Page 4 of Whispers

“I suppose this”—Dominique pointed a long finger at the salmon carved into the lowest post—“is considered art?”

“Yes.”

“For the love of God, Benedict, why? What possessed you to buy it?”

Dutch had felt the first premonition of dread steal through his heart. He spread his hands. “It’s for you and the girls.”

“For us? Out here? In the middle of nowhere?” High heels clicked indignantly as she walked through the foyer and into the living room, with its vaulted ceilings and three chandeliers created by nesting dozens of deer antlers together. “Away from my friends?”

“It’s good for children to grow up—”

“In the city, Benedict, where they can meet other children their age, in a house that does them justice, where they’ll be exposed to culture and the right people.” She sighed, then, spying Claire toddling through open French doors where the back of the house flanked the lake, Dominique started running, heels clipping ever faster. “This is going to be a nightmare.” Snagging Claire from the covered porch before she was anywhere near the shoreline, Dominique turned and glared at her husband. “Living here won’t work.”

“Of course it will. I’ll build tennis courts and a pool with its own house. You can have gardens and your own studio over the garage.”

Tessa, the baby and always a fussy thing, gave out a lusty cry and wriggled in the nursemaid’s arms.

“Shh,” Bonita, barely sixteen and illegally in the States, whispered to the red-faced cherub.

“I can’t live here.” Dominique was firm.

“Sure you can.”

“Where will the girls learn French—”

“From you.”

“I’m not a tutor.”

“We’ll hire one. The house is big.”

“What about piano, violin, fencing, riding . . . oh, dear God.” She looked about to break down, her huge blue eyes suddenly moist, her manicured fingers pressed to her lips.

“It will work, I promise,” Dutch insisted.

“But I can’t possibly . . . I’m not cut out to be a maid . . . I’m going to need more help than just Bonita, here.”

“I know, I know. I’ve already talked to a woman—Indian woman by the name of Songbird. You’ll have more than enough help, Dominique. You’ll be able to live like a queen.”

She’d made a deprecating sound deep in her throat. “The Queen of Nowhere. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

From that day forward, she’d hated living here, despised the lake, predicted that nothing good would happen anywhere near the sandy banks of Lake Arrowhead.

As it turned out, she’d been right.

Now Dutch cracked the window a bit farther, letting in the moist summer air. The water, spangled by the hot summer sun, appeared placid, incapable of causing so much heartache and agony.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, cigar firmly between his teeth as he grabbed the bottle of scotch he’d brought from town, climbed out of his car, and waded stiffly through the thick layers of cones and needles to the front door. It opened easily, as if he’d been expected. The soles of his shoes slapped against the dusty floorboards, and he thought he heard a mouse scurrying to a dark corner.

In the kitchen he rummaged through the cupboards and found a glass, dusty from years of neglect. He’d called ahead and the electricity, phones, gas, and water had been turned on. In the next few days the house would be cleaned from top to bottom, and his grown daughters would arrive, whether they wanted to come back or not.

Wiping the glass with his fingers, he poured himself a generous shot, then climbed the stairs to his bedroom—the one he’d shared for years with Dominique. The bed, a massive four-poster was stripped bare, the mattress covered in plastic. He walked to the windows, opened the drapes, and, sipping his drink, glanced at the swimming pool, long dry, a nest of leaves and dirt clogging the drain. The pool house, positioned near the diving board, was locked up, had been for years. Then he looked past the pool to the lake he loved. Staring at the tranquil water, he felt dread, like the ticking of a clock, pound ceaselessly in his brain.

What had happened so long ago? What would he discover? A shudder coursed through him. He tossed back his drink, felt the fiery liquor splash the back of his throat and warm his belly as he headed downstairs, away from this morgue, with its dark memories of old, disappointing sex and so little love. Christ, Dominique had turned into a bitch.

In the den, he fished his wallet from his pocket, extracted a single page he’d ripped from the notepad on his desk, and stared at the three telephone numbers of his daughters. None would be glad to hear from him, but they’d do what he asked.

They always did.