False Pretenses (8 page)

She pulled herself back to Adrian's concerned voice. She found she was hunching down in her chair, raising her wineglass so it hid her profile. She shook her head and tried to smile.

“Is someone here you don't like?”
Afraid of is more
like it,
Adrian thought, growing more concerned. Such a small restaurant, off the beaten path. Still Elizabeth only shook her head again, and asked Elaine a domestic question.

Adrian looked about and spotted Catherine Carleton. He knew about her, of course. Beautiful, young, spoiled. Even though they'd just barely finished their entrée, Adrian said pleasantly, “Why don't we get out of here now. There's this special place I want to take you gorgeous women to, for a brandy.”

He knows, Elizabeth thought, and gave him a grateful smile. She grabbed her purse and started to rise. The waiter saw her motion and rushed to the table to assist her.

Catherine was drunk. And furious. Chad Walters was a bastard, and demanding more money from her. Or he wouldn't provide her with the cocaine she wanted so desperately. It was top-grade. She had no other contacts. Then she saw the waiter from the corner of her eye, and then Elizabeth. She saw red.

She felt a wave of dizziness as she jumped to her feet and shook her head. “You god-awful lying bitch,” she said. She thought she'd whispered it, but she heard Chad say sharply, “Shut up, Cathy, and sit down! God, everyone is staring!”

But she didn't. She was out of control and couldn't seem to stop herself. She'd said it aloud and she wasn't about to stop now. She strode to Elizabeth's table. She saw Elizabeth's face, utterly devoid of color, and knew that she'd heard what she'd said.

“I mean it,” she said, her voice shrill. “You bribed that man, and you got away with murder. You did it, I know you did. You killed my father.”

The restaurant was deadly silent. It was like a tableau, Elizabeth thought vaguely. Everyone had struck an attitude.

“Catherine,” she said very clearly, “you're not well. Go home.”

“What, dear stepmother? Leave you in peace? Are you sleeping with him too?” She sent a mocking glance at Adrian. “Perhaps a little ménage a` trois?” Then she was trembling, knowing she'd gone too far, but the rage, the anger, propelled her. “I know, I know you did it. I'll see you—” She got no further.

Adrian leapt from his chair, grabbed Catherine, one huge hand covering her mouth, and dragged her through the restaurant and out the door. Chad Walters tossed Elizabeth a mock salute, which she didn't see, and strolled through the restaurant after Adrian.

“No, Elizabeth, don't say anything. Let's get out of here.”

Elizabeth felt Elaine's hand on her arm and followed her out like a witless child. She heard the building sea of conversation in their wake. It would never stop, never. She wanted to die. Once they were outside, she looked blankly upon a scene that would have made for an excellent Hollywood set.

Adrian was shaking Catherine like a dog. Chad Walters merely stood by watching, a mocking smile on his lips. And a group of people was gathering to watch.

The police would come quickly, Elizabeth thought, and the ever-lurking paparazzi, and the media. Oh, God.

She heard herself shout, “Come along, Adrian. Now, quickly. Let her go.”

Adrian released Catherine and felt her long nails score down his cheek. “You damned bitch,” he said, turned on his heel, and walked quickly to Elizabeth and Elaine.

“Please take me home,” Elizabeth said, surprised that this sorry excuse for a voice was hers.

“Yes, I think we can get out of here now,” Adrian said. He was holding both women very close. “You all right, Elizabeth?'

“Yes. Elaine,” she began, turning to Adrian's white-faced wife, “I'm so sorry. Please . . .”

Elaine didn't say anything. Nothing like this had ever happened in her life. For God's sake, she'd grown up in Fort Worth, Texas, her father was a math professor at TCU. Her only publicity was Girl of the Month in high school, and she hadn't even made that during the school year, but during August. She felt strangely disembodied. She heard Adrian talking, heard Elizabeth. She raised her head, looked directly into Elizabeth's eyes, and said, “I don't want to ever see you again.”

“Elaine, it wasn't Elizabeth's fault!”

She shook off her husband's hand and marched down the street.

Elizabeth sagged against the brick wall behind her. She saw that Adrian didn't know what to do. Which one of them to leave?

She started laughing. “Let's go, Adrian. Find me a taxi, then see to Elaine.”

She laughed until Adrian assisted her into a taxi and gave the driver her address.

“Hey, lady, you all right?”

The driver was a middle-aged man with a beer belly and a Bronx accent.

“Yes,” she said. “I'm just ducky.”

She didn't leave the house for three days.

The appalling scene made all the papers, of course, but Elizabeth didn't see them. Kogi told Gallagher to keep out all newspapers and all reporters. Kogi turned on the answering machine, reviewed all the messages himself, and passed only those from people he trusted.

Rowe returned from San Francisco the following Tuesday and immediately went to Elizabeth's house. Gallagher looked at him like he was the savior of the world.

Rowe thought Elizabeth looked like hell. Like she'd been through hell, and wished she hadn't come out.

He held her, saying nothing. She didn't cry. She didn't say anything. Rowe dismissed Kogi and Mrs. Jeffers, the maid, and took Elizabeth to bed. He didn't make love to her, merely held her, stroking her back. God, she felt as though she'd lost twenty pounds. Thin and white and nearly boneless. Her pain was palpable.

Finally he said, “All right, Elizabeth, that's enough. It's Catherine we're talking about, Catherine, who is twisted and sick, not you. You've got to pull yourself together now. I'm certain you've ignored all the business, including your Noble Six. You're needed, sweetheart. Now, you're going to put your face on and we're going out. To Elizabeth, New Jersey, if you like. But we're going out.”

“I want to go to Hoboken,” she said, and it was there they went, to a small Italian restaurant that was surprisingly good.

Elizabeth received an apology from Elaine Marsh, delivered by an embarrassed Adrian.

“Tell Elaine to forget it,” Elizabeth said, patting his massive shoulder. “I don't blame her, not a bit. It was just as awful for her, I know.” She drew a deep breath and forced a smile. “Now, what's going on?”

 

Jonathan Harley knew he was going to lose controlling interest. And he didn't have enough money to buy back the stocks to make the difference. He was broke in terms of ready cash. His plans for expansion were down the tubes. Rose had walked out, and the Pillsons had risen against him, all their power focused on him, one man who only wanted to be left alone.

He'd lost weight, and his secretary, Midge, Sweet-Talkin' Midge, as he sarcastically called her, said to him, “You look like a railroad track, like you could lie down and have Amtrak run over you. What do you weigh, anyway?”

He didn't know.

“I'd say one-seventy, and you at least six feet, two
inches. Idiot. Here, eat!” And she plied him with cartons of Chinese food. Then she spoke to his cook, Mrs. Mallson, and enough food for a battalion appeared on his table every evening.

He went to Boston to visit his cousin and family. He had sense enough to realize that he was in bad shape, and not knowing what else to do, found himself three different willing women and made love to all of them on successive nights until he was insensate.

But then he'd wake up in the morning and wonder where the hell he was and who the woman was who was lying beside him.

One woman, he thought her name was Nancy, said to him when she saw him come out of the bathroom naked, “You're a handsome man, Jonathan. You're a very nice man and an excellent lover. But you're destroying yourself. It's not a pleasant sight. Go home and get your shit together.”

He did, surprisingly enough.

Midge cheered when he invited her out to lunch at the Bookery.

“Is this my belated Christmas present, boss?”

“No,” he said. He raised his wineglass. “A toast, Midge. To Nancy.”

Midge rolled her eyes. “You're the sweet-talking one, boss, not me. Who's this Nancy? What's her last name?”

Jonathan merely smiled and shook his head. “Search me,” he said, and drank deeply. He rubbed his hands together. “Did you bring your notebook, Midge?”

“For goodness' sake, we're supposed to be having lunch!”

“Lots to do. Okay, eat your calamari, even though it makes me sick to watch you.”

“Do you know
my
last name, boss?”

 

C
hristian Hunter didn't say a word; he was too surprised.

“Who did you say, Mrs. Hightower?” he managed at last. His knuckles were white on the receiver.

“A Mrs. Carleton, Doctor.”

He looked at his Italian loafers. There was a smudge on the toe of one of them. He rubbed the toe behind his other leg.

“Dr. Hunter? Would you like me to have her call back? Leave a message?”

“No, I'll take the call. When and who is my next patient?”

“It's Mr. Pencini, at two o'clock.”

“All right. Put on Mrs. Carleton.”

Mrs. Hightower's voice was her usual flat monotone. She hadn't made the connection between the Mrs. Carleton on the phone and
the
Mrs. Carleton, Elizabeth X. In fact, she'd never shown a bit of interest in his sudden appearance in a murder trial except to say as she handed him a pile of letters to sign, “I suppose you know what you're doing,” and that was it.

Christian wondered if he were losing his mind,
thinking about staid, bored Victoria Hightower at this particular moment. He cleared his throat. “Hello, this is Dr. Hunter.”

Elizabeth discovered that she didn't quite know what to say. She gripped the phone in a stranglehold.

“Dr. Christian Hunter?”

“Yes, Mrs. Carleton,” he said, and he felt himself go warm at the sound of her voice. It was soft, frightened, uncertain.

“I simply couldn't wait any longer,” she said. “I've been going crazy, if you want to know the truth. I need to know.”

It was too soon, he knew. A couple more weeks, then he'd be ready. He said, his voice gentle and reassuring, his patented shrink's voice, “Mrs. Carleton, I'm leaving for Vienna tomorrow night. When I return, we can meet. Not in public. That wouldn't be wise.”

“I see,” said Elizabeth. “At my house then, Dr. Hunter.”

“Say two weeks from Friday?”

“Yes . . . yes, that would be fine.
I must know!
”

“I realize that, Mrs. Carleton. I will see you at seven in the evening. Good-bye.”

Just like that, Elizabeth thought, staring at the buzzing receiver in her hand. Two weeks. At least there'd be an end to it. And she would know. He would tell her. She'd know if he were saint or sinner, God or the devil. Very slowly she replaced the receiver in its cradle. Then she frowned. Would he never have gotten in touch with her? Was she forcing something she shouldn't touch? Over seven months had passed. Seven months of complete silence. She knew it had been the accidental meeting with Moretti, the New York district attorney, that had forced her to do this.

She hadn't really imagined that a sneer could be other than a pat noun or verb in a book. But Moretti's sneer hadn't been at all pat. It had been filled with
fury and contempt. She'd been alone, in front of Bloomingdale's, of all places.

“So,” he said, stopping beside her as she stared into a window filled with lacy lingerie. “If it isn't the murderess, free and in our midst.”

She froze, turned, and looked directly into his sneering face.

He waved a hand toward a lace bra and panties. “To seduce yet another lover, Mrs. Carleton? You need this kind of help, don't you? Men eventually get frightened of you?”

“No, Mr. Moretti,” she said, “no to all of it. My husband's murderer is still free. You never wanted to find him or her. You just wanted me. I was so handy, and your political ambitions were so pressing.”

The cords in his neck stood out, she saw, with rage, but his voice was venomously soft. “I wish Samuels had put you on the stand. I would have broken you in five minutes. Everyone would have seen what you are. You're a miserable human being,
Mrs.
Carleton. But you're rich, very rich, aren't you? You can buy, steal, bribe anyone and anything.”

“You, Mr. Moretti, are a blind fool.” And she'd marched away, her shoulders squared, her head high. But she was full of misery inside. Nothing but naked misery.

She knew then that she had to call Christian Hunter.

She had to.

“Something wrong, Mrs. Carleton?”

She forced herself to turn away from the phone and smile at Kogi. “No, nothing.”
I'll know in two weeks. Two weeks.

“Mr. Rowe come to dinner tonight?”

“Yes, Kogi, he is. Will you make sushi? He is very fond of it.”

Her life was a successive march of light and shadows. Automatically she went toward the light, to her
piano. She played Scarlatti, Rowe's favorite composer, for three hours. No one disturbed her.

She received the letter the following day.

Just a few lines, very neatly typed, no signature.

And she felt as if someone had slammed her in the stomach.

 

Mrs. Carleton:

On Thursday night drive to Laurette Carleton's estate on Long Island. Eight-thirty should be the right time. Do not announce yourself. Walk around to the library. You will learn how MAI knew to buy Bell-Haverson, among other things. If you are wise you will tell no one. No one.

 

That was all. She stared at it, even shook the single sheet of paper. The betrayer. But she already knew who the betrayer had been. Avery Ramson, a man who was high enough up, an assistant to Coy Siverston. He'd killed himself, and left a suicide note stating he was dying of cancer. That was it.

She wadded the paper and threw it against the wall, then closed her eyes, not wanting to see anything, but the images raced before her, threatening, insane images. I can't go on like this. She grabbed the phone to call Adrian. His secretary, one of Millicent Stacy's assistants, came on the line at the second ring.

“Janice? This is Mrs. Carleton. Is Mr. Marsh there?”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Carleton . . . no, here he is now. Just a moment, please.”

“Elizabeth? What's up?”

Adrian's voice, so solid, like him, and trustworthy and loyal.
Tell no one.

“Elizabeth? Are you there?”

“Mr. Adman,” she said. “How . . . how are you?”

There was a surprised pause. “I'm okay. What's up?”

“I . . . Nothing, really, Adrian. I was just thinking about Avery Ramson.”

“Why?”

“It's just a shame, that's all. You know that big ad campaign for MacKenzie-Carleton Foods?”

“I know it well. We lost well over a million dollars on it.”

“That was after Avery's death.”

“Yes, I know. But secrecy with campaigns like that . . . well, the fact is that it was in essence stolen. It happens, Elizabeth. Really. Let it go.”

Did it really just happen, like that? Forget it?

“Elizabeth, what's wrong?”

She forced a smile, realized he couldn't see it, and laughed at herself. That laugh eased him.

“I was just thinking, Adrian, about a lot of things, that's all. I know you must be very busy—”

“Never too busy for the boss.”

“Yes, well, give my love to Elaine.”

“You're very kind, Elizabeth,” he said, and she knew he was thinking of that awful evening and the scene with Catherine.

When she rang off, she wandered around the house, then donned dark glasses and a coat. She spent three hours walking, just walking.
You're walking just like you were the evening Timothy was killed.

She wanted to call Rowe. She needed him more than ever, but he was in Boston and wouldn't return until Friday. She would show him the letter then.
But what about Thursday night?

Rowe called her late that evening.

“A fund-raiser, sweetheart. Hope you weren't asleep.”

She had been, but of course denied it. “No, I was thinking about you. I miss you, Rowe.”

“No more than I do you, Elizabeth. You sound down. Anything wrong?”

She wanted to tell him, pour it all out, let him
handle it. But it was her problem to resolve, all hers. It wasn't fair to bring Rowe into it. He'd be furious. He'd probably hire a task force to go to Laurette's estate.

“No, nothing's wrong. I have tickets for a benefit for the New York Philharmonic Friday night.”

“Sounds good to me, if it doesn't go on too long. I want your body, lady.”

She tried to laugh. “I'll be waiting, Rowe.”

“With bells on?”

“With anything you wish.”

“You sure nothing's wrong, sweetheart?”

“No, nothing. Friday night, Rowe.”

She took two sleeping pills at two o'clock.

 

It was cloudy, the air heavy with coming rain. She'd rented a car, a small dark blue Mustang. She hoped it wouldn't rain. She didn't know where the windshield wipers were. Luckily she'd located the headlights.

Traffic was light on the expressway. Laurette's estate was in Southampton. She reviewed the security in her mind. As far as she could remember, there was only a burglar alarm, and she wouldn't trip that. No, she was only going to listen at the glass doors at the library. No dogs, no guards, no electric fences. She felt like a thief, a criminal, and could imagine the gloating look on Moretti's face if she were discovered lurking about the Carleton estate.

Who sent that letter? Why?

It seemed her life was a series of questions, questions with no answers, except she would find one answer tonight.

She felt cold, but her armpits were damp.

She was even dressed like a thief, all in black, down to her low-heeled boots, up to her hair that was braided and tucked under a black ski cap.

She should have asked Adrian to come with her.

She should have begged Rowe to come home.

The Carleton estate was just ahead. The house where Timothy had been born and raised. It was off Cowslip Road, fifteen acres, grounds groomed religiously, trees lining the perimeter. Elizabeth pulled the Mustang off the road, next to the six-foot stone fence. She stopped short, and laughed softly. A musician climbing over a stupid wall.

Even her gloves were black. She was over the wall in a matter of moments. She saw the lights ahead. The vast library, the scene of every family conclave, was on the east side of the house. She didn't need her small flashlight.

What am I doing here? Have I lost my mind?

She kept walking, slightly bent over—like a thief.

What if I'm caught?

She wouldn't think about that, but she could see the headlines: “
CARLETON WIDOW ARRESTED FOR TRESPASSING: D.A. SALIVATES.”

Oh, God, what was she doing? What was she supposed to overhear?

Another betrayer? Adrian? Rod? Oh, please, no.

She skirted the wide circular drive. There were four cars in front. Quite a family gathering.

Elizabeth was breathing hard, not from exertion, but from fear, when she eased next to the library windows. Laurette loved fresh air, every month of the year. Several of the windows were three inches open. Did the person who wrote that letter know that?

She peered into a window. It was Laurette, Elizabeth knew, who had refurbished the Carleton library many years before, using the library from the Duke of Marlborough's Blenheim as her model. It was an overly long room, three walls covered with book-shelves, all of them filled, the wooden floor covered with a dozen small Tabriz carpets, and its effect, at least to Elizabeth, was oppressive and melancholy.

Laurette was seated like Queen Victoria in a high-backed chair away from the fireplace. Behind her,
displayed proudly, was her collection of Fabregé clocks. Timothy had given her the exquisite dark blue one for her birthday two years before. On her left Michael Carleton stood, quite at ease, a smile on his lips. He looked thinner, she thought, but still fit, his face so tanned he looked as though he'd sailed to Australia with his brother, William. And there was Catherine, seated on a love seat, laughing, wearing tight jeans and a white oversized shirt. Brad was leaning against the mantel, his hands stuffed in his pants pockets, his shoulders hunched. She saw Laurette's butler come into view.

He spoke quietly to Laurette. Elizabeth couldn't make out his words.

Why was she here? To hear the Carletons' plans to ruin her?

She froze, and her heart began to pound, slow, sharp beats that made her nauseated.

Rowe Chalmers walked into the library with that cocky walk of his that she loved to watch.

“You're late, darling,” Catherine said, waving a hand. “Not that I'm not delighted to see Elizabeth's own personal stud, of course.”

“Shut up, Catherine,” Michael said.

Rowe nodded toward Laurette, but made no move to sit down.

Brad pushed away from the mantelpiece. “What news have you for us, Chalmers?”

Laurette's voice rang out, sharp, clear, in command. “We will have a bit of civilization before we proceed. What would you like to drink, Mr. Chalmers? Scotch? Bourbon?”

“Nothing, Mrs. Carleton,” Rowe said. He sounded so normal, as if he were talking to Kogi or to her.