Claire smiled. “Come on, let’s go to my office and make some calls.”
They moved off to hail a cab, and neither of them so much as glanced back.
Relieved, the person watching them from the shadows of the house next door to Damien’s walked toward the critic’s front door. With a gloved hand, the visitor pressed the buzzer insistently and waited, all the while tapping a silver-tipped cane against the concrete stoop.
* * *
“So this is where you spend eight hours a day.”
“Make that twelve. Yeah, really great, huh?” Claire wrinkled her nose at the clutter and barely controlled crisis of manuscripts stacked on her desk. She gestured toward the small window behind her. “But there’s this great view. Makes up for everything.”
Tony walked behind Claire and gazed out at the bright green leaves of spring lightly scattered over the trees in Central Park. “It’s beautiful. But with all the work in here, I’d wager you seldom get a chance to look out.”
“You’re right. Now tear your eyes away from the view, come over here and, sit down. We’ve got a lot to do.”
Claire felt Tony’s warm lips on the back of her neck. His hands circled her waist in a possessive gesture.
“You’re the view I can’t take my eyes off.”
Nestling into Tony’s embrace, she savored his warmth a moment, and then lightly pushed against him. “Behave, Tony, or I’ll sic Woofer on you when we go back to my place—”
“Oh, no, anything but that.” With his hands raised in mock surrender, Tony laughed and released her. He walked around the ink-stained desk and faced her. “What’s first?”
“Well, we need to ferret out Roz Abramowitz’s home address.”
“I love your idea of going to see her, but if you two don’t get along, why do you think she’ll see you on a Sunday?”
“I’m counting on shock value. Hopefully she’ll be so surprised she’ll let something slip about Newcastle’s connection to Patricia Snow’s manuscript.”
“Yeah, let’s hope the surprise isn’t on us.”
Claire pursed her lips thoughtfully, hearing the warning in Tony’s words. Their plan to confront Roz with their hunch that Newcastle had defrauded Patricia Snow by posing as a representative of Cauldron was a big gamble. And they had no ace in the hole.
If Roz knew what her boss had done, they would have to convince her to turn against Newcastle. On the other hand, if Newcastle had pulled all those strings without letting Roz in on it, she might be ticked off enough to want to expose the publishing czar.
Either way, Roz could be very dangerous. “Tony, do you want to wait and see what Mr. Harrison thinks about all this first?” Claire watched as he got that same hard look she noticed on their first meeting.
Turning away from her, he raised his hands. “I don’t know what I think we should do next. It’s dangerous to be charging around, sniffing for clues about Newcastle, but I’m doing it and you’re right beside me. I think maybe I should just leave and go off on my own for a bit. After all, it’s me the murderer is after.”
“Don’t be a nitwit, Tony. I was the one who was chased through the woods, remember? And who knows who that bomb was meant for? Damien might have been right, and it wasn’t you at all. It could have been those kids, or it could have been meant for me.”
“You?”
“I heard footsteps fifteen minutes before you showed up at my door this morning. Maybe it was someone who’d planned to leave a calling card for me.”
He slumped against her desk and crossed his arms. “Okay. Let’s charge ahead, but we’ve got to use some caution.”
Claire smiled and pulled open the top drawer of her desk. “Caution is the downfall of all the best poker hands. If you wait to raise the stakes, some shyster always takes the pot. We’re going to go see that barracuda and find out some things. Today.”
Tony’s rich swelling laughter filled her small office. “On that note, let me just add that I can’t wait to get you in a good game of strip poker.”
“I’d have you down to your underwear in three deals.”
“Maybe. But not because I’d have a losing hand, Claire.” His hungry glance rested on the softness of the gray cashmere sweater, then perked up. “Okay, what first?”
“I’m going to call Tillie.”
“And I’ll call my editor at the Times. He may have a bead on where Abramowitz lives, since she’s not listed.”
“Good idea. I should have thought to ask Damien. He knows where everyone sleeps.” Claire felt Tony’s eyes on her as she bent to reach for her purse. What, she wondered, would happen when The Poison Pen Pal real life mystery was solved? Would Tony go back to Rhode Island? After a couple of months of weekend visits, would his ardor cool? Would hers?
A flash of loneliness overtook Claire as she realized that solving all the mysteries around her might mean the end of her relationship with him.
Leaving Tony dialing the phone at her desk, Claire marched out to the reception area to use another phone.
She’d be ready to dump all the intrigue and maze of wrongdoing back in Mr. Harrison’s lap once they’d found something solid on Newcastle.
She gave each of the drawers in Tillie’s file cabinets a quick yank. Locked. “Damn,” she muttered under her breath as she punched in Tillie’s familiar phone number. “Hi, Tillie. Yes, I’m fine. Thanks again for being so good to me yesterday. Look, I’m at the office. I’ve looked in your Rolodex and mine and there’s no information on Abramowitz’s home address. Who can I call to find it?”
“Are you alone?” Tillie’s tone was, full of suspicion. “Why are you asking?”
“Is Mr. Nichols okay? Is he there with you now?”
Frowning, Claire kept her voice calm. “Yes, he is, Tillie. Did you hear what happened this morning? Is that why you asked if he was okay?”
“I asked you that because you were so worried about him last night. What happened this morning?”
Briefly, Claire told her about the bomb. “So, since things have escalated a bit, I’m going to try to go see Roz.”
Tillie rattled off four names and numbers, paused, and then said, “Maybe you should let the police handle this, Claire. They’ll follow the trail and come up with a culprit.’
“Yeah, but I’m convinced it wouldn’t be the right one, Tillie. For that reason I need to ask you one last favor.
Where’s the key to your file cabinets with all the writers’ correspondence?”
“Why?”
“I want to check something. Don’t worry, I won’t mess anything up.” For some reason she did not want to tell Tillie she was planning to contact Winesong. Tillie was as protective of her job as liaison with the recluse that she would want to be the one to call. But Claire had no intention of letting Tillie into the line of fire.
“I’ve got it with me. Can it wait until tomorrow?”
Claire shrugged. The contract only carried Winesong’s mailing address, which was a post office box, she remembered. And there would be no way to check for a home address today because it was Sunday. “I guess so.” She thought fast, and then decided to risk hurting Tillie’s feelings. “Where do you keep Sarah Winesong’s phone number?”
The silence lengthened. “Tillie?”
“What are you going to do, Claire?”
“Nothing. Not right now, anyway. But I may need to call her soon, and I just want to have the number handy.”
“We don’t have a number. She always calls us. Always, like in the three calls a year she makes. If we want to get ahold of her, we have to write, then she calls us back. All I can do is give you the names of some people who might know.”
Tillie sounded strained as she spoke. The sucking noise told Claire she was inhaling deeply on a cigarette. “Damn, I’d forgotten that little eccentricity. Okay, well, see if there is anything you can dig out. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Claire hung up, irritated at this turn of events.
“What’s wron
g, Claire?”
“I won’t be able to reach Winesong today.” She told him about the system for contacting Sarah.
“Okay, so get the contract tomorrow and we’ll check with the post office for a home address. I know you have to supply one to get a box. Did Tillie have any idea where Roz lives? My guy at the Times is out today.”
“No, she didn’t. But she gave me the names and numbers of a couple of people to call.” Claire tore her small list in half, handing the bottom part to Tony. “You call these. Say you are with the Wall Street Journal or something. Doing a story on Newcastle’s purchase of Usherwood Publications.”
“Boy, you’re good at this.” He smiled. “I’ll do it, but first I want to bring up one other thing.”
“Yes?”
“You do know that your own high ethics may not be shared by other people close to you?”
Claire stiffened against the doorframe. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that, no matter what Roz tells us, we can’t totally clear everyone of complicity with Newcastle in the manuscript swindle, or Patricia’s murder.”
“I know that. But I’ve seen no proof that anyone at Cauldron his done anything wrong. And I’m sure none of them would go so far as to conceal evidence from the authorities in order to protect Winesong from prosecution.”
Tony clenched his fist. “I just don’t want you to forget something. Someone tried to kill you, and frame me, because we’re getting too close to some facts that person wants kept hidden. After all, even Tillie or Vincent Harrison could have... ” Tony’s words were interrupted by a shocked voice from the outer doorway.
“Claire. Mr. Nichols. What are you doing here?”
Claire turned to face Vincent Harrison. He was standing in the outer office, clutching a large cardboard box, staring at the two of them with surprise and, she was chagrined to see, more than a shade of suspicion.
* * *
Tony went down to hail a cab, leaving Claire alone with Mr. Harrison. She had accompanied her boss to his office in silence. The guilt she felt was ridiculous, she told herself. However, she still felt as if she had been caught red-handed stealing from the school milk fund.
“So, Claire, tell me what you and Mr. Nichols have accomplished? Did you ever find Patricia Snow?”
“Yes, we did. But something quite awful has happened, Mr. Harrison. The girl is dead.”
“What?” Vincent Harrison stopped removing the stack of typewritten pages he had been sorting through to stare at Claire. “What happened?”
Claire filled him in on the events in Rhode Island, from Tony’s bonk on the head to the murder and her own close encounter with the gunman.
He looked most shocked when she repeated what Tony had told her about Patricia’s charges. That she had been paid a retainer fee by someone working for Claire Kennedy.
The early morning car bomb she left out, unwilling to even think about it again. “So the Rhode Island state troopers arrested Tony,” she finished. “Because it was his gun that was used in the shooting, and maybe even in the murder. He’s up to his neck in trouble. We didn’t tell them about finding Patricia’s body, which turned out to be a mistake in light of the fact they can’t locate Pearl Loney.”
“Pearl Loney?” he repeated.
“The justice of the peace at Benton Convent. Anyway, speaking of trouble, Tony is not the only one in it. So is Cauldron Press.”
“Why? Has someone accused us of complicity in the girl’s murder?”
“No. I don’t mean that kind of trouble. I mean that with all of this, we can’t publish The Poison Pen Pal as scheduled.” Claire sat in a heap on the sofa, exhausted. There, she told herself, she had finally said it.
After several moments of silence, she looked up to find Mr. Harrison looking at her with eyes that seemed focused a million miles away.
“It’s too dangerous for Cauldron Press.”
“Just a minute, Claire. So the police suspect Mr. Nichols. Then why the devil is he here with you in New York? He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Harrison rushed to Claire’s side and put a hand on her shoulder.
She felt a shudder tremble through his slight form, and she found herself patting his hand, as if he were a child. “No. On the contrary, Mr. Harrison, he’s been really good to me. In fact, I’m sure he has been set up. And I think that situation may have something to do with the fact that Billings Newcastle is trying to buy Cauldron Press from you.”
Mr. Harrison blinked his pale blue eyes rapidly. “Claire, there are a lot of things I haven’t told you before that I’m going to now.”
He took a deep breath, folding both hands behind his back as he paced in front of his desk. “With the Winesong book set to go, I really thought my financial difficulties were past, but now that this scandal has broken around us, I may not be able to do anything about Newcastle.”
“Don’t say that. If I can prove he’s criminally involved in all this activity, we can bring the book out. After all, Cauldron is privately owned. Newcastle has no stockholders to intimidate and—”
“No. But he owns the bank that has extended me considerable credit this past year. And he’s threatened to foreclose on the loans instead of rolling them over again if I don’t sell to Usherwood Publications.”
Claire watched as Mr. Harrison went back to his desk and sat down. He was partially hidden by the cardboard box in front of him, but his words rang out clearly. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think it would ever come to this. But if we don’t go ahead with the Winesong book as scheduled, there’s nothing we can do to save Cauldron Press from being taken over by Newcastle.”
“You can’t give up now. We’ll find a way.”
He surprised her by chuckling dryly. “Well, I thought until five minutes ago that these bundles of paper would be the answer to our prayers, but now that you’ve said you think we should halt production on the book ...”
Claire forced herself to stand and walk over to the desk. “We can’t publish The Poison Pen Pal while there’s a remote possibility that Sarah Winesong stole the book. We need to be able to prove who wrote it.”
Harrison nodded toward the stacks of paper in front of him. “We can do that now, Claire. Here are all the original copies of her various drafts of the book, complete with margin notes and corrections. If this doesn’t prove she wrote it, then nothing will.”
“Where did you get these?” Claire’s voice was edged with disbelief. Numbly she looked down at the copies in front of her. If they did have all the drafts, they could prove that Sarah Winesong wrote the book. And that Patricia Snow had not.
“They were delivered to me by messenger this morning. This note was with them.” Harrison handed Claire a folded sheet of paper. Sarah Winesong’s familiar spidery hand covered the sheet. It read:
Dear Vincent
I’ve heard, from a very reliable source, of our problem with this young woman, Patricia Snow. I’m sending you this note so you will understand a bit of the background of my book, and how this whole story has been orchestrated by some very industrious criminals.
For the past two years, Patricia Snow did typing and research for me. My health, as you know, has been quite fragile, so I placed an ad in the Immaculate Sisters College paper in Rhode Island, not too far from a retreat I occasionally visit.
A few months ago, I discovered Miss Snow had a severe drinking problem. I had my associate, a lovely woman who has helped manage my affairs for twenty-five years, terminate Miss Snow’s services, but we allowed the poor child to stay in a small house I inherited from my cousin, Marielle Chancon.
Miss Snow did no writing or research on my manuscript The Poison Pen Pal, though she did type it. I hope this information will put your mind at rest, Vincent. Please give dear Miss Kennedy my love and tell her I look forward to meeting her in the near future.
“So, Miss Winesong thinks Patricia stole her book and passed it off as her own out of spite?”
Vincent nodded energetically. “Yes, a
nd it makes perfect sense. Snow and Nichols set up the plot to blackmail us, then the poor drunken little fool must have double-crossed him and sent it off to Roz Abramowitz to try and sell it to her, tool”
Her mind reeling from all the new information, Claire picked up one of the piles of paper and glanced down at it. It was the opening scene of Chapter 3 of The Poison Pen Pal.
“So Newcastle may not be involved at all. Tony and I were so sure....”
“Who knows? I’d say he’s not. Nevertheless, you can bet he’ll tie us up in court for years if we don’t immediately publish The Poison Pen Pal. If we keep to our schedule, the advance orders will let me pay the bank off, Claire, and he’ll have no other hold on us other than that letter the poor demented Miss Snow sent to Roz Abramowitz.”
“She also sent a manuscript. Don’t forget that little problem, Mr. Harrison.”
“I haven’t. But these drafts will prove that Patricia just doctored Sarah’s story and made a copy of it. It’s very believable, Claire. People will do anything when they’re as desperate as that girl was.”
Uneasily Claire shook her head as if to clear it. “But who told Sarah about all of this? Did you?”
Vincent smiled. “No. But I’d be willing to bet you’ve told every bit of this to Tillie, and as I expected, she took things into her own hands and contacted Winesong.”
“Tillie? Mr. Harrison, I know you didn’t want me to bring her into this, but—”
“Claire, dear, it’s okay. Really.” Vincent walked around the edge of the desk and took the manuscripts from her hands. “The only thing you need to be concerned about now is Mr. Nichols.”
“Tony? What do you mean?”
Vincent Harrison stared at her for a long moment, apparently weighing his words carefully. “Since it seems that Patricia Snow did in fact steal the book from Sarah Winesong, only one mystery remains.”
“I don’t understand....” Claire sat down in the same chair Tony had used a few days ago when he had made his dreadful allegations about Cauldron Press.
Stranger Than Fiction Page 15