Winter Affair (19 page)

He was quite a bit less sure that she would tell him.

Monica answered her door, and was shocked into silence at the sight of her visitor.

“Hello, Mrs. Donlon,” Reardon said calmly. “I’ve been looking for Leda, and I wondered if you could tell me where she went.”

“No, I couldn’t,” Monica replied, attempting to close the door in his face.

Reardon stuck his foot in the jamb. “It’s very important that I reach her.”

Monica put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Look, Reardon, can’t you see that she went out of town to get away from you? I say it’s high time she saw what you are, and I thank God she finally started showing some of the sense she was born with and gave you the gate.”

“Did she tell you what happened? ”

“She just said that it was over between you, and that’s enough for me.”

“I love her, Mrs. Donlon.”

“That’s your problem. Now get off my porch before I call the police.”

Reardon barely had time to jump back before the door crashed shut an inch from his nose.

He sagged against the porch railing and wondered what to do. Badgering the old lady would get him nowhere; Monica was as immovable as the Capitol building, and if he tried to push her any further he probably would wind up in jail.

He could think of only one person, beside the absent Claire, who might be able to tell him something. That was John Caldwell, Carter Bradshaw’s lawyer. Leda had told him that Caldwell handled her legal affairs as well. Maybe it was a shot in the dark but it was all he had. He trudged through the snow to his car and drove down the hill into the center of Yardley.

The receptionist at Caldwell and Younger was not happy to see him. He didn’t have an appointment, which upset her; her world was ruled by order, and the sight of this large, forceful looking character lingering in the waiting room for an unscheduled interview cluttered her day. Reardon stared at her pointedly until she finally buzzed Caldwell’s office and told him that a Mr. Kyle Reardon wished to see him, and could he find a moment. As Reardon had anticipated, the sound of his name was magic, and Caldwell came out to get him.

“Hello, Reardon,” Caldwell said, shaking his hand. “Come inside and sit down.”

Reardon followed him into the spacious office filled with sunlight, which he remembered from his days with Leda’s father. He took the seat Caldwell indicated, and waited as the lawyer settled himself behind his desk.

“So,” Caldwell said, “how are you?”

Reardon shrugged. “As you see me.”

“You don’t look any the worse for wear,” Caldwell observed.

“I feel it,” Reardon replied, holding the other man’s gaze until Caldwell looked away.

“You got a rough deal, Kyle,” Caldwell said softly. “I admit that.”

“Do you?”

Caldwell spread his hands. “There was nothing anyone could do. There was no evidence, Prescott had an airtight case.”

“You know he was lying, John.”

Ever the cautious attorney, Caldwell said nothing.

Reardon shrugged. “It’s all over now anyway, at least that part of it. That’s not why I’m here.”

Caldwell eyed him warily.

“Do you know where Leda Bradshaw is?”

Caldwell was startled. “What do you mean? Has she gone somewhere?”

“Apparently. I’m trying to find her. Did she say anything to you to indicate where she might go?”

“No, nothing.”

“Do you know the name of her agent?”

“That’s confidential information, Kyle. I can’t tell you that.”

“Fine. I’ll go through the Equity directory one by one until I hit the right person.”

“What’s going on, Kyle? Why is it so important for you to find her? I understand that you were seeing her, but...”

“How did you understand that?” Reardon asked sharply.

Caldwell looked uncomfortable. “Word gets around.”

“I see. You heard about the New Year’s Eve party.”

Caldwell looked away. “It’s a small town.”

Reardon stood up. “Thanks for your time, John.” He made for the door.

“I’d help if I could, Kyle,” Caldwell called after him. “But I don’t know anything. I really only spoke to Leda once, when she asked to see the transcript.”

Reardon froze. “What transcript?”

“The transcript of your trial. She called me and wanted to get a copy of it and I gave it to her. That’s public information, you know.”

Reardon closed his eyes. He knew very well what a damning picture that document presented. No wonder the memo sealed his doom. Going through the trial records had planted the subconscious seeds of doubt in her mind, and the memo had finally convinced her against him. She would never listen to him now. She wouldn’t listen to him unless he got proof, and that was going to take time.

“I appreciate your seeing me, John,” he said to the lawyer, turning to go.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t have been of more help,” Caldwell said in parting.

“Oh, you helped, John. You helped me more than you know.”

Reardon closed the door of the office behind him and set off down the hall. The hell with his license, and the hell with trying to work on the case from his end. This situation called for drastic action, and he was going to take it.

He stopped at a pay phone in the lobby of the building and dialed the Phelps number. When the secretary answered he asked to speak to Jim Kendall.

“Jim?” he said when the other man got on the line. “This is Kyle Reardon.”

“You sound close. I thought you were in Harrisburg.”

“I was, until this morning. Jim, listen. Can I come to your office to talk to you?”

“Sure, Kyle, what’s up?”

“I have a favor to ask, and it’s a big one. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Reardon hung up the phone and strode purposefully toward the door.

Chapter 10

It was spring in Boston. The frozen grip of winter had long given way to the rains of April and May, and now the Common was blooming with June abundance. Leda looked out her dressing room window at the gorgeous display, and then turned away from the sight. It should have been cheering, but it wasn’t.

She hadn’t heard from Reardon for six months. During that time she’d been traveling with the troupe, bringing the bard to the cities of the Eastern corridor and trying to forget the man she’d left behind in Pennsylvania. She’d had considerable success with the former endeavor, none at all with the latter.

Leda went to her mirror and glanced at her costume, routinely checking the fit. She was appearing as Kate in
The Taming of the Shrew
, and the laces of the bodice kept coming undone, which was a source of vast amusement to cast and crew. She had finally sewn in a hidden set of snaps and they seemed to help, but she still didn’t trust the blouse. The director wanted her to wear the outfit because its designer swore to its authenticity. Leda thought that if it really was authentic, the women in the sixteenth century must have led a very exciting life.

The door opened and Anna entered, carrying a stack of mail and a hat box. She handed Leda a letter.

“For you,” she said. “The concierge at the hotel sent it over.”

It was from Claire. Leda opened it and learned that her tenant was engaged to her old boyfriend from Wilmington, a piece of news not guaranteed to brighten Leda’s day. She was happy for Claire, of course, but during this tour she had met such an alarming array of simpletons, bores, and gigolos that she had almost decided to enter a convent. The fact that Claire was obviously doing a lot better added to Leda’s general depression. There was a rent check enclosed, however, and she received it with gratitude, stowing it in her purse. She could certainly use it.

“What do you think?” Anna asked, modeling the hat she had just acquired from the wardrobe room.

It was a large chapeau, with a spray of fake ostrich plumes. Leda stared at it, speechless.

“Oh, my God,” Anna said, examining herself in the mirror. “I look like Sir Walter Raleigh.”

“I guess that’s the idea,” Leda said cautiously.

“What do you mean, that’s the idea? Walter Raleigh was a man.”

Leda shrugged. “Well, at least they got the period right.”

Anna removed the headgear and jammed it back in the box. “They’ll have to come up with something else.” She stalked out of the room, muttering to herself.

Leda sighed and glanced at her watch. Dress rehearsal was at three, and the performance was scheduled for eight. She would have time for a nap in between. She was sleeping a lot lately; escape was always desirable when she had so much to forget.

For the first couple of weeks after she had left Yardley she’d been hoping to hear from Reardon, praying that she’d been mistaken and he would be able to explain it all.

But when the time passed without a word, Leda realized that he had nothing to say in his defense and she gave up. Monica wrote that he had quit his job at Phelps and left town. So much for his big plans to search out the truth and make his case.

Claire had been right.

There was no case to make.

Leda dried her eyes, retied the drawstring on her blouse, and made her way down the hall to the stage.

The performance that evening went well, and Leda was pleasantly tired when she got back to her dressing room. She showered in the adjoining bathroom—the facilities were far superior to those in Bucks County— and changed to jeans and a soft sweater. Anna was off somewhere, romancing a stagehand, and Leda was drifting into a doze on the couch when there was a knock at her door.

“Come in,” she called, thinking that it was the prop mistress with Anna’s latest hat.

The door opened and Reardon walked through it.

Leda sat up, instantly wide awake. Her eyes locked with his, and she felt a falling sensation in the pit of her stomach. Unconsciously her hand sought the armrest for support, as if she were bracing for an impact.

“Hello, saddle shoes,” he said.

He looked wonderful. He was wearing tan chinos with a light blue shirt and a navy sweater, the clothes emphasizing his graceful, athletic body. His hair was shorter than she remembered it, clipped close to his head on the sides and in the front. But his gaze was the same: steady, penetrating, unnerving. Time had done nothing to diminish his power over her, and as Leda looked back at him she knew she had to be firm or she would be tossed into his whirlpool all over again.

“Hello, Kyle,” she said, with an approximation of control.

“How have you been?” he asked, his gray eyes watchful.

“Fine.”

“I was in the audience tonight. You were wonderful, you really brought Katharina to life.”

“Thank you.”

“I told you that you should stick with the acting. It looks like you made the right decision.”

Leda stood up. “Yes, it does. Look, Kyle, I don’t want to be rude, but we really have nothing to say to each other. I broke it off between us six months ago, for good, and I still feel the same way. So no more chitchat, okay? Get to the point. What do you want?”

He folded his arms and nodded. “All right. No more chitchat. I want you to be my wife.”

Leda stared at him, stunned into silence for a moment. Then she said, “You’re insane. In the first place, I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth after what you did. And in the second place, half a year has passed. Where do you get the arrogance to assume that nothing has happened to me, that I’m not married, or anything?”

“I know you’re not married, or anything,” he replied quietly.

“How do you know?” she demanded.

He waited a moment before saying, “I’ve been in touch with Anna.”

Leda blinked. “You’ve been in touch with Anna,” she repeated, in a whisper. Then, louder, “You don’t even know Anna!”

“I do now.”

Leda put her hands to her temples and closed her eyes. Then she opened them. “I think you’d better tell me all about it,” she said with a steadiness she didn’t feel.

He shrugged. “I saw her name on the playbill from Bucks County, and I knew that you and she had joined the same troupe. So I wrote to her.”

“Why didn’t you to write to me?” Leda yelled.

“Because I knew you wouldn’t listen to me. But Anna wasn’t emotionally involved, and I convinced her to let me know how you were doing periodically, so I could keep up with your life.”

“Why that sneaking, conniving...reporting on me behind my back. Wait until I get my hands on her.”

“Don’t blame Anna. I couldn’t take the chance that you might get involved with someone else before I had the opportunity to give you this.” He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her.

“That’s a copy,” he added. “The original is in the hands of the San Pedro police. They found it when they searched Mike Prescott’s apartment, along with some other interesting items that should be making his life very difficult right about now.”

“Mike Prescott?” Leda mumbled, accepting the paper, her eyes still on Reardon’s face.