Keeping Council Part 30

Caroline nodded and Tara headed to the inner sanctum. Settled, she shoved aside the more mundane number ten envelopes, preferring to see what had been sent in the padded one. The intercom buzzed. She hit the b.u.t.ton on the phone.

"Mr. Weber's office on line two. We're on hold."

"Okay." Offhandedly Tara picked up the receiver, kicked back, and held it on her shoulder while she ripped open the envelope. She left the staples hanging. Inside was no freebie from a promotional house, but a pile of fabric, soft and smooth to the touch. Slowly Tara pulled it out.

Carefully she laid it on her desk. The phone had slipped from her shoulder. She caught it and held it close to her face, half missing her ear while she looked at the mess on her desk. Mesmerized, Tara unfolded it slowly, knowing she had seen it before.

"Woodrow Weber."

Woodrow's voice seemed far away and of little interest. Tara picked away at the fabric until it resembled a ruby sunburst, not the red blouse it had once been. In a revelatory flash Tara relived the moment she'd touched it before. Angry words.

Donna furious and cold. Packing. Leaving. Donna leaving with the red blouse in her suitcase. Now it was here, in Tara's office. Destroyed not by accident but with pa.s.sionate slashes of something sharp. A knife? Scissors? The phone popped from her shoulder and clattered to the desk. She could hear Woodrow's indignant voice as if he himself had been dropped so rudely.

"h.e.l.lo! Woodrow Weber. Who is this, please?"

Frantically Tara shoved her hand into the envelope, drawing blood as the staples sc.r.a.ped over her skin, not caring what happened to her until she found what she was looking for. It had to be there.

Subtlety wasn't Bill Hamilton's specialty. She pulled at that padded envelope until it tore, she found a sc.r.a.p of paper, nothing more than that. A sc.r.a.p of paper with an apocalyptic message.

"I can hear you. Who is this?" Woodrow hollered.

Tara grabbed the phone and put it to her ear, the note in the other hand.

Look what I can do. Look what I have done. Look what I can do.

The message was typed until the words ran off the page. This was a typewriter, not a computer printout. Donna's typewriter? Donna! Weak with fright, she steadied herself with a hand on the pile of fabric and pushed the phone tighter against her ear as if that would keep her from reaching through it to strangle Woodrow Weber.

"Start praying, Woodrow," Tara growled.

"He's lost it. If I find a body where I'm going, it's on your head."

Before he could utter a word of protest or horror, before he could ask a question, Tara slammed down the phone and vaulted out of the room, holding the mess of red silk against her breast.

"Call the sheriff, Caroline. Call them now.

Donna Ecold's house. Ten miles east of Highway 25 off 518. It's an emergency. Life and death. Tell them it's an a.s.sault with intent to kill. Tell them anything, just get them there."

"Oh no, is it really?" Caroline called after her, but Tara was gone, the question ringing in her ears as she took the fire stairs two at a time instead of waiting for the elevator. She was too far away to answer, but did anyway.

"I hope the h.e.l.l not."

Forty-five minutes to Donna's. A record, accomplished because the roads were clear, the snowfall had been insignificant, and there wasn't an icy patch to be found on the blacktop. Potholes slowed her down on the more poorly kept road that led to Donna's isolated home, but the Jeep took those with gumption and Tara sped onto Donna's land like a downhill cart on a rollercoaster. Out of the car she moved fast, her coat flapping, the remnants of Donna's red blouse still clutched in her hand.

"Donna? Donna!"

Tara took the steps fast and banged on the front door with her fist. Nothing. She rounded the porch. It was a big place, a monument to Donna's success as a writer and a triple divorcee. Tara paused, s.h.i.+elded her eyes, and peered into the dining room through one of the long windows. Everything as it should be. She headed down the porch and took a right. Donna's car was there. Another with a pointed star painted on its side sat next to it. The sheriff had arrived. But one car for a man like Bill Hamilton?

Suddenly light-headed, Tara stopped and held on to the side of the house. She held her stomach.

Nausea, dizziness, visions of Donna viciously attacked were clear in her mind's eye. They were almost too much to bear. It would be her fault if Donna was dead. And for what?

Lilting her head, Tara tilted it back and took a deep breath. In the desert silence she heard voices.

They spoke without urgency.

Tara fell against the wall, leaning on her shoulder, turning her head to it with a moan. There was no frantic activity. No paramedics. No one to help Donna, because Donna was beyond help.

Raising her hand, Tara buried her face in the soft silk. She couldn't smell the scent of her friend's perfume. She closed her eyes and couldn't remember the look on Donna's face when she smiled or cried. All Tara could remember was Bill Hamilton standing by the river.

Tara pushed wearily away from the wall, and steeled herself to look at him now. Three male voices came from the kitchen. One of them laughed. Confused, Tara opened the kitchen door and looked in. Around Donna's antique table sat two sheriffs deputies and Bill Hamilton. Cups of coffee and smiles all around.

"Tara!" Bill was up, his arms held wide as if he would embrace her.

She backed off, glaring at him.

The cowboy was here and he was good.

"Where's Donna?" Tara was aware that one of the deputies had stood up. The legs of his chair grated on the wooden floor but her eyes didn't leave Bill Hamilton until the deputy spoke.

"You must be Ms. Limey."

Tara whirled on him, her face flushed with anger and shock.

"Where is Donna Ecold?"

Taken aback, he nodded toward the double doors that led to the living room. Tara cut a wide berth around Bill and pushed open the doors with such force they banged against the opposite wall.

They swished closed behind her, and sealed the men into the kitchen and her in the living room with Donna.

Donna was bent over the typewriter, her little fingers pounding the keys as if each of them were a thing despised. She didn't stop when Tara stood trembling beside her desk. When Tara shoved the torn red blouse in front of her, Donna sat quietly, stony-faced as if waiting for Tara to tire and leave.

"What in the h.e.l.l is this? What?" Tara demanded, tears of anger and relief swelling painfully behind her eyes. Her hand was shaking and her fingers were weak. She held it higher, as if for Donna to take it.

"I don't know," Donna replied. A split second later she shoved Tara's hand away. She was typing again.

"Stop. Stop it," Tara cried. She slapped Donna's hands away from the keys and shoved the machine away from Donna. Hair flying over her face, she pushed Donna's chair back, planting herself between her friend and the fairy story that held her in thrall.

"Look at me, d.a.m.n you. I thought you were dead." Tara's voice caught on a high note and was tempered by a sob. She pushed her hair away and turned her head to compose herself, embarra.s.sed to find so much emotion in her and nothing returned in kind. Her voice softened to a whisper.

"I thought you were dead."

"Why didn't you just call? The telephone is an amazing invention." Fake lashes swept over her cheeks, her eyes glittering angrily beneath them.

Donna wore a new color of blush and it was harsh against her pale skin.

"I did call." Tara swung her head back to look at Donna, amazed that her friend would think her so stupid.

"I called from the car three times. When you didn't answer, I thought the worst. If you were all right, why didn't you answer?" Tara's fist hit the desk hard. She ignored the hurt. It was nothing compared to what was in her heart as Donna sneered at her.

"Gee, I don't know," she countered sarcastically.

"Maybe I was indisposed. Maybe you called when the police burst in with their guns drawn and caught Bill and me in a compromising position.

Yes, I did hear the phone ring, but for some reason they didn't want me to answer it. Or maybe you called when they had him down on the floor, handcuffed, and I was screaming for them to let him go. Or"*Donna tapped her cheek with a finger and rolled her eyes ceiling ward*"perhaps, you could have let it ring a little longer when they dragged him out to the car to question him. He was half dressed and it was cold and he'd done nothing wrong." Donna's eyes narrowed. There was fury in them and her voice was frigid.

"I don't know, Tara, maybe you should have let it ring longer."

"I don't give a d.a.m.n what they did to him," Tara countered, moving half a step toward Donna as if closer, she would be made to understand.

"I was so scared that you were hurt, and it was all my fault." Donna made a sound of disgust and got up. She walked away, but Tara dogged her, taking hold of her arm and pus.h.i.+ng the red blouse at her again.

"Look at this, and tell me you wouldn't have completely freaked out if you'd seen it. He sent it" Tara gestured toward the kitchen.

"He sent it as a warning. I thought it meant that he'd already hurt you, but I think it just means he could. He told me he wouldn't, but now I think that was a lie or at least it's a cry for help. Please look at it, Donna. Please."

Slowly Donna turned and looked at Tara with a lazy up and down. Finally, she took the fabric and unraveled it, holding it away from her with a great show of distaste. She eyed it dramatically, judging the amount of time Tara seemed to require and said flatly: "It's not my blouse."

"It is your blouse," Tara cried in disbelief.

"I saw it the night you left, the night I tried to tell you that this guy was bad news. I picked it up off the floor and handed it to you, remember? Donna, why are you protecting him like this?"

Tara hurried after Donna, who didn't break stride as she headed for the main staircase.

Dressed in white from head to toe she looked angelic and avenging, skating over the hardwood floor in her haste. She pounded up the stairs to the second floor and threw open the door to her bedroom. Tara dashed after, studiously ignoring the tangle of sheets on the big bed. She was just headed in to the walk-in closet when Donna was coming out.

The smaller woman pushed past her.

"Here. Now tell me about whatever it is you think you have there."

Donna held up a red blouse.

"Three b.u.t.tons, Tara. No cuffs. That's not even my size, or didn't you look at the label? That thing is polyester, Tara, not silk. Now, I don't know who did that, but it wasn't Bill and it wasn't my blouse."

Tara ran her hands over the blouse, crus.h.i.+ng the other one in her hand.

They weren't the same.

Not even close. She looked toward the door, half expecting to see Bill Hamilton standing there, getting a charge out of his little joke. Tara threw down both blouses and stormed out of the bedroom.

This time Donna was the one doing the chasing.

"Give me some paper," Tara demanded.

At the desk again, she ripped a sheet off the stack next to the typewriter and shoved it into the machine without waiting for Donna. She twirled the platen and the paper fed through askew. Tara typed, Look what I can do. Look what I have done. She ripped the sheet out of the machine and dug in the pocket of her coat.

"Look, Donna. Your typewriter. See? The dropped e? Now tell me you don't think your honey did this. You can't be that blind. He used this typewriter. Don't you think that could be construed as threatening?"

Donna stepped forward and took the paper.

Without looking she crumpled it and dropped it on the floor.

"Tara, please," Donna said softly, so sadly it made Tara turn away. She had lost.

"Don't do this. He isn't worth it." She looked back at Donna.

"I am not freaking out. I'm not having some sort of after-forty breakdown. When have you known me to be anything but responsible?"

"There's always a first time."

"This is ridiculous. That's your strategy where Bill Hamilton's concerned. Turn a blind eye. I don't know why I should be surprised. You did it when your husbands cheated on you, when your lovers beat you. You never questioned them until it was almost too late. I've stood by you through everything. I've offered my advice, my friends.h.i.+p, and my home when you wanted to run away. You always came back and told me I was right about those men. Well, I'm right this time, too. But you've got to admit it before the fact. After may be too late." Tara sniffed and threw back her head, blinking away frustrated tears.

"I wouldn't have called the sheriff if I wasn't totally convinced that Bill had hurt you, or was planning to hurt you. I did it because I love you."

"I appreciate that, Tara," Donna said, her calm oddly unnerving in the face of such an outburst.

"But you're driving me crazy and you're not going to change anything.

I'm an adult, and so is Bill.

Whatever is going on here is very, very strange, and I understand that. But whatever is between you two has to stay there. I don't want to know about it even if you could tell me."

"I will, if it will help*" "Don't. Stop. I don't want to hear a word."

Donna held up her hand.

"Bill told me that you couldn't tell anyone about his confidence. That it was the law. If you disregard that oath and tell me something you shouldn't, it would kill you."

"I don't care anymore."

"I do," Donna said instantly.

"I don't want anything to change between me and Bill. He's always been loving. I haven't seen anything that will convince me he's going to change. So if you can't accept the fact that I am happy with him, and that he is going to be a part of my life no matter what, then we can't be with each other. It's that simple."

"Ms. Ecold?" Both women whirled toward the open kitchen door, where the dark-haired deputy watched them.

"Yes?" Donna stepped forward, her voice pretty and girlish. Turn the spotlight her way and the act began.

"Since there's no problem here, we'll head back if that's all right with you." The man held his hat in hand, respectful of Donna's wealth and Bill Hamilton's winning ways.

"No, it's not all right." Tara stepped forward.

"I'm Tara Limey. I'm an attorney and I think you should do some serious talking with that man in there. I want you to listen carefully to what he has to say. I want you to ask him if he wrote this."

Tara held out the original note. The deputy's eyes flicked to Donna.

Then he stood straight and put on his hat.

"Ma'am, with all due respect, there just doesn't seem to be any reason to hang around. The only one I see making a fuss here is you. So unless Ms.