Christmas At Timberwoods (6 page)
Read Christmas At Timberwoods Online
Authors: Fern Michaels
“She could be right. I told you I believed her . . .”
“Easy, take it easy.” Lex saw that Heather was begging him to reassure her, to tell her it was all a drug-induced hallucination, but he couldn’t. “I’m sure Angela didn’t send that bomb threat. I’ll go one step further and say she doesn’t know who did.”
Heather rubbed her temples as she watched Lex’s face.
“Angela seemed to think her mother would be here soon,” he continued. “I say we wait for her. I’ll call Eric Summers and tell him what happened. Okay?”
“Okay. Where do you think Angela went? Shouldn’t we have kept her here?”
“My best guess? She’ll run for a while, but she’ll come back to us eventually. No matter what she says, she can’t walk away from this and forget it. She’s got to try to do something. She hurts too much not to try. Tranquilizers aren’t her answer and she knows it.”
Sylvia Steinhart turned the Lincoln Continental onto the New Jersey Turnpike in a state of controlled fury. The huge car hummed along, as carefully maintained as she was. “Wait till I get my hands on Murray,” she muttered. “Angela doesn’t get this . . . strange behavior from my side of the family. When I get my hands on her I’m literally going to choke the life from her!”
Irma had tried to tell her that the pipes had broken, but Sylvia knew better. It wasn’t cold enough for pipes to break, and even if it were, the pipes were heavily insulated.
The damage was done, and it had to be extensive. Angela’s temper tantrums were out of control. God knows, Sylvia had done everything she could to give her daughter a proper upbringing, certainly more than her own mother had provided and more than most of her friends gave their children. She’d done all the required things, hired all the right caregivers, but it hadn’t been enough. Nothing was ever enough for Angela. She needed more—much more.
The first psychiatrist Sylvia had sought out had suggested family counseling; three sessions a week to start. Sylvia had nipped that idea in the bud right away. Who had time to just sit around and talk? Murray certainly didn’t. He had a business to run. And she certainly didn’t. Stupid shrink. He must have got his license to practice from a mail-order magazine.
Sylvia had been more careful in selecting the second psychiatrist, making sure he was more on her wavelength before taking Angela in to see him. He had suggested that Angela was simply seeking attention and had reassured Sylvia that Angela’s problems had nothing to do with her upbringing.
There had been other psychiatrists after that, all of them carefully briefed by Sylvia prior to meeting Angela, and all of them coming to the same conclusion. They recommended a variety of ways to deal with her daughter, everything from giving her their total attention, 24/7, to ignoring her completely. But nothing had worked. Angela got worse instead of better. No telling what she would do next!
“Damn,” Sylvia said through tight lips as she narrowly missed sideswiping a tractor trailer. “This has gone on long enough.” Her anger was building. “I won’t stand for any more. Not another thing. If Murray had let me get her help when I wanted to, this wouldn’t be happening now. It was for her own good, but oh no, he couldn’t see it. If I’d done what I intended, I wouldn’t be getting these migraine headaches.” She continued her muttered tirade against her absent husband and daughter until she came to her exit.
She would never make it back to the city now for her dinner engagement with the Mosses. She had waited so long for the invitation, and now—it was spoiled by Angela, who managed to spoil everything. The girl needed a strong hand, someone to put a stop to her mischief. And while they were at it, they might see to her scruffy appearance, too. Sylvia would pay extra if she had to.
The sleek Lincoln purred to a stop outside the house, and Sylvia noted the line of cars and trucks. She suppressed a moan as she slid from the car.
She threw open the door and stood outlined in the doorway. She bit into her full lower lip as her eyes swept around the brightly lit foyer, taking in the sodden powder-blue carpet. The water was already seeping into her doeskin shoes.
Another claim for the insurance man. All this beautiful carpet would be impossible to replace. And the wooden floors underneath the thick carpeting—were they ruined, too? Probably. All it needed now was for the ceilings to collapse. When Angela did wrong she made a thorough job of it.
Sylvia’s face brightened momentarily. She couldn’t be expected to stay here. She would, oh, take a cruise or something. Let the insurance company take care of the repairs. If she complained long enough and loud enough, they would cave in to her demands. Or Murray could handle it. It was all his fault anyway. She would call him in London, tell him the situation, and make him come home and take charge. He’d damn well better listen!
“Mrs. Steinhart, there’s a lady and gentleman waiting to see you in the study. They came to visit Miss Angela, but she went out and left them sitting here.” Irma sounded agitated. She gestured toward the carpet. “I was out shopping when the pipes broke, and when I got back everything was flooded. I didn’t know what to do.”
“You did the right thing in calling me, Irma,” Sylvia said, trying to comfort her frazzled housekeeper, even though she felt she was the one who needed comforting. After all, it was her house that was ruined and her daughter who had ruined it.
“The insurance man you called is upstairs, along with a man from some cleaning crew. He’s drawing up an estimate of how much it will cost to clean the house. The plumber was here, too, but just left. The electrician is checking the wiring. He says there are several shorts and there could be a fire.”
“Does he mean we can’t stay here?”
“That’s what he said. Mrs. Steinhart, I hate to do this, but I have to give my notice.”
Sylvia nodded wearily. Another problem to deal with, thanks to Angela. “I understand. But if you would consider changing your mind, I’ll give you a raise and put you up at a motel until things are straightened out. I’ll pay your wages for as long as it takes. Please reconsider, Irma. You know how hopeless I am in the housekeeping department.”
“I just don’t know, Mrs. Steinhart. Let me think about it. Shall I tell the lady and gentleman that you’ll see them?”
“Tell them I don’t have time. If there’s one thing I don’t need right now, it’s a conversation with perfect strangers about Angela. Oh, and by the way, Irma, you don’t need to cover for her. I know she’s the one responsible for this mess.”
The housekeeper twisted her apron between her hands. “Please, Mrs. Steinhart, that’s one of the reasons I want to leave. Now, don’t get me wrong, Angela has always been respectful to me and even offered to help at times. I just feel that she needs—”
“You won’t have to worry about Angela much longer,” Sylvia interrupted. “I’m calling her father in a few minutes, and he’ll be home tomorrow. I’ve made the decision to have her institutionalized. It’s for her own good.”
The old housekeeper nodded dourly. Angela wasn’t the one who should be in an institution, she thought uncharitably. “I’ll tell these people you were delayed, then. And that I don’t know when you’ll be back.”
Sylvia nodded absently as she rehearsed her speech to her husband. Her doeskin shoes made squishing sounds as she waded across the waterlogged carpeting to the front room. Fixing herself a double scotch on the rocks, she downed it neatly in two rapid gulps before placing her call to London.
With a long arm she reached back, grasped the bottle, and poured herself another drink. She hated people who drank to excess, and a woman who couldn’t hold her liquor was worse. However, there was an exception to every rule.
Her call connected, and an officious assistant of some kind answered. To her fury, he refused to get Murray out of a meeting to talk to her. Sylvia improvised, threatening to pull strings and have the assistant fired.
“Or sacked, as you Brits say,” she added fiercely.
He relented and put her on hold. She fidgeted, wondering how much this was costing her. The man came back. His smooth British accent and bland politeness irritated the hell out of her.
“Yes, I’m still here. Then interrupt him! This is an emergency! What do you mean, he can’t be disturbed? If you don’t do what I say, I’m calling the nearest police station and—yes, I do mean that. Now, hurry, this is an emergency! Very well, call me back. Yes, yes, I understand. Fifteen minutes.”
Irma opened the door of the study. She was surprised to see the gentleman listening on the phone. But maybe Mrs. Steinhart deserved to be spied on. Irma had had enough. She hated lying, and it seemed that was all she’d done since coming to work for the Steinharts. First for Angela and now for Mrs. Steinhart. In Angela’s defense, the girl had never asked her to lie for her; Irma had taken it upon herself to shield her whenever she could.
“Sir,” she said coolly, “Mrs. Steinhart has been delayed and won’t be home for some time. Perhaps if you call tomorrow . . .”
Lex swiveled to face the housekeeper. “Delayed? I just heard her identify herself to someone in London on the landline for this house. Tell her we have to speak with her. It concerns Angela and it’s extremely important. I can’t tell you how important. Where is she?” he asked briskly.
No more lies, Irma thought. She’d told her last untruth for the Steinharts. This Mr. Lassiter had said it was about Angela, so maybe he was here to help the girl. God knows, somebody needed to help her because her parents never would.
“The front room, two doors down the hall,” she said, pointing the way. “I don’t care if you tell her I told you or not. It’s time someone did something for that poor girl.”
“There’s no need for me to mention it at all,” said Lex. “I heard her myself. After all, we want to help Angela. Surely she’ll take the time to talk with us. She is her mother.”
“I wouldn’t count on anything,” the housekeeper muttered as she turned on her heel and marched from the room. “If there’s one thing that lady isn’t interested in, it’s her daughter.”
“Come on, Heather.” Lex was already halfway out of the room. “We’ll have to talk fast to cover a lot of territory in the fifteen minutes until her husband calls back.”
Lex rapped smartly on the door, opening it at the same time. The tall, willowy woman in the room downed her drink and thumped the glass on the shiny surface of the desk.
“Felex Lassiter.” He introduced himself. “And this is Heather Andrews. We’re from the Timberwoods Mall and we want to talk to you about Angela. I had to contact my office and I didn’t have my cell phone on me. I overheard you on the landline. I apologize.” He grinned at her.
“Mr. Lassiter, is it? I really don’t have the time to speak with you right now. I’m expecting an international call any second.” Sylvia’s tone was frigid.
“That’s why we need to speak with you immediately. After we’ve finished, you can discuss the issue with your husband.”
“What has my daughter done now?” Sylvia asked in a bored voice. “Whatever it is, can’t you just send me the bill? I’ll have my husband take care of it immediately, I assure you. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”
“Mrs. Steinhart, your daughter hasn’t done anything that would cost you money. But yesterday she came to the mall offices—she seemed very distraught—and spoke with Ms. Andrews here. She wasn’t that clear, but we finally got the whole story just a little while ago. She said she’d had a vision that the Timberwoods Shopping Mall was going to explode and collapse during the height of the Christmas season. Now do you see why we need to talk with you?”
Sylvia Steinhart paled and grasped the edge of the desk. Heather noted her white, clenched knuckles and the too-dark blush standing out sharply on her high cheekbones.
She’s afraid,
she thought.
No, she’s petrified. She knows it’s true.
She’s afraid,
she thought.
No, she’s petrified. She knows it’s true.
Controlling herself with an effort, Sylvia wet her lips before speaking. “And . . . you . . . you believe her? Listen, you two, Angela has been doing this for years. She’ll go to any lengths to get attention. She and I had a slight argu—I mean, discussion yesterday, and this is Angela’s way of getting back at me. It doesn’t mean a thing. Really, it doesn’t.” Her eyes were bright and staring.
Heather Andrews spoke up. “Your daughter opened up to me, Mrs. Steinhart. She told me she’s been having these visions for quite a while. But this one seems to be extremely detailed.”
“I believe her, Mrs. Steinhart,” Felex added. “And Miss Andrews believes her, too. Look, it was obvious that Angela was upset and wanted help. Someone to listen to her. Even if it is a bid for attention, as she says you seem to think, we have to check it out. You must understand our position. Do you have any idea how many people shop in the mall during Christmas week? Angela said it would be a series of explosions. She described things no one could possibly know.”
“Of course. She had a temporary job with you,” Sylvia said, adding in a contemptuous voice, “She designed those skating mice and some other things, didn’t she? I haven’t seen them. I don’t have time.”
“Yes, she did freelance for us,” Heather said, struggling for patience.
“Angela . . . has . . . this gift of a fertile imagination,” Sylvia said, waving a hand in dismissal. “She can make people believe what she says she saw by describing it so vividly. She has these . . . these nervous fits. In my opinion, they don’t mean anything. You must not take her seriously. That’s what she wants, to make people jump to her command.”
Other books
9 Hell on Wheels by Sue Ann Jaffarian
The Killings of Stanley Ketchel by James Carlos Blake
The Sum of Her Parts by Alan Dean Foster
At the Billionaire's Pleasure Christmas Stocking by Millie Morgan
Sweeping Up Glass by Carolyn Wall
Tuesday Night Miracles by Kris Radish
Raney & Levine by J. A. Schneider
FoM02 Trammel by Anah Crow, Dianne Fox
Night Moves by Desiree Holt
The Summing Up by W. Somerset Maugham
