A Hurt Too Deep Read online

from being used as beds by the homeless. "You chose this."

  "How could I stay?" Steffa asked. "After you and my parents decided that you'd made a mistake, and married Chet to the wrong Langley sister?"

  "The Vandermeres and Langleys have been the core of Hartford Cove society since time out of mind. A union was inevitable, and for the best for both families. A fruitless union, however ..."

  "You threw me out because I couldn't have children," Steffa said. "You replaced me with Marjorie. I'm not surprised that she went along with it. She must have loved taking Chet away from me."

  "I understand why you'd be upset at losing him," Virginia said.

  "Maybe once, but not anymore. He didn't even argue when you told him your plan. Shows how much he loved me, doesn’t it? Marjorie's welcome to him. You all deserve each other."

  "That is in the past, Stephanie. Chelsea needs you."

  "What's she to me?"

  "Your niece," Virginia said. "Your sister's child, and Chet's."

  "The baby I wasn't able to have, and now you want me to save her life."

  "Chelsea has done nothing to you."

  "That's not the point. You have. When I wasn't good enough for your son, you got rid of me. Now you think you can call on me for spare parts?"

  "My only concern is –"

  When Andrews stopped for a light, Steffa opened the door and got out. She bent to peer back in at Virginia's drawn face.

  "Your only concern, like always, is getting what you want."

  "Is your hatred of the rest of us a reason to punish Chelsea? She is an innocent child."

  Steffa slammed the door. As she stalked down the street, she was braced to hear Andrews coming after her, or Virginia calling her in that queenly, demanding tone. She heard neither. A glance back showed her that the car was gone.

  Mrs. Graeme and Mr. Harper were in the hall, discussing football, when Steffa got home that evening. The former had her calico perched on her hip like a furry baby. The latter was on his way to the senior center, where he was the reigning poker champ.

  "I thought you said the car wasn't out there," Steffa said, more sharply than she meant to.

  "I'm sorry, Steffa dear?"

  "The car, the black one. It was down there when I left this morning."

  "It must have come when I was doing the wash," Mrs. Graeme said.

  "Or it belongs to your imaginary friend," Mr. Harper said, chuckling. "The one you were talking to yesterday."

  "That was my ... what?"

  "She was out here, carrying on a conversation with nobody," Harper said to Mrs. Graeme.

  "That was my ex-mother-in-law."

  Mr. Harper's brow furrowed. "Steffa, there was no one here but you when I stuck my head out into the hall."

  "She was right there." Steffa described Virginia Vandermere.

  Harper shook his head. "I would have remembered a fine lady like that." He winked. "Believe me, I would have remembered."

  "But she was ..." Steffa broke off. "Excuse me."

  She went into her apartment, picked up the phone, and was briefly perplexed when she got no dial tone. She saw the cord, attached to nothing, and plugged it back in.

  The phone rang in her hand. She jumped, almost dropped it. "Hello?"

  "Stephanie? I've been trying to call you all morning, but I couldn't get through."

  "Chet, I –"

  "What's the matter with you?" He steamrollered over her voice. "I know you hate us, and I know you've got reason, but that doesn't give you the right to be so cruel."

  "Oh, now we're concerned about cruelty? Your mother thinks she can rearrange lives however she sees fit, and –"

  "My mother is dead!"

  His broken shout silenced her.

  "My mother is dead, Steffa," Chet said. "She died last night. I don't know what you were playing at, calling me and accusing me of ... of whatever it is you were calling and accusing me of, but I don't appreciate it!"

  "Chet, that can't be. She was –"

  But there had been a click in the middle of her sentence. Steffa was left holding a phone that emitted the droning hum of a dial tone.

  She sat there for several minutes, staring at nothing.

  The Chet she remembered had been a rotten liar. But he had sounded so earnest.

  She dialed the number to Chet's private study again. It rang endlessly. She envisioned him sitting there in the wingback chair that had been his father's, glowering at the phone, as determined not to pick up as she was determined to get through. At last, someone answered.

  "Greencastle."

  "I'd like to speak to Chet Vandermere, please."

  "My goodness ... Stephanie Langley? Is it you? This is Mrs. Eddings, the housekeeper. Do you remember me?"

  "Of course I do," Steffa said. "Mrs. Eddings, I need to talk to Chet."

  "I'll fetch him. It's so good of you to call. I'm sure everyone will appreciate hearing from you."

  Not when they heard what she had to say, they wouldn't. Steffa abruptly changed her mind.

  "Mrs. Eddings, wait. Can you tell me what's going on out there? I was talking to Chet but ... but we were cut off. Is everything all right?"

  The housekeeper's sigh crossed hundreds of miles of phone cable. "How could it be? Such a terrible thing, terrible. For all of us."

  "Chet ... um ... didn't tell me the details. Something about a car wreck?"

  The housekeeper sighed. "Mrs. Vandermere was bringing Chelsea back from the ballet. They were struck by another car, head-on. Their driver was killed instantly."

  "Andrews?" The name tasted like ash on her tongue.

  "Yes." Mrs. Eddings was crying, not sobbing outright but there was a distinct watery tone to her speech. "Mrs. Vandermere died in the hospital last night. Around nine o'clock, I believe it was."

  Nine o'clock. Six o'clock here, shortly before Steffa had first seen the black car in front of the apartment building.

  "And Chelsea?" she heard herself ask, her head spinning.

  "The poor child is in the hospital." Mrs. Eddings dropped to a whisper. "The doctors aren't optimistic."

  "Oh, my God," Steffa said.

  "Everyone's in such a state, Miss Stephanie. It's all so, so terrible. Will you be coming home?"

  "I ... I don't know. Thank you, Mrs. Eddings."

  "Do you want to talk to Mr. Chet?"

  "No. I'll try again later."

  She hung up, and hugged herself against a shiver that started in her bones and spread through her entire body.

  No one else had seemed to notice the car. She'd been glad of it at the time, not wanting the attention, but even then she'd thought it was strange for such an expensive and well-cared-for vehicle not to draw at least a few looks.

  But the car was real! It had to be. Or else how had she gotten to work that morning?

  Mr. Harper claimed she'd been talking to herself. She believed the old lecher when he said he would have remembered a classy lady.

  But how could Virginia be here when she was supposed to be dead in a hospital on the other coast? How could Andrews, exactly as he had always been, be driving her around? How could Steffa have known about the car accident and Chelsea's condition, information confirmed by Mrs. Eddings?

  Only two possible explanations came to mind, and Steffa didn't like either of them.

  She was no clairvoyant. No hunches, no premonitions, no portentous dreams. She didn't even believe in such things.

  That left ghosts. Steffa found the prospect of being haunted even more ridiculous than being psychic. If there were such things as ghosts, why come to her?

  Then again, if ever there was a woman whose determination to have her own way would let her pierce the veil between this world and the next, Virginia Vandermere was that woman.

  She hadn't come to Steffa to impart some final message from a loved one. Oh, no, nothing like that. Virginia wanted something from her, and fully expected that Steffa would comply.

  Chelsea.
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  Chet and Marjorie's little girl. Six or seven years old now. Steffa had never met her. Had never so much as seen a photograph. What did it matter to her if the girl had Chet's golden hair, or eyes of Langley blue?

  "I was nothing to them," Steffa said into the silence of her apartment. "Why should any of them be anything to me?"

  She was on her feet and moving toward the door before she was aware of what she intended to do. The hall was empty of neighbors, but filled with competing noise from stereos or televisions, and competing scents of various cooking foods.

  Steffa went downstairs. Through the foyer windows, she could see the car idling at the curb. A couple of laughing teenagers passed it without turning their heads.

  Slowly, her heart somewhere in the vicinity of her throat, Steffa stepped outside. Andrews appeared promptly from the driver's side. He made a slight bow as he moved to open the back door for her.

  He looked every bit as real and solid as anyone else on the street. The car did too, and when she touched the top edge of the door, it felt cool and substantial under her fingers.

  Virginia Vandermere was waiting inside. "Stephanie," she said.

  "Tell me about the accident," Steffa said, not getting into the car.

  "It was a head-on collision," Virginia said. "The other driver crossed the center line. We had been at the ballet. Chelsea loves the ballet. She was so excited, Stephanie. So happy. And then came the crash. The steering wheel crushed Andrews' chest."

  Steffa looked at Andrews again. Now his previously impeccable uniform was stained dark around a hideous indentation. Splinters of white bone – ribs – poked through the torn, sodden fabric. He maintained his perfect posture, but his complexion was a bloodless pallor. His eyes, fixed on Steffa, were the marble eyes of a mannequin.

  "You were killed, too," Steffa said to Virginia.

  "I suppose