by Jenna Ryan
“Evelyn sounds jealous,” Aidan noted, sipping his coffee. “Is she still alive, Guido?”
“I can find out.”
“Whatever else she is, she likes fish,” Sam remarked. “Can I play this now?”
“Curious cat is my Minx,” Guido remarked with an affectionate tug of Sam’s long hair. “Go on, then. It’s probably just a promotional…” His sentence trailed off as the screen began to flicker. The image that formed didn’t look promo-tional to Sam. It looked like the opening scene of Arsenic and Old Lace.
The thought of that old movie title had her glancing covertly at Aidan, but his hooded gaze was fixed on the television, and he likely wouldn’t make the connection anyway. Or if he did he wouldn’t let on. She shuddered and turned back to the screen.
The black and white silhouetted house looked old and vaguely haunted. The blend of date palms, evergreens and oak trees placed the setting in Southern California, probably in a suburb of L.A.
The scene changed without warning to an interior shot. Crackling music, suitably suspenseful, accompanied the shift.
“My God, that’s Margaret!” Guido exclaimed. “And An-thea’s behind her. And there’s Mary. This is a clip from The Three Fates. I’d bet my reputation on it!”
“Really?” Sam inched closer, fascinated. “They don’t look like traditional witches.”
“No warts and broomsticks,” Aidan murmured. He was standing directly behind her, disconcertingly close, Sam realized with a shiver she chose not to analyze.
“Did you take him food and water?” Mary’s character inquired. The sound recording was as scratchy as the video was snowy.
Margaret gave her a cutting look. “He’s been taken care of, sister. You needn’t concern yourself with details.”
“Cold as ice,” Guido murmured of Margaret. “But the audience would havewarmed up to her in the end. I wonder who they’re taking food and water to?”
“Must be a Gothic suspense,” Sam declared. “Updated to the early fifties. Like Whatever Happened To Baby Jane?”
The videotape crackled, then faded and settled. In the next clip, Mary was talking to Anthea Pennant.
“When did she last meet our lawyer?” Mary was demanding.
Anthea continued to pour hot wax into candle molds. “Ten years ago. Maybe more. Why?”
The camera zoomed in on Mary, heavily made up to appear as devious and sinister as her character was doubtless intended to be. “No reason,” she said. The gleam in her eyes suggested differently. “You’d better hurry with that, sister. Our guests will be arriving shortly.”
The tape ended there, abruptly, as if it had been cut at the end of a frame. No fade, no forewarning, only a blank video screen and three puzzled faces staring at it.
Guido was the first to react. “There are no prints of that movie anywhere,” he said surely. “They went missing right after the film was shelved.”
“Well, they’re not missing now,” Sam stated. “I think we can take a good guess who sent this, too. What I don’t understand is why Mary Lamont would want me to have a clip of The Three Fates. And how did she find out about Aidan and me in the first place? Did someone at Oakhaven tell her? Someone from the studio?”
Guido poked at his bifocals. “I can’t answer those questions, Minx, but with regard to Mary’s motive, maybe this tape is in the nature of another warning.”
“How so?” Aidan inquired, his tone cautious. “Possession of stolen film canisters is no threat to us.”
“I was referring to the nature of the movie, Aidan. Of course the ending was never officially revealed, in the hopes that someday Margaret would return and shooting could be completed. However, it was rumored that for the first time on-screen, Margaret’s character would be killed—by the Fate played by Mary Lamont.”
MARGARET’S HOLLOW CHEEKS paled visibly as Sam related the events of the past few days. She left nothing out and ended with the watching of the videotape together with Guido’s gloomy prediction that it was some kind of macabre warning from Mary.
“I don’t understand,” Margaret said, her knuckles white around the arms of her chair. “I didn’t…Theo!” she called suddenly, her tone imperative. The sprayed waves on her cheeks trembled with the force of her emotion. “Theo!”
He materialized in the parlor doorway. “Madame?”
Her gaze flicked to Aidan’s watchful face. “Bring Mr. Bro-die some tea.”
Aidan, who’d been studying both Margaret and his surroundings while Sam poured out her story, gave his head a negative shake. “Coffee’s fine, thanks.”
“I thought you English preferred tea?” Margaret said.
“He’s Irish, Madame,” Theo told her.
Aidan knew better than to smile. Helpless this old woman definitely was not, but it must be jarring to learn to what lengths an adversary would go in order to achieve her goal.
Margaret recovered her composure swiftly—Aidan could almost see her mental defenses shoring up. Her thin shoulders beneath the black sack of her dress squared, and she lifted her once heart-shaped face as if in defiance. She regarded Sam, wickedly appealing in a pair of black pants and a deep coral designer T-shirt that hugged her slender curves to perfection and made his hands long to touch. “The woman is a viper,” she stated clearly and with only a faintly discernable quaver. “But if she thinks I’ll buckle, she’s got rocks in her head. Why on earth would she send you a clip from The Three Fates?”
Aidan leaned forward in his seat, his forearms resting with deceptive ease on his knees. “At this point I’m more curious to know who tried to run us off the road.”
“And cut your brake line,” Sam added. “And told Mary about us in the first place.”
“An accomplice?” Margaret suggested.
“With an in at Oakhaven,” Aidan said grimly.
“And no scruples,” Sam said. At Aidan’s steady look, she explained, “Those guys last night were huge. And mean. Maybe they were just muggers, but I don’t think so. It’s too convenient.”
“It happens all the time, Sam.”
“Well, it shouldn’t.”
The exchange was being carried out at right angles, with Margaret an intrigued spectator in her high-backed chair next to the fireplace.
She hadn’t risen from that chair the whole time they’d been there and didn’t now. She merely slapped the arms with her palms and offered a decisive, “Time. We’ll call that little parlay even, shall we? Now, back to more unpleasant matters. You received your videotape in the mail, Sam, though for what purpose I’m still unclear.”
“Guido said—”
“Yes, I know, a threat.” Margaret’s fists balled then thumped the padded chair arms. “I’m sorry if I seem on edge, but what you don’t know is that I received a package in the. mail, as well.”
“What?” Sam’s gaze flicked to Aidan’s. “When?”
“Late yesterday afternoon—apparently.” Her lipsticked mouth turned down at the corners. “Theo didn’t see fit to deliver it to me until this morning at breakfast. It was another music box.”
She reminded Aidan of a cross between Bette Davis and Joan Crawford in their dotage. The ever-so-slight tremor in her voice could be a result of age and too much alcohol, but he doubted it. She seemed genuinely unnerved, as any sane person would be when faced with their own mortality.
“It was another of Mary’s favorites,” Margaret went on, lighting a cigarette with bony, trembling hands. “A little marble thing that plays Strauss’s ‘Tales of the Vienna Woods.’ Quite pretty really, but infinitely more disconcerting in its implications.”
Sam frowned, uncomprehending. “What do you mean?”
“She wouldn’t part with those boxes on pain of her own death,” Margaret stated flatly. “Whatever her scheme, she intends to get them back. Unless, of course, she’s dying.”
“The doctor would have told us…” Again Sam glanced at Aidan, but he merely shrugged. He knew John Christian, yes, but not well enough to vouch
for his actions in this.
“We can ask him,” he said, “but he probably would have mentioned a fatal disease. Do you know where the package was mailed from, Margaret?”
“It was postmarked here in the canyon, I assume from that little outlet about ten miles farther in.”
“We’ll check it out,” Sam promised. “And the hospital, too, in case John—Mary’s doctor—neglected to tell us anything important”
Aidan didn’t hold out much hope in that area, but anything was preferable to sitting around waiting for the next attack.
His gaze slid sideways to Sam’s delicate face framed by masses of long, beautiful hair. God help him, there were other things than traipsing out to Oakhaven that he would rather do with Sam. However, for both their sakes, sticking to business was the wise choice. She didn’t believe he’d poisoned his ex-wife. That didn’t necessarily mean she trusted him.
Did he trust her? he wondered as Margaret instructed Theo to bring both music boxes. His eyes, impassive enough on the surface, surveyed her on the floral sofa. Yes, he did, but only on a mental level. When it came to emotions, he didn’t trust either of them for a minute.
Sam was beautiful, bright and determined, more so than Domina had ever been. He sensed no malice in her nature and a generosity of spirit he hadn’t encountered since he’d been a kid in Ireland and Mr. McBean at the local greengrocer had taken him on and proceeded to teach him the value of both money and keeping his word. Aidan had never forgotten Mr. McBean or their talks. He couldn’t see forgetting Sam, either. And that, he reflected bleakly, was a state of affairs unlikely to alter with prolonged exposure.
“Put them here,” Margaret bade Theo, who had returned with the delicately carved boxes.
Sam picked up the marble one. Aidan glanced at its companion, then watched as her deft hand unclasped and lifted the lid.
Tinkling strains, of Strauss reached his ears. Exquisite and bewitching—like Sam.
“Mary has good taste,” she admitted, inspecting the box. “How do you wind…” She stopped and touched something on the underside. “There’s a piece of paper taped here.”
Margaret gave a startled jerk. Her sagging neck stretched out like a camel’s. “What does it say?”
Carefully, Sam removed the tape and unfolded the note. Aidan rose, bending over her shoulder as she read.
“Well?” Margaret tapped her chair arm in agitation. “Come on, you two, spit it out.”
Sam handed the paper to Aidan.
Margaret grunted. “Out loud, for heaven’s sake. I read scripts, not minds.”
Sam shook her head, so Aidan did the dubious honors.
“Your Fate’s in my hands now, Margaret I control the twists and turns. I control you. Read the script Here she is, the great Margaret Truesdale. In the role of her life.
In the role of her death.”
JOHN CHRISTIAN looked more harried than Aidan had ever seen him. His dark, gray-streaked hair stood up at odd angles, his glasses were askew and he’d pulled his tie sloppily away from his throat.
“One of the newspapers got wind of Mary’s escape,” he moaned as they accompanied him on his rounds. “I put the guy off for now, but he’ll be back. He’s one of those bulldog types, and ten to one he’s got connections at a local television station.” He appealed to them. “Have you turned up anything at all?”
“Plenty,” Aidan said. “But nothing that leads us to Mary.”
“Can you tell us more about her?” Sam asked from his other side. “Was she sick? Physically, I mean? Could she have spies here at Oakhaven? Did any of her old cronies ever visit her?”
“No, possibly, and yes. Thurman Wells came, as you know…No, thank you, Morris, Ms. Giancarlo doesn’t need any baseball cards.”
The man, a bent, bald creature somewhere between forty and sixty, ambled off, clearly disappointed. Aidan hoped to hell he never wound up in a place like this.
“That’s the lounge, down there.” John nodded in the direction his patient had taken. “Mary spent a lot of time watching old movies there. Several of her Oakhaven friends were in awe of her past credits.”
“So they could have told her about Aidan and me,” Sam theorized.
John sighed. “It’s certainly possible. Phone use is limited but not rigorously patrolled. There’s not much harm anyone can inflict on the phone.”
“Wanna bet?” Aidan murmured dryly.
John gave him a wan smile. “As I was saying, Thurman Wells visited Mary, but only once. Others called.”
“Leo Rockland?” Sam speculated. “Stan Hollister?”
“Yes to Mr. Rockland. No to Hollister.”
“Was there anyone else?” Aidan asked.
“I’m not sure. I might have a list. We try to keep track of thinks like that. Ah,” he interrupted himself. “Here comes Mrs. Payne. A perfect name for her, but she might be of some help to you.”
The woman was short, squat and heavy. She waddled like a duck and had a voice like a foghorn. She had also, according to John, spent a great deal of time playing card games with Mary.
“She cheated,” Mrs. Payne revealed flatly when asked about her former partner.
They’d adjourned to the plant-filled lounge where John chatted with the other patients while Sam and Aidan talked to Mrs. Payne.
“Mary liked the name Helen Murdoch, you’re right about that,” she said, peering myopically at Sam. “You’re sharp, missy. Pretty, too. You an actress?”
“I’d like to be,” Sam lied.
“You should talk to Mary,” the woman said with an emphatic nod that dislodged two of her pin curls. “She was the best. Better’n that old Margaret Truesdale.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “I heard the reason Margaret got so much from the studio was because she acted real hoity-toity with all the bosses. Mary got given seconds every time, you know. On screen, in wardrobe, at dinners, in the hospital, with men—you name it, Mary always crossed the finish line behind Margaret Truesdale.”
Something on her list clicked in Aidan’s head. “What hospital did Mary get seconds in, Mrs. Payne? Not this one, surely.”
Mrs. Payne emitted a raw hoot of laughter. Her hands slapped the oak table. “Lordy, no.” She jerked suddenly, then ducked. “Where’s that plane?” she demanded, and would have dived from her chair if John hadn’t intercepted her.
“It’s one of ours,” he assured her. “No need to worry.”
Aidan listened as the jet engines overhead faded. “Germans?” he mouthed to his friend who nodded grimly and patted Mrs. Payne’s plump arm until she relaxed.
“Those were dismal days in London during the war. Carry on, you three.”
It took the woman several minutes to calm down sufficiently to continue. Even then, she seemed confused about the current time period.
“My mom took me to London to see my dad during the war,” she said in a small voice. “He was English, my dad.” She paused then added, “She came from New Jersey, you know.”
“Your mother?” Sam asked kindly.
Mrs. Payne gave her head a vigorous shake. “No, no, Mary. My mom came from Boston. She never acted. That was Mary’s job when she wasn’t doing some dirty deal behind someone’s back. She got Morris over there to stack the cards, I know she did. She’s a schemer, that one, but I like her anyway. Only talent I have is for playing the oboe. Mary, she could act I saw her movies. She was better than Margaret Truesdale. My mom even said she was good once. That was before my dad died in the big crash and I got so scared and had to run—” She broke off, sinking lower in her chair.
Sam moved swiftly to kneel beside her. Aidan watched but made no attempt to interfere.
“You shouldn’t think about the war,” Sam said gently. Like John, she patted the woman’s arm. It seemed to help. Her eyes blinked and began to clear.
“I hate war movies,” she said in a more strident voice. “Mary made me watch one with her and Margaret in it. They did another one after the war was over. They were both st
ill in uniform at the start” She let out a raucous squawk of laughter. “Had to change their clothes later in the film. Mary’s still mad about it. She said her face got fat and Margaret’s didn’t”
Mrs. Payne’s gaze sharpened unexpectedly. Twisting her head around, she shot Aidan a dagger of a stare. “That’s the hospital Mary got seconds in, Mr. Brodie.”
Aidan had no idea what she was talking about. Neither, apparently, did Sam.
“Did this hospital have a name?” she tried hopefully.
“West Something. Mountain, I think. It was private. All the big stars went here. Mary called it the Butcher Shop.”
“I’M NOT SURE I want to do this,” Sam said as they made their way through the maze of narrow canyon roads. “Hospitals that can be likened to butcher shops scare me as much as planes scare Mrs. Payne. Are you sure John’s right about the name?”
Aidan had the borrowed Jeep geared down to avoid mishap. He didn’t seem remotely fazed by Mary’s hospital nickname. In fact, he looked damnably handsome and at ease as they made their way through the remote labyrinth of roads.
He was wearing a moss green shirt with the sleeves rolled back, faded jeans and a pair of old work boots. His long brown hair blew in the breeze; his expression was one of distant calm; his attitude was as offhanded as his present manner of driving.
“West Valley Hospital isn’t a butcher shop, no matter what Mary says, and yes, John’s right about the name. There is no West Mountain.”
“Not now. What about then?”
“Not now or then, Sam.” He sent her a sideways look that bordered on impatient. “You know we have to check this out, so sit back, relax, and remind yourself that as an actress Mary probably tended to blow a lot of things out of proportion.”
