Winter's Edge (11 page)

“Are you always so angry?” she asked wearily, leaning her head against his shoulder, too weak and tired to fight.

“With you, yes,” he answered grimly, stalking down the road and iarring her poor, bruised body with every step.

“How did you happen to fall? Didn’t you have enough sense to keep your distance from the edge? Or were you too fascinated by the ruins… ?”

“I didn’t fall. I was pushed.”

The silence that followed was overwhelming, and she half expected him to drop her in the middle of the road. He didn’t, but his expression grew even more grim.

“Still dramatizing, Molly?” he drawled in an unpleasant voice.

“I

would have thougl-. t you’d get tired of being the center of attention all the time. “

“You don’t believe me?” she demanded, fury wiping out the last of her shock and fear.

“Not for a moment. No one else would either, so you might as well save your breath. Why would anyone want to shove you down in the cellar? If they were trying to kill you there are a lot more effective ways.”

She shoved at him, desperate to break his hold on her, but she’d forgotten how strong he was. He simply tightened his grip, almost painfully, as he stalked toward the house, and she gave up her fruitless struggle as a belated, comforting thought hit her. His anger at her story, his disbelief, was honest. If he refused to believe she’d been pushed, then he couldn’t be the one who’d pushed her. The true culprit would have lied to cover for himself, or tried to throw suspicion on

someone else. Her enemy, her nemesis, had to be someone else.

She was almost smiling by the time they reached the house. She sat in the kitchen, watching her husband glower at her, while Mrs. Morse clucked and moaned in distress and Uncle Willy, who was already slightly the worse for alcohol at such an early hour, kept his pale, watery eyes averted from the steadily oozing blood as he tried to make encouraging noises. Dr. Turner arrived, a grumpy, middle-age woman who seemed annoyed at being bothered. She poked at Molly, with even less care than Patrick had evinced, bandaged her up, and pronounced her none the worse for a little shock, all with an audience of interested bystanders.

“But you should be more careful, Mrs. Winters,” she said gravely, snapping her battered case shut.

“All you’ll feel is a little stiffness. It could have been a lot worse. You could have hit your head again, and then we’d have to put you in the hospital for observation. I imagine you’ve had enough of hospitals for the time being.”

“Yes, Dr. Turner,” she murmured in a docile voice, thoughts racing through her head. She could have been killed. And someone had pushed her, she knew it as well as she. Well, she didn’t know anything about herself too well, but she knew that she’d been pushed. Patrick had already made it clear that no one would believe her, and she didn’t bother trying to explain. If no one would listen, why should she waste her breath?

Except that Patrick was watching her with ah odd expression behind the annoyance in those blue, blue eyes. Maybe he believed her after all. Maybe he knew she’d been pushed because he was the one who’d pushed her, and he’d been afraid to finish her off for fear Toby would return and see him.

Dr. Turner was already heading for the door. Molly racked her brain, trying to think of a discreet way to call her back. Finally, Mrs. Morse spoke up.

“Wasn’t there something you wanted to ask Dr.

Turner about, Molly? “

Four pairs of eyes turned to stare at her, with Patrick’s being the most suspicious.

“Well, young lady?” Dr. Turner demanded when Molly didn’t say anything.

“Is this an emergency?”

“Er… no.”

“Then call my office and make an appointment like everyone else. I’ve already been here too long as it is.

Next time, Patrick, you take her to the emergency room. ” ” There isn’t going to be a next time,” Patrick said in a quiet voice.

And Molly wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or terrified.

“I think you’d better spend the rest of the day in bed,” Patrick announced after Dr. Turner had left.

“And from now on you aren’t allowed out unless someone goes with you.”

“But why?” she demanded, then winced in pain. She lowered her voice.

“This was just an accident—it won’t happen again.”

“You go out with someone or you don’t go out at all,” he said in the kind of voice that brooked no arguments.

“And if you disobey me I’ll lock you in.”

“Disobey you?” she echoed in a tight little voice.

“Who the hell do you think you am, my father? You can’t tell me what to do.”

“I doubt even your father told you what to do,” he said sourly, and without another word he stormed out of the house, leaving Molly in a state of stomach-churning rage.

“Well,” said Mrs. Morse after a moment, “who would have thought he’d get so worked up?” She shook her head, but there was an oddly hopeful expression in her eyes.

“Don’t you worry, Molly. I’ll fix you some nice hot soup and ham sandwiches, and some of my chocolate cake. How would you like mat?

She was hungry again. If she had been pregnant in the morning, she obviously still was.

“I’d love it. Will you join me, Uncle Willy?” she asked politely of the silent figure in the corner.

He shook his head in faint disgust, the neat orange strands carefully combeA over that pink and shining skull.

“No, thank you, my dear. I always partake of only the lightest meal when I first wake up.” He rose and wandered out of the kitchen, looking oddly disturbed about something. He hardly seemed sensitive enough to be worried about her well-being, and Molly watched his retreating figure with vague, shapeless suspicions.

“All right, Molly,” Mrs. Morse said, coming to stand in front of her with arms planted on her ample hips.

“What’s going on?”

“What do you mean? I must have tripped…”

“I’m not talking about your fall. Assuming it really was a fall, though it seems to me Patrick’s right about your being more careful. No, I want to know why you wanted to see Dr. Turner in private. And don’t tell me some story about you needing birth control, because I don’t believe it.”

She looked up at her. When it came right down to it, she had to trust someone.

“I think I’m pregnant.”

“Swbet heavens!” Mrs. Morse said.

“Have you told Patrick yet?”

“Not until I’m certain. What if it’s not his?” Mrs. Morse’s face fell.

“I hadn’t thought of that.

You couldn’t be very far along—they would have caught it in the hospital after your accident. “

“And since I haven’t been home in five weeks that would mean that Patrick…”

“Wasn’t the father,” Mrs. Morse finished for her.

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“Not until I have to. Not until I see Dr. Turner and get the proof.

She should know how far along I am. “

“Molly, dearest,” she said in a gentler voice, “there’s no need to be scared of Pat. I don’t know what’s gone on between the two of you, but for all his bluster he’s a caring, decent man.”

“Sure,” Molly said with just a trace of bitterness.

“He cares about Lisa Canning.”

“He cares about you, missy.”

Molly shook her head, unwilling to accept the notion.

“You’re not to say anything until I find out. In the meantime I suppose I need to get an appointment.”

“I’ll call for you,” Mrs. Morse said firmly.

“No one needs to know anything about it—we’ll just tell anyone who asks that you were feeling dizzy after your fall.”

“You don’t suppose that I… did anything to it?” She shook her head, an ancient sorrow shadowing the eyes behind the steel-rimmed glasses.

“You’d feel it if you did bring on a miscarriage, believe me. I had six of them myself, before the doctor told me to stop trying, and there’s no ignoring the symptoms, no matter how early along you are. No, if you’re pregnant then nothing’s happened to it yet.” She rose.

“Should I call her office?”

Molly nodded numbly.

She was lost in thought when Mrs. Morse returned a few minutes later.

“Damned receptionist. You’d think Dr. Turner was the Queen of England and not some small-town family practitioner. She can’t see you till the day after tomorrow, unless it’s an emergency. In the meantime the best thing for you to do is go upstairs and lie down and try not to think about it. Find yourself a good book or something.”

“I’ve read them all,” she said morosely, rising slowly from the hard chair.

“Maybe I’ll explore the house.”

“Whatever for?”

“Because I don’t remember it,” she said simply.

“And I’m not at all tired.”

“Well, you be careful if you go in the attics. There’s a lot of junk stored up there,” she warned.

“I’d come with you but your Aunt Ermy is coming in on the 5:47 train tonight and the Lord knows I’d better have an elegant enough supper to suit her palate. You go on ahead and come down here for some brownies and tea later on if you feel like it.”

“I will,” she promised, setting off.

ANO’rHER MISTAKE. Another botched attempt. All she’d ended up with was a gashed arm. Things were not going according to plan, not in the slightest, and it was getting more than frustrating.

Sooner or later someone was going to start getting suspicious at all her mishaps. It wouldn’t matter if Molly suspected something—her credibility was in the toilet already.

No one would listen to her.

The local police didn’t give a damn. Stroup wanted to get into her pants and nothing more, and Ryker was so far off base there was nothing to worry about. Not yet.

But there couldn’t be any more mistakes. Sooner or later it was going to come back to her. She didn’t remember—there was no longer any doubt of that. Her green-blue eyes were totally guileless; she hadn’t the faintest idea whom she could trust.

But that happy state of affairs wouldn’t last forever. Next time they were going to do it right. Get it right.

Get her dead. And silent.

Molly couldn’t rid herself of the ‘~eeling that she was Alice in Wonderland, or Dorothy in Oz: The house had grown increasingly familiar over the last two days—the beautifully comfortable living room, the formal dining room, the kitchen, the neat and uninspiring little office under the stairs where Patrick did his accounts and hid from his wife.

But upstairs was a different matter. Patrick’s closed door was an enticing Pandora’s box, but even Molly’s courage had limits. She could explore it later, when she was sure he was nowhere around. Perhaps even tonight, while he was out picking up the mysterious Aunt Ermy from the train station.

She needed to see if she could find something to jog her memory. A hint, a clue, some tiny something to jar her stubborn mind. The longer it remained blank the more frustrated she grew.

She wasn’t sure she really w, as in any kind of danger. Even though she’d been involved in a murder, no one had seemed interested in harming her now. So far,

no one had seemed particularly interested in getting within touching distance of her.

But Patrick had touched. Unwillingly, almost as if he couldn’t help himself. And she knew he wanted to touch her again. Almost as much as she wanted him to touch her.

Aunt Ermy’s room was a jumble of clutter. Little ornaments jostled each other for space on her mantelpiece, her cherry wood dressers, her Queen Anne secretary. Every spare inch in the room was filled with an artifact of some sort, from exquisite pieces to the merely shoddy.

Dresden ballerinas danced with plastic penguins, there were plump, overstuffed pillows everywhere, and the room felt claustrophobic. She shut the door behind her, unable to rid herself of the notion that she didn’t have very much in common with Aunt Ermy.

Uncle Willy’s room was exactly the opposite— practically devoid of personal clutter. That was an empty vodka bottle in his wastepaper basket, and the clothes he wore yesterday were neatly folded and placed on a Windsor chair. The atmosphere of the room was stale and tired, rather like Uncle Willy himself, and she left just as quickly.

The attics lay beyond the little turn in the hallway, down two steps and past the linen closet and the guest bathroom. She turned the doorknob, not without a small shiver of apprehension. Since this morning she distrusted being alone. It seemed to her as if there were eyes everywhere, watching her, threatening her. “

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered out loud, stepping into the room and switching on the light.

Mrs. Morse hadn’t exaggerated when she said the attics were filled with junk. Trunks upon trunks upon trunks, ancient newspapers and magazines tied in neat little bundles, old pieces of riding tack, skis, tennis rackets needing restringing, boxes and boxes and boxes. And her furniture.

She recognized it with a swift feeling of relief and love, rather like seeing an old friend, and she moved toward it in a daze, running her hand over the warm glow of the cherry bedstead, the delicate dressing table, the blanket chest that somehow seemed to fit with the various periods of the other pieces. She was going to have it back, she promised herself. As soon as she could have that hideous modern stuff removed and carted off to the dump, she’d have her own beloved pieces back in there.

She went over to the most readily available boxes, hoping that something else might jog her memory. But nothing else tripped that frustrating, mysterious little mechanism in her brain. The prom dress that hung forlornly must have been hers, yet she remembered no magic, breathless moments, no starry-eyed excitement connected with it. It was simply a pretty dress, worn by a girl she didn’t know, and she wondered vaguely where her wedding dress was. And whether it would bring her any greater recognition.

She lost track of time, poking and prying and trying to force some shred of memory. Hours might have passed. She made a mental note of all the furniture she knew belonged in her room, and lost herself in schemes on how best to arrange it. When she finally left the room and switched the light off behind her, the hallway was dark. She could hear a car driving away from the house, and she hurried to look out her bedroom window.