Shadows of the Heart

by Lorena McCourtney

  Armando looked at her with concern after they slid into the Mercedes from opposite sides. “Trish, my dear, you look frightened.”

  “I… I guess I am,” Trish admitted with a shaky smile. “First the fire in my room, then the gunshots when I was riding the horse. Now this. That’s a lot of accidents.”

  Armando frowned. “But I do not see the connection. If you were the one injured in the car wreck, yes, it would truly seem suspicious. But—”

  “But don’t you remember? I was supposed to be in that car!” Trish cried. “I’m afraid Edith was almost killed because someone was trying to get me.”

  Armando looked dumbfounded and his hand halted halfway to the ignition key. His eyes, dark and troubled, met Trish’s.

  “I know it doesn’t make any sense. I’ve been over it in my mind a hundred times.” Trish shook her head wearily. “I don’t even know anyone here. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt me.”

  “But you asked if anyone else had come to look at the car,” Armando said thoughtfully. “And you did not seem surprised to learn that Marcantonio de la Barca had been there before us.”

  Trish nodded. “But Marc has no reason—”

  “Hasn’t he?” Armando’s voice was bitter. “I have been blind. I knew the man was not to be trusted, but I did not realize his obsession would lead him to such desperate acts.”

  “What do you mean?” Trish asked, alarm rising in her voice. All along she had been able to fight down her lurking suspicions of Marc as preposterous because there was no possible reason to warrant them, but now Armando’s bitter voice suggested there was reason indeed.

  Armando started the engine decisively. “I must think about this. I hope I am wrong.”

  He was silent and scowling all the way to the house, saying absentmindedly that he would meet her later for dinner. Trish went to her room. She had not been there since the night of the accident. All her things had been neatly put away, but the room, though familiar, also seemed foreign, as if she had been away for months instead of a few days. She crossed to the window, her eyes automatically looking toward Marc’s house. Like the room, it seemed oddly both familiar and foreign. Demonio paced his fence. A gardener trimmed the bougainvillea. Marc’s Italian sports car waited in the driveway. All familiar and yet…

  She turned away from the window, unexpectedly shivering. What was Armando thinking?

  Trish undressed, first thinking about a dip in the pool but deciding against it and settling for a stinging shower instead. She composed a letter to send home, telling her mother about Edith’s accident and injuries.

  She was almost reluctant to go to the dining room at dinnertime, afraid of what she might hear. Her trepidation increased when she saw Armando standing by the window, a drink in one hand and a grim look on his face. He turned. “May I fix you a drink?” he offered quickly.

  Trish shook her head. Her stomach already felt distinctly jittery. She had almost given up smoking after the fire, but now she nervously fumbled in her purse for a cigarette. Armando moved swiftly to light it for her.

  “What I have to say is not pleasant,” he said grimly. “Perhaps after dinner… ?”

  Trish shook her head again. “I don’t think I could eat.”

  Armando nodded briskly. “Very well then. Sit down.” He paced back and forth along the dining room windows, stopped once to look directly at her. “I hope you will be able to keep an open mind and not let your personal feelings affect your judgment.”

  “I’ll try,” Trish said slowly, her palms already damp with dread.

  “I think,” Armando began directly, “that you have every reason to be afraid. I do not mean to frighten you unnecessarily, but we must face facts.”

  Trish nodded. Nervously she stubbed out the barely smoked cigarette. It tasted bitter and unpleasant in her mouth.

  “You have had two unfortunate accidents,” he began thoughtfully. “At first I truly believed they were accidents, although, after consideration, I must agree with your suspicion that they were not so accidental after all. Now you suspect that Edith’s accident was also intentional and that someone, believing you would be in the car, caused it to happen with the idea of taking your life.”

  “I think that says it all in a nutshell,” Trish agreed, trying to keep her voice light, but the words came out shaky instead.

  A servant entered with steaming dishes, but Armando waved her away. His eyes followed the woman thoughtfully, and he did not speak again until she was out of earshot. Trish wondered if he had awakened to another of her suspicions, that information passed freely from this household to the De la Barca household, either by accident or deliberately.

  Armando’s voice was lower when he spoke again. “But I believe there is one error in your thinking. You have perhaps looked at the situation backward.”

  A slightly puzzled frown creased Trish’s forehead. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  Armando pulled out a chair beside her and sat down. “Let us look at each of these accidents. First the fire. It seemed obvious to me you had been smoking in bed. Edith told me you insisted the door was locked when you tried to get out, but—” He shook his head ruefully. “I am afraid I thought it was some silly schoolgirl imagining on your part.”

  Trish nodded. “That’s what I finally told myself too.”

  “But consider this. Edith only recently moved to the other wing of the house to be near her father. Up until a few days before you arrived, the room in which you slept was Edith’s room and had been for years. I’m sure anyone familiar with the household knew that.”

  Trish nodded, still not understanding exactly what he was getting at.

  “Then there was your accident with the horse, which I also assumed happened merely because of an unfortunate coincidence, because some careless hunter fired shots when you just happened to be riding a horse that was insanely afraid of gunshots. But consider this: Up until the last-minute change of plans, Edith was supposed to go on that ride. And you were wearing Edith’s red hat, a hat everyone has seen and is familiar with.”

  Trish nodded again.

  “And now, in the accident with the car, Edith herself was injured and would have died if it had not been for the quick action of our neighbor Seňor Juarez, who managed to drag her out before the fire trapped her.”

  Armando’s words spun in Trish’s mind, slowing like a roulette wheel to settle into a particular slot from a circle of choices. “What you’re saying,” she said slowly, “is that someone was really after Edith all along. The only accident was that twice I was almost the victim instead. But this last time the… the assailant got Edith, the person he was really after all along.”

  Armando nodded. “Exactly. Except that he failed again,” he said, his voice grim, “because Edith is still alive. Which means he will try again.”

  “But why?” Trish cried. “And who?”

  Armando touched her hand lightly, almost sympathetically. “Do you really need to ask?” he asked gently.

  Trish shook her head in protest. “No. There must be some other explanation.”

  “It is all so plain and I have been so blind.” Armando sighed remorsefully. “If Marcantonio de la Barca can do away with Edith before she marries me, her father will sell the cafetal to him. It is as simple as that. And never doubt, dear, naive little Trish, that our neighbor is ruthless enough to kill to get what he wants.”

  Trish’s mind twisted and turned to deny the truth of what Armando was saying. “But the fire… I don’t see how Marc could possibly—”

  “Don’t you?” Armando looked at her compassionately. “Or is it because you do not want to see? Do you not think Marcantonio knows this house as well as he knows his own? Do you not think he knows in what room Edith has slept for years? That the key hangs just outside that room? He merely waited until a safe hour of the night when he was sure she slept, calmly placed the lit cigarette where he thought it would catch the curtains, walked out, and locked the door
behind him.”

  Something jarred in Trish’s mind. “But Edith doesn’t even smoke! Surely Marc would realize that a fire started by a cigarette in the room of someone who does not smoke would arouse suspicions!”

  Armando smiled and shrugged lightly. “Ah, but she does smoke, though seldom where she can be seen. She does not consider it ladylike. Perhaps a holdover from the times her father locked her in that very room for punishment when he caught her smoking as a teenager.”

  Trish’s mind felt numb but she couldn’t accept what he was saying. No, she corrected herself despairingly, she didn’t want to accept it. With one final flare of hope she protested, “But the servants said the door was not locked when they arrived.”

  Armando frowned and tapped the table thoughtfully with his empty glass. “I must admit this has puzzled me also. But I believe that Marcantonio cold-bloodedly waited outside the room until you tried to get out the door. When you abandoned the effort, he thought you… or Edith, actually… had been overcome by the smoke. Then he unlocked the door so it would truly appear Edith had been accidentally killed by smoke or fire. A locked door would surely have aroused suspicions, so he had to stay and unlock it to make the incident appear accidental.”

  And the key was right there, readily available, Trish thought hollowly. A key used to lock the door, unlock it again at the proper moment, and then quietly replaced on its nail.

  She did not need to discuss with Armando the details of how the accident on the mountain had been handled. Marc undoubtedly knew, through information from the servants, that she and Edith planned to ride up Monte Deception that day. He also knew, from having owned the horse himself, of the animal’s violent reaction to gunshots. He climbed the mountain on foot, an easy enough task for someone in his superb physical condition, as she had already realized, and lay in wait. When only one rider arrived, he must have realized there had been some last-minute change in plans, but even in the concealing fog the floppy red hat had easily identified the lone rider as Edith. He had fired and disappeared into the mists, ready to be properly indignant when his caretaker informed him later at the office that the lathered horse had galloped in.

  She remembered Marc’s shock at seeing her scratched and bruised in the courtyard, the brooding look on his face when she opened her eyes. What had he been feeling? Anger that he had failed in his aim to do away with Edith? Remorse that he had almost killed Trish instead? Disgust that she had gotten in his way?

  “Trish, I am sorry,” Armando said. “Marcantonio can be very charming, very romantic. I know how you feel about him.”

  No, Trish thought despairingly, Armando couldn’t know. What she felt was no dreamy, romantic infatuation. It was love, deep, powerful, and passionate. And totally unthinkable, beyond the bounds of reason or morality. She couldn’t—must not—be in love with a man who had attempted to kill her half-sister three times, twice almost making Trish his unintentional victim instead. Now she understood his harsh “Go home” after the night of the fire. He meant go home before she got in his way and he accidentally hurt her!

  And then an even more horrifying thought struck her. Marc, knowing that Edith’s car would be parked at the village all day during the fiesta, must have tampered with the brakes early in the day. Then, attentive and charming, he had spent the afternoon and evening with Trish. He had kissed her into melting submission, suggested she leave with him. Perhaps he had been offering her more than a romantic interlude, Trish thought now. Perhaps he had been offering her her life! He knew Edith’s car would never survive the drive down the winding road, and he had offered Trish a chance to escape the death he had planned for Edith. But when she declined the offer, he was ruthlessly willing to sacrifice her if necessary to achieve his ends.

  She remembered the resigned, almost regretful look on his face just before he left her that night. He was attracted to her, Trish was sure of that. But he would never let desire or attraction for a mere female stand in the way of his obsession to own the cafetal. He had cold-bloodedly decreed that if she must die to achieve his goal, then so be it. Nothing must interfere.

  She felt drained, empty, numb. Without asking this time, Armando poured a drink for her and she gulped it down. He got up and went to stand by the window again, his stocky figure reflected in the dark frame. Somehow Trish was glad she could not see Marc’s house.

  “Do… do you think we should tell Edith all this?” Trish finally managed to say.

  Armando shook his head. “Not yet, at any rate. Perhaps a little later, after she has had time to recover. I think the accident was enough shock for her just now.”

  Trish stared at her empty glass, her throat still burning from the straight liquor. At this moment she wanted nothing so much as to pack her things and flee this tangled web of deception and danger. Perhaps, far, far away from Marc, his powerful male magnetism would lose its effect on her. Perhaps the ache of her love for him would fade. It must! she thought wildly. How could she love a man who had done the things he had, who ruthlessly sent her to what he expected to be certain death?

  No, it wasn’t love, she told herself determinedly. It was just infatuation, a physical reaction to his expert kisses and caresses. And the sooner she got away the better.

  But Armando’s next words, almost as if he knew what she was thinking, stopped her.

  “Trish, you must not abandon Edith now,” he said earnestly. “She needs you. She needs both of us. You must help me protect her from the clutches of this madman!”

  Madman. Yes, Trish thought in some far-off corner of her mind. She had suspected Edith’s father of being mad and murderous when he was only sick and confused. It was Marc, Marc, with his arrogant eyes and passionate kisses, who was the true madman, trapped by his obsession.

  “But I don’t know what I can do,” she protested doubtfully. “I haven’t been much help so far.”

  “I don’t know! Persuade Edith to marry me now, not wait for the big wedding,” he said wildly. “What is a wedding anyway? A mere formality.”

  “But Edith has her heart set on it,” Trish said. “Unless we tell her why the two of you shouldn’t wait—”

  “Then simply stay and watch over her,” he begged. “You know the danger now. You are bright and clever and you will not accidentally fall into any more of Marcantonio de la Barca’s vicious traps.”

  Except, she thought hollowly, she had already fallen into one of them, the most vicious trap of all. She was in love with him and he cared no more for her than some bit of rubbish, carelessly tossed away when its usefulness was gone.

  But she must not let her need to escape her infatuation for the man drive her away and thus further endanger Edith’s life, she thought determinedly. “I’m not leaving,” she said firmly. “Edith is safe in the hospital. Perhaps we can persuade her to stay there as long as possible.”

  Armando reached over and squeezed her hand gratefully. “You have made me very happy. I thank you and I know Edith does too… or will someday, when she knows.”

  But Trish’s suggestion that Edith stay in the hospital as long as possible ran into an immediate snag. Edith did not want to stay in the hospital, saw no reason to stay there, and practically insisted she would not stay there.

  Trish and Armando could not tell the doctor their reasons for wanting her to stay, of course, and his affable agreement that Edith could leave whenever she liked was hardly helpful. Trish persuaded Edith to stay a couple of extra days, but that was it. On the tenth day after the wreck, Armando and Trish brought her home in the Mercedes. Trish noted one thing when she was packing Edith’s personal things to leave the hospital. There was a pack of cigarettes there, tucked far back in the corner of the nightstand. Probably few people knew she smoked, as Trish had not known. But Marc, after all the years of knowing and living next door to her, undoubtedly did know.

  Edith was in excellent condition, considering her near collision with death. Her left arm was in a cast, and the scarf tied around her head didn’t quite co
nceal the shaved area, but she had no problem walking or taking care of herself. On her very first night home she insisted on eating a regular meal in the dining room with Armando and Trish. Afterward, she visited with her father for a while. Trish knew she must apologize for her suspicions about him, but that must wait until she could tell Edith why those suspicions had been abandoned. At this point, so far as Trish knew, Edith had no suspicion that her car wreck had been anything but a purely accidental brake failure.

  It was too bad, Trish thought with a twinge of regret, that Robert Hepler felt about her the way he did. She would have liked to know this man, who had once been her mother’s husband, who was her half-sister’s father. Edith seemed to feel a great deal of affection for him, so surely Trish must have received a distorted, inaccurate impression of him that night in the hall. Trish knew she felt differently toward him because she no longer suspected him of trying to do her harm, that she felt vaguely guilty for even temporarily harboring those suspicions. If only she had listened to those stirrings of suspicion she felt about Marc, instead of labeling them preposterous and absurd!

  That night, after seeing Edith safely in bed, Trish went to her own room and stared out the window for a long time without turning on the lights.

  She could see dim lights at Marc’s house, but she could not tell whether or not he was home. She still had not seen him since that morning at the hospital when he had so coldly held her away from him. Was he surprised that she had not also been involved in the car wreck? He hadn’t really seemed so, but then his iron control would probably enable him to conceal anything he did not care to reveal. Or perhaps he didn’t really care enough about her to register anything one way or the other; he had written her off when he turned and walked away from her the night of the fiesta.

  And yet the way he had held her in his arms and kissed her that night. He hadn’t seemed cold-blooded or uncaring. Far from it! She remembered the tremor of emotion at the corner of his mouth, a tremor that escaped even his rigid control. And even if his kisses were experienced and expert, they were certainly not lacking in passion.