So I was right after all. One of the waiters has obviously copped to the theft, and if I’m lucky, he’s admitted the motive for leaving the matches. I can’t help but indulge in a few moments of satisfaction. I wasn’t imagining the whole thing. I’m tempted to call Guy but decide to wait until I have all the details.
It’s stopped raining by now, but it’s misty out, a light fog sitting all cottony in the trees. When I reach the blue clapboard house, I find an empty space on the street in front and park. It’s only nine o’clock, and it’s hard to imagine many people will be working inside already, unless of course they’re catering a luncheon today. I notice a bicycle leaning against the porch. Maybe it belongs to Eve—or the woman who called me.
As I climb the steps, I’m surprised to see that there aren’t any lights on inside. Was the girl calling from another location and assumed Eve Blazer would be here today? But there’s the bike, so someone must be in. I try the handle and the door opens. Setting a foot inside, I find the kitchen empty.
But then I hear a sound, a rustling, and I turn quickly to my left. Through the dimness I make out the shape of a young woman at the far end of the kitchen, standing just in front of the doorway to Eve’s office. Her back is to me, but I can see she’s wearing a billowy top and a pair of yoga pants. At her feet there’s a dark cloth bag, with the tips of seven or eight baguettes poking out from the open end.
She’s heard me, too, and jerks around, her long, curly brown hair swinging with her like a twirl skirt. Her hands are at her face, fisted, and she’s bug-eyed at the sight of me. I’ve clearly startled her.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I was looking for Eve.” I assume this is the girl who called me earlier, perhaps the person whose bike is leaning against the porch. But she doesn’t say anything. Instead she makes a gurgling sound in her throat.
“Are you okay?” I ask, moving toward her. I see now that’s she’s trembling.
I reach out an arm to comfort her, and my eyes are drawn to open doorway of Eve’s office.
The overhead light is on and right away I notice that the room looks different than it did yesterday. The desk is a mess, with papers scattered as if someone has swept an arm hard and fast across the surface. There’s been a spill, too—food or maybe wine. There’s a spattering of endless spots on all the papers, like liquid sprayed from a canister.
I step closer to the threshold, and my eyes are forced to the floor. Off to the right, Eve is lying faceup on the linoleum. I gasp in horror.
There’s an ax protruding from her face, stuck there as if her head were a piece of wood. Blood has oozed from around it and caked along the edges. On the side of her face is a yawning vertical gash, extending through her eye socket and her cheek. It’s crusted with dark red blood.
Someone has driven an ax into her face, stepped back, and done it again. And then left her lying there dead.
Chapter 7
For a few seconds I just stand on the threshold staring, waiting for the scene to reconfigure to normal. But it doesn’t. A wave of panic swamps me, like water crashing over the side of a boat too small for the sea.
No, I think. This can’t be. My stomach starts to uproot itself, propelling its way toward my throat. I dry heave.
I cover my mouth, trying to force the sensation down. At the same time, I step backward and spin around, remembering the curly-haired girl. She’s still standing there, rocking in place, and I see that there’s something in her left hand. For a split second I wonder if she’s the one who’s done this to Eve, but then I notice she’s only holding a phone.
Is the killer still here? We need to get out, get out of the house. Fear seems to have bolted me to the floor, but I tear free, grabbing the girl by the arm and nearly dragging her through the kitchen. I swivel my head back and forth, frantically checking the room as I run.
We reach the front door and I grab for the handle. But it won’t turn. It’s like the dream, the door refusing to open. I let out a cry and rattle the handle furiously. Finally it shifts and the door flies open.
“We have to call the police,” I tell her as we spill out onto the porch.
“I . . . I did,” she says between chattering teeth.
“9–1–1?”
She looks at me bewildered, as if she doesn’t even grasp the question. I’ve thrust my hand into my purse, searching desperately for my own phone, when she finally nods. “Yes, 9–1–1.” She starts to rock back and forth again.
“And they said they’re coming? Right away?”
“Yes. Omigod, someone did that to her. Someone killed her.”
I search the street with my eyes. There’s not a person in sight, not even forms moving behind the windows of the houses.
“Let’s go to my car, okay?” I say, noting how much distress she’s in.