Past Tense (11 page)

“You don’t, because you don’t need the money. You have your grandmother’s trust fund.”

“I suppose so. But it still doesn’t wash. The policies wouldn’t activate until we married. So your little theories don’t hold water.”

“Um-hmm.” Tony leaned back, closing his eyes. “Some of them might.”

“But we never married.”

Tony’s eyes popped open, their gaze hard and probing. “Are you sure?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’d done all the legal stuff, purchased the license and so forth. What would stop Bennett from forging a certificate? He could have told all your friends that he was meeting you in Reno or someplace, then come back with a marriage certificate. No one ever asks to look at those things, anyway.”

She glared at him. “You’ve got a sick mind. How would he explain the fact that I’m not living with him?”

“Easy. You used to travel a lot. He could say you had a job somewhere. Samantha, you have to face facts. There’s something going on and you’re in danger. Since I don’t think you’ve made enemies here, it’s logical to assume Bennett’s behind it, especially in view of what you saw before you left. He must have gone crazy trying to figure out why you’d walked out without leaving a forwarding address.”

Samantha clenched her fists, anger burgeoning up inside her. Murder. Bennett wasn’t a murderer. An accomplice, perhaps, but if there was no murder, he wasn’t even that.

“I was engaged to the man. He wouldn’t try to kill me.”

“Greed and desperation change people.”

“Not that much.” She got up from the chair and marched across the room to his desk. “And just to prove it I’ll phone Aunt Olivia first, before I try James again.”

“Be my guest,” Tony muttered.

She took the telephone receiver that he held out, making sure she didn’t touch his hand in the process. Tony sighed. “I didn’t do anything. I’m just trying to help you figure it out.”

She dialed the numbers, waiting while the various beeps and buzzes played themselves out. The phone rang at the other end.

On the twelfth ring a female voice answered. “Olivia Smith’s residence.”

“Oh.” Sam was momentarily taken aback. Her aunt rarely allowed her housekeeper to answer the phone. “Is Olivia there please?”

“I’m sorry. Miss Smith is on holiday in London.”

London. Sam managed to stammer a thank you and hung up. Hiding her consternation from Tony, she smiled shakily. “She’s not there. I’ll try James now.”

“Michaels here.” His voice was low and stern, as if he resented being disturbed at home.

“Hello, James,” Samantha said. “How are you?”

“Samantha! Where have you been? All these months. I could understand your wanting a holiday, but you’ve been gone so long and we hadn’t heard anything. I was about to hire a private detective.”

Alarmed, she frowned. The company had always gotten along fine without her. And the statements from Mr. Collins each month had assured her that the quarterly dividends were being credited to her account. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing, except that Bennett’s been going crazy. He was frantic when you left. We were quite concerned.”

“I’m sorry. Tell Bennett I’m sorry, too.”

“It’ll have to wait. He’s gone on a business trip, to Europe.”

A chill slithered up her spine. Sickness rose like acid in her throat. “Where in Europe?” She could hardly force the words past her chattering teeth.

“London. Samantha, are you all right? You sound strange.”

“Yes, I’m all right.” She shut out the horrifying thoughts that thundered through her head.

“Will you be coming home, Samantha?” James asked with sincere concern.

“I’m not sure what my plans are yet. ‘Bye, James.”

“Well?” Tony asked when she sat down, her eyes blank as she stared into space. He clenched his hands on the arms of the chair in order to restrain his impulse to go to her, to take her into his arms. But he knew whatever it was, she would tell him when she was ready.

“Bennett’s here.”

“Here?”

“Here in London. Tony, that means he could have done all those things, if he knew where I was.”

“How long has he been here?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about Robert Dubray? If they had dealings in the past—” With a decisive set to his jaw, Tony got up from his chair.

At the mention of Dubray’s name, a new and unwelcome thought struck Sam. “I wonder if Bennett is staying here, too.” She shivered. Could he have been that close without her knowledge? Perhaps he’d seen her in the lobby, and traced her that way, a dreadful coincidence.

Standing by the desk, Tony called the front desk. “Parker, get me the number of Robert Dubray’s room. And also find out if a Bennett Price is a guest in the hotel.” Brief pause. “Yes, I’ll hold.”

A moment later he hung up. “Price isn’t registered. Dubray is in 517. He’s had quite few meetings, Parker tells me, even a party one night that had the people in the surrounding rooms complaining about the noise.”

He took her hand, pulling her to her feet. “Come on, let’s see if Mr. Dubray is in.”

“Shouldn’t you check first?” Bennett wasn’t there. Relief made her light-headed.

“No, I’d rather surprise him.”

They rode down to the fifth floor. The paneled corridor was quiet during the early evening hour as people dressed for dinner or a night out on the town.

Halfway to 517 Tony stopped, laying his hand on Sam’s arm. “Would Dubray know you?”

Sam shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. Even if he’d seen a picture of me, my hair is different now. And we’ve never met.”

“Then how did you know who he was?”

“He ran for mayor once. His picture was all over the city.”

Tony looked interested. “Oh, really? Before or after he got into City Planning?”

“During. Planning isn’t a political position. If he’d won, he would have resigned. He ran as an independent.”

“Oh.” Tony chewed this over in his mind as they continued to the end of the hall.

Dubray answered the door on the first knock. He must have been getting ready to go out as he wore dress pants with suspenders over a white shirt. A red tie hung loosely from his starched collar. He gave no sign of recognition as he ran his eyes over first Samantha and then Tony.

“Yes?” His French-Canadian accent was barely noticeable. “May I help you?”

“I’m Anthony Theopoulos. I guess you might say I’m in charge of this place. May we come in?”

Dubray opened the door wider. “Of course. If it’s about the party the other night, please accept my further apologies. I hadn’t realized we were so loud.”

“No problem,” Tony said.

Samantha looked around the room, furnished with comfortable chairs, a sofa, and various tables, including a large one that could be used for dining or for conferences. The room was tidy, no clothes strewn about, but then he had the adjoining bedroom to relax in, out of sight of clients or colleagues.

“Can I get you a drink?” Dubray asked, moving over to the small refrigerator in the corner.

Tony settled himself on one of the upholstered chairs, motioning Samantha to do the same. “A club soda, if you don’t mind.” He lifted a questioning brow at Samantha. “Agatha, how about you?”

Agatha? Sam nearly choked. “Nothing, thanks.” Out of sight of their host she scowled at Tony.

“So what can I do for you?” Dubray asked as he approached Tony with the glass in his hand.

Tony had worked out various scenarios in his mind as they’d ridden down in the elevator, but finally decided something close to the truth would be easiest. Elaborate lying required prodigious mental gymnastics and a phenomenal memory, and he doubted he was up to it. “Have you talked to Bennett Price lately?”

If they hadn’t been watching him closely, they wouldn’t have noticed the startled jerk of Dubray’s hand. He recovered at once, though, but as he took the glass, Tony felt the wet track of the soda that had dripped over the edge.

“I haven’t seen Price in months,” Dubray said evenly. “We’re merely social acquaintances. Why do you ask?”

This was where it could get sticky. Tony decided on the most conservative, nebulous story. “A representative of Price Enterprises has approached Worldwide Hotels with an idea of building a hotel with extensive shopping facilities near Heathrow Airport. He suggested you as a person who could vouch for their financial integrity.”

Dubray shook his head. “I can’t imagine why he would. I’ve never had anything to do with Price or his company.”

Then what were you doing in my father’s house in March with Bennett Price? The words trembled on Samantha’s lips but she bit them back.

Tony coolly drained his glass. “He must have been misinformed then.” Standing up, he set the glass on the table. “Thanks for the drink. I’m sorry to have taken up your time. Agatha?”

Gritting her teeth, Sam followed him toward the door. They had only take a step in its direction when a knock sounded. “Excuse me,” Dubray muttered. “That must be the man I’ve been expecting.”

He opened the door, greeting his visitor enthusiastically. “Come in. Come in. I’m so pleased you could make it.”

“What the hell?” Beside her Samantha felt Tony stiffen, then walk forward with a decisive stride.

“Maurice St. Clair,” he exclaimed. “Fancy meeting you here.” Taking the man’s hand, he shook it vigorously.

Dubray frowned, his expression perplexed. “You know each other?”

“Of course we do,” Tony said, so effusively Samantha couldn’t believe her ears. “Why, Maury and I were at university together. How’s it going, old man?”

Maurice St.Clair didn’t look pleased, although he covered it well. Samantha stared at them, perplexed by Tony’s odd behavior. She felt St. Clair’s discomfort, and Dubray’s, as well.

St. Clair forced a smile. “Tony, what brings you to London? Pretty lady, too. You haven’t lost your touch.”

“Mr. Theopoulos runs this hotel,” Dubray said with an edge to his voice. “He and uh, Agatha, were just leaving.”

“Yes,” said Tony. “Well, good to see you again, Maury. Give my love to—Betsy, wasn’t it?”

“She’s history,” St. Clair said flatly. “I’m playing the field these days. Less hassle.”

“Well, good luck with your business.”

“Agatha?” Samantha said indignantly as soon as the elevator door closed behind them.

“You said you’d never met, but I didn’t want to take the chance that he might have heard your name.”

“And who is Maurice? Did you really know him?”

Tony turned innocent eyes on her. “Would I have faked that? Yeah, I knew Maurice. He was quite a rebel at university. Nearly got himself kicked out once. Grew up poor, but he looks like he did all right for himself.”

“Sounds like old home week,” Sam said sardonically. “Bennett here. Dubray here. And now Maurice.”

Tony regarded her closely. “I think you need some food in you, Sam. You’re looking downright disagreeable.”

What was that all about, Sam wondered. He’d been practically fawning over the man. Was it an act? Or was there some reason behind it?

“How well did you know this Maurice?” she asked.

“Not all that well. Why do you think I put on that old buddy act? With his background, Maury might be useful to us for information on the inner workings of Québec politics. We may need it yet, since the subject keeps cropping up everywhere we turn.”

“Oh, I see.” She wasn’t sure she did. “What do you suppose his business with Dubray is?”

Tony shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

They left the hotel and began to walk the short distance to Samantha’s flat, stopping on the way at a pub for a bite to eat.

“How soon do you think you’ll hear from your friend Jacques?” Sam asked as they emerged later into the bustling city night.

“Not long. A day or two, I should think. Sam, will I see you tomorrow?”

She shook her head. “I have to work. I really do,” she insisted when he frowned. “The professor is counting on me.”

“Okay, but remember what I said.”

“Don’t stand near the edge on tube platforms.” Samantha gave a humorless laugh. “Oh, Tony, it’s probably all been coincidences, blown out of proportion by our imagination.” She stopped suddenly. “What’s that up there?”

Up the street, the red and blue lights of emergency vehicles strafed the night sky.

“It looks as if it’s your building,” Tony exclaimed.

They ran the remaining half block, coming up to find several of the residents and the building manager standing on the sidewalk. The ambulance attendants were lifting a stretcher on which lay a white shrouded figure. They rolled it into the back of the vehicle.

“What happened?” Sam asked the building manager, a thin woman in her fifties, who was wringing her hands in agitation.

“It’s Miss Hunnicott. She fell down the stairs.” The woman’s voice broke. “She’s dead.”

Chapter Eight

An accident? The question resounded in Samantha’s mind as she accompanied a silent Tony up the stairs, the very stairs that had killed Miss Hunnicott.

“I should have been nicer to her,” Samantha muttered, with the unfounded guilt the living frequently feel toward the dead.

“You were nice to her,” Tony said firmly. Taking the key from her hand as she fumbled with it, he unlocked the door.

In the flat they found another surprise.

On the table propped against the vase of wilted gerberas, neglected during Sam’s busy weekend, stood a note.

“No, not another one,” she moaned.

“Don’t touch it.” Tony’s voice was sharp as he steadied her. “There may be fingerprints.”

She lifted despairing eyes to his. “You don’t really think that, do you? He wouldn’t be so stupid.”

You could be next
. Without touching the note, Tony read the red letters, made with a felt marker, the printing as crude as a child’s. “Same as the other one,” he muttered. “Too bad we don’t have it.”

“What good would it do?” Samantha pulled away and stood in the middle of the room, hugging her arms around her waist. “Poor Miss Hunnicott, I should have warned her.”

“About what?” Tony left the note on the table. “You don’t even know if her death had anything to do with what’s happening to you. Your tormentor may have just taken advantage of the accident.”