Hide and Seek (14 page)
I held him tightly and began to cry. I put my head on his chest, now silent and still.
Oh please… please, don’t let this happen. Whoever’s in charge, show us mercy
.
Patrick couldn’t hear me. He was gone. As swiftly as the storm that swirled about us had come up.
I
MUST HAVE held him for an hour, not caring what would happen to me or to the floundering boat that bore us.
The storm had traveled due east, and the waters were calm again, though I barely noticed. A feeble sun cast streaks of amber light on lapping caps of grayish-green water.
I sat helpless beside him on the lonely, quietly rocking deck. I thought of the times we had shared together, and each time I did, I started to cry again.
Don’t go away. Let me look at you
.
Don’t go away, Patrick. Don’t go away and leave me … oh, Padriac, oh, Patrizio
, I moaned.
Sailors from the Coast Guard found me drifting at the reddish edge of sunset. I was still cradling Patrick in my arms.
So there you have it—
that’s how I killed him. That’s my confession
.
Will
W
HEN WILL HEARD loud and persistent knocking at the door of his suite in the Rio Hilton, he shivered. He staggered from his bed, and hid himself in the bathroom.
He was barely able to navigate the few steps without falling.
Go away, whoever you are. Get the hell away from here!
He heard the front door of the suite open and the sound of voices. A maid, and someone else.
Jesus Christ, they can’t come in here—whoever it is. Not now!
“Thanks for letting me in,” the voice said. “I can manage from here.”
Palmer!
Who in hell invited him?
Nobody can be here—not even my brother Palmer! I’m out of control and I don’t know if I can ever get it back!
Palmer Shepherd’s eyes took in details of the puzzle: the closed bathroom door; the mirror laid flat on the night table bearing a razor, a rolled up hundred dollar bill, the remnants of God knows how much cocaine. An empty bottle of tequila on the floor. A half-full glass of a red liquid on the other night table. Port? Cinzano?
But where was Will? Where in hell had Will gone to?
Here I am, little brother!
With the howl of a werewolf, a naked Will was on him, wrestling him to the ground, pinning his arms. Then Will was sitting on his stomach as he had when they were boys.
“You lose. I win!”
Only this time Will’s eyes were scarily wild, and his body—God, his body!—was covered with blood.
Palmer stared up at his brother in disbelief and horror. “Jesus, Will, what in hell did you do to yourself?”
Will laughed loudly, manically. “Cut myself shaving.”
Will sprang off him and appeared to dance across the room. He picked up the half-full glass and offered it to his brother. “Cut
her
shaving too. Blood actually goes with tequila. Taste?”
“You cut
who
shaving? What the hell happened here? What are you on?”
“Angelita. I’ve got her body in the bathroom. She’s just a whore.” Once more he held out the glass of dark red liquid. “I’m afraid I drank most of it myself. Breakfast of
champions.”
“You didn’t,” Palmer whispered. He rose to his feet on unsteady legs. “You couldn’t have.”
“Didn’t
what?
Couldn’t have
what?
”
“Kill her.”
“Well, I don’t know.” Will’s eyes were easily as large as silver dollars. Mad eyes. “Let’s find out. Let’s have a look.”
Will opened the bathroom door, and shared his secret life with his brother.
“What’s the verdict, little brother? Did I, or did I not? Are you going to help me this time?”
F
OR ONCE THE outrageous stories in the fan magazines were mostly accurate and true, and maybe even understated. Will knew this, and so did his brother.
Will
was
dangerous, even more dangerous than the tabloids suspected. He
had
spent six weeks in a private New York hospital, recovering from a “breakdown.” There had been a “substance problem” in Rio.
He’d done much worse things than a little cocaine—but he’d gotten away with them. It had cost him—a sizable bribe every week to his beloved brother—but at least he was still free and on the loose. He wasn’t in prison for the rest of his life.
Will and Palmer had decided he ought to live somewhere other than London for a while. The little bastard Palmer had insisted on it, actually. It was a part of their “deal.” For some reason, Will found himself drawn to New York anyway.
He sublet an apartment on the East Side, and loved it so much he went looking for a house. He happened to read in the
Times
that Maggie Bradford had a place in Westchester. So did Winnie Lawrence. Will decided to look in Westchester first.
He was still a huge fan of Maggie’s songs. Her music was healing; he was convinced of it. He’d even talked to his hotsy-totsy Fifth Avenue shrink about the songs, especially the lyrics. The doc was also a Maggie Bradford fan, so he understood what Will was talking about—at least he thought he did.
Will fantasized about meeting Maggie one day in Westchester. He was certain it could be arranged somehow. He was clever enough to accomplish that, wasn’t he?
T
HIS IS THE part that doesn’t make much sense. Maybe that’s why it fascinates so many people, holds their attention over weeks and even months as the murder trial approaches. This is the real mystery—even for me it is. My time with Will Shepherd, my dark night of the soul. How could it have happened? How did it happen?
After Patrick’s death,
his heart attack
, I kept to myself, with only Jennie and Allie, and stayed miles away from the media, whom I had come to dread and despise during my pregnancy. On a lushly green spring morning nearly a year after Patrick’s death, I was working in the garden. Allie was playing by my side. We were interrupted by the security guard, hired to keep away unwelcome visitors—which meant, just about everybody.
“There’s a Mr. Nathan Bailford here,” he said. “Knows you don’t want to see anyone, but says it’s very important.”
Nathan was a neighbor I didn’t know well. I did know he was a high-powered lawyer, and that he was instrumental in keeping Peter O’Malley from interfering in the completion of The Cornelia. What could he want? Why was he here now? Was there more trouble with Peter?
“Let Mr. Bailford come up,” I reluctantly told the guard. “We have company,” I told Allie. “Let’s go get pretty.”
The lawyer was in his late fifties, but looked about forty-five. He smiled in greeting, but his charcoal gray suit, white shirt, and a crimson-and-gold rep’s tie were lawyer-serious, and not one silver-and-black curly hair was out of place.
Nathan Bailford took my outstretched hand in both his own. “You know, I’ve driven by I don’t know how many times since the funeral. I’ve thought of you often, didn’t know whether to barge in or leave you alone.”
“I’m glad you finally decided to come.”
Patrick’s friend is my friend
, I thought, and tried to be hospitable.
“So, are you okay?” he asked.
“Oh, it comes and it goes,” I told him. “The nights are the worst. I’m kind of having a bad decade.”
Nathan Bailford didn’t know how to answer. Finally, he just smiled. Good decision. I liked him for that.
“Actually, I’m here on business,” he admitted, when coffee was served on the patio. “It’s something—well, it just couldn’t wait any longer. As you know, it’s been almost a year since Patrick died. I
had
to stop by today.”
He sipped his coffee and I noticed that his hand shook. He loosened his tie. “Patrick’s will is finally scheduled to be read. It’s been an incredible mess. Never seen anything like it. My staff and I have been preparing everything according to his explicit and typically complicated wishes. Maggie, I’ve got to tell you. It’s going to mean a bad fight. Peter O’Malley is not a happy camper right now. Patrick was right about his son—Peter can be a real bastard. He
is
one.”
I wasn’t ready for this. I had given no thought to Patrick’s money or his estate, and Nathan’s edginess frightened me. The idea of a fight with Peter was disturbing, but the thought of the media hearing of it bothered me even more.
“What’s that got to do with me?” I asked. “Nathan, I really can’t get involved in all this.”
Nathan Bailford stared into my eyes. “Patrick’s left controlling interest in the corporation to you, Jennie, and Allen. He’s bequeathed Peter a flat sum, a tremendous sum, of course, but twenty-seven percent of the business is yours and your children’s.”
I couldn’t believe what I had heard.
I couldn’t believe it!
“H-how much is it worth?” I asked. I
actually
stuttered.
“Over two hundred million dollars in cash, stock, and real estate holdings. Give or take a few mil. A lot, Maggie.”
I felt a crazy burst of anger. “Oh, Nathan, why? I don’t need twenty-seven percent or any percent. I’ve got money, more than I need. I don’t want anything to do with it. I really don’t.”
All of a sudden, I found myself laughing, which made Nathan Bailford sit back in his chair.
But God, it was
funny
! It really was. I had just inherited something like two hundred million dollars, and I felt as though I had been put in prison.
H
E WAS CARRYING Jennie! How could that be?
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, but I
was
seeing it. There it was. Bada-boom.
Will Shepherd, the soccer player who had tried to pick me up at the Trevelyans’ party in London, was at my front door, carrying
my daughter
! It definitely was he. No mistaking that. I’d never forget the long blond hair and his face, and a few other things about him as well.
The guard had called from the front gate saying that Jennie had hurt herself and that a man from the neighborhood was bringing her up to the house. When I saw who it was, I was absolutely stunned.
This was insane
.
I didn’t ask about Jennie—she looked
too
comfortable, dressed in a sweatsuit, her legs dangling from his arms.
“Put her down! Please put Jennie down,” I loudly told him.
“Where, ma’am?” Will Shepherd said in a soft, calm voice. Jennie was no more difficult for him to carry than a pillow.
“There. On the couch in the living room is great. Please, put her down!”
He looked at me with troubled eyes, which gave me pause. “Hey,” he said, “she was hurt. I nearly hit her with my car. Lucky thing she jumped aside and only twisted her ankle. It happened right in front of the Lawrences’. That’s where I’m staying. I was just going out. Didn’t see her.”
“It’s kind of you to have brought her. Thank you,” I managed. My voice was cold. “Now please leave. Thank you though. I mean that.”
Jennie sat up on the couch where he had placed her. “You could at least offer him some coffee,” she said. “Something?”
“I’m sure Mr. Shepherd’s done enough for us and wants to get on about his business.”
“You know who I am?” he asked. Now he looked even more puzzled.
The bastard
.
“We’ve met,” I said. Curt, just like that.
He seemed surprised. “Really? Where? I don’t go backstage, though I’ve heard you sing. It was at the Albert Hall. The Queen was there.”
“Not at a concert. At a party.” Curt.
“If so, I don’t remember, and I’d remember meeting you. I’m quite certain of that.”
He knelt to check Jennie’s ankle. “Doesn’t seem like there’s anything broken,” he said. “I’ve broken enough bones to be a decent judge of that. Still, you should probably call a doctor.”
“As soon as you go, that’s what I’m going to do. Thanks for the advice.”
He rose slowly. “Nice to meet you, Jennie. Hope you feel better soon.” He turned toward the door.
“Good-bye, Mr. Shepherd,” Jennie said. Suddenly, I suspected some shenanigans on her part in this. She and her friends occasionally “stalked” rock stars, so why not a sports celebrity?
“I don’t want you talking to him again,” I told her when the door had closed.
She stared at me, her face red. I’d never seen her this angry. “How could you act that way?
Mother
,” she cried.
“God!”
She leapt from the couch, gave a small cry, and collapsed. She
had
been hurt. Maybe Will Shepherd had done the right thing in helping her home. Maybe I had been wrong about him this time.
M
Y HOUSE WAS next door to one of the better Westchester country clubs, the Lake Club in Bedford. The members of the Lake Club paid astronomical dues and fees to ensure that the finest chefs and groundskeepers were employed there. Its carefully manicured lawns and private gardens reminded me of Gstaad, Lake Forest, Saint-Tropez, places I had visited on my concert tours of Europe.
I was at “the club” for a party in late September. It was one of my first forays back into the real world.
I had to stop to catch my breath at the top of the steep fieldstone steps that led from the driveway to the main clubhouse. The last big party I had been to was for the opening of The Cornelia, and a memory of Patrick came back so clearly that tears welled up in my eyes.
“Damn,” I whispered.
Get a grip, Maggie
.
The beautiful lawn was filled with people. Dimly, I became aware of a wet bar, and a jazz combo playing quietly beside it. I said hello to a few Bedford residents, smiled at others whose names I should have known but didn’t. A Broadway producer took me aside to insist that I name a price and the talent I wanted around me for a show. I told him that the offer was flattering, but really premature, and that I would call him when I was ready. I was pressured by his intensity though, and began to feel an all-too-familiar anxiety building.
