“I suppose it’s a good idea,” Kate said morosely. “God, I feel as if I’m caught in a nightmare. Listen, I’ll be home as soon—oh, no!”
“What?”
“Mrs. Stoneham just appeared in the hall outside my office. She’s clinging to Caleb’s arm and weeping. And there’s a policeman with them.”
“Looks like they found Francis,” Maggie said.
“Looks like they did. ’Bye.” The phone went dead. Maggie sat and looked at it. It did feel as if they were caught in a nightmare. But Maggie had dealt with nightmares before, and she’d deal with this one, too. In the meantime all she could do was sit tight and wait for Bud Willis to get back to her.
It had taken all her nerve, but she’d gone out and restocked the refrigerator. Kate had already done the dirty work the night before—she’d cleaned both it and the bathroom while Maggie had been hauling the steamer trunk to and fro. The newly repaired handle worked perfectly. Thank God there was no trace of the late Francis in the refrigerator—only some grapefruit marmalade that clung to the pristine white walls had escaped Kate’s eagle eye. Maggie had scrubbed it off, then refilled the fridge with every treat she could think of, from Hostess Twinkies to fresh-baked croissants, from French yogurt to chocolate milk. And then she had spent the afternoon sitting by the telephone and eating all the food she’d bought.
She still stayed away from the now-spotless guest bathroom; she’d even locked the door. Not that the room looked suspicious, although the brand-new shower curtain didn’t quite match the decor. Maggie simply couldn’t bring herself to examine the tub more closely, either, trusting in her sister’s efficiency.
She was in Kate’s bathroom, applying enough rouge to make her look cheerful, when she heard her sister return home. She raced into the hallway, about to demand what happened, when Kate’s loud voice forestalled her.
“Maggie, I’ve brought someone home with me,” she announced. “Come out and meet Stoneham Studios’ new investor while I make us some drinks.”
Damn, Maggie thought, slowing her headlong pace. Just their luck to be saddled with some star-struck magnate when they needed to make plans. “I’ll be right there,” she called, darting into her own room to slip on a pair of sandals and grimace at her reflection. The blond hair was a flyaway mane around her narrow face, and her aquamarine eyes were defiant and slightly scared. Well, all she had to do was charm the investor, and that was something she could do with only half her brain. Then they’d get rid of him as soon as possible.
The living room was in shadows—the sun was sinking behind the city skyline—and at first Maggie didn’t see their visitor. But then, over by the window looking down on the city, she saw a tall man clad in an impeccable gray suit that fit his body better than any suit had a right to. His dark hair was cut to shape his beautiful head. In fact, everything about the man who was turned away from her was perfection. But a sudden flash of horror and denial swept through her as she recognized that perfection. And she would have rather seen Francis Ackroyd propped up in the living room.
She hadn’t made a sound. Her sandaled feet were silent on the thick carpeting, and even if her heart had slammed to a stop and then began to race, there was no way he could have heard. But he turned, very slowly, and she knew he had been expecting to see her.
“Hello, Maggie,” said Randall Carter. And for the first time in six years, she looked into the still, dark eyes of the man she hated most in the world.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Somewhere she found her voice. It came out scratchy and raw, but it was there all the same. She didn’t move any closer but just stood staring. A distant part of her marveled at the fresh waves of hatred that washed over her. She wasn’t a hating woman, and yet here she was, immersed in hate, awash in it, hating Randall Carter as if it were only a week ago that he’d broken her heart and smashed her ideals without the slightest feeling of remorse. There was no remorse in him now—just a waiting, watchful expression on his narrow, clever face.
“I thought your sister told you,” he said. His low, even voice brought other memories of rage and pain. “I’m thinking of investing in Stoneham Studios. I decided to come here and check them out.”
“When did you decide? Sometime after ten this morning, I suppose?” she demanded. Willis must have sicced him on her—he must have.
Randall shook his head. “I’ve been in Chicago for three days now, Maggie.”
Kate bustled in, a tray of drinks in her slightly trembling hands. “I see you two have met,” she said brightly. “I’m so glad—I hate to make formal introductions.”
“We’ve met,” Randall said quietly, his eyes still unfathomable as they watched Maggie. “Did your sister tell you about the excitement at the studio today?”
“Excitement?” Maggie echoed innocently.
“One of my co-workers was found murdered,” Kate said, and if her voice shook slightly, that was an understandable reaction. “His name was Francis Ackroyd. I don’t think you ever met him, Maggie. Someone shot him.”
“How perfectly ghastly,” Maggie said, taking the proferred dri
nk and forcing herself to sip it lightly. She was experienced at dissembling; she was much better at it now than she’d been when she’d first known Randall. But somehow those dark eyes of his made her feel suddenly gauche and uneasy. “Do they know who did it?”
Kate shook her head. “They’ve ruled out robbery—nothing was taken from his apartment.”
“Is that where he was killed? In his apartment?”
“That’s where he was found, Maggie,” Randall said, and she told herself that she was only imagining the wealth of meaning in his slow, deep voice. She moved away and turned her back on those eyes that she hated.
There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Kate broke it with sudden chatter. “Everyone was completely freaked out, Maggie! The police were all over the place, asking questions, and Alicia Stoneham was prostrate—”
“The poor woman,” Maggie tried to interrupt her sister’s nervous spate of words. “She’s been through so much the last few years, what with losing her husband and trying to keep the studio together. She doesn’t deserve this sort of thing.”
“No one does,” Randall said. “I would think it would be harder on the victim.”
“I don’t know. At least it’s all over for the victim. He doesn’t have to deal with the horrible aftermath of violent crime. He’s well out of it.”