by Goulart, Ron
Grunting again, he opened his eyes.
He found himself staring at a pair of large, black dress shoes. The shoes had feet in them.
Taking a couple of deep breaths, he started pushing himself up off the stone floor in front of the parlor fireplace. "Is that me?"
Someone was breathing loudly in an odd, snoring way. "Nope, it's not me. It's Bjornsen."
The chauffeur was sprawled on his back, feet pointing at the empty fireplace. He was unconscious, breathing in and out in a hoarse, grating way through his open mouth.
Neither H. J. nor Mardy was in the room.
"Bjornsen." Ben knelt, giving the man's shoulder a few shakes. "Dean? What happened here?"
The big man went on snoring.
There was, Ben noticed now, a large, discolored lump over Bjornsen's left ear.
"Somebody slugged him." Ben stood again. "H. J.?" he called out, his voice still a shade rusty.
There was no answer.
"Okay, I hit my head when he shoved me over." Ben glanced around the parlor. The gun that he'd been holding was gone and so was the briefcase. "But who bopped Bjornsen?"
Maybe H. J. and the Timberlake heiress jumped the guy and used the gun to club him with. If so, where had they gotten to?
He made his way across the chilly room.
The hall was empty, too. "H. J.? Mardy?"
There was no one out on the porch of the Victorian mansion. The station wagon, the Fiero, and his own car were all still parked down in front of the ramshackle garage.
Glancing toward his feet, he noticed a slip of folded white paper lying next to the balding welcome mat. It was the map the realtor had given them.
Now, though, there was something written on the back of the memo page. He bent, making himself briefly dizzy, and grabbed it.
"Juster" was written in pencil in H. J.'s familiar scrawl. "Juster? Where the hell did he come from?" Ben went back inside the house. "More important, where did he go?"
Chapter 24
Ben gambled on whom to call and on what voice to use.
Sitting in the parlor of the old mansion, with the unconscious Bjornsen spread out before him, he made his first phone call.
Juster's sister answered on the third ring. "Hello?"
"Hi, sweetheart," he replied in his Don T. Timberlake voice.
"Mr. Timberlake, I wish you wouldn't use expressions like that."
"Bingo," he said to himself. To Linda Albright he said, "Sure, sure, love. Now let me talk to Mark."
"Mark's not here, Mr. Timberlake. He left to get ready for his meeting with you."
"And that's right where I'm having a problem, dear," he explained in the lazy nasal voice. "I wrote down everything about the location on a slip of paper, and now I can't seem to find the damn thing. Fill me in, can you?"
"Well, yes. He's going to be at the McNelly Gardens."
"Right, I remember now."
"In the caretaker's house just inside the gates."
"It's all coming back to me, hon."
"A friend of Mark's is the regular caretaker, but he had to go to Florida unexpectedly for a few days and so Mark's housesitting. That's why he picked the place for your meeting. You know, the gardens have been closed to the public for nearly five years. A real shame, too, because—"
"Hey, sweetheart, if we don't quit schmoozing I'll be late for the damn meeting."
"But that's not for an hour yet. You have—"
"Got to go. Bye." He hung up, leaned back for a few seconds. "Good guess. Couple of them, in fact. Juster has been in contact with Don T., and 'Juster's sister knows a lot more about things than she let on this afternoon."
He picked up the phone again and punched out another number.
"Willmur Emergency Services," answered an efficient-sounding woman.
"This is Dr. Mackinson," Ben said in his E. G. Marshall voice. He gave her the address of the mansion. "There's a patient here in the parlor with a serious head injury, and we'll need an ambulance at once."
"Can't you get him to your own hospital, doctor?"
"That's, unfortunately, quite impossible." He repeated the address. "Please, don't delay."
After hanging up, he turned on several lights, then took his leave.
"This isn't like you, Mark," said Mardy, sounding disappointed.
"Yes, it is. You really don't know me all that well."
"What this amounts to," pointed out H. J., "is kidnapping."
"Nonsense," said the lean, bearded photographer, who looked nothing like Lincoln. "I've merely escorted you to a business meeting."
"The fact that you've escorted us against our will, toting a gun," H. J. told him, "is really going to impress a judge. He might not think too much of your slugging Bjornsen either."
The three of them were in the cozy living room of the caretaker's house at the edge of the McNelly Gardens.
H. J. and Mardy shared a fat, flowered sofa. Juster, holding a snub-nosed .32 revolver, was in a black leather armchair.
"Once Mardy talks to certain people," he said, "she'll realize I haven't really done anything illegal."
"Possibly, but I'm sure as heck going to stick to my original opinion."
The blonde asked, "What is this all about, Mark?"
"Somebody wants to meet you."
"Who? What are you talking about?"
H. J. said, "He's not running an escort service. I imagine one of the Timberlakes is coming here to look you over."
"That name was mentioned back at the Shatsworth house," Mardy recalled. "Who are they?"
"Soap," said H. J.
"They're a very wealthy family," said Juster.
"And why would they want to meet me?"
H. J. started to reach for the briefcase, which Juster had brought along. It was lying on an end table. "If you skim through this stuff, you'll—"
"Leave that where it is," ordered Juster.
Shrugging, H. J. sat back. "Your pornographer friend found out that you're probably an heiress."
"A what?" She looked from H. J. to Juster.
"Maybe," he said. "Just maybe."
"C'mon, you know you believe she is," said H. J.
"How did you find out?"
"I'm not completely certain even now, so—"
"Lloyd Dobkin must've let something slip. He did talk to you, didn't he?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. But that was really just to arrange for the use of some of my shots in Bare."
"In Bare?" asked Mardy. "You actually sent pictures of me in to a sex magazine?"
"What the devil did you think I was going to do with them?"
"Use them in a book of artistic shots, that's what you claimed "
"No, I never told you anything like that."
"My God, thousands of men staring at—"
"Naked is naked, Mardy. Whether you call it art or porn. You knew damn well that people would be looking at those—"
"You contacted the Timberlakes, didn't you?" H. J. eyed him. Juster glanced away. "Well, yes."
"And someone is coming here to meet you."
"Very shortly."
"Then here's something to think about," she said. "Back in Brimstone, Connecticut, my hometown at present, a fellow named Larry Dahlman was murdered—he was Lloyd Dobkin's brother-in-law. I had the notion that whoever stole the folder that's in the briefcase also murdered him."
"What's this got to—"
"Just now, though, we had a long chat with the fellow who admits taking the folder. He swears he didn't kill Larry."
Juster frowned. "The man is probably lying."
"He may be," admitted H. J. "If he isn't, though, then somebody else did Larry in. And that somebody could well be one of the Timberlakes."
"Bravo, sweetheart. That's a neat piece of reasoning." A small, dark man had stepped into the room.
He walked up to the seated Juster, pressed the barrel of his .45 automatic to the back of his neck, and took the revolver away from him.
Chapt
er 25
Ben approached the caretaker's house from the rear, after having climbed over the high, rusty wrought-iron fence that circled the fifteen acres of public gardens. The day was fading away, and a frail mist was starting to drift along the weedy pathways.
Looming up huge on his right was an immense turn-of-the-century greenhouse, all glass and iron. Many of its dusty panes were cracked. Atop it, several shadowy birds were just settling down to roost.
Doves, Ben surmised. Or possibly pigeons.
On his left ran a series of high hedges that had once represented a parade of topiary animals. Unclipped for years, the participants had long since lost their original shapes. In the misty dusk Ben could discern a great hulking creature that had once been an elephant. Ahead of it slithered a shaggy blur that might have been an alligator long ago.
There were lights on in several of the rooms in the two-story wooden house. An outside staircase went from the backyard to the dark second-floor porch. Ben made a note of that in passing.
Then, as he neared the front of the house, he all at once tripped over something. He fell, sprawling across it on the grassy pathway.
What he'd fallen over was the body of a lean, bearded man. There was enough light spilling out of the nearby house for him to see the bullet wound in the dead man's temple.
He gingerly untangled himself from the body and crawled a few feet away into the shadows of the shaggy animals. "Jesus, this must be Mark Juster," he realized. "'And H. J. was with him."
Off in the shadows, just beyond the last overgrown beast, a foot scraped on gravel. "Who's that over there?" a rough voice demanded.
"I've never," Don T. Timberlake informed them, "had much patience."
"Where's Mark?" asked Mardy.
"Outside, sweetheart."
"There was a shot."
Timberlake, who was sitting in a wicker rocker with his automatic resting in the palm of his right hand, smiled at her. "That's right," he confirmed. "But right now, hon, I've got to have a look at your ass."
"Suppose," said H. J. from the flowered sofa, "she's not Sue Ellen Timberlake?"
"Won't make a hell of a lot of difference," he told her. "I'm going to have to get rid of the lady anyway. You, too, love. But I'd like to satisfy myself as to whether she is or not."
"You and your sister aren't behaving in a very cordial way."
"That bimbo? Hell, Laura doesn't know a damn thing about this."
"And how did you find out?"
"I picked up a few hints from friends in the media that Lloyd Dobkin was digging into something pertaining to the missing kid," he replied. "I contacted Larry Dahlman, a longtime buddy, and asked him to find out more about what exactly was going on."
"Did you tell him to kill Dobkin?"
"No, dear, that was entirely his own idea," said Timberlake. "Not a bad one actually, except that Larry then decided he could take over all the material his brother-in-law had collected and sell it to me. Enterprising, but way too greedy of him."
"So you killed him?"
"Had it done."
"You never got hold of Dobkin's file, so you must have found your way here some other way," H. J. said. "Juster contacted you, didn't he?"
"Exactly, sweetheart. His problem was he thought he could hold me up the way Larry had tried to do," said Timberlake. "His asking price was lower, but it struck me that getting rid of the bastard was a much simpler course." Smiling thinly, he rose up out of his creaking rocker.
"So you double-crossed him."
"Sure, dear." He pointed at Mardy. "Let's take a look at that birthmark."
She shook her head. "No, I won't do that."
"I've got a fellow named Miguel Garcia resting his buns out in the Porsche, sweet," he explained. "I can have Miguelito come in and hold you down while I lift your skirt. Thing is, he's liable to hurt you quite a lot while that's going on."
The young woman looked at H. J.
H. J. told her, "You might as well."
"All right."
"Smart move." Smiling, Timberlake thrust the .45 into his waistband and rubbed his hands together.
Moving deeper into the concealing shadows of the high hedge, Ben called out, "Who the hell do you think it is, asshole?" He used Don T. Timberlake's voice.
"Mr. Timberlake? I thought you was in the house with the women."
"Obviously I'm not," he said. "Now explain to me why you left this stiff here."
A tall, lean man appeared around the edge of a shaggy topiary beast. He was slightly hunched, squinting into the shadows that concealed Ben. Resting in the crook of his arm was a shotgun. "Hey, you told me to leave him where he fell, and then we'd bring the van around after we took care of the women. Put them all in at once."
Ben said, "Well, asshole, I want him moved right now Do you understand that?"
The man walked up to the body and crouched. "You know, Mr. Timberlake, I'm damn certain you told me not to—"
"Okay, drop the shotgun next to the body." Ben had moved up behind and was poking a just-found chunk of branch into his back.
"You aren't—"
"Quiet. Shed the damn shotgun."
"Okay, okay." He let it fall.
Appropriating the weapon, Ben discarded his branch. "Stay right there, don't make any noise," he advised. "'Are there any other guards out here?"
"No, only me."
Ben poked him with the gun barrel. "You sure?"
"Yeah, just me and Mr. Timberlake came here. You don't have to break my frigging spine."
"Who are you, by the way?"
"Miguel Garcia."
"Thought I recognized the voice. Another chauffeur," Ben said, remembering having encountered the man in Manhattan a few days ago. "Put your hands behind your back, Miguelito."
Using his own belt, Ben tied the man's hands behind him. He utilized Garcia's belt to truss up his ankles. With the chauffeur's handkerchief and his own necktie he fashioned a gag.
"Be back for you later," he promised. He headed for the outside stairs that led up to the dark second floor of the house.
H. J. pointed out, "It could just be a coincidence."
"Makes no difference," said Timberlake as he returned to his rocker.
Mardy, dressed again, was sitting forlornly in an armchair, hugging herself. "You mean I . . . that I'm not who I think I am?"
Glancing at his watch, Timberlake said, "It's time to be moving along, girls."
"You must be curious," said H. J.
"About what?"
"About whether or not Mardy actually could be your missing cousin."
"She's got the damn butterfly birthmark on her ass, honey."
"Sure, but suppose there's no possibility she really could be Sue Ellen?" prodded H. J. "If, for example, she remembers her real parents or that all her records show—"
"Are you stalling, for some reason?" He left the chair, turning the automatic in her direction. "In hopes, perhaps, that that clown you used to be married to will come riding to the rescue?"
"The idea had crossed my mind, yes."
"Well, you can—"
"Matter of fact," said Mardy quietly, "I was adopted. Sort of."
Timberlake scowled at her. "What do you mean, sort of?"
"I was raised by my . . . Well, I thought she was my aunt. Her name was Hazel Cranford, and she passed away three years ago," explained the young woman "'A month or so before Aunt Hazel died, she told me that I hadn't been adopted by her in any official way. My birth certificate, my baby records were faked. So were the stories she'd told me about my parents dying in auto accident."
Timberlake inched closer to her. "So who the hell are you?"
"My aunt told me, or so she'd always believed, the daughter of her brother. That is, a daughter born to a woman he wasn't married to."
"What was this wayward brother's name? Cranford, too?"
Mardy shook her head. "No, Cranford was her married name. Her brother was Matt Reinmann."
"Wow, another chauf
feur," H. J. sat up straighter.
Timberlake asked her, "What are you nattering about?"
"Apparently you aren't up on your family history," she told him. "Since I've just read Lloyd's account of the Timberlake kidnapping, I remembered the name. Matt Reinmann was your uncle's chauffeur. He wasn't suspected of anything at the time, and he died of a sudden heart attack about a week after the little girl was taken."
Mardy said, "Yes, he did die right after he left me with his sister."
Timberlake sat down again. The wicker rocker groaned. "He kidnapped the damn baby, stowed it with his sister, and then dropped dead before he could make a try for ransom. Christ almighty."
H. J. said, "She really is Sue Ellen Timberlake."
After a few seconds he announced, "It isn't going to do her a damn bit of good."
"Wouldn't it be wiser to accept her as one of the family?"
"Don't try to bullshit me, dear. People are already dead, so we can't gloss over this." He stood. "Besides, I've already decided that there are enough Timberlakes in the world. We don't need one more."
"Unfortunately, you're not the only one who knows about her," reminded H. J.
"I'll remedy that and—"
"Don, you little putz!" came a voice that sounded like that of Laura Timberlake Barks. "What in the name of God are you up to now?" She sounded as though she were coming downstairs from the second floor.
Surprised, Timberlake turned to stare toward the open doorway.
H. J. yanked up a table lamp and smacked his gun hand as he turned away from her.
Timberlake howled, dropped the automatic, cursed. Before he could stoop to retrieve it, she booted him in the crotch from behind.
While he was doubled up clutching himself, she took possession of the gun.
Carrying the shotgun, Ben stepped across the threshold. "It worked," he said.
"Yep, even though your Laura wasn't all that great," said H. J.
"It was," he said, grinning, "sufficient."
Chapter 26
The evening of June 13 was warm and clear. The Sound out beyond the windows of Orlando's restaurant was calm.
"It's depressing," remarked H. J., sipping her white wine.