Valentine (6 page)

“What?” Jill said, clamping down on the fork before Tara could once more fill her mouth. “What happened to her?”

“
This
. Same song, second verse.” Tara leaned back in her chair. “Anonymous notes. Phone calls in the middle of the night. Someone kept sending her messages, like, ‘I want you, and if I can’t have you, I’m going to kill you.’ Then, one day, she went back to her dressing room after a taping and found her street
clothes slashed to ribbons.” She leaned forward, dropping her voice to a whisper. “And her undies were gone!”

Jill’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God!”

“Yeah,” Tara said. “Cute, huh? Well, for the next few days, we had these police officers all over the studio. They escorted her to and from work, staked out her apartment, the whole bit. Unfortunately, nothing happened. And they finally dropped it. It wasn’t their fault, really. I mean, this
is
New York, and the cops have lots to do. So, Betty hired this guy, this private eye. Nobody else knew about it. We were told he was a new associate producer. Two days later he caught someone in her dressing room, stealing more undies.”

“Wow,” Jill whispered. “What did they do to him?”

Tara registered confusion. “Him who?”

“The guy who stole her undies.”

Once again, Tara leaned forward. “My dear, it wasn’t a guy. It was the prop girl, of all things.”

Jill shook her head in disbelief. “I’ve never heard of that. I know quite a few lesbians, and none of them would ever—”

“Oh, she wasn’t a lesbian.” Tara waved her hand dismissively and reached again for her fork. “You see, Betty was dating one of the cameramen on the show. Before her, he’d been with the prop girl, and
she gat pregnant. So he dropped her and took up with poor Betty, who knew nothing about any of it. Prince Charming, right? The girl was trying to freak Betty off of the show so she could get back with him. That’s when we
knew
she was crazy! But, hey, she does a great job with the props.”

“You mean she’s still
there?
” Jill’s eyes widened.

Tara speared another ravioli. “Sure. Betty didn’t press charges. Gave the cameraman a black eye, though. In front of the entire company! He was canned, and the girl got a raise. She just had the baby, a little girl, and she and Betty are pals. Now she’s dating one of the writers—the prop girl, not Betty.” She smiled and popped the pasta into her mouth.

The story, bizarre though it was, bordered on the ridiculous. Jill restrained herself from laughing. “So, what’s your point?”

The fork clattered down onto Tara’s plate, and her smile disappeared. “My
point
is this: don’t screw around. Okay, it’s just a weirdo card, and maybe you’ll never hear from—whoever—again. But you don’t
know
that. You say you’re nervous? You’re
right
to be nervous! Betty was lucky. Her wacko wasn’t really a wacko, just a mixed-up, flaky girl who was pregnant and desperate. But that didn’t stop Betty from replacing the Mace in her purse.” She glanced around at the nearby tables and leaned forward, lowering
her voice. “Now she carries a little friend around in there. It answers to the name Lady Wesson.”

Jill shut her eyes and turned her face away. “I can’t do that. That’s not an option; it’s not the kind of person I am.”

“Yeah,” Tara said, nodding sagely. “That’s what Betty said. At first.”

“How about you?” Jill cried. Then, as the waiter arrived with dessert menus, she, too, leaned forward to whisper. “Could you ever do that?”

A slow smile came to Tara’s lips. She reached back, unhooked her shoulder bag from the back of her chair, and held it out.

“Care to look in there?” she said.

Jill stared.

“Okay,” her friend said, putting the bag back on her chair. “I guess we’ll wait on that. But at least tell the police. So they have it on record.”

“You have a
gun?
” Jill was still assimilating this. “Has—has anything like that ever happened to you?”

Before Tara could answer, the waiter handed them the menus. Then he held out a small notepad and pen. “Ms. Summers, I don’t want to bother you, but I’m your biggest fan. Could I have your autograph?”

The actress produced a smile that could light New York City, signed the pad, and handed it back. The waiter thanked her and hurried away. The two
women watched him go. Then Jill watched as her friend sat back and grinned across the table.

“Hey,” Tara said, “you never know.”

Gloria Price came into Jillian Talbot’s apartment and took off her plaid winter coat, the one Lou had surprised her with last Christmas. It was a combination Christmas/thirtieth-anniversary present, not merely attractive but surprisingly warm as well. She loved wearing it, because of the warmth and because of what it represented. She smiled to herself, thinking, now that both kids have kids of their own, Lou finds reasons to spoil me. I’m his surrogate child. And he’s mine.

That’s why she was here today. They both had nine-to-five jobs, and on Saturday afternoons she cleaned apartments in several neighborhood buildings for extra cash. Lou was retiring next year, and they were moving to Florida. She was saving up for his new golf clubs.

She glanced over at the coat closet next to the front door. Then, with a shrug, she dropped the coat onto the couch and headed for the kitchen. Florida, she thought, chuckling. I won’t need the beautiful coat much longer: next Christmas, he should buy me a bathing suit!

This was her favorite of the apartments she cleaned. It was certainly the most attractive, and she liked
Jillian Talbot. The other two “professional women” whose places she did were nags, and that was a fact. But Jill Talbot was always cheerful, always friendly, and she was wise enough to leave the cleaning decisions to a woman who’d been cleaning since before Jill was born. She paid the best, too. And now Gloria had signed copies of all her books. Good books, Gloria thought: a little scary for her taste, but fun.

She reached in the utility closet next to the refrigerator for the vacuum cleaner, then rummaged under the sink for furniture polish and glass cleaner. She was about to go into the bedroom when she glanced at the microwave oven above the range, glanced at her watch, and made a decision. She took a mug from the rack near the sink, filled it with tap water, and opened the overhead cabinet containing the instant coffee.

She had slammed the microwave door shut and was removing her hand from the control panel when she stopped, arrested by a faint sound from the living room behind her. She stood still a moment, listening. She glanced at her watch again. Perhaps Jill had finished dinner early, and was returning. . . .

She turned around and went over to the pass-, through, peering out into the dim living room. The sun was about to set, and little light came through the windows from the gray afternoon outside. Some instinct made her reach over and flip on the kitchen
light switch. The ceiling globe came on, and with a small buzzing sound the fluorescent lighting under the cabinets winked to attention. Oh, well, she thought. Get to work. Just as the microwave alarm rang, she turned back to the oven and reached in for the steaming mug.

The second time Gloria Price heard a sound from the living room behind her, she knew she was not imagining things. It was a small, distinct click.

“Jill, is that you?” she called.

Silence.

She cocked her head, and her eyebrows came together in what Lou described as her “computer mode.” She set the mug down on the counter, turned around again, and walked out into the darkened living room.

It was early evening when the two women stepped out of the cab and hurried into the brightly lit foyer. Jill was ready with her door key, but Tara turned immediately to her mailbox.

“Ah! Letter from my kid brother!” Tara announced with a smile, looking up just in time to see Jill reach out for her own mailbox but then draw her hand back, hesitating. Her smile faded.

Both women stood there, silently regarding the little brass square immediately next to Tara’s. Bracing herself, ignoring the sudden chill that ran through
her, Jill inserted the key in the box, opened it, and stuck her hand inside.

The envelope was not pink this time, but white. They stared down at it for a moment, noting the stamp and the postmark an4 the neatly (typed name and address, and the lack of a return address. Then Tara snatched it from Jill and tore it open.

It was a home-made card, folded white construction paper. On the cover was the outline of a heart crudely drawn with a pink crayon. Inside the heart, perfectly centered, was the typed message:

ROSES ARE RED,

VIOLETS ARE BLUE,

SUGAR IS SWEET . . .

Tara opened the card and held it up so both of them could see the rest.

. . . AND I’M STILL WATCHING YOU.

LOVE,

VALENTINE

They rode up in the elevator in complete silence. Tara was still holding the card and envelope, and
there was no question of her getting off at the sixth floor and going into her own apartment. Jill closed her eyes as they ascended, trying to assess how she felt. There was no fear now: the shock had only been the first time. She wasn’t shaking. She wasn’t even angry. She was merely feeling . . . what? She cast around for the right word as the elevator stopped at her foyer. She walked up to her door and reached out to insert the key in the lock, and the word came . to her.
Distaste
.

The door flew open.

With a small cry, Jill dropped her keys and stepped backward, colliding with Tara, whose hand was already inside her shoulder bag.

Gloria Price stood before them in a loud plaid winter coat, gaping, obviously as surprised to see them as they were to see her.

“Oh!” she cried, raising a gloved hand to her heart. “Oh, dear, you gave me a fright! I didn’t hear the elevator.”

Gloria hurried home through the chill evening, and she knew her shaking was not from the cold. That creepy feeling that had come over her in the kitchen had set her nerves on end, and she’d rushed through her duties, giving the apartment only a perfunctory cleaning. And all the while she’d switched on lights
and glanced over her shoulder, unable to shake the mood. Then, as she was making a swift getaway, she’d thrown open the door and found the two women standing there, and she’d nearly jumped out of her skin.

She shivered again as she turned quickly toward her home on Bedford, glad that she’d decided not to tell Jill about the apartment door. Jill always left the deadbolt unlocked on Saturday afternoons. Gloria didn’t have a key for it, did not want a key for it. But that was no excuse. She should always lock the deadbolt once she was inside, to prevent exactly what had happened. She’d obviously left the door ajar. Because that is what she’d heard from the kitchen: the distinct click of the front door closing.

They sat in silence for a long time. Finally, Tara went into the kitchen and emerged a few minutes later with chamomile tea. Jill looked up, smiling weakly as her friend handed her a mug.

“The police,” Tara said. “Tomorrow.”

Jill nodded. She took a sip of warm, sweet tea. Then she got up and went into the office to call Nate.

“The police. Tomorrow.”

He watched as Jillian Talbot nodded and accepted the tea that was held out to her. The other woman
sat. After a moment, Jillian Talbot got up from the couch and disappeared into the back of the apartment. Then the other tape machine, the one on the table next to him, came to life. He dropped the one set of headphones and reached for the other. There was the clicking sound of electronic dialing, followed by two rings, then:

“Nathaniel Levin Studio.”

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Howdy. I was just about to call you. I’m going over to the gallery. Henry wants to set up some things, and then he and his new boyfriend are taking the soon-to-be-famous artist out to dinner.”

“Oh. That’s nice. Umm, Nate—”

“You don’t remember his name, do you?”

“Whose name?”

“The new boyfriend.”

“Uh, John, I think. Listen, Nate—”

Pause. The recorder hissed.

“What is it, Jill? What—”

“I got another one. Another valentine. In the mail.”

Long pause. An expulsion of breath, followed by Nate’s muttered “Jesus.” His voice was perceptibly lower now, low and angry. “Is Tara with you?”

“Yeah, she’s here.”

“Okay. Let me call Henry and cancel. Five minutes.”

Click. Nate had obviously thrown down the phone.
Another click as Jillian Talbot replaced her receiver, and the machine stopped. He reached for the other headset.

Jillian Talbot came back into the front room. The two women sat there, the card and the envelope on the table in front of them, until the Honda roared to a stop in the street outside and Nate joined them. He watched them for a while through the binoculars. Everybody paced and talked and picked up the two envelopes and put them down again. Finally, Tara Summers went downstairs. It wasn’t until after she’d left that Jillian Talbot at last went into her lover’s arms, leaned against him, and wept.

He removed the headset, leaned back in the armchair and closed his eyes. At least all the machinery was working. After what he’d gone through to get it in place . . .