House of Strangers (Harlequin Super Romance) (22 page)

Buddy motioned to the patrolman manning the front desk. “Pete, run over to Mr. Bouvet’s house and bring that picture back. Okay with you, Paul?”

He nodded.

While they waited, Ann continued, “It happened pretty much the way Paul thought.” She handed him the sheets of paper. She kept the more bulky parcel in her lap.

Reading Addy’s words, Paul could almost feel himself back in the house on that hot August afternoon. The day his mother died.

A
DDY AND
M
ARIBELLE
weren’t expecting company. When the doorbell rang, Maribelle had just come in from digging crabgrass out of her impatiens. She was wearing one of her dead husband’s old shirts and a pair of thread-bare pedal pushers. She tossed her straw hat on the hat rack, pulled off her gardening gloves and answered the door.

“Yes?”

The woman—girl, rather—at the door was a stranger. Pretty thing, but tired to the point of exhaustion. Too skinny, dark. She wore a black-and-white printed dress much too hot for August and black patent-leather pumps that must have been hell to walk in. She carried a cheap patent-leather handbag and wore short white cotton gloves.

“Sorry, no solicitors.” Maribelle was about to close the door when the young woman put out her hand. “No,
please, wait. I am not a solicitor. I wish to see Mr. Delaney.”

The sweat running down her face had streaked her makeup. She looked desperately hot.

Addy had come up behind her sister and peered over her shoulder.

The girl had a definite accent. French, Addy thought.

“I’m afraid Mr. Delaney is…not home at the moment,” Maribelle said.

Addy glanced at the back of her sister’s neck. Why not tell this child he was in Florida?

The girl looked about ready to faint.

“Perhaps I can help you?” Maribelle asked.

“
Non,
madame, it is only Monsieur Delaney who can help me.”

“You’re French, aren’t you.”

As if her accent didn’t proclaim it like a trumpet. “Yes.”

Addy shoved past her sister. “Did you know Mr. Delaney when he lived in France?”

“Yes, I did.” The girl swayed. “Madame, please, if I may trouble you? A glass of water? The heat—I am not used to it.”

“Of course,” Maribelle said. “Any friend of David’s is welcome. Please come in.”

The girl looked from Maribelle to Addy and apparently decided Maribelle must be some kind of gardener. She smiled at Addy as though she was the hostess. “Thank you.”

“Have a seat in the living room, my dear,” Maribelle said.

The girl looked from one sister to the other in confusion.

The heavy cream silk drapes in the living room had
been closed against the afternoon sun, so the room lay in shadow. Maribelle motioned the girl to an ornate beige sofa that faced the fireplace.

She sank onto the cushions gratefully, her handbag still over her wrist. Suddenly she stood up, moved quickly to a side table and picked up a photo in a silver frame. Her face broke into a smile. “Yes,” she whispered. “This is my David.”

“We’ve never had any of David’s acquaintances from France visit before. Was he expecting you?” Addy asked.

“
Non,
madame. I wished to surprise him.” She held the picture frame against her thin chest. “I shall be glad to see him. When will he return?”

Addy started to tell her a week, but a shake of Maribelle’s head stopped her.

“He’ll be along shortly,” Maribelle said. “Did you know him well, Miss…?”

The girl sat down on the sofa again, but this time she sat up straight. “My name is Michelle, madame, and it is Mrs.,” she said. “Mrs. Paul David Delaney.”

“I beg your pardon?” Addy said. She heard Maribelle’s sharp intake of breath.

“I said I am Mrs. Delaney.” The girl smiled at Addy. “He and I were married in France just before he was called to home to see his father.”

“Oh, dear,” Addy said.

Maribelle collapsed into the armchair behind her. “Nonsense,” she said.

“No, madame, I assure you it is not nonsense.” Her hands twisted on the clasp of her handbag. “I have the
livret de famille.
”

“What’s that?” Addy asked.

“The certificate of marriage, except that it is a small red book.”

“You have it with you?”

“
Non,
madame. It is put away, although it is quite simple to send for it.” She smiled at Addy. “I have told you who I am, madame. May I ask who you are?”

“I’m Addy Norwood.” Addy leaned across the coffee table and offered the girl her hand.

“And I,” said Maribelle, making no move to extend her hand in turn, “am Maribelle Delaney. I am David’s mother.”

Michelle sat back in embarrassment at choosing the wrong woman. “Oh. Then you are my
belle-mere
—my mother-in-law.”

“If what you say is true.”

“I assure you it is. When he comes home he will tell you.”

“David is—” Addy began.

Maribelle Delaney cut her off. “My son is working in the fields this time in August. He may be quite late. Perhaps you would prefer to go to your hotel and let me have him call you when he comes in.”

“I have no hotel, madame. I have just arrived.”

“Why on earth did you take so long?” Addy asked, despite a withering glance from Maribelle. “He’s been home more than five years.”

“It is complicated, madame. David will explain it all when I see him.”

“Well,” Maribelle said, “it’s a shock. I can’t deny that.” Suddenly she smiled. “To have a French daughter-in-law is certainly unusual around here.” She patted Michelle’s hand. “Quite a treat, in fact. You’ve made me forget my manners. You wanted a glass of water. We can do better than that. Addy, is that pitcher of lemonade still in the refrigerator?”

“Yes, Maribelle. Shall I get it?”

Maribelle stood. “No, I’ll get it. I admit I need a little time by myself to take all this in. Excuse me, my dear.”

Addy didn’t know what Maribelle was up to, but this sudden display of charm meant she was planning some devilment.

Purely to make conversation, Addy said, “Michelle, is it? That is a lovely dress. Is it French?”

The girl had a sweet smile. If she married David just before he came home from Paris, she couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen at the time.

“My mother worked as a seamstress when I was little. She taught me to sew. I make all my own clothes and some for my…friends.”

Addy was certain she hadn’t meant to say friends. “You made that lovely dress?”

“Dresses are too expensive to buy.”

“And you did all those bound buttonholes by hand? And the buttons! How lovely and unusual. Are they antique?”

“Not quite, but they are old. They are handmade. See, each is different.” She proudly showed the tiny creatures on the buttons.

Maribelle came back into the room carrying a tray on which an enormous cut-glass pitcher sat among three equally elegant glasses filled with ice. The girl waited politely until she was handed a glass and a lace doily on which to set it, then waited to drink until both the older women had taken sips.

Maribelle leaned forward chummily. “How did you and David meet? Surely you can’t be old enough to have been married long.”

“I was barely eighteen when we married, madame.”

“Please, call me Maribelle. Madame sounds so formal from the newest member of the family.”

Addy stared at her sister. This girl, a member of the family? Just like that? Addy didn’t think so for a minute.

“He lived in a small studio in our neighborhood,” Michelle said. “I worked for my father. He owns a shop that makes confections and has a small café. David came in from time to time to eat and to buy
marrons glacés
—candied chestnuts.”

“Oh, yes, he adores
marrons.
”

“I posed for him.”

“Ah.” Maribelle nodded as though everything had just been explained to her satisfaction. “You’re an artist’s model.”

“Oh, no, madame.
Pas du tout.
Not at all. I posed for him—with all my clothes on. He wanted more, of course, but my father would have been scandalized. We fell in love.”

“I see. Of course he would be enchanted by such a lovely creature.”

Somehow Maribelle made the word
creature
sound ugly.

“He wanted me to…” Michelle was blushing. “But I believe that a woman should go to her marriage bed a virgin.”

“Admirable. So he married you. How on earth did you manage it?”

“He had his
carte d’identité
with his Paris address. The banns were posted in his
arondissement
where my parents would be unlikely to see them.”

“Your English is very good.”

“Thank you, madame. If I had not married David, I would have gone to the Sorbonne. I wished to be a simultaneous translator.”

“So you were married without telling your parents?”

“We were both over eighteen. We did not need permission.”

Was there a slight jut to that pretty jaw? Was she reminding Maribelle that her husband didn’t need his parents’ permission to marry, either?

“We agreed to keep the marriage a secret so that I could continue to live at home. David’s studio was not acceptable for two.”

“Secret from us, as well, it would seem.”

“He said he must break it to his parents gently. So when he was called home, he said he would tell them—you—and return to Paris as soon as he could.”

“To stay?”

“Oh, yes. He didn’t want to live in America. He wanted to paint and to make statues. He had already painted several of the people in the neighborhood for small commissions. He would have progressed quickly. He is a wonderful portraitist. Then when he didn’t come back, I tried to get in touch with him, but I could not. There was something not right about the address he gave me for his home here.”

“I’ll bet there was,” Maribelle whispered.

From the way the girl stiffened, Addy thought she’d both heard and understood the comment.

“So I assume you got a divorce?” Maribelle asked.

“Oh, no, madame. I do not believe in divorce, and I would never divorce David. I love him. And I know he loves me.”

“If he loved you, my dear, he would have given you his correct address, surely. And he would have come back for you,” Addy said. She felt genuinely sorry for this child. “Instead, he disappeared and I’m sure hurt you terribly.”

“I know that when I see David he will explain.” It was obvious she was trying not to cry.

“No doubt he will. To both of us.” Maribelle said dryly. “I don’t know about you, but I definitely need some more lemonade.” She drained her glass, picked up the pitcher and went toward the kitchen. As she reached the hall doorway she turned. “I suspect a French divorce is extremely expensive, isn’t it?” Then she walked out.

The girl whispered to Addy, “She thinks I came for money, but I did not. I know David still loves me, and I have one weapon he cannot resist. One look into my eyes, one touch, one kiss, and he will be mine again, whatever has happened between.” The chin definitely jutted now. So she planned to defy Maribelle? A dangerous game for one so unsophisticated.

“Can you call him on the telephone?” the girl asked. “And give him some reason to come home?”

“He’s out in the fields, dear,” Addy said, taking her cue from Maribelle. “He can’t be reached by phone.”

Maribelle came back through the front hall carrying the pitcher by its heavy handle. “You deserve to be paid for your pain and suffering. And of course to live in Paris in comfort. No doubt we can come to some arrangement so that you can go back to Paris and arrange a quiet divorce like your quiet marriage.”

Now there was no mistaking the steel in the girl’s dark eyes. She would be a formidable opponent for Maribelle. She had the strength of her love to rely on. Poor romantic little thing. She had no idea how much heartbreak she was in for. Sooner or later they’d have to tell her that David had married again and had a son.

The girl half turned on the sofa to look back at Maribelle. “I know that you mean well, madame,” she said. “But I did not come for money. I came for my husband.”

“I see,” Maribelle said. “Of course I understand precisely how you feel.”

Maribelle took one step toward the girl, raised the pitcher and brought it down on the girl’s skull. The jug exploded in her hand. She stood there clutching the handle while glass and lemonade cascaded around her.

For a moment the girl was motionless, then she crumpled forward from the waist and slid in a heap between the sofa and the coffee table.

“What have you done?” Addy screamed and dropped to her knees beside the girl. “My God, the poor child! Call an ambulance!”

“Sit down and shut up, Addy.” Maribelle kicked aside the shards of glass at her feet. “She fell on the Oriental rug, thank God. We’d never be able to get blood out of that yellow silk upholstery.”

Addy reached for the girl’s wrist. Her eyes were open, her mouth slack. A thin trickle of blood oozed onto her forehead from under the dark hair. “Belle, I don’t think she’s breathing. Why on earth did you hit her?”

“Seemed the best thing to do,” Maribelle said evenly, and came around to kneel on Michelle’s other side. She stuck her fingers expertly beneath the girl’s chin. “No pulse. Not much blood. Must have died almost instantly, otherwise you know how scalp wounds bleed—the rug would be soaked.”

“Dead? Maribelle, what on earth have you done?” Addy pulled herself to her feet but dropped immediately into her chair. “We have to call the police. You didn’t mean to do it—”

“Of course I meant to do it, you idiot.”

“What if somebody knows she’s here?”

“If somebody comes looking for her, we’ll say we never saw her.”

“And if somebody in town saw her come into the house?”

“Four o’clock on a hot August afternoon? Don’t be ridiculous. They’re all on their back porches trying to keep cool. She never came to our door. We never saw her. Period. Never heard of her.”

“And what about David?”

“He won’t be back in Rossiter for another two weeks. He’ll never know she came.”

“And Esther? What about Esther? She’ll see the mess.”