by Meg Tilly
“Too bad she’s dead, denying you a chance to berate her for destroying your deviant fantasy life. Seriously, dude?”
“It’s easy for you to take the moral high ground.” Peterson swung from sorrow to rage, for which Mick was grateful. Anger was easier to deal with. “Women are always throwing themselves at you like handfuls of confetti. Me? I gotta work for every lay I get. And now you win again. Some chick dies in your pool, and who is here, cleaning up the mess? Me, that’s who! You’re off in New York, free and clear, bonking out the brains of your new assistant.”
“I’m not bonking her—”
“And what do I get?” Peterson’s voice was getting shrill. “My sexy assistant is dead. And they’ll probably try to pin the damned thing on me!”
“You need to calm down, Paul. Seriously. There is no reason they would make such an erroneous leap.”
“No, you dipshit! You don’t understand. What they are going to do is comb through her damned phone and make a big deal out of a few drunken emails or texts I might have sent her in the wee hours of the morn.”
“Hold on. You did what?”
“I get lonely, for Chrissake! What do you want from me? Can’t blame a guy for trying.” Then Mick heard the sound of someone speaking in the background. “Uh-huh.” Peterson’s voice was muffled, as if he’d lowered the phone. “Okay. All right.” Then Peterson’s voice returned to full volume. “Look, Mick, I gotta go. They have a few more ‘questions’ they wanna run by me. I’m well and truly screwed. Why’d you have to ask Harmony to take care of that damned cat?” And then the phone went dead.
* * *
* * *
Mick’s fingers were still gripping the cell phone that had fallen away from his ear as if it were suddenly filled with wet sand. It lay facedown on his thigh. His face was void of expression. His body was still, too still. Something wasn’t right. “What did he want?” Sarah asked. He turned his head in her direction, an inch or two, max. His gaze was unfocused.
“Harmony’s dead.” His voice was flat, almost monotone.
“The Harmony who is taking care of Charlie?”
“Crap,” he cursed softly. Jabbed at his phone screen, then held it to his ear and listened. “Damn. Not picking up. I’ll text Peterson, tell him to grab the cat before he leaves.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure he has a lot on his plate right now. Charlie will be fine.” From what little she knew, Paul Peterson was one of the last people she’d trust with her cat. “I’m flying back tomorrow, and the food and water I left would last him a couple of weeks.”
Mick nodded curtly. “Fine.” He shoved his phone in his pocket. Exhaled.
“Was she sick?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“Drowned.”
The taxi was silent. Just the tinny sound of the radio, music being sung in an unfamiliar language, the plucking of stringed instruments in high-pitched tones, accompanied by lots of complicated percussion. The hum and bustle of the city streets beyond the confines of their taxi created a constant background pulse.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah said.
“We weren’t close. It’s a shock is all. She was a couple of years younger than me, with her whole life before her.” He turned toward her, his face bleak. “I know it’s not my fault, but the fact that she died in my pool. She must have decided to take a dip, slipped, and banged her head. If I hadn’t asked her to go there—”
“No. I’m not letting you put the burden of that woman’s death on your conscience. She chose to swim in your pool. If you want to blame somebody, blame me. I’m the one whose cat needed looking after.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I rest my case.” She slipped her hand into his. Sarah could see the cabbie’s curious gaze watching them in the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry though. That her life was cut short—” Sarah broke off, sudden nausea rising in her throat. There was something about the removed observational quality of the cabby’s gaze that triggered a cellular memory. “Kevin,” she whispered, staring at Mick with dawning horror. “It might have been him.”
“You’ve lost me. What does Kevin have to do with—”
“He had a thing about water. Would hold me under. Remember, the woman from the Windham Employment Agency? Ellen Davis. She said she’d given him your address. He must have gone to your house. Been waiting for me, and Harmony accidentally stumbled into his web.” Images, memories flashing before her, sunlight, sparkles on the water, Kevin’s face blurry through the ripples, enjoying her fear as she struggled against his grip for life, for breath. She’d come to, face-up on the lawn. Kevin was straddling her hips and doing chest compressions. Coughing, choking as water spewed out of her mouth and nose. The nausea worsened when she became aware of his erection. “I should have known he would go there.” Suddenly, Mick’s arms were around her, tugging her close. Holding her tight, a ballast in the storm.
“Not your fault,” Mick said over and over. “This is not your fault.”
41
“Sarah and Mick exited the taxi. “It’s not too late to switch plans,” she heard Mick say. “Grab a coffee and a slice of pie.”
She looked over at his wolfish face with his lean, carved cheekbones, the dark stubble that she longed to run her fingertips over. His expression was so serious, Sarah had to suppress the impulse to ruffle his hair. “I’m okay,” she replied. “I’m ready to do this.” She felt revved up, a boxer preparing to step into the ring.
It was a lovely residential block with lots of trees. In a few more weeks, the tight buds on the barren branches would unfurl new greenery to herald the arrival of spring. Charming historic houses lined the street in one of the more expensive parts of Brooklyn. Sarah could see a sprawling old graveyard down the road. She glanced at her phone, double-checked the address. “It’s this one.” She gestured to the gracious town house that was painted a pale gray with white trim except for the front door, which was a bold, fire-engine red.
“It would be difficult to afford this neighborhood on a secretary’s salary,” Mick murmured. They climbed the porch stairs, past a trio of flowerpots, where a cluster of tall daffodil stalks and what looked like crocuses were threatening to bloom.
“Maybe she rents, or has roommates.” Or maybe Uncle Phillip was telling the truth when he’d said he’d set her up in a little love nest. Sarah pushed the thought aside. It was vital she keep an open mind, not jump to conclusions. Perhaps Vicki had been involved with Phillip, but age might have muddled his mind. It was possible the “affair” with Vicki was fantasy rather than fact, especially given the rather far-fetched Kevin twist.
There wasn’t a doorbell, so she rapped on the wooden portion of the red door. Sunshine spilled through the rectangular glass pane on the top half of the door onto the old oak floors. Sarah couldn’t see anyone, but she could hear the sound of someone clanking pots or pans around in the kitchen. She knocked a little louder.
“Hold on,” a woman’s voice called. A few seconds later Vicki appeared through the arched doorway of the kitchen, a cigarette perched between her lips as she squinted out of the doorway through a cloud of smoke. Vicki took a couple of unsteady steps in the direction of the front door, then peered at them again, one hand rising to rest against the wall for balance. She was wearing a worn flannel nightgown and a coral fleece robe. She didn’t look like a woman bent on seduction, juggling two lovers. “Go away.” She took the cigarette out of her mouth and waved it at them wearily. “I’m not interested.”
“If we could just have one second of your time?”
“Look, lady, no disrespect, but I don’t open the door to anyone I don’t know.” Vicki turned away.
“Wait. Vicki, it’s me, Sarah Rainsford.”
Vicki paused, her back still to them, then slowly pivoted and approached the door. “You look different,” she said, eye
ing Sarah through the glass.
Sarah’s hand rose self-consciously to her head. “I cut my hair. Dyed it.”
“You made a hash of it.”
“I know,” Sarah replied, running her fingers through it. “It’s a hot mess.”
The corner of Vicki’s mouth quirked up. She took another drag of her cigarette, watching Sarah through half-closed eyes. “I’m glad to see you are alive and well. By the way, I don’t work for Mr. Clarke anymore.”
Sarah nodded. “He told me. We came from his office. Can we come in for a minute?”
“Nope.”
“Mick can stay outside.”
“Like hell I will,” Mick murmured. Sarah gave him a discreet kick in the shins.
“It’s imperative I speak with you.”
“Not interested.” Vicki crossed her arms. “Whatever you have to say can be said on the other side of that door.”
“It’s personal.”
“Well, la-di-da. Spit it out, girl. I’m losing patience.”
Sarah shrugged. “Okay. If that’s the way you want to do it. Phillip asked me to tell you that he misses you. That he made a mistake. That whatever you want, he will do. He said he’d made promises. He didn’t tell me what they were, but he wanted me to tell you that he will keep them.” Vicki’s face was like an impenetrable fortress, but the sadness in her eyes gave her away.
“But that’s not all, is it?”
“No. I had gone to his office to collect the copies of my identification papers, passport, et cetera. His new secretary was unable to find my ID or any of my financial papers—”
Vicki held up a hand, a slight sneer on her face. “Oh, wait. Let me guess. He told you I stole them?”
“He mentioned it was a possibility. That you had been upset when he fired you.”
“Oh. So now he fired me?”
“Look. I don’t want to get in the middle of whatever is going on between the two of you—”
“And yet here you are.” A mottled flush of emotion was rising in Vicki’s cheeks. “I worked my ass off for that man, looking out for your family interests. Twenty-eight years, and this is my thanks? You come down here, accuse me of stealing your precious papers, act as a go-between for a two-faced lying bastard who you shouldn’t trust any farther than you can throw. And you expect me to open my home to you? What else did he say?”
“He said . . .” Sarah’s mouth tasted as if she’d downed a lukewarm glass of rancid milk. “That you are having an affair with Kevin, my ex.”
And just like that, the last traces of lingering sadness in Vicki’s eyes were replaced with white-hot anger. “Really! How fascinating. And you believed him?”
“I don’t know. For your sake, I hope not. Kevin is a psychopath. He can charm the birds out of the trees, but once he has them in his hand, he will snap their necks and laugh about it. Please do not trust him. Your life and safety depend upon it.”
Vicki shook her head, bitterness drawing deep grooves on her face. “You are something else. How dare you come to my home to spew the poison that son of a bitch whispered in your ear,” she spit out. “We are done here.” She turned angrily, took a few steps down the hall, then returned to the door. “You would think, after all I’d been through with that man, he would know me better than that. You tell that putz he doesn’t know dick about love.” She was furious, but Sarah could see tears lurking behind the rage. “Wait. Better yet, tell him you found me bent over the kitchen table and getting fucked from behind. Yeah. Tell him that.” Vicki pivoted and stormed away from the entryway door.
A breeze kicked up and caused a shiver of goose bumps to ripple down Sarah’s neck and spine. “Vicki,” Sarah called. “I’m sorry I upset you. That wasn’t my intent. However, I really, really need access to my files! I am willing to pay, and pay well, for my ID papers back. No questions asked. I’ll leave my contact information in your mailbox. Please. Call me tonight. I fly out tomorrow morning—”
Vicki hoisted her middle finger high in the air over her shoulder. “Go to hell,” she yelled, then disappeared around the corner into the kitchen. A second later loud music was switched on. They could hear Vicki singing along to Toni Braxton’s “Un-break My Heart,” accompanied by the energetic banging of pots and pans.
“Damn.” Sarah shoved her hand into her gray purse and rummaged around for something to write on. Her fingers closed around the pen and a small pad of notepaper from the hotel’s bedside table. She circled the hotel’s address and phone number at the bottom and scribbled down her name, Mick’s name, and their room numbers.
“Do you think that’s wise? What if she’s working with your ex?”
“Kevin’s in LA. If she calls him now, he’ll still have to book a flight, drive to the airport, add an additional two hours for security, and a five-and-a-half-hour flight. It will take him at least another hour to get into Manhattan. If she doesn’t call me tonight, we can change hotels tomorrow morning. Make a deal with the front desk to forward messages to us.”
“Sarah—”
She placed her hand on his arm. “Mick,” she said softly. “I’m tired of running. I need my ID. If she has my documents and records, I need to give her every possibility to do the right thing.” Sarah turned and quickly slipped the note through the metal mail slot in the door.
Damn. Mick stared at the slot through which the note had disappeared. His gaze dropped to the base of the door. There was a rubber weather guard at the bottom. No possibility of slipping something under the door to retrieve it. “How about we give talking to her another go? We could walk around the side of the building to the back. Bet there’s a kitchen door.”
“No. She needs space.” Sarah turned and headed down the porch stairs. “Hopefully, tonight, once she calms down and thinks it over, we’ll get a call from her.”
“And if her sense of morality doesn’t kick in,” Mick said dryly, “maybe practicality will. She’s unemployed, so your promise of financial compensation might soften her stance.”
Sarah smiled at him. “Of course. That’s why I offered. I’m a firm believer in covering all bases.”
42
“The Four Seasons on Fifty-Seventh between Madison and Park,” Sarah told the cabbie through the scratched-up plastic partition. Mick slid in beside her, shut the door of the rattletrap vehicle, and had a momentary longing for the comforts of his Porsche.
“You got it,” the cabbie said, slamming on the gas as if he were auditioning for the Indy 500. Great. Mick reached for the safety belt. It was sticky with God knows what. He made an executive decision to make use of the handlebar above the door.
Sarah strapped in, then turned and fixed those brilliant blue eyes on his. “So, what are your thoughts?”
“It was a fascinating peek into someone’s life, an interesting character study, lots of complexities. Wish I had it on tape. Could use it to inspire my actors to dig a little deeper, not go for the obvious.”
“You think she was acting?”
“If she was, she’s damned good.”
“In here”—she placed her hand over her gut—“I am certain Vicki was involved with Uncle—” Sarah broke off, exasperated. “I don’t know what to call him anymore. For the last four years, I’ve forced myself to think of him as ‘Mr. Clarke’ or ‘Phillip,’ but now . . .” She scrubbed her hands over her face as if it would help clear her thinking. She looked troubled. “He was truly shocked when I accused him of selling me out to Kevin.”
“When you think of him, what name pops to the forefront?”
“I don’t know. When he collapsed, ‘Uncle Phillip’ came out, but that feels weird. Our relationship is in this limbo. I feel so uncomfortable about the whole cheating on Auntie Jane.” She shook her head. “Whatever,” she said. “It’s not important.”
“I do agree with you. Vicki was involved with your old lawyer. No question.
There was too much anger and passion there.”
“And hurt,” Sarah said. “Like a deep sort of wounding had shaken her to the core. I’ve never seen her so undone. She’s always been super pulled together.”
“She seemed a little slurry, like she might have been drinking.”
“I think she’s self-medicating to tamp down the pain. What about when I mentioned Kevin?”
“What did you think?” Mick asked, watching her closely.
Sarah nodded. “She knows him.” There was no hesitation in her response. “I could feel it. Could see it in her eyes. She knows Kevin, but I’m not sure if she knows him in a biblical sense.” She caught her lip between her teeth, her head tipped to the side, a slight frown furrowing her brow.
The sight of her lush lower lip caught between her teeth. The primness of her saying “biblical sense” instead of “fucking” or “screwing” or a million other coarse words had his cock rock hard. Making it a struggle to focus on other matters. “Do you think she’s the one who gave your information to Kevin?” He managed to keep his voice and expression neutral.
“Maybe. But then why did she say she was glad to see me alive and well?”
“That response could have been triggered by guilt.”
“I suppose.” Sarah glanced out the side window, exhaled. “Do you think she has my files?”
“I don’t know.”
“I just . . . I want my damned ID.” Sarah’s frustration was evident in her voice. “Once I have it, I’ll have access to my funds and won’t be beholden to anyone ever again.” Mick hadn’t thought past keeping her safe and helping sort things out. Hadn’t thought much about the fact that she had a life she was going to return to that didn’t include him. “I should have asked Phillip what happened to my parents’ homes. I hope he didn’t sell them.” Her hand alighted on his knee. “They have a wonderful apartment in the Hampshire House on Fifty-Seventh with an expansive view overlooking Central Park. And the house in the Hamptons—I have so many memories tied up in those places.”