mission-style furniture, and a thick, woven rug. Mexican tiles framed the small fireplace.
“I had a call from Saul yesterday,” Joanne said. “That new play he sent, it’s pretty good. He wants me to fly out there next week for a reading.”
Avery turned from the doors and frowned at her. “But you just got back from New York six days ago—”
“Now, don’t flip out. It’s nothing definite. It’s just a reading—”
“How can you expect us to make a baby when we’re hardly ever together? Do you really want to have a baby?”
Joanne pointed to her legs in the air. “No, it’s just an excuse to lie here like this. I find it very comfortable.”
With a sigh, Avery pulled on a T-shirt. Starting a family had been his idea. He’d originally talked with Joanne about it a year ago, when she’d returned home depressed over a Broadway show that had gone down in flames. She’d said she was ready, but when they’d run into difficulties conceiving, she’d retreated back to The Great White Way and another play. That one had been a hit, and she’d been gone eleven months.
“I just wish we could be together—in the same place—for a while,” Avery grunted, zipping up his trousers. “I’m tired of all the flying back and forth. You know, for every trip you’ve taken out here, I’ve seen you in New York five times. Check my frequent flier points. I could fly first class to Jupiter on the mileage I’ve accrued.”
“I wish you wouldn’t pick on me.” Joanne lowered her feet. “You know, I’m off the antidepressants while we try for junior here. It hasn’t been a picnic for me. How often have we had this argument anyway? I mean—”
The telephone rang.
Joanne sighed. “Ah, saved by the bell.”
“It’s probably the studio.”
Avery grabbed the phone. “Hello?”
“Avery Cooper?” It sounded like a spaced-out teenage boy. “You’re a fucking asshole and your wife’s a pig.”
Avery hung up, then glanced at Joanne, who started to sit up. “Don’t answer if it rings again.” He ran out of the room.
“What? Was it a crank? Watch the water on the stairs!”
Downstairs, Avery checked the caller ID box in his study. The number had been blocked. The phone rang again. Avery stood over the answering machine, waiting for it to click on. When it did, the caller hung up.
The calling number had been blocked.
In case he hadn’t gotten the message, she’d dropped something in the mail to him—the autographed portrait he’d originally sent her. The photo had been torn in half and the eyes cut out.
After going to bed that first night back, Avery heard a noise outside—from the front of the house. He tossed aside the covers and crept into the guest room. From the window, he spied two teenage punks scurrying across the moonlit lawn toward the front gate. Avery immediately called the police.
The teenagers, who managed to elude the cops, were only errand boys. They’d delivered three gift boxes to Avery’s door, items he’d returned to Libby. But the Ralph Lauren sweater had ketchup splattered all over the front of it; a sportshirt had been slashed to pieces; and an expensive jogging suit had been partially torched—with ashes still in the box.
Beverly Hills’ finest collected the evidence and called on Leslie Benita Stoddard. But Libby had left for Maui three days before. Avery pressured the police to contact authorities in Maui. When questioned, Libby claimed to have impulsively given the clothes—along with the autographed photo—to a couple of punk boys outside a thrift shop. They’d been asking people for spare change. She’d told them the clothes “weren’t good enough” for Avery Cooper. That was her only contact with the teenagers. She said that except for leaving an angry message a week ago on Avery’s answering machine (which—
Avery didn’t believe a word. He’d hoped Libby’s recent brush with the law in Maui had convinced her to back off. But now one of her creeps was on the phone harassing Joanne and him at seven-forty in the morning.
“Avery!” Joanne yelled from upstairs. “Oh, Jesus…Avery!”
He ran to the foot of the stairs. Joanne leaned over the upper railing. Her hair was a mess, and tears streamed down her face. Naked, she clutched the robe in front of her.
Avery raced up the steps to her. “What is it?” he asked, out of breath.
“In our bedroom—” She let out a gasp, then shook away a small black ant that had been crawling on her arm. Joanne shuddered and started swatting at her hair, trying to flick away bugs that may or may not have been nesting there. “Your sweater drawer,” she cried, trembling. “Someone broke into the house. They’ve been in our bedroom….”
Avery took hold of her arms. “What?”
Joanne cringed and backed away from him. “They left something in your sweater drawer.” She took a deep breath, then pointed to the bedroom. “I think it’s from your friend—what’s her name, Libby. Take a look.”
Stepping over the pillow on the floor, Avery glanced down at four or five ants scurrying along the wheat- colored carpet. They were moving toward his dresser, where their numbers grew. Just minutes ago, he hadn’t noticed a single insect in the room. But now an army of ants crawled up the front of his cherry-stained dresser—all massing on the open bottom drawer.
Avery felt something tickle the top of his bare foot, and he swatted an ant away. Peering down into the drawer, he found what had attracted the swarm of black, crawling invaders. On top of his Irish knit sweater, someone had left a toy gun and a small baby doll—the kind usually dressed in a little bonnet and frock. But this doll had been stripped of its clothes, and swaddled in bloody, butcher-shop entrails. As the insects honed in on the rotting meat, they seemed to be devouring that cherub-faced toy baby.
With the police on their way, Avery and Joanne quickly got dressed. He’d managed to calm her down. He’d also taken care of the ant problem, using up a near-empty can of Raid. The smell of bug repellent drifted downstairs, where they now searched the house for anything that might have been stolen. None of Joanne’s jewelry was missing, and all their silverware remained intact. Avery checked the shelves in the living room. Every item was still in place.
“I think you’re right,” he called to Joanne. “Libby must be behind this. Nothing’s missing. She’s rich. She doesn’t want to steal anything, she just wants to harass us. She must have had one of her punks break in and plant that—that thing. She was always sending me sweaters. Not too subtle leaving it in my sweater drawer.”
He couldn’t stop wondering how the hell they’d made it past the security system. “Joanne?” he called. “Did you go out yesterday?”
“We met with Dr. Nathan, remember?” she called back to him. Her voice was still a little shaky.
“Oh, yeah, sure,” he muttered. They’d had an appointment with their fertility specialist. “Did you set the alarm before you left the house?”
“No, and I’m sorry, okay?” she called back, exasperated. “I’m never home long enough to memorize the stupid code.”
The telephone rang.
“Ignore it,” he yelled. “It’s probably one of Libby’s boys again.” He could hear the answering machine in his study.
“…leave a message after the beep,” the recording said. Then his own voice came on the phone: “Hey, honey…God, look at you. You’re so sexy…”
He started toward the study. Joanne met him in the hallway. “Avery? What’s going on?”
In the study his recorded voice kept talking over her: “I’m so hard. See what you’re doing to me? Come here…”
