The One Safe Place (4 page)

“He wanted a relationship?”

She nodded, shivering slightly. “He was obsessed with it. It was pretty frightening, actually. He was a big man. Not as tall as you are, but bulky. Sometimes, when I wouldn't let him—” She paused, getting control of her voice. “You could almost feel the violence running through him.”

Reed waited, still careful not to push. It was a little like trying to coax a hurt kitten out of the safety of its cage. He had learned through the years that you succeeded far faster if you did absolutely nothing, just provided a safe place to enter.

“I handed his work off to my partner, but he wouldn't take the hint. Eventually we had to turn the whole job over to another firm. And still he wouldn't stop. He kept calling, coming over unannounced,
sending roses. Thousands of red roses.” She glanced at Reed. “I used to like roses. You can't imagine how I hate them now.”

He didn't deny it. He couldn't know, not really. Probably no man could—especially not a healthy, physically capable man. Men generally met other men on a level playing field. But take this fragile, slender woman next to him—probably no more than five-five and just over a hundred pounds. All the self-defense classes in the world wouldn't change the fact that a six-foot man would always have the advantage.

“I had invited Grace over that day,” she said. “Douglas was supposed to be out of town, and I was feeling great. It was lovely to know he wouldn't show up and make a scene. Grace was happy, too. Spencer's father died three years ago, but Grace had found a new boyfriend, and she was so happy—”

He touched her shoulder, careful to avoid the stitches. “It's all right,” he said. “You don't have to tell me this part if you don't want to.”

“I do want to.” She was standing very, very straight and her gaze was looking at something he couldn't see. “I had gone out for supplies for lunch, and when I got back, I saw Spencer sneaking out of the building. He had Tigger with him. I'm sure Grace had told him not to leave the apartment, but my apartment building was next to a park, and it probably was just too enticing.”

She smiled a little. “You likely can't believe it, but before his mother died Spencer was a very mischie
vous little boy. Very active. Talked a mile a minute. She used to say she couldn't keep him still long enough to tie his shoes.”

Reed smiled, too. It was a cute picture. He wanted to see the little boy like that again.

“He was sneaking out to play with Tigger at the park. He was so ashamed when he saw me coming after him. He's not naughty, just mischievous. He came with me right away. And that's when I saw Doug Lambert. Coming out of my apartment building.”

She put her hand over her eyes. “He saw me, too. I'll never forget the look on his face. It was as if he'd seen a ghost.”

“Oh, my God.” Reed hadn't heard this part. He hadn't realized that Doug Lambert had killed the wrong sister. Suddenly he could feel the pit of guilt that must yawn before Faith Constable, and he marveled at her ability to keep her balance, to keep from falling into it and never coming out at all.

“That's right. He thought he had just killed me. I honestly believe it wasn't until he saw me on the street with Spencer that he had any idea he had killed Grace instead.”

It was too horrible. “You and your sister—were you twins?”

“No, but she was only a year older than I was, and we looked so much alike. She wore her hair the same way. We even shared clothes. I think he was just so angry, when he came in and heard her talking to
Kenny on the telephone, when he heard what she was saying. Kenny told the police that they had been so playful, kissing each other through the phone, and talking about—”

He heard the moment her voice broke. She made a choking sound, struggling to hold back. And then, defeated, she ducked her head, trying to hide the tears. “I hate him,” she said. “I hate him so much.”

He didn't think. He just reached out and pulled her up against him.

“It's all right,” he said. “Go ahead. It's all right to cry.”

She didn't try to free herself. But she didn't surrender to the emotion either.

“No, it isn't,” she said tightly. Her voice was muffled against his shirt, but he could still hear that it was thick with tears that needed desperately to fall. “I can't let Spencer see me crying.”

“Spencer is asleep,” he said. Her hair was as soft as the black satin sky, and he ran his hand down it over and over, as if he could stroke the tears out of her with the rhythmic touch. After a few minutes, he imagined that her muscles were relaxing, just a little

“Go ahead,” he said. “Let it go. It isn't good to keep it all inside.”

He knew that all too well. He hadn't cried, either, after Melissa died. He had taken refuge in liquor the way Faith was taking refuge in her anger. Either way, the unshed tears would poison you, until you hardly knew who you were.

She shook her head, but his shirt was warm and wet where she had been, and he knew she was losing the fight.

“Crying is weak,” she whispered. “I haven't cried since the day she died. I can't afford to be weak, can't you see that? I have to be strong until they catch him.”

It was too cruel. He tightened his arms around her. And as he felt her slender body press against him, he was suddenly reminded of a small, broken bird he had once treated. It had been brought to him much too late. The bird had died in his hands.

Determination shot through him like a burning streak of light. She had come here for protection, and by God he would make sure she got it.

“No, you don't,” he said softly. “You're not alone anymore. Just this once, let someone else be strong for you.”

She tensed again, holding her breath. And then, weeks and weeks too late, this brave, grieving woman finally allowed herself the luxury of tears.

 

D
OUG
L
AMBERT
laughed to himself as he passed a policeman on the street. For a minute, he considered asking the cop for a dollar, just to enjoy the thrill of looking into his eyes and knowing the dumb bastard had no idea who he was.

But ultimately it wasn't worth it. Cops were too stupid to live—fooling them wasn't even very much fun.

While they scrambled around, putting out their asinine all-points bulletins about millionaire murder suspect Douglas Lambert and scouring all the obvious places in vain, Doug was hiding in plain sight.

Living at a squalid, smelly homeless shelter.

See, that was the key. The cops had no imagination. They never even thought of looking there. They believed he was rich, spoiled, incapable of enduring hardship, unwilling to sleep on anything but his expensive Turkish sheets or to eat anything but five-star cuisine.

Morons. They didn't know a damn thing about Doug Lambert. He came from a filthy, wretched nothingness, and he was perfectly comfortable returning there for as long as it took.

Actually, it had been almost embarrassingly easy. Get a box of Clairol do-it-yourself color and go a few weeks without a shave or a hundred-dollar haircut.

Take out your expensive front bridgework and let your lips cave in over a toothless mouth. He felt smug to think how everyone had urged him to get implants—he could certainly afford them. But he didn't like doctors, he didn't like pain, and so he had settled for the best damn dentures on the market. See, now, what a good decision that turned out to be?

Then splurge five bucks on cast-off jeans and a T-shirt and a pair of stained sneakers. After that you could walk right up and spit in that flatfoot's ugly face, and the damn fool would never know the difference.

Still, Doug knew he had to find out where Faith had gone. He could feel the urge building inside him, until it was so big now it was almost a physical pain. Sometimes he thought he couldn't breathe around it.

He had to find her.

He wasn't stupid enough to hire a private detective. The police would be looking for that. But there were other ways. A man like him knew plenty of useful people whose names weren't in the Yellow Pages.

By the time he arrived back at the shelter, he had come to a decision. He wouldn't wait any longer, with this anger, and the desire that was its twin, building inside him like a tumor. He was patient, but he wasn't a waffler. He liked action.

He sat down, put his hand into the pocket of the drunk slumped next to him and pulled out a couple of quarters, staring in the man's eyes the whole time, daring him to object.

And then he dropped them into the pay telephone in the hall and dialed a number he knew well but almost never used.

He needed relief, and there was only one way to get it.

Faith Constable had to die.

“L
ET GO OF THAT
,
you diabolical son of a—”

Faith squatted down by the vacuum cleaner, tugging with all her strength at the drapery pull that was half-in, half-out of the Hoover-monster's long silver snout. But she'd forgotten to turn the motor off, so the monster was still roaring, sucking in, as if green tassels were the most delectable treats on earth.

“I…said…let…go!”

It was too late. By the time she reached the power switch, the tassel had disappeared. The monster's roar dwindled to a sick choking sound, and the air smelled ominously of burned rubber.

She bit back a curse, remembering just in time that Spencer was in the room. She glanced at him.

“Sorry,” she said. “This machine is giving me a hard time.”

Tigger had been watching her the whole time, whining and growling and thumping his tail. But Spencer just kept staring out the large picture window, which offered a spectacular view of the hickory, birch, sycamore and maple that dotted the Autumn House property, thickening until gradually they blended with the untamed woods beyond.

It was gorgeous. But she was pretty sure Spencer wasn't communing with nature. His shoulders were stiff, his arms tightly wrapped over his bony chest, his eyes unblinking, probably fixed on his own tragic thoughts.

He was so unhappy, she thought with a twist of pain. And she had no idea how to help him.

Suddenly overcome by her own incompetence—if she couldn't control a simple vacuum cleaner, how was she going to cope with parenting a traumatized little boy?—she sank to her knees. She glared at the vacuum and wondered what on earth to do now.

Frankly, she had no idea. As anyone could tell you, Faith was the world's worst housekeeper.

It wasn't something she'd ever been ashamed of before. She worked hard all day, and her interior design company was successful. So she hired a “domestic technician” to perform lemony magic at her apartment once a week.

Sometimes on Fridays Faith opened her door with her eyes shut, just to savor the sparkling fresh smell that said Delilah had been there. She valued a clean house, all right. She just didn't have a clue how to make it happen except by writing a check.

Still, how hard could it be? She wiggled her middle finger down the tube of the vacuum, but encountered nothing but smooth plastic. She squinted into it, but saw only blackness. She tapped it against the floor as hard as she dared, but nothing emerged except a puff of dirt that billowed up into her eyes and mouth.

Coughing, she scanned the room. She could
not
face Reed Fairmont and tell him that she had lost a wrestling match with a vacuum cleaner. Especially after she'd so stupidly wept all over his shirt last night.

He undoubtedly already thought she was a weakling. She couldn't add hopeless incompetent to the mix.

She was smart. She was creative. She could think of something…

Of course! A metal hanger.

Five minutes later she'd broken two fingernails, the stitches in her shoulder ached and the hanger was wedged down the long snout, as lost as the tassel. She rubbed her stinging, sooty eyes and made a mental note to give Delilah a raise. A big one.

“Well, well,” a dry voice observed. “You must be the new housekeeper.”

Faith looked up. A tidy little woman, probably seventy-something, stood in the doorway, a casserole dish in her hands and wry amusement in her sharp brown eyes. The woman was all skin and bones, but somehow so authoritative in her plain—but very expensive—black pantsuit that Faith found herself scrambling to her feet.

“Hi,” she said, trying to brush the dirt from her white polo shirt. How stupid to have chosen white! “I'm sorry. I didn't hear you knock.”

“I don't knock,” the other woman said. “I'm Theo Burke.”

Faith hesitated, unsure whether that was a non sequitur.

“Good heavens.” Theo Burke chuckled. “That was pretty cocky, even for me. I just meant I have a key. Reed and I go way back. I've been bringing him dinner three days a week since Melissa died. Not that he needs it anymore, the lazy scamp. It's just a habit now, but we both like it.”

“I can understand why. It smells fantastic.” Faith held out her hand, hoping it wasn't too grimy. “It's nice to meet you, Theo. I'm Faith Constable, Dr. Fairmont's new housekeeper.”

“I knew it. They're talking about you in town. They said you didn't look like a housekeeper.” Theo let her gaze skim the mess on the floor. “I'm inclined to agree.”

Faith took a breath. “Well, I—”

“Not that it matters. You're pretty enough, and young enough—no one will ever care. It's only when you get to be an old prune like me that people expect you to be good at things.”

Faith stared at the older woman, wishing she could explain why she was here, why she was posing as a housekeeper, when even a blind person could tell she was nothing of the sort. She knew it didn't really matter what Theo Burke, whoever she was, thought of her. But darn it—she was good at things. Lots of things. Just not domestic things.

“We'd better get this straightened up.” Theo set the casserole, which was wrapped in a thermal cov
ering, on one of the elegant wooden end tables. “Don't want Reed to come in and find the house a wreck on your first day. Melissa spoiled him rotten, of course. She was the perfect wife. She could scrub tubs, baste a pheasant and win the Miss America contest all at the same time. If she hadn't been such a sweetie, every female in Firefly Glen would have hated her gorgeous guts.”

Faith blinked. This level of candor was rather amazing. The small-town style, no doubt. In the city, you were lucky to get a hello grunt.

“Anyhow,” Theo continued, “let's see what can be done. How bloody was the battle? Did you actually kill the poor vacuum, or just maim it?”

“I—” Faith shook her head and numbly picked up the long gray nozzle. The looped end of a metal hanger stuck out like a rude tongue. “To be honest, I don't know. It all started when I pointed that thing at one of the curtain tie-backs. It just got worse from there.”

Theo laughed, a surprisingly warm, pleasant sound, considering how acerbic her conversation had been so far. “Oh, this is just a flesh wound. Let Dr. Theo do a little surgery.”

As Faith stepped back, she noticed that Spencer had brought Tigger over to get a better look at Theo. Boy and dog were peeking around the edge of a large rose-colored armchair.

Theo saw him at that moment, too. “That your son?”

“My nephew.” Faith tried to motion Spencer out of hiding. “Spencer, this is Ms. Burke.”

But Spencer wasn't moving. He was just a pair of round, dark eyes under a mess of spiky brown hair. He held Tigger tightly in his arms.

“None of this Ms. Burke stuff. Everybody calls me Theo. Everybody I like, that is, and I already know I like you, Spencer. Know how I know?”

Spencer's brow wrinkled subtly. Faith could tell he was curious, but of course he didn't say a word.

Luckily, Theo didn't seem to require an answer. “I'll tell you how I know,” she said, unscrewing the body of the vacuum with a tiny silver tool she had whisked out of her pocket. “I know because your dog likes you. Dogs know who the good people are.”

She held out the loose screw. “Hold these for me, would you, Spencer? And don't drop them.”

To Faith's amazement, Spencer inched out from behind the chair. He took three steps closer to the vacuum cleaner and opened his small palm. Theo dropped the screws into his hand and went on working, as if nothing peculiar had happened.

Faith, too, tried to pretend nonchalance. It was such a little thing, compared to the old Spencer, who had always been sociable and talkative. But the new Spencer rarely even made eye contact with strangers.

After a few minutes, Theo tugged out the green tassel. It was crumpled and dingy, but intact. Then she wiggled the hanger free, too.

She held it up with a smile. “You were lucky.
Could have done some real damage with this, but you just melted the belt.”

She tilted her head and scrutinized Faith, who was sucking on her index finger, trying to soothe it where the nail had broken below the quick. Faith stopped with a guilty start and tucked her hand behind her back as if she had something to hide.

“Okay, I've got to know.” Theo grinned, suddenly looking twenty years younger. “It's none of my business, but I'm going to ask you anyhow. I always do. Anybody can tell you that.”

“Ask me what?”

“What made a woman like you decide to take a job as a housekeeper? I'd be willing to bet the cost of that glamorous manicure that you've never actually touched a vacuum cleaner before.”

“Well, of course I ha—”

Theo's prim silver eyebrows arched, and Faith's fib died on her lips.

“You're right,” she said. “I am very new to this. I've never used one of these canister vacuums, and I haven't a clue how to baste a pheasant, either. Sadly, I'm no Melissa Fairmont.”

Theo let out a gruff bark of laughter. “You can say that again. Melissa could have built you a whole new vacuum cleaner with just this hanger, two stamps and a thumbtack.”

Faith smiled ruefully. So Reed Fairmont was used to living with a domestic goddess. Poor man. He volunteered to do a good deed, and look what happened.
A domestic dummy invaded his lovely house, drenched his shirt and melted his belt. He was probably already kicking himself hard for being such a patsy.

She took a deep breath. “It's all right, Theo. I think I know what you're trying to tell me, and I really do appreciate the warning.”

Theo rose with a grunt and handed the screwdriver to Spencer. “Put that back together for me, would you, please? You saw how I took it apart, right?”

When the little boy accepted the screwdriver, Theo nodded briefly, then turned to Faith. “What exactly do you think I'm trying to tell you?”

“Well…” Faith felt herself coloring. “Just that Melissa Fairmont was a very unusual, very accomplished woman. And that Dr. Fairmont may be disappointed to discover how little his new housekeeper has in common with her.”

“Well, that's part of it.” Theo smiled. “You may disappoint him in some ways. But you may also make him laugh.” She looked at the broken vacuum.

“In fact, I'm absolutely positive you will. And a little laughter may be what this house needs most of all.”

 

R
EED HAD TOYED
with the idea of skipping dinner—he had plenty of work to do in the clinic—but he'd finally decided that would be too cowardly.

He had to sit down and share a meal with his new houseguests sooner or later. And, as he'd learned the
first day at med school, when it came to facing a problem, sooner was always better.

It wasn't, in the end, quite as awkward as he'd feared. Theo's chicken-mushroom casserole was delicious, of course, and Faith had obviously worked to set a homey tone. She'd filled a small cut-glass bowl with yellow apples for a centerpiece, and she had found Melissa's favorite green-flowered napkins, which looked great against the maple table.

She was good at keeping the conversation going, too. She showed an intelligent—though undeniably artificial—interest in every detail of his veterinary practice. To help her along, Reed trotted out his silliest stories—the duck that bit the sheriff, the lizard that liked to have his tummy rubbed, the bunny that hatched an egg and the cat that delivered her kittens in a birdcage.

He even mentioned that he was heading out after dinner to see those newborn kittens, and suggested that Spencer and Faith could join him if they liked.

But, though both he and Faith kept sending encouraging glances down to Spencer's end of the table, the kid never cracked a smile.

When it was over, Spencer had dashed upstairs to his room, Tigger close on his heels. Now Faith and Reed were in the kitchen washing dishes in a silence that was strangely comfortable.

Suddenly the telephone rang. Faith whirled toward it so eagerly Reed thought for a moment she planned
to answer it herself. She seemed to remember just in time that this wasn't her house.

“Sorry,” she said. She backed away with a sheepish smile and returned to the sudsy water. But her posture was tight and wary. He could tell she was listening intently as he picked up the receiver.

It was just the Petermans, the overprotective owners of the spoiled lizard. Reed managed to assure them that Spike was quite contented, eating well, but not too much, missing them, but not too much, getting plenty of attention, but not too much.

Finally he hung up the phone with a chuckle and turned to Faith. “Spike's owner. Apparently Spike suffers from separation anxiety. If he looks lonely, I'm supposed to give him extra food. Unfortunately, I'm having trouble reading the nuances of his facial expression. It always looks like a cross between superbored and mildly ticked off.”

She smiled half-heartedly. “Well, maybe lizard nuances are more in their body language.”

Reed shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe the Petermans are nuts.”

Truth was, though, Reed did believe in body language, in animals and in people. And right now Faith Constable's body language screamed tension. She had wanted that telephone call to be someone else. But who?

He took Theo's rinsed casserole dish from her hands and began rubbing it with his thickest kitchen
towel. “I wondered—the way you went for the telephone. Are you expecting a call from someone?”

“Not expecting, really.” She tried to smile again, but it clearly was becoming more of a strain every minute. “Just hoping, I guess.”

He looked at her sad mouth and wondered if there was a boyfriend back in New York City, a guy who was ordinarily in charge of making her smile. “But I thought—I mean, who even knows you're here?”

“Detective Bentley. He promised he'd keep me posted. About the investigation. About whether they're closing in on…on—”