Mirror Image

Maybe she was acting strange for the hell of it. That would be like her. She enjoyed being perverse for perversity’s sake alone. That wasn’t serious, but it rankled that she had seized the initiative to change the game plan without prior consultation.

Perhaps she hadn’t had an opportunity to consult yet. Perhaps she knew something about Tate that no one else was privy to and which needed to be acted upon immediately.

Or perhaps the bitch—and this was the most likely possibility—had decided that being a senator’s wife was worth more to her than the payoff she was due to receive the day Tate was laid in a casket. After all, her metamorphosis had coincided with the primary election.

Whatever her motive, this new behavior pattern was as annoying as hell. She’d better watch herself, or she’d be cut out. At this point, it could all go down with or without her participation. Didn’t the stupid bitch realize that?

Or had she finally realized that a second bullet was destined for her?

Seventeen

“Mrs. Rutledge, what a surprise.”

The secretary stood up to greet Avery as she entered the anteroom of the law office Tate shared with his brother. To learn where it was, she had had to look up the address in the telephone directory.

“Hello. How are you?” She didn’t address the secretary by name. The nameplate on the desk read “Mary Crawford,” but she was taking no chances.

“I’m fine, but you look fabulous.”

“Thank you.”

“Tate told me that you were prettier than ever, but seeing is believing.”

Tate had told her that? They hadn’t engaged in a private conversation since the night he had kissed her. She found it hard to believe that he’d said something flattering about her to his secretary.

“Is he in?” He was. His car was parked out front.

“He’s with a client.”

“I didn’t think he was handling any cases.”

“He’s not.” Mary Crawford smoothed her skirt beneath her hips and sat back down. “He’s with Barney Bridges. You know what a character he is. Anyway, he pledged a hefty donation to Tate’s campaign, so when he hand delivered it, Tate made time to see him.”

“Well, I’ve come all this way. Will they be long? Shall I wait?”

“Please do. Have a seat.” The secretary indicated the grouping of waiting room sofas and chairs upholstered in burgundy and navy striped corduroy. “Would you like some coffee?”

“No thanks. Nothing.”

She often passed up coffee now, preferring none at all to the liberally sweetened brew Carole had drunk. Sitting down in one of the armchairs, she picked up a current issue of Field and Stream and began idly thumbing through it. Mary resumed typing, as she’d been doing before Avery had come in.

This impetuous visit to Tate’s law office was chancy, but it was a desperation measure she felt she had to take or go mad. What had Carole Rutledge done all day?

Avery had been living in the ranch house for over two weeks, and she had yet to discover a single constructive activity that Tate’s wife had been involved in.

It had taken Avery several days to locate everything in her bedroom and the other rooms of the house to which she had access. She was constantly looking over her shoulder, not wanting to alert anyone to what she was doing. Eventually, she felt comfortable with the house’s layout and where everyday items were stored.

Gradually, she began to learn her way around outside, as well. She took Mandy with her on these missions so they would appear to be nothing more than innocent strolls.

Carole had driven an American sports car. To Avery’s consternation, it had a standard transmission. She wasn’t too adept at driving standard transmissions. The first few times she took the car out, she nearly gave herself whiplash and stripped all the gears.

But once she felt adequate, she invented errands that would get her out of the house. Carole’s way of life was dreadfully boring. Her routine lacked diversion and spontaneity. The ennui was making Avery Daniels crazy.

The day she had discovered an engagement calendar in a nightstand drawer, she had clutched it to her chest like a miner would a gold nugget. But a scan of its pages revealed very little except the days that Carole had had her hair and nails

done.

Avery never called for an appointment. It would be a luxury to spend several hours a week being pampered in a salon—something Avery Daniels had never had time for—but she couldn’t risk letting Carole’s hairdresser touch her hair or a manicurist her nails. They might detect giveaways that others couldn’t.