Private Scandals Read online

  “No. There wasn’t anybody out there, but it took me a couple of minutes to finish stacking fresh towels, so she could have gotten on the elevator. That was my last room, so I went home after that. The next morning I heard that Miss Perkins had been killed. At first I thought maybe that woman had come back and killed her right there in my suite. But I found out it didn’t happen in the hotel at all. It happened at the TV station where Deanna Reynolds has her show. I like her show better,” she added guilelessly. “She has such a nice smile.”

  Deanna tried to use that smile as Finn hesitated at the front door of the cabin. “I’m fine,” she told him. She’d told him that repeatedly since she’d been released from the hospital three days before. “Finn, you’re going to pick up a few things at the store; you’re not leaving me to defend the fort against marauding hostiles. Besides”—she bent down to scratch the dog’s ears—“I have a champion.”

  “Champion wimp.” He cupped Deanna’s face in his hands. “Let me worry, okay? It’s still a new experience for me to fret.” He grinned. “I like fretting over you, Deanna.”

  “As long as you’re not fretting so much you forget to buy me that candy bar.”

  “Hershey’s Big Block, no almonds.” He kissed her, relieved when her lips curved gently, sweetly under his. The day he’d had her to himself at the cabin had dulled the edge of her horror, he knew, but she still slept poorly and jolted at unexpected sounds. “Why don’t you take a nap, Kansas?”

  “Why don’t you go get me that candy bar?” She drew back, her smile securely in place. “Then you can take a nap with me.”

  “Sounds like a pretty good deal. I won’t be long.”

  No, she thought as she watched him walk to the car. He wouldn’t be long. He hated leaving her alone. Though what he expected her to do was beyond her. Collapse in a hysterical heap? she wondered, lifting her hand in a wave as he headed down the lane. Run screaming from the house?

  With a sigh, she crouched down again to rub the dog while he whined and scratched at the door. He loved to go for rides, she thought now. But Finn had left him behind, a canine sentry.

  Not that she could blame Finn for being overprotective at this point. She’d been alone with a murderer, after all. A murderer who could have taken her life as quickly, as cruelly as he had taken Angela’s. Everyone was worried about poor Deanna, she thought. Her parents, Fran. Simon, Jeff, Margaret, Cassie. Roger and Joe and plenty of others from the newsroom. Even Loren and Barlow had called to express concern, to offer help.

  “Take all the time you need,” Loren had told her, without a single mention of ratings or expenses. “Don’t even think about coming back until you’re stronger.”

  But she wasn’t weak, Deanna decided. She was alive.

  No one had tried to kill her. Surely everyone must understand that one simple point. Yes, she had been alone with a murderer, but she was alive.

  Straightening, she wandered around the cabin, tidying what was already competently neat. She brewed some tea she didn’t want, then wandered more with the cup warming her hands. She poked at the cheerfully blazing fire.

  She stared out the window. She sat on the couch.

  She needed, desperately needed, to work.

  This wasn’t one of their stolen weekends filled to the brim with laughter and lovemaking and arguments over newspaper editorials. There wasn’t a newspaper in the house, she thought in frustration. And Finn said there was some trouble with the cable, so television was out as well.

  He was doing his best to keep the outside world at bay, she knew. To put her in a protective bubble, where nothing and no one could cause her distress.

  And she’d let him, because what had happened in Chicago had seemed too horrible to think about; she’d let Finn push it all to the side for her.

  But now she needed to take some action.

  “We’re going back to Chicago,” she told the dog, who responded with a thud of his tail on the floor. She turned to the steps, intending to pack, when she heard the sound of a car on the drive. “He couldn’t even have gotten to the store yet,” she muttered, heading to the door behind the happily barking dog. “Look, Cronkite, I love him, too, but he hasn’t been gone ten minutes.” Deanna pushed open the screen, laughing as the dog bulleted through. But when she looked up and saw the car, the laughter died.

  She didn’t recognize the car, a dull brown sedan with dings in both fenders. But she recognized Jenner and found herself tugging the collar of her flannel shirt around her throat. She should have felt relieved to see him, to know he was trying to solve the case. Instead she felt only a tightening of the nerves that trapped her somewhere between fear and resignation.

  Jenner grinned, obviously charmed by Cronkite’s yapping and dancing around his legs. He bent down, unerringly finding the spot between Cronkite’s ears that sent the dog into spasms of pleasure.

  “Hey there, boy. There’s a good dog.” He chuckled when Cronkite plopped down on his rump and extended a paw to shake. “Know your manners, do you?” With the dog’s dusty paw in his hand, he glanced up when Deanna stepped out on the porch. “This is quite a watchdog you’ve got here, Miss Reynolds.”

  “I’m afraid that’s as fierce as he gets.” The brisk December breeze invaded her bones. “You’re a long way from Chicago, Lieutenant.”

  “Nice drive.” Leaving his hand extended for the dog to sniff, he glanced around. The snow had melted, and the evergreens were glossily green. The breeze hummed through denuded trees and threatened to pick up and get mean. “Pretty place. Must feel good to get out of the city now and then.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Miss Reynolds, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I have some questions on the Perkins homicide.”

  “Please, come in. I’ve just made tea, but I can put on coffee if you’d prefer.” How could they talk about murder without a nice, sociable cup? Deanna thought as her stomach turned.

  “Tea’s fine.” Jenner walked toward the door with the dog prancing behind him.

  “Sit down.” She gestured him inside, toward the great room. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  “Mr. Riley’s not with you?” Jenner took a turn around the room, interested in the getaway lives of the rich.

  “He went to the store. He’ll be back shortly.”

  Hepplewhite. Jenner noted a side table and ladder-back chair. The rug was Native American. Navajo, he imagined. The glassware was Irish. Waterford.

  “You have a good eye, Lieutenant.” Her face bland, Deanna carried the tea tray into the room.

  He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud, and smiled a little. It didn’t bother him to be caught snooping. He got paid for it. “I like quality stuff. Even when I can’t afford it.” He nodded to the vase on the mantel, stuffed with early spring blooms. “Staffordshire?”

  “Dresden.” Annoyed, Deanna set the tray down with a snap. “I’m sure you didn’t drive all the way out here to admire the bric-a-brac. Have you found out who killed Angela?”

  “No.” Jenner settled himself on the sofa with the dog at his feet. “We’re beginning to put things together.”

  “That’s comforting. Sugar, lemon?”

  She was playing it tough, Jenner thought. “Black, thanks.” He might have believed Deanna’s act, if it hadn’t been for the shadows under her eyes. “With sugar. Lots of it.”

  His grin apologetic, Jenner began to spoon sugar into the cup Deanna poured for him. “Sweet tooth. Miss Reynolds, I don’t want to make you go through your whole statement again—”

  “And I appreciate it.” Deanna caught herself snapping the words, and sighed. “I want to cooperate, Lieutenant. I just don’t see what more I can tell you. I had an appointment with Angela. I kept it. Someone killed her.”

  “Didn’t it strike you as odd that she’d want to meet so late?”

  Deanna eyed Jenner over the rim of her cup. “Angela was fond of making odd demands.”

  “And were you fond of going along with them?”r />
  “No, I wasn’t. I didn’t want to meet her at all. It’s no secret that we weren’t on friendly terms, and I knew we’d quarrel. The fact that we would made me nervous.” Deanna set down her cup, curled up her legs. “I don’t like confrontations, Lieutenant, but I don’t run away from them, as a rule. Angela and I had a history that I’m sure you’re aware of.”

  “You were competitors.” Jenner inclined his head a fraction. “You didn’t like each other.”

  “No, we didn’t like each other, and it was very personal on both sides. I was ready to have it out with her, and a part of me hoped that we could settle things amicably. Another part was looking forward to yanking out a few handfuls of her hair. I won’t deny I wanted her out of my way, but I didn’t want her dead.” She looked back at Jenner, calmer now, steadier. “Is that why you’re here? Am I a suspect?”

  Jenner rubbed a hand over his chin. “The victim’s husband, Dan Gardner, seems to think you hated her enough to kill her. Or have her killed.”

  “Have her killed?” Deanna blinked at that and nearly laughed. “So now I hired a convenient hit man, paid him to murder Angela, knock me unconscious and roll tape. Very inventive of me.” She sprang up, color washing back into her cheeks. “I don’t even know Dan Gardner. It’s flattering that he should consider me so clever. And what was my motive? Ratings points? It seems to me I should have arranged it so that I didn’t miss the November sweeps.”

  The bruised, helpless look was gone, Jenner noted. She was fired up, burning on indignation and disgust. “Miss Reynolds, I didn’t say we agreed with Mr. Gardner.”

  She stared for a moment, eyes kindling. “Just wanted a reaction? I hope I satisfied you.”

  Jenner cocked a brow. “Miss Reynolds, did you visit Miss Perkins at her hotel on the night she was murdered?”

  “No.” Frustrated, Deanna raked a hand through her hair. “Why should I have? We were meeting at the studio.”

  “You might have gotten impatient.” Jenner knew he was reaching. Deanna’s fingerprints hadn’t been found in the suite, certainly they weren’t on the extra champagne flute.

  “Even if I had, Angela told me that she’d be busy until midnight. She had meetings.”

  “Did she mention with whom?”

  “We weren’t chatting, Detective, and I had no interest in her personal or her business plans.”

  “You knew she had enemies?”

  “I knew she wasn’t particularly well liked. Part of that might have been her personality, and part of it was because she was a woman with a great deal of power. She could be hard and vindictive. She could also be charming and generous.”

  “I don’t imagine you found it charming when she arranged for you to walk in on her and Dr. Pike, in compromising circumstances.”

  “That’s old news.”

  “But you were in love with him?”

  “I was almost in love with him,” Deanna corrected. “A very large difference.” Oh, what was the point of all this? she wondered, and rubbed at the headache brewing dead center of her forehead. “I won’t deny it hurt me, and it infuriated me, and it changed my feelings about both of them irrevocably.”

  “Dr. Pike tried to continue your relationship.”

  “He didn’t look on the incident in the same way I did. I wasn’t interested in continuing anything with him, and I made that clear.”

  “But he did persist for quite a while.”

  “Yes.”

  Jenner recognized the emotion behind the clipped response. “And the notes, the ones you’ve been receiving with some regularity for several years. Did you ever consider that he was sending them?”

  “Marshall?” She shook her head. “No. They’re not his style.”

  “What is?”

  Deanna’s eyes shut. She remembered the photographs, the detective’s report. “Perhaps you should ask him.”

  “We will. Have you been involved with anyone other than Dr. Pike? Anyone who might have been so disturbed by the announcement of your engagement to Mr. Riley that they would break into your office, or Mr. Riley’s home?”

  “No, there’s been—what do you mean, break in?” She gripped the wing of the chair she stood beside.

  “It seems logical that whoever sent the notes is also responsible for the destruction of your office and the house you share with Mr. Riley,” Jenner began. And, he believed, for Angela’s murder.

  “When?” Deanna could barely whisper the word. “When did this happen?”

  Intrigued, Jenner stopped tapping his pencil on his pad. The rosy glow anger had brought to Deanna’s cheeks had drained, leaving her face white as bone. Riley hadn’t told her yet, he realized. And the man wasn’t going to be pleased to have been scooped. “The night Angela Perkins was shot, Finn Riley’s house was broken into.”

  “No.” Still gripping the chair, she shifted, lowered herself before her legs buckled. “Finn didn’t—no one told me.” She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the kick of nerves in her stomach. When she opened them again, they were dark as pitch and burning dry. “But you will. I want to know what happened. Exactly what happened.”

  There was going to be more than a little tiff when Finn Riley returned, Jenner decided. As he related the facts, he watched her take them in. She winced once, as though the words were darts, then went very still. Her eyes remained level, and curiously blank until he had finished.

  She said nothing for a moment, leaning forward to pour more tea. Her hand was steady. Jenner admired her poise and control, particularly since he’d seen the ripple of horror cross her face.

  “You think that whoever’s been sending the notes, whoever broke into my office and my home, killed Angela.”

  It was a reporter’s voice, Jenner noted. Cool and calm and without inflection. But her eyes weren’t blank any longer. They were terrified. For some reason he remembered a report she’d done years before, a woman in the suburbs who’d been shot to death by her husband. Her eyes hadn’t been blank then, either.

  “It’s a theory,” he said at length. “It makes more sense for only one person to be involved.”

  “Then why not me?” Her voice broke, and she shook her head impatiently. “Why Angela and not me? If he was so angry, so violently angry with me, why did he kill her and leave me alive?”

  “She was in your way,” Jenner said briskly, and watched as the full impact struck Deanna like a blow.

  “He killed her for me? Oh Jesus, he did it for me.”

  “We can’t be sure of that.” Jenner began, but Deanna was already shoving out of her chair.

  “Finn. Good God, he could come after Finn. He broke into the house. If Finn had been there, he would have . . .” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “You have to do something.”

  “Miss Reynolds—”

  But she heard the sound of tires on gravel. She whirled, racing the dog to the door, shouting for him.

  Finn was already cursing the other car in the drive when he heard her call his name. His annoyance at the intrusion faded as he saw her sprint out of the house. She leaped trembling into his arms, choking back sobs.

  Finn gathered her close, his eyes hot and lethal as they skimmed over her shoulder to where Jenner stood on the porch. “What the hell have you done?”

  “I’m sorry.” It was the best Finn could think of to say as he faced Deanna across the living room. Jenner had left them alone. After, Finn thought bitterly, he’d dropped his bomb.

  “What for? Because I found out from Jenner? Or because you didn’t trust me enough to tell me in the first place?”

  “That it happened at all,” he said carefully. “And it wasn’t a matter of trust, Deanna. You’re barely out of the hospital.”

  “And you didn’t want to upset my delicate mental balance. That’s why the television is conveniently on the blink. That’s why you wanted to go to the store alone, and didn’t bring back the paper. We wouldn’t want poor little Deanna to hear any news that might upset her.”

 
; “Close enough.” He plunged his hands into his pockets. “I thought you needed some time.”

  “You thought. Well, you thought wrong.” She spun around, headed for the stairs. “You had no right to keep this from me.”

  “I did keep it from you. Damn it, if we’re going to fight, at least do it face to face.” He stopped her on the landing, grabbing her arm, turning her around.

  “I can fight when I’m packing.” She shook him off and stalked into the bedroom.

  “You want to go back, fine. We’ll go back after we’ve settled this.”

  She dragged an overnight case out of the closet. “We don’t have to go anywhere. I’m going.” She tossed the case onto the bed, threw open the lid. “Alone.” In quick, jerky moves, she plucked bottles and jars from the dresser. “I’m going back to my apartment. I can get whatever I’ve left at your house later.”

  “No,” he said, very calmly, “you’re not.”