“We have to call the police. Now, Tony.”
Tony paused, his last bite of toast inches away from his mouth. Claire noticed for the first time how his beard was filling in. She could see patches of his smooth skin underneath, the bruises already fading, only hinting at yesterday’s scuffle.
“I already called them, Claire. About four this morning, when you were asleep in the car. I stopped for gas and coffee. I let you rest. They have all the details.”
“You should have wakened me. They could have interviewed me. We could have gone back and met with them.”
Tony finished the morsel of bread, and then took a long drink of coffee. “I didn’t give them my name. Or yours. We still can’t get involved, Claire. Until we know who did it. And why.”
“Get involved? We are involved for heaven’s sake; we’re the ones who found her body. We couldn’t get much more involved than that.”
Tony had put off pursuing the matter until he was sure Claire was over the shock of finding Patricia. It looked like the time had come. “We could be a lot more involved. Which is what I suspect the police would think when faced with the facts.”
“What facts?”
Claire had finally gotten up the nerve to ask the question. Tony took a deep breath. It was time to tell her the whole story.
Chapter Eight
“Now wait just a minute.” Claire marched around the bar stool to stand beside Tony.
He ignored her.
“Are you implying someone at Cauldron Press planned that girl’s murder, intending to implicate you?”
Tony brought the coffee mug to his lips, slowly draining the cold remainder. He faced her. “There’s no escaping the facts. The day after I came to New York, my house was searched, the manuscripts were stolen from my office, and now Patricia’s dead. And after we took a very high profile tour of her town, complete with telling Pearl Loney and a couple of others of our intentions to go see her, I might add.”
“Why would anyone go to all that trouble, especially murder? To protect Sarah Winesong’s book?”
“There’s a lot of money at stake with that book. Don’t be naive about the suitability of greed as a motive.”
She clenched her fists. “Don’t be condescending to me. And speaking of greed, what about Patricia’s? Or yours, even? We still haven’t proved that The Poison Pen Pal is her book.”
“She told me someone gave her money and promised to show the book to you. She said she was given a retainer, or some ‘help’ money she signed an IOU for. She implied it was Winesong.”
As Tony talked, Claire’s brain felt frozen. His words bounced off instead of being absorbed. “I just can’t believe what you’re telling me now. How much money? Did she get a check? A contract? Where’s the IOU now?”
“She didn’t tell me.”
“But you’re convinced Sarah Winesong killed her.”
“I don’t know who pulled the trigger. Or, who paid Patricia off. But Winesong has to be involved somehow.”
“And Cauldron Press, too? Particularly the acquisitions editor? Is that what you’re thinking?”
“No. I mean, no. I don’t honestly know what to think, Claire. My heart tells me you’re honest and caring, but.” Tony walked back to the counter and poured more coffee into his mug, pain tightening his mouth “It’s just that I’ve been wrong about people in the past. So wrong that it cost me everything that I had. I can’t let my feelings for you cloud the evidence.”
Tears of frustration welled in Claire’s eyes. She rubbed them away fiercely. “I’ve never gained anything in my life illegally, Tony Nichols. My hard work and eighteen-hour days for the past seven years pulled Cauldron Press out of a terminal slide. Can’t you see that I’m as upset about Patricia Snow as you are?”
“Claire, I’m sorry, it’s just... ”
“No. Let me finish. You asked me to tell you about myself yesterday. Well, my dad was a penny ante poker shark. My whole childhood was spent on the run because he was too selfish to change. He wasn’t strong enough to change. But I have that strength. When things have gone wrong in my life, I’ve done whatever needed to be done. If someone connected to Cauldron Press has done something illegal, I’ll see it’s made right.”
Tony stared at Claire. Her impassioned speech, and its painful revelations about her past, convinced him completely she was telling the truth. “I believe you wouldn’t willingly have gone along. But if you were tricked?”
Shutting her eyes against the bright morning light, Claire turned away. She knew exactly what he was implying. Someone at Cauldron had betrayed her. “Did Patricia tell you why she agreed to sell her manuscript that way?”
“Patricia was an alcoholic,” Tony said quietly, knowing the impact of his words. “The funds seemed like a windfall, a month of drinking money too tempting to pass up.”
Claire’s eyes brimmed again with tears. It hurt almost beyond bearing to think someone could be so exploitive of another person’s weakness. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“What difference would it have made? If I’d told you she was a drunk, you’d have disbelieved my story even more.” Tony saw the pain Claire was in, but he made no move to comfort her.
Blinking, Claire walked through the French doors and out onto the deck. Tony followed her. He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her back toward him, kissing her hair.
Claire moved away. “I’m going back to New York.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No. I need to find out what’s going on at Cauldron for myself.”
“Don’t be hurt by my suspicion. I had to assume you were the one who’d paid her off.”
“It wasn’t me.” Claire clutched the deck railing more tightly, her eyes aching with held back tears.
“I know that. Now.” Tony pulled Claire toward him again despite her resistance. Folding his arms around her slim shoulders, he backed her up against the deck railing. “Claire, you’re as much a victim of this hoax as Patricia was. Don’t push me away because you’re hurting. I want to help. I need to help you. I care about you.”
“I care about you, too, Tony. But this is a bigger issue than a passing attraction between two people.”
His fingers tightened on her arm. “For God’s sake, stop your analytical distancing. I don’t feel any damned ‘passing attraction’ for you. Let your guard down, woman. Believe in what you feel. Believe in me.”
For a moment, Claire allowed herself to revel in the feel of Tony against her. His chest was broad and strong, his manner reassuring and caring. But the caution she had built up in herself for the past twenty years was too hard to overcome.
Claire pushed away, breaking the embrace. “I really think I need to do this on my own. Two days ago I said I’d come here to find out who wrote The Poison Pen Pal. Despite all that’s happened, I’m no closer to proving anything.”
“I see.” Tony’s black eyes took her in. “Do you think the fact that Patricia Snow was murdered has no connection to her claim that Cauldron Press stole her book?”
“It could be just .a tragic coincidence.” Claire diverted her gaze. She had to get her equilibrium back and not jump to any conclusions yet. “But until I have solid proof, I’m going to work on the assumption that Sarah Winesong is innocent.”
“I see. Shall .I disappear into thin air now? Or drive you to the train station first?”
Claire turned back toward the ocean. The sight of Tony, his arms crossed angrily across his soft white cotton sweater and his dark eyes blazing, was too painful. It made her wish she could put The Poison Pen Pal out of her life entirely. Then she could concentrate on getting to know the man behind those eyes. Find out what made him laugh. Why he had never learned to swim.
But as she gazed at the choppy water, Claire saw that getting to know Tony was a selfish luxury she had no time to indulge in. Ugly accusations had been made, and a young woman was dead. The future of everyone at Cauldron Press was at stake.
; “Claire, if you’d just rest for a while—”
“There’s little time for that.” She turned her brown eyes to meet his. “Take me to the police before I go back. They can start trying to find the murderer.”
“You can’t go to them.” Tony’s chin was set in a stubborn pose, his arms crossed tighter against the now chilling wind. Above them the sky began to darken.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re still holding back some facts from me, Tony?”
“Because I am.” Uncrossing his arms, he patted his pockets for his cigarettes.
“Well. Get to it. What else is going on?”
“I haven’t told you everything. Yet. But I will, as soon as you look me in the eye and agree to work this mess out with me.”
“I can’t, Tony. Please, just leave me alone for a while.” Brushing past him, Claire hurried down the stairs of the deck and out onto the beach below.
Tony watched her for several moments as she ran from him, her slim body pounding against the packed sand and her blond hair a silk wedge against her neck.
He’d give her a couple of hours alone to sort out all that had happened these past two clays, then he’d tell her about his missing gun. And about his personal grudge against Billings Newcastle.
Tony rushed into the house. He scribbled a note, then called Jeanette Snow’s neighbor and asked her to meet him at Jeanette’s house in a few minutes. He had to take care of this last sad duty before he could think any more about Claire. But as soon as he could, he was going to come back to her.
If there was any justice at all in the world, it would be for good.
* * *
As fast as she could, Claire ran front the dark eyed man who had upset all of her priorities. She was not one to duck out on decisions, but the ones he was forcing on her were too fraught with complications.
Finally short of breath, her lungs bursting, she stopped and kneeled on the sand. She could no longer put off facing the fact that she was falling for Tony. For a few moments she felt nothing. She listened to her breathing, tasted the tears and salt spray on her lips.
“Great timing, Kennedy,” she muttered, then lay back on the sand. Despite the horror of the past twelve hours, she felt a tiny wave of joy. Love popped up at inopportune times in her books, and her fictional heroines always coped with it.
Life did not imitate art, she thought, not without plagiarizing. Which led her right back into the puzzle of The Poison Pen Pal. Claire made a mental list of what facts she knew were true.
Sarah Winesong said the book was hers.
Patricia Snow said the book was hers.
Tony said Patricia Snow claimed to have received money from some unnamed person who was going to show it to Cauldron.
Patricia had been living in Winesong’s house.
Tony had been attacked twice.
Patricia was dead.
Patricia got a letter from Roz Abramowitz.
What was the common thread that would tie all of these facts together? Claire sat up and brushed the sand off her hands. There were some real possibilities. M. Harrison himself had wondered if Patricia Snow was part of a much bigger plot to ruin Cauldron Press.
What about Billings Newcastle? Had he set this whole thing up to make it easier to take over Cauldron? The notes Tony had made for his article had been stolen. Was Newcastle the key?
Beginning a slow jog back to the house, Claire was exuberant. Maybe Roz Abramowitz was the culprit. She had been jealous of Claire for years. Maybe she had planned this whole thing on Newcastle’s behalf.
Wait till Tony heard her idea, she thought as she sped up the beach. As she approached the stairs, she saw that Tony was not on the deck.
The next few steps brought Claire a much bigger worry. His driveway was empty. The Volvo was gone.
Inside, there was a note on the kitchen bar. “Claire, I’ve gone to see Mrs. Snow. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Get some rest. When I get back we’ll work everything out.”
Claire’s stomach contracted at the poor woman’s grief upon learning of her daughter’s death. Her momentary annoyance and anger at Tony for leaving her stranded vanished. Despite his own fatigue, he was going to help someone in need.
Grabbing the kitchen telephone, she dialed the Woodbury Inn and requested that they hold her room for another day. Once Tony got back, she would go get some fresh clothes. Then they could map out a way to trap Newcastle.
It was only a little after eight, too early to catch Tillie, in the office. She would wait and call her in an hour or so. By then maybe her thoughts would be clear enough to tell them about last night’s events and today’s revelations.
One thing was obvious to Claire. Her boss had to set up a meeting in the next couple of days with Sarah Winesong. Then another possibility occurred to Claire.
Maybe Newcastle had stolen a copy of Sarah’s work and paid Patricia Snow to concoct this whole thing.
That theory brought a rush of hope. If she could just prove it, The Poison Pen Pal could go to press as scheduled.
Light headed with fatigue, Claire unplugged the coffee pot that Tony had left on for her and ran her hand along the painted tile counter. She had not noticed before how professional the kitchen’s design was. It was tidy and well equipped, awaiting only the sure hand of a serious cook.
Was this a woman’s touch?
“No,” she said aloud, unable to deny the happiness that answer gave her. Anyone could see Tony lived a solitary existence in this small house. Everything had a masculine stamp.
A small copper pot, filled with riotously colored tulips, sat on the counter where he had served her breakfast. Smiling, Claire thought how nice it would be to be in love with a liberated man who cleaned up his own dishes.
.Slow down, she cautioned herself. But the thought of being in love thrilled her as she fingered the hammered design on the side of the vase. It portrayed a lion, the head drawn proudly back. Claire pressed her hand onto it, liking its cool feel.
Weighted down with a longing for a nap, she left the kitchen and walked toward the bedroom where she stripped off her jeans and crawled under the quilt that covered Tony’s bed. She would take his advice and rest for an hour. When he got back, they would “work everything out.”
His remembered promise worked like a sleeping potion, and Claire was gone, dead asleep, in less than thirty seconds.
* * *
A smoke alarm? Was her apartment on fire? Claire tensed, her mind fighting to wake up. The bell’s insistent warning continued. Sitting straight up in bed, she realized the noise was a telephone.
Glancing around, she finally remembered where she was. Tony’s. Jumping from the bed, she ran across the bare wood floor toward the corner desk, noting with alarm the darkening sky outside. How long had she been asleep?
The digital clock on the desk read twelve-eleven. Could she have been asleep for four hours? She grabbed the phone and ran back to the bed. “Hello?”
A quick intake of breath, followed by a familiar nicotine roughened laugh greeted Claire. “Well, I’ll be damned. Answering the hunk’s phone already? You two must have had some night together.”
“Tillie, how did you find me here?” Claire sank into the fluffy pillows behind her, covering her chilly legs with Tony’s sheet. “Didn’t you trust me to call in?”
“Yes, Miss Kennedy, I surely did. But since all hell has broken, loose around here today, I thought I’d try to get through before anything else happens. Finding you where Mr. Nichols hangs his hat was my first guess after the inn said you’d stayed elsewhere.”
Though Tillie’s tone was joking, Claire sensed her friend was worried. “What’s happened, Tillie? What’s wrong?”
“Wrong? What’s right? Starting with Roz Abramowitz, who parked her irate fanny in front of Mr. Harrison’s door this morning at eight o’clock screaming for blood, and ending with two New York City cops who are looking for you, everything is wrong.”
Hopping back out of bed, Claire held th
e phone against her shoulder with her chin while she wiggled into her jeans. The mention of Roz filled her with dread.
What if the letter Roz sent to Patricia Snow was legitimate? Had Roz found out that Patricia’s manuscript was a virtual duplicate of Sarah Winesong’s?
As upsetting as these questions were, they were pushed aside by a bigger worry. “What did the police want?”
“They wanted Tony Nichols.”
“Why?”
“Seems one of his students was murdered at her home in New Jersey yesterday. They didn’t give me her name, but the cops said Nichols’s name and phone number were found at the scene of the crime in a lovely little place called Benton Convent. They showed up here because his secretary at the university said he’d visited you at Cauldron Press in New York. I’m sure they’ll turn up at his house next. What’s going on?”
Her anxiety fast returning, Claire winced as lightning flashed, followed by a crack of thunder. As the storm lit up the room, Tony’s digital clock blinked out altogether. “It was Patricia Snow.”
“Who was?”
“The girl who was murdered. Patricia Snow, the same person I came down here to interview about The Poison Pen Pal thing. We found out where she was staying, but when we went to see her, she was dead.”
There was a long moment of silence. “Whoa. That complicates things quite a bit. Is Nichols there with you now?”
“No, darn it. Tillie, what time is it anyway?”
“What? It’s ten past four. You don’t know what time it is? Are you sure you’re okay?”
Ten past four. The electricity must have gone off and on during the storm, switching the electrical clock back to twelve each time it surged back on. She had been asleep for more than eight hours. “Yes, I’m okay. Now look, Tillie, I’m going to find Tony. And don’t tell Mr. Harrison about Patricia Snow just yet. I’ll do it soon enough.”
“Okay. But I have some things about Tony Nichols I think you’d better know.”
Claire fought to keep her voice noncommittal, but she could hear the bad news in Tillie’s voice clearly. “What?”
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