by Anne Stuart
“Just Sandy,” he replied modestly. “And no, I’m not a private detective.”
“Then just what are you?”
Time to intervene again, Jane thought, rising briskly. “We appreciate your help.”
Elinor shrugged. “It wasn’t much.”
“You could keep in touch. Let us know if Tremaine comes up with anything.”
“I could. We’ll see how I feel.”
Jane headed down the hallway, Sandy strolling casually along beside her, when she turned to look at Elinor’s still figure. “I just wish I knew why you were willing to help us.”
Elinor’s smile was icy. “Let’s just say I didn’t bargain for getting involved in murder.”
*
“He couldn’t have been murdered,” Jane insisted for the twenty-seventh time. She was sitting cross-legged on her motel bed, her hair shoved behind her ears, her glasses slipping down her generous nose, her blouse unbuttoned lower than she doubtless realized. Sandy looked at her and controlled a wistful sigh.
“Why not?” They’d repeated this conversation too many times for him to remember. “Do you think Stephen Tremaine is incapable of murder?”
“Not necessarily. But I can’t believe he’d risk it. I wouldn’t think the stakes would be high enough. Damn that woman! How could she just say something like that and refuse to explain?” Jane fumed, bouncing on the bed in her agitation.
“Ms. Peabody knew exactly what she was doing. She wanted to get you riled up and not thinking straight.” He was lounging against the wall by their connecting door, trying to decide how he could get beside her on the bed without having her throw a major fit.
“She succeeded. Do you suppose that was why she did it? That this was all part of Uncle Stephen’s plan to get us so confused we went off in a thousand directions?” Her eyes were swollen with unshed tears. He knew she’d shed tears in the darkness on the long drive home, but she’d refused to cry in front of him.
“It’s always a possibility.” He managed a casual stroll over to the front windows on the pretext of looking out into the artificially lit parking lot. That little maneuver got him a few feet closer to the bed and kept her off guard. If only she’d start crying again he’d have an excuse to comfort her. He’d been on fire since she’d made that phony pass at him earlier—he could still feel the imprint of her hand on his knee and hear the very real possessiveness in her voice.
Jane shook her head. Her thick brown hair was coming loose from the braid down her back, and her glasses were slipping down on the end of her nose. “I don’t think so. There was real hostility in her voice when she talked about Uncle Stephen. I think she’s definitely out to get him. I just don’t know whether getting him involves lying or not.”
Sandy crossed to the bed, leaning over her and resting his hands on the sagging mattress. “If she was telling the truth, if Richard really was murdered, then this isn’t a game anymore. It’s a matter for the police.”
“Is that what it’s been to you? A game?” Her voice was tight and throbbing with tension, and she was so angry she didn’t realize how close he was, didn’t comprehend the possibilities when he sat down on the bed beside her.
“No,” he said, pushing a strand of hair back from her flushed face. “But it wasn’t a matter of life and death, either.”
“I keep forgetting,” she said bitterly, not moving beneath his hand.
“Forgetting what?” His voice held no more than mild curiosity as he reached out and pushed the glasses back up her nose. He would have liked to have taken them off her, but he decided that would be pushing his luck.
“That you’re an amoral criminal, selling your expertise to the highest bidder.”
He wasn’t even affected. He looked down at her, a gentle smile on his face. “But at least my body’s for free,” he said, and kissed her.
He more than half expected the reaction he got. For a moment her mouth softened beneath his, her whole body-radiating warmth and desire. The next moment he was shoved away, the stinging imprint of her hand on his jaw as he toppled off the bed and onto the threadbare carpet.
He looked up at her from his ignominious position, sprawled on the floor. She was kneeling on the bed, holding her hand and staring down at him in shock and dismay. Her hand must hurt her a good deal, he thought, because it sure as hell hurt his face.
“I’ve never hit anyone in my life,” she said, her voice dazed. “Not since I was eight years old.”
He kept a straight face for a moment longer, then grinned up at her. “Maybe you should have hit your ex-husband,” he said, sitting upright on the hard floor. “Not to mention your self-centered brother.”
“Don’t. He’s dead.”
“That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have benefited from a good wallop,” Sandy said gently.
She stared at him for a long moment. “God, Sandy, what am I going to do?” she said finally.
There were a number of possibilities, most of which she’d find completely unacceptable. He’d already mentioned the police, and clearly she hadn’t liked that idea. He’d tried another pass, and while she’d been more amenable, common sense had reared its ugly head. That left only one possibility. The real Jimmy the Stoolie and his impressive underworld connections.
“What we’re going to do,” he corrected gently, “is get a good night’s sleep. I’m going to make a few phone calls, see what I can stir up, and tomorrow we’ll head into the city.”
“Why?”
“Because if Stephen Tremaine really was responsible for your brother’s death, you can bet your cookies he didn’t do it himself. He hired someone. And in New York we can find out exactly whom he hired.”
“How?”
“I have friends,” he said modestly. “Friends in low places. We can even stay in my lawyer’s apartment while we’re checking out leads.”
“Your lawyer pays your bills and lends you his apartment?” Jane said, mystified. “Why?”
Sandy shrugged. “What can I say? He likes me.”
“Are you blackmailing him?”
This being a criminal has its drawbacks, Sandy thought, swallowing his outraged protest. Righteous indignation had no place in his scheme of things. “No, I’m not blackmailing him,” Sandy said patiently, with only a slight edge. “He owes me a few favors, I owe him a couple. It all works out.”
“So the glorious Alexander Calderwood owes favors to a gangster,” Jane mused. “Remind me not to hire him if we get caught torching Technocracies.”
“Caldicott,” Sandy corrected, the edge coming out. “And you couldn’t ask for a better lawyer.”
“I could ask for a more honest one.”
He just managed to keep from growling. “Besides, I’m not a gangster. I’m just a minor talent.”
“True enough. You can barely manage to pick a lock.”
Enough was enough. Sandy’s romantic mood was thoroughly banished by now, his jaw was throbbing, and Jane was looking decidedly cheerful. “We’ll go tomorrow.”
“Fine,” she said, lying back on the bed, seemingly unaware that her skirt had ridden up her thighs, exposing those beautiful legs of hers, that her glasses were sliding down her nose again, and that no matter how mad he was right now he still found her absolutely delicious. “I don’t think we’ll find anything, but it will help matters to know for sure.”
“You’ve decided Tremaine didn’t kill your brother?”
“I don’t think so. Call me irrational, but I think I’d know. I trust my intuition about people, and I just don’t think Uncle Stephen could have done it. It had to be an accident.”
Sandy had made it to the connecting door, but he stopped for a moment. “You trust your intuition about people,” he echoed. “What does your intuition tell you about me?”
He would have given ten years off his life to have been able to read her mind right then. Whatever she was thinking, it was powerful. Her eyes widened, her mouth grew soft and tremulous, and for two cents he would have cr
ossed the room and landed back on the bed with her.
And landed back on the floor, no doubt. Within seconds she’d wiped the incriminating look from her face, tightening her mouth and narrowing her eyes. “That you’re nothing but trouble,” she answered. “Good night.”
That was true enough, he thought. But he wished he knew what else she’d been thinking for that brief moment before her defenses shuttered down again. “Pleasant dreams,” he said, hoping they’d be lustful ones.
There was no question that his would be.
*
The whimpers woke him. It was sometime in the middle of the night—the Princeton Pike Sleep-a-While Motel didn’t supply digital clocks to succor the insomniac, and he could only peer at his thin gold watch and guess that it was after three. The fluorescent lights from the parking lot glared into the room, and he lay in the uncomfortable bed, his ears straining for the sound that had pulled him from a deep sleep.
Maybe the sparsely populated motel had rented the room on the other side, and right now some energetic couple was being slightly vocal in their endeavors. Or maybe some stray alley cat was lurking outside, prowling along the cracked cement walkway, looking for a juicy mouse. Or maybe, he thought, as the sound came again, his partner in crime was crying.
He pulled himself out of bed, and headed for the connecting door, grabbing for his bathrobe as he went. Not that she hadn’t already seen him in his underwear, but in her current fragile state he didn’t want to do anything to alarm her further.
He wouldn’t have put it past her to barricade the connecting door, but it opened easily, silently at his touch. He expected a shriek of outrage when she realized he’d faked locking the door, but all that came from the narrow figure on the bed was another muffled whimper.
The eerie blue-yellow light from the parking lot outside cast gloomy shadows in the shabby room. He could hear the distant roar of trailers barreling down Route One, but Jane slept on, oblivious, lost in her own nightmare world of misery.
He should leave her alone, he knew that. He should go back to his own room, slam the door loud enough to wake her out of her tear-laden sleep, and let her work out her problems by herself. What the hell did he have to offer her but more lies?
The bed sank beneath his weight as he sat down beside her. He touched her shoulder, gently, hoping just to jar her out of the nightmare but let the sleep continue.
Her eyes flew open, staring up at him, dazed, myopic, filled with unshed tears. “What are you doing here?” she demanded in a husky voice.
“You were having a nightmare,” he said softly, reluctantly pulling his hand back.
“I was dreaming about Richard and the car crash. I was in the car with him, falling down the embankment, rolling over and over and over.” Her voice shuddered to a halt.
“You’re safe,” he said, knowing how lame it sounded. He wondered how he was going to be able to touch her again. He’d probably end up on the floor.
“I suppose I am.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked up at him. “What are you wearing?”
“A bathrobe,” he replied, startled.
“A F C.” She reached out and traced the telltale monogram. “Don’t tell me you stole your lawyer’s bathrobe?” There was more weary amusement than indignation in her voice.
“Of course not,” Sandy said, glad the darkness hid his expression. “I just borrowed it.”
“You’re an unregenerate scoundrel, Sandy or Jimmy or whoever you are.”
“I’m afraid so,” he agreed, feeling suddenly very guilty. Maybe now was the time to tell her, now in the timeless hours between midnight and dawn. The longer he waited the worse it would be. “Jane,” he began earnestly, steeling himself.
“Good night, partner,” she said, interrupting him gently but firmly.
“But I wanted to...”
“Good night.”
He had no choice. At least he could comfort himself with the knowledge that he tried. Not hard enough, but he did try. He sat on the bed, looking down at her.
“Good night,” he said. And without another word he went back to his room, closing the door silently behind him.
Chapter Ten
“I wouldn’t trust Elinor Peabody further than I could throw her,” Jane said, huddling deeper into the leather car seat as they sped toward New York.
“Neither would I,” Sandy said reasonably enough. “That doesn’t mean she can’t be useful.”
Jane gave her clothing a look of disgust. The artfully streaked and tattered jeans had clearly seen better days, the top resembled something Geronimo might have worn. At least it covered her. Beneath it was a metal studded leather bra that Sandy had presented with a flourish. She wouldn’t have worn it at all if the feathered shirt hadn’t provided a few desperate gaps, and she would have given anything to be able to wrap her underdressed body in a nice, enveloping raincoat.
Her hair was even more absurd, but by the time she’d attacked it she’d become reckless, getting into the spirit of the thing. It stuck out every which way, aided by mousse, styling gel, and the kind of teasing she hadn’t seen since her brother went to the senior high school prom with Rita Di Angelo in a fit of teenage lust never repeated in his noble manhood.
But the hour-long, cramped ride into the city in Sandy’s MGB was giving her more than enough time for second thoughts, and every time she glanced at her reflection in the mirror she cringed. The blue, purple and pink streaks radiating above her eyes were visible even without her purloined glasses, and the black lipstick made her look like the bride of Frankenstein. She shivered delicately, looking out over the New Jersey Turnpike, and hoped her left earring wouldn’t catch in the feathers. She’d closed her eyes when Sandy had inserted the diaper pin in her right ear, and she still couldn’t bring herself to look closely at it.
It was long past dusk, an early autumn chill was in the air, and the smell of New Jersey exhaust penetrated the closed windows of the little car. Jane had drawn the line when Sandy had tried to douse her with some sort of musk that smelled more like pesticide, but maybe that would have been better than the sulphurous fumes rising from the sprawled-out megalopolis surrounding Newark.
“You could have stayed home,” Sandy said gently.
“I wouldn’t exactly call the Princeton motel home,” Jane said, allowing herself another, surreptitious glimpse of Sandy’s spiked blond hair and torn T-shirt and swallowing the sigh of part disgust, part lust. While she looked like a cross between Cyndi Lauper and Vampira, Sandy managed to look like a punk Don Johnson. Certain things in life weren’t fair.
“What would you call home?”
“The second floor of a run-down Victorian house in Baraboo, Wisconsin. I used to live in a boxy apartment but it drove me crazy.”
“Somehow I don’t see you as a Victorian.”
“Don’t you? I’ve been called prudish in my time.” She knew her voice sounded raw, but she hoped he wouldn’t notice.
Sandy noticed everything. “Who called you prudish? Your ex-husband?”
“Yes.”
“Does he have anything to do with your Victorian lifestyle?”
Jane sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t be so damned nosy. Why don’t we change the subject?”
“Lovely weather,” he said obediently enough.
There was a long silence. “You really want to know about my marriage?”
“Only if you want to tell me.”
“If I wanted to tell you I would have brought up the subject myself.”
“Yes, I want to know about your marriage,” Sandy said, dropping all pretense.
“All right. It doesn’t take long to tell. I met Frank at the University of Wisconsin. I was taking a night course in Japanese Socialism and he was rebounding from a messy divorce.”
“Japanese Socialism?” he echoed in a voice of horror. “Why in the world would you willingly choose to study something that dry?”
“I thought it was time to try something new. I’d already had enough art
s and sciences to keep me going. Do you want to hear about my academic career or my marriage?”
“We’re getting near the turnpike exit. Which takes the shorter amount of time?”
“Definitely the marriage. Frank was teaching the course, which was unspeakably boring. He’d just been divorced by his wife of five years—apparently she needed to find herself and he’d been holding her back. So he cried in my arms for a while, then figured there probably wasn’t much of me left to find, so he proposed, and I was fool enough to accept.”
“Why?”
It was a good question, one she hadn’t considered in a long time. She gave the unrepentant Sandy her most severe look. “Because I was in love with him,” she said firmly.
Sandy, of course, wasn’t cowed. “Really?”
She didn’t hesitate. “At this point I don’t know anymore. Maybe I married him because he looked like Dustin Hoffman and he was man enough to cry. I should have realized one should never marry a man who’s crying over another woman.”
“What happened?”
“His ex-wife found herself, Frank got over his rebound and went back to her. It was all very civilized and decent, everybody was terribly sorry about the whole bloody mess.”
“Did you put up any kind of fight?”
“Are you kidding?” Jane tossed her frizzy mane over her feathered shoulder. “I’m much too reasonable a person. I’m cursed with seeing everybody else’s point of view. They both made a mistake and they’d suffered too long for it. I bowed out gracefully and flew to Mexico for a fast divorce so they could get remarried on their old wedding anniversary.”
“Nice. What did you give them as a wedding present?”
Jane glared at him. “What makes you think I gave them a wedding present?”
“You’d already been such an incredible sucker I’m sure you didn’t stop there. I bet you refused alimony.”
“Of course.”
“What about community property?”
“Stop sounding like a lawyer. We’d only been married seventeen months. We hadn’t had time to accumulate much more than a car and a time-share in Bermuda where we spent our honeymoon.”