Chapter 14
Fourteen
Molly woke up early the next morning, her stomach calm. Whoever had sprinkled arsenic in her food had obviously thought better of it now that the cat was out of the bag. Unless, of course, her poisoner was simply gone from the house on unexplained business.
The old stone house was silent and still as she tiptoed through the halls, bundled in a warm blue wrapper, her bare feet moving noiselessly on the wooden floors.
It was Mrs. Morse’s day off, and it was up to Molly to make the coffee and muffins this morning if she expected to have any.
As a matter of fact, it was just as well—at least she was safe from an accidental seasoning of rat poison.
The muffins were just out of the oven, the sun was rising higher in the early morning sky, and she was sitting cross-legged on the counter, wiggling her toes in the sunshine when he walked in the door.
He clearly hadn’t been expecting to see her so early. He stopped dead, and they stared at each other across the shadowy kitchen with only the dawning light in it. She set down her coffee cup with great care.
“Good morning, Patrick.” Her voice was astoundingly even. “When did you get home?”
“Just now.” His husky voice sent chills down her spine. He came over to the counter and poured himself a cup of coffee, and his nearness seemed to set off all sorts of reactions inside her, reactions that she wasn’t sure if he was quite immune to. And then he spoke.
“I’ve come to a decision,” he said in a flat, unemotional voice. “I’m letting you leave here. You can go anywhere you want while we wait for the divorce to be final. Nevada and Mexico are known for fast divorces—why don’t you take a little vacation and speed things up?”
She stared at him in numb surprise. Then, without thinking, she picked up the cast iron muffin tin and hurled it at his head. He dodged it easily, and it fell with a terrible clanging noise, muffins scattering over the slate floor.
Before she had time to move he had caught her wrist in a tight grasp, the long, strong fingers biting into her flesh.
There was a fury about him, held strongly in check, that matched and overwhelmed her own anger, and she was suddenly afraid.
He looked like a man who had reached the end of his endurance.
“There’s been enough of your tantrums around here, Molly,” he said in a low, angry voice. He yanked her down from the counter and she stumbled against him. “Now go pick that up and put it back where it belongs.”
There was no way she could resist, no way she could defy him. Without a word she did as she was told.
When he finally released her she backed away from him towards the door, ready for a quick escape if need be. “You enjoy forcing your will on helpless women, don’t you?”
He didn’t even have the grace to look ashamed. “The day you’re a poor, helpless female will be the day hell freezes over,” he said shortly. “I’ll get your good friend Toby to drive you to the airport this afternoon.”
“I’m not going.”
“What the hell do you mean by that?”
“Simply that I’m not going,” she answered with deceptive calm, holding the trump card. “I doubt I’d be allowed to, anyway. Interesting things have been happening while you were off with Lisa Canning this time.”
He didn’t bother to deny it. “What interesting things?”
“Oh, not much,” she said with mock calm. “Someone’s been poisoning me, but apart from that life has been going on as usual.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” There was no play-acting in the shock that paled his tanned face. Before she could answer him the telephone rang harshly through the quiet house.
“It’s probably for you,” she added offhandedly. “The police have been trying to reach you since yesterday morning. I think they suspect you.” Actually she didn’t think any such thing; she just wanted to annoy him.
He didn’t give her the satisfaction of a response.
Without a backward glance he went into his office.
shutting the door quietly behind him. She would have felt better if he’d slammed it.
She stared after him as she contemplated listening in on the extension, then dismissed the idea.
For one thing, it was terribly dishonorable, for another, more important reason, she was afraid she’d get caught.
She trudged back to her bedroom and did her own door slamming.
When she returned downstairs she felt a bit braver.
She was showered, dressed, armored against the world, against Patrick, against her own vulnerabilities.
Ermy and Willy were still asleep—the twin snores coming from their rooms assured that.
Patrick’s office door was still shut tightly, and she went on into the kitchen for another cup of coffee and to work on the Sunday crossword puzzle, determinedly oblivious to the man just out of sight. Forever out of reach.
A half hour passed, then an hour, before Patrick finally removed himself from his inner sanctum and came to stand before her. His belt came to about eye-level as she looked up from the table, and it was with great concentration that she kept her eyes above rather than below it.
“Molly,” he said, and his voice was gentler, “I want to talk with you.”
She wasn’t going to like this, she thought suddenly. And once more she felt like running, from Patrick, who’d never loved her, from Winter’s Edge. From her own, helpless longing.
But running was no longer an option.
“All right,” she said, bracing herself.
He pulled out a chair, apparently at a loss for words. He’s going to say something about that night, she thought in relief. It’s going to be all right.
But she was wrong. “That was Lieutenant Ryker on the phone a while ago. You’re right, there’s no question of your leaving right now.”
She nodded, saying nothing, determined to hide the hurt in her eyes.
“They’ve found out something else, Molly. They found out who the man was. The one in the car with you.”
She stared at him blankly. “I thought they knew who he was. A small-time crook named George Andrews.”
He winced. “That was one of his names. I can’t believe it took them so damned long to come up with a real one, but then, he was always good at covering his tracks. He was born Gregory Anderson.” He waited for a response, one she was unable to give.
“Should this mean something to me?” she asked. “If you want it to then I’m afraid you’ll have to explain the connection.”
“Gregory Anderson was your father.”
She took a deep, shaky breath, shocked. “Really? I thought you told me he was dead.”
“He is now,” Patrick said sharply. “Don’t you care at all?”
She stared at him openly. “I don’t remember him.
How many times must I tell you before you get it through your head—I don’t remember.
I must have known he was my father. Otherwise why would I have been with him?
But I don’t remember anything about it.” Her voice rose uncontrollably.
“How many times must I say it? I don’t remember, I don’t remember, I don’t remember!
” She bit down on her lip to stop the hysteria that threatened to overwhelm her, and she turned away, unable to look at him any longer.
“All right,” he said after a long moment. “I suppose I have to believe you.” His face was unreadable. “The question of the money was also explained. It was yours, withdrawn from your various accounts, all legal and proper.” He gave her a cool look. “It’s been redeposited, by the way.”
“But why?” she echoed, puzzled. “What did I want with that much money?”
“You’re the only one who can answer that, if you choose to.”
“Damn you, Patrick, I...”
“All right, if you could,” he amended.
“You know what it sounds like to me?” she said after a long moment. “It sounds like blackmail money.”
“What could you have done to warrant blackmail that we didn’t already know about?” His voice was cynical.
She opened her mouth to protest then shut it again. It would be useless to argue further. He’d believe what he wanted to believe.
He rose, his tall body towering over her, and she shivered slightly, longing for all sorts of things, longing to simply lean her head against his hip. “Lieutenant Ryker said he’d keep in touch. He also found out how you were being poisoned.”
“So he believes me?” she said in a defeated voice. “Finally. How was it done?”
“It was in the cranberry juice. No one but you touches the stuff, so whoever put it there knew you’d be the only one likely to drink it.” His face was impassive. “I’ll go get rid of it.”
“Why don’t you have some yourself?” she muttered sweetly, low enough so he couldn’t hear as he started out the door. He stopped and turned for a moment, and she thought perhaps he had heard her after all.
But he hadn’t. “About Friday night,” he began, bis voice huskier than usual.
She froze, and she could feel her face draining of color. “Yes?” she said without looking at him, very busy with the newspaper.
“I should have never come in your room. I shouldn’t have lost my temper, and I certainly shouldn’t have touched you, considering our situation. It won’t happen again.”
He left the room before she could answer, and she stared unseeing at the crossword puzzle in front of her. The pencil point broke.
“Oh, won’t it?” she said to herself softly, determinedly. “We’ll see about that.”
When Ermy and old friend Willy arrived downstairs, somewhere between noon and one, Molly was in the midst of luncheon preparation, and she turned a deaf ear on their requests for eggs and sausage.
“It’s lunch time,” she said flatly. “And I’m not used to cooking. You’ll have to make do with coffee and muffins until I’m finished, which should be in about an hour.” She pushed a stray strand of hair off her sweating brow.
“Now, Molly, dear, you don’t know how to cook,” Aunt Ermy said heavily. “If you’ll simply let me take over I’m sure I’d do a much more competent job. And then Willy and I could have our breakfast. Surely you must realize that you’re being unreasonable?”