Confessions (31 page)

Perhaps, she thought, Freddi had picked the senator to be her new husband. Perhaps Alan thought the Realtor's close ties to the wealthy California financial community could give an important boost to his presidential campaign. Perhaps Heather Martin hadn't been the only other woman in Alan Fletcher's life.

Mariah remembered the comment that Fredericka had made about only being a small-town Realtor. For a woman for whom image meant so much, how lofty would the role of a senator's wife seem?

Mariah knew that Freddi was a member of the Whiskey River Gun Club. She had access to guns and the skills to use them. She could have easily shot Laura and Alan. Then, to get rid of the rest of her competition, she could have killed Heather, making it look like an accident.

A single woman, especially one who lived in a city as dangerous as Washington, D.C., would never allow a strange man into her hotel room. But a woman, that might be different. Especially one who possessed a large checkbook at the same time Heather was trying to orchestrate a campaign fund-raising drive.

Mariah quickly went over to the antique phone booth in the corner and called Trace's office, becoming frustrated when she learned that he wasn't in.

“Do you know where he is?” Mariah asked.

“Not exactly,” Jill responded. “He had to go to the jail, then the courthouse, then—”

“Can't you page him?” Mariah broke in.

“His walkie-talkie broke this morning. They're sending some repairman down from Flagstaff, but he's not here yet.”

Mariah struggled to keep from biting the young dispatcher's head off. “Could you try to track him down?”

“Oh.” A thoughtful pause. “I suppose I could do that.”

“Thank you. And when you find him, please ask him to call Maggie McKenna's suite.”

“Maggie McKenna,” Jill repeated slowly, giving Mariah the impression she was writing it down. “She's at the lodge, right?”

“Right. Look, it's important that he get the message.”

“I'll do my best,” Jill promised. Which, from what she'd seen of the young woman, didn't give Mariah a lot of hope.

Moving to the beige house phone, Mariah rang Mag
gie's room, told her about Alan and Freddi, and asked her to pass the message on to Trace.

Then, deciding that the couple were bound to be occupied for some time, Mariah left the lodge, determined to uncover proof of Freddi's involvement in Laura's death.

She stopped by the Kendall's Drug Emporium, where she bought a pair of disposable surgical gloves and impatiently endured snapshots of Lillian Kendall's newest granddaughter. Number eight, the obviously proud grandma had proclaimed.

After escaping the pharmacy, as she drove around the lake to the Realtor's north shore house, Mariah reminded herself that whatever she discovered would never hold up in a court of law.

“All you have to do is find the evidence,” she said out loud. “Surely Trace and Jessica will be able to think up probable cause to get a proper search warrant.”

Mariah knew that what she was about to do was not only unconscionable, but illegal. At this point, she didn't care.

Fortunately, Whiskey River was still the type of community where people didn't lock their houses, and although Freddi was urbanized enough to secure her front, back and kitchen doors, Mariah found an open French door in the bedroom.

The bed was a revelation. Covered with a black satin spread, it took up most of the room. Mariah pressed a gloved hand down on the oversize water mattress and created a tidal wave that was reflected in the overhead mirror.

There was a control panel built into the bedside table. Mariah pushed a button and blackout drapes closed on the windows and across the French doors. Another button caused the lights to dim. She pressed a third, which caused a satin-padded wall across the room to open, revealing a home theater. A cursory check revealed an extensive li
brary of pornographic videotapes, along with home recordings, undoubtedly, Mariah considered, starring Fredericka herself.

Obviously, Flat-backed Freddi hadn't changed since her cheerleading days when she'd been rumored to have screwed the entire offensive line of the Whiskey River football team beneath the bleachers after a winning playoff game.

Mariah opened a drawer on the bedside table and found a pair of handcuffs, various sex toys and a book of Chinese erotic drawings. Since sex had always been a routine part of Freddi's life, Mariah decided that the contents, while as intriguing as the rest of the room, did not point to murder.

She decided to focus on the other thing that interested the Realtor: money.

She went down the hall into the library, where, on top of the desk was a surveyor's plat map for a new recreational development called Whispering Pines.

“So she's planing another subdivision. Well, well. Would you look at this.”

Mariah was not as surprised as she might once have been to see that the land in question used to belong to her sister. And now belonged to her.

Greed, Mariah reminded herself, was a time-honored motive.

The plat, she considered, was a start. But it would not be enough to prove guilt. Nor would it get Clint out of jail.

Remembering what Trace told her about needing to concentrate on
how
a crime was committed, Mariah dug deeper.

“What you have to do,” she muttered, staring around the room, “is find the damn guns.”

She stood in the center of the room and slowly turned around.

Unlike the bedroom, the library was a tribute to traditional values. The furniture was thick, handcrafted and covered with a rich, bloodred leather. Oak-paneled walls had been darkly stained. British hunting prints hung on three of the four walls. The fourth wall was home to floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined with leatherbound classics. The books brought back a script she'd written a few years ago for a made-for-television “Columbo” movie about a wealthy mystery writer who'd murdered his agent. The detective had known the writer did it, but he couldn't find the gun.

Until the writer's penchant for first editions had caught Columbo's attention.

“It's too easy,” Mariah murmured as she crossed the room to the bookcase. “It's the first place anyone would look.”

Reminding herself that not everyone watched television, she began pulling books off the mahogany shelves.

She went through an entire set of Dickens, Dostoyevsky and Balzac. Moving down one shelf, which brought her into this century, she checked out Hemingway, Faulkner, and Tennessee Williams, dismissing Fitzgerald because the stories, while among her personal favorites, were too short, the spines of the novels too narrow for her purpose.

One by one she examined every book, becoming discouraged when she was down to the bottom shelf. “When are you going to learn,” she muttered, as she reached for Gore Vidal's
Lincoln,
“life really isn't like television.”

The instant she lifted the book from the shelf, Mariah knew she'd found it. She opened it slowly, not realizing she had been holding her breath until it came shuddering out.

The novel had been hollowed out. A rectangular hole
had been cut in the book's pages. Inside the hollowed-out space were two guns: a .25 caliber pistol and a .38.

As she stared at the larger revolver, Mariah knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was looking at the weapon that had killed her sister.

“Looks as if we hit the jackpot.” Mariah closed the book. “I sure as hell hope you look good in stripes, Freddi.”

“Oh, I don't think that's going to be a problem,” an all too familiar voice behind Mariah answered.

Clutching the book tightly to her breast, Mariah turned slowly around.

Fredericka Palmer was standing in the library doorway, not looking at all as if she'd just gotten out of her lover's bed. Her makeup had been repaired and her sleek hair had been brushed to a smooth glossy sheen.

Her skillfully outlined ruby lips were pulled in a tight line and her dark eyes were every bit as unwelcoming as the Beretta she was pointing directly at Mariah.

T
race called Maggie from his truck as soon as he got Mariah's message. When the actress told him about Fredericka and Alan, another important piece of the puzzle slipped into place.

“Where's Mariah now?” he asked.

There was a pause. “I don't know.”

“Dammit, Maggie!” Trace's feelings for Mariah had him discarding polite police behavior. “This is serious. If your daughter is out playing cops and robbers again, she could get herself killed.”

There was another pause. “Surely you're not saying you think Freddi killed Laura?”

Trace thought about what he'd discovered during his search of the courthouse land records. “Where is she, Maggie?”

“She really didn't tell me.” He heard the unmasked stress in the actress's voice and knew she was telling the truth. “But now that you mention it, I wouldn't be surprised if she's gone to Fredericka's…. Oh, no!”

“What's the matter?”

“I was just downstairs in the lobby and I saw Fredericka leave. If she arrives home and finds Mariah there—”

“Don't worry.” Trace tried to sound encouraging, though he was more worried than Maggie. He'd seen Laura's and Heather's bodies. “She'll be all right.”

He was about to hang up when something else occurred to him. “Is Kevin there?” Mariah was not the only one who'd recognized the calming influence the young driver seemed to have on the former star.

“Yes.”

“Let me talk to him.”

After ensuring that Kevin would stay with Maggie, Trace told the pair to sit tight and promised to keep in touch.

Although he'd refused to let himself get discouraged, he'd been relieved to finally have a break in the case.

It had been Cora Mae who'd brought the recreational land deal to his attention. Her nephew had been hired by the Realtor to survey the properties involved. It was then that Trace belatedly recalled Freddi mentioning the golf-course development. A check of the county court records revealed a plat on file.

Trace thought of the mortgages Laura had put on the ranch. Remembered what Clint had told him of the missing cattle. And although he still had no proof, he knew that Fredericka Palmer was involved in this mess up to her slender neck.

 

When she found herself facing the business end of the automatic pistol, Mariah's hands turned to ice. Adrenaline rushed to her heart, causing it to hammer wildly. To her brain, driving out coherent thought and leaving it absolutely blank.

“Talk about your quickies.” Mariah's voice sounded high-pitched and thin, even to her own ears. “I should
have guessed Alan would be one of those ‘slam bam thank you ma'am' artists.”

Fredericka clicked her tongue. “You always had a smart mouth, Mariah. Didn't anyone ever tell you that might get you into trouble?”

Face-to-face with her sister's killer, Mariah decided she'd rather die than let Freddi know how frightened she was by that deadly-looking pistol. Her second thought was that she didn't want to die at all. Not today, at any rate.

The thing to do, she told herself, was to stall. Until she figured a way out of this fix. She was, after all, a professional crime writer. She'd won Emmys for writing dozens of characters out of similar predicaments. Surely she could do the same for herself.

She cleared her throat. Her mind dutifully kicked into high gear, trying to get ahead of this deadly situation.

“Didn't anyone ever tell you that you shouldn't point a gun at people if you don't intend to use it?” That was better. Her voice, while maintaining a faint nervous edge, was steadier.

“Oh, but I do, darling.” Fredericka's smile was cool and deadly. She reminded Mariah of a shark. Or a rattlesnake. “Just not yet. Not until I find out exactly how much you and your hick sheriff lover actually know.

“Put the book on the desk, Mariah, dear.” She gestured with the Beretta toward an oxblood leather chair with brass studding. “And sit down.”

Having scant choice, Mariah did as instructed, watching as the other woman placed a call to the sheriff's office and requested to speak with Ben Loftin.

“He'll be here momentarily,” she revealed after hanging up. “Meanwhile, you and I can pass the time with a nice little girl-to-girl chat.”

Mariah folded her arms over her chest. “I've nothing to say to you.”

Temper flashed in the other woman's dark eyes and was immediately controlled. “Fine. We'll just wait until Ben gets here. I'm sure he'll be able to find some way to convince you.”

She gave Mariah another one of those deadly false smiles. “For a man who looks so unattractively Cro-Magnon, Ben can be surprisingly imaginative. When encouraged.”

Comprehension dawned as quickly and clearly as if two wires had suddenly been connected in Mariah's head, completing a circuit. “Loftin ran me off the road.”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Because you were in the way.” Fredericka's tone was mild.

“In the way?”

“You'd inherited the ranch, which I have to admit, came as quite a surprise, since the plan had been for Alan to inherit, then sell to me. Then you had your chance to save yourself by letting Clint take it off your hands. But you refused.”

“I refuse to believe Clint had anything to do with Laura's death.”

“Of course not, silly. He had no idea I had anything to do with his lover's death. But he
did
owe me a great deal of money. So, when I threatened to call his loan unless he helped me get that last piece of land I needed so badly, he reluctantly agreed to make you an offer.”

“That land has been in my family for generations.” Mariah's initial fear was subsiding. In its place was a cold, laser-focused anger.

“Do you know, that's exactly what Laura said. Obviously you two were more alike than anyone thought.”

“So you killed her for the land.” It was not a question.

Freddi didn't respond. “If only you hadn't been so stub
born, Mariah,” she said instead. “If only you'd agreed to sell.”

“I still can't believe you'd actually kill for some stupid recreational development.”

“It's not a stupid development! Why, Whispering Pines is going to be a world-class resort. A group of Kuwaiti investors has already committed to investing millions of lovely Middle Eastern petrol dollars and Southwest Development has drawn up plans. It will be,” she confided, “a wonderful boon for the entire community. At a time when Whiskey River desperately needs an economic boost.”

“Gee, you're just full of civic responsibility, aren't you?” Mariah drawled. “Perhaps the Rotary Club will nominate you Citizen of the Year.”

Fredericka's eyes narrowed and to Mariah's amazement, she actually appeared surprised by both the accusation and the deprecating tone. “Surely you can't think it was personal?”

“Of course not,” Mariah replied acidly. A thought occurred to her. “Did you have anything to do with my horse bolting?”

“Horse?” Freddi looked honestly confused. “What horse?”

Since she'd been open about everything else she'd done, Mariah decided her accident had been simply that. An accident.

“It doesn't matter,” she said. “I was terrified half out of my wits, run off a cliff and left to die. Why the hell should I take that personally?”

The other woman sighed and shook her head. “It really was such a nice plan. Who would have expected your truck to hit that ridiculous boulder?”

“I've always been lucky.”

“So it seems. But unfortunately, darling, your luck is
about to run out.” She glanced out the window at the black-and-white cruiser that had just pulled into the redbrick driveway. “Starting now.”

 

Trace had just reached for his mike to call the office and have Jill send J.D. out to Freddi's house when the radio buzzed.

“Hey, Sheriff,” the young deputy's voice came over the police band along with the static, “the DPS crime guys just called with the paint analysis from the door and right rear side of Ms. Swann's Cherokee.”

“What did they say?”

“It came from a county truck.”

“Are they sure?”

“Positive. Seems the commissioners got a deal on that same dark green paint from a wholesaler who was going bankrupt about the same time all the county vehicles needed repainting. The lab guys also told me that no truck manufacturers use that particular color, which pretty much narrows it down to either one of the two snowplows, or a road maintenance vehicle.” Coincidentally, Ben Loftin's cousin happened to be supervisor for the county vehicle repair shop, Trace remembered.

“Where are you right now?” he asked J.D.

“At the office.”

“Call me right back on the car phone.” The line wasn't as secure as Trace would have liked, but it was a lot more private than the police band.

“Yessir, Sheriff.” There was a noticeable curiosity in the deputy's voice. “Ten-four.”

A second later the phone rang. “It's me, Sheriff.”

“Where's Loftin?”

“Haven't seen him. He got a call a few minutes ago, and took off. Said something about checking out another
one of those damn juvenile arson fires out by the Whiskey Spring campground.”

“Okay.” Trace was glad to hear the deputy was occupied on the other side of the county. “You know the Palmer place?”

“The big house out by the lake? Sure.”

“Meet me there. Code Two.” Urgent, no lights, no siren.

“Yessir! Want me to call Ben?”

“No. I don't want you to call Loftin. And I don't want you to use the radio. If you need to contact me, stick to the phone. Is that clear?”

“Ten-four, Sheriff.” J.D.'s excitement was so palpable, Trace could practically feel it crackling through the cellular phone.

Trace couldn't wait to see his deputy's face when he got to fasten his handcuffs around a bona fide killer.

If it wasn't for his concern about Mariah, the thought would have made Trace smile. Instead, hoping against hope that she hadn't decided to take matters into her own hands again, he headed toward Fredericka Palmer's lake-front home.

Mariah's Jeep was in the driveway. Along with Ben Loftin's patrol car. Knowing firsthand the dangers inherent in rushing into a situation, he was forced to cool his heels on the side of the road, waiting for his deputy's arrival.

Less than five minutes later—five minutes that seemed like a lifetime—J.D. pulled up behind him.

“Where the hell have you been?” Trace greeted him sharply.

“Sorry, sheriff.” The deputy flushed the color of the wild strawberries growing along the lake. “But I was passing the park when Jill called in with a ten-eighty at that location.”

“It was probably just those damn kids with firecrackers
again,” Trace ground out. Normally, a report of an explosion would earn the highest priority. But not today. Not when Mariah was in danger.

“That's what it was, all right. The problem was, they were setting them off right by the playground and one of the sparks landed in a baby carriage, setting the blanket on fire. Since I knew you wanted me here right away, I confiscated the evidence and threw the kids in the back of the car for now.”

Trace noticed the two teenagers for the first time. “Shit.”

“Did I do the wrong thing?”

That was all he needed, civilians at a potential hostage scene. “We'll discuss it later. For now, I want you to cover me while I check out the situation.”

The deputy unsnapped his holster. “Yessir!”

Trace crept up to the house, grateful for the stand of pine trees dotting the lakeside lot. He located the trio in what he took to be a den. At the moment, they appeared frozen, like a tableau from a movie poster. Fredericka was armed with a Beretta, while Loftin was pointing his .44 Magnum—the weapon favored by Dirty Harry—at Mariah, who was sitting in a leather club chair. Although her face was as white as new snow, Trace was relieved that she didn't appear terrified. On the other hand, from her rigid spine, jutting jaw and red spots staining those pale cheeks, it was obvious that she was angry.

Unfortunately, caution was not exactly Mariah Swann's style. He could practically feel the heat of her rising anger and worried that she was going to blow the roof off the situation with her flash-fire temper.

That thought led directly to another. Trace glanced up at the sloping cedar shake roof. And the two gray stone chimneys. And he smiled.

 

“So, what do you want me to do with the bitch?” Loftin growled.

Fredericka thoughtfully tapped a fingernail against a front tooth. “I really don't think we have a choice,” she murmured. “I'm afraid Mariah's going to have to have another accident.”

“Surely you're not going to run me off the road again?”

“No.” The Realtor shook her head. “I'm afraid that might look a little suspicious.”

“Why don't you just shoot her?” the deputy suggested helpfully. “Make it look like she broke in. After what happened to the Fletcher broad and the senator's bimbo, it'd make sense that a woman living alone might be a little jumpy.”

“That might have worked at night,” Fredericka conceded. “Unfortunately, I doubt many people would believe that I could be so unnerved in the middle of the day. No,” she shook her head again, her eyes thoughtful, “we're going to have to come up with something more imaginative than that.”

Mariah wondered if Maggie had gotten hold of Trace yet. And if she had, would he think her lead about Alan and Freddi worth following up right away? It would be stupid to die this way, right now, just when she was starting to get her life in order.

But then again, wasn't that exactly what had happened to Laura?

Not wanting to think about that, not now, when her immediate goal was to keep these two miscreants from putting a bullet through her head, Mariah reminded herself that the name of the game, at this point, was to stall.