If I Should Die Page 3
“Well, I wouldn’t,” Marie said firmly. “Even if there was a risk, which there isn’t.”
“How would you feel if it was me with the problem?”
“That’s just it, Sean, I don’t have a problem any more.” Marie sat up and turned on her bedside lamp. “But if you’d had the pacemaker fitted instead of me, and if I’d heard everything John told you, I’d be just as horny right now as I already am.”
Sean grinned. “Are you?”
“Of course I am. Aren’t you?”
“No.”
Marie craned her head to look at his face. “I think you’re lying. You’re always horny when I am.”
“Not tonight,” Sean said, still smiling. “I’m too tired.”
The problem was that she was dead right, that he did want her just as much as she wanted him, as much as he’d always done – that not touching her, hardly even kissing her in case things got out of hand, was driving him half crazy. He’d gone to sleep the night before longing for her, and he’d woken up this morning with an erection, and he knew that Marie had been caressing him while he slept, and he only got out of trouble again by insisting that he, instead of Hilda, their housekeeper, was going to make breakfast for her, because she liked his scrambled eggs better than Hilda’s.
“Are you writing today?” Marie asked him, after she’d eaten the last of her rye toast. Her appetite had always been good, and though it had dipped a little a few weeks back, even Sean had to admit that her enjoyment seemed back to normal.
“Not till this afternoon,” he said, leaning back against his pillows. “I’m going to drive you to the clinic this morning and then go look at the lake for a while.” He often strolled or just stood for hours, staring into Lake Michigan’s vastness, seeking inspiration for a story or a poem.
“So you’re in no particular hurry?”
“No hurry at all,” he said, lazily. “Why? Something you need?”
“If it’s no trouble,” Marie said, politely.
“You know better than that.” And it was true, for Sean never tired of doing things for his wife, didn’t even mind going shopping with her, loved waiting around for her when she bought dresses or shoes, though shopping with Marie couldn’t have been less trouble, since she was almost always in a rush to get back to the clinic, or to visit a patient at home.
“Then there is something I need,” Marie said, still carefully polite.
“Sure.” Sean looked at her. She looked especially beautiful this morning, even in the harsh January light. She was wearing one of her pale green silk nightdresses, cut low in the front in a V-shape, the lines softened by lace and by the warm swell of her breasts. He realized suddenly that she had not been wearing that nightdress before he’d gone down to the kitchen to make their eggs.
“Don’t you want to know what I need?” Marie asked.
His mouth was dry. He knew perfectly well now what she needed, and the damnedest part of it was that he was rock hard again, and she just looked so pretty, her curly fair hair falling so sweetly around her face, she just looked so completely well – and maybe it was time to believe her and John, and maybe they could get back to normal, and if she could, then who was he to risk ruining their happiness, the ongoing wonder of their marriage?
“I know,” he said, and his voice was husky.
“Please, Sean.”
“Are you sure?” His arms ached to hold her, his mouth yearned to kiss her breasts.
“You know I am.”
“And you’re certain it’s safe?” He knew she’d won, knew he was seconds away from slipping his hand inside that soft silk nightdress.
She didn’t answer this time, just moved closer to him, close enough to brush her hair against his cheek, knowing how much he loved that. And Sean closed his eyes and breathed her in, smelled her fragrance, and then his arms were around her, gently, then more fiercely, and then they were kissing, and it was as though all the fears were being extinguished by their kisses. Marie took his right hand and guided it to her left breast, and he felt its roundness, its warmth and softness, and its hard, wondrous nipple, and the last of the fears disappeared, and she helped him pull the nightdress up over her head, tousling her hair, and she tugged at the cord of his pyjama trousers, and they began making love, and it was like coming home after a war or something, and she felt and smelled and tasted like sweet heaven on earth . . .
He had just entered her for the first time in almost a month, when it happened. His eyes were open, watching her face, for he loved seeing her expression at that moment, and she never hid anything from him, and he could see the joy in her eyes, and the excitement, and the pleasure.
It happened so quickly, so without warning, that he thought, for just a moment, that Marie was climaxing, that she had wanted him so much that she had already reached her orgasm. She gave a cry, her back arched violently, and her face contorted, and he began to let go, too, but it was only for that one, remaining instant, before the fear came back, and then that, too, was not enough, because it was so much more than fear that Sean felt, it was terror, unspeakable terror and more.
He pulled out of her, but she was already limp in his arms. He was trembling violently, he heard loud, wild breathing, hardly realizing it was his own. Gently, very gently, he laid her back against the pillows. And then he saw.
The blood. The hole.
And the smoke.
Sean Ferguson started to scream.
Chapter Four
Thursday, January 7th
In the fading light of the New England afternoon, Lally parked her ancient Mustang outside Chris and Andrea Webber’s house on Route 102, and sat staring out of the window, contemplating her last chance to back out. Hugo had counselled her repeatedly against the risks of interfering in something she was ill-equipped to handle, but the bruises and that bite mark on Katy Webber had haunted her every waking moment since Monday.
While Lally lived in West Stockbridge, the much more exclusive town of Stockbridge itself, a few miles down the road, was an infinitely greater magnet for tourism and money, old and new. It was, in many ways, the archetypal New England town, with a charming main street – immortalized by its famous late resident, Norman Rockwell – a thriving colonial inn, bustling stores and galleries, and a cluster of large and handsome houses.
The Webbers’ home, three storeys, white and solid, less than a mile from Stockbridge’s Main Street, was set back from the road, surrounded by a white picket fence and partially shielded by two fir trees. Chris Webber’s Jeep Cherokee stood in the driveway, his wife’s Dodge pickup behind it, a good two inches of fresh snow piled on their roofs and layering their ski racks. The house looked friendly enough, the porch lights already switched on. Lally knew, from Katy’s glowing descriptions, that it had previously been a bed and breakfast inn and had more rooms than they needed. Webber was an artist and author of teach-yourself painting guides, and Katy had told Lally that her father had knocked three top floor rooms into a large, airy studio, using one end for painting and the other for writing his teach-yourself guides, while her mother – who apparently spent most of her time caring for her dogs in specially-built kennels in their back yard – used one room on the second floor as her study, and Katy had two rooms of her own, one for sleeping in, the other large enough for homework and ballet practice.
It was certainly not a home, Lally reflected, as she sat in the comforting security of her Mustang, where lack of personal space might cause friction.
Do I cut and run? she asked herself one last time, tension rising and tightening in her chest. Or do I go ahead and stick my nose into their business?
The decision made, she reached for the door handle, took hold of her big canvas shoulder bag, and got out of the car. A moment later, she was standing on the snow-cleared porch, her finger on the bell. For a long time, no one answered. She began to turn away, tension giving way to relief–
The door opened. “Miss Duval, what a nice surprise.”
Chris Webbe
r looked fraught. Not exactly dishevelled, but for a man she’d always thought of as calm-looking and solid, he looked decidedly frayed around the edges. He wore denim jeans, sneakers and a big blue handknitted sweater, all paint-stained and what Lally would have expected of an artist, but his short curly fair hair was rumpled, his dark blue eyes were guarded and there were two long scratches on his face, one on his strong straight nose, the other beside the cleft on his chin.
“Have I picked a bad time?” Lally asked.
“For what?”
She took a breath and plunged into her pretext for calling.
“I’ve come about Katy’s pointe shoes.” It sounded lame, even to her own ears. “It’s quite a small problem, but it’s really important.”
“Katy’s only just back from school,” Webber said. “She’s changing her clothes, and then she has a history assignment.”
It was evident to Lally that this man, who had always seemed friendly and outgoing when he’d picked Katy up after classes, did not want her coming inside. Lally reconsidered backing out and going home, but then she remembered Katy’s bruises and stood her ground.
“It’s a safety point,” she persisted. “I really need to talk to Katy before her next class.”
Chris Webber saw she wasn’t going to go away.
“Of course,” he said. “Come in.” He stepped back and she went inside. The entrance hall smelled of paint and coffee. A carved wood coat rack overflowed with hats and scarves, and three pairs of snow boots lined up against the wall beneath it.
“I’m sorry to seem so inhospitable, Miss Duval.” He showed her into the sitting room, a large, cosily decorated room filled with big old furniture, a blazing wood fire burning in the hearth. “It’s just a difficult time of day, you know?”
“It’s my fault for not calling first.” She paused. “And please, it’s Lally.”
“And I’m Chris,” he said.
They stood awkwardly for a moment. Lally was tall, but Webber was at least six-two and broad-shouldered. She had seen him jogging from time to time around Stockbridge, and once or twice in the summer she’d seen him cycling with Katy along Route 102. He looked very fit. He also looked embarrassed as hell at having her there in his sitting room.
“Have a seat,” he said. “Make yourself at home – I’ll go find Katy.”
Alone, Lally sat down in a pretty chintz covered armchair. A young German Shepherd bitch, entirely black except for beige wisps over her eyes and on her paws, got up from the rug in front of the fireplace and came over to sniff at her boots.
“That’s cat you’re sniffing,” Lally said, softly, glad of the company. Her heart was beating fast and her palms, normally dry and cool, felt moist. The dog picked up a red rubber ball from behind the armchair and tossed it into her lap. “Well, thank you,” she said.
The minutes ticked by on the grandfather clock in the far corner. Lally glanced around the room, taking in the photographs on the big oak dresser and the paintings – two landscapes and a portrait over the mantelpiece of Andrea Webber, painted, Lally guessed, a few years back. Her eyes went on roaming around the room, over the bookcase – one shelf filled with Chris Webber’s own works, another crammed with ballet books, a blue leather dog’s lead lying on the middle shelf beside a couple of silver trophies for some achievement or another. It all looked solid, snug, secure, the perfect American family home, yet somehow, Lally thought, it didn’t feel safe.
Imagination, she told herself. I’m building this feeling up.
From out back, she heard fretful barking, and from somewhere upstairs she heard voices, and no one was actually yelling, but Lally could tell that a quarrel was in progress.
The dog was staring at her.
“Want your ball back?”
The tail thumped. Slowly, carefully, Lally rolled the ball off her lap onto the carpet. The dog pounced, chewed at it for a moment or two, then threw it back again.
She heard footsteps on the stairs.
“I’m sorry.” Katy ran into the room. She wore denims and a white sweatshirt and she was clutching her new pointe shoes. Her face was flushed and her eyes were pink, and Lally thought she’d probably been crying. “There was some work I had to finish.”
“That’s okay,” Lally said, easily.
Katy managed a grin. “That’s Jade. Isn’t she gorgeous?”
“She’s wonderful.” Lally had never noticed before how like her father Katy was; she had her mother’s turned-up nose and her fair hair was straighter than Chris Webber’s, but their dark blue eyes were almost identical and she had the same little determined cleft in her chin.
“Daddy said you want to talk to me about my shoes.” Katy was anxious. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Nothing big,” Lally reassured her. “Just a small technical point – but an important one.” She took a breath – her chest still felt tight with nerves. “It’s about your ribbons.” She bent and opened her shoulder bag, and took out a sample pair of shoes. “Bring yours over here and I’ll show you the problem.”
The argument upstairs began again. Lally saw Katy’s flush deepen, saw her eyes grow more distressed, and she knew now that if she’d been looking for the source of Katy’s injuries, she’d come to the right place. She wished she hadn’t. She wished she was home or at Hugo’s.
Katy focused hard on her shoes. “Did I sew the ribbons on wrong?”
“The stitching’s perfect,” Lally praised her. “And you used just the right heavy-duty cotton, but you sewed them on a little too far forward. See?” She showed her. “I know it seems like a tiny detail, but these ribbons are very important for support.”
They heard footsteps on the stairs, and an instant later Chris Webber reappeared, clearly more agitated than before. A swift look of mutual dismay passed between father and daughter, and Lally knew, without a doubt, that whatever trouble did exist in this household, it was not between these two. She felt more like an intruder than ever.
“How’s it going?” Webber asked.
“I sewed my ribbons on in the wrong place, Daddy.”
“Did you, honey?” He looked at Lally, gave a small smile, and sat down on the couch. Jade padded over to him and rested her head on his left knee. Webber put out one hand and began, absently, to stroke her. “Please,” he said, “don’t let me interrupt.”
Lally went on talking automatically. She was repeating the standard pointe shoe lecture she’d given Katy’s class only days before, but Katy listened politely and attentively as if she’d never heard it before, and Lally sensed that perhaps it was a welcome respite for the girl.
“So tell me again the things you need before putting on your shoes.”
“Surgical tape to wrap around each toe,” Katy recited, her voice soft but eager. “Lamb’s wool – pure alcohol to pour into shoes when they’re new – ”
“Really?” Chris Webber raised an eyebrow.
“It’s to help break them in,” Katy explained. “Lally says it helps mould the shoes to your feet.”
Webber’s tension was hitting Lally like a stone wall. It was time to end the charade. “Katy,” she said slowly, “could I please have a drink of water?”
Katy stood up. “Would you like juice? We have orange and apple.”
“Water’s fine, thank you.”
Katy left the room. The dog got up from her place beside Webber, wandered over to the fireplace and flopped down again, resting her head on her front paws.
“Am I right in guessing,” Webber said, very quietly, looking at Lally intently, “that your coming here today has nothing at all to do with ballet shoes?”
Lally flushed hotly. “Am I so transparent?”
“Probably not to Katy.”
She nodded. “I’m here because of Katy. I’m worried about her.”
The door banged open. Andrea Webber stalked into the room.
“You bastard,” she said.
The dogs in the back yard began barking again, louder than before.
Lally was frozen in her seat. Andrea hadn’t even glanced at her. Her feet were bare and muddy, and Lally thought she might have been in the back yard, though it was freezing cold and almost dark outside. She wore old, torn denims and a long, baggy red sweater, and her hair, always so immaculate when she came to pick up Katy from class, was unkempt. She wore no make-up except for smudged mascara, and her dark eyes, red from crying as Katy’s had been, were filled with anger.
Lally wanted to be invisible or gone. She could smell the drink from across the room. Whisky and beer. Andrea Webber was drunk. Not just a little, but absolutely, stinking drunk.
“Andrea,” Chris said, calmly. “We have a visitor.” He had risen from the couch, and his face was very pale. “Miss Duval’s come to talk to Katy about her shoes.”
“Bully for Katy,” his wife said, slurring her words.
“I think I should go,” Lally said, quietly.
“Not on my account,” Andrea said, still not looking at her.
“Why don’t you sit down?” Chris asked.
“Why don’t you go to hell?”
“Andrea, please.” Chris moved towards his wife. He put out his right hand as if to touch her arm, and she lashed out hard, hitting him on the chest.
“Son of a bitch,” she snarled.
“Andrea, for God’s sake – ”
“And the worst of it is you’re such a sanctimonious son of a bitch.” She turned away, staggered a little and bumped against the wooden dresser, rattling ornaments and framed photographs. “You used to at least take a drink with me, not spend all your time criticizing me.”
“No one’s criticizing you,” Chris said quietly. “Why don’t you just calm down, so that Lally – ”
“So it’s Lally now.” Andrea turned back. “I call her Miss Perfect.” For the first time, she looked at Lally. “Did you know that?”
“Andrea, stop it,” Chris said, more sharply.