Page 120 of Sunset Beach
“Stay right there, ma’am.”
Drue froze momentarily, but she didn’t dare obey the order, because she simply didn’t have the strength to climb down. Instead she propelled herself upward and onto the balcony. The flashlight beam was blinding.
“Ma’am? The police have been called. Now I need you to come right back down here, the way you went up.”
“I wish I could,” she said with a sigh, shielding her eyes with her arm. Her knees and calves were shaking so badly it was all she could do to sink onto the floor of the balcony.
48
August 19, 1976
Colleen sat in the perfect living room of her perfect house. It was just a cracker box, really, the smallest house on the block, and it was only a rental, but it was on Snell Isle, the ritziest neighborhood in St. Pete, and only a few blocks from Allen’s parents’ waterfront mansion on Brightwaters Boulevard, which was all that mattered to her husband.
A car honked outside, causing her to startle, just a little. Allen emerged from the hallway, loaded down with a suitcase, tackle box and his deep-sea fishing rod. “That’s Dad,” he announced, looking out the front picture window.
Colleen stood and walked him to the door. He set the baggage down and pulled her close, tipping her chin up and kissing her. “Be good,” he said. He kissed her again, for good measure, thrusting his tongue down her throat, then giving her left nipple a vicious twist.
“You too,” she said, forcing a smile and opening the door. It had gotten dark, but she stepped outside and waved at Morton Hicks, who was behind the wheel of his station wagon with his twenty-one-foot Boston Whaler in tow.
“See you Sunday night,” Allen called, right before he climbed in the front seat of the Vista Cruiser.
The station wagon pulled away from the curb and she stood, watching, as the distinctive curved taillights receded into the steamy summer night. When she finally saw them make the turn onto Brightwaters Boulevard, she exhaled slowly.
Colleen took the cream-colored Samsonite train case from the top shelf of her closet and set it on the quilted floral-print bedspread. This was her favorite room in the house, and she would miss it. She’d picked out the avocado green and orange floral bedspread and curtains herself, coordinating them with the thick wall-to-wall carpet she’d badgered their landlord into installing throughout the house.
She didn’t plan to take much with her. Just toiletries and cosmetics. Everything else she’d buy new, when she arrived in Atlanta. She had a second thought then, and her lips curved in a dreamy smile.
Colleen reached back into the closet and pulled out the needlepoint racquet cover that had been a birthday gift from her mother-in-law, Rosemary, who was well aware that Colleen despised tennis. She unzipped the case and felt around inside, but the only thing she found was the Wilson Chris Evert racquet. It was in like-new condition, because she’d never used the thing.
She felt goose bumps rise on her arms. The black push-up bra and the black lace garter belt were gone. She’d hidden them there just last Thursday night, away from the prying eyes of Estelle, her once-a-month cleaning lady. But Estelle wasn’t due back until next week.
Allen. He’d found her secret hiding place. How many of her other secrets had he uncovered? The realization changed things. She had to get out of this place. Now. Right this minute. She picked up the Princess phone from her nightstand and dialed Brice’s house. She didn’t care anymore about his friend’s threats. She needed to hear Brice’s voice, one more time.
The phone rang once, twice, then three times. Someone picked up at the other end.
“Hello?” his wife said. This time, instead of hanging up, for some reason, Colleen didn’t end the connection. She breathed softly, listening.
“Hello,” Sherri repeated. “Hello?” There was a long, drawn-out pause. “I know it’s you,” his wife said, her voice hoarse. “I know where you live and I know where you work…”
Colleen didn’t wait to hear more. She slammed the receiver down, grabbed the train case and fled the perfect house.
Friday morning, at precisely 11:35, she made her way to the teller’s cage at the Florida Federal Savings and Loan branch four blocks from her office.
She could forge Allen’s signature in her sleep, but just in case, she practiced copying it over and over and over again in her room at the Ramada Inn, where even the pills she’d taken from work didn’t help her to sleep at all the night before.
“Hi, Mrs. Hicks.” He was the youngest teller on the line, not even twenty-one, with wispy blond hair and a sprinkling of pimples on his cheeks. He was also the only male; the rest of the tellers were a bunch of sour-faced old biddies, who’d probably faint if they ever saw a penis.
Not Christopher, though. She bet he’d seen more than his share of dick in his young days.
“Good morning, Christopher,” she said crisply. With her fingertips, she pushed her savings passbook and the withdrawal slip across the scarred marble counter.
His eyes widened when he saw the amount of the withdrawal. “Wow,” he said.
“Down payment on our new house,” Colleen said.
“Oh, okay. You’ll want a cashier’s check, right?”
She shook her head. “The seller insists on cash.” She leaned in closer and confided, “He’s Japanese. They don’t do things the same way as us.”
