Philadelphia Noir - Carlin Romano [56]
Megan stepped neatly between the two men, the Scylla and Charybdis of the party, both dangerously drunk, staggering, both reaching for her with sticky, amorous hands. The grotesquely ugly man, groping toward Megan, was deaf to the angry scolding of his monstrous, homely wife. Meg left the sorry spectacle behind her and kept going.
Anise in the kitchen talking seriously with her sister Michelle. Lulu laughing huskily as she tottered down the stairs in impossibly high heels, wiping her mouth on the back of her manicured hand. Upstairs, Henri furtively leaving a darkened bedroom in which Megan glimpsed someone—Carrie?—on the bed. Henri sidled past Megan, tucking in his shirt, favoring her with his handsome, slightly sneering Gallic smile. Downstairs, Bess stalking angrily out of the den, her botoxed forehead unwrinkled but her eyes flashing her displeasure. Thom almost surreptitiously collecting glasses and ferrying them to the kitchen to be tucked into the capacious dishwasher.
Meg kept circulating, watching, stopping only occasionally, like some restless voyager searching for home.
It must have been four a.m. when a scream again rent the air, parting the haze of candle smoke, potpourri, and the mild fug of sweating, tired revelers. Again, Meg reacted, galvanized, as though she had somehow known it was coming.
Again, she drew up short at the doorway to the dimly lit den, adrenaline making her feel suddenly sober. Anise was sitting as before in the center of the velvet sofa, surrounded by candles and Christmas lights, her anguish evident on her lovely face. Again, the tall, gorgeous young woman was draped across her lap, head dangling, blond hair streaming across her face, arms and legs hanging limply.
Meg stepped into the room. It was the same as before, but also completely different. She knew that this time it was Anise who had screamed, not her daughter. Anise howled again, more animal moan than scream.
This time the doll was really broken. A thread of red blood trailed from the corner of her mouth. Anise shifted her grip, almost as if to offer the girl to Megan. The girl’s head lolled grotesquely and her hair spilled to one side.
Megan gasped, realizing that it was not Carrie who Anise held, but Carrie’s college friend Lulu. And Lulu was quite, quite dead.
Anise’s face, pale and ravaged by a terrible grief, told Megan, even without a word, that Anise thought the girl across her lap was her beloved daughter.
“Oh no, Anise. It’s not Carrie. See?” Meg knelt beside her, her impulse to curb Anise’s dreadful suffering blotting out everything, even the awfulness of Lulu’s death. “See?” She touched the girl’s head, sickeningly wobbly on her neck, brushing aside the razor-cut blond shag. Anise, evidently in shock and not far from fainting, slowly, slowly looked down. She slowly, slowly focused her gaze of bottomless pity and terror on the dead girl’s ghastly, waxen face.
Anise stood up abruptly, unceremoniously dumping Lulu’s corpse onto Megan. Meg toppled backward, panicked, scrambling to right herself and get out from under the dead girl, a primitive fear kicking in.
Strong hands helped Meg. Bess pulled her up and steadied her. Thom picked up the girl’s body and laid it tenderly on the sofa where Anise had been sitting. He took a minute to straighten the clothes, pulling down the short angora dress, putting the arms straight at her sides, tilting the head, lolling on the broken neck, so that the thread of blood did not mar the upholstery.
Thom then turned to Anise, but she was already moving, staggering out of the room, shouldering aside anyone in her way, looking for her daughter. Bess followed close behind her.
Meg registered all these details as pandemonium broke out around her. Guests, summoned by Anise’s howls but slowed by alcohol, appeared in