66
On Monday, Hurricane Cyd slammed into Trinidad with winds topping 140 miles an hour, and was angling its way north by northwest. Dorothy-Anne caught the first broadcast of on-the-scene television footage on CNN. The swath of destruction Cyd had left behind was awesome.
The reporter, buffeted by what had decreased to sixty-mile-an-hour winds, could barely be heard above the roar of the wind blasting his microphone: '. . . in this, one of the worst hurricanes in recent history, much of the Delaware-size island is without power, and an estimated eight thousand people have been left homeless . . . .'
Additional footage showed people camped out in a shelter, thrashing palm trees, flying roofs, an airplane that had been tossed onto its back, wheels in the air, so that it looked like a dead insect, and a yacht the storm surge had left high and dry in the middle of a road.
Dorothy-Anne was shocked at the extent of the devastation. She immediately tried calling the Hale Hotel, located on the northern coast, but the lines were down. Next she tried several cellular numbers but was unable to get through on those, either.
The transmission towers are probably down, she thought.
At least, she hoped that was all it was.
Half an hour later, Cecilia burst into Dorothy-Anne's office. 'Guess what, boss?'
Dorothy-Anne's nerves were frayed, and she was not in a good mood. 'Don't tell me,' she said with spicy indignation. 'You decided you no longer have to knock before you enter?'
Cecilia's bubble was too optimistic to be burst. 'Thanks to citizen's band radio, we're in contact with Trinidad!'
'What!' Dorothy-Anne jumped to her feet, her heart pounding. 'And?'
'Oh, there's minor damage, but nothing that can't be fixed. The manager estimates fifty thousand dollars' worth, tops. It's so minor and cosmetic we can reopen immediately.'
Dorothy-Anne felt weak with relief. She sank back down into her chair and offered up a silent prayer of thanks.
She spent the rest of that day tracking Cyd's course, ordering the evacuation of the Hale hotels on Monserrat, St. Kitts, and St. Croix, and ordering the staffs to batten down the hatches.
That evening, Cyd did the unpredictable. After slamming full force into St. Vincent and St. Lucia, the hurricane abruptly changed course and headed west, into the island-free center of the Caribbean.
Dorothy-Anne wondered if she hadn't jumped the gun. Was it possible she'd evacuated Monserrat, St. Kitts, and St. Croix prematurely?
Better safe than sorry, she reminded herself, and kept her fingers crossed.
If Cyd stayed on this new course—and Dorothy-Anne knew that nothing was more unpredictable than a hurricane—Eden Isle would be spared.
On Tuesday, she was feeling downright euphoric. St. Vincent and St. Lucia had both been hard hit, but Freddie's stringent construction codes were paying off. On islands where building codes were poor to nonexistent, Hale hotels had stood up to Hurricane Cyd's fury. Damage was minimal.
Better yet, Cyd was still moving west, avoiding the Lesser Antilles to the south, and the Greater Antilles to the north.
And then her day got even better. Arne Mankoff came into her office, leading an assistant who carried a two-foot stack of documents.
'I gather you can intuit what these are,' the chief counsel said.
His assistant put the documents down on Dorothy-Anne's Regency desk and then left.
'Judging from the sheer magnitude of paperwork,' Dorothy-Anne said, 'I intuit they're the contracts for the FLASH sale.'
She pressed the intercom switch on her desk.
'Cecilia.'
'Boss?'
'I don't want any unnecessary interruptions. U.Y.B.J. Okay?'
U.Y.B.J. was their abbreviation for Use Your Best Judgment.
'You got it, boss. Only immediate family and a certain close friend.'
'Cecilia?'
'Yes, boss?'
'Can the wiseass routine.'
An hour passed, and Dorothy-Anne was still only halfway through initialing the third copy when her vision began to blur. She put her pen down, flexed the cramped fingers of her right hand, and briefly shut her eyes and gently massaged the lids.
Another hour and a half passed. They had just completed the last copy and Arne was stacking them when Cecilia buzzed. 'Boss? Sorry to interrupt, but I think this falls under U.Y.B.J.'
Dorothy-Anne was seized by a momentary panic. 'Is it the children or the hurricane?'
'Neither.'
'Dorothy-Anne was relieved. Thank God, she offered up silently.
'However, I believe it falls under the Certain Close Friend category,' Cecilia said.
'What does?'
'You'll see in a minute.'
Cecilia clicked off, and when the office door opened, Dorothy-Anne looked across the room. 'Good heavens! What is that?'
Arne twisted around to look. 'Seems like somebody sent you the entire Bronx Botanical Gardens,' he said dryly.
Tottering through the door, seemingly under its own power, was the biggest floral arrangement either of them had ever seen. Only Cecilia's legs were visible; otherwise it hid her completely.
'Didn't realize it was your birthday,' Arne said.
'It's not.'
Venetia, carrying a round maple box tied with a red ribbon, followed Cecilia into the office.
'I was just coming down the hall and, girl,' she sang out, 'let me tell you. I just had to follow the flowers!'
Venetia steered Cecilia toward one of the beautifully veneered round tables, where she swiftly moved a potted hydrangea from the center and made extra room by scooting aside stacks of books and gathering up silver-framed photographs.
With a grunt Cecilia set the arrangement on the table, then staggered to the nearest chair and sank gratefully down into it.
'I should have called one of the porters,' she gasped. 'I didn't realize it was that heavy.'
Dorothy-Anne pushed back her ergonomic chairman-of-the-universe chair, got up, and went over to the table. She walked a slow circumference, investigating the king-size arrangement from all sides.
It was undeniably one of the most prodigal, opulent, and stunningly beautiful floral arrangements she had ever received. There were thick branches of creamy orchids; peonies of the palest pink, the size of dinner
plates; clusters of white lilies; orange-hued poppies; blowsy old-fashioned roses; parrot tulips that looked as though they belonged in a Dutch still- life; and delicate, flesh-toned irises the likes of which she had never seen. All in a heavy glass cylinder and wrapped in see-through cellophane.
'Good golly,' Dorothy-Anne exclaimed.
'Girlfriend,' Venetia said. 'Do you have any idea what this thing must have cost? When I saw it, I asked myself: Who is the lucky girl that has found herself an Arab prince? Well, I should have known.'
Dorothy-Anne began to part the stapled cellophane.
'Oh, and Cecilia said this came with it.' Venetia placed the round box tied with the red ribbon on the table.
'Where's the card?' Dorothy-Anne asked Cecilia. 'I don't see one.'
'I didn't, either,' Cecilia replied. 'Not on the flowers, nor the box.'
'Maybe it's in the box?' Venetia suggested helpfully.
Dorothy-Anne picked it up. 'Oh, how beautiful! It's one of those Shaker boxes they make up in the Berkshires,' she said, turning it around. Then she set it back down and started to untie the bow.
'Hurry up, child,' Venetia said impatiently from over her shoulder. 'I am absolutely dying to find out what is inside that box. Yes. It cannot be jewelry. It is too heavy, and anyway it's hardly the kind of box you find at Bulgari or Van Cleef or—'
'This is strange,' Dorothy-Anne murmured, her lips turning slightly downward.
'What is, sugar?'
'This ribbon. See? It's not really a ribbon. It's a red silk necktie!'
'A necktie! Oooooo, baby!' Venetia laughed. 'Kink-yyyyy! Sounds like You-Know-Who is sending you a not-so-subliminal message.'
'
Venetia!' Dorothy-Anne rolled her eyes. 'Will you stop?' She had the tie loose and was lifting the lid off the box.
'Look!'
She held it out for the others to see.
The box was filled with small, golden-brown round cookies. Perfectly centered on each was half a maraschino cherry.
'Cookies?' Venetia sniffed. 'I must say I am thoroughly disappointed. Yes. What sort of a man sends a woman cookies? I mean really! Calories. That's what they are.'
Dorothy-Anne laughed. 'Oh, come on. Here, take one.'
Venetia leaned over the box. 'Well, they do look rather tempting.' Her thin nostrils flared. 'And I must admit they smell delicious,' she added, 'but no.' She shook her head. 'I am on a strict diet.'
'Be that way,' Dorothy-Anne brought the box over to Cecilia. 'Have one,' she offered.
'Well,' Cecilia said, momentarily undecided. 'I'm on a diet too, but it's not quite that strict. Why not? One can't hurt me. Right?'
Her hand hovered over the box and then she plucked one out and immediately nibbled on it. 'Mmm! Very good!'
'Arne?' Dorothy-Anne offered.
Arne reached in and grabbed a couple.
At that moment, Dorothy-Anne's personal phone line began to bleat. She thrust the box of cookies at Arne and hurried over to her desk. She grabbed up the receiver on the fourth ring. 'Hello?' she answered breathlessly.
'Am I interrupting anything?' a familiar voice asked.
'Hunt!' she cried in delight. 'The flowers and cookies just arrived. I must say, you've really outdone yourself this time. I've never seen so many flowers!'
'Flowers? Cookies? What are you talking about?' he said quietly.
Dorothy-Anne's forehead creased. 'What do you mean?'
'I didn't send you any flowers or cookies. From your reaction, it makes me wish I had. . . . '
'But . . . If you didn't, then who . . . ?'
Dorothy-Anne frowned over at the massive floral arrangement. Cecilia had finished her cookie and was brushing crumbs off her skirt. Arne was standing there, holding the box with one hand, and trying to separate the two cookies he held in the other hand so he could eat them one at a time. And, towering nearly as high as the flowers, Venetia was removing the rest of the cellophane from around the arrangement, the three of them creating a perfect tableau vivant of the good life.
'The reason I called—not to alarm you,' Hunt was saying, 'is to see if you've been following the news.'
'Oh, the hurricane,' Dorothy-Anne said in a voice of tedious resignation. 'I'm hurricaned up to my ears.'
'This isn't about the hurricane.'
'Then what news are you talking about?'
'Well, I get the major New York papers here—a day late, of course, and not that I have much of a chance to read them—but I do try and keep up with events—'
'Yes? And?'
'And, I just picked up a stack to toss out. You know how newspapers can accumulate? And what should be staring up at me but the New York Post. This past Sunday's issue.'
'That's the day you returned to California,' she murmured.
'That's right. The headlines read, and I quote, 'Murder on B'Way.' In four-inch letters.'
Dorothy-Anne had to laugh. 'Hunt! A murder, or more likely two or three or more murders, occur in this city every single day!'
'But not on Saturday night, the twenty-eighth of June,' he said. 'And not on the same block as the Lunt-Fontanne Theater.'
'It happened on the block we were on?'
'That's right. Not only on the same block, but on the same side of the street.'
'I see what you mean. The coincidence that we might have passed right by the body—'
No! You don't see what I mean!' There was a desperate urgency in his voice. 'Darling, for God's sake, will you please listen?'
'I am listening.'
'The woman who was murdered was wearing a red raincoat! A red raincoat with a red hood!'
Dorothy-Anne went stone cold, a sudden frisson rippling through her.
Could someone have thought it was me?
For a moment she felt a strident sense of menace, of events spinning out of control. Her hand shook, knocking the receiver against her ear.
Hunt was saying: 'From the description, her coat was exactly like yours.'
Dorothy-Anne quashed the feeling of imminent danger.
How ridiculous! she thought. I mustn't overreact. If I let every newspaper headline spook me, then good night, nurse! I have enough problems without looking for more.
'Hunt, I'm neck deep in this hurricane, and I've got to see Arne off with the FLASH contracts. We'll talk later?'
'Dorothy-Anne, please! Promise me you'll be careful!'
'I will. And stop worrying so much about—'
She broke off in midsentence, suddenly aware of the drama being played out halfway across the office. Something had gone terribly wrong with the tableau vivant.
Cecilia was leaning forward and starting to get to her feet. But Cecilia, bouncy Cecilia, energetic, acerbic, no-nonsense Cecilia, remained seated. Frowning and looking confused. Saying something that made Venetia and Arne exchange horrified glances.
Then Cecilia turned her head and stared over at Dorothy-Anne with huge, frightened eyes.
'Dorothy-Anne?' Hunt's voice was saying. 'Darling, are you there?'
But she didn't hear him. The receiver slipped from her hand, and even before it hit the floor, she was rushing across the room. 'Nooooooooo!' she cried. 'God, nooooooooo!'
'Help me!' Cecilia screamed. 'I can't get up! My legs won't move!'
'Call 911!' Dorothy-Anne shouted at Venetia.
Venetia stood there, frozen.
'Now!'
Venetia snapped out of it and lunged for the nearest phone. Dorothy-Anne's arm blurred, knocking the box of cookies out of Arne's hand. The maple box and cookies went flying.
'What the—?' he began.
'Don't eat them!'
With dawning realization, Arne stared at the two cookies in his hand. Then he flung them away as though they were snakes.
'I-I'm . . . paralyzed,' Cecilia whispered. She had broken out in a sweat and was having trouble breathing.
Dorothy-Anne dropped to her knees beside her chair and took her hand. 'EMS is on its way,' she told her. 'You're going to be all right.'
Cecilia tried to focus on Dorothy-Anne's face, but everything seemed blurred and out of focus. She shook her head, and struggled to get enough breath. 'No. I'm going to die.'
'You won't!' Dorothy-Anne said forcefully, but even as she said it, she knew she was lying. Tears streamed down her face. 'I won't let you die, Cecilia! Hang in there! Damn it, stay with us! Help's on the way!'
Cecilia's breath rasped heavily and she leaned her head back against the chair. When she spoke, her lips twisted with the agony of effort. 'I'm . . . sorry. I've . . . let . . . you down.'
'You've never let me down,' Dorothy-Anne sobbed. 'Not once.' She shook Cecilia's hand. 'Do you hear me? Cecilia?'
But Cecilia was staring up at the ceiling with glazed, unseeing eyes. She was already dead.
In the distance, Dorothy-Anne could hear the wails of approaching sirens.
They're too late, she thought miserably. And she knew something else too. Cecilia wasn't supposed to die. Those cookies were meant for me.
Someone was trying to kill her.
67
Hunt was not psychic. Nor did he need any of Dionne Warwick's—ahem!—psychic friends to tell him something was terribly wrong in White Plains.
After Dorothy-Anne had dropped the phone, what he'd heard in the background (he couldn't make out the words, exactly, but the tone was enough to goose anybody), he sprang into action.
First, he paged Bob Stewart, the pilot of Winslow Communications' Falcon 50 jet. Then, not bothering to pack a single suitcase, he jumped into his Buick Park Avenue and headed out to the airport.
The pilot called him on the car phone. 'You left a message, Mr. Winslow?'
'Yes, Bob.
I'm on my way to SFO. I need to fly to New York. ASAP.'
When they arrived at the town house, Dorothy-Anne was shaking so badly she fumbled and dropped her keys. Venetia picked them up and unlocked the two dead bolts, then followed Dorothy-Anne inside.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Mills, was coming down the staircase. 'Why, Mrs. Cantwell!' she exclaimed. 'We didn't expect . . .' Suddenly aware of Dorothy-Anne's taut features and moist eyes, Mrs. Mills paused. 'Is something wrong?'
Yes. Everything.
Venetia started toward the living room, then backtracked when Dorothy-Anne remained in the foyer.
'Where are they?' Dorothy-Anne asked Mrs. Mills.
'Where are who, ma'am?'
Dorothy-Anne stared at her. Who could I be talking about? My three little Cantwelleers!
'The children,' she said impatiently.
The housekeeper frowned. 'I'm not absolutely certain, ma'am, but I believe Liz and Fred are in their rooms . . . .'
Dorothy-Anne grasped hold of the newel post and leaned her head way back.
'Liz!' she called urgently up the stairwell. 'Fred! Zack!'
Liz appeared on the third-floor landing, half hanging over the banister. 'Hi, Mom!' she called down brightly. 'What's up?'
Dorothy-Anne tottered and gasped, her hand flying to her breast. She could almost see the wood spindles splintering, could almost hear the banister railing crack as it gave way. And Liz, her precious daughter, plunging headfirst down the stairwell—to her death.
The vision was so appallingly vivid that something within Dorothy- Anne snapped.
'Elizabeth-Anne Cantwell!' she screamed. 'How many times have I told you not to hang over the banister like that! You do that again and I'll . . . I'll . . . '
'Hey,' Venetia said softly. 'Ease up, honey.'
Upstairs, Liz slowly unbent herself. 'Jeez, mom. Like chill out.'
Dorothy-Anne placed her fingertips against her forehead. Dear God, she thought, I'm losing it.
Then she pulled herself together.
I can't afford to lose it. I'm a mother with three children.
'Where's Fred?
'In his room,' Liz said stiffly, from above. 'Can't you, like, hear that bass beat? I bet they're complaining about it all the way over in Nanjing.'
Second Love Page 62