Danger in a Red Dress (6 page)

“Is she not a nurse?”

“Oh, she’s a nurse, all right, with the diploma and registration to prove it.” Carrick hitched his chair forward and lowered his voice. “But she’s like Rasputin. She hypnotizes the patient, makes them love her. She’s had her nursing certificate suspended in the state of New Hampshire for immoral behavior. Apparently while she cared for Mr. Donald Dresser, she was slipping it to him—and he was
old
—and he was grateful to the tune of fifty grand. Worse, he wasn’t the first patient to include her in his will.”

Carrick now had Gabriel’s full attention. “Any sign of foul play?”

“No, but they don’t do autopsies on the elderly unless there’s good cause.”

“Do you think this nurse and your mother are . . .” Gabriel thumped his fists together.

“God, no!” Carrick’s horror was almost laughable. “It’s not that. But Mother won’t hear a bad word about Hannah Grey.”

Jasmine put the drinks on the table and whipped out her PDA. “Can I take your orders?”

Carrick gave his with a smile that melted her into a puddle.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” Gabriel said, and waved her away. He wanted to get this problem of Carrick’s solved so he could tell Carrick about their relationship. That
was
why he’d come today.

“Hannah has convinced Mother to resurrect the old Balfour Halloween party,” Carrick said with an intensity that baffled Gabriel.

Gabriel shrugged. “I don’t know what that means.” “The Balfours are famous in New England, and they threw their Halloween party for a hundred years. When I was a kid, I remember meeting the president of the United States at our party. Meeting the CEO of Toyota. Meeting the king of Morocco.” Carrick’s face softened. “Father was always home for the party. It was . . .” Reality caught up with Carrick’s memories, and he snapped back to the present. “You have no idea what having the party entails!”

“I thought your mother was agoraphobic.”

“She is, plus her health is precarious, plus she hasn’t got two nickels to rub together.” Carrick leaned forward. “Do you know what that party will cost to put on properly? And Mother insists on doing everything properly!”

“Have you talked to your mother?”

“I tried.” Carrick sighed heavily. “Mother should be preparing for the government inquest. Instead, all I hear is,
Hannah says
.”

“But what is Hannah Grey going to get out of it?” That was the important question.

“What I’m afraid of . . . I am so desperately afraid that she . . .”

Gabriel said it for him. “You’re afraid that your mother is going to tell Hannah what she knows about your father ’s fortune.”

“Exactly.” Carrick grasped Gabriel’s arm and squeezed gratefully.

“You think if there’s any money left, Hannah will remove it and leave your mother to face the consequences.”

“Yes!”

Gabriel asked the question that hovered between them. “
Does
your mother know where Nathan Manly put the money?”

Carrick exploded in muffled exasperation. “I have no idea! She has never in any way indicated that she knows, but you don’t know Mother. She’s angry about Father’s betrayal, and she never forgets or forgives. Added to that, she’s secretive and distrustful of everyone, even me. The older she gets, the worse she gets. That’s why this relationship with Hannah Grey is out of character.”

Jasmine appeared. “Here you go, gentlemen.” She placed the plates before them.

Carrick ate a few bites without visible interest, and zoomed right back to his problem. “I know Mother’s odd and probably not the best mother in the world, but she’s the only parent I’ve got. I can’t let her go to prison.”

Gabriel surrendered to the inevitable. “Okay. Consider me hired. What do you want me to do?”

“Do you think you could bug the house?” Carrick asked eagerly. “Fix it so we could hear what Mother tells Hannah and give that information to the government? I know it stinks, but I don’t think my mother could survive the inquest, much less a trial, and certainly not prison. I’ve got to do what I can to save my mother ’s life.”

“I can bug the house.”

“Mother’s smart, and she’s observant. She’s got a bad heart, too, and I don’t want her disturbed.”

It must be nice to feel that way about a mother, even when she didn’t seem like much of a parent at all. “I’ve got cameras that are wireless and the size of a pencil. Will that do?”

Carrick leaned back in relief. “Yes. That will do very well.”

Truth to tell, this job appealed to Gabriel. To go to his father’s house, to see where he’d lived and walked . . . He had researched Nathan Manly, trying to get a picture of the guy who would build up a multibillion-dollar business and demolish it, wed a woman and destroy the marriage, romance four girls, and leave them pregnant, steal a fortune, and abandon everything and everyone he knew.

But if Gabriel was going to do this, he couldn’t tell Carrick that they were brothers. Not here. Not now. That would have to wait for another day.

“I almost forgot. Here.” Carrick thrust something toward Gabriel. “Here’s Hannah Grey.”

It was a photo, and not a good photo, either. Grainy and unflattering—her driver’s license, or maybe her nursing license. It showed a blond woman, very pale, with minimal makeup, a solemn face, and huge blue eyes.

But Gabriel felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

He was looking at the woman of his dreams.

SEVEN

Hannah returned the breakfast tray to the kitchen and walked toward Mrs. Manly’s suite . . . and stopped in the middle of the wide sweep of stairs. She looked around, peering at the shadows, half expecting to see eyes peering back.

She examined the high ceiling, the cove moldings, the pictures that lined the walls. She saw nothing. She heard nothing.

Yet the hair on the back of her neck stirred, and her heartbeat quickened.

For the first two months of her tenure, she had not been aware of the house as a living entity. She’d been absorbed by her patient, discovering that Mrs. Manly was easily irritated by sunlight, arthritis drugs, insulin shots, healthy food, discipline, and exercise. But summer drifted into autumn, and as September turned the leaves to gold and scarlet, Mrs. Manly became a fanatic about the plans for her Halloween party. She had stated her goal: to create an image of herself as a woman who had survived Nathan Manly’s defection and thrived.

Hannah’s goal was a little different. She wanted Mrs. Manly to live a long life. So she had cajoled, teased, begged, and ordered her to eat better, to take her medicines, to treat her poor, racked body with respect.

They’d come to an understanding.

Mrs. Manly would cooperate with Hannah—to a point. And beyond that point, Hannah would not push.

Then, in the last week, an edgy conviction had emerged and grown.

The house was watching Hannah, and Hannah . . . was spooked.

She hurried down the long corridor toward Mrs. Manly’s door, turned the handle, and leaped into Mrs. Manly’s room. She shut the door behind her and stood, panting, her back against the wall.

“What’s the matter, Miss Grey?” Mrs. Manly asked crisply.

“It’s stupid,” Hannah said.

“I’ll tell you if it’s stupid.” Mrs. Manly stirred in her bed like a great winged bat. “What has gotten into the very sensible Miss Grey?”

“I feel like”—
The house is watching me
—“someone is watching me.” Somehow that didn’t sound as ridiculous as accusing a house of malevolent intentions.

“Maybe someone is.” Mrs. Manly waved her closer. “Hurry up. I have to visit the powder room.”

Dealing with a lady was vastly different from dealing with Mr. Dresser. Mrs. Manly used euphemisms about her body functions; Mr. Dresser had said he wanted to piss. But in a way they were so similar; they both sought death, welcomed death, rather than a long descent into old age and suffering.

Hannah hurried to her side.

Mrs. Manly grunted as she fought to sit up.

Morning was not her best time. Morning was no arthritis sufferer’s best time. With sleep, the joints stiffened and movement was slow and painful.

Quickly, competently, Hannah massaged Mrs. Manly’s knees and hips, then pushed the wheelchair into position beside the bed and helped her into it.

Mrs. Manly wheeled herself to the powder room and shut the door behind her, leaving Hannah to start the coffeemaker. As soon as the door opened, Hannah hurried to help Mrs. Manly get dressed. “What do you mean, maybe someone is watching me?”

“Didn’t you know?” Mrs. Manly half smiled. “The house is haunted.”

“Oh, come on.”

“My dear girl, as old as this house is, do you think it hasn’t seen violence? Anguish? Pain? The whole range of human emotions has played across this stage, and the house has absorbed them all.” As she spoke, Mrs. Manly’s voice dropped lower and lower. “Why do you think our Halloween parties are so successful?”

“Good treats?” Hannah ventured.

“There are ghosts here, my dear, and they do watch.” Mrs. Manly looked up at Hannah’s horror-stricken face and laughed. Cackled, really. “Are you susceptible?”

“Are you kidding? When I was a kid, I saw
Ghost-busters
and I didn’t sleep for weeks.” Hannah spoke lightly—but she wasn’t joking.

“Oh. Dear.” Mrs. Manly tried to quash her amusement. “I was merely kidding about the ghosts.”

“Good.” Because Hannah didn’t know which was worse, that the house was watching her or ghosts were. Hannah poured Mrs. Manly a cup of coffee.

As she handed it to her, Mrs. Manly said softly, “Yet there are other secrets, more deadly than mere ghosts.”

“Do I want to know?”

“I fear you must. It is your punishment for the unfailing integrity you’ve shown.” But Mrs. Manly appeared to abandon that train of thought, and waved at the three-foot-wide bookshelf nestled into one corner. “This morning, I’d like you to dust my books.”

The deep, rich mahogany shelves had been placed at a forty-five-degree angle to the walls. They rose from the floor to the twelve-foot-high ceiling, and had been carved into a series of Celtic knots, making the whole piece a beautiful, intricate piece of nineteenth-century art.

Hannah frowned as she approached. A very grimy piece of art. “I’ll speak to the housekeeper. This hasn’t been cleaned for months.”

“It hasn’t been cleaned since Torres died. I don’t allow just anyone to dust my books.”

Hannah had worked with eccentrics before, and for all that Melinda Manly was agoraphobic, she operated in a remarkably normal range. But to be fussy about who dusted her books?

“I trust you to do it.” Melinda Manly smiled into her mug.

Hannah found one of the cheap towels she kept on hand for cleanup, dragged the library ladder into place, climbed up to the top shelf, and set to work. The Celtic decorations had been twisted by the woodcarver into faces with eyes that stared, and gargoyles with knowing grins. She had thought the house watched her; this bookcase really did keep watch.

Hannah pulled out each title, wiped it off, and set it aside. Variety and age varied, hardcovers and well-read paperbacks mixed, and chaos reigned. She dusted the shelves. Then as she replaced the books, she asked, “Are these your favorites?”

“Yes. Old friends, most of them.”

Hannah flipped through
The Iliad
. “Do you read Greek?”

“And Latin. I attended Wellesley and my father insisted on a traditional curriculum, without merit in the job market. He was old-fashioned. He thought I would marry as soon as I graduated. Instead I waited for my prince charming . . . and we all know how
that
turned out.”

It was the first time Mrs. Manly had referred to the scandal that had driven her to hide, to never step foot outside for fifteen years.

“I do know.” Hannah paused delicately, then ventured a question. “But I don’t understand. How could you . . . ?”

“How could a woman like Melinda Balfour, a woman who can trace her ancestry back to the
Mayflower
, and her family fortune back to the original land barons, stay married to a man who had humiliated her over and over again, with one woman after another? Is that what you’re asking?”

“Yes. Yes, that’s what I’m asking.”

“It’s easy enough. Nathan could charm the birds out of the trees. He certainly charmed me.” As if the aches and pains of her age and arthritis overwhelmed her, Mrs. Manly slowly adjusted herself in her chair. “When I met him, he was twenty-three, brash, absolutely gorgeous, a prodigy on the stock market. I thought he was a genius. I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world to catch him. I didn’t realize that I hadn’t caught him—he’d caught me. My father tried to tell me . . .” Her breath rasped in her throat. “Father said I had never been attractive, and that I was old. Ten years older than Nathan. He said Nathan only wanted me for my money.”

Every word painted a picture of impending disaster.

“Of course, he was right.” Mrs. Manly’s mouth puckered, and the dark hairs in her mustache bristled. “Right about all of it. Nathan knew money. He loved money. But I thought he loved me, too, so I trusted him with my fortune, my virtue, and my family’s reputation. He destroyed them all.”

“I am so sorry.”

“And my pride. I trusted him with my pride, too, and that fell first and hardest. But it didn’t matter, because Nathan took my money and built a company with it, a successful company that impressed even my father. Then . . . I couldn’t conceive, and there was never a doubt whose fault it was.”

Hannah could almost feel the pain rolling off Mrs. Manly in waves. “
Fault
isn’t the word for it. Saying a woman can help it if she’s not fertile is as ridiculous as saying a woman gets pregnant only when she enjoys it.”