"She's Jonathan's wife and she needs to know every detail of his disappearance, no matter how unpleasant. Besides, she knows I went to the Pink Seagull and is waiting to hear what I found out. I won't lie to her. Ward."
"I don't expect you to."
"Then tell her," she pressed.
"Before you go to
He nodded, rising when she did, but instead of escorting her to the door, he held back. "Cecily told me she asked you to drop the investigation."
"Yes." He moistened his lips. "I was hoping you'd reconsider."
"Oh, Ward." Kelly made no attempt to hide her disappointment.
"Not you, too."
"The situation has changed, Kelly." His voice was stronger now. "At first I agreed we should do everything possible to find Jonathan, but now, with the news of his sordid affair with a stripper and the threat of a drug charge still hanging over his head, I agree with Cecily.
Trying to force Jonathan to come back could bring this family a great deal of ugly, unwanted publicity."
"What about
"
"She already has. She wants her husband back."
"She doesn't know what she wants!" A deep, intuitive uneasiness swept through her. This was the second time Ward had yelled at her. For a man who never lost his temper this was totally out of character. What was wrong with him? Had Cecily totally convinced him Jonathan should not be found? Or was he hiding something else?
"I think I'd better go," she said sharply. "This conversation isn't getting us anywhere."
"You're angry."
"Damn right, I'm angry. I don't understand you, Ward.
Or Cecily.
You both claim to love
"We don't want her hurt."
"And I do? Is that what you think?" When he didn't answer, Kelly shook her head and walked out of the room and down the hallway.
Adrian, whom Kelly had once teased about having radar, was already at the door, her coat over his arm. Before he could help her with it, she snatched the garment from the butler's arm, said a curt thank-you and walked out.
Twenty minutes later, Kelly was still thinking about her strange conversation with Ward when she stopped at a red light on
sidewalk,
she caught sight of the screaming headlines.
Atlantic City Casino Executive Vanishes Without A Trace.
Quickly, she rolled down her window. "
Yo
," she yelled, trying to catch the attention of the newsstand attendant. When he turned, she waved two dollar bills out the window.
"The Daily News.
Quick, please, before the light changes."
Moving with practiced speed, the man grabbed a paper, rushed to her window and made the exchange just as the light turned green. Behind her, impatient commuters were already honking their horns. "All right, I'm going," Kelly yelled.
She had to wait until the next light before she could read the short article.
Jonathan Bowman, a vice president at the
Chenonceau
Hotel and Casino in
Mawr
home yesterday morning.
According to airport officials and the
Bowman boarded a
Encantado
, a local motel. Later that night, a bomb set in Bowman's room exploded, injuring six motel guests and killing two.
It is not yet known if the remains found in room 116 belong to Mr.
Bowman.
Neither Ms. Sanders nor Bowman's wife, Victoria, were available for comment.
Kelly tossed the newspaper on the passenger seat and said a silent thanks to Detective Quinn. True to his promise, he hadn't mentioned his earlier suspicion that Jonathan may have been involved in drug trafficking. Cecily's precious name would remain untarnished, her golden future secure, but more important,
A quick call to
Kelly smiled as she hung up. No one handled the press better than Cecily.
A block from her house, Kelly let out a groan. Her editor, looking like a volcano about to erupt, was pacing up and down the sidewalk. A copy of the Daily News was tucked under his arm.
At sixty-six, Lou Ventura was a small but powerfully built man with an explosive temper and a voice loud enough to reduce the most intrepid reporter to mush. Kelly had learned how to handle him early
on,
having discovered that under that rough exterior was a pussycat. At the moment, however, the pussycat was more like a rabid lion.
"Hello, Lou." Smiling, Kelly climbed out of her car.
"Glad you finally decided to come home." Lou wasn't big on greetings, not with deadlines hanging over his head all day long. "You read the papers?" It was more an accusation than a question, but before she could comment he yanked the News from under his arm and held it under her nose.
"Let's go inside, Lou."
He stormed in after her, hardly missing a beat. "You want to tell me why my star reporter let a rival paper print an exclusive she should have turned in twenty-four hours ago?"
"Lou, in case you've forgotten, I'm on medical leave."
"Don't give me that shit. You think I'm stupid? You think I don't do my homework? You went to
Kelly sighed. Why was she surprised? Lou was one of the best newspapermen in the country. Nothing ever got past him.
"Come and sit down, Lou. How about a drink? I've got some of that good Irish whiskey you like."
"I don't want whiskey,
dammit
! I want answers."
"All right.
You want
answers,
I'll give them to you." She took off her coat and threw it on the sofa. "I didn't give you an exclusive because I couldn't. In the first place, the family was trying to keep the story quiet."
"They did a great job."
"And in the second place, I wasn't about to take advantage of my best friend's situation so the Globe could sell more newspapers."
"It's news, Kelly. The people have a right to know what's happening in their city. That's why they buy our newspaper."
"Jonathan Bowman isn't news. No one even knows him, or cares about him, except his family."
"He's Cecily Sanders's nephew. That makes him news."
Kelly folded her arms and held his angry gaze. "If that's how you feel, then assign someone else to the story, because I'm not doing it."
His eyes narrowed. "What are you hiding, Kelly?
What do you know and are not telling me?
And don't say
nothing
because something is going on. I can smell it."
Of course he did. He hadn't earned the nickname of hound dog for nothing. "I don't know any more than what you've read in the News," she said, hoping he wouldn't see through her. She'd pay dearly for her lie later but for the time being, lying was the only way to protect
"My trip to
She shrugged. "I have no idea. No one does."
He fixed her with a steely glare. "You'll do the story afterward? When you have all the facts?"
"No. And neither would you if you were in my place. You'd quit before you betrayed a friend."
"I'm just turning down an assignment, Lou. What's the big deal? It's been done before."
"Hughes could fire you over this. He wants this story."
She didn't doubt it.
Onn
Hughes, who had inherited the Globe from his father two years ago, was interested in only one thing--circulation. He didn't give a damn about loyalty or fairness, and certainly wasn't above embellishing the truth a little, as long as it sold newspapers.
"I know he could," she said, her voice a little more humble. "I'm counting on you to talk him out of it."
Shrewd eyes studied her for a while and though she couldn't be sure, she thought she saw his mouth twitch. The crisis was over. He would assign someone else to the story.
He pointed a finger at her. "You owe me, Kelly." Before he could push her away, she planted a resonant kiss on his cheek.
"Big time, Lou."
Sixteen.
Holding a sponge dampened with terra-cotta glaze, Kelly stepped back from the bathroom wall to admire her handiwork.
In spite of her earlier doubts regarding her artistic abilities, she hadn't done too badly. The glaze had produced exactly the textured look she had hoped for. All she had to do now was
wait
for the wall to dry before starting on the faux window with the
trompei'oeil
garden view.
She hated windowless rooms and until recently she hadn't been able to solve the problem. A photograph of a faux window in a magazine had put an end to her dilemma. Contrary to her mother's opinion, the renovation work was good therapy. Most of the time she immersed herself in her task so totally that she blocked out everything else. Tonight, however, she hadn't been able to get Jonathan out of her mind. He and Victoria had everything a couple could possibly want--a beautiful home, a darling little daughter, good jobs,
good
health. So why had he risked it all for an ex-stripper?
Sex?
Maybe.
But why
Couldn't he have found the same kind of pleasure a little closer to home instead of going to that dingy nightclub?
Finished for the night, she dropped the sponge in a bucket and started peeling off her gloves. She was missing something. It was right there, on the edge of her mind, but what was it? Why couldn't she put it all together? Her speculations came to an abrupt end when her doorbell rang.
She walked down the stairs, but before opening the door she looked through the peephole, a habit she had picked up when the vandalism on her property had started. "Well, I'll be damned," she muttered under her breath.
Nick
Mcbride
stood on the front step, his hands behind his back, his head lowered as though he was reading her doormat, which, most inappropriately at this moment, spelled out Welcome.
For a moment she thought of pretending she wasn't home. It would serve him right for not calling first. Then she remembered that she had turned on the staircase light before coming down and he was bound to have seen it through the transom window. Not to mention that the VW, which every cop in town recognized, was parked in front for a change.
Talk about bad luck.
"What do you want,
Mcbride
?" she asked through the door.
"To talk to you."
"Then you have a problem, because I don't want to talk to you."
"Come on,
Kelly,
open the door, before the old lady across the street starts spreading rumors about us."
Kelly rolled her eyes. Mrs. Sheridan, the neighborhood's most notorious gossip. "Damn you. Nick," she muttered as she swung the door open.
Nick's right hand came from behind his back, holding a bottle of wine.
"As you see, I've come with my own version of an olive branch."
Kelly let out a sarcastic laugh. "You think I'm going to drink with you?"
"Why not?
It's your favorite. I thought we could talk over dinner."
The man was not only arrogant, he was a lunatic.
"Dinner?
Here?
In your dreams,
Mcbride
."
"Don't worry, I know you don't cook." His left hand came out, holding a paper bag. "I brought dinner."
That smile she had once thought so engaging failed to move her. In fact, if it hadn't been for Mrs. Sheridan, who was still watching them from behind her lacy white curtain, Kelly would have shoved him right back out. Instead, she waited until he was inside,
then
slammed the door shut.
He didn't seem to notice. "You've been painting," He ran his thumb over her cheekbone. "You have a little smudge here."
She jerked her head back. "You said you wanted to talk, so talk and talk fast. I'm busy." She led the way into the living room and wished she hadn't made a fire. The place looked much too cozy.
He must have thought so too. His gaze swept across the room, taking in every detail.
"Very nice."
"I'm so glad you approve," she said dryly.