Jenny stepped around the body and went to the counter by the sink. She touched the head of cabbage and was startled to find that it was still chilled. It hadn't been here on the cutting board any longer than an hour or so.
She turned away from the counter and looked down at Hilda again, but with even greater dread than before.
The woman had died within the past hour. The body might even still be warm to the touch.
But what had killed her?
Jenny was no closer to an answer now than she had been before she'd examined the body. And although disease didn't seem to be the culprit here, she couldn't rule it out. The possibility of contagion, though remote, was frightening.
Hiding her concern from Lisa, Jenny said, “Come on, honey. I can use the phone in my office.”
“I'm feeling better now,” Lisa said, but she got up at once, obviously eager to go.
Jenny put an arm around the girl, and they left the kitchen.
An unearthly quiet filled the house. The silence was so deep that the whisper of their footsteps on the hall carpet was thunderous by contrast.
Despite overhead fluorescent lights, Jenny's office wasn't a stark, impersonal room like those that many physicians preferred these days. Instead, it was an old-fashioned, country doctor's office, rather like a Norman Rockwell painting in the Saturday Evening Post. Bookshelves were overflowing with books and medical journals. There were six antique wooden filing cabinets that Jenny had gotten for a good price at an auction. The walls were hung with diplomas, anatomy charts, and two large watercolor studies of Snowfield. Beside the locked drug cabinet, there was a scale, and beside the scale, on a small table, was a box of inexpensive toys — little plastic cars, tiny soldiers, miniature dolls — and packs of sugarless chewing gum that were dispensed as rewards — or bribes — to children who didn't cry during examinations.
A large, scarred, dark pine desk was the centerpiece of the room, and Jenny guided Lisa into the big leather chair behind it.
“I'm sorry,” the girl said.
“Sorry? — ” Jenny said, sitting on the edge of the desk and pulling the telephone toward her.
“I'm sorry I flaked out on you. When I saw… the body… I… well… I got hysterical.”
“You weren't hysterical at all. Just shocked and frightened, which is understandable.”
“But you weren't shocked or frightened.”
“Oh, yes,” Jenny said, “Not just shocked; stunned.”
“But you weren't scared, like I was.”
“I was scared, and I still am.” Jenny hesitated, then decided that, after all, she shouldn't hide the truth from the girl. She told her about the disturbing possibility of contagion. “I don't think it is a disease that we're dealing with here, but I could be wrong. And if I'm wrong…”
The girl stared at Jenny with wide-eyed amazement. “You were scared, like me, but you still spent all that time examining the body. Jeez, I couldn't do that. Not me. Not ever.”
“Well, honey, I'm a doctor. I'm trained for it.”
“Still…”
“You didn't flake out on me,” Jenny assured her.
Lisa nodded, apparently unconvinced.
Jenny lifted the telephone receiver, intending to call the sheriff's Snowfield substation before contacting the coroner over in Santa Mira, the county seat. There was no dial tone, just a soft hissing sound. She jiggled the disconnect buttons on the phones cradle, but the line remained dead.
There was something sinister about the phone being out of order when a dead woman lay in the kitchen. Mrs. Beck had been murdered. If someone cut the telephone line and crept into the house, and if he sneaked up on Hilda with care and cunning… well… he could have stabbed her in the back with a long-bladed knife that had sunk deep enough to pierce her heart, killing her instantly. In that case, the wound would have been where Jenny couldn't have seen it — unless she had rolled the corpse completely over, onto its stomach. That didn't explain why there wasn't any blood. And it didn't explain the universal bruising, the swelling. Nevertheless, the wound could be in the housekeeper's back, and since she had died within the past hour, it was also conceivable that the killer — if there was a killer — might still be here, in the house.
I'm letting my imagination run away with me, Jenny thought.
But she decided it would be wise for her and Lisa to get out of the house right away.
“We'll have to go next door and ask Vince or Angie Santini to make the calls for us,” Jenny said quietly, getting up from the edge of the desk. “Our phone is out of order.”
Lisa blinked. “Does that have anything to do with… what happened?”
“I don't know,” Jenny said.
Her heart was pounding as she crossed the office toward the half-closed door. She wondered if someone was waiting on the other side.
Following Jenny, Lisa said, “But the phone being out of order now… it's kind of strange, isn't it?”
“A little.”
Jenny half-expected to encounter a huge, grinning stranger with a knife. One of those sociopaths who seemed to be in such abundant supply these days. One of those Jack the Ripper imitators whose bloody handiwork kept the TV reporters supplied with grisly film for the six o'clock news.
She looked into the hall before venturing out there, prepared to jump back and slam the door if she saw anyone. It was deserted.
Glancing at Lisa, Jenny saw the girl had quickly grasped the situation.
They hurried along the hall toward the front of the house, and as they approached the stairs to the second floor, which lay just this side of the foyer, Jenny's nerves were wound tighter than ever. The killer — if there is a killer, she reminded herself exasperatedly — might be on the stairs, listening to them as they moved toward the front door. He might lunge down the steps as they passed him, a knife raised high in his hand…
But no one waited on the stairs.
Or in the foyer. Or on the front porch.
Outside, the twilight was fading rapidly into night. The remaining light was purplish, and shadows — a zombie army of them — were rising out of tens of thousands of places in which they had hidden from the sunlight. In ten minutes, it would be dark…
Chapter 4
The House Next Door
The Santinis' stone and redwood house was of more modern design than Jenny's place, all rounded corners and gentle angles. It thrust up from the stony soil, conforming to the contours of the slope, set against a backdrop of massive pines; it almost appeared to be a natural formation. Lights were on in a couple of the downstairs rooms.
The front door was ajar. Classical music was playing inside.
Jenny rang the bell and stepped back a few paces, where Lisa was waiting. She believed that the two of them ought to keep some distance between themselves and the Santinis; it was possible they had been contaminated merely by being in the kitchen with Mrs. Beck's corpse.
“Couldn't ask for better neighbors,” she told Lisa, wishing the hard, cold lump in her stomach would melt. “Nice people.”
No one responded to the doorbell.
Jenny stepped forward, pressed the button again, and returned to Lisa's side. “They own a ski shop and a gift store in town.”
The music swelled, faded, swelled. Beethoven.
“Maybe no one's home,” Lisa said.
“Must be someone here. The music, the lights…”
A sudden, sharp whirlwind churned under the porch roof, blades of air chopping up the strains of Beethoven, briefly transforming that sweet music into irritating, discordant sound.