Masquerade

by Janet Dailey

  27

  Silence echoed through the house, a silence that said no one was home. Remy blinked sleepily and glanced around the living room, then crossed to the doorway into the kitchen, Nattie's pink scuffs slapping at her heels with each step. More silence waited for her in there, as the cat clock on the wall, with its moving eyes and swishing tail, chided her for sleeping late. Ignoring the hands pointing to nine o'clock, Remy headed toward the coffee maker on the counter, fighting the grogginess that came from too little sleep too late. A note was propped against the glass carafe:

  Remy,

  Since you had to leave your purse at the hospital, I thought you might need some walking-around money.

  Gone to work,

  Nattie

  Paper-clipped to the back of it was a twenty-dollar bill. Remy slipped the bill into the slash pocket of the velour robe, also loaned to her by Nattie—like the slippers on her feet, the cotton night-gown she wore, and the new pancake makeup and mascara waiting in the bedroom to cover up her bruises. She smiled to herself as she poured a much-needed cup of coffee, but the smile faded when she saw the newspaper on the counter, folded open on the obituary notices. The very first one was for "Aikens, Charles Leroy, age 57."

  She sighed, not really needing to be reminded of the cause for this flat feeling she had. Absently she combed her tousled length of hair away from the side of her face and reached for the paper, only to be distracted by the sound of a car pulling into the drive. Frowning, Remy lifted her head. Nattie wouldn't be coming home at this hour. She must have been mistaken—the car must have actually pulled into a neighbor's driveway instead.

  But the slam of a metal door sounded close. Remy moved to the window above the kitchen sink and peered out. If there was a car in Nattie's drive, though, it hadn't pulled far enough forward for her to see it from the kitchen window.

  The doorbell rang twice, in rapid succession, and she whirled around to face the living room. A salesman—it had to be. Nattie wouldn't have told her family she was here. She wouldn't. The doorbell chimed again, something strident and insistent in the sound. Another short interval of silence followed and Remy waited, poised, tense. Whoever it was would give up soon.

  She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sudden pounding knock that replaced the chiming bell. She told herself he probably thought the doorbell didn't work. "He"? It had to be a he; a woman wouldn't knock that loud or that long—would she? Whoever it was, he couldn't be a friend of Nattie's, or he'd know she was at work.

  Hearing the demanding rattle of the doorknob, Remy stiffened. Somebody wasn't taking "nobody-home" for an answer. She threw a look at the back door. Should she—silence. No rattling, no pounding, no ringing. For how long? Was he leaving?

  She ran swiftly, lightly, to the living-room doorway, keeping to one side so she wouldn't be seen by anyone looking through the windows on the front porch. She snuck a glance at the front door, the glassed top of it curtained with gathered sheers. There was no dark shape on the other side of it—and nothing at the windows. And no sound of a car door opening and closing or an engine starting, either.

  Then she saw it—her unstructured raspberry cardigan sweater lying in plain sight on the arm of the sofa. Anyone peering in the window would have seen it—and anyone who knew what she'd been wearing on Saturday would know she was here, or would at least be certain she'd been here.

  She heard the telltale creak of the screen door behind her. My God, he'd come around back! She bolted out of the kitchen and ran for the front door. It was locked. She threw the security bolt and reached again to try the doorknob.

  "Remy!"

  She threw a half-panicked look over her shoulder. Cole halted inside the living-room doorway, his gray eyes narrowing sharply at the bruises on her face. Frozen by her memory of that night and her now-certain knowledge of his guilt, Remy stared at him, conscious of the throbbing in her side and the hard pounding of her heart. He looked nonthreatening in his double-breasted suit of navy wool and patterned tie. Had she thought he would be threatening?

  Cole raised his hands in a calming gesture. "It's all right, Remy. It's me. I didn't mean to frighten you."

  Frighten her. Had she been frightened? Of course she had. The specter of the pig mask was always there, hovering at the edges of her consciousness. She hadn't let herself think about it. She hadn't let herself think about the beating, the pain, the fear. She hadn't let herself imagine how they must have watched her, stalked her, then swooped on her without warning—in broad daylight, with people around, silently telling her she wasn't safe from them anywhere.

  She felt the trembling start, the trembling of delayed reaction. Cole took a step toward her, his hands still raised, and Remy shrank against the door.

  "I won't hurt you, Remy."

  She wanted to scream at him that he already had—he'd cheated, he'd lied, he'd betrayed her belief in him, her love. But as if in a bad dream, she couldn't get any sound to come out.

  "I swear I won't hurt you. I'd never hurt you." He sounded as if he were talking to a frightened child.

  My God, that was what she felt like. She turned from him and leaned against the door, feeling the facade of bravery fall away as the first tears rolled down her cheeks. Those two men had forever shattered the illusion that she was inviolable. They had proved that she was vulnerable, that her status and the Jardin name were no protection. She hadn't wanted to face that. She'd denied it. But the seed of fear had been planted, and with Charlie's death it had taken root.

  She felt his hands move onto her shoulders and stiffened in instant resistance. "No," she choked out the word, and tried to shrug away from them. "Don't touch me. Don't."

  But his gentle grip persisted in turning her away from the door and toward him. Remy brought her hands up to keep from being drawn into his arms, struggling with all the proverbial weakness of a woman—knowing it and hating it.

  "Sssh, it's all right," Cole murmured. "You're safe. I won't let anyone hurt you." The crazy part was that she did feel safe in the circle of his arms, with his shoulder right there waiting for her to cry on it. She tried to swallow a sob, and his hands pressed her closer. "Go ahead and cry, Remy," he urged softly. "After all you've been through, you need to. Only a fool wouldn't be scared. And you're no fool."

  She stopped fighting the tears and sagged against him, weeping softly, brokenly, vaguely conscious of the comforting stroke of his hands on her back and her hair, mutely reaffirming that everything was all right. But she cried because nothing was all right, and never would be again—not her own feelings of security, not their love, and . . . not Charlie.

  How long she cried quietly she didn't know. At some point she became conscious of Cole rubbing a lean cheek against the side of her hair, of the wet smell of wool from his jacket, and of the drained feeling of tears being used up.

  "How—" Her voice sounded so choked and husky that Remy stopped and started over. "How did you know I was here?" She kept her head down, not ready to look at him, not ready to face him.

  "I'd looked everywhere else." His voice was strained with emotion. "On my way to the office this morning, I remembered your endless Nattieisms, and I took a chance." He turned his mouth to her hair, his arms tightening slightly around her. "When I told myself that it was over for us, that we were finished, I spent all Saturday convincing myself I didn't want you, I didn't need you. . . I didn't love you. Then your brother came charging into my apartment Sunday morning, thinking you were there. Why, Remy? Why would he think that? Why did you come here? Why aren't you at home with them?"

  But she just shook her head, unable to answer him.

  In the next second his mouth was near her ear and he was murmuring thickly, "It doesn't matter. I want to grow old and cranky with you, Remy. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  "Yes," she whispered, and she wondered, was it possible? Could they survive this? Unsure, she drew back from him, her hands resting on the lapels of his navy suit coat, her gaze fixed on them.
r />   He tilted her head back and tactilely examined her bruises, first with his fingers, then with his lips. So light was the graze of his mouth that she wanted to cry again. It wasn't loverlike—it was pure loving.

  She shut her eyes. "Cole ... I remember. I remember that night on the dock. I know how it was done."

  She felt the stillness of his hands, his body. She couldn't bring herself to look at him—not yet.

  "What are you going to do?" His voice was low, his tone cautious.

  "I don't know."

  "Will you help me?" His hands tightened their grip on her arms in silent demand. "I need you, Remy."

  She opened her eyes to stare at the knot of his tie, hesitating as she thought of Charlie. If Maitland had had him killed—and she was convinced that Maitland was the one, not Cole—maybe he'd acted without Cole's knowledge. But what did that change? Charlie was still dead.

  Pushing away from him, she stepped free and shook her head. "I can't help you, Cole."

  "Dammit, why not?" The explosion of anger instantly dissipated in a gusty sigh. "I know the answer to that, don't I? The family. I meant what I said. I'm not going to let them destroy me—even if it means I have to destroy them" he said —without the rancor she'd expected.

  "Cole, you're destroying yourself," she protested, finally looking at him. "Why can't you see that? Maybe if you'd cooperate, it would go easier for you. If you'd just tell them—"

  "I can't, Remy—not even for you."

  "I don't want this, Cole. I love you. You've got to believe that."

  His gray eyes made a slow search of her face, something sad and yearning in his expression. "Oddly enough, I do. But it's gone too far now. I can't turn back."

  Charlie. He knew about Charlie. "Neither can I."

  "Then there's nothing left to be said, is there?"

  "No"

  He held her gaze an instant longer, then opened the front door and walked out. He didn't look back to see her standing in the doorway.

  The taxicab rolled to a quiet stop at the curb. Remy handed the driver the ten-dollar bill that was all she had left from Nattie's loan. "Keep the change," she said, and climbed out. She crossed the grassy verge to the scrolled iron gate, then stopped to study the white-pillared house and the two perfectly proportioned magnolia trees guarding its front lawn.

  She pushed open the gate and stepped through, then closed it behind her and made the long walk up the banquette to the front door. As she'd expected, it was locked. She lifted the heavy brass knocker and dropped it twice, then waited.

  Nattie opened the door, clad in her black uniform and snow-white apron. She took one look at Remy and sighed grimly. "You've been to the coroner's office. I was hoping you were wrong."

  "So was I." Remy stepped inside and paused while Nattie closed the door. "Where are they?"

  "In the solarium," she said with a nod of her head in its direction. "Mr. Marc's with them. They're beside themselves wondering where you are and what's happened to you."

  "I know." She could hear the low, worried murmur of voices, yet she hesitated, unable to shake the feeling of dread. But it had to be done, and she had to do it. She was the only one who could.

  Before she was halfway to the solarium door, Gabe saw her. "Remy!"

  It was as though a torrent was being unleashed as their voices rained on her, sharp with anxiety and reproof, gentle with relief and concern. She let them wash over her, not listening, not letting them sidetrack her from the thing she'd come to do. That would be too easy.

  "Do you have any idea how worried we've been about you?" Gabe led her to the sofa and gently sat her down on the soft cushions, sitting beside her and curving an arm around her shoulders.

  "Where were you?" her father demanded. "And what was the idea of taking off like that? Don't you realize—"

  "Don't scold her, Frazier. Can't you see how tired she is?" Her mother pressed a cup of tea into her unresisting hands. "Drink this."

  She didn't. Instead, she stared at the amber-brown tea, watching the shimmer of its surface and the dark leaves at the bottom of the cup. "I remember being on the dock the night the Dragon was loaded." Her statement shocked them all into silence. "There was never any crude oil loaded onto the tanker. They filled it with water."

  "Are—are you sure, Remy?" Gabe asked cautiously.

  "Yes." She shot a quick glance at her uncle, standing stiffly near the end of the sofa. "Lance was right. Cole was part of it—he and Carl Maitland."

  "Cole. ..." Her father sat down rather abruptly in a side chair. "How do you know that?"

  "Because I saw them on the bridge, watching the tanks being loaded with water. It was quite clever, really." She was surprised at how cold her hands felt. "Maitland gets paid for a nonexistent shipment of oil, then turns around and sells the same oil and shares the proceeds with Cole. Meanwhile, a demolition charge sends an aging tanker to the bottom, and the Crescent Line collects from the insurance company for the crude it paid for but never received and for a ship that had seen better days."

  Marc whistled thoughtfully, then murmured, "I'd say it was damned clever."

  "And you knew this." Gabe looked at her. Remy nodded reluctantly. "Why didn't you tell us before?"

  "I don't know. Maybe I wasn't sure. Maybe I didn't want to believe Cole was mixed up in it. Maybe that's why I planned to go off by myself for a few days when we were in France. Maybe I was trying to decide what to do. I honestly don't remember." She tipped her head back and gazed at the high ceiling, fighting the rawness in her throat. "Now ... I find myself wondering if Cole could have been the man I was arguing with. He says he was in New Orleans—"

  "He told you that?" Gabe frowned.

  "Yes." She felt suddenly confused as Gabe got up off the sofa and stalked over to the decanter of whiskey on the drink cart. "Wasn't he?"

  "He was in Marseilles." There was a loud and brittle clink of ice cubes in a glass. He removed the crystal stopper and cast Marc a challenging look. "What's that—maybe a twenty-minute flight to Nice? Hell, he could have been there and back in the company jet without any of us ever knowing it—except Remy, of course."

  "Maybe." She touched the purpling mark on her left cheekbone—the puffy swelling was gone, but the extreme tenderness remained. "But this was a warning from Maitland."

  "Maitland." Gabe turned from the drink cart. "I thought you said you didn't know the two men who beat you up."

  "Not by name. But I recognized the voice of one of them. He's the same man who surprised me that night on the dock. I'm sure he works for Maitland."

  "What makes you think that?"

  She told them about her recent visit to the dock area, about Maitland seeing her there with Charlie, and about Charlie's offer to obtain the names of the men who'd loaded the tanker and his subsequent "accidental" drowning. "Only it wasn't an accident. I saw the coroner's report this morning. He had a bruise on his cheek, like mine . . . like he'd been hit by something . . . like a fist. Of course, the coroner theorizes that he was struck by an object in the water. But I know he was knocked unconscious—or at least dazed by a blow—and thrown into the river."

  "That would be difficult to prove," Gabe observed. "If there weren't any witnesses."

  "There were two. But one saw him only after he was in the water, and the other was probably the man who hit him." She blocked out all emotion. It was the only way she could get through this.

  "You assume he hit him, but you don't know that for a fact, do you?" Gabe said.

  "Of course not."

  "That's what I thought." He walked over and sat down beside her again, fitting his palm to hers and linking their fingers together. "Look ... let us handle it from here. Stop trying to be a one-sister show."

  She managed a smile of sorts and nodded, but she had to know. "What are you going to do?"

  "To start with," Marc inserted, "you've given us the leverage we need to force a resignation from Buchanan. We can have him packed and gone before the day's over. Whic
h will leave us free to negotiate a settlement with the insurance company."

  "Wait a minute." Remy turned to her father and Gabe. "You aren't going to let them get away with it, are you?"

  "You think we should file charges against them," Gabe guessed.

  "Don't you?"

  "In principle, yes. In reality, it would be a waste of time." He held her hand a little tighter, not letting her pull away. "It's a white-collar crime. There'd be a lot of headlines, a lot of scandal, but the chances of either one of them ever going to jail are slim to none."

  "As much as I hate to admit it, Gabe is right," her father declared with a heavy sigh. "And then too, we can't overlook the fact that the Crescent Line would be drawn into any charge of insurance fraud. We would end up being a defendant—and we'd be found guilty."

  "That kind of notoriety wouldn't be good for anyone," Marc put in. "There's nothing this town loves more than a scandal. It's something like what happens at the scene of an accident, with people driving by slowly, wanting to see how much blood there is and to watch somebody writhe and twist in pain so they can feel alive."

  "But what about Charlie?" Remy protested.

  "We'll look into that," Gabe said in reassurance. "But I'll be honest, Remy. The mere fact that he agreed to get some information for you isn't sufficient cause to file a murder charge against anyone, not without some corroborating evidence. A bruise isn't enough, especially when the coroner reached the conclusion that he was struck by an object in the water. A defense attorney wouldn't have to be F. Lee Bailey to get a man off with that kind of testimony. I'm sorry, but—"

  "—that's the way it is," she finished the sentence for him, pulling her hand free of his entwining fingers and pushing the teacup onto the glass-topped coffee table, then rising to her feet in barely controlled agitation.

  "I'm afraid it is."

  "Remy, I have the feeling you're blaming yourself for this man's death," her father said gently as she moved toward the windowed wall, a confection of white wood and glass. "You're thinking he'd still be alive if you hadn't asked him to help you. But that's something none of us can know. Whether his death was an accident or a deliberate act, you're not responsible."