His eyes rested on her flushed face, intent, yet with a curious detachment. “Yes?”
“What about my things at your place?”
“Don’t worry about them. I’ll bring them by in the morning. What time do you leave?”
“Early. About seven thirty.”
He laughed. “That’s not early. I’m usually in my office by then. You’re up at seven? Good. I’ll drop them by then. Good night, Sam.”
Without touching her again, he walked out the door.
* * * *
True to his word, he stopped by early the next morning. Sam had just gotten up when the downstairs buzzer sounded.
She let him in, still dressed in her robe, a satin garment he eyed with appreciation. She had a tousled sleepy look that made him regret yet again his restraint last night. He should have stayed, but he didn’t like the uncomfortable feeling he’d had in the last two days that Sam hadn’t put the past behind her.
She was vulnerable and scared, trying not to be dependent on him. It would be easy to take advantage of her, but it wouldn’t be fair. To either of them. What he felt went much deeper than physical desire.
Yet he couldn’t deny he felt that, too. Seeing her now, her face pink, faintly creased with sleep along one cheek, he wanted to touch her, feel again the warm, silky skin.
“I slept in.” Her voice was husky, her hand unsteady as she scooped her tangled hair back from her face. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You look beautiful.”
There was no doubting the sincerity in his quiet tone, and she smiled. “Do you have time for coffee? It’ll take only a minute to make some.”
He shook his head. “No, I’ve got a meeting. I have to get going.”
“You mean other people work this early, too?” Her smile broadened.
“Some do. Sam, any disturbances during the night?”
“No, not even the phone.”
His brows drew together. “I tried you last night, about eleven, just to make sure you were okay, but your line was busy.”
“Busy? It couldn’t have been. I didn’t call anyone.”
He strode across the room to the phone, and picked it up, putting the receiver to his ear. “Seems to be okay.”
“Didn’t you try again?”
“Yes, but it was still busy. Then I had a business call from Vancouver and by that time it was late. I didn’t try again.”
Samantha shrugged. “Probably just a glitch in the system.”
“Yeah, probably.” He touched a fingertip to her cheek. “I’ll see you this evening. Take care, Sam. And be careful.”
“I will, Tony. Thank you.”
* * * *
“Did you have to kill her?”
The man in the phone booth hid his trepidation under a facade of righteousness. “Nosy old bitch. She saw me coming out of Smith’s flat. She blabs everything she sees. The game would have been up.”
“Well, I don’t like the publicity. It’s in the morning paper. We don’t need that kind of thing at all.”
“Won’t happen again, boss.”
His employer was silent for a long moment. “Not without my orders.”
The edge in the voice cut deep. The man heard the power in it, and the threat. “Sorry, boss,” he blustered. “I thought—”
“I don’t pay you to think. I pay you to observe and report back to me. What about Theopoulos?”
“He didn’t stay the night, but he came by this morning. Only stayed a minute though.” He sniggered nastily. “Wish I’d wired up a video camera instead of just the bug.”
“Keep your dirty mind on business,” the boss snapped. “And no more freelancing. I’ll do the thinking for both of us.”
* * * *
The building manager was dusting the front hallway when Sam returned that afternoon. “You wouldn’t know anything about Miss Hunnicott’s funeral, would you?”
The woman tightened her lips. “She had distant relatives in Scotland. I believe the funeral will be held there. Such goings-on.”
“Do you have the address? It might be nice to send flowers.” A faint guilt still nagged Samantha’s conscience, although as Tony had pointed out, there was nothing she could have done about the old lady’s death. Even the police didn’t seem to think it was anything more than an unfortunate accident.
To her disappointment, Tony called and said he had to work. “I’ve got meetings that’ll probably last to midnight. Sorry, Sam. Rain check until tomorrow night?”
“Of course, Tony. See you then.”
Bagheera meowed plaintively as she hung up the phone. “Yes, cat, I’ll let you out.”
Alone, she prowled around the flat, occasionally going to the window to look out. The weather had become warm again, but the trees in the little park down the street were showing signs of approaching autumn. Some of the leaves had turned yellow. Under the trees, ripened seedpods lay among the clumps of chrysanthemums loaded with swollen buds on the verge of bloom.
Samantha made a sound of frustration. As little as a week ago she hadn’t minded her own company. But Tony had changed all that.
Picking up a sweater, she slung it over her shoulders. What she needed was noise and activity. She’d go to the fish and chip shop for supper.
The door stood open to the balmy evening, sending waves of steam into the street. Sam put in her order, then took a seat at a corner table. She sipped the tea the waitress brought her and let her mind wander.
But when a shadow fell across the table, she lifted her head. “Thank you—”
She froze. It wasn’t the waitress back with her meal. Jason Wheeler stood next to the table, a smile fixed on his narrow face. “Good evening, Miss Clark. Mind if I join you?”
Yes, I do mind. Before she could say it aloud, he sat down.
“Terrible thing about Miss Hunnicott,” he went on conversationally, as if they were old friends instead of indifferent acquaintances.
“Yes, terrible,” Sam murmured, glancing up to see the waitress approaching with her fish and chips.
“Good looking bloke you’re seeing,” Wheeler said as Sam began to eat. “Serious?”
She paused, the fork halfway to her mouth. “I didn’t see you in the crowd outside the building.” Actually, she hadn’t given it any thought until now, but most of the building’s twenty or so residents had been there.
He waved his hand airily. “Oh, I was around.”
His attitude irked her. “Do you think it was an accident?” she asked, keeping her tone even, the question apparently casual.
Wheeler’s eyes narrowed. “Sure it was an accident.” He turned his head as the woman brought his food. “Thanks, love.”
Picking up his knife and fork, he cut into a sausage, releasing the spicy aroma of the meat. “Of course,” he said after a moment, “the story goes that the old lady had money that her relatives would have loved to get their hands on.”
Samantha glanced at him sharply. “Where did you hear this?”
“Why, from dear Miss Hunnicott herself.” He put a piece of sausage into his mouth, chewing and swallowing it. “I had tea with the old thing the other day.”
Possibly one of the occasions Sam herself had declined, she thought sadly. From under down-swept lashes she studied Wheeler. His speech was peppered with colloquialisms, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t educated. He wore good clothes, his hair clean and well groomed. He looked innocuous enough.
Sam shook her head. Soon she would be suspecting everyone she met of mayhem and murder.
Rational reasoning didn’t change her initial impression. She didn’t like him. There was something—some quality of evasiveness that his bluff exterior couldn’t quite disguise.
Forcing a smile to her lips, she asked, “Did you enjoy yourself?
“Oh, immensely. Such an interesting lady. But she did mention her relatives.” He lowered his voice, inclining his head so that the heat of his breath fanned her face. “Said they were waiting for her to die. ‘I wouldn’t put
it past some of them to speed the process along.’ That was how she put it.”
Sam pushed her half full plate away. Her appetite had fled, the food she’d eaten sitting in her stomach in a hard lump. “But the police questioned everyone. No one seems to have seen any strangers about.”
“The police don’t spill everything they know or think,” Wheeler said darkly. “Otherwise how could they operate?”
“I suppose you’re right.”
She accepted a refill on her tea, groping in her mind for an excuse to leave.
Wheeler finished his sausages and chips, mopping up the last of his ketchup with a slice of bread. “Your work, translating, must pay well.”
Was he fishing for something? “It’s all right,” she said coolly. “What do you do?”
“I’m a financial advisor.” When she looked blank, he amplified. “You know, telling people what investments will make them money, and so forth. If you’d like some advice, first time’s free. Might save you some taxes.”
“I’ll think about it,” she said carefully.
He insisted on accompanying her up to her floor, one flight above his. “Can’t have you taking a nasty fall on the stairs, can we?”
She didn’t like his unctuous tone, or the way he crowded her.
At her door, he waited until she had her key out. “You wouldn’t invite a lonely man in for a coffee, would you, Miss Clark?”
Whether it was the hangdog look or his continued polite formality, or the faint guilt of her unsubstantiated dislike of him, she couldn’t analyze. “All right, but only for a moment. I’ve an early day tomorrow.”
“Important job?”
“It’s important to my client. And it’s almost finished, so I’d like to wrap it up. Go in and sit down. I’ll get the coffee.”
When she brought the tray in, Wheeler had made himself at home. He sat on the sofa, leafing through a magazine from the stack on the coffee table. “Thank you. That looks very nice.”
He added milk and sugar to his coffee, sipping it with obvious appreciation. “Where’d you learn to make good coffee? What passes for coffee in the fish shop wouldn’t make it anywhere else as mop water.”
Sam laughed, her misgivings temporarily consigned to the nether regions of her mind. “From my grandmother.”
“Grandmother, eh? And where would she be?”
“In heaven, I presume. She died.”
“Oh, I am sorry. Was it recent?”
Sam shook her head. “No, it’s been several years.”
A little silence fell. Then Wheeler said, “Where’s the boyfriend tonight?’
He’s not my boyfriend. The words were on the tip of her tongue, but she bit them back. Wheeler didn’t seem the aggressive sort, but just in case, it was probably prudent if she let him think it was serious between her and Tony.
“Work,” she said without bothering to elaborate.
“In business, is he?”
“Yes.”
It was late by the time Wheeler left. Samantha pushed the door shut behind him and threw the bolt, her breath gusting out in relief. She tidied the living room, washing the coffee cups and putting them away.
In her bedroom she took out clothes for the next day, laying them over a chair. She looked out the window, reassured when she saw that the street was deserted except for the lines of parked cars. Most of the lights in the flats across the way were out.
She opened her window a crack, letting in fresh air. Tomorrow would be fine, she thought, pausing when she heard the crisp tread of feet on the sidewalk. Holding her breath she waited, not that anyone could reach her up here.
A moment later, she exhaled. A police constable, his arms swinging at his side and his cap set at a jaunty angle, walked his beat. As she watched he paused in front of the building, going up the short walk.
Reassured, she turned away. Obviously Inspector Allen’s order to keep an eye on the building was being carried out.
She showered and changed into a nightgown, going back to the bathroom to brush her teeth. She rinsed her mouth, then pressed the soap dispenser to wash her hands.
Under her horrified gaze a sticky crimson liquid oozed over her fingers and dripped into the sink.
Chapter Nine
Her stomach lurched and Samantha bit back a scream. She swallowed hard, the spicy-sweet scent triggering an image that changed her fright to anger.
Ketchup.
In her mind she saw Jason Wheeler mopping up his plate with a triangle of bread. Bringing her fingers close to her nose, she sniffed. Yes, it was definitely ketchup.
With a savage twist she turned on the tap, rinsing her hands clean. The last of the ketchup vanished down the drain in a pink swirl. Only a sticky drop still hung from the nozzle of the soap dispenser.
Damn. Damn. Sam jerked the towel from the rack and dried her hands. Her face stared back at her from the mirror, pale and scared. For just a second she gave in, resting her forehead against the cold glass. She gripped the edge of the sink, her hands shaking as tears seeped out from under her tightly closed eyelids.
Was Jason Wheeler the culprit? He could have gone into the bathroom while she was in the kitchen making the coffee. No, that wasn’t likely. She would have noticed if he’d been gone that long.
On the other hand, someone could have come into the flat during the day. Locked doors didn’t seem to present any barriers to her tormenter.
But it was all so stupid. None of the things that had happened would have proved fatal, except perhaps the incident with the truck, and there she’d been saved by Tony’s hair-trigger reaction and the responsiveness of the car.
She slapped down the towel and went to the phone to dial the police. As she might have expected at this hour, Inspector Allen wasn’t in, but when she gave her name, the polite voice asked her to hold.
“Could I have him call you?” the duty officer asked a moment later.
“Yes, all right,” Sam said, gripping the phone so hard her fingers hurt.
Less than five minutes elapsed before the phone rang. She snatched it up.
“Inspector Allen here. What can I do for you, Miss Smith?”
“Someone’s either playing a bad joke or they’re trying to make me crazy,” she said starkly. “There is ketchup in my soap dispenser. You’ve no idea how much that looks like blood when you’ve got it all over your hands.”
“I can imagine,” the inspector said dryly. “Is there anything else amiss?”
“I haven’t looked,” Sam said. “I rang you right away.”
“Good, good. It may be just a prank but I’ll come and check it out. By the way, we’ve found nothing on fingerprints. The note was clean.”
She hadn’t expected anything else. “How soon will you get here?”
“About fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
She hung up, then on impulse dialed Tony’s house. No answer.
She didn’t have his office number, but since it was in the Regal Arms, the front desk would connect her.
“Anthony Theopoulos’s office please.”
“I’m afraid he’s not there. He’s in Mr. St. Clair’s room. Hold on and I’ll connect you.”
Mr. St. Clair? Sam stared at the receiver in shock. Maurice St. Clair might have been an old acquaintance of Tony’s, but she’d hardly gotten the impression that either of them was interested in reminiscing about their university days.
“St. Clair.” The voice startled her so that she almost dropped the phone. “Uh, yes. Is Tony there, please?”
St. Clair said nothing for a long moment. Then, with unmistakable caution, he asked, “May I ask who’s calling?”
Curiouser and curiouser. “Samantha Smith.” Not for anyone was she going to call herself Agatha again. Besides, it was unlikely that St. Clair would recognize her name.
She heard mumbling in the background, a buzz of static as the phone was taken up. “Yes, Sam?” Tony said brusquely.
“I’m sorry to dis
turb you, but there’s been another incident.”
That seemed to shake him. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. I’ve called Inspector Allen. He’s on the way.”
“Good. So it’s well in hand, then?”
She could hear voices behind him, more than one. Who was with him? And what was his business with St. Clair, a man he professed not to have seen in at least ten or twelve years?
“Sam, do you want me there?”
To her ears he sounded distracted, not as if he were about to rush to her rescue. “No, it’s okay. The inspector will check it out.”
“I’m sorry, Sam, but I have to go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Without giving her a chance to say goodbye, he hung up.
Sam stared at the phone in disbelief, then slowly put down the receiver. Maurice St. Clair. She’d thought Tony’s behavior was odd in the hotel room with Dubray. And now this, after his vehement declarations that he would help her, protect her.
How much did she really know about Tony? She’d stumbled accidentally into his life, but perhaps his interest in her was more than a coincidence.
Well, from now on she wouldn’t count on his help. Ultimately she could only trust herself.
The first thing Inspector Allen did upon his arrival was to check the flat thoroughly. Sam had spent the interval huddled on the sofa, feeling colder than she’d ever been in her life. Was there nobody she could depend on, nobody she could trust? Even Tony, who’d so quickly entered her life and taken care of her, had seemingly let her down.
She followed Allen’s leisurely progress around the flat, watching as he opened closets and swept aside the neatly hung garments to check behind them. He looked in the cupboards, in the musty space under the kitchen sink, even standing on the toilet seat to check inside the old-fashioned cistern high on the wall.
“Looks clean,” he pronounced at last. He picked up the soap dispenser. “I’ll take that with me, not that I expect to find anything.” He cracked a smile that was obviously intended to cheer her up. “Maybe he used a rare brand of sauce, and we’ll be able to trace it.”
Sitting down on the sofa, he pulled out his notebook. “Now, can you tell me who had access to this flat? Not that we can rule out the person who left the note yesterday, who seems be able to defy locks. But for the moment, we’ll stick to the known.”
Past Tense Page 10
