There were sounds of Tillie scrambling through a notebook, then her puffing her cigarette into the phone. “Let’s see. Well, out of the blue this morning I got a call from Damien. He wanted to talk to you about Mr. Nichols. Seems he thought he recognized him during the chat you three had in the hotel the other day. After checking with a friend over at another publisher, it all came together. Turns outs Damien’s friend edited one of Nichols’s books.”
“One of his books? What are you talking about? Tony Nichols is a teacher, not a writer.”
“Have you ever heard of A. A. Nichols, Claire?”
She blinked, and a faint memory stirred in her head. “Yeah. No. I don’t know. Who’s A. A. Nichols?”
Tillie laughed. “The Good Food from a Good Guy author. A handsome, bearded young man who roamed the continents looking for the perfect meal. New York Times bestseller list in the late seventies. I remember he was a darling of the talk shows, Cosmopolitan bachelor of the month, all that.”
“You’re telling me Tony Nichols is A. A. Nichols, cookbook author?”
“Yeah. Only it’s ex-cookbook author now. He made a small fortune, which was quickly used up when he had to defend himself a few years back against a lawsuit involving a European publisher. Seems our boy was sued by a Greek woman for plagiarism. Damien said the last his friend heard, Nichols got out of writing after he lost the lawsuit and dropped out of sight. No one in publishing has seen him until he walked into your life at the Waldorf.”
Claire heard the rain pounding furiously against the shake roof. Staring out the bedroom window at the swollen sea, she shivered. It was as if the same wind that bent the pliant sea grass against the wet sand was blowing inside the house as well.
“Claire?”
Tillie’s voice tore her away from the view outside, forcing her numb mind to draw the obvious conclusion. Tony had been involved in a plagiarism suit and lost. The odds that he was doing the same thing now began to multiply. “So Mr. Harrison’s suspicions about Tony Nichols were completely on target. He is a con man.”
“He was involved in a lawsuit, Claire. Doesn’t make him Al Capone.”
“He was convicted for heaven’s sake. How much proof do we need?”
“Whoa. Hold on. I haven’t been able to substantiate all this yet. And you know what a gossip Damien is. Besides, all the folks I talked to at the university where Nichols teaches think very highly of him.”
“Did any of them mention the plagiarism conviction?”
“No. But where’s your famous wait and see attitude? Or better yet, what do your own instincts tell you after spending a couple of days with him?”
Before she could reply, the phone went dead in Claire’s hands. A tremendous clap of thunder shook the small house, and the shutters flapped against the windows. Placing the lifeless receiver back on the desk, Claire blinked back tears of humiliation.
Tony really could be a crook. Not the principled man standing up for a friend in trouble. But maybe a fraud who had arranged a series of happenings to suit his own nefarious scheme.
Could he also have “arranged” Patricia Snow’s death?
Too filled with hurt to feel as scared as she knew she should, Claire laced up her shoes, then zipped herself into her jacket. She grabbed her purse and went into the living room. With a shock, she saw the door was standing wide open.
The storm must have blown it open, she told herself as she crossed to peer out.
The rain was failing in torrents, obliterating all vision. She had to get to the main road and find someone to take her back to the Woodbury Inn. She had to go to the police, confess her amateur attempt at sleuthing and turn the whole mess over to them. If it meant trouble for Tony, well, he would have to talk his way out of it, she decided.
Damn. Why am I always wrong about men? With that curse, Claire raced out into the storm. But she didn’t get five steps away from the house before she saw a car turn into the drive, its twin beacons of light heading straight for her.
* * *
Stomping down on the gas pedal, Tony chewed on the thick filter of his cigarette. His eyes were bleary, and the sheet of rain falling on the windshield obliterated his view. Still it was not fatigue or fear of veering off the road that made him grip the steering wheel so tightly.
Roz Abramowitz’s letter to Patricia Snow lay on the dashboard, its black ink stark against the refracted glare of his headlights.
The maid had given it to him at the Woodbury Inn checkout counter. “This was in Miss Kennedy’s room, sir. You wouldn’t want to forget it,” she’d said, handing the envelope to him.
He had intended to surprise Claire with her clean clothes and a special dinner. Then he would fill her in on some news he had learned during a call to his friend at the Times about the Newcastle buy out of Cauldron. But now that he had the letter, he realized Claire probably knew that Vincent Harrison had agreed to sell.
As the groceries clinked together in the back seat, Tony’s scowl became full-fledged. If Claire had stolen this letter from Jeanette Snow’s house the other day, the only conclusion possible was that he had been duped.
She must be in on the scam up to her beautiful little, neck.
Skidding to a stop beside the dark house, Tony slammed the door of the Volvo and threw his cigarette on the ground. In three steps he was inside. His empty bed mocked him, the soft impression of Claire’s body a further insult.
There were no clues to her whereabouts. The only note he found was the one he had written to her hours ago. When he picked up the phone to call the Woodbury Inn, Tony found it dead.
How long had it been since she had left? Had she taken a taxi, or had one of her coconspirators picked her up?
Racing out into the rain, which had slowed to a misty shower, Tony scanned the stretch of beach below. It was empty for miles in both directions. “Dammit.” His curse died in the heavy air.
A figure, bundled against the rain in a black coat and hat, materialized out of the mist to his left. He caught a glimmer of blond hair in the distance. Claire was running down the far end of the drive, turning left onto the highway. She appeared to be running for her life.
Then something else caught his eye. For a moment he did not move, but then understanding dawned. The figure in black clutched a gun, a silver job that glinted even in the haze and gloom. With a yell, Tony took off in a dead run.
Chapter Nine
Struggling to keep her footing, Claire ran to the end of the muddy drive and out onto the two lane highway. Though the rain had slowed considerably, she shivered in the damp heaviness of her clothes. Her jeans were soaked through, and she cursed the fact that she had not put on her tights.
The thought of Tony sent more anger coursing through her veins. She increased her speed down the road toward the small town of Narragansett Bay. A quick glance over her shoulder told her his house was still dark. No headlights glared through the deepening evening.
Was he still inside looking for her?
A knifelike pain tore at her left side, and Claire slowed down to catch her breath. After seven years of late hours and New York taxis, she had lost the endurance for running she had built up in California.
How far away did Tony say the town was? Three miles seemed the right answer, and she began to run again, toward help and away from a confrontation that would break her heart.
Though she, ordered herself to think of any subject but Tony, her mind strayed. She shook her head to banish the unsettling memories, and her anger helped her put another half mile between herself and Tony’s house.
There were no other ears on the road. As the twinge in her side worsened, Claire slowed her pace to a walk, moving off the paved surface onto the dirt shoulder.
All around her, the marshland roiled away from the road down to Narragansett Bay. The water’s surface sparkled, the oily blackness reflecting the retreat of the storm. Stars began to blink overhead, and Claire’s temper cooled.
Abruptly she looked back toward Tony�
��s. Maybe she should not have run away before asking him for his explanation regarding Damien Laurent’s story, she thought. After all, Tony did not kill Patricia Snow. There were still no lights at his cottage, which was now just barely visible atop its elevated knoll two miles away.
Claire turned away. She had to stick by her instincts and her resolve to tell her story to the police. They would be able to find out what was going on without being sidetracked by the sexiness of Tony’s laugh.
Claire marched down the highway. After twenty or so steps, an insidious crackling noise behind her caused her to stop cold. Turning, she saw nothing against the silhouette of scraggly cypress. The night was now bereft of all sound, too. Nothing moved. No wind blew, no night animal cried out, no insect buzzed. Beginning to run again, Claire kept her eyes straight ahead, trying to concentrate on the comfortable rhythm of her rubber soles.
Then she heard it again. Louder. A sort of crackling, behind and to her left; the unmistakable sound of branches being thrashed by arms and the thud of running feet.
Someone was chasing her.
Fear, sudden and potent, seized her as she kept her eyes glued on the road ahead. Last night she and Tony had discovered a body, and her only thought had been escape. The fact that there was an unknown person, a cold-blooded murderer on the loose, had not really sunk in.
Until now.
Her throat constricting with a silent scream, Claire took bigger strides, trying desperately to outrun the unseen menace. Out of the corner of her eye, she detected movement from an ominous form about fifty yards away, slightly ahead of her and crossing at an angle to intercept her course.
With a cry, Claire pushed her lungs and aching legs. Now a new noise bit into her mind. A pop. Followed in rapid succession by three more. Pop, pop, pop. The last generated a whoosh of air to the left of her face, followed by a decisive splat as the lead of the bullet flattened itself in a tree across the road.
Someone is shooting at me. The adrenaline pumped through Claire, and she thought she would pass out from the fear. Smack in the midst of this panic, her terrified mind picked up a new threat.
Lights, car lights, were coming right at her, less than a mile down the road.
Was this gunman’s cohort arriving to assist? As the car ahead hit a dip in the road, another set of headlights was revealed behind it.
Desperately Claire crossed away from the gunman to the other side of the highway, and sobs broke loose from her aching throat. But she would not surrender. She scrambled through the muddy vines, tripping but keeping herself upright as she tore through the underbrush deeper into the copse of trees.
She would give whoever was out there a run for their money, or die trying. Another burst of adrenaline sent her crashing deeper into the woods just as the cars skidded to a stop.
* * *
The Rhode Island state troopers were making no effort to hide their doubts about Claire’s story. They had seen her duck into the woods and had surrounded her within minutes. When she had realized who they were, she had been delirious with relief. But her anxiety was beginning to build again as they continued to question her account of the gunman.
“Now tell me again what happened, miss. Someone was shooting at you and you thought my officers were the perpetrator’s reinforcements?”
Claire rattled through the whole thing again, letting herself sound as if she was about to cry. Maybe that would move them to do something. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize your cars as police vehicles. I never would have run away. Now please, can you start looking for him?”
With an indulgent edge to his voice, the trooper gave the order to his men to start searching the area.
Several minutes passed but they found nothing. The tall young police officer told to keep an eye on Claire peered at her intently. “Sure you heard gunshots, ma’am? The woods are full of funny sounds at night. Might have been an animal.”
“I’m sure, officer. Unless the squirrels around here spit lead projectiles. There’s no sign of anyone?”
The trooper looked out to where his partner and the two cops from the other cars were searching the marshy woodland. They had pointed their car’s headlights toward the woods, creating an eerie moonscape of monster shadows. “Not so far. But there are plenty of footprints leading to and from the cottages and the boat houses down by the bay. Might have been a couple of people running around out there. I’ve called in for more help, but those prints might belong to some locals. Don’t worry, though. No one can hurt you now.”
With a flash of new fear, Claire remembered that Tony was back at his house, alone.
What if the murderer had gone for him?
Panicking, Claire grasped the trooper’s arm. “Please, could you drive me down the highway about two miles? My friend is there, and I need to check if he’s okay.”
“If you’ve got a friend around these parts, what were you doing running down the road at night by yourself?”
Flushing at the cop’s increased scrutiny, Claire chose her words carefully. Despite her plan to let the authorities handle things, she did not want to waste the time filling them in on all the events of the past two days. “I was out jogging. I do it every night. Please, can we go?”
“Just a minute. What’s this friend’s name?”
“Tony. Tony Nichols. He’s a professor at the university.”
“I know who he is. I know real good who he is. As a matter of fact, that’s who we were coming to see when we spotted you.”
Claire blinked. With a flash of insight, she remembered Tillie’s warning that the police were looking for Tony.
“Why?”
Before he could answer, the other police officer started shouting. Ignoring the young trooper’s directive to stay put, Claire ran alongside him across the muddy land, down toward a boat shed that sat half concealed behind a thicket of trees.
The three other cops stood in a half circle outside the dingy shack, staring at the closed door. “Police. Come out with your hands up.”
The young trooper pulled Claire away, shielding her with his body. All four of the cops had their pistols drawn. Her heart beat wildly as she wondered if she was on the verge of finding out who had been chasing her, who had fired the shots.
Who had killed Patricia Snow?
“Come on out, or we’re coming in.”
Cringing, Claire held her breath as the sagging wooden door swung open. The shock of recognition almost made her faint.
* * *
As soon as Tony regained consciousness, he heard the voices. Rising unsteadily, he peered out the dust-caked window and saw the glaring headlights aimed down from the road. He now had another bump on the head, this one an egg size lump.
As he stood fingering it, two tall uniformed figures were walking about a hundred yards up the hill, flash’ lights aimed down, as if they were tracking an animal. Frantically he looked around the small boat shed. He had followed the crazy who had been chasing Claire. Thanks to a padded jacket and ski mask, he had not been able to tell if the person was a man or a woman. Which made the fact that the bozo had crept up behind him and knocked him out with the butt of the pistol even more infuriating. He kicked a rotting fishnet out of the way, and then tried his strength against the tiny window at the back of the shed. It was nailed shut, and a helpless rage swirled in his gut.
I suppose I should be glad the bastard didn’t shoot me.
When the cops found him in here with the gun that lay on the floor next to him, it would be impossible to explain.
At least Claire was okay. Tony was sure a bullet had not hit her. Even though anger at her flooded through him, he did not want her to get hurt.
Besides, there was still a possibility she had only stolen the letter in a fit of panic, a way to protect her precious Cauldron Press, no matter what it cost Patricia Snow, or him.
Whatever the deal was, if now looked like one of the conspirators had decided to cut Claire permanently out of the picture.
Just like the
y had cut Patricia out.
The voices were closer. He heard victory in their tone and knew he had been spotted. Flattening himself against the wall, away from the window, Tony moved toward the gun. With this motion, the room spun and his eyes felt as if they would roll out of their sockets.
He slumped to the floor, hands on his temples. It was useless to try to hide the gun. But maybe if they considered his wounds, they would believe him. Even if he were arrested, with any luck he would be out of jail in a couple of days.
He glanced up as the spotlight beamed through the dirty pane of glass. When he did get free, he had one plan of action. He was going to interview Sarah Winesong himself. In the flesh.
Following the cops’ orders, Tony stepped from the murky darkness of the boat shed with his arms up. He scanned the assembled group. His eyes stopped dead when they met Claire’s.
On her face warred two emotions, shock and betrayal.
* * *
“Officer, how many times are you going to ask me the same question?” Claire’s voice was weary and beginning to sound antagonistic.
She had been over the events of the day at least ten times and was ready to sign her statement, but still the trooper pushed on.
“As many times as I need to hear the answers. I think you are leaving certain things out of your story, Miss Kennedy. May I remind you again that concealing evidence is a felony?”
Claire stared evenly at the police captain across the scarred table in his office. “Am I under arrest?”
“No, of course not.” The trooper smiled. “And I apologize for keeping you so long, after your ordeal. But I’ll ask you again, did you know Patricia Snow?”
“No. I never met her.”
“How long have you known Tony Nichols?”
“Two days.”
“And you’ve been staying at his house?”
Claire banged her fist on the table. “NO. I have not been staying at his house. I visited his house for the first time today. I’m registered at the Woodbury Inn in town.”
Stranger Than Fiction Page 11