by Nora Roberts
“These men insist on seeing you, sir, and I told them—”
“All right, Margaret.” In spite of his red eyes, Morgan managed a wide, political smile. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, as you can see I’m a bit under the weather.”
“Our apologies, Congressman.” Ben held up his shield again. “But it’s important.”
“I see. Well, come in then. But I’ll warn you to keep your distance. I’m probably still contagious.”
He led them down the hall and into a sitting room done in blues and grays and accented with framed sketches of the city. “Margaret, stop scowling at the police officers and go deal with those files.”
“Relapse,” she predicted, but dutifully disappeared.
“Secretaries are worse than wives. Have a seat, gentlemen. You’ll excuse me if I stretch out here.” He settled himself on the couch with an angora throw over his knees. “Flu,” he explained as he reached for a tissue. “Healthy as a horse all winter, then as soon as the flowers start blooming, I get hit with this.”
Cautious, Ed took a chair a good three feet away. “People take better care of themselves in the winter.” He noted the teapot and the pitcher of juice. At least he was taking fluids. “We’ll try not to take up much of your time.”
“Always make it my business to cooperate with the police. We’re on the same side, after all.” Morgan sneezed heartily into a tissue.
“Bless you,” Ed offered.
“Thanks. So what can I do for you?”
“Are you acquainted with a business called Fantasy, Incorporated?” Ben asked the question casually as he crossed his legs, but his eyes never left Morgan’s face.
“Fantasy? No,” he decided after a moment’s thought. “It doesn’t ring a bell.” He made the pun with seeming innocence as he adjusted his pillow. “Should it?”
“Telephone sex.” Ed thought briefly of the germs skittering around in the air. Being a cop had its hazards.
“Ah.” Morgan grimaced a bit, then settled back. “Certainly a subject for debate. Still, that’s more a matter for the FCC and the courts than a congressman. At least at the moment.”
“Did you know a Kathleen Breezewood, Congressman Morgan?”
“Breezewood, Breezewood.” Morgan’s lip poked out as he studied Ben. “The name’s not familiar.”
“Desiree?”
“No.” He smiled again. “That’s not a name a man forgets.”
Ed took out his pad and opened it as if he were checking some fact. “If you didn’t know Mrs. Breezewood, why did you send flowers to her funeral?”
“Did I?” Morgan looked mildly baffled. “Well, she certainly wasn’t someone of close acquaintance, but flowers are sent for any number of reasons. Political mostly. My secretary handles that sort of thing. Margaret!” He bellowed the name, then fell into a quick fit of coughing.
“Overdoing,” she muttered as she scurried into the room. “Drink your tea and stop shouting.”
He did just that, meekly, Ed thought. “Margaret, do I know a Kathleen Breezewood?”
“Do you mean the woman who was murdered a few days ago?”
The flush that the coughing had brought on faded from Morgan’s face. He turned to Ed. “Do I?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did we send flowers, Margaret?”
“Why should we?” She fussed with his lap robe. “You didn’t know her.”
“Flowers were sent to her funeral that were ordered from Bloom Town Florists with your credit card number. MasterCard.” Ed glanced down at his book again and rattled off the number.
“Is that mine?” Morgan asked his secretary.
“Yes, but I didn’t order any flowers. We have an account with Lorimar Florists in any case. Don’t use Bloom Town. Haven’t ordered flowers in two weeks. Last ones went to Parson’s wife when she had her baby.” She gave Ben a stubborn look. “It’s in the log.”
“Get the log, please, Margaret.” Morgan waited for her to leave. “Gentlemen, I can see this business is more serious than I suspected, but I’m afraid I’m lost.”
“Kathleen Breezewood was murdered on the evening of April tenth.” Ed waited until Morgan had sneezed into another tissue. “Can you tell us where you were between eight and eleven?”
“April tenth.” Morgan rubbed his fingers over his eyes. “That would have been the night of the fundraiser at the Shoreham. Election year, you know. I was just coming down with this miserable flu, and I remember I dragged my feet about going. My wife was put out with me. We were there from seven until, oh, just after ten, I believe. Came straight home. I had a breakfast meeting the next morning.”
“Nothing in the log about flowers since the Parson baby.” Smug, Margaret walked back in and handed the oversize book to Ben. “It’s my business to know where and when to send flowers.”
“Congressman Morgan,” Ed began, “who else has access to your credit card?”
“Margaret, of course. And my wife, though she has her own.”
“Children?”
Morgan stiffened at that, but he answered. “My children have no need for credit cards. My daughter is only fifteen. My son’s a senior at St. James’s Preparatory Academy. Both receive an allowance and large purchases have to be approved. Obviously the clerk at the florist made a mistake when noting down the number.”
“Possibly,” Ed murmured. But he doubted the clerk had misunderstood the name as well. “It would help if you could tell us where your son was on the night of the tenth.”
“I resent this.” Flu aside, Morgan sat up straight.
“Congressman, we have two murders.” Ben shut the log. “We’re not in the position to walk on eggshells here.”
“You realize, of course, I have to answer nothing. However, to close the subject, I’ll cooperate.”
“We appreciate it,” Ben said mildly. “About your son?”
“He had a date.” Morgan reached for the juice and poured a tumblerful. “He’s seeing Senator Fielding’s daughter, Julia. I believe they went to the Kennedy Center that evening. Michael was home by eleven. School night.”
“And last night?” Ben asked.
“Last night Michael was home all evening. We played chess until sometime after ten.”
Ed noted down both alibis. “Would anyone else on your staff have access to your card number?”
“No.” Both his patience and his need to cooperate had reached an end. “Quite simply, someone made a mistake. Now if you’ll excuse me, I can’t tell you any more.”
“We appreciate the time.” Ed rose, tucking his notebook away. He’d already decided to dose himself with extra vitamin C when he got back to the station. “If you think of any other reason the flowers might have been charged to your account, let us know.”
Margaret was more than happy to see them out. When the door closed behind them with a resounding thud, Ben stuck his hands in his pockets. “My gut tells me the guy’s on the level.”
“Yeah. It’s easy enough to check on the fundraiser, but I vote for the senator’s daughter first.”
“I’m with you.”
They walked toward the car. Over Ben’s mutter, Ed took the driver’s side. “You know, something Tess said’s been bothering me.”
“What?”
“How you can pick up the phone and order anything. Do it all the time myself.”
“Pizza or pornography?” Ben asked, but he was thinking too.
“Drywall. I had some delivered last month and had to give the guy my card number before he’d send it out. How many times have you given out your credit card number to somebody over the phone? All you need is the number and name, no plastic, no ID, no signature.”
“Yeah.” On a whoosh of breath, Ben took his seat. “I guess that narrows the field down to a couple hundred thousand.”
Ed pulled away from the town house. “We can always hope the senator’s daughter got stood up.”
Chapter 10
Mary Beth Morrison had been born to mother. By t
he time she was six, she’d possessed a collection of baby dolls that required regular feeding, changing, and pampering. Some had walked, some had talked, but her heart had been just as open to a button-eyed rag doll with a torn arm.
Unlike other children, she’d never balked at the domestic chores her parents had assigned to her. She’d loved the washing and the polishing. She’d had a pint-size ironing board, a miniature oven, and her own tea set. By her tenth birthday, she’d been a better hand at baking than her mother.
Her one true ambition had been to have a home and family of her own to care for. There had never been any vision of corporate boardrooms or briefcases in Mary Beth’s dreams. She’d wanted a white picket fence and a baby carriage.
Mary Beth believed strongly that a person should do what he or she did best. Her sister had passed the bar and joined an upscale law firm in Chicago. Mary Beth was proud of her. She admired her sister’s wardrobe, her forthright defense of the law, and the men who flowed in and out of her life. Mary Beth didn’t have an envious bone in her body. She clipped coupons and baked brownies for the PTA bake sale and campaigned strongly for equal pay for equal work, though she’d never been a member of what society considered the workforce.
By nineteen, she’d married her childhood sweetheart, a boy she’d chosen when they’d attended elementary school together. He’d never had a chance. Mary Beth had been attentive, patient, understanding, and supportive. Not through guile, but with sincerity. She’d fallen in love with Harry Morrison the day two bullies had knocked him down on the playground and loosened his front tooth. After twenty-five years of friendship, twelve years of marriage, and four children, she still adored him.
Her world revolved around her home and her family to the point where even her outside interests circled back to them. There were many, her sister included, who felt that world was severely limited. Mary Beth just smiled and baked another cake. She was happy, and she was good, even excellent, at what she did. She had what to her was the greatest reward: the love of husband and children. She didn’t need her sister’s approval or anyone else’s.
She kept herself in shape for her husband’s pleasure as well as her own. As she approached her thirty-second birthday, she was a trim and lovely woman with unlined skin and soft brown eyes. Mary Beth understood and sympathized with women who felt themselves trapped in the role of housewife. She would have felt the same way in an office. When she found time, she worked with the PTA and the ASPCA. Other than family, her passion was animals. They too needed tending.
She was a nurturer and was considering the possibility of having one more child before calling it a day.
Her husband treasured her. Though she left most of the decisions in his hands, or seemed to, Mary Beth was no pushover. They had had their share of arguments during their marriage, and if the issue was important enough, she took it between her teeth and fretted at it until she got her way. The issue of Fantasy, Incorporated had been important enough.
Harry was a good provider, but there had been times when Mary Beth had taken on part-time jobs to supplement or enhance his income. She’d applied for and received a license for day-care. With the extra money she’d made, the family had been able to take a ten-day vacation to Florida and Disney World. Photos from that excursion were neatly filed in a blue album with the label OUR FAMILY VACATION.
At one time, she’d sold magazines over the phone. Though her soothing voice had helped her move inventory, she hadn’t been satisfied. As a woman who had grown up knowing how to budget both time and money, she’d found the financial rewards less than worthy of the time involved.
She wanted another child, and she wanted to provide a college fund for the four children she’d already been blessed with. Her husband’s salary from his position as foreman for a construction firm was adequate, but it didn’t lend itself to many extras. She’d stumbled across Fantasy in the back of one of her husband’s magazines. The idea of being paid just to talk fascinated her.
It had taken her three weeks, but she’d talked Harry down from adamantly opposed to skeptical. Another week had changed skepticism to grudging acceptance. Mary Beth had a way with words. Now she was turning that talent into dollars.
She and Harry had agreed to give Fantasy one year. In that time, it was Mary Beth’s goal to make ten thousand dollars. Enough for a small college nest egg and maybe, if luck was with them, one more obstetrician’s fee.
Mary Beth was starting her fourth month as an operator for Fantasy and was nearly halfway to her projected goal. She was a very popular lady.
She didn’t mind talking sex. After all, as she’d explained to her husband, it was hard to be a prude after twelve years of marriage and four children. Harry had come around to the point of being amused by her new job. Occasionally, he phoned her himself, on their personal line, to give her the chance to practice. He called himself Stud Brewster and made her giggle.
Perhaps because of her maternal instinct or her genuine understanding of men and their problems, most of her calls dealt less with sex than with sympathy. Clients who called her on a regular basis found they could talk to her about job frustrations or the grind of family life and receive an easy concern. She never sounded bored, as their wives and lovers often did, she never criticized, and when the occasion called for it, Mary Beth could issue the kind of commonsense advice they might have received if they’d written to Dear Abby—with the bonus of a sexual kick.
She was sister, mother, or lover, whatever the client required. Her clients were satisfied, and Mary Beth began thinking seriously about tossing away her little packet of birth control pills and taking that last turn at bat.
She was a strong-willed, uncomplicated woman who believed most problems could be worked through with time, good intentions, and a plate of fudge brownies. But she’d never encountered anyone like Jerald.
And he was listening. Night after night he waited to hear her voice. There was something gentle and calming about it. He was on the edge of being in love with her, and almost as obsessed with her as he’d been with Desiree. Roxanne was forgotten. Roxanne had been little more to him than a laboratory rat. But there was a goodness in Mary Beth’s voice, an old-fashioned solidity to her name, which she’d kept because she was too comfortable with it to play games. A man could believe what a woman like Mary Beth told him. The promises she made would be kept.
Mary Beth was a different style altogether.
Jerald believed her. He wanted to meet her. He wanted to show her how grateful he was to her.
Early in the evening, late into the night, he listened. And planned.
Grace was tired of hitting dead ends and being patient. More than a week had passed since the second murder, and if there was any progress in the investigation, Ed wasn’t sharing it with her. She thought she understood him. He was a generous man, and a compassionate one. But he was also a cop who lived by the department’s rules, and his own. She could respect his discipline while being frustrated with his discretion. The time she spent with him had a way of calming her, while the time she spent alone left her with nothing to do but think. So she too began to plan.
She set up appointments. Her brief meetings with Kathleen’s attorney and the detective she’d hired shed no light. They couldn’t tell her anything she didn’t already know. She’d hoped, somehow, that she’d be able to dig up information that would point to Jonathan. In her heart, she still wanted him to be guilty, though in her own words, she knew it didn’t play. It was a hard belief to give up. In the end, she had to accept that however much Jonathan had been responsible for the state of Kathleen’s mind in the last days of her life, he hadn’t been responsible for ending it.
But Kathleen was still dead, and there were other avenues to explore.
The straightest, and most easily navigated, led her to Fantasy, Incorporated.
Grace found Eileen in her usual position behind her desk. When she entered, Eileen closed the checkbook she’d been balancing and smiled. A cigarette burn
ed in an ashtray at her elbow. Over the last few days, Eileen had given up even the pretense of quitting.
“Good afternoon. Can I help you?”
“I’m Grace McCabe.”
It took Eileen a moment to place the name. Grace was dressed in a baggy red sweater, skinny black pants, and a pair of snakeskin boots. She no longer looked like the grieving sister in the newspaper photo. “Yes, Miss McCabe. We’re all very sorry about Kathleen.”
“Thank you.” She could see by the tensing of Eileen’s fingers that she was bracing for an attack. Perhaps it would be best to keep the woman nervous and on guard. Grace had no qualms about stirring the guilt. “It seems your company was the catalyst for the attack on my sister.”
“Miss McCabe.” Eileen picked up her cigarette and took a quick, jittery puff. “I feel badly, very badly about what happened to Kathleen. But I don’t feel responsible.”
“Don’t you?” Grace smiled and took a seat. “Then I don’t suppose you feel responsible for Mary Grice either. Do you have any coffee?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
Eileen rose and went into the broom closet–size storeroom behind the desk. She was feeling far from well and wished now she’d taken her husband up on that quick vacation in Bermuda. “I’m sure you know we’re cooperating with the police in any way we can. Everyone wants this man stopped.”
“Yes, but you see, I also want him to pay. No cream,” she added and waited for Eileen to bring out an oversize stoneware mug. “You understand that I feel a bit closer to all of this than you, or the police. I need the answers to some questions.”
“I don’t know what I can tell you.” Eileen went behind her desk again. The minute she landed she reached for the cigarette. “I’ve told the police absolutely everything I could. I didn’t know your sister well, you see. I only met her when she came in that first time to interview. Everything else was done by phone.”
No, Eileen hadn’t known Kathleen well, Grace thought. Perhaps no one had. “The phone,” Grace repeated as she sat back. “I guess we could say the phone’s the core of it all. I know how your business works. Kathleen explained it to me, so there’s no need to get into all of that. Tell me, do any of the men who call ever come by here?”
