by Jenna Ryan
Sam’s head more than hurt now; it throbbed She wasn’t sure about Margaret’s comments. She was even less sure about Margaret.
‘Don’t be insulted,’ Margaret had said when she’d suggested that Sam possessed some of Mary’s less-than-desirable personality traits. Sam realized now, and with a faint jolt of surprise, that the prospect didn’t particularly disturb her. Then again, why should it? Babies given to the wrong parents had never been a big problem in the U.S. A busy midcity hospital might make such a mistake, but not the quietly overstaffed West Valley Hospital. She was being too sensitive. She needed to distance herself from this nightmare for a while.
“Two people dead in two days,” she murmured. “I need a break. Anthea’s funeral is the day after tomorrow.” She glanced at Margaret’s covered legs. “I know you can’t go, and shouldn’t, but maybe Theo could attend in your place. Incognito, of course. Would anyone there recognize him?”
Margaret tapped an ash into a crystal bowl. “Everyone who knew me also knew him. But a disguise might work. Possibly, I might even—ah, but no, Mary would be expecting that, wouldn’t she? And she seems to be in a killing frame of mind.”
“I’m surprised she hasn’t tried harder to—uh, well—to get you.”
“Torment,” Margaret said simply. “The woman thrives on it.”
“So to torment you, she’s setting her sights on everyone else first? Why? Because you have a conscience?”
“Does that sound so out of character for her?” Margaret’s dark eyes were shrewd as they regarded Sam’s face.
Sam made a small movement with her shoulder. “Not really. I’m sure she knows who I am. I suppose she’d think it would hurt you if she murdered me. What I can’t figure out is why she sent us those two video clips from The Three Fates.”
Margaret’s lips thinned. “More torment would be my guess.”
“I thought more likely a warning of some sort.”
“What kind of warning?” Margaret snapped, then collected herself and passed a weary hand over her eyes. “I’m sorry, child. My nerves are frayed. Mary feels very close to me these days. I can’t seem to shed the notion that she’s cognizant of my every move.”
“You’re not implying that Theo or one of us—”
“No, no, nothing like that. Please, ignore my outbursts. I’m upset, and when I get upset I don’t think properly. I wouldn’t take those clips of The Three Fates as a warning, however. A foreboding shadow perhaps, but not a warning.”
Sam noticed then that Margaret’s knuckles had gone white in her lap. Her fists were clenched into tight little balls, but whether from tension or anger, Sam couldn’t say. What she could say was goodbye, and she did so as quickly as possible.
Solemn-faced, Theo removed her jacket from its peg and helped her into it.
“Shall I call a cab, miss?”
“Please…. I still think those clips are a warning,” she mumbled to herself. “Theo?”
“Yes, miss?”
“What do you think Mary will do? You knew her, didn’t you?”
“I knew her very well.” He dialed as he spoke. “I think Madame is right, that she will do her utmost to achieve her goal. I also think that if I were you, I would distance myself from any possible association with her.”
Softly, Sam asked, “Why doesn’t she just do it? Surely she’s tormented Margaret long enough. Why wait?”
“Theo!” Margaret called from the parlor.
“One moment, Madame.” Theo ordered the cab, then turned back. “What you fail to comprehend, miss, is the crim-inally insane mind. Mary is a bold, calculating woman for whom the term ‘half measures’ has no meaning. She will undertake to kill her old adversary, make no mistake about it. You and I can only do our best to ensure that tragedy never comes about. If you’re looking for a warning, that’s the one I would give you. Separate yourself from this situation while you still can.”
“But she knows where Margaret lives.”
Theo raised meaningful brows. “She knows where you live, too, Ms. Giancarlo. You and Mr. Brodie.”
“WHAT’S THAT?” Sam stared at the trinket-size object in Ai-dan’s palm.
“A transmitter. I found it on the back of your ficus pot.”
“My home’s been bugged.” Her tone was flat. “Your phone and my home—my potted plant that Aunt Adele gave me as a housewarming gift. That conniving bitch put a listening device in my living room.”
The slow rage that started in her stomach burned its way upward into her chest. Her breathing grew slower, deeper, more controlled. Walking over to the him, Sam fixed the device with a cutting glare. “I’m going to catch her, Aidan. Do you hear me, Mary? You won’t get away with this.”
Aidan seemed to understand that this was not a good time to touch her. He watched her mutinous face for a moment, then placed the bug in her hand. “Crush it,” he said simply.
“What?”
“Put it on the floor and smash it with your foot. Or a hammer, or whatever you like. Then go into the bedroom and throw some clothes in a bag. I want you to come back to my place for the night.”
“You’re all romance, Brodie. Why your place?”
“This has nothing to do with romance. I have better locks than you do, and Theo’s right. Mary knows where we live. She’s also killed two people. The police are on her trail now. She’ll have to move fast to accomplish her goal.”
Sam longed to scream. Instead she did as Aidan suggested, took the transmitter onto the porch and whacked it with her baseball bat. The crunch brought a satisfied smile to her lips. It did not erase the frustration she’d been feeling since her visit to Margaret’s place from her mind.
Aidan had a point; the police were involved now. Mary might be clever, but her luck couldn’t hold out forever. What baffled Sam was that Mary did know where Margaret lived. Why didn’t she simply drive over and kill her?
When she put the question to Aidan, he shrugged. “Mental anguish, maybe? An eye for an eye?”
Sam stuck her bat in the closet and headed for the bedroom. Dragging an overnight bag from the shelf, she started pulling open drawers. “That was Margaret’s theory, but wouldn’t you think Mary’d have had her fill by now? I mean, how much torment can a person inflict and still enjoy it? Not to mention the fact that she’s pushing her luck to the breaking point Unless…” She paused halfway between the dresser and the bed. “Unless Dorian Hart’s offering her protection. But that doesn’t make sense, does it? If he was helping Mary, he’d expect a favor in return. That is to say, he’d want Frank Durwald’s current address. Since Mary could send him straight to Margaret’s door, and he must know that, he’d have had no need to bug whichever one of us he bugged then send his grandson out to Anthea’s place. Am I making sense here, Bro-die?”
“Marginally.”
She tossed a dusty pink T-shirt, a white lace bra and matching briefs into the case. “Well, I still think it’s odd.”
“You think the behavior of a crazy person is odd?”
“You said Thurman called her a smart crazy person. Revenge is her passion, Aidan, her single motivating factor. She might take a few calculated risks, but I can’t see her being sloppy. Or negligent, either, for that matter.” She added a silk tea rose robe and slammed the lid down. “Who do you think bugged whom?”
Before she could mangle the locks, Aidan took the suitcase from her and snapped them in place. “I don’t know, Sam, but one thing I am sure of, my place is more secure than this one.”
“Wait a minute.” She stopped him. “I have to get Koko. I’ll drop her off at Miss Busby’s for the night. And don’t be so smug, Brodie. Your phone’s had a problem or two itself as I recall.”
Curling his fingers around her arm, he handed her the bird-cage and propelled her toward the door. “Past tense, Sam. We’ll be safe at my apartment.”
“What did you do, have a security system installed?”
“In a sense. I dusted off my grandfather’s elephant gun—and
loaded both barrels.”
ALISTAIR BLUE STOOD shivering outside Sam’s apartment. It wasn’t cold; his shaking came from the inside. Dammit, he’d relished the idea of rough stuff at the start, when he’d thought it would be up to him to provide it. He hadn’t counted on the direct involvement of a lunatic.
He’d rather be anywhere at this point than here. Home watching Esther Williams splash around in some ball gamemusical with Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra would be good. This Spy-on-Sam-and-Brodie game was for the birds. If only he hadn’t been caught doing those stupid burglaries last year. If only the wrong person hadn’t learned about them.
Grinding his teeth, he shrank further into the shadows. Sam’s front door had opened. She and Brodie were leaving, really leaving, he realized, swearing at the prospect of a positional change. Muttering to himself, he started for his car.
He hadn’t taken a full step when he spied her. He assumed it must be a woman since the black rain cloak where it ended displayed a pair of black tights and sensible shoes. The raised hood allowed no glimpse of her face, but he could visualize the features beneath it, and the image made him feel queasy from crotch to throat Mary Lamont, in the flesh, and staring. He did not, absolutely did not want to bump into that woman. Not for love, money or threats.
A statue in the darkness, he watched her watch Sam and Aidan as they descended to the street. Silver lamplight gilded the stone stairs and, oddly, the woman in black, as well. Had she moved a muscle? Alistair wondered. His palms grew as clammy as his mouth was dry. Why didn’t she just pop them and get it over with?
He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until Sam and Aidan climbed into his Jeep and left. Then, finally, the woman stirred. Head bowed, cloak clutched tightly around her shoulders, she shuffled away. To where, Alistair didn’t know and wasn’t the least bit interested in determining. He simply wanted this nightmare finished, the threats hanging over his head put to rest. He was tired of seeing death firsthand. As-suming he survived, he was going to move to Arizona, raise chickens, make clay pots and maybe even resort to weaving straw baskets.
He regarded the woman’s retreating form, thought of the handyman at Stan Hollister’s who’d been blown away that very afternoon and shuddered right down to his toes. The words became a litany in his head. Assuming he survived.
In the end, he wondered forlornly how many of them actually would.
“THANKS, GUIDO,” Sam said into Aidan’s cordless phone. “Yes, I’ll be careful, I promise. Him, too. Good night” She clicked off, squared her slender shoulders and turned. Marilyn was boop-boop-ee-doing in Billy Wilder’s Some Like It Hot, the lights were low, and Aidan was pouring hot cocoa from a white carafe. How could those three things smack of romantic ambience? Sam masked a smile.
“Is he okay?” Aidan asked while she wandered about studying the general chaos of the place.
“Fine. Safe. Where’s your elephant gun?”
“In the bedroom closet.”
She stopped. “You mean you really have one?”
“She’s a murderer, Sam. She may be old, but she’s no less fatal because of it.”
Was there a pun in that wry remark? Sam accepted the cocoa he offered and sank to the carpet in front of the sofa. The smile she could no longer hold back swept across her lips at the sight of Jack Lemmon in drag. He was not a pretty woman. Hilarious but definitely not pretty.
“I asked Guido again about Helen Murdoch,” she told him. “He says it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack, but he’ll keep plugging away.”
“That’s it for tonight then.”
“Is it, Brodie?”
His dark green eyes gave nothing away. “Did you have something else in mind?”
Tension drained from her like floodwater through an open gate. In its wake came a fiery rush of desire. “As a matter of fact,” she said, “I do.”
Flattening her palm against his chest, she let it slide downward, with just enough pressure to feel every ripple of bone and muscle in his torso. She heard his breath hitch and the groan he tried to suppress deep in his throat.
“Witch,” he breathed, bringing his mouth slowly toward hers.
Her hand found the throbbing hard center of him and closed snugly over it. She nipped teasingly at the sides of his mobile mouth. “Well, you know what they say, Brodie,” she murmured, sliding herself onto his lap.
His hands circled her waist, moving higher until his thumbs grazed the painfully sensitive nipples. Even through dress and camisole the sensation rocked her. “What do they say, Sam?”
She made a muffled sound of excitement and let out a quick breath. “Like grandmother like granddaughter.”
“Uh-huh.” Now it was his lips that teased hers. “I think I like the other one better.”
“What other one?”
He breathed amusement and fevered desire into her mouth. “Play it, Sam. Play it for me.”
LEO ROCKLAND didn’t know what his old comrade was talking about. That isn’t to say he hadn’t known once. He just didn’t remember things as well as he used to anymore.
“Think, Leo,” Stan commanded. “I knew how to contact Anthea. You must know how to contact, er—” he paused as Leo’s housekeeper entered the room “—Helen Murdoch.”
Leo blinked. “Helen Murdoch? Yes, I should know, shouldn’t I? Don’t remember, though.”
Stan closed tolerant eyes. “Do you have it written down anywhere?”
“You asked me that this morning on the telephone. I told you I didn’t. It’s too risky.”
“Does Freddie know?”
“Who?”
“Freddie. Your wife, for…Look, Leo, this is important. Anthea’s dead, and so’s my handyman. The police might not think I’m directly involved, but they’re giving me some very strange sideways looks. Go through your files or your safe or whatever other hiding places you’ve got. You must have an address to go with the name. I want it.”
“Here, here,” said a voice from the door.
Stan swore. Leo beamed. “Thurman! How wonderful. Sit. Have a drink.”
“We were just talking about your wife,” Stan put in.
“Ex-wife,” Thurman returned, smiling woozily as he doffed his light raincoat. “I’ll have sherry,” he said to the housekeeper.
“Helen Murdoch, Leo,” Stan said again. “Address.”
Leo pictured two faces, two beautiful faces. One emerged over the other, dark eyes flashing fire. He chuckled aloud. “My favorite Fate.”
Thurman tottered through his line of vision. “Freddie says he’s been fuzzier than usual these past few days,” he stage whispered. “Keeps calling her Zelda.”
“Better than Mary, I suppose.”
“Maybe we should have a discreet look around.”
“Can you stand upright long enough to do it?”
“If it’ll give us Helen Murdoch’s address—or whatever she’s calling herself these days—I’ll make a special point.”
Leo jumped slightly as a pair of soft, capable hands descended onto his shoulders. “He burned it,” Freddie said quietly from behind.
Stan glared at her. Leo wasn’t sure he understood why. Something to do with Helen Murdoch, but he kept forgetting how he knew that name.
“He burned it?” Stan challenged Freddie. “Or you did?”
“He’s not well,” Freddie said, her tone patient. “I’m handling his affairs now. I handled that one, as well, as it happens, but I promise you, it was Leo who did the burning. He’s out of it now. So am I. If you take my advice, you’ll follow suit. Let Margaret deal with the problem. She’s not the helpless female you believe.”
Thurman downed a glass of sherry. Amazing, Leo marveled.
“Mary’ll kill her,” the actor predicted with a hiccup. “And her granddaughter, too. Did you know that Samantha Gian-carlo, the stunner we met at your reception, is in fact Margaret’s only kith and kin? After Leo’s reception I hired a de-tective to do a little detecting. Tracing these things isn
’t as difficult as one might think.”
Freddie, perched now on the arm of Leo’s chair, smiled grimly. “I knew,” she said. “Even before I was told, I knew.”
Thurman fell heavily into the nearest chair. “Ah, well, maybe it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie at that. I told them that Helen Murdoch is no more. Maybe Leo’s made that the truth by burning her address and phone number. I don’t know about Stanley, but I’m heartily sick of this whole ghastly business.”
“That’s because it’s no longer your concern,” Freddie said flatly. She stood, taking Leo’s hand in both of hers. “Let it go, all of you. Let the main players take the stage. I spoke to Samantha earlier. She says she and her friend Mr. Brodie have a plan. She wants all of us to be present at Anthea’s funeral.”
“We intend to be.” Thurman sounded miffed.
Leo squeezed Freddie’s hand and tried to think. Why had he burned Helen Murdoch’s papers? Because Freddie had said she was gone, that’s why. But she wasn’t really gone, was she? She was only hidden better than before.
His brain moved but refused to clear. This should all make sense to him. Maybe it would straighten itself out if he slept on it.
Blinking his bright blue eyes, he looked over at Stan. “Do you think Mary will go to Anthea’s funeral?” he mused aloud.
“I think she might. Unfortunately, I think Margaret might go, too.”
“In that case,” Thurman remarked blurrily, “we’ll have to keep the arrangements low key. The media isn’t onto us yet—except for Sam, of course, but she won’t tell anyone. No publicity, ergo no showdown.” He raised his empty glass. “A single equation, wouldn’t you say? Simple as death itself.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Traitor,” Thurman muttered to Sam as the mourners, several score strong, gathered at the private grave site. “We trusted you to be discreet.” He flung an agitated arm. “Do you know how many hundreds of looky-loos are huddled outside the cemetery gates? And every one of them has a camera. What if Mary’s here? What if Margaret is? What if Mary brought her gun? What if one of us gets caught in the crossfire?”