“We’ll let you know what we find out.” Turner glanced at Bartholomew, and both men stood. Natalie escorted them to the door and returned to her cold pizza.
She picked an artichoke heart off one slice, not sure she felt like eating anymore. Sixteen thousand dollars stashed away, somehow connected to her? That made no sense. Could Dante have been involved in something illegal? Could his activities be linked to Camille’s death?
What about illegal acts linked to Dante’s own death? A car-pedestrian accident—what if someone had deliberately run him down?
What if you’re cartwheeling into distorted thinking, labeling everything as sinister? Besides, no explanation about smuggling drugs or mob bonuses or bribing judges could explain why Dante had written Natalie’s name on the envelope.
Why didn’t anything make sense? She poked a curled-up slice of pepperoni and contemplated Jonas and his assumptions, Lacey’s stalking behavior, Felicia’s loss of control and her wild accusations, Gideon’s stonewalling.
Gideon. She’d wanted to talk to him. If she confronted him, maybe she could get a couple of pieces of this jumbled puzzle to fit together.
Natalie lifted her phone and looked up his address.
Chapter 20
He’d call the police. He’d do it. He’d do it immediately. Tonight. Now. Gideon paced his living room, snapping Legos off the section of the Sydney Opera House he’d repaired until it again looked as though a Lego tornado had demolished the building.
It was Monday evening, and Felicia was still in Manhattan. He’d called her several times. She wouldn’t answer her phone, but she’d text back with brief comments like Stay calm. Everything will be all right. Keep quiet. I’m fine. I’m safe here.
How in blazes could Felicia expect him to take everything she’d told him, lock it into a virtual safe deposit box, and act like nothing had happened? Ignore his father’s murder—if it was murder? Stay silent because an eccentric multimillionaire allegedly had so much control over Ohneka that if Gideon made waves, he’d get murdered? Chapman . . . Camille Moretti . . . Natalie Marsh . . .
Was Natalie that devious, that ruthless? Lying to make Felicia—and her own mother—appear insane? Selling out to Chapman and helping her friend commit murder so Chapman would fund her clinic? Did that even make sense—simultaneously wanting to help people and destroy them? Maybe she’d rationalized that his father deserved to die and the benefits were worth more than his life. Maybe she was power hungry, wanting to rule her mental health kingdom. Maybe she’d despised Gideon and relished Chapman’s order that she target him. Felicia had probably told her about Tamara, so she’d know that his track record with women showed him to be a gullible, witless sap.
Or maybe Felicia had conjured all this in a mind misshapen by grief and scarred by secrets.
But Camille hadn’t called the police. That was the redwood that had fallen across the road, and he couldn’t drive past it. Either she’d called Chapman and he’d sent an assassin, or Felicia was lying about leaving her alive.
Felicia, a murderer? No.
No? Was he certain?
“Call the cops, idiot,” he said aloud. “Call the cops. The cops who live in Robert Chapman’s pocket.”
There goes my last marble. All marbles lost. Dad, time to do the Hamlet thing and appear to tell me what happened.
The doorbell rang, startling Gideon. He hoped the visitor hadn’t heard him talking to himself—unless the visitor was the ghost of his father. He put his eye to the peephole. Natalie.
Oh boy. Pretend you’re not home. Go back to pacing and muttering to yourself.
Confusion and frustration stealing control of his muscles, Gideon twisted the dead bolt and yanked the door open.
“Hi,” he said. “If you’re here to destroy my mind and soul, bring it on. At least that will settle things.”
Outwardly unfazed, Natalie glanced at his hands, probably checking for weapons, and scanned his face, probably checking for sanity. “I’m not here to destroy anything.”
Did she react with such composure because she was already desensitized to her guilt? Or because she was trained to deal with people whose brains had jumped the rails, which Gideon’s had?
“Felicia warned me about you,” he said recklessly.
“I figured she had. I have no idea why she thinks I’m out to ‘devour you,’ as she put it. If you have any insights on my scheme, I’d appreciate your sharing them.”
Gideon started laughing. It was a nitwit response, but no worse than trying to respond rationally when his brain was completely drained of rationality. And logic. And certainty.
He stepped backward.
Natalie accepted that movement as an invitation; she stepped inside and closed the door. “Do you want to search my purse for weapons?” she asked.
“Not really. But I’m planning to call the police. Tonight.”
“You’re telling me that now? Rookie mistake. You’re supposed to tell me you’ve already called them. If the villain knows you have secrets you haven’t revealed yet, you’ll be dead before the end of the chapter.”
“Good point.”
They surveyed each other in a silence that twisted in two directions inside Gideon: tension and amusement. He cursed himself for how much he wanted to trust her. Or maybe he should trust her. Maybe it was Felicia he shouldn’t trust. Maybe he should get the word maybe printed on his forehead; it summed him up.
“What are you planning to tell the police?” she asked. “What have I supposedly done, and why is it the business of law enforcement?”
Blunt question time. “Did you help Camille Moretti murder my father?”
“Murder your father!” Natalie finally sounded baffled. “I thought he died in an accident.”
“Felicia says Camille sabotaged the ladder. Camille was at MaryLisa’s right before he fell.”
“Why in the world would Camille want to hurt your father?”
“Because Robert Chapman paid her to do it?”
She teetered slightly as though his words had bumped her. “Why would he want your father dead?”
“Long story.”
“You think Camille killed your father? Camille and I?”
His thoughts rotated again, her question applying so much torque that some part of him was going to crack. “I don’t know what I think. I’m losing my mind.”
“I’ll second that.”
“Will you sit down?” He pointed toward the couch. “Let’s talk.”
“Should I keep my hands in sight at all times? No sudden moves?”
Gideon wanted to laugh again but held it back. “Yeah, that works.”
Natalie walked toward the couch. She was wearing a long coat with a big drapey collar. He ought to offer to hang it up for her—or check to see if she was hiding a shotgun inside it—but he said nothing as they chose seats on opposite ends of the couch.
Gideon floundered to think of a way to explain. Would he be making a fool of himself, telling her secrets she already knew? More of a fool of yourself than you already have? Not possible.
At his hesitation, she spoke first. “I don’t know what Felicia told you, but I’ll share what I came to say. Saturday evening when I was at her house, after you left, she was behaving strangely. She asked me odd, almost belligerent questions about Camille’s ambition and Camille’s influence on me. I wanted to get the conversation on a better track, so I urged her to open my gift—the one I tried to bring by the first time we talked.”
He nodded.
“It was a poetry book, poetry about animals, illustrated with watercolors. I thought it was perfect for her. It wasn’t. She smashed it into the side of my head.”
“She struck you?”
“Yes. Hard enough to set off brain fireworks.” Natalie touched her hair. “You can still feel the lump, if you want evidence, though I can’t prove I didn’t walk into a lamppost. Then she started making incoherent accusations about how I had sold out and I was playing you, trying to hurt y
ou. I couldn’t get her to explain or calm down and didn’t have the emotional stamina to handle her, so I took the book and left. And tried contacting you. Several times.”
Gideon debated whether or not to feel guilty over not responding. Was Natalie telling the truth about Felicia’s attack? He thought of her uncharacteristic aggression in snatching his phone away.
“Your stepmother is in serious need of professional help,” Natalie said. “I recommend both a physical and a psychological evaluation. I know some excellent people, if you want suggestions. People who don’t sabotage ladders.”
“Good to know,” Gideon said blankly.
“Could you please explain why Felicia thinks Camille and I killed your father—and why you obviously think she might be right?”
“It’s . . . a long story.”
“You said that.”
“Yeah.” Gazing across the room at the wreck of the Sydney Opera House—easier than looking into Natalie’s eyes when he couldn’t decide whether to feel stupid or wary—he related the things Felicia had told him about Sheryl’s death and Chapman’s revenge.
“Oh my goodness,” Natalie said hoarsely. “Oh, Felicia. This secret has been chewing her up for seven years?”
Gideon evaluated Natalie’s anguished expression. “She was afraid to tell anyone. She was sure she’d go to prison.”
“Instead, she let it eat her alive.” Natalie didn’t seem disconcerted by Gideon’s stare. He wanted to look away but wouldn’t let himself do it; he wanted to see if her compassionate demeanor failed.
“There’s nothing suspicious in the fact that Camille paid cash for that purse,” Natalie said. “She wasn’t covering her footsteps. She’d been setting aside cash, a little at a time, planning to use it to buy herself an indulgent birthday present from her late husband. That gift was the purse. And there’s nothing suspicious about the fact that she seemed edgy that day and that she holed up in the restroom. She was having trouble keeping her composure. She hates crying in front of people, and shopping as proxy for Dante—her husband—stirred a lot of grief.”
Gideon didn’t comment. He didn’t know what to say.
“Felicia’s entire theory of Bob Chapman’s revenge is absurd,” Natalie said. “She’d know that if she hadn’t let guilt make a wreck of her thinking.”
“I don’t know the guy, but I hear he’s a nut.”
“He’s brilliant and quirky and stubborn, and if you disappoint him, he won’t do business with you again, but he’s a good man overall, not a mob boss ordering hits. And he holds people accountable for their own mistakes. He doesn’t go after their associates. Or family members.”
“Felicia thinks differently.”
“I’ve known Felicia for twenty years—longer than you have—and this doesn’t sound like her at all. She’s ill.”
Gideon focused on a few Legos that had fallen to the carpet and thought of clicking them into place, logically assembling pieces until he had a complete, recognizable structure.
“You know there’s no hard evidence for anything she told you,” Natalie said.
“I noticed. But she was my father’s wife. She’s a wonderful woman, and I’ve always respected her. Trusted her.”
“So have I. Until two days ago when she hit me and accused me of being the manipulative devil my mother always said I was.”
“She’s always had common sense.” Gideon blistered inside at how insulting to Natalie that sounded but finished making his point anyway. “She’s never been a drama queen or a conspiracy theorist. It’s hard to dismiss what she’s told me when I don’t have proof it isn’t true.”
“I agree that she’s always had common sense. I’m also suggesting it’s possible for guilt and grief to cause a glitch in normal behavior. You know her behavior isn’t rational.”
Gideon didn’t respond.
“A few days ago, you trusted me enough to want my help with her. Now—with no hard evidence—you’re willing to believe I’m so toxic you can’t even risk answering my messages. All this because I gave her a poetry book with a cat on the cover?”
The heat of confusion and humiliation inside him could have melted tungsten. What was he supposed to say? I can’t risk trusting you because I was starting to like you. I can’t be that degree of idiot again. “You’re Camille’s friend,” he muttered. “You’re linked to Chapman.”
“I had absolutely nothing to do with your father’s death, and I’m certain Camille didn’t either.”
“She didn’t call the police after Felicia’s visit,” Gideon said. “That’s key. She didn’t call.”
“If she didn’t, it’s because she didn’t have a chance.”
“Or because she called Chapman instead, and he ordered her death.”
“Is that what you think happened?”
Silence. The most asphyxiating silence Gideon had ever experienced, permeated with fear that seared his lungs.
“Felicia would never deliberately hurt someone,” he said doggedly. “She was already in agony over Sheryl’s death. Camille must have called Chapman.”
Natalie’s keen, grieving gaze made him feel she was discerning his pain and echoing it. “So I’m a conspirator in your father’s death.”
“Not necessarily. Maybe Camille acted alone and you weren’t involved. The cat poetry book was coincidental bad luck.”
“So I’m not playing spiteful games with you, trying to mangle your soul.”
“Uh . . .” His desire to trust Natalie flipped over, and Tamara’s betrayal faced upward, a betrayal he’d been too dense to see coming. He shoved the heels of his hands against his eyes, pushing against the pain that spiked through his skull. “I have no idea. I don’t know.”
Natalie said nothing, but Gideon’s mind filled in what she must be thinking:
“You don’t know? You let me into your apartment and didn’t check to see if I was armed. You told me everything Felicia told you and all your suspicions. You admitted you haven’t given any of this information to the police. Now you’re sitting here with your hands over your eyes, all defense systems offline. I think you do know.”
That thought hit like he’d dropped something into a cup of superheated water. He sprang to his feet, wanting to yell a protest, but the scalding steam in his brain didn’t form words. He stalked away from the couch, into the kitchen, to the front door, past his decimated Lego project, back into the kitchen. With no idea where he wanted to go or what he wanted to do, he looked back at Natalie.
She wasn’t watching him. She sat with her eyes closed, head slightly bowed, her face a color that made Gideon unwillingly imagine a cadaver.
Guilt? Or was she grappling with the suspicion—the likelihood—that a woman she’d trusted as a surrogate mother had murdered her best friend?
No. He struck at the conclusion, but it was as useless as trying to punch a hurricane. Felicia’s behavior had been uncharacteristic from the moment she’d brought up her theory that his father had been murdered. A healthy Felicia wouldn’t have been secretive, obstructive, vague. Not about something critically important. Given the facts, he couldn’t take the responsibility of determining what had happened to Camille. That was for the police, maybe for a jury.
Drenched in new grief, he slogged back to his end of the couch and slumped onto the cushions. “I can’t call the police without talking to Felicia first. Out of respect for her and for my father.”
Natalie looked at him. From the distress in her eyes, he guessed she was deciding whether she wanted to burn in the agony of turning Felicia in or the agony of protecting Camille’s murderer. “Do you know if she’s home?”
“She’s not. She’s in Manhattan.”
“Why?”
“To get a break. Get away from you and Chapman-ville.”
Natalie’s eyes closed again. She pulled the shawl-like collar of her coat closed as though the room was chillier than the wool could handle. Gideon wondered how she could be cold; he was sweating.
“I
don’t think calling her is a good idea,” Natalie murmured, sounding exhausted. He ought to recommend that she go home to bed, but part of him didn’t dare let her out of his sight until he was certain she wasn’t guilty of—
He stared at her coat. An object was slipping out of the pocket, bright and metallic, catching the light. Adrenaline fired, but within a nanosecond, alarm became irritation. That isn’t a gun, you imbecile. It’s some glittery, girlish—
Glittery. Felicia’s description. A royal-blue silk mosaic purse, the purse his father’s assassin had purchased.
He reached toward Natalie’s pocket. Her eyes remained closed, her arms folded.
Carefully, he closed his fingertips on the corner of the item and gave it a discreet tug. More of it slid out of the pocket, enough for him to see miniature mosaic tiles forming a pine tree layered in snow.
Natalie opened her eyes. Gideon yanked the purse all the way out of her pocket and glanced at the winter scenes on either side of it.
“Camille’s purse,” he said, this curveball discovery slamming even anger out of his head. With composure that felt inhuman—robotic—he rose to his feet and stood in front of Natalie. “I hope you have a fantastic explanation for why your murdered friend’s purse is in your coat pocket.”
Chapter 21
Natalie could hear her own breathing and feel air moving into her lungs, but she was still suffocating. Fuzziness spread, dulling her brain, tingling along the sides of her face, prickling her neck and shoulders.
She clawed at the silk lining of her coat pockets. In the right pocket, she found her brown leather gloves; the left was empty. Empty now. She remembered noticing bulk in the pocket when she’d put on the coat and thinking vaguely that there was a hat or rolled scarf in there. She hadn’t cared enough to check.
Gideon loomed in front of her, gripping Camille’s evening bag. She pressed her hand against the outside of her left pocket, flattening the wool. She wanted to accuse him of pretending to find it on her, but she knew he hadn’t. Something had been in her pocket earlier, it was gone now, and she’d felt the friction of him grabbing it away.
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