The Pact (25 page)

He chuckled. “You thought I was coming to do you in? This
really
will make a great story for the grandkids. So, what’s made you decide that I’m in the clear?”

“Oh, dear,” I said again. “I don’t think I should tell you.” I was reluctant to own up to reading yet more of his correspondence.

“Hmmm. Let me guess. Are you psychic?” he asked.

“If only,” I sighed. “It would sure save everyone a lot of trouble if I were.” I felt the blush that had begun to recede renew itself with vigor.

“Come on, Rachel. You can tell me. Maybe we should establish a no secrets policy of some sort.”

“But if we do that, we’ll miss out on all of the exciting intrigue and passive-aggressive harboring of suspicious thoughts.”

“True,” he mused. “But we’ll have more time to make out if we abandon the exciting intrigue and passive-aggressive harboring of suspicious thoughts. Plus, we won’t have to worry about how you’re going to sneak me files in cakes when I’m in jail. Which, given what I’ve heard about your talents in the kitchen, sounds like it would pose a real challenge.”

“Good point. If I tell you, do you promise you won’t hate me?” I asked.

“How could I hate you?” His voice was incredulous. “I’m falling in love with you.”

“Still? Even after everything I did?” He really was too good to be true.

By way of an answer, he kissed me again. A very reassuring kiss that sent my insecurities packing, at least for a little while. They were too firmly instilled in my psyche to go away for good, regardless of how persuasive this particular kiss was.

“Okay, then,” I said when he relinquished his grasp. “Here goes.” I leaned down and picked up the pages of the fax from Sam Slattery that I’d let drop to the floor. “I read this,” I admitted. “I really did think it was something for me at first. Although I did keep reading after I realized it wasn’t.”

Peter took the pages from my hand and quickly perused them. “Good old Sam,” he said with satisfaction. He folded the fax and put it in his pocket. “I’ll need to show this to the police, and maybe even get him on the phone with them. They were willing to release me once I’d explained where I planned to get the money to save the company, but they’re going to need some proof. And this shows that I’d squared away the matter well in advance of Richard being killed.”

“It certainly does,” I said. “And Sam Slattery of all people. I’m impressed.”

“I’m just relieved he came through. He spends most of the year hiking in exotic places where it’s hard to reach him. When our financial situation became dire last month, I tried to get in touch with him to see if he’d put up more money, but he was trekking in Nepal, and I couldn’t track him down. He just got back from the wilderness, got all my messages, and volunteered to keep us solvent for the foreseeable future. His pockets are pretty deep, and I was fairly confident he’d give us the money, but it was a relief to actually get him to commit to writing another check. I spent the entire train ride up here from Albany on Friday night negotiating the details.”

“I like the sound of this guy,” I said. “Deep pockets and globe-trotting are very desirable qualities in a man. Is he single?”

“Yes, but he’s also seventy-two and has eight grandchildren. I think you’d be better off sticking with me.”

I giggled. “Well, if you insist.” We kissed some more. But a lingering thought kept me from being able to concentrate. There was one other thing I had to tell Peter, but I was pretty sure that to tell him went against some sort of professional code I’d sworn to uphold.

“Okay,” he said, detaching his lips from mine with jarring suddenness. He hoisted us both up into a sitting position. “What is it?”

“What is what?”

“Suddenly I feel like I’m kissing a blow-up doll. Your body’s in the right place, but I don’t get the sense that your mind’s here at all.”

“Do you have a lot of experience kissing blow-up dolls?”

“Something tells me that there’s no right answer to that question.”

“Okay,” I said, throwing professional ethics to the wind. “There’s just one other thing I should probably tell you. Especially in light of the no secrets policy.”

“Yes?” His expression was both patient and amused.

“Well, did you know that Hamilton Tech is trying to take over your company?”

He was revving up for another kiss, but he froze at my words. “What? How do you know? Was there an article in the
Journal
or something? I thought it was all a big, stealthy, insidious secret?”

The way his eyes had opened wide was adorable, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “Remember the fax I was reading last night? The one that was actually for me? It was about a new deal that a partner at Winslow, Brown just snagged. Guess who Smitty Hamilton has engaged to advise him on the acquisition?”

“You’re kidding.” He looked at me in disbelief. Disbelief was equally adorable.

“I wish. I’m in no mood to launch a takeover.”

“Well, that’s a coincidence. I’m in no mood to be taken over.” He was practically growling. The dangerous current in his voice was nothing short of thrilling.

“So, it looks like our interests are aligned.”

“Even if they weren’t, I’ve managed to fix things so that we’re safe from the Hamilton Techs of the world for a while. Nor are we in danger of being savaged by the likes of you and your colleagues at Winslow, Brown.”

“Savaged, no. Ravaged, however, is still an option.”

“I’d be okay with that,” he said. “Ravage away.” He pulled me on top of him, and our lips met again.

W
e were still kissing, Peter’s hands playing delightfully in my hair, when his fingers accidentally brushed against the blossoming lump on the back of my head.

“Ouch!”

“What? What did I do?”

I realized that he didn’t know about the other nocturnal adventure I’d had. “There’s a little bump there.”

“A little bump?” His fingers gently probed. “That’s not a little bump, Rachel. What is it? Is this the part where you tell me about your tumor and that you only have a few weeks left to live?”

“Wow. I’m not the only one with an active imagination.”

“Seriously. What happened to you?”

“I had a little accident.”

“This doesn’t feel like a little accident.”

I quickly filled him in, both embarrassed and touched by his concern. It was amazing how much catching up we had to do when we’d only been out of contact for a few hours.

“Well, I can answer one question for you,” he said, digging into his pocket.

“My locket! Where did you find it?”

“It was caught on my towel. I was going to give it to you when I came to explain about the fax, but you were too busy calling the cops.”

“Why do I have the feeling it’s going to be a long time before I live that one down?” I asked, bending my head and lifting up my hair so he could fasten the locket around my neck.

“It’s too good to forget. But we can talk about that later.”

“Can’t wait. What are we going to talk about now?”

“We’re going to talk about what happened to you. If I’m hearing you right, somebody hit you over the head and left you there, where you could have drowned?”

“That sounds so melodramatic. Jane and Sean found me. Everything’s all right.”

“No, it’s not. I don’t want to get hysterical on you or anything, but it sounds like somebody tried to kill you, Rachel.”

“Well, maybe.”

“There’s no maybe about it. This is really bad. Somebody thought you knew something and tried to take you out. Whoever did it is still loose, and if that person tried once—who’s to say she won’t try again?”

“What do you mean—
she?
” My voice took on a sharp edge. I had a feeling where he was going with this, and I had another feeling that we were about to have our first fight.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said gently. “But I can’t help but think about how Emma was the last person to see Richard alive.”

“As far as you know,” I reminded him. I sat up straight and turned my back to him, making no effort to hide the sudden chill in my words. “I don’t know what conclusion you’re trying to jump to, but I assure you that Emma is completely incapable of murder. And I resent your even trying to imply it. Much less that she’d attack me. She’s my best friend.”

He took me by the shoulders and spun me around. “I’m not trying to imply anything. I’m just trying to put the facts together.”

“Now, you see here, Mr. Forrest,” I said in my iciest possible tone. “You don’t know Emma. Not the way I know her. And I can tell you right now that Emma would no sooner do such a thing, than—than—” I stuttered.

A sudden image flashed before my eyes. The mortar and pestle in Emma’s medicine cabinet. Perfect for mixing paint pigments. Equally perfect for crushing something lethal in a way that it could easily be diluted in a stiff Scotch and soda. And if Peter hadn’t lied about seeing Emma, and if Hilary and Luisa had found Richard dead right after Emma left the scene, and I was a deep sleeper—

“Oh, crap.” I finished lamely.

“Why the sudden scatological outburst?” Peter inquired.

I was momentarily speechless; the evidence was mounting up against Emma, and the only thing standing between the evidence and the logical conclusion was my loyalty to her. I knew her too well, I repeated to myself. She could never have killed Richard. Much less attack me.

I tried to compose myself. “Look, if you forgive me for reading your faxes and turning you into the police, I’ll forgive your odious suggestions about my best friend.” My voice held a challenge in it. I’d learned from working in an environment populated by Type A personalities that the best defense was a good offense. And my loyalty to Emma took priority over nurturing this budding romance.

He held his hands up in front of him. “Fine. We’ll agree to disagree.”

“No,” I said stubbornly, “you’ll agree that you’re completely off base on this one. You barely know Emma, and I do.”

“Which is exactly why I can be objective,” he pointed out. Men and their cool rationality.

“Not an acceptable answer. Take your accusations back,” I demanded.

“Christ,” he said.

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I trust you.”

“Then take it back. I’m not joking. I mean it. This can’t be hanging over us. I know it wasn’t Emma. I can’t prove it, but if you don’t believe me, then—then—” I stuttered again, not sure what I was going to threaten.

He threw his hands up with resignation. “Okay, I take it back. If you’re sure it wasn’t her then I’m convinced.”

“Good,” I said sternly.

He grinned. “I think we just had our first fight.”

“I guess so.”

“It was fun. Do we get to make up now?” There was a devilish gleam in his eye. But when we kissed this time, it was hard to enjoy it fully. I was too worried about my friend.

Hilary, coming to summon us downstairs to help prepare brunch, interrupted the making up process.

“Well if it isn’t the jailbird himself,” she said, as Peter and I broke apart.

He shrugged good-naturedly. “It was just an innocent mix-up. However, I’m officially in the clear.”

She gave me a pointed look, taking in my flushed cheeks and rumpled hair. Seemingly reassured, she turned to Peter and smiled. “Good to know.”

We followed her down the stairs and into the kitchen, where everyone but the Furlongs had gathered. Peter met the curious looks of my friends with a quick explanation.

“I knew it couldn’t be true,” said Jane warmly, eager to welcome him back into the fold.

“None of us really believed it,” said Sean.

“We’re glad to see you back,” added Matthew, handing me a mimosa. Nothing more was said of the matter, but I knew that I would be teased mercilessly in the days to come about having turned Peter in to the police.

By this point, we all automatically assumed that Jane and Sean would supervise the preparations, and they began meting out tasks. After Peter’s crack about my skills in the kitchen, I was itching to prove that I was not a complete culinary dunce, but when most of the eggshell from the first egg I broke ended up in the bowl, hopelessly entangled with the yolk and the white, Jane banished me to the more mundane task of setting the table. Peter eagerly volunteered to help, and we carried plates and flatware out to the porch. In the spirit of keeping no secrets, I even revealed to him the secret of my napkin-folding trick, which he promised to keep strictly between the two of us.

The smell of frying bacon and pancakes on the griddle must have traveled far, because Mr. Furlong hiked over from his studio shortly before the meal was ready. Mrs. Furlong and Emma came downstairs just in time to take their seats around the old oak table. One look at Emma and all my doubts vanished, if not my concerns. I didn’t know who had killed Richard, but I would have staked my own life that it wasn’t her. I just wished I knew who was really responsible. Well, I tried to comfort myself, if I couldn’t figure it out, with all of the little details and subplots I knew, I didn’t see how the police possibly could.

It wasn’t quite the lavish postwedding champagne brunch that had been planned, but, for whatever reason, the mood of the assembled group seemed lighthearted—even festive. With the sun shining down and a gentle breeze rustling the trees, the anxiety of the previous evening seemed a distant memory.

Matthew sat next to Emma, piling food onto her plate and insisting that she eat every bite. Mrs. Furlong was playing the gracious hostess, keeping everyone’s glasses and plates full. I fell into an easy banter with Mr. Furlong, who had always enjoyed teasing me about my position as a high-powered lady banker (his description, not mine) and pretending to pump me for insider stock tips.

“Come on, Rachel,” he urged. “We could make a fortune. All you have to do is give me a tiny little hint and I’ll call it in to my broker. Who would ever know? I’ll split the proceeds with you, fifty-fifty.” He took a big swallow of coffee and grinned at me over the top of his mug.

“But there’s not much you can use that money for when you’re in jail,” I pointed out. “For a government agency, the SEC is remarkably competent when it comes to sniffing out insider trading.”

“Is that a no?”

“I don’t know. Are you willing to front me the costs for defense lawyers? Not to mention all of the future earnings I’ll forfeit from never being able to set foot on Wall Street again? If so, then we might be able to strike a deal.”

“Ah. You drive a tough bargain. You look so innocent, so sweet-faced. I didn’t realize you were such a shark.”

“I’m just a dolphin in shark’s clothing. We at Winslow, Brown are dedicated to maximizing shareholder value, and that’s all I care about.” Peter, sitting next to me, muffled a guffaw, but Mr. Furlong smiled at my sarcastic tone and insisted that I take another blueberry pancake from the steaming platter he was passing.

I was intent on adorning that pancake with a liberal swirl of real maple syrup when I realized that a sudden hush had fallen over the table. O’Donnell and Paterson were climbing the steps to the porch, with stern looks on their faces. I hoped that they hadn’t heard us discussing, however facetiously, the ins and outs of insider trading. But somehow I knew that they had other matters in mind.

“Good morning, detectives,” said Mrs. Furlong, as if this were a purely social call. “You’re just in time for brunch. Would you like some pancakes? Jane made them with fresh blueberries from right here on the property. They’re delicious.”

O’Donnell responded with a polite shake of his head, while Paterson swallowed, either out of nerves or hunger. O’Donnell cleared his throat, ignoring the way that Hilary smiled up at him, crossing her arms to emphasize the impressive cleavage displayed by her tank top.

“That’s very kind, Mrs. Furlong,” said O’Donnell. “But I’m afraid we’re here on business.” He turned to Emma. “Ms. Furlong, we’d like to ask you to come down to the station for further questioning.”

Forks clattered to their plates as they were dropped, in unison, by the assorted guests. Emma looked as if she’d just been struck; her face turned a ghostly shade of white. Mr. Furlong pushed his chair away from the table with a loud screech and stood, drawing himself up to his full, rather impressive height.

“What the—” he sputtered. “You are making a grave mistake, Detective.”

“I hope not, Mr. Furlong.” O’Donnell’s tone was measured. I had to admire his ability to stand up to Mr. Furlong without even flinching. “But, based on the evidence we’ve gathered thus far, this is warranted.” I snuck a quick look at Peter. It was only his testimony—that Emma had been the last person to see Richard alive—and the way in which it almost certainly conflicted with Emma’s own, which linked her in any way to the crime. Peter looked appropriately distraught, but I still wanted to give him a swift kick to the shin.

“And what evidence would that be?” demanded Mr. Furlong.

“Well, it appears that Ms. Furlong was the last person to see the deceased alive.”

“Way to go,” I muttered to Peter under my breath. Then I did kick him, hard.

“What?” said Emma. She blinked rapidly.

“What?” echoed a chorus of voices from around the table.

Mr. Furlong recovered quickly. “That’s simply not the case,” he asserted. “And I know that for a fact.

“Because the fact of the matter is that
I
was the last person to see Richard Mallory alive. And I was also the first person to see him dead. You see, I’m the one who poisoned him.”

This was met with gasps all around.

“Dad—” began Emma, but she was shushed by a hard look from her father.

“Yes, I poisoned him,” he continued. “With tranquilizers I was prescribed after I had knee surgery last year. I’d be happy to show you the bottle. And you can check with the pharmacy in town—I had the prescription filled there. They should have the records.

“As for motive, I could hardly have that scalawag married to my only child. Sometimes a parent just has to step in. So, if anyone is going to come with you to the station, it will be I.” Mr. Furlong spoke calmly, his eyes locked on O’Donnell’s.

There was silence as everyone gaped at Mr. Furlong. And at O’Donnell. And then at Mr. Furlong again.

O’Donnell cleared his throat, more decisively this time. “I understand how much you want to protect your daughter, Mr. Furlong, and we do, in fact, have the pharmacy records, and your prescription matches the toxicology report from the victim’s bloodstream exactly.” The pancakes and bacon in my stomach threatened to make their way back up my esophagus. I swallowed hard, trying not to think about words like
autopsy.