Crazy Like a Fox

by Anne Stuart

  Suddenly the room was plunged into darkness. Someone had shut the door, and the sharp click ripped through the silence, telling her she was locked in. The question was, had she been locked in alone? Or was someone in there with her?

  Light pierced the darkness, its brightness momentarily blinding her. She blinked—and focused on Wendell, drenched, calm. “Are you all right, my dear?”

  She managed a nervous smile. “Of course, Wendell. Why wouldn’t I be?” Be very calm, she told herself. Don’t jump to conclusions. Don’t panic.

  “Why wouldn’t you be?” he echoed, almost to himself. “There’s a madman running loose, Margaret. A dangerous lunatic who’s killed before and will kill again. He smashed his way into your room tonight, and who knows where his violence will end?”

  “How did you know he broke into my room?” She didn’t move from her spot in front of the window. Wendell stood between her and the exit to the hall, and her only escape, if she had to make one, would be through the blockaded door.

  “I was watching,” Wendell said, his voice calm and rational. “I thought he was going to kill you. Or rape you. But he did neither.”

  There was no mistaking the disappointment in Wendell’s charming Southern drawl.

  “No, he did neither,” Margaret said, turning her back to the rain-swept veranda. “He’s in love with me. He wouldn’t hurt me.”

  The look that passed over Wendell’s face was as terrifying as it was swift. “He doesn’t know how to love, Margaret,” he said gently. “He’s a very dangerous man. But you’re safe now. I’ve taken care of him.”

  A cold dread washed over her. “What have you done?”

  Wendell smiled. “I haven’t hurt him. Not much. He was trying to follow me. Trying to kill me, I imagine. He’s so confused he doesn’t know what he’s doing, poor boy. But that will be taken care of. I’ve called the police. They’ll take him away.”

  “Where is he?” Her voice was raw and demanding, but Wendell’s smile didn’t waver. She realized with sudden horror that there was a streak of bright red blood on his rain-soaked white suit and his tie was missing. Immaculate Wendell was soiled.

  “He’s out on the back veranda, tied to the railing. I had to hit him over the head, but I don’t think I killed him. These things can be deceiving, however. Head injuries can be quite dangerous. He may be dying.”

  She started for the door, knowing Wendell wouldn’t let her go, having to try, anyway.

  He stepped in front of the hallway door, his large bulk blocking it, and a sad, sweet smile laced his face.

  “I didn’t have any choice, Margaret. After I found your body I had to stop him at all costs.”

  “What?”

  “He couldn’t help it, you know,” he continued in his sweet, soft voice. “He was always jealous of me. He wanted everything I ever had. My car, my house, Rosanne. He stole Rosanne from me and murdered her. And then he killed you. You would have loved me if it wasn’t for him. He was always overshadowed by me, always hated me.”

  “Wendell,” she said, “I’m not dead.”

  He smiled, pushing away from the door and advancing toward her. “Not yet, chère.”

  She screamed but he simply shook his head and kept moving, his strong, thick hands outstretched, ready to wrap around her throat.

  “It won’t do you any good,” he continued in a reasonable voice. “The door is locked, and the others can’t hear over the sound of the television.”

  “Wendell, they’ll know the truth.”

  “No, they won’t. They might suspect, but they’ll never know. They always hated the fact that Peter was crazy. They would have sacrificed anyone to keep Peter innocent. But they didn’t reckon with me. I made sure he got his comeuppance for killing Rosanne.”

  “He didn’t kill Rosanne. You did.”

  He paused for a moment, considering. “Yes, I suppose I did,” he said thoughtfully. “It doesn’t matter, though. I think I hit him hard enough to smash his skull. He won’t remember a thing, if he even survives the night. The water is rising, and I don’t think he can get away. But it’s all good. He doesn’t deserve to live after killing a sweet young woman like you.”

  “Peter,” she screamed, knowing it was hopeless. In the distance she could hear the sounds of police sirens, and she screamed again just as Wendell caught her, his fingers wrapped around her throat.

  “Have to hurry,” he panted. “You have to be dead before they get here.” And he squeezed.

  The veranda door crashed open, the wood splintering as a body catapulted through. Margaret was against the wall, and she watched in horror as Peter, blood soaked and terrifying, leaped on Wendell.

  The fight was fierce and vicious, and all Margaret could do was huddle there, out of the way, for fear she’d distract Peter and leave him open to Wendell’s insane attack. She could hear loud voices in the distance, and she began edging toward the hallway and help. She’d almost reached it, when the door was smashed open and police poured into the room, just as Peter had straddled Wendell and began to beat him savagely.

  They hauled him off his cousin, slapping handcuffs on him and shoving him to the floor. Solicitous hands reached out to help Wendell to his feet, and he smiled shakily as he brushed off his filthy jacket.

  “What in heaven’s name is going on here?” Gertrude demanded, standing in the doorway of the wrecked drawing room. For such a tiny woman she exerted enormous power, and the assembled men stared, suddenly cowed.

  “We’re taking your grandson, Miz Jaffrey,” the largest, most impressive-looking of the bunch stepped forward to announce.

  “Which one, Sheriff Cawley?” Gertrude asked in her most patrician tones.

  “Grandmère,” Wendell said, stepping toward her, “Peter has lost his mind completely. He was trying to kill me.”

  “Was he?” Her voice was sharp. “Why?”

  Margaret managed to push past the policeman and sink down on the floor beside Peter’s prone body. He was panting, still fighting as one burly officer held him down, and blood was pouring from a gash on his forehead.

  “We can work this all out tomorrow, Miz Jaffrey,” Sheriff Cawley said impatiently. “In the meantime we’ve got to get this old boy to jail.”

  “He’s hurt,” Margaret said, reaching out a hand to touch him.

  The officer pushed her away. “He’ll live, ma’am.”

  “I can’t thank you enough for your help,” Wendell said smoothly, stepping forward.

  “He’s lying,” Margaret said desperately. “He tried to kill Peter and he tried to kill me.”

  “She’s overwrought,” Wendell said, his voice sad. “You know how women can be. She thinks she’s in love with my poor cousin, and she refused to believe the evidence of her own eyes. With the proper rest and treatment she should be fine in time to testify.”

  “Yes, you’ve got an empty prison on the third floor, don’t you?” she spit at him. “You’re crazy, Wendell. You’re a sick, evil man.”

  “You poor girl,” he said, his smile slightly glazed.

  Sheriff Cawley pushed Margaret out of the way and hauled Peter to his feet. He swayed slightly, and Margaret would have rushed to him, if Wendell’s thick, meaty hands hadn’t caught her and squeezed so hard the breath almost left her body.

  “We’ll be back in the morning for statements, ma’am,” Cawley said as he headed for the door, shoving Peter ahead of him.

  “One moment, Sheriff,” Gertrude said, not moving from her position in the doorway.

  The sheriff had no choice but to stop or mow down one of the town’s most influential citizens. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Wendell still hasn’t answered my question. Why did Peter try to kill you?”

  A sudden silence filled the room, and Peter lifted his head to look Wendell in the
eye.

  “Because he’s always hated me, Grandmère,” Wendell said, his voice infinitely reasonable. “He’s always been jealous of me, wanting everything I had. He took Rosanne away from me, and he tried to steal Margaret. I couldn’t let him do that, could I?”

  Cawley loosened his grip on Peter’s arm perceptibly. “Of course not, son,” he said, his voice deceptively soothing. “You only did what you had to do.”

  “I really didn’t mean to kill her,” Wendell continued in a reasonable tone. “But she was laughing at me. She may not have loved me, Sheriff, but the funny thing was, she didn’t love Peter, either. She didn’t love anyone.”

  “Very funny, son.”

  The sheriff had released Peter by this time, and the other three uniformed policemen were slowly circling Wendell. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “I didn’t want to hurt Margaret. But she was better off dead, wasn’t she, than being in love with a crazy man like Peter? He is crazy. He always said so.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “I think he should be killed, Sheriff,” Wendell said calmly. “Either he’s crazy and dangerous and shouldn’t live, or he’s lying. I do think he should be executed. I’d be willing to do it.”

  “You know, that’s a fine idea,” Sheriff Cawley said, stepping forward and taking Wendell’s arm in a friendly gesture. “Why don’t you come down to the station house and start the paperwork in motion.”

  “Tonight?” Wendell looked doubtful. “It’s rather late.”

  “But we don’t want to waste any more time, do we?”

  “Of course not,” Wendell agreed. “But I don’t want to ride with him. He’s crazy.”

  “I understand that, son,” the sheriff said. “So we’ll come back and get him later. In the meantime, why don’t you slip these on?” He took the handcuffs off Peter and held them out.

  “Why do I need those?”

  “It’s the rule. Anyone who rides in a police car has to wear handcuffs.”

  “Well, I suppose so,” Wendell agreed doubtfully, holding out his strong wrists. “If I hadn’t smashed up the Jaguar I might drive myself. But on this occasion I’ll accept a lift from you, Sheriff. And thank you.

  “Thank you, Wendell.”

  This time Gertrude moved out of the way, her body stiff with pride. “Take care of him,” she said. “Or I’ll have your hide, Sheriff.”

  “We will, ma’am. Sorry for the misunderstanding.”

  And the quiet group of men disappeared out the front door, into the pouring rain.

  Gertrude turned to Peter. “Someone should look at that cut.”

  Peter had managed to sit up, pushing his hair out of his face and leaving a streak of blood. “I’m all right, Grandmère.”

  For a moment Gertrude’s stern old face crumpled, and Peter surged to his feet, catching the old woman as she swayed. “I’m sorry, Peter. I should have realized . . .”

  “None of us did,” he said, holding her gently. “Go on up to bed now. We won’t bother to tell Aunt Eustacia until tomorrow. She doesn’t need to know.”

  “It might not even surprise her. Eustacia has always been a mystery.” She moved away, then stopped in the doorway. Margaret wanted to put her arms around her, help her up to her room, but she could just imagine Gertrude’s furious response. “Peter . . .?”

  “I will, Grandmère.”

  “Thank you.”

  Margaret didn’t move. Her throat was raw and burning, her head pounded and her heart felt ripped in pieces.

  Peter turned to her, his green eyes dark and sorrowful, and pulled her into his arms. “Are you all right, chère? Did he hurt you?”

  She shook her head against his shoulder, not trusting her voice. She wanted to stay like that forever, cushioned in the shelter of his arms, but she pulled away, knowing the night wasn’t over.

  “You have to go, don’t you?” The hoarseness in her voice might have come from tears.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s going to happen to him?”

  “I don’t know. But I’ve got to make sure he’ll be taken care of. I’m going to get Doc Pitcher, and then together we’ll head on down to the police station. He needs a lawyer, a decent one. And he needs help.”

  She nodded. “Just one thing, Peter.”

  “Anything, chère.”

  She managed a crooked smile. “If he gets off by reason of insanity, don’t arrange for him to come and live in the attic.”

  “I promise.” He kissed her, hard and deep, and then he was gone.

  Epilogue

  THE RAIN HAD STOPPED, and the sky was getting light when Peter arrived home at five-thirty in the morning. The house looked like a battle zone, he thought, shutting the door on the smashed drawing room. Grandmère would survive. She was a tough old bird who’d survive everything. The forthcoming scandal would be nothing to her.

  Even Aunt Eustacia would survive. She’d distanced herself from reality long ago—the knowledge that her only son was a murderer would cause no more than a gentle frown to crease her faded skin.

  Lisette would be a different matter. For all her self-indulgence, she loved Wendell, and have a hard time accepting the truth. Probably an even harder time accepting the scandal.

  But right then he wasn’t worried about his family. He’d spent the night making arrangements, seeing to Wendell’s comfort. Wendell had stopped talking in that gentle, plaintive voice, stopped noticing his surroundings, and had drifted into the same quiet, peaceful world his mother enjoyed. Doc had been very gentle with him, while Sheriff Cawley had viewed the entire goings-on with a jaundiced eye.

  “Don’t think I don’t remember your insisting Peter here was a nut case,” he had drawled. “You’re a scoundrel, Leonard.”

  “True enough, Beesom,” Dr. Pitcher had agreed. “But I’m not going to change after all this time. You going to bring me up on charges?”

  “Hell, I ought to.”

  “Considering it was your slipshod investigating that drove us to such desperate measures, I’d think twice about it.”

  “Are you threatening me, Leonard?”

  “Nope. Just trying to make you feel guilty.”

  Beesom Cawley had simply glared at Doc Pitcher. “Hell, get out of here. This whole mess is bad enough. It don’t look as if the boy will go to trial, does it? We can clear this thing up in a gentlemanly fashion, can’t we?”

  “As long as Peter’s name gets cleared.”

  Cawley had squirmed. “I s’pose we can manage that. But you better damned well find me someone else for the psychiatric testimony. Your expertise ain’t worth shit.”

  Peter shook his head, remembering, as he started up the broad staircase. There was no way it could be tidied away neatly, but with everyone doing their damndest, there was such a thing as damage control. He didn’t really care. Right now all he cared about was the fact that he was a free man and there was a woman waiting upstairs for him. A woman he loved.

  Her bedroom was deserted, and for a moment he panicked. Had she run again? Did she want to get as far away as possible from such a crazy family? It wouldn’t be unlikely, but somehow he thought she’d moved past that, that he was more important to her than safety.

  He left the third-floor door open as he stepped inside his gilded cage. She wasn’t lying curled up on the sofa, and no light was burning. He was conscious of a tearing sense of loss, and then he stepped inside his bedroom.

  She’d never been in there before, but he’d fantasized about it often enough to wonder whether it was a dream or whether she really was lying curled up in his bed, her flame-colored hair spread out over the pillow, her bare shoulder peeking out from under the sheet. She must have heard him, for she turned, opening her eyes and looking up at him sleepily. She smiled then, a tentative smile, and
held out her arms to him. And without a word he went into them, holding her tightly.

  IT WAS A LONG while later when he felt like talking, a long while before she asked the questions that were plaguing her. Wrapping her arms around him, she held him while he shivered in her arms, overwhelmed with love and protectiveness. This man loved her. This man had fought for her, would have given up his freedom to save her life, and now he lay beside her, asking nothing of her but her love. It was hard to believe that such peace and happiness could emerge from such a tormented few days.

  “How is he?”

  “Lost,” Peter said. “Dreaming, sweet and sad. He doesn’t seem to remember what he did, and I believe him.”

  “He won’t stand trial?”

  “Not likely. It doesn’t take an expert to see he’s just . . . gone. They’ll put him someplace safe for a long, long time. Maybe the rest of his life, I don’t know.” He sighed. “God, I hate to think of anyone locked away.” He lifted his head and looked down at her. “What were you doing up here? I went to your room, and when I found it was empty I thought you’d run away.”

  “You don’t get rid of me so easily, Peter. You’ve traded one prison for another.”

  He laughed. “You’re going to keep me in line, Warden?”

  “You bet.”

  “You think Carrie will mind our getting married?” he murmured lazily, running his lips across her collarbone.

  She held herself very still. “I don’t recall being asked.”

  “You were asked, and you accepted. Remember this?” He picked up her left hand, still wearing the filigree ring. “It’s a betrothal ring. It’s been in the family for generations, and when I tossed it to you I was asking. When you put it on you accepted. There’s no escaping, no running, even if you wanted to.”

  “Carrie wants babies,” she warned him.

  “So do I. In another year or two.”

  “That makes three of us. And I agree about waiting. If you think this is prison, wait until you’re a father.”