Stranger Than Fiction Page 4

  He stood and looked at her as if he was going to shake her hand; but stopped and stuck his hands into his pockets. “I’ll meet your train at Kingston Station, Rhode Island, tomorrow morning. Narragansett is just a few miles from there. Good night.”

  With a nod to Mr. Harrison, he strode out of the office.

  After a minute of silence, the three-quarter hour bells on the clock chimed. Claire’s voice was thin. “Maybe we should find out more about this man before I go?”

  Vincent Harrison went back to his chair and sat down, a muffled squeak of springs grating against the quiet of the deserted offices. “That’s up to you, Claire. I doubt you have time. Do you think you can handle it?”

  She blinked. “It seems I have no choice but to try.”

  “Catch them at their game. Call me as soon as they tell you how much they want, and I’ll take it from there.”

  “When will you contact Sarah Winesong?”

  Vincent Harrison’s eyes clouded over, his jaw quivering with an emotion Claire judged to be fear. “As soon as we have to. If we have to. Please be careful. Stay only long enough to find out the truth.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Claire stood on the sidewalk and looked for a taxi. Traffic was steady in both directions, and all the cabs were either in the lanes farthest from her, or they were occupied.

  She pulled on her raincoat and started walking. It would be easier to catch a ride a couple of blocks away. Her satchel full of the night’s reading material felt heavy on her shoulder.

  The routine of eleven-hour days closing with three hours of reading manuscripts alone in bed did not distress her. After her divorce two years ago, she had decided she was lucky. Financially secure thanks to sound planning and a good lawyer, and in love with her work, she did not miss her husband at all. She had made a mistake with him and found that she liked her solitude, as long as she could socialize when she felt like it.

  But tonight her life as an editor held little charm.

  The last thing she wanted to do was think about publishing anybody’s new mystery novel. What she did want was to soak in the tub, drink a bottle of wine and watch something dopey on television. Or dance in a half empty joint with a man who would kiss her neck and not be around in the morning.

  Or, eat a pound of pasta.

  “Claire?”

  She jumped at Tony Nichols’s voice.

  He was walking beside her, a hint of a smile on his lean face. “Don’t you have a car?”

  “A car? In New York? Do I look like a Trump?”

  He did not answer, but from the look in his eyes, it was clear he was thinking about her looks. “Right. Too expensive for a working woman.”

  “Yes. Besides, in my neighborhood there’s been a rash of car thefts. Three were hot-wired last week. One with a little boy in the back seat. New York’s not the best place for cars.” Feeling foolish over that news report, Claire kept her head down and continued walking.

  “Wait a minute.” Tony caught up and fell into step with her.

  She stopped. “What is it, Mr. Nichols?”

  “I thought maybe you’d like to have dinner with me.”

  He is a lunatic, she thought. After what just went on in Mr. Harrison’s office, he thought they could dine civilly with each other? “I’m sorry, but I’m not very hungry. I’ll see you tomorrow in Rhode Island.”

  “I’m sorry you had to cancel your vacation. You must be disappointed.” Tony watched her face carefully, clearly waiting for a scornful reaction, but seemingly willing to try to be friendly.

  “How did you know I was going on vacation?”

  “Your receptionist told me this afternoon.”

  “Cauldron Press is staffed by people with big mouths.”

  “Are you the secretive type?”

  “I’m not a type at all, Mr. Nichols. But let me get this straight. You’re sorry? You track me down at a luncheon to accuse me of felonious activities, and then you want to take me to dinner and apologize about ruining my vacation? What’s wrong with this picture?”

  Claire started walking again. Before she took four steps, his hand closed over hers. It surprised her so much she let out a little yelp of surprise and dropped her valise.

  “Let me help you carry this. It looks like it weighs a ton.”

  Claire whirled on Tony and grabbed the leather briefcase back. Glaring, she straightened to her full five-foot-nine height, helped by a pair of heels. “I’m a strong woman, Mr. Nichols. And I’ve carried my own books for years. Now let’s say good night.”

  “Are you a good judge of character?”

  This question was completely unexpected. “I’m okay. Why?”

  “I’m usually pretty good. I’ve only been fooled once or twice in my life. That’s why I wanted you to have dinner with me. So I could see if I was wrong.”

  “Wrong?”

  “About you. As ticked off as I am about what I think you’re trying to do to Patricia, I believe you think you’re innocent.”

  The sounds of traffic faded, and Claire felt her anger dissipating. The first thought that came to her brain surprised her. I believe him, too.

  Though she knew, from the moment he’d started talking to her this afternoon, that he couldn’t have his facts right, she’d felt he was convinced of what he was saying. But what that meant was too complicated to sort out on a New York street corner. A cab roared up to the curb and let out three girls, and she moved toward it.

  “Taxi!”

  Tony grabbed her valise and followed, holding the door open while she slid in. He tossed her bag onto the seat beside her. “Do you always have this much homework? Doesn’t leave much time for other pursuits, does it?” He stuck his hands into his pockets, the thick muscles of his arm bulging under the corduroy jacket.

  “I take my job seriously, Mr. Nichols. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She felt his eyes on her neck, and was glad for the raincoat, which she hugged to her. Goose bumps rose along the back of her legs as a draft blew through the cab.

  “Come on, lady. Where’re we going?” the driver snapped.

  “Good night, Claire. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Tony shut the door and waved, a curiously appealing gesture from such a macho type.

  As the taxi pulled away, she craned her head to look out the rear window. He had disappeared into the crowd, the place at the curb as empty as if she had only imagined him.

  But she knew she had not imagined him. Only a flesh and blood man could have provoked feelings like the ones she fought now.

  “Damn,” she muttered as she sat back against the stiff seat. Just when she had learned to excel at beating mystery novels into shape, real life decided to become even stranger than fiction.

  It was going to be a long night. Even pasta did not sound good now.

  Chapter Three

  Claire’s night was nearly sleepless.

  She finally gave up trying to banish dreams filled with handsome men full of bizarre accusations and got up to fix tea at five in the morning.

  Tillie Millard was not pleased with her wake-up call five minutes later. “Claire, have you lost your mind? It’s the middle of the night. Why aren’t you in the Bahamas?”

  Claire talked fast to fill Tillie in on the events of the previous day. She had decided to tell her assistant everything, despite Mr. Harrison’s paranoia. Later she would remind Harrison that if anyone could be trusted, Tillie could. “So that’s it. I’m going to interview the girl face-to-face and find out what she wants.”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. “How did Harrison handle this?”

  “He’s pretty cool. However, he was adamant I don’t let anyone, even you, in on the whole story. You know how protective he is of Sarah. And how this could hurt the company if a rumor got started.”

  “I can’t believe this has happened. It could ruin us.”

  Claire was surprised to hear Tillie, who usually had nerves of steel and wisecracks to match, sound so shaken. “Come on. You know
it’s a lie. I know it’s a lie. I’ll find out what the scam is and throw it to the lawyers. You just do the research I asked you for on Tony Nichols. And not a peep to anyone.”

  “If you mean Damien, my lips are sealed. That brat hasn’t even taken me to lunch for months. What’s this guy Nichols look like anyway?”

  Claire gave a brief description, hazel eyes and scruffy face, careful not to elaborate on how attractive he was. Tillie could be relentless if she sniffed romance in the air.

  Promising to check back with her once she was settled in Narragansett Bay, Claire added, “Okay, I’ll get back to you by four. And thanks for feeding Woofer.”

  “That demented nitwit. I should stuff him and have him mounted when you get back. That would be a true act of friendship.”

  “Now be nice. Woofer loves you.”

  “Sure he does, and I’ve got the teeth marks to prove it. You be careful with this Nichols character. I really don’t like you going alone. Maybe I should come too.”

  “I don’t need a chaperon. I need you in New York, pursuing that background investigation.”

  “I’ll be as discreet as the Queen Mum. Be careful, Claire.”

  “I will. By the way, check with the Times first to be sure they really did assign him to review our book.”

  Another uncharacteristic pause made Claire wonder if Tillie was worried about something else. “Tillie, are you there?”

  “You’re not thinking someone inside Cauldron gave it to him?”

  “Lord no. I just want to find out if we can believe anything he says.”

  “But you only recently sent the galleys out. Nichols would have had to work really fast.”

  “It wouldn’t take long to write a ripped-off fifty page version if they had the whole book. If that’s what she did.”

  “What do you mean, if? You just said it was a lie. Is there any doubt in your mind?”

  Claire blinked and looked down at the floor. Why had she said if? Before she had a chance to examine her mental lapse, her pet cockatiel, Woofer, began to bark like an irate Doberman pinscher. This was the bird’s favorite trick at this time of the morning, or any time of day, if he was not fed. Claire promised Tillie she would get back to her later and hung up.

  She threw a black sweater on over her pink tee shirt and jeans, and then fed Woofer. She finished packing and was out of the building into the cool moist April air by seven. She snared a taxi, which miraculously appeared in front of her town house, threw in her bag and gave the driver her two-word destination, Penn Station.

  As they lurched away from the curb, Claire wondered for perhaps the thousandth time what Tony Nichols was really after. Money? That obvious motive did not seem to fit the man she had spent the past twenty-four hours trying not to think about. He was too intent; the emotions too close to the surface, to be a person who was only out for a quick buck.

  Claire wondered briefly if Patricia Snow was his lover. The idea made her uncomfortable, so she pushed it to the back of her mind, unwilling to examine it more closely. But it kept coming back again and again.

  Okay, she told herself. Tony Nichols was damned attractive, very male and interesting. She was a woman who liked men and did not have one in her life, or bed. It was natural, she decided with a touch of guilt, to consider his personal motives. Natural, maybe, another part of her mind argued back, but totally unacceptable when done obsessively.

  Claire leaned back and pictured Tony as he had looked stepping off the elevator yesterday. Lean and smart, scorn, anger and something that looked like revenge had played alternately across his features when he had talked.

  Definitely not her type. She chose men with cool demeanors, steady-as-she-goes attitudes. This guy was unpredictable, passionate. He’d only prove a problem to a woman who valued stability over any other single thing in the world.

  “You’re boring, Claire,” she said aloud and looked around to see if the cabdriver or anyone in a passing car was eyeing her. No one was. She gazed out at the morning traffic, but again saw an image of Tony, his head bent over a cigarette, avoiding her question.

  Definitely a man with a secret.

  Claire realized then, for the first time, that she was scared. What if Tony Nichols was dangerous? What if he turned out to be more madman than con man? Would he physically harm her? Her intuition told her no, he was not violent. However, he was complicated. Everything she did not want in a man at this point in her life.

  But he is not a man in your life. Crap! Do not start that again, she thought.

  Hanging her head, she silently reviewed her plan of action. All she had to do was watch Tony Nichols and Patricia Snow closely, hit them with a million questions, and when they made .the first move to ask for a payoff, she would simply call the police and have them charged with blackmail. And fraud. And impersonating an author.

  The last made her smile, but it quickly faded. There was nothing funny about this plot, and it was up to her to stop it.

  * * *

  Lying on his stomach, Tony awoke with a start. The elusive dreams he had had all night were fresh in his mind. A person he was following, a tall blond woman, with her back to him, kept moving away, always out of reach.

  He closed his eyes, but opened them again quickly. It would not take a psychoanalyst to figure out it was Claire Kennedy who had made one hell of an impression on him, and was affecting his subconscious.

  But dreams of her had not been what pulled him out of his deep sleep.

  Dread and disbelief mixed for a moment as a realization chilled his body. It was a noise, not far away, that had awakened him. Someone was in his house.

  He listened, straining for another sound to be sure. It came. Outside the door, the floor creaked with an intruder’s weight. A second later, a murmur of wood sliding against wood, a tinny rattle.

  A drawer being opened, he decided. The tension running wild through him solidified as he focused on the danger. The clock at his bedside said eight. He slipped from the bed, his nostrils twitching as he silently inhaled. He felt primitive and exposed. The disadvantage of being stalked by an unknown predator made his motions clumsy. He eyed his jeans lying on the floor, but decided not to risk the noise or time it would take to put them on.

  Naked or not, he thought, it was time to get the jump on his uninvited guest. As the blood pulsed in his ears, Tony wondered if his visit to Cauldron Press yesterday had generated this intrusion. There had to be a connection. He had lived in his house for almost eight years now, and he had never had any trouble before.

  Slowly he crossed the room and leaned against the doorframe. The door stood open a couple of inches, offering a view of his tiny living room and entrance. Nothing was amiss.

  Easing the door open farther, Tony glanced out. The glass doors leading out to the deck were closed. Taking a step out of the bedroom, he shot a glance in the direction of the kitchen. He could not see around the corner to the sink and stove, but a burglar would have to be a complete fool to hide there. Tony would have him trapped.

  Him? What about her? What if Claire Kennedy decided to come to Rhode Island a little earlier than expected to snoop around? The name Claire formed on his lips, and Tony grimaced. Boldly he walked by the closed bathroom door and out into the living room. The table was full of papers and notebooks on his current research project. Though they were orderly, he saw in a second they had been pawed through.

  Tony stayed near the wall, the hair on his legs full of electricity, which heightened his anxiety. It was time to confront the last concealed corner of the house. He lunged around the corner and looked into the kitchen. It was empty. For a moment, he felt ridiculous and relieved at the same time. He had been ready to fight, but was equally glad when he saw he would not have to.

  Did I imagine the whole thing?

  He made a 360 degree scan and picked out the small details that bolstered his supposition. His address book was lying on the counter, open, nearby. A drawer in the desk was ajar. His papers were askew. No d
oubt about it, someone had searched his apartment.

  But what for?

  He grabbed a clean pair of running shorts off a stack of laundry lying on a dining room chair and nervously glanced behind at his bedroom door. Had the intruder been in there, in the closet? He took a step toward it and then stopped. No one had been in the room where he had been sleeping. Besides, his closet was not big enough to conceal a dwarf.

  “Cracking up,” he muttered and turned to stare out at the ocean.

  The bay was gray and calm, although a few whitecaps foamed about a hundred yards out. The fact that someone had come to search his house proved to him that his old nemesis, Billings Newcastle, was probably involved. It was Newcastle’s style to hire people for search and seizure missions.

  Was Newcastle the one who would allowed Winesong to steal Patricia’s book?

  If the publishing magnate wanted Cauldron Press, the odds were that he already had an inside person on his payroll passing information and manipulating things to his advantage. Stealing a student’s manuscript for a burned-out author could be one of those things. So could looking for evidence in the home of a man who was going to blow the whistle.

  Either way, it looked like Claire Kennedy was involved.

  Patricia was supposed to call him at ten, and when she did, he would have to get more answers. Tony had to convince her that whatever she was involved in, a shady deal to sell her work to Winesong or Harrison and Claire; she had to tell him all the details. Because if Newcastle was involved, the kid was way outclassed.

  Tony turned and walked toward the bathroom, reviewing his questions for Patricia. He stopped a few feet from the door and stared at the blank expanse of painted wood.

  He never closed this door, unless he had company. And he had not had company for weeks.

  Grabbing a squat silver candlestick off the bookcase beside him, he continued toward the bathroom, anger clenching his empty gut. With a deep breath, he threw back the door and lunged into the small room. It was as dark as night, the shade pulled over the window.

  An opaque, rubberized shower curtain was drawn across the shower space. For a moment, Tony stood still. Memories of every bad movie ever made, as well as the A-plus Psycho, flashed through his head.