Carol Higgins Clark Boxed Set - Volume 1: This eBook collection contains Zapped, Cursed, and Wrecked. (4 page)

BOOK: Carol Higgins Clark Boxed Set - Volume 1: This eBook collection contains Zapped, Cursed, and Wrecked.
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6

C
onrad Spreckles was relaxing in the tastefully appointed den of his Greenwich home, suffering no discomfort from the blackout that had affected so many people in the tristate area and beyond. He was cooled not only by the power of his own private generator, but also the vodka on ice that he held in his hands.

He felt great satisfaction at having broken the news to Lorraine that the loft was sold. Taking a gentle sip of his drink, he relished the thought of her displeasure. He wished he could have told her in person and seen the look on her face, but he had no choice—it would have been embarrassing if she’d gone to the loft tonight and tried to get in. The Reillys didn’t need to know about their personal problems. At the closing they’d asked him about Lorraine. He’d informed them that she was in England acting in a play. He could tell they found the situation a little curious, but they were polite and didn’t probe. If only his first ex-wife would behave with such grace.

Penny was reveling in his misery. They had been married for twenty-five years when he met Lorraine. When Conrad told Penny he wanted a divorce, he’d insisted it didn’t have to do with anyone else. But it eventually came out that indeed he had met and courted Lorraine when he was still married. Penny and his twenty-year-old daughter, Alexis, his little princess, would never forgive him. He knew that he had made the mistake of the century. So did everyone in Darien where Penny still lived. Soon everyone in Greenwich would realize, too.

He’d been made a fool of. The young, sexy actress had only been after him for his money. The money the Spreckles family had made after years of selling quality chocolates around the world. His grandparents had started the business at the stove of their tiny apartment in the Bronx. His father had built up the company, and Conrad and his brother had taken it global. The Spreckles name was synonymous with gourmet chocolates no one in the universe could resist.

Conrad took another sip of his drink and stared at the television. The station he was watching was covering the blackout. He expected Lorraine to come through the door at any minute. What else could she do? New York City was in chaos. When he saw her face on the screen, he jumped out of his chair and ran closer to his sixty-inch flat-screen TV. There she was in high definition, looking as beautiful as ever.

“I was just in a play—” she cooed.

“That little—” he spat. She was checking in to that exorbitantly expensive hotel! With his money! She didn’t look like a woman whose husband had just told her he had filed for divorce. Conrad grabbed the vodka bottle and refilled his glass.

I’m going to get my revenge! he thought. She is going to be sorry. I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I have to figure out something.

The phone rang. The second he picked it up he realized he’d made a mistake. Penny, sitting in her generator-cooled house, was on the line.

“Hello, dear,” she said sweetly. “If you’re not watching, you must turn on the news…”

7

A
t the wheel of her Lexus, Regan drove carefully through the darkened streets of Manhattan. Heading uptown on Tenth Avenue, she was half listening to the radio reports on the blackout. Her mind kept going back to what had just happened at the apartment. To think that someone had been in there when she arrived. Someone with a stun gun. I was lucky, she thought. Really lucky.

Who could it have been? Regan wondered as she drove. Could it have been someone from the construction crew? She didn’t think so but she did find one of the guys a bit surly and unfriendly. That doesn’t make him a criminal, she reminded herself. Well, whoever it was must have been thrilled that the blackout struck and they could make their escape without being seen and possibly identified. They won’t be nearly as thrilled when they realize they dropped their weapon.

Jack had taken the stun gun with him to have it tested for prints and see if they could trace the owner.

Regan sighed. Her mother had been concerned that she was moving into a nondoorman building. “I’m not worried about when you’re with Jack…It’s just when you go up to the apartment alone.”

As if on cue, Regan’s cell phone, which she’d programmed into the car radio, started to ring. Nora Regan Reilly, best-selling suspense writer, and Regan’s father, Luke, owner of three funeral homes in New Jersey, were in Los Angeles to meet with a producer about a television deal for several of Nora’s books. Regan pushed the
OK
button and answered. Her mother’s voice came through the car’s speakers.

“Regan, we just got out of a screening and heard about the blackout. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Regan answered.

“Are you sure? Where are you?”

“I’m in the car on my way to pick up Kit. She’s still on crutches, and walking up to her thirty-eighth-floor hotel room isn’t an option.”

“You’re driving around? Be careful. The traffic lights must be out!”

Regan smiled. “That they are.” This is definitely not the time to tell her about the break-in, Regan thought. There’s no use worrying her even more. “I’m going to pick up Kit and head back home. Who’d have guessed that all those candlesticks we received as wedding presents would come in so handy this soon?”

“Be careful of setting the place on fire.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Where’s Jack?”

“He’ll be working all night tonight. Someone already broke into an art gallery in SoHo.”

“Oh dear, there wasn’t too much crime or looting during the last blackout in New York,” Nora said.

“That struck in the afternoon. People had time to take measures to guard their businesses before it got dark. When it happens at night and everything gets thrown into darkness so fast, people who ordinarily wouldn’t steal can act impulsively….” What am I saying this to my mother for, Regan wondered. “But on the radio they’re saying that things are pretty peaceful so far. It’s well past rush hour, so most of the commuters have already left the city.”

“Get home as soon as you can and lock the doors.”

“I will. Say hi to Dad. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

At Fifty-fourth Street, Regan turned right. Her headlights shone onto a block party in full swing. Music was blaring, people were dancing in the street, and flames were lapping from barbecue grills that had been carted out onto the sidewalk. Regan inched her way forward, on the lookout for the address Kit had given her. She knew it was on the right hand side of the street. Glancing around, Regan thought it could have been New Year’s Eve. All the stoops were overflowing with revelers. Everyone on this block must have invited their friends over. Finally she double-parked the car and got out.

“Regan!” Kit called through the crowd, crutching her way toward the car. A young guy was clearing the path for her.

Regan hurried over to open the passenger door. She hugged Kit, who she could tell was tense. Her foot must really be hurting, Regan thought.

“Regan, this is Billy,” Kit said brusquely. “He’s coming with us.”

“Sure,” Regan answered, as she shook Billy’s hand, hoping he wasn’t some nutcase. But he looked and seemed like a sweet guy.

While Kit maneuvered herself into the front seat, Billy got in the back, and Regan threw the crutches in the trunk.

When they were all in the car, Regan joked, “This party looks like fun. Are you sure you want to leave? Those hot dogs smell good.”

Kit put her hand on Regan’s arm. “Regan—” she began, then paused.

“Kit, what’s wrong? Do you feel all right?”

“I just got a phone call from someone at the conference who’s over at the hotel and knew I went to a comedy club with that girl—”

“The one who left you there.”

Kit nodded. “Georgina Mathieson is her name. A good friend of hers was arrested today for shoplifting. She and Georgina went on quite a spree in Atlanta on Saturday. Someone wrote down part of this other girl’s license plate number. They have the two of them on security tapes, stuffing clothing into their bags. The police caught up with Georgina’s friend Paulette a few hours ago.”

“Georgina’s a shoplifter?” Regan asked. “Maybe she’s headed down to my apartment.”

“What?”

“Someone broke in tonight. I walked in on them and they got away.”

“That’s terrible!” Kit said. “But, Regan, this is worse!”

Regan was about to make a flippant remark, but Kit looked so worried, she stopped herself. “Tell me.”

“This Paulette is cooperating with the police. She told them that Georgina picks up blond guys in comedy clubs, drugs them with knockout drops, then lures them to her car and drives to an isolated place where she burns their arm with a brand that says
I AM A SNAKE
and leaves them there. Just like she left me tonight! After spending a few minutes with her, I could tell she was odd, but not this crazy. Regan, the hostess at the comedy club said earlier that she’d seen Georgina smoking out on the sidewalk, then getting into a cab with a guy who bummed a cigarette from her. A guy who’s blond! He doesn’t know what he’s in for!”

“Comedy clubs!” Billy practically squeaked from the back seat. “My parents never wanted me to be a comedian. Wait until they hear this! For once I’m glad I don’t have blond hair.”

“Kit, I wonder why she invited you to go out with her then.”

“She’d been trying to get a group together. She doesn’t have a car so maybe she didn’t plan on attacking anyone tonight. But the opportunity arose and she couldn’t resist.”

“Is that hostess still at the club?” Regan asked.

“Yes,” Billy answered. “I called. She said she’d wait there if you want to go over and talk to her.”

“Of course I do,” Regan said.

Outside the car, the music on the street was playing louder than ever. People were joyously joining in song. “I want to rock and roll all night…”

“This guy is going to be scarred for life if someone doesn’t find them,” Kit moaned. “Maybe even worse. If I hadn’t agreed to go out with her tonight, she might not have met him…”

“It’s not your fault, Kit,” Regan said. “We’ll do everything we can to find them. I’ll call Jack and he’ll get the word out. Of course, this isn’t the best night to be trying to locate—”

“An assaultive wacko.”

Regan turned the key in the ignition, pressed in Jack’s number on her cell phone, and slowly steered the car through the throng of partyers. All thoughts of the attempted burglary at her apartment had disappeared.

“Kit, reach in my purse and get out my notebook,” Regan instructed as Jack’s cell phone began to ring. “Start writing down everything you remember about Georgina. Everything she said, everything she did. What she had to drink before she disappeared—”

“It was a margarita,” Kit said as she opened Regan’s purse, “with extra salt. She downed it in about two gulps.”

Jack’s voice came through the car speakers. From his caller ID he knew it was Regan calling him. “Regan, are you all right?” he asked anxiously.

“I’m fine. I’m with Kit.”

“Can I call you back? We’re in the middle of—”

“No, Jack,” Regan answered. “I’m quite sure you’ll want to hear this right away…”

8

“T
his isn’t a bad place to sit out the blackout,” Clay Nardellini pronounced as, chewing on a toothpick, he strolled into Lorraine’s suite. “You’re staying cool up here in grand style while the rest of the city is fanning themselves with rolled up newspapers. The Candy Man must be selling lots of chocolates.”

Lorraine rolled her eyes. “I needed a place to stay. Conrad sold the loft to our next-door neighbors while I was in England.”

Clay’s brown eyes widened. In his late twenties, he was five foot ten, with brown hair, olive skin, and a slightly stocky build. He was attractive but had a tough street quality, which meant that he was almost always cast to play a criminal. It was a source of frustration that he’d shared with his acting class. With the support of his teacher, Wendall, and his fellow students, he was working hard to develop his sensitive side. He was also taking speech lessons in an effort to sound more refined and dance classes to put some elegance in his swagger. His burning desire was to play a romantic lead opposite a hot young actress. “He sold it? You loved that place.”

Lorraine shrugged. “You want a drink?”

“I’ll take a beer.”

Lorraine poured herself a glass of white wine from the open bottle on the table, then grabbed a bottle of beer out of the mini-bar. She walked over to the long, white overstuffed couch that faced Central Park. The whole suite was decorated in white, including the carpeting, walls, furniture, and knickknacks. The hotel’s decorator was obviously a proponent of white’s purity, which undoubtedly would end up driving the cleaning staff crazy. Lorraine handed Clay his drink, and they both sat.

Clay gratefully sipped the cold brew. “That tastes good. So Lorraine, to what do I owe this honor? You just got off a plane from England and you call me? Where’s the Candy Man?”

Lorraine sat back, propping up a fluffy pillow behind her. “He filed for divorce.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Clay said tenderly, always at work on that sensitive streak.

“That’s not my problem.”

“It’s not?”

“No.” Lorraine curled her manicured toes around the plush, white carpeting. “Remember how Wendall told us that if we had a problem with someone we should write them a letter and tell them exactly how we feel?”

“Of course. Get everything off your chest in the letter but never mail it. It’s great therapy and a lot cheaper than paying a shrink.”

Lorraine nodded. “I guess I really wanted to heal myself because I wrote letters to almost everyone in my life. Personal and professional. But then I carried it even further. Not only did I write to every casting director, producer, and director who hadn’t hired me but I wrote nasty letters to everyone in the business, even people I hadn’t met yet. I didn’t mean what I wrote—some of the letters are pretty vicious—but I thought the whole exercise would make me feel more confident.”

“Whoa!” Clay exclaimed. He shook his head in disbelief, then looked at her questioningly. “When did you have time to write all these letters? Oh wait, I forgot, you don’t have to work to pay the rent.” He paused. “Did you write one to me?”

“Do you think I’d be telling you this if I did?”

“I guess not. Why are you telling me now?”

Lorraine swallowed hard. “I had a safe installed in the loft that Conrad didn’t know about. It’s hidden behind a cabinet in the front closet. Those letters are in the safe. If someone finds them, I’m dead. My career is over.”

“That’s for sure,” Clay said quickly. “People in our business hold grudges.”

Lorraine winced.

Clay leaned forward. “Don’t you think your neighbors will give the letters back? If they even find them?”

“They might mail them! I went so far as to address the envelopes and put stamps on them. And if they did give them back, they’d give them to Conrad. He was the sole owner of the loft.”

“You were really committed to this project, weren’t you?”

“Wendall always told us to be committed to achieving our dream. So I was! But if Conrad gets his hands on those letters he’ll read them, then run straight to the post office to mail them himself! I know he will.”

“Is there a letter to him?”

Lorraine nodded. “It’s ten pages long.” She sighed and tightened her grip on her wine glass. “I handwrote every single letter in my beautiful penmanship. So I can’t deny I wrote them. I have to get the letters back and I need your help.”

“My help? I’m sick of playing criminals and now you’re asking me to be one in real life. What was that commercial? ‘I’m not a doctor but I play one on TV.’ Well, I’m not a criminal even though I play one much too often!”

“This would be so easy for you. You work as a handyman on the side. You could figure out a way to get in the loft. I’m not asking you to steal anything that isn’t mine. Those letters belong to me!”

“Is there any cash in the safe?”

“Yes, and it’s all yours! I put some away here and there because Conrad could be so stingy. Somewhere between twenty and thirty thousand dollars. I’m not exactly sure how much.”

Clay’s jaw dropped. “You’re not sure if it’s twenty or thirty thousand dollars?”

“No, I’m not. If you do this for me, the money is all yours. Please, Clay, my whole career is at stake. I’m on my way to being famous—the British critics said so—and those letters would end it all.”

“I could go on a game show and win at least twenty thousand dollars,” Clay protested. “And I wouldn’t be risking jail time.”

“But you haven’t, have you?” Lorraine asked. “Besides, most of them are taped in Los Angeles.” On the coffee table, Lorraine’s cell phone began to ring. Quickly she answered. It was Edwin, the producer of the play in England.

“Darling Lorraine, I couldn’t sleep and turned on the telly. I understand it’s a bit dark over there now. My goodness!”

“Yes, Edwin,” Lorraine cooed. “We’re coping as best as we can. Oh, how I already miss doing the play. It’s as if I have a big hole in my heart. I feel such a sense of loss. I miss being with you and the cast—”

“You too, darling,” Edwin interrupted. “Now listen, I was going to call you tomorrow anyway. My friend Charles, the director from Hollywood who came to the play on closing night, really found you to be a delightful actress—”

Lorraine’s heart sank. Charles Dryden was a well-known, well-respected director. The letter she’d written to him had been particularly brutal. In it she’d said his films were unwatchable and she wouldn’t be caught dead appearing in one.

“—he just signed on to direct a big important picture and he has a lovely role in it for you. I want you to call him in the morning…”

When Lorraine hung up the phone, she was on the verge of hysteria. “Clay, there is also valuable jewelry in the safe. You can have it all. I just want the letters. Please!”

Clay, knowing full well that the money he’d make in one night was a lot more than he’d make in a year of poking around people’s apartments fixing their clogged sinks, placed his beer down on the table and paused. “All right, Lorraine, I’ll do it. I wouldn’t want to deprive the world of your talents.”

Lorraine threw her arms around him. “Wendall said we worked well together. I know we can do it again!”

“This is reality, Lorraine,” Clay said solemnly, “not a scene from class. If it doesn’t work out we’ll both end up behind bars at Riker’s Island. And I do mean both of us. You’re coming up with me to the apartment.”

“Of course,” Lorraine said. “We’re in this together.” Nervously she picked up her drink. No use telling him who owns the apartment, she thought. If he found out it was the head of the Major Case Squad, he’d never do it. No matter how much money was involved.

BOOK: Carol Higgins Clark Boxed Set - Volume 1: This eBook collection contains Zapped, Cursed, and Wrecked.
13.28Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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