“Here’s a small shopping area just ahead. You want to stop there?”
“Yes, that will be just fine.”
“Look, you be careful, all right?”
She managed to smile at the man. She watched him drive back onto the road, then turned to the row of lit phone booths. None of them had a directory.
She put in a quarter and dialed 411. She asked for Jonathan Harley’s phone number.
The operator asked, “Jonathan Harley on Pointer’s Lane?”
“No, no. He’s moved. Do you have a new listing for him?”
“Sorry, miss. It’s an unlisted number. I can’t give it out.”
“But this is an emergency!”
“I’m sorry, miss.”
Elizabeth just looked at the phone, the dial tone blaring loudly.
She called a taxi.
She huddled under the cover of the phone booth, waiting. A car slowed, a big car, a sedan, and she thought her heart would pound out of her chest. It went by, speeding up.
What was the name of Jonathan’s secretary? Midge . . . What was her last name? Midge . . . Ripley? She dialed 411 again. There were two Margaret Ripleys. She was dialing the first number when the taxi pulled up. She yelled to him to wait, and finished dialing.
It was an old woman.
Elizabeth dialed the second number. A bouncy woman’s voice this time. “Hello?”
“Are you the Midge Ripley who works for Jonathan Harley?”
There was dead silence on the other end. “Who wants to know?” Midge asked.
“Elizabeth Carleton.”
She heard a gasp.
“Please, Miss Ripley, this is an emergency. I’ve got to find Jonathan. Please help me.”
What was going on? Midge wondered. What did the dragon lady want? But Jonathan didn’t think of her like that anymore. He’d beaten her, and then he’d . . .
“All right. Hang on, I’ll give you his number and address.”
“Thank you.”
The taxi driver shouted at her.
“Just a minute!” she shouted back.
Midge was back on the line with his number and address.
“Thank you, Ms. Ripley. I—” She saw a big car from the corner of her eye. A big blue or black car. She was clearly outlined in the phone-booth lights. She dashed into the cab, flinging her suitcase to the floor, and slammed the door and blurted out the address.
“Please hurry!”
“You’re getting my cab wet, lady.”
The man was smoking a cigar, just like Moretti.
For an instant she saw red. “Tough! Get going!”
“Don’t get yourself in an uproar,” said the driver, and pulled out of the shopping area.
He’d folded, just because she’d gotten nasty. Elizabeth’s eyes were trained out the back window. The big car was directly behind, very close. It was ridiculous, she was being ridiculous. How could Christian drive down here faster than Amtrak? It couldn’t be him. At least not in the same car that had run her down in New York. She was losing her grip.
Still, she said, “I’ll give you a hundred dollars if you get away from that car behind us. I don’t care how you do it, just do it.”
“The cops after you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Just do it!”
It wasn’t Christian Hunter. It couldn’t be. The cab took a sharp left turn, tires skidding in the rain, and the big car drove straight ahead.
“All right. Take me to this address now.”
The cabbie shook his head and clamped down on his cigar. You got kooks all the time. Was this one paranoid? He thought of the hundred dollars and kept his opinion to himself. She probably was running from the cops. None of his business.
Twenty minutes later the cab pulled into a condominium complex. “Which number, lady?”
“Three-twenty-four.”
“All right. This is it. Nice setup. You got some rich friends, lady.”
Elizabeth gave him a hundred and twenty dollars.
“Good luck, lady!”
Elizabeth took the elevator to the third level. Three-twenty-four was on the end, a huge corner condo with a view of downtown. There were no lights. She hit the buzzer and waited. Nothing. He wasn’t here.
“I’m a fool,” she said aloud. She’d tried to call him during the day, but nothing. Of course, she’d dialed his ex-wife’s house. She’d even phoned his office, on a Saturday, just in case, but no answer. Just an answering machine. What if he’d gone to Maine?
She was protected from the rain, at least. She eased down, pulling her suitcase close, and pressed her back against the door. To wait.
What if Christian Hunter knows this address?
No, he didn’t even know Jonathan’s name.
Oh, please, God.
It was cold. She wrapped her arms around herself, but it didn’t help. The ski jacket was wet, and soon she felt the cold seep through.
Jonathan was tired and worried. He pulled his umbrella open as he eased out of his car. He’d try to call her again, just as he’d tried on and off all evening. Now it was so bloody late. Kogi wouldn’t tell him a thing, even after he’d identified himself.
Where was she? What if she were hurt, dead? No, that wasn’t possible. Kogi would have told him. Hell, it would have been all over the news.
He’d had no choice but to go to the business dinner, and he knew he’d acted like a complete moron. And then that bloody fool Dex Grant had wanted to find a couple of hookers. He’d set Dex up, then left.
He walked the stairs to the third level, as he always did. It was dark.
Jonathan came to an abrupt halt. Pressed against his front door was what looked like a kid, wet clear through, asleep. It took him another good look to realize who it was.
He dropped to his knees, his hand on her shoulder. “Elizabeth?” He shook her shoulder.
Elizabeth was dreaming she was on a ski slope, alone. A man was shouting at her, and she twisted on her skis to see Christian Hunter behind her. He was holding a looped rope in his hands. He turned into Rowe Chalmers. He had a rifle and was aiming it at her even as he skied wildly toward her. It was like a bad James Bond film. She realized that even in her dream, and then she saw the cliff in front of her, and she couldn’t stop. . . . She screamed as her skis flew over the cliff.
“Elizabeth! It’s all right. Wake up!”
“Jonathan?” She blinked away the nightmare and stared up at his shadowed face.
“Yep. What are you doing here, kiddo?”
“I went to your house,” she said, struggling to stand up. He helped her.
“That must have been an experience. Was Rose there?”
“Oh, yes, she was. She thought I was one of your bimbos.”
They heard the phone ringing from inside.
“Come on, let’s get you out of those wet clothes. Shit, it’s cold.”
He unlocked the door and stepped back to let her go first.
He turned on the light switch and walked quickly to the hall phone. “Midge? . . . Yeah, she’s here, waiting for me. . . . No, I don’t know what’s happened yet. . . . Just keep it under your hat, okay? . . . No, I’m fine. . . . No, my plans are still on. Thanks, Midge, for giving her my address.”
Jonathan turned back to see Elizabeth standing on the terra-cotta-tile vestibule, a growing puddle at her feet.
She looked like a waif, a very cold waif. He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her silly. He wanted to tell her she was safe now. Instead he said, “Come along, Elizabeth. I don’t care if you get the carpeting wet. You need a hot bath.”
She was vaguely aware of her surroundings—the high beamed living-room ceiling to her left, the antiques, the warm earth tones. She followed him silently down a corridor and into a large bedroom. More antiques, and a buffed hardwood floor with expensive small Persian rugs covering it. Timothy would have known what kind, where they were made, and if their pedigree warranted attention.
“Come along.”
She stopped in the doorway of a large bathroom. Jonathan was sitting on the side of a tub, filling it with water. Hot water.
“I think I’ve died and am about to go to heaven,” she said, eyeing the steam rising from the tub.
“I don’t have any woman-type bubble-bath things,” he said, rising. “You look like a drowned rat.”
“I know. Thank you.”
“Do you need any help?”
“No.”
“All right. Take your time in the bath and I’ll put your suitcase in the bedroom.”
He fetched her bag, a Louis Vuitton, thankfully waterproof. He opened it and pulled out all her clothes and left them on the bed. He went to his living room and poured himself a stiff drink. Then he lit the wood in the fireplace.
It was nearly two o’clock in the morning.
Elizabeth emerged wearing his thick velour robe some thirty minutes later. Her hair was wrapped turban style in a towel. He searched her face, and was satisfied that she was all right.
“Brandy?”
“Yes, thank you.” It was ridiculous, she knew it deep down, but she was shy, nervous, and very embarrassed. What had possessed her to come to Philadelphia? More important, what had possessed her to involve him? What if Christian . . .?
“Here, Elizabeth. Drink down.”
She did. The brandy sent dizzying warmth to her stomach.
She handed him back the brandy snifter.
“It just occurred to me that I’ve been a big fool,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes. “I’ll leave in the morning—that is, if you don’t mind me staying the rest of the night.”
“Shut up.”
His voice was harsh, cold, and her head jerked up.
“I’m sorry, I should have realized that—”
“Just be quiet, Elizabeth. Come over to the fire and warm up.”
It felt good for the moment to have someone taking care of her, telling her what to do. But she would leave in the morning, she wouldn’t involve him. She must have been out of her mind to come here.
Jonathan watched her face a moment, then said, “Now, we’ll iron out all the details later. Right now, I want you to tell me why you’re here. Why you came to me.”
“I finally realized that Christian Hunter killed my husband and he’s trying to kill me.”
Jonathan stared at her. “Well, I did ask for it, didn’t I? Come here and let me warm you up.”
She moved closer on the sofa and felt his arm come around her shoulders. He pulled her slowly toward him until her head rested on his shoulder. “Much better,” he said. “Now, everything.”
She told him about Kogi’s watch, about Moretti, about the woman who had called her. She even told him about Catherine and Rowe Chalmers and Laurette Carleton, even about that awful night Drake had been blown up in the limousine. The fire was embers by the time she’d finished. Jonathan hadn’t said a word.
“I was coming to New York in the morning to fetch you,” he said.
“Why?”
“Got me, Lizzie. I’m a masochist, I guess.”
“No, Jonathan, I’ll leave in the morning. I never should have come here, involved you. It’s just that I...”
“Was afraid? Scared out of your wits?”
She nodded her head against his shoulder. “The D.A. and Lieutenant Draper both think it’s a grand joke. Retribution for the murderess.” She shuddered then. “The press is having a field day, as you can imagine. I don’t think anyone followed me. I was very careful.”
“Then what are you worried about? Tomorrow you and I are going to check out of the world for a while. We’re going to my cabin in Maine. Maybe the cops will take care of Hunter for us.”
“Moretti is probably giving him a medal.”
“Do you trust me, Elizabeth? Really trust me?”
He watched the play of expressions on her face. Suddenly she smiled. “Yes, I do. Maybe for the first time ever, I do really trust you.”
“Who could be more trustworthy than an enemy turned . . . well, turned friend?”
His arm tightened momentarily around her shoulders. He rose abruptly. “You sleep in the guestroom. It’s all made up. We’ll leave in the morning.”
“Where in Maine are we going?”
“It’s called Christmas Cove.”
“I knew it was some sort of holiday—I just couldn’t remember. Are you certain, Jonathan?”
“Yes, very certain.”
24
“We can drive straight through, or stop for the night. It’s up to you, Elizabeth.”
“I want to go on,” she said.
“And never stop?” He turned slightly to face her.
“Yes, forever, if I could.”
“Don’t be afraid. There’s no need now.”
“I’ve been afraid for so long, I wouldn’t know how to stop.”
“Ever since your husband’s murder?”
He felt her jerk at his words, but he kept his eyes trained on the highway. They were near New Haven, Connecticut. It was a cold, clear day. Traffic was moderately heavy, since it was a weekend.
“I’ll never forget what it was like to be taken as a criminal to the police station. This woman pressed each of my fingers onto this inked pad. Then she handed me a Kleenex. The ink didn’t come off.”
“You didn’t have to stay in jail, did you?”
“No, Rod Samuels got me out on a quarter of a million dollars’ bail.”
“I remember your husband’s murder and your subsequent arrest. The press went haywire. I remember thinking that the rich bitch just couldn’t get enough. I thought you were guilty.”
“Everyone did. I made such good copy. Elizabeth X. Even Rod believed me guilty, until Christian Hunter came along. He was so convincing, so very calm. Moretti probably hated him as much as he hates me. In fact, I know from firsthand experience that he still hates him.”
“Tell me about Christian Hunter.”
“You’re not going to believe this, but I’d never seen him in my life until that day in the courtroom.”
The car swerved. “You’re putting me on.”
“No. Rod didn’t tell me about him, I guess because he was afraid I’d spill the beans somehow. And then Christian didn’t contact me. For a good six months I was terrified that he would, and terrified when he didn’t. You see, I didn’t know what he wanted. I ended up calling him. He still put me off. Evidently he was holding off until he could get rid of Rowe Chalmers. Which he did. Rowe was betraying me, selling information I gave him to the Carletons. The world must be crazy—I think Catherine is in love with him.”
They stopped in Hartford.
She told him about meeting Rowe in Paris at Claude’s home, and she told him about the anonymous note she’d eventually gotten. And that final evening with Rowe, and the ice pick. By six o’clock in the evening, she was nearly hoarse from talking.
Jonathan said at last, “You want to know something, Lizzie? You’re damned lucky I came along.”
She started laughing—she couldn’t help it.
He reached out his right hand and patted her thigh. “Keep laughing, it sounds good.”
“When will we get to this Christmas Cove place?”
“Around midnight. You want to stop?”
“No. What are you doing with a cabin in Maine?”
“I descend from home-grown folk—Down Easters, they call us—ship captains, most of them. There were a couple of fishermen, though. Stop looking out the back window, Elizabeth. He’s nowhere near us, all right?”
“I didn’t think you’d noticed,” she said.
“I think I’ve noticed everything about you from the moment we met in my office. Of course, I was ready and willing to strangle you that day.”
“You did, with words.”
&
nbsp; He grinned over at her. “At least you couldn’t forget me, could you? It must have been fate. If I hadn’t climbed your frame up one side and down the other, you might have left me and my poor company alone.”
“Climbed my frame?”
“I’ve also got relatives in Texas. It means chewing someone out until they’re in a heap on the floor.”
They didn’t stop in Portland. “Not far at all now,” Jonathan said. “Under two hours.”
“I wish I could see something. I’ve never been to Maine before.”
“This stretch is so wild and beautiful it makes my throat tighten each time I come. No high elevations, just zillions of pine and fir trees, rocks and boulders, and the ocean, of course. The tourists haven’t really discovered Damariscotta or Christmas Cove yet. They spend most of their time and money over in Newcastle. Of course, you’ll see hardly anyone this time of year.”
Elizabeth was glad he couldn’t see her face in the darkness. His words flowed over her but didn’t calm her. “Will it ever be over?”
She hadn’t realized she’d spoken the words aloud until she heard him draw a deep breath. “Yes, it will, Lizzie. You said you trusted me. That means that nothing is going to happen to you, to either of us. You got that, kiddo?”
“Yeah, I got that. Since when did you become Superman?”
“Sarcasm, good. I was wondering if you’d lost all your acid.”
She sighed. “I never even used to have an ounce.”
“I like it, in small doses. You’ve changed a lot, haven’t you?”
“Since you were one of the recipients of that change, you can well imagine what I was like before.”
He chuckled. “You weren’t a wimp, were you?”
“No, just someone who was very easy, I suppose you could say. And don’t laugh, Jonathan. I mean easy as in . . . well, adaptable, malleable.”
“Damn,” he said.
“Don’t be a jerk.”
“It’s tough, but I’ll try. We’re lucky, Lizzie. There’s a little all-night general store in Damariscotta. We’ll stop there and stock up.”
“What an interesting name.”
“When I was a kid, I called it Scottie.”
“Jonathan, why was your ex-wife at your house?”
“She lives there now, and I don’t, as of two weeks ago. She got the house in the settlement. After we split, she hoofed it to Europe—to recuperate, that’s what she called it. I stayed on until she returned. Thank God you remembered Midge’s name.”
FALSE PRETENSES Page 29