Rivals (17 page)

She glanced at the black lacquered mantel clock, deciding Chance was probably at the airport by now. Possibly he could have even taken off already. Idly, she wondered when he would call.

“Well?” Ellery prodded her for a reaction. “Are any of these the slant you wanted?”

With a start, Flame realized that she'd been looking at the sketches without seeing any of them. “Sorry, I—” The ringing of the telephone interrupted her, and she jumped to answer it, certain it was Chance calling from the airport.

But the whiskey-rough voice on the other end of the line didn't belong to Chance. “Is that you, Margaret Rose? I've been calling all weekend. This is Hattie Morgan.”

“Hattie.” Belatedly Flame remembered the proud old woman who had come to see her with that wild story about being related and leaving a ranch in Oklahoma to her. She'd thought she'd heard the last of her. “Where are you?” she wondered.

“At Morgan's Walk, of course,” came the snapped answer.

“Of course. I should have guessed.” She felt a twinge of pity that the poor woman was still clinging to her fantasy. More than likely she was at some nursing home, and all this was just a lonely attempt to reach out to somebody. “Hattie, is there someone there I could talk to. An attendant or a nurse?”

“A nurse?! No, there is not!”

“It isn't that I don't want to talk to you, Hattie.” Flame tried again. “I merely want to—”

“You don't believe me, do you?” came the accusation. “You think everything I said was the ramblings of a senile old woman. I'll have you know that my mind is as sharp as yours.”

“I'm sure it is—”

“No, you aren't. But I can prove everything I said to you. Do you have a paper and pencil?”

“Yes.” A notepad and pen lay next the telephone.

“I'm calling you long distance from Oklahoma. Mark this number down.” With a sharp, staccato rhythm, she reeled the numbers off, then commanded: “Now, read it back to me.”

Flame couldn't help smiling as she repeated the numbers she'd hastily jotted on the pad. The woman was indeed sharp—sharp enough to know that she could have pretended to write them down. Now Hattie knew she had.

“Good,” came the clipped response. “Now I'm going to hang up and I want you to call me back at that number.”

“Hattie—”

“No. I don't want you to have any doubt that I am calling from Oklahoma. You can check the telephone directory yourself and see that I've given you the area code for Oklahoma.”

“I know that—”

“Then do it and call me back. Reverse the charges, if you like.” There was a sharp click, then the line went dead.

Frowning with sudden doubt, Flame slowly lowered the receiver to stare at it. Had she misjudged this Hattie Morgan? Was it possible she had been telling the truth?

“Is something wrong?”

Ellery's question deepened her frown. “I don't know.” She depressed the disconnect switch, held it down for a short span of seconds, then released it and waited for the dial tone. When it came, she pushed the “O” button for the operator. “Yes, the area code for Oklahoma, please,” she requested as soon as a voice came on the line. “The Tulsa area…Nine one eight,” she repeated while staring at the same set of digits she'd written on the pad. “Thank you,” she murmured automatically as she hung up the phone.

“Who was that call from?” Ellery was now on his feet. “What's going on?”

She half-turned to him, still trying to sort through it all herself. “Do you remember my telling you about that elderly woman who showed up at my door last week with that preposterous story that I was her last living relative and she was going to leave me her ranch in Oklahoma? That's who just called me.”

“What did she want?”

“She wants me to call her back—and the number she gave me has an Oklahoma area code.” She exhaled a silent laugh of disbelief and doubt. “You don't suppose all that was true? I thought she had slipped away from some nursing home or private care center. I mean, she could have easily read somewhere that my maiden name is Morgan—or that my Morgan ancestors married into one of the founding families in San Francisco.” She stared at the phone, remembering how casually she had dismissed the whole incident. “It seemed so logical that a lonely old woman with no family of her own would want to pretend that she was related to me, especially when she saw that I had red hair, the same color as some grandfather of hers.”

“You don't really believe she intends to leave you some cattle ranch in Oklahoma?” Again there was that high arch of an eyebrow from Ellery, conveying skepticism and question.

“I don't know what to believe,” Flame admitted and picked up the telephone again, dialing the number Hattie had given her. “But if she answers, at least I'll know she told me the truth when she said she lived in Oklahoma.”

The first ring had barely ended when a voice demanded, “Hello?”

“Hello—Hattie?” She felt oddly tense.

“Yes,” came the clipped response, followed by an even sharper demand: “Is that you, Margaret Rose?”

“Yes, it is.”

“You certainly took your time about calling me back.”

“I did as you suggested and confirmed that the area code you gave me was for Oklahoma.”

“Then you should be satisfied on that score.” No attempt was made to mask the indignation and irritation in her voice.

“I am.” Flame tried to remain tolerant.

“I intended to ask how soon you would be able to visit Morgan's Walk, but it's become quite apparent to me that you neither believe in its existence nor that we are related.”

“Hattie, you surely have to realize how it would all sound to me.”

“I do. Although I thought I had convinced you of the truth of my claim when we talked. After all the searching I did to find you, I—But that is beside the point, isn't it? My word is not enough. You obviously require proof, and it's probably best that you do. Keep that wariness, Margaret Rose. It is better that you don't trust anyone too much.”

“You said something to that effect before,” Flame recalled.

“And it's true…as you'll find out. But—be that as it may—since it's proof you need, it's proof you shall have. I'll arrange immediately for copies to be sent to you documenting that you and I are of the same Morgan lineage. They should be in your possession no later than the end of the week.”

“Hattie, that isn't necessary—”

“Oh, but it is. It's very necessary. You must learn that everything I tell you will be the truth—and everything can be supported with proof.”

“I believe you,” she insisted with fading patience.

“No. Not yet you don't, but you shall. In the meantime, I would prefer that you take nothing on blind faith. Now, when you receive the papers, study them over carefully. Then we'll talk about your trip to Morgan's Walk.”

“What is it that you're not telling me?” Flame demanded, giving way to her growing suspicion. “There's something I should know, isn't there?”

“There are many things you should know now that Morgan's Walk will be yours when I'm gone. Too many to discuss on the phone. We'll go over everything when you come here.”

“But—”

“There is one other thing I must know, Margaret Rose, and it's very important.”

Flame pressed her lips tightly together, irritated by the way Hattie had sidestepped her question. As the pause lengthened, she realized a response was expected.

“I'm listening, Hattie,” she challenged somewhat sharply.

“I was beginning to wonder,” she retorted. “Now, tell me, have you mentioned my visit and our…little discussion to anyone—anyone at all, even in passing?”

“Yes. Was it supposed to be a secret?” She frowned.

“How many people did you tell? Think carefully.”

“Only two.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“I am very sure,” Flame replied, allowing a trace of impatience to enter her voice. “It wasn't something I went around telling everyone I met.”

“These two people, who are they? And please, you must accept that if it wasn't important, I wouldn't ask.”

Flame paused, wondering whether she might have been right about Hattie Morgan all along. All this cross-examination and talk of proof was becoming a bit much. “One was a very close friend of mine, whom I have known for years—a Mr. Ellery Dorn. And the other was a client and friend, Mr. Malcom Powell.”

“Those are the only ones you told? No one else?”

“No one. I've already said that.” She tried very hard to remember she was talking to an elderly woman—and apparently a slightly paranoid one at that.

“In that case, I want your word of honor that you will not discuss this further—with anyone. And when you receive the copies of the documents I'm sending you, don't show them to anyone…unless, of course, you wish to take them to your attorney to verify their authenticity. But no one else. Do I have your word on that?”

“Why this secrecy? When you were here, you weren't concerned about who I might talk to.”

“I didn't see the need then. Now I do. I have my reasons, Margaret Rose, and I will explain them to you when you come to Morgan's Walk. As I said, I will tell you everything then. And you will understand perfectly why I must ask for your word now. Do I have it?”

She sighed, knowing that this was the only answer she was going to get. “Yes, you have my word.”

“You won't regret it. Goodbye, Margaret Rose. We shall talk again next weekend, after you have had an opportunity to study the papers.”

“Goodbye, Hattie.” She hung up the phone, still trying to fathom the entire conversation.

“That sounded like a rather bizarre conversation,” Ellery prompted.

Flame turned, lifting her arms in an expressive shrug. “I'm not even going to pretend I understand. Although I have the feeling that I just took a blood oath not to divulge our conversation to anyone, including you.”

“Why?” His frown was halfway between amusement and amazement.

“I don't know.” She shook her head. “It's all terribly mysterious and hush-hush. So hush-hush, she won't tell me. Maybe it's a ploy to get me sufficiently intrigued so that I'll fly out there.”

“Intrigue. That's a curious choice of words.”

“And maybe more accurate than I know.”

12

A
s
Hattie returned the receiver to its cradle, she heard the creak of a floorboard in the great hall outside the study door. For an instant she held herself motionless, listening. After eighty-one years, she knew every creak and groan in this old house, and the sound she'd just heard hadn't been one of its natural grumblings.

“Who's there?”

There was no answer to her demand. Her mouth tightened into a thin line as she grabbed up her cane and pushed out of the worn leather chair. With the tap of the cane giving her walk a three-beat tempo, she crossed to the arched opening, the double set of pocket doors flush to the carved frame. Her sweeping glance searched the area to her right, then homed in like an arrow on the stout, gray-haired woman.

“I knew there was someone out here,” Hattie declared. “You were eavesdropping on my telephone conversations again, weren't you, Maxine?”

The woman turned, indignantly drawing herself up to her full height, her already ample bosom managing to appear considerably larger as she pushed her chest out. “With all due respect, Miss Hattie, I have better things to do with my time than listen in on your conversations.”

“Then what are you doing out here and why didn't you answer when I called out?” Hattie's gaze narrowed suspiciously on her, not believing a word of that disavowal, however exemplary it sounded.

“I didn't answer because I thought you were talking to someone on the telephone. I didn't realize you expected me to reply.”

“Then you admit you knew I was on the phone.”

“Yes, I knew. And I also knew that this dusting needed to be done. Which is precisely what I was doing.”

Hattie had a moment's uncertainty as she tried to find a flaw in the housekeeper's explanation, but the sudden stabbing pain in her head eliminated it as she paled at the excruciating pain and started to lift a hand to her head, feeling the blackness press in on her.

“You didn't take your pill, did you?” Maxine Saunders accused. “I'll get it for you.”

“No. No pill. I don't want it.” Hattie fought back the blackness, winning another battle with it.

“You know what the doctor said—”

“Such touching concern, Maxine. One would almost think you cared,” she taunted bitterly.

“After spending the last thirty years of my life taking care of Morgans, it's become a habit, Miss Hattie,” she retorted, almost as sharply. “I've tried to give it up many times. Maybe one day I'll succeed.”

“Thirty years, is that what it's been?” Hattie struggled to recall despite the throbbing in her head. “Yes, that's right.” She slowly nodded. “You were always making sugar cookies for…that whelp. Said they were his favorites.”

All expression left the woman's face. “He was a little boy.”

Hattie harrumphed at that, then stepped back and pulled the pocket doors closed, eliminating the possibility that the housekeeper would eavesdrop on future conversations. The cane swung with each stride, hitting the floor a beat off from her footsteps, as Hattie walked back to the large swivel chair behind the mohogany desk and sat down.

Again she picked up the telephone, this time to dial Ben Canon's home number. The housekeeper answered and she waited impatiently for Ben to come on the line.

When he did, Hattie came straight to the point. “Make copies of the documents and the summary that man from Utah sent us and get them off to Margaret Rose right away. But be certain you don't make any mention of Stuart. Include my sister's death if you think it's necessary, but not her marriage or the child that came from it.”