Then Hang All the Liars (14 page)

“A private room in the back. None of it's ever open to the general public.”

“They strip.”

“Sure. Not very good at it. Well, every once in a while there's a talented amateur.”

“And sometimes they go home with the clientele when the show's over.”

Jane laughed. “Sure do. Shocking, isn't it?”

Sam knew when she was being put on.

“Technically prostitution.”

“Make a big splash on the front page for you.”

“Who owns the place?”

Silence.

“Can you give me some girls' names?”

Nothing.

“What's happening here, Jane?”

“Nothing, seems to me. You're doing all the taking, me the giving. Already done all of that I plan to in my young life. Ready to build up some stash on
my
side of the line.”

“I told you I'll do what I can.”

“I'd like to see some proof of that.”

“I've got a book intro to write for a friend here. This is Tuesday—be back Friday, Saturday at the latest. Take care of you then.”

“Uh-huh.”

She was shut down.

“I'm not putting you on. I'll do it.”

“In two, three days, you'll probably have me arrested, run out of town on some bullshit charges.”

“For what?”

“Who knows? I know how you rich bitches work. Get what you want and give me the shaft.”

This girl had been around the block more than once. Sam wasn't sure she
ever
wanted to see her résumé. “When's soon enough for you?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Jesus, what difference does a couple of days make?”

“Tomorrow or forget it.”

“I
said
I'll help you. You have my word.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Your record's stuck.”

“Okay, Wednesday.”

“That's tomorrow. God almighty. This is really not negotiable?”

“Nope.”

“And if I come in tomorrow and do what I can at the paper—”

“Take me to the paper,” Jane interrupted.

“Christ.
Take
you to the paper, you'll give me names of girls and the owners?”

“Yep.”

“You know Miranda Burkett?”

Jane laughed again, slyly this time. Had her where she wanted her, didn't she? No doubt about it.

“Might. Just might.”

She couldn't wait for Jane Wildwood to get her hands on Hoke. She'd take no prisoners.

As Sam drifted off to sleep that night, just before she fell over the edge, she saw Sean's face, handsome, wet with rain, lying there in the middle of Van Ness Avenue. She knew she hadn't really let Jane Wildwood bamboozle her. She'd been looking for an excuse, any reason, to get back home and away from herself and her memories of that night a year ago. She didn't really want to stay anywhere by herself. Certainly not within easy reaching distance of a bottle of vodka. Jane Wildwood had good luck and great timing.

Eleven

Sam had barely pulled her car in beside George's black Lincoln early the next afternoon when Peaches hailed her out the back door.

“What're you doing home?” Then, in the next breath, she said, “I've got Miss Emily on the phone for you. You want me to have her call you back?”

Sam took it in the kitchen.

Emily Edwards's voice was high and tight. “Samantha, I hate to bother you, but something terrible is going on. First, Felicity, and then that doll, she…and now he's dead.”

“Slow down, Emily. Who's dead?”

“The puppy. Now I know that's not…but the doll…and Felicity's out of control…and…I just don't know.”

What doll? What was she talking about? “How can I help you?”

“Oh, I know you have better things to do. I hate to be such a bother.”

“You're not. Give me a few minutes, and I'll be right over.”

“Would you? Oh, you're so sweet. I just didn't know…Felicity.…”

“Sit down and have a cup of tea, Emily. I'm coming.”

*

A beaming Felicity answered the door. Wearing a long flowered dress, she looked as if she should be carrying a parasol, but instead it was a greeting card she was trailing behind her.

“Oh, Samantha! How wonderful to see you, darling. I'm so glad you dropped by.”

Her voice ran scales like a pianist on speed.

“Good to see you, too, Felicity.”

The old woman made no move to invite her in. She kept waltzing and twirling in the doorway. Lollygagging. Dipsydoodling with her skirt like a little girl.

Sam played along. “I love your dress.”

“Oh, my!” Felicity raised one hand to her mouth, the one holding the card, and tittered. “This old thing. You like all my old clothes.”

“That's because they're beautiful. What's that you've got there?”

The old woman batted her eyes. Then she leaned over and stage whispered, “A Mother's Day card.”

That was interesting. Here it was the middle of October. And Felicity wasn't a mother.

“Is it an old one?”

Felicity's shock would have played to the balcony's last row.

“Oh, no! It's new. Someone just sent it to me. Just today. Isn't that sweet?”

“It certainly is. That's wonderful.”

She was trying to peek beyond Felicity's shoulder. Emily had to be back there somewhere.

“Don't you condescend to
me,
young lady.” Felicity had drawn herself up now, radiating indignation. Uh-oh.

“I wasn't, Felicity. I certainly didn't mean to.”

“I know about you girls.” Now her tone was accusing and slithery. What this woman could do with her voice was absolutely amazing—if it didn't land on you. “Don't think I don't know what you're up to. You and Emily.”

“We're not up to anything.” Sam reached out a hand and Felicity reeled away.

“Oh, yes, you are. You're in cahoots, trying to steal my baby.”

With that, Felicity abandoned the doorway and stalked through the hall into the parlor. Sam followed.

“What baby?”

Felicity was leaning over a rocking chair. Suddenly she whirled and shoved a rag doll in Sam's face.

“This one!”

Sam recoiled, but quickly regained herself. So this was the doll Emily was talking about—with a big red stain in the vicinity of its heart. What fresh hell was this?

“
You
killed her!”

Felicity was really in orbit now. She'd plopped down in the rocking chair and was squeezing the bejesus out of the doll as she rocked it. With a vengeance. If it had been a real child, it would be tossing its cookies.

This was more than Sam had bargained for. Where the hell was Emily?

The back door slammed.

“Sam? Felicity?”

Thank God.

“Oh, Sam. I'm so sorry. I heard the bell, but I was out with Marilyn and the puppies.”

“
You
did it! You
killed
it!” Felicity flew out of the chair and this time smacked Emily squarely in the stomach with the doll.

Emily grasped her by the shoulders.

“Felicity, sit down!”

“I will not! You can't make me!
Murderer!
”

“Sam, I'm so sorry,” Emily said and turned to her, all the while gently walking Felicity backwards. “I didn't mean to get you involved in our—”

“Don't be silly.”

“
You
are silly!” Felicity shrieked, plopping backwards into the chair.
“
Very
silly if you think you're going to get away with this. I'll turn you in.
Murderers!
”

Though the old woman was clearly out of her head, the way she said that last word was so melodramatic that Sam had to bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from laughing.

“Do you think we killed the puppy?” she asked now, ignoring the warning shake of Emily's head.

“No goddamned puppy!” Felicity pounded the arm of the chair with her fist. “I don't give a
shit
about those puppies. Emily's! Always Emily's babies! Randolph warned me. He told me you were going to do this. You
killed
my baby.” She jumped up. “I'm going with Randolph.
Today.
I'm going to pack
now.
We'll run away and have our own baby.” Her chin lifted. Her mouth was determined. “You can't stop me.” With her back stiff, she started toward the hall when the front door sounded. “It's Randolph. Come to take me away from here. I'll get it, thank you very much.”

“No,” said Emily.

Sam jumped up. “I'll get it. You stay with Fel—”

“Nobody needs to
stay
with me. I'm perfectly capable of—”

Sam, now out in the entry, threw open the door.

It wasn't Randolph.

The hall was adazzle with rainbows of light from the door's beveled glass. In the middle of all this shimmering stood Laura Landry, the golden girl.

*

Her skin was aglow, her eyes emeralds, her hair a brindled tortoise halo. She was an Egyptian princess dressed in tennis whites.

“Hi, I'm Laura Landry.” She extended her hand. “Didn't we almost meet the other night at Mom's party?”

“Almost. Sam Adams.”

“I know. I asked who you were.”

Behind her, Sam heard the parlor door slide closed.

“Oh?”

“I thought you looked interesting. And
interested
—in my conversation with Miranda.”

Sam pointed an imaginary gun at her head. “Got me.”

“That's okay.” When she smiled, Laura showed a mouthful of absolutely perfect white teeth. “I do it all the time. Actors, you know. Always studying people.”

“So you'll forgive me for eavesdropping?”

“Yeah.” She did a little bobble with her head. Absolutely charming. “I just found out you're
that
Sam Adams. I read the scary stories you did on that sheriff.” The girl shivered.

“Yeah, well…”

Forget the scene in the room to your right, Adams, gather your wits, and work this conversation around to Miranda and Tight Squeeze. It isn't every day opportunity presents itself, grinning at you, friendly as a pup.

“That was Miranda Burkett I saw you with? P.C. Burkett's daughter?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I've yet to meet him.”

“He's a nice man. I used to go over to their house all the time after school.”

The girl was shifting from foot to foot now. Sam wasn't going to be able to hold her long.

“You and Miranda are close?”

Laura shrugged. “Well, not exactly, but you know—”

Whatever else she was going to say got lost in Felicity's wail. “Nooooooo. Noooooooooo. Leave me alone!”

Sam apologized with a flat-handed gesture. “I'm sorry not to have invited you in, but as you can—”

“I've come for my lesson. Felicity's my voice coach. Is something wrong with her?”

Now she was trying to see into the house past Sam's shoulder.

“Felicity's having a bad day, I'm afraid. This isn't a very good—”

“Oh.” Laura stepped back. She stopped with her toes in second position.

“Maybe you should come back another time.”

“Okay.” The girl shrugged. “Sure. I guess that's a good idea.” She turned to go, then wheeled back, remembering something. “Listen, would it be okay if I came in for a glass of water? I just finished a tennis match, and I'm awfully thirsty.”

“I'm sorry. Of course.” Sam stepped aside.

Laura led. She looked toward the parlor, but the double doors were tightly closed. The only sound was the ticking of a grandfather clock.

“I think the kitchen's back through there.” Sam pointed to a passageway behind the stairs.

“Oh, I know. I've been here a million times.”

“Maybe we can talk another time.”

“Sure.” The look Laura threw back over her shoulder clearly asked,
about what?
Then her long, narrow figure disappeared through the swinging door.