by Jenna Ryan
Did she have a choice? An uncharacteristic giggle rose in her throat. With it came a swell of guilt and exhilaration. He had no idea how she spent what little spare time she had. He knew nothing of Manny Beldon’s feelings for her, or of hers for him. He was an old man who had wanted once—and still wanted—to control her life. Yet for all of that, he didn’t know.
“I’ll get changed,” she answered by way of agreement.
“We’ll take your Subaru.”
“If you’d like.” A smile flitted briefly across her lips. “I was going to ride with someone else, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll just make a phone call, and we can go.”
Lines of something, curiosity perhaps, creased Dean’s forehead. His eyes grew eagle sharp. “Are you talking about Niki?” he asked in a tone that verged on a demand.
Deana held her smile and patted his hand. “Of course I am, Daddy,” she lied. “Who else would I mean?”
TOMMY DORSEY played swing in the background as Adeline’s guests gathered in her grand Back Bay mansion. No power outage here, Nikita realized, and was inordinately relieved by the discovery. One more shadow or creaking stair, and they’d have to scrape her off the ceiling.
Vachon helped to center her. He’d made love to her this afternoon until her head swam with delicious visions. False visions, but she pretended they were real. She knew now that she wanted them to be.
“I was afraid she’d hire a band for dramatic effect,” Vachon remarked, his mouth enticingly close to Nikita’s ear. His hand on her back brought a tingle to her skin and offset the sight of Sammy Slide’s malevolent face as he glared at the people scattered around Adeline’s plush drawing room.
“Ah, Vachon.” Resplendent in a blue charmeuse hostess gown, feathered tiara and two-inch spike heels that made Nikita wince, Adeline wobbled over to hook an arm through his. “Would you be an angel and light the fire? Martin, get off your duff and open the flue.” She winked at a clearly amused Vachon. “No need for both of you to dirty your clothes. I must say, you look particularly handsome this evening, Detective. Don’t you think so, Niki?”
Nikita accepted a glass of Moët from Adeline’s butler and smiled placidly. “As a matter of fact, I do. I wouldn’t have thought he owned a suit.” No tie, but black pants, a baggy black jacket and white shirt buttoned all the way up. He looked very good, actually. Aggravatingly sexy.
Martin grumbled but dragged himself from the sofa and picked his way carefully to the hearth. He passed Sammy and, judging from the sneer on the orderly’s face, was probably lucky he didn’t get tripped in the process.
Deana and Dean arrived in a blast of cold air and clinging snowflakes. Three minutes later, Donald Flynn sauntered in. His attempt at indolence fell flat in Nikita’s opinion. Someone with a true devil-may-care attitude wouldn’t also have darting eyes and fingers he continually twined into his shoulder-length ponytail.
Wise or not, Nikita and Vachon had brought Verity with them. Her patient sat primly in Adeline’s favorite rose damask chair. Poor restless Verity. Her eyes wanted to wander in Martin’s direction but invariably stopped halfway.
What was it about Martin, Nikita wondered in mild vexation, that so many women responded to? He must use a brand of charm on them that he didn’t bother to show to her. Or to Adeline or Deana or Dean, for that matter.
The guest list was completed when Manny Beldon arrived in a fawn-colored wool suit and off-white shirt with a mock Nehru collar. Angelic to behold, except for the resentment that sputtered and popped in his pale gold eyes.
“Perfect,” Adeline exclaimed, gleefully surveying the room. “All my guests present and accounted for—except Lally Monk, of course.”
“Gran,” Nikita warned.
“A blazing fire, fine champagne and caviar, and one of Mrs. Doherty’s famous roast beef dinners waiting to be served. Yes, what is it, Dean?”
He arched lofty brows in defiance of her impatient tone. “I thought I might suggest observing a minute’s silence for the latest murder victim at Beldon-Drake.”
Sammy’s round cheeks mottled. “His name was Tom.”
“Of course it was,” Adeline put in stoutly. “And we most certainly will be silent in remembrance of him.”
“We’d be doing him a bigger favor if we apprehended his killer,” Vachon said when the moment had passed. “You were his friend, Slide. Did Tom have any enemies that you know of?”
Sammy set his jaw. “None.”
Was that a film of perspiration shining on his high forehead? Nikita peered past Vachon’s shoulder for a better view.
Her gaze slid to Verity. She recalled the chat they’d postponed earlier. Maybe now, alone in a crowd, would be an opportune moment to have it.
Handing her champagne to Vachon, she went to sit on the rose footstool.
Nikita’s dress was a rich shade of hunter green. It flowed simply over her body and ended three inches above her ankles with a neckline that curved into an alluring V. What really set it apart, however, was the embroidered silver, black and green bolero-style jacket over it. The ensemble spoke of princes, czars and elegant dinner parties. It had taken Vachon’s breath away when she’d appeared at the bedroom door earlier.
“You’re so pretty,” Verity murmured enviously.
Nikita could have addressed that remark but didn’t She wasn’t sure how to broach the subject of the freezer. As a friend? Physician? Both?
Blowing out a strained breath, she said simply, “What were you doing in the hospital freezer yesterday, Verity?”
Of all the reactions she’d anticipated, relief had not numbered among them. “Oh, thank God,” her friend breathed. “It was you. I saw someone. I thought it was Lally.”
“What?”
“She’s been following me lately. I wouldn’t mind, normally, but she hasn’t been herself for several days now. Seeing Talia yesterday bothered me. There’s something soulless about her.”
“She’s a second personality, Verity, developed, as far as I can determine, quite late in Lally’s young life. She’s only been manifesting herself for about four years, and only then sporadically. Now, about the freezer?”
Verity bowed her head, hands clasped tightly in her lap. “I think you can guess the truth, Niki. I’m sure Deana has.”
Damn. Nikita wanted to shake her. “Why, Verity?” she demanded instead.
“Why Martin? Because he’s sweet.”
Nikita leaned forward to whisper, “How could you do that to Dee?”
“She doesn’t love him.”
“How do you know that?”
“Martin told me. And he’s—”
“I know, he’s sweet”
Verity looked away. “I didn’t mean to hurt her, Niki. If she really loved him, she’d be there for him more often. She practically lives at the hospital.”
Dean’s voice diverted Nikita. “That’s your third glass of champagne,” he reproached Adeline. “I advised you to stop at two.”
Adeline winked, raised her glass in a mock toast and turned her rapt attention to Donald Flynn.
Donald was drinking bourbon and fidgeting with his blond ponytail. His gaze swung between Vachon and Manny.
Sammy Slide seethed as he imbibed. Deana shifted restlessly in her chair and tried not to look at anyone. Adeline chattered like a magpie, while Dean glowered at his son-in-law. And Martin, in a rare attempt to be amiable, grinned lopsidedly and interjected the odd comment into Donald and Adeline’s conversation.
A picture Lally had painted earlier that day sprang to Nikita’s mind. Lally had described a party, this party. Another psychic flash or simply a shrewd guess? Because no matter what else she might turn out to be, Nikita was convinced Lally was a great deal cannier than she let on.
“Aren’t you going to ask me about Patti’s body?” Verity asked. “I know they found her hanging in the freezer right after Martin and I came out.”
“I found her,” Nikita corrected.
“And you’re curious to know how w
e missed her.”
“You could say that.” It was Vachon who spoke from directly behind Nikita’s shoulder. His eyes were steady on Verity’s face. “Wouldn’t you be, in our position?”
She glanced guiltily at Nikita. “You won’t believe me.”
“Try us,” Vachon suggested.
Around them, voices rose and fell. The only person not talking was Sammy Slide. He seemed content to get slowly drunk on Canadian Club whiskey.
Verity rubbed her cheeks. “Martin said we could meet there. Briefly, because it was cold, but safely, because no one would think to check out a walk-in freezer. I opened the door and turned off the automatic light Martin came in right behind me. He used an old lighter someone gave him when he smoked so we could see each other. Believe me, Niki, we only stayed in there for about two minutes. It’s a very efficient freezer. Then he switched on the auto light He left, and I left, and all I can say is that neither of us took the time to examine what was hanging around us.”
Her explanation sounded plausible to Nikita. Vachon was less easily convinced. “If the light came on when you went in, you should have seen her.”
“I must have kept my head down.” Verity defended herself. Agitation showed clearly in the lines of strain etched on her attractive face. “Maybe Martin did, too. We didn’t see her, Detective. Tell him, Niki.”
“I—” Nikita hesitated. “Tell him what?”
“That you believe me.” Her voice rose in pitch and volume. “I’m not murderous, although heaven knows I have a right to be. I won’t weep crocodile tears for Laverne Fox. She ruined my relationship. I don’t give a damn that she’s dead. But Patti Warneckie was nothing to me.”
“She was something to Martin,” Vachon murmured.
Nikita shot him a nasty look. “That isn’t…”
Verity sprang from her chair.
Too late. Nikita realized with a vague sense of doom that she should have seen this coming and done everything in her power to prevent it. Some doctor she was. One glass of champagne, a disturbing male presence, and her ability to predict disaster flew out the window.
Heads turned as Verity raged. “All right, Detective, you want truth, I’ll give you truth. No, I didn’t like Laverne Fox or Patti Warneckie. I don’t know or care about Tom Pratt.”
“Verity.” Deana joined Nikita in endeavoring to defuse the situation. “Sit down and take a deep breath.”
“Shut up!”
“Do it,” Nikita advised in a gentle tone that nevertheless brooked no argument.
Snapping her mouth closed, Verity glared at both doctors, then dropped onto the cushioned seat.
“I’ll drive her to the hospital,” Deana said stiffly. Nikita wondered how much of their conversation she’d overheard.
“Nonsense.” Adeline bustled over, swatting Donald and Manny aside with her cane. “She’s fine now, aren’t you, dear? Just a little emotional female outburst We women have it all over you men for getting our feelings out. We feel a thing, boom, it’s out of our systems. No smoldering for us.” She reached for Verity’s hand. “Come with me, and we’ll check on dinner. Carry on, everybody. Deana, your father’s glass is empty, and he’s gone white as sheet all of a sudden. Pour him another, will you? Martin, you pour one for Deana. A pink lady, if you please, to show her that you do in fact care about her.”
Vachon nudged Nikita’s shoulder and nodded at Manny. If Dean’s face had turned white, Manny’s had gone from white to purple. He glowered at Martin as if Martin had just confessed to being the Boston Strangler.
Nikita thought back. Manny had been sitting on the sofa, close enough to have eavesdropped on her conversation with Verity if he’d chosen to.
“I need an aspirin,” she decided out loud. She circled Vachon to whisper, “This night is becoming a nightmare.”
She found another disturbing item to add to her list. Dean had walked to the canapé table where Deana was pressing a fresh drink on him. She placed a tall glass in his left hand while she discreetly endeavored to remove the knife he clutched white-knuckled from his right.
Chapter Sixteen
Dean relinquished his hold on the knife, but refused to return to his chair. It must have been a harsh exchange that followed because several times he shook an angry finger—and once even a fist—at his daughter. Nikita wondered if he suffered from high blood pressure.
“Why is he giving Deana such a hard time?”
Vachon’s question flowed warmly into Nikita’s ear. She shivered, straightened and tried to think of an answer. The only one that made sense was Martin. “They’ve never gotten along.” She sighed. “I doubt they ever will. Martin and Dean, that is.”
“You doubt correctly, sister.” More than a little tipsy, Martin wove a path to the hearth, grinned crookedly at Vachon and hiccupping at Nikita. “The old buzzard hates my guts. Wouldn’t have if I hadn’t taken his precious daughter away from him, but, hey, somebody had to play white knight and rescue poor stuck Rapunzel.”
“You’re confusing your fairy tales,” Nikita said, then tensed as she recalled Tom Pratt’s fate. “Speaking of fairy tales, please don’t. I still can’t believe someone stuffed Tom’s body inside Lally’s snowman.”
“It could be symbolic,” Vachon mused with a meaningful sideways look.
“Lally and the Beast, one and the same?” Nikita shook her head. “I don’t believe it”
From the sofa, Sammy Slide snarled, “Some loony tune sure as hell shoved a knife in Tom’s throat, and it wasn’t me.”
“Well, it wasn’t me,” Donald said. The defensive thrust of his chin suggested that Sammy had pointed an accusing finger at him somewhere along the line. “I hardly knew the man.”
“He brought you supplies,” Sammy retorted.
“So did you, and you’re not dead.”
“What about Patti?” Sammy challenged. “She came to visit you often enough. And we all know how Laverne got around.”
Donald used his fingers to twirl his ponytail nonchalantly. “Too bad,” he drawled, “that she never got around to you. That’s really the thorn in your paw, isn’t it, Slide?”
“Time,” Vachon interjected before Sammy could lurch to his feet. “Retract your claws, gentlemen.”
“Or sink them into a worthwhile target,” Manny said coldly, tossing back his champagne and shooting a visual dagger at Martin.
Martin raised his glass. “Friendly little soiree,” he said to Nikita and Vachon.
“I don’t think I’m talking to you,” Nikita countered, remembering Verity’s stricken face and Deana’s hurt one. “Is there a female under eighty you haven’t tried to sleep with?”
“Leave him alone, Niki.” Deana joined them, resigned. “Martin is what he is, as he’s so fond of reminding me. We’re all puppets one way or another.”
“Puppets who all have crosses to bear.” Martin continued to grin like an idiot “A toast, fellow suspects, to the martyred marionettes of the world. Would that we could all be in Pinocchio’s little wooden shoes.”
The throbbing in Nikita’s head, which had never quite dissipated, returned with a vengeance. She hunted for the nearest exit. Of course, she really should be checking on Verity.
“I need air,” she said, and headed for the French doors.
The blast of icy wind that robbed her of breath also felt strangely exhilarating. She didn’t realize Vachon had followed her until his fingers threaded themselves through her hair and began to knead the taut muscles of her neck.
He’d closed the door behind him. No one could see them on the sheltered little veranda. Wind or not, Nikita’s blood sizzled. She rounded on him. “You know you’re ruining all my plans, don’t you?”
She stopped herself. She hadn’t meant to say that She’d promised herself she wouldn’t tell him she loved him.
His eyes, darkly mysterious in the shrouded balcony light, swept over her face. “You remind me of a pirate right now.”
She couldn’t stop the question. “How?�
�
“Mutinous.” His lips twitched at the corners. Their breath steamed around them like a concealing fog. “I think,” he said, lowering his mouth with deliberate slowness, “that I can take care of your headache for you.”
THE REMAINDER of Adeline’s party passed in relative peace. Ten frozen minutes later, Nikita and Vachon slipped inside. While her teeth might have been chattering, the rest of her was plenty warm, and her headache really did feel better.
Verity appeared calm enough once dinner was served. No one criticized or accused or glared at anyone else. And yet something didn’t feel right to Nikita.
Well, of course it wouldn’t, would it? Three people were dead, and somebody had done the killing.
The telephone rang as they were finishing their strawberries and Camembert. Adeline fielded the call at the head of the elegantly set table.
“Really?” Her blue eyes popped with fascination. “Yes, yes, they’re both here. Indisposed? Well, yes, they are, as a matter of fact What’s that? I can hardly hear you over all the static. Now, just relax, Marilyn, dear. It can’t possibly be your fault.”
“Marilyn!” Deana glared. “Adeline, is that the hospital?”
Adeline stuck a gnarled finger in her other ear. “You think it happened around eight-thirty? Well, it’s only a little after nine now.”
Deana was on her feet. Nikita remained in her seat but regarded her grandmother with mounting distrust.
“Give me the phone, Adeline,” Deana demanded, reaching out.
Adeline ignored her. “All right, I’ll tell them.”
“Gran!”
“What?” At Nikita’s sharp warning, Adeline looked up. Deana’s hand remained extended. “Oh, all right. Here’s Deana,” she said, and meekly relinquished the receiver.
“What’s going on, Marilyn?” Deana asked the nurse.
“More corpses falling out of the rafters?” Martin suggested, then hiccupped and grinned. “Man, I’m tanked. Plums, anyone?”
Donald Flynn’s fingers gripped the edge of the table so hard, it seemed the rim would snap off. Sammy Slide gave up the fight and let his head drop onto the snowy linen cloth. Verity sat like a marble statue. Manny looked sullen and concerned, and Dean’s patrician nostrils flared—perhaps with indignation over the entire evening. He’d been more voluble than usual about his feelings toward Martin. Nikita knew that overt displays of emotion, whether good or bad, did not sit well with him.