“How are you doing?” I asked.
“Better—I’m hoping they’ll release me today,” she said. “I still have to work on that show.”
I was actually much happier with her in the hospital, but said, “Great. Is the police guard still with you?”
“Hasn’t left the door,” she said.
“Good.”
“Do you really think it’s necessary?” she asked. “I still don’t know why anyone would hit me over the head,” she said.
“I wanted to talk to you about that, actually. Do you remember having any contact with Nina Torrone or her agent over the last few days?”
“Not really,” she said, and I felt my theory evaporate. Maybe Fernand’s sister had been the one to kill him after all. But if so, who had been the man in Fernand’s kitchen? Then my niece said, “Wait. I did see them.”
I gripped the phone tight. “When?”
“Remember when I ran to the store to get milk a few days ago? I ran into Nina Torrone and her agent.”
“What did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything,” she said. “I was walking behind them; they didn’t know I was there. He said something about getting a boat, and that everything would be taken care of in a couple of days.”
“What did she say?” I asked, feeling dread curdle in my veins.
“That it was harder than she thought it would be. That she was convinced someone would find out she was faking it.”
Bingo, I thought.
“It made me feel better, really, knowing that another artist was struggling, too. I mean, if Nina Torrone thinks her paintings aren’t very good, then what are the rest of us supposed to think of our own work?”
“What did he say then?” I asked.
“He told her she was doing fine. And that’s when Gladstone turned around and noticed me.” She paused. “Not very incriminating, I’m afraid. I don’t think either of them would attack me for knowing Nina was insecure about her work, do you?”
“I think Nina Torrone wasn’t talking about artistic insecurity when she told Gladstone she was worried someone would find out she was faking it,” I said.
“What are you saying?” She sounded puzzled.
“I think she isn’t Nina Torrone. She’s an imposter.”
Gwen was silent for a moment. “You’re kidding me.”
“I’m not. But don’t say anything to anyone,” I told her. “I think something happened to the real Nina Torrone, and the woman we met is really named Jennifer Salinas.”
“What does that have to do with the boat?”
“He had a well-known client who ended up lost at sea a few years back,” I said. “She was estranged from her family, and he was the sole beneficiary of her estate.”
“Oh, my God. What about the real Nina?” she breathed. “Do you think he killed her?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, “but I’m afraid whoever is posing as her is in grave danger.”
“Is there some way to find out what her will says?” Gwen asked.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’ll ask John when I see him.”
“You have to warn her,” Gwen said, her voice urgent. “He knows I’m still alive—and I heard what she said.”
“I’m waiting until John gets back,” I said. “I called and asked the detective to do a search on his criminal background.”
“Does he have the boat?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Call Eli,” she said. “Find out. If he already has the boat, you’ve got to go and talk with her.”
My blood froze in my veins as I realized she was right.
“I’ll call her right now,” I said.
“Be careful, Aunt Nat. I already lost Fernand. I couldn’t bear to lose you, too.”
_____
Claudette answered the phone just before I was about to hang up.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said. “I know you’re busy with your family, but I’ve got an urgent question.”
“Natalie,” she said. “I’m so glad you called. I’ve got something I’ve got to tell you.”
Whatever it was could wait until later. “Claudette,” I interrupted. “Did Eli deliver a boat to Mortimer Gladstone?”
“He did this morning,” she said. My heart sank. “I really need to talk to you …”
“I’ve got an emergency. I promise I’ll call you later,” I said.
“But …”
I put the phone down with shaking hands and reached for my jacket. What if I was too late? What if she was already dead?
Don’t think about that, I told myself as I scrawled a note for John telling him where I was going—and why—and hurried out the kitchen door to the van. At the last second, I doubled back and dug in the freezer for a bag of sugar cookies, which I hastily dumped into one of the Christmas tins I’d bought on the mainland and was planning to fill with goodies for my island neighbors. It wasn’t a great excuse, but it was better than nothing.
Even though the drive to Cliffside was only about five minutes, it seemed to take an hour. I parked at the bottom of the hill and slammed the van door shut, looking up at the imposing building as I clutched the tin in my gloved hands. If Jennifer Salinas was there by herself, I’d tell her. If Gladstone was there, I’d hand off the tin and watch for a sign of Torrone—Salinas, I corrected myself.
If only John were with me. If only I’d thought to tell him what I was doing. If Gladstone didn’t kill me, there was every likelihood my future husband would when I had to tell him I’d gone off half-cocked again.
Although the drive had seemed slow, I made it up the steps all too quickly, and was staring at the heavy wood front door. Like a drawbridge door, I thought. I knocked, wishing I had Catherine’s bravado, and straightened my shoulders as I waited for someone to answer the door.
After a long minute, I heard the snick of a dead bolt sliding back. The sound reminded me of a gun being cocked, but I pasted a smile on my face and waited for the door to open.
Which it did, about two inches.
Nina—or Jennifer, I reminded myself—peered out of the crack. “What do you want?”
Relief poured through me. “Nina,” I said. “We need to talk.”
“You want to pry into my house again?”
“No,” I said. “I’m afraid for your life.”
She hesitated; I could see the door swing slightly open, then back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
A cold gust of wind blew, slicing through my coat and pushing against the door. “Is your agent here?”
“Yes, but he’s in the shower.”
“Can I come in for a moment?”
“Why?”
“Because I need to talk to you about something important, and I’m freezing to death on your front stoop.”
She glanced behind her, hesitating. “How important?”
“Life and death important,” I said.
She opened the door an inch or two more, wavering. I channeled my future mother-in-law and said, “Thanks,” taking a step forward as I spoke. Reflexively, she opened the door more—and I was in.
“You can only stay a minute,” she said, her eyes darting to the staircase. She wore sweatpants with JUICY emblazoned on the butt and a hot pink sweatshirt studded with rhinestones. I listened; I could hear the sound of water running in the pipes in the walls.
Relieved that Gladstone was out of commission, I plunged ahead. “You’re Jennifer Salinas, aren’t you?”
Her eyes widened in terror. “How do you know that?”
“It doesn’t matter. What happened to Nina Torrone?”
“She’s on an artist retreat down in the Virgin Islands,” she said, looking startled. “Mort told me she needed some time off; I’m the decoy.”
“How did he find you?”
“Through a modeling agency in New York. He told me I’d be perfect for the role.”
“And what happens when you’re done playing t
he part?”
“I get twenty thousand dollars,” she said. “Enough to pay down my credit cards. He told me the whole thing will be done this week, and I’ll get my check.”
I shivered and glanced at the staircase myself. “Do you know why he asked you to pretend to be Nina?”
“It’s business. I didn’t ask,” she said. “And he didn’t tell me.”
“Fernand figured out that you were a fake, didn’t he?”
She nodded.
“He’s dead now.”
“So? He killed himself!” she said.
“The police have ruled it a homicide now,” I said. Her face drained of color as I continued. “This isn’t the first time Gladstone has done this. Another artist he represented disappeared. Her name was Anne Stokes. She was lost at sea seven years ago, and he inherited her estate.”
“What are you saying?” she asked.
“My niece overheard you telling him you were afraid someone would find out you were a fake. She was attacked yesterday, and is in the hospital now.”
“It couldn’t be Mort. He’d never do that …”
“Two artists he has represented have disappeared. Don’t you think that’s a bit of a coincidence?”
“But what does that have to do with me?”
“If he can make the artists disappear,” I said, “he can do the same to you. That’s why you have to leave with me. I’ll take you back to the inn where you’ll be safe.” I listened; the water was no longer running in the pipes. “Come on,” I said, feeling dread coalesce in the pit of my stomach.
A bewildered look crossed her round face, and she looked terribly young all of a sudden. “Why would he hurt me?” she asked. “I haven’t done anything.”
“Because you’ll know,” I said, feeling adrenaline pulse through me. Why could she not see? “When Nina Torrone is pronounced lost at sea in Maine next week, you’ll know she was supposed to be in the Virgin Islands.”
Her eyes got wide. “He just got a skiff this morning.”
“I did.” The voice came from the staircase. “And I thought I told you not to let anyone in.”
TWENTY-TWO
DREAD WASHED THROUGH ME, but I masked it as well as I could. I turned to look at Gladstone. He was wearing a bathrobe, and held a gun in his hand. His hair—or what was left of it—was wet.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt you,” I said, ignoring the gun. How much had he heard? More than enough, I was sure—but I was going to pretend I knew nothing. “I was just dropping off some cookies.”
“I thought I heard the doorbell. And it sounds like you’ve brought more than cookies, from what I heard,” he said. He waved the gun toward the living room and walked to the bottom of the stairs. “Why don’t you go and sit down?”
“I really have to go,” I said. “My fiancé is expecting me. I told him I was just going to drop off these cookies for you and Nina.” I forced a brittle smile. “He’s the island deputy, you know.”
“Sit down.” His voice was like iron, and his eyes were flat. Predatory. Like a shark’s.
I was an idiot for coming here.
He waved the gun, directing us both toward the living room. My eyes strayed to Jennifer’s; they were wide in her young face. I could see she believed me now—only five minutes too late.
Holding the cookies in front of me as if they could block a bullet, I shuffled through to the next room, turning over my options in my mind. Which didn’t take long, as I couldn’t come up with many.
I glanced around the room, searching for a weapon. There was a tall brass lamp on the corner table; I sat down on the sofa next to it. If I could distract him long enough, maybe I could whack him on the head. Jennifer sat down gingerly on the other side of the couch from me.
“I really need to be going,” I said.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he told me. “Except maybe a boat ride.”
“They’ll figure it out,” I blurted. “And there are eyes everywhere on this island. You’ll never get away with it.”
“No?” he asked. “It’s worked out pretty well so far.”
“John will come looking for me.”
“And I’ll tell him I haven’t seen you,” he said mildly.
“My van is at the base of the hill.”
“Thanks for reminding me. I’ll take care of that in a little bit.” He sat down across from us, in an easy chair, and leaned forward.
“What happened to the real Nina Torrone?” I asked.
“She was thinking of switching agents,” he said. “I couldn’t have that.”
“So you killed her,” I said.
“We argued. She slipped and hit her head. Fortunately,” he nodded at Jennifer, “there was an adequate replacement available.”
“What did you do with the body?”
“It’s long gone, I’m afraid,” he said.
“Like Anne Stokes,” I said. “Did Nina change her will, just like Anne did?”
“You’ve been doing your research, Ms. Barnes,” he said, adjusting the belt of his smoking-jacket-style robe. He looked like an actor in a bad movie. Too bad the gun was real. “Unfortunately not,” he said. “But I negotiated with a major museum to sell a group of paintings worth a few million dollars. The sale should be finalized this afternoon, with the funds wired to an account in Switzerland. I will ‘follow the money’, so they say, and all of this unpleasantness will be behind us.”
“Don’t you think they’ll be suspicious if you disappear?”
“They may suspect, but with no evidence … what can they do?” He gave me a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I will leak the rumor that Nina and I ran off together. We’re very close, you know,” he said with a lecherous grin at Jennifer, who was now chalk white.
“Why did you kill Fernand?” I blurted.
“Ms. Barnes, surely you’ve deduced the reason by now. He figured out that Nina wasn’t Nina, of course,” Gladstone said. “He knew her personally, and could tell the difference.” He sighed. “I didn’t realize how much time they’d spent together, or I never would have moved to this island. The party was a mistake, but there was no avoiding it. I suspected he knew when he handed her that awful crème de menthe drink—I never could understand why she liked that cocktail. When I came to visit later that night, he confirmed it.”
“So you drugged him.”
“Yes,” he said. “A pill in his scotch. And I’m sure you can figure out the rest.”
I eyed the lamp, trying to track the cord. If I was going to grab it and start swinging, I didn’t want to be hampered by a plug refusing to come out of the wall. Why hadn’t I waited until John came home to come and talk to Jennifer? Why hadn’t I dragged her to the van immediately and told her what I knew in the safety of the inn? I took a deep breath and kept talking, stalling for time. Maybe John would come home and see the note. Maybe he’d show up at the front door with the entire police force. “Did you plan it all the first time it happened? With Anne Stokes?”
“It was a happy accident,” he said. “But I really can’t discuss that right now. I need you both to head downstairs.”
“To the cellar? Why?” Jennifer asked in a breathy voice.
“I just do,” he said, standing up and leveling the gun at me. “Now. Ladies first!”
Jennifer stood up quickly and obediently. “You’re not going to hurt us, are you?”
“Of course not, my dear,” he said, trying to sound avuncular. Which he did, but only in a creepy old uncle kind of way. “You’ve been wonderful. The gun is because I don’t trust your friend, here. I know you wouldn’t betray me.”
She smiled faintly. Could she really believe him? He had just confessed to murder in front of her. Did she really believe she’d be able to walk away from this? For a moment I regretted prompting him to be honest in front of Jennifer, fearing that I had made her situation worse. But he was always going to kill her anyway, I realized, feeling my stomach turn over at the thought.
“But w
hy do I have to go to the cellar?” she asked, sounding like a five-year-old girl.
Gladstone’s voice was soothing. “It’s only for a little bit, my dear. I promise, you’ll be back in New York by the end of the week. I just have a few preparations to do—and I want you to keep an eye on her for me.”
“Promise?”
“I promise,” he said. “Why don’t you take a few magazines with you? Keep you busy.” He scooped up a handful from the coffee table and handed them to her; she took them peacefully. “Now,” he said, “if you’ll lead our friend to the cellar?”
She swallowed, but did as she was bidden, leading me to a narrow door at the end of the kitchen. It stuck as she opened it, and my heart sank when I noticed there was a dead bolt on the kitchen side of the door.
I went first down the rickety stairs, already shivering as the cold, dank air rushed up to greet me. The light from the kitchen illuminated only the top few stairs; I clutched at the railing and stepped gingerly forward, shuddering as the ancient steps creaked underfoot. When I got to the bottom, I peered into the gloom, looking for something I might use as a weapon, but could see nothing in the darkness. Only once Jennifer had descended did he turn on the light—a feeble 60-watt bulb suspended from a wire—and follow us down.
He was carrying a roll of duct tape.
“What’s that for?”
“It’s to keep our friend from getting any ideas,” he said. “Where are your keys?” he asked me.
“In my jacket pocket.”
“Toss them to me,” he said. I pulled them out and did as he asked. Seeing my keys in his hand made me suddenly realize how vulnerable I was. “Thank you,” he said, then turned back to Jennifer and held out the duct tape. “I’ll need you to do the honors, my dear.”
“What do you mean?”
His eyes flicked to me. “Ms. Barnes, if you would just put your hands behind your back.”
“No,” I said.
I heard the safety snick back. Even in the dim cellar, I could see that the flat look was back in his eyes, and his voice sent a shaft of ice through me. “I can end this now, you know.”
“Okay, okay,” I said, and thrust my hands behind my back.
Brush with Death Page 22