A concealed door on the far left of the foyer, used for deliveries, led directly into the kitchen area. Brenna, Trish, and Leigh used that door to enter the apartment. Hilda was carrying glasses on a serving tray and she nearly dropped it at the sight of Leigh’s bruised face and bedraggled appearance. “Oh, Mrs. Manning . . .” she burst out. “Oh, my Oh—”
“I’m okay, Hilda. I just need to comb my hair,” Leigh added as she carefully removed her arms from the coat Brenna had brought her. Based on the commotion in the living room, she gathered that quite a few members of the press were present.
“A little lipstick wouldn’t hurt,” Trish put in, reaching for the mirror and cosmetics she’d brought to the kitchen for exactly this purpose.
“Just a hairbrush,” Leigh said absently, smoothing the wrinkles from the black slacks and sweater she was wearing. “Okay, I’m ready,” she said after running a brush through her hair.
With Trish on one side of her and Brenna on the other, Leigh walked into her living room. Only six nights before, it had been filled with laughing people who’d come to help her celebrate one of the most wonderful nights of her life. Now the room was filled with staring strangers who’d come to pry, to observe, to record, and then report the lurid details of her living nightmare to the public. Strangers, all of them, except for Detectives Shrader and Littleton, who had just arrived.
“How are you feeling, Miss Kendall?” a reporter called.
“Give us a moment to get settled,” Trish told them all.
She’d positioned a chair in front of the fireplace for Leigh to use, and Leigh sank down onto it, not because she was physically unable to stand, but because her entire body was beginning to quake. Somehow, the presence of the reporters and photographers in her home made Logan’s disappearance seem even more macabre and more . . . real. She looked up at them and reluctantly signaled the start of the interview by saying, “Thank you for coming—”
Her words set off a volley of blinding camera lights and an instant barrage of questions: “Have you heard from your husband?” “Is there any truth to the rumor that he’s been kidnapped?” “When was the last time you saw him?” “Do the police know who ran you off the road?” “How are you feeling, Miss Kendall?” “Is it true that the two of you had been discussing divorce?” “What are the police doing?” “Do they have any suspects? Who found you the night of your accident? Was it an accident or do you think it was deliberate?” “When are you planning to return to your role in Blind Spot?”
Leigh held up her hand to stop the questions. “Please, just listen to what I have to say—I’ll tell you everything I know as quickly as I can.” The room grew silent, except for the whirring of the video cameras. She told them why she had been driving into the mountains Sunday night, and she gave them the details of her accident. “As you know, the police haven’t been able to identify the man who found me on the side of the road,” she finished, “but they have a police artist’s sketch and they’ll give it to you tonight.”
“Why haven’t the police been able to find your car?”
“I’ll let them explain that to you,” Leigh said weakly as a wave of dizziness swamped her. She tried to focus on Shrader and saw him nod that he’d deal with their questions about the police investigation. “I invited you here not only to answer your questions,” Leigh continued, “but also because I need your help. Please put that sketch in front of the public. Someone out there will surely recognize the man in that sketch. He knows where my accident happened, and—wherever it was—it’s near the place I was supposed to meet my husband. I’d also like you to have a description of my husband’s car . . .” Leigh paused again, feeling very strange, very clammy, and she sent a silent appeal for help to Detective Littleton, who was standing off to the side, her face a mixture of what appeared to Leigh to be alertness and curiosity. “Will you give these people the information about Logan’s car, and anything else they can use to help us?”
“Yes, of course, Mrs. Manning,” Detective Littleton said promptly, drawing several admiring looks from the males in the room.
Detectives Littleton and Shrader took over at that point and answered questions for the next ten minutes. Leigh listened until they were finished, but she was gripping the arms of her chair toward the end, trying to stay upright while the room began to recede and revolve. She reached a shaking hand up to her forehead just as a reporter from one of the newspapers suddenly addressed her. “Miss Kendall, can you think of any reason why your husband might not want to be found? Business problems, or—?”
Leigh frowned at him, trying to keep his face in focus. “That’s ridiculous.”
“What about the rumors that your marriage wasn’t as idyllic as you’d like the public to believe—that, in fact, he was involved with another woman?”
Leigh mustered all her strength and looked straight at him. “My husband is a wonderful man, and a loyal and loving husband.” With quiet dignity, she added, “I cannot believe you would soil his reputation, or deliberately hurt and humiliate me at this moment, by commenting on what are nothing but ugly, unfounded rumors.”
Trish Lefkowitz decided it was time to put an end to the press conference. “Okay, people!” she announced, “that’s it for tonight. Thank you for coming. Right now, Miss Kendall needs to get some rest.”
Several reporters tried to ask one more question, but Trish firmly and pleasantly cut them off. “No more questions tonight. I’ll contact you with updates every time we have anything at all to tell you.” So saying, she went to the front door of the apartment and opened it, standing there while they put away their recorders and notepads, packed up their cameras, and filed out.
With her hand braced on the back of her chair for support, Leigh managed to stand up and thank each of them individually for coming, but when Trish finally closed the door behind the last straggler, she sank back onto the chair. Shrader was on his cell phone, so Leigh spoke to Littleton. “Thank you for being here, and for . . . everything. Would you like some tea or coffee?” she added. “I’ll have a cup with you.”
“Thanks, coffee would be great,” Detective Littleton replied, and Leigh marveled at how fresh and rested the pretty brunette always looked. She glanced around for Hilda and saw her standing on the sidelines, surveying the damage to her perfect living room. “Hilda, would you bring coffee for all of us?”
Shrader snapped his cell phone closed. “Never mind the coffee,” he said to Hilda. “We’ll take our coats instead.” He turned to Leigh, his expression intense and energized. “A state trooper may have located the place where you went off the road. He was writing up a motorist on a speeding violation tonight when he happened to notice a bunch of freshly broken tree limbs leading down from the embankment where he was standing. The snow plows had piled up a lot of snow along the side of the road there, so he couldn’t see any tire tracks or inspect the guardrail for damage, but he knows there’s an old quarry somewhere down at the bottom.”
He paused to put on the heavy jacket Hilda was holding. “We’ve already got a couple NYPD units up there right now,” he added, “and I’ll arrange for more to be on hand first thing in the morning. Littleton and I will grab a few hours’ sleep and be up there when things start happening. We’ll call you as soon as we know anything.”
Leigh wasn’t interested in recovering her car; she was interested in recovering her husband. “If that’s the place where I had my accident, then the cabin can’t be far away. I don’t understand why everything has to wait until morning.”
“Because it’s too dark to accomplish anything more tonight,” Shrader pointed out patiently. “The state trooper tried to go down the embankment, using his flashlight, but it’s very steep and treacherous underfoot, especially at night. As soon as we get some daylight, we’ll be able to tell very quickly if he found the right place. And if he did find it, our teams will start combing the surrounding area by air and on the ground.”
“But we’re losing so much time, waiting
for morning—” Leigh protested again, wringing her hands.
“A few hours isn’t going to make much difference if your husband found shelter from the storm.”
“But what if he didn’t?” Leigh argued.
Shrader’s answer made her wish she hadn’t asked the question. “In that case,” he replied matter-of-factly, “after five days, a few hours more isn’t going to make any difference.” He looked impatiently at Detective Littleton, who was slowly putting on her jacket, her gaze fixed on Leigh. “If the state police have actually found the place where you went off the road,” he added, starting for the door with Littleton finally following, “then the map you gave us at the hospital was way off. The location the trooper pinpointed tonight is at least twenty miles away from where your directions sent us. Then again, this may not be the right spot at all, so don’t get your hopes up too high.”
Littleton walked up the foyer steps, pulling on her gloves; then she paused at the front door and turned to Leigh. “The best thing you can do now, Mrs. Manning, is to go to bed and stay there until you hear from us in the morning. Several times tonight, you looked as if you were going to pass out.”
“You did,” Trish said as soon as the front door closed behind the two detectives. “Brenna and I are going home now,” she announced, already heading for the coat closet, “and you are going to eat something and go straight to bed. Brenna said you barely touched any food today.”
“That’s right,” Brenna confirmed; then she turned to Hilda and deftly shifted Leigh into the care of the loyal housekeeper: “She hasn’t eaten, Hilda, and she hasn’t taken her pain pills either. They’re in her purse.”
“I’ll look after her,” Hilda promised. She ushered Brenna and Trish out of the apartment; then she went to Leigh, who had sunk back onto her chair. “I made dinner for you earlier, and I’ll bring it to you on a tray, along with your medicine, after you’re in bed. Here, let me help you up, Mrs. Manning.”
“Thank you, Hilda,” Leigh said, too exhausted and weak to protest. She stood up and trailed slowly along in the wake of the bustling housekeeper.
“I’ll turn your bed down first,” Hilda said over her shoulder.
Turning the bed down required the removal of the elaborate designer pillows that covered nearly half the mattress and obscured much of the Queen Anne headboard. Normally, Hilda made the nightly removal of the pillows into a ceremonial procession that both amused and fascinated Leigh. First, an armload of fringed pillows were removed and carried into the linen closet, followed by two armloads of pillows with tassels, followed by two more armloads of pillows trimmed with miscellaneous braids, cords, and rickrack. In the morning, the entire loving ceremonial procession began again, in reverse.
That night, however, Hilda broke with her usual tradition in a way that made Leigh realize how truly pained the housekeeper was by Leigh’s situation. “I’ll just clear these pillows out of your way,” Hilda announced; then she bent over the bed, braced her hands on the pile, and with a single mighty shove, she sent most of them tumbling off the bed onto the floor on the opposite side. She dispatched the few remaining pillows by bracing her knee on the mattress and swatting the malingerers onto the floor; then she straightened and pulled back the fluffy white duvet. “I’ll warm up your dinner while you get ready for bed,” she said, and Leigh nodded, already on her way into her dressing room.
Too exhausted to contemplate a shower, Leigh pulled off her slacks and sweater. She was reaching for a nightgown when Hilda walked past the open doorway carrying the thick, down-filled pillows that were used on the bed at night. The housekeeper stopped in her tracks and let out a muffled cry of anguish at the sight of Leigh’s battered body. “Oh no! Oh, Mrs. Manning! You poor thing—you should be in the hospital!”
“I’m just bruised up, that’s all,” Leigh said. She was so touched by Hilda’s anguished expression that she started to give her a reassuring hug; then she changed her mind out of fear for her fractured ribs. Gingerly, Leigh lifted her arms and began easing the nightgown over her head. When she could see again, Hilda was gone. Relieved that she didn’t have to conceal what a difficult and painful ordeal the simple act of walking was right then, Leigh clamped her right arm over her aching ribs, then limped slowly and awkwardly across the room to the bed.
Alone in the bed she’d always shared with Logan, she gazed at the achingly familiar room, remembering the last time he’d been here with her. She closed her eyes and she could visualize him, standing beside the bed, exactly as he’d been on Sunday morning, his voice teasing as he pressed a good-bye kiss on her cheek. “I’ve already loaded the car. I think I have everything I need—house plans, stakes, string, a transom, sleeping bags. I still feel like I’m forgetting something . . .”
“A broom, a mop, and a bucket? . . . Disinfectant? Mousetraps?”
He nuzzled her neck, trying to tickle her, and she pulled the pillow over her head so he couldn’t.
“Leave straight from the theater. Don’t be late,” he said as he headed for the door.
But Leigh continued her joking chant of practical necessities, “Drinking water . . . food for dinner . . .”
The memory of that happy, halcyon morning finally demolished the iron grip Leigh had been keeping on her rampaging emotions, and tears began to stream in hot torrents down her cheeks. “Oh, darling,” she sobbed, turning her face into the pillows, “wherever you are, stay safe for me. Please, please stay safe.”
She never knew if Hilda actually brought in a dinner tray, but sometime during the night, she thought she felt someone smooth the covers over her and brush the hair off her face. She wanted it to be Logan, needed it to be Logan, and so she let herself believe it had been—just for a little while. After all, pretending was what she did best.
Chapter 12
* * *
The ringing of the telephone jolted Leigh awake at eight o’clock the next morning. In another part of the house, Hilda answered it on the second ring, and Leigh stared fixedly at the little red light glowing on the phone beside her bed.
All of the apartment phones had three separate telephone lines—a main line, her private line, and Logan’s private line—and this call had come in on the main line. Since the police had her private phone number, she knew the call wasn’t from them, but she clung to the hope that someone was calling with news of Logan. Praying that the little light would start blinking, indicating that Hilda had put the caller on hold and was coming to get her, Leigh waited, watching it. Moments later it went out, and she climbed out of bed, her hopes dashed, her tension already beginning to mount.
By the time she finished showering and washing her hair, the telephone was ringing incessantly, and each call jangled her nerves a little more. The face that looked back at her in the mirror at her dressing table was pale, bruised, and haunted. Her face, but not her face—another thing that was familiar to her and yet completely alien, just like her life today, and every day since she’d first awakened in the hospital.
The stitches in her scalp and the stiffness in her arms made the simple act of blowing her hair dry into an uncomfortable, awkward challenge that seemed to take forever. In her closet, she reached for the first sweater on the nearest shelf, a brown one; then she hesitated. The shelf beside it held a cherry red sweater. Logan had asked her to wear red to the party Saturday night because he’d bought her rubies, which of course were also red. Leigh decided to wear red today. Maybe if she did that, their lives would somehow pick up where they’d left off Saturday night. Maybe it would change her luck if she put on something bright and cheerful. She put on the red sweater and the wool slacks that matched it.
By eight-forty-five, when Leigh left the bedroom, the phone was ringing almost nonstop. Normally the sight of her living room, with its polished parquet floors, soaring marble colonnades, and expansive views of Central Park, gave Leigh’s spirits a lift, but that morning it was just another meaningless space that was rendered lonely and bizarre by the disappearance of one
of its owners. Leigh heard Brenna’s voice coming from the kitchen, at the other end of the apartment, so she went there.
The kitchen was a large inviting room with an island in the center and a wide window. Its weathered brick walls and arched fireplace made it seem cozy and rustic, despite the commercial-size stainless steel appliances that lined the walls. Brenna was standing near the refrigerator, talking on the telephone and making notes on a pad; Hilda was at the stove, stirring something in a pot. She saw Leigh in the doorway and stopped to pour her a cup of coffee. “I’m making your breakfast,” she said.
When Brenna finished with the caller, Leigh motioned her over to the table to join her. Eyeing the spiral notebook in Brenna’s hand, she said, “Who do I want to hear about?”
Brenna began scanning the pages of neatly written notes. “Sybil Haywood said to tell you she’s working on your astrological chart and she should have some guidance to offer you very soon. Courtney Maitland wants to come up and visit you as soon as you ‘can possibly bear some company.’ Senator Hollenbeck called to tell you that he’s at your service. Judge Maxwell called to say . . .” Leigh’s attention wandered during the long list of well-wishers, but she listened closely again as Brenna came to the end and said, “Dr. Winters called yesterday and again early this morning. She said to tell you that she’s holding you in her thoughts, and that she would like to come and see you to help ‘keep the vigil’ whenever you want company. She also phoned in a prescription for you, and she wants you to start taking it immediately.”
“What sort of prescription?”
Brenna hesitated and then said very firmly, “She said it’s an antianxiety medication. She said she knows you won’t like the idea, but it will help you to think clearly and stay calm right now, when you most need to do both.”