The Other Laura

by Sheryl Lynn

  “Ryder?” She leaned her shoulder against his and lowered her eyelids. “What would you think about having a baby?”

  He choked on his lemonade. He coughed to clear his burning throat while she thumped him on the back.

  “Are you ail right?” she asked

  In the back of his head, a little warning voice told him he’d never be all right again. He couldn’t undo what they’d done, but if he had a trace of decency remaining he would stop compounding the problem. Until he had the proof he needed, that’s what he ought to do.

  He’d hired a private eye to investigate Teresa and see what evidence he could find; he was sorry as could be that he had done it. Every time the telephone rang, part of him died in apprehension. He knew if he was right in his suspicions, there would be hell to pay.

  Especially if she was pregnant.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Are you—” his voice dropped to a whisper “—expecting?”

  She sighed heavily. “No. But I want to be.” A smile wreathed her face and she dabbed at his chin with a napkin. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Let’s have a baby. Let’s have ten.”

  Babies had never crossed his mind. When Abby had been born, Laura had her tubes tied so she’d never get pregnant again. Birth control had never been an issue.

  She settled back on the blanket. Twisting the napkin in her fingers, she shrugged. “I talked to Dr. Millhouse and he doesn’t think there is any reason I can’t have a baby He recommended an obstetrician. What do you think?”

  Just how closely had Dr. Millhouse examined the woman in front of him? His thoughts drifted back to when Abby was a baby. Every day he’d bring her to the studio, and she’d lay in her car seat and watch him while he painted. For months she’d been like a little growth on his arm as he carried her around the way she liked to be held, draped belly-down over his forearm. She’d learned how to walk by holding on to the back of his legs. Her first word had been Da-da.

  Babies, he’d decided, were as much fun as horses.

  “Ryder?”

  “Maybe we ought to wait, darlin’. Give you some more time to heal. Besides, the doc says you’ll need another surgery on your face—”

  “I don’t think the nerve damage is getting worse. Mostly the surgery is cosmetic. I’d rather have a baby.” She touched his cheek, her fingertip a flower kiss. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” He pretended interest in the picnic basket. He picked up a cupcake.

  “I’ll be a good mother. I promise. If I have trouble, I’ll hire a nanny. And Mrs. Weatherbee will help. Or I’ll go to classes and counseling. I’ll do anything.”

  He peeled the cupcake, not knowing what to say. A yearning ache formed low in his gut. He did want more children. An even dozen would suit him fine.

  Her smile lost its sparkle. “I guess a baby will tie you down even more than you are now. You miss your friends, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  She rested her chin on her fist. “I saw the letter and photographs your friends in Texas sent you. You’re missing a lot because of me. Parties and art shows and camp outs.”

  He realized she was talking about the annual Cowboy Artists of America trail drive and get-together. He’d been boot printed into the CAA nine years ago, and this was the first year he’d missed the annual functions that went with the privilege of membership.

  He wished it was that simple. “My friends understand. They’re good old boys. They want you to get better just as much as I do.”

  “You don’t...resent me?”

  “No, darlin’, not at all.”

  Dread closed his throat. Resentment didn’t begin to describe what she was going to feel toward him if he found proof that she was actually Teresa Gallagher.

  STOP IT, stop it, stop it, Laura admonished herself. What did she intend to do if she found proof of Ryder’s infidelity, anyway? Divorce him? She loved the man so much, she’d probably forgive him if he kept a harem. Would she inform Becky Solerno? Ha! Considering her own past crimes, Laura might forgive Ryder for shooting her, too. It made not the slightest difference if he had had a girlfriend. Surely she was past history by now.

  Still, every time she entered the office with the good intentions of helping Ryder with the paperwork he so obviously hated to do, nasty little suspicions popped up like weasels out of a stump. She had to know what kind of woman could lure Ryder outside his wedding vows. All she wanted was a name, a face. For her own satisfaction and peace of mind, she had to know.

  So when she opened mail, she sought any personal notes for declarations of love written between the lines. She inspected telephone bills. Any number she couldn’t match to galleries or printers or suppliers, she followed up on with a discreet call to see if a woman answered. She examined credit card bills for the purchases of gifts.

  Today, on the pretext of updating the file cabinets, she sought old love letters or phone numbers.

  Part of the nagging, chronic jealousy had to do with the book dream. The puzzle of the checkbook ledger wore on her like a dull knife sawing across her nerves.

  For the first few nights after she and Ryder began sleeping together in the same bed, she’d slept blessedly free of dreams of any kind. But now it was back, more real and more terrifying than ever before. In it a woman— herself—screamed her hatred and fury and wild demands for death. The word blackmail had become part of the dream, too. Twice the dream had awakened her, soaked in sweat and weeping in terror. Day by day her conviction grew that the dream wasn’t a dream at all, but a memory of the day she was shot. Knowledge, she prayed, would kill the dream before she turned around and saw it was Ryder who pursued her.

  She found a file containing birth certificates. Curious, she opened an envelope marked with Abby’s name. It showed Abby had been born in Phoenix, Arizona, on December 12 to Laura and Donald Weis. December... Laura had been in the hospital for her daughter’s sixth birthday. She started to slip the certificate back in the envelope when a prickling sensation of things remembered stopped her.

  She stared at the printing on the cockle-textured certificate and rubbed her thumb over the raised seal of the vital records clerk. It meant something. In her mind’s eye she clearly saw a sienna-toned certificate, and stuck to the paper was a sticky note. It said...it said... bunny trail.

  Bunny trail?

  Groaning in disgust, she shoved the certificate in its envelope. Bunny trail! She really was losing her mind.

  “MR. HUDSON, I have the information you requested concerning Miss Teresa Gallagher. Would you care to meet at my office?”

  The private investigator’s voice sent chills of pure dread running up and down Ryder’s spine. Suddenly cold, he passed a hand over his eyes. In the weeks since he’d hired the man to find what he could about his former assistant, Ryder had run the gamut of emotions from hoping for the truth to praying that no evidence existed one way or another so that all his fears that Laura wasn’t Laura were so much smoke.

  Guilt was killing him.

  Laura—Teresa—wore on his brain the way a water drip wore on a rock. Because of her he was living his dream. He spent his days painting, blissfully content in knowing mother and daughter were doing fine without him running interference. Meals were family affairs, sometimes noisy with everyone talking at once, but always pleasant. Laura was resuming Teresa’s assistant role, handling his calls, mail and the bills, leaving him free to worry only about his painting. He found himself as eager to leave his studio at day’s end as he was eager to get to work in the mornings.

  The best part of all was Abby. Laura was strict with her, insisting on good manners and safety, but never unkind. She encouraged Abby’s interest in horses and other animals, never minding if the kid got dirty. Mother and daughter spent a lot of time together, reading, swimming and seeing to the redecorating of the house.

  And the nights...about that he felt guiltiest of all. He didn’t want to cheat on his wife, but Laura thought she was his wife, so
it wasn’t really cheating. A weak argument under the light of day, but at night, facing her as she stretched out silky as a cat on his bed while those big brown eyes teased him with come-hither glances and her lips were moist and ready to work magic... He couldn’t stay away from her. She loved him. Around her he felt ten feet tall and mightier than Superman.

  For the first time in his life he truly understood what it meant to love and be loved, simply and honestly.

  But you’re not being honest, are you? Ryder shoved aside the thought—and fear about what Laura might do if she found the truth—that he’d hidden his suspicions from her. If the private eye had no hard, irrefutable evidence proving Laura was Teresa, then Ryder intended to drop the matter completely. After all, Laura had spent most of her thirty-three years trying to be anybody except Laura. It made perfect sense for her to assume another identity—even the identity of sweet Teresa Gallagher.

  If there was no proof, then he’d accept the bounty fate had dropped in his lap and be happy.

  But if proof existed that Laura was Teresa...he’d rope that cow when it was flushed from the scrub.

  Two hours after the phone call, he parked his old four-by-four in the big parking lot of the brick-and-glass building where the private eye had his office. Traffic noise from nearby I-25 made the air rumble. The building was as anonymous as a mail out from an insurance salesman, and about as personable. At this time of day the lot was full of cars, but not a person was in sight. Still, he kept his hat on his head and sunglasses on his face as he crossed the lot, entered the building and took the stairs to the second floor.

  The private eye’s office had only a number on the brass marker to distinguish it. Ryder steeled himself and walked inside.

  Park Lewis was a former homicide detective. Once upon a time, Ryder’s agent had hired Lewis to investigate Laura’s background. Ryder hadn’t appreciated it at the time—especially when handed evidence that Laura had not one but three former husbands—but Lewis had shown objective professionalism and discretion.

  A receptionist greeted him politely. Ryder pulled off his hat and introduced himself. She showed Ryder directly to Lewis’s inner office. The man sat behind a huge desk with a mirror-shiny surface. His broad homely face gave away nothing about his emotions. He rested a beefy hand atop a large Tyvek envelope.

  “How are you doing, sir?” the private eye asked mildly. He smiled at the receptionist who brought coffee for Ryder. His smile said, go away, and she did, closing the door behind her.

  Ryder looked hungrily at the envelope. He wanted to take it and go home.

  Lewis said, “Mind if I smoke?”

  Ryder didn’t care if he set himself on fire, as long as he handed over that envelope.

  Lewis lit up a Camel and dragged deeply before blowing the smoke toward an air-freshening machine. “You are aware that Teresa Gallagher is wanted by the police for questioning in connection to your wife’s assault.”

  “I know that.”

  “You should also know that if I happen to locate Miss Gallagher, I have to tell the cops. Otherwise that makes me guilty of withholding information and interfering with the investigation of a felony.”

  Ryder’s heart executed a painful flip-flop. If Lewis had located Teresa, then Laura was actually Laura. That meant he could go home and love her. He could love her the way she wanted. The way he was dying to love her.

  “You found her.”

  “No. But I think I can. If you want me to pursue this.”

  “Let me see what you’ve got.”

  Lewis made no move to hand over the envelope. “I’m picking up some weird vibes, sir. I have to be honest with you. I don’t feel good about this.”

  Ryder clenched his jaw. He doubted lunging across the shiny desk top and ripping the envelope out of the PI’s hand would be the polite thing to do. “I don’t understand.”

  “Do you know why the cops think Miss Gallagher might be involved in the assault?”

  Ryder pulled off the glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “They think Tess and I were having an affair. We weren’t. She was my assistant, nothing more.” He focused on his knees, afraid Lewis would see the lie in his eyes... weren’t having an affair. What label fit his situation now?

  “Uh-huh. I don’t care if you were or not. None of my business. What is my business is that there are witnesses and circumstances that point to Miss Gallagher as being more than a mere material witness. She’d told a neighbor that your wife is a thief and a liar and that she’d been fired unfairly. In summation, she pretty much said she intended to get even. She also told her landlady that she was on her way to visit you. This happened to be the same day of your wife’s accident.”

  “The police never told me about that.”

  Lewis chuckled and ground out his cigarette. “That’s because the police think you fired the shot. If they’d found the assault weapon anywhere on your property, you’d be in jail now. But that’s neither here nor there. I’m going to give you some advice. You can take it or not, it makes no difference to me, except my conscience says to speak up.” He shoved the envelope across the tabletop. “This is yours. You paid for it. My advice is, don’t open it. Burn it. Don’t bother looking for this girl. Forget she ever existed.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you shot your wife, sir, and this girl is involved, then if she’s found, she will implicate you. They always do. Trust me. Always.”

  Ryder bristled. “I didn’t hurt my wife.” He picked up the envelope.

  Lewis lit another cigarette. “Do you think Miss Gallagher shot your wife? Is that why you’re looking for her?”

  Ryder kept a firm hold on the envelope and his emotions as he slid on his sunglasses. “Thank you for your tune, Mr. Lewis.” He rose.

  “I work on my instincts, and they’re dancing a jig right now. Something weird is going on. You just dumped five hundred bucks for a background check. That’s unusual behavior, Mr. Hudson. Has this girl contacted you? Talk to me, maybe I can help.”

  Tempting, very tempting. Ryder was used to keeping his own counsel, but guilty secrets sat ill with him. “You were a cop, right?”

  “Twenty-six years.”

  “So let me ask you a hypothetical question. What if Teresa did have something to do with...my wife. What if she was involved with the accident. Only she doesn’t exactly know she had anything to do with it.”

  “I’m not following, sir. Your wife was shot, deliberately. Her car was wrecked, but the wreck didn’t cause it to go over the cliff. It was pushed off. I can’t imagine how anyone could remain unaware.” He steepled his fingers and tucked them under his fleshy chin. “You’re wearing the face of a man who has a lot on his mind. Do you know something?”

  Not yet...

  Ryder started to turn away. The envelope seemed to burn his hand, and the idea of opening it turned him raw and aching inside. “Mr. Lewis, you’ve been around. I imagine not much happening in this world surprises you.”

  “I’ve been caught flat-footed once or twice.”

  “What if somebody did something...criminal, only he doesn’t remember doing it? Suppose a fellow robbed a bank then got himself conked on the head and didn’t remember being a robber. Is he still a bank robber?”

  “I imagine a good attorney could make some interesting arguments, but yes, he’s still a bank robber. Does this pertain to your wife’s amnesia?”

  Knowing he’d said too much, Ryder laughed uneasily. “Just campfire talk, Mr. Lewis. Thank you much for your time.” He strode out of the office.

  He made it to the stairwell before the lure of the envelope snagged him. In the relative privacy behind the heavy steel door, he tore open the envelope and pulled out the top sheet, an invoice for services rendered. He upended the package and caught the falling contents in his left hand.

  A name leaped off the page—Antoinette Gallagher. Deceased. Relationship to subject—mother.

  Antoinette Gallagher née Artois had worked for the
JCPenney company in their fine jewelry department for years before being stricken by breast cancer. And her grave, most likely, had a brass marker and a plastic holder for flowers.

  Ryder staggered against the wall and bumped his back.

  His Laura wasn’t Laura.

  With his throat so tight, he thought he might choke. But he made himself read. Teresa Mane Gallagher, age twenty-six, daughter of John, decreased, and Antoinette, deceased. Formerly of Pueblo, Colorado, she’d attended the University of Colorado in Colorado Springs. She owed sixteen thousand dollars in student loans, a debt that was now almost a year in arrears. She owed another twenty-some-odd thousand to Westworth Medical Corporation for bills her mother’s illness had accrued. Her last known address was a second-floor apartment in a converted Victorian home in Monument, Colorado. She’d been a member of the Methodist church and she had sung in the choir. Her last known employer was Ryder Hudson.

  Interviews with friends, neighbors and acquaintances all said the same thing. Teresa was a shy, sweet, unassuming girl whose biggest ambitions had been to pay off her debts and buy a little house in a pine forest. Other than the landlady, who had heard Teresa say she was going to get even with Laura Hudson, no one had ever heard her say a bad word about anybody.

  She had no criminal record. No signs of mental instability. No strange or violent behavior. After losing her job with Ryder, she’d immediately found another job as a bookkeeper for an old family friend who owned a chain of convenience stores in Pueblo. She’d packed and moved from her apartment. All she owned, except for an old couch she’d given to her neighbor, had fit into her car. She’d never reported for her first day on the job. Her disappearance had distressed many people, not one of whom believed she could have had anything to do with the shooting of Laura Hudson.

  The dozens of arguments he’d had with her about what she remembered replayed in Ryder’s mind. All of it was right here in the report—and Laura Hudson would have known none of it. While he and the doctors had been convincing her she was making up a past to fill the void in her brain, she’d been telling them the truth.