Naked Once More (37 page)

Jacqueline’s smile remained fixed in place, but the narrowing of her eyes turned it into something closer to a snarl. “Mollie and her affairs are off limits for you, MacDonnell. That’s part of the deal—you leave her alone and get that photographer off her back.”

“Deal?” MacDonnell said hopefully.

“That may not be precisely the right word. Get lost, MacDonnell, and take your friend with you. Hang around town if you want to—though in my opinion that would not be an intelligent move, since your prolonged presence in the region may attract others of your ilk. If you two haven’t checked out, and left the inn, within half an hour, I start calling television stations and newspapers.”

MacDonnell’s reaction was a tribute to his literary talents. Seldom had Jacqueline heard such a spontaneous, eloquent combination of vituperation and pleading. She remained unmoved, even when he offered her money.

“I told you, this isn’t a deal. It’s a threat. At the moment you’ve got an exclusive. So far as I’m concerned, you can keep it. But if you don’t leave me strictly alone, I’ll spread the word to all my friends in the business.” She glanced at her watch. “The half hour starts now, so you’d better get moving.”

“Okay, okay! You swear you won’t… Right. Your word is your bond, Ms. Kirby, I know that. But what am I going to do with my editor? Once she gets her teeth into a story, she’s worse than a piranha, and she wants pictures and an interview—”

“That’s your problem.” After a moment Jacqueline added, “You could try telling her the truth.”

MacDonnell considered this unusual idea. “Damned if it might not work at that. Look, Ms. Kirby, if I go along with this, and get Marsha to agree, how about an interview tomorrow, or even the day after—”

“Twenty-seven minutes,” said Jacqueline.

She occupied the waiting period by investigating the raspberry patch. She had forgotten—if she ever knew—that red raspberries bear a second crop in the fall. They tasted delicious, even if they did leave conspicuous and, she suspected, indelible spots on one’s clothing and fingers. She gleaned her way along until she found the way into the heart of the tangle, and noted, with very little amusement, that straw had been used to mulch the plants. One section, about six feet long and several feet wide, was much thicker than the rest. She poked fastidiously in the prickly material, but found nothing of interest. Tom was either very careful, or very, very careless.

She returned to the gate in time to see MacDonnell push his assistant into his car and throw his suitcase in after her. He stood looking around and scratching his head for several minutes, then climbed in and drove out of the parking lot.

So far, so good. Jacqueline was not naive enough to suppose that MacDonnell would keep his word—which, to be fair, he had not actually given her. If he had the sense God gave a goat, he would swap his rental car for another one, buy a funny hat or a fake mustache, and return to keep a watchful eye on her and her activities. That would take a while, though, even assuming Joe Reynolds down at the garage had a spare vehicle to rent. There was no car-rental agency closer than Meadowbrook.

Humming tunelessly, Jacqueline walked to the front door of the inn. When she entered, Mollie hung up the phone and gave her the open-mouthed, wide-eyed stare that did—Jacqueline was forced to admit—make her look like a sheep. “I just tried to call you! They’ve gone! They checked out, both of them, just a few minutes ago, and then they—”

“I know. I’m sorry about all this, Mollie. Are you feeling all right?”

“Oh. Yes, I… It’s not your fault, Jacqueline. They didn’t bother me, not really, it’s just that everything is so awful.… I’d only met Jan Wilson a few times, but I felt so sorry for her, and then to have this happen… And now people are saying the most incredible things, that it wasn’t Jan at all, but… It can’t be true—can it?”

Jacqueline wasn’t surprised to hear that the story had spread. A number of gaping listeners had heard Paul’s statement. “Who told you?” she asked.

“I don’t remember exactly. Everybody seemed to know about it; we had the Business Men’s Club here last night, they have a dinner meeting every week, and somebody came in and said there’d been a terrible murder at the bookstore, and of course they all went rushing out to see for themselves, and they came back later, talking at the top of their lungs.… And poor Mrs. Swenson! Even she couldn’t help hearing, they were yelling so loudly, and I thought for a while she was going to have a stroke. She bolted for the door—she’s really surprisingly spry for such an old lady—and of course I tried to stop her, I didn’t think a woman of her age should get so excited, and she… she bit me.”

“She what?”

“Oh, it was an accident. You know how clumsy I am; I guess I must have got my finger into her mouth somehow while I was holding her. I’m sure she didn’t mean to.”

Jacqueline had to turn away to hide her twitching lips. Poor Mrs. Swenson indeed. The event was probably the most interesting she had encountered in sixty sedate years, and well-meaning Mollie had foiled her attempt to get in on the action.

“I hope Tom’s cooking wasn’t affected by the news,” she said.

The sarcasm in her voice went unnoticed by Mollie. “Not really. He’s such a professional. But he was upset. Naturally.”

“Naturally,” Jacqueline echoed. “How well did he know Jan?”

“Not at all, actually. He doesn’t have much time for reading.” Mollie hesitated. “It was… it was the idea that it might be Kathleen Darcy. That can’t be true, Jacqueline.”

“I honestly don’t know, Mollie. But I can see why it might bother Tom. They were friends, weren’t they?”

“More than friends.”

“Really?”

Jacqueline’s tone of astonishment wouldn’t have fooled O’Brien, but it fooled Mollie. “I’m surprised you didn’t realize. You’ve read the book; everybody knows she modeled her hero after Tom. I don’t blame Tom. It was a long time ago, before he met me. She was older and more—more experienced, and she was crazy in love with him. It was one of the reasons why he left Pine Grove, actually. He didn’t care for her—not really—and the way she chased him got to be embarrassing. Tom said she couldn’t keep her eyes off him.”

“Ah,” said Jacqueline.

“So you can see why Tom would be upset. He never was in love with her—not really—but he’s so kind and so caring, the thought of her hiding there, hurt and sick, just makes him feel he should have…”

Her voice trailed off indecisively.

“What could he have done?” Jacqueline asked. “How could he have known? I’ll have a little talk with Tom; perhaps I can straighten him out.”

“Oh, would you?” Mollie wiped the tears from her eyes and gave Jacqueline a look of abject gratitude. “He admires you so much, Jacqueline.”

“Uh-huh,” said Jacqueline. Really, Mollie was almost too much. Her innocence would bring out the bully in many people, but it was that very innocence that endeared her to cynical Jacqueline Kirby. People like Mollie didn’t adjust to reality, they were crushed by it. Not this time, Jacqueline thought. Not if I can prevent it. “Where is Tom?” she asked.

“In the kitchen. Oh”—as Jacqueline turned away—“you got some phone calls. I told everyone you couldn’t be disturbed. It must have been horrible for you last night—”

Jacqueline took the message slips and retreated.

Her abrupt appearance in the kitchen brought all the chopping, stirring, serving and stewing to a standstill. Ignoring the curious stares and murmurs, Jacqueline said, “Tom, have you got a minute?”

“I can’t,” Tom began.

“Outside.” Jacqueline gestured.

He followed her out the back door, wiping his hands on his apron. Jacqueline closed the door. “Someone was in the cottage last night,” she said. “How many other keys to the place are there?”

“Keys,” Tom repeated stupidly. Like his wife, he looked as if he had not slept. The effect on Mollie had been to make her resemble a sick sheep; in Tom’s case, he looked more like a hero of romance than ever—worn with battle, noble and heroic. It was with difficulty that Jacqueline refrained from slapping him across his beautiful, tired face.

“Keys. Four-letter word, things that open doors. There was no sign of a break-in. Who else besides me has a key to that cottage?”

“Nobody.” Tom rubbed his forehead. “I mean… There is another key. A spare. Mollie would know where it is.”

“I don’t want to worry Mollie. I didn’t tell her about the incident, and you are not to do so. Just find that key and hang on to it. I’ll check with you later.”

Dark color rushed into Tom’s cheeks. “Just a damned minute, Mrs. Kirby. I don’t know what right you have to talk to me like—”

“Don’t you?”

His eyes dropped. After a moment Jacqueline realized that he was looking at the front of her shirt, where two bright red spots showed like bloodstains. A couple of the raspberries had gotten mashed.

“Did you hurt yourself?” he asked.

“It’s not blood, it’s berry stains. Raspberry stains.” Tom stared at her, his face blank, and Jacqueline felt a surge of exasperation. He was just as dense as Mollie, in a different way. “I was exploring the raspberry patch,” she said. “It seems to be a popular spot. I can’t imagine why. It’s convenient, of course, but I would think the discomfort would outweigh the advantage of proximity.”

She would have gone on, but it wasn’t necessary. Tom’s eyes widened, and the blood drained from his cheeks. “Mrs. Kirby—”

“It would be bad enough if you really cared about the girl,” Jacqueline said. “But you don’t. You’re using her as a surrogate and as a sop for wounded pride. Kathleen didn’t want you, did she? You thought she did. I can’t altogether blame you for failing to understand. I’m sure a number of women stared at you, made excuses to be with you. But Kathleen wasn’t just any woman. She was, first and foremost, a writer. You fascinated her, not as a man but as a model, and she was studying you like a zoological specimen. To do her justice, I don’t suppose it ever occurred to her that you would be interested in her sexually; you had plenty of other women drooling over you, most of them younger and prettier. When you propositioned her… What did she do? Did she laugh?”

Tom’s ghastly look told her that her not-so-random shot had hit the gold. It hadn’t required supernatural insight to concoct that theory—just some common, garden-variety psychology and understanding of human nature—but Tom backed away, staring at her as if he expected her to hop onto a broomstick and take off.

“Well,” Jacqueline said, more gently, “I imagine she was one of the few women who ever turned you down. That rankled; and having one’s advances received with howls of mirth must have hurt. If she’d remained here in Pine Grove, married, turned into an ordinary aging housewife, you’d have forgotten her. But the mystery and the romance of her life, added to her rejection, transformed her into the unattainable ideal woman. La Belle Dame sans Merci, Helen.…” She could tell by his face that the literary allusions meant nothing to him. Mollie had said he didn’t read much.… Jacqueline demanded irritably, “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Are you—have you told Mollie?”

Jacqueline was about to explode into profanity when it occurred to her that, in fact, that was the essential question. Perhaps it didn’t matter whether Tom ever understood why he had done what he did, so long as he quit doing it. If Mollie had an ounce of gumption she’d throw him out and find somebody less beautiful and more grown up. But Mollie wouldn’t change; and if Tom was what she wanted, then Tom was what she’d get. A new, improved model of Tom, engineered by J. Kirby.

“I haven’t told anybody anything,” she said. “Not yet. Tom, you don’t seem to realize that you’re in deep doo-doo. You spread that story about you and Kathleen yourself, didn’t you? You wanted everybody to think she was dying of love for you. Well, Don Juan, that gives you a motive for murder. What I know gives you a different but equally pertinent motive. You’re not in danger of losing Mollie, you stupid oaf; you’re in danger of going to jail.”

“Mollie,” Tom repeated stupidly. “Mollie mustn’t know.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Jacqueline exclaimed. “You’re hopeless. Think about it, Tom, if you are capable of rational thought. I’ve got other things to do. I’ll see you later.”

Her next stop was the office of Craig, Craig and Craig. Her reception was quite unlike the one she had received on her first visit. No waiting this time; as soon as the secretary announced her, Craig came out of his office like a bullet from a gun. “Get in here,” he said, taking her by the arm.

Rather than make a scene in front of the clients waiting in the outer office, Jacqueline allowed herself to be propelled. Once inside, she freed herself with an abruptness that left Craig gaping, and settled herself decisively in the visitor’s chair.

“So, what’s happening?” she asked brightly.

“In a word?” Craig asked. He leaned against the desk, his hands in his pockets. His tie was striped, a particularly horrid combination of red and yellow, and for the first time since Jacqueline had met him, it was loosened and askew.

“You look tired,” Jacqueline murmured. “Have trouble sleeping?”

“Apparently you didn’t.” Craig was trying, and almost succeeding, in emulating her technique. He looked her over with a cool insolence he must have known she would resent, from her shabby comfortable Old Maine Trotters to the scarf knotted around her head. “You look unconscionably pleased with life, and with yourself. Which takes a certain degree of nerve, considering the applecarts you’ve upset and the cans of worms you’ve opened—”

“Now, now, let’s play fair,” Jacqueline interrupted. “I didn’t open the latest can of worms. That was Paul Spencer.”

“So I’ve been told. But why can’t I rid myself of the feeling that you had something to do with it?”

“I guess you just have a nasty, suspicious mind,” Jacqueline said. “Would you like to ask your father and your son to join us? I’d hate to think you felt yourself at a disadvantage, all alone with me and my scheming mind.”

Craig turned a pretty shade of pink. His sense of humor finally won out; he laughed ruefully. “Pax, Mrs. Kirby. I don’t know why you dislike me, but I’d like to try again.”