by Jenna Ryan
Her note pinned to the fridge had outlined Hollister’s phone call, but had done nothing to ease his mind—about her safety or the unacceptable hold she seemed to be gaining over his heart. He’d needed that ice-cold shower she’d interrupted to clear his head. Unfortunately, all it had done was remove a few cobwebs. Domina’s malice no longer haunted his every waking thought; Sam did that now, and in a fashion that simultaneously annoyed and terrified him. God help them both if he’d fallen in love with her.
The top drawer contained no file on Helen Murdoch. He moved onto the second and finally the third. Sunshine streamed through the windows, flooding the room with golden light and causing perspiration to form on Aidan’s forehead and neck. Once, a painfully thin man wearing overalls and a billed cap walked past outside the window, but he kept his hands stuffed in his pockets and didn’t glance in the direction of the study.
Damn Sam and her impulsive dead-end clue. If Stan had any knowledge of Mary’s whereabouts, he’d hidden it too cleverly for Aidan to unearth.
He persevered through a series of initialled files: D.V., L.R., T.W., S.F., A.P., N.J.
A light of recognition flickered in Aidan’s head. A.P.? As in Anthea Pennant perhaps?
He extracted the file and opened it. The first thing to topple out was a picture of Anthea from The Three Fates. It was followed by other pictures from different movies. Margaret and Mary appeared in only one of them. A clump of newspaper clippings dropped onto the carpet. Among those, Aidan’s sharp eyes picked out the name Dorian Hart.
He studied the yellowed photo. Anthea was there; so was Margaret, far in the background. They each held the arm of a distinguished-looking man who must have been Margaret’s husband, Frank Durwald. The year on the clipping was nineteen fifty-three. The caption read, “In Questionable Company. Dorian Hart Dines with a Gathering of Hollywood Stars. See page two for details.”
Naturally, there was no page two. But there was a woman on the gangster’s arm. Aidan studied her more closely. In her prime, and smiling upward, that woman looked suspiciously like Mary Lamont.
SHE KNEW SOMETHING, damn her. Nellie knew something about Helen Murdoch, and she refused to tell Sam what it was.
“Stay out of it, missy” was all she had to say on the subject. “Mr. H. won’t appreciate you or anyone opening that can of worms. Got a temper, that man. Not like the lush in there.”
The lush. Yes, of course, Thurman Wells. Sam’s mind opened itself to a dozen possibilities. People who drank too much frequently said too much, as well. If she could corner Thurman and start him talking, who knew what incriminating tidbits might slip out.
Nellie tromped ahead of her through a tricky maze of corridors. None of them wound past the study. Sam could only hope that Aidan had arrived and snuck in undetected. It didn’t cross her mind that he would fail to show. Maybe, she reflected, her faith was a positive sign.
“Where are we going?” she asked Nellie five minutes and several turns later.
“To the sunroom, I thought,” the old woman grumbled. “But now that I think again, I remember he mentioned the garages.”
A man lurched unexpectedly into her path, startling Sam. However, Nellie merely poked a warning finger at his chest. “I’ll bring you more to drink later. Mr. H. is waiting for his guest at the garages.”
“Ms. Giancarlo. How delightful.” Inebriated or not, Thurman Wells knew how to charm. Straightening, he adjusted his Armani sweater, fiddled briefly with his ascot and gave his cap of silver-white hair a pat. Except for his bloodshot eyes, lopsided grin and slight stagger, he looked almost sober.
Flapping a dismissing hand, he shooed Nellie aside. “Buzz off, and bring me a bottle of Scotch this time. I’ll escort Mr. Hollister’s guest to the garages. Buzz,” he repeated when Nellie didn’t budge.
“I’ll buzz you, you old coot. Can you walk?”
“Certainly, my good woman. I’ve done a thousand stage shows more tanked than this.”
“Recognizes his flaws anyway,” the maid said with a disdainful sniff. “You go straight to the garages, you hear, Mr. Lush? And no Scotch till after lunch.”
“Snarly old biddy,” Thurman muttered in her wake. “I’d have sacked her years ago. Stan’s too soft, always has been.”
He offered his arm, and Sam took it. “I left a message for you from Mr. Brodie,” she remarked conversationally. “We were hoping to talk to you and everyone else we met at Leo Rockland’s reception.”
“Everyone except Anthea,” he replied mournfully.
“Yes, I was sorry to hear about…” She brought her head around. “Was Anthea at the reception?”
He patted her hand. “In spirit, my dear, not in the flesh. Sadly now, the spirit is all that remains of my lovely lady friend. As you can imagine, we’re all of us quite devastated by her death.”
All of them? Sam wondered, but held her tongue.
Connie must have left, interview in hand. Sam hadn’t seen a camera crew so it had probably been for one of “Who’s News’” thirty-second gossip spots.
Stan’s tall, broad figure was easy to separate from the rare autos. He closed the hood of a vintage ‘22 Mercedes and wiped his hands on a rag.
“Why are you here, Thurman?” he asked, scowling. “I came out here specifically to get away from you. This was to be a private conversation.”
Thurman made an airy gesture. “Surely you can talk in front of me. I was married to the woman, you know.”
“Which woman?”
“Take your pick. Ah!” His keen eyes located a silver flask on the trunk of a Model T inside the garage. He made a beeline for it. “Come along, Stan, fess up to dear Sam. Tell her we think her interest in Margaret Truesdale and Mary Lamont extends beyond the boundaries of research. What we don’t know is how far beyond or for what reason. Isn’t that right, Stanley?”
Stan glared openly now. “Go away, Thurman.”
Thurman regarded the flask. “At a guess,” he stated, enunciating each word carefully, “I would say that my good friend Stan has his own agenda. Whatever that may be, the fact remains that you, Samantha, and your British friend popped up out of nowhere asking questions about our three beautiful Fates mere days before one of them was blown away. I for one do not believe in coincidences. You also look damnably familiar to me. You know something, or you’re up to something. Which is it, my dear? And please be honest. I may be a pushover, but Stanley here can spot a bogus story a mile away.”
Throughout Thurman’s spiel, Sam kept her eyes on Stan Hollister’s granite-hard face. He’d had a purpose for inviting her to his home, a specific purpose. She also sensed that he had little time for games.
“Were you the father of Margaret Truesdale’s child?” she asked so softly that Thurman, busy draining the silver flask, didn’t hear.
Stan’s formidable dark brows lowered. “And if I were?”
“Then we might have grounds for an in-depth conversation. On the other hand, Mr. Hollister, in our research, Robert and I learned that you were named by Mary Lamont as the father of her child.”
To her surprise, he chuckled. “That’s never been proven, Ms. Giancarlo, but I must admit I was rather flattered that she did it. I’m also rather surprised by your tenacity. For a re-searcher, you’re quite the little spy. West Valley Hospital records are not easy to obtain.”
Sam saw no advantage in lying. “Yes, well, it might interest you to know that Robert and I weren’t the only people who wanted them. Do you know a man by the name of Alistair Blue?”
She could almost see the Rolodex in his brain flipping over. “No, I don’t.” He frowned. “Are you sure about the name?”
“It’s the one we were given.”
“By whom?”
Deciding it was time to take the proverbial bull by the horns, Sam squared her shoulders and said, “By Mary La-mont’s doctor at Oakhaven.”
Chapter Thirteen
Whatever reaction she’d expected, it was not the one she received. Stan grasped he
r roughly by the arm and hauled her into the garage. Thrusting a blearily oblivious Thurman out onto the macadam, he punched the switch to bring down the doors.
“Thurman’s right, you do look damnably familiar,” he growled. “Who’s Brodie, really? More to the point, who are you?”
She wrenched free and stepped away. “I’m who I said I was.”
“But not what you said you were.”
It was a three-car garage. On the shadowy far side, an engine sputtered to life, but Sam was too frightened to investigate, and Stan apparently too angry to notice. She’d done a foolishly impulsive thing. What on earth had prompted her to mention Mary’s name?
He stood there breathing like an enraged grizzly. “You’re involved in this up to your eyeballs, aren’t you? How are you involved? By God, if Mary’s doctor—”
“It has nothing to do with her doctor,” she lied. “He didn’t contact me, I contacted him. She’s out, and you know it You and Thurman Wells and probably Leo Rockland, as well.”
If a human could resemble a thundercloud, Stan Hollister did so at that moment “Dammit, you’re either a reporter as Leo insists, or you’re—something else.”
She worked her way around the Model T, her eyes glued to his face. “I am a reporter, actually. What kind of something else do you mean?”
He faltered visibly, gave a short cough and seemed to rein in the worst of his anger. “I’m not prepared…” he began, then coughed again and twisted his head to the side. “Who started my Rolls-Royce? Who’s there?” When no one answered, he forged a path to the Rolls and yanked on the door handle.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asked when he stooped to peer in the driver’s window.
“Someone’s locked the keys inside.”
Belatedly, Sam realized that her vision was beginning to blur. And her lungs hurt. Waving at the bluish exhaust, her fear temporarily set aside, she joined him, tugging on the back door.
Years of smoking took a swift toll on the director’s lungs. He rubbed his chest, coughing hard. “The main door,” he gasped, but Sam was way ahead of him.
“No good,” she called, wiping her tearing eyes with the heel of her hand. She fought hard to combat the panic that poured through her. Her limbs felt rubbery. That was either extreme fear or the carbon monoxide affecting her.
Had Thurman done this? Possibly, but she didn’t really believe that
“Ax,” Stan choked, pointing. “It’s…Damn!” His fist hit the polished hood.
“Gone?” Sam assumed. She slapped the large door one last frustrated time.
Behind her, Stan sank to the floor. Sam saw him go, and stumbled over. She managed to prevent his head from hitting the hubcap, but had a horrible feeling it might not make a difference in the end. Nevertheless, she was determined to try.
Breathing into her sleeve, she made her way back to the big door. Not one, but all three were locked tight. “Thurman!” she shouted, coughing. “Thurman, please, open the door!”
“No use…” Stan roused himself to rasp. “Doors are three inches thick…solid oak…Spared no expense…”
Sam spared a great deal of mental expense willing Aidan to hear her. Forget Thurman, concentrate on Aidan, she told herself.
Head bowed, forehead pressed to the thick center door, she murmured his name like a mantra—and prayed one last time for that elusive miracle.
“WHAT THE HELL are you doing here, Blue?”
Furious, Aidan grabbed Alistair’s arm and swung him around. He’d spotted Thurman tottering drunkenly through the backyard and had gone out to see what information he could pump from the man. That’s when he’d caught sight of Alistair hovering around the garages. He’d also seen the blond man in the cap but he was sauntering toward the rear gate, not skulking as Alistair was.
Aidan had the newspaper photo of Dorian Hart in his jeans’ pocket and an unpredictable gleam in his eyes. Alistair shuffled his feet ineffectually on the gritty pavement.
“Talk, Blue,” Aidan ordered, shoving him.
Alistair took a staggering step, caught his balance and turned his head from side to side. “I followed your lady friend out here. She…she went into the garage with Hollister. He dragged her in, actually. I—I thought I should see if she was okay.”
“Why, Mr. Brodie, as I live and breathe.” Thurman Wells gave Aidan a resounding thump across his shoulders. “Not looking so dapper today, are we? Who’s this—” he examined Alistair as if he were a bug “—person? A friend of yours?”
“Yes,” Alistair said quickly.
“No,” Aidan countered. “Where’s Sam, Thurman?”
“Haven’t got a clue. With Stan, I suppose.”
“I’m telling you, they’re in the garage,” Alistair insisted. “I think we should, uh, look.”
The hair on the back of Aidan’s neck had been prickling for several minutes now. Unwilling to acknowledge the sensation, yet unable to ignore it any longer, he snarled, “If she’s hurt, Blue, you’re a dead man.”
Thurman tut-tutted and wagged a reproving finger. “Never make threats in public, dear boy. A friend of mine taught me that once. They locked her up for it.”
Possibly because Hollister’s neighbor had been mowing his lawn, Aidan missed the sound at first. He heard it now when the mower cut out. He probably wouldn’t have thought twice about it even so, except for the worried glances Alistair kept sending over his shoulder.
He focused on the distant engine rattle and attempted to identify it. An air conditioner? Pool filter? Those noises wouldn’t be coming from the garage. What then? A car?
His blood froze. Alistair had gone decidedly pale. Thurman tossed back a double Scotch and held the glass out to an invisible bartender. “One more hit, Nellie,” he slurred. “I can still see her face in my mind. Bet she did it, the old crock. Mean streak in her as long as fifty cobras tied nose to tail. Smart, though, and you’d better believe she knows how to use that mean old mind. Crazy smart people’ll drive you around the bend every time, make you crazier than them in the end.” He blinked at his empty glass. “I need another shot.”
His babble barely registered. Shoving Alistair aside, Aidan followed his instincts and the engine sound to the row of garages. “Sam!” he shouted. “Are you in there?”
Did he hear a tiny cry? He could definitely smell car exhaust. Tendrils of it seeped out from under the doors. Alistair had run over with him. The other man pulled and twisted and finally kicked the stubborn release handles.
“They’re stuck,” he yelled, his voice half an octave higher than normal. Another kick. “How can all three of them be stuck?”
Aidan’s eyes scanned the ground. There was a window on the side but what could he use to break it?
Thurman supplied the answer by bumping into an exposed spare tire. “Stupid protrusions,” he muttered. “Idiotic design made by idiotic designers. Now see here, Mr. Brodie,” he sputtered as Aidan brushed past. “It’s rude to shove your elders.”
Aidan ignored him and yanked open the trunk. “Jack,” he said, grabbed it and ran back. Holding it like a bat, he smashed the garage window, diamond panes and all.
Exhaust fumes poured out, fogging his vision and making him cough. “Sam?” he called inward. “Sam? Blue, get over here.”
Alistair and Thurman appeared together. “Are they there?” the younger man demanded.
“I can’t tell. The opening’s too small for me to climb through. You’ll have to do it.”
“But—oh, hell.” Saving Aidan the trouble of tossing him inside, Alistair clambered onto a flower box and hoisted himself over the narrow pane.
“Use the tire iron to smash the windshield,” Aidan shouted to him.
Ten endless seconds later, the engine stopped. Aidan heard Alistair coughing and banging on the large center door with the iron rod. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he yelled in time to each bang. “I think I’ve got it, Brodie. Give the handle a pull.”
Aidan did, almost tearing the door and his shoulde
rs from their sockets.
He saw Alistair sidle out and break into a run, but his only concern right then was for Sam. He caught sight of her behind the fender of a Model T, not quite unconscious but well on the way. Hollister was passed out next to the rear tire.
Gathering Sam up in his arms, he carried her outside, past Thurman who was grinning like a bloody idiot. The actor fell with a plop underneath a tall palm tree.
“Put her next to me,” he instructed Aidan. “Air’s good and clean over here.”
“Hold still,” Aidan advised when Sam would have sat up.
Groggy but as obstinate as ever, she used his hand to lever herself onto her elbows. “You came,” she croaked, her tone a blend of smugness and amazement. “I knew you would.” Fighting to keep her eyes open, she asked, “Did you find Helen Murdoch?”
Thurman gave a rich hiccup. “Helen Murdoch, you say?” The idiot grin broadened, caricaturizing his distinguished face. “Won’t find anyone by that name lurking ‘round these parts, my dear. Alas, and to my infinite relief, Helen Murdoch is no more.”
“THREE, FOUR, FIVE hundred dollars.” Mary counted the bills into the blond man’s outstretched hand. He wore no expression on his narrow face. Only his Adam’s apple moved and then only when he swallowed. He came and went without a word. She knew he’d done his job. Whether it would have the desired effect or not, it would have rattled their nerves, of that she had no doubt. As for the other matter, she’d hear about that soon enough.
Had she forgotten anything, overlooked anything, neglected to cover any base? Heaven knew, she might have done all those things, but the end result should still be the same. It only required that things proceed to that end, that shining, glorious goal she had established so many years ago.
“You’re going to get caught.” Tobias’s droll remark from the garden doorway surprised her. He stood there in his vest and striped gardener’s gloves, holding a spray of yellow and pink gladiolus. She hated yellow and pink. She tolerated Tobias.
“Maybe,” she agreed, hobbling over to him at a good clip. “But it’ll be after the fact, you can be sure of that.”
