shouldn’t stay here tonight, Tess thought nervously. Her father’s big, very solid, well-protected house beckoned. She’d be safe there. Miserable, especially if her father was home. He’d start right in on her about Shelley, for sure. But at least, she’d be safe.
Or she could call Sam. He’d come and stay with her. But she was so rattled by the accident and now the note that she’d probably throw herself into his arms. And that would be a major mistake!
With shaking fingers, she dialed her father’s telephone number. She let it ring eight or nine times. No answer.
Why wasn’t Guy Joe home? He couldn’t still be at The Boardwalk. Maybe Trudy had talked him into giving her a ride home. If she had, who knew what time Guy Joe would finally call it a night? Trudy didn’t have a curfew. Her parents were very busy socially and seldom home. So Trudy saw no need to be, either.
If I have to spend the night alone, Tess decided, I’d rather spend it here, in my own house, surrounded by my own things. Besides, she told the grandfather clock as she passed it, that stupid note was probably a joke. A bad one, but still a joke.
Locking all the doors and windows was the first step. Then, feeling just a tiny bit silly but willing to take no chances, she pushed the heavy oval table in front of the French doors. That done, she thought about calling Gina to read her the note, but decided against it. It was too late. Why wake up the whole Giambone family? Especially since Gina would probably just confirm what Tess had already decided that the note was a rotten joke.
But when Tess left the kitchen, she didn’t turn off the light. The note still in her hand, she made her way through the spacious condo, flipping on light switches as she went. All of the rooms were large and airy, decorated by Shelley in French country style, the walls painted a soft gray-blue or wallpapered in tiny floral prints. The furniture was comfortably cushioned in blue-and-rose plaid. Shelley had added wicker baskets, hanging plants at the windows, and an abundance of white floor-to-ceiling bookcases. This home was prettier, warmer, and cozier than the Landers’ mansion.
But as Tess passed from kitchen to dining room to wide, open, French-doored living room, she suddenly found herself wondering how she would defend herself if someone broke into the house. She’d never had such thoughts before. They made her skin feel as if something ugly were crawling on it.
Picking out a heavy brass poker from the set beside the white brick fireplace, she settled, still fully dressed, on the roomy couch. Covering her legs with a quilted throw, she turned on the television set for company and positioned the poker at her side. She wouldn’t sleep. She couldn’t. She’d stay alert tonight and sleep during the day. People didn’t break into houses in broad daylight, did they?
But the horror of the night had exhausted her and the need for sleep won out over her resolve.
When she finally gave in and closed her eyes, every light in the house was still blazing brightly.
Chapter 8
T ESS AWOKE, STIFF AND headachey, to sunlight streaming in through the French doors and a cartoon blaring at her from the television set. When the memory of the previous night’s events flooded back into her mind, she made a decision.
Fifteen minutes later, after pulling on a full, flowered skirt and a white short-sleeved blouse, and clipping her hair on top of her head with a wide gold barrette, she grabbed her purse and the note and drove straight to the police station.
Chief Chalmers wasn’t there.
“Doesn’t come in on Sundays,” the desk sergeant informed her. A heavyset balding man with a mustache and round eyeglasses, he sat with his feet up on the desk, which was littered with papers. No one else was in the small, wood-paneled front office. Dying plants lined the windowsills behind the policeman and half filled coffee cups seemed to be everywhere.
“Sunday’s his day of
Or she could call Sam. He’d come and stay with her. But she was so rattled by the accident and now the note that she’d probably throw herself into his arms. And that would be a major mistake!
With shaking fingers, she dialed her father’s telephone number. She let it ring eight or nine times. No answer.
Why wasn’t Guy Joe home? He couldn’t still be at The Boardwalk. Maybe Trudy had talked him into giving her a ride home. If she had, who knew what time Guy Joe would finally call it a night? Trudy didn’t have a curfew. Her parents were very busy socially and seldom home. So Trudy saw no need to be, either.
If I have to spend the night alone, Tess decided, I’d rather spend it here, in my own house, surrounded by my own things. Besides, she told the grandfather clock as she passed it, that stupid note was probably a joke. A bad one, but still a joke.
Locking all the doors and windows was the first step. Then, feeling just a tiny bit silly but willing to take no chances, she pushed the heavy oval table in front of the French doors. That done, she thought about calling Gina to read her the note, but decided against it. It was too late. Why wake up the whole Giambone family? Especially since Gina would probably just confirm what Tess had already decided that the note was a rotten joke.
But when Tess left the kitchen, she didn’t turn off the light. The note still in her hand, she made her way through the spacious condo, flipping on light switches as she went. All of the rooms were large and airy, decorated by Shelley in French country style, the walls painted a soft gray-blue or wallpapered in tiny floral prints. The furniture was comfortably cushioned in blue-and-rose plaid. Shelley had added wicker baskets, hanging plants at the windows, and an abundance of white floor-to-ceiling bookcases. This home was prettier, warmer, and cozier than the Landers’ mansion.
But as Tess passed from kitchen to dining room to wide, open, French-doored living room, she suddenly found herself wondering how she would defend herself if someone broke into the house. She’d never had such thoughts before. They made her skin feel as if something ugly were crawling on it.
Picking out a heavy brass poker from the set beside the white brick fireplace, she settled, still fully dressed, on the roomy couch. Covering her legs with a quilted throw, she turned on the television set for company and positioned the poker at her side. She wouldn’t sleep. She couldn’t. She’d stay alert tonight and sleep during the day. People didn’t break into houses in broad daylight, did they?
But the horror of the night had exhausted her and the need for sleep won out over her resolve.
When she finally gave in and closed her eyes, every light in the house was still blazing brightly.
Chapter 8
T ESS AWOKE, STIFF AND headachey, to sunlight streaming in through the French doors and a cartoon blaring at her from the television set. When the memory of the previous night’s events flooded back into her mind, she made a decision.
Fifteen minutes later, after pulling on a full, flowered skirt and a white short-sleeved blouse, and clipping her hair on top of her head with a wide gold barrette, she grabbed her purse and the note and drove straight to the police station.
Chief Chalmers wasn’t there.
“Doesn’t come in on Sundays,” the desk sergeant informed her. A heavyset balding man with a mustache and round eyeglasses, he sat with his feet up on the desk, which was littered with papers. No one else was in the small, wood-paneled front office. Dying plants lined the windowsills behind the policeman and half filled coffee cups seemed to be everywhere.
“Sunday’s his day of
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