Heartbeat

by Joan Johnston

  Roman tried to keep the irritation out of his voice as he said good night and dropped the teenager off at her door, ten blocks away. He ran most of the stop signs getting back home but took his time getting up the stairs, taking off his bow tie and jacket long before he got to the bedroom door. He stopped cold when he saw Lisa wasn’t in bed waiting for him, or as far as he could see, anywhere in the bedroom. Not again.

  “Lisa?”

  The bathroom door was open, and he stepped close enough to see whether she was in there. She wasn’t.

  Suddenly he knew where she had to be. He dropped his tie and jacket on the bed and headed for Amy’s room. He eased his daughter’s bedroom door open and saw Lisa sitting on the bed beside Amy, who was sound asleep. He came up behind Lisa and slipped his hand possessively around her nape and felt her shiver in response. I want you. I need you. He thought the words but didn’t say them.

  “I couldn’t resist saying good night to her,” Lisa whispered.

  “I know.” He leaned over to kiss his daughter’s brow. With Amy he was able to exhibit so much more affection than he could with his wife. “She feels a little warm,” he said.

  “She’s fine,” Lisa answered. “You worry too much.”

  It was true. But how did one stop? He loved them both so very much. He did not know how he had survived before they came into his life, but he knew he could not live long without them.

  Lisa reached for his hand and led him out of Amy’s bedroom, tugging him toward their bedroom doorway. She shut the door behind them and turned to him, her dark eyes glowing. “Please, Roman. I need you.”

  Roman’s throat ached. All his fears seemed so foolish. Lisa wanted him. She needed him.

  He knew he ought to ask her for some explanation of what had been troubling her, to get it out in the open, so it never came between them again. But he decided it could wait.

  Roman reached for his wife and enfolded her in his embrace.

  Jack felt flags of heat on his cheeks as Victoria Wainwright looked him up and down. She couldn’t miss his erection. From the sardonic curve of her lips, she hadn’t.

  He turned to Maggie and said, “Would you mind if I danced with Mrs. Wainwright?”

  “Of course not,” she said. But her straight-backed, chin-upthrust exit from the dance floor told Jack she wasn’t too happy about the situation. As far as he was concerned, the interruption couldn’t have come at a worse time.

  “Shall we?” Victoria said, holding out her arms to him.

  Jack didn’t see how he could refuse. He was careful to keep her at arm’s length, though it was plain she wouldn’t have minded dancing a lot closer. He had to admit she was well preserved. The clingy material in a deep plum color she wore didn’t reveal any bulges that shouldn’t have been there. Mrs. Wainwright was a damned fine-looking woman. But she was too perfect to be real, like a mannequin.

  Jack wanted more than anything for the dance to end so he could get back to Maggie . . . until it dawned on him this would be a perfect time to ask Mrs. Wainwright why she spent so much time with the children at the hospital. He figured he’d better ease into the subject and started with something neutral. “The decorations are nice.”

  She surveyed Alamo Plaza like a queen eyeing her domain. “It was an inspired choice, if I do say so myself, Jack. May I call you Jack?”

  Jack would rather not be on any closer terms with the lady but knew better than to say so. “Sure,” he answered.

  “All those World War II movies being promoted this year with Tom Hanks and Arnold Schwarzenegger have brought the period back into vogue. Women love to dress in figure-enhancing styles like those of the forties, and a war theme has the additional cachet of being patriotic.”

  She smiled and added, “Kitty Nickerson will be sick when she finds out my Cancer Society Gala has outearned her Heart Association Ball.”

  “Does it really matter who makes the most? I thought the object was to raise money for charity,” Jack said.

  Victoria laughed. “My dear Jack,” she said, running a blood-red fingernail across his cheek, “among those of us in Texas society who matter, it matters.”

  “Like reading to kids in the hospital matters?” Jack said.

  A confused expression appeared briefly on Victoria’s face, replaced by a shrewd, calculating look. “Why, Jack, I didn’t know you were aware of my activities with the children.”

  Jack shrugged. “It came up in conversation when I was interviewing the nurses about a malpractice claim.”

  “What did the nurses have to say?” she asked archly.

  “That you’re devoted to the children.”

  “Did they?” Victoria said, relaxing slightly, her smile less rigid. “I try to help where I can.”

  “Why do you do it?”

  “What?”

  “I heard you spent hours reading to a child who was in a coma—Laurel Morgan. Why would you do that?”

  Victoria’s eyes narrowed. “The child deserved to hear her favorite stories in her last moments.”

  Jack tensed. “Her last moments?”

  “The prognosis was not good for Laurel. I stayed with her, read to her, because I didn’t think she should be alone at such a time.”

  “Were you there when she died?” Jack asked.

  Victoria’s gaze shifted to somewhere in the distance. “Poor child. She was alone at the end.”

  Did Victoria know what he’d been driving at? Did she know that by saying the child was alone, she was exonerating herself from murder? Jack was having a hard time reconciling the sensitive, sympathetic Victoria Wainwright at the hospital with the woman who treated charity fundraising as a competitive sport. It didn’t compute. Nevertheless, he was at a dead end. “I think what you do is a good thing,” he managed to say.

  Victoria smiled approvingly at him. “Now Jack, we have more important matters to discuss.”

  Jack eyed her warily. “We do?”

  “I want to know your intentions.”

  “Intentions?” Jack was genuinely puzzled by the question.

  “Toward my daughter-in-law.”

  “I don’t think that’s any of your business, ma’am.”

  “Victoria, please,” she corrected with a forced smile.

  “All right, Victoria. What is it you want from me?” Jack said bluntly.

  “I want you to stay away from Margaret,” she said, just as bluntly. “She’s not in your class.”

  “I think you have that backward. Don’t you mean I’m not in her class?”

  “I meant what I said. Margaret’s a babe in the woods where men are concerned. She doesn’t recognize a lone wolf when she sees one. I do. Leave her alone.”

  “Why? What’s your interest in this?”

  “Margaret is a widow, a Wainwright, and the mother of my one remaining grandchild. She has a reputation in the community to up-hold.”

  Jack was stunned by Victoria’s revelation. “Maggie has a living child? I thought both her sons died.”

  “Brian lived. Didn’t she tell you?”

  Jack shook his head, unable to speak.

  “I’m not surprised,” Victoria continued. “She won’t even tell me where she keeps the boy. It’s no wonder she keeps him hidden, the condition he’s in.”

  “What condition is that?” Jack asked.

  “Brian drowned, Mr. Kittrick. He suffered brain damage and spent a year in a coma. What condition do you think he’s in?”

  “I wouldn’t know, ma’am. That’s why I asked you.”

  Victoria’s lips pursed. “It sounds to me like Margaret has been keeping secrets from you, Jack.”

  “Like what?” Jack asked.

  Victoria’s blue eyes narrowed, and her lips thinned. “Like the fact she murdered my son and my husband. Like the fact she’s responsible for my grandchildren drowning.”

  A shudder curled down Jack’s spine. He let Victoria go as though she’d suddenly opened her mouth to reveal poisonous fangs. His skin felt odd, p
rickly, and he realized the hair all over his body was standing straight up. “Those are serious accusations,” he said.

  “Ask her,” Victoria said. “See if she denies it. She won’t, because she can’t.”

  Chapter 10

  Jack left Victoria Wainwright standing in the middle of the plaza and went searching for Maggie, expecting to find her at their table. He finally located her on the dance floor—in the arms of Tomas Sangamo.

  He hesitated only a moment before he threaded his way through the dancing couples and tapped Sangamo on the back. “I’m cutting in.”

  Sangamo’s wide, toothy smile looked brilliant against his bronze skin. “Of course. But I warn you, Maggie’s a terrible dancer.” He laughed as Maggie made a face at him.

  Jack swung Maggie into his arms, pulling her close. “I think it depends on her partner.”

  Tomas watched them move together for a moment, saluted Jack with a flick of his finger against his brow, and said, “I concede the issue, señor.”

  Jack tried several times in the next few minutes to ask Maggie to confirm or deny Victoria’s accusations, but couldn’t find the right words to ask.

  “I can see you’ve got a burr under your saddle,” Maggie said at last. “What did she say to you?”

  “That you murdered your husband and father-in-law. That you were responsible for your children drowning. And that one of your sons is still alive.”

  Maggie shivered in his arms.

  “Was she telling the truth?” Jack asked.

  Maggie stopped moving and stared wordlessly at him. He let her go, even though she looked like she needed desperately to be held.

  “I’d like to go home,” she said.

  “All right. I’ll take you.”

  She stared him in the eye and said, ” I won’t talk about it, Jack.”

  “I think I’m entitled to an explanation.”

  She shook her head. “No, you’re not.”

  “You’re a murder suspect, Maggie,” he reminded her.

  She lifted her chin. “Are you going to arrest me?”

  “You know I don’t have enough evidence to do that. Yet.” He didn’t know why he’d added the “yet.” Surely there was some explanation for Victoria’s accusations. Surely if Maggie were really guilty of all Victoria had accused her of doing, she would be in jail right now.

  Jack figured he could probably find out most of what he wanted to know by prompting Victoria, but he wanted to hear what Maggie had to say for herself. He took one look at her defiant stance and realized this wasn’t the place to pry it out of her. “Let’s go.”

  “I can get a ride from Tomas,” she said.

  “I brought you. I’ll take you home.” The song ended, and they threaded their way through the mass of couples dancing in front of the Alamo.

  Maggie picked up her wrap at the table and said good night to Tomas and the other associates sitting there, but before the two of them could make a graceful exit, a trumpet fanfare sounded, a spotlight hit Maggie full in the face, and the strings of red, white, and blue lights above them were extinguished.

  Jack stood beside Maggie, out of the spotlight, unsure of what was going on. Another spotlight picked up Victoria Wainwright sitting at a table with the mayor of San Antonio, the governor of Texas, and several other dignitaries and philanthropists.

  A microphone screeched, and when it quieted a man said, “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?” Another spotlight picked up the speaker on the steps of the gazebo wearing a World War II marine officer’s dress uniform. “Victoria, Margaret, will you join me up here, please?”

  Jack suddenly recognized the man in uniform as Porter Cobb. “What’s going on?” he asked Maggie.

  “I can only guess.” She hesitated, and for a moment he thought she might leave with him, after all. But however reluctant a participant she might have been in whatever was about to happen, she apparently didn’t dare opt out.

  The spotlights followed her and Victoria onto the steps of the gazebo, where they stood on either side of Porter Cobb.

  Jack sank into the chair beside Tomas, who said, “I don’t think our Maggie is happy with this command performance.”

  Jack made himself ignore the reference to “our Maggie” and asked, “Why did Cobb call her up there?”

  Tomas arched a brow. “You don’t know? Mrs. Wainwright might have chaired the gala, but Maggie took care of all the details.”

  “Meaning, I suppose, that Maggie did the work and Victoria is taking the credit?”

  Tomas grinned. “Very astute, señor.”

  “So if Victoria wants all the credit, what is Maggie doing up there?” Jack asked, pointing with his chin at the trio on the stairs.

  Before Tomas had a chance to make any sort of response, Victoria took Porter’s place in front of the microphone and said, “We have a very special guest here tonight, a soldier who fought in World War II. A soldier whose father fought in World War I, and whose great-grandfather fought for the Confederacy. A soldier whose great-great-grandfather fought for Texas freedom at the Alamo! Ladies and gentlemen, Henry Zamora.”

  A spotlight hit a thin, elderly man in a poorly fitted World War II private’s uniform as he stepped out the front door of the Alamo and followed him as he marched over to join Victoria on the steps of the gazebo. He smiled and waved at the crowd, who went absolutely wild.

  The orchestra played a loud, up-tempo version of “The Yellow Rose of Texas” while cowboy “Yee-haws!” and shouts of “Remember the Alamo!” resounded. The string lights snapped back on as confetti rained down on them and red, white, and blue helium-filled balloons floated in the sky over the Alamo. The whole place suddenly resembled a political convention with the next presidential candidate on the platform.

  Jack looked around and realized it was one of those utterly Texan moments from which myths and fables arose—totally ridiculous, yet almost glorious at the same time.

  “Mrs. Woodson Wainwright will partner this descendant of the Alamo in a dance, which we hope you’ll all join,” Victoria said.

  It was clear to Jack from the brief expression that crossed Maggie’s face, that this was the first she’d heard of it. But she smiled graciously at the old man and helped him off the steps and onto the dance floor, spotlighted the entire time.

  The orchestra began playing a familiar-sounding forties tune and the dance floor, which was already filled with people, separated visibly into smiling, happy couples. A few began singing the words to “I’ll Be Seeing You,” and soon everyone had joined in.

  Jack stood along the adobe wall that had served as part of the Alamo fortress, watching Maggie dance with the World War II veteran, knowing he couldn’t very well cut in on a Descendant of a Hero of the Alamo. He kept a close eye on Maggie, not at all sure she wouldn’t take advantage of the opportunity to sneak away and avoid answering his questions.

  He watched her move to the music, admiring her grace. He saw her mouthing the words to the song and smiling at the old man, then looking for Jack . . . and finding him.

  Jack knew he’d never hear that tune again without thinking of Maggie. He would always remember her eyes as they looked at that moment. Desolate . . . and yearning.

  The instant the dance ended, he was at her side. He edged her through the crowd, but Victoria Wainwright caught them before they got away.

  “You can’t be leaving so soon,” she said to Maggie.

  “I’m tired, Victoria,” Maggie said.

  Jack wondered why Maggie hadn’t added, “And furious with you!” but took one look at the tension between the two women and realized it wasn’t necessary. Victoria knew exactly how Maggie felt. She just didn’t care.

  “Get out of my way, Victoria,” Maggie said.

  “I’ve stood by for ten years and watched you pretend none of it ever happened,” Victoria said. “But I don’t intend to let you forget, Margaret. You killed them all with your selfishness and your—”

  Maggie
tried to step by her, but Victoria grabbed her forearm, her blood-red nails tearing into Maggie’s flesh and leaving deep gouges. Jack caught Victoria’s wrist and tightened his hold to force her to free Maggie. The three of them stood connected in the violent tableau until, with a grunt of pain, Victoria let Maggie go.

  Jack instantly released her. “Go wait for me by the gazebo, Maggie.”

  “I can handle this myself, Jack. Why don’t you go—”

  “I’m not leaving without you,” Jack said.

  Victoria clapped. “Quite a lovely scene of devotion.” She eyed Jack and warned, “Just don’t turn your back on her. You may not live to regret it.”

  Victoria stalked away and left them standing there, Jack fighting back the reckless urge to strangle the woman, and Maggie trembling with . . . fear? No. It was rage, Jack realized. Very controlled rage.

  “Shall we go?” he said.

  “You heard Victoria’s warning. Are you sure you still want to take me home?”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  Maggie’s lips curved. “It’s a good thing you didn’t say you could handle me.”

  “I was going to say that next.”

  “Be glad you didn’t,” Maggie said, heading for the Rivercenter.

  The drive home was as silent as the drive to the gala had been, but the space between them seemed electrically charged. Jack’s hackles were still up from the confrontation with Victoria, and his heart was pounding hard in his chest. It took him most of the drive back to Maggie’s condominium to figure out why.

  “This is far enough,” Maggie said, when he pulled up under the portico at 200 Patterson.

  Jack scowled at the attendant, who was careful to keep his face blank. “I’ll see you to your door,” he said. By the time Jack got around the truck, Maggie had already let herself out. He laid his callused fingertips on the small of her back beneath the satin stole, a constant flesh-to-flesh touch that she fled as she moved quickly ahead of him into the elevator.