Death by Surprise Page 3

  “I have proof, Miss Carlisle. About your father. About all of them.”

  “Gracious, did they all get $50,000 in the dark of night at the lake house? It must have been quite crowded, bagmen coming and going.”

  For the first time, a flush rose in her face. “Okay, Miss Carlisle. If you think it’s so damned funny, I’ll be on my way.”

  “No, I don’t think it is especially funny. Do you think you can blackmail me with innuendoes about my family? You don’t have proof or you would have it with you, whatever ‘it’ could be. All you have is gall. I should call the cops right now. I really should. I won’t this time, but if you ever say anything like this publicly or print it, I’ll file suit against you for libel and I’ll lodge a complaint of attempted blackmail. You don’t have anything on the Carlisles—and you never will.”

  She stood and she was angry, too. “Don’t I? You try me, Miss Carlisle. And you haven’t even asked what I’m going to put in about you.”

  No, I hadn’t asked. I wouldn’t ask. Probably she had found out about Toby. But I didn’t care. I had made no secret of him at the time.

  “No, I haven’t asked. I’m not interested. All I want is for you to leave. Now.”

  She jammed her notebook into her purse. “You’re so sure of yourself, aren’t you? Little Miss Rich Bitch. Don’t you think everyone will enjoy reading about Sheila and how she really died?”

  My shock must have shown on my face because abruptly she looked triumphant and pleased. “Did you think no one knew outside of the family?”

  I should have expected it. When she first began to talk, I should have foreseen that it would come, the question of how Sheila died. But I had buried my memory of that day so deep, I had pushed that memory into a recess of my mind. I never thought of Sheila. Never. I stood mute, facing the slender lovely girl with the brutal words.

  But perhaps she wasn’t so perceptive, after all. As if from a great distance, I heard her words bombarding me, trying to break through what she judged to be indifference.

  “So you’re too good even to talk to me? Do you think I’m bluffing? About any of it?”

  “I don’t care,” I said dully.

  “You’d better care, Miss Carlisle. Or everyone will know all about you and the rest of the Carlisles, know just how phony that self-righteous front is.”

  “I don’t care.” I didn’t. Not about her or what she said, not even about the rest of the family. None of it mattered compared to the great throbbing wound she had reopened with that one awful sentence: Don’t you think everyone will enjoy reading about Sheila—and how she really died?

  “I’ll give you one chance,” she said venomously, “just one, Miss Wonderful Carlisle. You can come to my apartment Wednesday night. At eight. I’ll have the manuscript there and you can see how much it might be worth to you not to have it printed. I suggest you bring with you the sum of money we mentioned.”

  She pulled out her notepad, scribbled on a sheet, tore it out, and flung it on my desk.

  I followed her to the front door and let her out. We didn’t speak another word.

  Back in my office, I picked up the sheet of paper and read the address, 1700 Camarillo Rd., Camarillo Apts., Apt. 14-D.

  I crumpled the sheet into a ball and flung it into the waste-basket.

  Sheila.

  I had not thought about her for years. Whenever I saw a little girl that age, about ten with long blonde hair and gentian blue eyes, I would turn away and think of the moment, of the weather, of the sounds of traffic in the street, of the angular shape of shadows on concrete. I would not think of Sheila. I shivered though my office wasn’t cold and clutched the back of my chair, clung to it, my knuckles white with strain. I felt dizzy, sick.

  I would not think of Sheila.

  All my defenses against the world wavered, my image of myself as unruffled, competent, and in charge.

  The phone rang.

  It rang again.

  Slowly, stiffly, I reached out and picked up the receiver. “Hello.” My voice came from far away. “Hello,” I said it again, louder, clearer, pushing away the image of Sheila, closing my mind, refusing to remember.

  “K.C.?”

  I knew who it was, of course. Just the sound of my name and I knew. The memory of Sheila had always been strongest around Mother. But I had had practice in barring Sheila from my mind when I saw Mother, years and years of practice. It made it easier once again to push memory away.

  “K.C., I called earlier. Your . . . secretary said you would be in late tonight.”

  Every word she said helped, made it possible for me once again to be K.C. Carlisle in a world of my own creation. It was typical of Grace to pause before she said secretary. She thought it quite improper for a woman lawyer to have a male secretary. It was just one more proof of my bohemianism. I could almost laugh then, safely back in my familiar world. Only the odd chance of talking to Grace could have prompted that descriptive phrase.

  “Yes,” and I managed to say it pleasantly, strongly, “I just got back. A case in Rosemont.”

  “That is a long drive.”

  “Yes.”

  All the months of separation hung between those short stilted sentences. How long had it been since I had talked to Grace? Dad died eighteen months ago. I had seen her last Christmas at Edmond’s.

  Why had she called?

  I thought we long since had said all there was to be said between us.

  “I have invited your brothers and your cousins for dinner Monday night. I would like for you to come.”

  I wanted to say, hell, Grace, you don’t sound like you want me. You never have wanted me. Don’t you remember, Grace, I’m the one without any character?

  When I didn’t answer at once, she continued, her voice sharpening. “K.C., it is quite important. A family council.”

  A family council. I knew Grace’s standards were a survival from another era. Are we excommunicating someone? I wanted to ask. But I didn’t. Because, for the first time in all the years I had known my mother, I heard an appeal for help.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She hesitated. I shouldn’t have been so direct. Had I scared her off?

  “It’s quite a terrible thing, an awful thing, actually.”

  “Mother, what is it?”

  “Perhaps, if we all stand together, make it clear there will be reprisals. We could even threaten to buy that dreadful magazine.”

  So Francine Boutelle had frightened Grace.

  “I wouldn’t worry, Mother,” I said reassuringly, “there are libel laws. She will have to be very careful what she writes.”

  “But if she can prove . . .” Grace’s voice was faint, thinned by fear.

  “Well, truth is a defense against libel, of course. What is she bothering you about, Mother? Is it the Levy case?”

  Mother gave a little moan. “Oh, K.C., I just don’t know what to do.”

  It shocked me. Could Francine really have something on Mother? Lordy, Lordy.

  “Mother, there’s no sense in being frightened. Tell me what’s she’s threatened.”

  “K.C., something has to be done.” I could hear the capital letters. It was her imperious voice, a voice I particularly detested.

  “Unfortunately, it’s a free country,” I said drily. “She can publish and tell us to be damned. Unless, of course, we are willing to pay her off, and keep on paying, ad infinitum.”

  “Perhaps that’s what we shall have to do.”

  “I shouldn’t think Dad would like that.”

  “I don’t know what to do. Oh, I don’t know what to do.” It was as near a plea as I’d ever heard from Grace.

  “Look, Mother, there’s a limit to how much crap—”

  “K.C.”

  The reprimand was automatic. It almost cooled my resolve to help. But she couldn’t change what she was. And she was, after all, my mother.

  “Sorry, Mother. Anyway, Boutelle can’t put anything too hideous in her story unless she
has the facts to back it up. But I’ll come to your pow-wow. Maybe we can do something.”

  “K.C.,” and for the first time in many years, there was a hint of warmth in her voice to me, “I appreciate it. I knew you would come. You . . . in some ways, you are very like your father. Nothing ever frightens you. And he always knew how to solve things.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said gently. “About seven then? Monday? At . . . home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s coming?”

  “Everyone,” she said simply. “Travis will be in town for the trust meeting Monday afternoon and he and Lorraine will be staying here.”

  After I put down the phone, I looked thoughtfully at my ‘in’ box and the edge of Kenneth’s letter. So Mother knew about the trust meeting. I began to see why the meeting was going to occur.

  As for the dinner, it would be quite a dog-and pony show. ‘Everyone’ included quite a raft of Carlisles, Kenneth and his wife, Megan; Priscilla; Edmond and Sue; Travis and Lorraine, Grace and me.

  It would be a long evening.

  I wanted to ignore the phone. I pulled the pillow over my head but I still could hear the infuriating ring. Abruptly, I was awake. I rolled over, picked up the receiver.

  “H’lo.”

  “K.C., I called and called yesterday.”

  It wasn’t much to say but the sound of his voice caressed me.

  “Greg.”

  “Did I wake you? I’m sorry. Sorry it was by phone. I’d rather be there.”

  “Mmmh.”

  “K.C., when are you going to decide?”

  “Now his voice was deeper, softer, compelling.

  “I don’t know. Not before breakfast.”

  A pause, then he sighed. Finally, he laughed. “Are you never serious? You make it tough on a man.”

  Greg was pressing me, pressing too hard. And once again, I was slipping free, keeping my distance. Yet I was attracted to him, more so than to anyone since Toby. But marriage? It was such a final, irrevocable act. At least it was in my view, notwithstanding the statistics on today’s marriages, wed in haste, divorce at leisure.

  “I’m going to campaign up the coast this weekend. Come with me.”

  I knew what he meant, what he offered.

  This, frankly, was what I had expected to happen with us and to us since we first met. We both knew it. There was an excitement when we were together when his hand touched mine, when we stood close. He was the one who held back and, to my discomfiture, began to talk of marriage. I might be ready for an affair, but I wasn’t ready for marriage.

  What had changed his mind? Did he think that seduction might lead to wedlock?

  “It’s beautiful,” he said softly. “A friend has loaned me his cabin. It overlooks the ocean.”

  “With moonlight and violins, it would be a zinger.”

  “Come with me.”

  I wanted to. I wanted to very much.

  “I’d like to, Greg,” I said softly. I heard his quick intake of breath so I continued hurriedly, “But I can’t. I have some things I must see to this weekend. Family things.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  So he already knew me well enough to hear the unease in my voice.

  I almost told him, almost spread out the Carlisles’ woes for his inspection. But he was, after all, running against my cousin. That didn’t mean he would try to capitalize on a general diatribe against the family. Still, and it was a little fuzzy in my mind, it wasn’t any of Greg’s business. At least, not yet. So I diverted him.

  “Oh, one thing and another. I have to talk to John Solomon on a case. A rush deal.”

  “Oh.”

  If I loved him, the flat monosyllable implied, I would fling all ties to the winds and race to his side.

  “There will be other weekends,” I offered.

  “Sure.”

  “How’s everything coming?”

  I was a little ashamed of myself. There is nothing like punching the right button. He started off grudgingly but by the second sentence his voice was vibrant with excitement. I listened absently, “. . . and the polls show I’m gaining . . . have 12 rallies planned . . . even some Republican support and that’ll scare Carlisle, and . . .”

  He was in high good humor by the time I wished him luck on his jaunt up the coast.

  “Call me when you get back.”

  “I will,” he said happily. “First thing. K.C., I’ll be thinking of you.”

  When you aren’t thinking of the campaign, I almost said drily. But I have some sense.

  I hung up the receiver and snuggled back under the covers. It was a cool foggy October morning. I should be up and about. I had a lot to do. And I was going to talk to John Solomon. If he were in town. Lord, I hoped so. John Solomon looks like an overstuffed lizard. His skin is yellowish and unhealthy. His eyes are thick-lidded, giving him a Mongolian aspect. He moves slowly, heavily, giving unconscious sighs as he struggles up from behind his desk. He is the best private investigator on the Coast. He handles all kinds of investigations, searches for missing spouses and snatched kids, industrial espionage, divorce work, office surveillance. He costs a fortune but he is quick, accurate, and makes a clam look outgoing.

  I reached over and flicked on the coffeemaker and watched the amber liquid drip into the pot. When it was ready, I poured a cup and cradled it between my hands. I loved Saturday mornings, staying in bed an extra moment, drinking coffee and lazily planning my day. I worked, of course. The office was open from ten to two to give my working-class clients a chance for appointments. Most of them have the kind of jobs where you don’t ask to take care of personal problems during working hours. Even so, Saturdays were slower paced, no court appearances, no calls from other lawyers.

  But today the Saturday morning charm was absent. Greg’s call and the continuing prick of worry over Francine Boutelle obtruded into my workaday schedule.

  Greg. He was not an altogether comfortable person. Intense, energetic, quick-tempered, he was consumed with ambition. I sometimes had the feeling that his interest in me was the first time he had ever taken his eyes from his main goal: the aggrandizement of Gregory Garrison.

  But was it an aberration?

  That is one of the difficulties in being rich. And the primary reason, though not the only one, why the rich marry the rich. A man can’t be after your money if he has potsful himself.

  Greg. I could see him so clearly, his thick black hair and vividly blue eyes. He had the kind of looks political candidates need these days, a handsome face, a trim athletic build. This wasn’t what attracted me. His appeal was a sense of leashed power, of intense energy, and vitality. He radiated excitement, like a superb horse waiting for the starting gun.

  He was, in essence, a very attractive animal.

  Our minds are interesting creatures with their incredible ability to sort and store infinite amounts of information, to catalogue experience and retrieve it.

  That was what my mother said, some years earlier, about Toby.

  “Quite an attractive animal, isn’t he?” she asked sarcastically.

  Toby, with his marvelous capacity for avoiding the unpleasant, had just left our tiny apartment. I stood stiffly in the center of the little living room, but I think I can fairly say that I wasn’t defensive or even angry. I went straight to the point.

  “Why are you here, Grace?”

  “Margaret Fitzgerald called me yesterday. She said she couldn’t believe it, she really couldn’t—”

  I almost smiled.

  “—but the daughter of a friend of hers had told her mother that you were . . . sharing an apartment with a man!”

  And I was. I was a first-year law student as was Toby. We had met that summer at Lake Tahoe and it seemed a fun idea. I hadn’t, of course, broadcast it. Whose damned business was it, anyway?

  “As I wrote you and Dad, I am sharing an apartment with another law student.”

  “That wasn’t quite honest, was it?”

  �
�It was quite honest. His name is Toby Weston. He’s from Spokane, Wash.”

  “For heaven’s sake, K.C., if you want . . . why don’t you marry him?”

  “I have absolutely no interest in marrying Toby.”

  At her look of total dismay, I took a little pity.

  “Look, Grace,” I said gently, “Autre temps, autre moeurs. Life is different.” I looked around the boxy room with its array of ferns and plants (Toby liked growing things) and the worn Persian rug and stacks of books. “This is just a temporary thing. We’ll go to school and we’ll be friends and have a lot of fun and one day it will all be over.”

  I had seen how it would go. And it had. Toby, ebullient, entertaining and macho, split the pots and pans with me, upon graduation, and loaded up the rental hitch for the drive back to Spokane.

  “Look me up, K.C., if you ever come up my way.”

  “I will, Toby. Take care of yourself.”

  “Right. You, too.”

  But this camaraderie, and, admit it, friendly sex, was absolutely foreign to Grace.

  She had stood in that dingy little apartment that day and summed me up as a trollop.

  “But if you aren’t even in love with him . . .” she began heatedly.

  “Grace, let’s drop it,” and my voice began to have an edge.

  She had stared at me for a long moment. It must have been hard for her. She couldn’t threaten to disinherit me. The chips jumped generations according to old K.C. III’s will. I had the income from the trust upon reaching the age of 21 and I could, if I wished, live with a dozen guys and no one could cut off my cash.

  Grace drew her breath in sharply. “I don’t know what your father will think.”

  I knew. I had told Dad, in a gentle way, before I had left for school. He had tamped his pipe and looked out the window of his chambers and said quietly, “Sometimes, K.C., a casual involvement can be quite . . . affecting.”

  I had patted his arm. “It will be all right.”

  He had nodded. “Just be careful of yourself, K.C.”

  I wasn’t going to tell Grace about that talk. That would be a gratuitous insult. Instead, I just shrugged.

  Her face flushed. “Perhaps we can buy you a stud farm,” and she whirled on her spike heels and flung open the door.