“I’d be okay with that,” he said. “Ravage away.” He pulled me on top of him, and our lips met again.
CHAPTER 29
We were still kissing, Peter’s hands playing delightfully in my hair, when his fingers accidentally brushed against the blossoming lump on the back of my head.
“Ouch!”
“What? What did I do?”
I realized that he didn’t know about the other nocturnal adventure I’d had. “There’s a little bump there.”
“A little bump?” His fingers gently probed. “That’s not a little bump, Rachel. What is it? Is this the part where you tell me about your tumor and that you only have a few weeks left to live?”
“Wow. I’m not the only one with an active imagination.”
“Seriously. What happened to you?”
“I had a little accident.”
“This doesn’t feel like a little accident.”
I quickly filled him in, both embarrassed and touched by his concern. It was amazing how much catching up we had to do when we’d only been out of contact for a few hours.
“Well, I can answer one question for you,” he said, digging into his pocket.
“My locket! Where did you find it?”
“It was caught on my towel. I was going to give it to you when I came to explain about the fax, but you were too busy calling the cops.”
“Why do I have the feeling it’s going to be a long time before I live that one down?” I asked, bending my head and lifting up my hair so he could fasten the locket around my neck.
“It’s too good to forget. But we can talk about that later.”
“Can’t wait. What are we going to talk about now?”
“We’re going to talk about what happened to you. If I’m hearing you right, somebody hit you over the head and left you there, where you could have drowned?”
“That sounds so melodramatic. Jane and Sean found me. Everything’s all right.”
“No, it’s not. I don’t want to get hysterical on you or anything, but it sounds like somebody tried to kill you, Rachel.”
“Well, maybe.”
“There’s no maybe about it. This is really bad. Somebody thought you knew something and tried to take you out. Whoever did it is still loose, and if that person tried once—who’s to say she won’t try again?”
“What do you mean—she?” My voice took on a sharp edge. I had a feeling where he was going with this, and I had another feeling that we were about to have our first fight.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said gently. “But I can’t help but think about how Emma was the last person to see Richard alive.”
“As far as you know,” I reminded him. I sat up straight and turned my back to him, making no effort to hide the sudden chill in my words. “I don’t know what conclusion you’re trying to jump to, but I assure you that Emma is completely incapable of murder. And I resent your even trying to imply it. Much less that she’d attack me. She’s my best friend.”
He took me by the shoulders and spun me around. “I’m not trying to imply anything. I’m just trying to put the facts together.”
“Now, you see here, Mr. Forrest,” I said in my iciest possible tone. “You don’t know Emma. Not the way I know her. And I can tell you right now that Emma would no sooner do such a thing, than—than—” I stuttered.
A sudden image flashed before my eyes. The mortar and pestle in Emma’s medicine cabinet. Perfect for mixing paint pigments. Equally perfect for crushing something lethal in a way that it could easily be diluted in a stiff Scotch and soda. And if Peter hadn’t lied about seeing Emma, and if Hilary and Luisa had found Richard dead right after Emma left the scene, and I was a deep sleeper—
“Oh, crap.” I finished lamely.
“Why the sudden scatological outburst?” Peter inquired.
I was momentarily speechless; the evidence was mounting up against Emma, and the only thing standing between the evidence and the logical conclusion was my loyalty to her. I knew her too well, I repeated to myself. She could never have killed Richard. Much less attack me.
I tried to compose myself. “Look, if you forgive me for reading your faxes and turning you into the police, I’ll forgive your odious suggestions about my best friend.” My voice held a challenge in it. I’d learned from working in an environment populated by Type A personalities that the best defense was a good offense. And my loyalty to Emma took priority over nurturing this budding romance.
He held his hands up in front of him. “Fine. We’ll agree to disagree.”
“No,” I said stubbornly, “you’ll agree that you’re completely off base on this one. You barely know Emma, and I do.”
“Which is exactly why I can be objective,” he pointed out. Men and their cool rationality.
“Not an acceptable answer. Take your accusations back,” I demanded.
“Christ,” he said.
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course I trust you.”
“Then take it back. I’m not joking. I mean it. This can’t be hanging over us. I know it wasn’t Emma. I can’t prove it, but if you don’t believe me, then—then—” I stuttered again, not sure what I was going to threaten.
He threw his hands up with resignation. “Okay, I take it back. If you’re sure it wasn’t her then I’m convinced.”
“Good,” I said sternly.
He grinned. “I think we just had our first fight.”
“I guess so.”
“It was fun. Do we get to make up now?” There was a devilish gleam in his eye. But when we kissed this time, it was hard to enjoy it fully. I was too worried about my friend.
Hilary, coming to summon us downstairs to help prepare brunch, interrupted the making up process.
“Well if it isn’t the jailbird himself,” she said, as Peter and I broke apart.
He shrugged good-naturedly. “It was just an innocent mix-up. However, I’m officially in the clear.”
She gave me a pointed look, taking in my flushed cheeks and rumpled hair. Seemingly reassured, she turned to Peter and smiled. “Good to know.”
We followed her down the stairs and into the kitchen, where everyone but the Furlongs had gathered. Peter met the curious looks of my friends with a quick explanation.
“I knew it couldn’t be true,” said Jane warmly, eager to welcome him back into the fold.
“None of us really believed it,” said Sean.
“We’re glad to see you back,” added Matthew, handing me a mimosa. Nothing more was said of the matter, but I knew that I would be teased mercilessly in the days to come about having turned Peter in to the police.
By this point, we all automatically assumed that Jane and Sean would supervise the preparations, and they began meting out tasks. After Peter’s crack about my skills in the kitchen, I was itching to prove that I was not a complete culinary dunce, but when most of the eggshell from the first egg I broke ended up in the bowl, hopelessly entangled with the yolk and the white, Jane banished me to the more mundane task of setting the table. Peter eagerly volunteered to help, and we carried plates and flatware out to the porch. In the spirit of keeping no secrets, I even revealed to him the secret of my napkin-folding trick, which he promised to keep strictly between the two of us.
The smell of frying bacon and pancakes on the griddle must have traveled far, because Mr. Furlong hiked over from his studio shortly before the meal was ready. Mrs. Furlong and Emma came downstairs just in time to take their seats around the old oak table. One look at Emma and all my doubts vanished, if not my concerns. I didn’t know who had killed Richard, but I would have staked my own life that it wasn’t her. I just wished I knew who was really responsible. Well, I tried to comfort myself, if I couldn’t figure it out, with all of the little details and subplots I knew, I didn’t see how the police possibly could.
It wasn’t quite the lavish postwedding champagne brunch that had been planned, but, for whatever reason, the mood of the assembled
group seemed lighthearted—even festive. With the sun shining down and a gentle breeze rustling the trees, the anxiety of the previous evening seemed a distant memory.
Matthew sat next to Emma, piling food onto her plate and insisting that she eat every bite. Mrs. Furlong was playing the gracious hostess, keeping everyone’s glasses and plates full. I fell into an easy banter with Mr. Furlong, who had always enjoyed teasing me about my position as a high-powered lady banker (his description, not mine) and pretending to pump me for insider stock tips.
“Come on, Rachel,” he urged. “We could make a fortune. All you have to do is give me a tiny little hint and I’ll call it in to my broker. Who would ever know? I’ll split the proceeds with you, fifty-fifty.” He took a big swallow of coffee and grinned at me over the top of his mug.
“But there’s not much you can use that money for when you’re in jail,” I pointed out. “For a government agency, the SEC is remarkably competent when it comes to sniffing out insider trading.”
“Is that a no?”
“I don’t know. Are you willing to front me the costs for defense lawyers? Not to mention all of the future earnings I’ll forfeit from never being able to set foot on Wall Street again? If so, then we might be able to strike a deal.”
“Ah. You drive a tough bargain. You look so innocent, so sweet-faced. I didn’t realize you were such a shark.”
“I’m just a dolphin in shark’s clothing. We at Winslow, Brown are dedicated to maximizing shareholder value, and that’s all I care about.” Peter, sitting next to me, muffled a guffaw, but Mr. Furlong smiled at my sarcastic tone and insisted that I take another blueberry pancake from the steaming platter he was passing.
I was intent on adorning that pancake with a liberal swirl of real maple syrup when I realized that a sudden hush had fallen over the table. O’Donnell and Paterson were climbing the steps to the porch, with stern looks on their faces. I hoped that they hadn’t heard us discussing, however facetiously, the ins and outs of insider trading. But somehow I knew that they had other matters in mind.
“Good morning, detectives,” said Mrs. Furlong, as if this were a purely social call. “You’re just in time for brunch. Would you like some pancakes? Jane made them with fresh blueberries from right here on the property. They’re delicious.”
O’Donnell responded with a polite shake of his head, while Paterson swallowed, either out of nerves or hunger. O’Donnell cleared his throat, ignoring the way that Hilary smiled up at him, crossing her arms to emphasize the impressive cleavage displayed by her tank top.
“That’s very kind, Mrs. Furlong,” said O’Donnell. “But I’m afraid we’re here on business.” He turned to Emma. “Ms. Furlong, we’d like to ask you to come down to the station for further questioning.”
Forks clattered to their plates as they were dropped, in unison, by the assorted guests. Emma looked as if she’d just been struck; her face turned a ghostly shade of white. Mr. Furlong pushed his chair away from the table with a loud screech and stood, drawing himself up to his full, rather impressive height.
“What the—” he sputtered. “You are making a grave mistake, Detective.”
“I hope not, Mr. Furlong.” O’Donnell’s tone was measured. I had to admire his ability to stand up to Mr. Furlong without even flinching. “But, based on the evidence we’ve gathered thus far, this is warranted.” I snuck a quick look at Peter. It was only his testimony—that Emma had been the last person to see Richard alive—and the way in which it almost certainly conflicted with Emma’s own, which linked her in any way to the crime. Peter looked appropriately distraught, but I still wanted to give him a swift kick to the shin.
“And what evidence would that be?” demanded Mr. Furlong.
“Well, it appears that Ms. Furlong was the last person to see the deceased alive.”
“Way to go,” I muttered to Peter under my breath. Then I did kick him, hard.
“What?” said Emma. She blinked rapidly.
“What?” echoed a chorus of voices from around the table.
Mr. Furlong recovered quickly. “That’s simply not the case,” he asserted. “And I know that for a fact.
“Because the fact of the matter is that I was the last person to see Richard Mallory alive. And I was also the first person to see him dead. You see, I’m the one who poisoned him.”
This was met with gasps all around.
“Dad—” began Emma, but she was shushed by a hard look from her father.
“Yes, I poisoned him,” he continued. “With tranquilizers I was prescribed after I had knee surgery last year. I’d be happy to show you the bottle. And you can check with the pharmacy in town—I had the prescription filled there. They should have the records.
“As for motive, I could hardly have that scalawag married to my only child. Sometimes a parent just has to step in. So, if anyone is going to come with you to the station, it will be I.” Mr. Furlong spoke calmly, his eyes locked on O’Donnell’s.
There was silence as everyone gaped at Mr. Furlong. And at O’Donnell. And then at Mr. Furlong again.
O’Donnell cleared his throat, more decisively this time. “I understand how much you want to protect your daughter, Mr. Furlong, and we do, in fact, have the pharmacy records, and your prescription matches the toxicology report from the victim’s bloodstream exactly.” The pancakes and bacon in my stomach threatened to make their way back up my esophagus. I swallowed hard, trying not to think about words like autopsy.
“There you go,” said Mr. Furlong. “Well, then. Let’s be on our way.” He tossed his napkin on the table.
“Not so fast, sir,” said O’Donnell. “We did get the records from the pharmacy, but we also got the phone records of calls coming into and going out of this household. And unless you can explain who other than yourself was receiving and initiating trans-Atlantic calls throughout the night from the private line in your studio during the time the murder was committed, it looks like your alibi is watertight.”
Jacob was speechless.
“Mr. Furlong,” said O’Donnell, “I repeat, we appreciate how eager you are to spare your daughter any unpleasantness. But we really must take her into town.”
Jacob’s gaze rested upon his wife, expressionless. You could almost see his mind working, trying to figure out what he could say to clear Emma.
I caught Emma looking from one parent to the other and back again. Her hands gripped the edge of the table so tightly that her knuckles were white. I could sense what was coming before she spoke, and I searched frantically for something to say that could possibly stop her. But my mind, like my legs, seemed to have turned to jelly. I sat in my chair, rooted to the spot and utterly at a loss for words.
Emma’s lips took on a determined set, and with small, neat movements she folded her napkin and laid it beside her plate. Her chair made a scraping noise as she pushed it back from the table. She stood, drawing herself up in the same way that her father had a few moments before. When she did it, however, it only served to emphasize her slight size and fragility.
But her tone, when she spoke, was clear and assured.
“You’ll have to excuse my father, Detective. He’s just trying to help. But I think the time has come to set things straight. You see, I did it. I killed Richard.”
CHAPTER 30
What?
Her words rang in my ears, and my mind stopped working. I knew Emma better than anyone, was more confident of her innocence than anyone, but the way she spoke was so completely convincing that even I believed her.
But only for a moment. Then my brain clicked back into gear. It was so obvious: Emma was clearly covering for whoever it was she thought was guilty. And given that she was already the police’s favorite suspect, surely they would readily accept her confession, even if we all knew it was false. I opened my mouth to speak, to explain to O’Donnell that it couldn’t be Emma, but I had no firm evidence at which to point except my faith in my friend. O’Donnell didn’t skip a beat and began
reading Emma her rights in a level tone.
Matthew stood abruptly and grasped Emma by the shoulder. “What are you doing?” he demanded, his voice low and incredulous.
Jacob interrupted with a roar of anger. “That is complete poppycock, Emma. I won’t stand for it.” He turned to the police. “My daughter doesn’t know what she’s saying. Why, she no more killed that swine than—than—” he sputtered with rage and advanced toward the detectives.
Paterson took a step back, but O’Donnell didn’t flinch. He concluded his recitation of the Miranda rights before turning to Jacob. “Mr. Furlong, I understand that this is upsetting, but we need to do our job. Ms. Furlong, if you would come with us?” He phrased this politely, but it was more of a command than a question.
“She’s not going anywhere without me,” said Jacob, his voice menacing.
“Or me,” said Matthew, his voice no less menacing. From him, such a tone was even scarier because it was so out of character.
“Mr. Furlong, Dr. Weir, that really wouldn’t be appropriate right now. The best thing you could do would be to track down a good criminal lawyer and have him meet us at the station in town.”
“Criminal lawyer?” said Lily, her voice rising with alarm.
“I’ll make some calls,” interjected Luisa. “My firm’s New York office should be able to point us to the best local guy there is. Emma—don’t say another word until a lawyer arrives, do you understand? Just sit quiet and try not to worry. I’ll have someone there as soon as possible.”
Emma nodded calmly and reached up to give Matthew a kiss on the cheek before detaching his arm from her shoulder. I watched, dumbstruck, as she began walking toward the front of the house and the waiting police car, flanked by O’Donnell and Paterson.
“Emma,” called her father, running after them. “We’ll have a lawyer there as soon as we can. And Luisa’s right—don’t say another word. Nothing at all.” He disappeared around the corner of the house, and we could hear the sound of slamming car doors. He returned a moment later. There was a slump to his broad shoulders. For the first time, he looked old. Haggard rather than distinguished, and just very, very tired.
The Pact Page 24
