Naked Once More (43 page)

Her purse lay on the floor where it had fallen when Paul grabbed her. She sat down beside it, picked it up, and upended it. The loud clatter of falling objects brought Lucifer running. He batted at a lipstick and pursued it across the room.

Jacqueline rummaged among the litter on the floor. The sealed packet had better go back into her purse. It would be safer there than hidden in a house that appeared to be far from burglarproof. She dumped her personal belongings in after it, leaving to one side the folders St. John and Craig had given her and the books she had taken from Kathleen’s library.

Having lost the lipstick under a chair, Lucifer returned in search of another toy. For reasons known only to himself he selected Jacqueline’s car keys, which he carried off in his mouth. Jacqueline watched him abstractedly. Keys again. There were two incidents in which the matter of a key figured most prominently. In both cases… yes, it was possible.

She took the folders and books to the desk and collected the rest of the things she needed. The letters first. After sorting them, she studied the separate piles thoughtfully.

St. John, Craig, and—by his own admission—Paul had received letters purporting to be from Kathleen. Although he had refused to let her see his letter, Paul had admitted it included charges of treachery and deceit. “Now they are trying to steal my book…” Something along that line. The letters to Craig and St. John repeated the charge. Both were postmarked New York City and both had been written after the announcement of Jacqueline’s selection as the writer of the sequel.

The letter Sarah had found in Stokes’s mail bore the same signature. It would have been strange if Stokes had not received one; for if the writer of the letter suspected a conspiracy, Kathleen’s agent must have been involved.

Jacqueline had not heard from “Kathleen.” Instead, she—and to the best of her knowledge, she alone—had the two letters from Amicus Justitiae.

Frowning slightly, Jacqueline gathered the letters together and put them aside. Nothing conflicted with the theory she had concocted, but there were a lot of gaps that depended on pure surmise.

Now, what had she done with the other books? For a wonder they were where she remembered putting them, on a table next to the typewriter. Settling her glasses firmly on the bridge of her nose, Jacqueline sat back and began to read.

It was after 1
A.M.
by the time she finished, but it had been time well spent. The evidence was there, clear as print—in print, literally. There were only a few loose ends remaining. Jacqueline eyed the telephone as hungrily as a dieter yearning for a chocolate bar. People were so unpleasant when you woke them up in the middle of the night. It would be more tactful, she supposed, to wait until morning, but the suspense was wearing on her. What the devil had happened to Brunnhilde?

Sarah didn’t know. “I tried my damnedest, Jacqueline, honestly. I found her number in Bootsie’s little black book.… No, no, I mean his telephone book. He was her agent once, did you know that?”

“Everybody was once Brunnhilde’s agent, she goes through them like the Grim Reaper. What’s the number?”

The only sound that followed was that of a long painful inhalation. Jacqueline identified it as a yawn. “You weren’t asleep, were you?” she asked.

“Asleep? Me? At six-thirty in the morning? Perish the thought.”

“It’s a quarter to seven. ‘The bird’s on the wind, / The morning’s dew pearled—’ ”

“Not here, it isn’t. Looks like rain.”

Jacqueline glanced at the window. It looked like rain there as well. The clouds were charcoal gray. “The number,” she repeated.

“I already called. Got her answering machine; she ‘can’t come to the phone right now.’ ”

“That’s no help,” Jacqueline grumbled. “She could have been in the bathroom or in Timbuktu.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll keep trying.”

“What about the others?”

“You won’t believe this,” Sarah began.

“I will if it’s bad news. That’s the only kind I ever get. Don’t tell me; nobody is at home.”

“Well, Jacqueline, people do travel. Writers especially, they’re always off on publicity tours or doing research. Please, can I go back to sleep now?”

Grudgingly Jacqueline agreed that she could. She hung up, debated as to whether she should call Chris, and decided to give him another hour. The inn started serving breakfast at seven, so someone ought to be awake there.

Mollie answered the phone. “How are you feeling?” Jacqueline asked. “Are you in bed with your saltines?”

Mollie giggled. “No, but I was. It really helps, Jacqueline. And Tom insisted I go to the doctor and ask for some medicine, he said you said I should, and I feel a lot better. He’s so sweet to me.”

Jacqueline was glad Mollie couldn’t see her expression. “So he should be. What’s going on over there?”

“They’re back.”

“Both of them?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I knew I couldn’t trust that rat to keep his word,” Jacqueline muttered. “I’ll have to think of something else. What about Paul Spencer?”

“I haven’t heard anything since last night. I guess they haven’t found him. I’ve really been worrying about you, Jacqueline, and I think you ought to move over to the inn. It just isn’t safe—”

“I’ll think about it tomorrow,” said Jacqueline. “Mollie, I want to give a party tonight. Will you tell Tom? Cocktails at five-thirty, dinner at seven, for…” She counted on her fingers. “For thirteen people.”

“Thirteen?” Mollie repeated.

“Yes.” Jacqueline’s lips curled into a sardonic smile. It was an odd coincidence that her guest list added up to such an ominous number. For at least one of the group, the omen would be fulfilled. “Including you and Tom,” she went on. “I’d like you to join me.”

“Oh, Jacqueline, that’s very sweet of you, but I don’t think Tom would leave the kitchen, he doesn’t trust anybody to—”

“Tell him,” said Jacqueline, “that I insist. Another thing—can you lend me that nice young man who helped me with the groceries? He can finish his breakfast chores first. Just give him the key to the padlock… there is another key, I presume?”

“Yes, I have it. And, Jacqueline, Tom told me what you asked, about the keys, and I swear neither of them, the one for the padlock and the one for the cottage door, has ever been out of my possession. I even take them to bed with me at night. Nobody could possibly—”

“I believe you,” Jacqueline said quickly. Was Mollie so naive she didn’t realize how damning that assertion was?

After she had hung up she went to her desk and began writing notes. I should have bought some fancy stationery, she thought, scribbling. Something with pansies on it. Or deadly nightshade.

She had not quite finished when the phone rang. She picked it up. “Oh, Chris, I was just going to call you. Any news?”

“Evelyn is making grape jelly.”

“Please don’t do that, Chris,” Jacqueline said seriously. “It makes me want to say rude, vulgar things to you.”

“But that is all the news, I’m sorry to say.”

“Oh, damn. You haven’t located Brunnhilde?”

“Nobody in New York has seen her for over a week. Either she is holed up in her apartment and not answering the phone, or she is out of town. The others—”

“I know, I know. They are all out of town too. I’m not as much concerned about them as I am about Brunnhilde. She could be in danger.”

“If that is meant to spur me to greater efforts, you are wasting your time. There are several million people whose welfare concerns me more than does that of Brunnhilde Karlsdottir. However,” Chris went on, “I do have a suggestion. It came to me this morning. What’s the one adjective that comes to mind when you think of Brunnhilde?”

“Crude, vulgar, untalented… Oh. You mean fat?”

“Think about it,” Chris advised.

Jacqueline thought about it. A slow, dreamy smile spread across her face. “Chris, you’re a genius.”

“I know. Anything else I can do for you?”

“No, sweetie. Unless… No.”

“What?” Chris demanded suspiciously.

“I’m giving a little party this evening. Your presence would, of course, add immeasurably to the pleasure of the occasion, but it would be impossible for you to make it. Don’t even try.”

“I’ve no intention of doing so. What are you celebrating? Have you finished the outline? No, it can’t be that. Why are you so anxious to have Brunnhilde… I don’t like the sound of this, Jacqueline. What are you up to?”

“I have to hang up now, Chris. There’s somebody at the door. I’ll tell you all about my lovely party tomorrow.”

She hung up the phone before she murmured to herself, “Unless, of course, you read all about it in the newspapers first.”

The busboy’s name was Kevin, and he expressed himself as more than happy to assist her in any low-down scheme she proposed (though not in those precise words). “That damn—excuse me—that son-of… excuse me! That guy tried to bribe me!” he exclaimed indignantly. “His car is practically blocking the gate, and he offered me ten bucks to leave it open.”

“That really is insulting,” said Jacqueline, licking envelopes. “Don’t take a nickel less than fifty. Kevin, I really appreciate your help. I want you to deliver these letters for me. Here’s the list; do you know these people, where they live?”

Kevin reckoned as how he did. “I don’t know about Mr. Darcy, though. They say he’s got the place locked up like a jailhouse and won’t let anybody in.”

“You’ll have to get in somehow,” Jacqueline said. “I want you to wait for a reply, verbal or written. If you go around the fence to the south side…” She described the place where Marybee had showed her the great big hole in said fence. “Try the kitchen door, and tell the cook, or whoever answers your knock, that the letter is from me. Okay?”

“Okay.” He looked again at the list. “One for Sherri too?”

Something in his voice aroused Jacqueline’s curiosity. “Do you know her?”

“I used to. When we were in high school. Haven’t seen much of her since graduation.”

“She comes to the inn, though.”

“Not to see me.”

Jacqueline was wise enough to remain silent. After a moment Kevin went on. “I’m not going to be a busboy all my life. I’m in my second year at the community college, in business administration. That’s why I work here; it gives me time off during the day to go to class.”

“Good for you. I hope you aren’t going to miss a class or an exam on my account. Your schoolwork is more important.”

“Oh, no, ma’am, this won’t take long. Is there anything else you want me to do?”

“Now that you mention it…”

He balked, as Jacqueline had expected he would, at the idea of wearing her hooded raincoat and carrying one of her purses. He was eventually persuaded, however, and Jacqueline did not insult him by offering him more money. She had another argument with him about swapping cars. “You can’t drive that heap of mine, ma’am,” he protested. “The tires are practically bald, and the radiator leaks, and—”

“I’ve driven worse,” Jacqueline said. “Don’t argue, Kevin, we’re wasting time. As soon as you’re through the gate, run for it; he’ll intercept you if he can, and if he sees your face, that’s it. Get in the car, lock it, and take off, before he can get a good look at you.”

She studied the effect critically as she followed him down the path. The purse, loaded with books to give it the necessary weight, was the only convincing touch; though they were about the same height, only a myopic astigmatic could have mistaken the young man’s carriage and walk for hers. He wouldn’t be walking, though, he’d be running like a bat out of hell, and he was wearing her coat and going to her car. With luck, it might work.

She unlocked the padlock, gave Kevin a grin and a thumbs-up sign, and opened the gate just far enough to let him slip through.

I could run like that once, Jacqueline thought nostalgically, as she watched him go. Ah, youth! Muscles and digestion were the only advantages to that stage in life, though; in all other ways, youth had little to recommend it.

Crude as the deception was, it worked. MacDonnell started to get out of the car, wavered indecisively, swore inventively, got back in the car, and went in pursuit. Driving with a panache Jacqueline would not have dared emulate, Kevin was already out of sight.

His jalopy wasn’t the most decrepit vehicle Jacqueline had ever driven. One of her son’s had been worse. It had had no windshield, and the brakes only worked on rainy Tuesdays. Kevin’s was marginally better. It pulled insistently to the right, and the muffler was either full of holes or missing. The gas gauge rested on empty. Jacqueline had expected that; David’s cars—and her own, after David had borrowed it—had always been out of gas. It was little short of witchcraft, the way a teenager driving a parent’s car could get it back into the home driveway just as the tank ran dry.

She stopped at Joe’s Exxon, where she was greeted with mingled amusement and commiseration by Joe. “Geez, Miz Kirby, I hope you ain’t planning on going very far. Sounds like the transmission’s about shot. Something happen to your car?”

“No, I’m in disguise. I don’t suppose you have a rental.”

“Sorry. That reporter got one and the other needs a new water pump. If you could wait a couple of hours…”

“I can’t. Never mind, I’ll be all right.”

It was almost noon before she reached her destination. The car started to shake violently whenever she pushed it over forty-five. The dilatory pace she was forced to set rubbed Jacqueline’s nerves ragged. She was vexed with herself. Why hadn’t it occurred to her that Brunnhilde might be staying at Willowland? The place was famous for the quality and quantity of the food, and in a normal car it was only an hour and a half’s drive from Pine Grove. It had an additional, psychological advantage in that one did not think of it as a hotel. As a spa and health center it was nationally famous, but visitors were not obliged to participate in sports or make use of the exercise facilities. Some people went there just to eat and sleep and rest—as Booton Stokes had done. It was Brunnhilde’s kind of place. Jacqueline would have been willing to bet she had been staying at Willowland seven years earlier, when she wrote Kathleen Darcy that she was in the area.