Fatal Identity (21 page)

“Not a thing,” Marcie reassured her. “Remember how excited you were when you thought I was getting married?”

“Uh-huh.” Rick sat down on the other side of her. “But that was just a joke, right?”

Marcie frowned slightly. “Yes. And no. I
am
getting married, but not to Sam.”

The twins exchanged glances, and then Trish nodded. “Okay. Who are you marrying, Aunt Marcie?”

“Brad. He proposed to me yesterday when we went to Disneyland.”

“Space Mountain.” Rick gave a deep sigh. “We knew something was up, because you were . . .”

“. . . laughing when you got off.” Trish finished the thought for him. “But I told Rick you were just . . .”

“. . . relieved the ride was over.” Rick nodded.

Marcie hugged them both. “That was true, but it was a little more than that. And now I want to know how you feel about it.”

“If we don't like it, will you tell Uncle Brad you won't marry him?” Trish looked anxious.

“No. I want to marry him. But I'd like you to be happy about it. You were very happy when you thought I was going to marry Sam.”

“That's different,” Rick tried to explain. “We love Sam.”

“And you don't love Brad?”

“I wouldn't put it quite that way.” Trish looked very adult. “Brad's okay, but he never paid much attention to us before. He was always too busy, or gone, or something. We don't really know him that well, Aunt Marcie.”

“I know that.” Marcie gave her another hug. “And that's why I told Brad we'd have to wait a while before we got married. I want you two to get to know him better.”

“Then you're not getting married right away?” Rick looked hopeful.

“No.”

“Good!” Trish smiled. “I think it would be a mistake to rush into things. That's what Mom did.”

Rick nodded. “She rushed to get married, and she didn't even give Sam a chance to tell her he loved her. That was a big mistake.”

“Sam loved your mother?” Marcie looked at them in astonishment. “I didn't know that!”

Trish shot Rick an angry look. “That's because it was supposed to be a secret. And my bonehead brother is terrible about keeping secrets.”

“I'm not,” Rick protested.

“Yes, you are!”

“Says who?”

Marcie tuned out as the twins began to squabble. They'd work it out. They always did. And while they were working it out, she'd do her best to digest this startling news. So Sam had been in love with Mercedes! It did make sense. She knew how devastated Sam had been when he'd met her at the airport. And it explained Sam's strange reaction when he saw her dressed and acting like Mercedes at the screen test.

Marcie sighed. Although Sam had plenty of confidence when it came to his legal profession, he might have been too shy to declare his love to Mercedes. And she could certainly understand why the twins loved Sam. He was a very likeable guy, and he inspired confidence. And he was very good with them, taking them to baseball games and picnics and amusement parks.

Just knowing that the twins had wanted their mother to marry Sam explained a host of things. Marcie was sure it was why they'd never let themselves get close to Brad. They regarded him as temporary, as the husband they hoped would be replaced. Now that they knew she was going to marry Brad and not Sam, they'd come around. They'd grow to love Brad once they were all together as a family. Marcie was sure of it. It might take some time, but she'd convince the kids to give Brad a chance to be a real father to them.

“No, you blew it.” Trish was still arguing with Rick. “It can't be a secret, if Aunt Marcie knows it. Can it, Aunt Marcie?”

Marcie slipped her arm around Rick. “I think it can. I won't tell anyone, I promise. I certainly won't mention it to Sam, so you don't have to worry about that. But how did you kids find out that Sam loved your mother?”

Rick hesitated and then he spoke up. “Sam told us. But he didn't get a chance to tell Mom, and she went ahead and married Brad.”

“That's right.” Trish nodded. “We really hoped Mom would wise up and divorce Brad so she could marry Sam, but she didn't.”

“Wise up? What does that mean?”

Rick and Trish exchanged glances, and then Rick took over the conversation. “Brad's okay, I guess. I mean, he's nice to us and everything, but . . .”

“. . . but we always got the feeling we were in the way.” Trish nodded emphatically. “Brad didn't really want us. He wanted Mom. And Sam would have been a real father to us, not just . . .”

“. . . Mom's husband,” Rick broke in.

“I see.” Marcie nodded. “As a matter of fact, Brad talked about that with me. He said he was sorry he never got a chance to get closer to you. And now he'd like to.”

“Really?” Trish still looked dubious. “Are you sure?”

“That's what he said. It was his idea to take you to Disneyland in the Rolls, you know. And maybe I shouldn't spoil the surprise, but he's planning to take all of us skiing for your birthday.”

“Wow!” Rick began to smile. “I always wanted to learn to ski! Do you know where we're going?”

“Aspen. Brad made the travel arrangements before he left on his business trip.”

“Is Rosa going, too?” Trish looked concerned.

“Absolutely. I heard him order six tickets.”

“Six?” Rick counted them off. “Brad, and you, and us, and Rosa. That's only five.”

“I know. Jerry Palmer's going along. Brad says he used to live in Aspen, so he'll show us around. They've got a couple of business meetings planned, but they'll spend the rest of the time with us on the slopes. Do you mind?”

Trish shook her head. “We don't mind. We like Jerry. He's nice, and he really likes us. We think Jerry should get married and . . .”

“. . . have kids of his own,” Rick jumped in. “We felt really bad when Mom fired him.”

“Your mother fired Jerry Palmer?”

“Well . . . not exactly.” Trish gave Rick a warning glance. “She terminated their relationship because she needed to go with a bigger agency. Jerry's small-time, and she needed an agent with more juice.”

“Juice?” Marcie looked puzzled and the twins laughed.

“Clout.” Rick explained the word. “She needed someone with more power, to get her better deals. That's how they do things out here.”

“I see. And how did you know all this? Did your mother tell you?”

Trish shot Rick a warning glance, and then she replied, “No. Mom didn't exactly tell us. But we . . .”

“. . . kind of overheard it.” Rick jumped in. “You know how it is, Aunt Marcie. If kids are really quiet, they get to hear a lot. The adults just forget they're around.”

Marcie bit back a giggle. She was sure the twins had used that tactic quite often.

“Brad was pretty upset when Mom decided to go with someone else.” Trish volunteered more of the story. “We heard them discussing it from all the way upstairs.”

Rick nodded. “They were pretty loud at first, but then Mom talked him around. She was really good at getting people to see things her way.”

“I know she was.” This time Marcie had to laugh. She was well acquainted with Mercedes's powers of persuasion. “Did I ever tell you guys about the time your mother talked me into pulling her to school on the sled? Or how she got me to pretend to be her, when she had made two dates for the same night?”

“No.” Both twins spoke at once. “Tell us!”

“Okay. But first you have to ask Rosa to make me a cup of hot chocolate. And while you're at it, ask her to make some for you, too.”

“It's a done deal!” Rick jumped up. “Come on, Trish.”

Trish let Rick pull her to her feet. “How about popcorn, Aunt Marcie?”

“Popcorn right before bedtime?”

“Why not?” Rich countered. “Popcorn goes really well . . .”

“. . . with hot chocolate.” Rick finished the sentence for his sister.

“You're absolutely right.” Marcie smiled at them. “I'll sit right here and wait. And if you ask me very nicely, maybe I'll even tell you about the time your mother flunked a history test, and talked the teacher into giving her an A anyway.”

 

 

He could see her in the living room with the children. She looked like a mother as they sat on the couch in a tight family circle. Even the housekeeper was there, and they were all laughing at something she said. He wished he could hear her, but he couldn't risk going inside the house. They couldn't know he was here. No one could ever know.

He'd heard her say that the husband had gone on another business trip. He'd hidden in the rose garden, behind a flowering bush of White Masterpiece Tea Roses, to the left of the Sutter's Gold they'd planted to replace the red American Beauty. He'd learned a lot about roses since he'd come to live with her. The gardeners had left the tags on, and since he was a compulsive reader, he'd gone from bush to bush, reading about their care and lineage. Directly in back of him was Blue Girl, a lavender hybrid tea rose, Latin name
Rosaceae
. It would reach almost six feet in height, if it was properly fertilized, watered, and pruned, and its flowers were large and shapely, generally one to a stem. Not that he cared. He'd never liked roses anyway.

From his vantage point in the rose garden, he'd heard everything she had said earlier, including the news about marrying the husband. That frightened him. She shouldn't marry the husband. It was a terrible mistake. Never mind that it was almost like incest, although technically, it was not. The fault did not lie with her, or her lovely twin sister. It was the husband. He should not marry again.

He sighed like the wind that swept down the hills and into the canyon. It was a sigh of knowing, and a sigh of regret. He was the only one who understood that the husband was mortally flawed. He was like a cog without teeth, or a wheel that was out-of-round. He could wreak terrible damage on an innocent and trusting wife.

What a happy family picture, a mother with two children gathered close, and a trusted family retainer smiling fondly at them all. How peaceful. How charming. It was a scene worthy of an expensive greeting card. Inside it would say,
May the peace and serenity of love touch your heart and bring you everlasting joy
. But how different this scene would be if the husband were standing behind her, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. Then the message would read,
What is wrong with this picture?
And he would be the only one who could answer.

She turned then, toward the window, and his heart jumped up to lodge in his throat. She was so lovely, the image of his beautiful, dead mother. Could he save her? Was it too late?

He looked around with eyes that blazed, in a holy crusade to search for the red, ferret it out, and annihilate it before it claimed him in an agony of painful memories. It was here somewhere. He could smell it on the breeze, taste it on the tip of his tongue, feel its presence invading every cell of his body. But where?

The red roses were neutralized; he'd shredded the petals and let the air cleanse them. And her red bathing suit had disappeared, taken away on her poor drowned body by the men in the white coats. But there! He saw it! A taunting, grinning bundle of red on the table by the pool. And then the red mist began to swirl and rise, licking at his ankles like a hungry wolf. And he knew he had to destroy his old enemy before it had a chance to consume her.

There was one brief moment of clarity as he scuttled across the patio and snatched the red in his shaking fingers. A book. He could not destroy a book. His adoptive mother, the librarian, had taught him that it was a sin. But the inside could be removed, plucked from the womb of the red covers to stand alone and viable. For while it was certainly a mortal sin to destroy a book, it was only a venial transgression to neutralize its covers.

He placed the word child back on the table, and wrapped it carefully in the swaddling cloth of a towel that had been tossed on a chair. There. Soon it would be safe from the evil red. He would destroy the evil so that it could not threaten again.

Earth, air, fire, and water. The ancient elements. But which should he use? They might see the fire from the house, and come out to extinguish it before his merciful deed was accomplished. And the water was also a risk. The pool was clear and clean. They could see the red in its depths, and lift it out before the liquid destroyer had worked its healing magic. The air was here, all around him, but it would take days to destroy the sturdy leather covers. He would use the soft, dark, concealing earth. It would receive his red burden and hide it, until it was rendered harmless.

He took up the shovel and began to dig in the well-moistened earth. There was very little time left. The red mist was creeping up his legs, and it was fast approaching his groin. To keep from thinking about the awful consequences, he began to recite a nursery rhyme Miss Razel had taught him. One, two, buckle my shoe. Three, four, close the door. Five, six, pick up sticks. Seven, eight, lift the gate. Nine, ten, a big fat hen. He'd always giggled when she'd come to that part, imagining the Red Lady as a big, fat hen.

Now the hole was deep enough. He grabbed the despised red and dropped it in. Now he had to keep the shovel moving, and fill the hole perfectly, so the gardener wouldn't notice. Another rhyme, and he would be finished. Only then could he give way to the compelling red mist.

There was pain mixed with pure determination on his face as he scooped up a shovel of the dirt and tossed it back into the hole. One, two ...
Shame on you! You're an ungrateful little boy, and you deserve to be punished!