by Jenna Ryan
“I saw that—flunkie—drive away. How much did you pay him, and to do what?”
“Enough, and you’ll find out.” Her shrewd eyes gleamed wickedly. “I shouldn’t think anyone was hurt, if that’s worrying you.”
“So it had the potential for harm, then, did it? Why?”
“Same reason as before, old friend. To keep you in line and them guessing.”
“I think you just enjoy torment.”
“That, too. Wouldn’t you if you were me? That wretched Margaret Truesdale has tormented me for fifty years now. I deserve to get a little of my own back.”
“I’d be careful if I were you—and I’ve never been out of line.”
“Ha!” She hooted with laughter, then immediately sobered. “Why would you be careful?”
“No reason.”
Yes there was, but he hadn’t meant to mention it. Did he think Mr. Adam’s Apple might run to Stan with his story? For five hundred big ones, he’d better not. Dammit all, she would not be double-crossed by a brainless dolt
Scuttling into the hall, she took a gray raincoat from the brass rack. Tobias sounded highly mistrustful and vaguely horrified when he said, “Where are you going?”
She gave him a complacent smile. “Out.”
“Out where?”
“To send a package. Special delivery this time.” She tapped a box wrapped in brown paper on the entry table. “Don’t worry,” she said, chuckling throatily at his anxious look. “It won’t explode. I want a local postmark on the thing this time, that’s all. I want them to know just how close I am. It’ll make them sweat”
“I’m sure they’re doing plenty of that already. Why don’t you…”
“Let it go?” she finished wickedly. With her cane, she reached out and knocked the heads off the flowers. “How often in our very long association have you known me to let anything go?” The question required no answer, so she went on. “Oh, no, Tobias. I’ve been waiting for this, plotting and planning for this, for more than fifty years. I’ll see that woman dead, and not you or anyone else is going to stop me. All I have to do is keep everyone off balance and my ass covered till the scene is as I want it. Then, bam, I’ll close in for the kill and the curtain will come down for the last time on Margaret Truesdale’s life.”
Going slowly to one knee, Tobias began gathering up the bruised petals. Point made, Mary decided. Scooping up the package, she opened the door, checked left, then right, and scurried to the garage and her fully gassed Legacy. She had two errands to run. The first was to set up delivery of the package. The second was to see a man about a car.
Grinning at the irony of that thought, she gunned the engine and took off in a most fitting roar of exhaust
“I SAW A MAN,” Thurman trilled thirty minutes later inside the house. “He had dirty blond hair and a face like a weasel.”
“Did his Adam’s apple stick out?” Sam accepted the tea Nellie thrust at her and handed it to Aidan.
“I really couldn’t say, my dear. Possibly. Nellie, I said Scotch. What is this godawful green slime?”
“Shut up and drink,” Stan ordered querulously. “The man Thurman saw is Randy Paliss. He comes around twice a week to weed the garden. He’s not the brightest person in the world but he’s no killer.”
“Does he like money?” Aidan asked. His discreet fingers around Sam’s wrist took her pulse. He’d wanted to call an ambulance, but everyone, and Sam most of all, had negated the idea.
“We’re fine,” she’d insisted. “Aren’t we fine, Mr. Hollis-ter?”
“Stan. And yes, we are—no thanks to whoever started that damned car and locked us in.”
“It was Alistair,” Sam declared staunchly.
Aidan didn’t think so, though he couldn’t have said why. God knew, the man’s track record was poor, and he’d been hanging around, which gave him plenty of opportunity. But he’d also been adamant about looking for them in the garage.
“Don’t you see, though?” Sam had challenged when Aidan argued the point “If he was so anxious for you to search the garage, it means he knew we were in some kind of danger. And how could he know that if he didn’t cause the situation? Anyway, what was he doing there if he wasn’t gassing us?”
“Eavesdropping?” Aidan suggested.
“To what end?” The hint of a pout in her voice enchanted him. “He can only be working for Mary, Aidan. Mary knows where Margaret is, and Mary does not want to be stopped. Mary’s behind all of the things that have happened to us, and Alistair’s her pawn. It’s simple logic.”
“Nothing’s simple as far as I can see.” Stan was still rubbing his chest. “Mary, Margaret—I thought that nightmare ended years ago.”
Since Sam’s pulse felt fine, Aidan settled for stroking the inside of her wrist with his thumb. “Are you saying that you didn’t know Mary had escaped from Oakhaven?”
“Of course I knew. We all knew. Thurman found out and came running to tell us.”
“I wanted someone else to know,” the actor defended. He waited until Nellie marched out, then pushed himself upright and wobbled over to the teak liquor trolley. “I bore that burden alone for years. Finally I thought to myself, Why should I be the only one enduring this hell? Stan knocked her up, he should have some part in it. Not that any of them wanted to do a blessed thing to help the woman, but I figured they could at least go and visit the odd time.”
“It sounds like you still love her a little,” Sam observed, sliding closer to Aidan on the sofa.
Thurman smiled, a melancholy, fatalistic smile. “No, my dear, I don’t love her at all. Never did. That’s why I feel so guilty.”
It made sense to Aidan. “So everything you’ve done for her, you’ve done out of guilt.”
“It’s a nasty emotion,” Thurman agreed, pouring himself a tall glass of bourbon. “It’ll eat you up if you let it.”
“Tell me about it,” Aidan murmured.
Stan thrust himself forward in the leather chair. “No, you tell us about it. Who are you, really, and what do you want with Mary?”
At Sam’s subtle caution, Aidan shrugged. “Sam’s a reporter and I’m an insurance investigator. Mary’s doctor asked us to locate her as a favor to him. Simple as that” Before Stan could begin a lengthy cross-examination, he shifted his attention back to Thurman. “What did you mean earlier when you said that Helen Murdoch is no more?”
Thurman blinked. “Did I say that? Can’t imagine why. I’ve never heard of the woman.”
“You certainly have,” Sam said to Stan. “I saw her name on your blotter.”
Grim-faced, Stan stood. “I have nothing further to say on the subject. I asked you to come here today because I had—and still have—a nagging suspicion about you. Not you, Bro-die.” He pointed at Sam. “Her. Unfortunately, at this juncture, we seem to be exchanging only ill-concealed barbs and pointless half-truths. I want time to think this through. That’s my way.”
“And a ponderous one it is at that” Thurman raised a cheerful toast to him. “Sorry to interrupt, but while I’m still semicoherent, ditto for me on the information exchange thing. Excuse my bluntness, but whatever we on this side might suspect, we don’t in fact know either of you from Adam. I suggest we end this little tête-à-tête and indulge in some serious solo thinking.”
“One question,” Sam said to Stan. “Did you ever have an affair with Margaret Truesdale?”
His eyes shot to her face, then seemed to soften slightly. “Yes,” he said, bowing his head, “I did. And to answer your next question, I loved her very much.”
“Did you love Mary?”
“No, and she didn’t love me, either. If she tells you we cared for each other, it’s a bald-faced lie.”
“We’ve had no contact with Mary Lamont,” Aidan reminded them.
“You’ve also lied to us in the past.” Stan stood, drew a deep cleansing breath and bellowed for Nellie. “Give me time to think this through again. There are too many forces at work for me to offer my
blind trust to anyone right now.”
Aidan could accept that Sam didn’t want to, but she knew better than most how to be gracious in defeat.
“I wish things weren’t so complicated. It’s hard to straighten out so many tangles,” she sighed to him as they walked across the driveway. “At least Stan agreed to keep my car for me overnight” A weary smile touched her lips. “Mind if I hitch a ride, Brodie? I still feel the tiniest bit woozy.”
Aidan’resisted a fiercer urge to take her in his arms. If they went back to his place and made love as his mind and body longed to do, who knew what clues might slip through their fingers. Mary was entirely too dangerous at this stage. She wanted to kill Margaret and apparently no roadblocks, human or non, were going to stand in her way.
In the Jeep, Sam turned to regard him. “It was Alistair who locked us in and started the car, you know. It had to have been him. Who else was there?”
“Randy Paliss.” Aidan removed a square of folded paper from his jacket pocket. “Hollister gave me his address.”
Sam closed her eyes. “Oh, no, Aidan, tell me we’re not What could Stan’s handyman know that we already don’t?”
“Any number of things—including who masterminded today’s debacle. Who did it” he repeated with absolutely no emotion in his voice, “and where she is right now.”
“IS THAT YOU, Linnie?” Randy Paliss stuck a six-pack in his stained white fridge, swatted a fly and scratched. “Linnie?” he called again. “Damned woman.” He raised his voice. “All right, fine, don’t answer me. You don’t answer, and maybe I won’t share.” He tossed a biscuit to his dog and carried on, garrulous now that he’d traded Bel Air for the more familiar turf of his native East L.A. “You remember that old lady I told you about? The weird old bat who cornered me the other day and told me to stick close to Hollister’s house and keep an eye peeled for a certain pretty female? Well, the pretty female showed today. I made five hundred bucks, and all I had to do was close a door and start a car. Hey, Linnie, you listening or what?”
He heard a click in the doorway and, grabbing another dog biscuit, turned. “Your ears plugged or something?” A confused frown wrinkled his thin forehead until he realized that the woman before him was not only not Linnie, but that she was also carrying a gun in her hand.
She smiled broadly at him. “Sorry to barge in, Ace, but the weird old bat almost made a very stupid mistake.”
“Hey, wait a minute.” Randy backed away, palms up.
“Give the dog a biscuit, Randy, and put him outside.”
“Yes, ma’am. You…you can have the money back—”
“I don’t care about the money. It’s your mouth that con-cerns me. Stan always did hire poor domestic help. He’s a Mickey Mouser, at home and at the studio. Do you know I strolled right into his studio office and not a single soul saw fit to stop me? And there it was, large as life on his desk calendar. ‘Call Giancarlo for meeting.’” She took a menacing step closer on the dirty linoleum. “That’s when I hired you, Randy, and why. I paid you good money, too. But money doesn’t shut mouths anymore, I’m sorry to say.”
His Adam’s apple went up then down. Sweat beads popped out on his forehead and chest. “I won’t talk,” he promised. “You don’t need to worry about that”
“You were talking a blue streak to Linnie when I got here, and Sam’s pretty. Maybe your hormones would tell her something your brain wouldn’t. I take risks, Randy. I don’t take dumb chances.” Her smile broadened, lending an eerie, glazed glow to her hazel eyes. Cocking the gun, she chortled, “Just wait till Tobias hears about this. He was the one who got me thinking. And now here I am, all thought through and itching to use my favorite prop again. Tobias would give his right arm to know where I keep this little beauty stashed.” She waved the gun, then tipped her head consideringly to the side. “Would you give your right arm for anything, Randy?” She steadied the barrel.
Randy went stiff as a board and whiter than the door of his fridge. He had to move. Why couldn’t he move?
Teeth bared, she squeezed the trigger. He felt an explosion in his chest, and then pain, waves of fiery hot pain radiating outward from his rib cage. Stunned, he dropped to his knees, and from there facedown onto the floor.
Blackness spiraled in. “Oh, dear,” he heard the old woman sigh. “I seem to have missed his arm completely.…”
Chapter Fourteen
“It was awful, Margaret.” Sam stood stone-faced at the open French doors and stared out over a sea of flower beds and neatly pruned shrubs. “When we got to the guy’s place, his girlfriend was kneeling over the body, crying and shaking his shoulders. She wanted him to wake up.”
Margaret made a clucking sound, lit a cigarette and shaded her red-rimmed eyes. “That’s dreadful, Sam. No wonder you’re so upset. To see a man lying in a pool of his own blood. Where did you say he was shot?”
Sam’s gaze moved slowly back to her. “I didn’t—say he was shot, I mean. How did you know?”
Margaret moved a negligent shoulder. “It’s Mary’s style. Look at what happened to Anthea. Mary’s always had a penchant for guns. That was one of the reasons she clashed with the writers on. The Three Fates. She wanted to go after her sister with a .38. They wanted her to use a knife.”
Diverted, Sam said, “I thought they were witches. Shouldn’t it have been a battle of wills?”
“It would have been, ultimately. To be honest, I’m rather glad we never shot the final scene. I flatter myself that I could have pulled it off. I’m not sure about her.”
Sam tried to ignore the twist of—something—in her stomach. Not dislike exactly. Closer to disgust, but that was a terrible feeling to have for one’s flesh and blood, especially when that person had done nothing really to arouse it.
Must be an aftereffect of the carbon monoxide, she decided, massaging the back of her neck.
“Where’s Aidan?”Margaret inquired as Theo arrived with a tray of coffee and marzipan cakes.
“Still at Randy Paliss’s place, I imagine. I took a taxi here. I didn’t want to be there with police swarming all around searching for clues.”
“Did you tell them about Mary?”
Sam was in no fit state to be tactful. “We had to. She’s very likely the one who did it.”
Margaret puffed. “You needn’t sound so antagonistic, Sa-mantha, it was a fair question. And you’re absolutely right. The events of the day as you’ve described them would lead me to the same conclusion. Mary’s always been thorough. A loose end like Mr. Paliss would have cast a pall over her deviant brilliance.”
“You sound as though you admire her.”
“Good Lord.” Margaret pressed a hand to her breastbone, choking on the smoke. “I didn’t mean to suggest that. But you must understand, I don’t feel toward Mary the same way she feels toward me. That may sound wishy-washy, and possibly it is, but it’s also the truth. At any rate—” another deep drag “—Mary’s not entirely to blame in this. I could have been nicer at times. When we had our babies for instance. She suffered a terrible loss when her child was stillborn. I think it was the beginning of her troubles. She named Stan as the father, but I doubt it was him.”
“Who then?”
“I have no idea. Not with a man who loved me, that’s for sure.”
“You think Stan loved you?”
Margaret laughed. “Well, no, I don’t think he did actually. What I should have said is that the father of Mary’s baby would not have been a man who’d been with me first She would have wanted her own man, if you know what I mean.”
Sam wasn’t sure she did right then. Her head hurt to the point of nausea. She felt tired and uncharacteristically despondent She wanted to go home, brew a pot of tea, turn on an old movie, preferably not a Margaret Truesdale, Mary Lamont feature, and curl up in bed. She wanted Aidan to be part of that scene, but he was dealing with other less pleasant matters, specifically the police and Randy Paliss’s girlfriend. He might not be feeling very sociable late
r.
Thinking of Aidan reminded her of something he’d given her. “I found it in a file at Hollister’s,” he’d told her before she’d left Randy Paliss’s East L.A. home. “See if Margaret knows anything about it.”
Shivering as the ghostly image of Stan’s handyman lying on a bloodstained linoleum floor swam through her head, Sam retrieved the newspaper clipping from her purse and handed it to Margaret. Even swathed in the shadows of the hearth, she saw the old woman’s hand tremble as she passed bony fingers over the subjects’ faces.
“Is that Frank Durwald standing between Anthea and Margaret?” Sam pointed. “And is that Mary with Dorian Hart?”
“Yes, that’s Frank—and Mary, too.” She heaved a gusty sigh and reached for a fresh cigarette. Sam, who didn’t care for smoke, moved circumspectly away. “I remember that night very well. I’m not sure why. Possibly because it was the first time I met Dorian Hart.”
“Had Frank—your husband—met him before?”
“Briefly. I believe Mary introduced them. She’d known Do-rian for quite some time, or so the story goes.”
“Did she also know that Frank had a problem with gambling?”
Margaret’s eyes rose sharply. “What are you saying? That she engineered the meeting?”
“She was a jealous woman, wasn’t she? And vindictive and petty and low and—”
“Are you trying to make a point, Sam?”
“If she knew about Frank’s gambling addiction, she might have wanted to get him involved with a loan shark like Dorian Hart, knowing full well he’d eventually wind up in over his head. Then she’d have her revenge on Frank Durwald for choosing you over her and on you for all the roles she believed you’d stolen from her over the years.”
To Sam’s surprise, Margaret chuckled. “What a crafty mind you have, child. I begin to wonder if you might not be Mary’s granddaughter instead of mine. Oh, now, don’t be insulted. I meant it as a compliment Mary never did believe her daughter died, you know. The bane of my existence has always been linear thinking. Mary is infinitely more creative than me. You could be right, you certainly could. Frank borrowed a large sum of money from Dorian, and it would seem from Dorian’s interest in Anthea that he would like very much to locate me, or rather Frank through me.”
