“We’ll come now,” he affirmed. “You just sit tight.”
I made sure he knew the gate code and then pushed the end button on the phone. Relief washed over me. Surely I’d done the right thing?
Amazingly, Emma continued to sleep. I toyed again with the idea of waking her up, but if all of my jumping around and whispering on the phone hadn’t woken her, I was reluctant to physically shake her. I would have to ask Mrs. Furlong what kind of tranquilizers she’d given Emma. I could use one on my next red-eye flight.
The minutes crawled by. Predawn light was slowly turning the sky from black to gray. I stepped to the window, which overlooked the gravel driveway and the circle in front of the house. My fear and anxiety continued to mount, and after ten minutes had passed by my watch I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed a reassuring big brother type, the sort of person who would never take advantage of a rare moment of terror to tease me for decades to come about waking him up in the middle of the night.
I removed the chair from where I’d wedged it and placed it back against the wall. I unlocked the door and looked into the hallway, checking both ways to make sure the coast was clear of cold-blooded killers. Then, as quietly as I could, I closed the door behind me and made my way, barefoot, down the back stairs to the kitchen. I let myself out the door and onto the porch and sprinted for the pool house.
Matthew was snoring lightly in his guestroom, but he woke quickly when I pounded on the door. I threw it open while he was still saying “Come in.”
“Rachel?” he asked groggily. Then he sat up with alarm. “What’s wrong? Is Emma okay?”
“She’s fine,” I told him. “It’s me. I called the police and told them that Peter’s the murderer, and now they’re coming to get him. But I’m scared,” I admitted. “And everyone else is sleeping, and I didn’t want to be all alone.” I felt like a child, seeking solace during a particularly violent thunderstorm. Only I doubted that a rousing rendition of “My Favorite Things” was going to do much to soothe my emotional state. And Matthew was hardly a substitute for Fräulein Maria.
“Peter?” he asked. He ran his hands through his shaggy hair, disheveling it yet further. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m not.” I blurted out everything I told O’Donnell, far less coolly and logically than I had the first time around. This time I added in the part about being hit over the head with an oar on the beach.
Matthew seemed to follow me. “That’s incredible,” he said in disbelief. “Absolutely incredible.”
“I know,” I said. “But it’s all true. And I think Peter knows that I know, and I think he may try to come after me again, and I didn’t want to stay in the house until the police arrive.” My voice shook. “Will you come with me and wait for them?”
“Rachel, you’re making a mistake. Trust me. I know.”
“I’m not, Matthew. I swear. Please.” I was on the verge of tears.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and pulled on a T-shirt and pants. He followed me out of the pool house and around to the front of the main house. I sank down onto the stone steps while he made me repeat the story again, more slowly this time.
I’d just finished recounting the details when O’Donnell and Paterson pulled up in an old Buick sedan. It seemed anticlimactic. I expected at least a police car, even if there weren’t any sirens.
We all exchanged subdued greetings, and then Matthew and I led the detectives into the house. I stopped on the second floor, unwilling to go with them up to Peter’s room. Matthew escorted them up the remaining flight to the third floor.
I was leaning against the wall of the second-floor corridor, trying to compose myself and wondering what was taking so long for them to come back downstairs with their prisoner in tow, when Sean and Jane emerged from their room.
“Rach? What is it?” Sean asked.
“For chrissakes—it’s impossible to get a decent night’s sleep in this house. What’s going on?” This was from Hilary, who made her way down the hallway with Luisa trailing behind.
Mrs. Furlong joined us, too. “Now what’s happening?” she asked, stifling a yawn.
“It’s Peter,” I said. “The police and Matthew are upstairs. They’re arresting him, I think. Peter. He did it.”
“Good Lord,” said Jane, a horrified look on her face.
Hilary, at an unprecedented loss for words, simply gaped at me.
Luisa’s brow furrowed. “But—but that can’t be,” she said, her accent thicker than normal, the way it usually was when she’d just woken up. “That doesn’t make sense,” she said.
Mrs. Furlong was silent, her face white and drawn.
We all turned as footsteps started descending the stairs from the third floor. O’Donnell and Paterson came first, followed by Peter and then Matthew. They’d given Peter time to get dressed, and I noted with consternation that they hadn’t bothered to handcuff him, which seemed grossly negligent, at best. I flattened myself against the wall, glad to have Sean’s comforting bulk so nearby.
“We just want to ask you a few more questions,” O’Donnell was saying. “There are a couple of things we’d like to clear up.”
Peter was nodding. “Whatever I can do to help,” he said. But his voice sounded confused, and he hadn’t taken the time to brush his hair. He looked sweet and innocent, and for a moment I was besieged by a fresh wave of doubt. His eyes met mine for an instant, their rich chocolate color dark in the murky light. The four men proceeded down the stairs to the first floor.
Jane came over and put her arm around my shoulders. “It will be okay,” she said soothingly. “Everything will be okay.”
“Of course it will,” I said, with far more confidence than I felt. I realized then that I was crying.
CHAPTER 27
Dawn had fully broken by the time I made my way back down the stairs, dressed in an old pair of Levi’s and a sweater against the early morning chill. I’d felt more than a little bit cranky as I searched my bag for something fresh to wear. It would have been nice if Peter had planned ahead a bit better. Why couldn’t he have arranged to kill Richard in New York? It would have been easier to divert suspicion from himself in a city of eight million people, not to mention a lot more convenient for those of us who were stuck here for the weekend with a limited set of wardrobe options.
It was hard to believe that it had been barely twenty-four hours since I’d come into the kitchen in desperate search of some orange juice with which to address a hangover, filled with dread in anticipation of a wedding that would never take place. Much less that it had been merely six hours since I had started mentally planning my own wedding to Peter, complete with seating charts and color schemes.
I was sleep-deprived and grouchy from the emotional roller-coaster of the last several hours. Perhaps it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, but it didn’t seem fair that I was only allowed to love for the short time between Peter confessing his love for me and discovering that he was a murderer.
The kitchen was empty, and when I saw the phone on the wall it occurred to me that I should check my voice mail, but I sent that thought packing as soon as it slithered into my conscious mind. I didn’t have the stomach right now for more urgent messages from Stan waxing enthusiastic about the Smitty Hamilton deal and detailing the list of tasks he wanted me to get done in advance of our Monday morning meeting. I was too depressed already, although getting the deal done would surely be a lot easier with the CEO of the takeover target locked up behind bars.
There was coffee brewed, but the very thought set my stomach churning, so I took a chilled Diet Coke from the refrigerator and made my way out to the porch. I drew up short when I saw Luisa and Hilary huddled in a pair of wicker chairs, their heads close together. I didn’t feel ready for socializing quite yet, but I forced myself to announce my presence with as cheery a “Good morning” as I could muster.
“Hey, Rach, the next time you call in O’Donnell, could you at
least give me a little advance warning so I could brush my hair or something before he arrives?” said Hilary by way of greeting.
“Sorry, Hil. I just wasn’t thinking.”
“Clearly. So, what was it like?” asked Hilary.
My synapses were fried from my sleepless, angst-infused night. I looked at her blankly. “What?” I asked. “What was what like?”
“Sex with a felon, of course,” said Hilary.
“Hilary, be good. Rachel had a rough night.” Luisa scolded her halfheartedly and then smiled up at me. She was dressed in slim navy pants and a sleeveless white sweater, her hair neatly pulled back into its trademark chignon. Twin spirals of steam and smoke rose from her coffee and her cigarette, respectively. “How are you?” she inquired in a sympathetic tone.
“As well as can be expected,” I answered. “And, just for the record, I didn’t sleep with him,” I added with a pointed glare in Hilary’s direction. She crossed her long legs, which were completely bare except where they met her cropped shorts. I sank into an empty chair.
“So what did you do?” she asked, uncowed.
“We made out. That’s all, Hil.”
“Just kissing? That’s it?” Hilary made no effort to hide the disappointment in her voice.
“That’s it. Sorry.”
“What’s his problem?” asked Hilary. “Didn’t he want to sleep with you?”
“Of course he did,” I answered. “We just thought we shouldn’t rush into anything. Which was just as well, given how things have turned out.”
Hilary didn’t buy that. She had no point of reference for not rushing into sex. “Maybe he’s gay,” she mused.
“If so, he does a masterly imitation of a heterosexual,” I replied, only a tiny bit indignant. “Almost as masterly as his imitation of somebody who doesn’t go around murdering his oldest friends,” I added bitterly.
“Lay off her, Hil,” said Jane, who’d come out onto the porch and joined us. She perched on the arm of my chair.
“Yes, Hilary. Lay off,” said Luisa.
“No offense meant. I was just curious,” said Hilary.
“Right,” I said, popping open the can of soda.
“Okay, if I’m not allowed to ask about the sex, am I at least allowed to ask about what made you blow the whistle on Peter?” she continued.
“Yes,” asked Jane. “What did you find out, Rach? I’m completely shocked. Peter seemed so nice. I mean, Sean and I were a bit suspicious of what might have happened to you out at the beach, but we never really thought Peter could have done anything like that.”
“Like what?” asked Hilary. “What are you talking about?”
I quickly filled her and Luisa in on my head’s encounter with a blunt object. Then I told them all about finding the splinter in my hair that had convinced me I’d actually been attacked.
“And you think it was Peter? He hit you with an oar?” Luisa sounded incredulous, but her natural speaking voice was usually laced with skepticism anyhow.
“I guess so. I think he realized that I would find out soon enough that his company was the target of a takeover and that I would put two and two together. He was talking about how hard it was to find cash to keep his company going, and I mentioned that I was working on a takeover of a tech startup.” I told them about finding the faxes as well, the one he’d sent, talking about having secured financing, and the one I’d received about Hamilton Tech’s launching a hostile takeover of his company. And then I told them what I hadn’t told O’Donnell, about the steps of someone in the hallway and the turning doorknob.
They all had questions, especially Hilary, who was particularly curious about whether or not O’Donnell slept alone. She was pleased to hear about the use of the first-person singular on his answering machine.
“That’s outrageous,” said Jane after I concluded my tale of sleuthing and woe. “Killing someone for money. I would never have guessed Peter could be capable of such a thing.”
“Well, neither did I until I found the evidence.”
“That fax sounds like it was pretty damning,” said Luisa.
“It was. And then when he tried to break into my room…” My voice trailed off as I stifled a shudder.
“What a treacherous weasel,” mused Hilary. This was as close to sympathy as I could expect from her.
“It’s so sad,” said Jane. “I had high hopes for the two of you. I thought you’d be such a good match.”
“At least I figured it out before we were married with three kids, a joint checking account and a mortgage,” I said, trying to comfort myself. The cycle time on my relationships was getting shorter and shorter.
“I’m surprised by how he did it, though,” said Jane.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, you’d have to be pretty stupid to think that the police would buy the accident scenario. The authorities were going to find out sooner or later that Richard was drugged or poisoned and then shoved into the pool. Anybody who watches Law & Order or reads any sort of crime novels would have to know that they’d do an autopsy and find out that he hadn’t just drowned,” she pointed out. “I guess I judged Peter all wrong, but he didn’t seem like he could be that naive.”
“That’s not naive,” protested Hilary. “I, for example, never watch Law & Order. I don’t think it’s syndicated overseas.”
“Nor do I,” said Luisa. Her tone was defensive. “We don’t get it at home.”
“Relax,” Jane said. “What’s the big deal? It’s Peter I’m insulting, not the two of you.”
Luisa looked at Hilary. “I thought you told them.”
“No, just Rachel. I didn’t get a chance to talk to Jane.”
“Well, Jane should know, too.”
“You’re right. Here’s the thing,” began Hilary.
“Oh, no,” interrupted Jane, holding her hands up in front of her as if to ward off evil. “I don’t know if I want to hear this.” I didn’t say anything. I was enjoying seeing Hilary on the hot seat after the ribbing she’d given me.
“Don’t be silly, Jane. You know we didn’t kill him,” said Luisa. “What are you so worried about?”
“I don’t know, but it scares me to think about what the two of you could get up to when nobody’s watching.”
Hilary told Jane the story she’d told me, about how she and Luisa had found Richard dead and pushed him in the pool in a misguided attempt to safeguard Emma.
“So,” I said to Jane, “that’s one question answered. Peter wasn’t stupid enough to try to pass the entire thing off as a drowning. But the two of them were.”
“What else should we have done?” demanded Hilary. “We didn’t think it was Emma, but it didn’t look good. We were just trying to protect her. You’ll have to excuse us if we don’t spend as much time watching silly TV shows and reading trashy novels as the two of you.”
“It seemed like a brilliant idea at the time,” added Luisa, somewhat sheepishly.
Then I realized something else. “You also managed to destroy the evidence that would have proved beyond a doubt that Peter did it,” I said, referring to the glasses, which had probably had Peter’s fingerprints on one and the dregs of Richard’s tainted last drink in the other.
“We didn’t know that at the time,” said Hilary. “And, fortunately, you figured it out anyhow.”
“True,” I said. At least I could congratulate myself on that front. But an undefined something continued to worry me. It was sort of like the feeling you get that you may have left the iron on, because you can’t remember, precisely, turning the iron off. At least, I assumed it was the same sort of feeling. Personally, I didn’t own an iron. There seemed to be no point to engaging in such undertakings when there was a perfectly nice dry cleaning establishment on the corner of Seventy-Seventh and Lexington that pressed my clothes beautifully and then delivered them right to my door.
“So, it’s all wrapped up now,” said Luisa. “With no harm—at least, no serious harm, to
Emma. Even though all of the evidence is circumstantial at this point, the police will probably find something more tangible now that they know which direction to look.”
“But, poor Rachel,” said Jane. “I was so convinced that Peter was Mr. Right.”
“Let’s just remember about all of the other Mr. Rights,” I said, trying to be stoic about the matter. “At least this one was unmasked before I’d used up any hard-earned frequent flyer miles jetting out to San Francisco to visit him.”
“But I felt so good about him,” continued Jane, her brow furrowed. “He seemed so perfect for you.”
“You’re not making me feel any better,” I countered.
“Perfect is as perfect does,” said Hilary.
“That’s a completely inane thing to say,” said Luisa.
“I guess so,” she replied. “I couldn’t come up with a good cliché. But stop your fretting, Rach. It will give you wrinkles.”
“That’s not making me feel any better, either,” I said grumpily. “I’m doomed. I’m going to die an old maid.”
“Better an old maid than a murderer’s accomplice,” said Jane.
“That’s easy for you to say,” I replied sadly.
CHAPTER 28
We sat out on the porch talking for a while, my friends doing their best to soothe my battered heart. They’d had lots of practice over the years, but I was too tired and shell-shocked to feel anything but bleak. Eventually I excused myself. I might as well go do some work, I told them. I was going to be miserable no matter how I spent my time. It wasn’t as if anything could darken my mood further at this point.
I trudged up the stairs to the second floor, retrieved my heavy briefcase from Emma’s room and padded down the hallway to Mr. Furlong’s study. Resigned, I seated myself behind the sturdy walnut desk and began sorting documents and files. Immediately I gave myself a nasty paper cut, drawing a thin line of red blood on my index finger. Par for the course, I reflected irritably, just another battle wound to add to the others I’d racked up that weekend.
The Pact Page 22
