Rivals

by Janet Dailey

  “Never mind.” She shrugged in irritation and took the key from her bag. “Let’s go inside.”

  Frowning, Ellery glanced one last time at the car, then followed Flame as she ran lightly up the steps to her door. “What’s this all about? Why would you think that’s the waiter?”

  “Because he’s the sender of that nasty note—or more correctly the deliverer of the note.” She inserted the key in the deadbolt lock and gave it a quick turn, then pushed her weight against the door to open it.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because—” She breezed into the foyer, leaving Ellery to close the door behind them, then paused at the door to the hall closet and slipped off her fur jacket. “—he had another message for me at the opera Friday night. That one he delivered in person.”

  “Another message?”

  “Yes. The gist of it was the same as the first—stay away from him. Only this time there was an added warning that if I didn’t, I’d be sorry.” She was conscious of the brittleness beneath her offhand manner, but she couldn’t pretend anymore that it didn’t bother her. “On top of that, he followed me everywhere I went all weekend.” Stiffly she draped the jacket onto its shouldered hanger and hung it in the closet.

  “Everywhere?”

  “No, not everywhere—thankfully.” In spite of her tension or maybe because of it, she glanced at Ellery and laughed, again conscious of her newfound feelings. “And don’t raise your eyebrow at me, Ellery Dorn.”

  “Would I do that?” he declared in mock innocence.

  “You do it all the time.”

  “At least now I know why I wasn’t able to reach you all weekend. Although I must admit at the moment I’m more interested in finding out who the him is in the ‘stay-away-from’ messages. Was the second more enlightening than the first?”

  “No,” she admitted. “But it has to be Chance.”

  “And the sender?”

  She hesitated as she briefly let her glance lock with Ellery’s. “I think it’s Malcom. Who else is there? Initially I thought it might be Lucianna, but she strikes me as the kind who would come at me with her claws unsheathed if she thought I was taking her man.” She paused, her shoulders sagging in vague discouragement. “After that…disagreement…I had with Malcom the other day, I know he isn’t above making threats. And this business of having me followed—it could be his way of impressing me with the lengths he’ll go to for what he wants.”

  “What are you going to do abut it?” This time Ellery was just as serious as she was.

  “I know what I’d like to do. I’d like to threaten him with a sexual harassment suit.”

  “But you don’t dare,” Ellery guessed.

  “Not if I want to continue as a vice-president of Boland and Hayes.” A wry smile pulled at one corner of her mouth. “Besides, a suit like that would do more damage to my reputation and career than it ever would do to his. What agency would want to hire me after that kind of headline? And what client would want to work with me? None. So…I don’t have any choice but to tough it out with him and show him that I won’t be intimidated, not by him or anyone else.”

  Ellery set his attaché case on the floor, freeing his hands to applaud her mockingly. “Marvelous speech, darling. Stiff upper lip and all that.”

  She threw him a look of mild exasperation. “If you’re quite through, you can tell me what you wanted to see me about. This obviously isn’t a social visit or you wouldn’t have brought that along.” She gestured at the leather case by his feet.

  “My timing may be questionable, but I have with me some new ideas for the Powell holiday ads.” His mouth twisted in a ruefully apologetic line. “I thought it would be a good idea if we went over them privately, then, if you shoot them down the way you did before, you won’t completely demoralize my staff.”

  “You’re right, Ellery. Your timing is very questionable.”

  “If you’d rather wait—”

  “No. Just give me a few minutes to shower and change—and to forget that without a great deal of effort I could learn to heartily dislike Malcom.” She started down the hall to her bedroom, adding over her shoulder, “Feel free to make some coffee.”

  The aroma of freshly brewed coffee permeated the air when Flame came out of her bedroom, dressed more casually in a pair of brown slacks and an oversized beige sweater. She hadn’t bothered to dry her hair, instead slicking it back from her face, the wetness of it bringing out the red lights. She found Ellery in the living room with all the roughly sketched layouts and storyboards spread over the coffee table.

  “I poured you some coffee.” With a wave of his hand, he indicated the cup sitting on the glass top of the occasional table.

  “Thanks.” Retrieving it, she sipped at the steaming hot liquid, the smell and the taste of it reminding her of the breakfast she’d shared with Chance in his suite mere hours ago. She’d eaten most of hers while sitting on his lap, all because she had tried to decline any food, insisting that she couldn’t eat in the mornings. Chance had taken it as a challenge, pulled her onto his lap, and proceeded to feed her bites of a pineapple Danish. In retaliation she had done the same to him with a raspberry one. Before it was over they had ended up licking the filling from each other’s fingers and kissing it from the other’s lips, the flavors of raspberry and pineapple mingling together in the process. It had been the most enjoyable breakfast she’d ever had.

  She glanced at the black lacquered mantel clock, deciding Chance was probably at the airport by now. Possibly he could have even taken off already. Idly, she wondered when he would call.

  “Well?” Ellery prodded her for a reaction. “Are any of these the slant you wanted?”

  With a start, Flame realized that she’d been looking at the sketches without seeing any of them. “Sorry, I—” The ringing of the telephone interrupted her, and she jumped to answer it, certain it was Chance calling from the airport.

  But the whiskey-rough voice on the other end of the line didn’t belong to Chance. “Is that you, Margaret Rose? I’ve been calling all weekend. This is Hattie Morgan.”

  “Hattie.” Belatedly Flame remembered the proud old woman who had come to see her with that wild story about being related and leaving a ranch in Oklahoma to her. She’d thought she’d heard the last of her. “Where are you?” she wondered.

  “At Morgan’s Walk, of course,” came the snapped answer.

  “Of course. I should have guessed.” She felt a twinge of pity that the poor woman was still clinging to her fantasy. More than likely she was at some nursing home, and all this was just a lonely attempt to reach out to somebody. “Hattie, is there someone there I could talk to. An attendant or a nurse?”

  “A nurse?! No, there is not!”

  “It isn’t that I don’t want to talk to you, Hattie.” Flame tried again. “I merely want to—”

  “You don’t believe me, do you?” came the accusation. “You think everything I said was the ramblings of a senile old woman. I’ll have you know that my mind is as sharp as yours.”

  “I’m sure it is—”

  “No, you aren’t. But I can prove everything I said to you. Do you have a paper and pencil?”

  “Yes.” A notepad and pen lay next the telephone.

  “I’m calling you long distance from Oklahoma. Mark this number down.” With a sharp, staccato rhythm, she reeled the numbers off, then commanded: “Now, read it back to me.”

  Flame couldn’t help smiling as she repeated the numbers she’d hastily jotted on the pad. The woman was indeed sharp—sharp enough to know that she could have pretended to write them down. Now Hattie knew she had.

  “Good,” came the clipped response. “Now I’m going to hang up and I want you to call me back at that number.”

  “Hattie—”

  “No. I don’t want you to have any doubt that I am calling from Oklahoma. You can check the telephone directory yourself and see that I’ve given you the area code for Oklahoma.”

  “
I know that—”

  “Then do it and call me back. Reverse the charges, if you like.” There was a sharp click, then the line went dead.

  Frowning with sudden doubt, Flame slowly lowered the receiver to stare at it. Had she misjudged this Hattie Morgan? Was it possible she had been telling the truth?

  “Is something wrong?”

  Ellery’s question deepened her frown. “I don’t know.” She depressed the disconnect switch, held it down for a short span of seconds, then released it and waited for the dial tone. When it came, she pushed the “O” button for the operator. “Yes, the area code for Oklahoma, please,” she requested as soon as a voice came on the line. “The Tulsa area…Nine one eight,” she repeated while staring at the same set of digits she’d written on the pad. “Thank you,” she murmured automatically as she hung up the phone.

  “Who was that call from?” Ellery was now on his feet. “What’s going on?”

  She half-turned to him, still trying to sort through it all herself. “Do you remember my telling you about that elderly woman who showed up at my door last week with that preposterous story that I was her last living relative and she was going to leave me her ranch in Oklahoma? That’s who just called me.”

  “What did she want?”

  “She wants me to call her back—and the number she gave me has an Oklahoma area code.” She exhaled a silent laugh of disbelief and doubt. “You don’t suppose all that was true? I thought she had slipped away from some nursing home or private care center. I mean, she could have easily read somewhere that my maiden name is Morgan—or that my Morgan ancestors married into one of the founding families in San Francisco.” She stared at the phone, remembering how casually she had dismissed the whole incident. “It seemed so logical that a lonely old woman with no family of her own would want to pretend that she was related to me, especially when she saw that I had red hair, the same color as some grandfather of hers.”

  “You don’t really believe she intends to leave you some cattle ranch in Oklahoma?” Again there was that high arch of an eyebrow from Ellery, conveying skepticism and question.

  “I don’t know what to believe,” Flame admitted and picked up the telephone again, dialing the number Hattie had given her. “But if she answers, at least I’ll know she told me the truth when she said she lived in Oklahoma.”

  The first ring had barely ended when a voice demanded, “Hello?”

  “Hello—Hattie?” She felt oddly tense.

  “Yes,” came the clipped response, followed by an even sharper demand: “Is that you, Margaret Rose?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You certainly took your time about calling me back.”

  “I did as you suggested and confirmed that the area code you gave me was for Oklahoma.”

  “Then you should be satisfied on that score.” No attempt was made to mask the indignation and irritation in her voice.

  “I am.” Flame tried to remain tolerant.

  “I intended to ask how soon you would be able to visit Morgan’s Walk, but it’s become quite apparent to me that you neither believe in its existence nor that we are related.”

  “Hattie, you surely have to realize how it would all sound to me.”

  “I do. Although I thought I had convinced you of the truth of my claim when we talked. After all the searching I did to find you, I—But that is beside the point, isn’t it? My word is not enough. You obviously require proof, and it’s probably best that you do. Keep that wariness, Margaret Rose. It is better that you don’t trust anyone too much.”

  “You said something to that effect before,” Flame recalled.

  “And it’s true…as you’ll find out. But—be that as it may—since it’s proof you need, it’s proof you shall have. I’ll arrange immediately for copies to be sent to you documenting that you and I are of the same Morgan lineage. They should be in your possession no later than the end of the week.”

  “Hattie, that isn’t necessary—”

  “Oh, but it is. It’s very necessary. You must learn that everything I tell you will be the truth—and everything can be supported with proof.”

  “I believe you,” she insisted with fading patience.

  “No. Not yet you don’t, but you shall. In the meantime, I would prefer that you take nothing on blind faith. Now, when you receive the papers, study them over carefully. Then we’ll talk about your trip to Morgan’s Walk.”

  “What is it that you’re not telling me?” Flame demanded, giving way to her growing suspicion. “There’s something I should know, isn’t there?”

  “There are many things you should know now that Morgan’s Walk will be yours when I’m gone. Too many to discuss on the phone. We’ll go over everything when you come here.”

  “But—”

  “There is one other thing I must know, Margaret Rose, and it’s very important.”

  Flame pressed her lips tightly together, irritated by the way Hattie had sidestepped her question. As the pause lengthened, she realized a response was expected.

  “I’m listening, Hattie,” she challenged somewhat sharply.

  “I was beginning to wonder,” she retorted. “Now, tell me, have you mentioned my visit and our…little discussion to anyone—anyone at all, even in passing?”

  “Yes. Was it supposed to be a secret?” She frowned.

  “How many people did you tell? Think carefully.”

  “Only two.”

  “Are you quite sure?”

  “I am very sure,” Flame replied, allowing a trace of impatience to enter her voice. “It wasn’t something I went around telling everyone I met.”

  “These two people, who are they? And please, you must accept that if it wasn’t important, I wouldn’t ask.”

  Flame paused, wondering whether she might have been right about Hattie Morgan all along. All this cross-examination and talk of proof was becoming a bit much. “One was a very close friend of mine, whom I have known for years—a Mr. Ellery Dorn. And the other was a client and friend, Mr. Malcom Powell.”

  “Those are the only ones you told? No one else?”

  “No one. I’ve already said that.” She tried very hard to remember she was talking to an elderly woman—and apparently a slightly paranoid one at that.

  “In that case, I want your word of honor that you will not discuss this further—with anyone. And when you receive the copies of the documents I’m sending you, don’t show them to anyone…unless, of course, you wish to take them to your attorney to verify their authenticity. But no one else. Do I have your word on that?”

  “Why this secrecy? When you were here, you weren’t concerned about who I might talk to.”

  “I didn’t see the need then. Now I do. I have my reasons, Margaret Rose, and I will explain them to you when you come to Morgan’s Walk. As I said, I will tell you everything then. And you will understand perfectly why I must ask for your word now. Do I have it?”

  She sighed, knowing that this was the only answer she was going to get. “Yes, you have my word.”

  “You won’t regret it. Goodbye, Margaret Rose. We shall talk again next weekend, after you have had an opportunity to study the papers.”

  “Goodbye, Hattie.” She hung up the phone, still trying to fathom the entire conversation.

  “That sounded like a rather bizarre conversation,” Ellery prompted.

  Flame turned, lifting her arms in an expressive shrug. “I’m not even going to pretend I understand. Although I have the feeling that I just took a blood oath not to divulge our conversation to anyone, including you.”

  “Why?” His frown was halfway between amusement and amazement.

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “It’s all terribly mysterious and hush-hush. So hush-hush, she won’t tell me. Maybe it’s a ploy to get me sufficiently intrigued so that I’ll fly out there.”

  “Intrigue. That’s a curious choice of words.”

  “And maybe more accurate than I know.”

  12<
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  As Hattie returned the receiver to its cradle, she heard the creak of a floorboard in the great hall outside the study door. For an instant she held herself motionless, listening. After eighty-one years, she knew every creak and groan in this old house, and the sound she’d just heard hadn’t been one of its natural grumblings.

  “Who’s there?”

  There was no answer to her demand. Her mouth tightened into a thin line as she grabbed up her cane and pushed out of the worn leather chair. With the tap of the cane giving her walk a three-beat tempo, she crossed to the arched opening, the double set of pocket doors flush to the carved frame. Her sweeping glance searched the area to her right, then homed in like an arrow on the stout, gray-haired woman.

  “I knew there was someone out here,” Hattie declared. “You were eavesdropping on my telephone conversations again, weren’t you, Maxine?”

  The woman turned, indignantly drawing herself up to her full height, her already ample bosom managing to appear considerably larger as she pushed her chest out. “With all due respect, Miss Hattie, I have better things to do with my time than listen in on your conversations.”

  “Then what are you doing out here and why didn’t you answer when I called out?” Hattie’s gaze narrowed suspiciously on her, not believing a word of that disavowal, however exemplary it sounded.

  “I didn’t answer because I thought you were talking to someone on the telephone. I didn’t realize you expected me to reply.”

  “Then you admit you knew I was on the phone.”

  “Yes, I knew. And I also knew that this dusting needed to be done. Which is precisely what I was doing.”

  Hattie had a moment’s uncertainty as she tried to find a flaw in the housekeeper’s explanation, but the sudden stabbing pain in her head eliminated it as she paled at the excruciating pain and started to lift a hand to her head, feeling the blackness press in on her.

  “You didn’t take your pill, did you?” Maxine Saunders accused. “I’ll get it for you.”

  “No. No pill. I don’t want it.” Hattie fought back the blackness, winning another battle with it.