by Jenna Ryan
“Now, now,” Guido consoled, patting the actor’s arm. “You’re prophesying the worst. It’s very unlikely that Margaret will show up today. I can’t say about Mary, but if her target’s not present, why would she suddenly go on a shooting spree? It makes no sense, my friend.”
Aidan listened to both men whose voices, beyond a limited range, simply blended in with the murmurings of the crowd. He swept his gaze over dripping umbrellas and black-hatted heads. Most of the people present at the grave site had worked for the studio at one time or another. Guido, whose eye for aged features was better than his or Sam’s, had been rattling off names for the past hour, both in the chapel and here. The mob beyond the gates didn’t matter. If Mary was going to show up, she’d be in this smaller group.
With Theo’s help, they’d managed to keep the location and time of Anthea’s funeral a secret from Margaret She expected the service to begin at four at a site in Beverly Hills. At two-thirty, Anthea’s coffin was currently being lowered into a grave near her home north of Santa Barbara, amid a profusion of trees, rolling hills and quiet country roads.
With Guido distracting Thurman, Sam was able to sidle closer to Aidan. She looked incredible in black; sexy, elegant and beautiful. A hint of red in the band of her hat and the handkerchief she’d tucked into her jacket pocket, provided the perfect contrast. She wore a Ralph Lauren skirt suit, a minimum amount of makeup and a worried expression on her face.
Aidan placed a reassuring hand in the small of her back. He would have liked to do a great deal more, but his primary goal was to keep Mary from harming Sam as an alternate act of retribution against Margaret.
“Do you think we did the right thing?” Sam darted a look around the crowded cemetery. “There must be close to a hundred people here, more than half of them women and most of those, old women. I see a dozen possible Marys every time I lift my head.”
Moisture began to seep through Aidan’s gray-green raincoat. His hair was wet from the drizzle; his mood was deteriorating rapidly. He’d spotted no less than thirty possible Marys so far and that included a number of short men in shadowy hats.
“We had to try something, Sam,” he reminded her, his eyes still scanning. “Making Anthea’s death and funeral arrangements headline news seemed the best way to flush Mary out. Guido agreed, and there are several police here.”
“Who’ll scare her off if she sees one of them.”
“They’re plainclothes, and that isn’t what she’s looking for. She wants Margaret.”
“Or us,” she added, aggravatingly logical. At his tightly leashed look, she blew out a tense breath. “Face it, Brodie, we’ll do in a pinch. We know she’s on to us, and chances are better than even that she knows I’m Margaret’s granddaughter. She might be willing to settle for us temporarily.”
Despite the gravity of the situation, Aidan’s lips twitched. “You’re a born optimist, Sam. There must be Irish in your ancestry at that.”
She made a preoccupied sound and raised her camera, complete with telephoto lens, to her eye. “I wonder. I guess that’s a man over there by that tree. Can you see him, Aidan?” She offered the camera to him. “He’s dressed like Truman Capote. The brim of his hat covers three-quarters of his face.”
Aidan watched him for a moment then allowed a small smile to tug on his lips. “It’s a guy, all right. He has a skinny mustache and fat sausage fingers. What about that woman on the fringe?”
Sam zeroed in, sighed and shook her head. “No, Guido already made her. She used to be a dancer at the studio. He said she had the same physical look as Margaret and Mary but not a speck of talent above her ankles.” She refocused the lens, her tone amused. “Guido can be brutally honest sometimes.”
Aidan caught a jerky movement out of the corner of his eye and moved to block Sam from the hand that would have snared her arm.
Stan’s eyes, dark and flashing, bored into hers. “How dare you?” he demanded. “We counted on this being a private ceremony, not a media circus. Have you seen the mob out there?”
Sam stood her ground, head high. “We had to do something, you know we did. Mary’s going to show. She won’t be able to resist a golden opportunity like this.”
“What about Margaret?”
“She won’t be here,” Aidan told him. He grasped the director’s arm when he would have reached again for Sam. “Take our word for it, Hollister.”
The other man’s glare, suspicious at first, became downright accusing. “Do you mean to tell me that you’ve known where Margaret Truesdale is all along and you haven’t said anything? Why, I ought to…”
“Don’t try it” Tightening his grip, Aidan forced the man’s hand down.
“You’re upset,” Sam said in a surprisingly gentle tone. “Please don’t be. We only want this to end. And the only way to do that is to try and draw Mary out.”
Stan’s lips thinned. Snatching his arm free, he straightened his cuff. “Perhaps your intentions were good, but I’d say you failed in your attempt. Anthea’s been laid to rest. The crowd’s dispersing. In a few minutes we’ll have gone our separate ways, and all of this ridiculous hoopla—which, I might add, Anthea would not have appreciated—will have been for nothing.”
Sam held his glare with a composed one of her own until he’d stalked off to rejoin his party. Then she made a face. “Spoilsport,” she muttered. Lifting her camera, she swept it over the crowd. “They’re milling, not dispersing. It’ll be another ten minutes yet before…”
Aidan made a full sweep of his own before he realized that she’d stopped speaking. He looked and saw that she’d stopped moving, too. The lens of her camera was focused intently on a huge twisted cedar. Low-hanging limbs obscured Aidan’s view but only until the person beneath it shifted and he separated her from the darkened hollows of the trunk.
She wore a hat and veil, probably net, but it was sufficient to conceal her features. Her black coat was shapeless, the hand holding her umbrella gloved. The other hand, he noticed, was buried deep in her coat pocket.
“Is it Mary?” he asked, checking the immediate area. People continued to mill about, some weeping, some showing no emotion, all murmuring as they mingled before the grave.
“I’m not sure. She’s an older woman. I can see her throat a little. It’s wrinkled.” She raised troubled eyes briefly to his. “It feels as though she’s staring straight at me, Aidan.”
The idea sent a ripple of unease down his spine. He shook it off, at the same time shifting her behind him. “She can’t possibly see you from there.”
“I said I felt it. That doesn’t mean she was—Oh, God, no, don’t go!” Bringing the camera down, Sam hooked an urgent hand around his wrist. “She’s leaving. We have to follow.”
Aidan didn’t budge. “Why is she leaving?”
“Maybe because she doesn’t see Margaret. Hurry up or we’ll loose her.”
“Sam! Hello, dear.” A blond woman Aidan recognized as Leo Rockland’s new wife, bussed her cheeks. “Is everything all right?”
Startled, mistrustful and impatient, Sam pulled back. “I’m—fine, Freddie.” She managed a polite smile. “I’m afraid, though, that we have to go.”
“Yes, of course…Oh, my!” This as Sam in her haste piled into a slenderly built man with narrow features, hazel eyes and black hair that curled over the nape of his neck. He flashed an apologetic smile, hesitated, then turned and walked swiftly away.
“Are you hurt?” Freddie inquired.
“No. I’m sorry, but we really do have to go. Oh, hello, Ms. Mesmyr.”
Enough of this, Aidan decided, and cupped a firm hand around Sam’s elbow. “Excuse us,” he said before Evelyn Mesmyr could respond.
“She looks like a mannequin,” Sam muttered out of earshot “Freddie looks nice, though. I wonder how much she knows or has guessed. I talked to her—Oh, God, Aidan, Mary’s getting into a car!”
The car in question being one of a million similar American cars. Something black by Chevrolet. He c
ouldn’t see the make or identify the lines from their present angle.
“What is it?” Guido puffed up behind them. “Mary?”
“She’s getting away,” Sam panted. Then she skidded to a halt on the grass. “Wait a minute.” Whipping up her camera, she adjusted the lens. “Four, three, eight, five…LCS. It’s a—” She strained and readjusted. “A Cavalier.” Raising anticipatory eyes, she said, “They’re California plates, Aidan. If we can trace them, we’ve got her. We’ll have Mary Lamont at last.”
“YOU’RE BEING a regular old stick-in-the-mud, Brodie,” Sam accused several hours later at her apartment. She tossed the towel she’d been using to dry her hair onto a kitchen chair, glanced first at the stack of waiting mail and then at Guido, who was calmly spooning coffee into Norman Rockwell mugs. “Don’t you think he’s being a wet blanket?” she demanded.
Guido shrugged. “You’re mixing your metaphors, Minx. He’s being cautious as we all should be until those plates can be identified. We’ll have an answer as soon as your friend at ‘Who’s News’ calls you back. In the meantime you should sit, calm yourself and eat the sandwich I’ve prepared for you.”
Spiced ham and cheese on San Francisco sourdough. Sam sat, planted her elbows on the table and stared at Aidan through the veil of her lashes. This idea of not telling Margaret about the funeral had been his brainchild. They’d talked about her yesterday at length. They’d even touched on Sam’s mixed feelings toward the woman. That had been her big confession, that she wasn’t sure she liked Margaret and that it was guilt over the lack rather than affection for her natural grandmother that was driving her to find Mary.
Maybe her feelings would change, she reflected, still staring at him. She wasn’t so sure about Aidan’s. Oh, they’d made love, all right, several times in the past thirty-six hours, but she didn’t sense she’d reached him yet on that deepest of emotional levels.
Demons, she thought, closing her eyes and forcing her thoughts onto another track. Everyone had them. She, Aidan, Margaret and especially Mary Lamont. Mary, whom she. was certain had been at the cemetery today.
They’d done the right thing by publicizing Anthea’s funeral, but they’d gained the animosity of Stan, Thurman and probably Leo Rockland, as well. Freddie seemed to be on their side. As for Evelyn, she’d shown up in a black limo and stood side by side with the black-haired man Sam had barreled into at the cemetery.
“Could be her grandson, I suppose,” she mused aloud.
Aidan, who’d been sifting idly through. her mail, offered her a faintly amused smile. “Give us a clue, Sam. Whose grandson?”
“The dark-haired man with hazel eyes at the grave site. I bumped into him. He looked familiar.”
Guido snorted. “As well he should. That was Jimmy Visey.”
“Dorian Hart’s grandson?” Sam’s insides tightened as if twisted with wire. “What was he doing there?”
Guido placed a heaping platter on the table. “Same as us, I should think, at the bidding of his grandfather. Which would pretty much cement our theory that Frank Durwald never paid Dorian the debt he owed.”
Aidan’s brows came together. “Would Dorian Hart be the type to take out his frustration on Margaret if he found her?”
Guido pursed his lips. “Possibly. He was a ruthless bastard in his prime.”
“Like Mary.” Sam reached for the phone. It shrieked, startling her, just as her hand made contact
Connie’s voice, a soothing balm for her nerves, offered a cheerful, “Got your information, kid, no easy feat on a Sunday with my computer throwing a tantrum. The car’s plates are registered to Irene and Fred Heiden. Twelve seventy-three Cal-vero Boulevard. That’s just south of Big Tujunga Canyon, isn’t it?”
“I think so.” Sam wrote the address down and shoved it across the table to Aidan whose attention was fixed on a package wrapped in plain brown paper. Tapping the paper, she got him to look. He in turn pushed the package over to Guido.
“Remember,” Connie warned, “I have dibs on your exclusive. Anything more I can do?”
“Not right now. Thanks, Connie. I won’t forget this.” She hit Reset, but kept the phone in her hand. “Well?” she demanded when neither man spoke. “We’ve got an address.”
“And two names,” Aidan noted out “Guido?”
He slit the package tape with a butter knife. “Fred Heiden could be the butler, I suppose. Tobias Lallibertie. He and Mary had a strange sort of love-hate relationship, according to the gossip columns of the day. Nothing physical, you understand. He was more her pillar of support. Two names would be more of a smokescreen than one…Ah, of course,” he exclaimed. “I should have guessed from the shape. Another video.”
Sam was more interested in checking out the Tujunga Canyon address than in watching a clip from The Three Fates. She gave the tape box a cursory glance, started to argue her point then did a puzzled double take. “What’s that picture?”
Guido looked baffled, so Sam reached out a finger to turn the box her way. Aidan’s chair scraped as he came to peer over her shoulder.
“X’s and O’s,” she murmured. “It must have been sent with the video.” She pointed from left to right. “Margaret, Anthea and Mary.”
Guido sighed. “She’s put an X through Anthea and circled Margaret”
Aidan bent closer. “That’s Mary who’s circled, Guido.”
Sam squinted at the less than clear shot. “He’s right It’s Mary, Anthea, Margaret, not the other way around. Why would Mary circle herself?”
“Because she killed Anthea?” Guido suggested.
“What, and she’s bragging about it?” She flipped the pic-ture over. “The woman’s beyond help.” Hitting the Phone button, she pressed Margaret’s number. Margaret answered halfway through the second ring.
“You said the funeral was at four,” she accused before Sam could say hello. “It’s six o’clock now. Why did you lie?”
She must have Call Display, Sam decided. “We had to, Margaret. Knowing you, we thought you’d take the risk and insist on coming. Theo in disguise might have been all right, but Mary would have spotted you for sure.”
“You mean she was there?” Margaret’s voice was low and tremulous.
“I think so, but I’m not a hundred percent sure. We’ve got an address. We’re going to check it out now.”
Margaret managed a shaky laugh. “You know, for a moment there, I actually felt light-headed. Be very, very careful, child, when you go. Where is it? Here in the city?”
“Near Tujunga Canyon.”
“That close?” Tension crept in. “What’s the address?”
Sam hesitated, then relented. “Twelve seventy-three Cal-vera Boulevard. As I said, though, we’re not sure it’s her. Lots of women were wearing veils at the funeral.” None but one, however, had stood apart from the crowd then departed like a shot when she realized she’d been observed.
Margaret drew a deep breath. “It was her, Sam. Whatever your plan, and I’m shrewd enough to know you have one, it seems to have worked. All that remains now is for someone to return her to Oakhaven. Perhaps I should telephone her doctor and make the arrangements.”
“We haven’t even established if this Irene Heiden is Mary,” Sam reminded her. “After we’re sure we’ll call in the authorities.”
Margaret released a gusty breath. “Very well, but I received another music box today. It came special delivery and contained a most disturbing message.”
“A threatening note?”
“Not exactly. The tune in the box was ‘Chopin’s Funeral March.’”
THURMAN SAT in Leo’s library, his head in his hands, his elbows planted on his knees. “Farewell, Anthea,” he said dully. “Farewell peace and tranquility. Mary’s on the prowl and I shall sleep no more.”
“Shut up, Thurman,” Stan ordered. He tried Leo one last time. “What can it hurt to give us Margaret’s assumed name, Leo? Just her damned name.”
“Why?” Freddie wanted to know. “Do you
want to see her dead? Perhaps you’re in league with that monster, Mary. I wouldn’t put it past any of you, especially you, Thurman. You’ve always felt guilty about having her committed after Margaret disappeared. How do we know you don’t want to find Margaret again in order to assuage that guilt by helping Mary to have her revenge?”
Thurman, who wasn’t as drunk as he’d like to be, glowered at her. “I may feel guilty, Freddie, but not that guilty. Pick on Stan, if you need to sharpen your tongue. He was the father of Mary’s child.”
Leo caught bitterness in his tone, but disregarded it. Better to remain a silent spectator while his head was reasonably clear and see what developed next.
Stan’s dark eyes gleamed, but he quietly snarled, “I was named the father of her child. That doesn’t make it so.”
“Ha!” Thurman pounced. “Are you denying you slept with her?”
“No, I’m denying paternity. The child was not mine.”
“Right, and Eskimos live in grass huts. Peddle your bull to the public, Stan, not to me.”
“Thurman does have a point,” Freddie said softly. “You were with Mary at the time.”
Stan’s face turned deep crimson. “I was also…”
“What?” Thurman demanded belligerently. “Seeing someone else? Doing threesomes? What?”
“Don’t be crude, Thurman,” Freddie admonished. “Go on, Stan.”
He looked about to explode. Even his ears were scarlet “I was—impotent.” He stood with a jerk, fists clenched. “I’d been with Margaret before that. When she broke it off, I turned to alcohol.”
“Nothing unusual in that,” Thurman said.
“Shut up. She…” He ran a hand through his hair. “Oh, hell, I might as well say it. Margaret’s child was mine, not Mary’s. So you see, I’m hardly likely to be in league with Mary, am I? Thurman, yes. Me, no.”
