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Quiet Time - Softcover

Kane, Stephanie

 
9780553581744: Quiet Time

Inhaltsangabe

Years after the murder of her mother-in-law, a young lawyer discovers that she may have stumbled upon the terrible secrets that had something to do with the crime and must risk her own life and her marriage to uncover the killer before he can kill once again. Original.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Stephanie Kane is the author of Quiet Time, Blind Spot, Seeds of Doubt, and Extreme Indifference. 

Aus dem Klappentext

17;s when you re too afraid to make a sound...

Inside his picture-perfect home, Warren Scott runs a tight ship. He demands total respect from his family. He ll accept nothing less.

The Scotts are quiet, they keep to themselves and to the neighbors, they seem like any other family. Then the Scotts facade shatters one sun-drenched morning in May.

Sari Siegel is engaged to Tim Scott when his mother is found murdered. Sari barely knows the Scotts, but even she can sense the terrible secrets that seethe below the surface. Sari knows something about Peggy s murder, but she isn t telling ... at least not yet. For if she does, her own dreams of a perfect life with Tim will shatter.

There are some family traditions no one wants to keep.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Sunlight poured onto Sari Siegel’s face in the airless porch of their second-story apartment jutting out over Broadway. As she burrowed into her pillow Tim’s arm tightened about her waist and he drew her close, clasping her small round buttocks and draping his thigh across her hip. The sweat from the copper hair on his chest tickled, and he moved his hand to her glossy hair, sweeping it aside to nuzzle her neck.

She squinted at the alarm clock on the dresser across the narrow room. At a quarter to eight she could already hear Saturday-morning traffic in the street below, and the air was so arid her nostrils twitched. Her gaze wandered to the faded poster of the dove on the cracked wall above the dresser. END MASS MURDER IN VIETNAM. A relic from junior high school days, but it reminded her of home. Beneath it the lab manual for her biology class lay facedown beside a marbled composition book whose binding had not yet been cracked.

She looked at Tim’s arm, which had crept back to her waist. The silky hair was so red it glinted, but the T-shirts he’d worn framing houses over spring break had left his biceps and shoulders paper-white next to hers. His long limbs and fiery hair were an odd match for her petite build and olive complexion, but they fit together perfectly in bed. Breathing his familiar scent, she molded herself to his groin. When his fingertips began stroking her breast she blinked once and then her eyes fell shut. He knew what she liked, she never had to say.... As he entered her, a single thought shimmered in her head: One week from today she would be Mrs. Timothy Scott.

The phone rang twenty minutes later while Tim was in the shower and she was frying his eggs over easy — the way he liked them. After a brief conversation, she hung up and reached for the plastic pitcher in the cupboard over the sink. Pipes groaned on the other side of the wall as the toilet in the next apartment flushed, and she heard Tim yelp at the surge of hot water. When the shower stopped she twisted the faucet and began mixing his orange juice.

As soon as school let out two weeks before they’d moved into the walk-up flat in this rambling house at Locust and Broadway, halfway down the hill leading from the University to downtown Stanley. Although Broadway technically divided the campus from the residential part of town, the University’s tree-lined paths, sandstone buildings and tiled roofs blended into the surrounding neighborhoods abutting the foothills.

Because of its size and location, 655 Locust could have housed one of the smaller departments of the liberal arts college or a professor with a large brood of children. Over the years, additions had been slapped on every which way and the interior divided into oddly configured units for students and the marginally employed, leaving them a kitchen just large enough to turn around in and a converted porch for a bedroom that was so cold in the winter, ice formed on the inside of the windows and froze them shut. But Sari fell in love with the apartment the moment they saw it. The sunshine in the alcove stained her supermarket coleuses magenta and chartreuse, and living on the Hill meant they were no longer just students.

“It must be eighty degrees already.”

She turned to see Tim in the doorway in his denim cutoffs, sweat dotting the reddish stubble above his lip. He’d been trying to grow a mustache since school let out but his sideburns were more successful; the auburn growth reached from his temples to the milky knob of his jaw. The skin below was so tender, she would bury her nose in it while they were making love, feel it throb...

“And a hundred in here,” she replied.

“At least.” He grinned, knowing exactly what she was thinking.

“When do you have to be at the rec center?” she asked. Tim played for the Wings, in an amateur hockey league, and coached kids on the weekends.

“I’m leaving as soon as I eat. Peewees are at ten and I’m working on a new set of drills for the Juniors.” Handing him his juice and eggs, she followed him to the front room, where he settled on the daybed with the plate balanced on his knees. “What are you going to do?”

From the window she gazed at the turquoise pool at the College Townhouses next door, glittering in the morning sun. Last spring’s residents had left after finals and the summer students wouldn’t arrive for days, and if she sneaked in early enough, she could paddle a few laps and no one would notice. But it hardly seemed right to luxuriate in a pool while Tim sweltered at a hockey practice.

“Get a head start on my reading,” she replied, leaning over to wipe a spot of yolk from his lip. He pulled her to his lap, and it turned into a long kiss. “Want me to bring you a sandwich before the one o’clock practice?”

“Nope, it’ll be too hot to eat.” He gulped the rest of his juice, handed her his plate, and reluctantly rose.

“Your mother called while you were in the shower.”

He stopped with his hand on the doorknob.

“What’d she say?”

“Nothing. Just to tell Laura the transmission’s still out on the Dodge and she’ll have to find some other way to get back from Gillman.” Tim’s sister had dropped out of the University in her junior year but was still living in Stanley, twenty-five miles north of Widmark, the state capital, which was another ten miles from the suburb of Gillman where Tim’s parents resided. “She couldn’t reach her on the phone and thought maybe we’d see her before she left.”

“The Dodge?”

“Your dad was going to have the brakes changed on Laura’s car and let her borrow the Dodge for the week.”

“Anything else?” Hope lay beneath the casual words.

“You mean about the wedding?” She turned toward the kitchen. “No.”

“Did you ask if she was going to come?”

“Of course not.” She felt him watching as she sponged egg off the chipped stoneware. “The only reason we’re having a minister is because of her.”

“Are you kidding? To a Catholic, the Unitarian Church might as well be City Hall. You must’ve talked about more than the transmission.”

“They had inside chores and yard work to do before it got too hot, and then your dad was going to a seminar.” Catching a glimpse of Tim’s face as she reached for the dish towel, Sari cast for details to make her conversation with his mother sound longer. “Some self-improvement guru. She was in a hurry to hang up.”

“At least she called.” She’s trying, he meant, why can’t you?

“Tim, we have to—”

“Later, honey, I need to warm up.” Wrapping his arms around her waist, he stooped to kiss the part in her hair and was gone.

Sari smeared suntan lotion on her cheeks, secured her shoulder-length black waves with a barrette, slipped on her sandals and left the apartment. Telling herself to forget Peggy’s abruptness and Tim’s disappointment, she cut across the campus to the Bryant Library lawn to read up on the birth of the solar system. Lying on her stomach, she reached into her backpack for a yellow highlighter and began skimming the introduction to her biology text.

Her pen whipped across millennia, from the mass of energy and matter that erupted and collided to form stars to the medieval notion of spontaneous generation. Could they really have believed maggots originated from meat, and mice from sweat-soaked shirts and wheat? She flipped two pages ahead. Once...

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