Peggy Sue Got Murdered Read online

  "I'm not sure I appreciate them."

  He turned his gaze back to the road. "I've never slept with her, you know," he said.

  That statement was so unexpected, M. J. was struck silent for a moment. She stared at his unruffled profile. "Why did you tell me that?"

  "I thought you should know."

  "Well, thank you for satisfying my burning curiosity-"

  "You're very welcome."

  "And what am I supposed to do with this knowledge?"

  He winked. "File it away in that amazing brain of yours."

  She shook her head and laughed. "I don't know what to make of you, Quantrell. Sometimes I think you're flirting with me. Other times, I think it's all in my head."

  "Why wouldn't I? You know I'm attracted to you."

  "Why?"

  He sighed. "You're not supposed to say, 'Why?' You're supposed to say, 'And I'm attracted to you.'"

  "Nevertheless, why?"

  He glanced at her in surprise. "Is it so difficult to believe? That I'd find you attractive?"

  "I think it's because I'm a novelty," she said. "Because I'm not like your other… companions."

  "True."

  "Which means it'd never work."

  "Such a pessimist," he sighed. He gave her thigh another squeeze, flashed her another grin, and looked back at the road.

  It's as easy as that for him , she thought. He favors me with a smile, makes my heart do flip-flops, and then he gets on with the business of driving.

  This is not healthy, Novak. Not healthy at all.

  And you're already in over your head…

  Rockbrook was one of those anonymous suburbs that lie on the outskirts of any large city. It was a white-bread world of trim lawns, two cars in every garage, yards strewn with kids' bicycles. The house where Herbert Esterhaus lived had no bicycles in the yard, and only one vehicle in the carport, but in every other way it was typical of the neighborhood-a tract home, neatly kept, with a brick walkway in front and azaleas huddled on either side of the door.

  No one seemed to be home. They rang the bell, knocked, but there was no answer, and the front door was locked.

  "Now what?" said M. J. She glanced up the street. A block away, two boys tossed a basketball against their garage door. The buzz of a lawnmower echoed from some unseen backyard.

  They circled around to the carport. "His car's here," Adam noted. "And that looks like today's paper on the front seat. So he's driven it today."

  "Then where is he?" said M. J.

  Adam went to the side door of the house. It was unlocked. He poked his head inside and called out: "Herb? Are you home?"

  There was no answer.

  "Maybe we should check inside," suggested M. J.

  They stepped into the kitchen. Again, Adam called out: "Herb?" A silence seemed to hang over the house. And the sense of dead air, as though no window, no door, had been opened for a very long time.

  M. J. spotted a set of keys on the kitchen counter. That struck her as odd, that a man would leave the house without his keys.

  "Maybe you should call Thomas," she said. "Esterhaus might have left you another message."

  "It's a thought." Adam glanced around for a phone; there was none in sight. "I'll check the living room," he said and headed out of the kitchen.

  Seconds later, M. J. heard him say, "Dear God."

  "Adam?" she called. She left the kitchen and crossed the dining room. Through the living room doorway, she spotted Adam, standing by the couch. He seemed frozen in place, unable to move a muscle. "Adam?"

  Slowly he turned to look at her. "It's… him."

  "What?" She moved across the living room. Only as she rounded the couch did she see the crimson stain soaking the carpet, like some psychiatrist's nightmare inkblot. Stretched across the blood was an arm, its hand white and clawed.

  The hand of Herbert Esterhaus.

  11

  The flash of the photographer's strobe made M. J. wince. He was a crime lab veteran, and he strode casually around the body, choosing his shots with an almost bored detachment. The repeated camera flashes, the babble of too many people talking at the same time, the whine of yet another siren closing in, left M. J. feeling disoriented. She'd been to crime scenes before, had been part of other, equally chaotic gatherings, but this scene was different, this victim was different. He was someone she knew, someone who, just a few short days ago, had met her handshake with one of warm flesh. His death was far too close to her, and she felt herself withdrawing into some safe, numb place where she floated on a sea of fatigue, supported by Adam's arm, by his strength.

  Only when a familiar voice called to her did her brain snap back into focus. She saw Lieutenant Beamis moving toward them.

  "What the hell happened?" he asked.

  "It's Esterhaus," said Adam. "He phoned me this afternoon. Said he wanted to talk. We came by and…"

  Beamis glanced at the dead body sprawled on the couch. "When?"

  "We got here around five."

  "He's been dead awhile," murmured M. J. "Probably early afternoon."

  "How can you tell?" asked Beamis.

  She looked away. "Experience," she muttered.

  The Rockbrook detective approached and greeted Beamis. "Sorry you got dragged over, Lou. I know this one's technically ours, but they insisted I call you."

  "So what've you got?"

  "Two bullet wounds in the chest. Took him down fast. No signs of forced entry. No witnesses. ME'll have to do a look-see, give us an approximate time."

  "Dr. Novak says early afternoon."

  "Yeah, well…" The detective shifted uneasily. "They're sending over Davis Wheelock."

  Because they're not about to trust me on this one , thought M. J. The Rockbrook detective was a cautious cop. He couldn't be sure of M. J.'s role in all this. Her status had changed from ME to… what? Witness? Suspect? She could see it in the way he watched her eyes, weighed her every statement.

  Now Beamis began to ask questions, the same ones they'd already answered. No, they hadn't touched anything except the phone. And, briefly, the body-to check vital signs. Events were dissected, over and over. By the time Beamis had finished, M. J. was having trouble concentrating. Too many voices were talking in the room, and there were the sounds of the crowd outside, the neighbors, all pressing up against the yellow police line.

  Esterhaus's body, cocooned in a zip-up bag, was wheeled through the front door and out of the house, into a night blazing with the flash of reporters' cameras.

  Adam and M. J. followed the EMTs out of the house. It was bedlam outside, cops shouting for everyone to stand back, radios crackling from a half-dozen patrol cars. Two TV vans were parked nearby, klieg lights glaring. A reporter thrust a microphone in front of M. J.'s face and asked, "Were you the people who found the body?"

  "Leave us alone," said Adam, shoving the microphone away.

  "Sir, can you tell us what condition-"

  "I said, leave us alone."

  "Hey!" another reporter yelled. "Aren't you Adam Quantrell? Mr. Quantrell?"

  Suddenly, the lights were redirected into their eyes. Adam grabbed M. J.'s hand and pulled her along in a mad dash for the car.

  The instant they were inside, they slammed and locked the doors. Hands knocked at the windows.

  Adam started the engine. "Let's get the hell out of here," he growled, and hit the gas pedal.

  Even as they roared away, they could hear the questions being shouted at them.

  M. J. collapsed back in exhaustion. "I thought they were going to keep us there all night."

  He shot her a worried look. "Are you all right?"

  She shivered. "Just cold. And scared. Mostly scared…" She looked at him. "Why did they kill Esterhaus? What is going on, Adam?"

  He stared ahead, his gaze locked on the road, his profile hard and white in the darkness. "I wish to God I knew."

  They arrived home to find Thomas waiting for them.

  "Mr. Q., thank heavens you're hom
e! The reporters have been calling-"

  "Tell them to go to hell," said Adam, guiding M. J. toward the stairs.

  "But-"

  "You heard what I said."

  "Is that a… literal request?"

  "Word for word. Just say, go to hell."

  "Goodness," said Thomas, sounding most uncomfortable. "I don't know…" He watched them climb up to the second floor landing. "Is there anything you'll require, Mr. Q.?" he called.

  "A bottle of brandy. And answer the phone, will you?"

  Thomas glanced at the telephone, which had begun to ring again. Reluctantly he picked up the receiver. "Quantrell residence." He listened for a few seconds. Then, drawing himself to his full and dignified height, he said: "Mr. Quantrell wishes to convey the following message: Go to hell." He hung up, looking strangely satisfied.

  "The brandy, Thomas!" called Adam.

  "Right away," said Thomas, and went off toward the library.

  Adam turned M. J. gently toward the bedroom. "Come on," he whispered. "You look ready to collapse."

  It was not an exaggeration. He'd never seen her so white-faced, so shaken. The loss of her house, and then this murder-it was a cruel one-two punch that even a woman as strong as she was couldn't withstand.

  Even worse than her look of exhaustion was her look of fear. It did not befit this woman; it sat upon her shoulders like some alien cloak, which even now she was trying to cast off. But she couldn't. She didn't have the strength.

  He brought her into his room and sat her down on the bed. He took her hands in his. Her touch was like ice.

  Thomas came into the room, bearing a tray with the brandy and two glasses.

  "Leave it," said Adam.

  Thomas, ever discreet, nodded and withdrew.

  Adam poured a glass and handed it to M. J. She looked blankly at it.

  "Just brandy," he said. "A Quantrell family tradition."

  She took a sip. Closing her eyes tightly, she whispered, "You Quantrells keep fine traditions."

  He reached up and gently brushed a lock of hair off her face. Her skin felt as cool as marble, as cool as a corpse. But the woman beneath was alive and trembling and in need.

  "If only I knew," she said. "If I just knew what I was fighting against. Then I wouldn't be so afraid." She looked at him. "That's what scares me. Not knowing. It makes the whole world seem evil."

  "Not the whole world. There's me. And I'll take care of you-"

  "Don't make promises, Adam."

  "I'm not promising. I'm telling you. As long as you need me-"

  She pressed her fingers to his lips. "Don't. Please. You'll back yourself into a corner. And then you'll feel guilty when you can't keep your word."

  He grasped her hand, firmly, fiercely. "M. J.-"

  "No promises."

  "All right. If that's what you want, no promises."

  "From either of us. It's more honest that way."

  "You'll stay here, though. As long as you need to. Unless… there's some other place you'd rather go?"

  She shook her head.

  He felt an intoxicating rush of happiness, of relief, that here was where she wanted to be. With me.

  "There's no other place," she said softly.

  The way she looked at him then, her eyes wide and moist, all her defenses gone, was enough to make a man's heart break. He had not planned to kiss her, but at that moment, she looked so badly in need of a kiss. He drew her closer, cupped her face in his hands.

  It was only a brushing of lips, a taste of her brandied warmth. No passion, no lust, merely kindness.

  And then, like a spark striking dry tinder, something else flared to instant brightness. He saw it in her eyes, and she in his. They stared at each other for a moment in shared wonder. And uncertainty. He wanted badly to kiss her again, but she was so needy, so vulnerable, and he knew that if he pressed her, she would yield. She might hate him in the morning, and she would have good reason. That, most of all, was what he didn't want.

  He took a much-needed lungful of fortifying oxygen, and pulled away from her. "You can stay here, in my room. It will feel safer." He rose to leave. "I'll sleep in yours."

  "Adam?"

  "In the morning, we'll have to talk about what happens next. But tonight-"

  "I want you to stay here," she said. "In this room. With me."

  The last two words came out in barely a whisper. Slowly he settled back down beside her and tried to look beyond the glaze of fear in her eyes. "Are you sure?" he asked softly.

  Her answer left no doubt. She reached out to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled him against her. Their lips met. Hers were desperate, seeking, and he responded instantly to that unexpected assault with a hunger just as fierce.

  He reached out to bury his fingers in her hair. It felt like the mane of a wild animal, crackling and alive. Suddenly she came alive, and all of her fear and exhaustion broke before a swelling tide of desire. Her hair brushed his face, and he inhaled the warm and feral scent of a woman. Such delicious sounds she was making, little whimpers and sighs, as her mouth eagerly met his, again and again.

  They tumbled back onto the bed and rolled across the covers. First she was on top, her hair spilling like sheets of silk over his face. Then he was on top, covering her body with his. No passive participant was she; already, he felt her pressing up against him, her back arching, her body starved for more intimate contact.

  Fear had made her desperate; he could sense it in her kisses.

  He forced himself to pull back. "M. J.," he said. "Look at me."

  She opened her eyes. They had the brief, bright glow of tears.

  He took her face in his hands, cradled her cheeks so she could not turn away from him. "What's wrong?"

  "I want you," was all she said.

  "But you're crying."

  "No, I just want you…"

  "And you're afraid."

  There it was-the briefest of nods, as though she didn't want to say it. "I'm afraid of everything," she said. "Everyone. The whole world."

  "Even me?"

  She swallowed back another flash of tears. "Especially you," she whispered.

  Gently he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I'll prove it to you. I'm absolutely harmless." He kissed her again, this time on the lips. A slow, lingering kiss. He could tell from her sigh, from the way her fingers reached eagerly to undress him, that she was beyond caring about fear, about anything but having him. Tonight she wanted to forget, to be lost in the amnesia's frenzy of lovemaking.

  His shirt slid off his shoulders. Her fingers moved enticingly down his abdomen, to fumble at the cold metal of his buckle, and he too was suddenly soaring beyond rational thought. It was too late to consider what he should or shouldn't do, too late to worry about the regrets of morning. They were both pulling at each other's clothes. A few more buttons undone, another parting of fabric, and her blouse was off, her breasts bared. She gasped in a sharp breath of pleasure as he trapped her wrists, pinned her arms above her head, against the pillow. Her gasps melted to warm and liquid whimpers as his mouth explored her neck, her throat, her breasts. She was moaning now, struggling against his imprisoning grasp, longing to trade torment for torment, but he denied her the satisfaction. He was both too cruel and too generous. First he would drive her mad, his lips seeking all the tender, needy places of her body. She strained against him, that wild mane of hair tumbling at his face, drowning him in its heady animal scent.

  Then, suddenly, her hands were free and their clothes were off, and he was plunging deep into her. Not gently, as he'd wanted it to be, as he'd thought it would be, but with a fierce and frightening violence. She did this to him, this witch with her animal hair and her scent of hunger and her hands clutching his back. She had driven him to this, and now she was reveling in the madness she'd unleashed, joining in it with a mindlessness of her own. There was no need for words, no place for words. This was instinct, the ancient language of touch and smell and hard, driving need.
r />   And rapture. Oh yes, the rapture.

  He felt it now, felt it rush through his body, through her body, as though they were connected, as though souls were joined.

  It swept through them, over them as they clung together, helpless against its power.

  And then, like shipwreck survivors who have ridden an incoming wave, they were left stranded, exhausted on some wide, warm beach.

  Slowly he eased off her and pulled her into his arms. What a fever she had stirred in him! He still felt weak from its aftermath. But what a joy it was now, to feel her curled up against his chest.

  She shivered and he eased the covers over their bodies, hugged her closer. "I'll keep you warm," he said. "Trust me."

  "I want to," she whispered.

  He kissed the top of her head, buried his face drowsily in her hair. "Give it time. Things work out."

  "One way or another."

  For a long time M. J. lay in his arms, waiting for him to respond, but he said nothing, and she realized he was sleeping. They were both exhausted, but he was the lucky one-he was able to fall asleep, untroubled, unafraid.

  He wasn't the one falling in love.

  She burrowed closer, wondering about the man whose heart she felt beating against her cheek. The man who had everything.

  Now he has me, as well.

  How had it happened? How could she have let it happen?

  She felt helpless, trapped, not only by her own heart, but by circumstances. Rule number one for the independent woman: Never let a man become indispensable. It was the rule she tried to live by, and already she'd violated it. What she ought to do was step back, take a breath, put some time and distance between them.

  Right. And where would I go? My house is up in smoke. Someone out there would love to blow me away. For the time being, Novak, you're stuck.

  As in quicksand. And sinking deeper, fast.

  She looked at Adam, sleeping soundly beside her, and felt yet again that stirring of hunger. And something else, having nothing to do with desire. Tenderness. Joy. He was a troubling man. What was she going to do about him?

  She drifted, tossed about on the edge of sleep, felt herself pushed and pulled between wanting to believe in love and knowing better. She was too smart to believe, and too stupid to give up the fantasy.