by Jenna Ryan
A feeling of impatience pushed its way into her head. She tugged circumspectly on Aidan’s sleeve. “I think we’ve taken up enough of Miss Mesmyr’s time, don’t you, Robert?”
“Yes, I’m sure Mrs. Higgenbothom will be delighted.” He took the hand that Evelyn condescended to extend and bent over it in a gesture of Old World charm. “Thank you for your time, Evelyn. You needn’t call your maid. We’ll show ourselves out.”
Sam held her tongue until they reached the covered porch. “Mrs. Higgenbothom?” she repeated, tempted to laugh in spite of her annoyance with “Evelyn Mesmyr’s habits and affectations.
Aidan propelled her forward with a hand pressed to the small of her back. “The Luck of the Irish. Tyrone Power and Anne Baxter, nineteen forty-eight. I know one or two old movies, Sam.” He slanted her a questioning look. “Are you calm now?”
She refused the bait. “I was never not calm, Brodie. Except that I wouldn’t mind seeing Miss Mesmyr stuffed and mounted on her own den wall.”
“She’s broke, you know,” Aidan said.
“I gathered as much.”
“She also has an expensive house to maintain.”
At the Jeep, Sam sighed. “Make your point, Aidan.”
He leaned his forearms on the roof, regarding her over the vinyl top. “Think about it, Sam. Evelyn needs money. Mary has money.”
Sam glanced at the shuttered white house with its cotton candy trim, its pretty flower beds and its sculpted shrubbery. “You think she’s harboring Mary?”
“I think she knows more than she’s telling.”
“That’s all well and good, but we can hardly break in and demand to search the rooms, can we?” She frowned. “Or can we?”
A faint smile curved Aidan’s sensual lips. “I can’t see demands getting us anywhere with her, but a break-in might not go amiss. Let’s wait and see what happens.”
“You mean wait for the next attempt on our lives, don’t you? You’re braver than I am, Brodie. I vote we break in tonight.”
He opened the driver’s side door, his expression wry. “In that case you’re the one who’s brave, Sam. Because not only does Evelyn Mesmyr keep dead animal heads on her walls, she also keeps live ones outside. They strolled past the window while we were talking to her.”
“What did?”
“Two black Dobermans, an Irish Wolfhound and a pit bull.”
EVELYN’S PLUMP FINGERS tapped the telephone for five long minutes after her visitors left Should she? Shouldn’t she? She’d better.
She pressed the numbers carefully. A private number, re-cently given to her—she’d never thought she would have occasion to use it. It was answered on the third ring.
“A man and a woman were here,” she said, worrying the cord with her right hand. “They were curious about The Three Fates, the real ones, if you know what I mean. Their names? Sam—yes, that’s right, Samantha—Giancarlo and an Irishman named Brodie. That’s what he said. Oh, yes, I’m sure you have ways. I understand. Of course, you’ll handle it…A check? Well, that would certainly help…I’ll watch for it. Yes, thank you. Goodbye.”
Her hands were shaking as she hung up. This Mata Hari stuff was definitely not for her. Someone might very well wind up dead before this was over. She hoped to hell it wouldn’t be her.
Chapter Nine
Margaret expelled a long-suffering sigh and rubbed her fore-head in a gesture of infinite weariness.
“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to go into details,” she said from the corner of her shadowy parlor. “Frank’s and my problems were private. However, your questions are reasonable and deserve proper answers.”
Thunder beyond her canyon home walls made the crystal fronds of the chandelier quiver. The delicate tinkle sent a chill of unnamed terror down Sam’s spine. Somehow that one small sound seemed worse than the noise of the storm that underscored it. Rain pelted the walls, roof and windows as Margaret lit a cigarette and explained.
“Frank and I were in love. It was a wonderful time. Most of Hollywood was in love back then.”
Her voice shook with the force of her emotions. A veil of smoke encircled her carefully coiffed head, clouding her features. Sam couldn’t see her brown eyes clearly, but she thought she glimpsed raw pain in their depths.
Margaret’s gaze flicked to Mary’s music boxes, still prominently displayed on the coffee table. “Unfortunately,” she sighed, “Frank loved the ponies, too. I’d hoped his feelings for me might be stronger than his addiction to gambling, but to my disappointment, that proved not to be the case. He got in over his head and had to borrow money.”
“From you?” Sam asked.
“Lord, no. He was far too proud a man to beg a loan from his wife. It simply wasn’t done in those days. No, he went to a loan shark.”
Aidan, who’d been pacing behind Sam, murmured, “I think I see where this is heading. It was your husband and not you who thought it prudent to go into hiding.”
Margaret toyed with her cigarette holder. “Call it a mutual decision. I was getting tired of all the back-stabbing necessary to move up in the film industry. At any rate, who ever knows how long one’s flicker of fame will ultimately last Best sometimes to get out while you’re ahead. So we faded into oblivion together.”
“Did your husband ever pay back the loan shark?” Sam inquired.
“Not during our marriage, though he might have done later. I hope for his sake he did. Dorian Hart was not known for his patience, and a racehorse was small compensation for the sum owed. I’d have paid the man off myself, but he lives and works by a very strict set of rules. Old-fashioned to be sure, but rigid to a fault ‘A man,’ he insists, ‘must pay his own debts.’ On the other hand, a woman can certainly get a man to pay hers.” Wicked brows arched in Sam’s direction. “A boorish attitude, don’t you think?”
“A sexist one, anyway,” Sam agreed. She leaned forward in earnest. “The truth, Margaret—is Frank Durwald still alive?”
“I don’t know, and that is the truth.”
“What about Dorian Hart?” Aidan stopped pacing to inquire.
“I have even less of a guess on that one, but it shouldn’t be difficult to find out. Dorian was never big on keeping a low profile. You won’t get an audience with him, but you should be able to determine his present status.”
Aidan resumed his to and fro circuit behind her. Sam’s mind drew a picture of an edgy feline. He was obviously deep in thought, no doubt wondering what new and deadly tricks Mary might have in store for them. Perversely, Sam wished that clinical mind of his would stray, even for a moment, in her direction.
“I’ll see what I can turn up on Mr. Hart,” she said, placing Aidan firmly at the back of her mind. Although he continued to remind her of a caged tiger, and his hair and face tempted her to touch, that was simply one more battle she’d have to wage in bed that night. For now they both had more imperative problems to deal with.
Holding her cigarette in her mouth, Margaret rang a small crystal bell for the butler. Theo materialized, gaunt and ramrod straight.
“The movie, Madame?” he inquired with his usual butler’s aplomb.
“Er, yes,” she said gruffly. “Go ahead and show it to them.” She addressed Sam and a distracted Aidan. “I received a clip from The Three Fates. It appeared with the afternoon mail. No postmarks,” she added, anticipating Aidan’s question. Her mouth tightened. “It must have been hand delivered.”
“Did you see anyone?” Aidan directed the query at Theo, who shook his head.
“Not a soul.” He produced the unmarked video. “Shall I play the tape, Madame?”
A wave of her hand supplied the answer.
Margaret’s extensive entertainment system was housed behind the bookshelves. The videotape copy, although snowy and old, was much clearer than the one Sam had viewed on Guido’s office TV.
Margaret—no, Mary, appeared, creeping up a darkened stairwell, a covered tray in hand. She cast several surreptitious glances behind her
before mounting the final few steps to the door and tugging aside a heavy bolt
Eerie lighting coupled with Evelyn Mesmyr’s makeup gave her features a sinister look. An evil little smile played on her lips as she entered the attic. The camera panned her rather than the room’s occupant
“Nothing to say?” Mary challenged.
Now the camera shifted. Sam spied a shadowy movement in the corner.
“Maybe you’re too weak to answer,” Mary taunted the in-distinguishable figure. “Maybe a little food would help, hmm?”
She rocked the tray in a tantalizing fashion. “Just say the magic words, and you can eat till you explode.”
Silence broken only by the sinister rumble of thunder in Laurel Canyon supplied the response.
“I see,” Mary said. “In that case…” She held the tray higher, and would have dropped it on the floor if a voice hadn’t emerged clear and strong from the shadows.
“Your cruelty will be your downfall, sister. That and your predictable nature. He isn’t here.”
Sam recognized Margaret’s on-screen voice. So did Mary’s character. A closeup of her face showed her cheeks mottled with rage, her eyes blazing with unbridled fury.
“Where is he?” she demanded. “What have you done with him?”
“He’s been moved,” Margaret said calmly. She rose from the cot to confront her evil sister. “I don’t choose to tell you where.”
Mary’s mouth opened and closed. Finally through bared teeth, she demanded, “How dare you? I won’t allow this, sister. You’re not omnipotent, not at all. Two of us together can still defeat you.”
Margaret stepped into a tiny pool of light. Her features glowed with strength rather than rage. “Our sister supports me,” she said. Her delicate brows rose in defiance. “And so, you see, you stand alone, alone and thirsty for the power that should not and never will be yours to command. We had no right to imprison him.”
Mary’s anger seemed about to choke her. “You didn’t let him go? You couldn’t”
“I’ve done nothing,” Margaret informed her coldly. “Yet But when I do, sister, remember that the choice resides with me. Now go back downstairs and rejoin the party. And don’t bother to threaten our sister. She is not so easily swayed as you think. And I—” she took a menacing step closer “—am not so susceptible as you suppose.”
She walked past Mary and was immediately swallowed up in the shadows of the stairwell. For a moment, Mary stood perfectly still, then her face contorted, and she spun to confront the darkness in her sister’s wake.
“One day,” she vowed, “you’ll pay for all the hurt and humiliation you’ve caused me. I’ll beat you, sister, and then, I swear, I’ll kill you.”
THE STORM WORSENED as they left Laurel Canyon. The restlessness that had driven Aidan to pacing earlier lingered despite the directives from his brain that told him to back off.
Although he didn’t consider himself particularly streetwise, he’d learned enough growing up in Dublin to know when his instincts were trying to tell him something. The frustrating thing was, try as he might, he couldn’t interpret the message.
That would be in large part Sam’s fault, he reflected, casting her a dark sideways look from the driver’s seat. Her delicate beauty, her doggedness and determination, her wicked sherry brown eyes that challenged and seduced him at every turn…
Aidan gave himself a hard mental kick and endeavored to shut down the more lascivious part of his brain. Sam slid him a canny sideways glance that had him grinding his teeth in frustration.
As if regretting the action, she sighed and fixed her gaze firmly on the slapping windshield wipers.
Wind lashed the trees on the side of the road, bending the smaller ones almost double.
He saw firmness melt into vague suspicion when she realized the direction he was taking. “Wait a minute. We’re heading for Topanga Canyon. I don’t live out here.”
“I do,” Aidan told her. He kept his voice even while his eyes swept the road ahead. He saw only darkness and the outline of wind-battered trees all along the winding strip of pavement.
Somewhat to his surprise—or perhaps not—Sam offered no objection. She merely laid her head against the vinyl seat and kept her thoughts and feelings to herself.
An old Lipton Tea-sponsored radio program called “The Inner Sanctum” accompanied them as they made their way to his home off Topanga Canyon Road. The place had been a private mansion once. It was an extensive if not lavish structure. Built of old stone and redwood, it sat well back from the road and rose like a tree-bound fortress out of the side of the hill. It had been divided two decades ago into four suites. His apartment was on the top floor. Beside him lived a semi-successful composer who dreamed of creating the next “Phantom of the Opera.” Below was a woman who painted movie scenes both new and old, then sold them to a national poster company.
Sam sat up straighter as he braked by the curb. “It’s fixed!” she exclaimed. “When did you get it back?”
She meant his black Cadillac which sat, good as new on the surface, directly in front of them.
“It doesn’t run worth a damn,” he said, reaching over her to push open the Jeep’s door. “My place is up the stairs to the right There’s a porch. If you run you shouldn’t get too wet.”
A ridiculous statement if ever he’d made one. The rain pounded down so hard and fast that they arrived on the porch soaked to the skin, panting and laughing at the futility of the attempt.
Sam wiped sopping strands of black hair from her eyes while Aidan located the front door key. “I feel like—what’s that old expression—a drowned duck?”
The slow grin that curved his lips came from self-denial as much as amusement. The white T-shirt clinging to her breasts couldn’t have been more alluring if the neckline had plunged to her waist “A rat, Sam,” he corrected, dealing with the simultaneous stabs of desire and regret that shot through him.
“Whatever. I haven’t been this wet since I fell into the log ride at Knotts’ Berry—” She stopped suddenly and frowned at the door. “Is that your telephone?”
Aidan listened. Diverted by the rain and thunder and his lustful thoughts, he’d missed the ring. Pushing open the door, he stepped inside and reached effortlessly across the plant stand and low bookshelf to the oak sofa table.
“Brodie,” he said without preface.
A woman’s soft-spoken voice ventured an uncertain, “Mr. Robert Brodie of the BBC?”
Aidan hit the speaker button and gestured for Sam to close the door and listen.
“That’s right,” he confirmed. “Can I help you?”
“I doubt it,” came the wistful reply. Her tone altered, as wistfulness gave way to efficiency. “Perhaps, though, I can help you and…well…others. My name is Anthea Pennant.”
SAM’S HEART CATAPULTED into her throat and lodged there. She couldn’t utter a sound, not even a disbelieving gasp as Anthea continued.
“I’ve kept in touch with an old friend from the studio over the years.. Or rather, I gave him the means by which to contact me should the need arise.”
Sam’s fingers curled around Aidan’s wet sleeve. Her nails bit into the warm flesh beneath. He didn’t flinch and she didn’t loosen her grip. Anthea went on.
“I was told you’re an executive with the BBC, Mr. Brodie. Possibly you are. However, it’s the girl, the woman who accompanied you to Leo Rockland’s reception, who really interests me. You might not know this, but Leo has an extensive video surveillance system. One of his guests that day had. a funny feeling when he saw this young woman—the weird sensation you get when you meet someone you think you should know but know you don’t. He asked Leo to provide a still picture of her. Leo complied and he sent it on to our contact point Having seen it, I’m extremely curious to meet her. Is she…”
“I’m here, Ms. Pennant,” Sam said, tamping down her excitement. Her nails continued to bite into Aidan’s arm.
Anthea wasted no time. “Do you know
who your grand-mother is?”
Inexplicably, Sam’s insides tightened. “My blood grand-mother is Margaret Truesdale.”
Anthea’s voice gentled. “And how do you know that, dear?”
Sam took a deep breath, considered briefly, then blurted, “Margaret told me.”
“Margaret!” She sounded appalled but covered well. “I mean, I see. Er, I take it you’ve spoken to her.”
“Several times.”
“Have you met her?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“At her home.” She stopped short of mentioning that that home was in Laurel Canyon. Margaret had asked her to tell no one. She explained about the threats Mary had made on Margaret’s life instead.
Anthea remained silent for a time. Thunder rumbled portentously over the Canyon Road, causing Aidan’s wineglasses to rattle in their rack. Sam heard a series of clicks and attributed them to static on the line. Finally, the woman cleared her throat.
“I think,” she said carefully, “that we should meet face-to-face. You’re in grave danger, my dear. Mary Lamont is not a woman to be trifled with. I of all people learned that the hard way. So did Margaret, and poor Frank. I—” She broke off. “What was that click?”
“It’s the storm,” Sam told her. “It’s bad here.”
“Here, as well,” Anthea concurred. “As I was saying, we must meet. There are too many things you don’t know, and the telephone is not the place to go into them. Can you come tomorrow?”
Sam glanced at Aidan who was absorbed in his view of the street below. “Yes,” she said, watching as a black Jaguar slunk past his newly repaired Cadillac. “Where?”
“My home is north of Santa Barbara. You have to exit the freeway early and take back roads through a collection of woods. The town is called Cedar Valley. It’s very lovely and very secluded. The house is just off Cedar Hill Cross Road. Number three. There are no other homes nearby. You can see my barn from the road. It’s umber as opposed to red. Do drive carefully. The roads can be treacherous after a rain. We’re often flooded out.”
