Naked Once More (31 page)

Jacqueline couldn’t decide which infuriated her more, the ghastly photograph (she had been threatening a nosy reporter, now that she remembered) or the hated nickname. She wasn’t particularly perturbed by the story itself. It was a wonder the scandal sheets hadn’t picked up the curse long before. They must be running low on teenagers impregnated by aliens from outer space.

Sitting cross-legged, she read the text with critical interest. It was rather well done, if you liked that sort of thing. The photo on the inside was a reproduction of the one Booton had in his office, showing him with his arm around Kathleen’s slim shoulders. The caption under it inquired ominously, “Did you laugh too soon, Boots?”

The story was only a rehash of known facts: Kathleen’s “mysterious disappearance” (snatched away and impregnated by aliens from outer space, probably, Jacqueline thought) and the tragic accident that had killed the youthful stars of the film. To juice up the story, the
Sludge
had raked up two unrelated deaths: that of the art director of the film from AIDS, five years after Kathleen’s disappearance, and the drowning of one of the bit players during a party on someone’s yacht.

So that was why the reporter at the inn had turned up. He was probably hoping Jacqueline would stub her toe or lose her glasses. “Horrors, the curse strikes again!” And he was almost certainly only the first of several. Jacqueline swore luridly. What could she do to get them off the track and out of Pine Grove? She couldn’t sit here under siege indefinitely, she had things to do.

“I’ll think about that tomorrow,” she declared to the empty room. “La-LA-la-la, La-LA-la-la. After all, tomorrow is…”

She shuffled through the rest of the mail, putting most of it aside, and pouncing eagerly on one letter. The format was the same: a standard business-sized envelope, with no return address; her name handwritten; her address added below in Marilyn’s hand. Marilyn must have forwarded this before she had received Jacqueline’s call asking her to send on the outer envelope.

Amicus Justitiae wrote with professional skill. “One of those closest to Kathleen Darcy plotted her death. You too have the reputation of being a friend of justice, Mrs. Kirby. Do you think it right or just that a murderer should profit from the death of his victim? Do you think it right or just that you should do so?”

There was only one possible answer to those questions, Jacqueline thought. If there were only some way she could communicate, offer an alliance.…

She jumped up and went to the telephone.

Marilyn was getting dinner. “That’s okay, no problem, Jacqueline. What can I do for you?”

Jacqueline had to spell “justitiae.” “Yes, the personals of the New York papers, to run for a week—as soon as you can. And Marilyn, about the letters you’ve been forwarding…”

Marilyn had started enclosing the envelopes as soon as Jacqueline asked her to do so. Since mail took several days to reach the wilds of Pine Grove, some might have been sent before she had received the request. No, she was sorry, she couldn’t remember.… Had Jacqueline by chance seen the latest issue of the
Sludge
? Oh, then she wouldn’t bother sending a copy. Wasn’t it a scream?

“Yeah,” said Jacqueline. “Thanks, Marilyn.”

So that was taken care of. The advertisement was a forlorn hope but it was worth a try.

A glance at the clock informed her that it was indeed approaching the dinner hour. Probably too late to catch people in their offices. But at least she could now switch from Coke to something more stimulating. She attended to that matter before returning to the telephone. A little vodka made verbal intercourse with Booton Stokes much easier. She doubted that even vodka could help with the other kind.

Booton wasn’t at the office, or at home. Jacqueline got the number of Willowland from the local operator, and called there. Yes, they were expecting Mr. Stokes. He had not yet arrived. Would she care to leave a message?

She would not. She wanted to discuss the latest press outrage now, not prompt Booton to bother her later when she was no longer in the mood. There was no one at home at Sarah’s except her answering machine. She’s probably dallying with O’Brien, Jacqueline thought unjustly. Chris didn’t answer his phone either. He was probably dallying with Evelyn. It was a hell of a note when a poor hardworking author couldn’t get in touch with any of her agents, past, present, and future.

Her motive for calling Ronald Craig Junior was not clear even to herself. It was bad policy in general to leave people loathing you, especially when you might want to make use of them at a future date. However, it is entirely possible that Jacqueline had something other than reconciliation in mind.

A woman answered the phone and informed her that Mr. Craig was unavailable at the moment but would be glad to return her call. Jacqueline recognized this as the conventional response of a woman who is alone in the house and doesn’t want burglars to know it; she felt fairly sure Craig was out. She murmured, “I’m afraid he wouldn’t be able to reach me. Do you have any idea when he will be… available?”

Her respondent took the bait, rather too readily for a wife whose trust in her husband has never been tried. “May I ask who is calling?” she asked sharply.

“Tell him Jackie,” Jacqueline cooed. “I’ll try him again later.”

That was not nice of you, she told herself, as she hung up the phone. But where was jolly Ronnie Craig, anyway? He ought to be home with his wife and kiddies. A second wife, she deduced. Jolly Ronnie had an adult son, but the sounds resonating in the background had been those of juvenile combat.

The phone rang and she picked it up. Mollie, she supposed, wanting to make certain the basket had arrived safely.

Instead Mollie exclaimed breathlessly, “I’ve been trying to reach you, Jacqueline. Your line has been busy.”

“I know,” Jacqueline said.

“Oh, you were talking? I thought maybe the line was out of order, and he was so urgent, he said he had to talk to you, so I decided to try once more and if you didn’t answer—”

“Who was it? Mr. Stokes?”

“No. Oh, well, he did call a while back and left a number, but he said it wasn’t important. No, it was Paul Spencer. I promised him I’d call you right away, but you were on the phone, and he sounded—”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Jacqueline said patiently. “Thank you. You aren’t calling from the lobby, I hope?”

“Well, yes, I am, but it’s all right.
He
’s in the dining room eating dinner. There’s another one with him!”

“Another one, eh? Male or female?”

“It’s a woman. I think she’s a photographer, Jacqueline. She’s got one of those big bags like camera enthusiasts carry. My brother… What did you say?”

“I said a naughty word,” Jacqueline admitted. “Photographers are even more dangerous than reporters. If she unlimbers her camera, make sure you duck.”

“I’ll try,” Mollie said doubtfully. “They’ve had three martinis apiece already.”

“I have yet to meet a reporter who couldn’t arise from a drunken stupor if he sensed a story,” Jacqueline said. “They should be occupied for a few hours, though.”

“They’ve taken rooms for the night. I’m sorry, I couldn’t think of any way of refusing—”

“Why should you? Take them for every penny you can get.”

“I’ll send you another Care package, shall I?”

“You sent enough food for three days. I don’t intend to stick my nose out the door tonight, so relax and don’t worry about me. Tell Tom he needn’t stand guard.”

Smiling, she rang off. Mollie seemed to be enjoying her role, but she deserved a present all the same. A dress, Jacqueline thought. A pretty, stylish maternity dress. I’ll send for a catalog. She’s about a size twelve; not that it matters, with maternity dresses.…

She was dialing even as she planned the make-over of Mollie. Paul must have been waiting for her call; he picked up on the first ring. After Jacqueline had identified herself, there was a long silence.

“Well?” she said. “You called me first.”

“I know. I’m trying to think how to put it so you won’t hang up on me.”

“Ah. You’ve spoken with Jan.”

“She’s pretty upset. Now don’t hang up,” he added quickly. “That wasn’t meant as a reproach. It wasn’t your fault.”

It was not a point Jacqueline cared to discuss. “If you didn’t want to yell at me, why did you call?”

“I’d like to talk to you. A relaxed, friendly, private talk. What about dinner tonight?”

“Isn’t it rather late?”

“I thought you city slickers didn’t dine till eight or nine.”

Jacqueline hesitated. “I really can’t, Paul,” she said. “There’s something… Some work I need to do tonight. Anyway, I’m besieged. A reporter from one of those sleaze journals is lying in wait for me. Can it wait until tomorrow?”

“It’s waited seven years. I guess another day won’t matter.”

“Paul—”

“No, it’s all right. I sure as hell don’t want the media on our trail. Do you think you can lose them tomorrow?”

“I think so. When and where?”

“We could have dinner here, at my place.” Paul added, in an odd voice, “It’s private enough. Got a pencil?”

Jacqueline began writing down the directions. After a few sentences her fingers tightened on the pen and she stopped writing. “What… Oh, I see. All right. I’ll call if there’s any difficulty with the press. Good night.”

So the new driveway on the lonely road, the house that had been built in the last seven years, belonged to Paul Spencer. It figures, Jacqueline thought, staring at the paper on which she had written the directions, and considering her options. They were somewhat limited: to go or not to go.

The bird-brained heroine of a certain type of romance novel would go, blithely disregarding the possibility that the man awaiting her might be the villain instead of the hero. Of course heroines of that ilk could count on being rescued—though Jacqueline had always wondered why a hero who hoped for mentally competent progeny would bother saving a woman so feeble-witted.

A sensible woman would stay at home with her unfinished outline and her crocheting.

However—Jacqueline told herself—Paul Spencer was no more a typical romance-novel character than she was. If he wanted to lure a lady to a fatal rendezvous, he wouldn’t give her twenty-four hours’ notice, ample time in which to take precautions and notify several dozen people of her plans.

Both of which Jacqueline fully intended to do, though she really didn’t think Paul had invited her to dinner for the purpose of murdering her. She would be sadly disappointed in him if that proved to be the case.

It was after 10
P.M.
when she crept out the door of the cottage and took a circuitous route toward the gate. There was a moon, but it was too small and slim to assist vision. Hanging low over the dim outlines of the mountains, it was as pretty as a silver pendant on a midnight-blue velvet gown. Stars sequined the sky; a cool breeze rustled the dried leaves. A perfect night for spies—and for lovers.

The lovers of the previous night had not got far along before her screams interrupted the proceedings; she doubted Tom had even taken off his shirt, it would have been difficult to fasten the buttons and tuck it in while running. And if he had returned to carry on where he left off, after seeing her to her door, he had more guts than she would have had. Her screams might have aroused the whole inn, including Mollie. Suffering the frustration of passion unfulfilled, the lovers might well take another crack at it tonight, especially when the source of the interruption had declared her intention of remaining indoors. It was worth a chance, at any rate, to quote Jacqueline’s favorite proverb.

The kitchen lights still shone. Jacqueline settled herself behind the gate on a folding stool she had brought with her, wondering why the hades she was wasting her time on this side issue. Could it be—was it possible—that she was just plain nosy, as some people had claimed? Yes, it was, Jacqueline decided. And one never knew when a seemingly useless piece of information could turn out to be the missing piece of a puzzle.

Tom had replaced the bulb in the fixture outside the kitchen door. Was it only a coincidence that it had burned out the previous night? Jacqueline didn’t think so. The parking lot held a dozen or more cars, some belonging to the help, some to overnight guests. The dining room officially closed at eleven on weeknights. Jacqueline’s eyes focused on the tan Plymouth parked next to her car. After a while she saw a tiny flare of light from inside it, and smiled to herself. Another smoker. Such a nasty, inconvenient habit.

A little later the car door opened and a man got out. Bald, tall, ears… check. He stretched, looked around, shrugged, and headed for the door of the inn. Nice for Mollie and Tom to have so many guests. I should have told her to charge them double, Jacqueline thought.

Fifteen minutes later the kitchen lights went out. Two of the employees emerged, got in their cars, and drove away. Jacqueline lit a cigarette, shielding her lighter with her hand. She puffed in contented silence until the back door opened again.

She could have crowed with satisfaction. It was Tom, wearing a tan raincoat and carrying a plastic trash bag. Jacqueline’s lip curled in contempt. Dumping the trash was a rotten excuse. He should have established the habit of going for a nice long walk, to unwind after the evening’s labors. The raincoat was a dead giveaway too, on a nice clear night like this.

Tom stood still, looking around. The light shone full on his face, stroking black shadows under his high cheekbones and highlighting the strong curve of his jaw. He was a handsome devil, all right. Jacqueline felt a surge of sympathy for the woman waiting in the trees. For Tom himself she felt only contempt. Impartiality was not one of her virtues.

He hadn’t the patience to wait long. The fires of love flamed bright, Jacqueline thought. “Hawkscliffe’s lusty manhood surged.…” Oh, stop it, Kirby.

Tom crossed the parking lot, tossed the trash bag into the dumpster, and disappeared through the garden gate. Jacqueline waited for a few seconds and then followed.

She had not gone far before she heard them. They were talking in whispers; the sibilants carried a long way. Stupid, Jacqueline thought. “Don’t talk of love… Don’t talk at all.” She bit her tongue to repress the hum rising in her throat and crept on.