The husband, watching her with stony distrust. They could have been in it together, Molly thought.
Her disappearance benefited everyone. It was no wonder she’d run.
“Of course,” she said calmly, helping herself to the plate of delicate sandwiches Mrs. Morse had provided.
She was famished, and she didn’t care if her abstemious so-called friend watched as she devoured her lunch.
Molly shoved a sandwich into her mouth, then reached for another.
“So tell me,” she said in a conversational voice, “what’s been happening with you two while I’ve been away?”
Patrick promptly choked on his coffee.
IT HAD BV_~’~ an illuminating meal, Molly thought several hours later as she sat cross-legged on her bed, staring down at the telltale handkerchief. Lisa was obviously adept at awkward social situations, Patrick had been totally uninterested in putting a smooth front on anything.
Clearly everyone knew about Lisa and Patrick—just as clearly, it was supposed to be ignored.
Molly played the game very well. She made all the right responses, slipping easily into the role of younger friend. So easily’ that she suspected that was how it used to be with the three of them.
Lisa and Patrick, tolerant of the exuberant teenager who followed them around. She could almost see it, almost remember it.
Why hadn’t he married Lisa? Belatedly, she remembered Lisa’s elderly husband. Mrs. Morse said he’d died recently, yet Lisa hardly seemed the grieving widow. It was too bad the old man hadn’t died ten months ago and saved everyone a great deal of trouble. Patrick could have married Lisa instead of settling for his wealthy fifth cousin twice removed or whatever she was.
She stared down at the scrap of cloth in her hand. Those orange streaks looked oddly familiar, yet she couldn’t trace them. They were neither rust nor blood stains, and she wondered why the police hadn’t taken it for evidence. Had she hidden it from them? If so, why?
So many questions. She was still hungry, and she was exhausted.
Patrick had left the table abruptly, Lisa vanished soon after, and Molly could only imagine where they were and what they were doing.
She didn’t want to.
She lay back on her bed, tucking the handkerchief beneath her pillow.
She wasn’t ready to have anyone see it. She wasn’t certain what it signified, but right now it was the only clue, the only advantage she had.
She wasn’t about to let anyone else get a look at it until she was good and ready.
Amnesia. What a crock! Who did Molly think she was, expecting them to believe such a cock-and-bull story? Maybe in romance novels, maybe in TV movies, but not in real life.
It was just a little too damned convenient. As long as she pretended not to remember anything, she was buying herself time.
But she couldn’t keep it up forever. Sure, her eyes looked wide and guileless as she looked at each of them in turn, but she could be acting. She’d gotten damned good at it.
If she wasn’t faking, then things were even more dangerous. If that too convenient amnesia was the real McCoy, it could disappear as quickly as it came. leaving her with a clear memory of what had happened to her just a few short weeks ago. And what had happened to the man known as George Andrews.
That couldn’t be allowed to happen. She was going to have to die.
Sooner or later.
And sooner would be a much more acceptable alternative.
MOLLY WOKE UP ill darkness, disoriented, panicked. It took her a moment to remember where she was. She sat up in bed, switching on the light, trying to still the fear that washed over her. She was just feeling stir crazy—she hadn’t wanted to go outside for fear she’d run into Patrick and Lisa. An hour of their company had been about all she could handle. She knew she wouldn’t be allowed to take the car anywhere until she’d proven her trustworthiness to that self-righteous, adulterous pig of a husband, even though the car might very well belong to her. Willy had disappeared as soon as he got up, and she didn’t even have his doubtful company to distract her. There was a stack of mysteries in the bookcase, but to her disgust once more her memory failed her. She may not have known her own face, name, or even how she drank her coffee, but all she had to do was read the opening paragraph to remember whodunit.
She still hadn’t met the other occupant of the old stone farmhouse.
Cousin Erinintrude White, known to her as Aunt Ermy, said Mrs. Morse, was off on one of her incessant rounds of visits. Molly con lid tell from the housekeeper’s look of disdain that Erinintrude White was not looked upon with affection in this household. Indeed, most of Mrs. Morse’s approval seemed reserved for Patrick, despite his lapse in taste when it came to Mrs. Canning, and for Molly, a fact which surprised her. Here was one person who didn’t hold her previous bad behavior against her. Perhaps if one dug deep enough there were excuses, but at that point Molly couldn’t begin to fathom what they could be.
Nor was she particularly interested in hearing the details of all the evil she had done, at least, not from the one person who seemed to like her. Molly was simply glad to bask in the sudden affection. She was a good woman, Mrs. Morse, and it felt oddly encouraging to have her approval.
She heard the heavy footsteps first, followed by the peremptory knocking on her door. She leaned back, waiting, knowing perfectly well who was coming upstairs in such a towering rage. She had no intention of reacting if she could help it.
The door flew open and Patrick stood there, tall and lean against the doorway, and for a moment she felt a little clutching sense of longing. One that disappeared when she realized this wasn’t a friendly visit.
“I would have thought,” he said, his voice cold and cutting, “that you would have the common courtesy to abide by the schedule in this house. I should have known it would be too much to ask, but nevertheless I not only ask it, I demand it. You will come downstairs for drinks right now and be polite to our guests.
I suppose even you are capable of that much. ” The withering contempt cut through her as she lay there motionless.
“Now!” He moved into the room menacingly, and she sprang from the bed before she could stop herself.
He laughed then, and it wasn’t a pleasant sound.
“I’m glad to see I’m at least able to frighten you into decent behavior. We’ll be in the library.” He started
out the door, stopped and turned.
“By the way, in case you’ve forgotten, you usually dress for dinner.”
Molly could see from the faint light in the hall that he was still wearing his faded jeans, and she shrugged with a fine show of bravado.
“I have no clothes,” she said simply.
“These will have to do.”
“By that I assume you mean that your extravagant wardrobe no longer interests you and you wish to go out and spend a similar sum or more.” He shrugged.
“Be my guest. Mrs.
Morse can accompany you if you insist. After all, it’s your money. “
“How much money is there?” she demanded, scrambling off the bed.
“I wondered when you’d get around to asking,” he said with an unpleasant laugh.
“As a matter of fact, it was your seeming disinterest in money that almost had me believing your cock-and-bull story about amnesia.
I should have known you couldn’t keep it up. “
“I merely wanted to know,” she said in a cool voice, “if I have enough to buy you off. If I give it to you would you let me go?”
She’d managed to startle him.
“I don’t want your damned money,” he said bitterly.
“Then what do you want from me? Why did you marry me?” She scrambled off the bed, starting toward him. She was deliberately trying to goad him, and she told herself she was simply wanting to get the truth from him. And she knew she was lying. She was trying to goad him into touching her again.
She wanted to see if his touch still made her tremble, as it had last night.
He backed away, not bothering to hide his uneasiness.
“Be down in five minutes, Molly. Or I’ll come back to get you.”
It was supposed to be a threat. It sounded more like a temptation to Molly.
She waited just long enough before leaving the room~ running down the curving stairs swiftly, two at a time, knowing if she hesitated she would lose her courage. Stopping before the living room door, she heard the noise of glasses and ice, quiet laughter and camaraderie that would vanish the moment she appeared.
But appear she must—her husband had so decreed. Taking a deep breath, she ambled into the room with studied unconcern.
Patrick ignored her when she entered the room, busying himself at the bar.
“There you are, darling!” Lisa greeted her. She was curled up on the sofa like a contented cat.
“Did you have a nice afternoon.” “
“Lovely,” she replied politely.
“And you?” Lisa cast a meaningful glance at Patrick’s back, and her smile was unbearably smug.
“Very stimulating.” Molly gritted her teeth, glancing around the room to see Willy, who seemed to be viewing the proceedings with a great deal of faintly drunken amusement.
“How are you tonight, Willy?” she greeted him, desperate to remove herself from Lisa’s arch glances.
She didn’t need her far from subtle reminder of what she’d been doing with Molly’s husband.
“Good enough, re’ dear Willy answered, raising a dark amber drink in greeting.
“Glad to see you eided to join us after all.”
She felt a sudden spurt of anger at all of them. They must have discussed poor little Molly in their various condescending tones, conspiring to torment and embarrass her. Well, she wouldn’t let them down, she decided suddenly, throwing herself down into’ the most comfortable chair in the room and glowering at them all like a spoiled teenager.
Patrick stalked over to her to thrust a tall glass of bright red liquid at her.
“Here you are,” he said with false solicitude, and she controlled the urge to throw the drink back in his face.
“What is it?” she demanded suspiciously.
He raised an eyebrow.
“Your usual. Cranberry juice, just as Aunt Ermy ordered for you, though tonight without the vodka. I assume you aren’t allowed to drink after your supposed blow on the head.” His voice was cool and disbelieving, and she barely controlled an equally snappish answer.
Instead she took a small, ladylike sip of it and wondered absently if among her myriad other faults she had been a drunk as well. She took a second, larger sip and leaned back further into the protective recesses of the chair to watch her family and friends. Her participation was not missed. Willy, Patrick and Lisa were deeply involved in a discussion of horse breeding, a subject as foreign to her as mountain climbing. Though of course, she thought ruefully, she could very well have dabbled in both. She was the first one to notice the arrival of another guest, walking quietly along the stone-floored hallway. He was above medium height, though shorter than the lanky Patrick, with curly brown hair and a quiet intensity about
Anne Smart his eyes. He looked handsome, shy, and out of place, and quite friendly in a quiet, gentle way, so far removed from the tightly leashed violence she sensed in her husband. She suddenly felt a little more optimistic.
Maybe she’d finally found an ally among all these enemies.
“Hello, there.” He cleared his throat at the door and they turned to greet him with enthusiasm.
“Toby!” Patrick’s sudden, friendly grin was a revelation.
“We were just discussing Arab’s points. We’ll forgive you for being late if you can clear something up.”
Molly stared at Patrick, shocked into momentary silence. Remembering, almost remembering, with the sight of that sudden, devastating smile. And then Toby stepped between them, and his eyes were warm and sympathetic.
“How are you, Molly? We missed you.”
The others were staring at him ~with silent disapproval, as if they suddenly discovered they had a traitor in their midst, but Toby didn’t seem to notice. For the first time someone seemed sincerely glad to have her back, and Molly’s eyes threatened to fill with those unwanted tears again.
“Thank you, Toby,” she said softly, smiling up at hilll.
“Let’s go in to dinner,” Patrick said abruptly, breaking the moment.
He took Lisa’s silk-clad arm and led her toward the dining room.
“I could eat a horse. Next time I invite you for dinner you come on time, boy,” he said with mock seriousness, and Toby laughed.
“I was held up, Pat,” he said, following Willy’s beefy form.
“Miss Molly’s just about to foal and I didn’t know whether I dared come at all.”
By the time Molly entered the dining room she noticed with a grimace that Lisa had taken the traditional seat for the woman of the household, at the foot of the table opposite Patrick, and she was relegated to a seat next to Willy. She sank down with sullen grace, wondering once more what she could have possibly done to have turned her family and friends against her. And what further insults would she have to bear while she remained a prisoner in this house. At least there was Toby, looking across at her with undisguised admiration.
She tried to concentrate on that, shutting out the sound of Lisa’s arch laughter as she flirted with Patrick.
“Molly, darling.” Lisa turned to her in a coaxing voice.
“Pat says you want to do some clothes shopping.
I’d be delighted to come with you, give you a few pointers on style.
“
Her expression told Molly that she badly needed all the help she could get.
“No, thank you, Lisa.” She managed to control the faintly homicidal urge that was building up in her.
“Mrs. Morse will come with me—I wouldn’t think of bothering you.”
“But darling, it’s no bother,” she protested prettily.
“Remember what fun we had, picking all your other clothes? I’ve always helped you choose; you know I love to do it.”
So she had Lisa to thank for that closet full of unsuitable clothes, Molly thought. And I bet she did it on purpose.