Fear Familiar Bundle (11 page)

"At times," he agreed. "Was there something in your office that anyone would want?"

"I don't have a clue." She thanked the student who brought over their burgers and malts. "It could be a student, as you suggested," she said, but her tone lacked conviction. "It could be the same person that broke into the research lab." Her brown eyes were suddenly worried. "Peter, it could be anyone."

"I want you to make a list. Put down the name of everyone who might wish you harm. Everyone. From petty jealousy to real dislike." With that list he could begin his own private search. Someone on it would undoubtably lead him to Evans.

"I hate this," she said, sipping the shake.

"I see you got a better offer for lunch." Betty Gillette was standing behind a rack of greeting cards near the table. She moved around it, coming to stand in front of them.

"Oh, Betty!" Eleanor flushed crimson. "I completely forgot. My office was vandalized and Peter, Dr. Curry, came over unexpectedly. In all the confusion I forgot about our lunch."

Betty shook her head. "Don't worry about it. If I had an offer from Dr. Curry, I'd have lunch with him rather than you, too." She looked at Peter. "Are you a doctor on staff, or another type of doctor?"

"Veterinarian," he answered, standing and pulling out a chair for her. "Join us."

"Not on your life," Betty said. "Eleanor and I were going to have a gab session. She said something this morning about an exciting weekend, including a visitation from— " The look of panic on Eleanor's face stopped her.

"Including what?" Peter asked. He looked from one woman to the other. Something had passed between them, some unspoken signal to withhold.

"Oh, it was a long list of things, one of them being an exciting, attractive man. I presume that was you."

"Betty, I didn't say that!" Eleanor felt her discomfort level rise sharply. She didn't need Betty's prodding to appreciate Peter's qualities, and she didn't need Peter thinking she gossiped so about him behind his back.

"I'm prone to exaggeration," Betty said.

"What exactly did Eleanor say?" he asked.

"She said she had a chaotic weekend involving a man, a cat, an attack…. That's all I remember."

Eleanor silently sighed. She'd been certain Betty was going to mention the visit from her dead husband, but she had to give the woman credit for sensitivity.

"And now an office vandalization," Betty mused. "What was it this time, a kid with a crush or a kid with an F?"

"Neither, I think," Eleanor said. "Peter made the same comment, but I can't think of any of my students who would do such a thing."

"Face it, Eleanor, you have the only students who stay at school during the Christmas holidays just to get a private appointment. That Joey kid is always bird-dogging you."

"Joey's parents are divorced, Betty. I don't suppose he really has anywhere he wants to go during the holidays."

"Deny that he has a crush on you." Betty looked at Peter. "He's no competition, but he's a nice-looking kid. And he dotes on Eleanor. He'd spend all of his time slaving at her feet, if she only gave him a wink of encouragement. But she doesn't. In fact, she doesn't even see how bad he has it for her."

"Joey finds security in talking with me," Eleanor said. "He's a decent kid with a lot of troubles. There's nothing else to it. And just to set the record straight, he was with me this morning when I found my office in such a mess, and he was as shocked as I was."

"Okay, okay." Betty backed away from the table. "I rest my case, Eleanor. You'll go to your grave defending that kid. And you're probably right. But just remember, all of our little clients aren't decent children from loving homes. Some of them are the same people who grow up to be criminals and weirdos."

"Are you sure you won't join us for lunch?" Peter asked. He felt the tension between the women and wanted a chance to explore it.

"Listen, you guys, I'd love to stay, but I have an appointment. Some guy named Rousel has been bugging me for two days to find time to talk with him."

"Rousel?" Eleanor repeated, looking at Peter.

"Yeah. And I'm going to meet him. I've finally found someone who's interested in talking to me about my work."

"What does he do for a living?" Eleanor asked.

"You know, it seems like he said, but I don't remember. Why? Do you know him?"

"Maybe," Eleanor answered. She hesitated, then added, "He may be with the CIA, if he's the same man."

Betty grew so pale that her freckles stood out like measles, Eleanor noted. "The CIA? Why would he want to talk with me?"

"There was a break-in at a laboratory around here somewhere." Eleanor spoke carefully. She didn't want to frighten her friend needlessly, but did want her to be alert. "A cat was stolen. And before you ask, it may be the cat I have, Familiar. I'm not giving him back." She met Betty's gaze.

"I don't know a damn thing about any cats," Betty said quickly. "That's your business. But why would he want to talk to me?" she asked as her color returned.

"He may ask you some questions about Eleanor," Peter said.

"Yes, it seems I may be a suspect in a case of something very close to treason."

Eleanor bent to the waist and rewrapped the towel around her damp hair. The hot bath had soaked away some of the tension that knotted her shoulders, but it was returning now. She dialed the number for the third time in an hour.

Betty Gillette didn't answer— hadn't answered all afternoon. Eleanor felt a vague sense of unrest. Betty had gone to talk to Alva Rousel and seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth.

Picking up the receiver again, Eleanor started to dial, then stopped midway. She depressed the switch and held the receiver to her ear. She'd debated the wisdom of cracking open the wounds of her past, had indeed fought against taking such action. Now it was time. She dialed long-distance information. The vision of her ex-husband in the parking garage had goaded her into formulating a plan.

In the light of afternoon she didn't believe her husband had returned from the dead, but she was going to find out whatever was going on with Carter Wells or his memory— without involving Peter. Carter's friends had always been rough. Far too rough.

"
Denver Post Chronicle
, please," she responded to the operator's inquiry.

"That number is 555-6968," a recorded voice informed her.

She wrote the number on a pad. Her hand was shaking as she replaced the phone. She tried to block out the next memory, but it filled her mind. A puddle of fluid on the carport floor. It was after Carter's car had gone over the side of the mountain that the police had found the brake fluid leak.

"A tiny nick in the line. The fluid leaking out drop by drop…" She could still hear the officer's voice, so calm, so rational. She shook her hair free of the towel and began to brush it out. With each long stroke she tried to put the past behind her.

Was there a future with Peter? She pulled the bristles through her hair and focused on him. He was someone who cared. There was an undeniable attraction between them. She felt it every time he stepped into the room, each time she thought about him. She responded to him with awakening desire. With his touch he'd rekindled the old fire that smoldered just beneath her skin.

Pushing her wet hair away from her face, she dialed the Colorado number and asked for the news desk. At first her voice faltered, but as she continued to talk, she grew more self-possessed. The reporter on the other end listened attentively, and with no small degree of sympathy, as far as she could tell.

"I remember the case," Adeline Valentino said. "It was my opinion that the police didn't try very hard to solve the murder."

"Carter's death wasn't exactly a blow to the social fabric of the nation," Eleanor said, unable to cover the bitterness. "I know it's an odd request, but could you send me copies of the clippings involving the car crash?"

"We really aren't supposed to do that," the reporter said, "but I'll do it this afternoon, on my time. But first you have to answer a question."

"Okay?"

"Is there some reason I might be interested in these clips myself?"

Eleanor paused. "Not at this time. But you have my word, if it turns out that you might be interested, I'll give you a call."

"It's a deal," Adeline said. "I'll post them to you overnight."

"Thanks." Eleanor replaced the phone. She never would have believed she'd want to read the newspaper accounts of her husband's death and subsequent exposure as a gambling crook. When she'd left Colorado nine years before, she'd burned every scrap of paper, every item that might link her to her ex-husband.

With the small victory at the newspaper behind her, Eleanor got the number for the Denver police. She'd talked to a Sergeant Kleaton on the day her husband died. So when the phone was answered, she asked for him.

"Kleaton here," he answered, sounding just as bored and routine as he had nine years before.

Eleanor explained her call. "Would it be possible for me to get a copy of the death certificate?"

"Let me check," he said.

As the minutes ticked by, Eleanor's sense of accomplishment began to slip from her. Something was wrong. The sergeant was taking far too long.

"The state granted a death certificate on Carter Brett Wells, but there was no actual coroner's examination of the body."

"I know," Eleanor responded. "But there was proof that he died. Solid proof. Right?"

"The car at the bottom of a ravine, the explosion. That's pretty solid, but all circumstantial. It's like the air disasters. When there's no way to reclaim the bodies, the presumption of death is based on circumstantial evidence." There was a pause. "Nine years is a long time to wait to get curious about your husband's death, isn't it?"

"Sergeant, did you ever suspect that Carter might be involved in something more than gambling?"

There was a longer pause. "Mrs. Wells, I don't know what you're trying to imply. Maybe it would be better if you brought your questions here in person, or had your local police department call me."

She could hear the suspicion in his voice and tried to allay it. "There's really nothing to investigate. It's just that I— thought I saw someone who looked exactly like my dead husband. I guess my imagination got away with me and I started thinking. I never saw a body. I just wanted to be sure."

"Well, if Carter Wells was in that car, you can be sure that he's a dead man. No one could have survived that crash. No one. And looking at the file here, the searchers did find a shoe you positively identified as your husband's." There was a note of pity in the policeman's voice. "Listen, Mrs. Wells, take my advice and put this behind you. I remember you. Just a kid. Your husband wasn't the nicest guy in the world. No point rattling bones where he's concerned."

"You're right," Eleanor said. "But just the same, I'd like a copy of the death certificate."

Sergeant Kleaton chuckled. "You said you were a college professor now, eh. Well, that sounds like thorough research. I'll see if I can't arrange to have one mailed to you." He took down her address. "By the way, what type of trouble was your husband supposed to be hooked up with?"

Eleanor hesitated. The CIA agent had spoken in strictest confidence. But was telling another law officer a violation? Certainly not after nine years.

"Something called Code One Orange."

"Never heard of it," Kleaton said. "But then working a homicide beat, I'm not often thrown into activities with official code names. Mostly I get the day-to-day criminals."

"Thanks for your help," Eleanor said. As she replaced the receiver, she didn't know if she felt relieved or more concerned. Sergeant Kleaton seemed to have no doubt that Carter had died.
If he was in the car.

In all of the time that had passed, she'd never doubted that. Now she couldn't leave it alone.

Her hair was almost dry now, as she stroked the brush through it several times until it fell in a soft tumble of curls to her shoulders. Still feeling bleak, she picked up her address book and turned to the back page. There were two numbers listed, both without names beside them. She discounted the first, her parents', and finally dialed the second. Rayburn Smith. Carter's best friend from grammar school. When she and Carter had moved to Colorado, Rayburn had moved with them. He and Carter had been inseparable.

"Rayburn Smith, Sundial Sales."

The familiar voice sent a pang through Eleanor. She'd never been close to Rayburn, but his friendship with Carter had been one of the few instances where she'd seen her husband demonstrate any lasting integrity. He and Rayburn had stuck together through thick and thin. Mostly thin, and mostly slightly illegal schemes.

"Rayburn, this is Eleanor."

"Eleanor?" Rayburn's voice rose an octave. "Of all the people I expected to hear from, you'd never be one."

"I know. I'm calling to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."

"After nine years, what could I mind about?" Rayburn said, "Unless you've decided to work for the IRS. Then I might get a little anxious. How are you?"

"I'm fine. I've started a new life and things are going well for me."

"I don't guess you could say that when you were with Carter. He never did treat you right, Eleanor. I told him, more than once. It was something I never understood about him. He was a good friend to me, but a terrible husband."

"He was a good friend to you. It's one of the best things I remember about him," Eleanor agreed.

"What kind of questions did you want to ask?"

She couldn't be certain, but there seemed to be complete openness in Rayburn's voice.

"Did you know any of Carter's associates in the last few weeks of his life? I mean, some of the people he might have had business with?"

"You mean who wanted to cut his brake line and kill him? I never thought finding out that information was very important to you."

"It wasn't. Until now." She was shocked that Rayburn had thought of Carter's death as a murder all of these years. She'd never considered it. The leak had always been accidental— in
her
mind.