Stars (The Butterfly Trilogy) (79 page)

     Beverly went through Danny's pockets and, finding the key to the handcuffs, went to Philippa, who was leaning against the wall, huddled in Simon Jung's dinner jacket, shaking. "Are you all right?" Beverly said as she freed her wrists and lifted the noose over her head.

     Philippa looked at her. "Where do you know Christine Singleton from?"

     Beverly gave her a startled look. "She was my sister, my twin. We were separated when we were babies. A family named Singleton adopted her. Why?"

     "I'm Christine Singleton."

     They stared at each other while faint sounds from the ball filtered up to them. No one had heard the shot; the party hadn't been disrupted.

     "You're Christine?" Beverly said, studying Philippa's face. "I don't understand. I thought you were Philippa Roberts."

     "I ran away when I was sixteen and changed my name."

     Beverly's astonishment grew. "So did I. But...how did you find me?"

     "The ad you placed in the
Times.
"

     Beverly said, "But I placed no ad," just as Simon Jung returned, saying, "Security is on the way up. And so is Dr. Isaacs."

     Simon looked at Beverly." I placed the ad," he said.

     "You!"

     "I knew you had given up looking for her. That photograph in your office of a young woman with two babies—I've seen you stare at it many times. And I recalled you telling me once about hoping to find your sister. We were still in Brazil. You had said her name was Christine Singleton."

     He turned to Philippa. "Are you all right?" he asked, bringing out a crisp white handkerchief and putting it to her neck where the knife had nicked her.

     "Yes, thank you," she whispered.

     He returned to Beverly. "I wanted to help you," he said.

     "Did you know..." She looked at Danny, lying in the crystal tub. "Did you know about that, too?"

     "When I saw how that book,
Butterfly Exposed
, upset you, I read it. So I knew that you were Beverly Highland, that you had changed your identity. And that you didn't want me to know."

     Beverly looked at Simon for a moment, recalling their recent lovemaking in the shower and thinking of their future together. Then she turned to Philippa. "Then...you really are my sister?"

     "Yes," Philippa said in amazement. "And so I suppose you're mine."

     They said, "Oh," together, just as the head of security barged in with a team behind him. "Rogers is dead, sir," he said to Jung. "We found him in the bushes. The Palm Springs police have been notified." He went over to the bathtub and looked at Danny. Then he looked at the others gathered in the Obscene Bathroom. "Who shot him?" he asked.

     But no one knew.

P
HILLIPA HAD BEEN SITTING AT THE BEDSIDE NEARLY ALL
night; she was beginning to nod in the chair. A suspended IV bottle caught the first slanting rays of morning light as the day broke through the window of the recovery room in Star's private clinic. Although there was room to accommodate three post-operative patients, only one bed was occupied.

     And as new light began to spread through the small surgical suite, the occupant in the bed struggled for a moment to open his eyes. He stared at the ceiling, then, with great difficulty, rolled his head to the side and gazed at Philippa. He tried to speak; he couldn't. So his hand sought hers.

     When she felt his touch, she was startled awake. "Ricky," she said, smiling gently, "how are you? How do you feel?"

     "Hell of a..." he whispered. The bandages around his neck moved slightly as he swallowed. "Hell of a..." he tried again in a hoarse whisper, "...sore throat."

     Philippa leaned over the bedside rail and brushed the hair back from his forehead. "My God, we've been so worried."

     He smiled weakly. He was pale; he had lost a lot of blood, but Judith Isaacs had said he was going to live. When she and Smith had first come across Ricky in the snow, a great crimson puddle around him, she had not been so sure. But when she had rushed him back to the clinic for emergency surgery, recruiting the help of two physicians who had been attending the ball, she had discovered that although the young man's throat was cut nearly from ear to ear, the major neck vessels had been spared. The wound, it turned out, was only superficial, with a slight laceration in the trachea, which she had been able to suture.

     "I told you," he croaked, "that nothing...was going to happen...to me. What—" Again he swallowed with difficulty. "What happened?"

     "I'll tell you all about it later. Oh, Ricky, I'm so glad you're going to be all right! You could have been killed."

     "Naw," he said in his Aussie drawl. "When whoever it was got me..." he drew in a painful breath, "and I saw the knife, I remembered something I...had read once, about bending your neck and the arteries go in or something..."

     "Shh," she said, her eyes glistening. "Don't try to talk. Dr. Isaacs explained it to us. The man who attacked you didn't cut deep enough—"Her voice broke. "Oh, Ricky, I'm so sorry."

     He reached up and touched her hair. "Philippa, I have to tell you something."

     "No, don't talk. Go back to sleep. Save your strength."

     "I have to say it. I should have said it...long time ago. I lied to you. I didn't have a mate on the
Philippa.
I made that up so you'd...give me a job."

     "I know," she said, stroking his hair.

     "How did you know?"

     "Because Paul told me he had an all-American crew."

     "You knew? Then...why did you hire me?"

     She smiled. "Let's just say I admire resourcefulness."

     Judith Isaacs came in then, wearing a blouse and slacks under a white lab coat, a stethoscope around her neck. Her hair was no longer loose about her shoulders but plaited into a braid down her back. She had never made it to the ball. "Miss Roberts," she said, "you wanted me to let you know when the morning tram arrived. It's almost here. How is our patient doing?"

     Philippa leaned over and kissed Ricky on the lips, murmuring, "I'll be back as soon as I can." Then she turned to Judith and said, "Thank you for saving his life, Doctor."

     There weren't many people milling around the tramway platform at this early hour. Most of the guests were in their rooms or cottages, sleeping off the effects of champagne, or, if they were awake, talking about the murder that had taken place right over their heads. The police had questioned everyone. No suspects were found. And no gun.

     When the Palm Springs detective had discovered Quinn's ID on Danny, he had said, "I think this is the man we've been looking for. We believe he's responsible for killing at least five people, maybe more. Do you have any idea who he was?"

     Before either Beverly or Philippa could reply, Simon Jung had said, "No, we don't know who he was." He looked at Beverly. "He was a stranger, we don't know why he did it."

     The police left just before dawn, taking Danny Mackay's body with them. "Whoever shot him was defending you and Miss Roberts," the detective said. "My guess is we'll probably never find out who it was."

     Now, at the boarding area, several guests were waiting for the regular morning tram to arrive—some were leaving, such as Carole Page and her husband; others were there to greet arrivals, such as Philippa, who was expecting Hannah and Esther.

     Marion Star was there, bundled up in a stylish wool coat, telling Bunny Kowalski that she could wear her gowns in "their" movie. Bunny was there because her father was due on the morning tram, and she was going to tell him that not only was she going to stay in Hollywood, but that he just might as well start getting used to the idea that his daughter was an actress.

     Frieda, at the same time, was busy working a deal with Andrea for Bunny to play young Marion; they stood under a snow-laden pine tree discussing terms, while Larry Wolfe sulked off to the side.

     And Beverly was there, with Simon Jung, saying good bye to their guests.

     Philippa thought her sister looked beautiful in the morning sun, despite the fact that the two of them had sat up all night, talking, mostly at Ricky's bedside, where Beverly had joined Philippa in her vigil. They had covered
so much through the dark hours, filling in their separate pasts, and they still had so much more yet to go. After today's board meeting, whatever the outcome, Philippa was going to stay for a while at Star's.

     Charmie came up the path then. "How is Ricky?" she asked. Charmie was warm inside a bulky cable-knit sweater with a bright pink watchman's cap pulled over her hair. Her nose and chin, bitten with cold, matched the color of the cap.

     "He's going to be all right," Philippa said. "Thank God. Dr. Isaacs has sent for a private nurse to come and take care of him."

     Charmie searched Philippa's face, and then, looking over at Beverly, who was smiling and dispensing farewells as though last night had been an ordinary night of the week, she said, "Well, at least there's one mystery solved. Ivan found your sister after all."

     But that still left the question of the embezzled million dollars, and why Miranda International was trying to buy out Starlite.

     But the biggest mystery was, Who had saved Philippa's life? Who shot Danny Mackay?

     "The tram must be almost here," Charmie said, noticing how the small crowd began to converge on the boarding platform. She saw Bunny and Frieda and Andrea madly shaking hands, and Carole Page hanging on to her husband as if they were a honeymoon couple, and Larry Wolfe looking like he hadn't slept in months—

     Charmie's mouth dropped open. "Philippa!" she said. "Why—there's Ivan!"

     "
What?
" Philippa turned around, and there he was, Ivan Hendricks, looking like a member of the Soviet police in a heavy overcoat and big fur hat.

     When he saw them looking at him, he came over and gave them a sheepish, "Hi."

     "Ivan!" Charmie said. "You're supposed to be in Rio!"

     "Yes, well," he dug his boot into the snow, "I know..."

     "What are you doing here?"

     "It's kind of complicated, Miss Roberts," he said, "do you see that man over there?"

     She looked to where he was pointing and saw a man in a long black overcoat, with a black muffler around his neck but wearing no hat, so that
she saw perfectly combed white hair stirring lightly in the morning breeze. He was in his seventies, handsome and distinguished, bearing a remark able resemblance to Richard Conte, the actor.

     Her eyes widened.

     It couldn't be...

     When the man turned and saw her, he hesitated, then he walked up to her, the hint of a smile on his lips.

     "Daddy?" Philippa whispered.

     "Hi, Dolly," Johnny said.

     "Oh my God, it
is
you!" She threw her arms around him. "Oh, Daddy, Daddy!"

     "Dolly," he said, burying his face in her hair. They held each other tightly.

     She drew away, tears in her eyes. "I don't understand! I thought you were dead!"

     "I know you did, Dolly," Johnny said softly. "I received a pardon. I had been wrongfully convicted."

     "But...why didn't you let me know you were alive!"

     "I didn't know how you'd take it. And also because it would have complicated your life. By the time I got out of prison and could track you down, you were on your own and doing well." He paused to reach out and touch a tear on her cheek, love and tenderness shining in his eyes. "I knew you were mad at me for leaving you in the convent. I spoke to the nuns, they told me how unhappy you had been. But that wasn't what I had intended to happen. I really had meant to leave you there for only a few days, until I got us another place. And then a murder rap was pinned on me, and I was never able to come and get you. I had a friend send letters from Europe."

     "Daddy," she said, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, "I forgave you a long time ago!" She wiped the tears off her cheeks. And then she frowned. "But...how do you know Ivan?"

     Ivan spoke up, a sheepish expression on his face. "I work for your father, Miss Roberts. I've worked for him for years."

     "Then you knew all along that my father was alive!"

     "He made me promise to keep quiet. I'm sorry, Miss Roberts. It was hard, I'll tell you." He turned to Charmie and said, "You and I didn't meet by
accident that day in the drugstore. I'd been watching you and Miss Roberts for some time. Mr. Singleton had hired me to. He wanted me to get personally involved so that I could report to him. You have no idea how many potato chips I had to eat before you noticed me!"

     Charmie stared at him, wondering if the thin mountain air was making her hallucinate. "All is forgiven," she heard herself say.

     Johnny turned to Philippa and said, "Can we go for a walk, Dolly? There are some things I'd like to tell you."

     They headed away from the others, walking over crunchy snow, feeling the warm sun on their shoulders as they breathed in the frosty mountain air.