Death Wears a Beauty Mask and Other Stories (20 page)

“Eight o'clock. Ned will be with her.”

“Fine. Willy will go with you. He'll be on the floor in the backseat of the car. For a big man he sure can roll himself into a beach ball. He'll keep an eye on you. They certainly won't try anything in that house. It would be too risky. Next to Willy, my sunburst pin is my greatest treasure,” she said. “I'll show you how to use it.”

Throughout the afternoon, Alvirah coached Cynthia on what to say to her stepsister. “She's got to be the one who put up the money for the restaurant. Probably through some sham investment companies. Tell her unless she pays up, you're going to contact a top accountant you know who used to work for the government.”

“She knows I don't have any money.”

“She doesn't know who might have taken an interest in your case. That fellow who did the program on women in prison did, right?”

“Yes. Jeff took an interest.”

Alvirah's eyes narrowed, then sparked. “Something between you and Jeff?”

“If I'm exonerated for Stuart Richards's death, yes. If I'm not,
there'll never be anything between Jeff and me or anyone else and me.”

•  •  •

At six o'clock the phone rang again. Alvirah said, “I'll answer. Let them know I'm here with you.” Her booming “Hello” was followed by a warm greeting. “Jeff, we were just talking about you. Cynthia is right here. My, what a pretty girl. You should see her new outfit. She's been telling me all about you. Wait. I'll put her on.”

Alvirah frankly listened in as Cynthia explained, “Alvirah rents the next cottage. She's helping me. . . . No, I'm not coming back. . . . Yes, there is a reason to stay here. Tonight just maybe I'll be able to get proof I wasn't guilty of Stuart's death. . . . No, don't come down. I don't want to see you, Jeff, not now. . . . Jeff, yes, yes, I love you. . . . Yes, if I clear my name, I'll marry you.”

When Cynthia hung up she was close to tears. “Alvirah, I want to have a life with him so much. You know what he just said? He quoted ‘The Highwayman.' He said, ‘I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.' ”

“I like him,” Alvirah said flatly. “I can read a person from his voice on the phone. Is he coming tonight? I don't want you getting upset or being talked out of this.”

“No. He's been made anchorman for the ten o'clock news. But I bet anything he drives down tomorrow.”

“We'll see about that. The more people in this, the more chance of having Ned and Lillian smell a rat.” Alvirah glanced out the window. “Oh, look, here comes Willy. Stars above, he caught more of those darn bluefish. They gave me heartburn, but I'd never tell him. Whenever he goes fishing I keep a package of Tums in my pocket. Oh, well.”

She opened the door and waved over a beaming Willy, who was proudly holding a line from which two limp bluefish dangled forlornly.
Willy's smile vanished as he took in Alvirah's bright red mop of unruly hair and the purple print dress that squeezed her body into rolls of flesh. “Aw, nuts,” he said. “How come they took back the lottery money?”

•  •  •

At seven-thirty, after having dined on Willy's latest catch, Alvirah placed a cup of tea in front of Cynthia. “You haven't eaten a thing,” she said. “You've got to eat to keep your brain clear. Now, have you got it all straight?”

Cynthia fingered the sunburst pin. “I think so. It seems clear.”

“Remember, money had to have changed hands between those two—and I don't care how clever they were, it can be traced. If they agree to pay you, offer to come down in price if they'll give you the satisfaction of admitting the truth. Got it?”

“Got it.”

At seven-fifty Cynthia drove down the winding lane with Willy on the floor of the backseat. The brilliantly sunny day had turned into a cloudy evening. Alvirah walked through the cottage to the back deck. Wind was whipping the bay into a frenzy of waves that slammed onto the beach. The rumbling of thunder could be heard in the distance. The temperature had plummeted, and suddenly it felt more like October than August. Shivering, she debated about going next door to her own cottage and getting a sweater, then decided against it. In case anyone phoned, she wanted to be right here.

She made a second cup of tea for herself and settled at the dinette table, her back to the door leading from the deck. Then she began writing a first draft of the article she was sure she would be sending to the
New York Globe.
Satisfied, she read aloud what she had written. “ ‘Cynthia Lathem, who was nineteen years old when she was sentenced to a term of twelve years in prison for a murder she did not commit, can now prove her innocence. . . .' ”

From behind her a voice said, “Oh, I don't think that's going to happen.”

Alvirah swiveled around and stared up into the angry face of Ned Creighton.

•  •  •

Cynthia waited on the porch steps of the Richards mansion. Through the handsome mahogany door she could hear the faint sound of chimes. She had the incongruous thought that she still had her own key to this place, and she wondered if Lillian had changed the locks.

The door swung open. Lillian was standing in the wide hallway, light from the overhead Tiffany lamp accentuating her high cheekbones, wide blue eyes, silvery blond hair. Cynthia felt a chill race through her body. In these twelve years, Lillian had become a clone of Stuart Richards. Smaller of course. Younger, but still a feminine version of his outstanding looks. And with that same hint of cruelty around the eyes.

“Come in, Cynthia.” Lillian's voice hadn't changed. Clear, well-bred, but with that familiar sharp, angry undertone that had always characterized Stuart Richards's speech.

Silently, Cynthia followed Lillian down the hallway. The living room was dimly lighted. It looked very much as she remembered it. The placement of the furniture, the Oriental carpets, the painting over the fireplace—all were the same. The baronial dining room on the left still had the same unused appearance. They'd usually eaten in the small dining room off the library.

She had expected that Lillian would take her to the library. Instead, Lillian went directly back to the study where Stuart had died. Cynthia narrowed her lips, felt for the sunburst pin. Was this an attempt to intimidate her? she wondered.

Lillian sat behind the massive desk.

Cynthia thought again of the night she'd come into this room
and found Stuart sprawled on the carpet beside that desk. She knew her hands were clammy. Perspiration was forming on her forehead. Outside she could hear the wind wailing as it increased in velocity. Lillian folded her hands and looked up at Cynthia.

“You might as well sit down.”

Cynthia bit her lip. The rest of her life would be determined by what she said in these next minutes. “I think I'm the one who should suggest the seating arrangements,” she told Lillian. “Your father did leave this house to me. When you phoned, you talked about a settlement. Don't play games now. And don't try to intimidate me. Prison took all the shyness out of me, I promise you that. Where is Ned?”

“He'll be along any minute. Cynthia, those accusations you made to him are insane. You know that.”

“I thought I came here to discuss receiving my share of Stuart's estate.”

“You came here because I'm sorry for you and because I want to give you a chance to go away somewhere and begin a new life. I'm prepared to set up a trust fund that will give you a monthly income. Another woman wouldn't be so generous to her father's murderer.”

Cynthia stared at Lillian, taking in the contempt in her eyes, the icy calm of her demeanor. She had to break that calm. She walked over to the window and looked out. The rain was beating against the house. Claps of thunder shattered the silence in the room. “I wonder what Ned would have done to keep me out of the house that night if it had been raining like this,” she said. “The weather worked out for him, didn't it? Warm and cloudy. No other boats nearby. Only that one witness, and now I've found her. Didn't Ned tell you that she positively identified him?”

“How many people would believe that anyone could recognize a stranger after nearly thirteen years? Cynthia, I don't know whom you've hired for this charade, but I'm warning you—drop it. Accept
my offer, or I'll call the police and have you arrested for harassment. Don't forget it's very easy to get a criminal's parole revoked.”

“A
criminal's
parole. I agree. But I'm not a criminal, and you know it.” Cynthia walked over to the Jacobean armoire and pulled open the top drawer. “I knew Stuart kept a gun here. But you certainly knew too. You claimed he had never told you that he'd changed his will and was leaving the Dartmouth half of his estate to me. But you were lying. If Stuart sent for me to tell me about his will, he certainly didn't hide what he was doing from you.”

“He did
not
tell me. I hadn't seen him for three months.”

“You may not have
seen
him, but you spoke to him, didn't you? You could have put up with Dartmouth getting half his fortune but couldn't stand the idea of splitting his money with me. You hated me for the years I lived in this house, for the fact that he liked me, while you two always clashed. You've got that same vile temper he had.”

Lillian stood up. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

Cynthia slammed the drawer shut. “Oh, yes, I do. And every fact that convicted me will convict you. I had a key to this house. You had a key. There was no sign of a struggle. I don't think you sent anyone to murder him. I think you did it yourself. Stuart had a panic button on his desk. He didn't push it. He never thought his own daughter would harm him. Why did Ned just
happen
to stop by that afternoon? You knew Stuart had invited me here for the weekend. You knew that he'd encourage me to go out with Ned. Stuart liked company and then he liked to be alone. Maybe Ned hasn't made it clear to you. That witness I found keeps a diary. She showed it to me. She's been writing in it every night since she was twenty. There was no way that entry could have been doctored. She described me. She described Ned's car. She even wrote about the noisy kids on line and how impatient everyone was with them.”

I'm getting to her, Cynthia thought. Lillian's face was pale. Her throat was closing convulsively. Deliberately, Cynthia walked back
to the desk so that the sunburst pin was pointed directly at Lillian. “You played it smart, didn't you?” she asked. “Ned didn't start pouring money into that restaurant until after I was safely in prison. And I'm sure that on the surface he has some respectable investors. But today the government is awfully good at getting to the source of laundered money.
Your
money, Lillian.”

“You'll never prove it.” But Lillian's voice had become shrill.

Oh God, if I can just get her to admit it, Cynthia thought. She grasped the edge of the desk with both hands and leaned forward. “Possibly not. But don't take the chance. Let me tell you how it feels to be fingerprinted and handcuffed. How it feels to sit next to a lawyer and hear the district attorney accuse you of murder. How it feels to study the faces of the jury. Jurors are ordinary-looking people. Old. Young. Black. White. Well dressed. Shabby. But they hold the rest of your life in their hands. And, Lillian, you won't like it. The waiting. The damning evidence that fits you much more than it ever fitted me. You don't have the temperament or the guts to go through with it.”

Lillian stood up. Her face was frozen in hatred. “Bear in mind there were a lot of taxes when the estate was settled. A good lawyer could probably destroy your so-called witness, but I don't need the scandal. Yes, I'll give you your half.” Then she smiled.

•  •  •

“You should have stayed in Arizona,” Ned Creighton said to Alvirah. The gun he was holding was pointed at her chest. Alvirah sat at the dinette table, measuring her chances to escape. There were none. He had believed her story this afternoon, and now he had to kill her. Alvirah had the fleeting thought that she'd always known she would have made a wonderful actress. Should she warn Ned her husband would be home any minute? No. At the restaurant she'd told him she was a widow. How long would Willy and Cynthia be? Too long. Lillian wouldn't let Cynthia go until she was sure there was no witness
alive, but maybe if Alvirah kept him talking, she'd think of something. “How much did you get for your part in the murder?” she asked.

Ned Creighton smiled, a thin sneering movement of his mouth. “Three million. Just enough to start a classy restaurant.”

Alvirah mourned the fact that she had lent her sunburst pin to Cynthia. Proof. Absolute, positive proof, and she wasn't able to record it. And if anything happened to her, no one would know. Mark my words, she thought. If I get out of this, I'm going to have Charley Evans get me a backup pin. Maybe that one should be silver. No, platinum.

Creighton waved his pistol. “Get up.”

Alvirah pushed back the chair, leaned her hands on the table. The sugar bowl was in front of her. Did she dare throw it at him? She knew her aim was good, but a gun was faster than a sugar bowl.

“Go into the living room.” As she walked around the table, Creighton reached over, grabbed her notes and the beginning of her article and stuffed them in his pocket.

There was a wooden rocking chair next to the fireplace. Creighton pointed to it. “Sit down right there.”

Alvirah sat down heavily. Ned's gun was still trained on her. If she tipped the rocker forward and landed on him, could she get away from him? Creighton reached for a narrow key dangling from the mantel. Leaning over, he inserted it in a cylinder in one of the bricks and turned it. The hissing sound of gas spurted from the fireplace. He straightened up. From the matchbox on the mantel he extracted a long safety match, scratched it on the box, blew out the flame and tossed the match onto the hearth. “It's getting cold,” he said. “You decided to light a fire. You turned on the gas jet. You threw in a match, but it didn't take. When you bent down to turn off the jet and start again, you lost your balance and fell. Your head struck the mantel and you lost consciousness. A terrible accident for such a nice woman. Cynthia will be very upset when she finds you.”