Illusions

by Janet Dailey

  “Don’t be sorry—not because of me,” he said. “There was never any love lost between us. That ended years ago. I’m not glad she’s dead, but—I don’t feel any grief, either. I love you, Delaney. The only reason I’m hurting now is because I know you are.”

  Two sharp blasts of a car’s horn announced the arrival of a car at the front of the ranch house. “That must be Riley.” Delaney recognized the signal they had often used in the past, conscious of a leap of gladness.

  Jared’s arms loosened, releasing her as he frowned in irritation. “What does he want?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The front door clattered open and Riley’s voice sang out, “Hello! Anybody home?” Then there was a thump, followed by a second, louder one as something was dropped on the pine floor.

  “We’re in the kitchen,” Delaney called back.

  She picked up her mug and walked out of the kitchen ahead of Jared. Two of her charcoal tweed suitcases sat on the living room floor near Riley’s feet.

  “Good morning.” Riley tossed the greeting over his shoulder and pushed the front door shut, giving the knob a testing shake. “The lock on this door is worthless, ’Laney. I could get in with a credit card. You need to have a talk with Bannon about such things as locks and security.” The suggestion was made in a lighthearted way, but Delaney knew he was serious.

  “I’ll do that, and good morning to you, too,” she mocked his lack of a greeting.

  Riley looked at her, a smile edging his mouth, but he didn’t correct the omission. “I brought you some clothes.” He waved a hand at the suitcases, his glance sliding past her to Jared, a coolness stealing into his eyes. “I won’t guarantee how neatly they’re packed, though.”

  “It doesn’t matter, just as long as I have something clean to wear.”

  “You could definitely develop a case of cold feet in that outfit.” Riley’s glance skimmed over the robe, traveling down to her bare feet, making her conscious of her attire—something she hadn’t been with Jared. “Do you want me to carry your bags up to your room?”

  “I’ll do it,” Jared volunteered. “Which room is it?”

  “The third door to the left of the stairs.” Riley spoke up before Delaney could. “If that’s coffee you’re drinking, lead me to it.” Riley nodded at her cup and moved out of Jared’s way when he walked over to collect her suitcases.

  “It’s in the kitchen.”

  Riley ranged alongside of her as they crossed the living room to the hallway. She felt odd walking beside him. Usually his presence steadied her. But she kept remembering last night—that moment when Riley had held her in his arms, when he had kissed her. There was nothing in his manner to suggest he had any memory of it all. Had she imagined that there had been more to the embrace than the casual comfort given by a close friend? Or, considering the state she was in last night, had she wanted it to be more than that, therefore convincing herself it was?

  Delaney shied from the questions and their implications. “How are things at the house with Lucas?”

  “Everything is under control there, thanks to the local constabulary.” He leaned a hip against the kitchen counter and watched while she poured a cup of coffee for him. “They stationed a couple of their men at the house to keep the horde of reporters, photographers, and television crews at bay. They form a helluva security ring around the grounds.”

  “And Lucas?” She handed Riley the cup.

  “He’s taking it hard.” He sipped at his coffee. “He still swears he thought it was Rina. And…Arthur is trying to figure out whether Lucas should talk to the press or merely issue some statement of profound regret and stay out of the spotlight.”

  “Did the police find her gun?”

  “They are taking a typical closed-mouthed approach and not saying anything about what they may or may not have found.”

  Her shoulders sagged a little, although Delaney wasn’t really surprised by his answer. It was normal procedure to withhold comment until the investigation was concluded.

  “I see you have the morning paper.” He picked it up and flipped it open to the front page. “Have you looked at it yet?”

  She shook her head. “Jared brought it in before you came.”

  Jared hadn’t wanted her to see that; it was his way of protecting her. Not Riley; he confronted her with it, shoving it over so she could see the photograph of Lucas Wayne and the headline above it: BODYGUARD KILLS ASPEN LOCAL.

  “The story’s about what you’d expect,” he said. “They got the company name right and even mentioned that Wescott and Associates has a solid reputation in the security field. Publicity like that can’t be all bad.”

  She stared at the news print. “Did you know Susan St. Jacque was Jared’s ex-wife?”

  “Bannon told me last night.”

  “How will it look with Jared, I mean.”

  “It shouldn’t be a problem. After all, you have known Jared for several years. You assisted him in trying to locate his sister. He has a great deal of respect for you personally and professionally.” Riley lined out the bare facts in a smooth and plausible way that spoke of forethought. “After that, the public can think what they want—and probably will.”

  “True.” The coffee in her cup was lukewarm. She added more hot to it.

  “I called your father this morning,” Riley said as Jared walked into the kitchen. “I wanted to let him know what happened before he saw it in the paper or heard about it on the news.”

  “Dad,” she murmured in a dawning voice. “I wasn’t thinking. I should have called him myself.”

  “You’ve hardly had time.” Jared refilled his cup. “You haven’t been up that long.”

  “He’s flying out tomorrow,” Riley said. “I told him I’d pick him up at the airport.”

  “He doesn’t need to come,” she protested.

  “You’ll never convince a father of that,” Riley replied dryly. “Especially not yours.”

  Delaney couldn’t argue with that. Then she remembered, “Glenda. I’d better call her. There will be reporters camped outside the door when she goes to the office this morning.”

  “I’ve already talked to her,” Riley said.

  She looked at him. “You’ve been busy this morning.”

  He shrugged. “‘No rest for the wicked,’ they say.”

  “You haven’t left much for me to do, have you?”

  He smiled at her over the rim of his cup. “You could shower and get dressed before Bannon gets here. He said he’d be back around ten. It’s going on that now.”

  “I’d better get moving.” She took her cup with her when she left the kitchen.

  Her suitcases stood upright at the foot of the bed. She laid the first one down on the floor and snapped the latch to open it. She glanced at the half-rumpled, half-folded clothes inside and smiled, remembering Riley’s refusal to guarantee neatness. She went through the clothes and laid out a clean set, from the skin out. From the second suitcase, she added her cosmetic case, makeup bag, and hair dryer to the stack, then gathered them all up and carried them into the bathroom.

  While she waited for the water to get hot in the combination tub and shower, she finished her coffee, then adjusted the temperature and stepped beneath the spray, pulling the plastic curtain shut. She stood beneath the pulsating jets of water, letting them beat at her and massage away the tension. Steam billowed around her, an enervating heat that relaxed all her muscles and soothed her too-taut nerves.

  By the time she stepped out of the shower, Delaney felt, if not exactly whole again, then at least ready to face the questions the attorney was bound to ask her—and later the press, possibly even the police. She felt confident that she could handle any unpleasant moment—and confident that eventually she would come to terms with the emotional cost of taking another life.

  Wasting little time, she dried herself, wrapped her hair in a towel, and brushed her teeth. She was in the midst of drying her hair when she was interrupted by a k
nock at the bathroom door.

  She switched off the hair dryer. “Yes?”

  “Just wanted to let you know Bannon’s here,” Riley said from the other side of the door.

  “Thanks. I’ll be right out.” She flipped the dryer back on.

  A minute later, her long, thick hair still felt slightly damp to the touch. Delaney decided that was good enough and unplugged the dryer. Dressing hurriedly, she pulled a pair of white slacks on over her hose, slipped into a white blouse, and tucked the tails inside her slacks. She shrugged into her navy blazer, conscious all the while of the voices coming from the living room. As she fastened a navy, red, and white silk scarf ascot-fashion at her throat, she heard Jared’s voice rise in anger. Frowning, she walked over to the door and opened it.

  “—should have expected something like this, but I didn’t. Damn them!” Jared swore while Delaney hopped on one foot, trying to slip her shoe on the other. “You and I both know what happened when some guest of Don Johnson decided to take potshots at a helicopter flying overhead. Nothing! Or when our ‘esteemed’ gonzo journalist decided to unload his automatic at something? Should I even mention Claudine Longet? They treat these goddamned celebrities like they have some kind of diplomatic immunity! Delaney would have been better off if Lucas Wayne had killed Susan. Hell, they probably wouldn’t do more than slap his hand and scold him for being a bad boy—”

  “Jared, just cool down,” came the attorney’s calming voice. “This isn’t going to help Delaney at all.”

  She got the other shoe on and stepped out of the bathroom into the hall as Jared snapped, “Maybe it isn’t. But what I said is still true—if Wayne had shot Susan, they’d be handling it a whole lot differently.”

  Delaney came down the stairs to the living room. “What do you mean, ‘differently’? How are they handling it now?”

  Jared turned from her without answering. Even Riley avoided her eyes. Only the attorney, Tom Bannon, met her gaze with a slow and measuring tone of his own. “I spoke to the prosecuting attorney just before I came out here. It was a courtesy call to inform me that charges have been filed against you. Rather than have an officer come out here with an arrest warrant, I said I’d bring you in.”

  “What are they charging me with?” The air seemed to crackle around her.

  “Second degree murder.”

  “Murder.” She breathed out the word in shock. Riley pushed off the sofa and Jared slammed a hand on the fireplace mantel. “How can they do that? It was self-defense.”

  “Other than your statement, there is no evidence to support that. I’m sorry, Delaney.”

  “They didn’t find the gun?”

  “The prosecuting attorney assured me every inch of the area was searched with a fine-toothed comb.”

  “She had one,” Delaney insisted. “I saw the gun flash. I heard it. It wasn’t something I imagined.”

  “Laney.” Riley laid a hand on her arm. “When they moved the body, the police found a small, pocket-sized flashlight lying under her. They think that’s what you saw in her hand.”

  “A flashlight. And the muzzle flash I saw, I suppose they think that was the flashlight, too.” She frowned. “Good grief, I know the difference. How do they explain the gunshots we all heard?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Right now, it doesn’t matter,” Bannon stated, then paused, a touch of grimness pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Right now, we have to make a trip into town so you can turn yourself in.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Riley said.

  But Delaney didn’t hear him. She was still reeling from the knowledge that she was being charged with murder.

  TWENTY-TWO

  THE MANDATORY READING OF HER Miranda rights, the taking of her fingerprints, the posing for the official arrest photograph, a full-face shot and a profile with the number prominently displayed on both, the long wait for her bond to be posted, the jam of reporters, photographers, and television crews outside, the sight of Riley plowing a path through them for her, the close flanking by Bannon, the click of the cameras, the whir of video recorders, the thrusting of microphones in her face, the hammering of questions—

  “What’s your relationship to Lucas Wayne?”

  “Isn’t it true you’re more than just his bodyguard?”

  “Were you jealous of Susan St. Jacque? Is that why you killed her?”

  “How does it feel to know you killed an unarmed woman?”

  —the terseness of Bannon’s “No comment,” the sick, scared feeling in the pit of her stomach, the chin-up tap of Riley’s finger and the concerned look in his eyes, the forced optimism from the attorney and the grimness behind his tight smile, Bannon’s promise of a later meeting with her after he’d reviewed the prosecuting attorney’s file on the case and the statements from those on the scene, and the long ride back to the ranch, her thoughts crazily distracted by the stains of fingerprint ink on the pads of her fingers and thumbs.

  Delaney stood at the bathroom sink and scrubbed at her hands with a nailbrush, the stiff bristles making her flesh tingle and her skin turn pink. As she worked to scour the last traces of ink from her fingers, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the vanity mirror above the sink—and the obsessively determined look on her face. She paused, struck by the thought that the scene was a version of Lady Macbeth’s “out, damned spot” soliloquy. She wanted to laugh, but she was afraid a note of hysteria might creep into it.

  Trembling a little, she laid the nailbrush aside and dried her hands on a towel. As she emerged from the bathroom, Delaney smelled the aroma of something cooking in the kitchen. But the thought of food didn’t awaken any hunger pangs, only a kind of revulsion.

  When she entered the kitchen, she saw Riley standing at the stove, sliding an omelet onto a plate. A stack of buttered toast and a jar of strawberry preserves sat in the middle of the table along with the salt and pepper shakers. Jared stood off to one side.

  “I thought it was time you got some food in your stomach,” Riley stated. “How does a fresh tomato and cheese omelet sound?”

  She noticed he didn’t suggest that she was hungry, or that she even should be. She wasn’t, although she recognized the necessity of eating. “An omelet sounds fine.”

  Riley carried the plate to the table.

  Delaney sat down in one of the ladder-backed chairs and unfolded a paper napkin, smoothing it over her lap. She went through the motions of shaking salt and pepper on her omelet, selecting a slice of toast, and adding a dollop of jam to it.

  Riley pulled out a chair and sat down. Jared did the same. A silence stretched between them, heavy, awkward, and stiff. Finally Jared broke it. “I wish you would talk, Delaney, instead of keeping it all bottled up inside.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” she replied. “This is a horrible dream that’s turned into a nightmare. None of it should be happening, but it is—and I don’t understand why.” For an instant, she felt close to panic again and tightened her grip on her fork. “There’s so much that doesn’t make sense—” Delaney stopped and started again. “You were married to Susan. You knew her.”

  “As well as anyone, I suppose,” he agreed with a slight shrug of one shoulder.

  “What do you know about her relationship with Lucas Wayne?” Riley picked up the questioning.

  “If you are asking whether I knew that she had an affair with Lucas Wayne while we were still married, the answer is yes. At the time, I blamed myself for it—for leaving her alone too much. Every spare minute away from the ranch I spent looking for Kelly. Later there was the guilt I felt over you. How could I condemn her for being unfaithful when I hadn’t been any better?”

  “Then her affair with Lucas wasn’t the reason—”

  “—for our divorce? No. Our divorce was a long overdue parting of the ways.”

  Delaney chewed thoughtfully on a bite of toast without tasting it. “Do you think she loved him?”

  A wryly lopsided smile twisted his mouth.
“Love was seldom the reason Susan did anything. More than likely, she wanted the luxury of a lover. She probably saw him as a kind of status symbol. Money and position were always the most important things to her. I’m convinced she married me thinking I could give them to her. When she found out I couldn’t, our marriage started going sour.”

  He stared off into space. “She hated the ranch, hated living here. I thought she would get used to it in time. She thought she would eventually persuade me to sell it.” Pausing, he glanced at Delaney. “Do you remember the first time I had dinner at your house with you and your father? That night you said a woman would do anything—lie, cheat, and steal—to get the thing that was most important to her. I don’t think I believed you then. Maybe I didn’t want to, any more than I wanted to accept that I wasn’t the most important thing in Susan’s life.”

  “Would she kill if that’s what it took?” Riley wondered aloud.

  Jared thought about that. “I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if I ever really knew her. What made you ask that?”

  “Because I think she was blackmailing Lucas,” Delaney answered. “She knew something Lucas didn’t want made public, and I’m positive she was using that to force him to buy a very expensive painting.”

  “That sounds like something Susan would do.” Jared nodded, somewhat grimly. “What did she have on him? Do you know?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “Which means you do.”

  “It doesn’t matter whether I do or not,” Delaney insisted. “The point is—if she was blackmailing him and if Lucas had refused to give in to her threats, then it might explain why she would try to shoot him if she couldn’t get him to buy the painting.”

  Riley cocked an eyebrow in skepticism. “That doesn’t sound logical either, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Jared agreed and reached over to cover her hand. “Delaney, you have to face the possibility that you may never know why she shot at him.”