If Looks Could Kill (22 page)

I wondered what insight my mother could offer now. If I told her about Tucker’s possible poisoning and the failed attempt
on Cat’s life and suggested they were a bizarre coincidence, she would say no, not necessarily, or not totally. She’d note
that both Tucker and Cat were the kind of difficult people who might infuriate someone, so the likelihood of each being poisoned
was greater than the average person’s. Or maybe, she’d say, the person who tried to kill Cat had heard the poison mushroom
rumors surrounding Tucker’s death and been inspired, consciously or unconsciously. Or maybe the person who had tried to kill
Cat had used poison so that Cat’s death would
seem
related to Tucker’s. Two editors poisoned. It would point toward the idea of someone in the industry with a grudge against
editors or against women’s magazines, someone who’d managed to poison Tucker Bobb one afternoon and then brought a deadly
package to Cat’s place. And it would point away from people in Cat’s personal life and inner work circle.

If this
were
the case, the murderer was very clever. He had thought out his plan carefully. It would also mean that he must be fairly
entrenched in the magazine business to be aware of the theories floating around about how Tucker Bobb had died. The only hitch:
He hadn’t been aware that Bobb’s poisoning had occurred in Bucks County, making the plot-against-editors idea less probable.

I reached Pear Street, the street where Landon lived, and before I turned right to travel the two blocks to his house, I stopped
and checked behind me. The sidewalk was empty, and so was the street. The only sound was the heavy swish of the wind in the
tree leaves, a sound that seemed more like fall than late spring. As I stood there, the light above the antiques shop blinked
out.

I moved faster now, heading up the slight hill of Pear Street. There were fewer street lamps in this area, and though lights
were on in some of the houses, others were totally dark—everyone gone to bed or out for the night. The wind died down for
a split second, as if someone had shut it off with a switch, and then picked up again hard, shaking the tree leaves so that
they shimmered in the light of the slivered moon. I couldn’t see Landon’s house yet, but it was just around the bend. There
was a scraping sound suddenly ahead of me, near a parked car, and before I could be afraid, I watched as a possum scurried
out from underneath it, over the sidewalk, and into someone’s backyard.

Finally I could see Landon’s house just ahead—and he was there. I’d left only the front parlor lamp on, but a light was now
burning in his bedroom and the front porch light was on as well. Relieved, I broke into a jog for the rest of the way up the
street.

“Hello there,” I called after I’d unlocked the front door and swung it open. “It’s just me, Kato Kaelin, your favorite houseguest.”

Silence. I figured he was in his bedroom or bathroom with the door shut. I climbed the stairs, stuck my head in the open doorway
of his bedroom, and called out his name two more times. Nothing. His bathroom door was open, the room dark. Pulling aside
the gauze curtain on one of his bedroom windows, I glanced down toward the back of the driveway, which I’d failed to check
out earlier. No car. As I let the curtain settle back into place, my eye fell on his bedside table and I spotted the little
box next to the lamp. It was on a timer. And the porch light was probably rigged to a light sensor. He wasn’t even here. I
looked down at my watch: 9:17. I turned off the bedroom light and trooped back down the stairs.

While I was turning on lights downstairs my eye caught the pulsing red light of the answering machine. It was probably my
call from the restaurant, but I hit the play button just in case there was a message from my missing host. There was.

“Darling, are you there? No? You must forgive me. Just got out of the world’s most dreadful meeting. It’s nine and I’m nervous
about driving. I’m not exactly a narcoleptic—or a necrophiliac, for that matter—but lately I’ve developed the very bad habit
of dozing at the wheel if I’m driving too late. If you won’t hate me too much, I’ll set out first thing in the morning. Don’t
eat breakfast. I’ll make you scrambled eggs with caviar.”

Great. Besides the fact that Landon didn’t have cable and his video collection was devoid of a single film made after 1964,
the thought of sleeping all alone in his house gave me the creeps. I considered just jumping into the Jeep and making the
trip back to New York. I’d had two glasses of wine at dinner, though. Not a smart idea.

I made a check of the doors and windows. I recalled Landon saying once that he hadn’t bothered getting a security alarm system
because the town was safe and his neighbors close enough. That lack of concern was reflected in his locks. Though the front
door had a fairly sturdy dead bolt, the windowed back door in the kitchen had nothing more than a button in the handle that
you pushed to lock. The windows appeared to be more respectable. They all had latches, and all were locked—except the second
to the last one I checked, a big double-paned window in the dining room. I discovered, to my dismay, that the latch had been
painted into the unlocked position—four or five coats ago.

I prodded it, cursing out loud as it refused to budge. There was nothing I could do but try to keep myself from wigging out.
But already I could feel a low dose of dread starting to run through me. I would have to keep reminding myself that, as Landon
had said, the town was safe.

I poured a glass of seltzer and took it upstairs, where I filled the tub in the guest bathroom with steaming hot water, adding
a big glob of scented gel. I soaked for about half an hour, leafing through old magazines stuffed in a nearby basket, listening
to the house creak and settle. When I’d run through all the available hot water, I got out and changed into my pajamas. I
went back downstairs to the study, turning on Landon’s ancient TV in order to catch the end of a ten o’clock Philadelphia
news show.

There were only sheer white curtains on the windows, and I wasn’t crazy about sitting down there alone in my pj’s, so exposed.
Before the show was even over, I trudged back upstairs, leaving a lamp burning in the main parlor. I had my book, and I planned
to read in bed until I felt sleepy, which at the rate I was going wouldn’t be till dawn. Though it was cool out, the guest
bedroom was stuffy, and I opened the window nearest the bed just a crack. No one, I figured, would be coming by with a ladder.
After crawling under the covers, I picked up my book, a biography of Anne Boleyn that I’d been inspired to read for my upcoming
trip to the United Kingdom. Reading about all that connivery and death so many centuries ago relaxed me. I’d devoured four
chapters when I found, to my surprise, sleep taking over. I switched off the bedside lamp and relaxed my head onto the supersoft
pillowcase. Landon bought only the highest thread count.

When I woke with a jolt, I had no idea where I was. I lay in pitch darkness for at least ten seconds, straining to see my
surroundings, before it came to me. Landon’s. Bucks County. I squinted at the Day-Glo numbers on my watch: 2:15. Usually my
nocturnal wakenings occurred a little deeper into the night. Had a dream rattled me awake? I wondered.

And then I heard it. A crunching sound from outside, like a foot coming down on gravel or twigs. My heart threw itself against
my rib cage. I remembered the possum I’d seen earlier. Maybe he’d worked his way in this direction. I lay there completely
motionless, waiting, listening. There it was again. It was definitely a footstep, right below the open window, someone trying
to move slowly and quietly. Could it be Landon, having changed his mind about driving out tonight? But even if he hadn’t left
till ten, he would have arrived ages ago.

There was another footstep, but no longer directly below my window. I slid quietly out of bed, dropped to my knees, and crawled
over to the window. I lifted my head cautiously and glanced to the left, where the footsteps had seemed to be headed. As dark
as it was outside, the parlor lamp was casting light through the side window and I made out the form of someone—a man, I thought—moving
along the edge of the driveway toward the back of the house. He stopped suddenly and I ducked my head in case he turned back
in my direction. When I peeked out again he was gone, blended in with the darkness. I couldn’t tell if he was still along
the side of the house somewhere or if he’d rounded the corner and was now in the backyard.

Shit, I needed a phone. There was one in Landon’s bedroom, I was almost positive. I jumped up and hurried in the darkness
to his room, ramming my thigh hard into the edge of a hall bookshelf along the way. The phone, I figured, would be on one
of the bedside tables, and after fumbling frantically in the dark, I found it. The numbers glowed green in the dark, and I
punched in 911.

An operator answered after three rings. “There’s a prowler,” I blurted out. In my panic, it took me a second to remember Landon’s
address. As I listened to her assurance that she would send someone quickly, I inched toward one of the windows and peered
out at the backyard. I could make nothing out in the darkness except the faint glow of the flagstone around the pool.

The operator said she’d stay on the line, but I needed to figure out where the prowler was now. Dropping the phone, I crept
out to the hallway and edged my way to the top of the stairs. A new sound now. Someone was turning the handle of the back
door, little turns back and forth, back and forth, impeded each time by the lock. It might be ten minutes before the police
came. I had to do something.

My eyes had begun to adjust to the dark, and I could see the wicker stand of walking sticks Landon kept at the top of the
stairs. I reached out, grabbed the first one I touched, and yanked it out. My heart thudding so hard that I could feel it
in my ears, I started downstairs. The rattling of the door had ceased now, and my mind flashed to the dining room window that
had stubbornly refused to lock.

At the bottom of the steps I stopped. Down the hall toward the back was the kitchen. Silent now, in total darkness. Off the
hallway to my left was the parlor, the lamp casting a small patch of light onto the hallway floor. To my right was Landon’s
study, in total darkness, and behind that the dining room. I inched my way through the study and into the dining room.

It was empty, the window still closed. I waited in the shadows, straining to see outside, gripping the walking stick, silently
urging the police.
Please, please, hurry
, I pleaded in my mind.

Suddenly there was a sound. Behind me. I spun around, facing the doorway to the kitchen. The noise had come from there, and
as my eyes frantically swept the kitchen, I saw the form of someone, a man, standing only a few feet away through the doorway,
his back to me. He started to turn, as if he’d suddenly picked up my scent, and I took two steps forward, raised the walking
stick, and brought it down on him as hard as I could.

It glanced off his head and hit his shoulder with a crack. He yelped, knees buckling. I raised the stick once more, ready
to strike again, but as he rose he staggered to the right and when I lowered the stick this time it whacked the edge of the
kitchen table instead. I blundered backward a step, as the man straightened and turned fully around. He had on a ski mask,
beady dark eyes looking as if they’d burned through the fabric. He lunged at me.

Instinctively I took a step backward and to the side, and though he rammed into me, I didn’t get the full force of his body.
I staggered back, my butt hitting the edge of the dining room table. He came at me again, stinking of sweat, and this time
I raised the walking stick and slapped it across the side of his head. He cursed in pain and caught the stick in a gloved
hand, then hurled it to the far side of the dining room, where it shattered something made of glass.

“I called the police,” I blurted out, breathless. “They’re coming.” I’d backed away from the table and was turning, trying
to run. He caught my arm and shoved me hard, sending me sprawling onto the floor. I frantically grabbed a breath and rolled
onto my back, ready to kick. But when my eyes focused I saw that he had turned on his heels and was scrambling back toward
the kitchen. I heard the screen door fling open and slam shut and the clop-clop of his footsteps on the back stairs. I hoisted
myself to my feet and inched into the kitchen. Through the open back door I could hear him crashing through bushes in the
backyard. At the far end of the yard a beam of light broke through the darkness, a flashlight. The beam bounced a few times
and disappeared. It was totally silent for about thirty seconds, and then from the street behind Landon’s I heard the sound
of a car engine roaring to life.

I slammed the kitchen door, flipped on the overhead light, and dragged the small breakfast table quickly across the floor,
heaving it against the door since obviously the lock had proved useless. As soon as I took my hands from the table, they began
to tremble. The shaking seemed disconnected from me, as if I were holding an injured bird that was straining to get free.
I took deep breaths, willing myself to calm down.

From the front of the house I heard the sound of a car tearing up the street. For one frantic moment I thought it was him
again, driving right up to the house. I raced through the center hallway and glanced out the window. It was a state police
car. No siren, but the blue light was dancing on top of the car.

Two uniformed guys jumped out and jogged up the porch steps, hands on their holsters. I must have looked pretty shaken because
as soon as they stepped inside, one of them, cute and twentysomething, laid his hand on my shoulder and asked me worriedly
if I was all right.

“Yeah, I’m okay, just a little shaky.” As proof, my voice actually shook as I spoke.

“Was he in the house?”

“Yeah, I think he got in through the kitchen door, though I know I locked it. I hit him with a walking stick, and he ran out.”