5. Sweet Revenge

by Fern Michaels

  “Oh, God. Oh, God!” she whimpered as she stared down at the paper on the floor. Three yawning square holes in the ground: two large ones, one very small one. People — mourners, she supposed. Off to the side, the media. She recognized the small boy and the grandmother who had unsuccessfully fought her in court.

  Rosemary dropped to the floor and grabbed the piece of paper. She shredded it and the envelope and then scrambled her way to the bathroom where she flushed both.

  She looked around for her coat, slipped into it, then grabbed her purse and car keys. Her mail at home came around eleven o’clock. If there was a letter at home she would go to the police and then to Isabelle Flanders’s office.

  “You aren’t going to get away with this, you bitch! I’ll sic the police on you!”

  Rosemary was still mumbling to herself as she walked down the hall, across the lobby and out to the parking lot. The receptionist shook her head from side to side as she watched her employer race out of the building. She wondered where the fire was. Then again, maybe someone died. Not that her boss would care.

  By the time Rosemary reached her home she was light-headed. She fumbled in the metal box for the mail. There was nothing there apart from a Nordstrom catalog and a flyer offering ten percent off for a first visit to the Paradise Spa. No white envelope. She felt giddy and relieved.

  Her key in the lock, she turned it, opened the door and almost tripped over the long, slender mailing tube that lay across the threshold. She recognized what it was immediately. She mailed blueprints in the same kind of container all the time.

  Inside she disarmed the alarm system as she made her way to the kitchen she never used. She ripped at the hard plastic end cap and withdrew a set of blueprints that made her clench her jaw so hard that she chipped one of her pricey porcelain caps. She spit out the piece of enamel as she looked down at the worn, tattered, dirty set of blueprints to the name of the architect at the bottom: Isabelle Flanders. The same set of blueprints on which she’d substituted her own name. Where in the damn hell had these prints come from? She’d destroyed them all, every last set of them. Yet here she was, looking at what appeared to be the original set of working blueprints.

  “This is impossible!” she screamed to the emptiness around her. “It’s impossible! Do you hear me?”

  Rosemary ran to the fireplace, threw the blueprints inside and struck a match. Too late, she realized it was a gas fire, not a real one. How could she have forgotten that? She’d never used it, that’s how. The small flame curled and then went out. How was she supposed to burn these now? Her thoughts desperate, she reached for the blueprints and carried them up to Bobby’s bathroom where she dumped them in the bathtub. No sense in dirtying her tub. She lit a second match, then a third and a fourth until all four corners were flaming. It took a long time for all six pages to burn. She wondered if it was the ink that took so long to burn.

  Finally, she was left with a large square mass of black charred paper, which meant that the middle layers hadn’t burned through. Her eyes frantic, Rosemary looked around for something to poke at the mess with. She settled on a toilet brush. Bits of black ash floated upward to settle everywhere in the immaculate bathroom. “Oh, God! Oh, God!” she cried as she struck another match and again watched as the blueprints burned and smoked.

  Tears streaking down her cheeks, Rosemary tried stuffing the charred mess down the bathtub drain. The water backed up almost immediately. Hard sobs rocked her shoulders as she then tried to scoop up the black mess to flush it. The first glob went down easily enough, although it turned the white toilet black. She started to sneeze with the smoke that was circling all around the second floor. She should have turned on the exhaust fan.

  She turned on the fan before she reached for a second huge glob of the sodden burned blueprints. She tossed them in the toilet and flushed. To her horror, the water swirled to the top and overflowed. Before she knew it, she was ankle-deep in gushing water. She dropped to her knees and crawled to the back of the toilet where she turned off the water. She backed out of the cramped spot and looked around at the mess she’d created.

  The reflection she saw in the mirror frightened her.

  Fourteen

  Ted Robinson looked around the newsroom to see if there was any sign of Maggie Spritzer. But she wasn’t at her computer and her desk was tidy. His gaze swept the room for a sign of the striped doughnut box. He shrugged. She was probably out chasing some gossip that would titillate her readers for days to come.

  Ted hooked his foot on his chair, pulled it forward and then sat down. He slid a floppy into the hard drive and proceeded to view the contents on his monitor. It was time to stop futzing around and get down and dirty. Screw Jack Emery and their friendship. He reviewed all the notes he’d taken over the past few months before he punched up the profiles of each one of the ladies of Pinewood. When he was satisfied he knew the contents by heart, he moved on to the Post’s archives. He typed in the name Dr. Julia Webster. Article after article appeared, most of them dealing with the doctor’s husband, Senator Webster, who, according to one article, had dropped off the face of the earth. Dr. Webster herself had also disappeared.

  Ted scrawled a note on a yellow legal pad. Two missing people. He typed in dates of the Websters’ disappearance to see what else was going on at that time. The big HMO scandal. Now defunct. Senator Webster’s name for the Vice Presidential nomination and the ensuing scandal about his womanizing. Two separate scandals and yet his instincts told him they were somehow tied together. All the parties involved had dropped out of circulation, never to be seen or heard from again. Ted made more notes on the legal pad.

  He worked steadily for two hours. At one point, when his eyes started to ache, he reached for his glasses. He hated wearing them. Maggie said they made him look like a retarded owl. She could have said a wise old owl, but no, a retarded owl. He hunkered down and continued with his timeline of events.

  At four o’clock, Ted closed up shop and prepared to leave the office. He took a last look around to see if there was any sign of Maggie. There wasn’t. She’d been gone all day. His gut instinct told him she was chasing down Myra Rutledge. He, on the other hand, was going to chase down Nikki Quinn, Alexis Thorne and the Japanese lady. First stop: Nikki Quinn’s law offices.

  Ted parked his car next to a Mercedes 500 SEL. His little scoot-about Honda looked shabby in comparison, but he got almost thirty miles to the gallon so he wasn’t complaining. It got him where he had to go and it was so nondescript that no one paid attention to it. Perfect for tailing someone. The sleek car looked familiar for some reason. He’d seen it recently somewhere. This was Washington, where Mercedes cars were almost like mass transit. He walked around to look at the license plate. He grinned from ear to ear when he saw the registration: # 1 AOTY. Architect of the Year. Rosemary Hershey’s car. Son of a bitch! Sometimes he just managed to step into the clover over the dark brown stuff. Talk about pure dumb luck.

  Ted’s mind raced. Rosemary Hershey. Isabelle Flanders. Nikki Quinn. He tried to grasp what it all meant. If Isabelle, Nikki and the others really were vigilantes and Hershey did Flanders wrong, what was she doing here with one of the vigilantes? Unless…unless…Hershey didn’t know that Isabelle Flanders belonged to that particular little group.

  Ted retraced his steps to his car, got in and moved three spaces away on the other side of the aisle. He had a perfect view of the Mercedes through his rearview mirror. Hell, he could just hop out and conduct his interviews right here in the parking lot.

  He waited.

  The clock on the dashboard said it was five-thirty-five when he saw Rosemary Hershey walk across the parking lot. He blinked twice. This haggard-looking woman dressed in baggy slacks and a denim jacket bore absolutely no resemblance to the spit-and-polish architect he’d seen at the Pioneer Club luncheon. He was out of the car in a flash. He reached the Mercedes before his quarry.

  “Miss Hershey, Ted Robinson from the Post. I’d like to ask you a fe
w questions about Isabelle Flanders.” He leaned against the door, preventing the architect from opening it.

  Rosemary clutched her purse. Ted wondered if she’d try using it as a weapon. He prepared to duck if necessary.

  “I thought I told you to stay away from me. I don’t have anything to say to you. I have no comment about that woman. All of that was a long time ago and it’s been settled. We’ve all gone on with our lives.”

  “Maybe so, but I have questions. I’m doing a follow-up, human interest story about how a little boy and his grandmother got screwed by the system.”

  “You miserable cretin! Get away from my car or I’ll call the police!”

  As if she was really going to call the police. Ted gambled, his reporter’s instincts kicking into high gear. “And open up that can of worms! They’ll start asking questions that will eventually lead back to that tragic accident. The police aren’t stupid. They’ll put two and two together and they’re going to come up with four. This law firm is not on your roster of legal eagles. I checked the old records.” At the look of panic in the woman’s eyes, Ted threw out a wild card. “Is someone threatening you? If they are, maybe I can help.”

  Rosemary’s voice was shaky. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would someone threaten me?”

  Ted threw out a second wild card. “Maybe the person doing the threatening has some proof that the accident didn’t happen the way you said it did. I heard through the grapevine that Bobby Harcourt is no longer with your firm. Is that true?”

  “I don’t think that’s any of your business, Mr. Robinson. Nothing either one of us does is any of your business. Now, if you will excuse me…”

  Ted stepped away from the car. “Miss Hershey, I can be a good friend or I can be a bad enemy. Let me help you in return for an exclusive when this is over, whatever this is.”

  “No one in their right mind trusts reporters,” Rosemary said as she clicked her remote and opened the door.

  “The reporters were more than kind to you during the trial. They gave you so much press it was almost laughable. Here,” Ted said, pulling a business card from his pocket, “take this in case you change your mind. You can call me day or night.”

  Rosemary turned round, her face a mask of hatred. “I’ll call you when they start handing out ice water in hell. Don’t hold your breath!”

  “Can I quote you on everything you just said?” Ted said, flourishing a mini tape recorder he had removed from his jacket pocket.

  “Go to hell, you…you ink blob! You print one word of that and I will sue your ass off — and that rag paper you work for.”

  Ink blob. That was a new one. Ted jumped out of the way just in time, otherwise Rosemary would have ploughed him over. He grinned. The architect hadn’t discarded his business card. It was still in her hand when she got into her car. As he walked toward the front of the building, he told himself that patience was definitely a virtue.

  Ted found a seat in the lobby and prepared to wait for Nikki Quinn. After a while he jumped up, remembering that there was a rear exit that was closer to the parking lot. He made a beeline for the door and the parking lot where Nikki’s BMW was parked.

  He looked at his watch. Six-twenty-six. Maybe Nikki was going to work through the evening. He was trying to decide if he should leave or not when he saw her crossing the parking lot.

  “Hey, there, Nikki! Got a minute?”

  “Ah, the Post’s star reporter lurking in the parking lot. Is something big going down that I should know about?” Nikki quipped as she tried to get her wits together. Damn, what was he doing here? More importantly, had he seen Rosemary Hershey?

  “Was in the area. Wanted to ask you a few questions. So you and Jack are back together again, eh? Does that mean he’s joined up with your vigilante group?”

  “What are you talking about, Ted? Jack and I aren’t…we’re not together anymore. What vigilante group are you talking about?”

  “C’mon, c’mon, you two spent the night together at your house in Georgetown. I saw both of you. I certainly don’t care if the two of you are canoodling. What I care about is my old buddy, who is known for upholding law and order, suddenly joining forces with you ladies out there at ye olde farm who are breaking the law. Care to give me a comment?”

  Nikki forced a laugh. “What have you been smoking, Ted? Of course I mind giving you a comment. I make a point of never doing that. But because you are Jack’s friend, I will tell you this: I’ve been renting the house to Jack because I’m staying out at the farm. I stopped by to pick up the rent. The weather was bad so I stayed over.”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s what Jack said. That Jack, he’s a laugh a minute.”

  “Yes, Jack can be funny at times. I hate to cut you short but I have to get out to the farm.”

  “Well, sure. Before you go, how about a comment on Rosemary Hershey’s visit to your offices?”

  So he had seen the architect. He was probably stalking her. “Can’t do it, Ted. Attorney-client privilege. You know how that goes.”

  “Absolutely. I sure wouldn’t want to do anything unethical. Just the thought of breaking the law makes me come out in a cold sweat. How do you gals out at the farm do it? Do you just turn it on and turn it off? Oh, stupid me. Of course, it’s not a problem for you because your bodacious asses are covered by those guys who stole my spleen and almost killed me. Those same guys who beat up that guy you rent your house to. Yeah, yeah, I understand.” Ted turned on his heel and walked away, but stopped in mid-stride. “Sometimes what a person doesn’t say is more eloquent than anything he or she could ever put into words. Drive carefully now. There are a lot of cowboys on the highway these days.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” Nikki mumbled, knowing Ted couldn’t hear her.

  Ted parked his car, gathered up his briefcase and his sub sandwich that was to be his dinner and got out of the Honda he’d parked behind a huge black SUV. Even so, he was almost at the end of the long block. Suddenly, he felt himself being jerked backward and shoved against the SUV.

  “What the hell!”

  “Shut up, Ted. They’re up there in your apartment. I saw them go in. There’s three of them. I got a really good look at their faces. These guys are new and they look mean and ugly.”

  “What the hell are you doing here, Maggie? Have you been following me? I only bought one sub.”

  “Will you shut up and get in the SUV? No, I wasn’t following you. I’m horny. The back seat, you jerk, there’s more room. We have to talk. You can have half and I’ll eat the other half.”

  “I thought you said you were horny. Half? I’ll give you a quarter, not a smidgen more. You can have the chips and the pickle.”

  “I lied about being horny. Half, Ted. You can have the chips. I’ll take the pickle. What do they want with you now?”

  “Who the hell knows? You’re right, we do need to talk. I hope Mickey and Minnie hide under the bed. Maybe I should call the cops and tell them someone just broke into my apartment.”

  “Will you get real, Ted? This isn’t a game. What did you do today to get them so riled up?” Maggie unwrapped the sub sandwich, relieved that it had already been cut in two. The smell of vinegar and oil immediately permeated the SUV.

  Ted bit down on his half of the sandwich. “Whose rig is this?”

  “I rented it. I like the black windows. Makes me feel like a super spy. Those guys could be standing right outside the window and they still couldn’t see us. They might hear us but they wouldn’t be able to see us. I think I outsmarted them. So, what did you do today?”

  Between bites of food, Ted brought Maggie up to date. “Are you sure you lied about being horny?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Well, maybe not a hundred percent sure, but unless we go for it right here in this truck, it ain’t gonna happen. That’s for later anyway. I went off on my own today. Went to see Isabelle Flanders. She didn’t give anything up. She was up to her ears in decorating her new offices. My gut instinct tells me she’s just wha
t she says she is, an architect trying to make a comeback after a bad spell. She was very nice. She didn’t even bad-mouth Rosemary Hershey. And she only had nice things to say about Bobby Harcourt, who she was engaged to for a while.”

  “Something is going on with the Hershey woman. You should have seen her. She looked like something the cat dragged in and then dragged back out. She is one hateful woman, I can tell you that. You know what I think, Maggie? I think she went to Quinn’s law firm because she didn’t want to alert the previous attorneys that something might be going on. She has no clue about those vigilante women out there at the farm. That means, without knowing it, she fell right into their trap and they didn’t have to work at it.”

  Maggie finished the last of her sandwich and then chomped down on the pickle. “I think you’re right, Ted.” She kissed him on the cheek, snatching what was left of his sandwich before he knew what was happening. “You should have gotten some dessert. I like something sweet after I eat.”

  Ted thought he was being crafty. “How sweet?”

  “Don’t go there right now, Robinson. I thought you were going to call the cops.”

  “OK, OK.” Ted dialed the precinct, gave the address and said, “I’m a neighbor of Ted Robinson. I was coming up from the laundry room and saw three men pick the lock on his apartment. They went inside and they’re still there. You don’t need my name; I don’t want to get involved.” He rattled off the apartment number. “I’m keeping track of the time and will tell Mr. Robinson I called. He’s a big-shot reporter at the Post, in case you don’t know. He works on top-secret stuff so you might want to keep that in mind. Don’t be stupid and use your siren either.”