As soon as she saw the picture on the screen, her face lit up in a smile. She’d finally found something interesting! The actor who’d played the undertaker was pushing the machine on skis across the snow. Betty followed him with the outside camera as he moved it up the steep hill and hid it behind a big pine tree. He stood on top of the hill with a kind of black box for a long time and then he walked back to the garage and came inside.
Betty felt her eyelids droop. There were no interesting movies this time of night. Perhaps there would be better television tomorrow, she thought, as she clicked off the monitor and went back to sleep.
The Caretaker was frowning as he hid the compact shortwave radio under the bed in Jack’s apartment. He’d tried to call the Old Man twice, once from the spa right after they’d found the suitcases and again from the top of the hill where he’d hidden the snowmobile. There must have been some sort of atmospheric disturbance because he’d failed to make contact either time.
Naturally, the Old Man would hit the roof, but this had been an emergency situation. There was no way his soldiers could get through to do the dirty work and they hadn’t done such a great job with Johnny, anyway. Too many loose ends.
The Caretaker’s mouth tightened into a straight line as he thought about Johnny. No loyalty, that was the problem. The Old Man had taken him out of a two-bit lounge in North Vegas and made him into a star as a favor to his father, a pal from the old country. And when Johnny had blown all his money and begged for another chance, the Old Man had set him up in the candy business. Johnny had known that holding out on the Old Man was a capital offense, but he’d tried it anyway and the Caretaker had caught him red-handed.
That was the one and only time the Caretaker had wanted to take care of a contract himself. Looking back on it, he knew he could have done a better job. It was definitely time for the Old Man to recruit some new soldiers. Perhaps they ought to contact the guys they’d hired down in New Orleans two years ago. The Marshalls had been a neat piece of work, especially since the police had written it off as a mugging with no suspects. It was unfortunate that they’d been forced to hit Charlotte Marshall, but she’d come a little too close researching her genealogy of the building and the Old Man hadn’t wanted the chain of ownership to be scrutinized. The land where Deer Creek Condos now stood had been in the Old Man’s hands for years. They’d used the old mine tunnels for storage of booze during the prohibition years and then arms and dope and the bodies of the rats who’d crossed the Old Man. Of course, everything had been cleared out when the condos were built, but the Old Man didn’t want anyone sniffing around.
Lyle Marshall had been the hard luck story of a guy who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. They’d tried several times to get Charlotte alone, but she’d stuck to her husband like a second skin and there had been no choice but to hit him, too.
Tonight there hadn’t been time to make any arrangements from the outside, or even to ask the Old Man’s advice. He couldn’t stand by twiddling his thumbs and waiting for orders while Clayton and Rachael told the others about the suitcases. Like it or not, he was on his own up here and he’d been forced to make the decision. The Old Man ought to be grateful that he’d handled the problem so competently. Perhaps it would get him that long-overdue promotion.
The Caretaker was smiling as he checked the gardening shed to make sure everything was in order, then relocked it. It was a lucky break for him that Darby hadn’t believed in natural gardening and even luckier that she’d stocked up on insecticides before her death. The skull and crossbones on the package of rose dust had given him the method, and the execution had gone off by the numbers. Poison was a quiet, hands-off solution, a way of accomplishing his task with a minimum of personal involvement. Unlike the Old Man’s soldiers, he had never been a violent man and the obvious enjoyment they took from their work had always struck him as the sign of an aberrant personality.
ELEVEN
Ellen glanced at the clock on the living room wall. It was past three in the morning and Walker was gone. But where was he? She was beginning to worry.
The wine had relaxed her, just as Walker had promised, and she’d fallen asleep the minute her head had touched the pillow. Then, almost an hour ago, a nightmare had jolted her from her sleep. Ellen remembered the dream vividly, even though she tried not to dwell on it.
She was all alone, walking down a path through a graveyard late at night. The moonlight cast dark black shadows on the path. She was wearing her favorite pajamas, the pink flannel ones with white elephants that her mother had given her when she was a child, but the sandals she’d bought last summer were on her feet.
Her footsteps were loud in the quiet night, a crunching of gravel beneath her feet. Frightened, she glanced behind her to make sure no one was following. She wasn’t certain why she was in this graveyard, but she knew that she had to follow the path, and that it was leading her deeper and deeper among the towering headstones.
The night breeze was cold and she wrapped her arms around her chest, unsure whether she was shivering from the chill wind or from fear. Then, as she passed a carved marble headstone with angels surrounding a name she couldn’t quite read, the earth below her feet trembled and split apart. A bony hand reached up from the yawning black abyss to fasten around her ankle. As it began to drag her down, Ellen woke up with a scream.
Of course, she’d known it was a dream, a perfectly natural reaction to everything that had happened today. The avalanche. Being trapped under the workbench. Finding that hand in the pool. She’d switched on the light and gone to the guest room, hoping to find Walker still awake, but he was gone.
Ellen shivered. The terror of the dream was still with her. Even though she’d turned on every light in the living room, vestiges of terror were difficult to dispel at this time of the night. Familiar objects like the mirror over the fireplace and her denim doll in the corner took on an eerie quality when the darkness closed in and there was nothing but the yellow glare of incandescent bulbs to vanquish it.
Ellen despised the night. It was the loneliest time and she’d always been lonely, even as a child, set apart at birth, the misfit in a long line of beautiful people. Her mother had wanted a golden-haired doll to dress up and show off to her friends. Instead, she’d ended up with a baby ostrich, too shy to curtsy and sing a song for the grown-ups, too clumsy to dance in patent leather shoes and a frilly dress, and too tall to cuddle on a lap and chuck under the chin. Ellen had been a misfit all her life and she was a misfit here, too. If there had been any doubt in her mind, Johnny had proven it.
Even though she tried not to think about it, Ellen’s mind turned back to the night, six months ago, when all her dreams had been shattered. And as she remembered everything in detail, it was exactly as if it were happening all over again.
Johnny arrived at eight with a bottle of champagne to celebrate Vegas Dolls’ new contract with Knock-offs, an upscale clothing chain with over two thousand shops. While Johnny opened the wine, Ellen went to get the lovely champagne glasses that had belonged to Aunt Charlotte. They were Waterford crystal and Ellen held her breath every time she washed them.
Johnny filled both glasses and lifted his in a toast. “You look different tonight, Babe. New dress?”
“Yes. Vanessa helped me pick it out.” Spots of color appeared in Ellen’s cheeks as Johnny looked at her appraisingly. She knew the dress was perfect, a pale blue designer silk that draped softly over her shoulders and transformed her sharp angles into an oriental mystery of curves. The saleswoman had sighed when she’d taken Ellen’s measurements. Her waist curved in as a woman’s should, but her hips were slim and boyish, and her bustline wasn’t really there at all. The designer had relied on quite a bit of padding.