by Diana Palmer
Yes, he had seen her at the funeral. And only now did she recognize him; the silver-haired, handsome old man in the blue pin-striped suit who’d been standing by himself, behind Marc. There had been several people she didn’t know at the cemetery and she hadn’t paid particular attention to them.
“Yes,” she said quietly, without backing down, which was what she really felt like doing. This man’s reputation gave her cold chills.
“You’re the one Marcus was yelling his head off about, aren’t you?” he continued, his voice cold and emotionless.
Her long nails bit into her clutch purse. “Yes,” she confessed, and her green eyes challenged him to do his worst.
His wide lips pursed, then drew into a faint smile. “Well, you’ve got guts, I’ll say that for you,” he muttered. “Took one hell of a lot of nerve to come here.”
“More than you know, I think,” she said with what was left of that nerve. She shifted her stance, glad she’d worn low-heeled shoes. She might stand here a long time. That was what she did mostly these days, stand and wait for one of the Stephanos to listen to her.
“You want to come in?” he asked, cocking his head. For a moment she thought his dark eyes were laughing at her. “Might be dangerous, all alone with a shady character like me.”
She sighed wearily. “Mr. Stephano, I’m in so much trouble, anything you might do to me would be a favor.”
The sound of his deep, soft laughter startled her. He chuckled and stood to one side. “Come on in here, doll,” he invited. “And I thought I was ‘Uncle Michael,’ not ‘Mr. Stephano.’”
“That was what Joe and Marc always called you,” she said sheepishly, moving into the apartment past him. Surprisingly it had been furnished with exquisite taste and obvious money.
He closed the door and walked into the green-and-white decor of the living room. He was wearing slacks and an open-throated white shirt. He was in his stocking feet, and Gaby thought he might have been taking a nap because his thick, straight silver hair was mussed.
“I hope I didn’t disturb you,” she began apologetically, and sat down on the very edge of the sofa.
“I saw a princess on television one time,” he remarked as he dropped into a big armchair across from her. “She wasn’t one bit more elegant than you look.” He leaned back and lit a big cigar and reached out to tug an ashtray closer on the table beside the chair. “So you’re Gaby,” he mused quietly.
“I’m Gaby,” she confirmed. She stared at him expectantly, seeing more of Marc than Joe in that rugged face.
“I remember hearing about you years ago,” he said surprisingly. “I thought you had wings and flew in the clouds from the way Marc described you.” He drew in a slow breath. “Too bad you broke up. He never was the same after that. And the next thing I know, it’s about ten years later and you’re going around with Joseph. You must like the Stephano family.”
“Like was the right word,” she told him sadly. “Unfortunately Joe wanted it to be more. I couldn’t give him what he wanted. But I didn’t help to kill him. And that’s why I came. I know something terrible about Joe’s death, and Marc won’t listen to me. He blames me for everything. I can’t get near him.”
“Like a snarling wolf, isn’t he?” he asked knowingly. He tapped ashes into the ashtray. “Spill it. What do you know?”
She told him, quietly and concisely, what she suspected and why. “The clincher was when Bob Donalds left town with bruises all over him. He wouldn’t tell me a single thing, but his face told me a lot. I’m almost sure David Smith has something to do with this. I just can’t get anybody to listen to me.”
He watched her like an old hawk, and he didn’t blink. She could imagine him backing down a thug with just that level, threatening stare. It gave her goose bumps.
“Why don’t you think Joseph was taking drugs?” he asked.
“Because he never did. I was with him a lot of the time during the last few weeks. I would have recognized the symptoms.” She laughed bitterly. “I’ve seen enough addiction and near addiction to know.”
“Yeah, me too. Stupid habit.” He drew in a puff of smoke and let it out, stared at his cigar’s glowing tip. “That doesn’t sound like Joseph, what you described him doing that last night. No, that doesn’t sound like Joseph to me. He was quiet, even when he was hitting the booze.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve seen him drunk. He just passed out eventually. This was different.” She studied her long fingernails with their pale pink polish. “He’d been changing lately. Losing weight, brooding. He looked really bad. I hated to cut our friendship off,” she said in anguish, lifting her eyes to his, “but I felt it would be worse to lead him on, to let him get his hopes up. I swear, it was nothing more than friendship on my part from the beginning. I told him so and kept telling him so. But he wouldn’t listen. He told Marc some terrible lies about me. I don’t understand it. He seemed out of his head completely. I remember wondering if it could be pressure or alcohol doing it to him, because it was so unlike Joe. We were friends, but he was never obsessed with me, or at least he never seemed to be.”
“Men keep a lot to themselves, Gaby,” he said. “Too much, sometimes. Joseph didn’t talk to me like Marcus did. But Marcus mentioned that his brother was really crazy about you. It bothered him. He knew you didn’t feel the same way. He was sure you were trying to get to him through Joseph.”
“I know. But I wasn’t. I liked Joe. I often thought that if his life had been a little different, if he’d joined the service or gone out on his own, he might have adjusted better.”
He stared at her hard. “You think Marcus protected him too much.”
“Yes,” she said bluntly.
He laughed shortly. “Yeah. Me, too, but Marcus never listened to me. He used to think I was a bad influence on the boy, so he kept him away from me. Pity. Marcus loved him, you know. He just felt too much responsibility for the boy.”
“Just the two of them, I guess so,” she agreed. She studied the older man. “Why didn’t they live with you when they were younger?”
“With me? God forbid I should have kids around, living like I do!” He got up and went to the window, staring down at traffic. “How much you know about me?”
She gulped. “Just a few things.”
He glanced at her with a rueful smile. “Yeah. Well, most of them are true.”
“Is their mother still alive?” she asked to change the subject and also because Marc had seldom spoken of her.
“I don’t know,” he said curtly. “I don’t want to know. Neither did they. She was a real jewel. She was the kind of woman who could give motherhood a bad name. She never took care of the boys, and even when they were small, they had to fend for themselves.”
Gaby shuddered, thinking about how terrible it must have been for two children. No wonder they’d grown up so tough.
“What did you do?” she asked, drawn into the story.
“I wasn’t in a position to do much. I helped them whenever I could, but even then Marcus was as independent as they come. Somehow they managed to survive. They were tough little cusses!” He took another draw from the cigar. “By the time Marcus was fifteen, he was a real streetwise kid with a mean right hook. He didn’t talk about his mother. He just let me believe she was with them. Then Mother was away with one boyfriend or another as often as she was home with the kids. They were mostly on their own. Marcus got a job at that garage and supported himself and Joseph, and by the time I realized that they had to fend for themselves most of the time, he had everything well in hand. Hell of a boy, Marcus. And look where he got to. His own company. An empire. All legit. Makes me sick with jealousy.”
She didn’t mention that it was the five thousand dollars her parents had given Marc to drop her that had made the difference. He’d paid it all back. The only victim in that transaction ha
d been herself, and what did that matter now? Marc would never be able to forget how Joe had died or her part in it, however small. There was nothing she could do about that. All she could hope for was to clear Joe’s name and help find his killer. Perhaps that would make Marc feel a little less hatred for her.
“But what matters now is that Smith creep,” he said, and when he turned, his eyes were narrow with menace.
“Tell me what to do,” she said quietly.
He pursed his lips. “I’ll bet that’s a switch,” he said, chuckling. “Marcus used to say you had a lot of spirit.”
“It’s rather bent at the moment,” she confessed. “But I’ll bounce back one of these days. Right now I just want to make sure that big rat doesn’t get away with what he did to Joe.”
“You’re sure it’s him?”
“I’m sure,” she said without a second thought. “I’d bet on it.”
“Bad girl,” he clucked, pointing a finger at her. “Gambling is not a nice pastime.”
“I’ll remember,” she promised. “What do we do?”
“You do nothing,” he returned. “I’ll start asking a few innocent questions and see what I come up with. You keep your mouth shut. I don’t want you to get yourself in trouble before I get answers.”
“I don’t want that, either,” she said fervently. She got up. “Thanks for hearing me out. I ran out of people to confide in. I don’t have any close friends. Except Joe,” she said with a wobbly smile.
“Hey,” he chided, “cut that out. He wouldn’t want his friend crying over him, would he?”
She swallowed down the lump in her throat. “Nope. Guess not. He was a nice guy, that’s all.” She went to the door, opening it before he could. “Should I give you my phone number or get yours?” she asked, turning.
“It’s better if we keep our association on the QT,” he replied. “You don’t want to be connected with a bad man like me.”
“Bull,” she shot back. “The only bad men I know are disguised as well-fed executives.”
“Yeah, that sounds familiar, all right. But we don’t want anybody to suspect that I know about all this. And you look over your shoulder,” he added firmly. “Gossip gets around. That roommate of Joseph’s might have said too much already.”
“I’ll look out for myself. You will let me know if you find out anything?”
“Sure. In ways you’d least expect. You live alone?” he asked with a hard frown.
“No. With my father, at his house.”
“You’ll be safe there. Don’t go out at night alone.”
She stared at him and shook her head. “You’re a bossy man.”
“Yeah. I should have had ten kids to boss around, but my girl died, and I never wanted anybody else,” he said. His gaze roved over her hair. “She had auburn hair. Big blue eyes. Freckles. Hell of a pretty girl.”
“What happened to her?” she asked.
He lifted the cigar to his mouth. “She got pneumonia,” he said simply. “Damned twentieth century. Television, movies, men on the moon. But she got pneumonia, and all the drugs they had wouldn’t save her. She was twenty-four,” he recalled, “and I was thirty. I’d have died for her.” His shoulders rose and fell. “She was the only human being who ever loved me just the way I was.”
She bit her lower lip because there were tears in his eyes and she couldn’t stand to see them. She turned away. “I’d better go,” she said gently. She didn’t say she was sorry because that was too trite. He was a nice old man with a horrible reputation that terrified people. But he didn’t terrify Gaby anymore. She liked him. “Good night, Uncle Michael.”
“Good night, Gaby. Take care.”
“You too.” She smiled over her shoulder as she went out into the hall and heard him close the door softly behind her.
She went back home, feeling a little more confident about the whole situation. If Uncle Michael could probe gently into Motocraft, Inc., and check up on David Smith, he might well come away with some tangible evidence as well. The auditors were a logical contact, but Gaby was no private detective, and snooping could be dangerous. Even if she hired a detective, she might be discovered. The thought made her uneasy.
She wondered if Uncle Michael would talk to Marc. Probably not, she decided. He seemed the kind of man who wouldn’t confide secrets unless it became necessary. But perhaps she could make one more effort to get through to Marc, to make him listen to her.
She picked up the phone and dialed his apartment. It was late, and probably Lana would be there, but that wouldn’t be so shocking. She knew they were lovers, so why get upset all over again? She gripped the receiver and held her breath while the phone rang once, twice, three times.
On the fourth ring, just as she was starting to loosen her grip, there was a click followed by Marc’s deep, “Stephano.”
She hesitated. Would he slam the phone down in her ear? What could she say that would force him to listen?
“Hello?” he demanded impatiently.
“If you’d only listen,” she said wearily, “I know you won’t. But if you’d just hear me out one time.”
There was a pause. “What do you want to tell me, Gaby? I already know more than I ever wanted to.”
“Somebody gave Joe drugs,” she said quietly. “Somebody doped him. Listen, Marc, was Joe the kind of man who’d stand on a street corner screaming at the top of his lungs for half an hour, even if he was dead drunk?”
There was another pause. “You ran with a crowd where drugs were easy to get,” he scoffed, but at least he was listening.
“No. And Joe and I weren’t having an affair. And I didn’t slip him anything. But somebody did. Check your books, Marc, before it’s too late! Smith and Joe were into something over their heads. Smith was—”
“Not again,” he said harshly. “Aren’t you tired of that story? Dave says it’s a bald-faced lie, and if you repeat it, he’s going to sue you.”
Her blood ran cold. “You told David Smith what I said?” she asked in a ghostly whisper.
“Of course I told him!” He sounded impatient, fed up. “He’s been with me for ten years. He’s the nearest thing to a friend I’ve got. Yeah, I told him. He had a right to know you were making wild accusations about him.”
She felt the fear like an icy finger drawing a cutting line across her throat. “And it never occurred to you, did it, that if I’m right, he’ll come after me next?” she asked.
“Stop it, Gaby,” he said curtly. “Haven’t you had enough mileage out of your lies? Joe might not have been on drugs, but he was sure out of his head over you. If you hadn’t led him on and dropped him, he’d still be alive. Look, I’m tired. I loved my brother, Gaby. I raised him, just me. Leave it, will you? I want to get over it. If you want to make up excuses, fine, but don’t tell them to me. I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want any part of you ever again.” And he hung up.
Her eyes closed. He didn’t realize what he’d done. And now she knew that she shouldn’t have told him anything. He’d told Smith, and Smith was going to have to do something. Uncle Michael hadn’t been far off the mark with his advice to look over her shoulder. She was going to do that, all right. And she was going straight to the police, first thing in the morning. She was going to make sure they knew what was going on, just in case she did have an unfortunate accident. Even if Smith killed her, she was going to make sure somebody knew about him.
She made sure the doors and windows were locked before she went to bed. She hardly slept, though, because Smith knew about her. He knew that she’d figured it out. He knew how much he stood to lose if she talked. He wasn’t going to let her get away with it; he couldn’t afford to. She was sure that he’d make a move, and it wouldn’t be long.
It wasn’t. The phone rang early the next morning. With trembling fingers she l
ifted the receiver.
“Hello?” she said, trying to sound calm.
“Miss Bennett?” a strange voice asked.
She wondered who it was. “Yes?”
“I hear you’ve been asking some questions about Joe Stephano’s death. Better keep your mouth shut or you may wind up in trouble. You got that?”
She sat up in bed, wild-eyed. “Who is this?”
“Never mind who this is. Lay off.”
“I won’t,” she shot back without thinking. “I’ll go to the police!”
The line went dead. She jumped out of bed and dressed quickly. There was no time like the present for getting down to the nearest police station and telling everything she knew. She felt like her life might depend on it at this stage of the game.
She tugged on pink slacks and a floral top and sandals, barely taking time to fix her face and brush her long hair. Thanks a lot, Marc, she thought furiously. Now you can come to my funeral too.
With haste borne of fear she grabbed her clutch purse and ran downstairs. She opened the door and quickly locked it behind her and went down to the curb to hail a cab. But just as she spotted one and lifted a hand to hail it, a car came around the corner, out of nowhere, and ran up onto the sidewalk, missing her by inches.
She dived behind a telephone pole as the car, dark-colored and ordinary, screeched back onto the street and around another corner, leaving her shaking and out of breath.
“Hey, lady, you okay?” a pedestrian asked, touching her shoulder in concern.
“Did you see that?” a heavyset woman asked her elderly companion. “That car tried to hit her!”
Yes, Gaby knew that. It was a warning.
She hesitated, standing on the street corner trembling. What was she to do now? If she went to the police, just what was she going to tell them? That David Smith had given a drug to Joe and caused the wreck that killed him? That Smith was a thief? Where was her proof? What could the police do on that kind of charge? And if they confronted Smith, he could very well turn the tables and sue her for character assassination, couldn’t he? And unless she had evidence, unless she could prove those allegations, she’d be in hot water.
