Jill, all right. Actually, I’m glad she’s there, Nate: the whole city seems to be going crazy. I’ve just been reading about that doctor who was murdered the other day, that psychologist.”

“I haven’t seen the papers in about a week.”

“Well, it was right near her, in the Village. So, can you go out there tomorrow night?”

“Yeah, just as soon as I’m finished at the gallery.”

“Okay. Say hello for me.”

“I will, Mary. ‘Bye.”

He hung up, nearly shaking with relief. Okay, he told himself, calm down. Do your work. You’ll be with her tomorrow night. He thought about finding the phone number of the Peconic Writing Colony and calling her, but immediately dismissed it. She’d argue again. He’d simply arrive there, and that was that.

Then he thought, bugs? Listening devices? What the hell . . .?

Shaking his head in confusion, he went back down to the studio to see to the framing.

The new arrival joined them just before dinner.

Jill had been sitting in the comfortable armchair by the fire all afternoon, gazing into the flames and exercising her most effective defense mechanism: she was formulating a new story.

The desire to work had come upon her suddenly, almost the moment she actually made the decision about Nate and the baby. She found it fascinating that her mind worked that way: solve one problem, and the others immediately seem clearer as well. Even Victor Dimorta was remote, so far removed from this peaceful, relaxing place. Now that she was certain of what the future held for her, everything seemed possible. She would accept Nate’s proposal,
and she would have the baby. She would talk with Barney Fleck soon, and together they’d do something about Valentine.

But now, she would start a new novel, and she knew just what kind of book it would be. It would be set in Nate’s world, the East Village art scene. Nate had made a joke recently, an offhand remark about some artist who would be worth more dead than alive. She’d laughed at the time, but she’d also been aware of that little alarm bell that rang in her mind when ideas came along, and she’d filed it away in her memory. Thinking so much of Nate and his upcoming show had reminded her of it.

So . . . a young woman, a painter . . . her mentor, a well-known artist . . . a mysterious accident . . . a series of other “accidents” . . .

She was just beginning to elaborate, to formulate the whole international conspiracy, when the door behind her was flung open and a blast of icy wind shot into the room. She clutched her arms to her, shivering, as she turned to look.

Mike Feldman marched in, carrying a medium-sized brown suitcase. He turned to call behind him.

“Right this way, and you’ll be warm in no time!”

Then, in walked one of the most attractive men Jill Talbot had ever seen. He was tall, very tall and slender, with black hair and dark eyes. Dark brown,
belted camel hair coat. A brown hat, one of those handsome things men wore in the forties.

This thought was immediately followed by a guilty twinge. Nate. Oh, well, Nate is really as good-looking as this guy. But he isn’t here to defend himself. She silently berated herself for her disloyalty.

Mike clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder and brought him over. “Jillian Talbot, meet Mr. Richard Farnum.”

She smiled and extended her hand. “How do you do?”

He was staring at her, and now that she was closer to him she could see that his handsomeness, though considerable, was not exactly perfect. There was a tightness about his face, a rather haggard look, as if he hadn’t been sleeping well lately. But the single most arresting thing about him was the expression in his large brown eyes: she looked into them and saw a stricken, soulful quality that filled her with an inexplicable sense of sadness. It also made him seem even more attractive than before, which further disconcerted her.

Then he smiled, and her brief impression of sorrow vanished in a dazzling display of laugh lines and even, white teeth.

“Hello,” he said, taking her hands in his. “I’m honored to meet you, Ms. Talbot. I’m a big fan of yours.”
She blushed, feeling the waves of warmth that seemed to emanate from him. “Really?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve read all of your books.”

“Oh.” She continued to smile vacuously, never certain how to reply to that particular, and increasingly frequent, confession from strangers. “How nice,” she finally offered, wincing at her own dullness.

He grinned again, and her awkwardness seemed to vanish.

Then Mike took each of them by the arm. “Come along, children. Cocktail time!”

Mike Feldman poured him a beer as he took off his hat, coat, and gloves. He stood there at the little bar in the corner near the kitchen, looking around him. Only with a conscious effort did he avoid openly staring at the woman who stood next to him.

When the three glasses were ready, he took the orange juice from the counter and handed it to her. She smiled, and their eyes met. Then he picked up one of the two draft beers, and the three of them clinked glasses across the bar.

“Mud in your eye!” Mike Feldman boomed.

“Cheers,” she murmured.

“Happy days,” he whispered.

As they drank, he could feel her gaze on him, curious, questioning. He looked over at her and smiled again.

“So,” she said, “what do you write, Mr. Farnum?”

“Richard,” he corrected. “I’m a mystery writer—at least, that’s the plan. I’ve just started my first story, and I want to see if I can finish it.”

She laughed, nodding. “I know the feeling. Is it a detective story, or—?”

“Yes,” he said. “My detective is a football player. A quarterback who kind of gets involved in—well, I guess you don’t want to hear all that. . . .”

“Do you play football?” Mike asked as he led them over toward the fire.

“I did. You know, in high school.” He continued to stand as Jillian Talbot returned to her former place in an armchair, and Mike dropped into a nearby chair. He looked around the big room, smiling. Pretty, he thought. Comfortable. Then he looked down at the beautiful woman. “Are you working on a new book, Ms. Talbot?”

She smiled up at him, and her dark hair glinted in the firelight. “It’s Jill—Richard. And, as a matter of fact, I was just dreaming something up when you folks arrived.”

He laughed as he once again surveyed the room. “Yeah, I guess it comes naturally, in a place as peaceful as this. It’s so secluded here. Kind of amazing: a two-hour train ride, and New York could be on the next planet! I have trouble writing in the city.”

She nodded, smiling again. She has a lovely smile, he thought.

“I know
that
feeling, too, Richard,” she said. “Too many distractions.”

Mike Feldman laughed. “That’s the whole point behind this place. All the peace and quiet a writer needs. Except tomorrow night, of course. We’re having a party here, but it’s only a temporary distraction. I have a big collection of oldies: I hope you both like to dance.”

“I sure do,” he said. Then he turned to Jill. “May I look forward to a dance with you?”

“Why, yes,” she said. “That would be lovely.” She smiled when she said it. Yes, he thought: a lovely smile.

A dance, Jill thought. Yes. I’ve been so worried lately, so distracted. Gwen’s party will be just the thing. Loosen up, Talbot. You’re safe; you’re with friends; nobody else knows where you are.