In a Heartbeat (7 page)

18

The reception area on the fiftieth floor of Vincent Towers Madison was spacious, discreetly furnished in soft grays and taupe, and the receptionist was sleek and blonde in a matching gray suit with taupe lipstick. Mel wished now she had dressed for the occasion instead of just flinging on any old thing, she was in such a rush to get to New York to warn him.

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Vincent doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.”

The receptionist was polite, dismissing her as she turned to answer the telephone.

The hell he doesn’t.
Slinging her bag over her shoulder, Mel was across the room in three quick long-legged strides and through the connecting door that led to the inner sanctum. Startled eyes watched from windowed offices as she strode along the corridor. A pair of tall double doors dominated the end of the hallway. She could hear the receptionist running down the hall after her, shouting at her to get out of there. She flung open the doors and marched in.

Ed Vincent was standing alone by the window, looking down at the busy traffic crawling soundlessly along Madison Avenue. Swinging around, he stared, astonished, at the young woman with short-cropped blonde hair and very long legs, wearing a very short skirt, very high-heeled ankle boots, and a battered black leather jacket, standing in his office.

Melba’s voice sounded high-pitched and squeaky as she blurted out quickly, before he could stop her, “Mr. Vincent, I came all the way from LA to tell you this. Honey, someone is trying to kill you.” He was staring at her, stunned. “I just thought you should know,” she added, realizing how crazy she must sound.

The receptionist ran in, followed by security. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vincent, but she just barged her way through, she’s some kind of nut. . . .”

He lifted a hand. “It’s all right. Please leave us.”

Mel took a deep breath, suddenly intimidated. Ed Vincent was younger and more attractive than she had expected. And bigger. Tall and rugged, with deep-set bright blue eyes under black brows, thick dark hair, a craggy face, and a short beard. He was well dressed in a conservative dark business suit and a blue shirt. He looked like what he was: a rich, successful, confident man. A big shot, lord of the grand offices in the incredible Manhattan building that he owned.

Ed waited until the door closed behind them. There was a glint of amusement in his eyes as he said, “You may be right. I can think of a lot of people who might prefer me not to be around.”

Melba rubbed one foot nervously behind the other, balancing like an awkward heron on one high heel, suddenly uncertain about what she was doing here. He was checking her out, taking her in from the tip of her untidy blonde head to the toes of her black suede ankle boots. She could see he didn’t believe her.

“It’s
true,
” she persisted. “I was in your beach house in South Carolina.
I met the killer.
I heard him talking about you. He was going to kill me, too. . . .”

Ed Vincent held out his hand. “I’m glad to meet you, Miss . . . ?”

“Merrydew. And I promise I’m not crazy. I really saw him, I saw the body in your library. . . .”

“Okay, okay,” he nodded. “Well, since you came all the way from LA to tell me that, the least I can do is take you to lunch. We can discuss it there.”

She couldn’t believe it, the idiot was coming on to her, asking her to lunch. . . .
“Didn’t you
hear what I said?”
She banged a fist on his desk for emphasis. “
I
was there.
In that
Psycho palace
you call a beach house. . . .”

Ed grinned at her description. “Okay. So I believe you were there.”

“Well, thank God for that.” Mel flopped into the big green leather chair behind his steel desk, long, bare, suntanned legs sticking out in front of her. “Honey,” she said, relieved, “I thought I’d never get through to you.” She caught his amazed look and added quickly, “Don’t take any mind of me calling you honey. Southerners call everybody honey. It’s just the way we are.”

Her stomach rumbled loudly. She hadn’t eaten since the plane last night. “Come to think of it, I didn’t have time for breakfast this morning. . . .”

Ed held out his hand and pulled her gently to her feet. She was as tall as he, and for a second they looked into each other’s eyes.

Mel took a deep breath. Whoa, she warned herself, this guy is really something. Better watch your step, honey. . . .

The assistants and the secretaries were lined up outside the door but she didn’t give them a second glance. “ ’Bye, hon,” she called airily to the glossy receptionist as she sailed out on Ed Vincent’s arm. Sometimes even petty revenge was sweet.

“Do you mind if we walk to the restaurant? It’s such a nice day.” Ed took her arm, guiding her through the throng of pedestrians as they walked south on Madison.

Thank God he hadn’t suggested a limo, she thought. That would really have put her off the big shot. It
was
a nice day, though, bright and sunny and crisp.

“You’re seeing New York at its best,” Ed Vincent said, thinking, amused, that she looked like a lofty Valkyrie loose on Madison Avenue, with its elegant women dressed for fall in coats and scarves. She strode along, a golden California alien, bare-legged, head up, oblivious of how she looked. She was certainly different, and that’s why he was intrigued, even if she was zany. Besides, she had certainly been to the beach house—only a woman would have described it that way,
“the Psycho palace. . . .”
He grinned again, thinking about it.

Her battered black leather jacket and bare legs got her a few sideways looks at the Four Seasons, though. She glanced uncomfortably at the Bill Blass–suited women who were lunching there. “I feel out of place here.”

“You needn’t,” he said easily. “Besides, you’re probably half their age.”

“I wish,” she said with a perky grin. “You are looking at a thirty-two-year-old woman, the single mother of a seven-year-old daughter, who is the love of my life.”

“That’s an admirable thing to be. I remember being the light of my own mother’s life, and how good it felt.”

“Is your mother still with us?”

He smiled at the euphemistic way she phrased it; it was so very LA. “Sadly, honey, she is not.”

“I’m sorry.” She lowered her eyes, twisting a piece of bread in her fingers. “And I’m sorry I asked that. I didn’t mean to pry.” Then she grinned at him. “That ‘honey’ thing is catching, isn’t it?”

Ed Vincent was different from what she had expected. There was something in the eyes, a wariness, a memory of deprivation imprinted on his craggy face. Despite his wealth and success, he was certainly no fat cat. She wondered about his past.

Over lunch and a bottle of wine, she told him her story, and about the conversation she had overheard where the killer named him as the intended victim. “And he said he wouldn’t miss next time,” she finished breathlessly.

“You must believe me.” She clutched his hand urgently across the table.
“I was there. This happened.”

“Why didn’t you go to the police?”

“I did. They didn’t believe me either. Even my friend Harriet didn’t believe me, so how could I expect the cops to? Nor did the doctor. He said it was the concussion and that I was confused and I’d been dreaming.” She shrugged. “So I went back to the beach house with Harriet. I had to see for myself.

“The door was locked and we couldn’t get in, but we looked through the windows. There was no dead body in the library. ‘See,’ Harriet said to me. ‘I told you you were dreaming.’

“But, Mr. Vincent, I swear it’s
true
,” she said urgently. “
I
saw what I saw.
The killer tried to make me drive him across that flooded bridge
at
gunpoint
. I
know
what he looks like, I know his
voice,
his
accent
. . . . I
couldn’t
have dreamed all this.”

She took a deep breath, then glanced at her watch. “So there,” she concluded briskly. “I’ve told you. And now I’m catching the six o’clock back to LA.”

She gathered up her bag, spilling its contents in the process. Ed knelt beside her, retrieving the jumble of lipsticks and notebooks, photographs, pens and car keys, old shopping lists, store receipts, and sunglasses. He said, “You really did come all this way just to warn me?”

“I did. But you’re a big boy. Now I’ll leave you to take care of yourself. You have been warned.”

He laughed so heartily that people turned to look. Impulsively, Mel leaned across and took his hand again. “I know I sound like the voice of doom, but Mr. Vincent, honey, you have to protect yourself.”

Her fingers were smooth and warm on his. She was a long, lanky streak of lightning, and she had an off-the-wall appeal that got to him. “If I promise to do just that, will you help me find the killer?”

She groaned. “I knew there was a catch to this smart lunch. I’ve done my part, I’m out of here, on my way home. . . .”

“Only you know what the killer looks like,” he reminded her.

She thought about that. “Okay, so I’ll help. But remember, I’m a working woman and a mother. I live in LA. I can’t just take off and play detective.”

“We’ll employ a private eye.”

He was holding her arm as they walked from the restaurant. His strong hand beneath her elbow made her feel small and cherished instead of the tall, klutzy female she really was. A limo pulled up to the curb. “Where are we going?” she asked, suddenly suspicious.

“Bill is taking you to the airport. I’m afraid I have to get back to the office. Order up that P.I.”

He was laughing at her now, and she said sternly, “Don’t forget, this is serious.”

“I won’t forget. And I need your address and phone number. To report progress.”

She pulled a cheap spiral-bound notepad from the tangle in her bag and wrote on it. “There.” She tore the page off and handed it to him. “That’s me.”

“Melba Eloise Merrydew,” he read. He looked at her and grinned. “Honey,” he said, “you are straight out of Fitzgerald. They should have called you Zelda.”

“Huh, Zelda indeed.” She sniffed.

“I’ll be in touch, Zelda,” he said, closing the car door.

She turned to look as the limo pulled away. He was still laughing.

“Zelda.”
She snorted, snuggling down into the soft leather seat as she was wafted off to Kennedy Airport. But there was a pleased smile on her face. And at least he hadn’t called her Scarlett.

19

Mel said to Detective Camelia, “Ed hired that private investigator. The P.I. checked with the Charleston police and the hospital. The police accident report said I’d skidded into a tree that had then toppled onto the truck, completely wrecking it. The hospital report confirmed that I’d suffered a hairline fracture to the skull and a severe concussion that had caused memory difficulties and confusion. Plus a cracked cheekbone. So far, I had checked out.

“But then the P.I. went over the beach house with a special laser that made ‘invisible’ or ‘hidden’ traces of blood—he said it was what was left when blood has been cleaned up—show up as fluorescent white marks. It showed bloodstains on the rug in the library. There were more leading out to the garage.

“Ed knew then that I was speaking the truth about the dead man. And he also found there was money missing from the wall safe.

“The P.I. deduced that it was a simple robbery gone wrong—one robber shot the other and took off with all the money—and that there was no murder conspiracy against Ed. Ed wouldn’t tell the cops about it because he didn’t want to involve me. He told me he was worried because I could identify the killer. He thought it was
me
who might be in danger, not him.”

Despite his better judgment, Camelia thought she was speaking the truth.

“Now will you let me see Ed?” she begged.

20

Mel was perched on the edge of the chair by Ed’s bed. Camelia had given her ten minutes with him, that’s all.
Ten minutes for the rest of his
life.
She was recalling what happened after the P.I. had completed his investigation. Private stuff she hadn’t told Detective Camelia. About Ed— and her. About the next time she had seen him. It seemed light-years away now, with Ed dying in a hospital bed right in front of her eyes, and the end so near. But then it had seemed like just the beginning. . . .

She and Harriet were sitting on the front porch of her tiny Santa Monica cottage, drinking Miller Lite from icy bottles, relaxing after a tough couple of days. They had just gotten home and were still in their work “uniforms”—black shorts, sweaty white T-shirts, crumpled black socks, and work boots. A brand-new forty-eight-foot silver truck with MOVING ON in lipstick-red script on its sides had replaced the crashed one and was parked across the street.

Mel loved that truck like her own baby—well, not quite, but she knew what she meant. It was the product of her own brains and body and hard labor. And of the insurance company that had reluctantly forked over the money after she had wrecked the first one. “Isn’t that just the greatest truck, Harriet, honey?” Mel eyed it with a pleased smile.

Today, using that truck, they had moved an eccentric old woman from one expensive condo to another on the same block. The woman had complained all the while about the cost and why she needed such a big van and so many crew, she was sure she could have gotten everything cheaper elsewhere. Nerves frazzled, they had done their job and left her, still grumbling, with her bed made up, fresh towels and soap in the bathroom, her refrigerator stocked, coffee brewing, and flowers in a vase on the hall table. Their signature.

“The old bitch never even said thanks.” Harriet sighed wearily. “Oh, ’scuse me, Riley, I forgot you were there.”

Mel’s seven-year-old daughter, Riley, laughed, a hearty rollicking sound that infected those around her with laughter. She was lying in a hammock strung between two beams. Lola, a feisty little tan-and-white terrier mutt, lay on her chest, eyes blissfully closed as Riley swung gently. “ ’S okay. I’ve heard worse,” she replied calmly.

“No you have not.”
Mel was indignant. “There is no cursing in this house.”

“Only when you think I’m not listening.” Riley grinned at them, showing the double empty space where her front teeth used to be. “Visitors,” she added, staring at the black BMW that had just pulled into the parking spot in front of the house.

“I’m not expecting anyone.” Mel propped her feet on the porch rail, fanning herself with one hand. She took another swig of the cold beer. The Santa Ana winds were blowing in from the desert and it was hot as hell, even at seven-thirty at night.

“It’s probably the old bitch, come back to complain some more.” Riley giggled.

Lola leaped off her chest and onto the front steps. The terrier stared, tense as a trigger, at the man emerging from the BMW.

“Some guard dog.” Ed Vincent was standing on the sidewalk, hands shoved in his pockets. “How’re y’doin’, Zelda?”

“Zelda?”
Harriet’s eyes met Melba’s in a question. “Who’s he talking about?”

“Oh, oh my gosh.” Mel thrust the Miller Lite bottle hastily behind her chair and leaped to her feet. She tugged down her black shorts and tried vainly to smooth the sweaty T-shirt.

Ed had to smile at her astonished look. He knew that whatever she was feeling, it would show in her eyes, and whatever she wanted to say, she would come straight out with it. There was no guile about Zelda Merrydew. Even if she did hide beer bottles behind her chair. “Love the new truck,” he said, smiling as he imagined Mel behind the wheel. It was quite a picture.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I just happened to be in the area. Thought I’d stop by, take my partner in crime out to dinner, if she would let me.”

“Wow.”
Riley clambered out of the hammock, inspecting him closely. “A
date
, Mom.” Mel threw her a withering look and she giggled.

“What does he mean, ‘partner in crime’?” Harriet asked in a loud whisper.

“Melba is my detective partner.” Ed bent to pat the dog, who promptly nipped his hand. He pulled it back fast.

“Don’t mind Lola, it’s just her way of saying hello.” Riley gave him her gappy smile. “Lola never draws blood. Not unless she really hates you.”

“That darn dog is just plain uncivilized,” Harriet said. “And, Mel, your mother would be ashamed of you. Where are your manners? Aren’t you going to ask your visitor in?”

“Oh . . . yes, of course.” Mel was suddenly nervous. “Riley, grab the dog. Won’t you please come in, Mr. Vincent. This is Harriet Simons, my friend and partner. And my daughter, Riley.”

“Are you going to have dinner with him, Mom?” Riley demanded. “He asked you a question and you always told me I should answer when I’m asked, and so should you.”

“Oh, oh . . .” Mel threw Ed an embarrassed smile. “Okay. Yes. I guess so. Thank you. I mean . . . well, I guess I have to change. . . .”

“That would be a good idea, Mom,” Riley said dryly. “Now,” she said, taking charge, “would you like a cold drink, Mr. Vincent? A Diet Coke, or lemonade?”

Mel hurried to take a quick shower, leaving Ed with Riley and Harriet. He looked around, pleased. Mel’s home was a mixed bag of pretty antiques, probably from that antebellum Merrydew plantation house, and scruffy overstuffed pieces. An ancient baby grand was squashed into a corner, and the sea breeze wafted the gauzy cream curtains at the open windows.

Bunches of mixed flowers in jolly yellows and oranges wilted in pottery jugs; there was an unfinished sandwich on a plate on the window seat, and Riley’s schoolbooks were spread out on the old pine table in the cheery blue and white kitchen. The hardwood floors bore many scratches, and dust motes floated in a beam of sunlight. It looked comfortable, lived in. It was exactly right, he thought, satisfied.
Exactly Zelda.

The dust got in his nose and he sneezed, accepting a lemonade from Riley, who proceeded to question him closely about where he lived and what he was doing in LA.

“A proud mama could not have interrogated you better,” Harriet told him afterward, with a grin.

Ed hauled himself out of the big sofa as Mel appeared, wearing what looked to him like a dress made out of black elastic bandages stitched together. It fit closer than any glove. It was low cut, short, tight. Stunning.

“It’s the latest thing,” Mel explained, catching his look. She hiked up the neckline, tugged down the skirt. “Tight as a corset but it pulls a girl in and pushes her out in all the right places. And I guess I have to suffer for beauty, or whatever I can catch of it, fleeting as it is.”

“You mean when you take it off, all that’s left is a shapeless sausage?”

He was laughing at her and she grinned back at him. “Some days that description fits. However, this dress is to your advantage. Because of it I’m what’s known as a cheap date. I can’t possibly eat more than a hint of soup, a touch of salad. . . .”

“Or else the dress bursts and all you’re left with is that sausage,” Riley finished for her, with that great rollicking laugh that Ed thought must come from the gut. “Don’t you think Mom looks like a tart?” she added sotto voce to Harriet, but loud enough to be heard by all.

“Thanks, child, for your vote of confidence.” Mel dropped a kiss on her daughter’s copper curls as she said good-bye.