Bridge to Haven (49 page)

Half an hour later, Franklin came back into the living room dressed in a dark suit. He had his briefcase. “Will you be all right if I’m gone for a few hours?”

She gave him a wry smile and spoke in the sultry voice he liked. “I think I can manage.”

He smiled back. “Can I bring you anything?”

“We could use something other than leftover takeout.”

“We’ll go to dinner.” He came over and leaned down. She presented her cheek. He ran a finger down her jawline and tipped her chin. His mouth was firm and cool. He looked into her eyes. “I’ll take good care of you.”

Dylan had said the same thing.

“I’ll be back soon.” He picked up his briefcase and left the apartment.

Abra hoped she’d never see his face again.

She waited a full minute before darting to the windows. She waited again until she saw him get into the car Howard had brought around. As soon as Franklin drove away, Abra went into his office. Franklin’s calendar was spread open on his desk. He had missed an appointment yesterday with Michael Dawson, his ex-wife’s lawyer. He’d made a note to meet Merit Hayes at nine thirty this morning. She pulled open the small pen drawer and found the worn slip with the combination. She spun the dial right, left, right, and left
again. The safe lock clicked on her first try. Exultant, she cranked the handle and the heavy door swung wide.

Heart pounding, she took visual inventory. She didn’t know he had a gun. He’d put it on the top shelf, beside the money. She set the gun on the desk and took out sixteen neatly bundled stacks of hundred-dollar bills, a thousand dollars in each. Sixteen thousand dollars! If he had that much in the apartment, how much had he put in the bank?

How long had it been since she’d had any money of her own? She’d never seen a paycheck. When she asked, Franklin gave her what she needed. As to the rest, he said he’d invested it so she’d get a good return. He always held the purse strings. Seething, she stacked the money on Franklin’s desk calendar. She thought about taking it all, but her conscience held her back. Franklin had paid for her beauty treatments, manicures, pedicures, weekly hairstyling appointments, and clothing. He’d paid for the portfolio of professional pictures. He’d picked up all the tabs for taxis and limos and dinners delivered from various fine restaurants. During all the time she’d lived with him, she’d never paid for anything.

How much would she need to start life over?

She put eight thousand dollars back into his safe and kept the rest. It was a community property state, wasn’t it? She pulled out the files, scattering them until she found the two copies of the contract Franklin had given her to sign the night he brought her here.

Franklin had kept his promise.

The betraying thought weakened her resolve. She reminded herself he hadn’t done it for her. He’d done everything possible to obliterate Abra Matthews’s existence so he could create Lena Scott, the woman of his dreams. She tore up her copy of the contract. She ripped Franklin’s copy in half. She ripped it again and kept on until postage stamp–size pieces fluttered about the floor. She found the Las Vegas wedding certificate and tore it in half, then rummaged
through the safe in search of the ring. When she couldn’t find it, she jumped up and ran into the bedroom and found it on the pewter tray where he kept his wallet. She set the ring on top of the pieces of the wedding certificate.

Franklin had a set of Hermès luggage. She grabbed a piece she could easily carry. He could always buy himself another with the money he’d made off of her. She’d take only a few outfits. With eight thousand dollars in her pockets, she could pick out her own clothing. She tossed the suitcase on her bed and pulled open the closet, taking out a few favorite dresses, Hepburn slacks, a couple of blouses, and undergarments. She stuffed the money into a shoulder bag, grabbed the suitcase, and headed down the hall. She was at the front door when the desire for a little revenge gripped her. Dumping the suitcase, she went back into his office and grabbed a notepad.

A small, quiet voice inside her head told her not to do it. Anger spoke louder. Why shouldn’t she, after what Franklin had put her through? She yanked open the top drawer and took out one of his fine Montblanc fountain pens.

I hate you! I never loved you. I just pretended. Don’t bother looking for Lena Scott. She’s dead!

She tore the page off the notepad, slapped it on the desk, and tossed the pen on top of it. Storming back to the entry hall, she grabbed the suitcase and went out the door.

The doorman was surprised to see her coming out of the elevator. “Miss Scott! You’re feeling better.”

“Better than I have in a long, long time, Howard.” Maybe Franklin had told everyone she had pneumonia or a lingering flu or tonsillitis.

He noticed the suitcase in her hand and frowned. “Mr. Moss didn’t leave me any word about you taking a trip.” He looked undecided. “Do you need a cab?”

“No, thank you.” She didn’t have a destination yet. She’d take a little walk and then decide.

Howard looked worried now. “Are you sure, Miss Scott?”

When he made no move to open the door, she did. She hadn’t been outside for two weeks. Or was it three? She couldn’t remember. She filled her lungs with air. It tasted of exhaust. Howard had followed her. “Why don’t you come back inside and wait in the lobby, Miss Scott? It’ll only take me a minute to get you a cab. You shouldn’t just go walking around by yourself.”

Howard would have the name of the cab company and driver, and Franklin would be on the telephone faster than Superman could change his clothes. “Thanks, but I need to walk.” The sun was shining, but it was autumn cool. A fissure of nervous tension shot through her when the door closed behind her. She glanced back. Howard was already on the telephone. Franklin’s answering service always knew how to reach him. Howard would want Mr. Moss to know Lena had just gone out the door carrying a suitcase, and what should he do about it?

She crossed the street without looking. A car honked and screeched to a stop. She blinked in surprise and then looked both ways before continuing to the other side.

“Miss Scott!” Howard had come out of the apartment house. “Mr. Moss wants you to wait for him. He’s on his way back.” When he started across the street, Abra fled. “Miss Scott! Wait!”

When the suitcase hindered her speed, she dropped it and bolted down Highland, the shoulder bag holding Franklin’s money clutched under her arm. She ran around the corner onto Sunset Boulevard, almost colliding with two businessmen deep in conversation on their way to the crosswalk. They both stared after her. Slowing to a fast walk, she wove her way through the pedestrians. A few stopped to stare. When one said her name, she darted between two parked cars, waving at a cab. It pulled up in
front of her. She yanked the door open and flung herself into the backseat.

“Go.” She gasped for breath. “Go! Go!”

The cabdriver stepped on the gas. He drove two blocks before he glanced in his rearview mirror. “Where do you want to go?”

She had no idea. “Away. I don’t care.” She turned and looked out the back window. She didn’t see Howard. She felt hysterical laughter welling up as she imagined the portly and dignified doorman trying to outrun a cab. She let out a shaky breath, her fingers digging into the edge of the seat.

“Don’t know where you’re going?”

Abra looked at the cabbie in the rearview mirror. Her whole body was trembling, her skin moist with cold perspiration. She tried to calm herself. Where did she want to go?
Where? Think, Abra! Think!
“Somewhere I can rest.”

“Everybody goes to the beach.”

“Fine. Take me to the beach.”

“Lots of beaches in Southern California. Which one you want?”

She had money to burn. She gave him a radiant Lena smile. “The best.”

CHAPTER 15

I can never escape from your Spirit!

I can never get away from your presence!

If I go up to heaven, you are there;

if I go down to the grave, you are there.

PSALM 139:7-8

J
OSHUA
DROVE
FORTY
MILES
northeast into the Sierra Pelona Valley and arrived in Agua Dulce, where work was scheduled to start on the Soledad Ranch main street. With no job waiting for him at home, he’d decided to take one more temporary job before heading back.

He checked into a motel on the edge of town and ate at the small diner next door, where he saw a Help Wanted sign taped to the front window. The food was good, plentiful, and cheap. More workers arrived and took up more of the small rooms in the single-story, L-shaped motel. Others towed Airstream trailers and set up camp near the construction site.

No one questioned why the production company had decided against renting Gene Autry’s Melody Ranch twenty miles closer to Los Angeles in the Santa Clarita Valley. The television hit
Gunsmoke
was in residence there. Besides, some said, their movie didn’t call for an entire Western town complete with mercantile store, Victorian
mansion, and Spanish adobe hacienda; just a saloon, a church, and a couple of houses, best built in proximity to old-time bandito Tiburcio Vásquez’s hideout, Vasquez Rocks. Numerous scenes would be filmed there, including battles between the cowboy hero and sidekicks and rampaging Indians, mostly played by Hispanic extras who knew how to ride a horse.

It was hot and dry. Dust filtered under the door and covered the side tables and quilted bedspread. Stains spotted the rug. The bathroom light fixture flickered, but the Agua Dulce water, true to its name, was clear and sweet.

Joshua settled in and got up early for work. He took an apple, bread and cheese, and a jug of water for lunch. At the end of the day he returned dust-covered, drenched in sweat, and famished like everyone else. Most headed for the bar down the street; Joshua chose the diner next door. He ordered the special—meat loaf and mashed potatoes with string beans and homemade apple pie for dessert.

Clarice Rumsfeld, the proprietress, reminded him of Bessie: well-fed, friendly, and a talker. Never idle, she wiped the yellow Formica counter and polished the chrome edge while he ate. She frequently replenished his tall glass of iced tea.

Other men came in later, hungry after cooling down with ice-cold beer. Clarice picked up the pace, delivering plastic-coated menus to the red-and-white oilcloth-covered tables and calling out orders to her husband, Rudy, back in the inferno of a kitchen. She looked hard-pressed. The Rumsfelds could use another good worker like Susan Wells.

Thinking of Bessie and Susan made Joshua homesick. He’d be glad when this job wrapped up and he’d be free to return to Haven.

It was dark when Abra awakened. She heard strange sounds and felt a moment of panic until she remembered she wasn’t in Franklin’s
apartment anymore, but in a bungalow across the street from the Pacific Ocean.

The cabdriver had delivered her to the Miramar Hotel in Santa Monica, regaling her all the way with tales of how Senator John P. Jones had built the original Santa Monica mansion for his wife Georgina, and how razor blade mogul King Gillette had bought the property from him. For a short time, the building had been used as a boys’ military academy, and eventually the estate was sold to Gilbert Stevenson, who had grand plans of turning it into a hotel. Twenty years ago, the mansion had been torn down, leaving only the present six-story brick building and bungalows. Greta Garbo had stayed there. Betty Grable was discovered by an MGM executive while singing in the hotel bar. The Miramar was a favorite getaway for Cary Grant. Abra figured the tourists must love this cabbie. He was full of information and all too eager to share everything he knew.