Share No Secrets

by Carlene Thompson

  Drew smiled. “Adrienne, I’ll leave you in capable hands.”

  “Thank you so much for everything,” she said sincerely. “If you hadn’t come along when you did—”

  “But I did, so don’t dwell on dark thoughts. Say hello to Skye for me.” He turned to Margaret, his smile turning mechanical. “Ms. Taylor.”

  “Mr. Delaney.” Her own smile was stiff, her dark eyes cold. “Although since I have you here, I must say I thought your editorial on Philip in last night’s paper was rather unfair, don’t you?”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t have printed it. But now isn’t the time for a debate. Please take Mrs. Reynolds home and make her comfortable. She’s had a hard evening.”

  As Drew left, Adrienne had a wild desire to call out, “Come back!” For some reason, she didn’t want to be left alone with Margaret. The woman intimidated her, which Adrienne knew was ridiculous. They were both college educated, successful—at least Adrienne believed she was on the road to success—but there was something about Margaret that made Adrienne feel unpolished and bumbling. No more than five feet two, Margaret gave the impression of being much taller with her perfect posture, ever-present high heels, and hair always pulled back in a gleaming black twist, which gave her a look of dignity and maturity although she was only thirty-two. Then there was her body language, graceful yet assertive, and a quick, stunning smile that won over people even if it never seemed to reach her eyes. Her slightly sharp nose and thin lips kept her from being a natural beauty like Julianna or Rachel, but she was certainly striking and emanated a cool, controlled sex appeal.

  She drew near Adrienne, a tiny worry line daring to mar her forehead. “Earlier Mr. Delaney filled me in on your attack, so please don’t feel you have to explain it to me. For now I think trying to keep your mind off what happened would be best for you.” She smiled. “I’ll leave you alone so you can get dressed. Unless you need some help, that is.”

  Adrienne looked at Margaret’s immaculate, expensive pantsuit and thought of her own old jeans, T-shirt, and worn denim jacket soaked with rain. “I can manage but thanks anyway.”

  “Fine,” Margaret said in a way that made Adrienne feel she knew exactly why her help had been declined. “I’ll get you out of here in a jiffy and then we’ll pick up Skye. I’m sure seeing her will make you feel better.”

  “About a hundred percent better.” Adrienne slid off the examining table. “I’m so glad she wasn’t with me.”

  “The attack wouldn’t have happened if she had been.”

  Adrienne looked at her. “What do you mean?”

  “The attacker wouldn’t have been eager to take on two women instead of one. And Skye seems like a strong, quickwitted girl to me. She would have fought.”

  And I do not seem strong, quick-witted, or able to fight, Adrienne flared mentally, but managed an imitation of a smile. ‘Of course, you’re right Two against one.” But she couldn’t resist adding, “But I can hold my own in a fight.”

  “Yes, I believe Philip has said you were always something of a scrapper.” Margaret gave her a disparaging look as if she thought Adrienne had probably indulged in plenty of scraps, no doubt in back alleys and seedy bars. Adrienne couldn’t win with this woman. Margaret was too adept at crushing a person’s image with a look and a few masterfully chosen words. She probably did the same thing to Vicky, Adrienne thought.

  “We couldn’t locate Sheriff Flynn, so there’s a deputy here waiting to take a statement from you,” Margaret went on. “I’ll give you about ten minutes to get dressed before I send him in. Don’t put on your jacket—it’s soaking wet. You’ll catch cold. I have a dry raincoat in the back of my car you can use. And I certainly wish I’d thought to bring a blow-dryer for your hair. It’s hanging in soggy ringlets all over your shoulders.”

  With that Margaret swished out of the door, marching smartly down the corridor to efficiently accomplish “springing” her from this prison, while Adrienne stood in the cold room with her cut forehead and soggy ringlets. She yanked the flimsy gown over her head and slipped into her damp jeans that had gotten filthy at the knees when she fell. She no longer felt like an attack victim deserving sympathy, but instead like a slovenly, tiresome creature purposely messing up everyone’s evening. Honestly, she thought in annoyance, even when Margaret Taylor was being helpful, she still managed to be an absolute menace to one’s self-esteem.

  Before he left the hospital, Drew Delaney stopped at a vending machine. A can of Coke slammed out in return for his quarters and he opened it, drinking deeply as he realized how thirsty he was. It had been a long evening and he was tired. He leaned against the side of the machine, realizing his lower back had begun to hurt after all the hours he’d spent on his feet today. You’re getting old, Delaney, he thought, although he’d never admit it to anyone except himself.

  “I heard downtown that Adrienne Reynolds had been assaulted on the street. How is she?” he heard a man ask. The guy couldn’t have been more than two feet away from Drew, who was hidden beside the vending machine, but the man’s voice sounded familiar.

  “Roughed up a bit,” a woman answered. Margaret Taylor, Drew realized immediately. He’d know that clipped tone anywhere. “It could have been worse if Drew Delaney hadn’t shown up to play the hero.”

  “You sound disappointed that it wasn’t worse.” Who the hell was that? Drew wondered. Deep, self-consciously polished voice. So familiar. “Did you want her to be killed?”

  “Of course not. I’m not a monster, Gavin.”

  Gavin Kirkwood! Drew hadn’t realized Gavin and Margaret had more than a polite acquaintance formed at the Hamilton parties, but they were sounding confidential with each other now. He shrank against the wall, hoping neither came nearer the vending machine and saw him.

  “Does Kit know what’s happened to Adrienne?” Margaret asked.

  “No. She’d be here in a minute if she did. I didn’t stop by The Iron Gate and tell her. I didn’t want to upset her.”

  “Do you really care if she’s upset or not?”

  “Yes. You probably don’t believe it, but I do.”

  “You’re right. I don’t believe it.”

  “I don’t care what you think,” Gavin said.

  Margaret laughed softly. “Why, Gavin, you should care what I think. Don’t forget—you have a lot to lose.”

  After a pause, he almost hissed, “You’re a monster.”

  “Sticks and stones, darling.”

  “Listen, Margaret, I’m not going to let you push me around anymore.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. Our arrangement is off.”

  A beat of silence followed before Margaret said in a soft but somehow dangerous voice, “Our arrangement, as you so delicately put it, is off only when I say it’s off.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I go to your rich wife and I tell her everything. Is that what you want, Gavin? Because you know I don’t make empty threats. You also know you’re nothing without Ellen to give you the kind of life you could never in a million years make for yourself!”

  Drew waited for an angry response from Gavin, but nothing followed. He could almost picture the handsome but characterless Gavin Kirkwood standing in the hall with his mouth slightly open, searching madly in his mind for a scathing reply and coming up dry.

  “I assume your silence indicates acquiescence,” Margaret said briskly. “At least, it does if you know what’s good for you. Good night, Gavin. Run home to Ellen where you’re needed. At least expected. I have everything under control and I intend to keep it that way with no interference from you or anyone else.”

  Margaret marched past the vending machine with her gaze straight ahead. Drew was certain she hadn’t seen him. But five minutes later, after he’d left the hospital and headed for his car in the parking lot, he saw Gavin Kirkwood sitting motionless behind the wheel of his Jaguar, his shoulders slumped, his face desolate.

  2

  “I’m sorry I’ve spoiled
your evening,” Adrienne said when they pulled away from the hospital in Margaret’s car. “I’m sure you had better things to do than play chauffeur for me and Skye.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Margaret smiled. “I was doing nonessential paperwork, just trying to keep myself busy until Philip gets home to tell me how the evening went.”

  Not Vicky and Philip. Just Philip, Adrienne thought, bristling slightly. Vicky definitely didn’t imagine Margaret’s possessive air when it came to Philip, and Adrienne didn’t blame her for resenting it.

  The rain had slacked off to a slight drizzle, but as they glided along in Margaret’s new Thunderbird, Adrienne felt chilled, even wrapped in Margaret’s dry raincoat. Mist circled the streetlights, giving them a ghostly glow, and a cloud cover hid the moon and stars. The evening felt bleak and lonely.

  “I don’t know the address of the woman who took Skye home,” Adrienne finally said to fill the silence. “It’s Mrs. Granger. The daughter’s name is Sherry.”

  “Drew Delaney got the address. I think he even called about an hour ago to tell Skye you’d be fine.”

  “That was thoughtful.”

  “Don’t get carried away with his kindness. He’s a reporter and this is the second big event you’ve been involved in today. Ingratiating himself to you is self-serving. He thinks you’ll be more inclined to give him details about finding Julianna Brent.”

  Adrienne felt strangely annoyed by the comment because she knew Margaret could be right about Drew’s motive. He wasn’t above manipulating people to get what he wanted, even if it was just information. Still, she couldn’t forget the look of genuine alarm and concern in his eyes when he’d tended to her on the rain-washed sidewalk.

  “I’ve offended you,” Margaret stated. “Sorry. I forgot you and Drew were once an item.”

  Damn Philip for giving Margaret that embarrassing tidbit, Adrienne thought. “We went out a few times when I was in high school. That’s all. There is nothing between us.” She paused, thinking of what Margaret would make of that over-reaction. “I’m sorry I snapped. My head hurts.”

  “You’ll feel better when you can take some aspirin get out of those damp clothes, and into a warm bed.”

  They remained quiet until they reached the Granger house. When they pulled in the driveway, Margaret said, “I’ll get Skye. If you go to the door, there will be questions I’m sure you don’t feel like answering.”

  “You’re right. But if Mrs. Granger is like me, she won’t let Skye leave with someone she doesn’t know.”

  “Mrs. Granger doesn’t know you either, Adrienne.”

  The woman had the infuriating habit of always being right, Adrienne thought, peeved. No wonder she drove Vicky crazy.

  When they reached a cozy brick two-story home, Adrienne stayed in the car while Margaret went for Skye. The door opened and a bulb burning in a carriage light illuminated a plump woman, obviously Mrs. Granger, who nodded, clasped her hands as if in concern, smiled, leaned out the doorway and waved to Adrienne, then disappeared into the house. In a moment, Skye shot out the door, calling something over her shoulder to Mrs. Granger, and dashed to the car. Adrienne stepped out and the girl flung her arms around her mother.

  ‘Oh Mom, are you all right? Mrs. Granger gave me some stupid story about you spraining your ankle, but I knew it wasn’t true. What happened? Did you walk in on a robbery at Photo Finish? That’s what I’ve been imagining. That you got shot trying to wrestle the gun away from the robber.”

  “Good heavens!” Adrienne laughed in amazement “I never dreamed you thought I was so brave! Actually, I got mugged before I reached Photo Finish.”

  “Mugged?” Skye drew back and looked at her. “I thought that only happened in places like New York City.”

  “I guess the craze has finally reached even Point Pleasant, West Virginia.”

  Skye delicately touched the bandage on Adrienne’s forehead. “What’s under that? Something bad?”

  “A cut Minor. A couple of stitches.” Four, to be accurate, but she wanted to minimize the situation. “I banged my head on the sidewalk when the mugger knocked me down. Other than that, I’m just a little sore and bruised.”

  Skye hugged her gently. “I’m so happy. But Mrs. Granger should have told me the truth. At least then I wouldn’t have imagined something lots worse.”

  ‘Telling you I had a sprained ankle was my idea. Don’t blame Mrs. Granger. I keep forgetting you’re not a little girl who has to be shielded from everything.”

  Margaret was already seated behind the steering wheel. “All right, ladies. Time to go to the Hamilton house.”

  “Aunt Vicky’s?” Skye asked. “Why?”

  “The mugger took my purse,” Adrienne said. “He has keys to our house. It’s safer for us to stay with Vicky until I get the locks changed.”

  “Brandon!” Skye cried. “He’s there all alone!”

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Margaret said offhandedly. “You can check on him in the morning.”

  Skye was indignant. “In the morning! He hasn’t had his dinner. He hasn’t been let out since morning. Besides, he’ll be scared in a dark house all by himself. We have to go get him.”

  “Skye, dogs are quite self-sufficient,” Margaret said with authority. “He probably won’t even miss you.”

  That did it. Skye flushed. Even if Adrienne had agreed with Margaret, which she didn’t, she knew Skye would retrieve her dog if she had to walk the two miles to their house to get him. “If we’re spending the night at Aunt Vicky’s, then Brandon is coming, too.” Skye sounded like a supremely self-confident twenty-five-year-old not about to take guff from anyone. “Ms. Taylor, please take us to pick up Brandon.”

  “Skye, really, you’re being silly—”

  “I have to agree with Skye,” Adrienne said, earning an appreciative smile from her daughter. “Either we get the dog or we spend the night in our own house.”

  Margaret sighed gustily, stared straight ahead, and finally muttered, “Oh, all right.” She was furious. Adrienne didn’t care. She even enjoyed the woman’s frustration a bit and she knew Vicky and Rachel would relish hearing about Margaret’s iron will being overridden by Skye.

  After they picked up Brandon, Margaret cringing as the big, long-haired black dog piled onto the immaculate pale upholstery of the backseat, they headed for Vicky’s. As soon as Adrienne saw the house, her spirits sank even lower. Although Adrienne knew her own home was an interior designer’s nightmare—a hodgepodge of clashing styles and colors and patterns—it seemed like a vibrant, living thing next to Vicky’s stately white Colonial completely furnished in shades of pallid pink, chilly blue, and stark white. Nothing encouraged a guest to enter, kick off his shoes on an Aubusson rug, and curl up on a stiff-backed, brocade-covered sofa.

  The house had belonged to Philip’s wealthy Great-aunt Octavia, who had raised him after his parents died when he was young, and the old lady’s rigid, chilly presence still permeated every room. Vicky had wanted to make changes in the décor, but Philip allowed only identical replacements of furnishings deemed too worn to remain. A noted interior designer had stated in his column that the home was a pristinely beautiful sanctuary. Adrienne thought it looked about as cozy and nurturing as an ice castle. A few carpet spots, live plants bearing a couple of dead leaves, a TV Guide lying open on an end table, and a mass-produced picture in a cheap frame would have been an improvement as far as Adrienne was concerned.

  But she knew change was out of the question. Octavia Hamilton had never intended the house to look as if it belonged to ordinary people with ordinary lives, and her nephew seemed determined to carry on the tradition. The only change Philip had made since his great-aunt died was to set a towering pole bearing a huge American flag in front of the house. Seeing it always made Adrienne feel as if she were arriving at a government building instead of her sister’s place.

  Although lights burned throughout the house, none of the family had returned. Margaret unlocked a side do
or and they entered the large, stark white and stainless steel kitchen. She pointed to a small room to the left. “The dog can stay in the laundry room.”

  ‘The laundry room!” Skye was appalled. “He always sleeps by my bed.”

  Margaret gave her a tight smile. “In your house. Not in this house. Philip doesn’t want animal hair all over the place. Rachel has never had a pet.”

  “And that’s a shame!” Skye looked reproachfully at Margaret. “Rachel told me when she was little she really wanted a pet. I don’t think she should have been denied having something to love because her dad was afraid of getting some animal hairs on the furniture.”

  “And urine and feces on the antique rugs,” Margaret returned.

  “Dogs can be house-trained. Brandon is,” Skye asserted. “He would never make a mess in the house, would he, Mom?”

  “No, he wouldn’t,” Adrienne said mildly. “He’s really a well-behaved dog, Margaret. And, after all, this is my sister’s house too, and I know she doesn’t mind having dogs. If I break the rules, I’ll confront Philip. I won’t ask you to take the responsibility.”

  Anger flashed in Margaret’s dark eyes for a moment. Then she said in a carefully expressionless voice, “As you point out, this is not my house, but I was hired to carry out Mr. Hamilton’s instructions. So I must insist that you put the dog in the laundry room for now and take up the matter with Philip later.”

  Adrienne thought, What about Vicky? Doesn’t she have any say around here? But she decided picking a fight with Margaret would only make the evening worse.

  Adrienne nodded at Skye. The girl looked at both her and Margaret resentfully before leading the big black and white dog into the small room. Margaret sighed. “She’s upset. It’s better that I never had children. I don’t have a way with them.”

  She sounded almost wistful and Adrienne felt a twinge of sympathy for her. Maybe after years of directing political campaigns, of giving orders to dozens of people, of feeling ultimate responsibility for the success or failure of a candidate, Margaret didn’t realize she came off at all times like a general commanding the troops, a demeanor that didn’t encourage warm relationships with teenage girls. Adrienne wondered if Margaret had always been so bossy and self-assured, or if her own teenage years been filled with normal teenage insecurities and sensibilities.