Fatal Identity (26 page)

“Brad gave Rosa money and told her to take the twins out to a movie and then for a hamburger. And Rosa said it was the first time he'd ever planned a night of entertainment for them.”

“Did it ever occur to you that Brad was just being thoughtful?” Marcie stared right back at him. “That's not so unusual, is it?”

George shrugged. “Perhaps not. But the trainer said that there was a period of time when he and Brad were separated at the track. I checked that out, too. I drove from the track to the house, and then back again. Brad had time to kill Mercedes and get back to the track to pick up the horse trainer before the races were over.”

Marcie shuddered. It couldn't be true! But how could she prove that to George and Sam? “How about the letters from the crazy fan? Surely
he's
a suspect!”

“I'm not discounting that. And if it makes you feel any better, I don't believe Brad killed your sister.”

“Of course, he didn't!” Marcie drew a big sigh of relief. “Thank goodness you see it that way!”

“But there's always the possibility that Brad hired a hit man to murder Mercedes. That could account for the missing money.”

“Oh, now wait a minute!” Marcie could feel her anger start to grow. “You're putting the cart before the horse. You're assuming that Mercedes was murdered, and you can't even prove that!”

“Not yet.” George nodded. “But I'm waiting for the police lab to call me about the glove.”

“What glove?” Both Marcie and Sam spoke at once, but this time neither one of them noticed. They were too astonished by what George had said.

“The gardener found a padded glove in the bushes by the side of the pool. And the leather looks like it's been soaked in chlorinated water.”

Sam frowned. “It could have fallen in the pool by accident.”

“Sure, and pigs could fly.” George laughed. “I don't think that's what happened. You see, there are some very suspicious scratches on the surface of the glove, and I think they came from Mercedes's fingernails. Since the police M.E. took routine fingernail scrapings before he released her body, we're checking to see if any particles match the leather of the glove.”

Marcie looked at Sam anxiously. “Is that enough evidence to prove that Mercedes was murdered?”

“Not really.” Sam shook his head. “Of course it falls under the heading of circumstantial evidence, but it wouldn't make for a very strong case.”

“Very true, Counselor. But if my theory about the hit man is correct, everything fits. Unfortunately, we need hard evidence and there's only one way to get that.”

Marcie experienced a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as George turned to her. He looked very serious. “I need your help to trick Brad into hiring the hit man again.”

“Come on, George!” Marcie sighed in exasperation. “Brad won't hire the hit man again because he didn't do it in the first place!”

“But will you cooperate with me? I'd like to set up a trap.”

Marcie frowned. George had a one-track mind. He was convinced that Brad was responsible for Mercedes's death, and she wished there was something she could do to prove him wrong.

“I think you should cooperate, Marcie.” Sam looked serious, too. “Suppose for a moment that George is wrong. You'd be giving your future husband a chance to prove his innocence.”

Marcie began to waver. Sam had made an excellent point. She had nothing to lose by cooperating, and everything to gain. She was sure that George's trap would be unsuccessful, and then they'd know she was right, that Brad had absolutely nothing to do with Mercedes's death.

“Yes, I'll cooperate.” Marcie nodded, suddenly eager. “Just tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it!”

CHAPTER 20

Marcie listened carefully as George outlined his plan. When Brad called her tomorrow night, she was to tell him she'd made out her will and named him as the beneficiary. Sam would be on the line to confirm it, and he'd tell Brad it would be ready for Marcie to sign the next day.

“All right. I'm certainly willing to do that.” Marcie nodded. “I was going to do that anyway, after we were married. Is that all?”

George shook his head. “I want you to go down to the bank on Monday morning, and transfer at least ten thousand dollars to that household account. It has to be available, if Brad wants some ready cash.”

“All right.” Marcie nodded again. “But Brad won't withdraw any more money. You'll see.”

Sam shrugged. “I'm not so sure about that, Marcie. He certainly withdrew plenty last month.”

“I know.” Marcie sighed, and turned to George. “Do you want me to ask him about that?”

“No, don't mention it. We don't want him to know it's been discovered yet. But get the number of the hotel where he's staying. Tell him Sam may need to contact him, in case there's some question about the wording of your will.”

Marcie nodded, and made herself a note. “All right. I'll do all that. But I still don't see why we don't just . . .”

“Let's do this my way,” George interrupted. “Don't forget you agreed to help. If Brad doesn't fall into our trap, I'll owe you an apology, okay?”

“Okay.” Marcie nodded, a bit reluctantly. She didn't like the idea of setting up her future husband for anything.

“Now, Sam . . .” George turned to him. “On Tuesday night, you call Brad and ask him about the missing money. Don't accuse him of anything. Just say you need a full accounting by the end of the week, so probate can settle Mercedes's estate.”

“Got it.” Sam jotted down the information.

“If Brad's guilty, that ought to make him very nervous.” George turned to Marcie. “And if he's not, it won't bother him a bit. Now, late the same night, say about eleven, you call him, Marcie. Tell him you're very upset, that Sam just dropped by and he thinks that Brad has appropriated some of your money.”

Marcie frowned. “Do I really have to do that?”

“Yes. Of course, you should reassure him. Tell him you don't believe a word of it, and you're sure he didn't do anything wrong, but Sam is urging you to make out a new will, putting all the money in trust for the twins. He's drawing up the papers now, and he wants you to sign them on Thursday.”

“But he'll just tell me not to sign the will until he gets home!” Marcie frowned. “And I'll agree with him.”

George shook his head. “No, you won't. Tell Brad that Sam is really pressuring you. You've got to get him off your back, and you can't see what harm it'll do to sign the new will. Promise him that when you two get married, you'll tear up the new will, and the old one will be in effect.”

“Well . . . okay.” Marcie nodded. “But why go through this elaborate charade? What do you think will happen?”

“It's simple, Marcie. We're giving Brad a deadline to arrange a hit on you to get the money.”

“A hit on me!?” Marcie's mouth dropped open. “Don't be ridiculous! Brad loves me! Why, he'd never . . .”

“I hope you're right.” George sighed. “But meanwhile, we're setting you up as a decoy.”

“That's insane!” Sam put his arms around Marcie. “There's no way you're going to use Marcie as a decoy! It's much too dangerous!”

George held up his hand. “Calm down, Sam. Marcie's not
really
going to be a decoy. I'll have the bank notify me immediately
if
and
when
Brad makes a withdrawal! And the moment Marcie makes her second call, she'll rent a hotel room and stay there with the twins, until this whole thing is over.”

“Wonderful.” Marcie looked at George and sighed. “If I'm not home, just who is this mythical hit man supposed to kill?”

“A policewoman who'll stand in for you. And there's no way the hit man will succeed, not with all the undercover policemen we'll have staking out the house. What do you say, Marcie? Will you do it?”

Marcie sighed and then she nodded. “I'll do it. It's a perfect way to prove you're wrong. I'm going to make you eat your words, George.”

“Wait a second, Marcie.” Sam gave her a hug. “Are you really sure you want to do this? George seems to think his plan is foolproof, but sometimes these things go wrong.”

Marcie hugged him back. “Thanks for worrying about me, but I have to do it. And you'll help me if you're really my friend. I'm tired of hearing all these suspicions about Brad. I'll do anything to prove that he's innocent.”

 

 

He crouched outside the window and watched through the glass. His love was alone, paging through the diary. He could understand the reason behind her frown.

The diary contained many secrets between its covers, and there was mention of the warning he had given her. But she had ignored that warning, and wrapped herself in a cocoon of loneliness. She had been so helpless, so needy. And she had failed to realize that the balm for her wounds, the solution to the terrible, aching void inside her, had waited for her in the magical labyrinth of her own guest cottage.

She had not known, and that guilt rested squarely on his shoulders. He had kept from her the secret of his presence. It had been a tragic error.

But that was past him now, and the future was no longer the bleak gray emptiness that he had foreseen. The impossible had become reality. She was back in the body of her twin sister. Fate had granted him another chance to prove that he was worthy of her love. Only one thing threatened his new serenity. The husband. Somehow he had to keep her from marrying him.

The night winds were sharp, and he shivered as he crept closer to the house, kneeling down on the soft, wet earth. No one knew he was about and there were many times when he felt invisible. She did not know he existed, although he had joined her at the studio, been close when they went skiing in Aspen, even watched the husband please her body. He was a cousin of the wind, a palpable presence who could wreak great destruction, and then vanish on the gentle breath of a summer breeze.

But the husband was his enemy, a clear and present danger. He must not let the husband deceive him again.

The memory of that first deception made the red mist shimmer under his feet, and he stomped it down before it could rise. He would think about it later. Not now. Now he had work to do.

The housekeeper came in, and they began talking about the children, who were tucked safe in their beds in the non-red rooms. He listened for a few moments. The children were of no interest to him. And then they said good-night, and she went up the stairs to bed.

Her light went on, a brief glimmer that pierced the darkness of the night, as she undressed and put on the beautiful green nightgown. He watched, imagining all the perfectly ordinary tasks that mortal angels were required to do before they were permitted to sleep. The teeth were brushed, the face washed, the alarm clock set, the covers turned back. And then the light clicked off, and his ally, the night, was back in command.

His legs were stiff when he got to his feet, thankful that it was safe to move without caution now. The night was peaceful, and deep, and black, but he knew the path as well as he knew the back of his hand. He smiled as he passed the rose garden and, a moment later, the tennis court. What would they say if they suddenly discovered him walking down the path in the night?

Imagining such an incident made him chuckle. They would be surprised, perhaps even shocked, but as long as he had a reasonable explanation, they would not be unduly alarmed. They had seen him many times before. That was the beauty of the game. They all thought they knew him, but, of course, they were wrong.

 

 

Pappa Sutton's was crowded, even at one-thirty in the morning. It was a fifties bar and grill, frequented mostly by the show biz, artsy crowd, gay and straight combined. Jerry walked in and made his way to a table in the back, near the old-fashioned jukebox.

“Could I get you something to drink?” An athletic-looking waiter-wearing a white shirt open at the neck, yellow- and green-checkered Bermuda shorts and a leather apron-appeared at his table almost immediately. His teeth were so even, they had to be capped, and his smile was totally engaging. There was no doubt that he was an aspiring actor, earning his living as a waiter until he got his first big break. Jerry had been in Los Angeles for quite a while now, and he'd never met a waiter who admitted to being merely a waiter. They were always aspiring actors, or struggling screenwriters, or would-be directors.

“I'll have a double scotch on the rocks. Chivas, if you have it.”

“We have it.” The waiter eyed Jerry's Rolex watch, a birthday gift from his lover. “Nice watch. You must be in the biz.”

Jerry was about to deny it, when he remembered that Worldwide Studios was looking for some fresh new faces for a sitcom they were casting. This kid would be perfect for one of the minor characters. “That's right. And you want to be an actor?”

“That's right.” The waiter looked surprised. “How did you know?”

“Just a lucky guess. Can you ride a horse?”

“Sure.” The waiter grinned. “I grew up on a ranch in Wyoming.”

“Good enough.” Jerry handed him a card. “Send me a résumé, and I'll see what I can do about getting you a couple of auditions.”

“Wow! Thanks!” The waiter's smile widened until it was completely genuine. “That's really nice of you. You don't need to meet with me . . . uh . . . personally?”

Jerry caught his implied meaning and shook his head. “Ten percent of your earnings is all I expect. Just make sure I've got that résumé bright and early Monday morning.”

“Yes, sir. And thanks a lot!”

Jerry sighed as he watched the waiter rush off to get his drink. He remembered being that enthusiastic once, but that was when he'd first moved here. He'd gotten a break then, too. His lover had set him up in the agency business, but he'd demanded a lot in return. Jerry was beginning to realize that the price he'd paid had been much too high. And he was still paying, with no end in sight.

Fifteen minutes later Jerry was sipping his second scotch, but it wasn't working to ease the pounding pain in his head. He was afraid tonight would be another lost night. It had become a pattern with him. He'd drink until the pain went away, and then there would be a terrifying blank period when he was bombed out of his skull. He'd always managed to get himself home, but he woke with no memory of how he'd gotten there. It was a vicious cycle he was trying to break with very little success.

“Hi, Jer.” Beau LeTeure waved from across the room, and made his way through the crowd to Jerry's table. “Are you here with someone?”

Jerry shook his head. He wasn't about to admit it, but he'd come here looking for Beau. One night, in group, Beau had mentioned that this was his favorite hangout, and Jerry had come here several nights in a row, looking for him.

“I'm alone, too.” Beau looked a little uncertain. “Mind if I join you?”

Jerry shook his head. “I was hoping you would. I hate to drink alone.”

“Drinking a lot, Jer?” Beau eyed the glass in his hand.

“Yeah. Too much. But it helps the pain, you know?”

Beau nodded. “Why don't I set you up with my doctor, Jer? It could be something simple that he could fix. You can trust my guy to keep his mouth zipped. He's a good guy, and he's seen everything before.”

“Well . . . maybe.” Jerry sighed deeply. He'd put off going to the doctor for over a year, and he'd suffered through countless pounding headaches. There were times when he felt like he had a rodent caged in his brain, scratching and biting until his mind screamed with agony.

“Don't let a little thing like fear stop you.” Beau grinned at him. “Think how good you'll feel if it's nothing serious.”

“But what if it is?” Jerry took another big swallow of his drink.

“Either way, you win. You're imagining the worst anyway. You might feel relieved, even if you find out it's true.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Jerry sighed and nodded. “Okay, Beau. I've put it off for as long as I can. I'll go see him, I promise.”

Beau grinned. “And I'll take you, to make sure you get there. I'm not working next Monday. Is that good for you? Or shall I try to make an emergency appointment?”

“I've waited this long. I guess I can wait another week.”

“That's the stuff.” Beau patted him on the shoulder. “You feel better already, don't you?”

Jerry blinked and then he nodded. He wasn't sure why, but he
did
feel better. Perhaps the support group really had helped. He'd agreed to let Beau take him to the doctor to find out what was causing his excruciating headaches. And he was much more comfortable with the fact that he was gay. One more week of pain and fear to get through, and he'd have an answer. And maybe after the doctor had made his diagnosis, he might even consider reclaiming his life, and calling it quits with his lover for good!