Amnesia

by Beverly Barton

  Despite their occasional squabbles, Quinn’s personal entourage worked well together as a general rule and made day-to-day living much easier for him.

  “Yes, this is Quinn Cortez,” he said to the receptionist at Hamilton, Jeffreys, Lloyd and Wells. “May I speak to Kendall Wells, please.”

  “Just a moment.”

  Quinn lifted the tea and took several sips. He frowned. The tea tasted a little bitter. Maybe Marcy had changed brands.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Cortez, Ms. Wells isn’t here,” her secretary told him. “She left early to have drinks with a client and then she was going home. You can probably reach her there in about half an hour or so.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Quinn returned his cell phone to his pocket, downed two-thirds of the glass of tea, then got up and called to Marcy and Aaron. “I’m leaving now. You two behave yourselves, especially around Jace.”

  After getting into his Porsche, Quinn didn’t immediately start the engine. He sat there for a few minutes trying to decide whether or not he should try to talk to Annabelle before he drove over to Kendall’s. Probably not. But he could stop by a florist shop and order her some flowers. A dozen red roses. No, not red roses for Annabelle. He wanted to send her something else, not the standard red roses he’d sent to so many other women.

  Yellow roses as golden as her hair? Or perhaps pink roses as soft and feminine as she was? Or even cream roses as alabaster as her complexion?

  Why not a dozen of all three colors? Yeah, why not? Three dozen might be a little extravagant, but if his goal was to impress her with how sorry he was, maybe he should send six dozen.

  Kendall entered the great room through the garage entrance, tossed her briefcase, purse and car keys on the counter and headed straight for her bedroom. She wanted to strip out of her suit, heels and pantyhose, take a quick shower and then prepare an easy microwave dinner. She should probably call Quinn later tonight and tell him what she’d done— having her secretary telephone Bob Reagan at the Commercial Appeal to reveal the true story about Lulu Vanderley. Quinn might be pissed, but on the other hand, he might agree that she’d made a wise decision. Either way, he had to know that she’d done what she thought was best for him.

  After stripping, putting her suit in a bag to take to the cleaners and her underwear and pantyhose in the handwash laundry bag, Kendall turned on the faucets in the shower to allow the water to heat up. Just as she turned to the vanity and removed the lid from her jar of face cream, she thought she heard a noise. Had the sound come from inside or outside? She stood perfectly still, barely breathing, and listened. Quiet. Absolute quiet. Then she heard the clink of ice dropping from the machine in her refrigerator freezer into the plastic holding container. Breathing a sigh of relief because she’d figured out what the noise was so quickly, Kendall smeared her face with cold cream. Using a washcloth, she removed her makeup and rinsed out the cloth. Staring at herself in the mirror, she groaned. Although she was still a fairly good-looking woman, age was beginning to catch up with her. Tiny lines around her eyes and nose and mouth. Laugh lines. And there were several small age spots on her cheeks that could easily be mistaken for freckles, only Kendall’s dark skin never freckled.

  After taking a fresh washcloth from the stack on the vanity, she opened the shower door and stepped inside, sighing as the warm water peppered her naked body.

  There was that noise again. Louder. And it wasn’t the ice machine.

  Stop being paranoid, she told herself. It’s barely dark. Whatever you’re hearing is probably outside, one of your neighbors doing something noisy.

  She should have turned on her alarm system again, but she never rearmed it until bedtime. She’d always felt perfectly save here in her own home.

  Kendall lathered her hair and massaged her scalp.

  There it was again. That noise. Her fingers, forked through her wet, soapy hair, then paused as she listened.

  Were those footsteps she heard?

  It’s your imagination, she told herself.

  But she hurriedly rinsed her hair and bathed herself, then opened the shower door and listened, but heard nothing. She had a gun in her nightstand drawer. But she didn’t keep it loaded. If someone was inside the house, could she get to the gun and load it before the intruder caught her?

  There was no intruder. Houses creaked and groaned. Ice machines made noise. The sound of a neighbor walking on his deck next door might easily be mistaken for footsteps inside her house.

  Kendall wrapped a towel around her head, dried off and grabbed her silk robe from the hanger on the back of the bathroom door. She stood there behind the closed door and listened. Quiet. No noise at all. She breathed a sigh of relief, then opened the bathroom door and hurried into her bedroom. There in the doorway leading into the hall, she caught a glimpse of a shadow. A man’s shadow.

  Adrenaline flooded her body. Fear clutched her throat.

  Who was inside her house? How had he gotten in?

  Oh, God. Oh, God!

  The nightstand was on the other side of the bed. If she tried to get to it, whoever was hovering in her doorway would see her. Not only was her gun in the nightstand, but also the telephone was sitting on top of it. And her cell phone was in her purse, out there in the kitchen.

  What was she going to do?

  The shadow moved.

  He was coming into her bedroom.

  Light from the bathroom cast a soft glow over the man, partially revealing his features. Kendall sucked in a deep breath. Then she thought she recognized her uninvited visitor.

  Releasing a relieved sigh, she called, “Quinn, is that you? My God, you scared me half to death.”

  She had recognized him, had called him by name and had felt relief that she knew and trusted the intruder. Poor darling.

  As he drew closer, the fading light from outside peeking through the closed blinds in Kendall’s bedroom, her welcoming smile wavered. Was she wondering what it was about him that had changed? Did she realize she was dealing with someone she really didn’t know? He wasn’t the Quinn who had been her friend and lover.

  When he stood directly in front of her, she reached out as if to touch his face. Her hand froze in midair. He saw realization dawn in her dark eyes. Now she knew the truth, and just as the others had done, she looked at him in horror.

  “There is no reason to be afraid,” he told her.

  “What…who…My God!”

  He clasped her hand, brought it to his chest and laid it over his heart. “I promise I will make it quick and painless.”

  She snatched her hand away. “No. No…don’t…”

  She opened her mouth to scream. He couldn’t allow that to happen. If she screamed, someone might hear her. And if anyone came to help her, it would ruin his plans.

  He grabbed her and clamped his hand over her mouth. She struggled. Why did they always struggle so hard against him when all he intended to do was put them out of their misery? Didn’t they understand how much better off they would be once he gave them release from all their pain?

  Kendall fought like a wildcat, kicking and thrashing, doing her best to get away from him. But he was far stronger than she, making her effort to escape totally useless. Keeping one hand over her mouth, he turned her so that her back was to his chest, then he dragged her toward the bed. When he flung her around and down onto the bed, her loose-fitting robe came apart several inches, revealing the inner curves of her breasts.

  For half a second she stared up at him, agonized fear in her eyes. She probably thought he was going to rape her.

  “Did you kill Lulu Vanderley?” she asked in a breathless, quivering voice.

  So like a lawyer, he thought.

  “Yes, we killed her.”

  “We?”

  He laughed. “That’s right, you’ve never met bad Quinn, have you? Not until tonight.”

  “Bad…? You’re bad Quinn.”

  He nodded.

  “You’re going to kill me, too, aren’t you?”


  He nodded again.

  Trembling, her features etched with sheer panic, she moaned deeply, then tried to scream, but only a screeching whimper emerged from her throat.

  Hovering over her, straddling her hips, he grasped her wrists, flung her arms over her head and pinned her to the bed. He stared deeply into her terror-stricken eyes and felt pity for this unhappy, lovesick woman.

  “Poor foolish darling,” he told her. “Don’t you know you shouldn’t waste your love on someone who can never love you in return?”

  “What—what are you talking about?” Her voice quivered.

  Smiling, he loosened his hold on her hands. “We can never love you.”

  The moment he released her wrists, she reached out for him, but before she could claw at his face, as he was sure she had intended to do, he lifted the pillow from the other side of the bed and brought it down over her face. She fought him, cursing and crying all the while.

  “It’s useless to struggle,” he told her. “I’m doing what is best for you…for us.”

  He pressed the pillow down harder and harder. Her struggles grew weaker and weaker until she finally stopped moving.

  When he was certain that she was dead, he rose up and off her. Standing beside the bed, he gazed down at her lifeless body and sighed.

  “Now, that’s better, isn’t it? You aren’t suffering anymore?”

  Reaching inside the pocket of his jacket, he removed a small glass vial filled with formaldehyde and set it on the nightstand. Then he took the switchblade from his other pocket and snapped it open. For several seconds he stared at the sharp edge of the knife, mesmerized by the shiny metal surface.

  “This won’t hurt a bit,” he told her as he spread out her right hand and eased her index finger apart from her other fingers.

  Gripping her index finger tightly, he took the knife and hacked off the long, slender digit, just above the knuckle.

  Humming softly to himself, he closed the dirty knife, dropped it back into his coat pocket and then studied the prize he held in his other hand. Such a pretty finger, the nail painted a bright red. He unscrewed the lid to the vial, dropped the finger into the formaldehyde and recapped the vial before slipping it into his pocket.

  He would add this one to his collection. A reminder of his good deed—he had put one more foolish woman out of her misery.

  Chapter 12

  Annabelle stared at the single cream white rose nestled in the long, narrow florist box that had just been delivered. Knowing before she read the enclosed card exactly who had sent the rose and why, she hesitated. Dump the box, flower, and card all in the trash, she told herself. And do it now before you talk yourself out of making the wise choice. Halfway to the wastebasket in the bathroom, she paused to take another look at the rose. Long-stemmed, fragrant and perfect. Most men would have sent a dozen red roses as a way of apologizing. Someone like Quinn Cortez had probably sent dozens of women dozens of red roses. She had figured him for the type who would have gone the extravagant route and sent her half a florist shop. But no, not even half a dozen flowers. Only one. Cream white. Why only one and why white? Odd that she’d misjudged him. Ordinarily she had a knack for sizing up people correctly.

  Don’t pick up that card, her inner self warned. But she didn’t listen. Acting purely on instinct, she laid the box on the vanity, removed the card and read the message.

  Forgive me. Quinn

  Straight to the point and succinct. Was the sentiment heartfelt and sincere? She had no idea, but she wanted it to be. And that fact bothered her greatly. She shouldn’t care how Quinn felt or what he thought or even what he did. The man meant nothing to her—unless he turned out to be Lulu’s murderer. And that was a definite possibility. She couldn’t allow herself to forget that fact.

  Annabelle dropped the card back into the florist box, closed the lid and dumped the box into the trash.

  Apology not accepted.

  Apology not really necessary.

  Quinn didn’t know her—the real Annabelle Vanderley— anymore than she knew him. They were practically strangers who had been brought together only because of a terrible tragedy. And they were temporarily bound to each other because of their business arrangement with Griffin Powell. If there was another family member she could trust to work with Griffin, there would be no need for her to ever see Quinn Cortez again. But there was no one else. If Wythe were the man he should be, the son his father wanted him to be, the brother Lulu had deserved, he would be here in Memphis alone, representing the family. But Wythe was weak, mentally sick, his mind warped.

  Several fast, firm knocks at the outer door of her suite vanquished unpleasant thoughts of her cousin. She hadn’t been expecting anyone, but as she squared her shoulders and walked out of the bathroom, a flash of insight hit her.

  That’s probably Quinn.

  He had no doubt timed his arrival perfectly, so that his apology in the form of one perfect white rose would be delivered shortly before he showed up at her door. She had several choices, but was uncertain which to choose. If she didn’t answer the door, he might simply go away. But if she did that, he would probably come back later. If she opened the door and told him to go away, how would he react? Or she could invite him in and try to make him understand that whatever he wanted from her—understanding, friendship, a new conquest—he would never get.

  Licking her lips nervously, Annabelle peeped through the viewfinder. An odd sense of disappointment fluttered inside her. The man standing outside in the hallway was not Quinn.

  Opening the door, Annabelle smiled warmly. “Good evening, Sergeant George. Is there news about—”

  “I’m not actually here in any official capacity,” he told her. “I just wanted to drop by and see how you’re doing and find out if there’s anything you need.”

  “That’s very kind of you.” Chad George was incredibly good-looking in a male model sort of way, as if Mother Nature had airbrushed out all the physical imperfections. “Won’t you come in?”

  “Thanks.” He entered the suite and followed Annabelle into the lounge area. “I hope you won’t think I’m stepping over the line here, but I was wondering if you’d like to go out for dinner? Nothing fancy. And if you need someone to talk to about things—about Lulu, her murder, the suspects. Anything. I’m a good listener.”

  Why not? Why not go out to dinner with this handsome detective?

  “You aren’t married or engaged or anything are you?” she asked.

  Chad laughed. “No, ma’am. If I were, I wouldn’t be asking you out, even if this won’t actually be a date. I wouldn’t want to put that kind of pressure on you. It’ll just be two people sharing a meal and getting better acquainted.”

  “That sounds an awful lot like a date to me,” she told him, her tone light, the comment made jokingly.

  He grinned. “Is that a yes?”

  She nodded. “Give me a few minutes to freshen up.”

  “Take your time. I didn’t make reservations or anything.”

  Annabelle rushed off to the bedroom, then called out before closing the door, “I’ll be right back.”

  There was no point in changing clothes since she looked perfectly presentable and her available wardrobe was limited. Brush your hair, use some mouthwash, add a fresh coat of blush to your cheeks and put on some lipstick.

  While flying about from one thing to the next, she considered the fact that she hadn’t been out on a date of any kind in ages and she was looking forward to spending the evening with Chad. What woman wouldn’t? After all, he was young, handsome, charming and trustworthy.

  Quinn awoke gradually. Groggy and slightly disoriented, he opened his eyes and looked around, wondering where he was. Then it all came back to him—he’d been on his way over to see Kendall and had stopped by the florist to order flowers for Annabelle. He had decided on a single white rose instead of the six dozen he’d considered sending in way of an apology. A cream white rose as smooth and beautiful as Annabelle’s flawless ski
n.

  Lifting himself upright from where he’d been halfway slumped on the car seat, Quinn glanced outside and noticed it was dark. Where was he and what had happened?

  Think, man, think.

  He’d left the florist and thought about going straight to the Peabody to see Annabelle, then decided it wasn’t such a good idea. Better to let the rose and the note speak for him. At least for the time being. She needed time to forgive him.

  After nixing the idea of seeing Annabelle, he returned to his original plan and headed toward downtown. But he hadn’t made it to Kendall’s, had he? He vaguely remembered feeling odd, of becoming terribly drowsy.

  Taking another look outside, he realized he was in a parking lot that serviced a restaurant and several shops. Had he pulled off the main thoroughfare and parked here? Yeah, that’s what he’d done. He remembered now, remembered thinking he should stop for coffee because he was so damn sleepy. Stress, restless nights, constant worry. It all added up. He’d probably just been totally exhausted and— No, that wasn’t it and he knew it. He’d had an odd spell like this before—several in the past year. How many episodes had there been? Two or three? No, this one made four. He had dismissed it the first time, could barely remember when it had happened or the details. The other episodes of feeling woozy, then passing out and coming to an hour or more later had occurred months apart, but this spell had happened only days after the last one, which had occurred the night of Lulu’s murder.

  Maybe he shouldn’t keep putting off seeing a doctor.

  But now wasn’t the right time, considering he was embroiled in a murder case where he was one of the suspects. Later, when all this hullabaloo about Lulu’s death had been cleared up, when her real killer had been caught and put behind bars, he’d have a complete physical. But there was no rush, was there? It wasn’t as if these spells had any real effect on his life. Having four blackout spells in the span of a year hardly warranted any real panic. After all, once he came to after an hour or two, he was able to function normally despite a headache that lingered for several hours.