Haunting Refrain (17 page)

“Yes, but he was justified. I should never have mentioned his name,” Kate said, rising from her chair.

“I'll heat some water for tea,
Venice
. You stay in that chair. You, too,” Gwen said, gently shoving Kate back onto the sofa. “Forget J. B. As soon as he gets over his initial panic, he'll be delighted with the publicity. After all, he wasn't accused of anything. Now he'll have a chance to say something pompous for the press.”

Gwen dismissed J. B. with a flick of her wrist.
“Oh, Kate?
A little something you didn't mention yesterday—the reporter
Venice
told me about. I find it very interesting that you didn't mention the other evening with him. I told you about Thomas.”

Yes, she had, and Kate had only said she had met him, hadn’t mentioned his asking her out or told her friend that he reminded her of J. B.

Gwen plugged in the electric kettle for
Venice
’s tea and leaned against the desk, intrigued. “Did he take you to look at his etchings, maybe galley proofs in his case, before he took you home?”

“No, he didn't. He took me to
Lake
Jocassee
to pick my brains for his next article.”

“Is he the one who wrote this morning’s article?”

“Yes, the snake,” Kate answered.

“Who’s Thomas?”
Venice
asked, heading off a tirade.

“Thomas Andrews, a marvelously handsome fellow I met recently. He seems to be very comfortable financially. Dresses well,
drives
a swanky little Jaguar.” Gwen straightened and moved a neat stack of magazines to the other side of the coffee table to make room for her cup.

Venice
and Kate both knew that after a brief, ugly marriage, Gwen was deeply suspicious of men, fearing that they were only interested in her money. She wanted someone with money of his own so he wouldn't care about hers.

“You may know him,
Venice
. He takes classes at Poinsett. I met him in Business Law,” Kate said, glad to forget John even though she couldn’t work up much enthusiasm for Thomas.

“Oh yes, I know him. I’ve met him several times. Actually, it's his mother I know. His father died when Thomas was about eight or nine. She and Thomas were very close. She always talked about her ‘devoted son.’
And a year or two ago, after all those years with just Thomas, she up and married Lyle Border, a charming fellow.
She always seemed rather weak and clinging to me. I suppose that appeals to some men.”
Venice
smiled at Gwen. “But I do think the first husband left them in good shape financially.”

Relief flitted across Gwen's face, but she said nothing more about his fiscal status. “Are you sure about his mother? I had the impression she had died.”

Venice
straightened and raised an eyebrow.

“Right, right.
I’m sure you’re right. I guess I misunderstood.” Gwen looked like a cat with a whole salmon, practically purring, and added, “He asked me to go to
Atlanta
with him for a big dinner his company is giving next week. He called this morning. It’s on a Wednesday, so it won’t interfere with the play. We're leaving as soon as he finishes work Tuesday.”

“Wow! That was fast. You only met him a week ago,” Kate said.

“True, but we really hit it off. He talked me into breaking a date this weekend.” With a coy smile, she batted her eyelashes at them. “He doesn't want to share me.”

Kate couldn’t think of a smart comeback. She found Thomas a bit stiff, conceited. She wished someone else would show up for Gwen. Changing the subject instead, she said, “I just finished your contact sheets, Gwen. They should be dry. I'll bring them out and you can see if you like any.”

Venice
and Gwen were whispering when she returned with the pictures, limping slightly. “No plots, you two. I'm fine.

“Here, see what you think of these.” She spread the sheets on the desk and pointed to one. “This is my choice. I like the expression in your eyes.” She handed Gwen her loupe.

The three women huddled over the film-sized frames, passing the small magnifying lens back and forth for several minutes while they dissected the shots.

Finally Gwen settled on two, and Kate circled them with a red grease pen. “I'll have them ready on Tuesday, but I'm going to the
para
group meeting in the evening. You can pick them up in the afternoon if you want.”

“Fine.
I'll drop by then.”

“I have to go now,”
Venice
said. “I just stopped in to see how you are. Read the article, Kate. I'll talk to you about it another time, when you're calmer. Ramses told me you were having a bad morning.”

“He probably guessed when he read the paper.” References to the thousand-year old inhabitant of
Venice
's crystal ball always set Kate off.

“Don't be sarcastic, Kate. It doesn’t become you.”
Venice
gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and turned to the door. Frowning, she turned back as the door closed. “Gwen, don’t rush into anything with Thomas Andrews.”

“Don’t worry, darling. He’s a real gentleman.” Gwen moved to the mirror and twisted a mauve lipstick out of the tube. Making a moue, she touched the color to her lips.

As soon as the door closed behind
Venice
, Gwen turned to Kate with a knowing smile. “She told me all about your reporter. Are you seeing him again?”

“Never, the bastard.”

“Well, well, well! He must have really hit a nerve.”

“You can't trust him!” Kate snatched the contact sheets from the desk and stuffed them into a manila folder marked Carter. “I called him this morning and told him what I thought. Only I got his answering machine, so I couldn't say it all. Did you read his article today?”

“Yes. Did you?” Gwen kept her eye on the folder Kate was mangling. “The autopsy showed just what you said—Kelly Landrum was strangled.”

“I was so mad after J. B. called that I didn't read it.” Kate sat heavily on the desk and massaged her temples. She whispered, “Everything I saw was real. Why is this happening? I'm afraid to go to sleep at night for fear of what I'll see.”

“Why don't you
come
stay with me for a few days? Maybe you could get some rest.” She put an arm around Kate's shoulders.

“No, I'm all right. I would rather be at home.”

“At least J. B. wouldn't find you at my place. You're still letting him manipulate you.” Gwen assumed a stern look and took the folder from Kate's hand. She withdrew her photographs and put them in the correct folder. Placing it carefully back on the desk, she said, “Stop worrying about him. I was serious about the publicity—he's going to eat it up. And meanwhile, you're eating up the guilt. Has your mother called yet?”

“Yes, but I let the answering machine take it.” Kate grinned. “I'm not answering the phone today.”

“Good,” she said. “Are the nightmares the same as the visions? Have you seen anything new?”

“No, they're all the same. I don't think they'll stop until the murderer is found. I'd like to find out more about Charlene Nelson, but I have no idea where to start.”

“John Gerrard could help you. Why beat your head against the wall when he probably has all you want at the newspaper?”

“There has to be another way. I'll never see him again.” She frowned, surprised at the feeling of depression that washed over her.

“So phone him. It wouldn't have to be social. If you want the information, you know where to get it. You think he used you. Use him.” Gwen pressed her cheek against Kate's. Smoothing her gray silk shirt, she said, “Well, my fans are waiting. I must fly.”

 
Kate closed the door behind her and took a stack of prints from a bulging folder on the desk. Flopping down on the sofa, she flipped idly through the outdoor shots she was considering for the exhibit at Caesar’s Head, but her concentration was gone. The aluminum wrap on her peanut butter sandwich caught her eye; she doubted if it would make her feel better.

* * *

She was drinking coffee when John walked in. She spluttered something unintelligible before he got the first words out. He could see her surprise and anger.

“I got your message,” he said, before she could recover. “If you had been home or had your answering machine on, you could have read the article last night.
 
After the autopsy proved you right, I had to use your name. I tried to reach you—”

“It wasn't only my name, but J.
B.'s
.” Kate jumped up, slamming her chair into the wall behind the desk. “I told you not to use his name! How could you do that?”

“Now wait a minute. I never said I wouldn't use what you told me. It's my job to print the facts, and the public has a right to know
all
those facts.” He slung his jacket on the sofa as he crossed the room to the desk. “As a journalist—”

“Don't give me that right-to-know crap. I thought we were having a private conversation when I was stupid enough to mention J. B. You're one of those sick people who focus on a mother crying for a dead child. It's not the people's right to know. It's none of anyone's business.”

“If you don't want to know, don't read. But if I pick and chose which facts to tell, it becomes an editorial, expressing my personal views. It's no longer an objective report.” He was preaching now and he knew it, but he wanted to make her understand. “My responsibility is to tell the whole truth, not a whitewashed, selective version. And whether you like it or not, you described a murder that no one else saw.” With his hands spread on the desk, his face was only inches from hers. He could see the fire in her eyes; even her hair seemed to spark. He tapped her hand with his forefinger. “You—”

“Ouch!” Kate jumped as the static electricity arced between them. “Don't touch me.”

He straightened and looked down at her. She was glaring across the desk at him, her fiery hair crackling around her—a witch if he ever saw one. “Could we talk calmly about this?”

“How can I if you're going to print everything I say?”

“That's not what I meant. I was talking about—”

“People get hurt when you print private things, but you don't care about that, do you?” She leaned farther over the desk, challenging him.

“Silence is what hurts. Covering up the truth can be as bad as lying. If it weren't for the press, this country would be in a hell of a lot worse shape. That's why—”

“What do you know about it? You could destroy an innocent person with your ruthless disregard for privacy.”

Making an effort to keep his voice low, he snarled at her. “Don't interrupt me again.” He leaned down so that they were almost nose to nose, letting her feel the heat of his anger. “And where do you get 'ruthless disregard?' What about the 'ruthless disregard' of the politicians and power brokers? What about the innocent people crushed by their machinations?”

“You're the one who's unreasonable—you'll print anything that might sell another copy, no matter who gets hurt.” She glanced around her desk top.

Probably looking for something to throw, the unreasonable witch.
“I print the truth, and I intend to keep on doing it. When I stop, I won't be a journalist anymore.”

He wanted to shake her. Instead he turned and snatched his jacket. “This is stupid. You're too stubborn to listen, and I’m too mad to talk.”

He left, slamming the door behind him.