Jane walked back to Fifth Avenue and began meandering along edge of the park. “Not even William Andrews can save you,” Roscoe had warned. And that meant there would always be a third party in her marriage. Not just Selina Royce but all the investors that had a stake in Andrews’s empire. They would always be watching to see if she was content with her role as the loyal, unquestioning wife. They would always be ready to deal with her if she should ever step out of line. Being married to Bill meant becoming a silent member of the “team” and, like Roscoe, taking care not to attract attention.
It would be like being married to a gangster, pretending not to notice the body in the trunk of the car. Or to a government official, living on the bribes that came stuffed into envelopes. The piano player in a brothel took his tips and smiled politely, feigning ignorance of what was going on in the rooms upstairs. She would be Mrs. William Andrews, accepting the honors and accolades and ignoring the headless body of his first wife.
She should run! But where? Back to her job at one of Bill’s newspapers, to sit alongside an equally compromised Roscoe Taylor? Or to a new life? Was there any place she could go where Andrews Global Network wouldn’t be waiting for her? They could find her and watch her no matter where she went. They would never let her uncover the truth about Kay Parker’s murder. She would be no safer in another country than she was in Bill’s apartment, and no more independent than she was in his arms.
How had she let this happen? Obviously, she hadn’t been thinking clearly when she let herself be flattered into a relationship with him. But she had known about his first wife from the very beginning, and she had learned about Selina long before they were married. There were clues everywhere. There had been countless warnings. Why hadn’t she heeded any of them?
But maybe there had been no chance of escape. From the moment he glanced at the desk in her apartment and saw that she was digging into Kay’s death, he had known that she was a danger to him. Perhaps that was the need he had for her. From that moment, he knew that he could never let her get away.
She dined alone, again by the window. The cook had prepared a delicious rack of lamb with a mint sauce and fresh vegetables. Mrs. McCarty had gone to the wine cellar and brought back a Bordeaux that was old enough to need decanting. As she looked out over the skyline, there was no doubt that she was at the top of the world. Everything she tasted, all that she saw, advised her to join Bill’s conspiracy of silence. But still, it was hard to put aside the sound of the shotgun blast that had obliterated Kay Parker’s face. Hard, too, to ignore the voices that kept asking questions about her husband’s role in Parker’s death.
In the morning she threw a few essentials into an oversize handbag. “Out for the day,” she told Mrs. McCarty cheerfully. She walked downtown to the station and boarded a train for Southport. She took a cab to her apartment, then drove to the house where her first husband rented a room. He was fresh out of bed, still scratching and stretching, when he opened the door.
“Everything all right?” Art asked.
“Fine,” she lied. “Just back from Paris.”
Art seemed glum. “Sure as hell beats Southport.” He staggered off to get dressed.
They drove to a diner for coffee and muffins. He ate hungrily, but the food didn’t improve his mood. “How’s the play coming?” she asked, and then listened to the problems of getting answers from his producers.
“They’re never in, never return phone calls. And when you do get ahold of them, they’re still waiting for information. I figured I’d be in the theater in six months. Now I’m beginning to think more like six years.”
Jane sympathized, but then brought up the reason for her visit. “I need cover, Art. I need people to think I’m at home here in South-port while I’m upstate doing a bit of research.” His interest was piqued instantly. “The thing is,” Jane went on, “I think I’m being watched. When I don’t go back to the city tonight, I think people are going to come looking for me.”
He was mildly amused. “Jealous husband?”
“More than that,” she said, and his expression became serious. She took him through the events in Paris, her experience in the sauna and the bogus nurse in her room. She didn’t mention Andrews’s liaison with his mistress or her suspicions about the woman who had tried to inject her. There was no reason to get into her husband’s tarnished love life. But she clearly conveyed the message that her marriage to William Andrews was proving to be dangerous.
“You know those ghost movies,” she said, “where they hear chains rattling and voices telling them to get out? But the idiots stay in the house anyway? That’s about where I am. I’m getting a lot of warnings, and I think it’s time for me to get out. But there are a couple of things I have to investigate first. If I’m walking out on the marriage of the century, I want to be sure.”
“What’s left to investigate?” he said. He reminded her of her research into the murder of Kay Parker and the pages on Selina Royce that she had caught him reading. “He’s lying to you. They all are. When you smell something fishy, it’s probably because there is a fish.”
“I want to go up to the place where it all happened. There was a meeting at an inn near the chalet. I need to know who was at that meeting. And then I want to talk to the one-man police force that started the investigation. Someone inside the William Andrews corporation killed Kay Parker, and everyone has been covering it up. I need to know …” she trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
“You need to know if it was William Andrews?” Art said, supplying the unspoken name.
Jane nodded. “That’s why I need your help.”
She explained that she needed to switch cars with him so she could leave hers in front of her apartment. She needed activity in the apartment at night. Maybe he could stay there and turn the lights on and off. And she needed a cover if someone should come knocking on her door. He had to say that she had been in and out all day. That she had met up with a friend. Anything that would make it sound as if she were spending a routine day. Art nodded and tossed her the keys to his car.
“Okay,” he said. “But I liked your first idea better. Just get out!”
Jane phoned Roscoe Taylor. She wanted him to give her the same cover. She had been in the office and was out, probably working on an assignment.
“I don’t like this,” Roscoe told her. “You really should let it go. If you nearly got killed just for raising questions, what do you think will happen if they catch you investigating the crime scene?”
“I love the man, Roscoe,” she admitted. “And I think he loves me. That’s why I have to know. I need to know how the rest of my life is going to turn out.”
Jane drove to a strip mall near her office and went to a public telephone kiosk. Mrs. McCarty answered on the first ring.
“It’s me,” Jane said. “Is Mr. Andrews home?”
“He’s at the office,” the housekeeper said, amazed that anyone would expect William Andrews to be home.
“Well, I know I’ll never get him there. So, will you tell him that I’m working late and that I’ll probably stay at my apartment. Or maybe I’ll stay with one of my friends. I’ll phone him when I decide.”
“Where can he reach you?”
“He can call my cell phone,” Jane said, and then hung up quickly. She had established that her plans weren’t yet firm and had left a caller ID number that would put her near her office if anyone checked. Then she started north into Massachusetts, where she took the turnpike to Albany. With a little luck, she would be at the inn in the Adirondacks in time for dinner.