by Lisa Jackson
Forget about Nick.
Forget about all the things that are bothering you.
Enjoy, Marla!
But she couldn’t. Yes, she could revel in her baby and daughter, but she needed to know so much more. She wrapped her son in a towel, dried him, powdered him and dressed him in blue pajamas that he was already outgrowing. “You’re such a big, big boy,” she said and carried him downstairs into the den.
The house was relatively quiet. No one was about, so this was her opportunity to do a few things where she needed privacy. She put the baby in his playpen and reached for the phone.
In a matter of seconds she was connected to the San Francisco Police Department, but was informed that she’d have to leave a message for Detective Paterno as he was out. She asked that he call her back and then hung up to dial the University of California at Santa Cruz and ask about Pam’s daughter.
“I’m sorry, there’s no one enrolled at the university with the last name of Delacroix,” the woman at the registration office said, without a note of inflection.
Great. Marla tapped her fingers on the arm of the couch. James was lying on his back and cooing, happy with the world.
“Maybe the Delacroix girl is registered under another name,” Marla suggested, thinking hard, trying to remember something, anything about Pam or her daughter.
“Then I’d need that information, but even if she were a student here, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. It’s our privacy policy.”
No other questions helped locate the girl and eventually Marla had to hang up. She was getting nowhere. Fast. She glanced at her wrist to check the time, but wasn’t wearing a watch.
That was odd. She was certain she’d always worn one . . . oh, for God’s sake, in all that jewelry upstairs, she’d surely find some kind of timepiece. The clock on the VCR said it was nearly noon.
Carrying the baby, she hiked up the stairs to her room, dug through a jewelry box filled with earrings, bracelets, and, as expected, a watch with a linked metallic band. As she reached for it, she hesitated, for there, hidden beneath a pair of faux pearl earrings and a silver bracelet was a ring, a gorgeous ring, the facets of its blood-red stone winking brilliantly.
“No way,” she whispered, picking up the ring and holding it in her palm. She wouldn’t have missed it in an earlier search. She’d been through this box a half dozen times and the stone was too large to have been overlooked.
She slipped the ring onto her right hand. It felt awkward and heavy. It slid between her joints, the gold band loose. Of course it is; you’ve lost weight since the accident, all of your clothes are almost a size too big. It makes sense that the ring and probably the watch don’t fit.
Either that, or they never belonged to you in the first place.
She glanced in the mirror over her bureau. A pale woman with short hair, green eyes and high cheekbones stared back at her. Her bruises had faded and aside from a little swelling from the cuts to the inside of her cheeks when Nick had ripped out the wires, she was herself. With her baby. That part seemed right, it fit. But the ruby ring didn’t, though she had a niggling idea, just the hint that she’d seen this piece of jewelry somewhere before.
On someone else? Who?
She studied the contents of the jewelry box. Most of the earrings, pins and bracelets weren’t valuable, could have been bought at any department store . . . but not so this ring. She knew intuitively that it was worth a small fortune.
Why would she keep it here?
It was planted, you dope. You mentioned it to someone who either put it back or told someone else and they returned it. Because someone’s trying to drive you crazy or they don’t want you to question who you are.
Why?
She dropped the ring unceremoniously into the box, then snapped the watchband over her wrist. Yep, it was too big, but she wore it anyway.
James yawned and began to fuss, so she kissed his head and carried him to his crib. She watched as his eyes closed and his thumb inched toward his mouth. Once he was settled, she walked into the hallway and paused at the guest room. The door was ajar and she spied a duffel bag that had been tossed into one corner, a shirt slung over the bedpost. A hint of Nick’s aftershave wafted into the corridor and memories of the night before rained over her in a torrent of sweet, heady seduction. Don’t even go there, she warned herself. It was just lust. Sex. Two restless people who needed a release.
But it hadn’t been before.
Nick had stopped his truck, held her in his arms and comforted her on the night he’d driven her to the clinic.
Then dumped you off with Alex and left.
Because he’s my husband, she thought angrily. What else could he do?
Wasn’t he also the one who had dragged you bodily out of bed and was hell-bent to see that you got some decent medical care? Without his interference, you might still be loaded up on painkillers and Valium or whatever the hell it was. She nearly laughed aloud. Nick was right. He didn’t fit the image of some sort of twenty-first-century hero.
No way. No how.
“Mrs. Cahill?” Tom’s soft voice caught her off guard. He’d just come down from the servants’ quarters. “I was about to get your medication.”
“What medication?”
“The painkiller Dr. Robertson prescribed.”
“What is it?” she asked, walking away from Nick’s room.
“Acetaminophen.”
“Tylenol?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, it’s with codeine,” he said.
“What was I on before?” she asked, stepping closer to him. “What did Dr. Robertson prescribe when I got out of the hospital?”
“Halcion.”
“What’s that?”
“Triazolam. It’s a mild sedative.”
“Great.” Had she needed one? “Look, forget any pain pills. I think I’ll just stick with Bayer, okay? I’ll take it when I need it for the pain and if I can’t sleep, too bad. I’ll deal with it.”
“But—”
“It’s my body, Tom, and no matter what you’ve been told, I’m in control of it. If there’s a problem with Dr. Robertson, I’ll talk to him. The same goes for my husband. I’ll deal with him.”
“They only want what’s best for you,” he said, his face totally guileless.
“If you say so. In the meantime I’ll handle the pain however I see fit.”
“Mrs. Cahill, this is my job.”
“And if you want to keep it, you won’t push this issue, Tom. I don’t need a nurse and both you and I know it. Somehow it makes my husband feel more secure but that’s his problem, not mine. So, thank you for your concern, but I’m not taking any more bloody pills and that’s that.”
She left Tom standing in his tracks and didn’t give a damn. Too many people were trying to tell her what to do, and it wasn’t flying with her.
She walked back to the suite and closed the door behind her. As she did she heard Tom’s footsteps pound down the stairs. She tried Alex’s door. Of course, it was locked. Again. Why? She drummed her fingers on the doorknob, then on inspiration, walked outside the suite down the hallway and tried the door to the office that opened to the corridor. It didn’t budge. But she’d seen Eugenia open it the other night when she’d been lying on the floor thinking she was going to choke to death.
Someone had taken the trouble to lock it again.
So you’ll just have to devise a means to unlock it. By hook or by crook. Whatever it took.
Marla made her way around the railing to the spot where she’d vomited nearly a week earlier. Kneeling, she ran her fingers over the short pile of the carpet. It was bone dry; the stain had been washed away until it had disappeared.
Had someone—the intruder if he existed—poisoned her, caused her to lose the contents of her stomach? She rocked back on her heels. Tom had told her he’d given her triazolam, a drug she’d never heard of. She stood, leaning on the railing and glared at the lo
cked door to Alex’s office. Something important was hidden inside. Otherwise the damned thing wouldn’t be locked.
So she had to get in.
On quiet footsteps, Marla took the stairs down to the second floor, heard the maid vacuuming in the library, then, cautiously she crept into her mother-in-law’s suite. Nervously she closed the door behind her and didn’t bother with any lights, letting the sunlight filtering through the curtains be her guide and telling herself that she really wasn’t trespassing. This was her home. She had the right to know what went on within these hundred-year-old walls.
The other night Eugenia had extracted the key to Alex’s office from her jacket pocket—a navy blue jacket. Maybe it was still there.
Fat chance. It’s been five days, remember?
Carefully Marla eased the door to the closet open and stepped inside. She snapped on the light and quickly scanned the cedarlined room. Each of her mother-in-law’s outfits was neatly hung on double rails, arranged by color, jackets above, skirts below, matching shoes in cubbyholes near the floor. Marla worked quickly, her fingers damp with sweat as she reached inside the pocket of each jacket—navy blue to flaming orange—and came up with ticket stubs, hankies, a few coins, anything Eugenia had absently left.
But no keys.
“Damn,” Marla grumbled, realizing the key to Alex’s office was probably on the woman right now, somewhere down at Cahill House wherever the hell that was. Nonetheless she started searching the handbags. Furiously she unclasped each and every one and again she came up empty. The closet was hot, stuffy and she was about to leave when she heard the door to Eugenia’s room open. Her heart froze. How could she explain herself if she was found out? She flipped off the light and slowly backed up, parting the clothes and stepping onto the top of the cubby before forcing the garments back together and pulling a plastic-encased gown in front of her. She nearly jumped when she heard the vacuum roar to life. Slowly, tediously, the maid cleaned Eugenia’s room. Marla held her breath. Maybe the maid wouldn’t come into the closet, maybe Marla would get lucky, maybe—oh damn.
There was a pause in the hum of the motor and the door opened, spilling in a shaft of light. Marla didn’t move a muscle as the girl pushed the vacuum cleaner into the tight little room, the roar of the machine nearly deafening. The overhead light flashed on. Marla pressed back against the wall and realized that her cover, the plastic bag she’d found in the rear of the closet was yellowed, the gauzy, beaded white dress inside probably Eugenia’s ancient wedding gown.
Closing her eyes, she waited as the machine bumped against the cubby on which she stood, jarring her bones. She didn’t dare breathe. How long could it take to vacuum a damned closet? Suddenly the machine was switched off.
“What?” the maid called loudly.
Through the crack between a long dressing gown and the plastic cover Marla saw the maid turn her head toward the door. She was a small Hispanic girl by the name of Rosa, a tiny thing who didn’t say a lot as her English was poor at best. Abandoning her idle machine, Rosa stepped into Eugenia’s bedroom.
“Ah, Señora Cahill, si, si.”
Then Eugenia’s voice. “Please, can’t you do this later?”
Oh, God, what now? How could Marla explain what she was doing in her mother-in-law’s private quarters? Sweat dotted her forehead and ran down her spine and her heart was thumping wildly.
“I need to lie down,” Eugenia explained.
“Si, si, I come back luego. Later.”
“And Rosa, please, have Carmen call me when the guests arrive. The Reverend and Mrs. Favier will be here in a while.”
The Reverend and . . . then Marla remembered. Alex’s cousin Cherise and her husband had been scheduled to visit with her but Marla had been bedridden that day. Because of the damned drugs.
She strained to hear the rest of the conversation. When were Cherise and her husband scheduled to show up? Somehow Marla had to escape from the closet without anyone knowing she’d been inside. Before the guests arrived.
Sweat began to run down her arms.
Rosa retrieved the vacuum, then hurried away. Marla didn’t move, didn’t dare step down and a few seconds later she saw her mother-in-law walk into the closet, remove her navy blue jacket and hang it on a rack on the opposite side from Marla’s hiding spot. Eugenia kicked off her high heels and set them directly under the jacket, then shrugged out of her blouse and stepped out of her skirt, leaving her in a lacy slip and panty hose. Wearily Eugenia snapped off the light and closed the door behind her.
Marla let out her breath, hoping beyond hope that no one was looking for her, that she find a means of escape before she was missed.
Slow as death, the minutes ticked by and Marla waited, mentally counting off a quarter of an hour before finally easing her way out of her hiding spot, stepping carefully onto the carpet and edging through the dimness toward the small crack of light filtering under the door.
She reached for the light switch and ever so gently flipped it up. The closet was suddenly awash with bright, intense light. Squinting, she found the jacket Eugenia had recently shed and reached into the right-hand pocket. Her fingers touched cool, notched metal—keys. Thank God. Carefully, so that the metal wouldn’t chink, she extracted a keyring.
So far, so good.
She stuffed her prize into the front pocket of her jeans.
Now . . . if she could make it past her mother-in-law without waking her.
If she’s asleep and not sitting on a chair or her bed and flipping through a magazine or knitting.
But there was no sound of pages turning or needles clicking. Marla had to take a chance. Otherwise she was trapped.
After turning off the light, she wrapped her fingers around the doorknob and turned. The lock clicked softly.
It’s now or never she thought and inched the door open. Eugenia’s bedroom was semidark, the shades drawn, the soft sound of snoring coming from the bed where thick covers were drawn to the older woman’s neck. Sending up a silent prayer that the stupid dog was nowhere about, Marla hurried across the room, reached for the door and quickly, silently opened it.
Her mother-in-law snorted and Marla slipped into the hallway where she closed the door and dashed up the stairs, nearly tripping over Coco in the process. With a yip, Coco scurried down the stairs, tail between her short legs, then darted into the family room. “Good riddance,” Marla whispered. Eugenia’s keyring was burning a hold in her pocket and she wanted to try the door to the office immediately, open it if she could, then replace the keys, but as she reached the landing on the next floor, the doorbell chimed loudly.
Damn. She checked her watch and waited as Carmen answered. A woman’s voice echoed up the stairs.
“I’m Cherise Favier. I don’t think I’ve met you before. I’m here to see Marla.”
Marla’s heart sank. By the time the visit was over, Eugenia would be up and searching for her keys. Her only hope was to get rid of Alex’s cousin quickly, before anyone disturbed her mother-in-law, then hurry back upstairs. Turning quickly, Marla made her way down to the foyer where Cherise was unwrapping a leopard-trimmed cape and handing it to Carmen.
“Marla!” Cherise exclaimed, then her expression changed from delight to confusion. “You—you look fabulous!” A lie. Marla had seen her reflection less than an hour earlier. “I’ve been dying to see you.” The blond woman clasped Marla’s hand with both of hers and forced a smile that threatened to crack her perfect makeup. “We . . . Donald and I have been so-o-o worried about you.” She glanced over her shoulder to the front door. “He’ll be in shortly,” she said slightly nervous. “He got a call—an emergency of some sort—on his cell phone just as we drove up.”
At that moment a tall, strapping man appeared in the doorway. His brown hair was thick, curly and starting to show a few strands of gray. His shoulders were broad, stretching a black leather jacket that was tossed over a black shirt and at odds with a startling white clerical collar.
“Donal
d, you remember Marla,” Cherise said.
“Of course I do.” Donald flashed a thousand-watt smile that showed off white, fat teeth and a few gold crowns. His face was tanned, lined and warm. Half-glasses covered the bridge of a nose that had been broken more than once from the looks of it. In one hand he carried a well-worn Bible. With his free hand, he surrounded Marla’s shoulders as he gave her a hug. “It’s good to see you,” he said, and dropped a kiss familiarly onto her forehead. “Thank the Lord that you’re all right. My, that was nasty business that landed you back at the hospital the other night.”
Cherise beamed up at her handsome husband. “Amen.”
“I didn’t go to the hospital.”
“Oh, clinic, whatever,” he said waving the hand with his Bible. Marla eased out of his embrace. It was too familiar, too intimate, too forced. “You gave us all quite a scare, you know. Well, a couple of them.”
“The Lord moves in mysterious ways,” Marla quipped back and Cherise’s smile froze. The Reverend Donald’s eyebrows quirked at her joke, but she didn’t really care.
“Why don’t you come into the sitting room where we can talk?” Marla began ushering them into the sitting room where they all settled into chairs and Carmen, as if on cue, carried in a tray with a coffee service, tea pot and basket of scones. “Mrs. Eugenia mentioned that you would be having guests,” she explained, pouring three cups. “She’ll be down in a few minutes.”
Marla’s heart dropped. If her mother-in-law was up, she couldn’t very well unlock the office and start going through Alex’s computer files and desk.
“You probably heard from Alex and Nick that I’ve been trying to reach you,” Cherise said. Seated on a small sofa near her husband, she added sugar substitute to her cup, then adjusted the hem of her short black sweater. She was a pretty woman, beginning to age, with blond hair, pale skin and red-tinged lips that matched her fingernails.
“Nick mentioned that you called.”
