Frank De Felitta: Audrey Rose

“You shouldn’t have done it,” Janice importuned. “She’s been ill—”

“Yes, Mr. Templeton told me.” Mrs. Carew smiled. “I had no idea. But it’s such a warm, pleasant day. And we did call you. Apparently, you were out.”

“Yes,” Janice said.

They spoke no more.

In less than five minutes, Janice saw Bill’s head bobbing distantly through a tangle of autumn growths, looming toward them. In the next moment, the bright, heart-clutching flash of Ivy’s yellow hair beside him assured her that all was right.

Ivy was safe.

The rest of Sunday was given to Monopoly.

Bettina came back to the apartment, and they played until suppertime, all four of them, seated across from one another at the dining-room table.

Bill played a ruthless, impassioned game and won nearly everything worthwhile—Marvin Gardens, Boardwalk, a green monopoly consisting of Pennsylvania, North Carolina and Pacific avenues—collecting outlandish rentals on three houses and two hotels and winding up with something over twenty-seven thousand dollars.

They dined on pork chops with a tomato salad after Bettina left, watched television until nine thirty, saw Ivy to bed, and retired for the night to their own bedroom.

At ten twenty-six, Bill turned off the light. Lying on their backs, awake, under the green electric blanket, gazing up into the shadowy labyrinths of the plasterwork ceiling, their bodies separated by the width of their clinging hands, Bill and Janice finally talked.

Janice spoke first.

“Bill,” she whispered, “there’s a man out there.”

“I know,” Bill said, accepting the fact of her knowledge with no surprise and no emotion. “With sideburns and a mustache.”

Janice’s hand tightened in Bill’s.

“How long have you known about him?”

“Tomorrow will be five weeks.”

“He comes to the school each day.”

“Yes. In the mornings, too.”

“What does he want?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s going to harm us.”

“Probably.”

“It’s Ivy he’s after, Bill.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The way he looks at her. And he called the other morning.”

“Your Mr. Soames call, huh?”

“Yes. I lied. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right.”

Janice felt his hand relax slightly in hers.

“What does he want, Bill?”

“I don’t know.”

“We must call the police.”

“I went to them. They can’t help—until he makes some kind of move.”

Silence, then softly: “Oh, God. What does he want?”

Bill sighed. “We’ll know soon enough.”

Like Hansel and Gretel, they held hands throughout the moonless, haunted night, sleeping in fits and starts, awakening and pushing onward, falsely guided by the pebbles which glittered like newly coined money, wandering, lost, deeper and deeper into the wood toward the terrors of an uncertain daybreak.

Monday.

October 21.

Temperature: 37 degrees.

Humidity: 98 percent.

Barometric pressure: 29.92 and falling.

A storm system that provided snow for the upper Mississippi Valley and western Great Lakes had moved during the night into New England and parts of New York, including Manhattan. A light film of refreshing white blanketed the dun-gray streets and buildings visible from the Templeton apartment. The weather would turn colder by afternoon. More snow was forecast.

The first assault came with the morning mail, delivered by Mario, the doorman, at nine twenty, thirty minutes after Bill had left the apartment with a warmly bundled, book-burdened Ivy in tow.

The letter was included among a pack of bills, advertising circulars, an invitation to a Four-A’s dinner-dance, and two magazines. The envelope was the standard white pre-stamped kind sold in the post office. It was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. William Pierce Templeton in a firm, bold hand, with no sender’s name or return address. The “Pierce” was the giveaway. Whoever sent the letter had an intimate knowledge of Bill’s private life, for Bill never used the middle name—his mother’s maiden name—in any of his correspondence except his most personal legal documents.

Janice hefted the envelope in her hand, feeling its thinness with her fingers, to ascertain its contents. It felt so light that for a moment Janice thought it might be empty, but holding it up to the window for light, she saw a small grayish square contrasting with the white of the envelope. Denied sufficient liquid, the poorly sealed flap opened at her touch without scarring or tearing the paper.

Janice glanced sideways into the envelope—as a child watches a horror movie, through finger cracks—and saw a neatly clipped piece of paper covered with minute printing. She considered using tweezers to extract the paper from the envelope to preserve the fingerprints for later use as evidence, but settled finally on her long fingernails, which clutched the tissue-thin sheet by its edge. She read its contents with a self-control that amazed her before going to the telephone to call Bill.

“What’s the matter?” Bill panted lightly, having been pulled from a meeting to answer the “emergency” call.

“He sent us his calling card,” Janice replied dully.

“What! Say again,” Bill stammered, trying to catch his breath.

“His name is Elliot Suggins Hoover.”

“Yeah? How do you know?” Then, sudden concern: “Was he there? Are you all right, Janice?”

“A letter arrived!” Janice blurted, abandoning control. “With a printed slip of paper in it from Who’s Who or the Social Register or something, telling about his wife and background.…”

“Anything else come with it, a note, or—”

“No, just that!”

There was a long pause on the other end while Bill considered the situation.

“Listen to me, Janice.” Bill came back briskly, resolutely. “Get the boys downstairs to find you a cab. Come down to the office and wait for me. This meeting should be over by twelve thirty. I’ll have my secretary reserve a table at Rattazzi’s. We’ll have lunch and talk. Okay?”

He was doing what he did best—he was handling matters, Janice thought bitterly.

“If you want, I’ll meet you for lunch, but I can’t come down to the office.”

“Fine,” agreed Bill. “Twelve thirty, Rattazzis, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, then quickly added: “Bill?”

“Yes?”

“Was he waiting at the school this morning?”

“No. At least I didn’t see him.”

“Bill?”

“Yes, dear?” Bill was carefully maintaining the calm, conciliatory tone in his voice.

“I’m scared.”

Janice checked the chain bolt on the door before going upstairs to shower and wash her hair.

It was ten fifteen, and she was fixing the damp conditioned locks around the heated rollers when the telephone rang. She let it ring. It rang fourteen times before stopping.

At eleven forty she stood before the door mirror in their bedroom surveying the finished product and was gratified by what she saw. Although the handsome blue and burgundy plaid pants suit was last year’s purchase, it not only fitted her well, but did superb things for her figure. Her soft brown hair and lightly cosmeticized skin completed the portrait of a bold and, she had to admit, quite beautiful woman.

The sidewalk in front of Des Artistes had been swept clean of snow and was practically dry as Mario ushered Janice to the waiting cab and told the driver the address of Rattazzi’s Restaurant.

At twelve twenty Janice paid the cabdriver and entered the narrow, dimly lit restaurant

At twelve forty she ordered her second drink, still studiously avoiding the pernicious sesame sticks and butter plate that was set before her. By the time Bill arrived at one ten Janice was working on her fourth J & B with water and was feeling lightheaded and giddy. She saw Bill zoom toward her in a haze of apologies and heard him order their lunch immediately, since Janice needed to get to school by three in order to meet Ivy.