by Jenna Ryan
“She wasn’t, not at first. She went to Europe when she dropped out of sight. She only came back this year—thinking it would be safe by now, I suppose. She’s renting the canyon house. She must have figured Mary’s obsession would have played itself out by now—assuming she knew how strong it was in the first place. She didn’t say so, but I don’t think she left Hollywood because of Mary Lamont”
“I’m sure of it,” Guido confirmed. “Mary Lamont was fired from The Three Fates. At least the decision was made to fire her the same week that Margaret disappeared. Margaret was the star, undisputed. Mary was a problem and disposable in the eyes of the studio bigwigs.”
“Weird history,” Sam noted. Finishing her wine, she reached for her bag. “I’d better get going, Guido. I want to be at Oakhaven early tomorrow morning and my car’s making funny thumping noises.”
Guido prevented her from rising with a blue-veined hand pressed upon her slender, tanned wrist. “You’ll be careful, won’t you, Minx? I’ll help all I can with Oakhaven and background material, but my bum knees won’t allow me to do much else.”
Smiling, Sam reached over and kissed his gaunt cheek. “I’ll be extra careful,” she promised. “Forewarned is forearmed, or whatever that stupid expression is. I’ll look for Mary. I won’t get in her way.”
“Don’t,” Guido advised seriously. “She was volatile when they called her sane. I heard she gouged an orderly’s eye out the first time she was committed.”
With a shiver, Sam pulled back. “I have better reflexes than a seventy-seven-year-old woman, Guido.”
He shook his head. “Madness has its own rules, little Minx. Mary Lamont is as unpredictable as an April day—and as dangerous as Sweet Charlotte’s vicious sister any day of the week.”
Chapter Two
John Christian looked exactly the way the head of a psychiatric institute should. He had a short, immaculate beard, a round face, dark-rimmed glasses, and a permanent expression of concern on his forty-five-year-old face. He reminded Aidan Brodie of an older Leonard Maltin and was, despite the white lab coat and ever-present platitudes, one of the most sincere and caring people he knew.
John toyed with a Cross pen as he settled Aidan into a seat across from him in his professionally decorated office. The effect was easy on the eye. The deep mushroom carpet, the cushy earth-toned furniture, the pastel landscapes, the potted plants on Grecian stands, even the big bay window behind him that looked out over acres of secluded woodland spoke of comfort and security. People paid through the nose to be sick here. It was pure dumb luck that John actually happened to care about his patients’ well-being.
Stretching his long legs out in front of him, Aidan studied his old friend through half-lidded eyes. “You mentioned a favor,” he prompted when John didn’t speak.
“What? Oh, yes. Sorry, my mind’s on—other things. Related problems. Can’t let this debacle get out. Escaped patients. I should have seen it coming, Aidan. Insane does not preclude stupidity. I of all people know that.”
Aidan’s eyebrows came together. “Who are you talking about?”
“Mary Lamortt. Ever heard of her?”
“Film star, circa nineteen forty.”
“A bit later, but you’re in the general area. And she wasn’t quite a star, a fact which undoubtedly played into her, er, breakdown.” The pen fell onto the blotter. Setting his elbows on the desk, John rubbed his forehead. “It’s such a damned mess. I can’t contact the police. The negative publicity would destroy us. But I can’t let Mary wander around on her own, either. She’s…too unstable.”
Aidan caught the hesitation. “Unstable as in dangerous?”
“Extremely, but I didn’t say that”
“How dangerous?”
“The truth? Deadly.”
“To herself or someone else?”
“Someone else. An old rival.” His eyes slid sideways to the fireplace. “She shouldn’t have been here, Aidan. That’s how bad she is. I admitted her as a personal favor—and, all right, I confess, a trunkload of much-needed cash. God, if the press gets wind of this, we’ll lose our patients. We’ll be ruined. As it is, we’re in the red. Nonpayments, back payments, taxes. You wouldn’t believe how many rich and famous people have guttersnipes for relatives.”
“Mommie Dearest,” Aidan murmured.
“That’s one side of the story. As I’ve come to realize, there are two sides at least.”
“Point taken. What do you want from me?”
“Your expertise.”
A sigh welled up. Containing it, Aidan said patiently, “I’m an insurance investigator, John, not a private detective.”
John’s expression bordered on frantic. “I need you, Aidan. You’re the only person I can trust The job’s not dissimilar to yours.”
Aidan regarded him for a long moment, his features contemplative but otherwise unrevealing. “I have two weeks coming,” he said finally. “I can take them now if it would help.”
John looked as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. “It would…Yes, what is it, Mr. Blue?” he asked in minor annoyance as the door behind Aidan clicked open. “I thought we’d concluded our business.”
Aidan didn’t turn. There was no need. He’d met Alistair Blue in the lobby. The man was young, with dark curly hair that was also long and scruffy, shocking blue eyes and an arrogant attitude that would have done a youthful Henry the Eighth proud.
“I saw her room,” Alistair said cockily. “Her stuff’s been packed away. I need to see that, too.”
John shot Aidan an aggrieved look. “Have-you two met? Yes? Good. Alistair’s looking for Mary, too, Aidan. To make a long story short, he was sent here by Mary’s ex-husband, Thurman Wells. We contacted Mr. Wells when she escaped in the hopes that she’d go to him. He was understandably upset, and so hired Mr. Blue here to try and locate her.”
Still not turning, Aidan asked over his shoulder, “Are you a licensed investigator, Mr. Blue?”
“Not exactly.” The insolent defensiveness in Alistair’s voice was clear. At best he’d be twenty-four or five. “I’ve had training, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“What kind of training?”
Only Alistair’s cocksure attitude saved him. “Enough to do this job.”
“Don’t count on it,” John muttered. Louder, he said, “Mary’s belongings are her personal property. I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr. Blue.”
“You’ll help him, though, won’t you?” Alistair accused from Aidan’s side. Then he let out a long breath, jingled his keys and shrugged. “Oh, all right. We’ll see who tracks her down first, Brodie.”
“That we will,” Aidan acknowledged.
A nurse tapped on the door. “Excuse me, Dr. Christian. There’s a woman to see you. Samantha—” she checked the card in her hand “—Giancarlo.” Her fingers came up to shield the side of her mouth. “She’s a reporter.”
John nodded. “That’s right. We spoke yesterday. Send her in, please.” Ignoring Alistair, he said to Aidan, “This woman, Samantha Giancarlo, is also interested in locating Mary. As it happens, I owe someone at the L.A. Break a favor. After all, we do have a lot of famous people here. Guido’s a good man. He’s kept my confidence before. He assured me that none of the information I provide to the young woman will appear in print.”
Aidan looked at him. “What’s she after if not a story?”
“Guido didn’t say. All he told me was that she’s tenacious. And,” he added with a wry twist of his lips, “trustworthy. I hope he’s telling the truth and she’s not a lying journalist looking for a juicy story. Ah, good day, Ms. Giancarlo.” He rose, a smile emphasizing the worry lines on his face. “I’m John Christian. That’s Mr. Alistair Blue next to you, and this is Aidan Brodie. Aidan’s an insurance investigator and a friend. Alistair is also here on Mary’s behalf. You’ve come to me for the same reason, it seems.”
Courtesy, hammered into him by his strict Irish mother, brought Aidan to his
feet. Control, hard-won through street fights and geographic circumstance, allowed him to react with only vague surprise.
She was gorgeous, fine-boned and clear-skinned, beautiful far beyond current Hollywood standards. The Italian in her heritage was self-evident; the delicacy, he suspected, was entirely deceptive.
She wore black pants and a red blouse and held out a firm hand for all present to shake. Her hair, which resembled silk, fell thick and wavy around her shoulders. She could do professional shampoo ads with hair like that. Aidan wondered distantly why she’d chosen journalism instead.
The directness of her professional manner answered that question. “I’m sorry to intrude, Dr. Christian,” she said firmly, “but I need some information about Mary Lamont. About her obsession, if you will.”
“Obsession?” Aidan sent John a level sideways look.
“I was getting to it,” John mumbled and indicated Alistair with a subtle head movement
Alistair appeared uninterested in the woman’s remark, although his eyes did an almost insultingly efficient job of ogling her.
“If you’ll excuse us, Mr. Blue,” John said pointedly.
“What? Oh, yeah. Sure.” He swaggered toward the door. “Catch you later, Ms. Gian—er, Samantha.”
Her smile was abstracted, a mere movement of her sexy lips. Aidan foresaw no end of problems if their paths crossed more than once, twice tops, on this case.
He didn’t trust her, either. Reporters were notorious liars. Any means to get a story, ethical or un.
John ushered her to a chair, pulling it next to Aidan’s and dusting off the padded seat. When he returned to his desk, he began shuffling through a stack of papers.
“Should put all of this on the computer,” he mumbled while Samantha watched every nuance in his expression. “I know it’s here. Helen Something. Murphy? Marlowe…Ah, here we are. Murdoch. Helen Murdoch. Mary said that name over and over again. Seemed to like the sound of it.”
“Why?” Aidan and Sam asked as one.
Aidan glanced at her, but she was leaning forward, staring at John. “Is it one of her friends?” she inquired hopefully.
“Not that we’re aware of, Ms. Giancarlo.”
“Sam,” she said automatically. “Who then?”
John scratched his nose, resettled his glasses, and shuffled some more. “Here it is again. Helen Murdoch. And here. She asked several of our other patients if they liked the name. At a guess, I’d speculate that she was plotting her escape and planned to ‘become’ Helen Murdoch when she got out.”
Aidan surveyed Sam impassively enough but with an intensity she’d be hard-pressed to ignore. “What exactly is your interest in this case, Ms….”
“Sam,” she supplied. Polite; not effusive, but he sensed she found it distasteful to be rude.
She regarded both men in turn. “I wish I could explain but I can’t. Not yet. As I, and I’m sure Guido, told Dr. Christian, I’m not acting in a journalistic capacity.” She spoke now to John. “You can check my credentials. I’m not a rag reporter. I’ve never hidden in a bush or a hotel parking lot in my life. I don’t even cover ‘star’ stories as a rule.”
Aidan kept his gaze fixed on her face—a fairly easy thing to do. “What do you cover, then?”
Her eyes flashed. In annoyance? “Human interest mostly. Elderly men and women who are not your typical grandmas and grandpas, weird inventions, that sort of thing.”
Aidan continued to watch her. He’d been told he had a weighty stare; however, if Sam felt uncomfortable under scrutiny, she gave no indication.
John cleared his throat “I think we’re straying from the point here. We have an, er, somewhat disturbed woman on the loose. I don’t want anyone hurt because of that.”
“How did she escape?” Sam asked point-blank.
Perverse amusement tugged on the corners of Aidan’s mouth.
John spread his fingers wide. “That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. We still haven’t figured it out. She must have had help.”
“An ex-husband?” Sam theorized.
“Possibly, but not Thurman Wells. Come to think of it, I don’t believe she was married to anyone else. I gather Thurman married her on the rebound from Margaret Truesdale. Er—” He glanced sheepishly at Aidan. “Margaret Truesdale was Mary’s obsession. Do you know of her?”
“I think so.”
“Mary hated her,” Sam inserted. “Or so I was told.”
Aidan’s brows arched. “By whom?”
He shouldn’t have made her smile. It took her features from ravishing to spellbinding.
“I’m not easily tricked, Mr. Brodie.”
“Aidan.”
She turned back to John. “Who else might have helped her?”
John’s face screwed up. “There was a man who used to visit, but that was years ago. He stopped coming rather abruptly. We assumed he died. Mary seemed to think so. His name was Tobias Lallibertie. He worked for her in her heyday.”
Aidan shifted position in the decidedly uncomfortable chair. “How long has Mary been here?”
“Five years. Before that—well, I’m not at liberty to disclose her medical history. Suffice it to say this was not her initial confinement, or even close to it.”
“But she was free at intervals after the first time,” Sam presumed.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Often enough to set up a plan of revenge?”
“Possibly.”
Eyes on the window, Aidan remarked, “She concocted at least one plan within these walls.”
“Her escape.” Sam’s fingers curled as if they itched to be writing this down. John looked away, disconsolate.
Enough, Aidan decided, standing with an athletic grace that belied his six-foot, three-inch height. Deceptiveness was his middle name. Deceptiveness, pride, and an enigmatic facade. The combination worked, right down to the Irish honor that had developed of its own accord in his childhood and which he would not have traded for ten pots of leprechaun gold.
“I’ll see what I can find, John,” he promised, then gave Sam a courteous nod. “It was a pleasure meeting you.” Trite but true. He turned to John. “Let me know if any new information turns up.”
“It won’t,” the other man predicted with dismal finality. “I was responsible for her welfare, and I screwed up. Royally. Try back issues of the L.A. Times, or those old Look and Life magazines. They might tell you something. Mary harped mainly on one subject, one person, during her stay here. But there must have been others besides Margaret Truesdale in her troubled life.”
“There was Thurman Wells,” Sam reminded him. She made no move to stand, Aidan noticed. Her feminine wiles would shift into overdrive the moment he left. Poor John, he’d have a hell of a time resisting that
Thankfully, he wasn’t John. Resistance was not a problem for him. His gaze slid one last time over Sam’s face and body. At least, it hadn’t been until now.
He should back off, tell John he was sorry, and go about his business. Old film stars weren’t his style. Neither were beautiful reporters with mysterious intent.
“Watch your back,” John cautioned in parting.
Aidan offered him a wry smile. “I always do, old friend.”
Too bad in this case it wasn’t his back that was in danger.…
“I THOUGHT you’d be gone.”
Sam paused at the top of the porch stairs. Aidan Brodie glanced up at her. He was crouched beside his right rear fender, doing something she couldn’t see.
“One of the ‘guests’ decided to use my tire as a chalk-board,” he said without rancor.
Did she detect a note of ironic amusement in his tone? She definitely heard an accent, a cross between Irish and Scottish, heavily tinged with American. Straightening, he tossed a grimy cloth into the back of his sixty-two Cadillac convertible. Black, as she would have expected for a man like him.
“Did you find out all you wanted to?” he asked.
His eyes were a faded
shade of green, quite beautiful really, disarmingly intense and, she would bet, quick to perceive. Luckily Sam was no pushover. You couldn’t be and deal with Sally Dice everyday.
“Not really,” she answered, descending. “I got waylaid by a woman calling herself Miss Flora Bundy. She collects flowers and exotic feathers. It was like stepping into a scene from The Uninvited, the part where they all trooped out to that rest home run by a woman who was crazier than any of her pa-tients.”
“I met Miss Bundy.” Aidan’s lips quirked. “I saw The Uninvited, as well.”
He was giving her very little expression-wise, beyond a certain humorous wariness. Unfortunately, he gave plenty in every other sense.
Sam could honestly say she’d never beheld a man like Ai-dan Brodie before, and so was understandably fascinated. He was tall, athletically lean, broad-shouldered but not bulky, quite remarkable to look at, yet not what she’d have called Hollywood handsome. No loss there. Ken dolls held no appeal for her.
She studied him unapologetically, aware that he knew what she was doing. Whether they endeavored to hide it or not, people always dissected other people’s outer shells. It was human nature to be curious.
His hair was quite long, down to his shoulders in the back and almost as long on the sides, unstyled but more appealing loose than if he’d followed tacky trend and confined it in a ponytail. His features—well, now those she really couldn’t describe. His nose was strong and fit his face perfectly. “Classic” might be the right word for it. His face was on the narrow side, his mouth sensual, his eyes more expressive than most men’s. She wondered vaguely if he was married, then poked herself. It didn’t matter one way or another. She had Andy, after all. He was nice and kind and thoughtful, a bit erratic, but fun for a night out Too bad he was currently on assignment in Argentina.
Having lost the thread of their dubious conversation, she glanced up at the blackening sky. “Where did the sun go?” she exclaimed, surprised. “It was beautiful when I got here.”
Aidan secured the top of his classic car. “You should take note of the weather reports, Sam. There’s a storm heading down the coast from San Francisco.”
