Winter's Edge (23 page)

Lisa raised one beautifully molded eyebrow.

“Pat doesn’t like fusses made, my dear. If you want I could give you quite a few pointers on what Pat does like in a woman. After all, you are going to be his wife. A few little secrets as to what pleases him sexually should help your rather desperate situation, sweetie.” Her smile was like a cat’s.

“No, he won’t back down. It was too much wine and passion last night that made him suggest it. He needs your money too much. Winter’s Edge means more to him than any woman.”

Lisa’s voice was laced with bitterness, and the bride felt a small stirring of revenge. At least he didn’t love her enough either.

Aunt Ermy was strangely silent through all this, watching the scene with satisfaction in her mean little eyes. She was magnificently overdressed as usual, in a powder blue full-length suit with matching turban and eye shadow. Attached to her noble breast was a cluster of gardenias—the scent overpowered the lighter fragrances in Molly’s bouquet and made her slightly ill.

“Before your wedding night, my dear, I feel I ought to warn you,” Lisa continued, her ripe, full mouth a crimson curve against her artificially tanned skin.

“He has certain sexual… shall we say, aberrations… that might frighten a young girl if she isn’t warned”

“Enough!” Molly cried suddenly, angrily.

“I’m leaving now.” She grabbed her bouquet and headed for the door.

“I’m getting married in less than an hour,” she told them coolly, taking pleasure in reminding Lisa.

“It wouldn’t do for the bride to be late.”

“But the limousine hasn’t arrived yet,” Aunt Ermy protested.

“I’m driving myself,” she answered them with icy calm, recognizing the hatred behind their tender concern.

Wondering why she had never seen that hatred before.

“You can ride in the limousine.”

“And what will Pat think of this little outburst?” Lisa asked slyly.

“You know how he hates things to be changed at the last minute.”

“Pat,” she said slowly, “can go to hell.”

wrt
BI~W her hair wildly as she sped toward the church, driving twenty and thirty miles above the speed limit. She had taken off the veil and stuffed it behind the seat with her bouquet. She very carefully didn’t cry—it had taken her over half an hour to apply her makeup and she didn’t propose to ruin it on his account.

“Bastard,” she said out loud, savoring the sound of the word.

“Bastard, bastard, bastard!” she shouted to the blue, blue skies.

So he had spent the eve of their wedding with another woman, had he?

And what right had she to complain? He had made her no promises, not even a word of affection when he had made his startling proposal.

And she had jumped at it, because for seven long years he had been the only thing in her life that had mattered. Even if things had been strained between them since Jared had died and the terms of the will made public, she’d hoped, she’d prayed, that at least his tolerant affection for her remained. And that her love for him would be enough to support her.

“Not anymore,” she said grimly, speeding over the rutted macadam roads.

“Not anymore.”

Her wedding passed in a daze. Lisa Canning stood beside her, her gleaming eyes carefully lowered, only the small smile that hovered around her full lips hinting at the pleasure she found in the uncomfortable situation.

Aunt Ermy cried, and kissed her cold face.

“Molly, dear, you make such a lovely bride. Who would have thought you’d have the dignity to carry it off? Try to smile, dear.”

A sharp pinch accompanied the admonition, and she could barely restrain a little outcry. Aunt Ermy was fond of delivering painful little pinches for improper behavior.

And so she was very gay. The reception was one lavish feast, with the bride dancing and flirting and smiling and laughing and kissing everyone there. Except her husband.

With her husband she was even shriller, even gayer, desperate to hide the mortal blow Lisa had given her. His dark blue eyes followed her,

doubt turning into a slow rage that built as the hours went on, until, when it was time to leave, he snapped at his child bride.

She shouted something obscene and very nasty back to him and fled the hall. Then she drove away, back to in her bright red sports car, leaving her husband fuming with rage. A perfect setup for Lisa Canning.

That night seemed endless. She sat in her huge, soft bed with the pink satin sheets and waited for him, dressed so carefully in her bridal nightgown of sheer gauze. It made her itch. And she rehearsed the things she’d say to him. How she’d apologize for making a fool of him in front of all those people. How they would lie there and talk about their marriage, and come to some sort of understanding of what they meant to each other. Things they should have talked about before the wedding, but she had been frightened of scaring him off.

The hours passed, and he didn’t come. Then she planned the things she’d say to him, demanding where he’d been, why he’d left her for so long. And then they would forgive each other and make love in this soft, too elegant bed that Lisa had picked for them, and everything would be fine.

And when morning finally came, and Patrick hadn’t bothered to come to his foolishly virginal bride, a core of anger grew and hardened in her, fed with the hurt of his rejection and the humiliation of having been left on her wedding night. She had saved herself for him, because no other man would ever do for her; she had waited for Patrick to want her. But he hadn’t wanted her.

From that night on she locked her door against him. A locked door he had barely seemed to notice, much less mind. The warmth and friendliness that had existed between them he fore their marriage was gone and in its place was a hurtful, implacable hatred. That was very close to love.

Until the night when it had all become too much for her. She was a stranger in her own house—it seemed that Patrick found her presence an annoyance, and the others considered her a selfish little slut. All except one of them, who was her friend.

The dream then became fraught with danger, and Molly stirred in the armchair, trying to wake up. She didn’t like this. She didn’t want to remember, to relive what happened next. But the dream moved on.

That friend had been the only one she could confide in. But he was shadowy and unclear; even his voice seemed to come from far away, telling her to leave Patrick, to run away where no one could ever find her. If she went with her father, taking her money, he would see to it that Patrick would never use her again.

She tried to see him clearly through the mists, but he remained maddeningly out of reach . until that night when old Fred Canning finally succumbed to his cancer, and her friend told her that Patrick was going to divorce her.

She went out with him to the far barn, where Patrick kept his breeding stock, and watched with numb,

drugged horror as he set fire to the place after striking poor old Ben and leaving him in a pool of blood.

“What are you doing?” she screamed at him.

“You said you were going to help me leave here!”

“You are leaving here, Molly dear. You’re leaving here for good, in that fire.” He started dragging her screaming, kicking body toward that inferno, the heat scorching their faces, and whatever he had put in her drink earlier made her unable to stop him. And then, before he could shove her struggling, helpless body down into the funeral pyre, they heard shouts from nearby, and the slow scream of the fire engine. He cursed, and loosened his hold for a moment, and she pulled away and ran, blindly, hysterically, through the woods that no one knew as well as she did, back to the deserted house. She grabbed a handful of clothes, took all the spare money Patrick kept in the petty cash box, climbed into her car, and drove all night long, her terror fighting the effects of the sleeping pill he’d given her. When she reached New York state she checked into a run-down motel and slept for eighteen hours.

HE WAS TIm RE in the room. If she opened her eyes the shadows would pass away and she would see the man who wanted to kill her quite clearly. But then, she thought craftily, if she kept her eyes closed he might disappear and she would be safe. All in all, it was a problem, but with her newfound courage she slowly opened her downcast blue-green eyes and stared at the crumpled handkerchief in her hand. With its streaks of orange hair dye. She raised her eyes.

“Hello, Uncle Willy.”

“You don’t seem very surprised to see me,” he said, and Molly stirred in the chair, determined not to show for a minute the absolute terror he instilled in her. She remembered everything now, and she desperately wished she didn’t.

“Oh, Molly.” He moved forward into the room, and once again she was aware of the lingering cruelty in his soft pink face, the cruelty she’d refused to recognize in the past week of blessed forgetfulness.

“I’ve told you before you never were much of an actress. You’ve remembered.”

“Yes.” Her voice came out in a rusty croak, and she cleared it hastily.

Beastie snored loudly beside her, and she tugged silently at his collar.

“It won’t do you any good, my dear,” Willy said smoothly, running a slightly trembling hand over his carroty strands of hair.

“He’s drugged. I decided I didn’t want him interfering with my plans tonight—he’s too fond of you, you know.”

“And what exactly are your plans for tonight?” She sounded almost unnaturally calm. She’d been through too much in the last few days, the last few weeks. All she could do was pull this false serenity around her, watching him while she thought feverishly of escape.

“Now, now, Molly, I’m sure you can imagine.” He seated himself in the chair opposite her and crossed his legs, at home and urbane.

“I’m going to have to kill you.” He sighed.

“I suppose I should tell you that it grieves me, but quite frankly, it doesn’t bother me in the slightest. You’ve been an annoying little pain in the rear ever since Jared brought you home, and your in destructibility is absolutely infuriating.”

“Why do you want to kill me?”

“For the oldest reason in the world, my dear. Money. You have lots of it, I want it. It’s really quite simple.” For once the man was quite sober, and the effect had a horrifying charm to it.

“My money goes to Patrick if I die.” She couldn’t keep a note of desperation from her voice. She was strong, but Uncle Willy, despite his alcohol-induced flabbiness, had overpowered her before, the night of the barn fire, and he could doubtless do it again.

“It does, my dear.

But not if he’s convicted of murder. And it looks pleasantly as if it will work out that way. I had planned to make it a triple play, as they say in baseball. You, your father and Toby. But I might have to settle on a suicide for you. “

“You killed my father,” she stated flatly.

He nodded benevolently.

“Well, no. Actually I arranged for Toby to do it, but I was there, watching.

I’ve learned it never pays to leave important tasks to underlings.

People need supervision nowadays—they

have no incentive. Toby was eager enough to please, but he wasn’t very good at improvising. I see you’re clutching my important piece of evidence. I was very distressed that Patrick’s handkerchief wasn’t found with the body, Molly. That upset a great many careful plans. “

“It had your hair dye on it.” She held up the square of linen.

She was pleased to see his ruddy complexion turn a sickly pale.

“Good heavens, how careless of me! And how very fortunate that you thought to save your husband. Fate has been on my side after all, it seems.

Things should work out very well this way, very well indeed. “

“We were bringing you that money.” Memories were flooding back at a terrifying, dizzying rate.

“Why did you have to kill him?”

“It was necessary. Your father, petty little swindler that he was, knew what was going on the minute you turned up. He thought he could blackmail me for half of that money.

You didn’t know that, did you? He soon found out otherwise. That was my only mistake, Molly dear. ” He eyed his hands reflectively.

“I

thought that blow on your head killed you. Crushed your stubborn little skull. I should have known you were far too hardheaded. Imagine my displeasure when the police called and you were still alive. And no handkerchief! I thought all my plans had failed dismally. ” He shook his head sadly.

“But you had that convenient loss of memory that no one believed, and now, everything has worked out splendidly. Just splendidly.” He sighed.

“Just splendidly,” she echoed in a daze.

“Ah, I can see you had some of your ginger ale tonight.

It’s much harder to hide drugs in soft drinks, you realize. Tonight it’s just a strong sedative. You’re too willful, my dear. But it’s already slowed you down, I’m pleased to notice. “

She hadn’t touched the ginger ale. She looked up at Uncle Willy with reigned blankness.

“I don’t plan to make it painful,” he added.

“As much as you’ve annoyed me, I’m basically a decent human being. I try not to hold grudges. And I can be fairly certain that no one has the faintest idea that I had a hand in either your father’s death or Toby’s. For one thing I have no motive—or not as strong a one as your dear husband. And for another, my dear Ermy will provide me with excellent alibis. Did you know, for example, that right now I am visiting our old friends the Sturbridges over in Devon? They had to go out on a previous engagement, but when they left I was there and when they return I will still be there.

And there will be one less member of the exalted Winters family in the meantime. “

There was a sneer in his voice as he rose and poured himself a stiff drink. His hands were suddenly still, unlike the usual mild tremor that afflicted him. Just another part of his elaborate charade.

“And what if they don’t convict Patrick?” she asked, speaking in a deliberately thickened voice.

He shrugged his shoulders.