Stranger Than Fiction

by Emelle Gamble

  “My dear, someone murdered that girl. Most likely to keep her quiet about something. And the only person I can clearly see benefiting from that silence is Mr. Nichols.”

  Her stomach tightened. “Tony is not a murderer,” Claire whispered.

  “But who else would have killed her? Who else? After all, wasn’t he involved in something like this before?”

  Claire rose. “How did you hear about that?”

  He did not respond, merely nodded toward Tillie’s desk.

  “He was framed on a plagiarism charge. By Billings Newcastle. He’s not a murderer, Mr. Harrison. I’d stake my life on it.”

  Turning slowly, Vincent Harrison gently tapped his fingers together as he walked back to his chair. His words drifted over his shoulder. “If you spend any time alone with him, you may be doing just that.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Tony, don’t argue. Just go back to Rhode Island. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Claire shut the cab door, almost slamming it on Tony’s arm.

  He stared at her for a moment, then opened the door and jumped out. “Get in, Claire. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what happened with Harrison.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it right now.” Turning away, she hurried down the sidewalk, joining the dressed for church Sunday crowd. Bitter tears burned behind her eyes.

  Had she been a fool? Again? Had she actually made the mistake of believing in a man whose dark side had taken over?

  A hand grasped her elbow. “Don’t run from me, Claire.” Tony’s eyes blazed with anger and pain. “This is adolescent and unfair. Every time something happens that throws you, you run off like a sulky child. Now stop for a minute and tell me what’s eating you. I thought we were working together.’

  “So did I.”

  “And just what is that supposed to mean? What did Harrison say to you? Tell me, right now, or I’ll go up there and bash it out of him.”

  Claire knew Tony meant what he said. Glancing around, she made a quick decision. Ignoring the scathing curses the swarthy cabdriver yelled at them, she took Tony’s arm. “Come on. Let’s walk.”

  Tony fell into step beside her and fought down his exasperation. How could everything be all right one minute and sheer hell the next? “Was Harrison shocked at all the news?”

  “He was shocked at a few things. Then he shocked me right back with a few tidbits of his own.”

  Tony jostled two kids who tried to walk between them, and pulled Claire closer to him. “Oh, yeah? Like what?”

  “Like he got a surprise package this morning, too. Special delivery from Sarah Winesong. Along with a letter admitting she knew Patricia, she included all her draft copies of The Poison. Pen Pal.”

  Incredulous at this news, Tony’s face hardened. “Well, what else did the letter from the mysterious Miss Winesong have to say?”

  “Quite a lot.” She summarized it. “So it appears Sarah did write the book, Tony.”

  As the muscles in his face tightened, Tony recognized the hollow sound in Claire’s voice, Shock. More had happened in Vincent Harrison’s office than she was telling him. “The drafts don’t prove anything. They could be the ones stolen from my office, for all we know.”

  “I don’t think so. I recognized the handwritten corrections on them. They are Sarah’s. The only thing she said Patricia Snow did for her was type.”

  “Damn right she typed that story, while she composed it.”

  “That’s doubtful. Tony, I know this is hard for you to hear, but I really think you’ve been duped. According to Miss Winesong, Patricia Snow didn’t just go to work for her six months ago. She said she’s been paying her for over two years.”

  Tony cursed as the crosswalk light blinked red. “What else did you expect? If she’s trying to cover up the truth.”

  “Oh, stop it. Stop it right now.” Claire wrestled her arm free and brushed a tear from her eye. She seldom cried, and this outbreak promised to make up for it.

  Tony’s hand rested in the middle of her back as they stepped down together from the curb. “Claire, let’s go back to your place now. Then you can tell me everything that happened. Why be so upset?”

  “No.” She halted, surprised to see they were standing in front of the Waldorf Astoria. It seemed a million years ago that she had met him there. She felt like running, but knew she owed it to Tony to tell him what was on her mind.

  “I’m still going to check out things with Roz,” she said. “But I want to go see her alone.”

  Both hands rested on his hips, his knuckles white from the pressure. The clip-clop of a horse drawn carriage in Central Park echoed off the walls around them, then faded. “Why alone?”

  “She’ll tell me more if I’m by myself. Don’t argue with me, Tony. I’m going by myself. Go back to Narragansett.” She headed for a cab at the curb. It would mean a trip back to the office first to run down Roz’s address, but at least she would have some time to think.

  She also needed to confront Tillie and ask her when and how she had gotten hold of Sarah.

  Tony let her get about ten yards before he yelled, “Claire, wait.”

  But she didn’t. And he didn’t call her a second time.

  As he watched her climb into the cab, Tony noticed two park policemen, mounted on impressive chestnut horses, toward his left. They were talking and looking at him, one of the horses pawing the ground. Great. Now get slammed in jail for leaving Rhode Island, and then never get to the bottom of this.

  Casually he crossed into the park, oblivious to, the joggers and cyclists, couples and fat cheeked babies in strollers. It took all his energy to control the pain that savaged him. He was sure Claire would be safe for a couple of days, as long as she stuck to her apartment and office. Besides, no matter how that Abramowitz woman was connected to things, she did not look the type who would physically attack someone.

  It was time to take the situation into his own hands, Tony decided. He was tired of playing by the rules. No one else had.

  * * *

  Standing at her desk at eight-thirty Monday morning, Claire kept her head down as Tillie burst through the door.

  “Well, well. What did you and Mr. Nichols do all night?”

  “I slept. If he has a shred of sense, he did the same thing. Back in Rhode Island.”

  Tillie stared at the top of her boss’s head. “I see. What did you find out yesterday? Did you speak to Roz?”

  “No, I never even found out where she lives. I tried calling you until one o’clock this morning,” She looked up. “Where, were you?”

  Tillie bent and tied her sneaker. Her voice was hoarse. “I told you I have a sick neighbor. She’s worse, so I babysat.”

  “When did you find time to call Sarah Winesong, Tillie?”

  A gnarled hand grasped the corner of Claire’s desk as Tillie, struggled to stand. She took her pack of cigarettes out, removed one and lit it, then sat down across from Claire. “She called me. Out of the blue, the minute I stepped in after leaving your place on Saturday. She said she’d heard a rumor Vincent was in trouble and wanted to know what she could do to help.”

  “So you told her the whole story? How did she sound, Tillie? I wish you’d told me this, or told her to call me.”

  “She is going to call you. She asked for your home number and told me she was going to call you there tonight about nine.”

  “What did she say when you told her about the plagiarism charge?”

  “She didn’t sound the least bit surprised. ‘Vincent can take care of all this. I’ll send him some things to help him put an end to this foolishness,’ she said. Then she hung up without a goodbye.”

  “You’re sure it was her?”

  “It’s the same woman I’ve talked to for twenty-five years, Claire. I’d swear to that. But how did you find out I talked to her?”

  Claire shielded her eyes with her hands, and then shook her head. It was obvious Tillie did not know about the package Mr. Harrison had received. Well, if Sa
rah did call her at nine tonight, she would be ready for her. “It doesn’t matter, Tillie. Let me thank you for taking things into your own hands. I know you did what you think was right.”

  “We’ll get through this. Now,” Claire met Tillie’s nervous gaze and handed her several pages of correspondence “get someone in the typing pool to do these today. Also, please find out if Damien is free for cocktails tonight, and let me know when Mr. Harrison comes in. I’m going to the art department to approve book covers.”

  Brushing past Tillie, she chanced a look at her assistant, hoping the swelling around her eyes had gone down.

  The older woman’s expression showed it had not. “Next time you cry all night use cucumbers on your eyelids.”

  “There’ll be no next time.”

  “Never say never,” Tillie said, standing and nodding to the closed door. “The art department is going to have to wait. Roz is outside.”

  Claire stopped with her hand on the doorknob, her heart lurching at the news. “Is she here to see Mr. Harrison?”

  Before Tillie could answer, the door opened and Roz Abramowitz marched in, all of her four-foot-ten inches of spite and malice dressed in canary yellow shantung silk.

  “Well, the vagabond Claire Kennedy is back in the Big Apple. How was your vacation, dear? Not much sleep, according to those bags under your eyes.”

  “Hello, Roz. Excuse me, but I didn’t hear your knock. Can you give me a moment to take care of my scheduled appointments?”

  Ignoring Claire’s pointed look toward the outer reception area, Roz sank onto the chair by the desk and pulled out her cigarettes and lighter. “But, of course, dear. Go right ahead and outline dear Tillie’s chores for her. I’ll just wait right here. It’ll be convenient.”

  Claire stared at Tillie, who made the gesture of a knife being drawn across her throat. Claire shook her head and rolled her eyes. “I’ll handle things in here, Tillie. Will you please call up to art and ask Pete to wait for me? I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Reluctantly Tillie left, leaving the door ajar. Roz kicked it closed with the spiked heel of her alligator pump.

  Claire walked around her desk and sat, down, carefully folding her hands in front of her. Remembering that her father always told her to look at a spot just behind the person you were playing against for a big pot, she focused her eyes on the coat hook on the back of the door. “Okay, Roz, what’s behind this party crashing scene?”

  Roz looked annoyed at the question. For some reason, this terrified Claire. She wanted Roz out of her office, but with all the unanswered questions about what part Usherwood Publications played in the Patricia Snow affair, it was too dangerous just to throw her out.

  After inhaling deeply, Roz deposited her ashes in Claire’s coffee cup. “Is this a party? Things seem more like a wake around here.”

  “Get to the point, Roz. I have a tight schedule today.”

  Smiling sweetly, Roz’s tiny teeth glittered in the fluorescent light. “You have been a busy girl, haven’t you? So where’s Mr. Nichols?”

  Though it seemed as if the oxygen had been sucked from her lungs, Claire managed to keep her breathing even. “Who?”

  “Tony Nichols. The hunk you had cornered at the Waldorf the other day. I must say, Claire, I never expected the cool Miss Kennedy, with ice water in her veins, to run off for a couple of days with such a hero type. Damien Laurent wouldn’t tell me why he looked familiar to me, but he did say he was shocked at your behavior.”

  The knot in her stomach hardened. Damien. She and Tony had trusted Damien. Had he told Roz everything? With a sinking heart, Claire asked the question that could end her tenure in the publishing world forever. “When did you see Damien? And what did he tell you about my business with Tony Nichols?”

  “So direct, Miss Kennedy. My goodness, will you never learn the finer points of thrust and parry?”

  Claire’s palms were sweating. If Damien had betrayed her, then Newcastle was probably covering his tracks at this very moment. “I don’t know where this is all leading, Roz. What’s your point?”

  “My point is this. When I’m the editor-in-chief here at Cauldron Press, I’ll expect you to concentrate more on business and less on your little liaisons dangereuses.”

  “You’ll never be my boss.” Unflinchingly Claire burned that bridge, and then risked all her remaining cool by allowing her voice to carry a threat. “I asked you when you talked to Damien Laurent.”

  Roz squirmed in the hard chair. “Oh, Damien and I had drinks when I stopped by yesterday to see him. He was in a snit, said he had been besieged with unexpected Sunday company, but you know how Damien exaggerates. When I made mention of you, he got into a lather. I don’t know why. Something, I think, to do with the mysterious Tony Nichols.”

  Roz dropped her smoldering cigarette into Claire’s cup, nodding at the sizzling sound it made. “You’re never going to get anywhere, Claire, unless you’re nicer to the influential people who run our business.”

  As Roz continued to rattle on, Claire began to relax. It looked as if Roz was here just to antagonize her, not because Damien had spilled the beans. Then she almost hyperventilated herself unconscious when Roz brought up a new topic.

  “What did you say, Roz?” she asked.

  The sudden interest was not lost on Roz. “Oh, now you’re paying attention. Well, that’s good, Claire, but you can forget about trying to steal her away from me. This young college girl from Rhode Island sent me the most delicious manuscript I’ve ever seen from an unpublished writer. I told Mr. Newcastle on Friday that if she didn’t call me this week, I’d go see her personally, just to get ink on a contract before some other house snaps her up. Her name is Snow, Patricia Snow. Remember that name?”

  The nausea began to build in Claire, and blood rushed to her bead. She must not faint. Only Victorian heroines and spinsters fainted. Claire gulped some air and stood up. “I have to go see Mr. Harrison, Roz. I’ll see you later. Thanks for dropping by.”

  Roz remained sitting. She stared quizzically at Claire, whose face was feverish, her usually sparkling brown eyes dull and flat. “Certainly, Claire. Call me. We’ll have lunch.”

  Claire gripped the desk for support. She had to get to Tony, warn him that Roz was heading to Rhode Island. Just as she reached her pale hand toward the phone, it shrieked on the cradle. Claire lifted it and whispered, “Yes?”

  “Claire? This is Vincent Harrison. Please come up here and tell me what’s going on with that dreadful Abramowitz woman.”

  Claire sighed. “I’ll be right there.”

  * * *

  Sitting fully dressed on her bed in the growing darkness, Claire stared out the window. Woofer glided gracefully from room to room, emitting his usual string of Doberman pinscher imitations to break the silence. Normally amused, Claire felt weighed down. She wanted Tony. Wanted to see his tall, remarkable form fill the doorway. Wanted his warm laugh to pour over her and distract her from just waiting for the phone to ring.

  She eyed it nervously, and then checked her watch. Six-forty. A long time to wait. But as soon as Sarah called, she would insist on a face-to-face meeting. Tonight, if possible. Mr. Harrison would not be able to stand the stress of many more days like today.

  He had nearly choked when she reported Roz’s conversation about hearing from Patricia Snow.

  “Roz can’t go to Narragansett, Claire. Once she discovers the Snow girl is dead, the papers will pick up the whole thing. You know how Roz loves to involve the press. She and Damien Laurent are out twice a week with that crowd.”

  “I don’t know how we can stop her unless we tell her about our problem.”

  Harrison had exploded. “That’s it. I’ve done everything I can to protect Sarah from bad publicity and the buzzards that will zero in on this story. I’m calling the police now”

  He sat down and dialed, as Claire leaned on the sofa beside him. While he waited to be connected, he handed Claire a folder.

  She had opene
d it and read the startling advance order report on The Poison Pen Pal. Their original press run was to be 100,000 copies, and they had orders for twice that number.

  “It’s already a bestseller, Claire.” She looked up and met Mr. Harrison’s eyes, then stood and depressed the phone. “Let’s wait until I talk to Sarah tonight.”

  She had taken his silence as agreement.

  Harrison’s final words had been another warning to stay clear of Tony Nichols.

  Now she sat and stared at the stack of manuscripts sitting on the dresser. Mr. Harrison had begged her to take them home and look through them. He wanted her to be as sure as he was of Sarah’s innocence.

  Tony needed to see these, she thought. Maybe then he would begin to see why she believed in Winesong. Maybe then he would forgive her for hurting him yesterday. Tears filled her eyes at the memory of their last moments together, before he had fled north.

  Slowly Claire removed her shoes and stood up. She switched on the light on the antique server she used as a dressing table and removed her jewelry. Her mirrored image looked back at her forlornly. All the makeup in the world could not hide the fatigue, or the tension pulling at her mouth. She ached to hold Tony just one more time.

  * * *

  “Usherwood Publications. Roz Abramowitz.”

  “Miss Abramowitz?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  The voice was hoarse, tinny, aged. “Miss Abramowitz, this is Sarah Winesong. The novelist. I wonder if could ask a big favor of you?”

  Excitedly Roz jumped up from her desk, wrapping the rubber spiral telephone cord around her wrist. “Miss Winesong, this is such a surprise, and such an honor. Of Course. Anything.”

  After listening for a moment, Roz wrote down the address and repeated the directions. She hung up, then stood for a moment and savored the conversation. Who would have guessed, she thought to herself, this twist of fate?

  Grabbing her yellow coat, she darted from her office. Her smile was one of victory, the type a cat might feel as it tastes the warm flesh of a mouse.

  * * *

  In her black leather skirt and slouchy red shirt, Claire felt much more comfortable. She locked her door, thought about going back in for a coat, and then decided the April evening was mild enough. Waving to her doorman, she stood on the stoop for a moment, looking up and down her block.