Once More With Feeling (46 page)

To Richard's credit he didn't pretend that
he had never known Desmond Weber. "How long have you known that Web
and I were roommates at Yale?"

"Awhile. But I didn't know the rest until
recently."

"Rest?"

"You know, at first it was hard to imagine
Des filming X-rated movies. And as a way to work his way through
college." She shook her head. "Of course being a working class gal
myself, I know how desperate he must have felt sometimes, trying to
compete with you silver-spoon-in-the-mouth prep school boys. I just
never figured Des for that kind of flexibility. Then I started
thinking. . . Some of the stories we do at
The Whole Truth
aren't that different from pornography."

"This sounds like a conversation you should
be having with Web, not me."

"Oh, I did. And that's how I found out the
way you went to bat for him in your junior year when a fraternity
brother discovered what he was doing. He would have been expelled,
of course, and probably arrested if the dean of students had gotten
involved. I mean, using girls from the surrounding colleges in
starring roles. . ."

"Web was an excellent student. Intelligent,
creative. When I discovered what was going on and how close he was
to exposure, I pulled a few strings. I did nothing illegal or
immoral. I helped a friend."

"Pornography, Richard?"

"I shut down the operation, and Web turned
over a new leaf. Hardly indictable offenses." He straightened and
pushed away from the door.

She gauged their distance and decided she
was still perfectly safe. "You're right. Everything you did was
admirable, even using your connections to get him his first
legitimate job with Sandy Ferguson at Alpha-Omega studios after
graduation. All admirable until the day two years ago when you went
to Des and told him it was payback time."

"I don't know what you mean."

"I'll be happy to jog your memory. You went
to Des and asked him to help you frame Lucy McNeil. You wanted to
discredit her so that you would have a clear field when it came
time for the gubernatorial primary. You had already secured the
help of a law partner of Lucy's husband. You had something on him,
too, I suppose, although I'll confess I don't know what it was. Not
yet. But I do know the favor you asked of Des. You asked him to get
the encounter between Lucy and her husband's colleague on tape,
then make it public. You told him it could only benefit both of
you.
The Whole Truth
ratings would soar, you would have a
good shot at the governor's mansion. Lucy McNeil, without a shred
of proof that she'd been set up, would disappear from politics and
the state of New York."

Richard was silent.

"Not a pretty story, Richard. Just exactly
the kind America and
The Whole Truth
love the most."

"If any of this was true, and, of course,
it's all preposterous, what proof would you have? McNeil's word
that she was a virtuous lady after all? I've seen those tapes you
aired. Good old Lucy was having the time of her life."

"No, you chose the man for her downfall like
the pro you are. Her marriage was foundering; her husband's partner
was attentive and attractive, and she was absolutely sure he would
be discreet. Lucy was guilty, but not half as guilty as you."

Richard started toward her. "What do you
want me to say, Gypsy? That I'm guilty? We both know it would be my
word against yours . . ." He stopped in front of her and rested his
hands on her shoulders. "Unless you happen to be recording
this?"

Her heart was beating doubletime. She had
maintained an outward appearance of calm, but with every word she
had grown more anxious. "How could I do that?"

Before she could stop him, he hooked his
thumbs under her collar and wrenched his hands apart. Six tiny
pearl buttons left six button loops at the same moment. And the
device taped to her chest was visible.

He ripped it off in one easy motion,
although she doubted he'd had this experience before. She gave a
soft cry and tried to push him away. He threw the microphone to the
floor and crunched it under his heel. "I suppose you could tell
someone about this," he said, "but since it makes you look even
more like the sleazebag reporter you are, I doubt you will. And you
have nothing on tape to incriminate me. Nothing but some
harebrained theories."

"That's where you're wrong. I've got Des,
and he's with the police right now giving his statement. You made a
big mistake when you had Mark Santini killed. Des would have stood
by you on the Lucy McNeil story. She was guilty, after all, even if
she was set up. But when you realized the link between Mark and
Ducks Romano, and Ducks and Lucy, you lost your cool. When you
discovered that Mark was working with Ducks to try and find some
evidence to incriminate you, you decided the easy way out was to
have him murdered. And I was supposed to be a target, too, wasn't
I? You were afraid that Mark had talked to me because we were
becoming good friends. But the crowd closed in too quickly, and
your hit man couldn't get off another shot in time."

Richard didn't bother to deny it. Obviously
he felt safe now that she could no longer tape his every word. He
had no idea that sandwiched between leather bound volumes of
Shakespeare and the Transcendentalists were cameras recording every
move and sound he made.

No one could sneer as chillingly as someone
of Richard's impeccable breeding. He proved it now. "You're
absolutely right. Then, later, you conveniently lost your memory,
and since you'd never had any scruples to begin with, I was sure I
was safe again. Until I started hearing that you were making
changes in the show, that you were pushing Des to do socially
relevant material, that you were digging deeper and deeper and
talking about Mark's death. . ."

"Des told you that?"

He shook his head. "Des is a wuss. I had
other sources. Kevin O'Flynn will do anything if the price is
right."

Gypsy didn't wince, though the temptation
was there. "So you tried to have me killed again, even though you'd
promised Des I would be safe. You hire bozos. If they were running
your campaign, you couldn't get elected dogcatcher."

"I'm truly surprised you had the brainpower
to put all of this together."

"You underestimate your enemies. What
happened to you, Richard? You've always been a manipulator. When
did you become a killer, too?"

He went from sneer to Boy Scout poster
smile. "You can't prove a thing."

Her own responses had been flawless until
that moment. She had maintained bravado and faced him down without
giving away any of her emotions. But now her facade slipped.
Triumph, or something close to it, must have shown in her eyes.
Because Richard's smile faltered.

Then recognition dawned. "You bitch!"

"Now, now. . ."

"There's a tape in here, too. Or a
camera."

"Don't be ridiculous. How did I know you
were going to drag me in here? And Marg's not the kind of person
who would--"

"Marg?" Rage contorted his face. "Marg?
You've become a good friend of Marguerite's, haven't you?" He
slapped her across the face so hard that she stumbled back against
the desk. "Who do you think you are to come after me?"

There were people watching this, and people
who knew she was here. Help was only seconds away. But somehow
Gypsy had known that tonight would be the end for her. Some
instinct developed by too many brushes with death had warned her.
She had said her good-byes. She had even sent Casey away so that he
wouldn't be here to witness the end. She was sorry that Marguerite
and Seamus had to be party to it.

But she was glad, so very, very glad, that
Owen Whitfield was miles away at Elisabeth's bedside.

She pushed Richard with all her strength,
but her strength was nothing compared to his. And Richard had gone
mad.

"Bitch!" He grabbed a glass paperweight from
Curtis Warrington's desk and lifted it high. The door flew open and
with surprise Gypsy saw Casey flying across the room toward them.
For just an instant she thought her instincts had been wrong after
all. She even smiled at Casey, or thought she did.

Then there was a shattering pain in her
right temple and eternity shimmered somewhere in the distance.

"Gypsy!" She heard Casey's voice. She wanted
to tell him that it was all right. She had borrowed this life. It
wasn't hers to live or leave. Her sadness was as great as her pain,
but eclipsed by both was simple blessed relief.

There was a light in the distance. A
familiar welcoming light. She relaxed and let herself drift toward
it.

Someone was murmuring in a foreign language.
The words were mellifluous, and even though she couldn't understand
them, they were somehow familiar and comforting.

Her head hurt, and her body felt stiff and
rusty, like the Tin Woodman after a night in a thunderstorm. Her
eyes were shut, but she wanted to shut them tighter, because she
knew when she opened them that life was going to begin again. And
she wasn't sure she was ready for it.

She couldn't remember anything clearly. A
party. A car accident. A rugged, dark-haired man with a deep voice
and cynical grin.

Owen.

The voice faltered. She heard a rustling, as
if someone was getting out of a chair. Change clanking, fabric
sliding against a harder surface. She felt something cool against
her cheek.

A kiss.

She considered not opening her eyes. It hurt
to remember, and she knew that as soon as she began to stir, it was
going to hurt more. But curiosity was victorious over the instinct
to protect herself.

She opened her eyes. Her pupils weren't used
to the light, and the harsh glare was a stabbing pain. For a moment
she remembered another light, one brighter than the sun, and she
wondered why she was no longer moving toward it. Then the light
began to fade. A man was bending over her. She couldn't adjust her
vision quickly enough to see who it was. He was there, and then he
wasn't.

"Sleep well," he said.

The man wasn't looking at her. She could
tell that much. As her vision sharpened she could see him turning
away.

Then she knew.

He was moving toward the door, a door
adorned with a colorful wreath of holly and red velvet bows. She
couldn't push herself upright because her muscles seemed too weak
and out of practice to respond that quickly. She opened her mouth
to say his name, but nothing came out except air.

He was almost to the door. Tears spilled
over her eyelids to gently wash her cheeks. She lifted her head and
tried once more.

"Ow--en."

He paused, but he didn't turn.

"Get back. . . here!"

The command was pure Gypsy Dugan, but the
voice that emerged was Elisabeth's.

The voice that emerged was Elisabeth's.

She was home again.

Owen turned slowly, as if he fully expected
to see her lying there with her eyes closed and her hands limp at
her side.

She lifted one of those hands in a slight
wave. And she managed something like a smile.

His face contorted. His shoulders began to
shake. Hers were shaking, too, and that seemed like a very
promising sign.

He was at her side in heartbeats, tears
streaming down his cheeks. "Are you really . . ."

She would never waste another moment of this
chance. This precious chance, this unfathomable gift. "I . . . I
love you. I kept forgetting . . . to tell you."

"Elisabeth." He grabbed her hand and held it
to his cheek.

Her arm moved slowly. Her fingers extended.
She touched his hair. "Owen. . . I have to know . . . Is Gypsy
Dugan . . ."

He smothered her palm with kisses. He was
crying harder. His head was bent, his words muffled. "Don't worry
about her now."

"Is she . . . dead?"

"No one died in the accident. You weren't
responsible. . ."

But Gypsy was dead, and Owen knew. Elisabeth
could feel the truth. She knew the truth at the very center of her
soul. Someone had called Owen to tell him what had happened at
Marguerite's party.

She hadn't dreamed Gypsy's life. None of
what she had experienced in Gypsy's life was a dream . . .

She formed her words and pushed them out.
"Gypsy was a good woman . . . no matter what anyone tells you . .
."

Owen crawled up next to her on the narrow
bed and wrapped his arms around her. Elisabeth buried her face
against his neck.

It would have been hard to say who was
holding whom.

###

If you enjoyed
Once More With Feeling
,
you'll also enjoy
Twice Upon A
Time
, the sequel.

To find out more, visit my
website for an overview and buying links.

http://emilierichards.com/books/twice-upon-a-time/overview/

About the Author

1Emilie Richards is the author of sixty plus
novels which have been published in more than twenty-one countries
and sixteen languages. She writes women’s fiction and mystery
fiction and considers this novel, originally published by Avon
Books, a little of both. She is a multiple finalist for the RITA
from Romance Writers of America, and a RITA winner.
Romantic
Times
magazine has given her multiple awards, including one for
career achievement. Emilie regularly appears on bestseller lists,
including the USA Today list, and several of her books have been
made into television movies in Germany with more to follow. Emilie
travels frequently to speak and promote her work. She is an avid
gardener and quilter and the mother of four children, whom she
regards as her greatest creative endeavors.