by Nancy Bush
“In Houston. But I haven’t seen her since I moved back. She hasn’t contacted me.” Now he looked as worried as Dinah felt, though for different reasons. “I wish she hadn’t lied about her past.”
“Well, Denise has her reasons,” Dinah murmured evasively.
“Which are?”
“I didn’t come here to rat out my sister. I’m looking for her, and I thought you could help. The last I heard, she was staying with a friend in Beverly Hills, but I can’t get a lead on him.”
“Who?”
“Lambert Wallace.”
“Lambert Wallace?”
“You know him?” Now that was truly redundant. Not only did the good doctor know him, he appeared to be shocked and concerned.
“I know of him,” he admitted grimly.
“You’re scaring me. What’s the deal with Wallace?”
“Where did she meet him? In Houston?” He paced the room, one hand fervently rubbing his jaw.
Dinah waited quietly, sensing danger. Dr. Hayden Stone struck her as a careful concealer of emotion, and he was doing a piss-poor job of it right now.
“Could you leave me your number and address?” he said abruptly, reaching for his jacket.
“Where are you going? For God’s sake, you’re making me crazy. If you’re going to find Denise, I’m going with you.” She jumped to her feet.
“Mr. Jackley seemed to think she was in Malibu. Maybe she wasn’t with Wallace. He said he’d interviewed her.”
“Interviewed who?”
“Denise,” he said patiently. “For his investigation, Mr. Jackley interviewed Denise.”
“Where?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“What investigation?” Dinah demanded, feeling like her world was reeling out of control.
“The murder of your stepfather, Thomas Daniels.”
Her legs collapsed. She sank back into the chair as if pulled down by ropes. “Back up, Doc,” she said unevenly. “I need a little more information.”
Twenty minutes later Dinah had been brought up to speed, and though Dr. Stone’s worry for Denise hadn’t lessened, he wasn’t as obsessed with the idea of chasing after her as he had been. Dinah was deeply concerned about the investigation into her stepfather’s death, and she told Dr. Stone as much.
“It won’t help. Thomas Daniels was a son of a bitch who hurt us all in different ways. I’m not sorry he’s dead. I’m sure Denise and Hayley feel the same way, but raking it all up isn’t going to solve Denise’s problems.”
“How do you know?” he asked curiously.
“I know that Denise’s problems started with him.” At his look, she said dryly, “Let’s not kid ourselves. I’m sure my stepfather abused her. But I took care of things,” she added quickly. “Denise is still suffering, but mostly she’s just unstable.”
“Meaning?”
“She feeds on male attention. It’s her nature.” Dinah shrugged. “So how do I find this Jackley guy?”
Dr. Stone fished into his pocket and produced a piece of paper with a phone number scratched on it. He added the number to his cell phone call list, then handed the paper to Dinah.
“I’d like to believe Denise isn’t with Lambert Wallace,” he said.
“Is he that bad?”
“Everything I’ve heard is a lot of rumor and innuendo and it wouldn’t be fair to repeat it.”
“Come on. We’re talking about my twin. Give me this guy’s address.”
He shook his head. “I’ll try to reach her. If you talk to her first, tell her I want to reach her.”
“And you promise you’ll call me?” she demanded, watching him closely.
Her suspiciousness brought a smile to his lips. Dr. Hayden Stone was a very attractive man. She suddenly wanted to warn him to be careful. She liked him and, knowing Denise, if there was anything brewing between them, he was bound to get hurt.
“It would be better for me to be with you when you talk to her,” Dinah told him.
“I’ve seen all her sides,” he assured her. “Nothing she does surprises me, or will make me think less of her. She’s a patient.”
She’s a helluva lot more than that, Doc. I know it, even if you don’t yet.
“Call me the minute you find her,” Dinah demanded. “I’ll be camped on your doorstep tomorrow morning if you don’t.”
Smiling enigmatically, he preceded her down the hall, informed the receptionist he was leaving, much to the squawking of the pearl-collared woman, then headed out without so much as a good-bye. Dinah flirted with the idea of following him, then decided she’d let him play it his way. She’d found her link to Denise, and she wasn’t going to break it.
Patience was a virtue. She would wait.
You think you’re sooo noble, her conscience smote her. But you don’t want to face her, do you? She’s not going to understand about John. You’d like to keep that little secret, wouldn’t you?
“Bastard,” she muttered.
“Pardon?” The receptionist looked up.
“Will Dr. Stone be returning?” the woman demanded imperiously. “I’m pressed for time as it is!”
“I think we’ll have to reschedule,” the flustered receptionist answered. “He had an emergency appointment.”
Turning on Dinah, the woman half screamed, “I’m supposed to not care that you squeezed in ahead of me?”
Showing more restraint than normal, Dinah kept her tongue still. Life was too full of problems to stoop to the level of one self-centered woman.
“What about me?” the woman shrieked, working herself up to a full-fledged snit fit. “That’s what I’d like to know. What am I supposed to do now?” She stepped in front of her, blocking her path. “You took my turn, so what am I supposed to do now?”
“Keep calm and carry on?”
Her face turned purple. She swept up her purse and stomped out of the office, muttering beneath her breath what sounded suspiciously like “Fuck you.”
Dinah found that funny and left the office after her, smiling.
Connor Jackley’s presence in her apartment made Hayley feel claustrophobic. The air was thick and still. She knew what he wanted to hear. She could go on all day about Thomas Daniels if she felt like it, but she never felt like it. Never ever.
His patience wore her down. He wasn’t much of a talker himself, which made each syllable appear packed with extra meaning. How she’d managed to handle him the last times they’d been together was a mystery because she sure as hell couldn’t figure out how to handle him now.
“Dr. Stone wasn’t a whole lot of help,” Connor concluded, after explaining the rather unrewarding conversation he’d had with the closemouthed doctor. “But he was glad to hear Denise was no longer with Lambert Wallace.”
“Wallace sounds like a great guy.”
“I’m no fan.” Connor was terse. “And neither’s Dr. Stone.” He shifted gears. “Apparently, Denise was pretty tight-lipped about you and Dinah.”
“Denise didn’t tell him?” Hayley was surprised. “He’s her shrink, and she didn’t tell him?”
“Guess not.”
Hayley was heartily glad that she didn’t suffer from Denise’s problems. Her sister was one screwed-up kook.
But Hayley had had all she could take of another delve into the past. “Maybe you ought to leave,” she suggested to Connor. “I can’t talk anymore.”
“You’ve hardly said ten words.”
“I’m not feeling all that chatty, okay? If you’re so interested in Denise, why don’t you go bother her?”
He considered her, as if he wished there were some other avenue of interrogation. But she was stonewalling him, and unless he just enjoyed her less-than-scintillating company, there was no reason for him to hang around.
Apparently, he came to this same conclusion because rather reluctantly he got to his feet and said, “You think Denise will finally give me Dinah’s address?”
“One can only hope.”
Her sarcasm b
rought a fleeting smile to his lips. The guy was just not going to give up, and it both scared and irritated Hayley. She had better things to think about—like an audition video that may have already been viewed by People Who Matter.
Her cell rang, and Hayley jumped as if she’d been stabbed. Tonja! Clicking on, she said eagerly, “Hello?”
“Hayley?” a voice whimpered. A feminine voice. Denise’s voice.
Instinctively, she knew this was a call meant for her ears alone. No Connor Jackley, no matter how badly he wanted to talk to her sister. “Yeah, this is Hayley,” she said offhandedly. She waved a silent good-bye to Connor who let himself out, moving so slowly that Hayley gnashed her back teeth together to fight back a scream of impatience.
“Hayley?” Denise’s voice had climbed an octave.
“I’m here. Shhhh. Calm down. What is it?”
“I think I’ve killed him.”
Surreal calm. “Who?” she asked, the hair lifting on her arms in a strange kind of déjà vu.
“Lambert. Lambert Wallace. Can you—can you help?”
“Is anybody there with you?”
“No . . . I’m alone at Lambert’s,” she gulped.
“Give me the address,” she stated flatly, committing it to memory as Denise haltingly dragged it past her lips.
It took over an hour to find the place and when she did, Hayley inhaled a deep breath, expelling it slowly. A mansion, that’s what it was. A goddamn palace.
Lights blazed as she drove through the open gates to the quadruple-car garage. Her Rent-A-Wreck was like a neon sign, inviting gawkers to look and remember.
She could hear it now. Some little bratty kid with an overactive imagination. “I saw it! I saw it! I know exactly what it looks like. And it was there the night he was killed. I even memorized the license plate number! And I saw the killer! It was a woman and she drove up, went in the house, and pumped him with lead!”
Or whatever. Denise hadn’t exactly been specific.
She rang the front bell, fingers of apprehension dancing along the back of her neck.
Expecting nothing, she checked the door—and it opened beneath her touch. Quickly, she stepped inside, locking it behind her. Her heart beat so loudly she could hear it in her ears.
With the presence of mind of a seasoned criminal, she walked straight to the garage, found the button for the garage door, opened it, then calmly and efficiently drove her car into the only empty slot.
Then she was in the house again, listening for sounds of life. The place was quiet as a tomb. Literally. Shivering, she crept upstairs, searching the rooms until she stepped into the master suite at the end of the hall.
Denise sat on the floor, catatonic, wrapped in a blanket, smeared with blood. On the bed, a man lay facedown. So much blood. Pools of it.
Hayley’s senses swam. Oh, Dinah, help!
“Denise,” she whispered, but there was no immediate response from her sister.
Steeling her resolve, Hayley used her standard trick of conscience, concentrating on her favorite pastoral scene, somewhere in the mountains of Oregon. Then she strode to the body and laid her fingers against Lambert’s neck.
Faintly, a pulse beat.
“He’s alive,” she said in relief. “Barely. But he’s not dead yet.” She saw the thunder egg and debated on whether to pick it up or not.
“This is just like before,” Denise said, her voice startlingly clear in the quiet room. “I killed him.”
“You did not kill him.”
“I wish Dinah were here. I don’t know where Dinah is.” A gasp, almost a cry. “Oh, yes, I do. She’s with John!”
“C’mon, let’s get you out of here,” Hayley said, getting the heebie-jeebies. She gathered Denise in her arms, helping her to her feet. Briefly, she considered dialing 911. Lambert Wallace needed help.
Then she saw the bruises on her sister’s face and arms, and she remembered Connor Jackley’s reaction to Lambert Wallace’s name.
“I hope he’s dead,” Denise stated chillingly.
“I’ll take you back to my place.” With that Hayley scuttled her out of the room and into the safety of her Rent-A-Wreck.
He felt irritated all over in a way he couldn’t analyze. Hayley had done that to him, and after examining the bareness of his refrigerator—furious with himself that there wasn’t even a bottle of water!—Connor slammed out of his apartment and decided to take Hayley up on her advice.
He would go see Denise.
He made the trip to Malibu in record time, swearing at traffic all the way. Hayley Scott bugged him. He sympathized with her desperate need to keep her past a secret; if half the things he suspected were true, those three girls had led a miserable existence. But couldn’t she let down a little? He knew that whole obsessive, goal-driven career stuff was her escape. One did not have to be a shrink of Dr. Stone’s caliber to figure that much out. But was he, Connor Jackley, ex-policeman, so all-mighty threatening that she couldn’t give just a little?
“Hell with it,” he muttered, pressing the button at the gates of the Callahan beachfront home. She wasn’t his problem anymore than Denise or the missing Dinah were.
No answer. Impatiently, Connor stabbed the button again, aware that he was acting out of character. What had she done to him, to make him feel this way?
He looked in the rearview at the faint lines still visible across his face.
You’re attracted to her.
“Goddammit!”
A man’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Yeah?”
“Connor Jackley,” he answered tersely, assuming it was Callahan. “I’d like to speak to Denise Callahan. I’m a private investigator.”
“Wrong place. She’s not here.” He was just as terse.
“Is she living here?”
“Not anymore.”
Confused, Connor hesitated. “I’ve got information about her family,” he went on cautiously.
“Is this the Indiana story, or have you talked to Hayley Scott?”
Connor’s brows lifted. “I’ve talked to Sheriff Gus Dempsey of Wagon Wheel, Oregon, where Denise spent most of her high school years.”
A pause. Then the voice asked cautiously, “What’s this about?”
“Maybe it would be better if we talked face-to-face.”
Another pause, then Callahan seemed to hear the enormity of the situation in Connor’s tone. “Shit” was his muttered reply, but the gates began to swing inward.
Writing, usually a welcome escape, was suddenly a huge pain in the derrière, and furious, Dinah scribbled madly over a page of notes then tore and tore at the whole paper until it was pieces of confetti.
“Damn. Shit. Total crap.”
Literary words. Necessary in times of great stress.
Frustrated, she prowled the hotel room until she couldn’t stand it any longer. Waiting for Denise’s psychiatrist to call was excruciating, and she wasn’t going to get any work done until she connected with Denise, no matter what she’d promised Flick.
So...
So she was going to the Malibu house on the off chance that John might be there. Sure, he’d been living there—sort of—with her, but since he’d tossed her out, she somehow couldn’t picture him rattling around there alone.
But she didn’t know what else to do.
Forty minutes later she took Uber to the gates of the house, which stood wide open. Clutching her purse, she debated on asking the driver to wait, but the open gates sure made it look like someone was home.
“Drive forward,” she ordered, and as the vehicle slid to a halt beside a car she didn’t recognize, Dinah’s pulse began to pound with dread. Whose car? Another woman’s?
She climbed out and forced her legs to carry her to the front door. Ringing the bell, she called herself every kind of fool, then nearly bolted at the sound of John’s approaching footsteps on the tile foyer floor.
He threw open the door, and for a moment Dinah blinked in the light spilling from inside.
It was John. She could tell by the way he held himself, the turn of his head, his lean, cowboy ways.
I love you, she thought a bit desperately.
“Well, if it isn’t Dinah,” he drawled in a way that sent gooseflesh rising on her skin. “Dinah Scott. My wife’s secret twin. Come on in and let’s get to know each other . . .”
Chapter Fifteen
It’s been a hell of an evening. Come to that, it’s been a hell of a week. Well, why stop there? Face it, Callahan. It’s been a hell of a life.
He faced Dinah Scott in blessed numbness, inured to one more shock. His first thought was: She’s so beautiful. His second: Her eyes hold more secrets than Denise’s.
He’d been pouring himself his second scotch, wondering idly if he were following in his mother’s alcoholic footsteps, had decided he just didn’t give a damn, and downed the drink, when the gate intercom buzzed and he unwittingly invited Connor Jackley, private investigator, into his home to talk about his ex-wife’s past.
He should have sent the guy on his way. Who the hell cared anyway? But he’d been seduced by those comments about Wagon Wheel, Oregon—Podunk, U.S.A., if he’d ever heard it. And let’s face it, just the mention of Denise’s name was enough to tickle his interest—and libido—though it hurt to admit.
But he hadn’t expected the tale. Nope. He hadn’t expected that.
A murder? With Denise at the center of the controversy? He should write the damn thing and sell it for millions.
He didn’t believe it for an instant. Still, Connor Jackley, ex-L.A.P.D., didn’t strike him as the kind of man who made colossal mistakes. And this would be a real biggie, were it not true. So he had to credit the man’s story as the truth. The murder part, that is. Denise’s involvement? That was another story.
“You think Denise killed her stepfather, Thomas Daniels, and hid the body in a culvert,” John had clarified, rolling the empty old-fashioned glass between his palms.
“I’d like to talk to her again.”
“You’ve already spoken to her, then?”
“Once.”