“What’ll you have for breakfast, Mrs. Winters? The usual?”
Molly could feel an odd blush of color rise to her cheeks.
“I’m afraid I… that is…”
“Oh, heavens, what a fool I am, jabbering away at you. Pat explained your little problem, but I forgot all about it. You probably don’t even know who I am; do you? I’m Fran Morse, the housekeeper, and you usually have two slices of toast and orange juice. But maybe I could tempt you with something a bit more substantial this morning?”
Molly sipped at the wonderful coffee.
“Well, my… Patrick made dinner last night,” she said carefully, oddly unwilling to call Patrick her huslsand.
“Then you must be starving,” the woman said with a friendly smile.
“That man can’t cook to save his life.”
“I am a bit hungry,” she admitted.
“I’d love some eggs and bacon if it’s not too much trouble. And some of your poppy seed muffins.”
The woman beamed fondly.
“Well, it’s a treat to see you’ve got some appetite. These last few months you were eating like a bird. And you remembered my muffins, bless your heart!” She deposited some in front of Molly, kindly ignoring her sudden start. She’d have to get used to remembering, Molly told herself shakily. Things are bound to come back like that, a bit at a time. She took a bite out of the muffin, and the familiar-unfamiliar taste warmed her tongue. Slowly she began to relax. For the first time since she arrived she felt comfortable and comparatively happy. Here was one person who didn’t seem to blame her for a thousand anonymous crimes. Molly watched Mrs. Morse bustle around the kitchen with a sense of quiet gratitude, and she wished that feeling could last forever.
By the time she devoured her breakfast and had seconds of muffins and coffee she was ready to face the day.
“Would you like some help washing up?” she offered, bringing her dishes over to the sink.
Mrs. Morse stared at her strangely.
“Well, I never thought to hear such words from your mouth again,” she said frankly.
“But there, I always said you weren’t so bad underneath. No, dearie, I can manage these myself. After all, it’s what I’m paid for.”
Molly nodded, trying to ignore those WOrds that kept repeating themselves, around and ar0uud in her brain. I always said you weren’t so bad Underneath. Who did she say it to?
There wasn’t much she COUld say in response. She plastered a cool smile on her face.
“Well, if You need any help with lunch or anythiug just call me.” It was just past seven o’clock when she Wandered out of the kitchen, more troubled than she cared to admit. She didn’t know where to start. Her life was an Agatha Christie novel—full of clues and question marks, suspects and red her hugs and the thought of sorting them out was daunting. It didn’t SOUnd as if there was anyone she could turn to for help or answers-from the impression She’d gotten from Patrick and company she had no friends in the area, and it was unlikely that anyone Would want to have anything to do with her.
She ended up back in the Opulent bedroon~, staring at the walls.
Patrick had gotten up and left early, Willy apparently didn’t make an appearance until Past noon if he could help it, and Molly Was doomed to her own frustrating company.
She went to the closet, loolting through her wardrobe. Within minutes her disgust was even stronger.
Those expensive clothes were absolutely lovely, but they were as ill-suited for her as gold lame on a child.
She went out on the landing and called to Mrs. Morse.
“Have we got an old trunk anywhere?”
“What in the world are you doing, Mrs, ~/inters?” She appeared at the bottom of the stairs, a dust rag in one capable hand.
“Cleaning house, just like you,” she replied smartly.
“Have we got a trunk anywhere?”
“Should be one in the back of your closet,” Mrs. Morse answered, curiosity alight in her face.
“Do you need any help?”
“I can handle it,” she said, heading back in to discover an old-fashioned steamer trunk, large enough to hold even Molly Winters’s extensive wardrobe. Working at a leisurely pace, she loaded it with almost every conceivable piece of elegant clothing. Patrick must have been using understatement when he said she loved to spend money. It was a good thing she apparently had plenty of it. The stuff in the closets and drawers must have cost a fortune. Sudden guilt swamped her. Surely there was some deserving charity in town that would love something a bit better than rags.
She kept very little: a number of subdued cotton sweaters, a blessed second pair of worn jeans. Out went the gold-threaded caftan, the black satin sheath with the neckline down to there, the turquoise silk lounging pajamas. Whether she liked it or not, she was really a T-shirt and jeans type, and dressing up in sophisticated clothes would only make her look more ridiculous. And make the situation that much worse.
What situation? she asked herself suddenly. There was no answer. Only the instinctive knowledge that she wanted to be beautiful. Was she fool enough to care what her bad-tempered husband thought? If she harbored any warm emotions in that direction she would be wise to forget them quickly. Her life was a tangled mess, and she had absolutely no idea how things had gotten that way. She sighed as she shut the trunk on the expensive, unsuitable clothes.
There wasn’t much left. Several drawers full of lace underwear that she’d lost her heart to, those itchy nightgowns, and the sweaters and shirts. And one very beautiful eyelet and cotton dress of pure white. The woman Molly had begun to think of as her predecessor didn’t seem to go in for simple things like this, and she wondered if it had actually belonged to someone else. For the time being she could wear it if the occasion demanded a dress, which seemed unlikely. From what Patrick had said, it seemed as if she were to be kept in total seclusion. Until her memory returned, Molly thought she might prefer it that way.
She glanced down at her clothes. Sooner or later she would find out how to get hold of her money. She’d need to buy at least a few new things—she couldn’t spend all her time in two pairs of faded jeans and a few sweaters. Then again, maybe she could. After all, who was she trying to impress? If it was Patrick Winters, it was obviously a lost cause.
“I’rE GOT A TRUNK full of clothes up there.” Molly walked into the kitchen.
“Have you any idea where I could send it?”
Mrs. Morse looked up from her luncheon fixings in surprise.
“Send it?” she repeated blankly.
“Yes.” Molly reached out and snatched a piece of sliced carrot.
“I
don’t want them anymore. They’re not at all my style. “
“I was wondering if you’d ever learn that.” She offered her another carrot.
“I’ll have Ben take care of it for you when he comes in for lunch.”
“Ben?”
She looked at her oddly.
“My husband,” she said after an uncomfortable silence.
“You’ve only known him since you were sixteen.”
Molly shrugged with embarrassment.
“Will lunch be ready soon? I’m starving.”
She nodded, an even more uncomfortable look passing over her face.
“Mrs. Winters, I don’t know if it’s my place to say this, but…”
“Have you always called me Mrs. Winters?” Molly interrupted, snatching one more carrot.
“Since you’ve been married. Before that you were Molly to me and Ben.”
“Then I think I should be Molly again.” She smiled warmly at her.
“Mrs. Winters doesn’t seem like me at all. Molly at least seems a little closer to who I feel like.”
“All right. If that’s what you want.” She glanced uneasily toward the door.
“I think I’d better tell you something before they come in for lunch.” It was there, a tiny fluttering of anxiety in the pit of her stomach. She managed a calm smile.
“Tell me what, Mrs. Morse?”
She leaned against the counter, hoping she looked nonchalant.
“It’s common knowledge around here that they’re going to be married as soon as the divorce is final.”
She said it all in a rush, clearly eager to get it over with.
Molly looked at her blankly.
“Who’s going to marry whom?”
“Patrick. It looks like he’s going to marry Mrs. Canning. Her husband passed away the day you left here and it looked like they started making their plans right away.”
She looked miserable.
“I thought you’d better know, in case you started getting… well, getting ideas.”
“What kind of ideas would those be? That my husband shouldn’t be getting ready for wife number two before he’s gotten rid of wife number one?” She couldn’t keep the trace of bitterness out of her voice.
“Who’s Mrs. Canning? Do I know her?”
“You and Lisa Canning used to be thick as thieves,” Mrs. Morse replied grimly.
“She and Patrick are oat riding now. I’m expecting them in for lunch any minute now. If you want I can give you a tray ia your room.
It couldn’t be very pleasant for you, dearie. It’s always been that way between Patrick and her, ever since she married old Fred Canning and moved here five years ago. Though I used to think it was more on her side than his. “
“Then why did he marry me? For the money? He told me I was rich.”
“I was never really sure of why he married you, honey. I guess I hoped that he loved you.”
“But he didn’t. Did he?”
She wouldn’t answer, busying herself with the dishes. Then she looked up.
“All I know is that Pat would nit have done something like that. If he’d wanted that money there were other ways he could have gotten it.”
Like killing me, she thought, unable to hide from the chilling notion.
At that moment there was a commotion in the yard, and with a false calm Molly moved to the window and looked out. And some of the pieces fell together in the puzzle.
At first her attention was drawn to the man who was still, ostensibly, her husband. He looked as if he were born in the saddle. He was tall and gorgeous in the bright sunlight, his long, muscled legs easily controlling the spirited bay, and Molly had no doubts at all as to why she had married him. By his side was her erstwhile friend Mrs. Canning, a well-preserved beauty of indeterminate age, her white blond hair expertly tinted and coiffed, her face youthful, her figure opulent and desirable.
Everything Molly was not. She laughed and put one hand on Patrick’s arm, and the look he gave her was one that sent such a flashing wave of jealousy through Molly that she felt sick. She might not remember Patrick or the woman, but that emotion was an old and comfortable foe.
The woman dismounted from the horse in one lithe movement, and suddenly Molly realized why she looked vaguely familiar. She belonged in that bedroom upstairs, with the pink-tinted satins, in those sophisticated and expensive clothes. They were made for a woman like her, and Molly wondered who had decorated that bedroom and chosen those clothes. Had it been Patrick?
Or the helpful Mrs. Canning? Or had Molly tried to turn herself into a clone of the woman Patrick loved?
They were already seated when she walked into the dining room.
“Molly, darling!” Mrs. Canning rose and enveloped her in a warm and highly scented embrace. Poison, Molly decided, a fitting enough scent, and then cursed herself for knowing the names of perfumes and not of her closest friends.
“We missed you so much,” the woman continued, her heavy gold bangles digging into Molly’s back. She drew away and looked into her face, frowning.
“You don’t look at all well, my dear. And where did you get those awful clothes?”
From my room,” she answered lightly, drawing away as unobtrusively as she could manage.
“It’s good to see you again.”
Her luminous eyes were warm and friendly and just ever. so slightly assessing.
“Darling, it’s so good to see you.t We were paralyzed when you ran off like that, absolutely paralyzed.” She moved back to the table and put one possessive hand on Patrick’s arm.
“Weren’t we, darling?”
Molly half expected to see painted fingernails like red claws. Wasn’t the Other Woman always supposed to have red fingernails? The hand on Patrick’s forearm was well-shaped, with pale, well-manicured nails.
And not nearly as interesting as the tanned, muscular forearm beneath it, Molly thought hopelessly.
Patrick had risen. He simply looked at her, an un-welcoming expression on his face. Molly thought of her room with a faint trace of longing, then steeled herself.
He didn’t look like a man who could kill. He simply looked like a man surrounded by too many women.
Another motive, though. If Molly died, Patrick would have her money and revenge for her running away with another man. He’d also have the beautiful Mrs. Canning, and Molly had to admit that most men would have found that incentive indeed.
“Wouldn’t you rather have a tray in your room, Molly?” he asked in a cool voice.
“You’ve just gotten out of the hospital, and you look tired.”
“Heavens, no!” she said so brightly she wanted to wince.
“I need to get back in the swing of things: I need to spend time with friends and family. Loved ones,” she added with a pointed, saccharine look at Patrick.
She might have pushed him too far. He shoved back from the table, but once more Lisa put a restraining hand on his arm, and he subsided with a glare in Molly’s direction.
“Pat says you have amnesia,” Lisa murmured.
“How fascinating. It sounds like something out of a bad novel.”
“It is,” Patrick growled.
“I’m surprised he told you,” Molly said, ignoring him.
“I get the impression that my husband doesn’t quite believe me.”
His response was a disbelieving snort. Lisa’s hand tightened warningly on his arm, and Molly couldn’t tear her gaze away from that possessive clasp.
“Of course he believes you, Molly. Why else would you have run off without a word to me, your dearest friend? Or to your husband, or anyone? You must have had a reason, and if you could only remember I’m sure you’d tell us everything.”
Molly looked at them both. The dearest friend, with her phony, cooing concern and her possessive grip.