Sidney Sheldon - Are You Afraid Of The Dark

Jones was studying her sympathetically. "I see. Then if I may make a suggestion, we have a cosmetician who does excellent work where"-he said tactfully-"it's needed. Will that be all right?" Richard would hate it, but-"Yes." "There's just one thing more. We'll need the clothes you want your husband to be buried in." She looked at him in shock. "The-" Diane could feel the cold hands of a stranger violating Richard's naked body, and she shivered.

"Mrs. Stevens?" I should dress Richard myself. But I couldn 't bear to see him the way he is. I want to remember"Mrs. Stevens?" Diane swallowed. "I hadn't thought about-" Her voice was strangled. "I'm sorry." She was unable to go on.

He watched her stumble outside and hail a taxi.

WHEN DIANE RETURNED to her apartment, she walked into Richard's closet. There were two racks filled with his suits. Each outfit held a treasured memory. There was the tan suit Richard had been wearing the night they met at the art gallery. I like your curves. They have the delicacy of a Rossetti or a Manet. Could she let go of that suit? No.

Her fingers touched the next one. It was the light gray sport jacket Richard had worn to the picnic, when they had been caught in the rain.

Your place or mine?

This isn 'tjust a one-night stand.

I know.

How could she not keep it?

The pinstriped suit was next. You like French food. I know a great French restaurant…

The navy blazer… the suede jacket… Diane wrapped the arms of a blue suit around herself and hugged it. I could never let any of these go. Each of them was a cherished remembrance. "I can't." Sobbing, she grabbed a suit at random and fled.

The following afternoon, there was a message on Diane's voice mail: "Mrs.

Stevens, this is Detective Greenburg. I wanted to let you know that everything here has been cleared. I've talked to the Dalton Mortuary. You're free to go ahead with whatever plans you want to make…" There was a slight pause. "I wish you well… Good-bye." Diane called Ron Jones at the mortuary. "I understand that my husband's body has arrived there." "Yes, Mrs. Stevens. I already have someone taking care of the cosmetics, and we've received the clothes you sent. Thank you." "I thought-would this coming Friday be all right for the funeral?" "Friday will be fine. By then we will have taken care of all the necessary details. I would suggest eleven a.m." In three days, Richard and I will be parted forever. Or until I join him.

THURSDAY MORNING, DIANE was busily preparing the final details of the funeral, verifying the long list of invitees and the pallbearers, when the telephone call came.

"Mrs. Stevens?"

"Yes." "This is Ron Jones. I just wanted to let you know that I received your paperwork and the change was made, just as you requested." Diane was puzzled. "Paperwork-?" "Yes. The courier brought it yesterday, with your letter." "I didn't send any-" "Frankly, I was a little surprised, but, of course, it was your decision." "My decision-?" "We cremated your husband's body one hour ago."

Paris, France

KELLY HARRIS WAS a roman candle that had exploded into the world of fashion. She was in her late twenties, an African-American with skin the color of melted honey and a face that was a photographer's dream. She had intelligent soft brown eyes, sensual full lips, lovely long legs, and a figure filled with erotic promise. Her dark hair was cut short in deliberate dishabille, with a few strands sprawling across her forehead. Earlier that year, the readers of Elle and Mademoiselle magazines had voted Kelly the Most Beautiful Model in the World.

As she finished dressing, Kelly looked around the penthouse, feeling, as always, a sense of wonder. The apartment was spectacular. It was on the exclusive Rue St.-Louis-en-Elle, in the Fourth Arrondissenient of Paris. The apartment had a double-door entry that opened into an elegant hall with high ceilings and soft yellow wall panels, and the living room was furnished with an eclectic mixture of French and Regency furniture. From the terrace, across the Seine, was a view of Notre-Dame.

Kelly was looking forward to the coming weekend. Mark was going to take her out for one of his surprise treats.

I want you to get all dressed up, honey. You 're going to love where we're going.

Kelly smiled to herself. Her husband was the most wonderful man in the world.

Kelly glanced at her wristwatch and sighed. I had better get moving, she thought. The show starts in half an hour. A few moments later, she left the apartment, heading down the hallway toward the elevator. As she did so, the door of a neighboring apartment opened and Madame Josette Lapointe came out into the corridor.

A small butterball of a woman, she always had a friendly word for Kelly.

"Good afternoon, Madame Harris." Kelly smiled. "Good afternoon, Madame Lapointe." "You're looking beautiful, as always." "Thank you." Kelly pressed the button for the elevator.

A dozen feet away, a burly man in work clothes was adjusting a wall fixture. He glanced at the two women, then quickly turned his head.

"How is the modeling going?" Madame Lapointe asked.

"Very well, thank you." "I must come and see you in one of your fashion shows soon." "I'll be happy to arrange it anytime." The elevator arrived, and Kelly and Madame Lapointe stepped inside. The man in work clothes pulled out a small walkie-talkie, spoke hurriedly into it, and rapidly walked away.

As the elevator door started to close, Kelly heard the telephone ring in her apartment. She hesitated.

She was in a hurry, but it could be Mark calling.

"You go ahead," she said to Madame Lapointe.

Kelly stepped out of the elevator, fumbled for her key, found it, and ran back into her apartment.

She raced to the ringing telephone and picked it up. "Mark?" A strange voice said, "Nanette?' Kelly was disappointed. "Nous ne connaissons pas la personne qui repond a ce nom." "Pardonnez-moi. C'est une erreur de telephone." A wrong number. Kelly put the phone down. As she did, there was a tremendous crash that shook the whole building. A moment later, there was a babble of voices and loud screams. Horrified, she rushed into the hall to see what had happened. The sounds were coming from below. Kelly ran down the stairs, and when she finally reached the lobby, she heard loud, excited voices coming from the basement.

Apprehensively, she went down the stairs to the basement and stood in shock as she saw the crushed elevator car and the horribly mangled body of Madame Lapointe in it. Kelly felt faint. That poor woman. A minute ago she was alive and now… And I could have been in there with her. If not for that telephone call…

A crowd had gathered around the elevator, and sirens were heard in the distance.

I should stay, Kelly thought guiltily, but I can't. I have to leave. She looked at the body and whispered, "I'm so sorry, Madame Lapointe."

WHEN KELLY ARRIVED at the fashion salon and walked in the stage door, Pierre, the nervous fashion coordinator, was waiting.

He pounced on her. "Kelly! Kelly! You're late! The show has already started and-" "I'm sorry, Pierre. There-there was a bad accident." He looked at her in alarm. "Are you hurt?" "No." Kelly closed her eyes for a moment. The idea of going to work after what she had witnessed was nauseating, but she had no choice. She was the star of the show.

"Hurry!" Pierre said. "Vite!"

Kelly started toward her dressing room.

THE YEAR'S MOST prestigious fashion show was being held at 31 Rue Cambon, Chanel's original salon. The paparazzi were near the front rows. Every seat was occupied, and the back of the room was crowded with standees eager to get the first glimpse of the coming season's new designs. The room had been decorated for the event with flowers and draped fabrics, but no one was paying any attention to the decor. The real attractions were on the long runway-a river of moving colors, beauty, and style. In the background, music was playing, its slow, sexy beat accentuating the movements onstage.