Sawyer, Meryl (18 page)

"I can't help it. Someone's behind this. Who?"

Wally shrugged. "Paul Talbott asked me the same thing. I told
him, ah... well, it's my gut feeling that it's Valerie Thompson."

"Val?" She sat bolt upright. "Never."

"Maybe not, but she's always seemed jealous of you."

"Perhaps Val was a little envious when we were younger, but
she grew out of it. Don't you think it's more likely Eleanor or Caroline did
it?"

He paced across the small living room. "Something's fishy about
this whole deal. Tell you what, I'm doing some sleuthing on my own. Being an
investigative reporter has its perks."

"Don't you think you should coordinate with Paul
Talbott?"

"He won't tell me much. I'm on the suspect list, you
know."

"Why? That's crazy."

"It's sound technique. Anyone who had the opportunity to put
those jewels in your purse has to be a suspect until they can be
eliminated."

"Of all people, you wouldn't have had any reason to do
it."

"True." He chuckled derisively. "But I would have a
good motive for killing you. I'd inherit your house."

"With its huge mortgage?"

Wally chuckled and gave her a reassuring hug.

How could anyone be so lucky? She had an uncle willing to give up
everything to help her.

The following evening Paul Talbott drove into a less than
fashionable area of Seacliff. He'd warned Mitch about getting involved with
Royce, and Mitch had left without a word, a stick of dynamite in his pants.

It wasn't like Mitch to get involved with a client. He knew
better; it was against the bar's code of ethics. True, many attorneys' ethics
were like bringing coals to the devil's hearth, but Mitch set high standards
for himself. Except for Royce Winston. From the night Mitch had told him about
Royce, Paul had known she wasn't just another sexy blonde.

"Don't get personally involved in your cases," Paul
reminded himself as he parked in front of Valerie's apartment. "You don't
have to see Val to find out why she called."

But he didn't take his own advice. Instead he rang the bell and
waited, adjusting the knot in his tie. The door swung open. Hair in pink
rollers, Val glared at him, her face covered with a brownish masque that looked
like a curbside deposit by one of the neighborhood mutts.

"You left a message that you needed to talk to me."

Val closed the door and left him standing under a yellow bug
light. Minutes later she let him in, her face scrubbed pink and her russet hair
softly tumbled around her face. Paul's groin tightened; he knew exactly why
Mitch was involved with a client. It was mighty tempting. Eyes on her slim hips
sheathed in leggings and almost concealed by an oversized sweater, he followed
her inside.

"Sister Rosemary from the Center for Women in Crisis made
this videotape of the auction." Val handed him a tape.

"The police haven't seen it?"

"No." There was something strange about the way Val was
looking at him as she spoke. "They haven't interviewed the sisters
yet."

Paul knew they wouldn't. With an airtight case, why waste manpower?
Why was Val studying him so intently? "I want to run this through the
equipment at the office, but I'll need help identifying all the people. Can you
spare an hour?"

"Sure," she said, but she still had an odd expression.

No question about it. Val was gorgeous but weird. He didn't want
to think she was guilty. Still, his instincts told him she was hiding
something. He recalled Wally's suspicions. He was an ace reporter. Was he onto
something?

Paul drove to the office with Val riding beside him in silence. He
supposed she'd be friendlier if he was driving his own Porsche instead of the
battered Chevy he used for surveillance. Beautiful women had plenty of rich
boyfriends. They didn't encourage gumshoes with overdrawn bank accounts.

Not that Paul was poor; he had more money than he'd ever imagined
having. He'd bet Valerie would be a lot sweeter if she knew he owned Intel
Corp. Why tell her? Women who were after your money were nothing but trouble.

"Intel Corp occupies two floors," he said when they were
in the building, waiting for the elevator. "We're going to the sixteenth
floor where we have video analysis equipment."

Val surveyed the building's roster. "I see Mitchell Durant's
office is here too."

"He has the floor above us." On the way up he added,
"Intel has technical units to investigate credit card fraud and cellular
scams."

"What do you do?" She sounded genuinely interested.

"I'm not much for punching a computer to track fraud
operations," he hedged. "I'd rather be out on the street."

"I love computers. I've taken several classes. I hope to
change jobs soon and work with computers."

Inside the video room he put the tape in the machine and sat
beside Val at a monitor. "We'll be able to enlarge and freeze frame—the
works." He didn't mention that the sophisticated equipment would also tell
him if anyone had tampered with the tape. "Here it goes. Point out all the
people you know."

She had a soft, melodic voice. He listened as he watched,
occasionally hitting the freeze frame button to take a better look at someone.
"That's me in the lame dress," Val told him.

He punched the freeze frame, then pressed the enlarger.
"Wow!" She had her hair piled high in a loose cluster of curls. With
a single caress the mass would fall into some lucky devil's hands. Before he
could stop himself Paul said, "Nice, but I like your hair down and no
makeup."

"You do?" She actually smiled.

He didn't know what to say. When was the last time he'd felt so
off balance with a woman? He opted for the truth. "I like the natural
look. That's why I came over to your place to get the tape. I wanted to see you
again."

"I've
never
been more embarrassed," she
confessed. "I could have taken the tape to your office, but I wanted to
see you too. I wanted to look good so I put on the masque and curled my hair. I
never thought you'd show up without calling."

"You wanted to see me? I'll be damned. I didn't think you
were the least bit interested."

"I'm not very good at this." Her voice dwindled to a
whisper; he had to lean toward her to hear better. "You're easy to talk
to. Besides, you ate two helpings of my tofu lasagna."

The narcotic effect of her tentative smile shook him. "I
planned to ask you over for dinner. I made zucchini enchiladas."

"How about tomorrow?" He tried to keep his tone light.

"Sorry." She zinged him with another smile. "I'm on
the night shift, checking out reports of soggy fries in Milpitas."

Paul chuckled. Val had a sense of humor, but she was insecure.
"How about Saturday night? I'll take you to—"

"No. I want to make you dinner."

"Okay." He leaned toward her and gave her a peck on the
cheek. She turned her head, parting her lips, obviously expecting a real kiss.
How could he say no? He pressed his lips against hers and she put her arms
around his neck and kissed him back. Her eagerness shocked him for a second,
but he quickly took advantage of the situation until she pulled away.

"Who were you with that night?" he asked, then listened
to how Royce got Val a date with the parsley king. Honest-to-Pete, it was hard
to believe the lady didn't have a steady boyfriend.

"There are the Farenholts"—Val pointed at the screen—
"and there's Royce's bag next to the napkin and place card."

"Good. Let's check subsequent frames to see when it was
moved. Royce told Mitch she put her bag by her napkin but later found it on a
chair."

There was a lot of footage of sweet-looking women wearing gowns
from the fifties. They turned out to be nuns who were friends of Sister
Rosemary, who was doing the filming. Finally, there was a shot of Mitch. Paul
was fascinated by Mitch's intent expression. The camera followed his gaze. He
was staring at Royce Winston.

He pondered the screen a moment, then asked, "How did Royce
feel about Mitch when they met—what was it? Five years ago?"

"Yes. It was a little over five years ago. Royce was crazy
about him. She called me the night before she left for Italy to tell me she'd
met the 'right' man. She even came back from vacation early just so she could
see him. But then her father was in the accident that killed his best friend.
The next time she saw Mitch, he was prosecuting her father."

Paul tried to imagine what would have happened if Royce and Mitch
had dated. Yeah, it might have worked. Mitch was a true lone wolf, an insular
man who valued his privacy above all else, but Royce might have changed him.
She had an Italian flair, an animated zest for life. Just what workaholic Mitch
needed.

"It wouldn't have worked, anyway." Val seemed to read
his mind. "Royce will never find the right man because no man will ever be
as good as her father." The tape was continuing to run, and Val added,
"There's Talia looking at the jewels."

"And Caroline Rambeau. Who's the guy with her?"

"Some Italian count. I don't remember his name."

Paul thought the count looked slick, that polished, processed
appearance that was supposed to be Continental.

"Royce thought his accent was phony," Val offered.

"She spent years in Italy. I'll check on him."

"Hold it," Val said and he hit the freeze frame. "There's
Eleanor and Ward alone at the table with the purse. Does it look like it's been
moved?"

"Watch this. I stored the earlier shot of the bag. Let's
superimpose the two." On a separate monitor the shots merged. "It
hasn't been moved." He advanced the tape, thinking the special instruments
showed the tape hadn't been altered. In the next shot the Farenholts were
talking with friends, but Ward's eyes never left Caroline.

"You know what strikes me odd?" Val pressed the freeze
button.

Paul shook his head, thinking of the way she'd kissed him. He was
ready to wind this up and take her home.

"Caroline Rambeau is beautiful. Next year when she's
thirty-five she'll inherit millions. Why would she stick around waiting for
Brent?"

He shifted in his chair and his thigh touched hers. Uhh-ohh.
"She must love him," Paul said. "They're dating again. That
creep Ingeblatt has them plastered all over his rag."

"I don't buy it," Val said. "Most women hit their
mid-thirties and their biological clock—as Royce would say— becomes a time
bomb. Caroline should have married by now."

"Maybe she's different. After all, her parents died when she
was in her late teens. The Rambeaus and the Farenholts were best friends for
years. Maybe they're all the family she has."

Val shook her head, her glorious hair shimmering in the blue-white
glow of the TV monitor. "I still think it's odd that she would hang around
even when Brent announced he planned to marry Royce."

"Sounds like you think she's the one who framed Royce."

"No. I went with Royce and Brent one night to the

Farenholts' and Caroline was there. Caroline truly seemed to like
Royce. But the Farenholts—particularly Ward—were cold. I was surprised. It
wasn't like Royce to let anyone treat her that way."

"Brent's money might have—"

"No. Royce told me all Brent has is a small trust. The money
is Eleanor's," Val said. "Brent won't inherit it until she dies.
Anyway, money has never meant much to Royce. But it has kept Brent tied to his
mother's purse strings. Ward, too, I guess, since it's Eleanor's money in a
separate trust even Ward can't touch without Eleanor's approval."

"Don't hold any charity benefits for Ward and Brent."

"No, but in their circles they're nothing without Eleanor's
money. I guess she loved Brent enough not to oppose his marriage to Royce, even
though she preferred Caroline." Val gazed at him, her beautiful eyes
serious. "Something doesn't make sense."

"True." He wished he could discuss the case with her;
she was sharp, homing in on the complexity of the relationships the way he had
and sensing something wasn't right. But he couldn't talk to her until he'd
ruled her out as a suspect. Still, just sitting beside her knowing she was
interested in him without realizing who he really was tightened the knot in his
groin.

Val pressed the button and the video advanced. This time the
camera focused on Talia. She was hovering near the jewels.

"Any chance Talia is the guilty one?" he asked as the
tape kept running, showing Royce introducing Val to Mitch.

Val hesitated a fraction of a second. "No."

"Tell me what you're really thinking." He took off his
sport coat and tie, then dropped them in his lap. If she looked down he'd be
embarrassed.

"Do we ever
really
know anyone? You think you know
someone until something happens," she said, and he knew she was referring
to her divorce. "Talia was so thrilled to be dating Brent. Suddenly, Brent
dropped her. Royce wouldn't go out with Brent until Talia insisted. I don't
think Talia would do anything to hurt Royce. After all, when she needed help,
Royce was there—a true friend."