She had survived being trapped in the car trunk all those years ago, and she could survive this. Poor Vernon was no threat to her. The only threat was the cold.
It was the cold, not the walls that seemed to be closing in on her.
The cold. Desdemona forced herself to focus on that element of the situation.
She was wearing jeans, a yellow pullover, and her red jacket. The jacket wasn't exactly a down parka; it was early summer, not midwinter, after all. But the lightweight coat was lined with a cozy fleece. It would hold her for a while. She would not freeze to death immediately.
If necessary, she could borrow Vernon's clothes. He certainly did not need them.
The thought made Desdemona so ill she was afraid she might be sick to her stomach.
The nausea passed when she promised herself that she would not strip Vernon's body unless it became absolutely necessary. It wasn't necessary yet.
There was time to think. Time to act.
The most important thing to remember was that she was no longer five years old. She was not a helpless child trapped in the clutches of an insane man.
And she was no closer to Vernon Tate's body than she had been three minutes ago. The walls were not closing in on her.
She considered the possibility of hammering on the steel walls with one of the stainless steel freezer trays. She might be able to generate enough noise to attract someone's attention.
The flaw in that scheme was that it was highly unlikely that any of the neighboring shopkeepers had come in to work this early.
She needed another way to communicate.
She slid all the way down into a crouching position. Desdemona hugged her knees and tried to wrench her gaze away from Vernon Tate's body.
The slight movement caused the edge of her red jacket to shift. There was a small clunk as the object inside the right pocket brushed against the freezer wall.
Desdemona belatedly remembered her beautiful PDA X-1000. She had stuck it into her jacket this morning, just as she always did before she left for work.
Some men gave a woman flowers. Some gave perfume. But some, a rare few, no doubt, had an instinct for giving a woman the perfect gift.
Stark got Desdemona's e-mail message as soon as he switched on his computer.
To:
[email protected] From:
[email protected] Trapped in freezer. Dead body. Please hurry.
Stark read the short message twice. It crossed his mind that Desdemona might be playing a joke on him. He picked up the telephone and dialed her apartment number.
There was no answer.
He dialed the Right Touch number. Again no response.
An unpleasant sensation gripped him. Desdemona was not comfortable enough yet with computers to play games on them.
He took a few seconds to type out a reply.
To:
[email protected] From:
[email protected] I'm on my way.
He surged to his feet and headed for the door.
Maud looked up in alarm as he went past her desk. “Mr. Stark, is something wrong?”
“Something's come up. Tell Dane he'll have to handle the Connelly Manufacturing people by himself. If they don't like the fact that I'm not at the meeting, reschedule. You can reach me on my PDA.”
“Yes, Mr. Stark.” Maud straightened her shoulders. “Trust me, sir. I'll handle everything here. Flexibility is the hallmark of a successful secretary. We must learn to adapt to life's constantly changing winds. The branch that cannot bend will surely break.”
Stark didn't have time to think of an adequate response.
He took the elevator to the street floor of the high-rise building and ran most of the six blocks to Pioneer Square. It was faster than getting the car out of the garage or trying to catch a cab.
He reached Right Touch a few minutes later. He went down the alley and found the rear door open. When he stepped inside, he immediately saw the heavy steel shelving that blocked the freezer door.
It did not take him long to move it.
He jerked open the freezer door.
“Stark.” Desdemona exploded out of the freezer and into his arms. She clutched her PDA X-1000 in one hand. She pushed her face into his chest and clung to him. “I got your message. I got it. I was going crazy, and then I got your message. I knew you'd come.”
“What the hell happened here?” Stark hugged her fiercely.
Then he saw Vernon Tate's body in the corner of the freezer.
Hours later, after the police had finally left, Emote Espresso was overrun by Wainwrights.
They were everywhere, and they were all doing Shock and Horror. Stark decided that he had never really seen shock and horror done until now when he witnessed a whole family of theater people doing it.
Henry and Kirsten slumped elegantly on counter stools, espresso cups in hand. Bess and Augustus were draped languidly over a tiny table. They stirred their lattes with slow, desultory motions. Juliet, still somewhat ashen, sat at another table and toyed with a cup of cappuccino. Even Macbeth was there. He had Jason and Kyle with him.
Stark noted that Tony was the only one who was missing. Apparently he had not yet gotten the word.
Desdemona was center stage, seated at a small table. There was a cup of tea in front of her. Stark sat across from her.
“I still can't believe that poor Vernon is dead,” Desdemona said for the hundredth time. “He was such a pleasant man. Such a quiet person. So reliable. An artist without an ego.”
“A very rare individual,” Augustus murmured. “Bland but rare.”
“Tell me the whole story again,” Stark ordered. “From the beginning.”
“I've already gone over it a zillion times for the police.”
“Do it one more time for me.”
Desdemona sighed, wadded up a hankie, and stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans. “I went to Right Touch after you left this morning. The back door was open. I could see that the freezer door was open, too. I assumed someone had come to work early. Apparently that's just what happened. Poor Vernon must have got the morning schedule mixed up. He showed up early and surprised the burglar.”
“Who shot him and stuffed his body in the freezer,” Henry added in a strained voice. “And then the son-of-a-bitch tried to kill Desdemona.”
“Oh, my God,” Bess wailed. “I still can't believe it. Desdemona could have been killed.”
“Now, now, my dear.” Augustus patted her shoulder. “She's safe. It's all over.”
Stark realized that he was gripping the edge of the small table so tightly the plastic threatened to crack beneath his fingers. He made himself loosen his grip.
Desdemona could have been killed.
Chaos filled his insides. He fought to cram the nightmarish feeling back into the cauldron where it belonged.
“You're sure you didn't recognize him?” he made himself ask.
She shook her head. “No. His features were all sort of twisted up. The police said it sounded as if he were wearing a nylon stocking over his face. He was tall and thin. His clothes were filthy.”
“Some street person desperate for money to buy drugs,” Kirsten whispered.
“That's what the cops think,” Macbeth said.
“Why break into Right Touch?” Kirsten asked. “Desdemona doesn't keep cash on hand.”
Desdemona dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. “The police said he was probably hoping to find something he could sell.”
“He was in your office when you arrived?” Stark asked.
“Yes. He came out with the gun in his hand. I threw the soup kettle at him. He shot at it, but I think he must have been rattled. The shot went wild. So did the second one.”
“Jesus,” Henry said softly. “Two shots. Thank God you made it to the freezer.”
“Vernon Tate wasn't so lucky,” Desdemona said sadly. “The killer must have surprised him just as he was putting his ice swan into the freezer.”
“The
killer might have shot him and then put him in the freezer to complicate the investigation,” Augustus said thoughtfully. “I recall a similar situation in a play I did a few years back. Dinner theater production down in California. A mystery called Freeze Dried. Had the lead. Remember, Bess?”
“I remember,” Bess said. “You were brilliant, dear.”
“Thank you. Role was that of the police investigator,” Augustus continued. “Body was frozen in the snow. Had to deduce the actual time of death with some mighty clever sleuthing. Wasn't easy, I can tell you.”
“I'm sure modern police techniques have come a long way since you did that play, Dad,” Macbeth said.
“I've called my clients and cancelled everything through the weekend,” Desdemona said. “Fortunately, all I had on the schedule was a small reunion brunch for a group of sorority sisters and a couple of luncheons. I transferred the business to another caterer.”
“When can you get back into Right Touch?” Stark asked.
“The police told me they'd be finished in there sometime tomorrow,” Desdemona said. “But it's going to take a couple of days to clean up.”
Stark glanced around the room. “Where's Tony?”
Bess looked up from her latte. “Didn't you hear? Tony left a message on my answering machine sometime during the night. He said he was taking an early-morning flight back to Hollywood. Apparently he got a call from his friend down there. The soap is going into production after all.”
“The Hollywood people bought him a ticket,” Augustus explained. “Told him it would be waiting for him at the airport.”
“Is that a fact,” Stark said very softly.
“Wish that lad would stop pinning his dreams on a soap opera career,” Augustus muttered. “Hollywood is no place for a Wainwright.”
Shortly after noon the following day Desdemona sat down behind her office desk. She surveyed the chaos that surrounded her with a sense of dispirited gloom.
The police had finally finished their work. She knew from what one of the officers had said that they had found nothing that altered their original conclusion. Vernon had apparently been killed because he'd had the bad luck to interrupt an armed burglar at work.
It happened all the time.
Desdemona shuffled through the jumbled pile of papers that littered her desk, her mind on Stark.
Something she had seen in his eyes yesterday when Tony's name had been mentioned had alarmed her. She was not certain just what was brewing in Stark's razor-sharp mind, but it made her very uneasy.
The phone warbled. Desdemona was so wrapped up in her dismal thoughts that the sound made her jump. For no good reason her pulse started to pound. She took a deep breath to quiet it and reached for the receiver.
“Right Touch. This is Desdemona.”
“You the lady who bought the ice sculptures from Vernon Tate?” The voice was that of a man. He sounded anxious.
Desdemona squeezed the receiver so tightly she wondered that it didn't crack. “Yes. Yes, I am. Who are you?”
“Heard on the news that he was dead. That true?”
“Yes, I'm afraid it is. Did you know him?”
“Hell, yes. I'm the one who did those ice carvings for him. He owes me fifty bucks for the swan.”
“You did the carvings?”
“Yeah. And I really need to get paid, ma'am. He promised he'd give me the cash on Monday.”
“I don't understand. I thought Vernon was an ice sculptor himself.”
“Tate was no ice artist. He said he needed that job with your company real bad, so he lied. We made a deal. I supplied him with the carvings, and he paid me the extra that you paid him for them.”
“I see.” That explained why Vernon had always insisted on doing his work in private, Desdemona thought. “Who are you?”
“Larry Easenly. You going to make good on the fifty bucks?”
“Yes, of course. Give me your address, Mr. Easenly.”
Larry rattled off a Capitol Hill address. “But I can come down there and pick up the check today.”
“Things are in a mess down here, Mr. Easenly. I use my computer to write checks, and I haven't even had time to turn it on. You can come down Monday morning, if you like, or else I'll put the check in the mail to you so that you'll have it by Tuesday.”
“I guess that'll be okay.” Larry hesitated. “I appreciate this, ma'am. I know my deal was with Tate, not you.”
“It's all right,” Desdemona said wearily. “You did good work. The ice sculptures you sold to Vernon were lovely.”
Larry cleared his throat. “You think maybe you'll need some more?”
“I may. I'll call you when I have everything sorted out here.”
“Sure thing,” Larry said eagerly. “See you then.”
Desdemona hung up the phone and sat thinking about what she had just learned.
Vernon Tate had lied to get the job with Right Touch. She wondered what else he had lied about.
An hour later Desdemona drove slowly down a quiet residential street north of the University of Washington campus. She searched the addresses on the aging houses until she saw the one she wanted.
She eased the car against the curb and switched off the engine. For a few moments she sat behind the wheel and studied the scruffy-looking two-story home where Vernon had lived.
She had dug the address out of her files for the police yesterday. They had probably already been here in their search for Vernon's next-of-kin.
The overgrown yard was in no better shape than the house. It was choked with weeds, which had managed to snag and hold fast several stray candy wrappers and a couple of beer bottles. The front door had once been painted green, but it had faded and peeled to the point where there were only a few patches of color left. An old tire sat in the center of what had once been a lawn.
Desdemona did not know if Vernon had any relatives, a special friend, or even a roommate. He had mentioned his landlady once or twice, but that was all. He had not even provided a phone number to go with the address, so she had been unable to call ahead. It occurred to her once again that she really knew very little about Vernon Tate.
She was not sure what her next move would be in the event that no one answered the door of the rundown house.
She walked up the cracked concrete path and knocked on the once-green door. The sounds of afternoon television filtered through the thin wood panels. Desdemona knocked again, harder.
A scratching noise indicated that a lock was being undone somewhere inside. The door opened a crack. A woman of indeterminate years peered out suspiciously. She was dressed in a faded housecoat and a pair of fluffy slippers. Her frizzy gray hair stood out at odd angles around her head.
“What do you want?” The woman's voice had the scratchy hoarseness of a longtime smoker. The smell of alcohol was strong. “I already talked to enough people yesterday. You another cop or something?”
“I'm Desdemona Wainwright,” Desdemona said. “I was Vernon's Tate's employer.”
“Vernon's dead.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Spent an hour talkin' to cops yesterday. Then they spent an hour or two goin' through his things upstairs.”
“You're his landlady?”
“Was. Name's Nadeen Hocks. Not that it's any of your business. I got better things to do than answer dumb questions.”
“I don't want to ask you any questions, Ms. Hocks.”
“Then what do you want?”
Desdemona lifted one hand in a vague gesture. “I just want to offer my condolences.”
“To who? Vernon didn't have no relatives or friends. Leastways, none that I knowed of.”
“None at all?”
“Nope.” Nadeen scratched her wiry gray hair. “Spent all of his time with that blasted computer of his.”
Desdemona stared at her. “He did?”
“Yep. As for me, I ain't gonna miss him much. Just the back rent he owed me.” Nadeen gave her a sly wink. “But I took care of t
hat problem.”
“You did?”
“Damned right. I been rentin' out rooms for over thirty years. You learn a few things. And I stay informed. Got the television on all the time. Also got me a scanner radio. When I heard that some guy had been killed at a catering company early yesterday mornin', I didn't take no chances.”
“What did you do?”
“Went right upstairs yesterday and helped myself to his computer. Good thing I did, too. 'Cause the next thing I know, the police was knockin' on the front door. They'd've probably taken it, even though there ain't no one for them to give it to. Can't trust anyone these days.”
“I didn't know Vernon was into computers,” Desdemona said carefully.
“You kiddin'? Computer stuff was all he cared about. No friends, no family, no girlfriend.” Nadeen chuckled slyly. “And no boyfriend, either, if you take my meanin'. Figure I got a right to sell off his computer to make up for his back rent.”
“You're going to sell it?”
“Yep. Lots of folks are into computers nowadays. Maybe I'll put an ad in the paper. Expect I could get a hundred and fifty, maybe even two hundred, for it.”
Desdemona tried to think of what to do next. She needed some expert advice. “You know, I have a friend who's into computers. He might be interested in buying Vernon's stuff.”
A distinct glint of greed appeared in Nadeen's eyes. “You think so?”
“I can call him right now, if you like. See what he says.”
Nadeen looked doubtful. “He got enough money for a computer?”
“I think he can manage to come up with two hundred bucks.”
“I ain't takin' no checks,” Nadeen warned.
“I understand.”
“You sure you ain't with the police?”
“Absolutely positive, Ms. Hocks.”
“Well, all right, then.” Nadeen stood back. “Come on in and call your friend.”
“Thank you.” Desdemona stepped into the dark, stale-smelling room.
The rank odors of old smoke and alcohol were overpowering. The smell clung to the faded drapes and seemed to waft upward from the threadbare carpet. Desdemona tried to take small, shallow breaths.