A Stranger's Wife

  Taking a step backward, he stared at her. “So you’ve finally come back.”

  “Why, Jake, you know I was in L.A. all day.”

  “Cut it out, Rhea. I know who you are.”

  She gave a sly smile. “How can you be sure?”

  “I’m sure. Where’s Sloan? Lurking in a closet?”

  “Darling, I know my twin and I had you confused, but honestly, you’re talking to Meg. Shall I prove it? Ask me any question about Meg and her life.”

  “I don’t have to. You’re Rhea.”

  She laughed. “Okay. I’m Rhea. My twin and I really had you going, didn’t we? What a joke on you, Mr. Big Shot. Meg and I giggled ourselves silly over how she fooled you.”

  For a split second, doubt flickered in his eyes, quickly masked, but not before she had seen it and experienced a little flush of triumph.

  He said, “Actually I’m glad you came back, Rhea. We can talk about the divorce.”

  “Oh, sure, we’ll get to that later. But don’t you want to hear what Meg thinks about you? Oh, my, she’s quite the actress. She told me she really had to play the part when you touched her. Seems your masculine charms didn’t work on her, sweetie. She said her skin crawled when you put your hands on her. But I understand she managed to hide her revulsion. She said she really turned you on. Of course, I taught her a few tricks—”

  “Shut your filthy mouth,” Jake snapped.

  He turned from her and strode into his dressing room. Seconds later he appeared with an overnight bag.

  “I’ll go to a hotel. You’d better get Mason and the staff back. Tomorrow we’ll meet with the lawyers. I’ll let you know what time.”

  He began to pack the overnight bag.

  Rhea watched him with narrowed eyes. Maybe she couldn’t wait for Sloan to arrive....

  The Smith & Wesson .22 she had bought using Meg’s ID was hidden in a lingerie drawer in her dressing room, along with the gloves she would put on before picking up the gun.

  All she had to do was walk in there and get the gun. He wasn’t even looking at her. She could walk right up to him, then put a bullet in his heart.

  But Sloan wasn’t here yet, and that was a deviation from the plan that worried her.

  She had to stall Jake, somehow.

  “Jake...I’m sorry, I really am. I know how much heartache I’ve caused you. Please, could we just talk for a little while? Don’t go yet.”

  He kept his back turned to her. “What is there to talk about, Rhea? It’s over. It was over before the honeymoon ended. What’s the point of dragging out this charade? I won’t hold you to the prenuptial agreement, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Yeah, right, Rhea thought. That’s what you say now. But wait until your lawyers get to you.

  Aloud she said, “Just tell me one thing. Were you truly fooled by my twin?”

  That made him turn and look at her. “I was truly fooled by you, Rhea. If anybody is an accomplished actress, it’s you. I thought I’d found a woman of integrity.”

  “I do love you, you know, Jake, in my own way...it’s just that you’re so...demanding.”

  “Demanding loyalty and fidelity, you mean?”

  He had stopped packing.

  She asked, “How did you know it was me tonight?”

  He studied her for a moment and his expression told her more clearly than words that any feelings he’d ever had for her were gone.

  Finally he said, “It was the eyes that gave you away. Meg’s eyes are the most expressive I’ve ever seen—filled with hope and compassion, as well as the certain belief that there is goodness and love in the world. Yours, Rhea, are dead eyes. I don’t know what happened to you that left you little more than an empty shell...but I think whatever made you what you are is irreparable. There’s no joy in you, Rhea, and all the possessions in the world will never fill up that hollow place in your soul.”

  Rhea glanced at the antique china clock on her bed table. If she could just keep him talking for a few more minutes... Once Sloan was in the house he would signal her by going to the central controls and turning off the music.

  As soon as the music stops, Jake...as soon as the tango ends...you’re a dead man.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The car in which Meg was trapped had left the freeway and started along a winding road, hitting a pothole that must have opened up in the heavy rain, and jarring every bone in her body. Speeding now, the car lurched, and her right foot jammed into a corner of the trunk.

  Sensing that the journey was coming to an end, and desperate to escape, Meg ignored the pain in her foot and braced herself into an excruciatingly cramped position in order to kick with both feet at the panel separating the trunk from the back seat of the car.

  Suddenly she felt the panel give. Scrambling onto her side, she pushed with both hands, and a moment later the back seat folded down with what sounded to her ears like a resounding thud. She held her breath, hoping the driver hadn’t heard the sound above the beat of the rap music playing on the radio.

  The car didn’t slow down.

  It was difficult to move around in the cramped space, but she managed to ease herself into a position from which she could peer into the car.

  She could see the interior lights and even the bulky shape of the driver, who seemed frighteningly close. He didn’t look back, so evidently hadn’t heard the back seat fold down. With wind and rain lashing the night, and the car bouncing so much on the rougher road surface, he probably thought any sounds were the wheels hitting potholes.

  Then all at once the car was again on a smooth surface and slowing down. The radio was switched off. Through the wash of rainwater and slashing windshield wipers she could make out the shape of ornamental gates sliding back, then the car moved forward again.

  Before she could slip through the opening onto the back seat, she heard the faint whir of a garage door opening and the windshield was flooded with light.

  Startled, she drew back into the trunk as the car came to a complete stop. Meg wanted to weep with frustration. Just a few seconds more and she could have been in the back seat, yanking open the door and leaping to freedom.

  She pulled her keys from her jacket pocket. The keys were a puny weapon, but she wasn’t going to give in without a fight. She lay still, waiting for him to come for her.

  But the trunk did not open. She heard footsteps outside, then silence. He had gone into the house.

  Meg slithered through the opening into the back seat of the car and cautiously raised her head.

  The car was parked in the Chastain garage, and the door leading into the house was open. Sloan must have gone in that way.

  Had Mason and the others returned? Or was Jake still alone? Was he even here, or was Sloan setting up an ambush?

  Meg opened the car door as quietly as she was able, and got out of the car. She looked around. There were at least half a dozen cars in the garage, including the Jeep.

  From inside the house, muted but distinct, came the unmistakable music of the tango.

  Seconds later, the music stopped.

  Meg was about to step through the door into the house when she heard a woman’s voice, screaming obscenities, then, distinctly, “Sloan, get him! He’s on the stairs!”

  In that split second Meg remembered the fuse box was inches from where she stood. She grabbed the cover, raised it, and flipped all the switches.

  The house was plunged into darkness.

  Almost simultaneously a shot reverberated throughout the house, echoing across the marble-floored entry hall.

  There was a second explosion, the sound of shattering glass.

  A man’s voice yelled, “Rhea—where the hell are you? What happened to the freakin’ lights? Damn. Did I get him? Which way did he go?”

  Her heart thumping madly, Meg stepped through the door and felt her way along the dark corridor, trying to fix in her mind the layout of the house. At the end of the corridor a door opened into the kitchen, a room she k
new well.

  It seemed obvious that the staff had not returned. Jake was here alone and they were trying to kill him.

  Thinking of the two shots she had just heard, she prayed. Please, God, don’t let him be dead.

  She was in the kitchen now; she could feel a granite countertop. Her fingers explored the surface until she came to wood. This was the butcher-block chopping surface, and below it a drawer contained carving knives. Sliding open the drawer, her fingers closed around the largest of the knives.

  There was an ominous silence in the rest of the house. Then there were several thuds. Something crashed to the floor.

  Meg’s heart leapt into her throat.

  Where was the phone? Could she reach it and make a call in the dark? She remembered a wall phone near the work area. Clutching the knife, she felt her way along the countertop.

  With the phone in her hand, she laid down the knife. Her fingers were shaking. Careful now, she told herself, you have to find 911 in the dark... think!

  She concentrated on visualizing a phone. Weren’t there usually nine buttons? No, twelve. The first would be one and the last on the third row would be nine. The bottom raw usually consisted of pound and star signs.

  The clicks of the phone seemed frighteningly loud as she pressed what she hoped were the right buttons....

  Then, with relief, she heard the emergency dispatcher on the line and she frantically whispered that shots had been fired at the Chastain estate.

  At the same time she heard the hollow ring of footsteps on marble. She grabbed the knife again. But the footsteps were not coming in her direction.

  Feeling her way to the door, she slipped into the hall.

  A muffled curse, then a crash followed by a series of thumps, came from the direction of the staircase.

  Two shadows, more dense than the surrounding darkness, were grappling at the foot of the stairs.

  Sloan and Jake. Thank God, Jake was still alive!

  Gripping the knife, she attempted to move toward them in the smothering darkness, but suddenly collided with a statuette on a display stand.

  Startled, she dropped the knife and heard it go skittering away from her across the marble floor.

  Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness and she could see that Jake was locked in a deadly struggle with Sloan. Another shot rang out, and in the brief flash she saw that Jake had forced Sloan’s arm upward and that the gun had fired toward the ceiling, high above them.

  But a second later Jake lost his footing and fell heavily against the stairs.

  Sloan stepped back to take aim.

  Meg was never sure, afterward, where she found the strength. She grabbed the statuette from the stand and swung it with all her might at Sloan’s back.

  He grunted with surprise and pain and swung around, firing the gun again. Meg felt the bullet whiz past her ear, and something shattered behind her.

  The diversion gave Jake time to get to his feet and he again closed with Sloan, smashing his fist into Sloan’s jaw. But Sloan didn’t go down.

  Meg moved uncertainly around the edges of the fray, wanting to help, terrified the gun would go off again, uncertain what to do.

  Listening to the sickening sounds—crunching flesh and bone, heavy breathing, gasps of pain—she worried that although the two men were approximately the same height, Sloan outweighed Jake by at least fifty pounds.

  She tried to determine which of the two was close to her and again raised the statuette, praying she would not strike Jake. The floor underfoot was slippery and she found it hard to keep her balance.

  Then both men crashed to the floor, and the gun exploded again. In the brief flash Meg saw that Sloan lay at her feet; Jake had fallen back against the stairs.

  She smashed the statuette down onto Sloan’s head. He moaned, but didn’t get up.

  For an instant the only sound in the darkness was that of labored breathing. Then Jake spoke, his voice ragged, breathless. “Rhea...?”

  “It’s me—Meg. I’ve called 911.”

  “Can you find your way to the fuse boxes in the garage? I’ve got to get his gun before he comes to his senses.”

  “Yes, I think so. But where is Rhea?”

  “Upstairs, I think.”

  “She might have a gun.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  Now he sounded as if he were speaking from the bottom of a well. Meg thought, He’s hurt. “Are you all right? Jake, I don’t want to leave you.”

  “I’m fine. Get the lights.”

  His voice sounded far from fine, but she inched her way across the hall in the darkness, and felt along a wall until she found the kitchen door. It seemed to take forever to make her way back along the corridor to the garage.

  Before she reached the fuse boxes, she heard the welcome sound of sirens shrieking toward the house.

  The squad cars—three of them—pulled up in front of the house as Meg switched the lights on again. She walked out toward the police, her hands in the air.

  Two uniformed officers jumped from the cars and raced toward her, guns drawn.

  “I c-called you,” she stammered breathlessly. “There’s a man inside with a gun...but I think he’s unconscious.”

  All at once, it seemed surreal: the flashing lights of the police cars, the officers surrounding the house, and her own voice shakily directing them to the marble-floored hall.

  “Are you hurt, miss?” one of the officers asked her.

  She shook her head, then saw that he was looking down at her boots. They were spattered with blood.

  “Why don’t you sit in the back of the patrol car while we check on the house?” the officer said, taking her arm gently but firmly and leading her to the closest black-and-white.

  Seated in the back seat of the patrol car, Meg suddenly began to shake violently. Everything seemed to be happening now in slow motion.

  An ambulance came wailing up the driveway.

  Another police car arrived—this one bringing detectives in plain clothes.

  A uniformed officer returned to her. “You say your name is Margaret Lindley?”

  She nodded.

  “We’re going to drive you down to the station. We’ll need a statement from you.”

  “But Jake—Mr. Chastain... May I speak to him first?”

  “We need your statement, miss.”

  Too dazed to argue, Meg leaned back in her seat. Her right foot throbbed. It was an old, familiar pain, and for once she welcomed it.

  As the patrol car she was in pulled away from the house, she saw officers stringing yellow crime-scene tape across the driveway. The significance of that struck her like a physical blow.

  There had been a homicide.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Please,” Meg begged, “tell me how Mr. Chastain is. Is he badly hurt? There was blood on the floor even before I hit Sloan with the statue...”

  The detective to whom she had given her statement, a seasoned officer who appeared to have acquired a permanent expression of doubt, finally relented. “Wait here. I’ll check with my partner.”

  Meg couldn’t seem to stop shaking. She wrapped her arms around her body to try to quiet her twitching nerves. Around her the muted din of police business—phones ringing, computers chirping, conversations—seemed unreal.

  The detective returned, his expression somewhat more sympathetic. “Mr. Chastain has been transported to a hospital.”

  When Meg’s hand flew to her throat in alarm, he added quickly, “A bullet lodged in his thigh. The wound isn’t life-threatening, but he’s in surgery and they’ll probably keep him in the hospital a few days.”

  “May I leave now? I’d like to go to the hospital.”

  “You won’t be able to see him tonight. But he left a message for you—that you should spend the night with his mother.”

  “I’d rather go to my own home,” Meg replied.

  His expression was blank again. “That’s in L.A., right? It would be better for yo
u to stay locally. We’ll probably have more questions for you tomorrow. I’ll have an officer drive you to Laguna Beach.”

  “Could you...tell me anything about Mrs. Rhea Chastain and her brother?”

  “I don’t have that information, ma’am. The investigation is continuing.”

  When Meg reached Laguna Beach, Jessica didn’t seem surprised to see her. She calmly led Meg into the house, where Huxley fussed and whined, licked her hand and sniffed worriedly at the blood on her boots.

  Jessica said, “Jake called me just before he went into surgery, so I have some idea of what happened. It seems that if you hadn’t had the gumption to throw the fuse switches and go to my son’s aid, those two monsters might have gotten away with murder.”

  “Is Jake going to be all right? The police wouldn’t tell me much.” Meg felt as if she were speaking underwater, but Jessica evidently understood. She answered reassuringly, “Yes, he said he just took a bullet in his leg.”

  Remembering the sickening sound of blows, Meg knew Jake had probably played down the injuries he sustained during his fight with Sloan so as not to worry his mother. For herself, Meg wished she could be at the hospital, waiting to see him when he came out of surgery. If only she could clear the fog from her head, perhaps she could ask Jessica to loan her a car.

  But to Meg’s dismay, Jessica seemed to be going in and out of focus. Meg murmured something—she wasn’t sure what, but hoped she hadn’t expressed what she felt with every fiber of her being. I love your son with all my heart and soul and want to be at his side. I can’t bear that he’s hurt. Or that it’s all my fault. I would gladly have taken that bullet for him.

  Jessica said gently, “Meg, don’t blame yourself. This is all Rhea’s doing.”

  Desperately trying to hang on to some semblance of control, Meg stroked Huxley’s silky head.

  “Carmelita is drawing a warm bath for you, Meg,” Jessica said, her voice kind, soothing. “There’s a glass of warm milk laced with brandy next to the tub. I want you to drink it. Then get into bed. I’ll be up in a little while.”

  Still dazed and shaken, Meg gratefully followed the instructions.