False Pretenses (26 page)

Christian rose from the chair very slowly, until he was eye to eye with Moretti. “You will listen to me,
you son of a bitch. You find the man who's trying to kill her and you do it fast. And no more of your innuendos, you got that?”

Moretti felt no fear, just blinding hatred of this man who'd lied for her. He stepped away. “Well, it appears to me that the most probable suspect is someone who can't stand the fact that you got away with murder, Mrs. Carleton. He took his time. But now he's after you.”

“I didn't kill my husband, Mr. Moretti.”

“The question that's been hounding me is what you paid Dr. Hunter here to lie for you. I guess you've answered that. Boundless love, Mrs. Carleton?”

“That's enough, Moretti. Leave her alone.”

“Incidentally, the old lady's still alive. Maybe she paid someone to do it.”

“No, that's not her style,” said Elizabeth.

“What about Rowe Chalmers?”

“I believe that Mr. Chalmers is now on the straight and narrow, Mr. Moretti. Forget him, he's got nothing to do with this.”

“Any leads on the bomb?” Christian asked.

“Yeah, a homemade job, amateur stuff, but effective as hell. The ingredients would be impossible to trace. No go there. I guess you'd best stick close to home for a while, Mrs. Carleton. The press will hound you, probably protect you from further attacks.”

Christian said nothing, but he sent a look to Elizabeth.

“Yes, I'll stay at home,” she said.

“Why don't you check out that businessman in Philadelphia? She was buying him out. Probably a solid motive there.”

“No! No, he won, Christian. He had no motive, none at all.”

“What's his name, Elizabeth.

She stared at him. Why did he want to know about Jonathan? Jealousy? No, that was ridiculous, or maybe
it wasn't. She felt a headache building over her left temple. She just shook her head.

“See you around,” Moretti said, and left.

“He's whistling again.” Elizabeth said.

 

She was released from the hospital the following morning. The press discovered her escape and Gallagher had his hands full.

Now all she had to do was get rid of Christian. She watched him pace the living room. “Please go now, Christian. I'm fine.”

“Look, Elizabeth, you're far from fine. Let me stay, let me take care of you. Come away with me, to England. I have some business in London, perhaps—”

“No, Christian. Nothing's changed. You're my friend, truly, but—”

“Who is that man in Philadelphia?”

Oh, God, why wouldn't he just leave it alone? “I've told you, Christian, he's only a business acquaintance, nothing more.”

“Then I'll just have to find out for myself, won't I?”

“Christian, please leave. I'm very tired and there are Drake's funeral arrangements to be made.”

She was jarred by the ringing of the phone. She listened to Kogi answer, heard him ask the caller to wait a moment.

It was Jonathan, she knew it. “I'll call you, Christian. Good-bye, and thank you for being there for me.”

Christian gave her one long last look, then shrugged and left.

“He gone?” Kogi asked.

“Yes. Who's on the phone?”

“Mr. Harley.”

She felt a rush of pleasure and relief. “Hello?”

“Well, kiddo, you're all over the newspapers and the television news. What's going on up there?”

She laughed, a shrill, thin sound that made Jonathan
flinch. “Someone is trying to make me cock up my toes before it's time.”

“You're right to laugh. Sounds funny to me also. I'll be there by tonight.”

“No!” Suddenly she was afraid, afraid not only for herself but also for Jonathan. “No,” she repeated more calmly. “Everything is under control. I don't want you involved in this mess.”

There was a momentary silence. “I'm already involved.”

“Please, just stay away for now. All right?”

“We'll see,” he said, and hung up the phone.

 

Elizabeth didn't leave the house until the morning of Drake's funeral.

The media were out in full force. They yelled questions at her, and flashbulbs went off continuously in her face. Elizabeth X was alive and well again.

She saw the afternoon paper:
ELIZABETH X TARGET
.

It will never end, she thought, slumping down into her chair. Never. Moretti and Draper dogged her—not to find out who was trying to kill her, but just for the fun of it.

There were at least a dozen calls from Jonathan. She refused them all. She had to keep him safe and out of it.

Laurette Carleton was improving. To Elizabeth's surprise, she refused to make any comment at all.

“I spoke to her,” Catherine said to Elizabeth that afternoon. “I told her that if she didn't pull in her horns, she was going to lose all of us. For the first time, she believed me.”

“And Brad?”

Catherine was silent a moment. “He hasn't called it off yet with Jenny. Senator Henkle has been on the phone, as you can imagine.”

“Why hasn't he?”

“You know, I think Brad is scared.”

“I don't blame him. And I think you're right, Catherine.”

Catherine looked thoughtful. “Yes. He feels alone, I think. He's scared of the future, and what will become of him. Since Father . . . died, he's been floundering around, you know, and—”

“Since your father was murdered, Catherine,” Elizabeth said, her voice harsh. “He was murdered, and I didn't do it. The person who did is probably laughing his or her head off.”

Catherine rose and walked to the wide windows that looked toward Central Park. “You're right,” she said, not turning to face Elizabeth. “I wish to God I knew something, but I don't. I was surprised that Dr. Hunter gave out that he was your fiancé.”

“No one was more surprised than I,” said Elizabeth.

“You know what the press is saying, don't you?”

“Sure, even a blind-and-deaf person could figure that out. He loved me enough to save my hide and now I'm coming out of the closet, so to speak, with our relationship.”

“What are you going to do, Elizabeth?”

“If I only knew what to do, I'd be doing it. Ah, Kogi, with the coffee.” She smiled at him, and was slightly amused at the wary look he shot Catherine.

She turned as he poured the coffee, and once again her eyes went to the watch. Timothy's watch.

“The band is too loose for me,” Kogi said, seeing her looking at the watch. “Do you mind if I have it tightened, Mrs. Carleton?”

Elizabeth froze. “No,” she whispered. “No, it's impossible.”

“Yes, Mrs. Carleton? Something wrong?”

“Elizabeth, is something wrong?.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “Something is very wrong.”

She remembered now, very clearly. The morning of Timothy's murder, he had broken the band of his favorite watch. She saw him in her mind's eye, saw him
reaching into the top dresser drawer and pulling out the watch she'd given him, cursing even as he'd had to put it on.

He'd never worn that watch before the day of his murder.

And Christian Hunter had said he'd admired that watch.

Oh, God.

Elizabeth shook her head and jumped to her feet. She was vaguely aware that both Catherine and Kogi were watching her, concern on their faces. No, it couldn't be. There had to be a mistake. Christian had simply remembered the wrong watch.

And someone had tried to kill her—twice.

After she'd told him she wouldn't marry him.

And then that woman—Christian's mistress—had called to warn her.

“Elizabeth, for God's sake, what is the matter?”

She felt Catherine's hand on her shoulder, shaking her. She turned blind eyes to Kogi. “Please get the district attorney on the phone. I must speak to him right away.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Catherine demanded.

“Maybe. Perhaps for the first time I'm thinking straight. Call Moretti, Kogi.”

 

“T
his better be good.” “Do sit down, Mr. Moretti.”

“What's she doing here?” He poked a finger in Catherine's direction.

“She's my . . . friend.”

Moretti laughed at that. “A Carleton? The only daughter of Timothy Carleton? You sure about that, lady? Maybe she's just pretending. Better yet, maybe she's the one who wants you underground.”

“I know who murdered my husband. I know who's trying to kill me now.”

That pulled his attention from Catherine. “Yeah? You're that much better than the police?”

“It's Dr. Christian Hunter.”

Moretti stared at her, then threw back his head and belly-laughed. “Oh, that's good, Mrs. Carleton.” He slapped his hands on his knees. “Really good. But please, no more wasted trips, no indeed. If you want to feed me any more bull, you can come downtown. Make an appointment first.”

She couldn't believe him. “Don't you want to know how I know, Mr. Moretti?”

“That Ivy League wimp lied for you, then what? Then he became your lover. What happened? He threw you over? And this is your notion of revenge, right?”

“No. It's the watch.”

Catherine could only stare at Elizabeth. How could she be so calm? Lord, if it were her, she'd be ripping his face off, the stupid jerk.

“You've had a lot of time to think of a good tale, I'll bet. All right, Mrs. Carleton, lay it on me, but be quick. I've got more important things to do.”

“Why don't you stop acting like an ass?” Catherine asked, unable to keep her mouth shut.

“Look here, you little . . . Tell me, Mrs. Carleton. I'm getting bored.” He sat down and pulled out a cigar.

“About two months ago, Dr. Hunter was here for dinner. He noticed the watch Kogi was wearing and said that he'd always admired it when he'd seen my husband wearing it. I had given the watch to Kogi after Mr. Carleton's death—”

“His murder, don't you mean?”

“Yes, his murder. I gave the watch to Kogi because he admired it. I didn't realize, didn't remember until just a while ago. You see, Mr. Moretti, my husband had never worn that watch before, not until the day he died. I finally remembered that he'd broken his watch band that morning. He didn't like the watch I'd given him, but he had no choice but to wear it.”

Moretti examined his fingernails, and puffed cigar smoke in Elizabeth's direction.

“Dr. Hunter did ask me to marry him, and I refused. Not long after that, a man tried to run me down. Then Drake and the car.”

Moretti yawned, then blew cigar smoke upward and watched it float about over his head.

“If he realized that I might remember about the
watch, he would want to protect himself, wouldn't he? He would know that I knew, and that I'd talk.”

“Better and better,” said Moretti.

“And there was that woman who called me. She said that Dr. Hunter visited her, in fact, kept her in an apartment here in New York. She was afraid of him and wanted to warn me.”

Moretti sat up. “What was this woman's name?”

“She didn't tell me.” But Christian had mentioned her name. Yes, it was “Susan,” she said. “I think her name was Susan.”

“When exactly did she call you? What time of day?”

“I'm not really certain . . . wait, it was a Wednesday morning, I think. Yes.”

“That all?”

“Kogi can show you the watch,” Elizabeth said.

Moretti shook his head. “Nah, not now. I've got to go now, Mrs. Carleton. Don't stick your head out of any windows, all right?”

“You stupid buffoon!” Catherine yelled at him.

“As for you, Miss Carleton, why don't you try keeping your legs closed?”

“You dumb jerk.”

“No, Catherine,” Elizabeth said. “Let him go. He doesn't care.”

Moretti left whistling.

Catherine and Elizabeth stared at each other.

“What are we going to do?” Catherine said at last.

“You go home, Catherine. Everything will be all right.”

“Don't be crazy, Elizabeth. For God's sake—”

“Please, Catherine. Go home, I'll call you.”

After Catherine had left, Elizabeth sat still as a stone, weighing her options. Her mind was clear; she felt utterly calm. She walked purposefully into her bedroom and packed one suitcase. She wouldn't need more than one.

Kogi stared at her, and Gallagher's jaw was working madly.

“You can't! The police will—”

“Look, Liam,” she interrupted him, “the police think this is all a marvelous game, kind of like the fox and the hen. And I'm the hen.”

She told them both about Christian Hunter.

“. . . Moretti doesn't care. He thinks I'm making it all up. And there's no proof. None. Kogi, you don't remember Mr. Carleton ever wearing that watch before, do you?”

Kogi hung his head. “I felt guilty for admiring it. I remember when they released Mr. Carleton's things, and I wanted it.”

“It's all right, Kogi.”

“I'll hire some men to protect you,” Liam said.

“No, it's no good. Kogi, just take very good care of that watch, it's the only solid thing we've got. Now, listen, here's what I want you both to do. . . .”

 

At nine-thirty that evening the sky was heavily overcast and the air was cold and damp with the coming rain. Elizabeth buzzed down to Gallagher. “Check the street now, Liam. Look really carefully. If there's no one about, call a taxi.”

Three minutes later, Elizabeth, her one suitcase in hand, dressed in jeans, sneakers, a heavy knit sweater, and a ski jacket, slipped out of the house and into the waiting cab.

“Grand Central, please,” she said.

She hadn't told anyone where she was going, not even Kogi or Liam Gallagher. She sat back a moment, then immediately turned and searched the street behind them. Always so many cars, primarily taxis, in New York. She searched for a dark blue sedan. Nothing.

She wanted to relax, but was tight as a wound spring when the driver stopped in front of the station.

She paid him, fumbling with the money, then dashed into the station. The Amtrak for Philadelphia was leaving in twenty minutes.

She stood in the ticket line, feeling exposed, as if she were wearing a neon sign over her head.

A man bumped into her and she froze. No, not Christian.

The train was on time, thank God. In two hours she'd be safe.

 

It was raining hard when Elizabeth came out of the Thirty-third Street train station in Philadelphia. She waved down a taxi and gave the man Jonathan's address.

“On the Main Line, huh?”

“I suppose so,” she said, not knowing what he was talking about.

“Only the rich folks out there, lady.” He gave her the once-over, and she wanted to laugh. She wanted to tell him that she could buy his taxi company if she wanted to.

“Yeah,” she said only, “let's go.”

The rain was coming down so hard, all Elizabeth could make out behind her taxi were headlights. Her heart was pounding. What if Jonathan weren't home? What if he told her to get lost?

She closed her eyes.

“We're here, lady.”

Elizabeth could make out the wide circular drive, the large white Colonial house. There were lights on and two cars were parked in the driveway.

“Wait for me,” she said. “Here's a twenty,” she added at his look. “Wait for me.”

She didn't have an umbrella. She lifted out her suitcase, slammed the taxi door, and dashed toward the front porch. Behind her she heard the taxi pull around the drive. She whirled about to see the taxi roaring through the gates into the street. He'd left her.

She walked to the front door and rang the bell. Please, Jonathan, please . . .

She rang again. She heard footsteps and sucked in her breath.

A woman pulled the door open. A very beautiful, very well-dressed woman.

“What do you want?” Rose Harley stared at the young woman, at her clothes, at her damp hair.

“Who are you?” Elizabeth managed.

“Who am I? Look, if you're one of Jonathan's bimbos, take yourself off now. I'm surprised he didn't tell you that I live here, not him.”

Elizabeth could only stare at her. Not his house! Oh, God, she'd had no idea . . . “Where does he live?”

Rose laughed. “So my dear ex-husband didn't tell you? What's the matter, do you have the clap or something equally distasteful? Or maybe you let him get you pregnant?”

“Please, it's urgent,” Elizabeth said. “Tell me his address.”

“I wouldn't tell you how to find a rock to crawl under!”

Rose slammed the door in her face.

What to do? The rain was coming down in a thick sheet. She was in a residential area, the houses set back and far apart. No phones.

And no Christian Hunter.

Elizabeth drew a deep breath and walked into the rain and back to the road. “It's time for a walk,” she said aloud, “nothing more, just a walk, that's all. You're not going to melt. Come on, you've been spoiled. Let's go.”

Every time a car came by, Elizabeth ducked off to the side of the road, her heart in her throat.

Jonathan had been living at that address until just a short time before. She didn't understand, not that it mattered at all. She kept plodding along through the
rain. She heard a car slow behind her, its headlights pinning her. Oh, God!

“Hey, you want a ride?” a male voice called out to her. “You look about ready to drop.”

It wasn't Christian Hunter.

Why not? She decided she'd rather take her chances with a mad rapist than feel that awful fear.

She climbed in, apologizing.

“I need to find a phone booth.”

She was shivering, and the man turned up the car heater.

“Better?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Here's a small shopping area just ahead. You want to stop there?”

“Yes, that will be just fine.”

“Look, you be careful, all right?”

She managed to smile at the man. She watched him drive back onto the road, then turned to the row of lit phone booths. None of them had a directory.

She put in a quarter and dialed 411. She asked for Jonathan Harley's phone number.

The operator asked, “Jonathan Harley on Pointer's Lane?”

“No, no. He's moved. Do you have a new listing for him?”

“Sorry, miss. It's an unlisted number. I can't give it out.”

“But this is an emergency!”

“I'm sorry, miss.”

Elizabeth just looked at the phone, the dial tone blaring loudly.

She called a taxi.

She huddled under the cover of the phone booth, waiting. A car slowed, a big car, a sedan, and she thought her heart would pound out of her chest. It went by, speeding up.

What was the name of Jonathan's secretary? Midge . . .
What was her last name? Midge . . . Ripley? She dialed 411 again. There were two Margaret Ripleys. She was dialing the first number when the taxi pulled up. She yelled to him to wait, and finished dialing.

It was an old woman.

Elizabeth dialed the second number. A bouncy woman's voice this time. “Hello?”

“Are you the Midge Ripley who works for Jonathan Harley?”

There was dead silence on the other end. “Who wants to know?” Midge asked.

“Elizabeth Carleton.”

She heard a gasp.

“Please, Miss Ripley, this is an emergency. I've got to find Jonathan. Please help me.”

What was going on? Midge wondered. What did the dragon lady want? But Jonathan didn't think of her like that anymore. He'd beaten her, and then he'd . . .

“All right. Hang on, I'll give you his number and address.”

“Thank you.”

The taxi driver shouted at her.

“Just a minute!” she shouted back.

Midge was back on the line with his number and address.

“Thank you, Ms. Ripley. I—” She saw a big car from the corner of her eye. A big blue or black car. She was clearly outlined in the phone-booth lights. She dashed into the cab, flinging her suitcase to the floor, and slammed the door and blurted out the address.

“Please hurry!”

“You're getting my cab wet, lady.”

The man was smoking a cigar, just like Moretti.

For an instant she saw red. “Tough! Get going!”

“Don't get yourself in an uproar,” said the driver, and pulled out of the shopping area.

He'd folded, just because she'd gotten nasty.
Elizabeth's eyes were trained out the back window. The big car was directly behind, very close. It was ridiculous, she was being ridiculous. How could Christian drive down here faster than Amtrak? It couldn't be him. At least not in the same car that had run her down in New York. She was losing her grip.

Still, she said, “I'll give you a hundred dollars if you get away from that car behind us. I don't care how you do it, just do it.”