Naked Once More (14 page)

“ ‘The fear of death disturbs me.’ ” O’Brien couldn’t resist showing off. “That wouldn’t be an unreasonable choice of quotation for a suicide—”

“Bah,” Jacqueline said rudely. “It was a logical refrain for Dunbar’s poem; he was referring to the deaths of writers—his colleagues and contemporaries. But there are many quotations more appropriate to suicide, and Kathleen was a writer; she could have found fitting words of her own. Why would a woman barely thirty years old and in excellent health fear death—unless she knew someone was trying to kill her?

“Then there’s the question of why the car wasn’t found for so long. Somebody must have taken pains to hide the entrance to that track into the woods. Would a woman bent on suicide bother? But it would be to a killer’s advantage to have the discovery of the body delayed. The longer the elapsed time, the harder it is to pin down the time of death.”

O’Brien thought of other advantages, but he didn’t mention them. Damn, he thought irritably. She’s getting to me. I ought to be trying to talk her out of this.…

It was with astonishment and mild outrage that he heard himself say, “Have you got anything—anything at all—besides those amorphous accidents and your own uncontrolled imagination that would indicate… uh…”

“Murder,” Jacqueline supplied. “You of all people shouldn’t find that word so difficult to pronounce. Patrick, you aren’t fooling me; you wouldn’t remember the case so clearly if you had been entirely satisfied.”

O’Brien shifted uncomfortably. “Nobody was entirely satisfied. But it was only one of many cases that may never be solved. What became of the guy who went back into the house to get his umbrella and vanished off the face of the earth? Did Lizzie Borden use the famous hatchet on her parents, or was it someone else? What really happened to the princes in the tower—”

“Oh, I know what happened to them,” Jacqueline said calmly. “But that was a long time ago. Kathleen Darcy’s killer is still alive and kicking. I’d like to see him or her get what’s coming to him or her. Wouldn’t you?”

“ ‘When did you stop beating your wife?’ ” O’Brien muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Another unanswerable question. Now look here, Jake—”

A prolonged buzz from the intercom at the front door interrupted his train of thought. Jacqueline excused herself and went to answer it. He heard her tell someone to come right up.

“Are you expecting company?” he asked, glad of an excuse to walk out on a discussion that was becoming increasingly uncomfortable.

“She’s a little early,” Jacqueline said. “No, don’t go, Patrick. I think… Yes, I think it would be a good idea for you to meet her.”

The smile that spread across her face aroused O’Brien’s direst forebodings. He knew that smile. Before he could protest, the doorbell sounded and Jacqueline went to admit the newcomer.

In O’Brien’s considered opinion she had not been worth waiting for. Pale, plain—no, make that homely. She gave Jacqueline her coat; the garment she wore underneath was as oversized and concealing, reaching almost to her ankles and hanging in folds around her body. A woman wouldn’t wear a dress like that unless she had something to hide, O’Brien thought critically. In this case it had to be an absence of curves rather than an overabundance of them; nothing interrupted the straight lines of the fabric, fore or aft, right or left.

Jacqueline introduced them. She gushed. “Sarah is my new agent, Patrick. I’m so lucky to have her. And Patrick—I’ll bet you can’t guess what he does for a living, Sarah.”

Sarah obviously didn’t give a damn what he did. The way Jacqueline fussed over her, you’d have thought she was the Queen. “Take this chair, it’s the most comfortable. Do smoke; I know you do, I saw you stub out a cigarette in the hall one day.… Here’s a nice ashtray and a nice cup of coffee, or would you prefer lemonade? I have a whole pitcher ready-made.…”

By that time wild horses couldn’t have dragged O’Brien away. He had been gripped by unholy fascination. He knew all about Sarah Saunders, he had heard Jacqueline curse her roundly on several other occasions. What was Jacqueline up to?

He soon found out. Jacqueline wasted no time. They had not exchanged more than a few meaningless sentences before she was bending over Sarah again, ostensibly to offer her cream and sugar. Somehow she managed to knock the burning cigarette from Sarah’s hand. It landed in the voluminous acreage of her skirt. Sarah jumped to her feet, the cigarette dropped to the floor, O’Brien reached for it—and Jacqueline coolly, with deliberate aim, flung the contents of the pitcher of purported lemonade straight at Sarah.

O’Brien’s jaw sagged. The liquid had soaked the front of Sarah’s dress. It clung to her body, outlining a slim waist and gently curving hips, caressing the twin cones that thrust teasingly at the…

“I’m soooo sorry,” Jacqueline said. “But it’s better to be wet than scorched, isn’t it?”

Some of the lemonade had splashed onto Sarah’s face. Automatically she wiped it off with her sleeve, and with it went the pale foundation on her jaw and lips. Her mouth didn’t need lipstick, it was pink and full and curved and…

O’Brien closed his own mouth. Sarah’s twisted into a shape that predicted expletives and obscenities. Before she could speak, Jacqueline took her firmly by the arm. “You can’t sit around in a wet dress, dahling. Come into the bedroom and I’ll find you something to slip into.”

When they came back, the transformation was complete. How Jacqueline had persuaded Sarah to let her hair down O’Brien did not know nor care. It hung in waving beauty to her shoulders, framing a face from which all traces of the disguising foundation had been removed. And quite a face it was, too. Healthy pink color, flushed now with strong emotion, eyes framed by dark lashes and brows, curvaceous mouth. The robe she was wearing was one of Jacqueline’s more extravagant purchases, lavish with marabou and belted tightly at the waist. The clinging silk outlined a shape that fulfilled all its original promise.

Jacqueline seated the apparition tenderly on a love seat and stood back to observe the effect. “Now isn’t that better?” she inquired.

“Damn right,” said O’Brien heartily.

Sarah Saunders glared at him. Her cheeks had darkened to a rich, becoming rose. “You—you—” She transferred the glare to Jacqueline. “You did that deliberately!”

“Yes, I did.” Jacqueline beamed, as if at a compliment. “I happened to notice, that first day I met you, when Brunnhilde knocked the vase over and you got splashed.… You didn’t get behind the door quickly enough, my dear. Naturally I wondered why a woman would go to such lengths to hide such a nice figure, and cover her face with makeup that suggested she had been dead for a week, but it wasn’t long before the answer occurred to me. Booton. I don’t blame you for wanting to discourage his advances, but why did you take the job in the first place? You must have known his reputation.”

In her usual fashion she had managed to make the whole absurd incident seem like a reasonable prelude to a friendly discussion. Sarah was unable to maintain her outrage. The corners of her mouth quivered distractingly. “Mrs. Kirby, you are the most—”

“I am, I know I am.” Jacqueline resumed her position, cross-legged on the floor. “But this masquerade is unnecessary with me, Sarah. More than unnecessary—counter-productive. We should be allies, not adversaries.”

“What did you have in mind?” Sarah asked cautiously.

O’Brien wondered too. Surely Jacqueline wasn’t going to enlist this lovely, innocent young creature in her idiotic crusade to prove Kathleen Darcy had been the victim of deliberate cold-blooded murder?

No. She wasn’t. The strategy she outlined seemed reasonable enough, allowing for the general insanity of the publishing profession. Sarah thought so too. She nodded from time to time; when Jacqueline finally dried up, she said, “I’ve no objection to that. Actually, Mrs. Kirby—all right, Jacqueline—I’ve been feeling pretty guilty about you. You must have known that there is only one real agent in that office—Booton Stokes. The rest of us are just flunkies, we’re allowed to handle the clients he doesn’t care about, and he takes the biggest cut of the percentage. I certainly don’t feel any personal loyalty to him. My first loyalty should be to you, my client.”

“Exactly,” Jacqueline said. “I wouldn’t ask you to do anything unethical—”

“What is unethical?” Sarah’s smile was decidedly cynical. “I’d say you were entitled to know if he tries to pull any of his dirty tricks on you.”

Jacqueline’s long lashes fluttered, veiling her eyes, and O’Brien felt himself stiffening. That wasn’t all Jacqueline wanted to know. He was damned if he would allow her to involve this girl in one of her devious… Girl. How old was she? Older than she looked, perhaps. The difference between forty-six and thirty… possibly thirty-three…

Sarah was speaking. “… because I needed the experience. It’s hard to start out as an independent agent, and whatever I may think of Stokes’s methods, there’s no denying he knows all the tricks of the trade. I had hopes of acquiring a few clients of my own and eventually starting my own agency.”

Jacqueline smiled seraphically. “We’ll see how things work out, Sarah. This could be an advantageous arrangement for both of us.”

Bribery and corruption, O’Brien thought sourly, as the two women exchanged looks that made him feel even more left out. After that first hateful glare Sarah had not even looked at him. Well, she would see more of him whether she liked it or not. No matter what her age, she was a babe in the woods compared to sneaky, tricky Jacqueline Kirby. He wouldn’t allow…

“I must be going,” Sarah said. “I assume you didn’t really want to talk to me about publicity?”

“No, that was just an excuse,” Jacqueline said. “Don’t hurry off, though.”

“I have work to do.” Sarah rose. “Is my dress—”

“Soaking wet,” Jacqueline said. “Keep the robe. It’s not my style anyway, I never wear it.”

“But I can’t—”

“Your coat will cover it. Most of it.”

Sarah looked stunned. Jacqueline’s unique approach to life took some getting used to; she would have thought nothing of hailing a cab attired in jade silk and marabou feathers and it never occurred to her that such a performance would bother anyone else.

O’Brien saw his chance. “I’ll drive you home, Ms. Saunders. My car’s parked right outside.”

“Illegally,” Jacqueline added. “There are advantages to being a police officer.”

“Is that what you do?” Sarah gave him her full attention.

“Well…”

“It’s a very dangerous job.”

“Oh, well…”

“But I don’t want you to leave on my account. I interrupted your—your evening.”

Between them, Jacqueline and O’Brien overcame her scruples. O’Brien swathed her in her coat, and she said tactfully, “I’ll just wait for you downstairs.”

Jacqueline continued to squat on the floor. She peered up at him from under her glasses. “Be careful, Patrick. Those are mean streets out there.”

The gentleness of her voice stirred not-so-distant memories. It was impossible to stay angry with her for long.… “You be careful too,” he said. “I don’t believe for a moment that there is the slightest foundation for your crazy theory—if I did, I’d find some excuse to lock you up. But the mean streets aren’t all in Manhattan, Jacqueline.”

Mean streets are Main streets, an’ Main streets are mean streets, an’…” The music from the car radio faded into a crackle of static. Resignedly Jacqueline switched it off. The farther she got into the hills, the poorer the reception.

Those same hills, which had been garbed in soft green on her previous visit, now flaunted the rich shades of autumn. Jacqueline’s mood ought to have rivaled their splendor. She was returning to Pine Grove for an indefinite stay; returning in triumph, as the official winner, the designated writer, Numero Uno. The contract had been signed, the announcement had been made; her disappointed rivals were being good sports, or damned poor losers, according to their various temperaments; and Kathleen Darcy’s papers, including those very intriguing letters, were now available to her. She had sublet her apartment and stored her furniture. She was all fired up and ready to start working. The next step in the process was to write a longer and more detailed chapter-by-chapter outline, which would be submitted to the heirs for their approval. Jacqueline anticipated no difficulty about getting it. Shortly after meeting St. John, pronounced “Sinjun,” she had decided that he knew nothing about Kathleen’s work and cared less. Booton Stokes was the only member of the informal committee who had the experience to make an informed judgment, and Booton was already enthusiastically on her side. If the outline made even minimal sense, he would accept it, St. John would sign on the dotted line, and Booton would announce an auction. Publishers would flock to bid for the book, and sooner or later—probably later—the money would start pouring in.

So why was she depressed? She knew the reasons. One of the other things she had done during the past ten days was read Kathleen’s outline for the sequel.

That Monday morning she had gone to Stokes’s office with her expectations at fever pitch. He had made a big production out of singing the contract, as big a production as was possible with a limited cast. St. John had refused the invitation to be present. He had already signed; as Stokes reached for the bottle of champagne, Jacqueline affixed her own sprawling signature. It was done. Stokes popped the cork. Sarah ducked.

She and Jacqueline avoided one another’s eyes. For some reason Jacqueline could not fathom, Sarah seemed to find it difficult to maintain her masquerade when Jacqueline was around. Whenever their eyes met, Sarah’s face went into extraordinary spasms, and muffled sounds of—it could not be laughter, Jacqueline decided, that simply wasn’t possible—of something escaped her lips. Uncomprehending but resigned, Jacqueline had instructed her stooge to keep a low profile when Stokes was in the room.

Following instructions, Sarah excused herself as soon as she had swallowed her glass of champagne. Booton waited until she had closed the door before he unlocked a desk drawer, and, in an atmosphere of hushed solemnity, handed over Kathleen’s outline.