The Novels of Nora Roberts Volume 1

by Nora Roberts

  “I’ll call him.”

  “Deanna . . . I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. I’m so damn sorry you had to go through all that. I wish I could say I’m sorry about Angela, but I’m not.”

  “Jeff—”

  “I’m not,” he repeated, and tightened his grip on her hand. “She wanted to hurt you. She did everything she could to ruin your career. Using Lew, making up lies, dragging that whole business with that creep football player into the public. I can’t be sorry she won’t be around to try something else.” He let out a long breath. “I guess that makes me pretty cold.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Angela didn’t inspire great love and devotion.”

  “You do.”

  She lifted her head and turned to smile at him, when a sound in the doorway made them both jump.

  “Oh, God.” Cassie stood, a paperweight in one hand, a brass sculpture in the other. “I thought someone had broken in again.” She pressed the hefty glass paperweight to her heart.

  On watery legs, Deanna managed the two steps to a chair. “I came in early,” she said, trying desperately to sound calm and in control. “I thought I might start catching up.”

  “I guess that makes three of us.” With her eyes on Deanna, Cassie set the sculpture and paperweight aside. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “No.” Deanna closed her eyes for a moment. “But I need to be here.”

  Perhaps her nerves were raw and her temper short, but by midmorning Deanna found some comfort in the basic office routine. Bookings had to be rearranged and rescheduled, others fell through completely due to the time lapse. New story ideas were devised and discussed. Once word spread that Deanna was back in harness, the phones began to shrill. People from the newsroom popped upstairs, out of both genuine concern and pure curiosity.

  “Benny’s hoping you’ll do an interview,” Roger told her. “An exclusive for old times’ sake.”

  Deanna passed him half the sandwich she was nibbling at her now overburdened desk. “Benny thinks a lot of old times’ sake.”

  “It’s news, Dee. And pretty hot when you consider it happened right here at CBC and involved two major stars.”

  A major star, she thought. What was the difference between a major star and a minor one? She knew what Loren would have said: A minor star sought airtime. A major star sold it.

  “Give me some time, will you?” She rubbed at the tension in the back of her neck. “Tell him I’m thinking about it.”

  “Sure.” His gaze wandered from hers to his own hands. “I’d appreciate it, if you decide to do it, if you let me do the interview.” His eyes cut back to her, then away again. “I could use the boost. There are rumors of cutbacks in the newsroom again.”

  “There are always rumors of cutbacks in the newsroom.” She resented the favor he was asking, and wished she didn’t. “All right, Roger, for old times’ sake. Just give me a couple of days.”

  “You’re a peach, Dee.” And he felt like sludge. “I’d better get down. I’ve got some bumpers to tape.” He rose, leaving the sandwich untouched. “It’s good to have you back. You know if you need a friendly ear, I’ve got two.”

  “Off the record?”

  He had the grace to flush. “Sure. Off the record.”

  She held up both hands as if to gesture the words back. “Sorry. I’m touchy, I guess. I’ll have Cassie set up an interview in a day or two, all right?”

  “Whenever you’re ready.” He walked to the door. “This really sucks,” he murmured as he shut the door behind him.

  “You bet.” Deanna leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes, letting herself hear only the impersonal murmur of the television across the room. Angela was dead, she thought, and that made her a hotter news item than she had ever been when she was alive.

  The really horrid bottom line, Deanna knew, was that she was now hot news as well. And hot news made for hot ratings. Since the murder, Deanna’s Hour—reruns of Deanna’s Hour, she corrected—had spurted up in points, pummeling the competition. No game show or daytime drama could hope to withstand the mighty weight of murder and scandal.

  Angela had given her greatest rival the success she’d hoped to take away. She’d only had to die to do it.

  “Deanna?”

  Her heart flew to her throat, her eyes sprang open. On the other side of her desk, Simon jumped as violently as she. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “I guess you didn’t hear me knock.”

  “That’s okay.” Disgusted with her reaction, she chuckled weakly. “My nerves don’t seem to be as strong as I thought. You look exhausted.”

  He tried to smile, but couldn’t bring it off. “Having trouble sleeping.” He fumbled out a cigarette.

  “I thought you’d quit.”

  “Me too.” Embarrassed, he moved his shoulders. “I know you said you wanted to start taping on Monday.”

  “That’s right. Is there a problem?”

  “It’s just that . . .” He trailed off, puffing hard on the cigarette. “I thought, under the circumstances—but maybe it doesn’t matter to you. It just seemed to me . . .”

  Deanna wondered if she grabbed onto his tongue and pulled, if the words would spill out. “What?”

  “The set,” he blurted out, and passed a nervous hand over his thinning hair. “I thought you might want to change the set. The chairs . . . you know.”

  “Oh God.” She pressed a fist to her mouth as the vision of Angela, sitting cozily, sitting dead in the spacious white chair, flashed into her mind. “Oh God, I haven’t thought.”

  “I’m sorry, Deanna.” For lack of something better he patted her shoulder. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m an idiot.”

  “No. No. Thank God you did. I don’t think I could have handled . . .” She imagined herself striding out on the set, then freezing in shock and horror. Would she have run screaming, as she had done before? “Oh, Simon. Oh, sweet Jesus.”

  “Dee.” Helplessly he patted her shoulder again. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I think you just saved my sanity. Put the set decorator on it, Simon, please? Have him change everything. The color scheme, the chairs, tables, the plants. Everything. Tell him—”

  Simon had already taken out a notebook to scribble down her instructions. The simple, habitual gesture somehow cheered Deanna.

  “Thanks, Simon.”

  “I’m the detail man, remember?” He tapped out the half-smoked cigarette. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll have a whole new look.”

  “But keep it comfortable. And why don’t you knock off early? Go get yourself a massage.”

  “I’d rather work.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “I didn’t know it would affect me like this.” He tucked the pad away. “I worked with her for years. I can’t say I liked her much, but I knew her. I stood right here, in this spot, when she was sitting there.” He glanced up again, meeting Deanna’s eyes. “Now, she’s dead. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “Neither can I.”

  “Whoever did it was in here, too.” Warily, he scanned the room, as if he expected someone to lunge out of a corner wielding a gun. “Jesus, I’m sorry. All I’m doing is scaring the shit out of both of us. I guess it’s eating on me because her memorial service is tonight.”

  “Tonight? In New York?”

  “No, here. I guess she wanted to be buried in Chicago, where she got her big break. There’s not going to be a viewing or anything, because . . .” He remembered why and swallowed hard. “Well, there’s just going to be a service at the funeral parlor. I think I should go.”

  “Give the details to Cassie, will you? I think I should go, too.”

  “This isn’t just stupid,” Finn said with barely controlled fury. “It’s insane.”

  Deanna watched the windshield wipers sweep at the ugly, icy sleet. The snow that had fallen throughout the day had turned to oily gray slop against the curbs. The sleet that replaced it battered down, cold and mean.
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  It was a good night for a funeral.

  Her chin came up and her jaw tightened. “I told you that you didn’t have to come with me.”

  “Yeah, right.” He spotted the crowd of reporters huddled outside the funeral parlor and drove straight down the block. “Goddamn press.”

  She nearly smiled at that, felt a giddy urge to laugh out loud. But she was afraid it would sound hysterical. “I won’t mention anything about pots and kettles.”

  “I’m going to park down the block,” he said between his teeth. “We’ll see if we can find a side or a back entrance.”

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated when he’d parked. “Sorry to have dragged you out to this tonight.” She had a headache she didn’t dare mention. And a raw sick feeling in her stomach that promised to worsen.

  “I don’t recall being dragged.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t let me come alone. So it amounts to the same thing. I can’t even explain to myself why I feel I have to do this. But I have to do it.”

  Suddenly, she twisted toward him, gripping his hand hard. “Whoever killed her could be in there. I keep wondering if I’ll know him. If I look him in the face, if I’ll know. I’m terrified I will.”

  “But you still want to go inside.”

  “I have to.”

  The sleet helped, she thought. Not only was it cold, but it demanded the use of long, disguising coats and shielding umbrellas. They walked in silence, against the wind. She caught sight of the CBC van before Finn ducked around the side of the building. He hustled her inside, drenching them both as he snapped the umbrella closed.

  “I hate goddamned funerals.”

  Surprised, she studied his face as she tugged off her gloves, shed her coat. She could see it now. More than annoyance with her for insisting on attending, more than concern or even fear, there was dread in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

  “I haven’t been to one since . . . in years. What’s the point? Dead’s dead. Flowers and organ music don’t change it.”

  “It’s supposed to comfort the living.”

  “Not so I’ve noticed.”

  “We won’t stay long.” She took his hand, surprised that it would be he rather than she who needed comfort.

  He seemed to shudder, once. “Let’s get it over with.”

  They walked out of the alcove. They could already hear the murmur of voices, the muted notes of a dirge. Not organ music, he realized, horribly relieved, but piano and cello in somber duet. The air smelled of lemon oil, perfume, flowers. He would have sworn he smelled whiskey as well, sharp as a blade cutting through the overly sweetened air.

  The thick carpet was a riot of deep red roses and muffled their footsteps as they walked down a wide hall. On both sides heavy oak doors were discreetly shut. At the end they were flung open. Cigarette smoke added to the miasma of scent.

  When he felt her tremble, Finn tucked his arm more firmly around her waist. “We can turn around and leave, Deanna. There’s no shame in it.”

  She only shook her head. Then she saw the first video camera. The press, it seemed, wasn’t merely huddled outside. Several had been allowed in, complete with camera crews, microphones and lights. Cables were strewn over the garden of carpet in the main viewing room.

  In silence, they slipped inside.

  The cathedral ceiling with its painted mural of cherubim and seraphim tossed the murmuring voices and chinking glasses everywhere.

  The room was crowded with people. As Deanna looked from face to face, she wondered if she would see grief or fear or simply resignation. Would Angela feel she was being mourned properly? And would her killer be here, to observe?

  No one wept, Finn noted. He did see shock and sober eyes. Voices were muted respectfully. And the cameras recorded it all. Would they, he wondered, inadvertently record one face, one that couldn’t quite hide the knowledge, and the triumph? He kept Deanna close to his side, knowing that the murderer could be in the room, watching.

  There was a photograph of Angela in a gold frame. The flattering publicity shot sat atop a gleaming mahogany coffin.

  It reminded Finn, much too vividly, of what lay inside the discreetly closed lid. Feeling Deanna shudder beside him, he instinctively drew her closer.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “No.”

  “Kansas—” But when he looked at her he saw more than the shock and fear. He saw what was missing on so many of the other faces that crowded the room: grief.

  “Whatever her motives,” Deanna said quietly, “she helped me once. And whoever did this to her used me.” Her voice broke. “I can’t forget that.”

  Neither could he. That was what terrified him. “It would be better if Dan Gardner doesn’t spot either one of us.”

  Deanna nodded, spotting him at the front of the room, accepting condolences. “He’s using her too, even though she’s dead. It’s horrible.”

  “He’ll ride her press for a while. She’d have understood that.”

  “I suppose.”

  “An interesting scene, isn’t it?” Loren commented when he joined them. He gave Deanna a hard, searching look, then nodded. “You’re looking well.”

  “No I’m not.” Grateful for the lie, she kissed his cheek. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

  “I could say the same.” He warmed her chilled hands between his. “It seemed necessary somehow, but I’m already regretting it.” His expression changed to one of disgust as he looked over his shoulder at Dan Gardner. “Rumor is he plans to air clips from this viewing along with the special Angela taped for next May. And he’s demanding another five thousand a minute from sponsors. The son of a bitch will get it, too.”

  “Bad taste often costs more than good,” Deanna murmured. “There must be five hundred people in here.”

  “Easily. A handful are even sorry she’s dead.”

  “Oh, Loren.” Deanna’s stomach clenched like a fist.

  “I hate to admit I’m one of them.” Then he sighed and shrugged off the mood. “She’d have gotten an ego boost out of that piece of news.” To clear the emotion from his voice, Loren coughed gently into his hand. “You know, I can’t decide if Angela deserved Dan Gardner or not. It’s a tough call.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t deserve you.” The tears burning in her eyes made Deanna feel like a hypocrite since they weren’t for Angela. “We’re not staying, Loren. Why don’t you come with us?”

  “No, I’m going to see this through. But I think you should avoid any publicity here tonight. Slip out quietly.”

  When they were back in the alcove, Deanna turned into Finn’s arms. “I had no idea he still loved her.”

  “I don’t think he did, either.” He tipped her face up until their eyes were level. “Are you all right?”

  “Actually, I’m better.” She turned her head until her cheek rested on his shoulder. Most of the fear had ebbed, she realized. That jittering panic she’d nearly grown accustomed to feeling in her stomach had quieted. “I’m glad we came.”

  “Excuse me.” Kate Lowell’s sultry voice had Deanna turning her head. She stood in the doorway, sleek and somber in black silk, her hair waves of flame over her shoulders. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

  “You haven’t,” Deanna responded. “We were just leaving.”

  “So am I.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the sounds of voices and music. “It’s not my kind of party.” She smiled slightly. “She was a bitch,” Kate said. “And I hated her guts. But I’m not sure even Angela deserved to be used quite so blatantly.” She sighed once, moving her shoulders as if to shrug it all away. “I’d like a drink. And I need to talk to you.” She looked at Finn and frowned. “I suppose it’ll have to be both of you, and it hardly matters at this point.” She watched Finn’s brow rise, and smiled again, with more feeling. “Really gracious, aren’t I? Listen, why don’t you find us a bar? I’ll buy us all a drink and tell you a little story you might find interesting.”


  Chapter Twenty-five

  “To Hollywood,” Kate said as she raised her glass of scotch. “Land of illusions.”

  Puzzled, Deanna nursed her wine while Finn stuck with coffee.

  It wasn’t the sort of bar where one would expect to find one of Hollywood’s major stars. The piano player was glumly noodling out the blues so that the notes rose sluggishly on air thick with smoke. Their corner was dim, as Kate had requested. On the table scarred with nicks their drinks rested near a chipped amber glass ashtray.

  “You came a long way for the funeral of someone you didn’t like.” Deanna watched Kate’s elegant nails tap the table in time with the piano.

  “I was in town. But if I hadn’t been, I’d have made the trip. For the pleasure of making sure she was dead.” Kate sipped her scotch again, then set the glass aside. “I don’t imagine you cared for her any more than I did, but this might be rougher on you, since you found her.” Kate’s eyes softened as she stared into Deanna’s. “As the story goes, it wasn’t a pretty sight.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “I wish it had been me,” Kate said under her breath. “You’re a softer touch, always were. Even after everything she did, and tried to do, to you. I know a lot more about that than you might imagine,” she added when Deanna studied her. “Things that didn’t make it into the press. Angela liked to brag. She hated you.” She inclined the glass toward Finn. “Because you didn’t come to heel when she snapped her fingers. And she wanted you for exactly the same reason. She figured Deanna was in her way, from all manner of angles. She’d have done anything to remove you.”

  “This isn’t news.” Noting that Kate’s glass was dry, Finn signaled for another. The lady, he concluded, was stalling.

  “No, it’s just my little prelude.” She stretched back, but the sinuous gesture was all nerves. “I don’t suppose you’d be surprised to know that Angela went to some trouble and expense to dig up that business from your past, Deanna. The date rape. It backfired, of course.” Her lips curved into a lovely smile. “Some of her projects did. That’s what she called them. Not blackmail.” She sulked a moment, fingers tapping, tapping, tapping. “Rob Winters was one of her projects. So was Marshall Pike.” She didn’t glance at the waitress, but nudged the glass aside even as it was set in front of her. “There are plenty more. Names that would astonish you. She used a P.I. named Beeker. He’s in Chicago. Angela kept him very busy documenting data for her projects. It cost me five thousand dollars to shoehorn his name out of Angela’s secretary. But then, everybody has a price. I had mine,” she added quietly.