Stranger by the Lake (27 page)

“That was some trick you played on me, Susan,” he said, “or should I call you Winnie? You know what? You oughta be spanked. I reckon I'll let it pass this time, but next time I see you——”

“Is there going to be a next time?” I inquired.

“I reckon so. I sure do. I'll be in London awhile before flyin' back to Texas, and I'll make a point of roundin' you up—even if I have to use a lasso and spurs. I've got your address—your
real
address—and I 'spect you'll be hearin' from me mighty soon.”

His eyes were appreciative and not a little mischievous as he studied me. I wore green high heels and a green and white striped dress with short, full skirt, tight waist, and low-cut bodice. I smiled, pleased with his appraisal. I felt very feminine, and very susceptible. Stephen Kirk was not only one of the most charming men I had ever met, he was by far the richest. A girl would have to think twice before turning down a chance to snare a man like this.

“By the way,” he drawled, “do you think a healthy English girl like you could get used to a rowdy place like Texas?”

“Why, what makes you ask that, Mr. Kirk?”

“Just wondered. Now that I've got the Gordon papers, thought I might start a new project—somethin' a bit more personal. Would it be worth my time?”

“It might,” I replied. “It just might be.”

“I'm mighty glad to hear that. You hurry on back to London, hear? I'm gonna be gettin' restless.”

He laid his hands on my shoulders and looked down at me, and I felt a delicious expectation. Stephen Kirk didn't kiss me. He was far too modest for that. He just clicked his tongue and shook his head, giving my shoulders a tight squeeze. I watched him climb into the Cadillac and drive away, and then I started back around to the terrace.

Aunt Agatha had finally consented to see Stephen a week ago. She had been completely disarmed the moment she laid eyes on him. She refused outright to sell the papers, but she decided to give them to him. In return, Stephen agreed to distribute a million dollars among various charities Aunt Agatha subscribed to: a home for unwed mothers, an orphanage, the
S
.
P
.
C
.
A
., and a rather radical group of etymologists who were striving to establish a universal language. Duplicate copies of the papers had been made for Craig to use, and Stephen's alma mater would keep the originals. He was planning to finance a university press so the college could publish the manuscripts. Everyone was happy except Craig. Craig had loathed Stephen Kirk on sight, and for reasons that I found enchanting.

Aunt Agatha was sitting on the green chaise longue, a stack of books and a pot of tea on the table beside her. Silvery rays of sunlight bathed the cracked white tiles, and the oak trees spread soft violet shadows. The blue delphiniums added vivid color. The gardens beyond were in full bloom. There was a fragrance of roses, underlined by the pungent odor of fertilizer and soil, and there were distant barks as Prince and Earl romped on the back lawns. Aunt Agatha had adopted them. She was the picture of robust health in her tan tweed suit and sturdy brown shoes, the chunky coral beads around her neck. She looked up as I stepped onto the terrace.

“Well, Susan, did you say goodbye to Mr. Kirk?”

“Ummm … he's very nice, don't you think?”

“He's maddeningly attractive, and such charm! They sure can grow 'em in Texas.”

“Yes,” I replied vaguely.

“I'm so
pleased
at the way things have worked out. I rather fancy Sir Robert would have approved of having the papers in Texas—much more colorful than letting them gather dust at Oxford, and Lady Arabella would have been glad to know that she was responsible for so much charity, however indirectly. Yes, I do believe she would have liked that.”

A robin scolded from a nearby tree. I looked at the gardens, beautiful in the sunlight, the sky a blue-white canopy overhead. Far away, near the maze, I could see a man stalking around with hands thrust in the pockets of his tight, faded jeans. He wore a bulky beige sweater, the sleeves pushed up over his forearms, and the sunlight burnished his rich brown hair. He glanced up towards the terrace and then moved angrily on around a clump of greenery and out of sight.

“Wicked of you, Susan,” Aunt Agatha said abruptly.

“What are you talking about?”

“Leading that poor Texan on like that, putting on that dress. It's cut much too low in front, dear, as you very well know—and all just to make Craig jealous.”

“Why, I never——”

“Humph! Didn't fool me for a minute.”

“I
like
Stephen Kirk. I may even——”

“Nonsense! He'd be a marvelous catch, no doubt about it. If I were twenty years younger—well, let's say thirty—I'd be chasing him around the square myself. He was looking at you like he wanted to gobble you up, poor soul, and with a little careful maneuvering you could land him, but you're not even about to try. You and Craig have hardly exchanged a decent word since that dreadful night—I
refuse
to dwell on that ugliness, it's over, it never happened as far as I'm concerned—and, furthermore——”

“Your syntax is getting frightfully garbled,” I said pleasantly.

“Never you mind!” she snapped. “Craig's been brooding about like a regular Heathcliff, all surly and dark looks, and you've been quite skittish every time he walks into a room. You're not fooling anyone, either of you. And as for this foolishness about your leaving for Majorca tomorrow——”

“I've already set back the date of departure once——”

“It's not every day a girl has the chance to trap a genuine, bona fide millionaire, granted, but Craig's the man for you and you know it. He's going to be very important after his book comes out, and——”

“Don't fret so,” I interrupted. “I
know
all that.”

Aunt Agatha gave a lusty cackle. “Your tactics are rather transparent, Susan, but still quite effective. You're your mother's daughter, all right! But don't keep him dangling too long, dear. He's about to explode. If you don't give him an answer soon he's liable to go berserk.”

“He hasn't asked,” I said.

“Oh? Then I suggest you get a
move
on.”

Mary came bustling out onto the terrace. There was a black bow in her short blonde curls, and she wore a fresh organdy apron over the tight black dress she so bountifully filled. Her brow was creased, and she looked quite put out with all and sundry.

“It's the old lush—it's Miss Althea, ma'am. She says you're to get your tai—she says you should come over right away or she'll never get the portrait finished in time. Right hateful, she was. Said for me to
hustle
, just like I didn't have a million things to do.”

“Very well, Mary,” Aunt Agatha replied. “And, by the way, be sure you tell Cook to bring a bottle of good wine up for dinner tonight.”

“Surely,” Mary said, put upon and pouting as she marched back into the house.

“I'm sure all this is wonderful for Althea,” Aunt Agatha said as she got up, “but sometimes I wish she'd go back to gin. Wicked of me, I know, but she was much easier to deal with when she was drinking.”

There had been a harrowing invasion of newsmen and cameramen and magazine reporters and police officials after Paul's death. Gordonwood had been like a three ring circus for several days afterwards, and somehow or other Althea had managed to make herself the center of attention, posing for photographs with outrageous abandon, collaring every newsman in sight and assailing him with stories of her sleuthing. They had been delighted by her, and, to the surprise of no one, Althea had been the heroine of the case as far as the newspapers were concerned,
FORMER ARTIST CATCHES KILLER WITH THE AID OF BINOCULARS
, the headlines blazed, and a publicity-conscious gallery in London sent a man down to inquire if Althea would consider giving an exhibition of her paintings. Althea would be delighted. She had been impossible to live with ever since.

“I'm off,” Aunt Agatha said peevishly. “I do hope she finishes that bloody portrait soon. I'm quite eager to start my new project.”

“Oh?”

“Didn't I tell you, dear? I plan to start merchandising my herbs. I mean, I have to do
something
. You write books, and Althea's gone back to her painting, and there's this divine man in London who's been begging me for years to put my special remedy on the market. He's eager to finance, but I'll give you all the details later.”

Aunt Agatha hurried off, indomitable. Now that the Gordon manuscripts had been found, she had to have something else to occupy her mind and keep her perking, and I could visualize her in a smock, supervising a crew of workers, sticking labels on boxes, going over lists of sales figures. If she employed half her vitality, the new project was sure to be a huge success, and I knew it would be great fun for her. Aunt Agatha was incapable of being bored, and she suffused everything she went into with an electric excitement that affected all around her.

I thought about the Gordon manuscripts. There were two of them: Sir Robert's autobiography and an anthropological study of mating customs among certain African tribes. The books would create a sensation when they came out, and they were sure to boost the sale of Craig's biography, which would be published at about the same time. It was all over. The papers had been found, Paul was dead, Vanessa Shaw was in prison awaiting trial for murder. Althea was going to give an exhibition, Aunt Agatha was going into a new business … only one thing remained unsettled, but I felt sure that would be resolved soon.

I was lost in thought and didn't hear Craig walking up the steps. He was standing a few feet away when I turned, and his face was angry, mouth sullen, blue eyes very dark. I smiled pleasantly, but he merely scowled. He was really quite irresistible with those rich brown locks tumbling over his forehead and his eyebrows lowered so severely.

“That cowboy gone?” he asked in a rumbling voice.

“Why yes, he has as a matter of fact. Everything's settled. The papers are in a safe in London, and he's distributed checks to all Aunt Agatha's charities. Stephen was kind enough to bring the thermafax copies of the manuscripts with him today. They're on your desk.”

“‘Stephen' is it? He doesn't waste much time, does he? I suppose I should be
grateful
. Did he make a pass?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. He asked me how I'd like Texas.”

“And what did you say?”

“Really, Craig, I don't see that it's any of your business. I don't have to answer all these questions.”

“You'd damned well better,” he said menacingly.

“How dare you speak to me in that tone of voice?”

“I'm getting sick and tired of this bloody cat and mouse game, Susan. It's time we got down to essentials.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Oh yes you do. Don't try to be coy, Susan. It's not your style. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Night before last when I came to your room——”

“And made an absolute ass of yourself,” I reminded him.

“I thought you
wanted
me to come,” he protested.

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You did. There was an invitation in your eyes.”

“What a quaint phrase. I can assure you there was
nothing
in my eyes but disdain. I'm sure you've had raging success in the past with your masterful onslaughts, and I'm sure some women
adore
being grabbed passionately, but I'm not one of them.”

“You're lying.”

“Am I?” Maybe I was.

“What do you want me to do? You want me to woo you with tender sentiments and flowers? You want me to act like one of those guys in your silly books and pledge eternal devotion and all that rot——”

“My books aren't silly! I'll have you know the last one sold——”

“I'm a man, flesh and blood, not a gallant cavalier, and you're a woman, even if your head is filled with romantic nonsense.”

“I don't think we need to discuss it any further.”

“Oh yes we do. That bloody cowboy comes driving up in his vulgar car—it makes me furious! I think we'd better settle things once and for all. You're not leaving for Majorca tomorrow. You're staying right here. You're helping me finish my book. Later on.…”

“Yes?” I prompted.

“First things first,” he retorted, “and if you've got any ideas about seeing Mr. Stephen Kirk again you can just put them out of your mind. Where are you going? You can't just walk away from me when I'm talking to you. I say, Susan——”

I left him standing there on the terrace with a look of utter bewilderment on his handsome face. I went upstairs to my room and put away the suitcases I had laid out earlier. I wouldn't be going to Majorca after all, but the sun and the sand held no attraction for me now. Smiling thoughtfully, I took down the sexy violet-blue silk cocktail dress. I planned to wear it tonight. Tonight Craig Stanton was going to get an answer to the question he had no idea he was going to ask.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1971 by Tom Huff

Cover design by Julianna Lee

ISBN: 978-1-4976-9831-4

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.