Winter's Edge (19 page)

“Suppose you take me to a nice quiet place where we Can talk, and we’ll get this business over with as quickly and painlessly as possible.”

He didn’t appear to be the kind of man who wished to avoid causing pain, but there weren’t really any options.

She led him to Patrick’s office to begin one of the most harrowing half hours in her life.

Every answer she gave to his sharply barked out questions, every statement she made, was pulled apart and delved into as if she were on the witness stand. He patently believed not one word she said, yet Dr. Turher’s evidence was impossible to refute. Through it all she was conscious of Stroup’s smirking, leering presence, his damp, slightly bloodshot eyes lingering over the leather chair she sat in and the antique desk with the same covetous intensity that he directed at her.

She answered Ryker’s tersely worded questions calmly and rationally, keeping her voice level, and in the end he was forced to concede defeat. He hadn’t been able to make her cry, as he’d all too obviously wanted, and blurt out the truths of all her so-called crimes. She stared across the desk stonily.

“All right, that will be all for now, Mrs. Winters.” He leaned back in Patrick’s chair affably.

“But I suggest you stay close to home for the time being.”

“It seems to me that home is about the most dangerous place for me right now,” she said in a cool voice.

“But I suppose I really have no choice in the matter.”

“No, I suppose you don’t,” he answered.

“Could you ask William Winters to come next please, Stroup?

I don’t think we’ll be bothering Mrs. Winters any more today. “

Thank God for that, she thought as she left the room, brushing unshed tears of anger and humiliation from her eyes. The only consolation in the miserable affair was that Willy and Ermy would have to go through the same thing. Though there was always the chance Ryker would behave toward them with at least a trace of charm.

She saw him before he left, his arms full of little bottles and packages, Stroup’s beefy arms similarly encumbered.

“We’ll be leaving now, Mrs. Winters,” he said coolly, his colorless eyes distant and unfathomable.

“What are all those?”

“Samples, samples. We want to see how the poison is being administered, if, indeed, it is. According to your information and that of your relatives, these are things only you could have eaten and drunk in the past four days. We should come up with some answers pretty soon.”

“And in the meantime… ?”

“In the meantime, I’d be careful, if I were you, Mrs. Winters. Very careful.”

MOLLY WANDERED into the living room and poured herself a glass of ginger ale. If ever she needed a stiff drink now was the time, and she wondered wistfully when her ban on alcohol would be lifted. There was no one in sight—she thought she could hear a heated discussion in the kitchen, and she had no desire to join in.

One of these people was trying to kill her, had tried three times.

Once with the poison, twice with her soCalled accidental falls. She wondered if Ryker found those accidents suspicious. He’d been far too quick to dismiss them—doubtless he thought she imagined them as well.

Dinner that night was an uncomfortable affair. Toby stayed and stayed, far longer than anyone wanted him to, watching out of pale, brooding eyes, and helped polish off the roast chicken and tomato Casserole Mrs. Morse had fixed. Molly had helped with the dinner preparations.

She didn’t for one moment suspect Mrs. Morse. She simply wasn’t taking chances on letting any of the food out of her sight for even one moment. Apparently Lieutenant Ryker hadn’t been any more tactful with Aunt Ermy’s dignity, for she spent the entire evening in a state of towering indignation. Of all

the possible suspects, Molly would have preferred Aunt Ermy to be the guilty one.

Except that the poisoning had begun before Ermy returned home. So had the fall down the cellar hole in the burned-out stable. No, it didn’t seem as if Erinintrude was the villain, even if she was patently unlikable.

It seemed forever before Toby was ready to leave. In desperation Molly walked him to the front door. One of her many mistakes. Before she knew what was happening his arms were tight around her and his hot, whiskey-laden breath was in her ear, urging her to do all sorts of things, including leave the house and spend the night with him. The very thought disgusted her, not from an actual dislike of Toby, but more because of her helpless longing for last night and for Patrick. Who’d made love to her, finally, and then left her.

She pushed Toby away with an unnecessary vehemence.

“Please, Toby,” she said angrily, straightening her clothes.

“Please, Toby,” he mimicked bitterly.

“You used to care about me. You used to say I was your only real friend. Remember when we’d talk about going away together? Leaving here, leaving Patrick and all those others. I don’t know what’s happened to you. I’m only trying to help you. I just don’t think you should be alone here tonight with them.”

“I thought you decided that Patrick was the guilty party,” she said.

“In that case I’m perfectly safe with Aunt Ermy and Willy.”

“There’s no way of knowing who’s to blame,” he said darkly, making a grab at her. She dodged him neatly.

“Listen, Toby, of course you’re my friend. I like you very much,” she said wearily, backing away from him.

“But I’m too tired to play post office in the hall of my husband’s house. I think you should go home and go to bed and try to get over this … infatuation or whatever it is.”

“It isn’t an infatuation. I love you!” he whispered urgently, obviously affronted.

“You promised me…”

“Toby, I don’t remember,” she said, desperation creeping into her voice.

“Whatever I said, whatever I did, whatever I promised. I simply don’t remember it.”

He stared at her, his face shrouded with hurt. Without another word he turned and left, slamming the heavy door shut behind him.

Molly leaned against the door in exhaustion, and if it wasn’t for an odd impulse she would have left it at that. But, for some reason she drew back the little curtain beside the door. Toby was standing by his car, staring up at the house, and there was the oddest expression on his face. A look of strange intensity that was illogically frightening.

And then it was gone, and he climbed into his car. It must have been a trick of the light, Or a figment of her imagination, Molly told herself, moving back from the window.

But she was unable to shake the eerie feeling that danced over her shoulder blades, as she pictured Toby’s face.

THE BITCH WOULD DIE. Not tonight, much as she deserved it. Tomorrow, when there was time to plan.

She’d die in pain, struggling, calling for help. The life would be choked out of her, and no one would come to her rescue. They would find her body the next morning, eyes open and staring. She would be pun And she would accept that punishment, that sentence of death, gratefully.

Molly woke up early the next morning, her stomach calm. Whoever had sprinkled arsenic in her food had obviously thought better of it now that the cat was out of the bag.

Unless, of course, her poisoner was simply gone from the house on unexplained business. The old stone house was silent and still as she tiptoed through the halls, bundled in a warm blue wrapper, her bare feet moving noiselessly on the wooden floors. It was Mrs. Morse’s day off, and it was up to Molly to make the coffee and muffins this morning if she expected to have any. As a matter of fact, it was just as well—at least she was safe from an accidental seasoning of rat poison.

The muffins were just out of the oven, the sun was rising higher in the early morning sky, and she was sitting cross-legged on the counter, wiggling. her toes in the sunshine when he walked in the door.

He clearly hadn’t been expecting to see her so early. He stopped dead, and they stared at each other across the shadowy kitchen with only the dawning light in it. She set down her coffee cup with great care.

“Good morning, Patrick.” Her voice was astoundingly even.

“When did you get home?”

“Just now.” His husky voice sent chills down her spine. He came over to the counter and poured himself a cup of coffee, and his nearness seemed to set off all sorts of reactions inside her, reactions that she wasn’t sure if he was quite immune to. And then he spoke.

“I’ve come to a decision,” he said in a flat, unemotional voice.

“I’m letting you leave here. You can go anywhere you want while we wait for the divorce to be final.

Nevada and Mexico are known for fast divorces-why don’t you take a little vacation and speed things up? “

She stared at him in numb surprise. Then, without thinking, she picked up the cast iron muffin tin and hurled it at his head. He dodged it easily, and it fell with a terrible clanging noise, muffins scattering over the slate floor.

Before she had time to move he had caught her wrist in a tight grasp, the long, strong fingers biting into her flesh. Them was a fury about him, held strongly in check, that matched and overwhelmed her own anger, and she was suddenly afraid. He looked like a man who had reached the end of his endurance.

“There’s been enough of your tantrums around here, Molly,” he said in a low, angry voice. He yanked her down from the counter and she stumbled against him.

“Now go pick that up and put it back where it belongs.”

There was no way she could resist, no way she could defy him. Without a word she did as she was told.

When he finally released her she backed away from him towards the door, ready for a quick escape if need be.

“You enjoy forcing your will on helpless women, don’t you?”

He didn’t even have the grace to look ashamed.

“The day you’re a poor, helpless female will be the day hell freezes over,” he said shortly.

“I’ll get your good friend Toby to drive you to the airport this afternoon.”

‘ “I’m not going.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

“Simply that I’m not going,” she answered with deceptive calm, holding the trump card.

“I doubt I’d be allowed to, anyway. Interesting things have been happening while you were off with Lisa Canning this time.”

He didn’t bother to deny it.

“What interesting things?”

“Oh, not much,” she said with mock calm.

“Someone’s been poisoning me, but apart from that life has been ~oing on as usual.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” There was no play-acting in the shock that paled his tanned face.

Before she could answer him the telephone rang harshly through the quiet house.

“It’s probably for you,” she added offhandedly.

“The police have been trying to reach you since yesterday morning. I think they suspect you.” Actually she didn’t think any such thing; she just wanted to annoy him.

He didn’t give her the satisfaction of a response. Without a backward glance he went into his office,

shutting the door quietly behind him. She would have felt better if he’d slammed it. She stared after him as she contemplated listening in on the extension, then dismissed the idea. For one thing, it was terribly dishonorable, for another, more important reason, she was afraid she’d get caught.

She trudged back to her bedroom and did her own door slamming. When she returned downstairs she felt a bit braver.

She was showered, dressed, armored against the world, against Patrick, against her own vulnerabilities.

Ermy and Willy were still asleep—the twin snores coming from their rooms assured her. Patrick’s office door was still shut tightly, and she went on into the kitchen for another cup of coffee and to work on the Sunday crossword puzzle, determinedly oblivious to the man just out of sight. Forever out of reach.

A half hour passed, then an hour, before Patrick finally removed himself from his inner sanctum and came to stand before her. His belt came to about eye level as she looked up from the table, and it was with great concentration that she kept her eyes above rather than below it.

“Molly,” he said, and his voice was gentler, “I want to talk with you.”

She wasn’t going to like this, she thought suddenly. And once more she felt like running, from Patrick, who’d never loved her, from . From her own, helpless longing.

But running was no longer an option.

“All right,” she said, bracing herself.

He pulled out a chair, apparently at a loss for words. He’s going to say something about that night, she thought in relief. It’s going to he all right. But she was wrong.

“That was Lieutenant Ryker on the phone a while ago. You’re right, there’s no question of your leaving right now.”

She nodded, saying nothing, determined to hide the hurt in her eyes.

“They’ve found out something else, Molly. They found out who the man was. The one in the car with you.”

She stared at him blankly.

“I thought they knew who he was. A small-time crook named George Andrews.”

He winced.

“That was one of his names. I can’t believe it took them so damned long to come up with a real one, but then, he was always good at covering his tracks. He was born Gregory Anderson.” He waited for a response, one she was unable to give.

“Should this mean something to me?” she asked.

“If you want it to then I’m afraid you’ll have to explain the connection.”

“Gregory Anderson was your father.”

She took a deep, shaky breath, shocked.

“Really? I thought you told me he was dead.”

“He is now,” Patrick said sharply.

“Don’t you care at all?”

She stared at him openly.

“I don’t remember him. How many times must I tell you before you get it through your head—I don’t remember. I must have known he was my father. Otherwise why would I have hecn with him? But I don’t remember anything about

it. ” Her voice rose uncontrollably.

“How many times must I say it? I don’t remember, I don’t remember, I don’t remember!” She bit down on her lip to stop the hysteria that threatened to overwhelm her, and she turned away, unable to look at him any longer.