Tangled Destinies

by Diana Palmer

  As she approached the casket, covered with red roses, her steps faltered. She had to force herself to keep walking and noticed Marc staring at the ground. He was in black, his head bowed, his face drawn and pale. Lana was standing beside him, wearing black, too, and clinging to his arm. She touched him, nuzzled against him, and he didn’t even seem to notice. But Gaby did, and despite herself, she ached to change places with the lovely British woman. But she didn’t have that right. She’d been cheated out of it twice now. Once by Marc’s greed and once by Joe’s jealousy. Marc was lost to her forever. It might have been her heart in that casket about to be buried. She felt empty and alone.

  Marc looked up suddenly and saw her. And what happened to his face was indescribable.

  For a moment he simply stared at her, as if not fully understanding who she was. Then, what little color he had seemed to drain from his cheeks.

  “You!” he burst out, jerking away from Lana, startling everyone who saw the fury he directed straight at a shocked Gaby.

  She clutched her small purse, hesitating on the perimeter of the group assembled around the gray metal casket. He looked as if he might attack her.

  “You tramp!” he shouted. His face reddened with fury. He threw a hand up toward her. “You tramp! What do you want here, to see your handiwork? You killed him! You killed him! What do you want here?”

  “No,” she said, her voice shaking. “Marc, I didn’t!”

  “Marc, calm down,” Lana coaxed, frowning as she tried to soothe him. “This won’t help.”

  But he threw her off and drew a shuddering breath. His black eyes accused her, spat at her. “I told you to leave him alone, but you wouldn’t. You wanted to get back at me because I threw you over!” Marc choked. “You led him on until he was out of his mind. They found drugs in his system. That’s what caused him to crash his car. And Joe never touched drugs before he got involved with you! You teased until he went crazy. And then you had the police drag him away like a criminal when he tried to talk to you! What kind of monster are you? Damn you, Gaby Bennett, you killed my brother!”

  He used guilt like a weapon. She felt it strike deep into her heart, tearing at her. She knew she’d helped Joe into that casket. And she didn’t have the strength to deny Marc’s allegations. She looked at the coffin, her vision clouded with tears, blind to the priest’s restraining hand on Marc’s big arm, which held him back when Marc started toward her. She sobbed and turned away. Behind her she heard Marc’s voice, accusing.

  She could have walked under a car, she felt so sick. But that wouldn’t have solved anything at all. It would only make a bad situation worse. She went back home in tears and was pitifully grateful that her father had gone on to work. She didn’t want company. She took aspirins for the headache she was getting and went to bed. Amazingly she slept until her father came home.

  “Was the funeral bad?” Jack Bennett asked. He sat down in the chair by the bed, concerned as he studied her pale face.

  “Yes. It was bad,” she agreed, without going into details. It was better if he didn’t know how bad it had been. “How was your day?”

  “Hectic. I have to go to Belgium for a couple of weeks.” He sighed and looked at her, a worried expression on his lined face. “I hate to leave you at a time like this, but it can’t be helped. My company may depend on it.”

  “That bad, huh?” she asked gently.

  “That bad. Don’t worry, we’ve been through tough times before. And you’re a big-time model. If I go bankrupt, you can support me,” he told her with a grin.

  She laughed. “I certainly will,” she promised. “I’ll even take you to Europe for a week and not to work.”

  “That’s a nice thing to look forward to.” He studied her closely. “Don’t brood while I’m gone. Get busy. That will keep you from dwelling on it. Worrying won’t bring him back, you know.”

  “I know.” It wouldn’t bring Marc back, either, or make him forgive her for what Joe had told him she’d done. But talking about it wouldn’t help. It would change nothing. “Have a good trip,” she said with a brave smile. “I’ll keep the home fires burning.”

  “Don’t push me out the door.” He chuckled. “I’m not leaving until morning.”

  “Oh. Well, in that case, I’ll get up and keep you company.”

  “That’s my daughter,” he said proudly. “Come on. I’ll cook supper tonight.”

  “You can’t cook!” she said accusingly.

  “I can so. You pick up the phone,” he began as she pulled on her robe and joined him at the door, “call the deli, and have them bring over whatever you want!”

  She pursed her lips. “Now I know why I’m not married.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted somebody like you, and when God made you, He broke the mold.”

  He smiled warmly. “I love you too,” he said, and kissed her cheek. “Let’s eat. I’m starving!”

  Jack Bennett gave her no time to think about what had happened at the cemetery. He did his best to keep her amused and talking until bedtime. The next morning she felt rested and a little less raw. Her father left soon after breakfast, and Gaby went to call her agency. If she could find an assignment, it would help take her mind off her troubles.

  She was lucky. A commercial was being shot for a hosiery firm and a model who’d been hired had taken ill. Gaby was hired immediately for a small part in it. The commercial’s producer seemed to like her work. But even while she was working Gaby couldn’t make herself forget Marc’s cutting words or the hatred in his deep voice. He hated her for no reason, she told herself, but she felt ill every time she thought about it.

  This wouldn’t do, she finally realized. She would never have any peace until she found out if there was any substance to her suspicions. She had to know if there was a chance Joe could have been killed, if there was any possibility that someone had given him the drugs that cost him his life.

  The best place to start, she decided, was with Bob Donalds. His roommate had to know him pretty well. And, besides, she couldn’t walk into Motocraft, Inc., and start asking questions. Hating her as he did, blaming her as he did, Marc would probably throw her out.

  Late that afternoon, when she finished her day’s work, she went straight to the apartment Joe had shared with Bob Donalds. She hadn’t seen him at the funeral. And that was odd.

  The doorman called up to the room, and minutes later she was getting off the elevator on the floor where Joe had lived. She rang the bell, and it was a strangely restless Bob Donalds who let her inside.

  “This is unexpected,” he said nervously. He looked disheveled, and there were bruises on his handsome face. He was sweating. His red hair was damp, and his white shirt was rumpled and stained.

  “You look terrible,” she said abruptly.

  “I feel terrible,” he agreed. “Look, you shouldn’t be here.”

  She stared at him, hesitating. “Are you alone?” she asked.

  “Yes. Now I am,” he added. He put his face in his hands. “Gaby, you shouldn’t have come.”

  “It’s something to do with Joe, isn’t it?” she probed gently.

  His head jerked up. His eyes were wild and frightened, and she knew immediately that he was involved. Somehow he was involved.

  “You know something, don’t you?” she persisted. “It wasn’t an accident. Joe never used drugs, you know he didn’t. But I got a copy of the paper that came out on the morning after Joe was killed, and it said he was on some kind of drug, just like Marc said. Bob, you know as well as I do that Joe never touched drugs!”

  “Maybe he changed!” Bob got to his feet. He looked hunted and more than a little afraid. “Look, I hate to be rude, but I’ve got to go out of town for a few days. I was just packing when you came.”

  “How sudden,” she said suspiciously. He knew s
omething. He was afraid, and he was running. “Who threatened you, Bob?” she asked point-blank. “Who beat you up?”

  His face went white, making the freckles on his cheeks stand out like measles. “I don’t know anything,” he said sharply.

  “You know something,” she returned. “It was murder, wasn’t it?” The expression on Bob’s face told her she was right, so she pressed on. “Was Dave Smith involved?”

  He actually flinched. He didn’t say a word, but he didn’t have to. She could see it in his eyes. She’d been right all along.

  “Was Joe helping Smith to steal parts from the company?” she said, prodding.

  “Gaby, shut up!”

  “That has to be it,” she whispered, horrified at what she was puzzling out for herself. “Joe had so much money, money he didn’t earn working for Marc. And he said he’d done Smith a favor... He and Smith were privately selling parts from Marc’s own huge inventory, but they were pocketing the money. That would mean a discrepancy on the books, and outside auditors would discover that orders were being received and processed and that no money was changing hands. That’s it, isn’t it? And when the auditors came in, Joe got scared and threatened to tell Marc to save his own skin, but Smith realized that it would be the end for him, and he panicked and killed Joe!”

  “If you tell that to a living soul, you’ll be in trouble too,” Bob whispered, glancing around the room restlessly. He took her by the shoulders and shook her gently. “Listen, girl, I stumbled on it by accident. Joe talked in his sleep. And I happened to mention it to Smith...oh, hell, I was going to squeeze a little money out of him, and he sent a couple of his ‘friends’ over to explain the situation to me.” He let her go, turning away from her shocked face. “So I like money,” he grumbled. “The real estate business hasn’t been working out lately. I made a mistake. But I’m getting out before I wind up like poor old Joe. And you’d better get amnesia fast or you could be in trouble yourself.”

  “We could go to the police...” she ventured.

  “And implicate me in a blackmail scheme?” he burst out. “What a neat idea. Will you visit me in prison?”

  “We don’t have to tell them that!”

  “It would come out.” He opened his door and stood beside it, waiting for her to get the idea.

  “Are you going to let him get away with it?” she challenged. Her green eyes sparkled as they searched his. “Or didn’t he act alone?” she added.

  “I never had anything to do with it,” he said harshly. “It wasn’t me, I swear. I liked him.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Gaby. I like living.”

  “Yes. I can understand that, but I can’t let it drop. His brother thinks I’m responsible for his death. I can’t live with that on my conscience.”

  “You might not live, period, if you don’t forget everything we just said.”

  “I’ll live,” she returned. Her chin lifted. “I’ll live, all right. And I’ll clear Joe’s name. Keep your eye on the papers, Bob, from wherever you go into hiding.”

  “And watch for what? Your obituary?” He laughed mirthlessly. He let her out and quickly closed the door behind her.

  Determination lighting her eyes, she went toward the elevator. She was going to get Dave Smith and expose his whole filthy operation. And with that firmly in mind, disregarding the danger, she hailed a cab and went straight to the main offices of Motocraft, Inc.

  CHAPTER TEN

  GABY HAD HOPED that Marc’s rage had been due to grief and that he would be more receptive to hearing her out now. But after his secretary asked her to sit in the waiting room, she knew it was going to be much more difficult than she’d expected. She saw the young woman at the desk speak into the phone, turn pale, glance nervously at Gaby and murmur, “Yes, sir,” into the intercom.

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Stephano is in conference,” the secretary said with admirable aplomb, “and it’s only fifteen minutes before quitting time. He said that he can’t see you today.”

  “I can wait,” Gaby said, trying to smile.

  The girl cleared her throat. “Uh, Miss...?”

  “Bennett,” Gaby reminded her.

  “Miss Bennett, I don’t think it will do any good,” she said honestly.

  “I’ll wait,” she replied doggedly. “If it takes ten hours or ten days,” she added under her breath.

  A few minutes later the door to Marc’s office opened, and a man left with a briefcase in his hand. Marc stood in the doorway, glaring at Gaby.

  “I can’t see you,” he said in a tone that would have killed mice. “Isn’t that plain?”

  “You are seeing me, Mr. Stephano,” she replied, rising gracefully, “and you’re going to hear me, too, if I have to take out a full-page ad in The New York Times to get your attention.”

  “Be my guest.” He turned and went back into his office and closed the door.

  Gaby sat back down, smiled at the secretary again, opened a magazine and began to read. Fifteen minutes later she watched the young woman glance at her apologetically as she called Marc to tell him she was leaving. Gaby couldn’t hear the reply. The girl left, closing the door behind her, leaving the office in a funereal peace.

  An hour passed, and Gaby felt more miserable by the second. She thought of storming into Marc’s office, but she didn’t relish the idea of being thrown out. It was all catching up to her, anyway, the grief and fear and nervous apprehension about laying her suspicions at his feet. He probably wouldn’t believe her, anyway, but she had to try. It was killing her to have him hate her for something she hadn’t done. She’d cared about Joe too. His death had hurt her too. But now she was sure that she understood a great deal more about the way he’d behaved at the end, about his wild delusions and outbursts. Somebody had been feeding him drugs, and he probably hadn’t even realized it. Joe had been, all his life, a victim.

  Her back and her legs ached. She was tired and wanted to go home. She glared at her watch and Marc’s closed door and felt like throwing things. She was near tears when the door suddenly was jerked open and he strode out.

  But he didn’t look at her. He went straight to the door and held it open.

  “I’m locking up,” he said abruptly. “Care to spend the night here alone?”

  “I want to talk to you,” she said, rising. “It’s important.”

  “Want to feed me some more lies, honey?” he challenged, and the hatred in his eyes almost broke her spirit. “Joe’s dead, thanks to you. All your lies won’t bring him back.”

  He couldn’t have known how that accusation hurt her. Why wouldn’t he give her a chance to tell him the truth?

  “Listen. Please listen to me!” she pleaded, moving close to him. Her eyes were wide with pain as she looked up into his unyielding face. “Joe was involved in some kind of theft at the company. He and Dave Smith. Joe never used drugs; he hated them! Somebody gave him something, and the only person it could have been is Smith! Smith had him killed because—”

  “Can’t you make up something better than that?” he spat, closing his mind to everything she said. “Get out of here! Let my brother rest in peace and get out of my sight. You make me sick!”

  “Please!” she begged.

  “Shall I call the police and have you taken off in a squad car?” he said, challenging with pure malice, and he looked as if that was the least dangerous thing he might do.

  “It’s not a lie, it’s the truth!”

  “You wouldn’t know the truth if it sat on you.” He moved her out of the way with an ungentle hand and quickly locked the door. Even as she tried to repeat what she’d already said, he turned his back on her and strode off down the hall without a backward glance. Before she could reach the elevator, he was in it and gone.

  So. That was that. He really did hate her, all right, and now there was no one to tell.
She couldn’t go to the police; they’d need more than her suspicions to investigate. Marc wouldn’t listen. Bob had skipped town by now. Defeated and tormented by what she knew and couldn’t prove, she went back to her father’s house and brooded for the rest of the evening.

  She hardly slept that night, but her mind kept working on the problem, gnawing away at it. She was desperate to find someone to listen to her, so desperate that she finally considered going to Marc’s uncle Michael. He was one person who might listen to her if he hadn’t been warned off by Marc. He just might even believe her. After she had coffee and a piece of toast Gaby set off to a part of town she had never visited before, to an apartment on the top floor of a run-down building. A place she’d once gone with Joe, a place she’d seen only from the outside. Joe hadn’t asked her in, and she hadn’t volunteered to join him during a brief visit to his uncle.

  Shivering with nerves, she rang the doorbell on the third floor. Nobody answered, and she rang it again. Perhaps he wasn’t home. Perhaps he’d seen her get out of the cab, recognized her and didn’t want to see her. Perhaps...

  The door opened, and a hard, rocky-looking face peered at her. “Yeah?”

  She swallowed. “Uncle Michael?” she asked in a tone half the strength it usually was.

  The tall man stared at her levelly with eyes as black as Marc’s. He was built like a boxer, though not as tall as his nephew. Had she done a stupid thing by coming here? He looked much more formidable than she’d imagined, and perhaps Marc had already turned him against her.

  He looked her up and down, taking in the neat gray dress with its high collar, the sleek chignon her hair was pulled into, the grace and poise of her carriage.

  “I saw you at Joe’s funeral,” he said simply.