Dying to Please Read online

  On Wednesday Sarah had left the house in the morning and hadn't returned until early evening; he had tried to follow her, but she cut over to Highway 31 and he lost her in the traffic when he was caught by a red light. Rather than drive around fruitlessly, he stopped at a pay phone and called Judge Roberts's house. The number was unlisted, but he had attained the number soon after seeing Sarah on television. He knew people who knew people, and who were always eager to do favors for him. Really, all he had to do was ask, and within a few hours he had the number.

  A woman answered the phone, and he asked for “Sarah,” thinking that using her first name would imply a familiarity that wasn't there. Or rather, that wasn't there yet. He felt as if he knew her already, knew her dedication and loyalty and the utter perfection of how she looked, how she acted, even the way she sounded.

  “Sarah isn't in today,” the woman said cheerfully.

  “Oh, that's right. Wait—I'm confused. Is today her off day?” He deliberately used a more casual tone and speech pattern than normal.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Is today Wednesday? I've lost track of the days, I've been thinking all day that it's Thursday.”

  She laughed. “Sorry, but it's Wednesday.”

  “Okay, I'll call her tonight, then. Thanks.” He hung up before she could ask his name and number, and wrote down the information in tiny, precise letters: WEDNESDAY—DAY OFF.

  He felt a thrill of excitement. For his purposes she would have to be away from the house. He thought he already had most of the information he needed, but he would continue watching to be certain. That was the key to success: leave nothing to chance.

  He would have liked to have followed her around all day and seen what she did, what interests she had or what hobbies she pursued, but perhaps this was better.

  He thought of the way she had looked when she drove out of the driveway, her dark hair loose, classic dark sunglasses shielding her eyes. She gave the impression of being aloof, mysterious, and slightly exotic. She drove her SUV with quick competence, as he had known she would; that was another measure of her dedication, that she had taken defensive-driving courses. She had put herself totally at the service of that old man, who had never done anything to deserve such devotion. Why, he hadn't even earned his money, but had inherited it. Which wasn't the same as his own receipt of an inheritance, because he had saved it from his father's stupid decisions. Judge Lowell had never done anything but sit on a bench and dispense opinions as if they were Pez.

  His Sarah deserved more than that old man.

  She deserved . . . everything.

  He wanted to give her a gift, something that would make her think of him every time she saw it. And he wanted it to be something she wore, so he could imagine her wearing it every day, touching it, treasuring it. He couldn't give her clothing; that was too crass. Flowers faded and died, then were discarded.

  Jewelry, then. Wasn't that what gentlemen had given their special ladies all through history? Special pieces of jewelry had been imbued with mystery, intrigue, even curses, though of course there wouldn't be anything cursed about his gift. He couldn't even make it as special as he wanted, because there wasn't time for him to have a piece made; he would have to buy something commercially produced, but even with that handicap he would find something out of the ordinary.

  He would have to buy it from a store he hadn't patronized before, so there wouldn't be a chance of anyone recognizing him. And paying by check or credit card was out of the question; he didn't want anyone to be able to trace the gift back to him. In time, she would know, but that knowledge was for the two of them alone.

  He drove to his bank and withdrew five thousand dollars, and left annoyed because the drive-through teller had asked to see his driver's license. On reflection, though, he decided she had done the correct thing. He hated to be delayed or questioned, but sometimes one had to accept the burdens of society.

  From there he went to the Galleria, where he could be certain he would be merely one face among many, even on a weekday. There were several jewelry stores, and he browsed through all of them before making his selection. Sarah needed something simple and classic; she would be as appalled as he by gaudiness, but anything paltry would be an insult.

  He finally settled on a teardrop pendant, a lovely ruby surrounded by diamonds, and suspended from a gossamer chain. The combination of ruby and diamonds captured her essence, he thought, exotic warmth surrounded by perfect coolness.

  He paid in cash, to the clerk's astonishment. With the square, flat box in his pocket he went into another jewelry store and bought a simple chain, secured in a box much like the one that contained the ruby pendant. That chain was a paltry hundred dollars, but it was the box he wanted, not the contents.

  Next he had stopped at an office supply store and bought a small shipping box, filler paper to buffer the contents, and a roll of tape. He even remembered to buy scissors to cut the tape. Ordinarily it would have annoyed him no end to be put to so much trouble, but this time he was patient about all the steps he had to take. After all, this was for Sarah.

  Once back in his car, he removed the cheap chain from its box and carefully replaced it with the pendant. There. Now if Sarah called the jewelry store whose name was on the box, she would find that no one there remembered selling a ruby-and- diamond pendant, that in fact they had no such item in stock. He pictured her lying in bed, tenderly touching the pendant around her neck and wondering who had sent her such a lovely gift.

  He put the jeweler's box inside the shipping box, dropped in a small note to let her know how special she was, packed in the filler paper, and sealed the box. Too late he realized he hadn't bought a cheap pen for addressing the box. Scowling, he took his gold fountain pen back out of his jacket pocket. What would the rough cardboard do to the nib?

  He could go to another store and buy a pen, but his patience was abruptly at an end. Unscrewing the cap from the expensive pen, he quickly printed her name and address on the box, in his irritation digging the nib into the cardboard. If necessary, he would buy another pen, but this box was going in the mail without any further delay.

  The post office was busy, and despite the security concerns, the rushed postal clerk didn't notice that there wasn't a return address on the box. Besides, he knew his appearance inspired confidence. Mad bombers never looked distinguished and dignified; hairy and disgusting was more like it, from what he had seen. He was prepared even if the postal clerk had noticed the omission, having thought of a fictitious address, but he would rather the package be a total mystery when she received it.

  He had noticed that Judge Roberts walked about the neighborhood every day at the same time and retrieved the mail from the mailbox when he returned home. Driving by at precisely the right time was difficult, and in fact he missed it by a few seconds, and short of stopping in the street to watch, he had to be content with what he could see through his rearview mirror. The old man took out the box and stood holding it in his hands, abruptly staring up and down the street.

  The street curved and he lost sight of the old bastard. Damn him, why did he just stand there? What was he doing? Was he jealous that someone had sent a package to Sarah?

  That was it. Of course he was jealous. He was old, but it had to stroke his ego to have a woman like her living with him, taking care of him. He probably told all of his cronies that he was sleeping with her.

  The thought made him clench his hands in rage, until he was gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. He could almost hear those cronies, cackling and sniggering like filthy-minded teenagers.

  He had to free her from all that.

  Sarah had placed the box on the kitchen counter, and as she ate dinner, her gaze kept straying to it. The pendant was undeniably lovely, but she didn't want to touch it. A gift was one thing; an anonymous gift was something else entirely. It was somehow . . . ominous, as if someone had sent her a snake in disguise. She thought the Judge was right and the tel