Veil of Fear

by Judi Lind

  Realizing Jonathan was still waiting for an answer, she whispered, “You don’t need to worry about me. Worry about your business meeting. If anyone can handle this situation, Trace Armstrong can.”

  Mary hung up the telephone, feeling strangely reassured. She’d told Jonathan the truth—she was safe from the stalker as long as she was with Trace. But who would protect her from her own confused emotions?

  By the time she returned to the dining room, Trace was clearing the table. “Regent?”

  She nodded. “He’s in Seattle. Leaving for Anchorage in the morning.”

  Trace nodded. “Listen, I need to go over to my apartment and pack a few clothes. Another day and this shirt’s going to be able to stand on its own.”

  Mary laughed. “I was going to mention that,” she said jokingly. “How long will you be gone?”

  He shook his head. “I want you to come with me.”

  Mary hesitated. She wasn’t at all sure that it would be wise to go to Trace’s apartment. She was having a hard enough time keeping their relationship on a professional level. Going into his home, taking a peek into his private life would only make it more difficult. Still, she was curious about the way he lived....

  “While you were in the shower, I called Camille Castnor and made an appointment for us to see her this afternoon.”

  Obviously, he’d already made the assumption that Mary would be accompanying him. Glad for the chance to shift her thoughts in a less personal direction, she said flatly, “You want to talk to her about that box of candy.”

  “We can’t ignore her possible role in this just because she’s rich and married to a powerful man.”

  Mary shrugged. “I still think you’re wrong about Camille. You won’t be too...aggressive when you question her, will you?”

  Trace rolled his eyes and pushed away from the table. When he looked at her again, his cat eyes burned bright with anger. “No, Mary, despite the fact that I’m only a lowly bodyguard, I’m not going to embarrass you in front of the senator’s wife.”

  “That’s not what I meant!”

  He waved a dismissive hand toward the bedrooms. “Okay, fine. Just go get dressed, will you?”

  She wanted to argue more. As a matter of fact, it seemed every conversation she’d had with the prickly and stubborn Trace Armstrong degenerated into verbal combat. Either that or he made these inflammatory statements then refused to discuss them. If he wanted to think she’d belittled him—fine. Let him keep on thinking it.

  Turning on her heel, Mary stalked into the bathroom to blow-dry her hair.

  * * *

  MARY HADN’T SAID a word since they’d left her apartment. Getting more irked by the moment, Trace missed his turnoff and had to drive through the city. He was so annoyed, he forgot to change gears. His car stalled in a busy intersection, eliciting colorful comments from drivers forced to go around him. After that, they caught every red traffic light and Trace could feel his irritation building into a full-blown storm.

  He glanced beside him where Mary was staring out the window, still obviously enjoying giving him the silent treatment.

  With a frustrated snarl, he made an abrupt turn down Fifteenth Street. The tranquil beauty of the Tidal Basin always soothed him when he was in a funk, and his temper could sure use some soothing right now.

  Spring had finally erupted with a lush, glorious profusion. The cherry trees, late to bloom this year, had burst into flower and the air was redolent of the sweetness of their breathtaking blossoms. Trace felt his irritation evaporating with every whiff of the heady fragrance. By the time they’d circled behind the Jefferson Memorial, he had his temper back under control.

  He wasn’t mad at Mary or the traffic. He was furious with himself. He’d broken his cardinal rule and allowed himself to become personally attached to a client. A no-win situation under the best of circumstances, it was even worse now because Mary was only weeks from wedding another man. Like it or not, those were the facts. The best thing Trace could do for either one of them was to get his emotions back on track and keep his mind on the job.

  Casting another glance at her, he was struck anew by her wholesome beauty, which flowed from an inner wellspring of gentleness and integrity. “Sorry I was such a jerk. Guess this case has me more worked up than I thought.”

  Mary turned her head and gave him an appraising look. Her blond hair was in a ponytail. A long strand had come loose and was snuggling against her cheek. Her eyes were guileless, yet at the same time, distrusting.

  “No problem,” she said carefully.

  “Yes, it is a problem. I was worked up about this guy and took it out on you.”

  “I understand.”

  The sweet forgiving expression on her face echoed her words. Why did she have to be so damned understanding?

  “So, how many presidents have you guarded?” she asked in an obvious attempt to shift to a safer subject. “I’ll bet you could tell some wonderful stories.”

  The iciness between them quickly melted and they chatted all the way to Trace’s apartment in Falls Church. They talked about the beauty of the Virginia countryside, the unseasonably balmy weather and even touched on a couple of entertaining episodes that had occurred while Trace had been working in the White House.

  To discuss anything remotely personal would break an unspoken taboo.

  Leaving Mary to look around his clean, but disheveled condo, Trace checked his messages, thumbed through a stack of accumulated mail and threw some clothes into a battered suitcase.

  It was disconcerting, somehow, to watch Mary studying his home, touching mementos from his life in government service. She asked no questions, honoring their nonverbal agreement to avoid personal topics.

  A half hour later, he tossed his suitcase into the trunk and they headed for the Castnor home in the rolling hillsides of Middleburg, Virginia.

  Following Mary’s directions, they turned onto a wide, tree-lined road edged by white wooden fences that seemed to go on for miles. Here and there, Thoroughbred horses foraged through the rich, green grass, looking haughty and regal on their slender legs.

  Oak-shrouded driveways allowed occasional glimpses of huge colonial-style brick homes set well back off the road. Stables were visible through the trees, and training rings the size of football fields dotted the landscape. Although Mary’s penthouse apartment in Georgetown was sumptuous by any standard, Trace knew that Middleburg was the big-money district. A former president he’d once been assigned to had retired only a few miles away.

  Undoubtedly, when Mary became Mrs. Regent, she’d have a fine home on a few hundred prime acres in this area. Once again, Trace felt an unwelcome resentment of Regent’s wealth and his ability to give Mary the kind of life-style Trace had never even dreamed of.

  “Turn here,” Mary directed suddenly, pointing to a barely visible driveway on the left.

  An impressive wrought-iron gate was standing ajar, allowing them passage. Only a discreet brass plaque on the brick stanchion holding the mailbox gave any indication they’d reached the Castnor home.

  When they pulled up the circular driveway in front of an imposing plantation-style house, complete with six pillars across the portico, the front door opened immediately and a formally attired butler greeted them.

  Showing only slight disdain for their casual attire, the butler led them inside to a sitting room of comfortable dimensions, yet cold and unwelcoming in the perfection of its decor.

  When they turned down refreshments, the butler withdrew. Almost immediately, Camille Castnor swept into the room in his wake.

  “Mary, darling! How lovely to see you.” Camille crossed the room and blew air kisses in Mary’s direction. “I hope that nothing is wrong. Your man seemed quite insistent that I change my schedule and see you today.”

  She didn’t speak to or acknowledge Trace in any way. He was Mary’s “man,” with no greater value than a piece of Louis Vuitton luggage.

  Trace bristled at her deprecating manne
r, but said nothing, allowing Mary to take the lead.

  When they’d all taken a seat, Mary leaned forward. “I do apologize for the short notice, Camille, but we both felt it was important to talk with you right away.”

  “Both? Is Jonathan involved in this?”

  “No. I meant Trace and I.”

  Camille jerked her head in his direction and studied him closely. Trace had the distinct impression that this was the first time she’d ever noticed him.

  Settling back against the ivory brocade wing chair she’d selected to sit in, Camille lit a cigarette and blew smoke rings into the air. Her tone as frigid as her demeanor, she again turned to address Mary. “What’s this about?”

  Trace had had enough of Camille’s snooty manner. “It’s about the two-pound box of chocolates you bought at the Crystal City Mall on Tuesday. And about the two-pound box of ipecac-laced chocolates you delivered to Mary on Wednesday morning.”

  “I resent your insinuation!”

  Trace shook his head slowly. “I didn’t make any insinuations, Mrs. Castnor. I merely said we’d come to talk about it. Any reason why you’re so defensive?”

  “Trace!” This time it was Mary who objected.

  “Look, ladies, I’m really sorry to upset your sensibilities with all these sordid little details, but in case you’ve both forgotten, some sordid little weasel has threatened Mary’s life. I don’t intend to let him carry out his threats, so if I have to step on any delicate tootsies to do my job, so be it.”

  Camille rose to her feet. “I don’t care for your manner, young man, and I don’t have to stand for it.”

  Trace, too, stood up and looked her in the eye. “No, you don’t have to stand up, you can sit back down. Or we can leave and the police will be your next visitors. Wouldn’t that give your neighbors something to talk about—this being an election year, and all?”

  Camille slowly dropped into her chair and puffed furiously on her cigarette. “I’ll give you five minutes, then I’ll phone the police myself.”

  Mary leaned forward, her hands clasped tightly on her knees. “Camille, this is getting out of hand. No one is going to call the authorities. Trace just needs to ask you a few questions.”

  Camille stubbed out her cigarette. “You have four minutes left.”

  Stilling Mary with a shake of his head, Trace asked, “Do you admit that you bought a two-pound box of Splendora Chocolates on Tuesday?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you inject ipecac syrup in those candies and deliver them to Mary the next morning?”

  “No.”

  Trace had to admit that Mrs. Castnor was one tough cookie. She didn’t fidget in her chair or shift her gaze; she kept her cold, unblinking stare focused on his eyes. “But you do admit that you delivered a box of chocolates to Ms. Wilder?”

  “Yes. You have three minutes left.”

  “What did you do with the candy you purchased, Mrs. Castnor?”

  “Gave them to the senator’s secretary. It was her birthday.”

  That would be easy enough to check. Trace pulled out a small spiral notebook and wrote himself a reminder.

  “Is there anything else?” Camille’s tone was nonchalant, as if he were a census taker or encyclopedia salesman, not the man who was questioning her about her possible involvement in a felony.

  Mary stood up. “I think that’s all we need, Camille. I’m truly sorry.”

  Slowly, the older woman lifted her gaze to meet Mary’s. “Sorry? I should think so. I’ve befriended you, taught you how to dress, how to behave at state receptions, even offered the use of my home for your wedding—”

  “I said I was sorry,” Mary cut in. “But surely you can understand that the coincidence had to be explained.”

  Camille uncoiled herself like a viper. “The only thing that needs to be explained is what Jonathan saw in a pitiful little country bumpkin like you in the first place! You have one minute left. Either use it or get the hell out of my house.”

  Trace stepped forward between the two women. “It won’t take me a full minute, Mrs. Castnor. This was merely a courtesy visit. Mary didn’t want to press charges without offering you the opportunity to explain. The truth is that we already know you tampered with those chocolates.”

  Camille turned as pale as the brocade chair she’d been sitting in, and Trace knew that his bluff had worked. She was involved in this—all the way up to her perfectly capped teeth.

  While she was still off guard and rattled, he pressed his advantage. “You thought you were being clever by leaving that box on the counter in the lobby. That was clever. If you’d just walked away, nobody would have paid any attention. But you couldn’t just let it be, could you? You had to see Mary’s face when she got her ‘surprise,’ didn’t you?”

  When she didn’t answer his charges, Trace felt his rage growing. His hunch had been right all along. Camille Castnor’s nasty, jealous little mind was behind all of this.

  Hoping that he could continue to guess the correct sequence of events and not raise Camille’s suspicions, he continued, “The bell captain remembered you came in twice in a short period. He’s willing to swear to that in court, Mrs. Castnor. Why don’t you save us all some grief and just admit it?”

  “All right, damn you! All right.” Camille sank into the wing chair and buried her face in her hands.

  Trace forced himself to ignore the stricken expression on Mary’s face. This was no time to let up the pressure, no matter how pitiful Camille now seemed. “Who did you hire to follow Mary and leave those threatening letters?”

  Camille’s head bobbed up, humiliation and shock equally evident on her tear-streaked face. “But that wasn’t me.”

  Mary still hadn’t said a word. Her face was now a complete blank.

  Taking her silence for assent to his continuing the questioning, Trace shook his head sadly. “Come on, Mrs. Castnor, you may as well get it all off your chest.”

  “But it’s true! I didn’t hire anyone to follow or harass Mary. In fact, her talking about it all the time gave me the idea.”

  “And you expect us to believe that?” Trace asked, skepticism dripping from his voice.

  “It’s the truth!”

  Breaking away from his accusing stare, Camille turned and picked up her cigarettes. With trembling fingers, she pulled a filter tip from the cellophane package and held it in the air, like a fetish that would ward off more questions.

  Trace knew he couldn’t thrash the truth out of her, but the urge was strong. Very strong. This spoiled, sulking witch could have seriously harmed Mary. He’d have the truth or, by God, he would call the police.

  “I don’t believe you,” he said coldly. “Are you implying that someone else is involved in this?”

  “Whether or not you believe me doesn’t change the truth. I don’t know any more about Mary’s stalker than she herself has told me.”

  For the first time since Camille’s startling confession, Mary spoke. Her soft voice was saturated with deep unrelenting pain. “But why? I thought...I thought you were my friend.”

  “Friend!” Camille spat the word out of her mouth as though she’d tasted something vile. “I tried to be nice to you, I truly did. For Jonathan’s sake. I took you around Washington as though you were my protégée. But how did you repay my kindness? By bragging about every gift Jonathan gave you. Flashing that pretentious diamond in my face. Rubbing my face in your happiness!”

  Mary blanched at the horrible accusations. She swayed on her feet like an outmatched boxer, until Trace feared she would faint. He placed a steadying hand around her waist and felt gratified when she leaned against him, as if absorbing strength from him.

  Facing Camille, Trace no longer had any pity for the woman. Her spiteful indictment of Mary had cleared his conscience of any compassion. “I don’t want any more of your lousy excuses. Just tell me who you hired and where I can find him.”

  Without warning, Camille threw her unlit cigarette onto the oriental
rug and charged at him. Trace grabbed her wrists, easily holding her off.

  “Damn you!” she screeched. “Can’t you understand English? I had nothing to do with the stalker. When Mary came to dinner that night and...and I saw Jonathan treating her like he never treated me, something just snapped. I never meant to really hurt her. I just wanted to make her feel sick inside...the way I felt watching her with Jonathan.”

  Her self-debasing tone finally cut through Trace’s anger. There was a ring of truth to her pathetic story. He’d been right all along. Having long suppressed her feelings of rejection since Jonathan had broken up with her, Camille had finally assuaged her humiliation at Mary’s expense.

  They stayed another half hour pressing Camille for details, but she never wavered from her assertion: she’d doctored the candy but had no part in hiring someone to torment Mary.

  The stalker was still out there.

  Chapter Eleven

  When Trace finally dropped into bed in Mary’s spare room hours later, it was his turn to toss from side to side all night. Mentally going over the case again and again as though it were a sleep-inducing mantra, he found no answers in the ever-diminishing list of suspects.

  Next he tried replaying the interview with Camille. Had he missed any subtle clue in their conversation? Had he been too deceived by the woman’s histrionics to maintain his objectivity? No, he didn’t think so. Camille Castnor was a lamentable and vengeful woman, but he believed her story. Yesterday, he’d been certain she had hired the stalker. Tonight, he was just as sure that she had no involvement beyond the tainted chocolates.

  Still, it wasn’t Camille’s guilt or innocence that kept him from sleep. It was an image he’d been trying to put out of his mind all day. But there was no escaping the memory of Mary floating toward him in that wedding dress, her brown eyes sparkling with intelligence, wit and an incredible sensuality.