just take some of your own advice. Be careful.”
“Anne was careful. He got her anyway.”
“I know,” Ginny’s voice softened, “but she wasn’t abducted from anywhere near your house, and she wasn’t killed there, either. You’ve got to let it go, Beth. Don’t give this stranger so much power over you.”
Beth nodded, not so much in agreement, but more to signal the end of the conversation. She let Ginny eat her soup in peace.
Had she been obsessing about this killer? Since Anne Spalding’s death, Beth had thought of little else. She wondered where Anne had met the killer, and why, after fleeing from a husband who had beaten her senseless, she would trust another man so soon, and so completely. Was Anne that hungry for male companionship? Or was the Spiderman so damnably slick?
Since Anne’s death, during many sleepless nights, Beth imagined footsteps padding across her spare room carpet. One night she sat up in bed, certain she saw Anne sitting on the upholstered chaise in Beth’s bedroom. Once, she even heard her speak. “I can’t go to my room, Beth.
He’s
there.”
So many times, Beth remembered Anne coming down to the kitchen for a late-night snack while Beth sat at the living room desk, buried under her accounting ledgers. She had hardly looked up whenAnne had passed by, so concerned was she with maintaining her privacy. She had provided Anne with a place to stay and wanted no involvement. No responsibility. If only she’d been more sympathetic, more open, perhaps Anne would have confided in her, told her something about herself. Maybe then Beth would have information to share with Jim.
“Mmm, that was good.” Ginny’s soup bowl was whisked away, replaced by a steaming plate of fusilli. “Banzai!” Ginny said and buried her fork in the pasta. Pomodoro sauce spattered across Natalie Gorman’s picture. Mouth full, Ginny gurgled, “Enough about murders and such. Tell me what’s new with you.”
“I got another anonymous note yesterday.”
“Oh, hell. More bad news? No wonder you’re paranoid. What’d this one say?”
Beth explained, then told Ginny about Kearns’s reaction.
“He’s right,” Ginny said, wiping her mouth. “It’s not the Spiderman’s style. The guy writing those notes isn’t some fang-toothed stalker. I’d stake my life on it. More likely someone who’s already in your face, gauging your reaction to his literary creativity.”
In your face
. Beth thought of Bobby Chandler, who certainly had been in her face, in her yard, in her life lately. Was Bobby capable of such maliciousness? The mental image of the skateboarder with the lopsided grin didn’t jibe with the steely coldness of the two notes. Still, Bobby was fourteen, and weren’t allteenagers equipped with enough angst to baffle Freud? The memory of her own adolescence made her wince. Thank goodness for the advance of years.
The pomodoro sauce dried a rusty brown on the newsprint. The slain model’s face appeared spackled with blood.
“You must come across the occasional kook in your store, Beth. What about one of your customers?”
“Like Horace Furwell?”
“Is that the pervert you were telling me about?”
Beth nodded. “Not to hear him tell it, though. He thinks his bordello project will catapult me onto the pages of
Architectural Digest
.”
“Like you need his help getting there. Listen, Beth, any guy who wants a designer of your calibre to turn his bedroom into a replica of a whorehouse has more than a screw loose. We’re talking the whole toolbox. I’d steer clear of that bozo. Next subject. When do you see your new man again?”
“Monday night,” Beth replied, feeling her mood lighten. “I can’t wait.”
“That good in the sack, huh?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“Head over heels after only a few weeks? That’s not like the sensible Beth I know.” Ginny wagged a finger and grinned.
“Maybe a little of the Rizzuto impulsiveness has rubbed off on me.”
Ginny’s
“Anne was careful. He got her anyway.”
“I know,” Ginny’s voice softened, “but she wasn’t abducted from anywhere near your house, and she wasn’t killed there, either. You’ve got to let it go, Beth. Don’t give this stranger so much power over you.”
Beth nodded, not so much in agreement, but more to signal the end of the conversation. She let Ginny eat her soup in peace.
Had she been obsessing about this killer? Since Anne Spalding’s death, Beth had thought of little else. She wondered where Anne had met the killer, and why, after fleeing from a husband who had beaten her senseless, she would trust another man so soon, and so completely. Was Anne that hungry for male companionship? Or was the Spiderman so damnably slick?
Since Anne’s death, during many sleepless nights, Beth imagined footsteps padding across her spare room carpet. One night she sat up in bed, certain she saw Anne sitting on the upholstered chaise in Beth’s bedroom. Once, she even heard her speak. “I can’t go to my room, Beth.
He’s
there.”
So many times, Beth remembered Anne coming down to the kitchen for a late-night snack while Beth sat at the living room desk, buried under her accounting ledgers. She had hardly looked up whenAnne had passed by, so concerned was she with maintaining her privacy. She had provided Anne with a place to stay and wanted no involvement. No responsibility. If only she’d been more sympathetic, more open, perhaps Anne would have confided in her, told her something about herself. Maybe then Beth would have information to share with Jim.
“Mmm, that was good.” Ginny’s soup bowl was whisked away, replaced by a steaming plate of fusilli. “Banzai!” Ginny said and buried her fork in the pasta. Pomodoro sauce spattered across Natalie Gorman’s picture. Mouth full, Ginny gurgled, “Enough about murders and such. Tell me what’s new with you.”
“I got another anonymous note yesterday.”
“Oh, hell. More bad news? No wonder you’re paranoid. What’d this one say?”
Beth explained, then told Ginny about Kearns’s reaction.
“He’s right,” Ginny said, wiping her mouth. “It’s not the Spiderman’s style. The guy writing those notes isn’t some fang-toothed stalker. I’d stake my life on it. More likely someone who’s already in your face, gauging your reaction to his literary creativity.”
In your face
. Beth thought of Bobby Chandler, who certainly had been in her face, in her yard, in her life lately. Was Bobby capable of such maliciousness? The mental image of the skateboarder with the lopsided grin didn’t jibe with the steely coldness of the two notes. Still, Bobby was fourteen, and weren’t allteenagers equipped with enough angst to baffle Freud? The memory of her own adolescence made her wince. Thank goodness for the advance of years.
The pomodoro sauce dried a rusty brown on the newsprint. The slain model’s face appeared spackled with blood.
“You must come across the occasional kook in your store, Beth. What about one of your customers?”
“Like Horace Furwell?”
“Is that the pervert you were telling me about?”
Beth nodded. “Not to hear him tell it, though. He thinks his bordello project will catapult me onto the pages of
Architectural Digest
.”
“Like you need his help getting there. Listen, Beth, any guy who wants a designer of your calibre to turn his bedroom into a replica of a whorehouse has more than a screw loose. We’re talking the whole toolbox. I’d steer clear of that bozo. Next subject. When do you see your new man again?”
“Monday night,” Beth replied, feeling her mood lighten. “I can’t wait.”
“That good in the sack, huh?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“Head over heels after only a few weeks? That’s not like the sensible Beth I know.” Ginny wagged a finger and grinned.
“Maybe a little of the Rizzuto impulsiveness has rubbed off on me.”
Ginny’s
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