Judgement By Fire

by O'Connell, Glenys

  Lauren saw Jon’s face flush with anger, but he said nothing.

  “One thing that does bother me is that a company like yours must have lots of employees who’d be happy to do a favor for the boss. You wouldn’t actually have to dirty your hands yourself.” Ohmer said, ruminatively.

  “I won’t even grace that with a response, Chief Ohmer.” Jon replied, his eyes hard. The police chief glared at him assessingly, and then abruptly returned to business at hand.

  “There’s not much we can do here now, Lauren,” Paul said, gently touching her arm.

  “No, I want to stay, start tidying up. I’ve got to finish that picture for the exhibition.”

  A sob caught in Lauren’s throat. Even the best repair artist in the world, and she knew at least one of them, would have a hard time doing anything with the bobcat portrait, at least in time for next week’s exhibition. And even if she had the heart to start again, there simply wasn’t the time to finish a whole new work.

  “Come to our place, you can use the spare room, and get back to everything again tomorrow,” Paul urged, his eyes sad for the pain he knew she was experiencing.

  “I’ve a better idea. Come back to Toronto with me,” Jon put in quickly. “Mary would love taking care of you, and the twins would be ecstatic to have a visitor. In the morning, you can make whatever changes you need to the exhibition arrangements, and I’ll bring you back here. In the meantime, we’ll get a cleaning team in here during tomorrow morning to get started on putting everything back together.”

  “Why would I want to come to Toronto with you, Jon Rush?”

  “Yeah, that could be something like walking into the lion’s den,” Paul interceded.

  “Do you really believe that?” Jon asked. The two men stared at each other for a moment, silent messages passed between them, and then Paul rubbed his hands over his face.

  “No, I guess not. Not really. And it would be a good idea for Lauren to be away from here, at least overnight. The cleaning crew’s a great idea, but I think all her friends here will pitch in, too.”

  “I wish you’d stop talking about me as if I wasn’t here,” Lauren interjected peevishly. “And why would it be better if I wasn’t here tonight?”

  “In case your visitor returns—and finds you home,” Jon told her grimly. “Or decides to go through your friends to get to you. People could get hurt.” He climbed into the driver’s seat.

  All the arguments Lauren had ready suddenly fell to dust on her tongue. If the creature that had destroyed her studio turned that kind of viciousness on her or on another human being…she shuddered, feeling sick.

  As Jon started the engine though, she cried out for him to stop. “I need some things from the house, some clothes, and things. And I could take the picture in to Judy Harris, see if she can do anything with the damage.”

  Mike Ohmer, who’d stopped by the truck, looked at Lauren. “You don’t want anything from in there,” he told her brusquely. “But if you need the painting, I’ll have one of the guys get it.”

  They waited in silence until they saw Andrew Chalmers, one of Ohmer’s officers from the local Ontario Provincial Police detachment, heading towards the Jeep with the unwieldy canvas oblong dwarfed in his muscular arms. Jon got out and opened the rear doors. While he loaded the canvas, Chalmers came around to talk to Lauren.

  “Ms. Stephens, I just wanted you to know myself and the other guys are all really sorry about this happening to you. I know this is a bit of a hick community,” Chalmers gave a big grin to disarm his words. “But you know, most people do realize how valuable the artists are to the area and would hate to see you all gone from here. One thing you can be sure of, old Chief Ohmer’s hopping mad and he’ll have a few choice words to say to the guy who did this when we catch up with him. And we will, no doubt about that!”

  Lauren was touched at the kind words of support from a man she knew only to speak to in passing and tears sprang into her eyes. To cover them, she closed her eyes, leaned back against the soft leather upholstery and pretended to rest as Jon guided the big Jeep out of the Haverford Castle laneway and onto the township road.

  She thought she was just resting her eyes until the tears had dissipated, but when she opened them again Lauren was shocked to see that they were stopped at traffic lights in a familiar-looking street. Glancing out of the driver’s side window, Lauren gasped as she recognized the lovely old Victoria Hall in the lakeshore town of Cobourg.

  Built as a replica of the Old Bailey in London, England, the hall was the venue for many concerts and plays that Lauren had attended with friends over the years. Cobourg, with its gentle harbor on Lake Ontario, was a pretty town popular as a home base for artists and writers, and Lauren had several successful friends who lived in the area.

  Jon noticed she was awake as the lights changed and he drove forward. Reaching down to the tray between the seats, he offered her a large polystyrene cup.

  “I had to stop for gas, and thought I’d pick up coffee before getting back on the 401. I guess you could probably use this, or something stronger.”

  Lauren took the cup gratefully and wriggled into a more comfortable upright position. She’d slipped down in her seat as she slept, and had the uncomfortable feeling that she’d probably spent at least some of the time with her head resting trustingly on Jon’s shoulder.

  “We’re in Cobourg? I must have been asleep for hours…”

  “I think it was probably more of an emotional escape than a sleep, although you’re probably exhausted after the day you’ve had,” Jon replied, his long, slender fingers sliding deftly on the steering wheel as he negotiated a difficult turn from the main street onto the road that would lead them back to the highway.

  Lauren realized suddenly that she could watch those hands for hours. In fact, she’d like to sketch their shape, charcoal, perhaps, or pen and ink, and then it hit her.

  Her studio, trashed, her possessions ruined. The last work she had almost finished probably damaged beyond repair…

  “What will happen now, about your exhibition?” Jon asked her softly, as if he had sensed reality flood back into her mind and wanted to start her back on the road to practical solutions.

  “Well, thank God, my agent’s a real stickler. In fact, some unkind people call him a damned old nag.” Lauren smiled fondly as she thought of Alex Waters. “But he insisted that all the finished work for the exhibition be shipped a couple of days ago, so now he can hassle the framers as well as myself, the gallery staff, and anyone else who walks into his path.

  “The only outstanding work was the poor old bobcat in the back here, and I can maybe get that fixed up. If not, we’ll just have to go ahead one canvas short of a full exhibit, which won’t please the Harrison Gallery people much. But in the circumstances, I think they’ll understand.”

  Jon whistled through his teeth. “The Harrison Gallery? That’s where you’re exhibiting? Well, congratulations, they pretty much only take the cream of the crop,” he said respectfully, reaching over to squeeze her fingers.

  “Yeah, it’s quite a career breakthrough. But I can’t help thinking, what if that maniac had got into my studio a few days ago, when all my canvases for the exhibition were still stacked around the walls? I’ve worked so hard for this. I’m not sure I’d have the heart, the sheer psychic strength, to pick myself up and start all over again. “

  “It means that much to you?”

  “It’s really my life. I am rarely as happy with anything as when I’m painting, or planning to paint,” Lauren told him.

  She could have added that there had been times, in the last few days, when she’d been as happy in his company as she had been at her easel. However, something nagged at her, and she fished around over her memory of the past few hours to find it.

  “I’m so glad you’re coming home with me, Lauren, although I wish the circumstances were better. But I’d like you to see something of my life, to get to know me better…” his voice was a soft caress in the
darkness of the vehicle.

  Coming home with me, the words went straight to Lauren’s heart and sent that now familiar feeling of heat coursing through her veins. But still something nagged at her, and then she caught it.

  “I thought you told me you weren’t married?” she demanded, straining against the seat belt to watch his face.

  “I’m not,” he replied, nothing but puzzlement in his voice.

  “So who’s this Mary and the twins you want me to meet?”

  She could see his grin, even in the dim dashboard light, and could tell he was pretty pleased with himself. “Oh, Mary has lived with me quite a while now, and you’ll just adore the twins.”

  Try as she might, Lauren couldn’t get another word out of him. But a deep gloom had settled over her heart. Jon Rush was obviously drawn to her as she was to him, but he’d been living with another woman for a long time, long enough to have twins.

  She closed her eyes, imagination painting on her eyelids two tiny twin replicas of Jon. Were they boys, girls? One of each? He wouldn’t answer further, went so far as to switch on the radio to prevent further conversation. As she began to drift back into sleep, Lauren felt a deep, aching need, a sadness in her chest, and a longing she had never believed she would know.

  A longing to hold a tiny blond child in her arms. A longing she could never fulfill, for another woman already held Jon Rush’s twins, and so he would be bound to this mysterious Mary forever by their tiny fingers.

  Tears that had been balanced under her eyelids finally slipped down when Lauren opened her eyes, feeling the Jeep slowing down as they moved from the main road along a driveway lined with neat white fencing. Small lights winked along the driveway, and larger lights on wrought iron posts, like old-fashioned street lamps, illuminated a large white clapboard farmhouse that looked charming in its tree-sheltered setting, more like a Christmas card in its snowy glory than a real house.

  Lauren stared at the building, loving every elegant line of its massive turn-of-the-century shape, and wondered what it would be like to share such a home with Jon Rush. The house was such a contradiction to the man she’d assumed him to be—an ambitious corporate executive should have a brand new condo or a $1.5 million loft conversion in the middle of Toronto, not a secluded farmhouse with what looked like a working farm attached.

  Looking around as she stepped from the Jeep, she could see only dim, snow-covered fields and the dark huddled shapes of trees. Not another house in sight. Then the door of the house opened, spilling warmth and light down the stone steps towards the Jeep, and a stately older woman walked towards them, her face wreathed in smiles, accompanied by two bounding Labrador retriever pups. The dogs launched themselves straight at Lauren, and she bent to rub the amazing softness of their ears and run her hands along their sides, still soft with puppy fat.

  Jon came alongside her then, and with a perfectly straight face, introduced the older woman.

  “Lauren, I’d like you to meet Mary Wilson, she’s taken care of this old house and me, too, for the past nine years or so. And I see you’ve already met the twins. Down, boys!”

  From her squatting position between the two pups, Lauren looked up and saw the big, knowing grin on his face. He’d planned this, the rat! He’d known she’d think Mary and the twins meant something completely different.

  “Jon Rush,” she said quietly and plainly, “I think I am going to kill you.”

  * * *

  Snow was still falling as he parked in a side street near her apartment building. It had been an awful rush to get here and for a few tense moments, he’d thought he was too late. Then the bus pulled in and he saw her moving down the center aisle to the middle exit doors. It paid to take an interest in people, he thought grimly, as he watched the petite woman in the long black coat walk out from behind the Toronto Transit Commission cream and red bus.

  She was the only passenger to get off at this stop, and carried a bulging briefcase along with two heavy looking plastic shopping bags. He’d learned from coffee time chats that Pippa Williams always visited her elderly mother on Friday evenings and then picked up groceries on her way home.

  “Too bad, Pippa—such a creature of habit. Such a good worker, too. Much too conscientious for your own good. Another betrayal. Why didn’t you come to me first? I could have explained everything.”

  Then he gunned the engine and the big vehicle leapt forwards. The woman in the street had barely time to look in his direction and register the danger she was in before thousands of pounds of metal bore down on her. The right wing caught her with a bone-shattering thump and her fragile body was thrown sideways, seeming to arc gracefully before hitting the snow-covered tarmac with a sickeningly wet thud. Her briefcase flew from her grasp, and vegetables, yogurt, hamburger meat, a newspaper, scattered from her shopping bags and fell into the street.

  He stopped the vehicle, looked around him to spot prying eyes. No one had noticed. In the city, no one ever did. He got out of the vehicle, careful to slide his feet so as not to leave shoe impressions in the snow, and walked back to where Pippa Williams lay in the roadway. Looking down on her, he was moved to compassion at her pathetic plight.

  However, he was sure she was dead, and even if she wasn’t, either the plummeting temperatures would finish the job quickly, or another car was sure to hit her as the road became busy again with early morning traffic. It was all in the hands of God, really.

  Stooping, he picked up her briefcase, pleased to note that the clasps had held instead of bursting open, scattering God-knew what kind of damning evidence in the street for anyone to see.

  He stowed the briefcase in the back of his vehicle and drove away, whistling slightly to himself as he concentrated on his driving in the treacherous new fallen snow.

  Wouldn’t want to have an accident, after all.

  Chapter Seven

  After seeing Lauren, Mary and the ‘twins’ safely inside the house, Jon excused himself, saying he would make some phone calls while Mary showed Lauren to a room and gave her an opportunity to freshen up. Then, he promised, they’d have a warm drink and talk a few things through. Lauren smiled at the way the two Labrador pups—Jon’s “twins”—bounded after him, puppy ears alert for his every word and movement.

  “Looks like at least the pups adore him,” she commented to the housekeeper as she and Mary climbed the wide, curved staircase.

  “Ah, poor things, they just live for the times when he’s here, which recently haven’t been anywhere near often enough, what with all the things that have been going on,” Mary clicked her teeth in disapproval, but a worried frown creased her forehead.

  “It’s been really busy at the company, then?”

  “They’ve had several emergency situations and I know he’s been worried. But Jon will get it all sorted out, I’m sure. He’s like his father in that respect—competent and smart,” Mary replied confidently. She paused before a white-painted door in a shadowed hallway just beyond the stairs. “Now, my room is just down there,” she told Lauren, and pointed down another leg of the upper corridor. “And Mr. Rush’s rooms are at the end of this landing.”

  She opened the bedroom door and ushered Lauren into a large and cheerful room done in peach and cream with accents of deep forest green in the bed pillows, lampshades, and seat covers. Peach satin drapes were drawn over tall windows to shut out the night, and an electric fire licked realistic looking logs in a white-painted wrought-iron mantel surround as it warmed the room,

  “It’s a beautiful room,” Lauren said, wondering if this was Jon’s taste, Mary’s, or that of an impersonal interior decorator.

  “Yes, Jon inherited his mother’s gift for color. She’s an artist, you know, and I understand quite well known down in California.”

  “Jon’s mother is American?”

  “Yes, she lives in San Francisco, has done for years. Now, I shouldn’t stand here gossiping,” the older woman seemed embarrassed at having talked so much about her employer’s affairs.


  With a swift movement she opened another door and showed Lauren the en suite bathroom, where toiletries were lined up for the visitor’s use on a shelf over the shell-shaped vanity sink and a soft, fluffy deep green terry robe hung over a radiator.

  “I hope you’ll be very comfortable, Ms. Stephens. If there’s anything you need, just ring that bell there by the bed. Now, if you want to freshen up, I’ll put the kettle on and make tea for you and Mr. Rush.

  “It's past my own bedtime, I’m afraid. I seem to need my sleep these days, but I’ll leave a tray of tea things in the study—that’s the first door on your right at the bottom of the stairs, across the hall. I’m sure Jon won’t be too long on the telephone.”

  Lauren was sorely tempted to lie down on the inviting softness of the queen-sized bed, just to take a nap and rest joints and muscles that ached from the long hours she’d spent cramped in moving vehicles. She recognized, too, a component of emotional exhaustion. Part of her mind was screaming for sleep to blot out the awful experiences of the day, while another part kept drifting towards awareness of the man downstairs and his broad-shouldered, protective warmth.

  So you’ve finally decided that he didn’t trash your place, eh? Exulted the little voice in her mind, and she was startled to realize that yes, she had come to the conclusion that whatever had gone on in her home, Jon Rush wasn’t the moving force behind it. She found she had already dismissed Chief Ohmer’s suggestion that Jon could have any number of his employees doing dirty work for him, and she suspected that the chief hadn’t really believed that, either.

  Just ol’ Chief Ohmer on a fishing expedition, looking for opportunities, the little voice sneakily interjected, just like the opportunities being in this beautiful house all night with that very attractive man. Go on, admit it—you are very attracted to him…

  Yes, yes, I’m very attracted to him, but his housekeeper’s just down the hall and, well, anyway—it wouldn’t be right, somehow. I’m not ready, not after today.