Once More With Feeling (45 page)

The young Elisabeth had loved Birch Haven.
She and Marguerite had ridden every inch of its fifty-five acres on
high-spirited ponies. They had climbed the magnificent old trees to
pelt each other with sour green plums and cherry pits, adorned
their young bodies and flaunted what little they had to impress the
boy-heirs of neighboring estates.

Autumn at Birch Haven had been Elisabeth's
favorite season. The leaves had turned pumpkin orange and Lucifer
red, and there were fragrant bonfires and Jonathan and Winesap
apples to press for cider. The house had been perfect for Halloween
parties, with household staff dressed as skeletons and ghosts, and
room after room draped with angel hair cobwebs.

There were no cobwebs tonight. The leaves
had already performed their flamboyant salute to death, and
Halloween was just a memory. But the ghosts that Gypsy was
interested in were no respecters of seasons. They were Richard
Adamson's ghosts, and they had lived with him for some time,
waiting for exposure.

"Yes, your men were here, and they did their
dirty work," Marguerite said. "I still can't believe I agreed to
let this happen at Birch Haven."

Gypsy wandered the old library, smoothing
her palm along the walnut panels and over the cracked wine leather
sofas that had resided in this room as long as anyone could
remember. "Good. Nothing looks out of place. And you did it because
you want to see justice done and because you're becoming addicted
to excitement."

Marguerite, in black velvet and a rope of
pink pearls, made a noise not unlike a snort. "Whatever else he is,
Richard has been part of my circle of friends for years."

"And you've seen through him that long. You
know, with your insights about people, you could have had a career
in television news, too. Or you could have been an important asset
to the production company I never thought to start."

"What are you talking about?"

"Just one of the ways dear Elisabeth screwed
up."

"Please remember there were many more ways
that she did not."

"I know that, too."

"You are just full of little gems of wisdom
from this experience, aren't you? I hope if this body-hopping
phenomenon ever happens to me, I will come back as a horse, so I
don't have to think incessantly about all my failures."

Gypsy looked up. "I'd watch what I wished
for. You could end up as a drop of Superglue."

Marguerite gave one of her rare smiles. "I
have to leave you now. I have a dozen things to see to."

"I know. Everyone should be arriving
soon."

"Seamus is probably off somewhere repotting
bougainvillea or trimming mounds of jasmine into pirate ships and
mermaids."

Gypsy had been amazed to find that Seamus's
bizarre experiments in hybridizing and adapting tropical plant life
were beginning to pay off. Among other oddities Birch Haven now
sported a magnolia tree of the type that grew so prolifically and
sweetly in the land of cotton. It was only three years old, but so
far it had survived Connecticut's harsh winters. "He really has
done extraordinary things with the grounds."

"Seamus is no different from the rest of us,
though he's more vigilant about it. He wants to master his own
little world. And he's proving that he can, at least
occasionally."

"Go master yours. I'll get a shot at my own
when Richard arrives."

"Just promise me you will be careful."

Gypsy didn't quite meet Marguerite's eyes.
"I'm becoming a great believer in fate. Whatever happens here
tonight is exactly what's supposed to. You have nothing to worry
about."

By the time Gypsy emerged from the library
there were sounds from outside that indicated the party was
beginning. Marguerite had gone over the guest list with her. It was
a medium-sized dinner party with about forty guests, most of which
Elisabeth knew but Gypsy didn't. She got her coat and wandered down
the snow-dusted front steps to Seamus's expansive conservatory,
which sat in glassy splendor some distance from the house. She took
a martini from a bartender wearing a white jacket, and oysters
en brochette
from a young woman who was tempting the
expanding crowd with the contents of a silver tray.

Gypsy knew the evening's plan. The guests
would mingle and sip cocktails for the first hour in the
conservatory, as well as out on the lawn where an old-fashioned
horse-drawn sleigh offered rides for the nostalgic. Then they would
adjourn to the snug barn built of ancient chestnut logs, where
pot-bellied woodstoves warmed the air and twinkling Christmas
lights strung from the rafters illuminated a hardy buffet. A harp
and flute would entertain, and, later, when the meal had ended,
everyone would move inside where a small dance band was set up in
what was still a functioning ballroom.

Gypsy planned to make her move inside with
Richard, before the crowd led the way.

She was still working on her first martini
and deeply immersed in a conversation with a dotty old dowager who
had been a friend of Elisabeth's mother when she saw Richard
strolling through the crowd. Missy wasn't at his side, which
surprised her, but Richard and Missy often went to separate
parties. That way, if there was more than one important social
event in an evening, they could cover them both and be certain that
the advancement of Richard Adamson's political career was among the
topics of conversation.

Missy's absence was a bonus. Richard would
be easier to corner. And to trap.

Gypsy avoided him neatly, skirting the crowd
and choosing conversations in remote corners hidden by palm trees
and hibiscus. As the evening progressed she took walks around the
grounds just to maintain her distance, and when the guests were
neatly herded to the barn and the buffet, she trailed behind with a
young married couple who were fascinated by every story that she
told them about
The Whole Truth
.

"Charles Casey has not arrived," Marguerite
said, pulling Gypsy to one side when she approached the buffet.

"I know. I can't understand why he's not
here." Gypsy understood perfectly well, of course. She had been the
one to painstakingly map out directions to the wrong side of
Litchfield County when she gave him the wrong address to go with
them. She hoped Casey wouldn't find his way here at all. He could
wander the winding roads of rural Connecticut for the entire
evening and never expose himself to the dangers that waited for him
here. Likewise, Billy had been dismissed for the evening on her
instructions. She had known she wouldn't find out anything with
either man hovering over her all evening.

"Well, if he doesn't come, I do not want you
to go through with confronting Richard. You cannot do it
alone."

"I won't be alone. You know I won't." Gypsy
unobtrusively tapped her chest. Under the red knit dress with the
hemline that drew attention to her long slender legs was a
transmitting microphone. And somewhere down below, in the plum
grove that had been her childhood delight, was
The Whole
Truth
sound crew who were going to record every word that
Richard Adamson spoke

Marguerite was called away before she could
issue more ultimatums, and from that moment on, Gypsy made a point
of avoiding her as well as Richard. She filled her plate, although
she couldn't eat a bite, and went to sit beside several friends of
Owen's who willingly played the Tarleton twins to her Scarlett
O'Hara.

Dessert was circulating by the time she
started toward Richard. She had done such a thorough job of staying
away from him that she wasn't sure he realized she was there. She
was sure of it when his expression changed at the sight of her. The
same flash of animosity that she'd noted the last time they'd met
burst like poorly timed fireworks across his face.

"Miss Dugan." He inclined his head in
greeting.

"Richard." She nearly cooed his name, and
the three women surrounding him moved a little farther back to make
room for what was obviously going to be an interesting
exchange.

"Did you just arrive?"

"No, I've been here." She dimpled deeply.
"I've been admiring you from afar." Her long eyelashes fanned her
cheek.

He frowned. Her message was so clear that no
one standing in ear shot could fail to miss it. Gypsy Dugan and
Richard Adamson were old friends. . . or more.

"Have you had dessert?" he asked.

"Not yet. Could I . . . tempt you?"

He took her elbow and said his good-byes to
the others. They strolled out of the barn and toward the house.
They were out of immediate earshot of anyone before he spoke. "What
was that all about?"

"About? I was just saying hello."

"You were coming on to me. It's a little
late for that, don't you think?"

"I can't imagine what you mean." She
actually could imagine, but she needed some direct clarification.
Richard's relationship to the former occupant of this body was
still a mystery.

"I think we tried this some years ago, and
it went nowhere."

She tried a shot in the dark. "You mean you
tried this. As I recall I wasn't available."

"Not to me. Just to half the men in
Washington."

Bingo. She scored a point for the former
Gypsy Dugan, who'd obviously had more class than she had let on.
"Richard, you absolutely do exaggerate."

"I have no intention of starting anything
now. I have a career and a wife."

"And the rumor is that the wife isn't
terribly happy with you." Gypsy touched her fingertip to his chest.
"There are other rumors, as well."

He looked as if he might like to strangle
her, and not because she had refused his advances many years ago.
"A politician's life is rife with rumor. And people like you are
the reason."

"Well, not this time. Unfortunately for you,
this rumor seems to be too, too real."

"I don't deal in rumors. If you have proof
of something, the first amendment is still in effect," he said
stiffly.

She nodded. "And this will make a wonderful
story for our treasured free press. I have my calls in to Lucy
McNeil right now. As soon as she gives me some verification. .
."

He hadn't dropped her elbow. Now he squeezed
it hard. She jumped and jerked her arm from his grip. "Quite a
response," she said, rubbing the injury with her fingertips. "As
good as a lie detector."

"What are you trying to pull?" He was no
longer stiff or pompous. Anger sparked in his eyes.

"Pull?"

This time he took her arm. He turned his
head, as if looking for a place out of traffic where they could
go.

"I've got what I came for," she said. "So
you did have something to do with Lucy McNeil's fall from
grace."

"I had nothing to do with anything. We're
going inside and you're going to tell me exactly what you're trying
to do and why."

"Desmond said you would behave this
way."

He drew in an audible breath. She decided
that like all politicians, his lung capacity must be enormous. Just
when she thought he would explode, all the air came back out again
in a jagged rush. "We're going inside."

"Fine." She dropped her classic
sex-among-the-vocal-chords routine. Now she sounded as calculating
as an Eleventh Avenue hooker. "And while we're walking, you might
try thinking about what you can do for me. Because my silence is
going to cost you, Richard. It's going to cost you big time."

She and Marguerite had carefully chosen the
old library for the scene of this confrontation. The problem now
was to be sure that Richard chose it, too. Marguerite had stationed
staff in the other obvious downstairs rooms so that Richard
wouldn't take her there. There were several empty rooms in the
front of the house, but they would obviously be too public. And to
keep Richard from dragging her upstairs, Marguerite had simply
asked Seamus to pry up several of the ancient oak steps leading to
the second floor. A warning sign made it clear that the stairs were
in the midst of repair.

Richard knew the house. He made his way to
the back, where the old library was the final room on the left of
the main hall. The library had been Marguerite's father's retreat,
the last male bastion in a house ruled by his wife and daughter.
When Marguerite had brought friends home from prep school or
college, the girls had enjoyed the run of most of the house, but
the boys, and the boys alone, had been invited into Curtis
Warrington's library. Richard had been one of them.

After her father's death Marguerite had left
the library as a veritable shrine to his life, and Richard knew
that, too. The library was the most obvious place to avoid
interruption. To Gypsy's great relief he herded her there now. He
had no reason to suspect that she even knew of the library's
existence, much less that her camera crew had been busy there this
afternoon installing equipment of the kind they had used to tape
parts of the Norman Carroll story. The old paneling, the rows and
rows of moldering first editions, had been perfect props.

Richard pushed open the door and flipped on
the desk light, a banker's lamp with the traditional green shade.
The room glowed with seasick brilliance.

"How quaint. I can almost smell cigars."
Gypsy fanned the air in front of her.

Richard hadn't released her arm. Now he did,
so that he could cross to the door again and close it. He leaned
against it and folded his arms across his chest. "Let's have what
you know, or think you do."

"Does that mean you're willing to pay to
keep me from going public? You know, a story like this could make
my reputation as a newswoman. It's worth a lot to me."

"I'm not going to pay you a cent. I don't
believe you know anything that could hurt me. There's nothing to
know. I'm scandal free."

"None of us is scandal free. Look at poor
Des."