The Proof is in the Pudding (39 page)

“Eugene Long humiliated me. I had to get back at him. He said my books were dreadful, and he said it in print where people could read it!”

“So the bloody ’ell what? They sell in the millions! And they’re
our
books, not yours. Don’t you forget that.”

“Look, Will, why don’t we talk about this when we get to Rio?”

“We got something to do first—an’ this time
you
be the one to do it.”

“What are you talking about?” I heard sudden panic in Roland’s voice.

“ ’Er,” Parker said. He kicked me in the stomach. It hurt, but I willed myself to stay nonreactive. “I’ve been doing every bloody thing! I tried to scare ’er off the scent by letting myself be seen watching ’er at the library. Then when I figured she’d gone to see old man Long, I slashed ’er tires. I took care of Ingram for you before he could expose you as a fraud and spill the beans about me doin’ most of the work on the books.”

“Now wait. You killed him for Yvette, too. He was blackmailing her—”

“Leave ’er out of this. Not a word out of yer ’ole about ’er or I swear to God I’ll shoot you for real, not like that trick we pulled at the coffee’ouse.”

I heard Roland gasp. Or maybe it was a choked-back sob. When he spoke again it was in a defeated tone.

“The plane for Rio leaves at nine o’clock. If we’re going to get there in time to go through all the security . . . What do you want me to do?”

I felt rough, strong hands pulling at the cloth around my wrists.

“Untie ’er ankles,” Parker said.

I heard Roland kneel down—his knees actually creaked. He began to fumble with the binding around my ankles, pulled the fabric off, and stood again.

My hands and feet were free now, but I lay limp and kept my eyes closed.

There was a tremor in Roland’s voice. “She’s so still. Maybe you killed her.”

“She’s got a pulse. Maybe she’s faking. We’ll see.”

I braced for another blow—

“No!” Roland cried. “Don’t do that. Here, this will tell us.”

I felt liquid splash against my face, but I didn’t flinch. A drop went between my lips. It was tea.

“ ’Elp me get ’er on ’er feet,” Parker said.

The two men, each grabbing an arm, pulled me upright. I let my head fall forward toward my chest and remained a dead weight.

“This way,” Parker said.

I felt myself being dragged . . . dragged toward fresh air. Out onto the balcony.

I felt the men prop me up against the waist-high iron railing.

Suddenly Roland began to sob. He dropped my arm. I heard him shuffle backward. “I can’t!”

Cursing, Parker leaned forward, his head against my chest. One of his hands held my arm and the other reached down behind me toward the back of my knee—

I let out a blood-curdling scream, twisted around, scratching at his eyes as I thrust my knee as hard as I could toward his groin. I only caught him on the thigh, but I was close enough to the sensitive area that he let out a yelp.

Cursing again, he threw his arms around my torso in a grip so hard I cried out in pain. He was squeezing the life out of me!

Desperate, I threw my body side to side, forward and back, twisting. Putting most of my weight behind it, I stomped on his foot with the high heel of my shoe. He grunted and slapped me. But to slap, he had to loosen his grip.

I was pushing at him—he was shoving at me, ramming my body against the railing. Each smash against the small of my back was agonizing. I spiked him again with my heel, simultaneously twisting enough to open a few inches between us, but suddenly—

The balcony’s railing gave way.

Clasped together, we went tumbling out into empty space.

A voice inside me cried, “It’s too soon!”

Somebody screamed.

And then there was silence.

My eyes began to open.

The room was dark, but there was light spilling in from somewhere. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I could see just enough to know that I was in unfamiliar surroundings, hearing an unfamiliar sound. A soft
beep
. . .
beep
. . .
beep
.

With growing consciousness came the awareness of pain. My head throbbed. My whole body hurt. I couldn’t move my left arm.

As my vision sharpened, and objects near me came into focus, I realized I was in a hospital bed. I couldn’t move my left arm because it was in a cast.

Trying to ease the pain, I shifted my body and moved my right hand—and felt another hand.

I groaned.

And the extra hand closed over mine.

“Hey . . . you’re awake.” A man’s voice broke through my haze. A familiar voice.

“Nicholas?”

He leaned toward me and I saw his face. Nicholas was in the chair next to my bed.

“You gave us one hell of a scare,” he said. “How do you feel?”

“Everything hurts. What time is it?”

“A few minutes after three o’clock in the morning. You had a big crowd here until midnight: me, O’Hara and his wife and daughter, Liddy and her husband, and Phil Logan acting like General Patton, demanding the best care for you, threatening to sue the hospital if your broken arm didn’t mend perfectly. The attending doctor finally threw us all out. As we were going down in the elevator, Phil Logan was grinning. He said that your solving a murder was going to be great for your ratings.”

“If everyone had to leave, how come you’re here?”

“I waited downstairs for a little while, then I came back up and used my charm on the floor nurse.” He moved his face closer to mine. “Do your lips hurt?”

“That’s about the only part of me that doesn’t.”

His mouth descended on mine for the lightest, most gentle kiss I’ve ever felt. “Hello, Sleeping Beauty,” he said.

“Not such a ‘beauty,’ I’ll bet.”

“You are to me,” Nicholas said.

“What happened—how did I get here?”

“You fell off a third-floor balcony.”

“No.” My memory came back in a rush. “No, I didn’t fall. He tried to push me over, but I fought—oh, my God. We went off the balcony together. Is he . . . ?”

“The bastard’s alive,” Nicholas said. “But that’s only because the paramedics and the police got to him before I did. Thank God you fell into a garden and not onto some cement patio.” He shuddered and took a breath before he went on.

“Parker has two broken legs and a broken wrist,” Nicholas said. “Maybe some internal injuries. You two may have gone over together, but he hit the ground first. You landed on him. That’s why you’ve only got a broken arm. They’re letting you go home tomorrow.”

“Home . . . Tuffy and Emma! Who’s taking care of them?”

“Shhhh. Don’t try to sit up. There’s nothing to worry about. Eileen’s at your house. Everybody’s fine—except you and Parker. Roland Gray is in custody. It was Gray who called 911 and told them you’d fallen from the third floor. He was on his way to the airport—”

“He was going to Rio. Both of them were.”

I saw Nicholas nod. “Brazil—where there’s no extradition to America. But after he called 911 he went back to his building and gave himself up to Detectives Hatch and Weaver. He said he couldn’t live with the guilt anymore.”

“And without Will Parker, he doesn’t think he can write. Parker murdered Ingram, and he killed Yvette’s husband in London.”

“I know. The police found your purse with the tape recorder in it. Their own words are going to convict them.”

“I feel sorry for Roland.”

Nicholas looked shocked. “Why?”

“He’s a weak man,” I said. “Parker controlled him.”

“I don’t think that’s much of an excuse, but because he came back to try to help you, I’m willing to cut him some slack. In fact, I recommended an attorney for him to call.”

I smiled. “Olivia—your favorite criminal lawyer.”

“That’s the one. She said to tell you that because she’s going to soak Gray for everything he’s got, she’s decided not to send you a bill after all.”

“That’s nice . . . What’s going to happen to Yvette?”

“Parker claims she had nothing to do with the murder of Ingram, and he’s claiming that he killed Talib years ago in London because he caught Talib beating her after she told him she was leaving him. Parker said he wanted to protect her, so he staged Talib’s death to look like she hit him in self-defense.”

“Parker really loves her,” I said.

“Let’s not talk about them. Can I get you anything?”

“You,” I said.

“You’ve got me,” he said. “You’ve had me ever since you came to my house and started ripping my clothes off. Stupid me, it took a while before I realized you’d taken me off the market.”

I yawned. “I’m so sleepy. Would you lie down here next to me?”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Umm humm.”

“All right.” I saw his lips curve into a teasing smile. “Promise you won’t get frisky.”

“I won’t . . . At least not until tomorrow.”

“I think we’ll wait a little longer than that.”

He gave me another gentle little kiss before he eased his weight onto the far edge of the hospital bed. “I can’t even begin to tell you how happy I am that you’re alive,” he whispered.

“Me, too,” I said. Then my eyes began to close.

The following afternoon, while Phil Logan was completing the insurance paperwork for my release, Liddy Marshall came into my hospital room carrying a shopping bag.

“New clothes,” she said,

“That’s a sweet thought, but I don’t need new clothes.”

“Yes, you do,” she said. “Think about it. Your arm’s in a cast. How are you going to zip and button yourself?”

I admitted that I hadn’t thought of that.

Liddy opened the shopping bag and pulled out a pair of black knit slacks. “Elastic waistband,” she said. “You can pull them up with one hand.”

“That is a good idea.”

“I’m not finished.” She removed a garment in a soft shade of blue and held it up. “A tunic. This morning I had a seamstress open up the left side to accommodate the cast on your arm, and sew on strips of Velcro that you can stick together with your right hand.”

“That’s really clever,” I said. “Thank you.”

“I’m glad you like it, because right now she’s making up six more for you, in different colors. Also, you have six more pair of these pull-up pants at your house, so you’ll have a separate outfit for each day of the week. This top looks and feels like silk, but it’s one of those great new fakes. You can toss everything in the washing machine.”

“You are amazing.”

Liddy grinned. “With twin sons and a husband whose dental practice consists mostly of gorgeous actresses, I’ve had to be amazing. There’s one problem I couldn’t solve for you: a bra.”

“How about a strapless that fastens in front?”

“No. I was with Julie, the Neiman Marcus lingerie buyer, this morning. We experimented like a pair of contortionists, but even with that style, you wouldn’t be able to get it on and off by yourself while your arm’s in a cast. You’ll have to go braless for a while. Luckily, you don’t droop.”