He Huffed and He Puffed (3 page)

“Unfortunate. Parental obtuseness … well.”

Harvey played with his empty glass. “She is special, you know. There's nobody else quite like her. She can do things with a violin the rest of us can't even think of, much less do. People like that shouldn't have to put up with stupid obstacles in their paths. They should have things made easy for them.” He laughed self-deprecatingly. “That's my job. I try to make things easy for her.”

Strode was capable of the occasional generous gesture. “I think she's lucky to have you,” he said, and meant it. His companion grinned with pleasure. Harvey Rudd was an intense young man whose entire life was wrapped up in Joanna Gillespie's career; what hurt her, hurt him. “Where do you go next?” Strode asked.

“Home to Boston, then London and Berlin. And then six glorious weeks with nothing to do at all! I think it's called a vacation. For Jo, of course, that just means more time to practice.”

They talked a few minutes longer and then left the hotel bar. The two men parted company at the elevators, each heartily glad to have made the other's acquaintance. On his way to his room Strode was thinking young Harvey had provided him with a perspective he'd lacked. Joanna Gillespie was a rich woman; she could give free concerts the rest of her life and still die rich. By the same token, she could live quite well on what she made playing the fiddle and never need the money she'd inherited. There was, however, a considerable difference between being able to live
quite well
and being out-and-out
rich
.

But it wasn't just the money. The Gillespie family relationships had evidently been more strained than Strode knew. If parents and daughter had been on good terms, the violinist would never have thought of killing them, money or no money. But she'd been deprived of a normal childhood by being told she was an invalid; there was bound to be some resentment left over from that. Papa had opposed her pursuit of a career; he'd never understood or cared that music was the
raison d'être
of her life. And Mama—well, Mama had made her sick.

Strode unlocked the door to his room and went in. He was fidgety, not ready to sleep yet. One used to be able to count on bellboys to provide certain services, he mused, but no longer. Strode knew he'd want a woman tonight; he always did, when he was moving in for the kill. He should have brought Tracy with him.

No, that would have been a mistake. Tracy was beginning to think of herself as Mrs. A. J. Strode number five, and that was bound to mean trouble. Strode had no intention of marrying her. Tracy was a great-looking babe, and she was funny; he got a kick out of listening to her chatter. But she was also willful—she'd probably say
independent
. A kept woman, independent!

The truth was, Tracy just liked getting her own way. Still, he would have been glad of her company right then. He decided to call her number in New York. He got the answering machine; she was out.

Strode frowned. That was something else that needed looking into.

A ringing telephone woke Strode at eight the next morning.

It was Joanna Gillespie herself. After apologizing for calling so early, she explained she already had a luncheon engagement. “I'm still not going to sell, Mr. Strode,” she said pleasantly. “I hope you didn't come to Pittsburgh on my account.”

“Ah, but I did,” he said smoothly. “At least let's talk—don't make my trip a complete waste. It won't hurt to talk about it, will it?”

“No, so long as you aren't expecting anything,” she agreed. “I tell you what. I was about to order breakfast—why don't I order for two? We can talk while we eat.”

“Sounds good. I'll need half an hour.”

Thirty minutes later Joanna Gillespie opened her door and greeted him with an automatic smile. She wore a bulky top of the kind Strode hated because it so successfully hid a woman's figure. Last night she'd worn a floor-length skirt and today she had on gray slacks.
Must have bad legs
, Strode thought. Her face was bare of make-up; she certainly hadn't put herself out any on his account. But she seemed relaxed and at ease, quite a contrast to the intense ball of fire he'd seen in action at Heinz Hall the night before. He complimented her on her performance.

“Thank you. It did go well, didn't it?” she said, taking it for granted that he would have gone to hear her play. “It was a good audience. Very
up.”

“They were ready to applaud before you'd played a note,” Strode remarked with amusement.

“Some audiences are like that. Others come in with
Show me!
written all over their faces.”

“Which kind do you work harder for?”

She shrugged. “Once I start playing, I forget there is an audience. It doesn't really matter.”

They were in a comfortable-looking suite; Strode could see one bedroom and a small kitchen. When breakfast arrived, Strode insisted on signing for it and they sat down to eat. He spotted a couple of sweet pastries on the cart and knew they were for him. Joanna Gillespie put a jar of diabetic honey beside her plate for herself.

She slouched at the table and ate slowly, chewing each bite thoroughly before swallowing. Her movements were deliberate and unhurried, and she looked Strode straight in the eye when she spoke. She was courteous and pleasant to him, but it was obvious she was not at all impressed by having someone like A. J. Strode seeking her out.

Well, that would change.

“Where's your, er, retinue?” Strode asked innocently. “You don't travel alone, do you?”

“No, but I don't sleep with them. They'll be here at ten. And I told the desk to hold my calls. So you can say what you've come to say without fear of interruption.”

But Strode waited until they were almost finished eating. “How'd you come to buy House of Glass stock in the first place?” he asked her.

“It was my financial manager's advice. He handles all my investments.”

“And he's the one telling you not to sell?”

“Not exactly. I called him after your second offer, and he said I was right to hold on to the stock. I watch my investments, Mr. Strode, and House of Glass has sent me some nice dividends.”

“Call me A. J.”

“Glad to. And I'm Jo.”

“You know, Jo, there are other companies I could put you on to that'll return even bigger dividends. I made you a generous offer. You could make a nice profit on those shares right now and reinvest the entire amount.”

She shot him a quizzical look. “But the fact that A. J. Strode wants those shares so badly tells me they must be pretty valuable. Why? What's going to happen with House of Glass?”

“What's going to happen,” he said softly, “is that I'm going to close it down.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Close it down?”

“About ninety percent of it. And when I do, how much do you think your shares will be worth then?” He let her think that over for a minute. “I am going to take over, you know. If not with your shares, then with someone else's. So you either make a profit now or take a big loss later. Up to you.”

She stared at him a moment and said, “God, how I hate being bullied! Why do you want to shut down a profitable company like House of Glass?”

“Business,” he answered shortly.

“Business.” She thought a moment. “House of Glass must be hurting you somehow. Are you a competitor? And you're out to smash the competition? Is that it?”

“Very good, Jo.” He gave her the lupine smile that had intimidated stronger adversaries than Jo Gillespie. “I'm doing you a favor, coming to you first. I go to the next guy, I buy his shares, he makes a profit, you take a bath. So what's it going to be?”

She didn't answer immediately. Then: “What if the next guy says no, too? And the next one? And the one after him? You wouldn't have raised your first offer to me if you had a string of stockholders lined up eager to sell you their shares. I'm sorry, A. J., but something doesn't ring true here. I'm going to have to talk this over with my financial manager.”

Strode shook his head. “Jo, Jo … you know you're forcing me to do something I didn't want to do. I was hoping to keep this friendly. I come all the way here from New York—”

“A fifty-minute flight.”

“—and I show you how to keep from losing money on your House of Glass shares, and you still won't sell.” He paused. “Do you remember a man named Ozzie Rogers?”

Her face tightened. “Who?”

Strode repeated the name. “An old-style Texan. A familiar type—all muscles and bullets and shoot first and ask no questions at all. Ozzie's one of those mercenaries who advertise their services in gun magazines. They're really something, those ads are. Some of them are nothing more than thinly disguised offers to commit murder for a fee. Ozzie's ad is one of the thinnest.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked with a show of casualness.

Strode smiled. “Ozzie tells an interesting story. He says a lady sent him a plane ticket to New Orleans for what he calls a ‘meet'—and meet they did. She was looking for someone to kill two people, an older man and his wife. But then she changed her mind and backed out.” He leaned over the table. “You were that lady, Jo. Ozzie identified you from a picture we showed him. And I have his signature on an affidavit saying so.”

She was silent a moment and then muttered, “How much did you pay him for that?”

“Five thousand,” Strode answered blandly. “Ozzie's not the brightest chap in the world—he had no idea how much his identification was really worth. But that's neither here nor there. What's significant is the fact that you consulted him about committing two murders for you. You wanted him to kill your parents.”

“What are you talking about? My father had a coronary and my mother died of insulin overdose!”

“That's what their death certificates say, yes. But you and I both know they were helped along. What was the matter, Jo? Just couldn't wait for a natural death?”

“I didn't hire Ozzie! You know that!”

“But I don't know why. Afraid the killings could be traced to you? Or did you just decide Ozzie didn't have the brains to do the job the way you wanted it done? It sure as hell wasn't conscience, because you went ahead and did it yourself. You killed your father, and then you waited a year and you killed your mother.”

“You're crazy as a loon.” Jo stood up abruptly, jarring the table.

“How'd you kill your father, Jo?” Strode asked. “An air bubble in the blood stream? That would look like a coronary, and it seems to me a needle would be a diabetic's natural weapon. It's what you used on your mother a year later. Oh, I know the coroner's report said she'd been drinking and forgot she'd already taken her daily injection—at a time when she was alone in the house and there was no one to help her. Supposedly. But you were there, weren't you?
You
gave her that overdose. What did you do then, Jo? Did you wait long enough to see the sweating, the confusion, the coma? Or did you leave her to die alone?”

“Get out of here!” she shouted. “Get out right now!”

“It was a pretty nice setup,” Strode went on unheeding. “On top of their diabetes, your folks had other problems, didn't they? Your father had developed emphysema. He smoked too much, he ate too much, he drank too much. The man was a walking coronary waiting to happen. And your mother was in even worse shape. Nephritis, wasn't it? They were two mighty sick people. So if you were caught playing your needle games, you could always claim they were mercy killings and hope to get a jury that went for that sort of thing.”

Her mouth was working but no sound was coming out. Strode took her speechlessness as a favorable sign.

He bore down even harder. “You became a wealthy woman when your father died, Jo. Half his money went to you and the other half to your mother. But you wanted it all, didn't you? Money you never earned. That must have been quite a year for you, right after you killed your father—waiting to find out if you'd got away with it and cranking yourself up to do it again. Or did you enjoy doing it?”

“You're sick, Strode,” she hissed. “You're sick and twisted and perverted. How dare you accuse me of killing my parents? How
dare
you!”

“I dare because I've got Ozzie Rogers in my pocket,” he said bluntly. “I own a newspaper, in case you didn't know. They'll run the story as long as I want them to. And that's exactly what's going to happen unless you get down off your high horse and let go of those House of Glass shares. Is that what you want? All that bad publicity, the police reopening the case?”

She whirled and ran into the bedroom before he'd finished his last sentence. Strode smiled and got up from the table to follow her. Hysterics were good. Hysterics meant he was winning.

But he'd taken only a few steps when she was back—and now she had a gun in her hand. She pointed the gun directly at his face. “Now you get out of here, you piece of slime,” she said furiously, “or by god I will shoot you! Just give me the excuse!”

Strode believed her. He left as fast as his legs could carry him.

Back in his own room, he sank to the side of the bed and willed himself to calm down. She'd pointed a gun at him. Joanna Gillespie had pointed a
gun
… at
him
! He looked at his hands; they were trembling. He'd been doing business for forty years and no one had ever pulled a gun on him before. Jesus, Jo Gillespie was supposed to be the
easy
one! God damn the woman. There'd be blizzards in hell before he'd let her get away with that.

He went into the bathroom and washed his face with cold water. Then he leaned over the sink for a few moments, bracing himself with his arms. Joanna Gillespie would regret this day. Strode's first impulse was to go ahead right then and there and do what he'd threatened: publish the Ozzie Rogers story. But Strode hadn't gotten to be a fat cat by yielding to impulse. He'd work on the other two stockholders first; and as soon as one of them sold, he'd lower the boom on that Gillespie bitch.