Ignoring her mother’s gasp, she told them about her call to Scottsdale.
“I’m flying out there tomorrow,” she said. “We have to know if their Mrs. Collins is the woman Cyrus Graham saw with Dad. We can’t be sure until I meet her.”
Catherine Collins hoped the hurt she saw in her daughter’s face was not mirrored in her own expression when she said quietly, “Meggie, if you look so much like that dead young woman, and the woman in Scottsdale is that girl’s mother, it could be terrible for her to see you.”
“Nothing is going to make it easy for whoever turns out to be the mother of that girl.”
She was grateful that they did not try to dissuade her. Instead Mac said, “Meg, don’t tell anyone, and I mean anyone, where you’re going. How long do you expect to stay?”
“Overnight at the most.”
“Then for all anyone will know, you’re at your apartment. Leave it at that.”
When he collected Kyle, he said, “Catherine, if Kyle and I come to the inn tomorrow night, do you think you’d have time to join us for dinner?”
Catherine managed a smile. “I’d love to. What should I have on the menu, Kyle?”
“Chicken McNuggets?” he asked hopefully.
“Are you trying to run me out of business? Come on inside. I brought home some cookies. Take a couple with you.” She led him into the kitchen.
“Catherine is very tactful,” Mac said. “I think she knew I wanted a minute with you. Meg, I don’t like you going out there alone, but I think I understand. Now I want the truth. Is there anything you’re holding back?”
“No.”
“Meg, I won’t let you shut me out anymore. Get used to that idea. How can I help?”
“Call Stephanie Petrovic in the morning, and if she’s not there, call her lawyer. I have a funny feeling about Stephanie. I’ve tried to reach her three or four times, and she’s been out all day. I even called her from the car half an hour ago. Her baby is due in ten days and she feels lousy. The other day she was exhausted after her aunt’s funeral and couldn’t wait to lie down. I can’t imagine her being gone so long. Let me give you the numbers.”
When Mac and Kyle left a few minutes later, Mac’s kiss was not the usual friendly peck on the cheek. Instead, as his son had done earlier, he held Meg’s face in his hands.
“Take care of yourself,” he ordered, as his lips closed firmly over hers.
46
Monday had been a bad day for Bernie. He got up at dawn, settled in the cracked Naugahyde recliner in the basement, and began to watch over and over the video he’d taken of Meghan from his hiding place in the woods. He’d wanted to see it when he got home last night, but his mother had demanded he keep her company.
“I’m alone too much, Bernard,” she’d complained. “You never used to go out so much on weekends. You haven’t got a girl have you?”
“Of course not, Mama,” he’d said.
“You know all the trouble you’ve gotten into because of girls.”
“None of that was my fault, Mama.”
“I didn’t say it was your fault. I said that girls are poison for you. Stay away from them.”
“Yes, Mama.”
When Mama got in one of those moods, the best thing Bernie could do was to listen to her. He was still afraid of her. He still shivered thinking of the times when he was growing up and she’d suddenly appear with the strap in her hands. “I saw you looking at that smut on television, Bernard. I can read those filthy thoughts in your head.”
Mama would never understand that what he felt for Meghan was pure and beautiful. It was just that he wanted to be around Meghan, wanted to see her, wanted to feel like he could always get her to look up and smile at him. Like last night. If he had tapped at the window and she’d recognized him, she wouldn’t have been scared. She’d have run to the door to let him in. She’d have said, “Bernie, what are you doing here?” Maybe she’d have made a cup of tea for him.
Bernie leaned forward. He was getting to the good part again, where Meghan looked so intent on what she was doing as she sat at the head of the dining room table with all those papers in front of her. With the zoom lens he’d managed to get close-ups of her face. There was something about the way she was beginning to moisten her lips that thrilled him. Her blouse was open at the neck. He wasn’t sure if he could see the beat of her pulse there or if he only imagined that.
“Bernard! Bernard!”
His mother was at the head of the stairs, shouting down to him. How long had she been calling?
“Yes, Mama. I’m coming.”
“It took you long enough,” she snapped when he reached the kitchen. “You’ll be late for work. What were you doing?”
“Straightening up a little. I know you want me to leave it neat.”
Fifteen minutes later he was in the car. He drove down the block, unsure of where to go. He knew he should try to pick up some fares at the airport. With all the equipment he was buying, he needed to make some money. He had to force himself to turn the wheel and head in the direction of La Guardia.
He spent the day driving back and forth to the airport. It went well enough until late afternoon when some guy kept complaining to him about the traffic. “For Pete’s sake, get in the left lane. Can’t you see this one is blocked?”
Bernie had begun thinking about Meghan again, about whether it would be safe to drive past her house once it got dark.
A minute later the passenger snapped, “Listen, I knew I should have taken a cab. Where’d you learn to drive? Keep up with the traffic, for God’s sake.”
Bernie was at the last exit on the Grand Central Parkway before the Triborough Bridge. He took a sharp right onto the street parallel to the parkway and pulled the car to the curb.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the passenger demanded.
The guy’s big suitcase was next to Bernie in the front seat. He leaned over, opened the door and pushed it out. “Get lost,” he ordered. “Get yourself a taxi.”
He spun his head to look into the passenger’s face. Their eyes locked.
The passenger’s expression changed to one of panic. “All right, take it easy. Sorry if I got you upset.”
He jumped out of the car and yanked his suitcase away just as Bernie floored the accelerator. Bernie cut through side streets. He’d better go home. Otherwise he’d go back and smash that big mouth.
He began to take deliberate deep breaths. That’s what the prison psychiatrist told him to do when he felt himself getting mad. “You’ve got to handle that anger, Bernie,” he’d warned him. “Unless you want to spend the rest of your life in here.”
Bernie knew he could never go back to prison again. He’d do anything to keep that from happening.
On Tuesday morning, Meghan’s alarm went off at 4 A.M. She had a reservation on America West Flight 9, leaving from Kennedy Airport at 7:25. She had no trouble getting up. Her sleep had been uneasy. She showered, running the water as hot as she could stand it, glad to feel some of the taut muscles in her neck and back loosen.
As she pulled on underwear and stockings she listened to the weather report on the radio. It was below freezing in New York. Arizona, of course, was another matter. Cool in the evenings at this time of year, but she understood it could be fairly warm during the day.
A tan, lightweight wool jacket and slacks with a print blouse seemed to be a good choice. Over it she’d wear her Burberry without the lining. She quickly packed the few things she’d need for an overnight stay.
The smell of coffee greeted her as she started down the stairs. Her mother was in the kitchen. “You shouldn’t have gotten up,” Meg protested.
“I wasn’t sleeping.” Catherine Collins toyed with the belt of her terry-cloth robe. “I didn’t offer to go with you, Meg, but now I’m having second thoughts. Maybe I shouldn’t let you do this alone. It’s just that if there is another Mrs. Edwin Collins in Scottsdale, I don’t know what I could say to her. Was she as ign
orant as I about what was going on? Or did she knowingly live a lie?”
“I hope by the end of the day I’ll have some answers,” Meg said, “and I absolutely know that it’s better I do this alone.” She took a few sips of grapefruit juice and swallowed a little coffee. “I’ve got to get going. It’s a long ride to Kennedy Airport. I don’t want to get caught in rush-hour traffic.”
Her mother walked her to the door. Meg hugged her briefly. “I get into Phoenix at eleven o’clock, mountain time. I’ll call you late this afternoon.”
She could feel her mother’s eyes on her as she walked to the car.
The flight was uneventful. She had a window seat and for long periods of time gazed down at the puffy cushion of white clouds. She thought of her fifth birthday when her mother and father took her to DisneyWorld. It was her first flight. She’d sat at the window, her father beside her, her mother across the aisle.
Over the years her father had teased her about the question she’d asked that day. “Daddy, if we got out of the plane, could we walk on the clouds?”
He’d told her that he was sorry to say the clouds wouldn’t hold her up. “But I’ll always hold you up, Meggie Anne,” he’d promised.
And he had. She thought of the awful day when she’d tripped just before the finish line of a race and had cost her high school track team the state championship. Her father had been waiting when she’d slunk out of the gym, not wanting to hear the consoling words of her teammates or see the disappointment on their faces.
He had offered understanding, not consolation. “There are some events in our lives, Meghan,” he’d told her, “that no matter how old we get, the memory still hurts. I’m afraid you’ve just chalked up one of those events.”
A wave of tenderness swept over Meghan and then was gone as she remembered the times when her father’s claim of pressing business had kept him away. Sometimes even on holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas. Was he celebrating them in Scottsdale? With his other family? Holidays were always so busy at the inn. When he wasn’t home, she and her mother would have dinner there with friends, but her mother would be up and down greeting guests and checking the kitchen.
She remembered being fourteen and taking jazz dance lessons. When her father came home from one of his trips, she’d shown him the newest steps she’d mastered.
“Meggie,” he’d sighed, “jazz is good music and a fine dance form, but the waltz is the dance of the angels.” He’d taught her the Viennese waltz.
It was a relief when the pilot announced that they were beginning the descent into Sky Harbor International Airport, where the outside temperature was seventy degrees.
Meghan took her things from the overhead compartment and waited restlessly for the cabin door to open. She wanted to get through this day as quickly as possible.
The car rental agency was in the Barry Goldwater terminal. Meghan stopped to look up the address of the Palomino Leather Goods Shop and when she signed for a car asked the clerk for directions.
“That’s in the Borgota section of Scottsdale,” the clerk said. “It’s a wonderful shopping area that will make you think you’re in a medieval town.”
On a map she outlined the route for Meghan. “You’ll be there in twenty-five minutes,” she said.
As she drove, Meghan absorbed the beauty of the mountains in the distance and the cloudless, intensely blue sky. When she had cleared the commercial sections, palms and orange trees and saguaro cactus began to dot the landscape.
She passed the adobe-style Safari Hotel. With its bright oleanders and tall palms, it looked serene and inviting. This was where Cyrus Graham said he had seen his stepbrother, her father, nearly eleven years ago.
The Palomino Leather Goods Shop was a mile farther down on Scottsdale Road. Here the buildings had castlelike towers and crenellated parapet walls. Cobblestone streets contributed to an old-world effect. The boutiques that lined the streets were small, and all of them looked expensive. Meghan turned left into the parking area past Palomino Leather Goods and got out of the car. She found it disconcerting to realize that her knees were trembling.
The pungent scent of fine leather greeted her when she entered the shop. Purses ranging in size from clutches to tote bags were tastefully grouped on shelves and tables. A display case held wallets, key rings and jewelry. Briefcases and luggage were visible in the larger area a few steps down and to the rear of the entry level.
There was only one other person in the shop, a young woman with striking Indian features and thick, dark hair that cascaded down her back. She looked up from her position behind the cash register and smiled. “May I help you?” There was no hint of recognition in her voice or manner.
Meghan thought quickly. “I hope so. I’m only in town for a few hours and I wanted to look up some relatives. I don’t have their address and they’re not listed in the phone book. I know they shop here and I hoped I might be able to get the address or phone number from you.”
The clerk hesitated. “I’m new. Maybe you could come back in about an hour. The owner will be in then.”
“Please,” Meghan said. “I have so little time.”
“What’s the name? I can see if they have an account.”
“E. R. Collins.”
“Oh,” the clerk said, “you must have called yesterday.”
“That’s right.”
“I was here. After she spoke to you, the owner, Mrs. Stoges, told me about Mr. Collins’ death. Was he a relative?”
Meghan’s mouth went dry. “Yes. That’s why I’m anxious to stop in on the family.”
The clerk turned on the computer. “Here’s the address and phone number. I’m afraid I have to phone Mrs. Collins and ask permission to give it to you.”
There was nothing to do but nod. Meghan watched the buttons on the phone being rapidly pressed.
A moment later the clerk said into the receiver, “Mrs. Collins? This is the Palomino Leather Goods Shop. There’s a young lady here who would like to see you, a relative. Is it all right if I give her your address?”
She listened then looked at Meghan. “May I ask your name?”
“Meghan. Meghan Collins.”
The clerk repeated it, listened, then said goodbye and hung up. She smiled at Meg. “Mrs. Collins would like you to come right over. She lives only ten minutes from here.”
47
Frances stood, looking out the window at the back of the house. A low stucco wall crowned by a wrought-iron rail enclosed the pool and patio. The property ended at the border of the vast expanse of desert that was the Pima Indian Reservation. In the distance, Camelback Mountain glistened under the midday sun. An incongruously beautiful day for all secrets to be laid open, she thought.
Annie had gone to Connecticut after all, had looked up Meghan and sent her here. Why should Annie have honored her father’s wishes, Frances asked herself fiercely. What loyalty does she owe to him or to me?
In the two-and-a-half days since she’d left the message on Edwin’s answering machine, she’d waited in an agony of hope and dread. The call she’d just received from Palomino was not the one she’d hoped to get. But at least Meghan Collins might be able to tell her when she had seen Annie, perhaps where Frances could reach her.
The chimes rang through the house, soft, melodious, but chilling. Frances turned and walked to the front door.
When Meghan stopped in front of 1006 Doubletree Ranch Road she found a one-story, cream-colored stucco house with a red tile roof, on the edge of the desert. Vivid red hibiscus and cactus framed the front of the dwelling, complementing the stark beauty of the mountain range in the distance.
On her way to the door she passed the window and caught a glimpse of the woman inside. She couldn’t see her face but could tell that the woman was tall and very thin, with hair loosely pinned in a chignon. She seemed to be wearing some sort of smock.
Meghan rang the bell, then the door opened.
The woman gave a startled gasp. Her face went ashe
n.
“Dear God,” she whispered. “I knew you looked like Annie, but I had no idea. . . .” Her hand flew up to her mouth, pressing against her lips in a visible effort to silence the flow of words.
This is Annie’s mother and she doesn’t know thatAnnie is dead. Horrified, Meghan thought, It’s going to be worse for her that I’m here. What would it be like for Mom if Annie had been the one to go to Connecticut and tell her I was dead?
“Come in, Meghan.” The woman stood aside, still clutching the handle of the door, as though supporting herself on it. “I’m Frances Grolier.”
Meghan did not know what kind of person she had expected to find, but not this woman with her fresh-scrubbed looks, graying hair, sturdy hands and thin, lined face. The eyes she was looking into were shocked and distressed.
“Didn’t the clerk at Palomino call you Mrs. Collins when she phoned?” Meghan asked.
“The tradespeople know me as Mrs. Collins.”
She was wearing a gold wedding band. Meghan looked at it pointedly.
“Yes,” Frances Grolier said. “For appearance sake, your father gave that to me.”
Meghan thought of the way her mother had convulsively gripped the wedding band the psychic had returned to her. She looked away from Frances Grolier, suddenly filled with an overwhelming sense of loss. Impressions of the room filtered through the misery of this moment.
The house was divided into living and studio areas extending from the front to the back.
The front section was the living room. A couch in front of the fireplace. Earth-tone tiles on the floor.
The maroon leather chair and matching ottoman to the side of the fireplace, exact replicas of the ones in her father’s study, Megan realized with a start. Bookshelves within easy reach of the chair. Dad certainly liked to feel at home wherever he was, Meghan thought bitterly.
Framed photographs prominently displayed on the mantel drew her like a magnet. They were family groups of her father with this woman and a young girl who might easily be her sister, and who was—or rather had been—her half sister.
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