The Impostor

by Cassie Miles

  As he shook hands with Sarah, Liz wondered if Divine was his real name or another of his bizarre connections with the angels.

  The only person who had arrived before them was Gary Gregory, head of accounting at OrbenCorp and possible fiancé of Sarah. When Liz introduced Gary and Dash, the accountant asked the obvious question. “What do you do for a living, Dash?”

  “I’m a philosopher.”

  “And you make a living doing that?” Gary tittered like a bird. With his shock of pale blond hair, sharp features and long legs, he always reminded her of an egret. “Philosophizing?”

  “Kierkegaard did,” Dash said. “Not to mention St. Thomas Aquinas, Nietzsche or even Plato.”

  “But it didn’t work too well for old Socrates. He was the one who drank the hemlock, wasn’t he?”

  “The poison elixir,” Dash said in a level voice. “Hemlock’s an interesting plant. An innocent-looking herb, kind of like parsley. Lethal parsley.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to garnish my dinner with a sprig of that,” Liz said brightly. She guessed that Dash was leading the discussion toward poisons, and she tried to help him along. “I’m sure Gary knows all about hemlock and parsley. Gardening is one of his hobbies.”

  “More than a hobby,” he said coolly. “Last year, I created a species of blue rose that’s named for me. The Gregory rose.”

  “Tell me about it,” Dash said.

  Gary didn’t smile. He never smiled, not even when he tittered. But he was obviously pleased to be asked about his gardening. His upper lip protruded over the lower in a beaklike grimace, and his thick blond eyebrows lifted to the upper edge of his black glasses frames. “It’s all in the splice,” he said. “An exact grafting. And patience, of course. Waiting for nature to take its course.”

  “Ever want to hurry things along?” Dash asked.

  “Constantly. But it doesn’t do a damned bit of good. At least not when it comes to plants.”

  “And people? Ever want to hurry them along?”

  “People are easy. But plants? To offer a modest example, the Gregory rose required four years of painstaking effort. I started with a deep scarlet…”

  Liz had heard this story before, and Gary’s words faded to blah-blah-blah in her mind. She tuned in for the finale.

  “…a power failure, and I almost lost every rose in my greenhouse. It was hell.”

  “Roses are hard to grow,” Dash said. “Lots of potential for bugs and disease. What kind of pesticide do you use?”

  “All natural. Organic. I modify my own special…”

  Liz was ready to shift topics or conversation partners, but there wasn’t much alternative. Nobody else was there.

  She missed Agatha. The house seemed empty without her. Gary’s words echoed hollowly in the spacious front room. The only major decorating change since Agatha’s death was a proliferation of lush, healthy houseplants. There were blooming cactus and hanging ferns and numerous flowers—a mock orange, azaleas, fragrant gardenias and roses. Was Gary moving in? Liz remembered it was Dr. Clark who said Sarah and Gary were planning to be married.

  Sarah emerged from the kitchen with drinks for Dash and Liz. Coffee, of course, was the beverage of choice at any gathering of Orbens. Liz’s had been laced with Irish Cream. Dash took his coffee straight and black.

  While the two men continued to talk about flowers, Liz drew Sarah aside. “I heard a rumor. About you and Gary.”

  “Really?” Sarah fluttered her eyelashes. “From who?”

  “Dr. Clark Hammerschmidt said you and Gary were getting married.”

  “That old busybody! I went to see him last week, and he’s so nosy. He was supposed to keep it a secret.”

  In her head, Liz added one and one together. Sarah had been to see the doctor. And she was getting married. The total was…three. “Oh, my God, Sarah, you’re not pregnant, are you?”

  “Certainly not. I’m not a giddy teenager.” In a low voice, she confided, “Gary and I have been seeing each other for over a year. And he’s going to move in here as soon as we finish construction on the greenhouse in the back. He’s worried about moving his roses, of course.”

  “Of course.” That wasn’t Liz’s idea of a grand passion, when the roses came first, but Sarah seemed content. “I guess that congratulations are in order.”

  “Please don’t say anything yet. I haven’t told Jack.” She shuddered, and her dangling earrings jangled. “I don’t think he’s going to be pleased. He keeps telling me to be careful around men, that they’re all after my inheritance.”

  Silently, Liz agreed. Gary was an accountant. Despite his blooming passion for roses, he always kept a close eye on the bottom line. Some of his attraction to Sarah had to be the money.

  Gary waved Sarah to him. “Would you please come here?”

  “Yes, dear.” Instantly, she was at his side.

  “Dash wants to see the Gregory rose,” Gary said. “Would you fetch one of the small pots from the solarium? And do be careful not to bruise it, Sarah.”

  She darted from the room with an eager-to-please rustle of her caftan. As soon as she had obediently vanished into the depths of the large house, the doorbell sounded. Since Liz was closest, she went to answer.

  Jack and Hector, looking like a couple of naughty boys on a bender, stood shoulder to shoulder. Jack had obviously been drinking. His bleary smile and bloodshot eyes portended a potentially difficult evening, because Jack was a cantankerous, opinionated drunk.

  “Hi, Lizzie,” he drawled. “You look real pretty tonight.”

  “Thanks, Jack.”

  “That’s my Lizzie. You’re my right-hand man, aren’t you?”

  Usually in this sort of situation, Liz would protect her boss. She’d make sure that Jack was safety tucked away until he could sleep it off. And Hector was looking at her as if he expected her to take care of things.

  But tonight was different. She wasn’t here as the right-hand man. She was here with Dash, and they were investigating the murder of Agatha Orben, a woman who had not deserved to die before her time.

  Liz figured that allowing Jack to crash through the evening in his loose, drunken state might provide a catalyst toward solving the case. She held the door wide. “Come on in, boys.”

  Jack swaggered past, bellowing his greetings.

  Hector paused beside her. “I’m sorry, Liz. Jack got a little out of hand. Help me with him. We’ll get him upstairs into one of the bedrooms.”

  “Actually, Hector, it’s after five o’clock, and I’m no longer on the job. If Jack wants to get stinking drunk and make a fool of himself, that’s not my problem.”

  “But I’m counting on you.”

  “Don’t,” she said.

  She turned away from him and proceeded into the living room, where she guided Jack into trouble. Face-to-face with Gary, she said, “So, Jack. Have you heard about Sarah and Gary?”

  “What about them?”

  “I promised not to tell.” She looked toward Gary, and Jack’s woozy gaze followed. “Gary? Do you want to break the news?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What’s going on?” Jack demanded.

  “Go on, Gary. Tell us.” Evilly, Liz confided to her boss, “Gary has already started construction on a greenhouse in the backyard.”

  “Here?” Jack leaned close to Gary, head of accounting at OrbenCorp. “You’re building a greenhouse in my mother’s backyard?”

  “Knock it off, Jack.” Gary’s beaky nose thrust forward. “You don’t need to be so damned territorial.”

  “I’m what?” He wavered on unsteady knees. “I’m a terrier? You think I’m a dog?”

  Hector inserted himself between the two men. “Not a terrier, Jack. Territorial. You know, protecting your boundaries.” Glowering at Gary, he added, “It was a compliment. Right?”

  “Take it any way you want.”

  Liz observed the interplay through a detective’s eye. Among these three men—all of whom she considered
to be possible murderers—Hector, though the shortest in stature and the oldest, was obviously the most dangerous. His piratical appearance, enhanced by the gold necklaces, radiated machismo. He had an assurance that the other men lacked. And, as she studied him, Liz sensed an aura of world-weary tragedy, as if his coal black eyes had seen too much.

  Had one of them been the black-clad jogger in the park? Though their physiques were different, it was really impossible to tell. The nylon running suit had been too baggy, and her pursuer’s hair had been covered by the cap. If only she’d paused to see his face, she might have known. But if she had confronted the jogger, would she be here tonight? Safe, alive and breathing?

  Muttering, Jack swaggered toward Dash. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Dash Divine. I’m Liz’s date.”

  Hector raised an eyebrow as he looked at Liz. “You’re full of surprises tonight.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with a date before. You’re always quiet little Liz, working hard and steady. Maybe you have a secret life.”

  “Maybe I do,” she said. “Maybe I’m not even a loyal Orben coffee employee. Maybe I’m a spy for Folger’s.”

  Jack wheeled around and confronted her. “Liz? You brought a date? What about me?”

  “We’ve never dated, Jack.” He never even noticed her, walked past her in the office as if she was a piece of office equipment. “There’s no call to be territorial about me.”

  “But you’re my gal,” he said. “Everybody knows that. Mother always said that someday I was going to open my eyes and see what a treasure you are. Remember how she kept pushing us toward each other?”

  “Yes, I do.” But Liz never had been romantically inclined toward Jack. Not that he lacked physical appeal. Quite the opposite, in fact. Jack Orben was a goodlooking man who was toned at the health club and tanned on the golf course. He’d aged handsomely to his midthirties. His thick brown hair was untouched by gray. But she’d never thought of him as a boyfriend

  Besides, in her ten years at OrbenCorp, she’d always been one of the guys, and Jack had taken her for granted. Even after his divorce three years ago, he hadn’t ever asked her out on a date. They usually ended up together at these family or company dinners, but for socializing, Jack always had some gorgeous blonde hanging on his arm.

  “You’re so pretty, Lizzie.” His speech slurred. “A treasure.”

  Possessively, Dash stepped beside her. “She’s precious, all right.”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jack stuck out his jaw pugnaciously.

  “Keeping an eye on Liz, my date.”

  “You’re making a mistake. She’s mine.”

  Hector tried to mediate. He placed a restraining arm around Jack’s shoulder. “Let’s calm down, gentlemen.”

  “But she’s my girl,” Jack said. He drew his hands into fists. He glared at Dash and Gary, as if trying to determine which one of them he should slug first. Apparently, the decision was too much for him, because he turned to Liz. “You are, aren’t you? My girl.”

  “I’m nobody’s girl, Jack.”

  “She’s a lady,” Dash said, moving closer to her. “And this lady is with me.”

  When he clasped his hand around her waist, his touch was gentle but firm. He was being overprotective, and Liz’s usual response would be to slap his hand away and firmly announce that she could take care of herself. But, somehow, Dash’s attitude wasn’t in the least offensive.

  “Wait a minute,” Jack said. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Gary Gregory stepped into the circle. “He says he’s a philosopher.”

  “Philosophize this.” Jack took a wild swing with his clenched fist.

  His blow connected with Dash’s cheekbone, and Liz felt the force of it reverberate through his body. But Dash was unshaken. He carefully removed his hand from her waist and stepped aside. He looked at Jack. Then Dash turned the other cheek.

  Dash pointed to the other side of his face. “Go ahead, punk. Let me have it.”

  Jack swung again, landing a hard jab at the jawline.

  Despite Jack’s drunken state, it was a good, hard hit, but Dash didn’t even stagger.

  It was Jack who winced with pain, cradling his fingers against his chest. “Damn, I think I busted a knuckle.”

  Catching hold of Jack’s loosened necktie, Dash yanked him to within a few inches of his face. “Listen to me, Jack. You got two free shots. But that’s all. Touch me or Liz again, and you’ll regret it.”

  Jack shoved ineffectually. “Let me go.”

  “You can dish it out, huh?” Dash released his grip. “But you can’t take it.”

  Walking slowly and carefully, Sarah appeared in the room. In clarion tones, she announced, “Behold, the Gregory rose.”

  Dramatically, she held out a pearly white planter with a small rosebush inside. There were two blooms and four buds. All were a pale shade of lavender blue.

  Dash broke the uncomfortable silence. “Very beautiful,” he said.

  “Yes, it is.” Sarah’s smile was bright. She was oblivious to the events that had occurred in her absence. “Remarkably beautiful. The Gregory rose.”

  “Hey,” Jack said, “I’ve seen that pot before. It belonged to my mother.”

  “You’re right,” Sarah said. “I found it when I was packing up some of Agatha’s knickknacks.” She turned to Hector. “How nice to see you.”

  “And you.” He bowed slightly.

  “I swear, Hector, you get more handsome with every year that goes by. Those South American climates agree with you.” She carried the rose to the mantel and gently set down the china pot before turning to Hector. “You’re half Spanish, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your ex-wife was from Bolivia?”

  “Colombia,” he corrected. “She’s returned there.”

  Liz glided into the circle of their conversation. Hector was her favorite choice as a murder suspect, and she wanted to get as much information as she could about his schedule. “You’ve been to Colombia a lot recently. That was where you got my earrings, wasn’t it?”

  “Cartagena. Yes.”

  “It must be handy to have family there. You have a son, don’t you?”

  “He’s seventeen.”

  “Lives with his mother?”

  “Yes.”

  A darkness descended over Hector’s features. He was clearly uncomfortable with this topic. Therefore, Liz pushed harder. “Do you ever have a chance to visit your ex-wife and her family when you’re in Colombia?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Stop it, Liz,” Sarah chided. “Of course Hector doesn’t visit his former wife. I don’t see my ex, either. Although I’d be delighted if he moved to another continent.” With a shrill gaiety, she laughed as if she’d said something terribly witty. It was obvious that the tone of this dinner party was discord, and Sarah seemed to be trying her darnedest to cheer things up. “I’ll go get the hors d’oeuvres.”

  It was Dash who gallantly stepped forward. “I’ll help.”

  In the spacious kitchen, he complimented Sarah on the house.

  “I can’t take credit. The furniture and most of the artwork belonged to Agatha. She was a great supporter of the arts, you know.”

  She handed him a platter with soft cheese and crackers deliciously arrayed. And she continued to talk. Nervously, Dash thought.

  “Unfortunately,” Sarah said, “Agatha had no concept of good art. She’d buy because she wanted to support the artists, not because she appreciated their work. A generous woman, very generous.”

  “An easy touch,” Dash hinted.

  “In the art world, they don’t call it that. They said that Agatha was a patroness. An angel.”

  Dash smiled. Liz didn’t realize how true her words were. Agatha Orben had, indeed, entered the angelic realms.

  “And have you taken up being an angel where Agatha
left off?”

  “Heavens, no. I don’t have anywhere near enough money for Agatha’s charities. All I have is what she left me—this house and the cash needed for upkeep.”

  Dash wondered if the upkeep was enough to finance building a greenhouse for Gary.

  “I don’t really own this place,” she said. “I can always live here, but—according to Agatha’s will—the house will become a shelter for battered women.”

  “A shelter, huh?” Though Dash wholeheartedly approved of this plan, he didn’t imagine that Gary Gregory would be too thrilled. “When’s this supposed to happen?”

  “Someday. But there’s a legal problem with zoning. The neighbors don’t like the idea.” She scooped up another tray, piled high with strawberries, kiwifruit and grapes. “And the neighbors have enough money to block the shelter for years. Gary says it may never happen.”

  “Convenient for him,” Dash murmured under his breath. “So, what’s the deal with you two? Getting hitched?”

  “After dinner, I’ll make an announcement.”

  Sarah led the way into the front room, where she forced the predinner socializing to a new level of innocuous chitchat about the weather, fashion and the latest movies.

  When Sarah was finally ready to arrange them around the table, Liz stepped close to Dash. In a low voice, she said, “Gary Gregory has moved way up on my list of suspects. I think he was after the house. He’s already acting like this place belongs to him.”

  Dash agreed. “He got his meat hooks into Sarah before Agatha died. Which means he was probably hanging around here all winter, like a bad case of the flu.”

  The timing was right, Dash thought. Agatha had died a year ago, after an illness of six months, which was when the poisoning started with small doses.

  But Dash didn’t feel a clear sense of guilt from Gary. Or from anyone else in the room. None of them was innocent. Of that, he was sure. But he couldn’t pick a murderer from this crew. With the exception of Liz, everybody looked guilty as sin.

  Halfway through the main course, when Sarah’s persistent lightheartedness began to lag, he turned to her and asked another leading question. “Apart from the greenhouse, are you doing any other renovations?”