Not a Word

by Stephanie Black

  Natalie embraced Felicia. As Gideon watched them, he realized that in the moments it had taken him to answer the door, Felicia had cleaned the makeup from under her eyes, tucked her turtleneck smoothly into her jeans, and redone her ponytail so her hair was tidy. Her face was now slightly flushed.

  He should be glad she looked better, but her healthier, composed appearance frustrated him. If she’d looked as she had when he’d entered—like she’d slept in her clothes and was recovering from food poisoning—Natalie might have asked hard questions herself, taking the pressure off Gideon.

  “I’m sorry I abandoned you last night,” Felicia said to Natalie. “The party ended up being more than I could handle, and I didn’t want to make you drive me home and miss out.”

  “Don’t apologize,” Natalie said. “It’s great that you tried it. And I didn’t mean to interrupt your visit with Gideon.”

  “He told me about your friend. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I remember Camille. You brought her over to my house a few times. Pretty and sassy and smiley.”

  “Yes, that was Camille.” Pain soaked Natalie’s voice, but her expression remained calm.

  “Come sit down,” Felicia said. “Gideon was about to leave. He’s helping a neighbor move tonight.”

  I’m doing what? Gideon kept the confusion out of his expression, debating how to react.

  “That’s nice of you,” Natalie said to him. “I hope they don’t have a grand piano or a barbell collection.”

  “Uh . . .” Gideon glanced at Felicia. She was attempting to use Natalie’s arrival as an excuse to boot him out. So much for being “cautious” around Natalie. Should he call her on her lie? Should he sit and tell Natalie what Felicia had told him so they could both pressure her to spill the information she was still hiding?

  He didn’t dare. Felicia’s information was too messy, too perplexing, and he wanted to clarify his thoughts and make a reasoned decision about how to proceed—not blab her story while he was still reeling.

  “I’ll stop by tomorrow,” he said grimly, holding Felicia’s gaze.

  She smiled and opened the door wider. “Good evening. Thanks for stopping by.”

  * * *

  “Would you like a cookie?” Felicia lifted a plate off the lamp table and held it out to Natalie. Natalie recognized Felicia’s oatmeal-almond cookies. She loved them, but her stomach was heavy with pizza, even though it had been a few hours since she’d eaten.

  “No, thank you, but maybe later.” The gift bag Natalie had given Felicia last night was sitting on the carpet near the couch. The tissue paper sticking out of the top was still arranged as perfectly as it had been when the clerk at the bookstore had wrapped it, and the card resting on top was sealed. Clearly, Felicia hadn’t opened the gift yet.

  They sat on the couch. “How are you doing?” Felicia asked.

  “I’m coping. In shock still, I think. I wanted to come see how you’re doing.” She couldn’t do anything to help Camille, but reaching out to someone else who needed help was the best gift she could offer in Camille’s memory—and she wanted to do it for Gideon too after how kind he’d been today. It was far better than sitting at home crying and compulsively checking the news to see if they’d released any information about Camille’s death. Natalie would have plenty of time to cry tonight when she couldn’t sleep.

  “Do the police have any information about what happened to her?” Felicia asked.

  “If they do, they haven’t told the media.” Natalie didn’t want to talk about Camille’s stalker fears. She’d already experienced the grueling shame of admitting both to Skyler and Detective Bartholomew that Camille had been worried and Natalie hadn’t taken her seriously.

  “She was an ambitious girl,” Felicia said. “She leaped up the ladder in Chapman’s organization.”

  Natalie didn’t know how to respond to this strange remark. She hadn’t realized Felicia knew anything about Camille’s career, and what did this have to do with her death? Was she implying someone had murdered Camille out of jealousy over her promotion? Or that her death had resulted from something shady she’d done to advance her career?

  “She was a smart, trustworthy, hard worker,” Natalie said. “How are you, Felicia? Do you feel like talking about last night?”

  “Wade should have been with me,” Felicia said. “There’s nothing more to discuss.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “He was a good man. A loving man who didn’t hold grudges.”

  “I wish I’d known him better.”

  “I wish you had too. You’d understand that he didn’t deserve what happened to him.”

  Natalie stopped herself from giving Felicia an incredulous look. Felicia couldn’t possibly think she did believe Wade had deserved to tumble from a broken ladder. “It does feel excruciatingly unfair.”

  “He mentioned you,” Felicia said. “On the day he died.”

  Prickly surprise rolled across her nerves. “What did he say?”

  “When he called me at the end of the day, he mentioned you. In our last conversation. He asked if I’d seen you recently. How you were doing.”

  Natalie wanted to squeeze Felicia’s hand or touch her shoulder but didn’t dare. Considering Felicia’s enigmatic mood, Natalie had no idea how she’d react to physical contact. “That was thoughtful of him.”

  “He’d never asked me about you before. I didn’t think too much about it at first . . . I tried not to think too much about it. But I have to know.” Emotion—was it anger?—strained Felicia’s voice. “On the day he died, why would he have asked me about you?”

  Natalie held back an irritable How would I know? “You sound frustrated. I’m sorry; I wish I could answer your question, but I have no idea.”

  “I asked him,” Felicia said. “He said he’d just been thinking about you, that you’d had some tough breaks in life.”

  “Something must have reminded him of me.”

  Felicia’s gaze was both piercing and apprehensive, as though she was searching for something she didn’t want to find. “Did you see him the day he died?”

  “Felicia, you know I didn’t. If I had, I would have told you at the time.” Coming here hadn’t been a good idea; Natalie was too overwrought herself to manage this conversation.

  “Were you still close to Camille?” Felicia asked. “I know you were close as children.”

  “We stayed close.”

  “You admired her, didn’t you? You followed her lead.”

  Was this a conversation or an interrogation? Natalie was willing to talk about Camille, but Felicia’s interest didn’t sound sympathetic. Was she hurting too much from Wade’s death to have the ability to hurt for Natalie? “I admired her, but I don’t know about following her lead. We followed our own paths.”

  “You followed her into Robert Chapman’s orbit.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean. She worked for him, but I didn’t. We lease our office space from his company, but I wouldn’t call that being in his orbit.”

  “Your clinic,” Felicia said. “You asked him to fund your clinic.”

  “Camille did suggest I contact him about the clinic, and he thought it was a good cause. I hope it all works out.” Determined to change the subject to something that didn’t increase Felicia’s stress or increase her own desire to flee, Natalie picked up the gift bag.

  “Would you like to open this now?” she asked.

  Felicia peered mutely at the bag. Natalie waited for several beats, then reached to set it back on the floor.

  Felicia extended her hand. “Thank you,” she said quietly, taking the bag. “Thank you. I was so tired last night that I didn’t get to it.”

  “No hurry,” Natalie said, relieved at Felicia’s softer tone. “I hope it’s something you’ll enjoy.”

  Felicia opened the card, read it, and gave Natalie a brief smile for the words of friendship and sympathy she’d penned. She drew the wrapped book out of the
bag and unwound the tissue paper. The book came out upside down in her lap, and she flipped it over. Head bowed, gaze on the book cover, she didn’t speak.

  “The illustrations are by a local artist,” Natalie said. “Jennifer Lacombe. You might have seen her work at the art museum.”

  Felicia didn’t raise her head.

  Natalie looked at the cover illustration, a painting of a tabby cat gazing through a window. “Each poem is illustrated,” she said. “Original watercolors painted for the book.”

  Felicia’s back was a wooden arch, hard and still as she leaned over the book.

  “What’s wrong?” Natalie asked gently. “If that’s not a welcome gift, I’ll be happy to exchange it.”

  Felicia didn’t speak.

  Natalie brushed her fingers along Felicia’s knuckles, white from her grip on the book. “If you’d like to talk about anything, I’m here to listen.”

  “I was still trying not to believe it.” Felicia’s whisper was a high-pressure hiss. “Even with the evidence, I tried. Do you think this is funny?”

  Natalie drew her hand back. She’d somehow taken a turn so off course that she had no idea where she was. “I’m sorry. I’ve upset you, but I don’t know what I’ve done.”

  Felicia turned toward Natalie. “You devil.” She raised the book and smashed it into the side of Natalie’s head.

  Lightning dazzled Natalie’s brain, and she flopped against the arm of the couch.

  Felicia jumped to her feet and moved away, her motion a smear of navy fabric and pewter-gray hair.

  Stupefied, Natalie pushed away from the arm of the couch and sat up straight. “Why did you . . . Felicia . . . I don’t . . .”

  “How could you sell out?” Tears surged down Felicia’s face. “After everything? Do you want to go back, Natalie? Do you want to do your childhood over without me?”

  Natalie touched her head and found a lump swelling under her hair. No wonder Gideon had been worried about his stepmother. Holding Felicia’s anguished gaze, Natalie said softly, “Tell me how I sold out.”

  “I loved you like a daughter.” Even at Wade’s funeral, Natalie hadn’t seen Felicia cry, but she was almost sobbing now. “Are you getting paid for coming here tonight, or is this just professional curiosity? You’re here to experiment on me? Mock me and see how I react? Chart what you can do to me before I crumble?”

  The dregs of Natalie’s composure trickled away. She needed to leave before she fell apart and turned Felicia’s sobbing into a duet. If Felicia had deteriorated to the point of assaulting her with a poetry book, there was nothing Natalie could do for her tonight.

  Bending in slow motion, she picked up the book that lay near her feet. “I love you, and I’m grateful for everything you’d done for me. I don’t know why you’re angry with me or what you think I did, but I’ll leave you in peace now.” Felicia needed professional help, but Natalie wasn’t the one to suggest it, not after Felicia had accused her of running an experiment. Natalie picked up her purse and rose tentatively to her feet. Her head pounded.

  Felicia took a step toward her. “You’re after Gideon, aren’t you? You’ve been playing him behind my back. I could tell you knew each other better than you should have.”

  “I’m not playing him.” Natalie retreated toward the door. “We’ve talked. If you want to know what about, ask him.”

  Felicia advanced another step. “You can’t kill him, so you’ll devour him from the inside out. That’s your style, isn’t it? That’s what your mother always said.”

  This endorsement of her mother’s viewpoint gashed Natalie, lacerating two decades’ worth of interaction with Felicia. Natalie clutched the doorknob. “I’m not after Gideon, and I would never hurt you. I hope you come to realize that.” She pulled the door open, stepped onto the porch, and hastily shut the door behind her.

  Legs shaking, she staggered down the stairs and headed for her car.

  Chapter 16

  Gideon set aside the laptop displaying his search for information about Sheryl Chapman’s death and grabbed his ringing phone. “Hey. How are you?”

  “There’s trouble.” Felicia’s agitated tone jostled his nerves. “Listen to me, and do what I tell you.”

  So much for hoping her call meant she’d become more reasonable. “I’m listening.” Not promising to obey but listening.

  “Natalie Marsh is dangerous,” Felicia said. “She’ll try to call you tonight, if she hasn’t already.”

  “Uh . . . what?”

  “I’ve been in denial about her.” Felicia’s voice broke. “But there’s no question now.”

  Was she crying? Felicia hardly ever cried. “Mama Felicia. Are you okay? I’m coming over.”

  “No. Don’t come over. I can’t take more tonight; I’m going to bed.” She sniffled. “Chapman bought her. They made a bargain. She helps him with his revenge, and he funds the mental health clinic she wants to open.”

  “She told you this?”

  “Not directly, but she wanted me to know it. She came to mock me. She’s been contacting you, hasn’t she? She’s after you.”

  “I contacted her. I was worried about you, and I wanted her input since she’s known you so long.”

  “Gideon! What did you tell her?”

  “Uh, nothing.” Gideon skipped the fact that he’d intended to confide in Natalie this afternoon, but the news of Camille’s death had interrupted that plan. “I didn’t give her any details. Just that I was worried about you.”

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway. She already knows everything.”

  “What do you mean she’s after me? I thought you said I wasn’t in danger anymore.”

  “Not physically. She’ll get in your head, your heart, destroy you from inside.”

  “But you always said good things about Natalie—”

  “I thought they were true. They were true when she was young. She’ll call you. I know she’ll call you. She’ll tell you I’ve lost my mind, that I’m insane and to ignore anything I say. It’s the same story she used to give about her mother.”

  “Her mother . . . Natalie told me . . .”

  “Roxanne disinherited her a few years ago. I’d always blamed Roxanne; I didn’t think Natalie deserved it—” Felicia’s voice collapsed.

  Gideon vaulted to his feet and paced his apartment, giving Felicia a few seconds to calm herself. When her breathing started smoothing out, he said, “Tell me exactly what Natalie said to you. Not what you assumed.”

  “It was the gift—you saw the bag. She pressed me to open it while she was there. It was a cruel reminder of Sheryl’s death.”

  “What was it?”

  “A book. I don’t remember the title. She took it with her. But the illustration on the cover was a cat. A brown-and-cream, green-eyed tabby. Exactly like my fake cat.”

  Gideon pressed his hand against a corner of the Sydney Opera House, pushing until his palm hurt and Legos broke apart and scattered over the kitchen table. “That could be coincidence—”

  “Gideon, there’s . . . more.” Her voice trembled again, words lurching out. “The day your father . . . The day your father died, he asked me about . . . if I’d seen Natalie lately. How she was doing. Out of the blue, he brought her up . . . said he was thinking she’d had a tough time in life. Why would he suddenly be thinking about her? I don’t remember him ever bringing her up before. Something must have provoked those thoughts. I could tell he was worried.”

  She could tell at the time, or she was conjuring that tone to his words in retrospect? “Slow down. When Natalie gave you the book, did you accuse her?”

  “Yes. She took the book and walked out.”

  “Leaving doesn’t mean she’s guilty. You’re assuming—”

  “Hush. I know it doesn’t prove anything. Didn’t I tell you I kept fighting it myself, not wanting to believe she could . . . the sweet girl who . . .”

  Felicia’s weeping wakened an agonized need to call his father and ask for counsel.
“Felicia—”

  “The woman who died last night—Camille Moretti.” Felicia interrupted him, her words now sharp and solid. “She was another Chapman stooge. She’s the one who actually sabotaged the ladder.”

  “What? How do you know that?”

  “The purse. The mosaic purse. I’ve spent weeks trying to figure out how to track the assassin down.”

  “And you found her?”

  “At the Chapman soiree last night. I hadn’t planned to go—I’d only attended in the past for your father’s sake; I always hated it—but I realized the killer might be there and might bring her dressy new purse. Camille Moretti was flaunting it.”

  Gideon finished decimating one of the shells of the opera house. “Did you confront her?”

  “Surrounded by hundreds of Chapman’s people? No. I went to her house, got inside, and waited for her. When she got home, I confronted her and told her I knew what she’d done and to carry the message to Chapman to back off or I’d destroy both of them.”

  Pulling out a chair was too hard; Gideon thumped to the kitchen tile and sat there, eyes closed, phone flattening his ear. “You broke into Camille’s house last night?”

  “Yes. I had no idea she’d end up dead. She did send my message to Chapman. That must be . . . That has to be the reason she died. Punishment. He was angry.”

  At least Felicia wasn’t confessing to murder. “Why would he punish her if she’d done the job he wanted?”

  “The purse. She’d been careless and marked herself by buying that purse.”

  “When you confronted her, did she admit what she’d done?”

  “Yes, she admitted it.”

  He dragged his tongue around his dry mouth. It stuck to his teeth. “You challenged a murderer on your own? That was crazy!”

  “I’m not a fool. I kept her away from me until I could state my bargain and she’d agreed to it.”

  “How—”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Felicia must have had a weapon—his dad had owned an old hunting pistol. Or maybe she’d pounced on Camille and tied her up. Whatever she’d done, Camille must have felt threatened. Was her confession valid?