When All The Girls Have Gone (33 page)

Charlotte was in the Fireside Lounge, chatting with some of the residents who were waiting for happy hour, when she got a pleasant little whisper of awareness. She turned and saw Max standing in the doorway.

She smiled at him. His usually cold and unreadable eyes heated—not with passion, she thought, although that was surely part of it—but with promise; with love.

It would always be like this, she thought. The sense of connection was real. It wasn’t just the by-product of the danger they had shared together. She knew now that it had been there from the beginning and it had only grown stronger.

The residents greeted Max with enthusiasm. They were getting to know him quite well. He responded and then looked at her.

“Ready to leave?” he asked.

She glanced at her watch. “Yes. I’ll just get my things.”

Ted Hagstrom, the engineer, winked. “Got plans for the evening, eh?”

The others chuckled in a knowing way.

“As a matter of fact, we’re going to spend most of the evening looking at paint chips,” Max said. “Got a lot of work to do on the house.”

“I’ll meet you in the lobby,” Charlotte said.

“Right,” Max said.

He edged aside so that she could slip through the doorway and then
he turned back to his conversation with the residents, who were all suddenly buzzing with remodeling tips and tales of DIY projects gone bad.

She hurried down the hall to her office to collect her jacket and bag.

When she arrived in the lobby, she saw a familiar face—Ethel Deeping’s son, Richard. He smiled and greeted her.

“How are you doing?” he said. Concern marked his face. “We read about the kidnapping in the press. Mom told us all the details. What a nightmarish experience.”

Charlotte smiled. “You do know that your mother helped save my life and the life of my stepsister, I hope.”

“Mom said that she took some photos of the car the kidnappers used and that your fiancé used them to help track down the bad guys.”

“All true,” Charlotte said. “Needless to say, my stepsister and I are extremely grateful to her. Ethel was a real heroine.”

Richard smiled. “She loved every minute of it, believe me. She approves of the new fiancé, by the way. Says you’re going to hold the reception here at Rainy Creek Gardens. She’s very excited.”

“So am I,” Charlotte said. She turned and saw Max coming toward them. “I’ll introduce you. This is Max Cutler. Max, this is Richard Deeping, Ethel’s son.”

The two men shook hands.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Max said. “Ethel was brilliant. She got the pics and she made the call that alerted me to the kidnapping. Can’t thank her enough. Charlotte and I took her out to dinner the other night. She wanted to hear the whole story.”

Richard chuckled. “She’ll be talking about dinner with you and her part in the adventure for a long time to come, believe me. Glad she was there for you when you needed her.”

“She was,” Charlotte said earnestly.

“It will certainly make for an exciting chapter in her memoirs,” Richard said.

Charlotte took a deep breath. She would never get a better opportunity to give Ethel’s family a gentle warning about the memoir they would soon
be reading. She glanced around the lobby, checking to be certain that there was no one within hearing distance.

She turned back to Richard. “Do you have a moment to discuss Ethel’s memoirs?”

Richard’s eyes lit with enthusiasm.

“Sure. She loves that class. Great idea, by the way. Got to capture the details about the past while we still can, right? Once the older generation is gone, a lot of history is gone, as well. Luckily, Mom’s memory is still sharp.”

“Yes,” Charlotte said. She lowered her voice. “Ethel’s memory is very sharp. And so is her imagination.”

Max looked at her. “Charlotte, you may not want to go down this road. It’s Deeping family history and it might be a little more complicated than we know.”

Richard’s brows shot up. “Define ‘complicated.’”

Max winced. Charlotte ignored him.

“It’s just that your mother has decided to sprinkle a little fiction into her plot,” she said. “I mean, into her personal history. I don’t want you to be surprised by some of the more . . . imaginative parts, that’s all.”

“What is she fictionalizing?” Richard asked.

Max shook his head, but he had evidently decided that it was too late to interfere. He kept quiet.

“The part that may seem a bit . . .
sensational
is the chapter on her marriage,” Charlotte explained. “She writes glowingly of your father, of course. She mentions what a fine businessman he was, for example. She talks about his service to the community. She’s very clear that he was well respected and a good provider. She even says he was an excellent golfer.”

Richard nodded. “All true, as far as I know. I was quite young when he died, though. Just nine years old, so I don’t remember a lot about him. My sister was barely seven. That’s why Mom’s memoirs will be so interesting.”

Charlotte cleared her throat. “I’m afraid they may be a little more than interesting. Here’s the problem—after telling us about your father’s accomplishments and how he had the respect of the entire community, she says she, uh, killed him.”

Richard looked at her, his face expressionless. “Mom wrote that in her memoir?”

“I’m afraid so. She feels it makes for a more dramatic ending.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Richard started to grin. “Does she, by any chance, say how she did it?”

“I believe there is a brief reference to putting some sort of medication into his oatmeal the morning of the day he collapsed on the golf course.”

“Ah, so that was it.” Richard nodded, satisfied. “We always wondered how she pulled it off. No one ever questioned the heart attack. But, then, Mom was a nurse. She knew how to make it look good.”

It was Charlotte’s turn to stare. “What?”

“Sounds like Mom told you the truth about Dad,” Richard said. “As far as the community was concerned, he was the perfect husband and father. But the reality was that he was an abusive monster at home.”

“I see,” Charlotte said. She couldn’t think of anything else to say, so she decided it was time to take Max’s advice and shut up.

“Mom wanted to take my sister and me and leave, but the bastard threatened to murder all of us if she did. He would have done it, too. And then, one day, he conveniently dropped dead on the golf course. My sister and I didn’t understand it at the time. Mom never talked about it. But later, when my sister and I were older, we pieced it together.”

“Your mother actually did kill your father?” Charlotte managed.

“Probably,” Richard said. “No one else could protect us—hell, no one else would have believed there was even a problem. A restraining order wouldn’t have worked. So Mom did what she had to do to protect my sister and me and herself.”

“Oh, my,” Charlotte whispered.

She noticed that Max was giving her an amused I-told-you-so look. She pretended to ignore it.

Richard looked at her. “Family secret. Got a problem with that?”

“Nope,” Charlotte said. She looked at Max. “Do you?”

“Nope,” Max said. “I hear most memoirs are part fiction, anyway.”

“Right,” Charlotte said. “Lot of fiction in the memoir genre. Everyone knows that.”

“I’ve heard that, too,” Richard said. He smiled and looked across the room. “There’s Mom now. If you’ll excuse me?”

“Yes, of course,” Charlotte said, aware that her voice was somewhat faint. “Enjoy the evening.”

“We will,” Richard assured her. “It’s a birthday party for one of her grandkids. Mom loves parties.”

He went forward to greet Ethel.

Charlotte narrowed her eyes at Max.

“Did you know Ethel’s story was true?” she asked.

“I had a hunch it might be,” he said. “Ethel Deeping is a very tough lady.”

“I suppose this will all seem very amusing one of these days,” Charlotte said.

“Probably. Ready to go home and look at paint chips?”

Charlotte took his hand. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do
more.”

Keep reading for an excerpt from

THE GIRL WHO KNEW TOO MUCH

By Amanda Quick

Available May 2017 from
Berkley

The abstract painting on the bedroom wall was new. It had been painted in fresh blood.

There was blood everywhere in the elegant, white-on-white boudoir. It soaked the dead woman’s silver satin evening gown and the carpet beneath her body. There was blood on the white velvet seat of the dainty chair in front of the pretty little dressing table.

Anna Harris’s first thought was that she had walked into the middle of a nightmare. The scene simply could not be real. She was asleep and dreaming.

But she had grown up on a farm. She had hunted deer with her grandfather. Caught and cleaned fish. Helped deliver calves. She knew the cycle of life and the smell of death.

Still, she could not leave the room until she made certain. Helen had collapsed on her side, facing the wall. Anna crouched next to the body and reached out to check for a pulse. There wasn’t one, of course.

It was then that she saw the message. Helen had used her own blood to write it on the silver-flocked wallpaper just above the baseboard.

Run.

And in that moment Anna knew that the perfect new life she had been living for the past year had been an illusion. The reality was a dark fairy tale.

Run.

She rushed upstairs to her lovely yellow-and-white bedroom, pulled a suitcase out of the closet and started flinging clothes into it. Like the shoes and the frock she was wearing, almost all of her clothes were new, gifts from her generous employer.
Can’t have my private secretary looking like she shops at a secondhand store,
Helen had said on several occasions.

Anna was shaking so badly she could barely get the battered suitcase closed and locked. With an effort she managed to haul it off the bed.

She went back to the closet and took the shoebox off the top shelf. She tossed the lid aside and started to reach into the box for the money she kept inside. The lessons of the great Crash a few years earlier had not been lost on her. Like so many others, she had no faith in banks. She kept her precious savings close at hand in the shoebox.

She froze at the sight of what was inside the box.

There was money, all right; too much money.

With all of her living expenses paid for by her employer, she had been able to save most of her salary for the past year, but she certainly had not saved anywhere near the amount that was in the box. Helen must have added the extra cash. It was the only explanation, but it made no sense.

In addition to the money there was a small, leather-bound notebook and a letter written on Helen’s expensive stationery.

Dear Anna:

If you are reading this, it means that I have made the biggest mistake a woman can make—I have fallen in love with the wrong man. I’m afraid that I am not the person you believed me to be. I apologize for the deception. Take the notebook, the money, and the car. Run for your life. Get as far away as possible and disappear. Your only hope is to become someone else. You must not trust anyone—not the police, not the FBI. Above all, never trust a lover
.

I wish I could give you the glowing reference you deserve. But for your own sake you must never let anyone know that you once worked for me.

As for the notebook, I can only tell you that it is dangerous. I do not
pretend to understand the contents. I would advise you to destroy it but if the worst happens you may be able to use it as a bargaining chip.

I have always considered us to be two of a kind—women alone in the world who are obliged to live by their wits.

I wish you all the best in your new life. Get as far away as possible from this house and never look back.

Yours with affection,

Helen

Helen Spencer had been bold, adventurous, and daring—a woman of the modern age. She had lived life with passion and enthusiasm, and for the past year Anna had been caught up in her glittering, fast-paced world. If Helen said that it was necessary to run, then it was, indeed, vital that she run.

She dropped the notebook back into the shoebox and replaced the lid. Clutching the box under one arm, she hoisted the suitcase off the bed and hurried out into the hall.

When she went past Helen’s bedroom she tried not to look at the body but she could not help herself.

Helen Spencer had been ravishingly beautiful, an angelic blonde with sparkling blue eyes. Wealthy, charming, and gracious, she had paid her small household staff, including her secretary, very well. In return, she had demanded loyalty and absolute discretion concerning her seemingly small eccentricities, such as her occasional demands for privacy and her odd travel schedule.

Like the others on the mansion’s very small staff—the middle-aged housekeeper and the butler—Anna had been happy to accommodate Helen. It had been an enchanted life, but tonight it had ended.

Anna went down the stairs. She had always known that her good fortune could not last. Orphans developed a realistic view of life early on.

When she reached the ground floor she went past Helen’s study. She glanced inside and saw that the door to the safe was open. The desk lamp was on. There was a blue velvet bag inside the safe.

She hesitated, but something told her that she had to know what was inside the velvet bag. Perhaps the contents would explain what had happened that night.

She set the suitcase on the floor, crossed the study, and reached into the safe. Scooping up the velvet bag, she loosened the cord that cinched it closed and dumped the contents onto the desk.

Emeralds and diamonds glittered in the lamplight. The necklace was heavy and old-fashioned in design. It looked extremely valuable. Helen had some very good jewelry but Anna was sure she had never seen the necklace. It wasn’t Helen’s style. Perhaps it was a family heirloom.

But the more pressing question was, why would the killer open the safe and then leave such an expensive item behind?

Because he was after something else,
she thought. The notebook.

She slipped the necklace back into the velvet sack and put the sack into the safe.

She went back into the hall, picked up the suitcase, and rushed outside. The sporty Packard convertible coupe that Helen had insisted upon giving her was waiting in the drive. She tossed the suitcase and the shoebox into the trunk and got behind the wheel—and nearly went limp with gratitude and relief when the well-tuned engine started up on the first try.

She turned on the lights, put the car in gear, and drove down the long, winding drive, through the open gates, and away from the big house.

She gripped the wheel very tightly and forced herself to concentrate. She had not learned all of Helen Spencer’s secrets tonight, but she had stumbled upon enough of them to make one thing blazingly clear: She had to get as far away from New York as possible.

The narrow mountain road twisted and turned on itself as it snaked down into the valley, a harrowing trip for those unaccustomed to it, especially at night. But her grandfather had taught her to drive when she was thirteen and she had learned on bad mountain roads. She knew how to handle tight curves and she knew this particular mountain road very well. She had driven her employer back and forth between the Manhattan apartment and the secluded mansion many times during the past year.

Helen’s faithful butler, Mr. Bartlett, had doubled as her chauffeur before Anna had arrived at the mansion. But Bartlett’s eyesight had begun to fail. Helen had been thinking of looking for a new driver when she hired Anna. She had been delighted to discover that, in addition, to her stenography skills, her private secretary was also a skilled driver.
Saves me from having to hire a chauffeur,
she had said.

Helen had always been very keen on keeping staff to a bare minimum. She was not a stingy employer—just the opposite, in fact—but she had made it clear that she had not wanted a lot of people around the big house. Tonight it occurred to Anna that the reason Helen had limited the number of people on her staff was because she had secrets to hide.

I’ve been incredibly naïve,
Anna thought.

She had always prided herself on taking a cold-eyed, realistic view of the world. A woman in her position could not afford the luxuries of optimism, hope and sentiment. For the most part she considered herself to be quite intuitive when it came to forming impressions of others. But when she did make mistakes, the results tended to be nothing short of catastrophic.

When she reached the small, sleepy village at the foot of the mountain, she turned onto the main road and kept driving. Unable to think clearly enough to come up with a destination, she pursued a random route, passing through a string of tiny towns.

Run.

She continued driving an erratic pattern straight through most of the next day, stopping only for gas and a sandwich. But at nightfall exhaustion forced her to pull into an auto camp. The proprietors did not ask for a name, just enough money to cover the cost of a private cabin and a hot meal.

She collapsed on a cot and slept fitfully until dawn. In her feverish dreams she fled from an unseen menace while Helen urged her to run faster.

She awoke to the smell of coffee. A newspaper delivery truck arrived while she was eating the breakfast provided by the couple who operated the camp. She bought a paper and unfolded it with a mix of dread and curiosity. The news of Helen Spencer’s murder was on the front page.

W
EALTHY
N.Y. S
OCIALITE
S
AVAGELY
M
URDERED
.

P
RIVA
TE
S
ECRETARY
M
ISSING
, W
ANTED
FOR
Q
UESTION
ING
.

S
TOLEN
N
ECKLACE
F
OUND
IN
D
EAD
W
OMAN
’
S
S
AFE
.

Shock iced Anna’s blood. She was now a suspect in the murder of Helen Spencer. Helen’s warning came back to her:
You must not trust anyone—not the police, not the FBI. Above all, never trust a lover.

The last bit was easy, Anna thought. She did not have a lover. She had not had one since Edward, who, until recent events, had stood as the primary example of the occasional failure of her intuition.

At least Edward had not gotten involved with a killer. Not that she was aware of, at any rate.

She pulled herself back from the cliff-edge of panic. She was a proud graduate of the Gilbert School for Secretaries. Gilbert Girls did not panic. She had been trained to exert control over chaos. She knew how to set priorities.

First things first: It was time to choose a destination. She could not continue to drive aimlessly up and down the East Coast. The very thought of spending weeks, months or years on the run was enough to shatter her nerves. Besides, the money would not last forever. Sooner or later she would have to go to ground. Catch her breath. Get a job. Invent a new life.

She was not the only person who had spent the night in the auto camp. The others gathered around the table for breakfast, eager to get back on the road. They chatted easily, sharing travelers’ tales. All of the conversations started the same way:
Where are you headed
?

There were many answers but one in particular stood out because it sparked curiosity, wonder, and several nods of agreement around the table.

By the time she finished breakfast she had made her decision. She would do what countless others had done when they were forced to build new lives. She would head for that mythical land out west where a vast blue ocean sparkled beneath a cloudless sky and orange trees grew in people’s backyards. A land where glamorous people created magic on the silver
screen and got involved in titillating scandals in their spare time. A land where everyone was too busy inventing the future to care that she had no past.

She got back behind the wheel and started driving west.

Somewhere along the line she came up with a new name for herself: Irene Glasson. It had a Hollywood ring to it, she thought.

She found the highway to her future right where the other travelers had said it would be—in downtown Chicago.

Route 66 would take her all the way to
California.