by Jenna Ryan
“Now wait just a minute…” Thurman blustered.
Leo found himself enjoying this. Still, there were such things as priorities, and Sam and Aidan had taken off hell-for-leather after some veiled shadow of a woman today. Something had to be done about that.
With a barely perceptible nod at Freddie, he cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, please,” he said. “Let’s be civilized and sensible about this. I suspect none of us really knows what’s what here. Perhaps we should, all of us, take a little trip.”
“To see whom?” Stan asked, instantly suspicious. “Margaret or Mary?”
Leo knew how to milk a situation. A crafty little smile played on his lips. “To see a woman named Irene Heiden.”
MARY WAS NOT PLEASED. In fact, her mood bordered on enraged. “You conniving bastard,” she shouted at Tobias. “You messed with my parcel, didn’t you?”
He stared blank-faced. “Messed with it? I don’t under-stand.”
She jumped up to glare at him. “You took part of it out and did something with it.” When he didn’t react, she stomped her aching foot “Where’s my picture? It should be here. It isn’t. What did you do with it?”
“Absolutely nothing,” he told her calmly.
“What else have you screwed up, you impertinent, interfering butler? I’m warning you, Tobias, you’d better be telling me the truth. That picture was intended for Margaret, not Sam. Aha, that got you, didn’t it? You didn’t think I’d figure out where you sent it, did you? Well, I did. The only thing I don’t know is why.”
“I really don’t understand—”
“Go away,” she snapped.
He bowed his head. “As you wish.”
“As I wish,” she muttered after him. “As I wish, Tobias, not you.” She turned abruptly. “It doesn’t matter. It changes nothing. It’s too late. He’s too late.”
Hobbling into the hall like a gnome on a mission, she grabbed her coat from the rack. Her plan would work. It had worked. All that remained was for her to make more corpses.
“Don’t worry your head, Anthea.” She pulled the door open with a vengeance. “You’ll have company in death soon enough. At least four people.” She cast a dark look over her shoulder. “Maybe five.”
“I DON’T SEE any lights,” Sam whispered at Aidan’s elbow.
Neither did he, and that worried him. Not because he expected Mary to be lying in wait, but because they didn’t know yet if the woman they’d seen today was Mary. But if it was, and she wasn’t here, then where might she be? Watching Sam’s place where Guido sat surrounded by files, photos and videotapes, or en route to Margaret’s where Theo, capable as he was, could scarcely be deemed a one-man army?
On the other hand, if she was here, he’d been a fool to let Sam come. He’d have had to tie and gag her to keep her away, but at least she’d have been safe.
Crouched low, and cursing himself, he mounted the four steps to the porch.
There were only a handful of homes in the secluded area. People here had large yards, built for privacy and no intrusive neighborhood noise.
“The car’s gone,” Sam noted as he examined the side windows. “They—she must be out”
He cast her an ironic glance. “Which makes it the perfect time for us to break in, I suppose?”
“Don’t give me that look, Brodie. The idea crossed your mind, too, or you wouldn’t be peeping in windows. Besides, we’re harmless enough as burglars go. We’ll slip in, look around and if we don’t find anything incriminating, slip right back out again. How many B and E victims are that lucky?”
“Knock off the logic flow, Sam,” he said, “and point your flashlight at the door.”
Darkness had fallen over L.A. early that night, a result of the late autumn season and the rain that continued to pelt them as Aidan battled the stubborn lock. Boots, jeans and leather jackets gave them the look of bikers on a raid and offered little protection from the elements. But the dark colors provided camouflage, which was the real reason Aidan had chosen them.
The lock clicked beneath the darning needle he’d taken from Sam’s for this purpose. Twisting the knob, he let the door swing inward.
No claxons screamed, and he doubted if there was a silent alarm on the premises. He saw no evidence of a security sys-tem, and even less of the owners’ presence. Pausing to let his eyes adjust, he took Sam’s hand, darted a guarded look at the street and stepped across the threshold.
The house smelled of apples, perfume and exotic spices. The entry hall was thickly carpeted, the staircase an elegant curve. The walls were adorned with what appeared to be wa-tercolors and limited edition prints.
“It smells like apple pie,” Sam remarked. She frowned. “I can’t believe she bakes.”
“It’s probably potpourri.” Aidan ran the flashlight beam over the walls. The living room to their left looked as promising as anything.
“Flowers, too,” Sam murmured. “Roses, white orchids and lavender. Oh, and a birdcage.”
“With a canary in it.”
She left his side to wander over to the hearth. “That isn’t potpourri, Aidan, it’s apple pie…Oh, damn!” He heard a muffled thud on the carpet and swung around.
“It’s all right. I knocked over a photograph. Look.” She aimed her smaller beam at the gilt frame. “It’s an old…well, elderly—woman—the same woman who was in the picture Anthea was holding when she died. Honey brown hair, plump features.” Her eyes came up, wide and unbelieving. “It was Mary at the cemetery, Aidan. Who else would have a framed picture of her on their coffee table?”
It must have been her excitement infecting him coupled with the fact that she jumped up to throw her arms around his neck. Whatever the cause, Aidan was in no fit frame of mind to notice details right then. The background click barely registered. It wasn’t until the hall light flared and he heard a woman’s raspy, “Who’s there?” that he realized they were no long alone.
Sam went rigid; Aidan uttered a ripe oath. The woman stood in the doorway, a daunting silhouette dressed in layers of black. Without appearing to move, she took a step forward. “Is that you, Sam?” Suspicion-laced, her voice dropped to a silky-soft level as she said, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Chapter Sixteen
Waiting for her?
Sam’s vocal cords refused to cooperate. She could only squeeze the front of Aidan’s leather jacket in her fists and pray for a miracle. Or maybe a diversion to remove Mary’s attention from them long enough that they could—what? Rush her? Duck? Dive out a window?
Since none of those prospects seemed feasible, Sam tugged on Aidan’s jacket and whispered frantically, “Tell her, Bro-die.”
Or should she do it?
“What did you say?” the woman demanded before Aidan could respond.
“Nothing,” Sam said quickly. “I was, uh, wondering how you knew my name.”
Lame, she thought, flinching. Mary didn’t seem to think so, however. She stopped dead center of the broad doorway. Rain streamed down the outer windows, casting mobile ribbons of light over her shapeless body. Sam recalled every suspense film she’d ever watched, held her breath and ordered herself not to panic as the woman placed both hands in her pockets.
“Did you think I wouldn’t know you?” she challenged. “What kind of a person do you take me for?”
“I don’t…” Sam swallowed.
“Are you alone?” Aidan asked, rescuing the awkward moment.
“For the present. Is that a worry to you?”
As circumspectly as possible, he pried Sam’s fingers from his jacket. She resisted because she knew what he planned to do. Fling her down behind the sofa while he launched himself at Mary.
Fat chance, Sam decided, bracing herself. He was helping a good friend out of a bad situation. She was the one related to Mary’s enemy. He’d be taking no bullets on her behalf.
“We’re not alone, you know,” she lied, pure bravado. “Other people will be here soon.”
“Yes, I s
ensed that might be the case. It doesn’t concern me anymore. I’ve grown rather tired of this charade. It has its pleasant aspects, but as one gets older, the drawbacks begin to outweigh them.”
“You have a remarkably cool attitude,” Aidan commented. He tried to thrust Sam away but she wouldn’t let him.
“Not really.” Another step brought the woman to the edge of the sunken living room. “I spend a great deal of time questioning my past, or I should say, certain decisions in my past”
Because he was stronger, Aidan was able to disengage himself from Sam’s grip, which had shifted to the bottom of his jacket. Not that that would have deterred her under normal circumstances, but in the pearly shower of light from the entry hall, her sharp eyes picked out a collection of miniature pewter frames, haphazardly strewn about the mantel. The first one contained a photo of a man. Frank Durwald to be precise, much as he’d looked in the newspaper clipping Aidan had found among Stan Hollister’s files.
Why Frank Durwald? Sam wondered, edging toward the hearth. Thurman Wells she could understand and maybe Margaret at the height of her career. But Margaret with her first visible wrinkles? And Margaret again, posing with Frank ten or more years after they’d dropped out of sight? That made no sense…Or did it?
Tendrils of nausea began to curl in Sam’s stomach. Did her instincts recognize something her brain refused to accept?
Feeling muddy and oddly heavy-limbed, she continued along the mantel. Aidan murmured something. The subtle roar of blood in her ears prevented her from hearing it.
She saw Anthea next, alone in one shot and then with Frank Durwald. Anthea’s arms circled Frank’s waist. Wrinkles fanned out from her eyes. A spear of light shone directly on that picture, making it clearer than its neighbors. Anthea would have been in her early forties, Frank in his late forties, long after both had dropped out of sight.
The roar in her head faded in and out. This was not possible, her brain insisted. The words became a hammer drum. Not possible. Not possible! Not possible!
She felt bloodless and decidedly faint. Her throat had filled with thick cotton. Next to Anthea and Frank stood a picture of Anthea and Margaret. The progression of years was unmistakable. Sam saw it clearly. No great gaps of time. Five years here, seven there. You could follow that kind of aging process with relative ease. Forty years was too much. A computer could do it and maybe Guido, who had an eye for features, but not her.
She knew she was breathing wrong. It surprised her that she was breathing at all. Her chest felt impossibly constricted, like a spring that had been over wound.
This wasn’t—this could not be true!
She didn’t want to look further. A voice spoke in the background. Was it talking to her? Did it matter?
She’d knocked over a picture similar to the one Anthea had been clutching in death. There were more of those, at least five more. Plump, heathy features. No sign of cosmetic surgery. The subject looked to be a sweet, elderly woman, somewhere in her late seventies. She looked like someone’s grand-mother. Dear God, she was, she was someone’s grandmother.
A scream climbed into Sam’s throat, a hysterical scream that threatened to dissolve into hysterical laughter.
Far in the distance, the woman’s voice reached her, penetrating the din in her head and bringing her shocked eyes into focus.
“Are you ill?” the woman inquired in alarm.
Sam pivoted, very much like Norman Bates’s mother in Psycho. The revelation scene. Death staring Vera Miles in the face, just as Death had done to her, Sam thought, so numb inside now that she no longer felt the external temperature or the dampness of her clothes.
She knew Aidan was beside her. “What is it?” he asked.
She drew a deep, shuddering breath. Her gaze fastened on the woman in the doorway. She was moving, drifting toward them, like a limbless ghost. “I was wrong,” Sam whispered. “I got it backward, Aidan, and Anthea knew it. She tried to warn us the day she died. She told us not to be deceived. She warned us.”
Aidan caught her by the shoulders when her rubbery knees would have given out. “What are you saying?” he breathed in her ear.
She gained strength if not composure. “I got it reversed, Aidan. Right from the start” Her numbness broke then; her head cleared; her eyes sharpened on the woman before them. “You knew, didn’t you?” she said, unbelieving. “You knew and you didn’t warn me.”
The woman compressed her lips, then murmured, “Sam—”
“No!” She shook Aidan’s restraining hands away. Fear, horror and anger melded into a violent ball of emotion. “Tell him who you are. Tell him. Tell me!”
The woman had pressed a gloved hand to her windpipe. She breathed heavily for several seconds, then slowly, haltingly, raised her other hand to her head. Stepping into the light, she removed her hat in a single fluid motion.
Honey brown hair, plump features and dark brown eyes greeted them.
“You thought I was Mary, didn’t you?” she said, her tone as expressionless as Sam’s had been earlier. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you before.”
“Tell us what?” Aidan demanded. But he knew. He could see. To Sam’s ear, he sounded cross but controlled. Prepared.
“My name.” The woman held Sam’s unblinking stare. “I call myself Irene Heiden these days. Before that I was Helen Murdoch. In my time, however, I was known as Margaret Truesdale.”
SAM LONGED TO SCREAM, to call the woman a deluded liar and send her hurtling back to Oakhaven. But she knew. She could see it. Moreover, she could feel it. This woman was Margaret Truesdale. Which meant that the woman she’d believed to be Margaret Truesdale was really…
Her slender shoulders slumped. “I can’t accept this,” she murmured.
“But you must” The woman hastened toward her, shedding her black wrappings as she went. “I’m Margaret.” Warm, lovely hands reached for Sam’s arms. “You must also believe me when I tell you that I was only made aware of your situation the day before yesterday.”
“How?” Aidan asked. He was still close enough behind her that Sam could feel his warm body. She did not want him to move away.
At his hard stare, Margaret let her hands drop. “From Freddie—Leo’s wife. When we left Hollywood, Anthea and I felt that we should each maintain one outside contact. She chose Stan. I chose Leo. Naturally, when they became involved, Freddie began taking over the bulk of Leo’s private affairs. I didn’t mind that she found out about me. In fact, I was grateful when she tracked me down and told me about you. But even knowing who you were, I had no idea what you were up to. That you were my daughter Delores’s child I had no doubt, especially after I saw your face and delicate bone structure. As for the rest—well, I simply didn’t know. Then I discovered that Mary had escaped from Oakhaven, and my mind went blank. She’s extremely clever. I couldn’t have imagined what she might be planning, though I sensed it would be some grisly scheme to kill me, and perhaps you, as well.”
Aidan regarded her, his eyes half closed. “So you didn’t know that Mary was impersonating you?”
“Good heavens, no. I only guessed that tonight when I realized you thought I was the enemy. Who could that enemy be but Mary? And if you believed I was Mary, it stood to reason she had convinced you that she was me.”
Sam wondered distantly if there really was a Twilight Zone. If so, she’d plunged into it headlong. Through the Zone and straight into the Looking Glass.
Embers of rage glowed hot and bitter in the pit of her stomach. “She used me,” Sam said fiercely. “To get to you, she used me. And I obliged her every step of the way.”
“Now, now, you mustn’t blame yourself,” Margaret consoled.
“I don’t.” Too angry to do anything more temperamental than plant her hands on her hips, she tapped an agitated foot on the carpet.
Rain pounded the roof and walls. The dull roar of blood had returned to her head. Aidan left her then, but only to cross the floor and separate the curtains with his hand.
/> Sam’s spurt of irritation died as swiftly as it had been born, leaving her confused and questioning. “You really are my natural grandmother, aren’t you?” she said to Margaret. “That part of Mary’s story was true.”
Grim-faced, Margaret nodded. “She must have gotten hold of my personal files somehow, or photographed them. I don’t suppose it would be too difficult. She probably still has Tobias to do her dirty work.”
“Tobias,” Sam repeated. “Tobias Lallibertie?”
“That’s right.” Margaret misinterpreted her glance at Aidan. “He was her butler.”
“He’s using the name Theo Larkin these days,” Aidan told her from the window.
“T.L.,” Sam said. “Same initials. That should have been a clue, Aidan.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Margaret stroked Sam’s dark hair. “You couldn’t possibly have known. Mary and I often played sisters in films when we were younger, that’s how much alike we looked. I don’t know about now….”
Sam pictured Mary’s angular face with its fine lines, sagging chin—and large dark eyes. Wrapping her arms around her midsection, she joined Aidan at the bay window. She felt safer next to him than she did anywhere else in the room. “Didn’t Mary have hazel eyes?” she asked suddenly.
Margaret ran a finger along the line of pictures. “Yes. Why? Was the color different when you met her?”
“They were brown like yours.” Often bloodshot, she reflected, but dark enough to pass.
Aidan let the curtain flutter back into place and with a motion for Sam to stay put, went to check the front door. “Contact lenses,” he said over his shoulder. “They come in all colors.”
“Naturally.” Sighing, Sam plunked herself down on the flowered window seat Picking up a cushion, she hugged it to her chest. “She always stayed in the shadows. She said she couldn’t walk very well. I’ll bet that was a lie, too. I guess Alistair must have been working for her.”
Margaret’s forehead wrinkled. “Who?”
“Alistair Blue. He’s been following us all over the city. He said he was working for Thurman Wells originally, but Thur-man had never heard of him. He must have been Mary’s leg man.”