“No. No, you don’t, Claire. The man murdered Sarah Winesong and Roz Abramowitz. And if Damien hadn’t followed Roz out there like he did, Nichols probably would have murdered you, too.”
The roaring got louder in her ears as Claire struggled to make sense of Mr. Harrison’s words.
Roz was dead. Winesong was dead. But the rest...
“No. Tony didn’t kill them, Mr. Harrison. Someone was trying to kill us. Someone shot at us when we followed Roz to Miss Winesong’s. Shot at us and locked us in the basement. Then started that fire. It wasn’t Tony.”
Harrison shook his head, patting Claire’s hands. “My dear, it must have been a trick. Maybe Mr. Nichols had a confederate who pulled those stunts to establish an alibi. Trust me, Claire. What I’m telling you is the truth. He orchestrated everything. Sarah Winesong called me at seven last night to say that Roz and Tony Nichols had called her and demanded an appointment. They were working together, Claire. They were trying to blackmail Sarah directly. They must have murdered that poor Snow girl, too. Damien said he saw Nichols hanging around the Russian Tea Room. He must have been waiting for her.”
“No. It can’t be true.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her energy began to drain away, probably due to some medication she had been given.
Before her boss could reply, the young nurse appeared to the left of Mr. Harrison, a look of dismay on her face. “I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll have to go now. Miss Kennedy needs to rest.”
“Certainly.” Vincent Harrison gave Claire a searching look, and then patted her hand again. “I’ll come back tomorrow. Just rest. It’ll all be over soon.”
As consciousness seeped away, the room swirled again, sending Claire into a deeper blackness. But her mind protested even in sleep. “No. It’s not true. Tony. Tony...”
Chapter Fifteen
“And then what happened?” Claire lay back in bed, but crossed her arms in defiance.
“Nothing much. According to this news article, the fire department is investigating the cause of the blaze. It says here they were able to positively identify Roz’s body.” Tillie pulled the blanket over Claire’s feet, then sat down on the edge of the bed and continued reading.
“And Sarah Winesong?”
Tillie swiped at the corner of her eyes, balancing her glasses up on her forehead. “Well, since she had no known relatives or household help, the authorities asked Mr. Harrison to view the second corpse. It was burned so badly he said he could not be absolutely sure, but the police are assuming it was her, since it was an elderly woman, and in Winesong’s house. They have nicknamed the case The Poison Pen Pal murders. I wonder what jerk leaked the name of Winesong’s book to the press.”
“And there’s still no word on Tony?”
Tillie slapped the newspaper onto her bony knees and peered at Claire. “For crying out loud, the man is a fugitive. Do you think he’s going to call you and check in? He’s hiding from the cops, and three, count them, three murder raps.”
Biting her lip, Claire closed her eyes. “You know Tony didn’t kill anyone. The story in the paper is ridiculous.”
“I don’t know any such thing. The guy left you at a burning house and drove off.”
Since Monday night, she had completely accepted the fact that Tony loved her. He must have seen Damien Laurent pull her out of the house, or he never would have left the scene. There had to be a perfectly good reason to explain his behavior.
Claire only wished she knew what it was.
Despite the fact she could not explain Tony’s actions, she believed in him. Warmth spread through her as she savored a new feeling of being a part of another person. She was through with running away when things got rough. “It’s ridiculous to argue about this now, Tillie. He has been framed from the first. By whomever Sarah was working with. By her killer.”
“You’ve got her posthumously tried and convicted, huh?”
“I’m sorry if my words hurt you, Tillie. But that’s how it looks to me, and I was there. Now I’m going to check myself out of here. It’s Wednesday already, and I feel fine. I’ll rest at home, and it’ll be much easier for Tony to reach me there.”
“Claire... ”
Swinging her legs off the bed, she eased herself into her terry slippers and turned her back on Tillie. “Don’t try to stop me. It must be Billings Newcastle who is behind all this. He was probably at Winesong’s, waiting for Roz to show up.”
Tillie grasped Claire’s arm, helping her to the chair in the corner of the room. “You’ve gone mad. There is nothing to tie Newcastle to the things that have happened. Besides, he has an alibi. Damien said this morning his sources told him Newcastle was at a dinner in Manhattan last night. How could he have been running around New Jersey taking shots at you?”
“Sources have been known to be wrong. And alibis are easy to buy when you’re as rich as Billings Newcastle.” Claire fought the weakness threatening to overcome her as she got dressed. She slipped the hospital gown off her bruised and sore shoulder and gingerly stepped into her jeans, taking care not to pull off the bandages that covered her hands.
Tillie watched her for a moment, and then in resignation helped her into her sweater. “Okay. But if you’re going home, I’m going with you.”
“Fine. You can make tea for Damien. He’s meeting me in an hour.”
“Why?”
“Because I think he knows more than he’s telling. He’s been looking into Newcastle’s attempt to force Mr. Harrison to sell Cauldron. I want to know why he followed Roz out to Winesong’s, and if he saw something the other night that could help Tony.”
Claire’s voice broke as she said his name, and Tillie patted her arm. “It’s going to be okay, kiddo. If the three of us can’t figure out a way to handle Mr. Nichols, then no one can.”
Claire managed a grin. “Thanks, Tillie. Remember, though, I don’t want Mr. Harrison to know what we’re trying to do. The poor man has enough to worry about.”
A low whistle erupted from Tillie. “I forgot to tell you. I hear he spent all morning with three men from the bank. Rumors are that everyone’s future is riding on the success of Winesong’s book.”
“He’s not still going to go ahead and publish it?” Claire’s skin paled.
“Oh, yes, he is. In fact, Mr. Harrison’s going out to the printing plant tonight, to personally check the book covers. Thursday is print day. He said they have to be perfect, the last book from Winesong and all.”
Claire collapsed slowly onto the bed and shook her head, letting her jeans tumble to the floor. “After all that’s happened, it’s still that damn book that most concerns him.”
“Sarah Winesong made Cauldron Press. And Mr. Harrison is convinced that book is going to save it. The company means everything to him, Claire. And to me.”
“I know, but with her death...” Claire’s voice trailed off as she shook her hair out of her face. Though she had never even met the reclusive author, she was stunned at the news of her death. A deep sense of personal loss haunted her at the loss of Sarah Winesong, and Roz.
Despite their opposing styles, Claire had harbored a certain respect for Roz’s aggressiveness. “I guess all the real life mayhem that’s happened will only mean more sales for The Poison Pen Pal.”
“Yep. Freak show time. People love real scandal. The past two days’ news stories about fires and murders and dead authors should really whet their appetites.”
“Well, I’m sick of all the fingers pointing at Tony. And I’m going to make sure the papers print the truth in type as big as they have printed their scandal. He’s a wonderful, kind, giving man.”
“You’re determined to stand by this guy?”
“I have to, Tillie. So go get your car. I’ll see you downstairs in ten minutes.”
Tillie grabbed her purse and three arrangements of flowers, nearly dropping a pot of white lilies from Damien Laurent. “These look like funeral flowers.”
“They could have been.” Claire stood and pulled
her jeans back on. Stuffing her personal items into her overnight bag, she took another five minutes to lace up her tennis shoes. As she headed for the door, the telephone next to the bed rang.
Staring at it for a second, Claire turned and headed out the door. The well-wishers would have to wait. She had to see Damien.
And find Tony.
* * *
Eight rings. Nine rings. Ten. On the eleventh, Tony put the receiver back on the cradle and opened the phone booth door immediately to douse the light. He did not want anyone to get too close a look at him. His eyes still smarted from the smoke of Monday night’s fire.
Claire must be having an x-ray or some tests, he told himself. This attempt to explain why Claire was not answering her phone did little to calm him.
Holed-up in a dingy, twelve-dollar-a-night room on the outskirts of Queens, he had frantically been trying to reach her. The nurses at the hospital had insisted she was well, but incommunicado. Should he risk going to see her? No, he decided. He would never escape the police.
Crossing the street, Tony said his hundredth silent prayer that Claire knew he had not just abandoned her at the Winesong estate. When the police and fire personnel had pulled out their guns because Laurent, no doubt, had warned them he was armed, he had seen it was better to slip away than risk explaining his hunch that set the fire and why.
Because then he had little proof.
But now he had solid evidence. The small copper Medic Alert bracelet he had found in Winesong’s basement belonged to Benton Convent’s missing justice of the peace, Pearl Loney. And after a day combing through the Department of Immigration files a helpful contact at the library had provided, he knew why it was there.
This thrill of finally knowing who was responsible for Patricia’s murder did not, however, compare with his worry about Claire. He had admitted to himself several days ago that he loved the woman, but he had not been prepared for the gut- jumbling helplessness he felt since the fire.
He had gotten back to New York the next morning and called on an old news reporter friend to find out if Claire was badly hurt. The hospital report said she was critical, but stable. Tony only hoped she would stay that way until he could hold her in his arms again and kiss every one of her beautiful freckles.
At least he did not have to worry about her tonight. She was safe as long as she stayed in the hospital. Wincing as he put more weight on his bandaged left leg, he limped over to the rented Mustang and slid in. Time was slipping by. The sky was already dark at six o’clock and the approaching headlights glimmered in twos and threes.
At least his leg was not broken. After pulling the knob to flash his own car lights on, Tony reached for a cigarette.
The tobacco burned his tongue, reminding him of Claire’s teasing comments about his vice. He tossed the package out the window, and then gripped the chrome wheel tightly as he pulled out into the traffic.
The pain from the scattered blisters on his palms actually comforted him. They reminded him of his anger, and the score he was going to settle finally tonight. You are going to pay for everything, you heartless bastard.
As if he could taste the revenge, Tony swallowed hard. He took a deep breath and pushed the car to seventy-five. “Miss Winesong’s last mystery is about to be solved,” he muttered.
And the last chapter had a hell of a twist ending.
* * *
Tillie and Claire sat side by side on the sofa, staring at Damien Laurent. Tillie’s elegant nephew stood poised by Claire’s fireplace. The critic’s usually perfect hair was intact, but his pink silk necktie sagged crookedly at the neck.
“I’m absolutely sure, Claire. There’s no possibility at all that Newcastle knew about Patricia Snow’s claims against Sarah Winesong. If he had known, he would have halted all negotiations to buy Cauldron. Press from Vincent immediately.”
Claire’s expression remained shocked.
Tillie blinked, and then worriedly patted Claire’s bloodless hands. “You okay, Claire? Drink some more tea.”
“This can’t be true.”
Damien shook his head. “It is true, Claire. Vincent sold Cauldron Press to Billings Newcastle Monday afternoon, solely on the strength of the projected sales of Winesong’s book. I’ve seen the contract.”
“But he said he’d never sell. He said he wouldn’t have to if The Poison Pen Pal was published.”
“But he did. For the full market value. Which means Newcastle is an unlikely candidate to have been blackmailing Vincent. Vincent made five million dollars on the deal. Personally.”
Nothing was making any sense to Claire. Every time she thought she understood what was going on, a totally new twist of events turned things askew. “Why didn’t he tell me the truth?”
“Why should he? After all, Vincent was sole owner of the company, answerable only to the bank. Frankly, Claire, you have been rather intent on proving Cauldron Press’s complicity in the Patricia Snow scandal. Vincent was probably worried you would sour his deal in the final stages.”
“Why did you follow Roz the other night, Damien?”
He stepped back, surprised by Claire’s abruptness. “I was curious. Both about Roz’s meeting with Sarah Winesong, and your Mr. Nichols skulking around the restaurant. I am a journalist first and foremost, you know.” He tapped his cane on the floor for emphasis.
Claire eyed it closely, realizing it was nearly the twin of the one she had seen at Winesong’s. “I’m glad you’re friend, Damien. And I owe you my life for pulling me out of that burning house.”
Damien started to accept her thanks, but she interrupted. “Do you have another cane like that one?”
“This?” He waved it in the air, and then smiled. “All the canes in my collection are one of a kind. This one is Chinese, though the silver work is Spanish. I had a couple of similar ones, but I have given them away as gifts. Why do you ask?”
She frowned and looked away.
“Claire. Did you hear me?” Damien said when he got no response.
Shaking her head as if to clear it, Claire wrung her sore hands together, wincing at the pain from the burns she had received. “I’m sorry, Damien, I didn’t. What did you say?”
“Why do you ask about the cane? Are you going to start collecting them? We can form a club, Aunt Tillie, you and Vincent. He has nearly as many as I do now.”
Something clicked in Claire’s mind. A tiny piece of new information caused a domino effect of thoughts and random ideas to fall into line. And the line spelled out an explanation so clear, and so hideous, that it took her breath away. “Who else came by to see you last Sunday, Damien? Roz told me you had a lot of company.”
“I did. Let’s see....” Damien began to pace, swiping at the air, which was full of Tillie’s cigarette smoke. “Well, a writer friend arrived after you and Mr. Nichols left. Oh, yes. There was Vincent. He was in good spirits and had just driven back into town. Wanted to stop and see me before he went home. No sooner did he leave than Abramowitz rapped on the door. My guest list was a progressive potluck on Sunday.”
“What is it, Claire? What are you thinking?”
Tillie’s question went unanswered as Claire stood and walked to the window looking down on the street. Woofer, from his perch on the valance, performed his imitation of a dog barking. “I really need to be alone for a little while now. I’m so tired.”
Damien and Tillie exchanged glances, and then Tillie shook her head and shrugged. Picking up the tea tray, she walked into the kitchen.
Claire turned and looked at Damien thoughtfully. “You’ve known Mr. Harrison for a long time, Damien. Can I ask you one last thing?”
“Certainly.”
“Is Vincent Harrison his real name?”
Frowning, Damien looked down at his feet. “That’s an odd question, Claire. I thought you knew Vincent changed his name when he first emigrated from Paris in the late forties. His original name is Chancon. Vincent Chancon. I think he should have kept it. French surnames have so much
more élan than anglicized ones.”
Chancon. The name on the deed of the house where Patricia Snow was murdered. The name of the person who named Winesong sole heir. Carefully controlling her voice, Claire asked another question. “So why did he change it?”
“Vanity. He said he was so poor in France that he needed a new, strong American name to be successful here. I told him years ago he should not have given it up. It’s so musical, pun intended.”
“Was he ever married?”
At that moment, Tillie walked back in the room and stood between Damien and Claire. “Vincent’s never been married. You know that.”
“Yes, he has, Aunt Tillie.” Damien smiled as both women faced him. “I met the girl, Marielle her name was. She and her sister, Pearl, came to the States around the same time as Vincent. Their marriage lasted a year, and Marielle died shortly afterward.”
“Pearl?” Claire’s voice rasped. “What happened to Pearl?”
Tillie sat down woodenly beside Claire.
“I don’t know for sure,” Damien said. “Last I heard she married a small town farmer and moved to New Jersey. But that was thirty years ago.”
“I never knew any of this,” Tillie mumbled. “I can’t believe Vincent never told me.”
Claire reached toward Tillie and patted her arm. “It seems Mr. Harrison didn’t tell either of us a lot of things, Tillie. However, I think someone from Mr. Harrison’s past has come back to haunt us all. Go with Damien downstairs now. You both need to get some rest.”
“It’s all gone now. The company, Sarah, Vincent. What am I going to do?” Tillie looked dazed.
Damien’s expression showed his concern for his aunt. He nodded to Claire, and then gently helped Tillie to the door.
The older woman turned back to Claire. “You’re sure you don’t want me to stay the night?”
“No, Tillie. Thanks. Thanks to you both. Now go. I’ll be fine.” Claire closed the door behind them and engaged the dead bolt. Returning to her chair, she felt numb. The trauma of the past few days was nothing compared to tonight.
Tillie and Mr. Harrison.
Stranger Than Fiction Page 19