Her Last Letter Part 30

Later, as guests departed, Wolfgang let the fire die down. Finally, Trevor turned to me. "Let's get out of here."

"Fine with me."

We thanked Wolfgang for a great party, despite the accident, then began walking toward the house. I looked up at Trevor. "I'll just say goodnight to Linda."

"Meet you out by the car."

But I couldn't find her and had to a.s.sume she'd gone to bed. That wasn't like Linda, going off to sleep with the house still in disarray.

I steeled myself for the ride home, staring out the winds.h.i.+eld, avoiding any possible eye contact with Trevor.

"Fun party," he said.

"Yes, it was ... for a while."

"I hope you see now what kind of a guy he is."

"Can we talk about this some other time? I don't want to fight with you right now."

"Fine." Then he faced me. "No-I need to talk about this now. The guy's an a.s.shole. He ran into me for G.o.d's sake. He put a woman in the G.o.dd.a.m.n hospital."

"Who happened to be riding on the back of your snowmobile. Now why was that?"

"Oh, of course-Sylvia. Your favorite subject."

"Well, why was she there? Why is she always there?"

Trevor slammed on the brakes at the light. My seatbelt yanked me backward.

"What did you want me to do?" he shouted. "Throw her off?"

"Yes," I shouted back. "Something. You don't do anything."

My chest began to heave, and I turned away, unable to stifle the sobs.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay, that's enough."

"Just," I whimpered, my words punctuated with little gasps, "leave ... me ... alone."

I wouldn't look at him the rest of the way home, and grabbed my robe and pillow and made up the bed in the guest room. I averted my gaze each time I pa.s.sed him in the hall.

He didn't try to talk to me either.

After he'd gone to bed, I got up and walked downstairs to the kitchen. As soon as I sat down, Annabelle jumped into my lap, startling me. "You're supposed to be asleep, Annie-B."

She smiled her doggy smile, then hopped down and trotted back and forth between me and the front door. "Right," I said, "Trevor forgot to walk you, didn't he?" I pulled my robe tighter, shoved my bare feet into boots, and led Annabelle on a leash outside to the driveway.

Chapter 20.

The next day, tired and unable to concentrate, I hopped into my Jeep and drove over to the old house. I decided it was a good time to see what kind of progress my newly hired workers were making.

Earlier in the morning, Trevor had knocked on my guest room door and apologized. I was grateful, because I was feeling really low. It was the first time we'd slept in separate beds under the same roof since we'd been together. I hadn't gotten much sleep and felt sick with misery. I didn't ask him if he'd called the hospital, or spoken with Sylvia or Bob, and he didn't bring it up.

Tomorrow, I was meeting Sue at a location as yet to be determined, where she would hand over her first report. I'd tried to push the meeting forward, anxious for any news, but she needed more time to pull everything together, including editing out repet.i.tious ho-hum stretches of videotape.

The old house was a mess when I walked in. Plastic tarpaulins lay everywhere, protecting the furniture and floors from paint splatters. The workers, two industrious men in their twenties, looked down at me from their ladders as I tread carefully between paint buckets and pans.

"Looks good," I said.

They acknowledged me with smiles, and kept on painting. They'd accomplished a lot in the past few days, finis.h.i.+ng the upstairs bedrooms and bath, also the living room. Now they were working on the entrance near the stairs. I'd asked them to strip the faded wallpaper in the kitchen, along with the paneling in my dad's little room. They'd accomplished that yesterday, but I hadn't seen it yet. I planned to repaper those two rooms. In fact, my next stop would be in town to pick up samples.

As I entered my dad's room, I stopped in my tracks, startled by the change. The walls beneath the paneling looked awful-yellowed and dirty. Next to my father's desk, a bunch of scribbling covered a section of wall. My dad had made a habit of jotting notes on the wall when he was in a hurry and couldn't find paper. It had driven my mother crazy, hence the installation of dark paneling and a chalk board.

I walked over and ran my hand over his bold inked script-call Benny in the morning, take order-cancel s.h.i.+pment #5038 to Jake, late on payment-deposit checks by the fifteenth. And on and on ...

I continued reading, knowing this would likely be the last time I'd ever see these long ago messages. Then I stopped. No, that didn't have to happen. I ran out to the Jeep and grabbed my camera, then spent the next few minutes taking close-up shots of the wall. I didn't want to lose these mementos. Now, I could keep them with me always.

I stayed for only a few minutes more, then drove into town and picked up my wallpaper samples. When I returned home, Annabelle greeted me, yapping, at the door.

"Ooo, good dog, such a good, good dog," I cooed as she bounced happily at my feet. "Do you want to see what I've got? Oh, yes you do, yes you do." She wiggled so hard I thought she'd lose her footing.

I pulled a tube of wallpaper from the bag and rolled it across the floor toward the kitchen doorway. She chased after it until it stopped, then crouched on front paws and barked at it, presumably waiting for it to come to life and roll again. I lightly kicked the roll, and she was off.

Bringing the bag into the kitchen, I grabbed scissors and snipped open several rolls and spread them across the floor. "Which one do you like, Annabelle?" I pointed down at one and she followed my finger, then stopped near the paper. "Yes, I like that one too."

She leisurely sniffed each roll, then moved to a far one and flopped down, stopping to chew the edge of it. "And that one? Yes, it's very nice, one of my favorites. Do you want to go with me and try these out at the house?"

Annabelle barked yes, once I found her leash.

I grabbed a handful of puppy treats for later on, then attached the leash to her collar.

It was late afternoon when we arrived at the old house. One of the workers was loading equipment into his van, getting ready to leave, I supposed. It appeared the other man was still inside.

I entered by way of the back door off the kitchen. The man was was.h.i.+ng his hands in the kitchen sink.

"Hi," I said. "Are you planning to leave right away?"

"No, ma'am, I'll be here for maybe another hour. If that's okay?"

"Oh, sure. Stay as long as you want. I just thought I'd try these out." I pointed at the samples. "See if I like them. I won't be in your way, will I?" I pulled Annabelle's leash close, drawing her away from the freshly painted walls.

"No, ma'am, and don't worry. Everything is dry now. Your dog can't hurt much."

"You be good," I said softly to Annabelle, offering her a treat, "or we're out of here." I hooked her leash handle under a kitchen table leg, and though Annabelle whined and tugged at it at first, she finally flopped down.

I tacked up the first wallpaper sample, vertical stripes of pale green and gold fading into each other, then stood back, trying to envision a whole wall of the pattern. Not thrilled, I tacked up another sample, then two at a time, deliberating. Finally, I picked out a print consisting of tiny violets on a white background, and fastened several lengths of that alone on the wall. It was a good possibility. With a nice white or lavender border, it could be charming. I tacked up several more samples to compare.

It wasn't until the shadows in the kitchen grew long that I realized the house was very quiet. Annabelle was asleep. But hadn't I heard the worker's cell phone ring what felt like only moments before? He'd been talking to someone. Or had he been talking to me?

Quickly, I stepped to the front window. The driveway was empty.

"Come on, Annabelle. We're leaving." I gathered the wallpaper and placed the rolls in the bag. As I was rooting in my purse for keys, Annabelle leapt up-teeth bared, growling.

"What is it? What's the matter?" I held my breath, my heart beginning to jump.

A moment later, I heard footsteps at the back door. A man's profile appeared at the window.

Too late, I realized the door was unlocked.

The k.n.o.b turned.

Annabelle charged for the door, then squealed, yanked back by the leash.

"Who's there?" I called out, then hoping it might be one of the workers, asked, "Who is it? Did you forget something?"

The door opened a crack. I backed away, reaching for my cell phone.

A man's head jut inside. "h.e.l.lo," he said, smiling. "It's Gwyn, isn't it?"

"Who are you? You've got no business in here without my permission."

He studied Annabelle, then stepped inside and closed the door. "Relax. I guess you don't recognize me."

"And I guess you didn't hear me." I held up my phone. "I already called the cops." I made a swift move toward Annabelle, but the man instantly stepped between us. Annabelle lunged for his leg, but missed.

"Hey, if your mutt gets loose, I'll have to hurt it. Is that what you want?"

"No. Don't. Calm down, girl. It's okay."

She stopped struggling, but continued to growl.

"Listen," he said. "I'm not here to hurt you. I saw you drive up and I need to talk to someone. I'm tired of running from the cops. I'm Craig Foster."

I stared at him. It was Craig. The long blond hair was gone, short now, almost a military-style cut, and brown, but definitely Craig. He wore gla.s.ses with large unattractive plastic frames, and his pants hung too short, showing discolored white socks. The disguise was a good one. He appeared geeky, a nerd. Nothing at all like I remembered.

"Give me one minute," he said, "then I'm out of here. I didn't kill your sister. For chrissake I was in love with her."

I pulled my arms tightly across my stomach. "Just because you bust in here and tell me you loved my sister, don't expect me to believe you're innocent. If you're so innocent, why did you run from the police?"

"Because whoever set me up, did one h.e.l.l of a job. And I'm not stupid enough to do time for anybody."

"Okay. But I still don't have any reason to believe you."

"And I don't expect you will, unless I find what I've been looking for."

"What's that?"

"A box."

Annabelle jumped up, barking.

"Why? What's so special about it?"

"I wish I knew," he said, "but I think whatever it is might clear me. I think she was having an affair, and I think he killed her. She used to write these notes, hide them all over the house. I think she was scared."

"How do you know there was a box?"

"Right before she died, she joked that if anything happened to her, to look for a box she'd stashed in the house. I didn't think she was serious. She could be really weird sometimes. I didn't pay much attention-until she died. The thing is, he might be looking for it too. I saw someone take off out of this place the other night."

"Where have you been all this time?"

"Here and there, but I keep coming back to search, but now I've run out of time. You put a for-sale sign out front."

I hesitated, thinking. "I found a note too."

"So you see I'm telling the truth. What did your note say?"

"It said she was having an affair, and that she was afraid, and she mentioned a box."

"You see. You see. Did she say where she put it?"

"No."

"Then it's probably gone. I've looked everywhere. I've been through every box in this house, in the bas.e.m.e.nt, in the closets. When things quieted down after she died and I thought it was safe, I used to come by and go through them, but there's nothing. I didn't find anything. Did you move stuff of hers? Throw things out?"

"Yes, some things. You're right. Whatever it is might be gone."

"Then I'm screwed."

"I think you should go to the police and tell them what you've told me. I'd be there to back you up."

"Not a chance. They don't give guys like me the benefit of the doubt.... But there is one place I haven't searched yet." He reached up and removed his gla.s.ses. "Did she ever mention the initials, T.D., something T.D., maybe a guy's initials or a code word?"

"No."

"I never could figure that out. But I saw it once in a note. I could have it wrong. It could have been some kind of a symbol. Do you know what she might have meant by it?"

"No idea."

"What happened to the furniture she had upstairs? The bedroom furniture. Why did you get rid of it?"