Sweet Liar (14 page)

S
amantha was dressed primly and properly in a beautifully cut Italian suit that she had no idea had cost Mike over four grand. Sitting in the back of the stretch limo, she kept pulling on the short skirt until Mike picked up her hand and kissed her fingertips while giving a look that asked her to please stop fidgeting. The man across from them glanced from one to the other but made no comment.

“The man is your grandfather,” Mike said. “There's no reason to be nervous. And, besides, darling, I'll be there to take care of you.”

Samantha shot him a look that said, “drop dead,” and snatched her hand away. She wasn't nervous about meeting an old man who claimed to be related to her; her nervousness was caused by her asking herself what she was going to do after she left New York. This morning a groggy Mike had asked her if she was packed and if she'd made her plane reservations. It was her turn to lie and say that she had. Plane reservations to where? she wondered. There was nothing in Louisville for her; there was certainly nothing in Santa Fe. Maybe she'd go to San Francisco. Or maybe she'd travel for a while and see something of the world. After all, she was free to go and do whatever she wanted. But the idea of traveling alone didn't send any great charge of excitement vibrating through her.

Now she sat on the plush leather seat of the long limousine and wondered what she was going to do with her life. After this meeting, after Mike got what he wanted from her, there'd be no reason to stay in New York. No reason at all.

They rode through the country in the long, black car that Mike's old gangster had sent to pick them up. She and Mike had done little talking this morning, because Mike had walked into the kitchen with what Samantha could tell was a prepared story about the cut on his head. “If what you're about to tell me is a lie, I'd rather hear nothing,” she'd said. She'd watched him struggle as he tried to form words, but at last he'd said nothing about his injury. Instead he had asked her if she knew how to make coffee. She said she didn't and had no intention of learning. She had been so furious with him that she'd spent the morning in the garden pulling weeds.

After a deli lunch that she'd refused to share with him, she'd dressed for the meeting with Barrett. At one-thirty there had been a call, and Mike came to tell her that the car would be on time.

“Why are you so angry with me?” he'd asked.

“You spied on me and you started to lie to me about what you'd done. I think that's reason enough for anger.”

He hadn't been in the least contrite. Instead, he'd said smugly, “There are some things that you shouldn't know.”

That had infuriated her more than what he'd done, and she was determined not to speak to him again, but then the long, black car stopped in front of the house. Mike had picked up her hand and started to slip a ring on it. Instinctively, Samantha drew back from him.

“If you're my fiancée you need a ring. Will this do?”

In his hand was a gorgeous diamond ring that was about five carats of a pale yellow. She knew without being told that this was what was called a canary diamond. “Is that real?” she said under her breath.

“It belonged to my grandmother, and as far as I know, it's real.”

She stared at it as he tried to slip it on her finger, but it stuck above her second knuckle. When the doorbell rang, she started to draw away from him, but to her consternation, Mike put her ring finger in his mouth and moved it around. Sam's eyes widened, for she'd never before experienced anything as utterly sensual as her finger inside this man's warm mouth. She watched Mike's lips, those lips that fascinated her, as he slowly pulled her damp finger out of his mouth then easily slipped the ring over her knuckle.

“That's better, isn't it?”

“Yes,” she said, but her voice came out in a croak. Trying to get control of herself, she cleared her throat. “Ah…thanks.”

“Anytime, Sam, my girl. Anytime, any place, any body part,” he said as he slipped her arm in his and led her out to the waiting limo.

Now, as they finally reached Barrett's house, Samantha looked out the window in awe, for it wasn't a house but an estate, in the full meaning of the word. Huge gates that were flanked by high brick walls opened to a long drive that meandered through a tree-lined park. They seemed to drive for hours before they reached the house, which was as big as an institution.

Everywhere they looked there were muscular men jammed into too-tight suits with wires running from their ears down into the backs of their ill-fitting jackets. Two men with lean, hungry-looking dogs on leashes walked around the perimeter of the walls. As Samantha got out of the car, she thought that this must be how the president of the United States was protected, except that there looked to be more men here than she'd seen in photos of the president.

Standing for a moment looking about the place, Mike was trying his best to memorize every rock, every tree, and, more importantly, every face around him. He was the first and maybe only outsider to see this compound since Barrett had moved here many years ago, and he was going to have to describe it all in his book.

Mike dawdled as long as he could, even once bending to retie his shoelace. On the surface, everything about the place looked good, but on second glance, Mike saw evidence of neglect: gutters that hadn't been cleaned, a window pane that had been cracked and not replaced, flower gardens that needed weeding. Was it that Doc didn't care how the place looked? On the other hand, maintaining a place this size took a lot of money.

“Move it,” the big man who had ridden with them—and not said a word during the entire trip—said as he gave Mike a shove. Mike had to force himself not to retaliate to the man's pushing as he followed Samantha into the house.

Inside, Samantha was looking about in astonishment. The rooms in the house were huge, made for a time of gracious living, and they were filled with antiques and paintings. Porcelains filled the niches in the walls.

While Samantha was feeling that she wished she had on a hostess gown and a few emeralds, Mike was looking at the place with the eye of one who has grown up in a house that made this one look like a pauper's den. For the most part, the antiques were fakes, as were the paintings and the porcelains. They weren't even very good copies, and there were a couple of places on the walls where the flocked wallpaper was lighter, as though a painting had been removed.

Also, there were no servants in sight, only the goons with the ear wires. Surreptitiously, Mike ran his hand over a table, feeling the dust on it as the guard motioned for them to follow him into another room.

The living room was big and light with windows looking onto the ocean, and at once Samantha went to them to look out, but Mike stayed where he was, looking about the room. There in a corner, sitting in a wheelchair, was the old man Mike had spent the last few years of his life reading and writing about. Mike liked to think he would have known him anywhere, although there had never been, to his knowledge, a photo made of the man, for Barrett had always had an aversion to photographs that verged on an obsession.

At first glance, Barrett looked like any very old man: shrunken, shriveled, dark brown skin—but his eyes gave him away. All the intelligence that had brought this man up from the slums of New York to controlling most of the crime in the city still showed in his eyes. The skin around those eyes might be old and wrinkled, but what was inside them was as young and alert as it ever had been.

Now those eyes were looking at Mike. He'd scanned Samantha and dismissed her, as though she were of no significance, but he was studying Mike, looking him up and down as though trying to judge his physical strength as well as trying to figure out what was in his mind. In spite of himself, Mike shivered. It was as though he'd just been subjected to some sort of other-worldly intelligence that could look inside a man and see what was in his soul.

“Won't you sit down?” the old man whispered. His voice was as frail as his body, and Mike had an idea that Barrett's physical disabilities infuriated him.

Samantha nearly jumped when she heard the man's voice as she had not known anyone else was in the room. Turning, she saw a small, thin old man sitting in a wheelchair. Immediately her heart went out to him, as she wondered if he was lonely here in this big house. Did he have friends and family? She smiled at him.

He gave her what looked like a smile, and she thought, Why, he's shy. Going forward, she offered him her hand and he took it. Holding her hand for a long while, he turned it over in his dry, leathery old palm and studied her young skin.

After a while he released her and motioned for her and Michael to sit down. Samantha did so, starting to take a chair, but Mike pulled her to the couch to sit near him. Giving Mike a bit of a frown that she didn't allow Mr. Barrett to see, she sat forward on the edge of the couch while Mike leaned back in silence.

“You have come to ask me about Maxie,” Barrett said.

Samantha hadn't thought much about this meeting; she'd thought little past getting away from Mike and out of New York, but now she was interested. “My grandmother left my family the year after I was born, and I…We thought perhaps…” She looked down at her hands.

Pushing the controls of his electric wheelchair, Barrett moved closer to her and again took her hand. “And you want to ask if Maxie left your family to come to me.”

“Actually…” Samantha began, then looked up at him. “Yes.”

He smiled at her warmly. “I have not been so flattered in all my life,” he said, squeezing her hand, then put his hand on her chin and moved her head so that the light played on her hair and cheeks.

At other times Samantha would have been annoyed at a stranger touching her, but now all she could think of was that this man might be her only remaining relative and that she had nowhere to go when she left Michael's house.

Barrett dropped his hand from her face. “You look like her. You look very much like her.”

“I've been told so.” Leaning toward him, she put her hand over his on the controls of the chair. “Do you know what happened to my grandmother?”

He shook his head no. “On the twelfth of May, 1928, she disappeared from my life and I never saw her again.”

Letting out her pent-up breath, Samantha suddenly felt as though she'd lost something. In just a few minutes she had seemed to fill herself with hope. Never mind that she'd told Mike that she didn't care about a grandmother who'd committed adultery, she knew now that if an old woman who said she was Gertrude Elliot, also known as Maxie, had walked through the door, Samantha would have thrown her arms about the woman's neck.

“I didn't really believe…” she said, stammering over the words, then not knowing what else to say. She couldn't very well say, By the way, did you and my grandmother have a cuddle about that time and maybe, perhaps possibly, produce a kid that was my father?

“Come in here,” Barrett said, leading the way in his wheelchair. “We'll have tea and I'll tell you what I know.”

“Yes, please,” Samantha said, quickly getting up and following him.

Mike, who she'd almost forgotten, slipped her arm in his. He was looking at her oddly, as though he were warning her about something, but she didn't have the time or inclination to try to figure out what was bothering him.

She followed the old man into a pretty yellow and white room that had a huge bay window looking out toward the sand and the ocean. Refusing to see the four men, two of them with dogs, walking up and down the area, she saw only the beauty.

The round table, with only two chairs at it, was set with a pretty teapot and two matching cups and saucers, and there was a large plate of little cakes that looked on the edge of being stale.

“Would you pour?” Barrett asked Samantha, pleasing her with his request. He refused to eat or drink, so she served only Michael and herself while Barrett sat quietly and watched her.

“With the right clothes and hair you could
be
Maxie,” he whispered. “Even your movements are like hers. Tell me, dear, do you sing?”

“Some,” she said modestly, for she had always liked to sing, but only for her family.

The three of them were quiet for a moment, Mike sitting on his chair looking like a preacher at a pornography convention. For some reason he seemed to be disapproving of everything she said and did. His absurd jealousy couldn't extend to this sweet old man, could it?

“Would you like for me to tell you about that night?” Barrett asked.

“Please do,” Samantha said, sipping her tea and eating a small cake. “If you would like to tell us, that is. If you're not too tired.” She ignored Mike's foot stepping on hers to tell her that this is what they came for. She was
not
going to tire a ninety-one-year-old man just so Michael Taggert could write some nasty book about him.

“It would give me great pleasure to tell you,” he said, smiling at her. In the sunlight he looked older than he had in the living room, and Samantha had an urge to tuck him up on the couch so he could take a nap.

Barrett took a deep breath and began to talk.