Carlene Thompson Read online

  Black for Remembrance

  by

  Carlene Thompson

  ST. MARTIN'S PRESS

  Previously published by Avon Books, a division of Hearst Corporation.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  BLACK FOR REMEMBRANCE

  Copyright 1991 by Carlene Thompson.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 90-45095

  ISBN: 0-312-98461-8

  Printed in the United States of America Avon Books edition June 1992

  St. Martin's Paperbacks edition December 2002

  St. Martin's Paperbacks are published by St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  10 987654321

  To my family

  Prologue

  THEY CRESTED THE hill, a tall, slender man and a little girl carrying a clown doll, pale figures against a wall of trees turned blue-green by summer dusk. He held her hand tightly and bent to whisper something in her ear. They laughed. Pointing to a swing suspended by ropes from the limb of a towering oak, he asked, "Ready to ride?"

  She nodded enthusiastically, then hesitated, her blue eyes growing troubled. "It's getting dark. Mommy'll worry."

  "No, she won't—not if you only swing for a few minutes."

  The little girl considered for a moment. Then she beamed. "Okay. Will you push?"

  "Don't I always?"

  She gently laid aside her clown doll, and he lifted her onto the swing, carefully locking her small hands around the old ropes. He circled behind, pushing her gently at first, then with more force until she arced through the air, her golden hair flying.

  A grating, animal scream shattered the quiet darkness. The man blanched, his head snapping to the left. His arms fell to his sides, and the swing slammed into his abdomen, knocking him to the ground. The impact threw the little girl forward, onto knees and hands. She scrambled to the man. "What was it?" she quavered, cuddling next to him.

  "Something screamed." He ran a hand over her shining hair. "Sometimes people set traps up here. Maybe a dog got caught instead of a rabbit. I should investigate."

  She frowned over investigate, but she could feel his muscles tensing, his whole body leaning toward the direction of the scream. She gripped his shirt. "Don't go!"

  "I have to see what it is." He rose, pulling her up with him.

  "I'm scared. Maybe it's a woof."

  He lifted her and set her on the swing, then placed the clown doll in her arms. "Hayley, there are no wolves up here. This is our magical forest, remember? Nothing here means you any harm." Her eyes were round. "I'll be back in a minute."

  She gazed after him as his tall, spare frame disappeared into the shadows of the trees. At first she held rigidly still, gripping the doll against her chest. Then, very slowly, she relaxed. She inspected her knees, which were only slightly skinned. One was bleeding a little. She licked a finger to run over the scratch and winced at the sting of saliva on raw skin. Tiring of knees, she looked up. Even though the sky was not black yet, she could see a slice of moon and a bright star she knew was not a star but Venus. What a pretty name, Venus, she thought. She wished her name were Venus. In a few weeks, when first grade started, she could say to the teacher, "How do you do? My name is Venus," and the teacher would smile Something rustled in the trees. Her eyes strained through the shadows, but no tall, slim figure came toward her. Nothing but the deepening purple shadows of evening drew closer.

  Then she heard the bells. Little bells jingling merrily, coming closer.

  She gasped when a figure danced out from the trees. It wore a gleaming, baggy red-and-white satin suit, and its face was painted white, with big red circles for cheeks, black diamonds for eyes. The mouth was a huge red grin. Orange hair frizzed gaily from beneath a white hat dripping bells. A clown. She loved clowns.

  The little girl's astonishment dissolved into delight. Daddy had said this was a magic forest. Now she knew he was right.

  "Hi! You look just like Twinkle!" she called gaily, holding up her doll.

  The clown turned a clumsy somersault and fell. She giggled as it quickly clambered to its feet and danced toward her, extending a big, red-gloved hand.

  Still laughing, she reached for the hand. Its grip tightened as the clown pulled her from the swing and urged her forward.

  She balked. "I'm sorry, clown, but I'm s'posed to stay here."

  The clown nodded no, gesturing toward the trees.

  Her pale eyebrows drew together and her mouth pursed in thought. Then she cried, "It's a surprise, isn't it? Daddy wants me to go with you!"

  The clown's head jerked up and down, making the bells jingle happily. Its slippered feet two-stepped before it pulled firmly on her hand again.

  This time she went easily. She was smiling as the clown led her into the gloom of the woods.

  Chapter 1

  WHY DID YOU GIVE me peanut butter instead of cream cheese?"

  Caroline Webb looked at her eight-year-old daughter, Melinda, who was peering critically between slices of wheat bread. "Daddy said cream cheese could spoil before noon."

  "Jenny brings cream cheese sandwiches."

  "Jenny also came down with a mild case of food poisoning two weeks ago." David Webb straightened his tie in front of the kitchen mirror, then turned to grin at his daughter, his craggy features creasing with homely amiability. "You don't want to get sick, do you?"

  "I guess not." Melinda clumsily rewrapped her sandwich in Saran Wrap and poked through her Barbie lunch box. "Cherry Kool-Aid in my thermos?"

  "Apple juice," Caroline said.

  "Yuck. And where are my Reese Cups?"

  "I gave you a granola bar instead."

  Melinda groaned in agony, and her father swooped over her, his fingers digging into her thin sides. "Shut up and stop pestering your mom, kid."

  "Daddy, quit it!" Melinda laughed.

  "Not until you tell me how much you love granola…"

  "Never!" David tickled harder. "Okay, I love it, I love it!" Melinda shrieked. David let go and she fell into a gasping heap of giggles on the yellow-and-white linoleum floor. George, their black Labrador, rushed over to bathe her in kisses, which brought on a fresh attack of hysterics.

  "What's all the noise?" Greg Webb, fifteen, ambled into the kitchen, his curly black hair still wet from the shower.

  "Mommy gave me apple juice and granola," Melinda told him in injured tones as she struggled to her feet.

  "Hippie food," Greg announced. "They ate that kind of stuff in the sixties."

  Caroline cocked an eyebrow at him. "Around here we still eat it. And Melinda, if you want to be a ballerina, you have to eat healthy food. Reese Cups will make you so fat no one can lift you."

  "Bafishnirof can."

  "Baryshnikov. And he'll be retired by the time you're a prima ballerina."

  "Oh, damn," Melinda muttered, then flushed and added hastily, "I mean darn."

  "Sunday school's doing the child a world of good," David said, dropping a kiss on his daughter's chestnut hair. "Can you sue Sunday school teachers?"

  Caroline put the last plate in the dishwasher and shut the door. "No, only doctors."

  David grimaced. "Don't remind me. I just wrote a check for my malpractice insurance last night." He shrugged into his raincoat. "I'm getting out of this madhouse." He wrapped an arm around Caroline's slim waist. "What's
on your agenda today?"

  "I'm taking some things over to Lucy's, then going to the grocery store. Fidelia's coming."

  David rolled his dark eyes. "Out of all the cleaning ladies in the city, why are we blessed with the one who practices voodoo?"

  "Just because she's from Haiti doesn't mean she practices voodoo."

  "Well, she's always messing around with tea leaves."

  "Not tea leaves, Daddy," Melinda piped. "Tarot cards. Fidelia says I'm the Page of Cups."

  "Reese Cups, no doubt."

  Melinda giggled, but David frowned into Caroline's eyes. "I don't know that I like all this hocus-pocus around the kids," he said in the fogyish tone that drove Caroline crazy.

  "It's just for fun," she explained, keeping the irritation from her voice. "She's a perfectly respectable person. She even taught school in Haiti."

  "So why is she cleaning houses here?"

  "Something about not having the teaching credentials, and there was a sick father until a few months ago. They couldn't afford a nursing home, and Fidelia had to spend most of her time with the old man. But anyway, she cleans for six other families, not just for us. She's thorough and polite. She's even teaching Melinda a little French."

  "And I'm an old sourpuss." David kissed her cheek. "I'm sorry. If you're happy with her, that's all that counts."

  And it was, Caroline knew. Her husband adored her in his preoccupied way, and he did his best to tolerate her acceptance of people who were very different from herself, although he didn't understand it.

  Caroline kissed David's cheek, which always showed an underlying shadow of heavy black beard that no longer matched his mostly silver hair. "Don't deliver too many babies today," she said affectionately.

  "There's nary a one on schedule, but that doesn't mean a thing." He turned to the kids. "Who wants a ride to school?"

  "Me!" Melinda clicked shut the offending lunch box. "When Greg walks me he always drags along looking at girls, and I want to get there early to check on Aurora."

  David frowned. "Who in the world is Aurora?"

  "My bean sprout. I told you already. I call her Aurora because that was Sleeping Beauty's name, and my bean sprout's still sleeping." She looked forlorn. "All the other kids' sprouts are growing."

  "Maybe Fidelia can cast a spell on Aurora," Greg said, peeling a banana in spite of the massive breakfast he had consumed twenty minutes earlier.

  "Bean sprouts," David sighed. "In my day we read Shakespeare."

  "In the third grade?" Caroline asked dryly.

  "I was a child prodigy."

  "Don't let him kid you, squirt," Greg said to his sister. "When he was in the third grade, Shakespeare hadn't even been born."

  David threw a dishcloth at him and Caroline laughed, knowing that age jokes didn't faze her husband, even though at fifty-six he was older than the fathers of most of Greg's friends. "You can walk to school." He took Melinda's hand. "Come on—by the time we finally make it to school, Aurora will be a foot tall."

  "I'll see you guys after school," Caroline said.

  Melinda shook her head in a violent negative. "I'm supposed to go to Jenny's after school, remember? Her mom's making spaghetti."

  Caroline frowned. "Is her mother going to pick you up at school?"

  "Sure. And she'll drive me home."

  "I guess it's okay then, although I'd feel better if I were picking you up."

  "But Mommy, it's all fixed."

  "And I have basketball practice," Greg said, tossing away the empty banana peel. "Then I'm taking Julie for pizza."

  "I want you home by eight."

  "Eight! None of the other guys have stupid curfews like I do."

  "It's a school night, and considering your grades…"

  "Eight is a little early, Caroline," David said. "Eight-thirty."

  Greg's face settled into the prickly lines that had become familiar since he reached adolescence. "Great. I ought to be safe from werewolves at that hour."

  "Not if there's a full moon," Caroline said sweetly, and Greg grinned in spite of himself. She looked at David. "Looks like it's just you and me."

  "Honey, it's Monday. I have evening office hours."

  "Oh, David, I thought we decided you were only going to be in the office Tuesday and Friday nights. Three nights a week is too much."

  "I know. I'll cut back as soon as I can get things squared away." Caroline had no idea what had to be "squared away." It was merely another one of David's excuses when he didn't want to argue about his work, which consumed him. She sighed and let the point go.

  "I promise I'll be back by nine," David said.

  "Sure." Caroline forced a smile, knowing that meant ten at the earliest.

  The four of them trailed out the door into the garage. While David helped Melinda strap herself into the seat of the Mercedes, Caroline snapped on the automatic garage door opener and the big door whirred upward. With exaggerated teenaged nonchalance, Greg loped away without a backward look, but Melinda waved as if she were leaving on an ocean voyage while David backed out.

  Thank goodness she's over those crying jags that sent her home from school at least two days a week last spring, Caroline thought. Lots of attention and time at home with her mother over the summer had eased whatever anxiety Melinda was feeling but refused to reveal. Now she seemed relatively content with school, although her teacher Miss Cummings said she had a tendency to cling. Maybe she picked that up from me, Caroline mused. I've always been overprotective with her and Greg. But what mother with my experience wouldn't be?

  She smiled and waved back at Melinda. Then she shut the door, poured a second cup of coffee, and sat down at the kitchen table with George stretched out beside her.

  They had moved into the house nine years before, when Caroline learned she was pregnant with their second child, and she had loved the place since the first day. But especially, she loved her big, airy kitchen with its island range and the huge antique maple table facing a floor-to-ceiling window. This morning she looked out on their acre of front lawn, still green beneath a wisteria-blue October sky. White and yellow chrysanthemums massed themselves in thick beds beneath the window, and a crimson cardinal perched importantly atop the wrought-iron lawn lamp.

  "I'm a very lucky woman," she said aloud, listening to the thump of George's tail on the floor as he stared up at her. "I'm an incredibly lucky woman. If only I could forget…"

  Her stomach was starting to tighten in that sickeningly familiar way, when someone tapped on the kitchen door and she ran to open it, absurdly happy to see Fidelia gazing back at her. "I'm early. Too early? I can go away for a while."

  "Don't be silly. I'm glad you're here." Fidelia stepped in, her bare arms speckled with goosebumps. "I don't know when you're going to realize you're not in Haiti anymore and start dressing for cold weather. How about some coffee to warm you up?"

  "Sounds good. Sugar, no cream." Caroline loved Fidelia's honeyed Caribbean accent an English-speaking, Ohio-born father and several years in the United States had done nothing to temper. She stooped, her faded red-print cotton dress flowing out around her thin, bare legs. "Hello dere, George, my handsome man!" The dog rolled on his back for a belly rub, which Fidelia laughingly administered. "Dis is de biggest baby in de house."

  "You'd be surprised at how protective he can be, though," Caroline said, pouring coffee. "Last year a man broke in one night when David was gone, and George nearly took off his hand. Then the guy had the nerve to try to sue us, but of course he got nowhere."

  "You should be glad you live in Ohio, not California. A judge might have listened to him out dere."

  They sat down at the table, and Fidelia looked at Caroline closely, her strange light-blue eyes sharp in her café-au-lait face. "You all right dis morning?"

  "Of course." Caroline smiled. "Well, at least I was until about ten minutes ago. Then I started thinking about something sad."

  "Your little girl Hayley?"

  Caroline looked at her in su
rprise. "You are psychic."

  Fidelia shook her head. "You don't have to be psychic to know when a woman is grieving over a child."

  "But I've never mentioned Hayley to you."

  "I've lived in dis town five years. I've heard a lot of talk in all dat time, especially since I work for another lady who knows you."

  Caroline's eyes drifted back to the gay chrysanthemums. "Yes, I should have thought of that. I think Alice Anderson's favorite topic of conversation is the kidnapping and murder of my little girl and my divorce from Chris."

  "Yes, Mrs. Anderson she talks a lot. But why is Hayley on your mind today?"

  "She's always on my mind. But last night I dreamed about her. It was a terrible, frightening dream about her death. It was very brutal."

  "I know all de details," Fidelia said softly.

  "And also, today is Hayley's birthday. I always put flowers on her grave on her birthday. She would have been twenty-five. That's how old I was when she died."

  Fidelia wore beautiful dangling silver earrings that caught the light when she shook her head. "Hard to tink of you with a child dat old. You look twenty-five now."

  "You're sweet, Fidelia."

  "I've been called many tings, but never sweet"

  She laughed, a deep, smoker's laugh, her even teeth white against red lipstick. Caroline had never been able to guess her age the glossy, undyed black hair said twenties; the leathery skin said sixty years in the sun. "Why don't you get out, cheer yourself up?"

  "I was planning to go by Lucille Elder's place."

  "Buying or selling?"

  "Selling." Elder's Interiors was the most popular interior design studio in the city. "She commissioned six needlepoint pillows and eight crewel dining chair seat covers for Pamela Fitzgerald's new house."

  "I don't know her."

  "Her last name is really Burke now. She's married to Larry Burke. His father owns Burke's Construction Company." Caroline frowned. "Maybe that's part of what has me down today. Pamela was in Hayley's kindergarten class, but I'd forgotten her until Lucy started talking about her lately. I keep thinking that if things had been different, maybe Hayley would be the one married to a rich young man and decorating a big, new house."