Christmas At Timberwoods (7 page)

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Authors: Fern Michaels

BOOK: Christmas At Timberwoods
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“Mrs. Steinhart, I don’t buy what you’re saying. I listened, really listened to Angela in this room not more than half an hour ago. Nothing she had to say struck me as a product of her imagination or a ‘nervous fit,’ as you put it.”
“Don’t you see that you’re playing her game?” Sylvia retorted. “She’s in control. She always wants to be the center of attention!”
“Mrs. Steinhart, please . . .”
“I don’t want to discuss it any further. If you don’t leave, I’ll be forced to call the police.”
“Mrs. Steinhart, Angela told Heather about a psychiatrist she had been seeing.”
Heather didn’t think it was possible for the woman to pale still further, but she did, her face turning chalky as she moistened her lips. She swayed, and Lex rushed to put an arm around her.
“Sit down, please—Mrs. Steinhart, you don’t look well. Heather, could you get her a drink? Just plain water, if there is any.”
Heather shook her head, glancing meaningfully at the well-stocked bar.
Sylvia picked up on the look they exchanged and her composed face became a mask of rage. “Get out of my house! Get out this minute! What right do you have to come here and upset me? Get out!”
“Not until you tell us what you’re so afraid of, Mrs. Steinhart.” Heather’s voice was insistent.
“Afraid? I’m not afraid. I’m mad as hell!”
“Why?” Lex asked gently.
“Because I have a daughter who doesn’t just see things in the future but makes them happen. Now you take that any way you want to, and do with it anything you want to do. I don’t care. It’s your mall, your responsibility. Not mine!” Sylvia was shaking, her teeth chattering violently.
“Mrs. Steinhart, are you saying that what Angela fears for Timberwoods might come true? Or are you saying that she could be capable of blowing up the mall?”
“I’ve said all I’m going to say. Look at this chaos, this—this destruction! Is that the work of a sane person? Get out, get out!”
Heather and Lex quickly exited the room, heading for the front door. Behind them they could hear Sylvia Steinhart’s wails.
Sylvia collapsed against the soft padded chair, trembling from head to toe. The grave implications of what the man had said finally penetrated her numb mind.
The phone rang and it was all she could do to make her legs obey her. Clutching the receiver, she gasped, “Murray, is that you? Listen to me, you have to come home. Get to Heathrow and get the next flight to the US. Charter a damn jet if you have to. It’s about Angela. I know you just got there! I don’t care! Come home!”
“For God’s sake, what is it this time?” Murray asked impatiently. “I told you before I left that I’m closing a multimillion-dollar deal. Why can’t you handle whatever it is? If you’d stay home once in a while and talk to Angela, maybe she wouldn’t get into so much trouble. Take a drink and calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to take a drink. I’ve already had too much scotch, and the problem isn’t going away.”
“Then sleep it off. You’re probably drunk,” Murray answered shortly.
“Damn it, Murray, I’m not drunk. Listen to me. First of all, Angela’s flooded the whole damn house. Everything is ruined. And when I say ruined, I mean ruined, Murray. Floors, ceilings, carpets, wiring, the whole bit. We’re going to have to move out. And that’s just the first thing. When I came home to inspect the damage, there were two people from Timberwoods Mall here. They wanted to talk about Angela.”
Her husband was silent, as if he was waiting to hear the worst.
“This Mr. Lassiter said Angela went to the mall offices yesterday, acting strange. Finally she told them she’d had a vision of the whole place being blown up. Apparently she filled them in on some of the details of her mental health history. Wasn’t that helpful of her?” She continued slowly and distinctly. “They said they believed her!”
“Where’s Angela now?”
“How in the hell do I know where she is? She’s like a phantom—she comes and she goes. After she’d ruined the house, she left. What do you want from me, Murray?”
His answering silence infuriated her, and Sylvia’s voice rose to a near shriek. “She’s your daughter, Murray! My family is normal. She gets this—this craziness from your side. I think she’s actually planning on blowing up the mall! I told you she should have been put away. It would have been for her own good. But oh no, you said she needed a little freedom and time to try her wings. Well, your fledgling has turned into a hawk, and it’s all your fault!”
“If we’re going to start laying blame, let’s put it right where it belongs—on your doorstep. If you had listened to me years ago, this wouldn’t be happening now. All you were concerned about was the social stigma and Angela’s appearance. Now you can see where all your conniving has got you. The whole world is going to know about your daughter now, not just a few psychiatrists—”
“Come home!” Sylvia made the demand full blast.
“Yes, yes—sometime tomorrow—tonight, if I can get a flight. And for God’s sake, keep your mouth shut till I get there!”
The call clicked off in her ear and Sylvia stared at the silent receiver. She slowly replaced it and quickly poured herself a brimming glass of scotch. The whole world would know everything soon enough . . .
Chapter 4
The Porsche sliced down the highway, weaving boldly between the other vehicles. Its black-andorange flame detailing turned a few heads, but Angela was driving too fast for anyone to get a good look at the car or her.
Angela shifted from fourth to third, then down to second with a speed that strained the transmission, finally careening around the bend that led into the Timberwoods Mall parking lot.
She was aware of her own agitation but unable to put the brakes to it or any of her tangled emotions. Her mind was revving faster than the sports car.
The question was, why did she feel compelled to come back here? By now she hated the place, had come to fear it. She ought to tell the people who gathered around her magical displays that the magic was about to shatter; warn them to run for their lives and take their kids with them. Who did that spit-and-polish Lassiter think he was fooling?
She shifted again to third and pressed her foot down on the accelerator. If there was one thing she didn’t do, it was lie to herself. Lassiter did seem to believe her vision that the mall was going to blow. Beyond that, there was no way he would commit himself, especially to her. And what good would it do to have Lassiter or Heather back her up? Pretty soon, if not right this minute, somebody was going to come right out and say that she was responsible for the bomb-threat letter Lassiter had told her about.
She raced the car up one aisle and down the other, looking for a parking space. A sleek BMW coupe backed out of a narrow slot. Angela maneuvered into the space and cut the engine. Her shoulders slumped as she pocketed the keys. The gray cloud of despair that had been hovering around her was rapidly growing and deepening to black. She shivered.
“I should be out looking for someplace to stay and instead I come to this place,” she muttered.
The tinny sound of “Jingle Bells” wafted through the parking lot as she made her way along the slippery frosting of snow to the mall entrance. She pulled open the door and walked aimlessly down a section of the mall called Holiday Alley. Ignoring the brilliant Christmas lights and decorations and the bustling crowds, she made her way to a railing that overlooked her display of trumpeting angels. There were more paper angels fluttering in the surrounding greenery than before, more heartfelt wishes from hundreds of unknown children.
A flash of red registered on her mind as she let her gaze travel beyond the crowds to the squared-off section that was Santa’s workshop. The man she’d met before, the one who said he helped Santa, was there.
Jamming her hands into her pockets, Angela continued her trek around the mall, always returning to the angels. The man was still there, across the way. His pants and shirts were nondescript, unlike Santa’s glowing velour outfit. It looked to her like the mall Santa, a nice old grandpa type, actually did enjoy chatting with the children who perched on his knee or stood shyly next to him. Some parents insisted on taking pictures, and the blindingly bright pops of digital flashes made her blink, even at this distance.
Angela sighed. The traditional scene was making her feel sentimental. She didn’t need her emotions getting in the way of her ability to think. As it was, the pills she’d swallowed were doing a job on her mind.
A little boy sitting on Santa’s lap became difficult and yanked at Santa’s white beard. Angela watched with interest as the man who helped at Santa’s workshop extricated the cottony fluff from the boy’s fingers and helped him get down and move along. Somewhat startled by his smooth removal, the boy whined loudly, demanding a candy cane as his mother whisked him out of sight.
Angela frowned and walked into a bath shop. She examined a bright array of bath towels trimmed in frosty lace, then grinned as she spotted a saleswoman watching her suspiciously. Did the woman really think she was going to stuff one of the towels into her hip pocket?
Evidently she did, because she was approaching with an uneasy expression on her face.
“Just looking,” Angela muttered as she moved over to the shower curtains. What was she doing here anyway? Why was she torturing herself this way? There was nothing she could do but wait and watch.
She made her way again to the center of the mall and the tropical garden. All the benches were filled with squealing kids sucking on candy canes or dribbling ice cream down the insides of their unzipped snowsuits. Her eyes went again to the red-suited figure on the gilt throne. Curious, she began to clock the kids who went to climb on Santa’s lap. One minute flat was all the nondescript man helping Santa permitted them. Just enough time to snap a picture.
Still, the kids seemed happy with that. She sighed again. Had she ever been a little kid? She couldn’t remember. It seemed as though she’d been older than her years since forever. An outsider. A feeling of panic washed over her as she struggled to revive a memory, any memory, good or bad, of childhood.
She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to think back. With relief she recalled a shopping trip with her mother. They had been looking for a special dress—a Christmas dress, she remembered. Her mother had wanted something in velvet with a white lace collar and bows. They were in a store, a big store with several floors and lots of departments. Not a mall. Timberwoods hadn’t been built yet. They’d had lunch in the store’s dining room and watched a fashion show. Afterward her mother had taken her to visit Santa. When Santa had asked her what she wanted for Christmas, she couldn’t think of anything she didn’t already have, so she’d shrugged and said nothing at all.
Her mother had snatched her off Santa’s lap and chastised her for not cooperating. Instead of looking for the dress, they’d gone home, and on Christmas Day she’d worn an old dress. Now she wondered why her parents had celebrated Christmas at all when they obviously didn’t care about it. And from then on, whenever she needed new clothes, the nanny had taken her shopping.
The queue to see Santa had diminished and the man in nondescript clothes had placed a sign in front of the roped-off area.
She squinted to read it.
IT’S SANTA’S BREAK TIME
!
ELVES TOO
!
PLEASE COME BACK IN FIFTEEN MINUTES
. Which probably meant the young girl in the elf outfit was heading outside to smoke a cigarette and Santa was going to chow down on an overstuffed pastrami sandwich. He had to be sick of candy canes, that was for sure. Both of them were gone.
Angela ran to the escalator and down the moving steps, too impatient to wait. At the bottom she slowed, then walked toward the North Pole display. She waited impatiently for the man who’d set out the sign to acknowledge her. He said nothing, just stared at her. Then he gave her a crooked grin.
“Hi,” Angela said finally in a cracked voice. She wondered if she should even talk to him. He hadn’t been particularly friendly when they first met, and there was an odd vibe about him. But even so . . .
Strays and losers.
Her mother’s words came back to her.
You look like one yourself.
Yeah. Maybe that was the connection. She was drawn to him, as if by an invisible thread. There was nothing romantic about it. They were two of a kind, that was all. “Just thought I’d come over,” Angela said, hoping to start a conversation. He just shrugged in response.
“Listen, would you like to have a cup of coffee or a soda with me after you finish up here?” Angela said, hearing the hint of desperation in her voice. Close up, she didn’t sense any interest from the silent man. A person’s eyes were supposed to hold hidden messages and reveal untold stories. But from the way he was behaving, this man was dead from the neck up.
“All right. Where?”
Angela blinked in surprise. She shrugged. “Wherever. There’s the burger place just over there, or the ice cream parlor down at the end of Holiday Alley. You name it.”
He loomed over her—he was a big man, not fat, not muscular, just big. And sort of awkward—they had that in common, too.
“I could go for a burger,” came the flat reply.
“Okay.” He wasn’t much of a conversationalist. Why did she even want him to respond? Did she feel sorry for him or for herself? Vaguely, she did know that the jumbled dose of prescription meds had dulled her thinking, but she decided she should try another approach, just to find out.
“Look, working here in the mall like you do, you must know a lot of people, right?” All she got by way of response was a shrug, but she plowed on. “Um, I need a place to stay for a while. Two, three days, maybe even a week. I have money—a hundred dollars for a week. Do you know anyone who has a spare room?”
She waited patiently, knowing the man was mulling over her words. There was still no change of expression, nothing alive in his eyes. When he finally decided to speak, his answer stunned her. “You can stay with me.”
Angela felt as though a heavy weight had toppled from her thin shoulders. She stared at him, feeling relieved, not because of his offer but because it meant she wouldn’t be on the streets. Nonetheless, what was left of her common sense warned her she was taking a serious risk. She ignored the shuddery feeling.
“Would you like your picture taken with Santa?” asked the young elf, back from her break. “Only ten bucks.”
Startled, Angela shook her head.
“No? Then you have to move on. The kids are lining up again.”
Angela stared at Charlie Roman. He met her gaze blankly. “I’ll wait in the burger place for you.”
Charlie said nothing, but Angela suspected his dun-colored eyes would follow her until she was out of sight. She let out a long sigh and searched for a bench to sit down. She felt a little different now, almost calm. She hadn’t felt that way in days. If she were honest with herself, it had nothing to do with finding a place to stay. There was always somewhere to crash; she’d even slept in her car, uncomfortably, before now. No, what was making her feel different was the man with the empty eyes. She envied that emptiness.
 
 
Harold Baumgarten led the small parade into Dolph Richards’s office. The chief of security had just listened to Eric Summers’s story and he wasn’t impressed.
And Harold was annoyed with Heather. He shot her a suspicious look as he opened the door to Richards’s inner sanctum.
As always when entering his boss’s office, Harold blinked at the lavish decor. Heavy wheatcolored curtains complemented the ankle-deep chocolate carpeting. The warm effect was lost beneath oversized display pieces of every description that cluttered the large space, though the huge kidney-shaped desk was bare of anything resembling work. Someday, Harold thought, he would work out what all the buttons on the phone were for. Possibly some sort of warning system to tell Richards when someone was hot on his tail. Harold’s eyes went to the large tufted sofa upholstered in lemon yellow. How in the hell did it stay so clean?
Dolph Richards beamed an expensively capped smile at the small group. “Sit down, everyone. Can I get anyone a drink? I’ve got some good imported brandy. Why don’t we try it out? You all look so serious.”
“I don’t drink and you know it, Richards,” Harold said peevishly.
“That’s right, Baumgarten. You don’t drink and you don’t smoke and you don’t womanize. And you frown on those who do. Loosen up, pal, the world is going to pass you by. Live,” Richards exclaimed expansively, “for tomorrow you may die.”
Harold developed a coughing fit while Heather tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. Lex winced slightly but kept smiling.
Richards was generous with the brandy as he poured it into elegant snifters and handed them around. Harold eyed the glasses with distaste, picturing in his mind the long-haired beauty who managed the lingerie shop. The whole goddamned office was a shrine to Richards’s sexual conquests. He felt nauseated as he watched the grinning Richards playing benevolent host. Still, in a few days he wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore. Harold was quitting this thankless job and taking off for Florida. The hell with everything.
“How long is this going to take?” Richards asked.
Heather grimaced. Harold smiled at his private thoughts and waited for Eric to take up the reins.
“I only ask so I can call my wife. The decision to hold dinner is up to you folks.” Richards flashed his too-white teeth.
“Tell her not to hold dinner. This may take a while,” Summers advised, sipping his brandy.
Richards played with the buttons on the phone. “Honeybunch, don’t wait dinner for me. I’m in a meeting and I don’t know how long I’ll be. I’ll catch a bite here.”
“Is she blond or brunette?” The strident voice carried into the room.
“Neither,” Richards said, pressing the receiver closer to his ear in an attempt to muffle the sound.
“Oh, a redhead. One of these days, Dolph, I’m going to catch you in the act and then I’m going to cut off your—”
Richards blanched and interrupted her, pleasantly enough. “See you in a little while. Love you.”
“You bastard, you don’t know the meaning of the word. Sit on it, Dolph!”
“Wives! Sometimes they don’t understand,” he said, laughing, hoping her voice hadn’t been overheard.

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