Winter's Edge

by Anne Stuart

  Mrs. Morse nodded sagely. "I know how you feel. You sure you won't mind being all alone here?"

  "Not a bit," Molly lied, smiling bravely. After all, there'd be no one left to hurt her.

  She was out for several hours on the back of old Fountain, the mellowest horse in the stable. The police had refused to release any information, either about Toby or Patrick, and Molly had slammed down the phone on the unhelpful Sergeant Stroup in a blazing fury.

  Oddly enough, they didn't seem interested in trying to search her blank memory one more time. Maybe they already had the answers, she thought, unnerved. She needed the ride to burn off some of the helpless frustration that swamped her, and she had no intention of spending another minute in the company of her hateful relatives. That last little battle with Aunt Ermy was the final straw.

  It was a gorgeous day, giving lie to the storm that raged in her heart. The fresh spring air did its best to convince her that all was right with the world. The budding trees, the daffodils and crocuses, the soft spring smell of wet, warm earth were an intoxicant, and she prayed that when she returned to the old stone house Ermy and Willy would be gone and Patrick would be back.

  She should have known the latter would be too much to hope for. The house was very still as she made her way slowly, reluctantly through the barns toward the kitchen door. Her sixth sense, such as it was, was working overtime, and she had the unshakable feeling that something very bad awaited her inside the flagstoned hallways of Winter's Edge.

  She opened the door with deceptive boldness. "Anyone home?" she called out, thinking of the day just over a week ago when she first remembered entering this house. It seemed astonishing that so much could have happened in such a short time.

  Slowly, bravely, methodically, she went through each room of the house, calling out as she went. By the time she reached the attic she should have been satisfied that the house was empty except for Beastie's slumbering form, and yet she couldn't shake her sense of panic. Of disaster lurking.

  She hadn't even had time to think about Toby's death. It felt unreal—that intense light in his eyes suddenly snuffed out. She wanted to mourn, but all she could think about was Patrick.

  She went back downstairs, determined to be calmly reasonable as she locked all the doors and windows, whistling tunelessly as she moved through the house. What she was locking them against, she didn't know and refused to try to imagine—she was nervous enough already. The sun was already sinking lower in the sky, and eerie shadows were growing in the spotless corners of the house.

  Briskly she walked into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. Five-thirty. She picked up the discarded newspapers, grabbed a plate of home-baked muffins and went back into the living room to be near her sleeping canine friend.

  Someone had already laid a fire, and she lit it, despite the warmth of the late afternoon sun shining through the multi-paned windows. She needed every bit of cheeriness and warmth she could get. Someone had murdered Toby Pentick, and the one person she knew couldn't have done it was the only one in custody. Whoever had killed Toby was most likely the same person who'd been trying to kill her. And here she sat, alone in the house, a perfect sitting duck. The idea was not exactly heartwarming.

  Something incriminating was found by Toby's body, Mrs. Morse had said. For some reason her mind went back to the handkerchief still hidden away in the bedside table. The handkerchief with Patrick's initials and the mysterious rust-colored stains. And with a sudden horrid sinking feeling she recognized the short spurt of memory that came rushing back. The handkerchief wasn't an ancient love token. She had found it clasped in her father's murdered hand. And in a last moment of consciousness she had hidden it away from the police's prying eyes. Something incriminating, her brain echoed.

  On an impulse she couldn't quite understand she made her way back up to the attic, to the gloom-shrouded shapes of the abandoned furniture. The handkerchief was exactly where she had left it, tucked in the back drawer of the ugly dresser. She stared at the orange, bloodlike streaks thoughtfully, some distant memory teasingly out of reach.

  She slowly returned to the living room and the fire, the scrap of incriminating cloth in her hand. Settling back in the chair, she stared straight ahead. Beastie snored beside her, snuffling noisily in his sleep, bringing her back to her senses. If she doubted Patrick, what did she have left? She picked up the newspaper again, determined not to think about it.

  The crossword puzzle proved almost too easy, the coffee had none of its usual wakening effects, and the warmth from the fire made her suddenly drowsy. In between clues she fell asleep, the handkerchief clutched in her hand.

  Chapter Seventeen

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  It was an odd sort of dream, even from the beginning. It was too logical, too familiar to be a fantasy. And yet at the beginning it was as pleasant and somehow frightening as most dreams are.

  It was her wedding day. She was dressed in the lace and eyelet dress that hung straight down past her shoulders, and the antique veil sat delicately upon her head. Her slanted green-blue eyes were filled with angry tears as Aunt Ermy and Lisa Canning bustled around her, making busy, critical noises.

  "You look absolutely lovely, darling," Lisa crooned, arranging the veil about her shoulders. "I'm sure Pat will be most pleasantly surprised."

  The bride felt a stab of resentment, one she hid quite well. After all, she had won, hadn't she? He was marrying her, for whatever his reasons. He hadn't waited for Lisa Canning to divorce her gentle-mannered older husband.

  "For goodness sake, Molly, smile!" Aunt Ermy ordered in exasperation. "One would think you were going to your funeral instead of to a wedding. It's not as if we all don't know you're in love with him, and have been ever since you were a teenager. I only wonder how you managed to hook him."

  "I was wondering the same thing," Lisa murmured lazily, fingering the opulent hot-house bouquet with the yellow orchids that she and Aunt Ermy had chosen for her. They had wanted to pick the wedding dress too—a dumpy-looking satin creation that had taken their fancy, but on this point she'd had a strange moment of stubbornness. She had taken her little car and spent the day shopping, returning with the simple, old-fashioned dress she now wore, and the slight victory gave her confidence as she watched her pale, nervous face in the mirror of her pink-and-white room.

  "You don't think he's in love with you, do you?" Lisa leaned closer. At the betraying expression on the bride's face, Lisa laughed. "Oh, you poor dear, you do! Did he tell you so?"

  "No," she whispered, unwilling to confide in the older woman. She had believed, held the idea firmly in her heart of hearts, that underneath his friendly exterior he really cared for her. That he just hadn't realized it yet. Otherwise why would he have asked her to marry him? The money wasn't that important—she would have given it to him anyway, and well he knew it.

  "Of course he didn't!" Lisa said in quiet triumph. "That's because, my dear, he loves me. But you know that—heaven knows we've tried to be discreet about our little affair, but word does get around. Just last night he begged me to ran off with him, to put a stop to this atrocious masquerade. His very words, my dear—'atrocious masquerade.' " Lisa was lying, but how could the girl have known it was merely the prompting of a feverishly jealous mind? She believed every word.

  "He needn't go through with it," Molly muttered sulkily, her unhappiness building. "All he has to do is come and tell me and we'll end it right now."

  "With the guests arriving at the church already?" Lisa raised one beautifully molded eyebrow. "Pat doesn't like fusses made, my dear. If you want I could give you quite a few pointers on what Pat does like in a woman. After all, you are going to be his wife. A few little secrets as to what pleases him sexually should help your rather desperate situation, sweetie." Her smile was like a cat's. "No, he won't back down. It was too much wine and passion last night that made him suggest it. He needs your money too much. Winter's Edge means more to him than any woman." Lisa's voice was laced with bi
tterness, and the bride felt a small stirring of revenge. At least he didn't love her enough either.

  Aunt Ermy was strangely silent through all this, watching the scene with satisfaction in her mean little eyes. She was magnificently overdressed as usual, in a powder blue full-length suit with matching turban and eye shadow. Attached to her noble breast was a cluster of gardenias—the scent overpowered the lighter fragrances in Molly's bouquet and made her slightly ill.

  "Before your wedding night, my dear, I feel I ought to warn you," Lisa continued, her ripe, full mouth a crimson curve against her artificially tanned skin. "He has certain sexual…shall we say, aberrations…that might frighten a young girl if she isn't warned—"

  "Enough!" Molly cried suddenly, angrily. "I'm leaving now." She grabbed her bouquet and headed for the door. "I'm getting married in less than an hour," she told them coolly, taking pleasure in reminding Lisa. "It wouldn't do for the bride to be late."

  "But the limousine hasn't arrived yet," Aunt Ermy protested.

  "I'm driving myself," she answered them with icy calm, recognizing the hatred behind their tender concern. Wondering why she had never seen that hatred before. "You can ride in the limousine."

  "And what will Pat think of this little outburst?" Lisa asked slyly. "You know how he hates things to be changed at the last minute."

  "Pat," she said slowly, "can go to hell."

  The wind blew her hair wildly as she sped toward the church, driving twenty and thirty miles above the speed limit. She had taken off the veil and stuffed it behind the seat with her bouquet. She very carefully didn't cry—it had taken her over half an hour to apply her makeup and she didn't propose to ruin it on his account. "Bastard," she said out loud, savoring the sound of the word. "Bastard, bastard, bastard!" she shouted to the blue, blue skies. So he had spent the eve of their wedding with another woman, had he? And what right had she to complain? He had made her no promises, not even a word of affection when he had made his startling proposal. And she had jumped at it, because for seven long years he had been the only thing in her life that had mattered. Even if things had been strained between them since Jared had died and the terms of the will made public, she'd hoped, she'd prayed, that at least his tolerant affection for her remained. And that her love for him would be enough to support her.

  "Not anymore," she said grimly, speeding over the rutted macadam roads. "Not anymore."

  Her wedding passed in a daze. Lisa Canning stood beside her, her gleaming eyes carefully lowered, only the small smile that hovered around her full lips hinting at the pleasure she found in the uncomfortable situation.

  Aunt Ermy cried, and kissed her cold face. "Molly, dear, you make such a lovely bride. Who would have thought you'd have the dignity to carry it off? Try to smile, dear." A sharp pinch accompanied the admonition, and she could barely restrain a little outcry. Aunt Ermy was fond of delivering painful little pinches for improper behavior.

  And so she was very gay. The reception was one lavish feast, with the bride dancing and flirting and smiling and laughing and kissing everyone there. Except her husband. With her husband she was even shriller, even gayer, desperate to hide the mortal blow Lisa had given her. His dark blue eyes followed her, doubt turning into a slow rage that built as the hours went on, until, when it was time to leave, he snapped at his child bride.

  She shouted something obscene and very nasty back to him and fled the hall. Then she drove away, back to Winter's Edge in her bright red sports car, leaving her husband fuming with rage. A perfect setup for Lisa Canning.

  That night seemed endless. She sat in her huge, soft bed with the pink satin sheets and waited for him, dressed so carefully in her bridal nightgown of sheer gauze. It made her itch. And she rehearsed the things she'd say to him. How she'd apologize for making a fool of him in front of all those people. How they would lie there and talk about their marriage, and come to some sort of understanding of what they meant to each other. Things they should have talked about before the wedding, but she had been frightened of scaring him off.

  The hours passed, and he didn't come. Then she planned the things she'd say to him, demanding where he'd been, why he'd left her for so long. And then they would forgive each other and make love in this soft, too elegant bed that Lisa had picked for them, and everything would be fine.

  And when morning finally came, and Patrick hadn't bothered to come to his foolishly virginal bride, a core of anger grew and hardened in her, fed with the hurt of his rejection and the humiliation of having been left on her wedding night. She had saved herself for him, because no other man would ever do for her; she had waited for Patrick to want her. But he hadn't wanted her.

  From that night on she locked her door against him. A locked door he had barely seemed to notice, much less mind. The warmth and friendliness that had existed between them before their marriage was gone and in its place was a hurtful, implacable hatred. That was very close to love.

  Until the night when it had all become too much for her. She was a stranger in her own house—it seemed that Patrick found her presence an annoyance, and the others considered her a selfish little slut. All except one of them, who was her friend.

  The dream then became fraught with danger, and Molly stirred in the armchair, trying to wake up. She didn't like this. She didn't want to remember, to relive what happened next. But the dream moved on.

  That friend had been the only one she could confide in. But he was shadowy and unclear; even his voice seemed to come from far away, telling her to leave Patrick, to run away where no one could ever find her. If she went with her father, taking her money, he would see to it that Patrick would never use her again.

  She tried to see him clearly through the mists, but he remained maddeningly out of reach…until that night when old Fred Canning finally succumbed to his cancer, and her friend told her that Patrick was going to divorce her.

  She went out with him to the far barn, where Patrick kept his breeding stock, and watched with numb, drugged horror as he set fire to the place after striking poor old Ben and leaving him in a pool of blood.

  "What are you doing?" she screamed at him. "You said you were going to help me leave here!"

  "You are leaving here, Molly dear. You're leaving here for good, in that fire." He started dragging her screaming, kicking body toward that inferno, the heat scorching their faces, and whatever he had put in her drink earlier made her unable to stop him.

  And then, before he could shove her struggling, helpless body down into the funeral pyre, they heard shouts from nearby, and the slow scream of the fire engine. He cursed, and loosened his hold for a moment, and she pulled away and ran, blindly, hysterically, through the woods that no one knew as well as she did, back to the deserted house. She grabbed a handful of clothes, took all the spare money Patrick kept in the petty cash box, climbed into her car, and drove all night long, her terror fighting the effects of the sleeping pill he'd given her. When she reached New York state she checked into a rundown motel and slept for eighteen hours.

  He was there in the room. If she opened her eyes the shadows would pass away and she would see the man who wanted to kill her quite clearly. But then, she thought craftily, if she kept her eyes closed he might disappear and she would be safe. All in all, it was a problem, but with her newfound courage she slowly opened her downcast blue-green eyes and stared at the crumpled handkerchief in her hand. With its streaks of orange hair dye. She raised her eyes.

  "Hello, Uncle Willy."

  Chapter Eighteen

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  "You don't seem very surprised to see me," he said, and Molly stirred in the chair, determined not to show for a minute the absolute terror he instilled in her. She remembered everything now, and she desperately wished she didn't.

  "Oh, Molly." He moved forward into the room, and once again she was aware of the lingering cruelty in his soft pink face, the cruelty she'd refused to recognize in the past week of blessed forgetfulness. "I've told you before you never we
re much of an actress. You've remembered."

  "Yes." Her voice came out in a rusty croak, and she cleared it hastily.

  Beastie snored loudly beside her, and she tugged silently at his collar. "It won't do you any good, my dear," Willy said smoothly, running a slightly trembling hand over his carroty strands of hair. "He's drugged. I decided I didn't want him interfering with my plans tonight—he's too fond of you, you know."

  "And what exactly are your plans for tonight?" She sounded almost unnaturally calm. She'd been through too much in the last few days, the last few weeks. All she could do was pull this false serenity around her, watching him while she thought feverishly of escape.

  "Now, now, Molly, I'm sure you can imagine." He seated himself in the chair opposite her and crossed his legs, at home and urbane. "I'm going to have to kill you." He sighed. "I suppose I should tell you that it grieves me, but quite frankly, it doesn't bother me in the slightest. You've been an annoying little pain in the rear ever since Jared brought you home, and your indestructibility is absolutely infuriating."

  "Why do you want to kill me?"

  "For the oldest reason in the world, my dear. Money. You have lots of it, I want it. It's really quite simple." For once the man was quite sober, and the effect had a horrifying charm to it.

  "My money goes to Patrick if I die." She couldn't keep a note of desperation from her voice. She was strong, but Uncle Willy, despite his alcohol-induced flabbiness, had overpowered her before, the night of the barn fire, and he could doubtless do it again.

  "It does, my dear. But not if he's convicted of murder. And it looks pleasantly as if it will work out that way. I had planned to make it a triple play, as they say in baseball. You, your father and Toby. But I might have to settle on a suicide for you."