Naked Once More (45 page)

“I’ll get a wheelchair.”

The nurse left and Brunnhilde turned bloodshot eyes toward Jacqueline. “Damn you, Kirby. You did it, I know you did; I never overeat.”

“Why, Zelekash! If you are implying that I added a noxious substance to your food, let me point out that I had no opportunity to do so. But Booton did.”

“He wouldn’t…”

“Wouldn’t he?” Jacqueline took her by the shoulders and tried to shake her—a difficult task, given their comparative sizes. “Do you want to be his next victim?”

“Next—what?”

“You knew Jan Wilson—the owner of Betty’s Bookshop in Pine Grove. She’s dead, murdered—by someone who thought she knew too much about Kathleen Darcy. How much do you know, Brunnhilde? How much does he think you know?”

“Nothing,” Brunnhilde gasped. “Nothing. I didn’t mean to…” She caught herself, passed a pale tongue over her dry lips.

“You and Bootsie had a deal, didn’t you? Before I came on the scene. Then he backed out of it, or denied he’d made it. You found out I had an appointment with him—who was your stooge, that brassy-haired secretary?—and realized he had double-crossed you. You used that very word when you burst into the office and threatened him and me.”

“I—uh—I’m going to throw up!”

“No, you’re not. I forbid you to throw up. Did you have a deal or didn’t you?”

“Yes!” Brunnhilde burst into tears. “Leave me alone, Kirby, you nasty, mean, sadistic bitch! I’m sick, I’m dying—”

“That is precisely the condition from which I am attempting to save you,” Jacqueline snapped. “Dying. Zel—Brunnhilde, make up your mind and make it up fast; I hear somebody coming. Stick around and take your chances with Bootsie, or trust yourself to me. If you’re smart, you’ll get the hell out of here as soon as you can. Don’t let Boots see you leave. Come to the inn at Pine Grove. I’ll be waiting for you in the lounge at five-thirty.”

“You already asked him—”

The door opened; an attendant pushed in a wheelchair. Jacqueline rose to her feet. “I’ll un-ask him. It’ll be you and me against the world, Zel baby. Here are the nice men in the white coats to take care of you. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Brunnhilde nodded.

On the return trip Jacqueline pushed the old car to its limits and slightly beyond. She thought she had got the hang of the steering now; the trick was to keep the wheel turned left all the time.

She sang aloud as she drove. She had accomplished her purpose, and, what was more, she had not lied any more than was strictly necessary. Her speech to Brunnhilde had been, if she did say it herself, a masterpiece of innuendo and suggestion. Naturally she had not “un-asked” Booton. He was only too anxious to have a serious talk with her.

As for Brunnhilde, she had only herself to blame. If she were not so stupid, suspicious and stubborn, it would have been possible to reason with her instead of pouring ipecac on her cake. If she were not so horribly greedy, she wouldn’t have eaten the second dessert, or gulped it down so fast she failed to notice there was something wrong with it.

Talk about poetic justice, Jacqueline thought complacently. I might not have thought of using it if Brunnhilde hadn’t done it to me first. And wasn’t it lucky I bought a bottle for Chris, and then forgot to give it to him. Sometimes the way things work out is little short of providential.

Her car was in the parking lot behind the inn when she got there. Jacqueline maneuvered her borrowed vehicle into an empty space and abandoned it with considerable relief. She left Kevin’s keys in the ignition, as he had suggested. It was perfectly safe to do so; no thief in his right mind would steal that car.

She found Kevin in the kitchen, helping with the preparations for dinner. “Hey,” he said, brightening. “You made it.”

“Of course. How about you?”

Kevin drew her to one side and lowered his voice. “They all said okay. I saw Mr. Craig and Miz Smith in person. Mr. Darcy wouldn’t let me in, but he sent a note.” He dug in his pocket and produced a crumpled envelope.

Jacqueline scanned the contents in a single glance. As usual, St. John was incredibly long-winded. The gist of it was that he accepted her invitation and would bring Sherri, though he could not imagine why Jacqueline wanted her. He had assumed, when she first made the suggestion, that it would be just the two of them.…

“Ha,” said Jacqueline, tossing the note into the nearest trash can. “Thanks, Kevin, we’ll settle accounts later, okay? Now I need to talk to Tom.”

“He should be along pretty soon. Mollie wasn’t feeling good. He said he was going to take her some tea.”

“Well, well,” said Jacqueline. “Isn’t that sweet.” She went to the dining room door and opened it.

“That reporter is in the parlor,” Kevin warned. “He’s in a pretty mean mood, Miz Kirby. He was right behind me when I got to the Darcy place, and when I got out of the car he saw it wasn’t you, and he got really mad. Offered me twenty to say where you’d gone.”

“I hope you asked for fifty. I think it’s time I had another little talk with Mr. MacDonnell. But first I want to settle the arrangements for this evening.”

“There’s Tom,” Kevin said. “I better get back to the kitchen.”

Jacqueline advanced to meet her host. She was happy to see that he looked a trifle hunted. “Mollie told you about my little party, I assume,” she said.

“Yes. Who… I mean, do you mind my asking—”

“They will be arriving between five-thirty and six. Now what I want, Tom, is a nice quiet corner where we can sit and talk, and have a few drinks, for about an hour. The lounge won’t do; it’s really part of the dining room, and not private enough.”

“There isn’t any other place,” Tom said. “It was nice of you to ask me, Mrs. Kirby, but I can’t take the time—”

“What about the parlor?” Jacqueline led the way, with Tom trailing behind. “It would do nicely. Push the chairs and sofa in front of the fireplace, and move the TV to the other end of the room. And, of course, get rid of the bums.” She smiled sweetly at MacDonnell, who was sprawled on the sofa reading a magazine. He smiled sweetly back. “This is a public room, Mrs. Kirby, and I’m a guest. Just try and throw me out.”

“He’s right, Mrs. Kirby,” Tom said. “And what about Mrs. Swenson? She always watches the news, she’ll have a fit if I try to keep her out.”

“I don’t mind Mrs. Swenson,” Jacqueline said. “She’s too deaf to eavesdrop, and the noise of the television will prevent others from doing so. Oh, and Tom—I want Kevin to be our waiter.”

“Kevin? He’s no waiter, he’s a busboy.”

“He’ll do just fine,” Jacqueline said. “He can serve the hors d’oeuvres and take the drink orders. After we move into the dining room… I’ll leave that up to you.” She saw no need to mention to Tom that there might not be a dinner party. It depended on how her guests reacted to the little surprise she had planned for them.

“All right,” Tom said wearily. “You want it, you got it, Mrs. Kirby. I don’t have much choice, do I?”

He walked away, his shoulders bowed.

“Feel like that interview now, Mrs. Kirby?” MacDonnell asked.

Jacqueline studied him thoughtfully. “You’re pretty cocky, for a man who is about to lose his exclusive.”

“I won’t lose it. We’re putting out a special edition, two days early.”

“Oh, really. I should have thought of that, shouldn’t I?”

“But there’s still time for me to phone in an interview with you. How do you feel about walking in a dead woman’s shoes?”

Jacqueline made a face. “For God’s sake, MacDonnell, can’t you come up with a better cliché than that one?”

“I’m open to suggestions,” MacDonnell said eagerly. “Come on, Mrs. Kirby, be a sport. You put up a good fight, but you lost. Let me buy you a drink and we’ll discuss terms.”

“Well…”

MacDonnell heaved himself to his feet. “Vodka martinis, I believe?”

“Well…”

He headed for the bar. Jacqueline began rummaging in her purse. She had only used half the bottle on Brunnhilde.…

Jacqueline expected to find Lucifer sitting on the doorstep, complaining of neglect. She had let him out early that morning and he had failed to respond to her calls before she left. There was no sign of him, though. After unlocking the front door, she gave it a sharp shove, so that it swung back against the wall. There was nobody behind the door, but the precaution proved to be well conceived. On the floor inside, where she would have stepped into it, was a puddle of liquid whose origin would have been unmistakable even if the originator had not been sitting next to it, his eyes hard and accusing. Jacqueline might have been less annoyed if she had not noticed that the edges of the puddle were still spreading—a sign that the deed had been done only an instant before she unlocked the door.

She and Lucifer exchanged curt comments as he stalked past her, in search of dirt. Watching the ensuing proceedings, Jacqueline had to acknowledge that it might have been worse. She should have done something about a litter box, or made certain Lucifer was outside. She could have sworn he
had
been out. How the devil had he…

“Uh-oh,” said Jacqueline. She reached in her purse and took out the can of hairspray.

The study was exactly as she had left it. Leaving the front door open, in case she needed to beat a hasty retreat, she cautiously opened the kitchen door.

The intruder hadn’t tried to conceal the fact that he had been there. The dishes had been washed and put away, but splashes on the stove led her to the trash can and an empty can of beef stew which had not been there when she left the house. And there was food in Lucifer’s dish.

Lucifer didn’t want that kind of cat food, he wanted another kind. “Eat it,” Jacqueline said. “Think about all those starving street cats.” She put the hairspray on the table, unrolled paper towels, and dealt with the puddle in the next room.

“ ‘The sky is blue, / And high above,’ ” Jacqueline sang as she mopped. “ ‘The moon is new…’ ” There was no response, except a growl from Lucifer, who obviously had no musical taste whatever.

Her visitor might have come and gone again, but she doubted that; it would have been risky enough getting into the house without being observed. Getting out again only doubled the risk. Perhaps he was asleep. He had probably had a hard night.

She disposed of the paper towels and washed her hands. Then she saw that one of the bottles of liquor on the countertop had been moved, and left—deliberately—some distance from the others. Someone had drawn a line across one side with a grease pencil. The present level of the amber liquid was a scant half inch lower than the line.

Jacqueline grinned. “ ‘Lover, come back to me,’ ” she crooned. Lucifer snarled. Humming, Jacqueline climbed the stairs.

Difficult as it had been to gather her audience, Jacqueline knew she could anticipate even more difficulty keeping them once they realized what she was doing. Some of them had been inveigled into coming by what could only be called false pretenses; if they chose to walk out, she had no legal right to detain them.

She had made sure Bill Hoggenboom would be the first to arrive. When he entered the inn he found Jacqueline and her assistants rearranging the furniture.

“No, Kevin, I want the sofa facing the fireplace and closer to it. Hello, Bill. Would you please take the end of this table?”

The man at the other end of the table was Paul Spencer. He nodded and smiled, as coolly as if he had not spent the past few days eluding the police. Bill helped him shift the heavy piece of furniture and then asked mildly, “Now do I get to arrest this guy?”

“Can you arrest people?” Jacqueline pushed a straying lock of hair back into place. “Oh, that’s right, you said you had been deputized. Wonderful. You can arrest him after dinner, Bill. If you still want to.”

“Thanks.” Bill retreated to the doorway and stood watching. Jacqueline Kirby’s thought processes were weird and wonderful, but he was beginning to get a glimmer of what she had in mind. The new arrangement of furniture effectively cut off one end of the long room. The heavy, old-fashioned chairs and couches had high backs; placed in a semicircle facing the fireplace, they created a separate, isolated area.

The rest of the furniture had been pushed down to the far end of the room—more chairs, a couple of couches, and the television set. The deaf old lady was squatting in front of it, the way she always was, and there were a couple of other people watching the news with her. Tourists, he guessed; he didn’t recognize them. Must be them who’d persuaded the old lady to turn the sound down to an endurable level.

The center of the room was empty of furniture, a kind of neutral zone. And the way Jacqueline was placing the end tables and smaller chairs meant that once a person was inside her private circle, he wouldn’t be able to get out easily. The image of a spiderweb occurred to Bill.

“You better talk to me, Miz Kirby,” he said formally.

“Yes, of course.” Jacqueline surveyed the scene. “That’s good. Thanks, Kevin, you can start bringing the hors d’oeuvres now. Paul, you’ll sit there. Not yet, wait till the rest of them are in their places.”

Paul nodded and leaned against the wall, his arms folded. His clothing was somewhat the worse for wear, but he was freshly shaved and his calico-colored hair lay smooth and brushed. It wasn’t so much his appearance as his faint, reminiscent smile that aroused Bill’s suspicions.

“Where’s he been all this time?” he demanded.

“I can speak for myself,” Paul said. “If you’re accusing Jacqueline of harboring a criminal, you do her an injustice. I didn’t get back to her place until a few hours ago. She spoke yesterday of having certain evidence by this afternoon. I wasn’t getting anywhere, so I decided to see what she had found out.”

“A few hours ago,” Bill repeated.

“Bill, I thought you wanted me to explain my plans,” Jacqueline said. “We haven’t much time, the others will be coming soon. This is how it is.…”

Bill let her talk. When she had finished he shook his head. “It won’t work. It never works, except in those damn-fool books.”

“Oh, I think it might. There are a few little secrets I haven’t shared with you—or anyone else. If one of them doesn’t do the trick, I’ll be surprised. Anyhow, there’s no harm in trying, is there?” She gave him her most dazzling smile.