Claire and Present Danger (21 page)

That was probably the method she’d used so effectively several times already. Maybe with guys, she threw in more eye-batting and perhaps even a tear.

She read my face—or, at least, my lack of response—and her expression melted down into resignation. Despair. “I’m afraid you heard something damaging to me,” she said, her voice soft and tremulous. “I’m afraid that since Mrs. Fairchild died so unexpectedly—”

“When a person’s killed, it’s generally unexpected.” It was mean to say that, to watch fear return to her face, but I hated what she was trying to do with me.

“And I’m so afraid! What will the police think when they know she suspected me of . . . I don’t even know what. But that she was investigating me—and then this happens.” She blinked fast, as if holding back tears, and shook her head briskly, telling her own self not to cry. “The worst part is—I don’t know why this keeps happening. Why don’t people like me? Why do they think such awful things?”

I had no answer. Or, more accurately, I thought the answer was lodged in a cliché somewhere—where there’s smoke, et cetera.

When she was always the last person standing—and when so many had fallen—one had to worry. But even I, Amanda Cruella, wouldn’t 161

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say that out loud. She looked so fragile now, and even though I knew it was a practiced pose, part of her repertoire of endearing stances, I was sure a harsh word could shatter her.

“What should I do?” she asked. “How do I stop this? How do I set the record straight?”

“I honestly don’t think there is a record, but I guess if I were you, I’d wait until somebody, somewhere said something directly to you. And then I’d be honest.”

“Can’t I hire you? You could find out why this keeps happening to me.”

“I’m sure there’s a serious conflict of interest there,” I said, sure of nothing of the sort. It felt as if there should be a conflict—but with whom? On what basis?

She accepted the idea. “Then could you help me just because—

because I’m a decent human being and I’m in trouble?”

“Calm down. You aren’t making sense.”

“Why did she suspect me? What did she suspect me of?”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Fairchild—your employer. What were you investigating?”

“You.”

“I know that. Leo told me. But why? What did she think? What bad things did she hear? From whom? How?”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“It does! Who else heard whatever it was? And why is this happening? I left San Francisco because it had started back there.

There was this . . . buzzing. That I’m a . . . that I did horrible things. I ran as far as I could get, but three thousand miles away—

it’s happening again. This behind-my-back—but as fast as I turn around, nobody’s there.” She looked wide-eyed and terrified, even though her words were fairly well organized. I didn’t trust her or her claims of being afraid.

“I’m sorry you’re going through this, but I do believe that ultimately, the truth, whatever it is, will out.”

It was her turn, after pressing almost too close to me the whole 162

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time, to step back now, and turn herself into a vaguely amused sophisticate. “You believe that,” she said slowly.

I nodded.

“It’s so naïve. I’m surprised. I thought you were savvier. Understood more about the world.”

“Look, whatever it is—” I felt awful sounding as if I didn’t know about the rumors. She might be guilty of a multitude of crimes, but somebody else was, in fact, spreading the word. Somebody, or several somebodies—the post offices had been scattered—had mailed damning notes to Claire Fairchild. Had worked to craft them, to find the information, to post them. Emmie Cade’s suspicions were grounded in reality. What I didn’t know for sure was whether the accusations were grounded in reality as well. “It’s only rumor, you say. Sticks and stones and all that. Ignore it.”

“How can I?” Her voice rising, she reached out as she spoke, as if to grab my hand, to literally pull me over to her side. I stepped back and she caught herself, and clasped her hands together. “Mrs.

Fairchild is dead.” She sounded slightly out of breath, as if she were exercising. “She took medicine that killed her. She doesn’t go out much. She doesn’t shop. Somebody had to give it to her, then, right? I was there that night, and if they think I already . . .”

I waited.

“In San Francisco, my husband drowned. All the papers kept saying was what an expert yachtsman and sailor he was, and that’s true. But they didn’t say he was also an expert drinker. Not a drunk, not an alcoholic, I think, though I’m not sure, but a man who binged socially. It’s easy to keep that under wraps when you have money and own your own company, even though it was pulling that down, too. I didn’t really understand about it until after we were married, but I had hopes we’d get it more under control. We didn’t.

“Instead, we got better at keeping it a secret. He’d get tipsy at parties, but then we’d leave. I’d drive or we’d take a taxi, or hire a limo service, and maybe he’d finish his drinking at home, where 163

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nobody except me would see it. He didn’t always go into his office, even when he was around, and things there were sliding, so when I suggested that he was drunk that day . . .” She shuddered. “Why would I lie? His friends knew. Nobody suspected anything terrible then. It was sad—but not that much of a shock, even. They knew what had happened—and then it all turned around. His first wife, I think. She hates me. I understand. His kids hate me, too. Somebody, anyway, started these rumors, and suddenly the papers quoted people as saying—even people who’d been drunk with him lots of times—that he was a great guy, a regular pal—fun to be with, which he was, and that they were shocked about the drowning because he was such a good sailor.”

“You’re saying he fell overboard drunk?”

“Of course. And that’s what the law thought—thinks—too. He wasn’t wearing a life vest, and that’s presented as highly suspicious—

if you saw those news stories, or maybe you actually did, if you were checking out my past.”

I didn’t respond.

“Why is that suspicious? It’s embarrassing, but not evil. He was—we were—I was in the . . . in our bedroom. I was below. He wanted to get another bottle of wine. He was . . . amorous. People don’t wear life vests then.”

“There were all those people—”

“Nobody around us. Just me and Jake in our own room. And that’s taken to be suspicious, but if you understand the situation . . .”

I was listening to her as skeptically as I could manage, but also wondering whether listening at all was a good or stupid thing.

Would Mackenzie compliment me for gathering additional information or would he say he couldn’t believe I’d wasted so much time? Much more than five minutes had passed. He’d made it clear that we’d be lucky to be paid for what we’d already done—I had to remember that this semi-career was all about money—and we surely wouldn’t be recompensed for standing on the corner talking with the prime suspect.

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“I’m not a bad person,” Emmie said. “I’m not saying I’ve been the most careful, or . . . or—” She waved her arms again, as if one of them might catch the missing word. “Sensible woman. I was . . .

I don’t know. Wild. And I made dumb choices. And sometimes I took the . . . easier way. If somebody offered to help me out . . .

maybe I shouldn’t have, but it was never really bad stuff. I liked the wrong guys. Except for Leo, now. He’s different. He’s solid.

And, okay, I’ve done things that weren’t . . . I was not a perfect little good girl. Or big girl. But none of that means I did the kinds of thing they’re saying.”

“Maybe they aren’t saying anything. Or more likely, maybe nobody is listening to whatever somebody’s saying.”

“Mrs. Fairchild was.”

“She was hoping I’d find nothing. She liked how happy her son was.”

Emmie looked at me sideways, her mouth curled. “She hired you to check me out. That’s not what I consider real friendly.”

That reminded me of my own future mother-in-law, and I checked my watch.

“It’s making me ill,” she said. “I can’t sleep without drugs—I can’t eat—it’s making me crazy and sick. That woman—that Batya—

she says I killed Claire Fairchild with this little bunch of flowers I brought for her. Poor woman—I think she’s snapped.”

“I’m sorry,” I said softly, and I meant it. I didn’t know how people tied their lives up in knots this way.

“Can I talk with you again? Will you help me? Is there some way you could find out who’s spreading these rumors?”

I knew they were more than rumors. They were newspaper reports, her actual track record. “I’ll—I’ll think about what’s appropriate,” I said. “And now I absolutely—”

“Thank you! Thank you for listening.”

No matter how many doubts I had about whether she was a liar and a murderer, there was something undeniably winning and sympathetic about her. Mackenzie had reminded me that even the 165

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newspaper story was innuendo and supposition. “The Truth” as an absolute was nowhere to be seen, so maybe she was being victimized on a grand scale.

Or maybe she was an experienced—almost a professional—

manipulator. Actress, seasoned fortune-hunter, experienced seduc-tress. A siren, and I was a sucker. I made my way to my car, thinking only, now, of Gabby and Boy, Bea and Gilbert, and how I was going to handle the next few days. Countdown had begun, and I had enough to do to fill every one of those twenty-four hours.

Mackenzie should be home by now, cramming as much reading and classwork in as possible tonight so that he wouldn’t feel pressured when his parents arrived.

We’d have time to talk while we cleaned together, later, but I wasn’t sure I could wait that long to tell him about Claire Fairchild’s unnatural death, and Emmie Cade’s bizarre curbside appearance. In fact, I knew I couldn’t. I unlocked the door to our loft and called out, “Study break time! Drop the books because you won’t believe what—”

Three tall people stood up.

Impossible. Mackenzie had hired actors to scare me out of my wits. This was Wednesday. They were coming tomorrow.

Thursday.

The two tall strangers grinned at me. They stood in the middle of the mess and chaos of my household, smiling. Or perhaps silently laughing at the pathetic situation.

I blinked.

They were still there.

“Noah’s girl—” the balding one said.

“Clarissa,” the Technicolor one added.

“Clarissa was invited to visit a friend, and Noah and Angela were driving her upstate, so we left a day early. No traffic, either.”

“Besides, we were so excited about meeting you, honey! Come over and give a hug.” She wore a shiny scarlet peasant-style blouse and dangling green and scarlet sparkling earrings, and she opened 166

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her arms wide. Her nails matched her earrings. Including the sparkles.

When he’d called his mother “colorful,” I hadn’t realized he meant it literally.

“Poor baby,” she said. “You’ve got this huge blotch on your sleeve, did you know?”

“Meet the folks,” Mackenzie said.

167

Fourteen

EITHERhis parents called ahead from the road, or Mackenzie had suddenly become prescient. It was not in either of our natures to rush home from school and shop, straighten and polish, and yet, once my vision stopped flashing and crackling and my synapses returned to their usual connections, the tidiness of the loft registered.

I tried to not look surprised by anything. Not the untimely arrival of the senior Macks, at the passable condition of the gigantic room, or at the miraculous apparition of tortilla chips and salsa dip on the table.

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C. K. Mackenzie’s stock shot through the roof, rose so high, the entire world economy snapped back into high gear.

“She’s just as pretty as you said she was,” Boy Mackenzie told his son, giving him a congratulatory whomp on the shoulder.

Boy’s boy had found a good ’un.

I knew it was a compliment, and I knew I had to look pleased, but I really didn’t love being talked about—in fact, being weighed and measured and judged—in the third person while I stood there, still encircled by Gabby Mackenzie’s arms.

The woman was a world-class hugger. I could barely find the breath to smile in response to Boy’s appraisal of me. She finally released her grip, but held on to my arms. “She certainly is that,” she said. “Pretty as can be.”

I wondered where they thought I actually was and when they’d decide to speak directly to me. “Thank you,” I said softly, absolutely hating this. Visions of Miss Swamp filled my head, with me next to her as the “before” image. My lipstick had worn off hours ago, and I hadn’t combed my hair since lunchtime. It didn’t bear thought. At least I could blame the ink stain on fate, not bad grooming. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll change into something clean and—”

“Nonsense!” C. K.’s mother said, leaning back—still holding me—and smiling broadly. “You look fine.”

I did not look fine. Or fahn. They were Southern. Of course they’d say I looked wonderful. I had to ask Mackenzie what they said when they were alone, what proportion of any conversation was close to sincere and how much was automatic pilot. Of course, despite his rapid acclimation to Philadelphia, he was still a Southerner, too. He’d lie graciously along with his folks.

Meanwhile, he was looking at me with controlled eye signals that I interpreted to mean, “What did you mean when you came in the door, babbling?” while I was trying to blink, in code and eye squeezes, “Claire Fairchild was murdered!”

Good thing nobody tried our codes in wartime. Didn’t work.

We looked like people with eye disease.

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I took a deep breath and filed Emmie Cade and Claire Fairchild away until appropriate, and focused on my future family members. I let go of trivialities like murder and murderers, and made room for my hitherto unsuspected inner Southerner. At once, sharp edges softened, the light in the loft grew golden and life simpler. I gestured for everyone to sit down again, settled myself near Gabby Mackenzie, smiled, said, “Help yourself to this lovely looking salsa”—said it more than once, to tell the truth—and then said,