“Think she’s telling the truth about the files being destroyed if I use the wrong words?” Irene asked.
Tess studied the screen with a worried expression. “Depends on what kind of encryption program she used, I suppose. But Phil says that, even with a good system, it would be next to impossible t ompletely delete all traces of the files.”
“Probably take a real expert to recover them, though. The average person certainly wouldn’t be able to salvage anything.” Irene poised her fingers over the keyboard.
“Here goes.”
She typed in orange vanilla.
“That’s it?” Tess asked. “That’s the supersecret code?”
“Hey, we were teenagers, remember? Seemed like a great secret code at the time.”
The screen went blank. Irene froze, appalled.
“Wrong code?” Tess asked nervously.
“I can’t think of anything else. If that wasn’t it, I’ve just destroyed all the data Pamela stored on the computer.”
A list of files appeared. There were four of them.
Irene started to breathe again. “Might as well start with the one labeled Number One.”
She opened the file.
“A film clip,” Tess said. She leaned forward to get a better look.
Pamela appeared on the screen. She was sitting on the sofa in the Webb summer house.
“Oh, jeez.” Another eerie chill whispered through Irene. “This is going to be very, very weird.”
Tess watched the screen, her unease clear in her strained features. “You can say that again. Look a he date on the film clip. She made this the day before she died.”
“The day the Pine Lane house was rekeyed,” Irene said.
Pamela was dressed in a pair of dark trousers and a snug pullover that revealed a lot of cle**age. Sh ad a glass of wine in one hand. Her smile was cool and sophisticated, but her eyes were shadowed.
“Hi, Irene. Long time no see. Sadly, if you’re looking at this it means I lost my nerve and decided I couldn’t face you, after all. You obviously got a second e-mail note from me telling you where
to find the spare key to your folks’ house.”
“I never got that e-mail, because she never sent it,” Irene said. “She didn’t lose her nerve, she was murdered.”
“I’m probably sitting on a nice, sunny island somewhere in the Caribbean right now, downing those drinks they serve with those tacky little umbrellas. Sorry about that. I’d hoped I’d have the guts to tell you the truth in person. But then, I’ve never been real big on doing the right thing or telling the truth. I’m more the [_self-indulgent type, as we all know.” _]
On the screen, Pamela paused to take a sip of wine. “She’s drinking wine, not martinis,” Irene said. Pamela put down the wineglass and continued speaking into the camera.
“I’ve thought about you a lot over the years, Irene. You probably won’t believe it, [_but you were _]
the closest thing I ever had to a real friend. I’ll try not to get too sappy about it, [_though. This _]
is true confession time. I’ll come straight to the point.
“I know you never really believed that your dad killed your mother and took his [_own life. _]
[_Guess what? You were right. You want to know who was responsible? Me.” _]
Irene stared at the screen. “What is she talking about? That’s impossible. I was with her that night. There’s no way she could have shot my parents.”
“Hush.” Tess touched her arm. “Listen.”
“No, I didn’t pull the trigger, but I might as well have. Because what happened [_that night _]
was my fault.”
Pamela tucked one long leg under herself and reached for more wine.
“But first you’ll have to watch the next film clip. Better warn you, it is definitely not [_PG.” _]
The scene of Pamela on the sofa winked out. Another living room setting appeared.
“The interior designer who did that place must have had a previous career as a wedding cake decorator,” Tess observed.
“Or else he specialized in bedrooms for little girls,” Irene said, studying the scene.
The room was a pink-and-white fantasyland. Pink velvet draperies, white carpet and furniture upholstered in pink satin created a fairy-tale feeling. But there was something off about it, Irene decided. This was going to be one of the old, dark, truly frightening fairy tales, she thought, not a modern, cleaned-up, politically correct version.
“No dolls,” she said.
Tess looked at her. “Dolls?”
“It looks like a girl’s bedroom except there are no dolls or tea sets, stuffed animals or children’s books. None of the trappings that you’d expect to see in a real child’s bedroom.”
“Like I said, the guy who did the place probably did wedding cakes on the side.”
Irene examined the image more closely. “There’s something old-world about the room, don’t you think?”
“What do you mean?”
“Forget the fairy-tale color scheme. Look at the scale of the place and those windows. Early nineteenth century, I think. See those crown moldings? They’re not reproductions. It looks like an old house tha ou might see somewhere in Europe.”
Tess nodded slowly. “Now that you mention it, yes, it does.”
Before Irene could make any more comments, a man walked into view. There was no audio wit he clip. The figure moved in unnatural silence.
At first it was only possible to see him from the waist down because of the camera angle. Then he lowered himself onto one of the pink chairs. The change of position brought his face into clear view.
“Ryland Webb,” Irene whispered.
“What in the world is going on here?” Tess said.
Webb settled back into the chair, hitched up his elegantly tailored trousers and cocked one ankle ove is knee. Everything about his pose suggested ease and familiarity. He had been in this room before.
He looked at someone off camera, smiled and made a comment. A moment later a drink was place n his hand by a woman dressed in a black skirt, severe white blouse and starched white apron. It was impossible to see the maid’s face.
The toe of Webb’s gleaming shoe bounced a little. Irene got the impression that he was looking forwar o whatever was about to happen. She sensed suppressed excitement in him. There was a sheen o weat on his brow. As she watched, he loosened his tie and focused his attention on a point across the pink-and-white room that was just out of the camera’s view.