Charade (7 page)

Chapter Eleven

November 1993

I didn't even ring the doorbell." "I heard your car." Cat moved aside, silently inviting Dean to come in, then turned and led him into the living room of her house in Malibu. Three Emmy awards were displayed on a shelf built especially for them. The stark white walls were decorated with framed magazine covers on which she had appeared. It was a personal room and gave the impression of warmth and coziness despite its high cathedral ceiling and tall windows. The house was a contemporary structure perched on a precipice, connected to the beach by wooden steps that zigzagged down the steep, rocky slope. The fire in the fireplace relieved the chill of the overcast day. Beyond the wall of windows overlooking the Pacific, the view was monochromatic, the horizon undetectable. The water was the same dull gray as the low-hanging clouds. Even during the most inclement weather, Cat loved the seascape her house afforded. The ocean never failed to amaze her. Each time she looked at it, she felt as if she were seeing it for the first time. Its

incessant rhythm filled her with awe, mystified her, and made her feel insignificant compared to such elemental impetus. Recently, she'd taken many long walks along the shore. She'd spent hours gazing out over the waves, weighing her options, searching for answers in the surging surf. "Would you like something to drink?" she asked. "Nothing, thanks." She returned to the deep easy chair where she'd cast off an afghan when she'd heard the approach of his car. On the end table beside her were a cup of herbal tea and a high-intensity reading lamp focused on her lap. Dean sat across from her. "What's that?" "Rough drafts for scripts. Each writer on staff submitted an idea as to the fate of Laura Madison. They're all very good, and very sad. Rather than knocking her off, I urged them to hire another actress to continue the part." She sighed and ran her fingers through her unruly curls. "But they're adamant about writing her out." "There isn't another actress alive who could play that role," Dean said. "You've ruined it for anybody else. Meryl Streep couldn't handle it. You are Laura Madison." She recognized in his features signs of frustration and anxiety that would be invisible to anyone who didn't know him well. She was responsible for his unhappiness, and that bothered her tremendously. "Well, it's official, isn't it?" he said. "Entertainment Tonight broke the story yesterday. You're leaving Passages. Effective when your contract runs out, shortly after the first of the year, I understand." She nodded, but said nothing. The wind buffeted the glass walls as though trying to snuff out the candles on the mantel. She threaded the fringe of the afghan through her fingers. When she looked up, Dean was gazing out the window, his expression as turbulent as the surf. "How much did Bill Webster factor in to your decision?" She was slow to respond. "WWSA is his television station." "That's not what I'm asking." "If you're implying that our relationship is anything other than professional, you couldn't be more wrong. I have flaws, Dean, but lying isn't one of them. If anything, I'm too honest for my own good.

Furthermore, Bill is very happily married to a woman who is as attractive and charming as he." His features remained taut. "In a desperate attempt to understand why you're turning your back on your career, everything you've worked for, I've looked at your decision from every angle. Naturally it occurred to me that a romance might factor in." "It doesn't," she said emphatically. "The Websters have six children. They also had a daughter who died several years ago. She was their firstborn. They took her death very hard. "I haven't been entirely happy with my life for a long while. But it wasn't until Bill told me about his daughter--this was about six months ago--that I knew I had to make a fresh start. Life's too precious to waste a single day. "That evening, Bill and I had a very earnest and honest talk about the loss of their daughter, and before I realized it, I was telling him about my childhood. I told him how it felt to be orphaned, to become a ward of the state, to be shunted between foster homes, never quite fitting in. "That turned the conversation to an enormously successful program that he'd seen implemented in several major cities, where children who need adoptive parents are featured during the news broadcasts. He expressed an interest in beginning one at WWSA as a community service. That's when I began to see a new start for myself. "I didn't mean to shut you out, Dean. Countless times, I wanted to bounce the idea off you, but I knew you couldn't be objective. Nor could you grasp my reasons for wanting--needing--to do this." She laughed softly. "I'm not sure I grasp them myself. But I feel them. Intensely. I wrestled with them, tried to evade them, but they got their hooks in me and wouldn't let go. The more I thought about the outreach this program could have, the more excited I became. "I thought back to all the times I was rejected for adoption because of my age, my sex, my medical history. Even my red hair was a deterrent, it seems. "There are so many children with special problems who don't have loving parents. They began to haunt me, Dean. I couldn't sleep for hearing them crying in the darkness, lonely and afraid and feeling

unloved." She gave him a sad smile. "I've got to do something for those kids. It's that simple." "I admire your philanthropic spirit, Cat. If you want to adopt a kid, more than one, I'm perfectly willing." She laughed outright. "Oh, I can just see that! Dean, get real, okay? You're a brilliant physician, but you lack the flexibility necessary to parenting." "If it meant the difference between having you and not--" "It doesn't. Believe me, if I thought a judge would award me--a single heart transplantee--a child, I'd already have one. But this isn't about my adopting. Cat's Kids is about convincing other people to adopt." "Cat's Kids?" "Nancy Webster's idea. Like it?" "It's real . . . catchy." She wished he could share her enthusiasm, but he considered the whole idea preposterous. "Cat, do you really want to ... demote yourself this way? Leave your career and move to Texas?" "It'll be different," she conceded with a chuckle. "Couldn't you just sponsor the program, be the official spokesperson, without having to become personally involved?" "Be a figurehead, you mean?" "Something like that." "That would be counterfeit. If my name's attached, it's my baby. It'll be a hands-on project all the way." She regarded him sadly. "Besides, I don't view this as a 'demotion.' To my mind, I'm not taking a step backward, but several steps forward. I expect overwhelming rewards." Restless with excitement, she tossed aside the afghan and left the chair. "This is the part that you won't get." Turning to face him, she splayed her hand over her chest. "I'm doing this because I can't live with myself if I don't." "You're right," he said, also coming to his feet. "I don't get it. You had a tough childhood. But who the hell didn't? Ozzie and Harriet was a fairy tale, Cat. In real life, every damn one of us grows up feeling unloved."

"Yes! Especially if your mom and dad choose death over living with you!" His angry retort was held in check. He looked at her with puzzlement. "Suicide? You told me your parents were killed in an accident." "Well, they weren't." She now regretted blurting out the nasty truth of her parents' demise because he was looking at her with the same mix of fascination and horror as the social workers had always regarded skinny, redheaded, recalcitrant little Catherine Delaney. "That's when I learned to crack jokes instead of cry. I had to become either a wit or a basket case. So don't pity me, Dean. It was a bad scene when it happened, but it made me strong, gave me enough grit to survive a heart transplant. I hope you can understand why I must do this. "I know firsthand what it's like to be set apart from other children. If your parents are dead, or you're disabled, or poor, you're discriminated against. Those disadvantages make a kid an oddball. And you know as well as I do that if you're different, you're out. Period. "Hundreds of thousands of kids are hurting, Dean. They have problems we can't imagine. Just getting through the day represents a challenge. They can't play, learn, or interact with other children because they're too burdened with being abused or orphaned or sick or any combination of the above. "There are families that are capable and willing to even the odds for these children, if only they knew how to go about it. I'm going to help match the two. It's a challenge I welcome. It's given me purpose. I believe this is why I was given a second life." He groaned. "Don't go philosophical on me, Cat. You were given a second life because medical technology made it possible." "You've got your interpretation, I've got mine," she said. "All I know is that there should be some payback for my good fortune. Being a TV star, making lots of money, always being surrounded by the beautiful people--that's not what life's about. Not my life anyway. I want more. And by more, I don't mean more money and fame. I want something real." She reached for his hands and clasped them. "You're invaluable to me. You were a stalwart friend during the most difficult period of

my life. I love and admire you. I'm going to miss you like crazy. But you can't continue being my safety net." "I'd rather be your husband." "Romance and marriage don't fit into the picture right now. What I'm going to do deserves my full-time attention. Please give me your blessing and wish me well." He stared into her pleading eyes for several long moments. Eventually he smiled regretfully. "I'm certain that you'll make Cat's Kids an overnight success. You've got the talent, the ambition, and the know-how to achieve anything you want." "I appreciate your vote of confidence." "However," he added sternly, "I'm a sore loser. I still think Bill Webster has dazzled you with his rhetoric about public service programming. It's too bad about his daughter, but I think he took advantage of your sympathy to lure you to his TV station. "With you there, his ratings will soar, and he damn well knows it. I doubt his interest in this project is entirely altruistic. My guess is that you'll learn he's fallible, as human and self-serving as the rest of us." "Bill has given me an opportunity," she said. "But he's not the reason for my decision. His motives have nothing to do with mine. I wanted to make a change in my life. If it wasn't Cat's Kids it would be something else." Dean declined to comment. Instead, he said, "My guess is that you'll come to miss me and your life here so much that you'll soon return." He stroked her cheek. "When you do, I'll be waiting for you." "Please don't hold out for that." "One of these days, you'll come around. In the meantime, I'll do as you ask and wish you well."

Chapter twelve

January 1994

The clock on the desk was old-fashioned, with a round, white face and large, black, Arabic numbers. It had a red second hand that ticked off every second with a rhythmic click, remindful of a heartbeat. The cover of the scrapbook was made of imitation leather, but it was a good imitation, with a realistic grain. Heavy and solid, the volume felt good against the palms that caressed it as one would a pet. In a way it was just that--a pet. A friend who could be trusted to keep secrets. Something to coddle, to play with during idle moments, or when one felt the need for comfort and companionship. And unqualified approval. The pages of the volume were filled with newspaper clippings. Many gave an account of young Jerry Ward's life, his valiant struggle with a congenital heart defect, his transplant and recovery, and finally his untimely accidental death by drowning. Such a tragedy, after all the teen had been through. Then there was the grandmother in Florida. She'd been eulogized

by friends and family who were devastated by her unexpected death. The woman seemingly had not had a single enemy in her life. Everyone loved her. Following her transplant, her cardiologist said that her prognosis was good. She would likely have lived for many more years if not for that shard of glass that had pierced her lung when she fell through the patio door while watering a Boston fern. And of all days for such a hideous accident to occur--the second anniversary of her transplant. A page in the volume was turned. Memory lane led to October 10, 1993. Three months ago. Another state. Another city. Another heart recipient. Another ghastly accident. Messy, that business with the chain saw. Bad idea. But he'd been an outdoors type, so ... The mission had one glaring flaw--there was no way of knowing exactly when it was accomplished. It might have been already, with Jerry Ward's death, or with one of the other two. But the mission couldn't be assumed completed until all the possible recipients had been eliminated. Only then would it be certain that the heart and the spirit of the loved one had been reunited. The scrapbook was closed reverently. The back cover received a loving pat before the volume was gently laid in the desk drawer and locked away from prying eyes. Not that there would be any. No one was ever invited here. Before the drawer was locked, a thick, bulging manila envelope was removed. The metal clasp was worked open and the contents spread across the desk. Each article, photograph, and clipping had been carefully labeled to facilitate study. Every fact contained in this treasure trove of information had been memorized and analyzed. Known were her height, weight, dress size, likes and dislikes, religious preference, favorite fragrance, pet peeves, California driver's license number, Social Security number, political affiliations, ring size, and the telephone number of the maid service that cleaned her house in Malibu. It had taken months to compile the information, but it was amazing how much could be learned about a person when one's time was devoted solely to that undertaking. Of course, because she was a celebrity, there was much to be learned from the media, although the reliability of that information was sometimes questionable. Tabloids

weren't always accurate, so "facts" garnered from them had to be verified. Interesting, this change of heart she'd had recently. She was leaving her fabulous life in Hollywood for what appeared to be charity work in San Antonio, Texas. Cat Delaney would be an intriguing person to get to know. And a real challenge to kill.

Chapter Thirteen

May 1994

"Say, this might sound crazy, but, well, I've been sitting in that booth over there, looking at you and thinking I know you from somewhere. All of a sudden it hit me like a ton of bricks. Aren't you Alex Pearson?" "No." "You sure?" "Positive." "Damn. I could've sworn you were him. You look just like him. The writer, you know? Wrote that crime novel that everybody's reading? You're a dead ringer." This had gone on long enough. Alex stuck out his right hand. "Alex Pierce." "Hot damn! I knew it was you! Recognized you from the picture on the back of your book. Lester Dobbs is the name." The friendly stranger pumped his hand enthusiastically. "Pleased to meet you, Alex. Is it all right for me to call you Alex?" "Of course." Without invitation, Dobbs slid into the booth across from Alex.