Sawyer, Meryl

by A Kiss in the Dark

  "And the informant?" This from Mitch.

  "Somehow she managed that. I don't know how, but Eleanor has boodles of money. It wouldn't have been hard for her."

  "Give us an example of something Eleanor did before the crime."

  "She always said nasty little things like giving me the name of her seamstress so I could get my clothes better fitted, or suggesting a book I might read to improve my mind, things like that. But mostly, she threw Caroline in my face. Caroline was perfect, and Eleanor never failed to remind me of it." Royce hesitated. Should she tell them?

  "We've got a blip here," the doctor said.

  Criminy! Just how sophisticated was this machine? "Eleanor invited me to join one of her charity groups. It was really just an excuse for the women to get together and gossip, but once a year they threw a luncheon to raise funds for blind children. They make all the food themselves, which is a joke because all of those women have cooks on staff.

  "Eleanor headed the salad committee. Every year someone donates lettuce straight from the field. It was my job to wash it. The ladies had developed a system for cleaning the dirty lettuce. Boy—this sounds stupid—they put the leaves in a pillowcase and put it in the washing machine on rinse.

  "They swore they'd done this with total success for years. The trick is to stop the machine before the spin cycle. So there I am in the basement of some mansion, washing lettuce. I was dicing celery nearby while I waited for the lettuce. Eleanor was the only other person with me. When I looked up, the machine was on the spin cycle."

  Silence filled the room. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Paul battling a grin. "I know it's silly, but Eleanor turned that dial. The woman is an out-and-out sneak."

  More silence. She didn't add that she'd felt totally humiliated. "Eleanor convinced her friends it was my fault the luncheon had been ruined."

  "Describe your relationship with Ward Farenholt."

  "There wasn't one," she answered the doctor. "He spent hours chatting with Caroline, but he never spoke to me unless he couldn't avoid it."

  "How did he treat Brent?" asked Mitch.

  "Ward doesn't like many people and he's terribly hard on Brent. He expects too much. He's cruel."

  "Did you like Caroline?" the doctor asked.

  "Actually, she was always very nice, but if someone's waved in your face too often, it's hard to like them."

  "How was Brent with Caroline?" Paul asked.

  "He loved her like a sister. He was always kind to her. Eleanor dotes on her like Caroline is her daughter. Even Ward, who finds fault with everyone, loves her. He spends as much time—or more—with her than Eleanor does."

  "Did you ever have any reason to think any of them used drugs?"

  "No. Never."

  "Have you ever used drugs?" asked the doctor.

  "Once I tried marijuana in college. That's all."

  "Did you know there was cocaine in your house?"

  "Absolutely not."

  "Have you ever met a woman named Linda Allen?"

  "Never." She'd heard the name today for the first time when Mitch asked if she knew the informant.

  "Did you take the jewels?"

  "No, I did not. I never touched them."

  "Let's talk about Brent Farenholt," Mitch said.

  Let's not, she thought. Somehow, she'd stupidly harbored a flicker of hope that he'd contact her. But when time passed and he hadn't even bothered to call and see how she was doing, hurt became anger. Most of it directed at herself. Why hadn't she seen this side of Brent?

  "How did you meet?" Mitch asked and she told him. "Did Talia give you any reason to think you dating Brent upset her?"

  "No, but I always felt a little guilty about it. She'd flipped for him, then he suddenly lost interest. I would never have gone out with him, but Talia insisted."

  "What did you see in Brent Farenholt?" Mitch asked.

  Royce hesitated, not wanting Mitch to ask these questions. Her feelings were raw; Brent had let her down when she'd needed him the most. How could she explain loving him? "Brent's fun. He makes a woman feel... well, you know, like a queen. He's thoughtful. He's—" She stopped herself from saying: loyal.

  "When did he tell you he loved you?"

  She wasn't comfortable having Mitch ask her these questions. Did her anxiety show on the monitors? "The third date."

  "When did you tell him you loved him?"

  Really, what did this have to do with her case? "I told him the night of our three-month anniversary."

  She could have predicted Mitch's next question. "When did you go to bed with him?"

  "The night I told him I loved him." So there. He probably thought she was lying, but one look at the monitor would verify her words.

  "Do you?"

  "Do I what, Mitch?" She could barely see him out of the corner of her eye. But she could feel his implacable determination filling the room. What did he want from her?

  "Do you love him?"

  Did she love Brent? Part of her did despite the way he'd humiliated her. It was crazy; she could passionately kiss Mitch, but there was that side of her that wanted the security, the feeling of being cherished, Brent had once given her.

  "Yes. I loved him. I wanted to be his wife and have his children."

  There was an uncomfortably long pause. She saw Mitch studying his notes. The silence lengthened until the doctor finally asked, "Why did you put up with the way the Farenholts treated you?"

  "Lots of wives don't like their in-laws. Mother barely tolerated Daddy's parents. Despite it their relationship worked perfectly. But as time went on, I realized it wasn't going to be the same for me. On the night of the auction I called off our engagement until we could work out the situation."

  Mitch looked up but didn't say anything. She went ahead and told them what Eleanor had done to Wally. When she finished no one commented; she sensed they were waiting for Mitch.

  Finally, Paul spoke up. "Eleanor Farenholt controls the money in that family. If she wanted to get rid of you, why didn't she cut off Brent? It would have been easier."

  "True. But she loves Brent. Ward's such a cold man that I think she's actually closer to her son than her husband. That's why she was so sneaky. She wanted to get rid of me without alienating Brent."

  "What drugs has Talia taken?" Paul asked.

  "She's a recovering alcoholic, but I'm sure she's experimented with many drugs over the years."

  "What about Valerie Thompson?" Paul sounded intense.

  "She barely drinks wine. Drugs—never."

  Another silence, broken only by the hum of the laser monitors. Mitch hadn't said one word since she'd admitted she loved Brent. What did he expect? She would never have married a man she didn't love. Right now Mitch was staring out the window. She doubted he was even listening.

  "Did you know Wally loaned Shaun Jamieson money?" Paul asked.

  "No, but I'm not surprised."

  What did this have to do with the case?

  Paul asked, "Mitch, anything else?"

  "Nope." He was still looking out the window.

  "I have a question I'd like to ask for my research work," the doctor said. "What do you find the most difficult thing about this ordeal?"

  Before any of this happened, she would have said working with Mitch, or she might have said the threat of a prison term ruining her life was the worst. Having her reputation—and career—destroyed would have ranked right up there too.

  She tried to ignore the irritating laser beam, thinking back to happier times. Hours spent with her uncle putting together puzzles as a child. Her first date—she'd doubled with Talia. They'd spend all day trying on outfits, experimenting with makeup. Learning to bake bread with Val, then eating the loaf hot from Mama's oven. The night Brent had told her he loved her.

  Wonderful memories. Memories of a happy life surrounded by friends, loved ones. Above all, laughter. She'd been happy. Yes, she'd suffered tragedy, losing both parents. But she'd still been able to count on her unc
le, her friends. Brent.

  She'd had everything that was truly important in life, but hadn't realized it until this moment. Why did someone hate her enough to take away what she valued most—her friends and family?

  "Nothing is worse than not knowing who's doing this to me, suspecting everyone-—even lifelong friends... my uncle. Now I don't know who to trust. Not even when I stood over my father's grave, did I feel so totally alone."

  Sonofabitch! Royce actually loved that cocky little prick, Brent Farenholt. Mitch wanted to wring her neck; she was riding beside him on the way back to his office. He was close enough to do it. Put your hands around that soft throat and squeeze. Until she changed her mind about Brent.

  Women! Trust me, you never know what they're thinking. He glanced at the rearview mirror as he changed lanes. The scar below his eye was highlighted in the mirror. For damn sure you couldn't trust women. You never knew when they'd turn on you.

  "Mitch, you're not listening." Paul tapped him on the shoulder. "I asked who do you think wants Royce in prison?"

  "Brent," he said, just to piss off Royce. Actually, he thought it more likely Ward Farenholt was trying to frame Royce.

  "That's ridiculous," Royce snapped. "Why would Brent do this to me? All he had to do was tell me he didn't love me and he'd be rid of me."

  "True," Paul agreed. "And I've checked all the Farenholt bank accounts looking for a cash withdrawal that matched the value of the coke planted at Royce's. Brent's living on a shoestring. His mother pays most of his charge accounts."

  "Figures. A mama's boy." He stole a peek at Royce, but she was staring straight ahead, her jaw clamped shut.

  "Royce," Paul said, "we're not ruling out anyone who was near those jewels and near your table, regardless of whether or not they have a motive."

  "Assuming one person is responsible for both crimes," Royce said, and Mitch gave her credit for zeroing in on the problem.

  "Mitch and I discussed it," Paul responded. "This whole thing was too well timed to be two separate incidents, but it could be two people working together. Remember, there's no perfect crime. There's a key somewhere—usually in the records. Phone records, charge receipts, bank accounts."

  Paul let the two of them stew in angry silence for the rest of the ride. I'll be damned, he thought. Val might be right. Mitch cared a lot more about Royce than Paul had suspected. He'd been livid since she'd said she loved Brent, so angry he couldn't conceal his fury, which wasn't like Mitch.

  For years he'd thought Mitch was like an iceberg, two-thirds hidden beneath the surface. Paul suspected Mitch suffered from a deep psychological wound that he kept hidden beneath a veneer of cynicism. Somehow Royce had exposed a chink in his emotional shield.

  Inside the building Paul went up to his office, promising to join Royce and Mitch in a few minutes. Paul rifled through his messages, stopping when he saw Val had called. She was on the late shift again tonight, checking out stale buns in Oakland. She'd been hired yesterday in the computer department, but she wouldn't begin for two weeks.

  He closed the door to his office, wishing he could see Val tonight instead of having to wait until tomorrow. She'd been on his mind constantly these last two days. Mitch would have a coronary when he found out Paul had hired a suspect, but he didn't give a damn.

  "It's Paul," he said when Val answered. Just hearing her voice sent a ripple of heat through him.

  "Guess what?" She sounded breathless, excited. "When I gave notice, the old geezer fired me on the spot. So I called the computer department and they said to report on Monday. Isn't that great?"

  Not really. He'd planned on giving their relationship two weeks before he told her who he was. "Fantastic."

  "That means"—her voice was low now, intimate—"I don't have to work tonight. I'll make you dinner."

  "Let me take you out." He hated her spending money she didn't have when he could well afford to take her out to the best place in town. "Let's celebrate."

  "No. I want to make you dinner. You were so sweet to suggest I apply for that job. I want to show you how grateful I am."

  If she were any more grateful than she'd been the other night, he might not live to tell about it. He'd taken her home and they'd spent the night in each other's arms.

  Thinking about Val, Paul battled an erection as he went downstairs into Mitch's office. The frigid air hanging over Royce and Mitch like a subzero shroud took care of Paul's problem.

  "How long will I have to stay in hiding?" Royce was asking.

  Mitch rocked back in his chair and gazed out the window at the Bay Bridge. "I'll tell you when you can leave."

  Mitch could be a real hard-ass sometimes, Paul thought, particularly when you crossed him. "Tobias Ingeblatt is hovering around," Paul told her. "If he gets a picture of you, he'll make up his own story. Until the preliminary hearing late next week you're a POP—a prisoner of the press."

  Mitch swung his chair around and stared hard at Royce. Paul perched himself on the edge of Mitch's huge mahogany desk, waiting for the bomb to drop. "We've got to fix your image."

  Royce bristled at Mitch's tone, but controlled her voice. "What is wrong with my image?"

  "Your hair always looks like you've just been laid." Mitch turned to Paul. "Get the image consultant we use to change it."

  Royce's jaw snapped shut as if spring loaded.

  "Find her a conservative navy suit." Mitch went on. "All she owns are outfits that would give the Pope an erection."

  Paul wondered if Mitch knew he'd just admitted how incredibly sexy he found Royce. She didn't have a clue, for sure. She seared Mitch with a glance that could have fried bacon.

  Mitch pointed at Royce. "Lose ten pounds—at least— before the trial."

  "What?" She vaulted out of her chair. "I'm size eight."

  An incredibly sexy size eight, Paul decided, not beautiful like Val, but very sexy, the kind of figure too full for a model, but every man's wet dream. Obviously, Mitch's.

  "Royce"—Paul used his soothing tone—"weight is tricky. Statistics show more fat people are convicted than thin. I don't know why, but the public equates being fat with some moral shortcoming. Overweight people are seldom elected as jury foremen unless they have superior credentials like being a doctor or a scientist. We're dealing with psychology here, and we want you to have the edge."

  She dropped into her chair, only slightly subdued. Mitch looked like he'd been chewing tin foil. If Paul lit a match the room would explode. This was getting mighty interesting.

  Royce's eyes narrowed. "I want to see my friends."

  "No way," Mitch shot back. "Just your uncle."

  "I have an idea." Paul ignored Mitch's warning glance. "There's no phone in that apartment. I'll lend her one of my portables. She can keep it in her purse. That way no one can trace the calls and find out where she is. She can call her friends all she wants."

  "Okay," Mitch conceded. "Not one word about the case."

  "Thanks," Royce said to Paul, ignoring Mitch. "Tell me what I can do to help."

  "I'm going to get you a couple of wigs. Wear them when you go out. Watch for anyone following you. Double back, stop and look in shop windows, cross the street—that sort of thing.

  "Don't develop a routine. Most people are creatures of habit. They leave by the same door every day, use the same bus, return home at the same time. Vary your schedule."

  Royce nodded, pointedly facing away from Mitch. "What I meant was: What can I do to help with my defense?"

  "Stay the hell out of my way," Mitch fired at her.

  "You can't help Mitch," Paul said, "but you can help me. I could use someone to go over the suspects' telephone records. It'll be boring, but there's got to be a clue somewhere."

  Her grateful smile twisted Paul's heart. Mitch didn't look thrilled, but Paul knew he wouldn't object. The way costs were escalating, free help was a godsend.

  "I could work at night, too, since I'm all alone," Royce said.

  "You'll need a computer." P
aul hesitated, then plunged on, trusting his instincts. Enough of this verbal dog-fighting, strafing each other constantly. Most obsessions were unhealthy, but Royce was exactly what Mitch needed. Either they would fall in love—or kill each other. "You can use Mitch's home computer. Right, Mitch?"

  It took a second before she got it. "Mitch lives in the main house? I'm in his apartment?"

  "Keep your mouth shut about it," Mitch ordered.

  "I can't stand this," Royce said to herself as she looked out the window of her apartment at the lights in Mitch's house. She was fighting for her life with this case, yet every time she tried to talk to Mitch he was angry, his words calculated to hurt her.

  It was bad enough that she was isolated like this, alone for the first time ever. But not to be able to discuss the case rationally with the attorney defending you was ridiculous, infantile. Should she change attorneys?

  How could she? Even with Wally's help she didn't have enough money to hire someone as talented as Mitch. As tenacious as Mitch. She had no choice but to work with him.

  She mustered her courage, tromped out of the apartment, and charged across the dark garden. She banged on his door like a narc ready to bust in, and the door swung open.

  Mitch frowned at her, standing in well-worn sweatpants that gloved his muscular thighs and rode low on his hips. He wasn't wearing a shirt to conceal the captivating network of dark hair that fanned across his chest and funneled down beneath the waistband of his sweats. It struck her that this was the first time she'd seen his chest. Of course, he'd seen hers.

  She barged in saying, "I need to talk to you."

  "I'm on the phone."

  She jammed past Mitch into the brightly lit kitchen, conscious of him following her. A golden retriever bounded up to her. She couldn't resist bending down to pat the friendly dog.

  "Jason, call me tomorrow and let me know how you did on that test. I'll see you this weekend." Mitch hung up and turned to her. "That's Jenny," Mitch said, nodding to the dog. "The cat's Oliver." The tubby tabby was doing a face-plant in his bowl. "Want some pizza?"

  "I've eaten... thanks." Someone had told Gerte about Royce's diet. The fridge was stocked with Lean Cuisine. The enticing smell of pizza almost made her sigh, but she refused to give in to her craving for high-calorie food.