Stranger Than Fiction Read online

  But he knew someone was hiding in the shower.

  Without another thought, he grabbed the curtain with his left hand and lifted the candlestick above his head. At that moment, the assailant lunged at him, leaping out of the tub and wrapping the curtain around Tony. The action caught him completely by surprise. He struggled and then lost his balance, landing one ineffective blow before twisting and crashing down into the bathtub.

  The next thing Tony knew, a thick, unpleasant smelling liquid was poured over him, burning his skin and eyes. Instinctively he struggled to rise, rubbing his eyes against the curtain. As the pain escalated into agony, he realized that was the one thing he should not do.

  The smell registered. His homemade tile cleaner, a concoction of bleach, ammonia and soap, had been sitting on the window ledge. Not only had his assailant knocked him down, but he had taken him out of commission for several minutes by pouring the stuff over the top of his head.

  Tony felt his way slowly out of the tub, wrenching his knee and cracking his shin as he fell twice. Finally, he reached the faucet, turned on the water and stood for several minutes washing out his eyes.

  Whatever he had put in motion by calling on Cauldron Press yesterday had just escalated a notch. He wondered how rough things were going to get before it was all over.

  * * *

  The train station at Kingston was not crowded. From her window, Claire noted two empty station wagons, parked side by side in the parking lot. A young woman with a sleeping baby in a cuddle sack stood by the bench waiting for arriving passengers.

  At the edge of Claire’s vision, an elderly woman, stooped and leaning on a cane, stood next to the ticket office. Claire watched as she tapped impatiently on the bars to get the clerk’s attention.

  A piercing whistle split the air, warning passengers that the train was preparing to continue. Peering around the deserted coach, Claire checked back outside again. It was after eleven. Tony was nowhere in sight. She would have to call him.

  Call him where? Rats. I hope he’s in the book.

  She tugged at her overnight bag. It was wedged under the seat and resisted all her attempts to remove it. Claire kneeled on the horsehair-covered bench and pressed her leg into the cushion, gripping the leather handle with both hands, and pulled. As it gave way, she toppled backward. Her fall was broken by someone behind her who caught her shoulders in strong hands.

  “Good morning, Miss Kennedy. Wrestling with more than your conscience today, I see.”

  Tony Nichols’s laugh poured over her like butterscotch. Claire flushed as the heat from his hands radiated through her clothing. “I really don’t see the humor, Mr. Nichols.”

  He stopped laughing and stared at the woman before him. Her cheeks were burning pink with indignation, accentuating the freckles that scattered like wildflowers down her neck. Claire Kennedy looked younger and less imposing than the chic business woman he had met at the Waldorf. But the independence and savvy were still there.

  “Forgive my humor. But I have had rather a bad morning and don’t feel much like arguing semantics with a pro.”

  Claire looked closely at him, noticing lines of pain around his red-rimmed eyes. He held his head stiffly, as if his neck were sore. “Too much partying in New York last night?” she asked.

  “Too much stupidity in Rhode Island this morning. However, I’ve learned my lesson. In the future I will not be so hasty to underestimate the strength of the enemy.”

  Unable to fathom his meaning, Claire shrugged and picked up her bag. “I’m ready.”

  Tony smiled, though all the humor had left his face. “After you.”

  Claire walked ahead of him off the train and across the wooden platform, worn smooth and silvery gray by years of rain. She was taken aback by his mood. He actually seemed hurt that she was hostile. What did he expect? A hug for trying to ruin her reputation? A kiss for accusing Cauldron Press of plagiarism?

  As he came up beside her, she noted again how close they were in height. Which was nice somehow. She had never been attracted to really tall men. She liked men who were solidly built and graceful.

  That was a description that fit him. She matched his stride to the inch. Though his shoulders were wider than her own by half, and he outweighed her by a good fifty pounds, she liked the fact that she was at least able to look him in the eye.

  Crunching across the bleached shells in the parking lot, Claire decided not to ask him any of the thousand questions rumbling around her mind. Mr. Harrison said she was a good observer. Well, it was time to observe. Shifting her bag into her other hand, she vowed to stop being so short with him. Like it or not, she had to at least appear to be keeping an open mind.

  Tony stopped abruptly in front of one of the empty station wagons, a well-preserved green Volvo. The two front seats had faded gray college sweatshirts pulled down over them. He opened the door for her, but left it for her to close.

  Claire sat down on top of Yale, he on Harvard.

  The unusual seat covers gave her an opening for a little background digging. “Did you attend these schools?”

  “What schools?” Tony’s voice was distant; his dark eyes steady on the road as they pulled out.

  “Harvard. Yale. You know, your seat covers.”

  “No, I went to U.C.L.A., but these shirts are easier to stuff than ones from Los Angeles.” He laughed with real humor.

  Claire fought the urge to like the sound. “I’m from L.A. I went to school in Arizona, though, at Tempe. Are you from California?”

  “Are you writing a book? Or are you just gathering intelligence to take back and check out?” He ground the gears of the car and frowned.

  “Try to put yourself in my position, Mr. Nichols. I do need to find out as much as I can about you, Patricia Snow, about her alleged book.”

  “Alleged book? Really, you’ve been watching too many Law and Order reruns. Her book is real.”

  “Well, so is Sarah Winesong’s. I’d say that certainly tips the balances on the scales of probability about who’s stolen what from whom.”

  “I don’t much believe in probability.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It’s misleading. People who look for the most likely thing leave themselves unprepared for the unexpected. And the unexpected happens to everyone.”

  “It does?”

  “Sure. Hasn’t anything unexpected ever happened to you?”

  You mean like meeting you? She swallowed the question. Claire met his sideways glance. “I will have your credentials checked out. I’d be a fool not to.” She crossed her arms defiantly, then uncrossed them and tried to relax. Body language is tough to control.

  “You hate feeling foolish? Me too.”

  “Do you feel foolish often?”

  “No. Though I did this morning.”

  “What happened?”

  Tony applied the brakes and slowed at the signal. “Someone broke into my house, and I let them get away.”

  “Why?” Claire’s mind raced. She knew he was baiting her, but she did not know why. “Did you call the police?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I thought you might have had an idea about who did it.”

  “Me?” Was this man going to do nothing but accuse her of criminal behavior? “I assure you I know nothing about it at all. If it even happened,” she added.

  “Oh, it happened.” Tony’s voice was even. “I thought maybe Cauldron Press had decided to check me out. But since it wasn’t you, and you’ve just said you want to know more about me, let me tell you some things. I’m thirty-six. Never married, though I once lived with a woman for a year in Greece. I was born in Michigan, lived everywhere with my folks, who are both retired military. I still smoke, as you’ve seen, and know it’s bad for me.”

  Claire repressed the urge to write all these facts down. “I moved a lot, too,” she said, “when I was young, and hated it.”

  Tony registered the pain in Claire’s voice. “I dr
ink wine, particularly cabernet sauvignon with Italian food, which I have a passion for. I’m a great ice hockey player, amateur league, love the Minnesota Twins and I can’t swim.”

  He was charming. And well rehearsed. Claire made herself pretend to be impressed, which took very little effort. “You look like you could handle just about any physical activity very well.”

  “Thank you. So do you.”

  Claire could never bring herself to tell anyone much about her life. Her ex-husband probably had not known that many things about her past, after four years of marriage. “Thank you for being so obliging with the bio.”

  “You’re welcome. What did I leave out?”

  A small laugh bubbled up in Claire’s throat. “Let’s see, what brought you to Rhode Island?”

  He did not answer her for a mile or so, and Claire was content to wait. This exchange was by far more enjoyable than yesterday’s accusation trading had been. Nevertheless, her stomach knotted with tension, and she reached into her jacket pocket for an antacid.

  Finally, Tony answered, turning down the classical music station. He had gotten to the part of his life he was not about to discuss in detail. If she was working for Newcastle, she already knew much of it. If she was on the level, the facts of his past would only make her doubt his story more. “Change of career. My folks have settled in New England. And so have my younger brother and his family. It made sense.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “I thought all you editor types never said anything repetitive.”

  She raised her eyebrows and shrugged. “We’re not perfect. Like teachers or, anyone else. We try to cultivate, encourage and help our writers if we can. But they’re the ones with the creativity.”

  “I’ll certainly agree that writers are creative, but the success of a book depends a lot on editing, promoting and marketing.”

  “And how well the editors steal?”

  Tony blinked, but ignored the open invitation to resume the discussion of Patricia Snow’s manuscript. “How long have you been at Cauldron?”

  “Seven years. For the past five as an editor. I started as a reader, then jumped to copy editor, then got into acquisitions.”

  “It’s obvious you like it. What do you know about Sarah Winesong, personally?”

  Claire felt her wariness return. “I know a bit about her. But not much I feel like discussing.”

  “Just the facts, ma’am. Or don’t you want to say anything I can use against you in a court of law?”

  “I’m not worried about court. It’s just not very professional.”

  “Have you even met the woman?”

  “No.” Claire felt her irritation grow.

  “Has anyone met her?”

  “Of course. Tillie has, Mr. Harrison has, and many people have. I myself was planning a trip to see her before The Poison Pen Pal hits the stores. What’s your point?”

  “No point. Just curious.” Tony kept driving. Any lessening of antagonism between them was temporary at best. He had a brief hope the night before that she would relax enough to take him into her confidence, but now he saw how foolish that was.

  Particularly foolish if she was Billings Newcastle’s inside spy at Cauldron Press.

  He drove on silently, reflecting on Miss Claire Elizabeth Kennedy. She did sound convincing. And sweet. Was she telling the truth? As soon as that thought formed, Tony’s mind jerked back in time to an incident that had changed his life.

  He had been fooled by another woman once, one he should not have trusted for a second. That misjudgment had cost him everything he cared about. His reputation. His job. As well as most of his self-esteem.

  It had taken him five years to piece his life back together. Pursing his lips, Tony knew he could not risk trusting Claire Kennedy. He would get Patricia to tell him everything that was going on, and then he would hang the guilty out to dry, even if one of them was the dazzling woman beside him.

  His hands tightened on the leather steering wheel.

  Noting his white-knuckled grasp, Claire remained silent. Maybe now was the time to ask him about his relationship with Patricia Snow. Before she could come up with a leading question, however, Tony broke the silence.

  “How about personal questions about you, Miss Kennedy? What about your past? Why did you come to New York? Wealth? Fame? Romance?”

  “Self-preservation.”

  “Strange place to come for that. New York isn’t known as the safest or self-preserving-est place in the world.”

  “I don’t find New York nearly as bad as its reputation. It’s hard living alone anywhere.”

  “You live alone?” He pulled up at a four way stop, empty save for them. “I thought maybe you had a jealous husband, or live-in lover. You seemed rather eager to get home last night.”

  Claire looked at him and then crossed her arms tightly as if to ward off an impending attack. “No. A jealous cockatiel, but no husband. I’m divorced.”

  “I’ve never been brave enough to marry.”

  Wincing at his use of that adjective, Claire fell silent. She had not been brave to marry Glen. Just scared. And she was not brave when she had left him. Anger chipped away at her nerves. “I’m not brave, Mr. Nichols. Nor am I stupid. So why don’t we knock off this chitchat and you can tell me where we’re going.”

  In answer, he drove over a pothole, knocking her against the metal door.

  “Will you please take it easy? I have enough bruises because of you already.” Claire fingered her arm, glad to have a concrete reason to shout at him.

  “Sorry. I’ll try to be more careful next time.”

  Tony’s voice had returned to the cool, vaguely condemning tone of yesterday. Claire realized their camaraderie, however contrived, had disappeared. “I’d appreciate it.”

  “And I’d appreciate your thinking about the possibility that someone is setting you up.”

  Claire shook her head. “That’s sheer speculation on your part. When I meet with Patricia, she’ll set the facts straight.”

  Silence stretched between them. “Fine,” Tony said at last. “How about if I give you some early drafts of her manuscript? You’ll see how well she worked out the plot bugs from draft to draft. That would help convince you the book is hers, wouldn’t it?”

  “I’d be interested in seeing them.” Claire clenched her fists.

  “They’re at my office at the college. We’ll stop and get them later.”

  Claire leaned against the passenger door, aware that she was reddening again, her freckles blazing away is if he’d caught her naked. “Did you make an appointment for me with Patricia? Is that where were going now?”

  Without answering, he turned off the interstate highway onto a rutted two-lane strip of asphalt bordered by a few houses. Through hazy sunlight, they passed crooked rows of wild apples, draped in their first spring leaves. Storm clouds had begun to amass in the distance.

  With a chill, Claire realized she had not a clue where they were. Huddling deep into her turquoise jacket, she was glad she had worn tights under her jeans. Feeling Tony’s gaze, Claire kept her eyes on the road. “Where are we going? To see Patricia?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Isn’t that the whole point of my trip?”

  “I haven’t been able to set that up yet. I don’t exactly know where Patricia is. You could say she’s missing.” His words hung in the air between them.

  “Missing?” Claire tensed. “I thought you talked to her the day before yesterday.”

  “I did.”

  “And she wouldn’t tell you where she was?”

  Tony sucked in a lungful of air. Claire’s phrasing was uncomfortably close to the truth. “I didn’t ask her. She made it clear she’s kind of incommunicado.”

  “Isn’t it rather convenient for you, Mr. Nichols, that the author of this so-called stolen book is now missing?”

  A curtain of rain fell suddenly around them. Small drops exploded into large ones on the windshield while the
rumble of thunder forced him to speak louder. “No, it’s not at all convenient for me. Although it could be construed as rather fortunate for Cauldron Press.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll have a much more difficult time proving fraud and theft without the author to corroborate my story won’t I?”

  The storm began to beat seriously against the car. “I think it would certainly be much harder. Particularly since you’ve not offered me any evidence that Patricia Snow even exists, except as a figment of your imagination.”

  Tony Nichols craned his neck to the left, then right. “Go on, Miss Kennedy. I have the distinct feeling you have more to say.”

  “Oh, I do. I’m not going to spend another minute dealing seriously with you until I get some proof.” Claire crossed her arms again. “And I mean it. Take me back to the train station.”

  Tony stopped the car abruptly and turned to Claire. His eyes were completely opaque, giving no hint of his thoughts. “You’re not going back to New York.”

  “If you won’t take me, I’ll get out here.” She opened the door, but Tony reached across and slammed it.

  His teeth gleamed against his dark skin. “I have someone I think you should meet.” He nodded at the house outside.

  “Who?”

  “Someone who will vouch for the fact that Patricia Snow is real. Maybe then you’ll give the truth a chance.”

  Chapter Four

  Claire glanced up and down the narrow street. The neighborhood where Tony stopped was lined with box shaped houses, their shutters touched with fresh paint. The lawns were all raked and perfectly manicured.

  They parked directly in front of a brick dwelling whose shades were all drawn. Reaching back to close the car door, Claire jumped when Tony clasped her arm. His fingers held none of the steely strength of his other tactile encounters; they felt quite gentle now.

  Her eyes met his. “I repeat, whose house is this, Mr. Nichols? Yours? Who’s inside?”

  “This is Jeanette Snow’s house. Patricia’s mother. Patricia didn’t call back this morning as promised, and I thought maybe her mom could give me a lead on her whereabouts.”