Bruno, who had greeted Julia as a trusted friend by now, was lounging in the kitchen, doing what he did best: sleeping. Occasionally the sound of his jingling tags reached them, as he hauled himself upright for a few slurps of water from his metal dish, or a few mouthfuls of kibble. One could surmise that Bruno appreciated his cushy life now, compared to untold months on the streets as a homeless stray before being rescued by the local shelter, and then by Olivia herself.
“All right, tell me what’s really going on with you,” said Julia at last, from the springy confines of the couch. “Those minor mishaps weren’t enough to send you into the tailspin I heard in your voice.”
Stretching her cramped body, Olivia sighed. “Oh, Julia. I don’t know where to start.”
“Try at the beginning, hon. That usually works best.”
“Of course. All right, then, here goes.”
Julia was aware, of course, of the Kiplings’ troubled marriage, the horrific attack that had ended it, the imprisonment behind psychiatric bars keeping Annajane Merrill out of the public eye, the shocking still-unsolved case of vandalism upon the Kiplings’ house on Queen Street. What she had not heard was Annajane’s appearance at Jeff’s office, and her subsequent threats. And Jeff’s confrontation with Roger that had resulted in absolutely nothing concrete. And Annajane’s probable skulking around at Nicky’s school. And, most recently, the brief note warning of danger to every member of the Kipling family.
“Oh my God,” Julia sucked in a breath of pure horror. “Livvie, no wonder you look ready to dive into a bomb shelter and never come out! What is Jeff doing about all this?”
After copying the correspondence on the printer in their home office, Jeff had wearily made a second trip to the town’s police headquarters and filed another report. A BOLO had been issued for the long-gone Annajane, and authorities had visited and revisited her father at the estate near Peekskill without, so far, obtaining any current information as to her whereabouts.
“This is absolutely unconscionable.” Julia was livid on her friend’s behalf. “I don’t understand what she hopes to accomplish, but AJ has really lost her marbles. She is a menace to society.”
“Not to society,” said Olivia softly, sadly. “Just to the Quinley family itself.”
“So there’s really nothing more to be done at the moment?”
“Apparently we can only wait—and watch—till she strikes again.”
“How do you think she found out where Nicky goes to school?”
Olivia shrugged.
“Oh, of course, probably information scattered anywhere on the Net. Or some private dick she’s hired to track him down. But, then, Livvie, she may know your home address, too!”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Again, Olivia tried to stretch muscles that continued to cramp. Her whole body felt as tight as a coiled spring, ready to snap. Only the infant curled up in her middle was holding her together. “Our lives are pretty much an open book.”
Sorrow and regret flashed across Julia’s pretty face, and she leaned forward with one forearm balanced across one thigh. “This is rapidly becoming a dangerous situation. I so wish all of you could simply go away somewhere, until the woman has been caught and put behind bars.”
“I know; me, too. But there’s Nicky, in school, and both Jeff and me with businesses of our own to run. We can’t just slip off to a deserted island.”
“What about some sort of security?”
“You mean, like a few Secret Service guys?” Olivia managed a brief laugh that offered no sense of amusement. “No, not so much. Just our home alarm system, and extra precautions at our offices for the employees, and the police on standby cruising past the house and Franklin Elementary on a regular basis.”
Julia looked angry enough to bite ten penny nails in half. “This is such craziness. I wish I could do more for you, Liv. I wish I could find AJ, bang her over the head, and drag her off to the cops.”
“I know. Kinda wish I could do the same thing! All my sympathy for her has been used up, long ago.”
“Oh, sympathy!” A furious parroting of the words, a furious few swallows from her glass of tea, already warming. “I’ll sympathy her, if I ever get the chance to lay eyes on her again.”
“Thank you, Julia.”
She looked surprised. “For what?”
“For this. Today.” Olivia allowed herself a small mirthless chuckle. “I didn’t realize how much I needed to talk to a good friend until you showed up.”
“Liv, all of us women are a lot stronger when we’ve got another woman standing with us. You just call me anytime you need cheering up, okay? Or—” the hint of a smile, “—your carpet vacuumed, or your floor mopped.”
* * * * * * * * * * *
Several nights later found Roger at his mammoth desk in the library, perusing the glossy pages of a catalogue that advertised an upcoming auction of fine art and prints. He was definitely interested in the sale; his very fingertips itched at the thought of acquiring such pieces, either to join the others here in his own private collection or to offer the privilege of possession to those on a quite selective list of potential buyers.
Rain was falling in a steady stream outside, flooding the back lawn and turning every local street into a storm culvert. The blackened sky shot occasional bolts of lightning and booms of thunder from one horizon to the other. With cooler temperatures, Roger had sent his daily staff home and lit a fire, to add both warmth and ambiance to a room far too reminiscent of a walled fortress.
Slipping a bookmark into place, he noted one more of several framed items which had grabbed his attention. Trouble was, the location, as far as he could determine, had been set in London. Of course his passport was up to date and ready to go at a moment’s notice. Whether he would be able to leave the country was another matter entirely. Current circumstances did not bode well for such an excursion, even on business.
Perhaps a bid-by-phone option was available. He would have to research that possibility, read the catalogue’s disclaimers more closely. He might even—
The particular chime for his cell phone rang, interrupting thoughts and considerations.
Frowning, Roger glanced down at the screen. An unfamiliar number; probably some cold sales call. He ignored the summons, returning instead to the catalogue and his list of notes concerning various works on various pages.
Another quick look at his phone, to see that whoever was trying to reach him had left a message. Curious now, he scrolled through necessary sections and read what was printed.
Call me here, now!
Imperious as always: those words could have been texted by only one person.
With a sigh, he dialed the number, all the while trying to mentally prepare for anything and everything.
“Why didn’t you answer me the first time?”
“Hello, Annajane.”
“Honestly, Roger, is it too much to ask that you actually pay some attention to me? After all, I am a fugitive on the run, you know.”
Was there supposed to be a gram of humor in that statement, along with a grain of truth? Tiredly he sat back in his exquisite soft leather chair and rubbed his eyes. “So I understand. Are you all right? Are you somewhere safe?”
“I’m perfectly fine, thank you. And I’ve gotten myself to—”
“Annajane,” he rudely burst in, “be careful what you say. I have no doubt that my line has been tapped.”
“I have no doubt either, darling. It’s why I bought a—what is it called in those law enforcement movies you like to watch, a burner phone? At any rate, the number is untraceable, so I’ve been told, and when I’ve finished my call I’ll just remove the battery and toss the whole thing away. Clever, yes?”
Certainly more clever than he would have given her credit for. Sometimes his wife still had the power to surprise him. “Janie, you’ve gotten yourself into a hell of a pickle,” he told her bluntly. “The best thing you could do is go
to the nearest police station and turn yourself in.”
“Turn myself in? Why on earth would I do that? I value my freedom.”
Again he rubbed at his eyes, where a dull ache had begun to make itself known. All due to the weather, probably. Or, possibly, stress. “I’m afraid you’ve given up your right to freedom, with this latest stunt. Your face and your name have been plastered on every news broadcast, and the authorities have a warrant out for your immediate arrest.”
“I know, I’ve been watching. Honestly, couldn’t they have found a more flattering photo than that? It was taken at my last court appearance a year ago, remember? I looked like a hag. Why not one of those snapped at some of the charity functions I attended? Or our formal Christmas portrait?” Amazingly, she sounded more indignant about the poor quality of her chosen likeness than the fact that she was a wanted criminal.
“Annajane, I’m worried about you. You truly do need help, and you won’t get it if you’re out roaming the country somewhere.”
She tittered. She actually tittered. It was a sound so unlike any he had ever heard from her that he pulled the cell away from his ear to stare at it in perplexity, as if a good hard look would help unknot this thorny problem.
“No need to worry, Roger, darling. I took what I needed from Daddy’s den and slipped away, and now I’m—well, can you recall that lovely little place we visited once upon a time, where the seagull tried to make off with your lobster roll?”
The marina, he realized instantly; down south, past New Rochelle.
“No, I don’t,” came the automatic lie. Damned if he was going to be responsible for ratting out his own wife to the police! “But as long as you’re as well as can be expected, that’s what is important. Janie, why don’t you just come home? We’ll go visit the station together, and get this squared away.”
Silence for a long suspenseful moment, and the rasp of heavy breathing.
“I just don’t think that’s possible, Roger. I have plans to leave all this behind, you see; the whole scene has become such a bore. Daddy had enough cash on hand, and all the documents I would need, to get me across the border. I can go either to Canada or Mexico—too bad that’s so much farther away—and you can join me once I’m settled. How’s that?”
“Annajane, that simply won’t do.” He tried to keep the panic and the frustration out of his voice. “You’re not thinking rationally at the moment, so I’ll have to do the thinking for both of us. I miss you, sweetheart. Please come back to me, and let’s work this out.”
As her tone softened, he could almost picture her, blonde hair pulled back by combs, too-slender frame slightly bent toward her phone. “I miss you, too. But, no. I’ll have to set up other plans. It’s late, darling, and I’m tired. For now, I just wanted to let you know I’m making out just fine. I’ll give you another call soon, Roger. Sleep well.”
I. I. I. It was her modus operandi, the sort of thing she did.
He clicked off his cell phone to lay it gently flat on the desk.
Sleep well. As if he would sleep at all, now.
Cats, he had noticed, often toyed with their mice victims in the same casual manner.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
“And you have no idea where she is, Sergeant Claypool? No idea at all?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Quinley, that we seem to be striking such a dead end for you. This is understandably frustrating and—”
“Frustrating!” Jeff wanted to slam the receiver down in the man’s ear. Which would accomplish no purpose at all, of course, other than helping to vent some of his spleen. “Sergeant, you do realize what we’re up against, don’t you? The woman has tried to kill me, has vandalized our former home, and has threatened my wife and children. How am I supposed to combat that?”
“Exactly what you’re doing now, sir: keep your head down, and let us do our jobs.”
Jeff snorted with derision. “Somehow that isn’t very comforting.”
“I know. Usually the hardest thing to do is to sit back and wait. I can tell you this, though. We’ve had a tap on Mr. Kendricks’ cell phone and on his land line at home. A couple nights ago his wife called in.”
“Called in?” Jeff gripped the receiver of his own office phone more tightly. “And you found out—what?”
The sergeant did one of those little deprecating coughs that said so much. Or so little. “He tried to get her to come in, but no luck. She mentioned being holed up near some marina—does that provide any clues for you?”
“Marina? Not a one. With all the water in a hundred mile radius, finding some particular unnamed marina would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“That’s what we’re thinking, Mr. Quinley. However, we’re doing our best to check out what we can. In cooperation with a number of local law departments.”
“Huh.” Thinking furiously, with no results. Marina. Marina. Had he ever taken her to a marina? None that he could remember. Must have been the sappy second, Roger.
“One other thing, maybe not so small. She mentioned slipping across the border, either to Canada or Mexico. Said her father had all kinds of cash and documents for her to use.”
“Yeah, no surprise there,” said Jeff grimly. Carefully he straightened the stapler on his desk top, adjusted the lamp shade, moved a pad of paper and a couple of pens from one side to the other. “So, uh—how credible do you think that possibility is?”
A careful clearing of the throat on the line. “What, you mean skipping the country? Entirely possible. We are very aware of her family’s resources, Mr. Quinley, and we’re keeping an eye on everything. Believe me. We notified Border authorities with the information, so whatever she tries won’t be easily done.”
“Okay. And the patrol cars?”
“Never fear, we’re keeping up the routine. One passes by your son’s school several times a day, ditto your family’s home.”
“Fair enough. Thank you, Sergeant. Oh, and—you’ll let me know if anything changes, right?”
“Absolutely, Mr. Quinley. Absolutely.”
After Jeff clicked off, he sat staring out his office window for a few minutes, digesting the gist of the call. Not knowing what the hell else he could do to disarm the raging hurricane that he felt in his gut was coming their way.
Chapter Six
It began as any perfectly ordinary day, midway through September, just when a few birch leaves had decided to change color from green to gold, and the sun was beginning to linger longer on the other side of the horizon. The air was growing slightly snappier, slightly crisper, with a taste like crunchy Gala apples and a scent like last year’s memory of burning campfires.
Speaking of fires, Olivia was trying to light one under the sneaker-clad feet of her son, who was fooling around with the dog instead of eating his breakfast. Bruno had already been out, discharging his sworn duty of scaring squirrels away from the birdseed; now he was perfectly happy to play tuggie toy with his master and growl in mock battle ferocity.
“Nicky, please,” entreated Olivia for the fifth time, with one eye on the unforgiving clock and another on the dishes she was scraping free of scummy eggs and toast crusts. “Finish your food and then go brush your teeth. It’s getting late.”
Jeff, swinging downstairs through the family room and into the kitchen just in time to hear this last, took immediate action, with an unaccustomed edge to his tone. “C’mon, son, and get movin’. You’re holdin’ everybody up. Pay attention to your mother.”
Unwisely the boy chose to demur. “Awww, Dad…”
“Don’t Awww, Dad me. Put it in gear, Nick. Now.”
His father’s voice had sharpened enough that Nicholas, surprised, glanced toward his mother for support. But Olivia, working at the sink, was turned away and hadn’t noticed.
“And don’t roll your eyes at me, young man, that’s disrespectful and I won’t have it.” Jeff finished tying his tie with a swift jerk, settled his cufflinks and shot hi
s cuffs with an irritated motion.
Sullen, now that he too had been infected by the morning’s prevailing downcast mood, Nick jumped to his feet and slammed his chair into place under the table. “You’re tellin’ me what to do?” he demanded cheekily. “I only take orders from my mom!”
“Nick!” At that show of insubordination, Olivia twisted around in shock. “Apologize to your father, right now!”
“Why should I? He hasn’t been with us long enough to deserve an apology!” Furious, the boy pelted away, deliberately thundering up the stairs to his bathroom. In a minute the door could be heard smacking shut, and then a rush of water from the faucet.
All of them had tried their best to meld the disparate family, this past January, when Jeff had moved bag and baggage into the cozy Bower household. Lord knew, they had tried. And had been, for the most part, successful. Once Nick was given the basic facts of his conception, once he had been formally adopted and taken his father’s name, the highest of the hurdles had been leaped.
Still, he was his father’s son; both were supremely intelligent and extremely strong-willed. Pig-headed, Olivia, as peacemaker, had been heard to mutter on occasion. A few clashes had been inevitable, as had the eventual settling of any argument and the satisfactory making up.
Looking stricken, Olivia clutched a tea towel to her breast. “Oh, Jeff, I’m so sorry for that. I can’t figure out what’s gotten into him. I know he didn’t mean to be so rude.”
Jeff was looking, not stricken, but grim, with an unfamiliar blaze in his blue eyes. “Too bad. He’s gotten away with a lot this past year; sometimes I’ve felt like I’ve been walkin’ on eggshells, bendin’ over backward to make him feel comfortable with our new arrangement. Time to take the wind out of his sails.”
“Oh, please, sweetheart, not now.” She waddled toward him, putting one hand on his hard-knotted forearm to prevent movement. “He’ll be fine; you’ll be fine. It’s just one of those things. He’s at that age, you know, when he’s beginning to question everything, and trying to assert his independence. And I don’t believe I could handle any more stress from anyone at the moment.”
Romance: He Done Her Wrong (Cuddlesack Queens #2) Page 11
