VINTAGE DEATH

“Don’t go.”

The words rang through the vestibule, an anxious plea, but then that was my mother, always the worrier, forever on the verge of a breakdown. That her voice trembled was no big deal. The original drama queen, that was Mom.

“I have to go, okay?” I yelled my response through the closed bathroom door in the upper hallway. I wasn’t going to put up with her overhyped paranoia. Not that she didn’t have a reason to be frightened, terrified even, but, hey, someone had to get the job done and that someone had to be me. No one else was volunteering.

“You should call the police. There was that nice detective…what was his name? Kent something? I can’t remember.”

Noah Kent, I thought, Noah way. Noah police. Not this time. “Forget it, Mom.”

“He’s still on the force.”

Of course he was. Noah Kent was a lifer-married to his job. Even after the accident that nearly cost him his badge. Just ask his ex-wife.

“Then call Lucas. You’ve got to still have his number?”

I stopped dead in my tracks.

Lucas Parker.

Ace detective.

Handsome as sin.

And a major prick.

Of course I still had his number.

Oh, yeah, that’s what I’d do. Give Parker a call. “I’ll handle this on my own.” I wasn’t about to be budged. I put on my bra, which, gently padded, added two cup sizes to my breasts, giving my slim frame a little bit of a curve…like hers.

Then I slipped on a sleek black dress, one with a nipped-in waist and wide neck. A little on the sexy side for my taste, but tonight it would do nicely, I thought, critically eyeing my reflection in the vanity mirror. And besides, the invitation had indicated everyone was to wear black. Just as there were those “all white” parties, Silvio D’Amato had gone with a black theme. All the better.

After pulling my hair away from my face and securing it, I donned a dark auburn wig, which curled softly under my chin and brushed my shoulders. Spidery eyelashes much longer than my own highlighted my eyes, which were now a deep shade of brown, compliments of tinted contact lenses. A little padding tucked into in my cheeks helped with the transformation. My teeth were a little off-nothing I could do about that but keep my mouth closed. I added a tiny spot of color under my cheekbones and blended it with my foundation, making my complexion appear seamless. Carefully, I brushed on a touch of smoky eye shadow.

The effect was amazing.

I was barely recognizable.

No one at the party would suspect my true identity. Which was perfect.

I stepped out of the bathroom, made my way down the hall in three-inch heels, then discarded them for a pair with a shorter heels that didn’t pinch my feet so much. Besides, they were easier to walk in. Considering the fact that I’d be holding a glass of champagne while mingling with the other guests on uneven flagstones, the second pair just made more sense.

Especially if I needed to run.

And, of course, I snagged a pair of leather gloves that I tucked into my purse.

Once in the hallway again, I paused for a second at the open door to Ian’s room. A cold sense of déjà vu settled over me like a shroud. Everything was as it had been. A set of Transformers action figures displayed upon a bookcase with a few Legos, picture books, his twin bed, perfectly made, the dinosaur motif evident in the curtains of the wide window…Oh, God, the window…

My throat tightened as I stared at it, the innocent-looking panes overlooking the garden and farther away, over the tops of other houses on the hill, the bay with its blue waters turning dusky as night approached.

I closed my eyes.

Leaned against the doorjamb.

Thought of him. Ian…only five…poor, poor baby.

“Are you all right?” Mother’s voice floated up the staircase from the floor below. I had to pull myself together. No matter how much pain blackened my soul, tonight, I had to act as if I were carefree, as if I truly was the woman I was pretending to be.

I took a deep breath before clearing the thickness from my throat. “I’m fine, Mom,” I lied, sounding cheery. “Be down in a second.”

Now, just do this!

At the top of the second-floor landing, I stared down the curved steps and faced Dear Old Mom who, on her scooter, gasped as she saw me. “Oh…my…God…I…I can’t believe it.”

I forced myself down the long flight. “Think I’ll be able to pull this off?” I asked, making my voice breathy and low and twirling at the top of the landing.

“I…I…”

“You’re in shock.” That was encouraging. Very encouraging. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’” I hurried down the stairs where my mother sat dumbstruck in the marble foyer, soft light from the chandelier bathing her in its kind illumination. At “somewhere north of seventy” she still looked great, her hair a shimmering platinum shade, only a few slight wrinkles visible, her petite body, if not as svelte as it once had been, damned close.

If it hadn’t been for the scooter, she would seem a decade younger than her age.

“You can’t do this,” she said desperately, gnawing at her lower lip. “You won’t get away with it.”

“Just watch me.”

“Seriously.”

“Look, Mom, no one will recognize me. And she’ll be there.”

“That’s why you can’t go.” Mom was in a near panic. Good Lord, the woman was high-strung.

“Don’t worry. If anything goes wrong, I’ll call and you can dial 911 to your heart’s content.”

“No reason to be snide,” she sniffed.

“Then let it go.” In the front hall closet I found a long black coat and a scarf, both of which I donned as Mom fiddled with the cross dangling from a chain around her neck. No doubt she was whispering a dozen Hail Marys to save my wretched, vindictive soul.

Little did she know that my own heart was beating as wildly as a timpani being pounded by a frantic heavy metal drummer. My hands were clammy and adrenaline spurted crazily through my veins.

“Just…be careful.”

“I will,” I promised. I reached for the doorknob but stopped and faced my poor mother once more. “You know I have to do this. She killed Ian.”

“You can’t be certain.”

“I know she did it. I was there! I found him! In the garden-” I pointed frantically to the side of the house, the area I’d loved as a child with its dark foliage, creeping vines and gravel paths leading to secret, private hiding places where squirrels nested and owls roosted. I hated that place now. I fought the urge to break down completely. “I saw her in the window. Looking down. But she tried to blame me,” I said. “And you.”

Mom nodded slightly, unable to meet my eyes as the ancient grandfather clock near the door ticked off the remaining seconds of our lives.

“He was just a child,” I reminded her gently. “Your only grandson.”

Mom’s eyes closed. She swallowed back tears and rubbed the gold cross for all it was worth. “This isn’t the way. It’s not right.” Her lower lip quivered.

“An eye for an eye, Mom. It’s in the Bible.”

“Wait…” She was confused. “‘An eye for an eye’? But I thought you were just going to talk to her…”

Damn. “Just an expression.” Anger burned through my blood again, the same quiet rage that overtook me every time I thought of my baby’s senseless death. My outrage and pain hadn’t always been silent. I’d wailed and screamed, shouted oaths and sworn vengeance. When I’d found my son’s body, broken from a horrible push through his bedroom window, I’d come apart at the seams, had been forced into seclusion, drugged and analyzed and then, of course, accused of being out of my mind. I’d actually had to suffer accusations that I had shoved my son through the window to his death on the garden path below.

It made me sick to think about it. Even now I swallowed back the bile that rose in my throat and shuddered at the image scored in my memory. Ian’s tiny broken body lying upon the cold stones of the manor.