I tried to call Scott and tell him I had only three days to wrap things up before Diana pulled the plug on my career, whatever was left of it after the Crazed Rumormonger had done his worst. I doubted that three weeks would be sufficient, much less three days, and I wanted to talk it over with him. But I couldn’t reach him anywhere. I wondered if he’d gone up to Stanford to visit his son.
It’s my final day with the BMW, and I wanted to take one last picturesque drive along the coast before I gave it back to Alvino. Driving a car like that was like vacationing in Tahiti—great fun, but you couldn’t actually live there. At least, I couldn’t. After going around with the top down for a week, my nose was peeling from sunburn, and the laugh lines were threatening to turn into furrows. Still, I was going to miss zipping around the hills at warp speed in a car once driven by 007.
I remembered my vague promises to Alvino about publicity in the article and decided I’d better check with Cynthia to see if there was any way to use photographs with the car in them. After our last conversation, I wasn’t eager to call her up again so soon, but Jeff Riley was on vacation, and Cynthia was all I had. With luck, I could keep it short, and Scott’s name would never come up.
Fat chance.
“I heard you and Scott have been making progress,” she told me, less than two minutes into the call.
Under the circumstances, that could have a number of meanings. “Where did you hear that?” I asked her, hedging.
“Scott told me.”
Oh. I didn’t want to ask, but I couldn’t stop myself. “When did you talk to him?”
“Yesterday afternoon. Does it matter?” She knew it did, I could tell.
“No, of course not.” Like hell it didn’t. Scott had talked to her twice in a few days when I’d been calling all over town trying to reach him. I will not get paranoid, I promised myself. Scott is interested in me. He said so himself. If only he’d given me his high school ring to seal the bargain. How did she do this to me every time? “I just wondered how up-to-date you were, because there have been some new developments since I talked to you a couple of days ago,” I told her.
“So what’s up?” she asked me.
I gave her an expurgated version of the events of the last couple of days, stopping well outside My Dinner with Scott and its culmination. I ended with my just-terminated conversation with Diana. I tried not to dwell on its implications for my future prosperity, but Cynthia was no dummy.
“That’s too big a price to pay,” she said. “This story isn’t worth jeopardizing your whole career.”
“I’m not doing this for the story,” I reminded her. “But if it works out, it’s going to be a doozy.”
“Well,” she said, “maybe it’s time for me to take a more active role in the investigation.”
“What about your leg?”
“It’s coming along. I get my walking cast in a matter of days. If I took part, you could back out of it altogether. Get your life back in order. It’s not as if you’re really a journalist. What does Scott advise?”
“I haven’t been able to reach him,” I admitted.
She clucked her tongue. “Did you try the hospital?”
“The hospital?”
“Sure, didn’t he tell you?” Her tone was pitying.
“Apparently not,” I told her, with a dry mouth.
“They think his father may have had a stroke. I gather he’s not in the best of health anyway, so they’re doing all kinds of tests. I assumed you’d know, since you’re working together.”
“Well, I didn’t.” I wasn’t thrilled about confessing that, but what could I say?
“So how about it?” she inquired.
“How about what?”
“Do you want me to step in for you so you can go back to your old life?”
I hesitated, searching for words. “I appreciate the offer, Cynthia,” I said finally, “but to tell you the truth, I’ve discovered that my old life didn’t have so much to recommend it. It’s time to move on. The one thing I’m sure of is that I want to see this through myself.” I wanted to emphasize the point. “I feel pretty strongly about it, actually.”
“No matter what it costs you?” she said incredulously.
“Of course not. If Andy were seriously threatened, of course I’d back down. But within reason, yes.”
“I see,” Cynthia said. “You’ve changed, haven’t you? You used to be—I don’t know—sort of timid about some things.” She sounded almost annoyed. “What about your career?
“I don’t know,” I told her honestly. “I’m not a fool. Of course I’m worried. But if Diana cuts me loose, and maybe even if she doesn’t, I’ll work something out. I have contacts and friends. I’ll try to use them, if I have to.”
“I wish you luck,” she said, in the tone you might use to someone sending in the entry form to the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes. “Well, whatever happens, you’ve exorcised your fear of dating, haven’t you? Plus, there’s always the chance you might meet somebody suitable through the dating service.”
I laughed. “Don’t expect miracles.”
When she’d hung up, I called the area hospitals until I tracked down Scott’s father. I found him at Little Sisters of Mercy. The receptionist said he was in stable condition and out of intensive care. I thanked her and put down the receiver. Now that I knew Mr. Crossland was all right, I felt better, but I wasn’t going to bother Scott at his father’s bedside. I wasn’t going to dwell on the fact that he’d told Cynthia and not me, either. It wasn’t productive, and right now I had to produce. I settled for leaving a message on his voice mail saying that I was sorry to hear about his father and that I had some new developments on the case, but they could wait till he had time to deal with them.
Before I could proceed with the next step, which I supposed should be finding out whatever information Tommy had come up with, the phone rang again. I let the machine pick up and listened to see who it was. I couldn’t afford any frivolous distractions.
“Ellen, it’s me.”
I recognized the voice. I walked over to the phone, but I didn’t lift the receiver.
“It’s Cynthia,” she said, less certainly. “Please, if you’re there, pick up. I really need to talk to you.”
I sighed and gave up. “Hi,” I told her. “I was just on my way out. What’s up?”
“I’m a shit.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “Thank you for telling me,” I said.
“No, I mean it. I have to tell you something.”
“Go ahead,” I invited her.
“I called Scott yesterday. He didn’t call me. He was just on his way out.”
“That’s not a big deal, Cynthia.”
“Let me finish. When he told me about your investigation, I got the impression he was interested in you. More than a little interested. I felt like an idiot after what I said to you the other day about Scott and me. I’d sort of thrown myself at him, just like I warned you not to. Well, the truth is, I was…jealous of you.” She said it in such a low voice, I could hardly hear her.
“You were jealous of me?”
“Does that surprise you? Scott’s the biggest catch around. Not only that, but you’re getting to work on this incredibly juicy story, and I’m stuck here on the couch with my foot propped up. Wouldn’t you be jealous?”
“You’re asking the wrong person, Cynthia. I’ve been jealous of you since high school.”
“You’re kidding! Is that why you slept with Richard?”
“I hope not, but it might be,” I told her honestly.
“Well, um, the thing is, I sort of let it drop about you and Richard. I mean I hinted strongly that you’d betrayed our friendship. I’m so sorry. It was an inexcusable thing to do.”
“Well, it’s the truth, Cynthia. I’m not proud of it, but I did do it. I’m not thrilled that you told Scott”—that was the understatement of the decade—“but what was inexcusable was doing it in the first place.”
“No, we’ve been over that. You weren’t yourself. I forgave you a long time ago. Or at least I thought I did.”
“Having an excuse doesn’t make it right. If I’ve learned anything from this Ivanova case, it’s that people make choices and have to stand by what they do.”
“I’m still a shit,” she said.
“Okay, we’re both shits.” I laughed. I felt amazingly liberated. “Look, Cynthia, this rivalry has been going on for almost thirty years. We’re too old for the jealousy bit by about two decades. What do you say we put an end to it?”
“That’s magnanimous,” she said.
“I’m in a hatchet-burying mood.”
“Fine by me,” she said. “You and Scott…”
“It’s early days yet,” I told her.
“I hope it works out.”
So did I, but if it didn’t, I would still be okay. Not ecstatic, but okay.
“And anyway,” she said, unable to bury the old Cynthia completely, “if it does, just remember I told you so.”
My sister-in-law told me my brother was still at work. “But I know he wants to see you,” she said. “He might even drop by.”
“That would be great, Dorie. I want to thank you for helping. I know you’re the one who convinced Tom to visit our mother.”
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out that well,” she said softly. “But I did it for him, not for her.”
“I know that,” I said. “I understand how he feels. From his perspective, she may not even deserve the attention, but I’m still very grateful.”
She laughed. “Family is not a matter of deserving, Ellen. If it were, nobody would have any.”
“Well, I don’t want it to be a matter of guilt, either. I don’t want to push either of you. Whatever you want to give will be enough.”
“For the time being,” she said.
“For the time being,” I agreed.
Inspired by all these fresh starts, I vacillated momentarily between taking my final drive in the Beemer and putting new bug-proof shelf paper in my kitchen drawers. I needed to think, and activity always spurred my brain cells. Besides, I didn’t want to proceed until I talked to my brother about whatever he’d found out about Bruce Livingston. As Scott said, it didn’t pay to go blundering around without all the facts.
I opened the pasta drawer and found a box of spaghetti with several embalmed-looking moth larvae inside. The old me would have launched into an orgy of cleaning. The new me opted for the drive.
I took the path alongside the stream and fishpond, and turned left into the parking structure. My spaces were in the middle of a long row of cars, next to a Mercedes convertible on the right and an ancient Datsun on the left. The complex was a very democratic place. I waited a second for my eyes to adjust to the darker interior after the brightness of out-of-doors. Then I reached into my purse for the keys.
Someone grabbed my arm.
“Eeeek!” I cried and whirled, my right hand still caught inside my bag. I am sorry to say it was not a sound that would have frightened off a dragonfly, much less a potential mugger.
Except it was much worse than a mugger. It was Bruce Livingston.
“Eeeek!” I cried again, more loudly.
He tugged on my arm. “Be quiet,” he said. “Please.”
“Let go of me,” I said. My hand was fumbling in my purse for the pepper spray.
His grip tightened. “My car’s back there. I just want to—”
Pow! I zapped him right in the face with a blast of spray. I was so close that some of it made my eyes tear, too. The canister fell from my hand. Bruce dropped my arm, of course, and bent over, cupping his hands over his face. “Shit!” he yowled.
For good measure, I swung my purse around and hit him on the side of the head as he stooped. The blow knocked him into the side of the car. He collapsed onto his knees.
I didn’t feel like waiting around for him to recover. My feet took me flying back down the path until I arrived, panting, at my own front door. I had the key out a hundred yards in advance. Once inside, I bolted the door and raced up the stairs to Andy’s bedroom, where the window faced the front. From there, I could see anyone walking down the path toward my door. I hurriedly splashed some water into my eyes and then took up my observation post, cordless phone in hand. If he came anywhere near, I was ready to dial 911.
When I finally stopped gulping for air, I tried to decide what was the best thing to do next. I should have realized that Bruce might impute some reason other than a round-the-world tour or whatever cover story Diana had concocted to explain my replacement as their art consultant. If he hadn’t killed Natasha, why would he be here threatening me? Could I prove it? Should I call the police? If he didn’t realize I suspected him before, he certainly would now. For the first time since I was eight years old and totally enamored of Little Joe on Bonanza, I wished I owned a gun.
My hand was slick on the phone. Andy was visiting my mother, and I called to warn her not to come home for any reason till she heard from me. I got my address book and left a message on Scott’s voice mail, saying that Bruce had threatened me and I thought we should move as quickly as possible to put our case together. I called Dorie back and asked her to have Tommy get in touch with me right away.
After fifteen minutes or so of staring down at the path without seeing anything more frightening than a couple of very fit female joggers, I decided that the danger was not so immediate that I could not afford a quick trip to the bathroom. My muscles were so clenched and tense that I could barely rise from my chair, but I could hardly maintain this vigil forever. If he were determined enough, when night came, he could hide behind the bushes or along the walk without being detected. It was a less-than-reassuring thought. I took the phone into the bathroom, just in case.
It rang as I was picking it up from the countertop, startling me so much I almost dropped it into the sink. So much for nerves of steel. My heart was pounding in my throat.
“Hello,” I croaked.
It was the last person I expected to hear from.