by Linda Palmer
I knew what he was really asking. “We’ll be as alone as we were in Boston,” I said.
The thought of being in Matt’s arms tonight made my pulse tingle with anticipation.
AS SOON AS I opened the door to my apartment, Magic bounded down the hall to greet me. He leapt into my arms, rubbed the top of his head under my chin, and then climbed up onto my shoulder, where he draped himself around my neck like a scarf and started to purr.
“Morgan?” Nancy came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a paper towel.
“I’m so glad to be home,” I said.
She stopped abruptly and stared at me. “Where was that spa—in a coal mine?”
I managed a weak laugh. “You don’t know how close you are.”
A few minutes later, Nancy and I were sitting at the kitchen table with a plate of Oreo cookies between us. Over steaming mugs of coffee, and with Magic curled up in my lap, I told Nancy the truth about my childhood, about Ray Wilson, and all that I had done—and learned—in the Ohio coal cellar.
As she listened, tears rolled down Nancy’s cheeks. She reached across the table and gripped my hand in silent, loving support.
And for the first time since Ian died almost six years ago, I cried, too.
Chapter 46
AFTER BATHING, SHAMPOOING my hair, brushing and flossing my teeth, coating my nails with fresh clear polish, and taking a two-hour nap beside Magic, I got up and put on the pale blue silk robe Nancy gave me for my birthday last year. (Or what had been guess-timated as my birthday; I had no idea on which day I actually had been born.) Because I usually slept in oversized Tshirts of Bruce Lee or the New York Knicks, I’d thought of this elegant robe as too “nice” to wear. Until tonight.
An hour before Matt was due, I gave Magic his dinner and settled at the kitchen table with one of the white legal pads I used to work out plotlines for Love. But what I needed it for this evening had nothing to do with the show. I was trying to use my plotting experience to spot a link between the murder of Veronica Rose and the attempted murder of Jay Garwood. If I could, I was sure it would be the missing piece of information that would clear Nancy.
At least the prosecutors wouldn’t be able to charge her with the assault on Jay. Nancy had told me that she couldn’t sleep last night, so from four A.M. to after seven, she was at my computer, ordering Christmas presents online, using her credit cards. The times of those transactions were electronically embedded, and thus could be confirmed. This year, I wasn’t going to tease Nancy about being so compulsively efficient that she habitually completed her Christmas shopping list well before Labor Day.
Flattening the white legal pad on the table, I used a large box of Sweet’N Low to draw a straight line down the middle, from top to bottom, dividing the page into two columns. I headed the left-hand side “Facts,” and the right-hand side “Questions.”
Under “Facts,” I listed:1. Veronica Rose was struck fatally with a paint can in her empty apartment.
2. Nancy Cummings discovered Veronica’s body.
3. Didi discovered Nancy kneeling over the body.
4. Didi claims her mother and father were reconciling.
5. Prosecutors contend Nancy murdered Veronica out of jealousy.
6. Nancy and Veronica had verbal fights in front of witnesses.
7. In Boston, Veronica had had affairs with other women’s husbands.
8. None of those men or women was in New York at time of the murder.
9. Jay Garwood hinted that he and Veronica were going to be married.
10. Didi became hysterical at mention of Garwood’s name.
11. Arnold prevented me from talking to Didi.
12. Someone tried to kill Jay Garwood.
On the “Questions” side of the page, I wrote:1. Why was Veronica Rose killed?
2. Why did someone try to kill Jay Garwood?
3. Who would want to kill both Veronica and Jay?
4. Why was Didi’s reaction to Jay’s name so violent?
5. Why won’t Arnold let me question Didi?
6. Did one of the “Boston Five” (Laura and George Reynolds, Gloria and Ralph Hartley, or Cathy Chatsworth) hire a killer?
7. Which alibis are solid?
The Boston Five scored highest here. Not only did Bobby Novello check out their whereabouts at the time of Veronica’s death, but they were thoroughly investigated by the Boston private detective firm Bobby employed to work with him, and also by the separate agency hired by Nancy’s attorney, Kent Wayne. After exhaustive tracing of movements and travel records, they were united in the conclusion that none of those five people was in New York—nor even in a city nearby—when Veronica was killed. No connection had been found linking any of the Boston Five to a professional assassin.
From what I’d learned of their social circle, infidelity was a kind of indoor sport. The emotional havoc Veronica’s romantic greed caused was probably painful, but as much as they all played around, it didn’t seem as though their passions ran deep enough to commit murder. Besides, why would any of them have wanted Jay Garwood dead? It was unlikely that Veronica’s Boston group knew Jay, but I made a note to call Bobby tomorrow and have him see if he and his Merry Men could find any connection between either Reynolds, Hartley, or Cathy Chatsworth to Jay.
As for the other suspects on my personal list: Jay Garwood’s alibi is that he was with his ex-wife and their daughter, Annie. Loretta and Annie Garwood confirmed his story. But they might lie for him.
Arnold Rose’s alibi is that he was with a client. The client confirmed it. However, time of death cannot be calculated scientifically down to the minute, so Arnold might have been able to kill her before he left their apartment building. Playing devil’s advocate, I had to admit that possibility crashed on the rocky shores of motive. Even if Arnold had been able to kill Veronica in time to keep his appointment, why would he have murdered her? I had no answer to that.
Unfortunately, nothing we’d learned so far was a help to Nancy. She was the only person confirmed to have been on the scene around the time of Veronica’s death. According to the prosecutor’s theory of the case, Nancy was the one person who had both motive and opportunity. The only thing wrong with that theory was that Nancy is innocent. But how can we prove it?
More questions:8.Was Veronica going to choose Jay or Arnold? (My guess was Arnold.)
9.Did the loser (Jay) kill her? (Unlikely. Disappointment is a weak motive.)
10.If Arnold murdered her, what was his motive? (I’m back to that again.)
Carefully reading both columns, my conclusion was that the three most important questions were 1. Why was Veronica killed; 2. Why was Jay almost murdered; and 3. Who would want both of them dead?
Loretta Garwood? That was possible, but when Walter and I talked to her, she gave the impression of having a good relationship with her ex-husband. I didn’t think it was an act. Besides, if she had wanted to get back together with Jay—once he was making good money again—she had the chance before Jay met Veronica Rose.
Loretta might have killed Jay, or Veronica, but why both of them? I just couldn’t see her as a killer. It’s true that she knew Jay’s jogging schedule, but I was sure she couldn’t have gotten into Veronica’s security building without being announced. The police hadn’t discovered anyone, other than Nancy, who had come to see Veronica that day.
As though my mind was stuck in an endless loop, I came back to Arnold Rose. But it didn’t make sense that Arnold would murder Veronica when he was sending signals that he was reconciling with her. He’d made a point of explaining his ex to me, of describing her need for attention. He knew about her affairs. It seemed unlikely that he would have killed her just because she was dating Jay. A man with Arnold’s ego couldn’t have thought that Jay—a supporting actor on Daytime TV—was serious competition. Even if Arnold had regarded Jay as an obstacle to reconciliation with Veronica, he would more likely have paid Jay to back off, or frightened him away.
As a criminal defense attorney
, Arnold would know how to hire a hit man to kill Veronica, but I couldn’t picture him putting himself in the power of someone who might betray him one day, perhaps in dealing with the law for a lesser charge if the hit man—or, not to succumb to gender stereotyping, the hit woman—was arrested for another crime.
The single most important person in the world to Arnold is Didi. I found it hard to believe that he would do anything to damage his relationship with his daughter.
Didi … I put the pad down and thought about her.
Although she was only twelve years old, Didi Rose was one of the most manipulative people I’d ever met. A few months ago she’d tried to destroy her father’s romance with Nancy by faking an injury for which Nancy was blamed. I knew that children killed, but Didi wanted her parents back together, so why would she have murdered her mother?
As I stared at what I’d written in the two columns, a new thought came knocking at my frontal lobes. Could there be two killers? One who murdered Veronica, and another who tried to kill Jay?
As quickly as it appeared, I swatted that idea away. While I’ve created quite a few unlikely scenarios for the show—they’re great fun to write and for fans to watch—this “two killer” theory was too implausible, even for me. It had to be that one person committed both crimes.
When Jay awakens from his coma, he might be able to tell us who shot him. I refused to believe that Jay wouldn’t survive. When I’d called St. Vincent’s earlier to check on Jay’s condition, Dr. Henry Lyons told me he was still critical. “Until he regains consciousness,” Dr. Lyons had said, “we can’t tell what he’s able to remember, or if he’ll have any long-term problems.”
The doorbell rang. I looked at the wall clock and realized I’d lost track of time. It was seven P.M.
Matt’s here. I’d told the reception desk I was expecting him. My heartbeat raced as I hurried to the front door to let him in.
Chapter 47
OPENING THE DOOR, I saw Matt smiling at me. He was carrying a bag of Chinese takeout in one hand and a bottle of wine under his arm. I moved back so that he could enter. As he stepped into the hallway, I took the bag and bottle from him, stooped enough to set them on the floor, and straightened up. Immediately, he drew me into his arms. My heart started to thud in my chest.
We kissed until I was breathless. Just as our lips parted an inch, I felt something soft brush my bare ankle. I looked down to see Magic easing his face into the bag of Chinese food.
Matt saw it too and laughed. “Do you let him eat Chinese?”
“No. He has his own veterinarian-approved menu, and it doesn’t include cashew chicken, beef with snow peas, and pork fried rice.”
Denied his new culinary experience, Magic scampered away from us in a huff. We took the food and the wine into the kitchen and put them down on the table. Matt touched my hand, sending little electric tingles all through my body.
“Are you hungry?” he asked softly.
“Not for Chinese food …”
He kissed me again. When we came up for air, I led Matt into my bedroom. He shut the door, hooked his fingers into the belt of my robe, and drew me to him. Gently, he untied the silk cord, opened the robe, and cupped my breasts in his hands. So full of desire I thought I might burst, I fumbled at the buttons on his dark blue shirt. In spite of my nervousness, in seconds I had the shirt open. Our arms went around each other, skin touching skin. Our lips parted, and our tongues began to explore …
As Matt slipped out of the rest of his clothes, I lay back on the bed.
We were so desperate for each other that it was over quickly, but a few minutes later, we began to kiss and caress again. This time our lovemaking was long and leisurely. After an hour of the most glorious sensations, we collapsed in each other’s arms, totally spent.
Smiling, Matt whispered, “I think you’re going to kill me.”
“It’ll be the perfect crime.” I gave him the lightest little kiss on his chest. “Now, what about some Chinese food?”
“Do you have a crane here, to hoist me up out of this bed?”
DRESSED AGAIN, HAND in hand, we ambled into the kitchen—and discovered that while Matt and I were in the bedroom with the door closed, Magic had been busy.
“Oh, no!”
The bag from the Chinese restaurant was tipped over onto the table. Two of the cartons were open, with the contents scattered. A shallow lake of sauce had pooled in the middle of the tabletop, soaking the bottom of the legal pad on which I’d been working before Matt arrived. Magic crouched on one side of this jumbled buffet, chewing contentedly on a thin slice of beef. Little paw prints, coated in brown Chinese sauce, charted Magic’s course across my white pages.
Matt grabbed paper towels from the roll beside the sink. I picked Magic up and relocated him to the floor. “Naughty cat,” I said.
Together, Matt and I began to clean up the mess.
Holding paper towels beneath it, I moved the dripping bag over to the plastic drain board. Taking out the little packets of fortune cookies, soy sauce, and two pairs of chopsticks, I said, “There are two intact cartons.” I took them out and opened the tops. “Hmmm, cashew chicken and white rice. Plenty for dinner.”
“I’m glad that cat doesn’t like Merlot,” Matt said. “Or maybe he just couldn’t open the bottle. Where’s your corkscrew?”
I took it out of the drawer beside the stove, handed it to him, and transferred our food into ceramic dishes, to heat for a few seconds in the microwave.
“I don’t care what the so-called rules say—I like red wine with chicken.”
“I know you do.” Matt smiled at me as he worked the cork out of the bottle.
Magic jumped up onto the stool below the wall phone and began to groom his whiskers.
Pouring the dark ruby wine for us, Matt nodded toward Magic. “If a cat can look smug, that one does. He must have forgotten he used to be homeless.”
“I don’t think anyone ever forgets that.” I looked into Magic’s green eyes and thought, We have a bond, little guy. I knew that soon I’d have to tell Matt about it. But not tonight.
WE WERE COMFORTABLY full and having coffee when the phone rang. It was the line connected to the Dakota’s front desk.
Matt lifted one eyebrow and joked, “Do you have a late date?”
I quipped right back, “Of course I do, but he’s an hour early.”
Puzzled, I got up and crossed to the wall phone. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Tyler?” It was the gravelly voice of Frank, the night security man. “Somebody down here wants to see you. He’s pretty upset.”
“Give me that phone!” I heard a man in the background, and he sounded furious. I recognized that voice.
“Frank? Let me speak to him.”
I heard a growl, an expletive, and a clank. I pictured the phone being snatched across the desk.
“Morgan!”
“Yes, Arnold. What’s the matter?”
“I demand to see Didi!”
“Didi?”
“Don’t try to tell me she’s not up there with you!” I heard what sounded like a fist smacked angrily onto the top of the reception desk.
“She’s not here, Arnold.”
“I don’t believe you!”
“Then come up and see for yourself.”
“Tell this ape you’re giving me permission.”
Arnold mumbled something, and Frank came back on the line. “What do you want me to do, Mrs. Tyler?”
“Let him come upstairs. Mr. Rose has visited before—he knows which apartment it is.” I replaced the phone on the wall hook and turned to Matt. “You better put your shoes on. We’re about to have company.”
“I heard,” he said, getting up and heading back toward the bedroom. I followed, to grab something to wear other than this thin silk robe.
By the time Arnold started jabbing at the doorbell, I’d pulled on sweatpants and a loose shirt. Matt was wearing socks, shoes, and his sports jacket, but a glance in the bedroom mirror a
t the two of us told me that we still looked like we’d been doing exactly what we had been doing.
The moment I opened the front door, Arnold barged in past me, without even saying hello. He saw Matt sitting in the living room and jerked to a stop.
“Phoenix—how long have you been here?”
“Long enough to know Morgan’s not hiding your daughter.” Matt stood up. “If I were you, I’d start behaving myself.” His spoke in his strong-arm-of-the-law tone.
Suddenly, Arnold seemed to fold into himself, deflating like one of the big balloons after a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. He sank into the wing chair next to the sofa. “She’s gone,” he said.
He looked haggard, and seemed so genuinely upset that I sat on the edge of the sofa and reached out to touch his hand in sympathy. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” he said. His features twisted in pain. Or fear. “She hasn’t made any friends in New York yet. She likes you—so I thought perhaps she’d come here.”
“No. I haven’t seen her, or heard from her.” I looked up at Matt. His arms were folded across his chest as he watched Arnold.
Matt asked, “How long has she been gone?”
“I saw her at six. She said she wanted to take a nap before dinner. That was unusual, but she’s been through so much … When I went to wake her, she wasn’t in her room, or anywhere in the apartment.”
Matt looked at his watch. “It’s ten o’clock. Could she have gone out to a movie, without telling you?”
Arnold shook his head. From the grim set of Matt’s lips, I could see that he didn’t believe it either.
“Did she take anything with her—clothes, a suitcase?”
“I’m not sure. I looked in her closet. She has a lot of clothes. I didn’t see any empty hangers. Her set of luggage was there.”
“Matt, Didi’s only twelve. Alone in this city—” I didn’t want to finish the sentence. “Isn’t there something you can do to find her?”
“Do you have a picture?” Matt asked.
Arnold took his wallet out of an inside pocket of his jacket and removed a photo of Didi. Smiling, her lovely large brown eyes shining with confidence. This was Didi before her mother’s death.
